Organized 

Time
OXFORD STUDIES IN MUSIC THEORY
Series Editor Steven Rings

Studies in Music with Text, David Lewin

Music as Discourse: Semiotic Adventures in Romantic Music, Kofi Agawu

Metric Manipulations in Haydn and Mozart: Chamber Music for Strings, 1787–​1791, Danuta Mirka

Songs in Motion: Rhythm and Meter in the German Lied, Yonatan Malin

A Geometry of Music: Harmony and Counterpoint in the Extended Common Practice, Dmitri Tymoczko

In the Process of Becoming:  Analytic and Philosophical Perspectives on Form in Early Nineteenth-​Century
Music, Janet Schmalfeldt

Tonality and Transformation, Steven Rings

Audacious Euphony: Chromaticism and the Triad’s Second Nature, Richard Cohn

Mahler’s Symphonic Sonatas, Seth Monahan

Beating Time and Measuring Music in the Early Modern Era, Roger Mathew Grant

Pieces of Tradition: An Analysis of Contemporary Tonal Music, Daniel Harrison

Music at Hand: Instruments, Bodies, and Cognition, Jonathan De Souza

Organized Time: Rhythm, Tonality, and Form, Jason Yust

ORGANIZED TIME
Rhythm, Tonality, and Form
JASON YUST

1
 1
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Library of Congress Cataloging-​in-​Publication Data
Names: Yust, Jason author.
Title: Organized time : rhythm, tonality, and form / Jason Yust.
Description: New York, NY : Oxford University Press, 2018. | Series: Oxford
studies in music theory | Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018006558| ISBN 9780190696481 (hardcover) |
ISBN 9780190696511 (oxford scholarly online)
Subjects: LCSH: Musical meter and rhythm. | Musical form. | Musical analysis.
Classification: LCC ML3850 .Y87 2018 | DDC 781.2/2—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018006558
1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2
Printed by Sheridan Books, Inc., United States of America
This volume is published with the generous support of the AMS 75 PAYS
Endowment of the American Musicological Society, funded in part by the National Endowment
for the Humanities and the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation.
Dedicated to my traveling companions, Kelly and Henry
 Contents

Acknowledgments  ix 3 Formal Structure  59

Introduction  1 3.1 Elements of Form: Repetition, Contrast,
Fragmentation  60
Time and Landscape  1 3.2 Small Baroque Forms  67
Dimension  5 3.3 Expositions and the Secondary
Theme  70
1 Rhythmic Hierarchy and the 3.4 Interactions of Form and Tonal
Network Model  12 Structure  81
1.1 Metrical and Rhythmic Structures as
Temporal Hierarchies  12
4 Structural Networks and the
1.2 Rhythmic Classes and
Experience of Musical Time  91
Transformations  16 4.1 Depth, Distance, and Classification
1.3 Inferring Rhythmic Hierarchies  19 of Structural Shapes  91
1.4 Metricality  24 4.2 A Phenomenology of Structure  98
4.3 Center, Skew, and Bias  103
2 Tonal Structure  28 4.4 Splitting and Disjunction  105
2.1 Melodic Structure  29
2.2 Backgrounds  35
5 Timespan Intervals  109
2.3 Repetition  43 5.1 Large-​Scale Rhythmic Design in Bach’s F
2.4 Keys  47 Minor Fugue  110
2.5 Tonal Models for Binary Forms  53 5.2 Classification of Timespan Intervals  113

 • vii
 5.3 Hypermetrical Hemiola in a Bach
Prelude  115
5.4 Transformations of Rhythmic
Structures  118
6 Hypermeter  123
6.1 Hypermeter in the Eye of the
Beholder  123
6.2 Some Criteria for Hypermetrical
Analyses  126
6.3 Functions of Hypermetrical Shift in
Haydn’s Symphonies  133
6.4 Indefinite Hypermeter and Hypermetrical
Reinterpretation  140
7 Hypermeter, Form, and Closure  145
7.1 Hypermetrical Placement in Cadential
Syntax  146
7.2 Mozart’s Afterbeat Melodic Ideas  151
7.3 Main Theme Endings in Haydn’s
Symphonies  159
7.4 Elided Cadences and Expositional
Closure  162
7.5 Beethoven’s Open Expositions  170
8 Syncopation  177
8.1 Contrapuntal and Tonal versus Structural
Syncopation  178
8.2 Contrapuntal Syncopation and Metrical
Dissonance  180
8.3 Hypermetrical Syncopation and
Contrapuntal Displacement  188
8.4 Rhythmic Process as Formal Process in
Beethoven  191
9 Counterpoint  203
9.1 Rhythmic Counterpoint  203
9.2 Brahms’s Use of Rhythmic Irregularity and
Rhythmic Counterpoint  208
9.3 Counterpoint of Tonal Structures  219
9.4 Formal Counterpoint  225
10 Harmony Simplified  232
0.1 Harmonic Syntax and Structure  232
1
10.2 Voice leading on the Tonnetz  243
10.3 Enharmonicism  250
viii • C ontents
11 Reforming Formal Analysis  266
11.1 Tonal-​Formal Disjunction and the
Phrase  266
11.2 Ritornello Form in the
Eighteenth-​Century Symphony  269
11.3 Form(s) and Recipes  282
11.4 Beyond the Frame  290
12 Tonal-​Formal Disjunction  309
12.1 High-​Level Tonal-​Formal Disjunction in
Sonata Form  309
12.2 Alternate Subordinate Keys  311
12.3 Disjunction in the Exposition:
Modulating Subordinate Themes  320
12.4 Off-​Tonic Recapitulations  327
13 Graph Theory for Temporal
Structure  342
3.1 Planarity and Cycles  342
1
13.2 Direction and Confluence  347
13.3 Holes  352
13.4 MOPs as Trees  353
13.5 Reduction Trees, Event Trees, and
Spanning Trees over MOPs  359
13.6 Spanning Trees and the Cycle/​Edge-​Cut
Algebras  363
14 A Geometry of Temporal
Structure  373
14.1 Associahedra  373
14.2 Higher Dimensional Associahedra and
their Facets  381
14.3 Evenness  387
Epilogue  393
Bibliography  397
Index of Works  411
Index  415
 Acknowledgments
AS IN any work of the scope of this one, the
debts are many and impossible to fully enu-
merate. All of the many music theorists whose
work is discussed in this book have challenged
and enriched my understanding of tonal music
with their work, and many of them have helped
me along the way with many pivotal personal
communications and interactions at many
question-​and-​
answer sessions at conferences
and invited lectures. Despite my fear of leaving
the list incomplete, Fred Lerdahl, Bill Caplin,
Janet Schmalfeldt, Lewis Lockwood, Alan
Gosman, Mary Farbood, Dmitri Tymoczko,
and Richard Cohn come immediately to mind
as those who have been generous in sharing
their knowledge and to whom the ideas of this
book bear a direct debt in large and small ways.
I must thank Steven Rings especially for his tre-
mendous support for the project and invaluable
comments on earlier drafts, as well as the anon-
ymous reviewers engaged by Oxford University
Press, whose work on the proposal chapters
went beyond the call of duty and many of whose
comments were transformational to the even-
tual form and content of the book. In addition,
I thank Fred Lerdahl for his encouragement and
helpful comments on some of chapters, and
David Kopp for his selfless professional support
without which this project never would have
materialized.
All of the (many!) musical examples in the
book are set using Lilypond (lilypond.org).
Although I  have never directly interacted with
the members of the Lilypond development com-
munity, I  am heavily indebted to their work
on this open-​ source software, which, in my
opinion, surpasses any commercial software
in the attractiveness of its results. I also would
not have been able to access all the many scores
needed for the analyses and surveys that make
up the bulk of this book without the vital re-
source of the International Music Score Library
Project (imslp.org), which has made it possible
to view manuscripts (such as Johann Gottlieb
Graun’s F major Symphony, Av.49, analyzed
in ­chapter  11) that would have ten years ago
 • ix
required prohibitive international travel to
access. Behind every choice I have made of pieces
to discuss and analyze in the following pages
are tens of scores that I consulted but may not
ever mention specifically by name.
Finally, and most importantly, I  thank my
loved ones, Kelly and Henry, whose sacrifices,
though hidden, are no less directly responsible
x • A cknowledgments
for the completion of this book than my own,
and my parents, for whose constant love and
support I  am ever in gratitude. I  hope that,
even if you never read it (and please don’t feel
obliged to), you take as much pride in seeing it
finished it as I do. To Henry in particular, I think
Example  14.7 is the prettiest. You can skip
straight to that.
Organized Time
 Introduction
What a hearer perceives in the tones—​and rests—​of a musical work is not simply time but shaped
and organized time.
—​Victor Zuckerkandl1
TIME AND LANDSCAPE
Let us begin with a walk on the beach. The
beach is a landscape, something conceptually
atemporal, existing only in space. A walk on the
beach, however, temporalizes the landscape. Our
beach is shown on the map in Example 0.1. It is
a stretch of wilderness coast on the Olympic pe-
ninsula in Washington state. Our walk will begin
from Third Beach. The destination is a campsite
at Toleak Point.
Temporalizing space by blazing a path through
the forest, charting a route to the summit of
a mountain, or walking on the beach:  these
are perfectly ordinary, dare I  say pedestrian,
human activities. What makes such activities
occasionally sublime are the views. Our walk on
the beach will feature some captivating views.
The first one, from Third Beach, for instance, is
reproduced in Example 0.2, from an overcast day
in June of 2016. From Third Beach we can see, in
1. 1956, 258–​59.
the distance, our destination at Toleak Point, as
well as Strawberry Point, one of the other places
along the route. We see these because they are
the most prominent points in the shape of the
coastline. Indeed, we chose Toleak Point as a
goal for precisely this reason. Strawberry Point
is somewhat less prominent than Toleak, but we
see it because it is closer, and there is nothing
else in between to obscure it.
There are many other places along our route
that cannot be seen from Third Beach, such as
Scott’s Bluff. These places will be visible at other
points in the journey, depending on how close
they are, how far they jut out into the ocean, and
whether there is anything else obscuring them.
As we walk, our view of the coastline changes.
This is also a temporalizing of the landscape, but
a more multilayered one than the walk itself. As
humans, we constantly look ahead on a journey
like this, assessing our long term goals as well as
more proximate ones. If we did not, if we looked
 • 1
EXAMPLE 0.1  The coastline from Third Beach to Toleak Point
EXAMPLE 0.2  The view from Third Beach
down at our feet the whole way, our experience
of it would lack the narrative structure that we
crave, and which constantly urges us forward to
reach each nearby point, step-​by-​step, in pursuit
of the final destination.
The way that viewing the landscape structures
our temporal experience of it depends essen-
tially on the shape of the landscape, which
distinguishes the different locations along our
walk according to prominence. A more prominent
point can be seen from more other locations,
and, equivalently, when we are at that location
there is also more to see. As Example 0.3 shows,
all of the views, taken together, are organized as
a layered series of paths, starting from one that
summarizes the whole trip (the view from Third
2 • O r g a n ize d   T i m e
Beach to Toleak Point) and ending at one that
lists every point along the walk in sequence. Like
the retelling of a football game on the nightly
news, each path is a possible story we might tell
in recounting the trip, depending on how long or
short of a story we wanted to tell. A newscaster
without much time might just show the pivotal
touchdowns, but given a little more time, she
might also include some of the turnovers that
led to those touchdowns. A terse description of
our hike might simply be “from Third Beach to
Toleak Point.” A long-​winded one could list each
point on the coastline in order. Between these
extremes are paths that summarize the trip
with some number of intermediary points. From
Third Beach we hike to Strawberry Point before
EXAMPLE 0.3  (a) Sightlines between points on the beach, (b) The sightlines as a network
(a)
(b)
getting to Toleak Point. This is a summary of the
trip with three points. Between Third Beach and
Strawberry Point is an unnamed point. Adding
this, we have a summary of the trip involving
four points. In order to include Scott’s Bluff,
we must also include Taylor Point, since Taylor
Point obscures Scott’s Bluff from Third Beach.
Our walk on the beach is what I  will call a
temporal structure throughout this book. The
elements of a temporal structure are:
(1) Some points in a space.
(2) A  definite temporal ordering of those
points.
(3) Non-​crossing connections between tem-
porally non-​adjacent points.
By “non-​crossing,” I mean that if A connects to C
and B is in between them, B cannot then connect
to something before A or after C. The temporal
ordering of the points, (2), is one kind of path,
a path that touches every point in the space.
Shorter paths are possible using the connections
in (3) to skip over certain points. These paths are
hierarchically organized, from the simplest to
the most complex, because there are no crossing
connections.
There are many types of temporal struc-
ture, because there are many kinds of space in
which the points of the structure might exist.
In our walk on the beach, the space is an ac-
tual landscape. The plots of most stories also
involve temporal structures, where the land-
scape may consist of possible states involving
the characters of the story (Hermia loves
Lysander, but Lysander loves Helena who
loves Demetrius  .  .  .). This book is about mu-
sical landscapes, those created by relationships
between durations (rhythm), pitches and
harmonies (tonality), and melodic motives and
ideas (form). While listening to music we trav-
erse these musical landscapes, and as we listen
we look ahead, just as we do while walking
the beach, seeing proximate and more distant
goals, and some of those in between.
Musical goals are a bit like points on a beach
in that we often can see ahead to important
destinations, but it can difficult to gauge their
distance when we cannot see all the events
in between. Our eyes assess distance mostly
by comparing objects, but often a sweeping
view of a landscape, particularly one on the
open ocean, lacks a clear line from objects di-
rectly in front of us to those on the horizon.
From Third Beach, Toleak Point appears to be
just past Strawberry Point. But it’s hard to tell
how far behind it really is, and we have no idea
how deeply the coastline cuts back between
them, or what obstacles there might be along
the way. As Barack Obama said on the morning
Introduction • 3
EXAMPLE 0.4 Mozart, Piano Concerto no. 19, mm. 25–​54
of November 9, 2016, “we zig and zag.” The
situation is similar in the opening ritornello
of Mozart’s Piano Concerto no.  19, K.  459.
Example 0.4 begins from the second theme.
At this point, we have just had a half cadence
and are looking ahead to a PAC in F major. We
can see directly in front of us that a second
theme is underway, and it appears that as soon
as the theme is complete, after eight measures or
so, we should reach our goal. This goal looks like
it is just beyond the cadential dominant, which
arrives in the seventh measure of the theme
(m. 31). Zen master Han Ong might then ask,
“What is luck?” When we get to the dominant,
we realize our eyes have deceived us and we have
4 • O r g a n ize d   T i m e
climbed a false summit:  where we thought the
final tonic would be, there is instead a first-​inver-
sion tonic that leads into a long, unforeseen di-
gression. The cadential dominant does not come
back into view until we get to the IV chord in
measure
‸ 37. From this predominant chord, with
4 firmly in the bass, a cadence once again appears
imminent. The dominant arrives in the form of
a cadential 46 in measure 41, but once there we
realize we have again been fooled. The coastline
veers even further back as the bass continues up
by half step to C♯ to tonicize vi. The tonic that
had appeared so close at hand ten measures ago
is still miles away. Mozart is not done toying
with us there either:  another false promise is
denied in measure 49, and not until measure 54
does a cadential dominant finally take us to our
long awaited goal, a PAC in F major.
Like the devious machinations of Puck in the
forest, which thwart the marriage of Lysander
and Hermia that had just a moment before
seemed inevitable and imminent, a good story
often builds content by throwing up seem-
ingly insurmountable obstacles to a prom-
ised outcome. In a similar way, the unforeseen
impediments that Mozart throws up in front
of his promised PAC are routine in tonal music.
The reason for going on the voyage is not to get
to the destination. It is for the experiences and
the magnificent things we see along the journey.
The beauty of a destination is often enhanced by
disappointments and detours that must be over-
come to get there.
That music is, above all else, an inherently
temporal art is a commonplace. It is true that
music can only be experienced in time. And, as
a young John Cage observed, neither harmony
nor melody, nor even pitch, belong strictly
speaking to the essence of music, whereas
time does. However, without being too glib,
one might point out that even visual art is not
observed in an instant but in time. The ceiling of
the Sistine chapel certainly cannot be taken in
all at once, and even the quickest glance at the
smallest painting surveys the image by scanning
its components in a definite order over a finite
period of time, a process that may happen so
quickly that the viewer is not even aware of it.
An essential skill of a great painter is the ability
to put together a composition that leads the eye
around in a definite way. The beauty of Cezanne’s
still-​lifes is paradoxically in how they move, with
their undulating, swirling lines, rather than
in the commonplace objects they depict. Like
our walk on the beach, the process of looking
temporalizes the space of the painting. What,
then, is distinctive about music? While a painter
may strive to control the temporal aspect of her
art, a composer has little choice but to do so.
Music whose temporal arrangement is indefi-
nite (as in some semi-​improvised contemporary
works) is the rare exception, just as the rigidly
predetermined temporalizing of the stations of
the cross or a graphic novel is the exception in
visual art. While a painting may succeed simply
by communicating a vague quality of motion, the
composer shapes a musical landscape to, above
all else, carefully control the temporal experience
of traversing that landscape. The materials that
constitute the landscape, keys and harmonies,
melodies, rhythms, dynamics, or timbres, are
secondary.
DIMENSION
The concept of dimensionality is so ingrained
in music theorist’s habits of thought that it
pervades our discourse often largely unno-
ticed, only sporadically scrutinized. It is implicit
whenever we talk about musical parameters.
Dimensionality is a mathematical as well as a
spatial metaphor. It is not a neutral concept. It
implies independence and separability. A point’s
unique location is specified by its position in
each dimension, and the possible positions in
one dimension are not altered or restricted by
values in another dimension. We can project
points onto one dimension, ignoring the others.
The metaphor of dimension also implies mallea-
bility. So long as the number of dimensions re-
main the same, we can rotate and shift our frame
of reference, redefining the parameters.
To the physicist, sound is essentially two-​
dimensional. The physical parameters of sound
are amplitude and time, the dimensions of a
sound signal, patterns of varying sound pressure
over time. To the musician, the two most basic
parameters of music are pitch and rhythm, the
schematic dimensions of the musical score.
While pitch is certainly not the same thing as
sound pressure level, we might nonetheless im-
agine that the musician’s dimensions simply
represent a slight tilt of the physicist’s axes.
The apparent similarity between our musical
concepts and a physical description of sound
tempts us into a false equivalence, the equation
of music as a cognitive object and as a physical
object. This temptation is so basic to musical
thinking that the entire history of music theory
may be viewed through its lens, so ever-​present
and fundamental is the need to reconcile them.
(One need only cite the constant revisions of a
Jean-​Phillipe Rameau or Hugo Riemann to their
own theories of harmony.)
But upon closer examination, the physical
and cognitive spaces of music are quite different.
The two parameters, pitch and time, certainly
do not give a complete description of musical
space. Such a description would also necessarily
include factors of loudness and timbre. And
timbre itself is not itself a simple parameter, but
a placeholder for everything about a sound that
is not its loudness, pitch, or duration. Perception
thus transforms the space of music from that of
sound into one of a different dimensionality, a
Introduction • 5
EXAMPLE 0.5 Mozart, Symphony no. 36 (“Linz”), ii (Andante), mm. 25–​32
fundamentally different space. What is constant
in this transformation is experienced time—​
that is, time on the scale of conscious human
experience.
We are still dealing with a relatively low-​level
description, though, when we speak of the per-
ceptual musical space. When we speak of musical
structure, the topic of this book, we are dealing
in yet another entirely different realm, music as
a higher-​cognitive object, or, to use Schoenberg’s
term, the musical idea. The perceptual space of
music is the medium out of which the musical
idea is shaped. But, just as the space of physical
sound does not transfer directly to music percep-
tion, we should not assume that the musical idea
exists in the same kind of space as the objects of
perception.
Musical structure is one of the most im-
portant concerns of music theorists studying
tonal music. By definition, musical structure
is hierarchical and temporal. That is, like lin-
guistic grammar, structural relationships in
music exist at multiple levels and are organ-
ized in well-​ formed hierarchies, and those
relationships are dependent upon the temporal
arrangement of musical events. For example,
consider the passage in Example 0.5, the final
cadential phrase in the exposition of this slow
movement from one of Mozart’s symphonies.
The harmonies in measures 26 and 27 have im-
portant roles as predominant and dominant in
the cadential function of the phrase. Yet, the ca-
dence is not completed as expected in measure
28. Instead, Mozart redirects the progression to
a remote harmony, V/​ii, works his way back to
the cadential harmony at the end of measure 29,
6 • O r g a n ize d   T i m e
then repeats the progression before finally re-
solving to tonic (C major). There are clear struc-
tural distinctions between harmonies in this
situation:  some are essential to the cadential
function of the phrase (IV, V, and I). The initial
V56/IV is dependent upon the cadential IV for
its meaning. The V/​ii is even more distant from
the harmonic essentials of the phrase:  it is de-
pendent upon the following V/​V, which is itself
dependent upon the following V56. Furthermore,
this V56, as an unstable inverted dominant, is not
a cadential chord at all, but needs to resolve to
the tonic before the cadence can proceed in the
second half of the measure.
The temporal arrangement of these harmonies
is essential to their structural meaning. Applied
chords (like the V56/​IV and V/​ii) move to their
implied goals to realize their subsidiary struc-
tural role. Cadential predominant and domi-
nant, which occur multiple times because of
the repeated deferrals of the final tonic, are
also differentiated in function by their temporal
placement. The ii6–​Cad46–​V in the last beat of
measure 31 fulfills the cadential function of the
phrase because it is directly followed by the final
tonic. Other instances of predominant and dom-
inant harmony, in measures 26–​27 and measure
29, ultimately are of a lower structural order
because their resolutions are deflected.
In addition to the hierarchical syntax of har-
monic progression, the phrase has a clear meter,
which also imparts structure to the harmonies
and individual melody notes. This structure is
also temporal, but it is in many places uncoor-
dinated with the harmonic structure. While
meter is based on quantifiable duration whereas
harmony is not, both are inherently temporal.
This latter sense of time as the basis of ordering
events and conceiving of them as motions is
equally indigenous to all of the varieties of tem-
poral structure discussed here, those of rhythm,
tonality, and form. The physicist’s sense of
quantifiable time, as a dimension independent
of space in which distances can be measured,
belongs exclusively to the domain of rhythm.
The fact that rhythm and meter in Mozart’s
theme structure time differently than the logic
of the harmonic progression is most evident in
measures 28–​29. The V/​ii chord is harmonically
dependent upon the following V/​V, but it occurs
in a stronger metrical position on the first beat.
The same is true in measure 29, where the un-
stable V56 occurs on the downbeat, but here the
chord of resolution, I, does not occur on a beat
at all, but on the weak eighth. In the melody,
there are dissonant non-​harmonic tones on both
beats of measure 28. Like the accented V56 in the
following measure, these accented dissonances
reverse the structural order of harmony and
meter. This structural disjunction is essential to
fulfilling the phrase’s role in the aesthetic idea of
the piece. It is a dispute between musical struc-
ture in two modalities, one tonal (harmony) and
one rhythmic (meter). The same musical event
(melodic note or chord) may have a different
status according to the two different structuring
principles. This momentary dispute intensifies
the sense of satisfaction upon reaching the ca-
dential goal at the end of the phrase, where
structures are brought back into alignment.
If it seems cognitively implausible that
a listener maintains multiple independent
structural descriptions of a musical passage,
updating them online as the music proceeds,
a linguistic analogy is perhaps instructive. It
is well known that the grammatical structure
of sentences is inherently hierarchical, some-
thing Chomsky (1957, 1965)  demonstrated
at the dawn of modern linguistics. Linguistic
grammar is thus a temporal structure, a hierar-
chical structure that unfolds in time and whose
objects are temporal, like the elements of music.
Suggestive comparisons have been often drawn
between linguistic and musical syntax. These, as
Patel (2008, 2012) shows, can be misleading if
located at too literal a level but do reflect real
deep similarities and suggest shared underlying
neural processes. Less well-​known is that an-
other aspect of language, called prosody, also has
a hierarchical structure. Prosody more directly
relates to the sound of a linguistic utterance,
in particular the pitch envelopes, changes in
loudness, and durations of syllables. It is es-
sential to the comprehensibility of utterances,
and, like grammar, it displays hierarchical orga-
nization. Lerdahl (2001a) has shown underlying
similarities between the temporal structures
of linguistic prosody and musical rhythm and
grouping. Prosodic structure relates to gram-
matical structure, but is also fundamentally
independent of it. The prosodic and grammat-
ical structures operate according to different
principles and in different modalities, and do
not always line up. Both are completely intui-
tive to speakers of a language and are processed
simultaneously when listening to speech. The
analogy to the rhythmic and harmonic lan-
guage of Mozart’s musical utterance is easy to
see: Mozart uses rhythmic structure as a kind of
prosody, one that enhances the meaning of the
grammatical progression of harmonies, putting
special emphasis on important but more struc-
turally remote chords. The rhythmic setting of
this conventional harmonic/​voice-​leading pro-
gression is like the dramatic reading of a poem,
creating tension by making prosodic shapes that
conflict with the harmonic grammar.
Music theorists tend to focus their efforts on
one musical dimension or another, and partly
for this reason it is tempting to assume that
there is just a single temporal structure for a
piece, and that different musical factors compete
to define that structure. A theorist interested in
tonal structure might treat the rhythm as one
potential factor—​and a weak one at that—​to
take into account when deciding the tonal struc-
ture of the piece. This, I would argue, would rad-
ically misconstrue a passage like the one above.
The tonal hierarchy of cadential harmonies is not
made in any way ambiguous by Mozart’s coun-
tervailing metrical structure, nor is the meter
any less clear for the accented dissonances. On
the contrary, both structures are quite definite,
and thus produce a quite definite picture of con-
flict and striving.
For these reasons, in my pursuit of musical
structure in the following pages, I have found it
necessary to operate on multiple fronts. At the
level of the individual piece, a one-​dimensional
analysis will often (to mix metaphors) come out
flat. In the passage above, little of value could
be discovered by simply describing the meter.
Nor is the tonal structure, by itself, especially
remarkable. More often than not, the real mu-
sical action of a piece is somewhere between and
among dimensions. Yet, as Kofi Agawu says, “in
Introduction • 7
an institutional climate in which analysts tend to
work within dimensions as specialists, theories
that demand an interdimensional approach from
the beginning seem to pose special challenges”
(2009, 52). One of my goals in this book is to
promote the independence of structures defined
within different musical dimensions, to make
it possible to see conflict and richness where a
one-​dimensional approach might find only am-
biguity and indeterminacy. This effort involves
a lot of swimming upstream, because many re-
ceived musical concepts have been constructed
by selectively drawing upon aspects of different
types of structure. It also necessarily puts me in
many different people’s sandboxes at once, as
will be apparent from the unusually wide range
of music theory literature cited throughout.
Nonetheless, I  find common cause in this pro-
ject with many other theorists, including Agawu,
James Webster (1991b, 2009), who advocates for
what he calls multivalent analysis, and most re-
cently Christopher Brody (2016), who proposes
a method of systematizing parametric interac-
tion in tonal repertoires.
The other motivating thesis of this book is
that the basic formal properties of temporal
structure are the same regardless of which di-
mension defines the structure. This aspect of the
project makes the multiple-​front strategy more
manageable while also making it even more
profitable. I argue in the first three chapters that
temporal structures are containment hierarchies
of timespans. For instance, in the 6/​8 meter of the
example from Mozart’s “Linz” symphony above,
there is a timespan that goes from the downbeat
of each measure to the downbeat of the next,
and for each measure there are two timespans
defined by the 𝅘𝅥  . beats. The meter is expressed by
the containment hierarchy of such timespans.
Tonal hierarchy may similarly be understood as
a containment hierarchy on timespans defined
by tonal events. These temporal hierarchies can
therefore also be discussed on an abstract level,
with the added advantage that they are highly
tractable as mathematical objects. The actual use
of mathematics is mostly confined to dedicated
chapters. Chapter 4 initiates a discussion of tem-
poral structure at an abstract level, introducing
a few simple mathematical tools and concepts
in a mostly non-​technical language. Chapter  5
also proposes some simple mathematical tools
for manipulating timespans with special refer-
ence to hypermeter. More rigorous mathematics
are reserved for the last two chapters, which
lay a mathematical foundation for the theory
8 • O r g a n ize d   T i m e
of temporal structure using graph theory and
modern geometry.
So far I have mentioned two dimensions of mu-
sical structure, metrical and tonal, but ultimately
I will propose three important, and independent,
structural modalities. The first is rhythmic struc-
ture, of which metric structure is a special case.
Chapter 1 will introduce some of the basic prin-
ciples of temporal hierarchy through rhythmic
structure, which are extended to hypermeter in
Chapters  5 and 6, and to further discussion of
syncopation in Chapter  8. The second dimen-
sion is tonal structure, introduced in Chapter 2
and expanded upon in Chapter 10. The third, the
focus of Chapters 3 and 11, is formal structure.
My claim is not, to be sure, that these are the only
possible dimensions that can support temporal
structures. The narrative structure of an operatic
scene, for instance, might be understood as an
independent temporal structure, and in certain
cases a piece may have a loudness envelope that
might be reasonably understood as hierarchical
and independent of other structural modalities.
Some works (especially vocal works) may use
register in a structured way that is independent
of the tonal structures of harmonies and keys.
Agawu’s (1991, 110–​25) analysis of Beethoven’s
Op.  132 String Quartet finds a structural dis-
junction between tonality and musical topic. The
interpretive space of music, unlike the physical
space of sound, cannot be limited a priori to a
determinable number of dimensions. However,
the three discussed here define a universe that
encompasses the great majority of concepts
and theories that analysts typically apply to
tonal music.
There is a reasonably broad, though not uni-
versal, consensus that tonal structure extends
well beyond such local dependencies to deeper
levels of structure that encompass entire
pieces. This includes Schenkerian scholars as
well as non-​Schenkerian ones such as Leonard
Meyer (1973, 1989)  and Fred Lerdahl and Ray
Jackendoff (1983), whose theories are strongly
Schenker-​inspired, and some (Rohrmeier 2011,
Koelsch et  al. 2013)  who owe little discernable
debt to Schenker at all. Lerdahl and Krumhansl
(2007), in a study of listener’s judgments of har-
monic tension, give empirical evidence for the
hierarchical nature of harmonic hearing. There
are a range of opinions concerning the depth
of metrical structure, from those who acknowl-
edge little beyond the one-​to two-​measure levels
(e.g., Lester 1986)  to those who theorize met-
rical structures at the level of the entire piece
(e.g., Komar 1971). Chapter  2 will present a
theory of tonal structure similar to Schenker’s,
though one that makes no pretenses towards
orthodoxy, while Chapter  6 will argue that the
rhythmic structures introduced in Chapters  1
and 5 extend at least to the four-​measure level,
and sometimes further.
Despite the general agreement that tonal
music is highly structured, and that it is struc-
tured in multiple independent modalities, such
as harmony and rhythm, opinions about the
number and nature of these modalities varies
widely, and terminology used to describe them
is often idiosyncratic. Many of the schemes
proposed have originated with Schenkerians
grappling with the fact that the tonal structures
of Schenkerian analyses often parse music
quite differently than do traditional theme-​
based formal designations. This is in contrast
to Schenker himself, who unequivocally viewed
musical structure as a unitary phenomenon cen-
tered on tonal structure.2 In Free Composition
([1935] 1979) he states: “Tone-​space is anterior
to form . . . Since the fundamental line is iden-
tical to the concept of tone-​space, this in itself
provides the fountainhead of all form. Be they
two-​, three-​, four-​, or five-​part forms, all re-
ceive their coherence only from the fundamental
structure, from the fundamental line in tone-​
space” (16), and “all forms appear in the fore-
ground; but all of them have their origin in, and
derive from, the background” (130). In reference
to “song forms” he says,
I reject those definitions of song form that
take the motive as their starting point and
emphasize manipulation of the motive by
repetition, variation, extension, fragmen-
tation, or dissolution. I  also reject those
explanations which are based upon phrases,
phrase-​ groups, periods, double periods,
themes, antecedents, and consequents.
My theory replaces all of these with spe-
cific concepts of form which, from the
outset, are based upon the content of the
whole and of the individual parts; that is,
the differences in prolongations lead to
differences in form. (131)
Virtually no later theorists, however
committed to Schenker’s theories, sustain this
radical denial that formal structures exist apart
from tonal structures (see in particular the
discussions in Smith 1996 and Brody 2015).
Some even deny that Schenker actually means
what he says so emphatically and on mul-
tiple occasions.3 Felix Salzer (1952) sets forth
a complex network of concepts (inner form,
outer form, design, and structure) to deal with
this issue, which others (e.g., Rothstein 1989,
Beach 1993, 2012, 2015, McKee 1996, Lester
2015) have used as a starting point for making
similar distinctions. While Salzer’s “design”
refers to the traditional notion of form, for him
(and others), following Schenker, the “form” of
a piece is actually determined, confusingly, by
the tonal structure. Such distinctions were made
necessary in Schenkerian theory to recognize
what Cohn (1992c) refers to as “constructive
conflicts,” the study of which has proven more
analytically productive than maintaining the au-
tocracy of tonal structure promoted by Schenker
himself. However, novel ways of designating
the independence of form from tonal struc-
ture, which should be unnecessary (considering
that the traditional terms “tonal” and “formal”
are perfectly serviceable), are designed for little
other purpose than to subordinate form in
value, if not in practical importance, to tonal
structure, thus perpetuating at least the spirit of
Schenker’s contempt for traditional formal anal-
ysis. They designate form as something ephem-
eral (“outer,” or “surface”) in contrast to tonality
as something deep, essential, and true.
These questions about form and structure
will be dealt with in greater depth in Chapter 3,
which proposes a theory of form roughly com-
parable to the “design” or “outer form” of this
Schenkerian tradition—​that is, a theory of form
as a modality of musical structure independent
from, and with the potential to interact with,
tonal structure.

2. Although this is distinctly a late development in his thinking. Schenker’s late theory of structure grew out of an earlier
perspective on musical structure heavily based on the traditional formal categories of nineteenth-​century theory. See Hooper
2011, 2015.
3. For example, “Schenker’s emphasis on the background in Free Composition might lead one to conclude that, for
Schenker, form is determined simply and only by the deepest levels. But his dogmatic emphasis on background structure is in
many cases not to be take quite literally” (Laskowski 1990, 90, my emphasis). The era in which theorists felt they had to arrive
at a reasonable theory not by critiquing Schenker but by offering a revisionist, possibly contortionist, gloss on his own words
is thankfully a bygone one.

Introduction • 9
 Another theorist who argues, as I do here, for
the importance of structural disjunction and in-
teraction between different musical dimensions
and resisting the tendency to subordinate one
musical parameter to another, is Peter Smith
(2005). He refers to the interaction of different
modalities as “dimensional counterpoint.” Smith
identifies three dimensions:  thematic design,
key scheme, and tonal structure (while allowing
for any number of additional ones). Despite his
explicit invocation of the metaphor of dimen-
sion, though, Smith’s treatment of musical di-
mension neglects an essential feature of the
concept, that of independence and separability.
He says that “any given musical dimension can
never be completely isolated from the others”
(31), which means, properly speaking, they are
not really dimensions. Nevertheless, the math-
ematical metaphor does point us in the right di-
rection: if the given parameters are not perfectly
orthogonal, but also not perfectly parallel, there
must be a way to redefine them so as to isolate
the orthogonal components. In Chapters 2 and
3, the goal of independence motivates some ro-
tation and shearing of the traditional axes of
tonal structure and form.
Smith’s differentiation of key scheme and
tonal structure as distinct musical dimensions,
also maintained by Lauri Suurpää (1999, 2006),
might strike the uninitiated as puzzling. After
all, is key not an essential element of tonal struc-
ture rather than an independent parameter?
The distinction is in fact revealing of Smith’s
firm grounding in contemporary Schenkerian
theory, in particular an important essay by Carl
Schachter (1987a) addressing Schenker’s ge-
neral hostility to the conventional concept of
key. Schachter allows that the concept of key has
some basic empirical validity, and focuses his ar-
gument instead on asserting the independence
of Schenkerian analyses from keys, and also
arguing that the Schenkerian analysis ultimately
represents something deeper and more real than
modulations and momentary tonal centers.
Smith goes one better on Schachter by allowing
that key schemes may in fact be structural, yet
nonetheless independent of Schenkerian tonal
structure.
Underlying both arguments, in my view,
is a tenacious and unarticulated resistance to
making any modifications to a supposedly or-
thodox practice of Schenkerian analysis that
is entrenched in music theory culture and
institutions. Dogged adherence to every as-
pect of the established practice of Schenkerian
10 • O r g a n ize d   T i m e
analysis would run the project of this book
aground. Therefore, Chapters  2 and 10, while
offering theories of tonal structure and harmony
heavily indebted to Schenker, will nonetheless
propose some reasonable modifications to usual
Schenkerian theory, terminology, and method.
In particular, I argue there for a different recon-
ciliation of keys with tonal structure than the
one proposed by Schachter, one that introduces
the concept of key into tonal structure as an es-
sential element, because without it, tonal struc-
ture cannot be effectively defined in a way that it
independent of form and still operates success-
fully at higher levels of tonal structure.
The dimensional metaphor looms largest over
Chapter  3, which proposes a new approach to
form. At the outset of the project of writing this
book, my intention was to simply build upon the
recent advances of the “new Formenlehre” in un-
derstanding how form works in the eighteenth
century, not to radically rethink musical form, or
to turn distinguished old debates about form on
their side. However, the imperative set forth by
the overarching concept of independent struc-
tural modalities sent me down a different path.
This simple assumption, that musical form is a
structural modality independent of tonality,
upends long-​standing tenets of formal analysis.
By necessity, then, the larger project of this book
resulted in an unexpectedly novel perspective
on form.
The harvest from the theoretical seeds
planted in the first three chapters comes in
the later chapters of the book. The focus of
Chapters  5–​8 is on rhythm and hypermeter.
After extending the theory of rhythmic struc-
ture from Chapter 1 to a theory of hypermeter
in Chapters  5 and 6, Chapter  7 uses the sepa-
ration of modalities to paint a fuller picture of
how closure works in tonal music. Chapter  8
extends the concept of syncopation from
Chapters  1 and 5 to hypermetric structures
and larger musical contexts. Chapters  10–​12
focus on matters of large scale tonal and formal
structure, coming full circle to the concerns
of dimensionality and disjunction raised here.
Chapter  10 proposes a concept of tonal space
that can classify harmonic processes between
neighboring, sequential, and cadential types.
Chapter  11 picks up from Chapter  3 in taking
on some current and historical problems in the
theory and analysis of musical form, taking ad-
vantage of the new theoretical perspective to re-
solve some persistent issues in formal analysis.
Chapter 12 undertakes a more historical survey
of methods of large-​scale tonal-​formal disjunc-
tion in the music of Beethoven and Schubert.
Distributed amongst these focused treatments
of specific topics are three other chapters that
deal with temporal structure on a more abstract
level. Chapter  4 develops some mathematical
tools for describing structural shapes more
generally, without regard to the specific dimen-
sion in which that shape operates. Chapter  9
takes advantage of the common underlying
principles of temporal structure to show how
counterpoint may operate analogously between
all three modalities. Finally, Chapter 13 shows
how the mathematical discipline of graph
theory provides a deeper appreciation and
foundation for a theory of temporal structure,
and Chapter  14 extends this with a geometric
model, the associahedron, that acts as a general
framework for relating structural shapes within
and across dimensions.
Introduction • 11
 1
Rhythmic Hierarchy and
the Network Model
1.1  METRICAL AND
RHYTHMIC STRUCTURES
AS TEMPORAL HIERARCHIES
Meter is perhaps the most basic and perceptually
immediate form of hierarchical organization in
music. A measure divides into beats, which fur-
ther subdivide into smaller note values. What
is hierarchically organized here, though, are not
beats themselves (which are really timepoints) but
the timespans that they outline. The rule of orga-
nization is simple containment: one timespan is
above another in the hierarchy if it contains it.
Metrical hierarchy, then, is a form of temporal hi-
erarchy, as described in the introduction.
Justin London (2012, 84–​ 8) diagrams a
measure of 4$as shown in Example 1.1(a). There
are four different kinds of timespans shown
starting with the complete circle, which is
1. The most influential being Lewin 2007a.
2. Lerdahl and Jackendoff (1983) use trees to show musical hierarchies. Their work is discussed further below and in
Chapters 2 and 13.
12 • 
divided in half down the middle (the timespans
from strong beat to strong beat), into four
quarter-​note spans (the square), then into eight
eighth-​note spans, all of which are arrayed in a
neat symmetrical hierarchy of containment. The
containment hierarchy is especially apparent
when it is arranged vertically by unfolding the
cycle, as in Example 1.1(b)–​(c).
In Example 1.1(c) it is apparent that what we
have is a network (or graph)—​that is, a collection
of nodes connected by some edges. Networks are
used in many ways in music theory,1 but in this
book they will always be used to show temporal
hierarchies, where the nodes represent timepoints
and the edges represent timespans. But in what
sense is Example 1.1(c) a hierarchy? After all, the
type of network we usually associate with hier-
archy is a tree, where each node connects to ex-
actly one node above it,2 and Example 1.1(c) is
not exactly a tree. That is because the hierarchy
EXAMPLE 1.1  Common time with half, quarter, and eighth note levels as (a) an “8 cycle” after London
2012, (b)  unfolded, (c)  redrawn with straight lines, (d)  as a tree of timespans, and (e)  drawn with
brackets or slurs
(a)

(b)

(c)

(d)

(e)
EXAMPLE 1.2  (a) The first four measures of the theme from Haydn’s “London” Symphony (no. 104),
(b) a metric structure including empty timepoints (shown with open dots), and (c) a rhythmic structure
whose nodes include all the timepoints articulated in the melody
(a)
(b)
(c)
it represents is not a hierarchy of timepoints
(nodes) but of timespans (edges). As Zuckerkandl
(1956, 193)  puts it, “it is not in the beats but
in the intervals between them, where nothing
happens, where time simply elapses, that meter is
born.” (The same point can be made substituting
“pitches” for “beats” and “melody” for “meter,” a
motivating point for the next chapter.) Example
1.1(d) shows the same hierarchy as a tree; in this
network the noteheads (which are the nodes)
stand for timespans rather than their timepoint
of attack. It is usually more convenient to repre-
sent timepoints as nodes rather than timespans,
so the type of network in (c) will be our standard
notation for temporal hierarchy. Nonetheless,
this kind of network always has a corresponding
tree (like Ex. 1.1(d)), making it a kind of “tree of
edges,” which has a name in mathematical graph
theory: a 2-​tree. The networks we will use here are
actually a special case of 2-​trees, called maximal
outerplanar graphs (MOPs).3
Subsequent chapters will use this kind of
network to represent tonal hierarchies and
formal designs. Such containment hierarchies
of timespans are certainly not entirely novel in
any of these applications; music theorists are
in the habit of using them, here and there, for
all of these purposes, often graphically depicted
in one of the forms shown in Example 1.1(e),
as nested brackets or slurs. One of the goals
of Chapters 1–​4 is to systematize these usages
within a unified framework, and to make the
common underlying network model explicit.
The mathematical abstraction opens the door
to powerful generalizations, which will be
exploited to some extent in Chapters 4 and 13.
3. The distinction between 2-​trees and MOPs is that in a 2-​tree multiple triangles can originate from a single edge. In a MOP
only one triangle at most can “grow” down from each edge. Chapter 13 provides more technical definitions these and other terms.
14 • O r g a n ize d   T i m e
As a standard notation for temporal hierarchy,
MOPs have some distinct advantages over
brackets or slurs: while maintaining the conven-
tional association of the horizontal dimension
with musical time, they consistently associate
the vertical dimension with hierarchical depth,
both on events as well as timespans, and they
remain readable at higher degrees of com-
plexity, with large numbers of events and mul-
tiple layers.
Applying the model of meter in Example 1.1
in music analysis immediately raises some in-
teresting questions. Consider the first few
measures of the allegro to Haydn’s “London”
Symphony (Hob. 104) shown in Example 1.2(a)
(actually in 2@, but Ex. 1.1 still applies). The
rhythm is straightforwardly metrical, so our
network should show how the different notes
of the melody relate to one another metrically.
Example 1.2(b) gives such a network, including
all of the timespans that hypothetically belong
to the meter, and also inferring a hypermetrical
level of two-​measure spans. (Hypermeter will be
discussed in greater depth in Chapters 5–​8). Most
of the timepoints in the meter, though, do not
have corresponding events in the music; these
are shown with unfilled dots in the example.
This is not especially problematic in measure 1,
for instance, where these empty dots could be
deleted without disrupting the relationships be-
tween the filled dots. Yet simple deletion would
not work in measure 2:  the second note of the
measure (E) depends upon one of these unfilled
dots (beat 3) to define its place in the meter. In
other words, our hierarchy has the eighth-​note
timespan from E to F♯ dividing an imaginary
EXAMPLE 1.3 Nested “metrical waves,” from Zuckerkandl 1956, 187

timespan from beat 3 to beat 4—​one that is not
articulated by any real musical event.4
From the point of view of meter, such imagi-
nary timespans may be understood to exist within
the listeners’ and/​or performers’ minds (and in
some cases also literally in, e.g., the gestures of a
conductor). In early studies of metrical hearing,
psychologists posited that listeners possessed a
kind of malleable set of hierarchically nested in-
ternal clocks, stimulated by the rhythmic input
and in turn used to form a mental image of it (Povel
and Essens 1985). This discrete-​time concept of
meter comes up short of being able to explain
tempo fluctuation and expressive timing, and
has therefore been replaced by a continuous-​time
model of neural oscillations in resonance with
the stimulus (Jones and Boltz 1989, Large and
Jones 1999, Toiviainen and Snyder 2003, London
2012). This oscillation-​ based theory of meter
was anticipated by Zuckerkandl’s (1956) idea
of “metrical waves,” as depicted in Example 1.3.
According to any of these theories, the imagi-
nary timepoints of Example  1.2(b), given a well
established meter, are real but unsounded mu-
sical events, peaks in the neural oscillations of
the listener, the strokes of an internal conductor.
Because such oscillations are fluctuations in the
listener’s attention, reflecting the anticipation of
musical events, the oft-​used antinomy of “loud
silences” is particularly apt (see London 1993).
Meter can therefore be understood as temporal
hierarchy, and given the constraints imposed by
the concept (even spacing of pulses, completeness)
a limited number of hierarchical shapes is needed
to capture metrical hierarchy.5 Rhythms them-
selves, however, are not so constrained, and when
there is a metrical context, we may suppose that
a rhythm will have a temporal structure imposed
by the metrical hierarchy. Such rhythmic structures
may have a much more varied range of shapes.
The simplest kinds of rhythmic structures, like
measures 1, 3, and 4 of Haydn’s theme, will include
only timespans that belong to the meter. In these
cases, the rhythmic structure is simply a pared-​
down version of the metrical structure. However,
most musical rhythms articulate timespans that
do not belong to the metrical structure, like the
of measure 2.  To describe such rhythmic
structures, we need to infer the status of such
timespans from those that belong to the struc-
tural description of the meter. For Haydn’s theme
we may arrive at a solution, the one shown in
Example  1.2(c), through a straightforward pro-
cess:  starting from the top, add nodes one at a
time, always adding the nodes highest in the hier-
archy of the metrical framework first, connecting
to the adjacent nodes above as you do so.
This process will not work for all rhythms,
though:  it breaks down precisely when rhythms
become syncopated—​in fact, the failure of this der-
ivation from the meter is one way to understand
what sets syncopated rhythms apart. Consider
Example 1.4, the unisono melody that begins the
third movement of C.P.E. Bach’s D minor Keyboard
Concerto. It features a distinctive syncopation.
According to the process just defined, we would
first choose the second beat of measure 2 to fill the
two-​measure span. But the next choice is ambig-
uous, because the D (in m. 1) and F (in m. 2) both
appear at the eighth-​note level. In fact, even the
supposedly unambiguous choice of putting the
main division of the structure at the E in measure
2 is highly questionable. The most intuitively sat-
isfying description of the rhythmic structure is

4. For this reason, when Longuet-​Higgins and Lee (1986) define a generative grammar for metrical rhythms they must
allow that that rests and ties count as musical events.
5. Leaving aside the question of non-​isochronous meters. Recent research shows that non-​isochronous beat subdivisions exist
in certain drumming traditions (Polak 2010, Polak and London 2014). Training and enculturation are necessary features of any
explanation of these kinds of non-​isochronous meters. (And such explanations could also apply to such phenomena as expressive
timing in Western classical music.) See London 2012, 171–​89. Non-​isochronous beat subdivisions should not be confused with
non-​isochronous meters made from irregular groupings of some common fast pulse, common in a variety of musical styles. There
is reason to think of these as basic rhythms, “rhythmic topoi” in Agawu’s (2003, 154–​64) words, rather than meters.

Rhythmic Hierarchy • 15
EXAMPLE 1.4  C.P.E. Bach, Keyboard Concerto,
Wq. 23, iii (Allegro assai), mm. 1–​5 , and its
rhythmic structure
(a)
(b)
(c)
probably the one given in Example 1.4(b), in which
the D on the weak eighth of measure 1 divides the
two-​measure span.
In the next section we will see how to arrive
at the analysis of Example 1.4(b) through a kind
of transformational reasoning. That reasoning
suggests that a rhythmic structure can actually
conflict with the metrical one, because—​in the
case of syncopations in particular—​the rhythm
can be understood as a displacement of a more
metrically regular one. Chapter  8 will consider
this aspect of syncopation in more detail.
Another important difference between
Examples  1.2(b) and 1.2(c) or between
Examples  1.4(a) and (b)  is that in metrical
hierarchies the depth of the nodes, the number
of edges above them, corresponds to metrical
level whereas in the rhythmic structures this
is no longer the case. All eighth-​note edges in
Example  1.2(b), for instance, have four edges
above, but in 1.2(c), those in measure 2 have
three edges above them, like the quarter notes of
measures 1 and 3. This feature will lead to a useful
concept of rhythmic classes in the next section.
Once we see that musical rhythms have this
kind of temporal structure, and that it can even
sometimes conflict with the meter, we might
be tempted to ask another more provocative
question:  Is meter a necessary intermediary for
deriving the rhythmic structure? In other words,
can one infer a rhythmic hierarchy directly without
first inferring a meter? Section 1.3 below will
propose a simple mechanism for these kinds of
inferences based on a rhythmic process called pro-
jection. This suggests the possibility of thinking of
metrical structures as in some sense deriving from
rhythmic ones, rather than vice versa.
1.2  RHYTHMIC CLASSES
AND TRANSFORMATIONS
Musicians usually think about meter in terms
of absolute metrical levels (quarter-​note level,
16 • O r g a n ize d   T i m e
eighth-​ note level, etc.). Such absolute levels
are inferable from a metrical hierarchy like
Example  1.2(b) directly from the depth of the
edges. Once a duration is assigned to one edge
(e.g., that the long duration of Ex. 1.2(b) stands
for two measures), we go down one metrical level
(measure, half note, quarter note, etc.) for each
triangle between the top edge and some edge
below it. (The depth of the edge is the number
of such triangles—​see §4.1.) However, as noted
above, the same is not true of rhythmic structures
more generally, such as Example  1.2(c). This
means that many possible rhythms might have
the same structure. We might say that the idea
of rhythmic hierarchy abstracts away from real
durations. Different rhythms may result from
different ways of assigning durations to the
edges of the network. We will call a group of such
rhythms sharing a common structure a rhythmic
class. There is an intuitive sense of syntactic
equivalence between rhythms in the same class,
as we will see below.
Given a network like Example 1.2(c) without
the corresponding rhythm, we could find a
number of rhythms that fit the hierarchy,
but not to the point of assigning durations to
edges arbitrarily. For one thing, the durations
for edges that make a triangle have to add up
properly. But that in itself is not enough: if the
durations were assigned without regard for their
position in the network (such as the relative
depth of adjacent edges), then we might end up
with an implausibly metered rhythm—​in other
words, the rhythmic structure may not be one
that could be reasonably inferred for that se-
quence of durations. A  way to control for this
sort of goodness of fit is by starting from a nor-
mative rhythm, the most regular representative
of the given class, and applying a limited set
of transformations to that rhythm to derive the
most representative members of the class.
A normative rhythm for a given rhythmic
structure can be produced by a simple rule: after
setting a durational value for the uppermost
edge, work your way down dividing each du-
ration in half as you add new nodes. The
durations of the resulting rhythm are always
the same for a given depth of edge. The norma-
tive rhythm for the first two measures of the
London Symphony theme (Example  1.5a), for
example, is only slightly different than the orig-
inal. Though not exactly the same, this rhythm
is close enough that it does not seem to alter the
basic rhythmic syntax of the melody. Other plau-
sible realizations of the same temporal structure
EXAMPLE 1.5  Haydn’s theme recomposed with note in the larger melodic statement, because
rhythms in the same class:  (a) the normative the rhythms parse the same way. The normative
rhythm is only special in that it is the simplest
rhythm for the class, (b) in triple meter, (c) with a
change of meter, (d) with syncopation possible rhythm of a given class. This is quite im-
(a) portant, though, because rhythmic classes are not
finitely delimited in any obvious way. Therefore,
it is useful to be able to sort out the most repre-
sentative members of a given class. This can be
done by starting from the normative rhythm and
deriving other members of the class though the
application of specific rhythmic transformations.
The recompositions in Example 1.5 exem-
plify three types of transformations that tend to
(b) preserve a rhythm’s structure:  (1) meter change,
(2)  swing and squeeze, and (3)  syncopation. The
first of these, meter change, is a global transfor-
mation (applying uniformly across the entire
rhythm) rather than a local one, and is illustrated
by Example  1.5(b):  starting from the normative
rhythm of (a), the second half of each measure is
proportionally reduced by half, resulting in a con-
(c) sistent triple-​meter for the theme. (There is also
an additional swing transformation applied in
measure 2, discussed in the next paragraph.) One
could also reduce the first half of each measure pro-
portionally, resulting in a more unusual sarabande-​
type triple meter. The difference between these two
types of triple meter is analogous to the difference
between the swing and squeeze transformations
(d) described in the following paragraphs. Describing
triple meter as a rhythmic hierarchy with an un-
even 2 + 1 or 1 + 2 division of the measure differs
from the usual explanation of triple meter arising
from a 1:3 relationship between the pulse streams
of the beat and downbeat. The latter explanation
downplays the difference between triple meter of
the 1 + 2 sarabande type and the more usual 2 + 1
have a similar effect: they change the feel of the type. Grant (2014, 63–​90) shows that sixteenth-​
melody in subtle ways but not its basic gram- and seventeen-​century musicians conceptualized
maticality. For example, in 1.5(b), the theme triple meters in precisely this way, as meters with
is written in a triple meter; in (c)  the rhythm unequal beats. The idea of meter as hierarchically
seems to change meter momentarily in measure nested pulse streams is a distinctly modern way of
2; and (d)  is syncopated in measure 2.  These thinking with its roots in enlightenment theories
rhythms differ in ways that are typically under- of time.
stood to be quite basic: different time signatures, The transformation needed to derive correct
different levels of complexity and uniformity. rhythm of Haydn’s second measure from the
Nonetheless, because they all belong to the same one in Example  1.5(a) is a swing, a transfor-
rhythmic class, they generally preserve the me- mation that compresses part of the rhythm to
lodic sense of the original. the right. Example 1.6 illustrates this. First, we
Rhythmic classes are syntactic categories in have to choose where to apply the transforma-
♯
the sense that in all rhythms of the same class—​ tion, which is the F in measure 2, then delete
in all the rhythms of Example 1.5, for instance—​ all the notes below this in the hierarchy, as in
♯
the structural role of each note is the same. One Example  1.6(a). Then we “swing” the F , cutting
could therefore substitute for another without its duration in half and shifting it towards the
changing the basic rhythmic role of any individual end of the measure to make a dotted rhythm

Rhythmic Hierarchy • 17
EXAMPLE 1.6 Deriving the rhythm in m. 2 from
(a) a normative one with lower levels omitted, by
(b) applying a “swing” operation, and (c) replacing
the lower-​level notes
(a)
(b)
(c)
(Ex. 1.6(b)). Finally we restore the other notes (G
and E), similarly reducing their duration so that
the E stays clear of beat two and G fits at the end
of the measure. Described this way, “swinging”
seems cumbersome as a transformational process,
but there is in fact a more efficient and precise way
to define it that will be described in Section 5.4.
Of course, we could compress a rhythm to the
left instead of the right in exactly the same way.
The result will generally be a very different kind of
rhythm, so it deserves a different term, squeeze.
Example 1.7 squeezes measure 2 of Haydn’s
theme, in analogy to Example 1.6. This results
in a much less plausible rhythm than the swing
does. Why? The rhythms are similar in important
ways: they imply the same structure, and the same
durations are involved, just in the reverse order.
The difference seems to be that the long duration
( ) starts from a weak metrical position instead
of a strong one. Traditional rhythmic theory
explains this phenomenon by positing an “agogic
accent” associated with longer durations like this.
This is potentially misleading:  the kinds of em-
phasis that first come to mind as forms of musical
6. This idea of rhythmic resolution is similar to Lerdahl’s (2001b, 288–​92) idea of metrical attractions.
18 • O r g a n ize d   T i m e
EXAMPLE 1.7  Haydn’s theme with the swing in
m. 2 replaced by a similar squeeze
accent are immediate, like dynamic accent. But
agogic accent is fundamentally different, being
inherently retrospective and based exclusively on
temporal relationships, not on other parameters
like pitch or dynamic. Furthermore, the notion
of agogic accent does not ultimately explain the
different sense of the two types of rhythm be-
cause it begs the question. Why should the initia-
tion points of longer durations be accented rather
than their termination points?
The different effect of swung and squeezed
rhythms can instead be understood as a result
of the fit between the rhythmic pattern and its
structure. As events get lower in the hierarchy,
they become more rhythmically unstable, so that
timespan that tips upward (/​) in the network rep-
resentation (the MOP) is a kind of rhythmic res-
olution. The difference between the two kinds of
rhythms is that in swung rhythms the rhythmic
resolutions are assigned short durations, where
in squeezed rhythms they have long durations.
In both kinds of rhythms, there is a potentially
strong metrical position that is passed over, but
it is only in the squeezed rhythm that this strong
position is passed over during a rhythmic reso-
lution.6 In the rhythm of Example 1.7, the con-
sistent chain of half-​note durations starting in
measure 1, and the consistent chain of eighth-​
note durations starting in measure 2, both create
a powerful expectation (through projection, which
will be discussed in the next section) of continua-
tion on beat 2 of measure 2. The denial of this ex-
pectation, and thus also the “dissonant” effect of
the prolonged rhythmic resolution, is therefore
quite strong—​much too strong, certainly, to fit
the elegant aesthetic of Haydn’s theme.
Squeezed rhythms are not always so ungainly,
though, and they are actually an important com-
ponent of eighteenth-​ century rhythmic lan-
guage in other situations. Example 1.8 shows a
common ending formula as it is used by C.P.E.
Bach in his F major symphony, Wq. 183/​3. The
EXAMPLE 1.8  C.P.E. Bach, Symphony in F major, Wq. 183/​3, mm. 1–​8, with rhythmic structure
first half note in measures 2 and 4 is squeezed
to a quarter. The characteristic marcato articula-
tion of this rhythm clearly delineates each two
measure idea. Imagine changing both of these
measures to a swung rhythm: it would have the
same structure, and therefore would make as
much sense at a basic syntactic level, but the sin-
uous rhythm produced by the swing would be
totally inappropriate to Bach’s intended effect.
The squeeze de-​emphasizes the half note level of
the rhythm, and by accentuating the arrival of
the downbeat of measure 3 with the stretched-​
out rhythmic resolution approaching it, draws
particular heavy lines at the two-​measure level.
The resulting declamatory tone of the unisono
main theme is essential to its formal function,
bringing the bustling counterpoint of the or-
chestra to a halt to herald the start of each major
section of the movement. (Such ritornelli are
characteristic traits of Bach’s symphonic first-​
movement forms, as discussed in §11.2.)
The third type of transformation is synco-
pation, and is distinguished by the fact that it
creates conflict between the rhythmic structure
and meter. We saw this in the previous section
with the example from C.P.E. Bach’s D minor
Keyboard Concerto (Ex. 1.4). The derivation of
this rhythmic structure is shown in Example 1.9.
As a rhythmic transformation, syncopation dis­
places a note or notes from their proper metrical
position. It does so by expanding one duration
of the rhythm while compensating with a con-
traction of another one. Bach’s rhythm can be
derived in one step from a normative duple
rhythm, by contracting an initial 𝅘𝅥 to an 𝅘𝅥𝅮, and
expanding the following 𝅘𝅥𝅮 to a 𝅘𝅥. This is the
simplest possible derivation of the rhythm: a hi-
erarchy that places the major division of the two-​
measure span on the E in measure 2, for example,
requires at least two such transformations. Thus,
there is a simple argument from transformation
that this is indeed the correct structure for this
rhythm. And the music corroborates this anal-
ysis: the following B♭ –​B♭ octave leap parallels the
initial D–​D one, but in a normalized rhythm.
EXAMPLE  1.9  Transformational explanation
of the rhythmic structure of Bach’s D Minor
Concerto
When the soloist enters with the theme, she
plays the B♭ –​B♭ octave leap instead in the same
syncopated rhythm as the D–​D one.
Section 5.4 gives more precise mathe-
matical definitions of all of these rhythmic
transformations:  meter change, swing/​squeeze,
and syncopation.
The idea that a maximally regular duple
rhythm is normative for a given rhythmic class
reflects the fact that symmetry and regularity
are essential to rhythmic structure—​ unlike
tonal and formal structure, discussed in the
next two chapters. This reasoning also applies
to the structures themselves: the shapes of the
MOP networks for rhythm are typically much
more regular and evenly distributed than for
tonal or formal ones. The normative realization
of a highly irregular structure would be a highly
irregular rhythm, one with large discrepancies
between surface durations. Symmetry and reg-
ularity, however, are not just secondary features
of rhythmic hierarchy, but its essential, primary
features. The next section will further operation-
alize this idea.
1.3  INFERRING RHYTHMIC
HIERARCHIES
In the discussions of rhythmic structure so far
we have used all the conventional knowledge
Rhythmic Hierarchy • 19
built into the notated meter and its implicit ab-
stract hierarchy to derive structures. In other
words, we have been doing the analytical equiva-
lent of counting along with the music. A listener,
of course, does not have the all the benefits of
notation when inferring a meter, and we will
find in later chapters that composers not infre-
quently write against the notated meter—​music
sometimes has a different meter than what is
notated. Inferring rhythmic hierarchy is even
more important at the hypermetrical level, as
will be discussed in Chapter  6, where notation
provides no explicit guide at all.
The inference of meter is an important and
widely studied topic in music cognition, one
that is too large to go into in great detail here.
An early and influential discussion appears in
Lerdahl and Jackendoff’s A Generative Theory
of Tonal Music (1983, ch. 4), which uses a
preference-​ rule approach to model listeners’
metrical inferences.7 Like most cognitive
theories, Lerdahl and Jackendoff approach
the question of rhythmic perception by asking
first how listeners infer a meter from a rhythm,
assuming that the rhythmic structure then
derives from the inferred meter. Without
proposing a fully fledged cognitive theory, it is
worth asking whether it is possible to remove
meter as an intermediary between rhythm
and structure. This inquiry is in the spirit of
Hasty’s (1997) inversion of the meter-​rhythm
relationship, specifically by conceiving of meter
as a kind of rhythm. In other words, if we can
model the inference of rhythmic structure di-
rectly, without presupposing a regular met-
rical grid, then meter need not be understood
as the efficient cause of rhythmic structure,
but simply another rhythm that may acquire a
temporal structure through the same precepts.
In acknowledging the apparent psychological
reality of meter we temper Hasty’s views some-
what, admitting meter as a real phenomenon
apart from the literal rhythm of musical events.
Nonetheless, we restore to rhythm its power
of self-​determination by assigning meter the
status of a special type of rhythm, rather than as
sole arbiter of rhythmic structure. This concep-
tual reorganization becomes especially impor-
tant when we come to the topic of hypermeter
in Chapters 6 and 7, because at the upper levels
7. See also the discussion in Jackendoff 1991.
8. A more accurate definition would be “ . . . approximately the same length” to account for the tempo fluctuations and
microrhythmic variation that occur in real sounded rhythms, and even sometimes in notated ones (e.g., the notated ahead-​of-​
the-​beat rhythm in the main theme of Beethoven’s op. 31/​1 first movement).
20 • O r g a n ize d   T i m e
of hypermeter, metrical differentiation prob-
ably does not exist. According to the standard
view, this should lead us to discount the possi-
bility of meaningful rhythmic structure at these
levels altogether. However, if there is a concep-
tion of rhythmic structure prior to, and not de-
pendent upon, the phenomenon of meter, then
rhythmic structures can in fact often be inferred
at these levels.
Hasty infers structure in a rhythm by means
of a process he calls projection. This idea has
precedent in Neumann (1959) and is close to
a proposal made independently by Westergaard
(1975). It is also a crucial component of Mirka’s
(2009) approach. A  projection is a timespan
that starts where a previous one ends and has
the same length.8 Looking for projections is
a way of inferring the most regular possible
structure for a rhythm, and operationalizes
the expectation that music will “continue along
the same way.” The idea of temporal hierarchy
provides a good context for explaining how
projection works, because it is essentially a way
of sorting all the possible timespans between
any two events in the music into those that are
metrical and non-​metrical. The most plausible
meter of many rhythms can be determined
simply by maximizing projections within a well-​
formed temporal hierarchy. For passages with
more flat, less varied, rhythms, other musical
factors may suggest structural status to one
timespan over another.
In the first two measures of the theme from
Haydn’s London Symphony, one could iden-
tify many possible timespans between points
of articulation in the music, some of which be-
long to the rhythmic structure and others of
which do not. The ones that do belong to the
structure include most of the places where two
timespans relate by projection, meaning that
they are the same length and share a timepoint,
as shown in Example 1.10. This what we will
call simple projection:  a timespan from point a
to point b looks ahead, projects itself forward,
to a timespan of the same length from point b
to point c. Wherever such a projection is con-
firmed, it reinforces the potential structural sig-
nificance of a–​b and b–​c. Example 1.10 shows all
of the possible projections that are confirmed
up to the third downbeat of the theme. These
EXAMPLE 1.10  Possible projections in mm. 1–​2
of Haydn’s theme
include all of the timespans in measure 1 that
belong to the meter (at the 𝅝, 𝅗𝅥, and 𝅘𝅥 levels). In
measure 2, only the timespan corresponding to
the whole measure is a confirmed projection.
However, Example 1.10 also shows that the last
quarter-​note timespan of the measure is con-
firmed by a piggyback projection—​that is, the
quarter-​note span “piggybacks” on the projec-
tion of the measure-​long timespan because it
falls in the same place within each of the meas-
ures. Piggyback projections like this are espe-
cially important for inferences of hypermeter
(see §6.2). As a criterion for inferring rhythmic
structures, they have a similar effect to Lerdahl
and Jackendoff’s (1983, 75) rule of parallelism.
In general, many hypothetical projections
might exist that can be eliminated on the grounds
that they do not arrange hierarchically with any
others. For instance, extending the Haydn ex-
ample to four measures, as in Example 1.11,
produces other possible projections. But the ones
that belong to the meter arrange in a nice hier-
archy. Others that conflict with this hierarchy do
not recombine to form a robust alternative hier-
archy, so they do not influence the metrical sense
of the rhythm.
The meter of Haydn’s theme can thus be
inferred purely from the rhythm itself. But this
is obviously not true in all cases, which means
that other factors might be brought to bear.
There have been attempts to list all such possible
factors and weigh them against one another (e.g.,
Lester 1986, 18–​44; Berry 1987, 338–​45), an
exercise that often displays a wealth of creative
theoretical invention but also quickly become
unwieldy as each new musical example suggests
new considerations. A  common problem with
this kind of approach is that many very different
9. See also Kramer 1988, 96–​8 and §6.1
10. For example, Berry 1987, 339–​41, Lester 1986, 22–​8, Schachter 1976 (288–​9).
kinds of musical phenomena get mixed together
under a single heterogeneous concept of “accent,”
which is often misleading. For instance, the idea
of “metrical accent” is that notes are stronger if
they fall in strong positions in the meter—​but
the point of enumerating forms of accent in
the first place is to show how they establish the
meter. The apparent circularity (meter creating
accents which create meter) is a roundabout way
of expressing the important fact of metrical in-
ertia:  once a meter is established, it tends to
persist in spite of a certain amount of contrary
evidence. But this is much better understood
without the ploy of subsuming it under a con-
cept of accent, which unnecessarily equates a
psychological phenomenon (meter) with acoustic
ones (like dynamic accent). Similarly, as argued
above, the concept of “agogic accent” equates an
inherently retrospective phenomenon having to
do with timespans and rhythmic structure with
inherently immediate phenomena having to
do with timepoints (e.g., dynamic and metrical
accent). Thus, Zuckerkandl (1956, 163–​6) is right
to contend, of the textbook definition of meter as
a pattern of stronger and weaker accents, that “if
we accept this explanation, if we remain satisfied
with it, we have barred our way to understanding
the rhythmical phenomena of our music” (163).9
Rather than wade into this morass, let us
simply examine the kinds of reasoning that
might can be brought to bear in a few individual
instances. We will find that the determination of
meter is sweepingly diverse in the kinds of mu-
sical factors it brings to bear, but also that it is
remarkably consistent in that a focus on the artic-
ulation of timespans, identifying those timespans
that should belong to the rhythmic structure,
efficiently and effectively finds the solution.
Theorists often point out that tonal factors
can often be decisive in establishing a meter in
the absence of rhythmic cues.10 Baroque textures
with relatively flat surface rhythms like the one
in Example 1.12 make convenient examples of
this. The meter of this excerpt is unambiguous
despite the fact that the rhythmic pattern is
an uninterrupted flow of sixteenth notes. The
reason is that tonal features mark off structural
timespans at every level (Ex. 1.12(b)):  the me-
lodic connections in the first measure, E–​F♯–​G♯–​
A, and so on, define the eighth note spans; the
outlining of the tonic triad (E–​G♯–​E, E–​B) occurs
Rhythmic Hierarchy • 21
EXAMPLE  1.11 Many hypothetical projections can be dismissed on the grounds that they con-
flict with other more robust projections. Here, possible spans of five eighth notes are rejected on the
grounds that they overlap the series of whole-​note projections shown, as well as other timespans in the
rhythmic structure.

EXAMPLE 1.12  (a) Mm. 3–​6 of J.S. Bach, Violin Partita no. 3 in E major, Preludio, (b) a reduction,
showing the melodic outlining of tonic harmony.
(a)

(b)

EXAMPLE  1.13  C.P.E. Bach, Sonata for Unaccompanied Flute in A  minor, Wq. 132:  (a) unbarred,
(b) barred (incorrectly) in 43, (c) correctly barred in 83
(a)

(b)

(c)

in quarter note timespans; and the return to
tonic notes in the lower register on each down-
beat mark off the measures as timespans.
Yet it is easy to make too much of the depend-
ence of meter on tonality in cases like this. In
the example from Haydn’s London Symphony,
for example, where the rhythmic pattern defines
the meter unambiguously, the tonal process
is free to work with it or against it without in
any way threatening the meter. The tonal pro-
cess of measures 1–​2, for example, is a simple
descent F♯–​E–​D, which agrees with the meter
at the level of the measure (which corresponds
to the F♯–​D motion), but within measure 1 it
includes a span, from F♯ to E, that does not be-
long to the metrical structure. The rhythm has a
clear veto power over tonal structure in defining
the meter, and this is crucial to the aesthetic
effect of the melody, which depends upon this
little tonal-​rhythmic friction to give it a more
buoyant energy.
Consider the beginning of the allegro finale of
C.P.E. Bach’s Sonata in A  minor for flute alone
(Wq. 132), which appears in Example 1.13 first
unbarred, then in two plausible meters. The
sequence of durations by itself can only be made
responsible for the timespans of six eighth
notes, which is consistent with the meters
shown in both (b)  and (c). This follows from
the projection of the first six eighth-​notes onto
the second six, which repeat the same rhythm.
The harmonic pattern also provides strong

22 • O r g a n ize d   T i m e
confirmation in articulating the bass motion
(A–​G♯–​A) in these timespans.
The dispute between (b)  and (c)  in Example
1.13 is whether to group the eighths into 𝅘𝅥 or 𝅘𝅥.
timespans. An examination of the possible
projections cannot resolve this: both structures
have a full slate of timespans available in the
given note values. The melodic contour litigates
in favor of (b):  the timespan defined by the
endpoints of each arpeggiation (the tenth A–​C
and the twelfth G♯–​D) is a half-​note, which only
belongs to the 3$rhythmic structure.
Nonetheless, the true meter is that of
Example 1.13(c). How does the listener, who is not
looking at a score, hear this? Bach gives one clue
that is unambiguous:  breath. In (c), the slurred
notes in measures 2 and 4 belong to a single
timespan in the rhythmic structure. This timespan
crosses the structure of (b). The same slurring
happens in measures 6 and 8. This is the conven-
tional slurring for accented dissonance, and the
reason why should now be particularly apparent: it
reinforces the timespan determined by the meter
at a moment where the tonal pattern is working
against it. Of course, these accented passing tones
are essential to the artistic effect of Bach’s music.
The barring of (b), were one to take it seriously,
would make for a gracelessly mechanical melody.
If the perception of meter were a simple matter
of the listener weighing potentially conflicting ev-
idence and coming to some conclusion, it would
seem surprising that something as subtle as a slur
could outweigh the evidence of tonal patterning.
However, this way of thinking ignores the impor-
tant fact that tonal and rhythmic patterns can,
and often do, conflict. In fact, it is usually musi-
cally desirable that they do so. Therefore, even a
scrap of rhythmic evidence can define the meter
while leaving harmony its own forum, the tonal
structure, in which to register its dissent. When
the two structures are out of sync with one an-
other, all the better for musicality.
We should also remember, when we are look­
ing at a score, that a performer has many other
unnotated ways to provide additional evidence
for a metrical interpretation.11 The Tempo di
Menuetto from J.S. Bach’s G major keyboard par-
tita (BWV 829) is an extreme example that should
caution us against overemphasizing potential for
pitch-​based features to induce meter and dis-
count the potential influence of a sensitive per-
formance (Ex. 1.14). In the first three measures,
11. See, for example, Sloboda 1983, 1985.
EXAMPLE  1.14 Meas. 1–​ 4 of the Tempo di
Menuetto from J.S. Bach’s G major keyboard par-
tita (Clavierübung pt. 1 no. 5)
the pattern of durations—​a steady stream of
eighth-​notes—​itself provides no evidence con-
cerning rhythmic structure. The contours of
Bach’s arpeggiations, however, unambiguously
indicate a grouping in threes (even without the
emphasis provided by the otherwise unnecessary
upward stems), a regular succession of dotted-​
quarter timespans. This, however, contradicts
Bach’s meter and tempo indications, which both
imply groupings in twos, a regular succession of
quarter-​note timespans. Only at the cadence in
measure 4 does Bach confirm the $ 3 meter with a
half–​quarter rhythm in the right hand part.
There are potentially two ways to hear these
four measures. With a flat performance, the
listener is dragged around mercilessly by the
written notes:  the first three measures inevi-
tably sound like a 6*meter, which means the ca-
dence in measure 4 sounds like a sudden change
of meter. The effect is three very dull measures
followed by an awkward and unsatisfying ca-
dence. (The effect is worse if we continue this
hearing through the first part: seven more meas-
ures of mounting boredom finally giving way to
a very unconvincing PAC in D major.)
The other way to hear these first four meas-
ures requires some effort on the performer’s part
to project the triple meter from the beginning in
spite of the written notes. That she has nothing
on her side in the notes makes the task difficult,
especially on a harpsichord, which precludes any
real dynamic cues. It is clear, in any case—​leaving
aside the mechanics of achieving the effect—​
that this is what Bach requires of the performer.
Heard in 3$, the first three measures generate a
lively rhythmic tension, that lend excitement to
the otherwise simple melodic pattern, a tension
enhanced by the steady rise through an expanse
of registral space. The cadence in measure 4 then
resolves this rhythmic tension, an effect neces-
sary to its function as cadence. (The function
is complete subverted in a 6*hearing, where the
cadence introduces a stumbling hemiola.)
Rhythmic Hierarchy • 23
 In other words, the strain between conflicting
rhythmic and tonal structures that breathes life
into Bach’s Tempo di Menuetto, just as it does
for Haydn’s theme in the London Symphony, and
C.P.E.’s flute sonata. What is exceptional about
the example from Sebastian is that he leaves it
entirely up to the performer and possibly the lis-
tener to realize the effect of disjunction. Thus we
find ourselves arguing that rhythm trumps tonal
pattern in determining meter even in the absence
of literal rhythmic evidence in the score. Instead,
we must assume that the performer supplies the
missing evidence through microrhythm, articu-
lation, and visual gesture. The tonal pattern has
its own fiefdom, the tonal hierarchy, and cannot
be allowed to roll its tanks unchallenged into the
rhythm’s territory before the piece even begins,
or there will be no friction to generate the sparks
that make the music crackle and shine.
1.4 METRICALITY
According to the definition proposed above,
rhythmic structure is a generalization of meter.
EXAMPLE 1.15  Haydn, Keyboard Sonata H. 21, Adagio, mm. 1–​16
24 • O r g a n ize d   T i m e
A  meter, or metrical structure, is a particular
kind of rhythmic structure, one that is perfectly
regular and may include un-​ sounded events,
which might be identified with attentional peaks
in an entrained listener or a conductor’s gestures.
Deviations of a rhythmic structure from a met-
rical one do not always take the form of a conflict
between meter and rhythm, such as a synco-
pation. They can also take the form of a lack of
perfect regularity, where the rhythmic structure
omits low-​level elements of the metrical struc-
ture, or swung or squeezed rhythms, which re-
configure the mapping of rhythmic hierarchy to
timepoints, but in a way that preserves relative
metrical weight. In other words, a rhythm may
exhibit varying degrees of metricality, resem-
blance to a metrical structure, without neces-
sarily engendering true metrical dissonance.
In such metrically consonant situations,
metricality is perhaps underappreciated as a
concept of potential analytical value. Consider
Example 1.15, an adagio from one of Haydn’s
“Esterházy” sonatas (1773). Every downbeat of
the piece is articulated, so there is a consistent
EXAMPLE 1.16  The recapitulation of Haydn’s Adagio
set of projections to clearly establish and main-
tain the meter at this level. However, the ar-
ticulation of all lower levels in the main theme
is sparse. The quarter-​ note level is mostly
maintained by chains of projections, though
the chain is broken three times in the first
eight measures. Yet Haydn assiduously avoids
articulating the eighth-​note level for the first
part of the theme, and does so only sporadi-
cally later: measure 5 will have a short string of
eighth-​note projections if the turns are played in
something approximating a rhythm. In the
transition, eighth-​note projections again occur
sporadically, never in a string that spans more
than a measure, and for the first time some six-
teenth-​note projections appear here and there.
In other words, the first part of Haydn’s
adagio conveys a gradual buildup of metricality
by steadily introducing elements of lower met-
rical layers. Metricality increases only when
these eighth-​ notes and sixteenth-​ notes are
introduced in such a way as to create metrical
relationships between them, represented by
projections. Sixteenth-​notes occur throughout
the main theme, but because they are never
arranged to form direct projections, they do not
activate the sixteenth-​note level of a hypothet-
ical metrical structure. (They do reinforce the
quarter-​note layers in places by participating in
piggyback projections.)
The low metricality, but general avoidance of
metrical dissonance, is in keeping with the dis-
tinctive rhythmic quality of this sort of adagio.
But there is more than this to Haydn’s rhythmic
strategy, as the subordinate theme beginning in
measure 13 reveals. Suddenly the full metrical
12. See Brown 1986, Ottenberg 1987.
structure, from the dotted-​half level down to the
sixteenth, emerges like the sun from behind the
clouds, and is sustained unbroken up to the de-
ceptive cadence in measures 19–​20. The music
sounds, momentarily, as if it has forgotten it is
an adagio altogether. Given the relatively simple
harmony of the piece, the use of metricality
provides a magnificently effective means of the-
matic contrast.
Haydn’s rhythmic strategy also extends to the
recapitulation, which replaces the gradual emer-
gence of metricality with a sudden appearance,
as Example 1.16 shows. He accomplishes this
simply by replacing the main theme’s PAC with
a deceptive cadence and cutting the transition
entirely, going instead directly to a transposed
recomposition of the subordinate theme.
It is tempting, in light of the anecdotal evi-
dence of influence from C.P.E. Bach’s Keyboard
Sonatas on Haydn around this time,12 to hear
echoes of Bach in the metrical strategy of this
adagio. While it is impossible to know whether
Haydn had other composers as models for such
uses of metricality, or developed the technique
purely on his own, it is in fact distinctive of Bach.
Consider, for example, the slow movement
of Bach’s “Fortsetzung” Sonata (Wq. 51/​4).
This set of works has been identified by
Brown (1986, 218)  as one Haydn could have
had access to in the 1760s. Example 1.17
shows the main theme and subordinate theme
of the movement. Like Haydn’s main theme,
Bach’s maintains a fairly consistent quarter-​
note level metrical layer, but uses dotted
rhythms to avoid the eighth-​note level. Unlike
the example from Haydn, Bach introduces
Rhythmic Hierarchy • 25
EXAMPLE 1.17  C.P.E. Bach, Keyboard Sonata Wq. 51/​4, Largo Sostenuto, mm. 1–​19

EXAMPLE 1.18  C.P.E. Bach, Keyboard Sonata Wq. 51/​4, Largo Sostenuto, recapitulation (mm. 30–​6)

the eighth-​ note level more firmly and less
gradually in the transition, though still with
plenty of breaks in the flow. He furthermore
continues to use dotted rhythms, now at the
sixteenth-​note level, to reduce the overall
metricality. Also unlike Haydn, when Bach
begins his subordinate theme in a state of
pure metricality, it only extends to the eighth-​
note level, not the sixteenth-​note level. And in
contrast to Haydn’s harmonic simplicity, Bach
couples the metricality of his subordinate
theme with a bold harmonic plan, beginning it
startlingly in the key of the submediant, and
ultimately modulating to the subdominant as
the subordinate key.
Despite these differences, the pure metricality
of the subordinate themes of these two pieces
has an unmistakably similar effect. It evokes a

26 • O r g a n ize d   T i m e
shift from speech mode toward dance mode, a
polarity identified by Agawu (2009, 98–​ 102)
and one that is probably basic to the ultimate
biological bases of human music making.13
Furthermore, Bach uses the effect to the same
ends in his recapitulation as Haydn does in his,
replacing the gradual emergence of metricality
with a sudden appearance by cutting most of his
transition, as shown in Example 1.18.
Metricality is just one analytical resource we
may derive from a theory of rhythmic and met-
rical structure. In Chapters  5–​8 our focus will
shift to the hypermetrical level, where rhythmic
structure becomes especially flexible, and where
we may observe a number of techniques crucial
to tonal styles of composition. Another impor-
tant consequence of the account of rhythmic
and metrical structure developed here, however,
is the applicability of similar concepts of tem-
poral structure to other parameters, in partic-
ular harmony and form. The next three chapters
will probe the concept of temporal structure
more generally through its manifestations as
tonal structure (Chapter  2), formal structure
(Chapter 3), and some of its abstract properties
(Chapter 4).

13. For Agawu this duality is epitomized by the recitative/​aria dichotomy, which, we might note, was famously evoked by
C.P.E. Bach in the second movement of his F major “Prussian” sonata, Wq. 48/​1.

Rhythmic Hierarchy • 27
 2
Tonal Structure
HEINRICH SCHENKER is an unusual figure in
the history of music theory. His theories were
singular and revolutionary, and communicated
with an authoritative and passionate, even
prophetic tone. He was not bound by modern
standards of scholarly writing:  he was out-
wardly un-​self-​critical, even where his theories
undergo substantial revisions, and his refer-
ence to the work of others almost always serves
only to distance himself from them, rarely to ac-
knowledge their contributions or influence on
his own theory. It is an impressive testament
to the newness and significance of his theo-
retical endeavors that they have become main-
stream music theory in spite of this. However,
Schenker’s ardent outsider status has distorted,
and to some extent continues to distort, his
role in the development of tonal theory. While
not wanting for criticism from the outside, he
tends to be held above criticism within the field
1. Exceptions include a little-​known article by Thomas Christensen (1982), and more recent work by Joel Lester (2006).
28 • 
he helped to advance, the study of tonal struc-
ture. Many important theorists of our time (e.g.,
Carl Schachter) and a previous generation (Felix
Salzer, Ernst Oster) tend to be pigeonholed as
“Schenkerians”—​that is, as interpreters of the
work of one man, rather than original theorists
in their own right. The label is unfair, because all
of these writers are entitled to credit for shaping
the current view of tonal structure through
their own theory and analysis, not simply their
interpretations, even corrections, of Schenker’s.
Similarly, Schenker’s debts to theorists of the
late nineteenth and early twentieth century, es-
pecially those he worked so vociferously to keep
at arm’s length (e.g., Riemann) remain little
remarked upon.1
It is not the goal of this chapter to write
this intellectual history. Nonetheless, when
addressing the topic of tonal structure, the
figure of Schenker is unavoidable, and one
still must take care to avoid the vagueness
of writing “Schenkerian theory” and distin-
guish between theorizing tonal structure and
interpreting the work of Schenker. Certainly
there is much yet to be done in the latter topic,
and we will have some occasion here and in
later chapters (Chapters  6, 9–​11) to address
it, but our primary goal will be the former.
Accordingly, the theory of tonal structure
departs from Schenker in at least three signifi-
cant ways. First, I take scales and keys seriously
as basic tonal objects, and they accordingly
take on a more autonomous role in defining
tonal structure. Second, I  treat cadences as
more local processes, avoiding the imbalanced
structures that result from elevating a single
cadence from its local context in one section to
become the basic structure of an entire piece.
The first difference echoes Lerdahl’s (2001b)
more recent work on tonal spaces, while the
second departs from Lerdahl in a way that
responds to Caplin’s (2004) arguments on
the proper relationship between cadence and
larger-​s cale structure. Both modifications
work in tandem: recognizing progressions
between keys as objects allows us to identify
large-​scale tonal processes that are different
in kind from the ones that structure phrases.
Furthermore, both are essential in establishing
the independent status of tonal structure with
respect to form. Without recognition of the
structural consequences of modulation, there
are not sufficient tonal criteria to reliably an-
alyze long passages of music, and the analyst
must fall back upon the recognition of conven-
tional formal procedures (which themselves
are, ironically, associated with key schemes).
A third difference is that, although the un-
derlying principles of Urlinie and Ursatz are built
into the analytical criteria outlined in the next
section, I  do not treat them as axiomatic back-
ground structures. The axiomatic status of the
Ursatz necessitates modifications of the music
surface such as Schenker’s substitutions, oc-
tave transfers, and contrapuntal displacements
(Schenker [1935] 1979, 46, 51–​2).2 The import
of such transformations is better understood
if they are considered separately from the der-
ivation of tonal structure itself (especially con-
trapuntal displacement, which is discussed in
Chapters 8 and 9).
2. Schenker does not discuss contrapuntal displacement explicitly, but see his discussion of his Figure 39/​2. See also Traut
2002 and Rothstein 1981.
2.1  MELODIC STRUCTURE
Schenker’s theory was the original motiva-
tion for the idea of temporal hierarchy and its
attendant graph-​ theoretic technology (Yust
2006). The essential observation is that a slur
in Schenkerian notation acts like an edge in a
maximal outerplanar graph (MOP—​this type of
network is introduced in the previous chapter
in the context of rhythmic theory). Example
2.1 illustrates with a simple example: in (a) the
Schenkerian notation expresses the idea that
A  is a passing tone from B to G.  The network
includes edges between all notes that are di-
rectly adjacent in the music, and adds an ad-
ditional edge from B to G, showing that direct
motions from B to A  and A  to G compose out
a deeper motion from B to G. The resulting tri-
angle in the network shows two tonal motions
(the steps B to A and A to G) that add up to one
larger motion, B to G.
A different analysis, Example  2.1(b), might
assert instead that G is a passing tone from
A to F♯ . This assertion is inconsistent with the
previous one:  both are possible analyses, but
one cannot hold both to be true at the same
time. This is shown in Schenkerian notation
by crossing slurs, and similarly in the net-
work notation by crossing edges (Ex. 2.1(c)).
The contradiction here is a violation of basic
hierarchic good form:  there is one edge, from
A to G, whose “parentage” is duplicitous: does
it belong to a passing motion from B to G, or
from A to F♯?
Examples 2.1(d) and (e) complete the analyses
of (a)  and (b)  by adding two more edges to give
embedded levels of structure. The different types
of melodic elaboration in each analysis consist of
all the triangles in the network. In (d), there is a
skip of a third expanded by an anticipatory rep-
etition, a passing motion, and a lower-​neighbor
motion. In (e), there is a deeper passing motion
(B–​A–​G) and more local one (A–​G–​F♯), and an
incomplete-​neighbor motion (A–​F♯–​G). The choice
between one analysis and the other might be based
upon harmonic context: for instance, if tonic har-
mony is understood to be sustained through the
example, as, for example, in Example  2.1(f), we
might prefer analysis (d). But what about the
setting in Example  2.1(g)? It would be plausible
here to think of the G on beats 2–​3 as either as
Tonal Structure • 29
EXAMPLE 2.1  (a–​b) The network expressions of
two possible passing tones, which (c) conflict with
one another; (d–​e) a complete analysis including
each passing tone; and (f–​g) harmonic settings
that might imply them
(a)
(b)
(c)
(d)
(e)
(f)
(g)
part of a background tonic harmony, or as a
passing tone in the context of a local dominant.
Phillip Kirlin and colleagues (Kirlin and Jensen
2011; Kirlin 2013, 37–​46) have shown that one
can evaluate the two analyses in this kind of sit-
uation by analyzing the individual probabilities of
the melodic shapes produced by each triangle of
the MOP, which they determined by examining
a corpus of textbook analyses. Not surprisingly,
passing motions are one of the most strongly
preferred shapes. Yet perhaps more surprising is
3. Cadwallader and Gagné (2010) explicitly note this tendency.
4. This issue is raised by Larson (1997) and responded to by Lerdahl (2001b, 29–​32; 2015). See Yust 2015c and §§13.4–​5
for further discussion.
30 • O r g a n ize d   T i m e
that incomplete-​neighbor shapes like the one in
Example 2.1(e) are also preferred shapes, whereas
simple neighbor motions, as in (d), are not.3 This
means that the criteria of melodic shape strongly
support analysis (e) for a passage like (g).
The network model for temporal hierarchy
is different than the way many other theorists,
most notably Lerdahl and Jackendoff 1983, have
modeled tonal structure. Instead of the kind of
containment hierarchy on slurs described above,
Lerdahl and Jackendoff use a representational hi-
erarchy whose objects are the musical events, ei-
ther as themselves or representatives (“heads”) of
a passage in which they occur. According to this
kind of model, a simple passing motion can have
one of four different possible shapes, as shown
in Example 2.2. In general, context might be able
to deliberate over some of these distinctions (by
specifying the hierarchic order of B and G) but
the decision of which direction to attach the A is
not implied by the simple slur or the concept of
passing motion that it is used to symbolize.4
Conceptually, the objects of hierarchy in Lerdahl
and Jackendoff’s model are events—​notes and
chords—​arranged in time and existing at one or
more different levels. In the MOP model, on the
contrary, the hierarchy involves not the notes
themselves but the motions from one chord to
another, occurring on different timescales, with
higher-​level motions containing lower-​level ones.
We will be able to make these observations more
precise after laying some mathematical ground-
work in Chapter 13. Section 13.4 gives a precise
construction of a MOP as a tree of edges, a hi-
erarchy of motions. Even though Lerdahl and
Jackendoff’s model and the MOP model both use
networks and operationalize a concept of tonal
hierarchy, there is not a simple and direct trans-
lation between them. Sections 13.4–​5 will show
how their conceptual differences can be bridged in
a precise way via some intermediary mathemat-
ical constructs (spanning trees and event trees).
The idea that motion is the basic substance of
melody and/​or music in general is a long-​standing
idea with a distinguished history stretching back
to antiquity, as Zuckerkandl (1956, 75–​81) has
observed. Temporal hierarchy reflects his con-
ception of music as a kinetic object:
The smallest particle of music,  .  .  .  the
musical atom, is not properly the tone
EXAMPLE 2.2  Four ways to represent the same passing motion in an event-​based tonal hierarchy

but the connection of tone with tone, the
interval.
If musical contexts are truly kinetic
contexts, if the whole of music is motion,
the parts that compose it can in turn only
be motions, component motions. Not
tones, then, are properly the elements of
melodies, but tone-​to-​tone motions. (90)
The kinetic metaphor is also important for
Lerdahl (2001b, 142–​ 61), who develops a
way of quantifying tonal tension that reflects
motion within an abstract tonal space as well
as connections in a representational hierarchy.
Lerdahl and Krumhansl (2007) test this model
with continuous response task and find, in-
terestingly, that listeners’ tension ratings re-
spond more to hierarchical relationships than
the direct sequential ones.5 For Lerdahl, how-
ever, the hierarchical arrangement of musical
events remains conceptually prior to the iden-
tification of motions as basic objects. The idea
of temporal structure is closer to Zuckerkandl’s
radical assertion that motion is not only an im-
portant component to the experience of music,
but its actual basic element, the “musical atom”
as he puts it. According to that perspective,
musical events are not real musical substance,
but simply markers of the progress through
a succession of motions. This puts the reifica-
tion of musical motions before the construc-
tion of musical hierarchy, implying that, to the
extent such hierarchies exist, whether in har-
mony, rhythm, or form, the objects it organizes
must be motions, melodic intervals, harmonic
progressions, or temporal spans, rather than
notes, harmonies, or timepoints. Whether
MOPs are perfectly faithful to this radically
kinetic conception of music is open to debate;
nevertheless, they do present a relatively simple
way of putting Zuckerkandl’s more poetic ideas
into action, and they foster the kind of kinetic
language that he advocates.6
Throughout his theoretical works and analyt-
ical essays, Schenker wasted little ink explaining
his analytical reasoning, focusing instead on
communicating the details of each analysis,
and extolling the potential for his analyses to
reveal musical genius.7 The resulting impres-
sion of an analysis handed down from upon
high, as it were, may have been appropriate for
the circumstances surrounding Schenker’s own
publication of essays and theoretical works, but
it is certainly not appropriate now. Despite the
often overheated rhetorical tone of Schenker’s
published writing, he reveals a great deal of re-
flection, grappling with the grounds for analyses,
in his sketches and letters (Drabkin 1996;
Schachter 1981, 127–​8), and even occasionally
in his published analyses as well (Lubben 1993).
While there is a substantial body of literature
that discusses decision making in Schenkerian
analysis, much of it pedagogical but not exclu-
sively (e.g., Schachter 1990), still the habit of
imitating Schenker rather than entering into
dialogue with him has raised barriers to inquiry
into some basic questions about the analysis of
tonal structure. As a result, there is a tendency
(eloquently argued, e.g., by Burstein 2011), to
retreat from the idea that Schenkerian theory is
explanatory at all, either of aspects of the way
music is composed or how it is perceived, treating
instead as a kind of rarified form of music appre-
ciation.8 If this were indeed the case, the reasons
for devoting a wealth of scholarly time and en-
ergy to this practice would be rather weak, as
would the stakes in choosing one analysis over

5. See also Farbood 2012.

6. Temperley (2011, 160–​3) cites the representation of motion as a possible explanatory value of Schenkerian analysis
but finds it largely wanting in practice. The criticism he offers, though, is easily neutralized by recognizing the structural
significance of keys and giving up the habit of structurally prioritizing cadential dominants, characteristic of most
Schenkerian analysis as well as Lerdahl and Jackendoff’s (1983) approach. All of the analyses below illustrate that retention of
cadences is not a necessary feature of tonal-​structural analysis, and §2.4 below specifically addresses the question of keys.
7. See Keiler 1983, 207–​11.
8. See also Temperley 2011, 147.

Tonal Structure • 31
another. Before engaging the ultimately scien-
tific question of whether a theory of tonal struc-
ture is successfully explanatory (and this is not
the place to do that), it is of vital urgency to re-
invigorate neglected debates about exactly what
form such a theory of tonal structure should
take. Though late twentieth-​century theory has
not lacked in thoughtful and sensitive critiques
and revisions of Schenker’s theory—​ besides
Lerdahl and Jackendoff one could cite the work
of Leonard Meyer (1956, 1973) as well as David
Neumeyer (1987, 1989)  and even David Lewin
(1982, reprinted in 2006, 109–​34; see also 2006,
135–​ 47, 169–​ 79)—​ still the theory of tonal
structure has not replaced Schenkerian theory
as a subdiscipline of music theory.
The purpose of stating explicit criteria for
analysis is not primarily pedagogical; these
criteria are the substance of the theory itself.
To the extent that they are vague, the theory is
vague, and, consequently, so are the analyses.
The rough outline of a discovery procedure below
is by no means immune to criticism or revision.
Nonetheless, it is essential, because without a
clear exposition of theoretical premises, there is
little means for the practice of analysis to inform
a more general understanding of music and its
inner mechanics.
Perhaps the best known proposal for a rig-
orous discovery process for tonal structure is
that of Lerdahl and Jackendoff’s A Generative
Theory of Tonal Music (1983). Even this theory
is not fully operationalized to the algorithmic
level, leaving this to later research undertaken by
Alan Marsden (2005, 2010), Hamanaka, Hirata,
and Tojo (2007, 2009), and others. The process
outlined below will not rise even to Lerdahl and
Jackendoff’s level of specificity, something that
would require a much more in-​depth treatment.
Rather, the following preliminary discussion will
show how the network representation of hier-
archy (MOPs) encourages a somewhat different
way of thinking about tonal structure. It
discourages a mode of reasoning in Schenkerian
analysis that might be caricatured as a popu-
larity contest between notes, and encourages
thinking instead about connectivity between
notes. Kirlin’s (2011) machine-​ learning algo-
rithm, which evaluates an analysis on the like-
lihood of edges and triangles in such a network,
demonstrates the potential effectiveness of such
9. See also Larson and Vanhandel 2005.
10. Schenker [1925] 1994, 107–​9; [1925] 1996, 1–​19; [1935] 1979, 4–​6, 9, 11–​14, 43–​46, 73–​82.
32 • O r g a n ize d   T i m e
an approach. Our goal here will be to get a rough
sense of what a discovery procedure for tonal
structure as temporal hierarchy might look like,
and better understand which tonal features are
most critical to it and how they work. Since tonal
structure, understood as an independent mo-
dality, is defined on the basis of melody and har-
mony specifically, there are three general types
of consideration that may come in to play:
(1) Events that are more tonally stable tend
to be more connected (and therefore more
deeply embedded in the structure).
(2) Events that bear a significant relationship
are more likely to be connected to one another.
(3) Progressive structures—that is, those that
proceed predictably towards a distinct goal—take
precedence over static ones.
Consideration (1) is of the “popularity contest”
type—​ such thinking need not, and probably
should not, be shunned altogether. On the other
hand, considerations (2)  and (3)  are distinctly
about connectivity, what are the strongest
processes or motions that may be defined by
the sequence of events. These criteria align with
Larson’s (2004) idea of “musical forces.”9 In par-
ticular, criterion (3)  is a form of inertia, while
magnetism combines elements of (1) and (2).
Schenker’s concept of linear progression
epitomizes all three of these general principles.10
A  linear progression is unidirectional diatonic
stepwise motion that outlines a harmonically
significant interval. The passing motion in
Example 2.1, B–​A–​G, for instance, is a linear
progression outlining an interval of G major.
In Schenker’s theory, the endpoints of a linear
progression at one level become available for
other structures at a more background level,
which is reflected in the network by connecting
the endpoints (i.e., the line from B to G in Ex.
2.1). This enhances the potential connectivity of
the endpoints, since they can connect to other
points outside of the linear progression, whereas
the interior points cannot. Thus, the part of the
definition of linear progression that says the
interval being connected belongs to a signifi-
cant harmony reflects tenets (1)  and (2):  the
endpoints are made more stable by belonging
to this governing harmony, and they also bear a
significant relationship as members of the same
EXAMPLE 2.3  Chopin, Mazurka, op. 33/​2, mm. 1–​8, and a reduction
harmony. Furthermore, the notes within the
linear progression bear the significant melodic
relationship of being adjacent in the scale, and
because the melodic motion proceeds uniformly
(stepwise descending or ascending) towards a
goal (a stable harmonic tone), the overall motion
is progressive.
Linear progressions by themselves can go a
long way towards specifying a complete tonal
structure in some cases. Example 2.3 gives a
short, simple eight measure period from Chopin’s
D major Mazurka, op. 33/​2. This period is a re-
frain module: it appears at the beginning and end
of the piece without necessary modification, and
therefore encapsulates the processes of tonal in-
itiation and closure for the entire piece within
a brief theme. Chopin uses refrain models fre-
quently as a method of construction in his short
piano pieces, and they are common to many mu-
sical forms over a long historical span, including
the da capo aria and modular rondo form, and
on a slightly larger scale, the minuet-​trio form.
The procedure is expedient (both to composer
and analyst) in that it condenses the main tonal
processes of the piece into a smaller unit.
On the top staff of Example 2.3 is a simple
reduction that reflects one rule of type (2): notes
that do not belong to the local harmony (non-​
harmonic tones) are especially unstable, and
therefore are unlikely to have anything except
very local connections. Therefore, a simple first
step is to prune these and consider the possible
linear progressions between notes that belong to
different chords. Example 2.4(a) lists every hy-
pothetically possible linear progression, which
are many, because of the limited melodic range
and small repertoire of harmonies. The possible
linear progressions can be distinguished by har-
mony outlined (I or V), direction (down or up),
and interval (third or fourth). Of these, the
strongest are those that outline the more stable
harmony (I), go downward, and outline a smaller
interval (third).
Most of these linear progressions would
normally never even occur to us as possible
elements of tonal structure. Some are in conflict
with most others; numbers 8, 9, and 10, for in-
stance, conflict with every other possible linear
progression. Two progressions can exist in the
same analysis if they are non-​ overlapping or
just sharing an endpoint, or if one is contained
entirely between two adjacent notes of another
(possibly overlapping its endpoints). For in-
stance, number 1 is consistent with 2, 3, 4, and
7 because they are all contained within its long
first interval. Number 3 is consistent with 1 and
6 for the same reason, and consistent with 11–​
14 because they do not overlap with it at all. The
progression consistent with the most others is
number 7, which is consistent with 1, 2, 4–​6, and
11–​14. It is possible to get three progressions
that are all consistent with one another by com-
bining 7 with two others, which are shown in
Example 2.4(b–​e).
Similar reasoning applies to the small directed
melodic progressions within each chord, which
incorporate the non-​ harmonic tones pruned
from the reduction. Linear progressions that
involve the extrema of these motions are more
prominent, because they allow these motions
to be preserved whole in the tonal structure.
Progressions that use notes from within these
motions split them up in the tonal structure.
In Example 2.4, linear progressions (1)  and
(4)  break up the ascending motion in measure
5, making (d)  (which excludes these) the best
combination. This analysis, along with (c), also
has stronger linear progressions, because pro-
gression 5 and 14 outline the tonic, descending
by third. In practice, then, the somewhat labo-
rious exhaustive listing of linear progressions
is not really necessary. A more effective process
is simply to search directly for progression like
those in Example  2.4(d), which are consistent
with lower level motions and, if possible, are
strong tonic-​outlining progressions.
Tonal Structure • 33
EXAMPLE 2.4  (a) An exhaustive list of possible linear progressions in the Mazurka theme, and (b–​e)
possible sets of three non-​conflicting progressions. Dotted stems in (e) show two alternate completions.
(a)

(b)

(c)

(d)

(e)

EXAMPLE 2.5  Complete analysis of Chopin’s melody

Example 2.5 gives a complete analysis based
on Example  2.4(d), and showing the within-​
measure motions as arpeggiations. The first
linear progression begins not with the first note
(A) but with the F♯ at the end of measure 1. To
show the status of other notes in measure 1,
then, the MOP includes a “start” vertex. Such
“start” and “end” vertices do not correspond to
any literal musical events, but can be included in
a graph to incorporate smaller processes before
the beginning or after the end of the main struc-
ture of the passage. One way to understand them
is as stand-​ins for a hypothetical larger context.
Though unnecessary, the exhaustive listing
of Example  2.4(a) reveals some useful analyt-
ical heuristics. The linear progressions tend to
be isolated to registrally distinct streams, in this
instance two overlapping streams from about
A up to D and C♯ up to F♯. Because the melody
constantly moves between streams within each

34 • O r g a n ize d   T i m e
chord, progressions in different streams tend to
overlap and conflict with one another. Therefore,
we can direct our attention to more prominent
streams, those in a strong register or that en-
able strong motion towards the tonic note.
Also evident is the influence of the voice-​
leading properties of the harmonies on possible
tonal structures. Much of the passage alternates
tonic and dominant of a single key, and these
have a specific set of potential voice leadings
that
‸ ‸ allow primarily for the outlining ‸ ‸of the
1–​3 tonal space of the tonic, or the 7–2 space
of the dominant (with some ‸ other possibilities
created by adding 7ths, 4s, to the dominants).
In
‸ ‸ particular, chord-​ to-​chord outlining
‸ ‸ of the
5–1 fourth-​space of the tonic or the 5–​7 third-​
space of the dominant
‸ requires other harmonies
that incorporate 6, such‸ as the ii6 in measure 6
of Chopin’s theme. The 6 of this chord is respon-
sible for a large proportion of the progressions
in Example  2.4(a), all of which are in conflict
with one another (because they share an inte-
rior note). It is apparent, then, that a composer’s
harmonic palette has a direct relation to the pos-
sible linear-​progression-​based tonal structures
that might appear. Chapter 10 will consider this
point in more detail.
2.2 BACKGROUNDS
Schenker is perhaps best known for his ideas
of fundamental structure (Ursatz) and funda-
mental line (Urlinie), the limited set of possible
background structures proposed in his final
theoretical work, Der Freie Satz ([1935] 1979).
Example 2.6 reproduces his forms of the Ursatz,
which are each based on a linear progression, an
Urlinie, on the upper staff. It is not uncommon
to hear the Schenkerian method caricatured as a
way of turning every piece of music into “Three
EXAMPLE 2.6  Schenker’s three forms of the Ursatz ([1935] 1979, figs. 9–​11, 19b)
11. See Yust 2015c.
12. The concept of “synthesis” is closely related to Schenker’s early concept of Urlinie, which differs from the later one (i.e.,
as defined in Schenker [1935] 1979). It derives from the inherently temporal aspect of human consciousness espoused by
Kant, as Korsyn (1988) has shown, and depicts the musical work as unified under the unfolding of a single deep background
process, analogously to how the conscious subject unifies disparate sensory perceptions under the temporal laws of cause and
effect.
Blind Mice.” This popular conception of Schenker
is frequently bemoaned but to a certain degree a
critical focus on these concepts is appropriate.
Opponents of Ursatz-​centered critiques point
out that this aspect of Schenker’s theory was
formulated quite late in his career, long after
many other important tenets of his theory
had been firmly in place for a long time. This is
true: only the last three of Schenker’s published
works, the three-​ volume Masterwork series
([1925] 1994, [1926] 1996, [1930] 1997), Five
Graphic Music Analyses ([1932] 1969), and Free
Composition ([1935] 1979), reflect Schenker’s
mature theory of levels.11 On the other hand,
the idea is a culmination of the most impor-
tant trends in Schenker’s thought going back
much farther, his ideas of strict counterpoint
underlying free composition, advanced espe-
cially in Counterpoint II ([1922] 1987), and the
philosophical concept of synthesis ([1921] 1970,
[1921–​3] 2004, [1923–​4] 2005).12 Furthermore,
the rhetorical weight that Schenker gives to
his concept of background structure in these
late works, especially Free Composition, justify
viewing it as central to his theory.
The ontological status of the Ursatz is slip-
pery, though. What theoretical claim is being
made by finding an Ursatz, or stating that it is
the background of all complete tonal pieces?
One common way of explaining the Ursatz is as
a law of tonality, that for a piece to be tonally co-
herent it must be derivable from an Ursatz (see,
e.g., Brown 2005). This is presumably inferred
from Schenker’s practice; he does not make the
claim explicitly himself. He merely asserts the
existence of the Ursatz, not clearly saying what
it would mean for the Ursatz or Urlinie to not
exist. His discussions of the idea focus instead
on whether composers or listeners are aware of
the Ursatz.
Tonal Structure • 35
 If having an Ursatz is a meaningful pro-
perty, though, it should be possible to produce
counterexamples, pieces that are not based on
an Ursatz. This is difficult because the meaning
of having an Ursatz depends crucially upon the
method one uses to find it, and that method
seems to adapt as the situation demands.
This is by design:  Schenker was committed to
the unfalsifiability of his premise, despite the
seemingly factual nature of the claim. This does
not mean that the Ursatz is a hoax, but it does
mean that the Ursatz does not have the status
of a fact, as the language of Schenker and
others often seems to imply. We may think of
it instead as a précis of the principles of tonal
structure. The rough sketch of criteria for tonal
structure in the previous section emphasized
strong directed progression, best represented
by a descending linear progression like the
Urlinie, and stability, represented by the har-
monic support of the Urlinie tones in the
Ursatz, and most importantly the outlining of
a contextually stable tonic harmony. Therefore,
the Ursatz as background structure is a near-​
inevitability, because it reflects precisely those
features prioritized by the discovery process
for tonal structure.
EXAMPLE 2.7  Chopin’s op. 33/​3 Mazurka, mm. 1–​16, with partial analysis
36 • O r g a n ize d   T i m e
The ontological status of Schenker’s simple
counterpoints reproduced in Example 2.6 is
therefore perhaps best understood by examining
those marginal cases, pieces that make the best
possible claim to being Ursatz counterexamples.
First, we can disqualify a straightforward un-
derstanding of the Ursatz as a series of dis-
crete stations that the piece must visit before
completing its tonal journey. Such a claim could
be‸ easily falsified by finding a‸ piece that lacks
a 3 over tonic harmony, or a 2 over dominant.
Consider Example 2.7, for instance, another of
Chopin’s modular refrains. There is no tonic har-
mony in the theme ‸ (or anywhere in the piece)
with a melodic 3.
It is impossible to find strong linear
progressions in this piece if we eliminate all non-​
harmonic tones as we did with the example in
the previous section. In the first phrase (mm.
1–​4) for instance, the melodic motion would
amount to D–​C–​D–​C. However, there is a line
E–​D–​C that matches the strongest possible
linear progression, only that the E occurs over
the wrong chord, not the I outlined by the pro-
gression but V, making it an unstable dissonant
upper neighbor. Yet this E takes on greater me-
lodic importance because it creates the only
directed melodic motion of the phrase, which is
a descending motion outlining tonic. The same
is true in the second phrase (mm. 5–​8), which
begins as a sequential repetition of the first, the
third (mm. 9–​12), which is the same as the first,
and the fourth (mm. 9–​16), which also begins
with a sequential repetition. In the analysis
above the staff, all of these upper neighbors are
included, with the descending third-​progression
at the beginning of each phrase shown with
stems and beams and slurs for two other as-
cending progressions to D over V at each cadence
of the period (mm. 7–​8, mm. 15–​16).
As the networks below Example 2.7 show,
these local linear progressions are isolated from
one another, and the final tonic does not belong
to any of them. Large-​scale linear progressions
to integrate the passage would be possible if
the initial notes of the more local progressions
were available—​and the only reason they are
not is that they lack the appropriate harmonic
support. But, by including them in linear
progressions, we have already identified them
as members of harmonies other than the ones
over which they literally occur. The E in measure
1, for instance, belongs with the tonic har-
mony of measure 2. I will use Schenker’s term
unfolding for this idea of two notes belonging
together harmonically although they do not
literally occur in the same chord.13 Unfoldings
must correspond to edges in the structural
network, and they can be distinguished with
doubled lines. The analysis of Chopin’s theme
in Example 2.8(a) builds the background struc-
ture of the passage out of the harmonic ends
of the unfoldings, and also asserts that these
I–​V–​I triangles represent third progressions.
The latter claim relies upon the critical aspect
of unfolding:  the node above can adopt a fea-
ture of the node below, specifically its melodic
note, through the unfolding. Thus, the node
in the network that literally represents C/​ I specific moments in time, which need not nec-
also, more abstractly, represents the harmonic
combination of E and C/​I, for the purposes of
understanding its role in the higher-​level struc-
tural relationships. This reflects the sense that,
by the time we get to the half cadence, the tem-
poral displacement of the E from the I chord is
no longer significant. Hence, the harmonically
associated events of the unfolding act as if
13. My use of the term is more general than Schenker’s, for reasons that are explained in Yust 2015c. Unfolding is a type
of voice-​leading transformation, but also is a component of all voice-​leading transformations, which include the type that
appears in this example, “motion to an inner voice” or “descending linear progression of the first order.” (Schenker [1935]
1979, 44–​45)
condensed into a single node for the purposes
of longer-​range structure.
Unfolding has important ramifications for
the kinds of structures we can find in almost any
piece of tonal music, not just in unusual examples
like this Mazurka theme. Typically they do not
relate notes that occur over completely different
harmonies, as in Example 2.8(a), but ones whose
harmonies differ in degree of stability. For in-
stance, in many binary-​form pieces, the first part
ends with a dominant harmony that is in root
position with the root in the soprano and acting
as a local tonic. All of these make it an especially
tonally stable point. However, it does not relate
through linear progression to the more global
tonic. By means of unfolding,
‸ this more stable
dominant can adopt a 2 from elsewhere to make
it part of a descending linear progression to
the tonic. This produces the strongest possible
tonal structure, one whose major landmarks
have a high degree of tonal stability, but which
also can be understood as involving a goal
directed melodic progression. This can be seen in
Example 2.17 (Mozart Symphony no. 29) in the
next section, as well as Example 2.25 (Jommelli’s
Eumene overture) and others.
If we are to understand a structure like the
one in Example 2.8 as based on an Ursatz, then
this theoretical construction is not as literal as
we might have initially understood it. The chords
that look like musical events in Schenker’s back­
grounds are not really musical events, occurr­ing
at particular moments in time, at all. To put it
differently, the Ursatz is not just a representa-
tion of the uppermost triangle of the tonal struc-
ture, which, by definition, relates real moments
in time. Instead, it identifies two partially sep-
arable background processes, a melodic process
of stepwise descent to the tonic, and a harmonic
process from tonic to dominant and back. These
processes can be independently associated with
essarily be the same moments in time. The ver-
tical alignments of the Ursatz therefore do not
indicate real temporal coincidence. This is not
to say they are entirely meaningless, though.
They indicate associations between elements
of the melodic and harmonic processes that, if
not represented by temporal coincidence, corre-
spond to a temporal span, a process that occupies
Tonal Structure • 37
EXAMPLE 2.8  (a) Tonal structure of the theme of Chopin’s op. 33/​3 Mazurka, (b) the unfoldings as
splits in the background of this structure
(a)

(b)

a finite amount of time. Such a span will appear
as an unfolding edge in the network.
Unfoldings may be understood as splits in
the background structure, as shown in Example
2.8(b). A single event of the Ursatz splits into two
nodes connected by the double-​lined arrow. The
idea of expanding temporal networks through
splitting has other applications, and is discussed
in more detail in Section 4.4.
Unfoldings
‸ often apply to the initial and me-
dial (2/​V ) events of the Ursatz. Only occasion-
ally do they affect the final event. One example
is Schumann’s song “Mondnacht” (“Moonlit
night”), op. 39/​5 (Ex. 2.9). Schumann, with his
typically impeccable feeling for text setting, gives
his final cadence a soft landing to set the words
“My soul spread its wings out wide/​flew across
the still land/​as if flying home.” Where the tonic
arrives at the end of the vocal line, Schumann
undermines the promised cadence by moving in-
stead to a V56/​IV. This is not an ordinary cadential
evasion, however, where the promised cadence
will come later, even more emphatically. The IV
that appears on the singer’s last breath does not
proceed to a new cadential progression, but in-
stead simply returns, plagally, to I, and after this
is only postcadential material in the piano. The
I chord in measure 61 is the structural harmonic
end of the song, then, arriving two measures
later than the melodic structural conclusion.
The final tonic of the Ursatz is therefore split,
as in Example 2.10. As Ferris (2000) notes: “The
effect of the open ending results as much dis-
junction between the vocal melody and the ac-
companiment as it does from the weakening
of the harmonic progression . . . . The fact that
the singer and the pianist . . . fail to cadence to-
gether diffuses the energy and undermines the
resolution” (156).
While these two pieces invalidate a very literal
reading of the Ursatz, “Mondnacht” goes further
in that it begins structurally on the dominant.
(See Burkhart 1990, whose more comprehen-
sive analysis emphasizes the dominant struc-
tural beginning.14) This feature, more than the
unfoldings, makes this song a counterexample
to a strict reading of the theory of Ursatz, a
point made also by Lerdahl and Jackendoff
(1983, 236–​ 41), who provide two examples
(although Chopin’s A major prelude, op. 28/​7, is
debatable). For an even more clear-​cut example
of this kind of structure, consider Schumann’s
poetically evocative use of harmony in the song
“Herzeleid” (“Heartbreak”), op. 107/​1 (Ex. 2.11).
The poem is saturated with images of drooping,
weakness, and wetness, depicting the helpless

14. Burkhart’s analysis differs from mine in one important respect: he finds the descent of the Urlinie not in the new
music of mm. 46–​48, but in an inner voice of the piano part in mm. 53–​56. Elevating the structural melodic status of this
voice is not entirely arbitrary, since the same inner voice is fairly prominent in earlier lines.

38 • O r g a n ize d   T i m e
EXAMPLE 2.9  Schumann, “Mondnacht,” mm. 43–​61

EXAMPLE 2.10  Analysis of “Mondnacht,” mm. 43–​61

EXAMPLE 2.11  Schumann, “Herzeleid,” op. 107/​1
weeping of its lovelorn subject, Shakespeare’s
Ophelia. Schumann likewise saturates his setting
‸ ‸
with the musical cipher for sorrow, the ♭6–​5,
which is the basic melody and bass line of the
piano introduction as well as the opening phrase
of the vocal line. It also dictates the contrasting
tonal area. The first phrase proceeds entirely
over a dominant in the bass—​removing ‸ ‸the con-
stantly circulating neighbor notes to 5 (6 and ♯ 4)
‸
the progression amounts to a repeating Ped46–​V
40 • O r g a n ize d   T i m e
progression. After the deceptive resolution of V
(to VI), Schumann expands VI into its own tonal
area (C major), returning the V of E minor via a
tonicization at “unglücksel’ge Träumerin,” which
creates a bass line C–​A♯–​B that once again echoes
the opening melodic motif.
The first strophe of this song, then, is tonally
exceptional: it has no real home key tonic chord
anywhere. It begins on an extended dominant,
and where we might expect the tonic to appear
on “hangen,” it is subverted by a VI. Schumann
returns to the home key by going directly to dom-
inant. The absent tonic may represent the absent
beloved, who is not even so much as mentioned
in the poem, or the inability of Ophelia to find
rest or escape from her grief anywhere, only a
false promise, the tonicized C major, offered by
the brook in which Ophelia will drown herself.
The strophe nevertheless invokes the same
basic tonal model as the first phrase pair of
the Chopin theme in Example 2.7, an ante-
cedent phrase. The next strophe at first falls in
line with this model, beginning in parallel with
the first. However, in the last line (“Ophelia,
Ophelia!”), the completion of the consequent
is denied, the vocal line instead ending on the
same chord upon which it began,‸ the pedal 46,
with the voice returning to 5. This represents
a favorite songwriting trick of Schumann’s:  to
provide a sense of musical closure, while re-
flecting the lack closure in the poem, he defers
cadential resolution on the tonic to the piano
postlude, leaving the vocal line itself hanging
on an unresolved dominant. But in this song,
even the piano postlude does not appear to
provide a good PAC: although Schumann finally
provides the long-​withheld tonic in the final
two measures, the melodic line has no cadential
descent, continuing to repeat the B, echoing the
words “Ophelia, Ophelia!”
EXAMPLE 2.12  Structural melodic analysis of “Herzeleid”
The tonal descent is there, though; it is just
very cleverly hidden. Schumann places the
“Ophelia” melody in counterpoint with an inner
line that recalls the unsatisfactorily resolved
G–​F♯–​E of “Zweige hangen” (hanging branches)
and “Immortellen” (immortelles, a kind of flower).
The suspension in measure 28 helps to keep
this inner voice alive as an independent melody,
which, on D♯ in measure 28, resolves to E in
measure 29, completing an Urlinie-​like descent,
G–​F♯(–​E–​D♯)–​E. Here again, the finding of a
tonal structure is subtle: we would not normally
sanction the extraction of the E from the middle
of the continuous arpeggiation in measure 29,
but here the strength of the descending linear
progression outweighs that consideration.
The analysis in Example 2.12 finds three
linear progressions in the vocal line of the ante-
cedent strophe, two local progressions outlining
the tonic of each key area (G–​F♯–​E and G–​F–​E)
and a larger progression showing that the linear
potential energy of the hanging B of the first
line is released on the other side of the C major
area, at the A minor 36 chord on “Wangen.” This
descent traverses a complete sixth from B to D♯,
internally outlining intervals of the dominant
(A–​F♯, F♯–​D♯) avoiding the tonic. According to
the norms of antecedent-​consequent construc-
tion, we would expect a parallel descent, B–​A–​
G–​F♯(–​E–​D♯)–​E, in the consequent, but this does
Tonal Structure • 41
EXAMPLE 2.13  “Herzeleid,” background (bass notes shown an octave higher)

not happen. The A that provided the momentum
for the antecedent descent now returns like a
neighbor note to the elegiac B. The line of the an-
tecedent is completed in the postlude without a
complete descent from B in the consequent.
Have we found an Ursatz in this song?
No:  there is an Urlinie (the melodic descent
to tonic) but the harmonic motion is incom-
plete, lacking the initial tonic, as Example 2.13
shows.15 The song therefore technically falsifies
the theoretical claim of the Ursatz, but only in a
very limited way. The existence of such examples,
which has always been well-​known, has not gen-
erally been considered an invalidation of a basic
premise of Schenker’s theory.
Two unfoldings in the network are note-
worthy. One is a highly conventional manner
of articulating a structural 2:  the F♯ at both
‸
cadences occurs over ii6 or V56/​V chords preceding
the structural dominants. It does not appear ‸
over V, instead descending stepwise to 7. This
convention relates to the topic of convergent
voice leadings described in Chapter 10. Another
unfolding, on the uppermost edge, is highly
unusual (although it appears in the analysis of
“Mondnacht” above also). This shows that the
harmony for the initial B never arrives until
the very last chord of the song, after the funda-
mental line is completed.
One point that Schumann’s song makes espe-
cially clear is that tonal structure is not a body
of laws to which the composer must submit. It
is, rather, a tool that a skilled composer may
use to achieve an expressive effect. It is anal-
ogous to meter:  one can write rhythms that
metrically parse in a straightforward way, and
ones whose metrical structure is more abstruse.
Either might be artistically appropriate in a
given situation. Meter does not forbid any one
way of writing rhythms or another, but it does
structure rhythms in a way that is essential to
their meaning. Metrical weight also does not
constitute a value system where downbeat notes
are necessarily more important than weak-​beat
or off-​beat ones. Similarly, the elements of the
tonal structure may not be the focus of the
composer’s expressive intent. In “Herzeleid,” the
tonal-​structural elements at the end of the song
exist to secure the final chord’s status as a true
structural tonic and tonal completion. However,
this line is not the main character of Schumann’s
drama; that would be the B, hanging in the air
at the end of the song like the reverberating
branches of the willow tree from which Ophelia
has cast herself into the brook. The resolving
tonic is there only to make it clear what this B is
not. It is not a tonal goal. It is not a resolution.
What is the status of the Ursatz as a theo-
retical claim, then? It is evident that the tonal
structure criteria outlined here will always find
an Ursatz or something as close to it as possible,
not because of any hidden law of tonality, some
non-​obvious property shared by all tonal pieces,
but simply because it reflects the priorities of
tonal structure. The forms of the Ursatz repre-
sent the strongest possible directed tonal pro-
cess (the descending linear progression) in its
most stable setting, with each element stable
in its local harmonic context, and the total pro-
gression outlining the tonic harmony.16 This, it

15. The same conclusion can be drawn for “Mondnacht” according to Burkhart’s (1990) analysis. See note 14.
16. Another consequence of this justification for the Ursatz is that counterexamples, pieces whose basic structure does not
match one of Schenker’s Ursatz patterns, can be found in very small-​scale musical contexts (such as very short pieces or short
modular themes), because the composer may simply avoid including the ingredients of Ursatz altogether. With a relatively
shallow structure,
‸ ‸ ‸ ‸ a weaker underlying structural pattern suffices. Hence, Neumeyer (1987) finds examples of the “ascending
Urlinie,” 5–​6–​7–​8 in such situations. However, a number of Neumeyer’s examples of slightly larger scope, such Brahms’s op. 39
no. 12 Waltz and Beethoven’s op. 22 Menuetto, actually do have standard descending Urlinien, which take structural precedence
over the ascending motion at their cadences. (See Yust 2015c for an alternative analysis of the latter piece.)

42 • O r g a n ize d   T i m e
should be noted well, is essentially the conclu-
sion reached by Lerdahl and Jackendoff (1983,
236–​41, 286–​9), and the approach here is there-
fore, like theirs, to outline a discovery process
for structure rather than a generative system.
Taking this a step further, we may say that, if the
Ursatz represents a theoretical claim, it is that
tonal structure is independent of rhythmic and
formal structure. That is, the elements that make
a strong and stable directed progression consti-
tute the tonal structure regardless of whether
those elements receive rhythmic emphasis, or
occur at major points of formal articulation.
2.3 REPETITION
Exact repetitions are usually ignored in tonal
analysis. The analysis of Chopin’s C major
Mazurka in Example  2.7, for example, simply
leaves out the repetition of measures 1–​2 in
measures 3–​4. This is for good reason; we assume
that the direct repetition of some individual com-
ponent of a passage should not affect its internal
structure or its role in the larger passage, so an
analysis with the repetitions removed should
be sufficient. These assumptions are sound, and
determine the structural analysis of repetitions
without much further deliberation. Our ten-
dency to ignore repetition on the musical surface
is therefore mostly justified. Yet a general under-
standing of the structural implications of repe-
tition is nonetheless imperative when dealing
with repetition that occurs at deeper levels.
Consider the simple repetition at the begin-
ning of the Chopin Mazurka (Ex. 2.14). Our
instinct to ignore the repetition is also tied up
with attitudes towards temporality. We have a
habit of summarizing a passage like this as an
instance of tonic harmony, recognizing the tem-
poral status of this tonic harmony within the
larger tonal structure, but dispossessing the
four measures of their own internal tempo-
rality. Tonic harmony actually occurs twice in
these four measures, and we do have some ex-
perience of these that occurs over time, even if
it is relatively fleeting and possibly of little im-
portance for larger questions about the piece. If
the latter claim is true, there should be a simple
17. For instances where a motion is repeated more than twice, we can extend this reasoning, maximizing the number of
directed motions and minimizing the number of repetition edges.
18. Schenker’s Figure 30 (analysis of Chopin’s op. 17/​3) is a very close parallel that justifies the assumption that he would
endorse Example 2.16(a). In analytical graphs like this Schenker’s notation sweeps the problem under the rug, so it might
appear as if his interpretation is the same as mine (in the form of Ex. 2.16b). However, his Figure 28 unambiguously presents a
background like my Example 2.16(a), making it clear that this is his general understanding these sorts of ternary-​form pieces.
rule to derive an analysis of the repetition from
one without it. There is, and it is based on a few
simple considerations. First, the repeated music
should have the same analysis internally in each
repetition (Ex. 2.14a). Second, the entire repeti-
tion represents a single unified span and relates
to its surroundings exactly as the unrepeated
music would. This will always be the case as long
as the uppermost edge of the repeated span is
the same as the uppermost edge of the individual
spans, which is always made possible by drawing
this edge between the structural beginning of
the first repetition to the structural end of the
last one, as in Example 2.14(b). Finally, the in-
ternal structure of the phrase can be completed
in one of two ways, showing the E as a repeti-
tion or the C. In other words, is the completion
of the motion delayed by a repetition of the ini-
tial event (E–​E–​C), or by the early arrival of the
last event (E–​C–​C)? We can decide this by con-
text: if the repetition is of an initiating motion
(tipping down \), as it is here, the initial event is
repeated (Ex. 2.14c). If, on the other hand, the
repetition is of a completion (tipping up /​), then
the final event is repeated.17 The repetition can
be emphasized with cross-​hatches on the edge,
as shown in Example 2.14
These considerations take on more urgency
when dealing with repetitions at deeper struc-
tural levels. In the last section, for instance, we
sought out violations of the letter, if not the
spirit, of the theory of Ursatz in exceptional
pieces like Schumann’s “Herzeleid,” but we need
not have looked beyond the rather unexcep-
tional modular design of Chopin’s Mazurkas.
That is because the backgrounds of pieces with
this design are not Ursatz-​type structures but
repetitions.
The middle section of Chopin’s op.  33/​ 3
(not shown in Example 2.7 above) is in A♭
major and has its own self-​ contained tonal
structure. Example 2.15 sketches the outline
of this structure. After the middle section is a
da capo that concludes the piece. According to
Schenker ([1935] 1979, 40–​1) this kind of form
should be analyzed as in Example  2.16(a).18
However, there is something highly counterin-
tuitive about this analysis:  the C major theme
Tonal Structure • 43
EXAMPLE 2.14  Analyzing a repetition in Chopin’s op. 33/​3 Mazurka

(a)

(b)

(c)

EXAMPLE 2.15  A structural synopsis of the interior theme of Chopin’s op. 33/​3 Mazurka

EXAMPLE 2.16  Two analyses of the background the main theme and its return here are iden-
of the Mazurka’s modular form tical, each with its own Urlinie. Schenker insists
upon analyses like Example  2.16(a) because of
his commitment to the premise that the Ursatz
is the ultimate background of all tonal pieces.
(a) This is not the case in Example  2.16(b), where
the relationship between the keys of the two
sections, C major and A♭ major will be approx-
imately as deep as the  Ursatz, which occurs
(b)
within the sixteen-​bar modular refrain in its
two appearances. (See Ex. 2.21.)
One might worry that, in giving up
Schenker’s premise that the Ursatz must be the
ultimate background structure of a complete
is identical at the beginning and end of the piece, we give up the tonal coherence of Chopin’s
piece, but the interpretation following Schenker Mazurka. This is not the case, though. Notice
(Ex. 2.16a) gives a radically different interpreta- that the existence of the interior theme is incon-
tion
‸ ‸ ‸of these two parts: the first has a complete sequential to the dispute between the analyses
3–​2–​1 descent and the second does not, be- in Examples  2.16(a) and (b):  the issue here re-
cause it is broken up by the overlapping large-​ ally amounts to the structural status of a repe-
scale Urlinie. It is much more logical to analyze tition. But our intuitive idea, stated above, that
the sectional background of this ternary form repetition should not change the internal struc-
as in Example  2.16(b), which follows the rule ture of the repeated music, is what disqualifies
of repetition laid out above. The analysis of Example  2.16(a). And the idea that repetition

44 • O r g a n ize d   T i m e
should not change the role of the repeated music
in the structure of the whole also suggests that
Example  2.16(b) should not imply something
any less tonally closed than an analysis of the re-
frain by itself. In fact, we can say that the piece as
a whole inherits its C major coherence from the
Ursatz-​form of the refrain, because the structure
that exists above this consists of repetitions of
the tonic.
In the previous section we found the Ursatz
behaves not so much like a musical law, but as a
summary of analytical precepts for tonal struc-
ture. An analytical process “discovers” the Ursatz
not because it is required to do so, but because
the rules of the process favor precisely the kinds
of progressions represented in the forms of the
Ursatz. Both analyses in Example 2.16 find the
same number of Ursatz-​form structures, though.
The Ursatz represents tonal coherence and clo-
sure because it (1)  outlines a single tonic har-
mony, and (2) consists of a strong goal-​directed
motion. The background of Example 2.16(a) does
not disturb property (1), because the background
motion still involves elements of tonic harmony.
As for the second aspect of the Ursatz, the goal-​
directed motion does not need to constitute the
background of the piece, it only needs to occur
approaching the final event of the structure.19
Here, an Ursatz progression is initiated by the
initial structural event, and one is terminated by
the final structural event, only these are not the
same Ursatz progressions.
The network models help to isolate the
difference:  it does not have to do with the in-
terpretation of the A♭ major section, because
both analyses find the beginning of the main
theme return to be a repetition of E following
the cadence on‸C. Schenker
‸ prioritizes the linear
connection of 3 to 2, finding this in three places,
on the large scale from the beginning of the first
refrain to the cadential dominant of the second,
as well as within each refrain. The analysis in
Example  2.16(b) instead prioritizes the sta-
bility of tonic connections, finding a coherent
motion within the second refrain specifically
because of its internal tonal closure in C major.
Notice that considerations of form need not be
invoked here. Clearly, the form is also struc-
tured like Example  2.16(a), with major points
19. See also Caplin’s (2004. 58–​66) well-​argued case against “cadences writ large.” Caplin contrasts a form-​based account
of large-​scale structure with a specifically tonal one. In Chapter 3 and elsewhere I contend that form is a distinct and
independent large-​scale structural modality. Nonetheless, Caplin’s points about the structural scope of cadences are well
taken within the theory of tonal structure.
of articulation between the different sections.
(Rules of repetition and contrast, described in
the next chapter, can be adduced to explain this.)
There is little reason to believe that the tonal
structure of the whole is in deep conflict with
the formal structure in this straightforwardly
sectional form. One should then ask whether
the tonal design of the refrain is responsible for
this coordination, and if so, specifically what
aspects. The answer clearly is yes, and it is the
stable, tonic-​framed Ursatz structure appearing
in the refrain that matches the tonal and formal
parsings of the piece. Therefore, Example 2.16(a)
shows the tonal-​formal coordination to be non-​
trivial, and shows in particular what aspects of
the music are necessary to effect this coordina-
tion, because it relies upon rules of tonal struc-
ture rather than using the formal structure to
validate the tonal structure. The latter reasoning
would rescind the independent status of to-
nality, making it impossible to locate instances
of tonal-​formal disjunction. The importance of
this independence is further discussed in the
next chapter, and in Chapters 11–​12 which pro-
vide examples of tonal-​formal disjunction. All of
this argues that the stability of tonic harmony
takes priority over linear connections in tonal
structure (though not, N.B., over directed linear
motion, i.e., linear progressions).
Another situation where deep-​ structural
repetition often occurs is in the subordinate
theme group of classical sonata forms, where
it is common to find multiple themes that
cadence in the secondary key. Consider the
second theme group of Mozart’s Symphony
no.  29 in Example 2.17. Even though it does
not involve the actual repetition of an entire
theme, the appearance of two complete themes
in E major amounts to a repetition of the same
basic structural progression, as the analysis
shows. In Chapters 6 and 7, we will find that the
multiple cadences that occur in these situations
are often differentiated hypermetrically if not
tonally. However, the question of tonal struc-
ture is independent from the rhythmic one.
There is not clear agreement about how to un-
derstand the effect of such cadential repetition
upon closure. For William Caplin (1998, 121–​3)
anything that is a complete theme belongs to
Tonal Structure • 45
EXAMPLE 2.17 Mozart, Symphony no. 29, subordinate theme group, measures 33–​67
the subordinate theme group, and therefore the
closure of the last subordinate theme marks the
main formal grouping boundary. Hepokoski and
Darcy (2006, 120–​24), on the other hand, state
as a rule that the first satisfactory secondary
key cadence ends the secondary theme group,
in accord with the opinion of Rothstein (1989,
116–​19). They also, however, list multiple ways
of deferring closure, so that in practice their sec-
ondary theme groups do not end as early as the
rule might otherwise suggest (150–​ 70). Still,
Caplin and Hepokoski and Darcy would likely
46 • O r g a n ize d   T i m e
disagree on Mozart’s Symphony no.  29, Caplin
extending the subordinate theme group to
measure 65, while Hepokoski and Darcy would
have it end already in measure 52.
The analysis in Example 2.18(a) uses the rule
of repetition. Here, the important element of
the rule is that the entire theme group should
relate to its surrounding context exactly as a
single subordinate theme would. This is not true
of the kind of structure implied by Hepokoski
and Darcy’s rule (Ex. 2.18(b)), which breaks the
repeated music up into separate parts relating
EXAMPLE 2.18  (a) Analysis of the subordinate theme group of Mozart Symphony no. 29, (b) alterna-
tive implied by Hepokoski and Darcy’s rule
(a)
(b)
individually to the structural completion of the
piece. These two possible analyses express ap-
preciably different experiences of the piece. In
the first (2.18(a)) the entire subordinate theme
group coheres as a‸unit ‸ whose overall function
(unfolding of the 5–​1 space of the dominant)
reflects the function of the individual parts.
The advantage of Hepokoski and Darcy’s rule
also comes more clearly into focus under the
network model:  at the‸ arrival‸ of‸ the first PAC,
the larger structure (3/​I–​(2)/​V–​1/​I) is already
partially constructed
‸ and awaiting its final res-
olution (the 1/​I), just as it would if Mozart had
ended the subordinate theme group with this
cadence, which he evidently could have opted to
do. Under the analysis in Example  2.18(a), the
connections of prior‸ events to first cadence to
V (specifically from 3/​I) depend on what follows
the cadence. This implies that there is a cer-
tain amount of retrospection in this large scale
connection:  we cannot securely identify the
exposition as a tonal span until we are clearly
aware that we are proceeding onward—​that is,
into a development, or, more precisely, towards a
recapitulation. The latter characterization is not
at all unreasonable, but it undoubtedly presents
a substantially different interpretation of the
listener’s experience of tonal structure.
2.4 KEYS
There is one aspect of Chopin’s op.  33/​ 3 tonal structure.
Mazurka I did not address above: the use of a
contrasting key in the middle section. Chopin’s
20. This is the piece that Schenker analyzes in Free Composition ([1935] 1979) Fig. 30. See note 16 above.
choice of key is interesting:  the flatted sub-
mediant. We might ask why this particular
choice of key, certainly, but we also might first
acknowledge that many other choices of key
might have at least fulfilled the basic role of a
tonally contrasting interior theme within the
larger ternary form.
In the search for Ursatz-​type progressions
in the op.  33/​3 Mazurka I  ignored the middle
section entirely, without giving specifically tonal
reasons for doing so. Consider, for instance, the
op. 17/​3 Mazurka, which is similar in a number
of respects, in particular the ternary form and
the key relationships.20 Example 2.19 gives the
end of the refrain and the first part of the inte-
rior section. A G♯ minor chord happens to appear
within the middle section. What prevents a struc-
tural connection from this G♯ minor chord to the
outer sections, as in Example 2.20? Perhaps
the most important reason that such an anal-
ysis could not be plausible is the fact that it cuts
across other progressions within each section,
especially those associated with the cadences.
But another important reason is that this chord
has a different status than the A♭ major chords
in the outer sections: it is not a tonic. In other
words, the special status of tonic stability, which
we have found to be a crucial factor in tonal
structure thus far, is conferred by an immediate
tonal context. In this way, keys and modulations
play a vital role in the delineation of larger-​scale
The change of key thus automatically
isolates the structure of the middle section
Tonal Structure • 47
EXAMPLE  2.19  The end of the main theme and beginning of the interior theme of Chopin’s
op. 17/​3 Mazurka

EXAMPLE 2.20  An illegitimate linear progression that ignores the tonal context of the interior theme
EXAMPLE  2.21  Analysis showing the rela- Romantic tonal atmosphere
‸ created by using
tionship between sections in Chopin’s op.  17/​3 the lowered form of 6 in an otherwise major-​key
Mazurka context. This produces what is often referred
to as a “harmonic major” collection, in analogy
to
‸ the
‸ harmonic minor, which shares the same
♭6–​7 augmented second.22 Schenker ([1905]
1954, 86–​115) interprets this scale as a result of
“combination” (mixture) of the major and minor
modes, making it a difference of less structural
consequence than a true modulation. This
makes sense in light of the observations made
above about the structural significance of mod-
ulation: a change of scale that does not effect a
by redefining tonic. This capability makes it change of tonic does not constrain the finding
an indispensible tool of tonal structure for of linear progressions across the different scalar
larger forms. For the kind of modular struc- contexts.
ture Chopin uses in these Mazurkas, any Yet there is another possible significance
contrasting key would do as far as this large-​ to Schumann’s choice of scale. The harmonic
scale tonal function is concerned, so this does major, like the harmonic minor but unlike the
not explain why Chopin chooses the flatted ordinary major, is spread out on the circle of
submediant. The answer to that question lies fifths, so that it contains “exotic”
‸ ‸ intervals like
closer to the surface, at the transitions into the diminished ‸ seventh
‸ (7–​♭6) and the aug-
and out of the middle section, where Chopin mented fifth (♭6–​3). These make enharmonic
threads the progressions between the keys by connections between keys easily accessible.
two common tones. The first, from‸A♭ major to Notice the tonicization of ‸ A minor at the end of
‸
E major is the tonic of A♭ becoming 1 of E major Schumann’s theme: the 5–​7 interval ‸of V ♯
‸ (E–​G )
(enharmonically F♭ major).21 The ‸ second is the is enharmonically the same as the 3–​♭6 (E– ​ A ♭ )
root of E major becoming the ♭6 (F♭ ) of A♭ major. interval of the harmonic major scale.23 This
The analysis in Example 2.21 demonstrates the enharmonicism is not merely notational. G to
highly local nature of these connections:  the A♭ is a scale-​step, so that the A♭ –​G at the begin-
transition back to the home key actually relates ning of the theme can be understood as voice-​
directly to a very low-​level tonal event within leading motion between chords. In the change
that theme, the accented diminished seventh to (a fleeting) A minor approaching the cadence,
chord in the first measure. The local nature the G–​G♯ interval has a different status. It is
of these connections is made possible by the the scalar voice leading that tonicizes A  minor.
modular nature of the form. Almost exactly The idea of scalar voice leading as change in
the same points can be made about the op. 33/​ accidentals necessary to convert one scale into
3 Mazurka analyzed in the previous section another has been discussed from different
(Ex. 2.14). perspectives by Dmitri Tymoczko (2004, 2011),
The enharmonicism in op. 17/​3 is purely no- Julian Hook (2008, 2011), and myself (Yust
tational: if the middle section were written en- 2013a–​b). The notation used in Example 2.22
tirely in F♭ major,
‸ it would go away. However, and elsewhere is to give the letter name of the
the use of ♭6 to make connections between note followed by the change of accidental. Going
keys does bring about the potential for true from C major to A minor, for instance, involves
enharmonicism. The interior theme from the voice leading G♮→♯
the second movement of Schumann’s Piano For present purposes, scalar voice leadings
Quintet, op.  44 (Ex. 2.22) demonstrates this are important for two reasons. First, they in-
possibility. It begins with the same distinctively dicate a kind of distance between keys that is

21. See Kopp (2002) on the importance of common tones to the nineteenth-​century usage of these sorts of chromatic
mediant relationships.
22. Tymoczko 2004, Hook 2011. This scale was theorized in the nineteenth century, interestingly, by Hauptmann ([1853]
1888, 42–​4)
23. Interestingly, the relationship between these scales is one of pitch-​class inversion; specifically the inversion that maps
one tonic chord to the other: C major → A minor, and maps the notes G♭ and D to themselves (respelling G♭ as A♭ ).

Tonal Structure • 49
EXAMPLE 2.22  Schumann, Piano Quintet, ii, mm. 30–​45, in a simplified texture, and analysis
independent of the triadic voice-​ leading re-
lationship between their tonic chords. When
harmonies in different tonal contexts relate
within a tonal structure, the scalar voice-​
leading distance between their keys is impor-
tant in addition to the triadic voice-​ leading
relationship between the chords themselves.
In Schumann’s theme there are two brief
tonicizations that rely upon minimal scalar
voice leadings. The first is a tonicization of
G major, which is produced by a simple F♮→♯
voice leading, and the second is the G♮→♯ move
that tonicizes A minor. The lower-​level E–​D–​C
linear progression in the second phrase of the
Schumann, for instance, does relate two chords
(C major and A minor) that have a stable tonic
24. The introduction and next chapter discuss this issue.
50 • O r g a n ize d   T i m e
status in their local tonal context. However,
there are two voice leadings implicit in the
change of harmony, a triadic G→A voice leading,
and a scalar G♮→♯ voice leading. This progression
is therefore less conclusive than the larger E–​
D–​C progression where E and C belong to tonics
of the same key (C major).
In the canons of Schenkerian analysis,
Schenker’s own expressions of skepticism about
the traditional concept of keys has made it
seemingly obligatory for Schenkerian scholars
to suppress the structural status of keys, in ana-
lytical language if not in the underlying practice.
As with traditional concepts of form, similarly
dismissed by Schenker,24 we see a constant tug-​
of-​war between the need to justify Schenker’s
sometimes extreme rhetoric on keys25 and their
observably essential role in laying the frame-
work for tonal structure in virtually every tonal
work, especially at the higher levels. This has led
to a duplicity in which keys remain basic and
essential analytical criteria, but analyses are
constantly glossed with language that denies
their reality.26 A landmark article in setting this
agenda is Schachter’s “Analysis by Key” (1987a),
full of incisive analyses and fascinating examples
of chord-​key interaction, but ultimately driven
by the agenda of instituting marginalizing lan-
guage for the treatment of “illusory keys” in
tonal analysis. Most recently this agenda has
led Peter Smith (2005) to carve out a separate
dimension of musical structure for keys, distinct
from voice-​ leading structure. As explained in
the introduction, the problem with this division
(unlike the separation of modalities of form and
tonal structure, which is necessary, as argued in
the next chapter) is that tonal structure needs
keys to make it complete and discoverable on the
large scale, so the “dimensions” of voice-​leading
and key are not really independent (and hence
not distinct dimensions, by definition). On the
other hand, Lerdahl (2001b) has proposed a con-
ceptualization of tonal structure that divides
tonal space into hierarchically organized levels,
chordal space, and regional space (the space of
keys). Rings (2011) also demonstrates through
many penetrating analyses the essential impor-
tance of key as the environment in which chords
and notes and motions between them are heard.
Both of these latter authors make compelling
cases for keys as an essential ingredient of tonal
structure.
Another significant feature of scalar voice
leadings is the possibility of enharmonicism.
In the first part of Schumann’s theme above,
the enharmonicism is subtle, and could
easily be incidental. As we will see shortly,
in the second part of the theme Schumann
exploits the enharmonicism more forthrightly,
demonstrating that it is integral to his composi-
tional idea. Nonetheless, the enharmonicism in
this theme plays more of a semantic than a syn-
tactic role—​that is, it does not directly affect the
tonal structure. Other kinds of enharmonicism,
enharmonic tours and enharmonic convergence,
25. Such as the passage in Schenker ([1935] 1979) on page 8, which concludes with: “To be sure, the great composers
spoke of keys in the incorrect sense in their letters and notes. However, when we consider the singularly profound and
masterly character of their works, we can certainly disregard their theoretical nomenclature. But we, incapable of such
mastery, dare not permit ourselves the luxury of erroneous theories.”
26. Charles Smith (1996) observes a similar duplicity in Schenker’s attitude towards form.
do have this kind of syntactic significance, as will
be demonstrated in Chapter 10.
Scalar contexts are a primary focus of this
melodically conjunct and registrally confined
theme. Notice how Schumann repeats the me-
lodic E–​D motion in two different harmonic
contexts. In the initial C (harmonic) major con-
text, the E is stable, the D unstable. In the later
G major context, their roles are reversed. The
E–​D motion then exists also at a higher level,
but at this level both notes are stable in their
associated contexts. This is not just a motion
between chords, though; it is also a motion be-
tween scales. In addition to the E→D (and C→B)
voice leadings there is also the F♮→♯ scalar voice
leading. Schumann plays the same game at the
end of the theme, repeating the D→C motion
twice while changing the tonal context via a
scalar voice leading G♮→♯.
These scalar voice leadings are not what
we would usually call true key changes, but
tonicizations. The difference between these is
essentially one of extent:  the changes happen
so briefly that there is no motion within the key
in question. This is a significant fact, because it
means that the reason for the structural signif-
icance of keys does not apply to tonicizations.
Only a sustained passage within the key can
be isolated from its context by virtue of the
difference of key.
This changes in the second part of the theme,
where a true key does appear, E minor. The anal-
ysis in Example 2.23 isolates the progression
within this key, which is slightly more distant
from C major than the G major or A  minor of
the first part, relating by the voice leading {D♮→♯,
F♮→♯}. At the same time, the E minor tonic has
a smaller voice-​leading difference from C major
than the tonic of G major, the more usual choice
of secondary key. As a chord, then, E minor (iii)
is not very useful within the key of C major,
where few significant linear progressions
‸ ‸ can use
it. (The voice leading from I to iii is 8–​
‸ 7,
‸ which
‸ ‸ is
only usable in a fourth progression 8–​7–​6–​5). As
a key, though, the added scalar voice leadings can
give E minor the kind of structural significance
it has here.
Because of the self-​contained tonal struc-
ture of the first part of this small binary form
Tonal Structure • 51
EXAMPLE 2.23  Schumann, Piano Quintet, ii, mm. 46–​62, in a simplified texture, and analysis
(beginning and ending in the same key), it would
suffice for Schumann to fill out the second part
with a straight repeat of the second half of the
first part. By changing just the first few chords,
however, without altering the melodic line, he
turns the theme into a much more artfully inte-
grated whole. In the first chord, previously a C
major triad, he changes the bass to E and the G
to a G♯. The first change establishes a smoother
voice-​leading connection to the E minor tonic
of the middle section. The second change has
a deeper significance. The A  minor tonality,
previously a brief tonicization, now occupies
the majority of the phrase. This happens be-
cause Schumann has replaced the C harmonic-​
major context of the first two chords with an
A  minor one (and preserved it in the decep-
tive close). Because the two initiating C major
52 • O r g a n ize d   T i m e
chords have a direct structural connection, the
enharmonicism is now more explicit:  the ini-
tial C major participates in a G→A♭ chordal voice
leading locally, and at the same time is part of
a G♮→♯ scalar voice leading at a deeper struc-
tural level. The dissonance and tonal status of
the augmented I36+ chord also helps to reinforce
an unusual structural feature of this “recapitu-
lation”: it does not
‸ actually
‸ cohere tonally as a
whole, the final 2/​V–1/​
​‸ I making a third-​progres-
sion with the initial 3/​I of the first part instead
of the beginning of the recapitulation. This
structure is consistent with the use of E minor
and avoidance of the dominant of C major in the
first half of the second part. ‸(Such a dominant ‸
could support a larger-​scale 2, leaving the 2/​V
at the final cadence to serve a more local tonal
function).
2.5  TONAL MODELS The piece is surprisingly not saturated with such
linear progressions, considering its minimalistic
FOR BINARY FORMS harmonic language. (Compare to the short
In the common instrumental forms of the Mazurka theme analyzed in Section 2.1 above.)
eighteenth century, the structural function of This is actually a facet of its simplicity: including
modulations is highly conventionalized. The only the essential linear progressions and
most important of these is the modulation to avoiding others that might compete for struc-
the dominant. The special role of this key can be tural status enhances the clarity of the tonal
deduced from the claims about tonal structure structure. Note especially the gallant gestures at
made above. If the background fits the model of cadences, familiar from Mozart but equally typ-
the Ursatz, then the expansion of the form is best ical of a host of lesser-​known composes. These
served by strengthening the medial event of the are well designed to avoid implying lines that
Ursatz, the dominant, as a more local structural might conflict with the basic stepwise descent.
goal. This is best accomplished by stabilizing the There are no possible linear progressions that
dominant
‸ by unfolding it (so that it can appear contain the downbeat A and G in measure ‸ ‸ 47
‸ (or
with 5 in the soprano) and tonicizing it. The re- E and D in m.  15), which makes the 3–​
2–​1 de-
sult is a binary form (small or large—​ t hat is, scent all the more
‸ clear
‸ regardless of the metric
‸ ‸ ‸ ‸
sonata form included), where status of the 3 and 2.
‸ 3/​‸I–​2/​V or 5/​I–​2/​
V defines the first part, and 2/​V–​1/​I the second. Jommelli uses a common early-​ to-​
mid-​
Niccoló Jommelli is a model composer for the eighteenth century formal procedure in this
infectious simplicity that swept across Europe in presto movement. After the double-​bar, the main
the mid-​1700s, and a musical style that would idea is repeated in the key of the dominant. Then
be deeply influential for later composers like he immediately transposes it back to the tonic.
Mozart. Example 2.24 presents a characteristic For someone trained on twentieth-​ century
early example of his symphonic writing, the notions of sonata form, this return of the main
third movement of his overture to the opera idea in the home key suggests recapitulation.
Eumene. The short movement is quintessentially Such a notion would engender the erroneous ex-
gallant in that it contains little more than what pectation that the music from the second part of
is necessary to express the underlying struc- the exposition (mm. 9–​24) would immediately
ture. The texture is transparent and there are follow transposed to D major. What Jommelli
no diversions or expansions of the simple series does, however, is the norm for this formal pro-
of four-​measure phrases, each of which neatly cedure: he inserts a small “development” section
executes its particular tonal task. The exposition (mm. 33–​40) before recapitulating the second
of the movement divides tonally into two parts, part of the exposition. The next chapter (in §3.4)
the first repeated four-​measure phrase (mm. 1–​ discusses this formal procedure in greater detail.
8) followed by the eight measure sequence plus According to Schenker ([1935] 1979, 133–​
cadential phrase, which is also repeated (mm. 8), binary forms like this one are generated
9–​24). The first part is in D major with a half ca- ‸by interruption, where the Urlinie descends to
dence, the second in A major with a PAC. 2‸ at the main structural division, and the final
The reduction in Example 2.24 distills linear 1 is delayed by a repetition of the first Urlinie
progressions from the melody and bass line. descent. This is same structure that is the
27

27. The concept of interruption is a very late development in Schenker’s theory, only explained clearly in his last work,
Der Freie Satz. Marston (2013) extensively documents Schenker’s grappling with the concept during the preparation of
this book. Schenker’s earlier understanding of the structural status of recapitulations was through the much older concept
of reaching over. (This concept is a very early development in Schenker’s theory of tonal structure, preceding even linear
progressions, which in the modern understanding of the theory are more basic. See Yust 2015c.) According to the reaching-​
over idea, the first linear descent is completed at the moment of recapitulation, which simultaneously reinstates the new
head tone beginning a second descent. The main structural division, according to this interpretation, would be at the point
of recapitulation, and it is not clear that the entire structure would be integrated—​that is, there would be no background
edge for the entire structure, only for the two parts preceding and following the point of recapitulation. Marston suggests
that the older alternative to interruption better accords with traditional notions of form, but the opposite conclusion
follows from this consideration of its structural implications. The reaching-​over concept puts the main structural division
in the wrong place in the formal structure, the beginning of the recapitulation rather than the end of the exposition. Either
way, though, it is reasonable to conclude that Schenker’s careful revisions of the concept in his later work on Der Freie Satz
are principally motivated by his goal of supplanting traditional concepts of form with his theory of tonal structure. See the
introduction to Chapter 3, and note 29 below.

Tonal Structure • 53
EXAMPLE 2.24 Jommelli, Eumene overture, third movement, with analysis (repeat of mm. 9–​16 in
mm. 17–​24 omitted)
EXAMPLE 2.25 Models of large binary form following Schenker’s theory of interruption
EXAMPLE 2.26  The background of the Jommelli Eumene overture Presto
basis of the familiar antecedent–​consequent
construction reflected in Examples 2.5 and
2.8 (the themes of Chopin’s op.  33/​ 2 and
op. 33/​3 Mazurkas). This assumption leads to
two possible basic structural profiles for the
major-​mode exposition–​recapitulation form,
as shown in Example 2.25. (These models
also apply to sonata form, by the addition of
a development expanding the ‸ span at the in-
terruption). Notice that the 3-​line version has
the advantage of a simple interpretation of
the exposition, but the structure of the sub-
ordinate theme of the recapitulation (a fifth-​
progression) contrasts with the recapitulation
as
‸ a whole (which is a third-​progression). The
5-​line version is more homogeneous, but puts
more specific requirements on the main theme
and transition,
‸ which must articulate a descent
through 4.
Example 2.26 outlines the main linear
progressions of Jommelli’s piece, and shows
a problem
‸ with applying Schenker’s model.
The 5 is the only available starting point for
a linear progression in the D major opening
phrase, but it is linearly unconnected to any-
thing in the rest ‸of the
‸ exposition. Therefore,
the descent from 5 to 2 is nowhere
‸ to be found
in the exposition (indeed, 3 occurs nowhere
as a melodic note in the first phrase). While
the reduction of Example 2.26 is full of linear
progressions, none of them ‸ involve the initial
A, because the note G (4) never appears in a
tonally stable setting. A fifth-​progression from
the initial A into the recapitulation is unsatis-
factory because it would cross over the most
stable event of the exposition, which is the ca-
dential resolution in A major at the end. This is
the main division of the structure, predictably
Tonal Structure • 55
 ‸
EXAMPLE  2.27 Generic backgrounds
‸ for minor-​key binary forms based on a 5-​line, (a)  following
Schenker, and (b) based on a 3-​line
(a)

(b)

and regardless of the fact that

‸ it does not make
a linear progression from 5. This example thus
demonstrates that it is difficult for reasoning
from linear progressions to trump the relative
tonal stability at the end of an exposition, be-
cause if there is not an Urlinie involving
‸ this
event (unfolded from an earlier 2), then there
is probably not another way to get one either.
Furthermore, this background can in fact
be
‸ regarded as a kind of Ursatz:  the ‸ unfolded
2 does connect to an inner voice 3 of the ini-
tial tonic, which makes sense given the lack of
registral connection of the A to
‸ anything
‸ else in
the exposition. The idea that 3 and 5 head tones
are folded into this initial tonic, in fact, is an
elegant way of combining
‸ the
‸ more attractive
features of the 3-​line and 5-​line sonata-​form
models of Example 2.25.28
Minor-​key movements are much rarer in the
early history of large binary forms like sonata
form and the exposition-​recapitulation form.
The structural models of Example 2.25 may be
adapted to them, but only if they use the minor
dominant as the main subordinate key. A short-
coming of the minor dominant as a subordinate
key is that one of the scalar voice leadings in-
volved in this tonal shift effects the home-​key
leading tone, which appears within the dom-
inant chord itself, giving it a greater sense of
distance from the home key. Also, for an eight-
eenth-​ century aesthetic, such a preponder-
ance of minor tonality is usually undesirable.
Therefore, the relative major is the usual sub-
ordinate key, which has different structural
implications. In Der Freie Satz, Schenker con-
sistently analyzes such movements along the
lines of the generic model in Example 2.27(a).29
This implies that the use of a 5-​line as the prin-
cipal structural basis and a 3-​line within the
subordinate theme is a requirement of this
form. However, another model is possible with a
3-​line in the main theme and a 5-​line in the
subordinate theme, as in Example 2.27(b). The
movement from J.C. Bach’s C minor Keyboard
Sonata, excerpted in Example 2.28, is a rela-
tively transparent expression of the latter kind

28. Ernst Oster, in extended editorial comments in Schenker [1935] 1979, 139–​41, cites a number of other, more
elaborate, examples which he analyzes in roughly the same way.
29. Except that Schenker prioritizes the dominant of the development, which represents the return of the home key, over
the tonic of the subordinate key at the end of the exposition. Prioritizing the latter does not compromise the background
linear progression, and accurately reflects the greater contextual stability of the subordinate key tonic.
Earlier essays precede Schenker’s formulation of the concept of interruption (see note 27 above). His analysis of a
Scarlatti Keyboard Sonata in D minor (Schenker [1925] 1994, 67–​74) explicitly indicates the retention of a head tone via
a reaching over, and this is also implied in his graphs of the outer movements of Mozart’s G minor Symphony (K.550), in
Schenker (1926) 1996, 60–​61, 91.

56 • O r g a n ize d   T i m e
EXAMPLE  2.28  (a–​c) Excerpts from J.C. Bach’s Keyboard Sonata in C minor, op.  17/​2, i, showing
elements of the base tonal structure
(a)

(b)

(c)
of underlying tonal structure. The main theme
projects a clear 3-​line, and linear connection
from C to B♭ is evident at the beginning of the
subordinate theme (Ex. 2.28a), and the fifth-​
progression stands out at the end of the subor-
dinate theme (Ex. 2.28b). Bach’s development
58 • O r g a n ize d   T i m e
differs from the model, however, in that it
modulates to the key of the (minor) dominant
and ends with a PAC (Ex. 2.28c), rather than
retransitioning and ending on a dominant of
the home key, as would be standard in later
practice.
 3
Formal Structure
WHILE THE parametrical distinction be-
tween pitch and rhythm is endemic to music
theory, the idea of form as an independent
musical modality is more unusual. Theorists
have tacitly supported some measure of inde-
pendence to form in the practice and teaching
of music analysis, where the study of form
tends to occupy its own sphere of activity,
with minimal interpenetration from methods
of tonal and rhythmic analysis. However, it is
not clear to what extent methods of formal
analysis and large-​scale tonal analysis are ei-
ther competing or complementary. Schenker
([1935] 1979)  strongly asserted that his own
theory of tonal structure utterly supplanted
any sort of Formenlehre, but virtually all later
Schenkerians have in one way or another
rejected this idea. Though many authors of
prominent recent systems of formal analysis
(such as Hepokoski and Darcy [2006] and
Schmalfeldt [2011]) treat their own theories
as fully compatible with Schenkerian anal-
ysis, the mechanics of how the two modes
of explanation interact with one another re-
mains more or less hazy in all cases, though
Schmalfeldt (1991) makes significant headway
in addressing the problem.
An effective way to address the lingering
question of to what extent form is independent
of tonal structure is to construct a theory of
form that lacks necessary reference to har-
mony and keys. This is the strategy pursued
below, which shows, perhaps surprisingly,
that a robustly hierarchical theory of form can
be constructed in this way. To compare such
a theory to other methods of formal anal-
ysis requires the reintroduction of elements
of tonal structure—​ or more specifically, the
interactions (coordination and disjunction) of
tonal and formal structures. Section 3.4 takes
some initial steps in this direction, ahead of a
fuller treatment in Chapters 11 and 12.
 • 59
3.1  ELEMENTS OF FORM:
REPETITION, CONTRAST,
FRAGMENTATION
The association of tonal structure with the di-
mension of pitch and rhythmic structure with
the dimension of time is potentially misleading,
because the two kinds of structure only respond
selectively to the two parameters. Tonal struc-
ture reflects harmonic relationships largely in
abstraction from such things as melodic con-
tour and texture, while rhythmic structure
considers only the underlying regularities of
a rhythm, ignoring its potential to group and
separate ideas and prioritize different levels of
pacing. These are the kinds of musical features
that create the space for another independent
modality, that of form, which is based on prin-
ciples of melodic similarity and difference and
grouping. The corresponding rubric for formal
analysis developed in this section and the next
will use repetition (similarity), contrast and
fragmentation (difference), and caesuras, which
are breaks, either literal (i.e., rests) or expressed
by marked changes of texture.
A usual approach to the study of form is to
identify conventions of a particular genre and
era, name them, and describe their usage. Such
research is useful, especially for understanding
music of the later eighteenth century, when the
use of such conventional constructions was es-
pecially important. The goal of this chapter,
however, is not primarily to add to this already
plentiful body of knowledge. Instead, it inquires
into basic principles of form, independent of
composer, genre, and era, that make up the
foundations for all of these practices.
Whether such basic principles exist is not nec-
essarily agreed upon fact. Hepokoski (2009b),
drawing upon the “sonata theory” approach of
Hepokoski and Darcy (2006), advances a notion
of “dialogic form” in which the formal narrative
of a piece consists of constant interaction with
an established set of conventional schemata,
arranged by preference from first-​order defaults
to second-​order defaults and so on, the composer
confirming or denying each such expectation in
turn. The operative conventions of such a system
of expectations could then be entirely arbitrary.
That very radical construal of the dialogic-​form
idea seems rather untenable, though. While
the composer’s interactions with evolving
conventions is certainly a significant aspect of
this music, it is likely that those conventions,
60 • O r g a n i z ed   T i m e
especially those relating to form, respond to and
are largely shaped by more general requirements
of coherence and logical progression.
The other most systematic extended treatment
of musical form to date is William Caplin’s (1998)
theory of formal functions. A formal function is
a designation that describes the role of a partic-
ular passage within a larger formal structure,
where that larger structure might be a theme,
a formal section, or the formal design of a en-
tire piece. The idea of formal function already
represents a significant abstraction, because the
same formal functions might appear in different
types of formal structures, and formal functions
can be recombined in novel ways to create un-
conventional formal structures. Caplin (2009b)
also proposes a further abstraction of formal
functions, classifying them according to whether
they function as the beginning, middle, or end
of the larger structure. These are, respectively
initiating, continuational, and cadential types, to
which may also be added introductory (before the
beginning) and post-​cadential (after the end) (see
§11.5). While a given formal function is usually
specific to a certain formal level (e.g., the phrase
level), this classification groups functions across
levels, and draws attention to the many level-​
independent features of each type. For example,
initiating functions include the basic idea of a
phrase, the antecedent of a period, and the main
theme of a sonata form. All of these functions
typically involve the introduction of distinctive
motivic material, focus on home-​key tonic har-
mony, and harmonic stability. The idea of leveled
processes of initiation and completion is essen-
tially the premise of temporal hierarchy, and
therefore Caplin’s theory is closely related to the
one pursued in this chapter.
Caplin’s theory, however, is heavily dependent
upon tonal features to define formal functions.
He generally treats the tonal aspect of a function
as the essential one, and those involving mo-
tivic or thematic construction to be important
but ultimately secondary. After extricating in-
dependent principles of form from tonal struc-
ture, then, we will identify formal functions not
with formal structure itself but with ways of
aligning tonal and formal structure. Most formal
functions rely upon conventional ways of coor-
dinating tonal and formal structure, while a few
(such as the second part of a ritornello form—​
see §11.2) are conventionalized disjunctions.
Still, other more novel disjunctions are possible
and may be important to the aesthetic goals of
specific pieces. Being able to recognize these is a
EXAMPLE 3.1  (a) A period from Handel’s Concerto Grosso, op. 6/​2 (HWV 320), mm. 1–​4, (b) a sen-
tence from J.S. Bach’s “Klein-Zschochter müsse so zart,” BWV 212, mm. 1–​8
(a)
(b)
significant advantage of decoupling theories of
form and tonal structure. All of these issues will
be addressed in more detail in Section 3.4, and
also in Chapters 11 and 12.
Caplin’s theory originates in the analytical
approach of Arnold Schoenberg, with a crucial
motivation being Schoenberg’s observations
about the construction of simple tonal themes
(Schoenberg 1967). Schoenberg’s pivotal insight
was that, while previous theories had attempted
to model all themes on a single basic type, the
period, there are actually two basic types, the
period and what Schoenberg calls the sentence.
There is a neat dichotomy between these two
types, which are illustrated in Example 3.1.
These examples are not from Haydn and Mozart
(Schoenberg and Caplin’s starting point) but
Handel and J.S. Bach, demonstrating that the
norms of tight-​knit theme types are not exclu-
sive to the Classical era. Bach uses the simple
design of Example 3.1(b) to evoke the rustic at-
mosphere of peasant song—​Haydn would use
such constructions to very similar ends decades
later in his late instrumental music.
Both themes are eight measures long (the nor-
mative length) and divide into two four-​measure
phrases. (Note that, following Schoenberg and
Caplin, we do not require cadential closure to
call something a phrase. The semantic vagaries
of this term are discussed in greater detail in
Section 11.1.) Furthermore, the first phrase of
each divides neatly in half into two melodic ideas.
The difference between the construction of these
themes can be neatly stated in terms of the use
of repetition and contrast. In the period, contrast
occurs between the ideas of phrase 1, and repe-
tition occurs between the beginnings of phrases
1 and 2.  The sentence has precisely the oppo-
site arrangement: repetition occurs between the
ideas of phrase 1, and contrast between the two
phrases.
The idea that well-​constructed themes and
small pieces could be parsed into a multi-​leveled
structures by observing caesuras of different
types and strength is indigenous to eighteenth-​
century musical thought. Fairly sophisticated
analysis of this kind appears in the works of
Johann Mattheson, a contemporary of Handel’s
and Bach’s whose treatises were studied by
Haydn and Beethoven (see Lester 1992, 167–​8).
Mattheson ([1739] 1981, 380–​404) defines four
different levels of articulation (comma, semi-
colon, colon, and period) through an extended
music-​language analogy framed as a lesson on
proper text setting. His application of this system
to instrumental music will be considered below.
Caplin breaks the sentence and period down
in to constituent formal functions, first at the
Formal Structure • 61
phrase level, then the idea level. Such a form-​
functional approach is especially flexible in that
it allows the constituent formal functions of
one type of construction to be broken down and
reassembled with functions from other formal
types into new designs (see Caplin 2009). At the
level of theme-​type, this allows Caplin to define
hybrid types that make for a much more pre-
cise and powerful classification than traditional
approaches that try to assimilate disparate the-
matic constructions to a limited cache of norms
(e.g., Green 1965). (See Caplin 1994; 1998,
Ch. 5.) The period consists of two phrase level
functions:  the antecedent presents contrasting
ideas (“basic idea” and “contrasting idea”) and
ends in a weak cadence; the consequent begins by
repeating the basic idea of a previous phrase, and
ends in a PAC. The sentence consists of a presen-
tation, the repetition of a single basic idea, and a
continuation, a more loosely-​constructed phrase
leading towards cadence.
Notice that the definition of a period, espe-
cially, relies upon tonal features as well as more
purely formal features such as repetition and
contrast. Formal functions are therefore more
specific entities than formal structures that
will be defined in this section, corresponding to
coordinated tonal-​ formal structures. The pre-
sentation function, which is defined solely by
repetition, is an exception.
In describing the period, theorists usually
give primacy to the differentiation of cadence
types in the period:  phrase 1 (the antecedent)
ends with a weak cadence (usually a half ca-
dence, but an IAC in Ex. 3.1(a)) while phrase 2
ends with a PAC. We tend to describe cadences
this way as if they were harmonic phenomena,
but this is not exactly accurate: the same chord
progressions could occur throughout a passage;
they are only cadences when they appear at the
end of a phrase, theme, or formal section. These
are elements of form, and they are defined not by
harmony but by formal criteria. The most impor-
tant criterion for showing where cadences occur
is discontinuity:  a resting point in the melody,
or a distinct change in texture. I  will use the
term caesura for such melodic pauses or breaks.
All the cadences in Example 3.1 are marked by
caesuras, and the period in addition has caesuras
between the two-​ measure ideas within each
phrase. However, the first cadence in the period
is redundant: it is not necessary to have a break
here, because the melodic repetition is enough
to indicate the beginning of a new phrase.
Because of this redundancy, either the cadence
62 • O r g a n i z ed   T i m e
EXAMPLE 3.2  The tonal structure of (a) Handel’s
period and (b) Bach’s sentence
(a)
(b)
or the repetition need not occur. Caplin (1998)
defines hybrid theme types for each of these
situations:  if the first cadence is lacking, it is a
“hybrid 4” = compound basic idea + consequent,
while if the repetition is lacking, it is a “hybrid
3” = antecedent + continuation. The latter type is
sometimes called a contrasting period.
Handel’s period and Bach’s sentence are coor-
dinated tonal/​formal structures; their formal and
tonal structures (Ex. 3.2) match at the phrase
level. While the discontinuities associated with the
cadences are essential in showing where the themes
end, the tonal differentiation of cadences in the
period is non-​essential. If both cadences were the
same type, the formal structure would be the same.
However, the differentiation of cadence types more
strongly coordinates the tonal and formal struc-
ture, and thus sharpens the contours of the period.
Such coordination is quite common, meaning
that if our goal as music analysts is merely to
give an analysis of music structure, we could do
quite well to define structure using tonal criteria
drawing upon formal criteria occasionally where
necessary, or vice versa, or using some ad hoc
mixture of the two. But the existence of two
possible autonomous ways to define a common
musical construction like the period means that
such “whatever will do will do” approaches pass
over an opportunity to better understand how
such constructions really work, and should in-
stead prompt further questions. To what ex-
tent can formal analysis be substantiated by the
simplest possible criteria, and ones most dis-
tinct from the criteria for tonal structure? The
criteria for a formal analysis determine what is
meant by the modality of form—​so far we have
sketched out the idea of this modality but not
EXAMPLE 3.3  (a) A sentence from Handel’s Concerto Grosso, op. 6/​3 (HWV 321), Allegro, mm. 1–​8,
with formal structure, (b) step-​by-​step derivation of the formal structure
(a)
(b)
completely defined it. The best theory will be
one that achieves explanatory adequacy while
distinguishing form as distinctly as possible
from tonality or meter, on the basis of a clear
and succinct set of criteria. Furthermore, we
will find that while form and tonality are often
coordinated in predictable ways, disjunctions
between them are possible, and composers may
take advantage of this possibility in certain
circumstances.
The discontinuities that define cadences may
divide a piece into sections, but do not clearly es-
tablish a formal hierarchy—​that is, they do not
necessarily show how to group those sections.
One of the defining features of the basic theme
types above, repetition, does help to establish
formal structure. As a general rule, two passages
featuring repeated music define distinct spans
that group into a single larger span. That is,
they define a single triangle of the formal struc-
ture. For most repetitions, it is sufficient for
the two passages to begin the same way, but it
is strengthened also if they end the same way.
The latter is a kind of of musical rhyme, and
may provide formal structure even in the ab-
sence of parallel beginnings.1 (See, for example,
the analysis of Telemann’s Siciliana in the next
section.) In the sentence, repetition groups the
first two two-​measure timespans, while in the
period, it groups the two phrases. This is one of
1. This use of the term “rhyme,” while not universally recognized, is not new—​for example, Ratner 1980.
the strongest and most important criteria for
defining a formal structure. Note that “repeti-
tion” is construed broadly:  in Bach’s sentence,
for example, the exact notes and harmonies of
the repeated idea are different, but the melodic
contour and rhythm are the same. (This is an
example of Schoenberg’s [1967, 21–​4] “domi-
nant form” of the idea, meaning that melody is
a rough sequence with tonic chords replaced by
dominant ones.)
In reference to Example  3.1(b) above, I  de-
fined the sentence as a theme with repetition be-
tween the first two ideas and contrast between
the phrases. The latter part of this formulation,
though, is not at first blush appropriate for an-
other common way of writing a sentence, such
as the one in Example 3.3. The second phrase
begins with a repetition of the initial motive. To
be sure, this repetition is weaker than the one
within phrase 1, because it is repetition of a one-​
measure motive rather than a two-​measure idea,
but nonetheless it is not exactly contrasting in
the sense that the phrases of Example 3.1(b) or
the first two ideas of Example 3.1(a) are.
There is another important feature of
Example 3.3, though:  the repetition (specifi-
cally sequential repetition) of small one-​measure
units within the first part of phrase 2. This rep-
etition occurs at twice the pace of the repetition
between ideas in phrase 1.  This demonstrates
Formal Structure • 63
another important tenet of formal structure,
one that is emphasized especially by Caplin: we
can distinguish formal timespans by their
pacing, depending on where the stronger in-
ternal divisions (particularly the repetitions)
appear. An acceleration in the pacing indicates
a process of moving towards the conclusion of
a larger timespan. This is called a fragmenta-
tion (Caplin’s term, adapted from Schoenberg).
Fragmentation, like contrast, is a method of
formal differentiation. It helps to define the
formal structure in two ways:  first, a point of
articulation appears in the formal structure
at the moment of shift in pacing. Second, the
edges that extend upward from this point span
as much of the material at the two pacings as
possible. For instance, in Example 3.3, the point
of fragmentation (at the bottom of the triangle
marked “fragmentation”) connects to the edges
that span each two-​measure phrase, the first of
which comprises the one-​measure basic idea and
its repetition, and the second of which includes
all of the continuational and cadential material
at the half-​measure pacing established by the
repetitions in measure 3. As we will see in later
examples, multiple phases of fragmentation can
be chained together, with shifts between faster
pacings embedded within those between slower
pacings.
There are often sequential repetitions in-
volved where fragmentations occur. The
repetitions in Handel’s sentence are both se-
quential, down by step and down by third.
Often, however, the sense of progress towards
a goal is intensified by contrasting a stable repe-
tition in one phrase with a sequential one in the
second phrase. I will refer to this as the principle
of motion, the shift from tonally anchored rep-
etition to sequential repetition. Motion works
similarly to fragmentation and is often coupled
with it, but it can also act independently, where
the pace of repetition does not change but
the type of repetition changes from stable to
sequential.
As we will see below, one can usually arrive
at a complete formal structure through this
relatively simple process:  first, identify major
caesuras and include the spans between these.
Second, find repetitions and add the triangles
defined by these. Third, wherever a moment of
fragmentation occurs, complete a triangle (with
2. The full coordination of these structures can be shown more precisely using splits as discussed in Section 4.4.
64 • O r g a n i z ed   T i m e
the point of fragmentation as a lower node)
with the longest available spans to the left and
right. Finally, locate minor caesuras and add
any remaining edges necessary to complete
the structure. Example  3.3(b) illustrates each
of these steps for Handel’s theme. Step 1 (cae-
sura) defines the four-​measure span, and step 2
adds triangles for the two repetitions. At step 3
the fragmentation at the midpoint between the
phrases connects the span of the first phrase to
a new one that groups all the material with the
accelerating pacing in the second phrase. Finally,
one span, belonging to the cadence, is added to
complete the structure.
Eighteenth-​century music abounds in formal
constructions that adhere to these general prin-
ciples but not necessarily to any schema such as
the sentence or period. Caplin’s classification of
hybrid forms captures many of these but not
all. Example  3.4(a) demonstrates a step-​ by-​
step derivation of a formal structure for the
theme of the Sarabande of J.S. Bach’s D minor
Cello Suite. The form is fairly transparent, and
shares features of both the period and sentence
schemas, in its use of antecedents and pairing
of phrases by repetition, and continuational
procedures in the last phrase. The coordination
of formal structure with tonal structure, evi-
dent in the basic outline of the tonal analysis in
3.4(b),2 suggests an analogy with the exposition
of a sonata form where the middle phrase acts
like a transition. However, the resemblance is
probably not due to any genealogical relation-
ship between them, but that, given that the same
tonal and formal structuring principles operate
at different levels of structure and that they are
limited in number, similar configurations of
them are bound to reappear.
In Bach’s Sarabande theme, as in the period
from Handel’s Concerto Grosso in Example 3.1(a),
some subphrase differentiations are made by
means of minor caesuras in the final step of the
analytical procedure. These illustrate a third
major formal principle, that of contrast. While
the principles of repetition and fragmenta-
tion appear explicitly as criteria in the analyt-
ical procedure described above, contrast does
not. Another step may be added to the process
where points of maximum contrast are given
higher-​level divisions in the structure, but this
is typically not necessary. As in Example 3.4, the
EXAMPLE 3.4  (a) J.S. Bach, Cello Suite no. 2 in D minor (BWV 1008), Sarabande, mm. 1–​12, with a step-​by-​step derivation of formal structure. (b)
The tonal structure is coordinated with the formal structure.
(a)

(b)
EXAMPLE 3.5  (a) Analysis of a simple minuet from Mattheson (1739) 1981, 452. (b) The method of
formal analysis outlined above arrives at essentially the same analysis.
(a)
(b)
separation of contrasting material by caesura
is usually sufficient to complete the structure.
In these examples contrast appears at the level
where ideas are combined to make phrases. In so-
nata form, contrast is an important structuring
principle at the level of differentiation of the-
matic sections within an exposition, as Section
3.3 below explains.
As mentioned above, Johann Mattheson
proposed parsing melody according to a similar
kind of temporal structure in the early eight-
eenth century, and we can see principles at work
in his analyses similar to the ones enumerated
here. Example 3.5 comes from his major treatise,
Der Vollkommene Capellmeister.3
Mattheson’s analysis appears in the punc-
tuation marks below the staff, commas, semi-
colon, colon, and periods represented by three
dots (∴). He freely mixes rhythmic and tonal
criteria with formal ones, since the different
forms of structure are closely coordinated. The
crosses above the staff, for instance, indicate a
four-​
measure hypermeter. Nevertheless, the
importance of formal criteria in particular is
striking. Mattheson’s semicolon and colon and
3. See also Mattheson 1981, 109–​10.
4. See Mattheson 1981, 344–​63.
5. Ibid., 369–​79.
66 • O r g a n i z ed   T i m e
the third comma do not correspond to obvious
breaks in the form of rests or long notes, but can
be substantiated, as shown in Example  3.5(b),
by repetition and fragmentation. Indeed, in
explaining his analysis, Mattheson makes note of
the repetitions of characteristic rhythms, shown
by means of poetic feet indicated above the staff
(v should be read as ˘), and the changing rate of
repetition at the beginning of the second part,
which is what creates the large-​scale fragmenta-
tion indicated in the analysis of Example 3.5(b).
(Mattheson does not mention the more local
fragmentation which substantiates his semi-
colon in Example 3.5(b)).
It is also noteworthy, especially in connection
with the theory of rhythm presented in
Chapter  1, that Mattheson’s concept of accent
(indicated by –), as derived from Greek prosody,
involves just the length of notes, not their met-
rical placement or other factors. The meter
serves rather to group the notes into poetic
feet (e.g., iamb and amphimacer in mm. 1–​2).4
His concept of emphasis, which is indicated by
asterisks in the example, is more broadly defined
but responds primarily to melodic contour.5
 For small Baroque pieces, even though they
may often be seemingly idiosyncratic and follow
no predefined schema, the process outlined
above is usually sufficient to completely analyze
the form, as exemplified in the next section.
The efficacy of this rubric for formal analysis
may be quite surprising, since, in contrast to
virtually every approach to form proposed by
theorists from the eighteenth century to the
present, it makes no reference to keys, ca-
dence types, or to harmony at all. The reason
for this is not to deny the obvious importance
of modulations to the dominant, tonal insta-
bility, contrast of cadential strength, and so
forth, to the practice and understanding of mu-
sical form. Indeed, to define formal functions
like antecedent phrases, transitions, subordi-
nate themes, expositions, and such, the formal
structure itself is not sufficient; cadence types
and the disposition of keys, elements of tonal
structure, are also essential. Therefore, form as
it is usually conceived by theorists consists of
the interactions between tonal structure and
what I define here as formal structure, a topic
that is addressed in Section 3.4 below and in
Chapter  11. Yet, isolating formal structure is
essential to demonstrate its independence from
tonal structure, and to show that the interac-
tion between them is a dance between peers,
not a servant attending to a master. In prac-
tice composers often recycle choreographies
for this dance, which is what makes a lan-
guage of formal functions and types possible
and successful, but in principle it is more
free than the schematics of most Formenlehre
would suggest. By considering a wider range
of composers, we can better discern where
consistencies of formal practice are attributable
to convention (the habits and proclivities of in-
dividual composers and schools) and uncover
where such practice reveals underlying princi-
ples of form and tonality.
3.2  SMALL BAROQUE FORMS
While the sentence and period theme types,
which would become highly conventionalized in
the later eighteenth century, certainly existed in
the work of older composers such as J.S. Bach and
Handel, as we have seen in the previous section,
their status as standard options or norms for
tight-​knit theme construction was only estab-
lished by the cadre of mid-​century composers
that built a new style upon the self-​conscious
simplicities of “galant” music. Older composers,
like Bach and Telemann, especially in “high”
genres such as the sacred aria, often took an
approach to form more individualized to the
piece at hand.
Therefore, when analyzing this music, a
generalized approach is particularly useful. The
method outlined in the previous section is sur-
prisingly effective given its relative simplicity.
Small formal constructions that would either
require intricate descriptions or be described
only vaguely by a traditional theory of form
often parse readily on the basis of repetition,
fragmentation, and caesura. A  notable feature
of many Baroque works is that the use of cae-
sura to structure the form can be quite minimal,
often demarcating only the major sections of
a piece.
In the ritornello of the aria “Seufzer, Tränen,
Kummer, Not” from J.S. Bach’s Cantata “Ich
hatte viel Bekummernis,” BWV 25, the unpre-
dictable, serpentine unfolding of the formal
structure reflects the unrelieved anguish of the
sinner’s soul described in the text, and its anx-
ious searching for God. According to the form-​
functional labels in Example 3.6, the ritornello
begins with a double presentation, followed by
two feints at cadence, both of which are decep-
tively resolved in inventive ways. A variation on
the first presentation follows, before any sat-
isfactory cadential arrival, leading to another,
still more jarring deceptive cadence, then a last
cadential progression that finally resolves. One
striking feature of this small form is that its
tonal structure derives from the usual binary-​
form practice of modulating to a subordinate
key (the relative major), but the form moves
on to a second part without ever completing a
cadence in that subordinate key, and proceeds
to parallel the unresolved subordinate key
cadences with home key cadences. This unusual
feature fulfills an obvious text-​setting function.
The modulation to E♭ major, consistent with Eric
Chafe’s (2000, 42–​53) idea of “tonal allegory” at
work in the entire cantata, reflects the soul’s
yearning towards God, which shall remain un-
relieved until the arrival of Jesus in part two of
the cantata.
The formal structure in Example 3.6 is fairly
regular and symmetrical, matching the form-​
functional analysis, and is derived exclusively
by means of different forms of repetition. The
variety in types of repetition in evidence in
this example shows the breadth of this single
Formal Structure • 67
EXAMPLE 3.6  J.S. Bach, Aria “Seufzer, Tränen, Kummer, Not” and formal analysis
concept, which derives much of its explana-
tory power from the fact that it includes not
only exact repetition but also varied, sequen-
tial, approximate, and partial repetitions.
Each presentation creates a one-​measure span
on the basis of some kind of sequential repe-
tition. The first presentation, however, is not
harmonically sequential but an approximate
melodic sequence. It is evident here that the
parallel beginnings of each span are of prime
importance, so that the sense of repetition
is strong despite the variation in the endings
of the ideas. The sense of repetition between
presentations 1 and 2, one level up, is weaker,
based on the equivalence of the rhythms and
the approximate inversion of the melodic
contours. Between the two cadential phrases
the parallelism is primarily harmonic: the me-
lodic contour, though similar in the direction
of note-​to-​note intervals, varies its placement
of leaps and steps. Finally, the larger-​ scale
structure is also based on repetition, which is
why caesuras are unnecessary. This repetition
also has mostly to do with parallelism, the
fact that the second section begins with the
basic idea from the first section, varied in a
now-​familiar way.
The symmetry of the resulting formal struc-
ture in this ritornello may seem perhaps too neat
for the sense of angst projected by the aria. Yet
68 • O r g a n i z ed   T i m e
what the analysis shows is that it is not through
formal structure alone that Bach projects this
affect. Instead, it is primarily through the un-
predictable coordination of formal and tonal
structure, represented especially by the gut-​
wrenching turns at the end of each deceptively
resolved cadence.
Example 3.7 gives a more extended example,
a refractory gem of a Siciliana, one of the
subtler movements mixed in with the generally
lighter fare of Telemann’s Kleine Kammermusik.
Although cadential harmony appears in a few
places, no genuine cadence is completed in the
piece until the end. This is shown in the formal
analysis by the fact that there are no major
caesuras, giving the form a sense of unbroken
continuity. The form-​functional analysis of the
first part, consisting of a string of sentential
constructions, is reflected in the formal structure
below. Presentational phrases can be identified
where Telemann repeats one-​ measure ideas
in measures 1–​2 and 4–​5 and corresponding
places in the second part, and also in measures
8–​9. Each of these is followed by a continuation
(m. 3, mm. 6–​7, mm. 10–​11), defined as such
by fragmentations, accelerated repetitions, in
measure 3 and measures 10–​11 and by the use
of sequence in measures 6–​7. The latter is an
example of motion, a variant of the fragmenta-
tion principle described in the previous section.
EXAMPLE 3.7  “Siciliana” from Telemann’s Kliene Kammermusik Partita II, with (a) local formal anal-
ysis, and (b) large-​scale formal structure
(a)
(b)
Here, the sense of progress towards a goal is
created by the shift from exact one-​ measure
repetitions in measures 4–​5 to sequential ones
in measures 6–​7.
This example illustrates one technical dif­
ference between formal structure and rhythmic
and tonal structure. The latter types of structure,
as exemplified in the previous two chapters, usu-
ally are represented by completely triangulated
networks—​that is, true MOPs. The formal struc-
ture in Example 3.7 has two holes in the longer
series of repetitions in measures 10–​11 and
13–​15. Holes are places where the network is
not completely triangulated, where an edge could
be added. The three repetitions in measures
10–​11, for instance, could be grouped 2+1 or
1+2, but there is no compelling formal reason
to choose between these, so the quadrilateral
Formal Structure • 69
is left empty, and similarly for the septagon in
mm. 13–​15. The graph-​theoretical distinction
between completely triangulated and holey
networks is discussed in Section 13.3.
The three sentential constructions in the
first part are further differentiated in the
formal structure. The first two resemble the
main theme and transition functions of a so-
nata form, with the second beginning as a var-
iation on the first, and proceeding to modulate
where the melodic sequence occurs. No such
label is entirely appropriate for the last sen-
tence, which begins by evading the preceding
cadential progression with an unexpected si-
lence in the melody, then moves to make a
new attempt at the subordinate-​key cadence.
Telemann again evades this cadence with a si-
lence in the melody, though providing at least
the expected harmonic resolution. These me-
lodic silences, as striking changes of texture,
amount to minor caesuras. For this reason, and
also because of the sense of repetition between
measure 1 and measure 4, the “main theme”
groups with the “transition” in the formal
structure of the first part.
Telemann achieves the feeling of a single
unbroken lyrical gesture by multi-​leveled use
of repetition to structure the first part and by
the evaded cadences, especially because the
second evaded cadence leads not to further ca-
dential activity, but proceeds to a retransition
that converts the subordinate key tonic back
into a dominant to prepare the recapitula-
tion in part  2. Part  2 also illustrates a variant
of the structuring principle of repetition, end-​
anchored repetition, or rhyme (see the previous
section).
3.3  EXPOSITIONS AND THE
SECONDARY THEME
In the earlier part of the eighteenth century,
multiple types of large binary form coexisted
with sonata form. Among the most important
of these were the exposition-​recapitulation form
and large parallel binary. The former is some-
times called “sonata without development,”
“Italian overture form,” or “slow-​ movement
form,” and corresponds to Hepokoski and
Darcy’s (2006) “sonata type 1,” while the latter
is their type 2.
6. Tovey 1944, 207–​14; Green 1965, 177; Longyear 1969; Ratner 1980, 220–​1; Caplin 1996, 97.
70 • O r g a n i z ed   T i m e
The shared feature of sonata, exposition-​
recapitulation, and large parallel binary forms—​
what makes them all large binary forms—​is that
the first part is structured as an exposition.
However, specifying exactly what this means
is not entirely straightforward. Traditional
teaching says that the distinguishing feature of
a sonata-​form exposition is the presence of a
secondary theme, a theme that appears after the
modulation to a secondary key in the first part
of the form, and returns in the recapitulation
transposed to the home key. This idea appears in
theoretical treatises of the later 1700s (Galeazzi
[1791–​ 6] 2012, Koch [1782] 1983; see also
Ratner 1980, 218–​20) and has been repeatedly
criticized by modern theorists for depending
upon the nebulous concept of “theme,” which
seems to suggest something distinctive but also
“theme-​like” in an ill-​defined sense, and it is not
at all difficult to find examples of sonata forms
where no such distinctive, much less theme-​like,
material ever appears in the exposition, without
even venturing beyond the standard late Haydn
and Mozart repertory.6 However, the secondary
theme is a common fundament of form and anal-
ysis pedagogy, and to varying degrees lurks in
the background of every theory of sonata form.
The distinctiveness of the second theme material
is essential to Cone’s (1968) and Rosen’s (1988)
influential “sonata principle,” where ultimate
resolution is achieved by transposing material
that originally appears in some secondary key
to the home key. This idea has been picked apart
by Hepokoski (2002), but not so much because
it leans upon the idea of a secondary theme, a
version of which is also a feature Hepokoski and
Darcy’s sonata theory. Caplin (1998) replaces
the idea of secondary themes with subordinate
theme function, the essence of which is not its
distinctiveness as a theme, but the presence of
loose-​knit material leading to a subordinate-​key
confirming cadence.
Caplin’s solution of defining subordinate
theme function by its ending—​loose-​knit and
directed towards subordinate-​ key cadence—​
effectively salvages the role that secondary
themes fill in traditional theory, that of a re-
quired second phase to the sonata-​ form ex-
position after the modulation. Hepokoski and
Darcy’s solution is rather to make the secondary
theme an optional component of the sonata-​
form exposition. For them, then, expositions
fall into two basic types, the two-​part and the
continuous, distinguished by the presence or
lack of a secondary theme. Their definition of
secondary themes, however, prioritizes context
over content: for them, the essential feature of
a secondary theme is that it is preceded by a
medial caesura, a textural break following an ar-
rival on the dominant chord (of the secondary
key or in some cases the home key) midway
through the exposition. With a grounding in
the theory of formal hierarchy outlined here,
we can draw upon the advantageous aspects of
both solutions, recognizing the requirements
for formal coherence while separating out the
secondary theme as one of multiple possible
methods for constructing an exposition.
Caplin’s dictum, adapted from Ratz (1951),
that the subordinate theme is more loosely
constructed than the main theme, is one of his
important contributions to the understanding
of sonata form. However, he does not require
that the subordinate theme express looseness
of construction throughout, only, primarily,
towards its ending. In fact, subordinate themes
not infrequently begin with a distinctly tight-​
knit theme. In these circumstances, the term
secondary theme is appropriate. We can think of
the secondary theme, then, as an optional com-
ponent of subordinate theme function. Doing
so recovers some of the conventional meaning
of the term by making it more specific than
under Hepokoski and Darcy’s contextual defini-
tion. Giving up the idea of secondary theme as a
requisite station in a sonata-​exposition schema
leads to a distinction between works that use
the secondary theme as a structuring method
and those that do not, a dichotomy that is his-
torically interesting and also has interesting
ramifications for other aspects of form.
To understand the significance of the sec-
ondary theme, it is helpful to situate it within the
range of possible ways of structuring an exposi-
tion. The most basic feature of the exposition’s
formal structure is the method used to define
its principal division. First, if the exposition has
any caesuras at all, then the main point of divi-
sion must correspond to one of those caesuras.
Furthermore, if the formal structure is coor-
dinated with tonal structure, then this caesura
should be followed by music in the subordinate
7. Inglefield 1971; McClymonds 1982; Wolf 1980, 1986, 222–​5, Heartz 2003, 513–​17.
8. A precedent for the second theme appears in at least one work by Leonardo Leo, a Neapolitan composer of an older
generation who would certainly have been an influence on Jommelli, the overture to Lucio Papirio (1935). (See LaRue and Wolf
key (since the modulation to this key is the main
tonal process of the exposition). Hence, we
should usually find something along the lines of
a medial caesura at this point. Exceptions would
be truly continuous expositions, with no major
caesuras at all, or those that have deep formal-​
tonal disjunctions. The coordination of tonal and
formal structure in expositions is discussed fur-
ther in the next section. Assuming the ordinary
case, then, where a medial caesura is present,
there are three distinct structuring principles
that may be invoked at this moment:  (1) repe-
tition, (2)  fragmentation and/​or motion, and
(3)  contrast. The first leads to the so-​ called
“monothematic” exposition, a favorite method
of Haydn’s, where the subordinate theme group
begins with a partial restatement of the main
theme transposed to the new key. The second
solution leads to a thoroughly loose-​knit sub-
ordinate theme and a sense of a strongly inte-
grated exposition, and is characteristic of some
early-​ and mid-​eighteenth-​century composers
(not to suggest, though, that it is ever aban-
doned in the later part of the century). It also
leads to greater freedom in the construction of
the overall form, because the loose-​knit sub-
ordinate theme is more versatile in the ways it
might be reused in the second part. We find a
particularly dramatic example of this in one of
Sammartini’s symphonic movements analyzed
later in this chapter. Finally, the principle of con-
trast is that of the secondary theme. It depends
upon the second theme defining a strong sense
of new beginning by its tight-​knit design and its
introduction of contrasting material.
One of the values of recognizing the secondary
theme as a distinct option within sonata form
is historical:  the tendency of composers to rely
upon one method or another for constructing a
formally coherent movement sheds some light
on their place in the history of musical style and
their relationship to other contemporaneous
composers. The secondary theme, as a feature of
first-​movement form, appears to arise early in the
eighteenth century in the Italian opera overture.
Niccolò Jommelli’s overtures, which were popular
and influential in the mid-​century,7 are among the
earliest manifestation of the tight-​knit, cantabile
second theme.8 The overtures to Eumene (1742)
and Cajo Mario (1746), for example, comfortably
Formal Structure • 71
fit the conventional model of sonata form exposi-
tion. The secondary themes are quite short (eight
measures repeated), follow a typical medial cae-
sura, lead into more loose-​knit cadential material
in the subordinate key (thus satisfying Caplin’s
rule), and reappear transposed to the home key
at the end of the recapitulation (thus satisfying
Cone and Rosen’s rule). However, in overtures
to Astianatte and Semiramide riconosciuta (both
1741), we find secondary themes that violate
pretty much everyone’s notion of what a sec-
ondary theme is, because they appear not in the
key of the dominant, but in the parallel minor of
the home key. Example 3.8 shows the first part of
the overture to Astianatte.9
The main theme of this overture does not
fit any usual theme-​type in its formal structure
(Caplin [1998, 199] would classify it as “fanfare-​
like”), but it is nothing if not tight-​knit. The anal-
ysis in Example  3.8(a) shows that the theme is
rigorously organized by means of repetition
at two levels in the first six measures, followed
by two measures of fragmentation. The transi-
tion is also related to the main theme by repe-
tition (as well as fragmentation). The thorough
use of straightforward repetition is typical of
Jommelli’s simple, transparent, and accessible
style. In measure 20 there is a highly typical me-
dial caesura gesture, following a long standing on
the dominant in the home key. According to what
we now widely understand as the conventions of
sonata form, what should follow here is a subor-
dinate theme of some sort in the dominant. What
appears instead is indeed highly distinctive (in a
new, radically different two-​part imitative string
texture, in minor, piano), and highly tight-​knit (a
sentence construction). The only problem is that
it is in the home key. The exposition nonetheless
does end in A  major, the modulation occurring
just within the cadential material of the last few
measures (reinterpreting an A major chord that
is initially approached as a dominant of D minor).
Jommelli himself does not seem to find anything
the least bit unusual about this; when the mate-
rial returns in the recapitulation, he treats it ex-
actly as one would any other secondary theme,
transposing it in its entirety, along with the
following cadential material, down a fifth. As a
result the secondary theme is recapitulated in G
2015.) However, while for Leo the tight-​knit second theme was unusual, one extreme in a range of possible constructions,
Jommelli cultivated it diligently in his early operas.
9. This example closely resembles a passage from the overture to Leo’s Amor vuol soffrenza (1739), measures 14–​18, which
may well have been a model. (Leo’s overture is in the same key and has a similar main theme as well.) However, Leo’s minore
passage is, unlike Jommelli’s, decidedly loose-​knit, and is in the parallel of the secondary key rather than the home key.
72 • O r g a n i z ed   T i m e
minor. Cone and Rosen’s sonata principle is here
turned upon its head:  instead of recapitulating
the off-​tonic material in the tonic, the on-​tonic
material is recapitulated off-​tonic. Still, it would
be ridiculous to claim that Jommelli intended to
shock or confuse with his choice of key: nothing
about the piece suggests that anything untoward
is going on, and he does the same thing in the
overture to Semiramide riconosciuta, composed
around the same time.
Despite the violation of the supposed tonal
rules of the sonata exposition, the formal princi-
ples at work in this secondary theme are exactly
like those of the secondary themes of the more
Formenlehre-​compliant designs of the Eumene
and Cajo Mario overtures. The tight-​knit theme
follows a medial caesura and marks it as the
main division of the exposition by following it
with a tight-​knit contrasting theme. More loose-​
knit cadential material in the subordinate key
follows, dividing the subordinate theme area by
caesura and fragmentation.
Caplin (1998) defines the concept of
tight-​ knit construction with a broad range
of features, including formal (adherence to a
standard theme type), hypermetrical (regular
four-​ bar phrasing), and tonal (stability and
strong placement of tonic harmony). In keeping
with the goal of isolating the independent do-
main of form, we need to define a restricted
form-​specific version of the concept. Such a def-
inition, however, may include external as well
as internal criteria. The latter are closely related
to aspects of Caplin’s definition, the symmetry
and clarity of internal formal structure. The
secondary theme from Astianatte, as a straight-
forward sentential construction, fits this de-
scription:  its four-​ measure presentation is
defined by an exact repetition of a two-​measure
idea, and its second phrase, though cut short to
three measures when it is interrupted by the ca-
dential phrase, is related to the first by a clear
fragmentation. External criteria also play a role,
though: most importantly, the theme is set off
from preceding material by caesura. In addition,
it is not related to previous material by fragmen-
tation or motion, which lends the secondary
theme a sense of stable new beginning within
the exposition, rather than continuation. These
EXAMPLE 3.8  Exposition of the overture to Jommelli’s Astianatte with (a) local and (b) large-​scale
formal analysis
(a)

(b)
external formal criteria correlate closely with
Caplin’s tonal criteria of harmonic stability.
F.X. Richter, one of the outstanding composers
of the mid-​eighteenth century, was, like other
composers associated with the court at Mannheim
(such as Johann Stamitz and Ignaz Holzbauer),
influenced by the style of the Italian opera over-
ture.10 This is reflected in his use of the secondary
theme, especially in later symphonies. Example
3.9 shows the Andante grazioso of his Symphony
no. 45 (ca. 1750 according to van Boer 1985). It
is a movement of especially modest scope, but
incorporates all of the elements of his fairly con-
sistent formal practice. The first reprise is di-
vided by caesuras into three clear eight-​measure
statements, expressing main theme, transition,
and subordinate theme functions respectively.
The main theme is not entirely tight-​knit: its basic
material is sequential. The transition also begins
with a sequence, but at the two-​measure level. The
last eight measures are a simple secondary theme,
structured as a tight-​knit sentence.
The tight-​knit design of the secondary theme
is essential in structuring Richter’s exposi-
tion, which has two major caesuras. Thus, the
caesuras themselves do not help to determine
whether the transition groups with the main
theme or subordinate theme. Nor does the dis-
tinctness of motivic material per se:  both the
transition and secondary theme begin with new
melodic ideas. The difference between them is
in the sequential beginning of the transition,
which according to the principle of motion de-
fined as a variant of fragmentation in Section
3.1 (see also §3.2) makes the transition more
unstable. The transition therefore groups with
the main theme to create a larger span struc-
tured by motion. This illustrates the importance
of the external aspect of tight-​knit design. The
lack of motion or fragmentation between the
main theme and secondary theme make it pos-
sible for Richter to use contrast as the main
principle of division within this exposition.
Richter’s exposition is also consistent with
Caplin’s dictum that the subordinate theme be
loose-​knit relative to the main theme, despite
the theme’s lack of phrasing asymmetries or ex-
tended cadential activity, because it begins on
dominant harmony, a tonally less stable begin-
ning than the main theme’s. This feature is not
10. Wolf 1980, McClymonds 1982. Richter himself studied in Italy in a formative stage of his career (van Boer 1985).
11. The use of rhyme between the parts, which end with different transpositions of the same secondary theme, is also a
reinforcing factor. Green (1965) emphasizes this feature in his definition of the “balanced binary” form.
74 • O r g a n i z ed   T i m e
included in the restricted form-​specific defini-
tion of the tight/​loose dichotomy, but it is indeed
a common feature of secondary themes of the
era. Its significance, however, is not in helping
to define the formal structure (which it does not
do), but in clarifying the tonal structure of the
exposition, as explained in the next section.
The deft use of multiple types of sequence
and variation to structure the piece, a common
stylistic trait for Richter, becomes even more
evident in the second part of this movement.
While the two-​measure sequence in the transi-
tion is essential to structuring the exposition,
a longer (four-​ measure) varied repetition at
the beginning of the second part reinforces the
main division of the large-​scale structure, which
is also established by the use of repetition (the
reappearance of the main theme), the defining
feature of the parallel binary form.11 This varied
repetition resembles a sequence because it shifts
the tonal context of the pattern (from E major
to B minor) and shifts of the registral placement
of the melody by inverting the upper parts. The
fragmentation between relatively slow pacings
(eight-​to four-​ measure) between the parts,
allows for further use of fragmentation at a
more local level within the second part (as well
as motion in the first) to group the main theme
and transition.
The traditional notion of thematic contrast
in sonata forms relies more explicitly on the dis-
tinctive character of the motivic material of the
second theme, rather than the tight-​knit struc-
ture that I have used to define the second theme
here. While distinctiveness is a significant el-
ement of the practice, tight-​knit structure is
ultimately more consequential to the construc-
tion of coherent forms. Loose-​knit subordinate
themes that articulate the main division of the
exposition with fragmentation and/​or a change
of motion make the medial caesura dispensable,
leading to the possibility of what Hepokoski
and Darcy (2006, 51–​ 64) call continuous
expositions. They also, even more importantly,
lead to different possibilities of large-​scale struc-
ture and ways of organizing the second part. This
is evident the finale of Sammartini’s G major
Symphony (JC 46), presented in its entirety in
Example 3.10. Churgin (1984) believes this work
to be from the mid-​1740s.
EXAMPLE 3.9 Richter, Symphony no. 45, Andante grazioso, with (a) local formal analysis of exposi-
tion, and (b) large-​scale formal structure

(a)

(b)
 Sammartini’s first and third movements typ- However, this material does not usually fit the
ically conform to our notion of sonata form. definition of secondary theme as described
He often writes motivically distinctive material above, because it tends to be of a loose-​knit,
in the subordinate key zone of the exposition. often sequential, fortspinnung-​like character.12
EXAMPLE 3.10  Sammartini, Symphony no. 46, iii, with (a) local formal analysis, and (b) large-​scale
formal structure
(a)

12. These features of Sammartini’s symphonies illustrate why it is difficult to characterize the history of eighteenth-​century
form as a linear evolution without either vagueness or inaccuracy. Sammartini’s development sections and tendency towards full
recapitulation resemble sonata-​form practices that became widely standard later in the century. However, he is not representative
of later practice in its neglect of the tight-​knit secondary theme. A possible broad explanation for this is that Sammartini’s model
for a symphony is the ripieno concerto (Wolf 1983), while other roughly contemporaneous composers drew upon the overture as a
model. Formal conventions of the later eighteenth-​century symphony combine aspects of these two parallel tracks of evolution.

76 • O r g a n i z ed   T i m e
EXAMPLE 3.10 Continued

Formal Structure • 77
EXAMPLE 3.10 Continued

78 • O r g a n i z ed   T i m e
EXAMPLE 3.10 Continued
(b)
In this finale, a typical sonata-​ form analysis
would identify the violin duo starting in measure
32 as the second theme. However, there is no
cadence in D major at all; instead the music in
measures 44–​51, which sounds at first like it
could lead to such a cadence, is sequenced in E
minor in measures 52–​9. After another sequence
(mm. 60–​73) we return to the home key for a half
cadence in measure 78. This music clearly fits the
model of a typical eighteenth-​century develop-
ment, the only difficulty being in determining
where the development begins, since there are
no reprises and no cadence to end the exposi-
tion. Then, to add to the perplexity, what returns
after the half cadence in measure 78 is not the
main theme, but the transition from measures
17–​30 (or what might be called part two of the
transition, part one being the false consequent
of the main theme in mm. 9–​16), transposed
to G major, and then the “second theme” from
measures 31–​43, also transposed. Sammartini
adds a half cadence (mm. 106–​7) to end this
theme and only then does the main theme re-
turn, in measure 108.
If our only means for analyzing the form of
this movement is a notion about how a sonata-​
form movement should go, then all we can do
with this piece is say what it does not do:  it
lacks one of the most basic features, a cadence
to the end of the exposition, and it recapitulates
the “themes” in the “wrong” order. This account
reveals how weak the claims of such a theory
are: it gives little guidance as to why Sammartini
might have been compelled to so flagrantly vio-
late the “rules” in this instance, or what effect
such “deviations” might have, other than they
would violate the expectations of a listener
who is mentally checking off the stations of a
sonata-​form schema (a rather implausible lis-
tening strategy for the 1740s). While the piece
Formal Structure • 79
is, statistically speaking, an anomaly, it makes
an effective stress test for such norm-​ based
theories of form.
The sui-​ generis large-​ s cale structure
(Ex. 3.10(b)) of this finale is a comprehensive
study in the multi-​leveled use of fragmentation,
a formal device essential to Sammartini’s compo-
sitional craft. Although caesuras are present in
the piece, they are all fairly weak, defined mostly
by textural breaks following a half cadence or
into and out of the distinctively orchestrated
subordinate theme. The only place where a
caesura is structure-​determining is within the
second recapitulation, which contains only
one caesura. Repetition determines structure
only at the highest level and the lowest level.
Therefore, a complex web of fragmentations
fills in the structure at the intermediate levels.
These are clarified at the top of Example 3.10(b),
which indicates the main pacing of each section
(some sections having a series of two levels
of pacing, with internal fragmentation), and
arrows connect these with each instance of
fragmentation, always from a larger number to
a smaller one. These can be broken down into
a number of embedded chains of successive
accelerations starting from the tight-​knit main
theme–​transition section. In the exposition, one
chain (8→2→1) goes through the modulating
transition, while the subordinate theme defines
a new chain from the beginning of the exposi-
tion (8→2) aided by the textural break and the
change of motion into the sequential subordi-
nate theme. Then a series of new chains goes
from the initial main theme–​transition into the
development, with two complete 8→4→2→1 se-
ries through the development and the following
“recap. 1” transition. Notice that the transition
and subordinate themes of “recap. 1” adopt the
same structural status (by the same means,
fragmentation) vis-​ à-​
vis the development as
the equivalent sections of the exposition with
respect to the main theme–​transition.
According to the analysis of the large-​scale
structure of the piece in Example  3.10(b), the
labels “recap.  1” and “recap.  2” are misleading.
“Recap.  1,” although it includes the transposi-
tion of subordinate-​key material essential to the
Cone/​Rosen sonata principle, is not actually set
apart as a distinct section, and does not belong
to the recapitulation proper—​the true recapitu-
lation is “recap. 2,” structurally distinguished by
large-​scale repetition. It would be misleading to
claim that “recap.  1” achieves sonata-​principle
80 • O r g a n i z ed   T i m e
resolution, since the transposed subordinate
theme does not have an authentic cadence. The
form may instead be understood as a mixture
of two approaches to writing large binary form,
both common for the era. The first, the parallel
binary, would begin the second part with a de-
velopment based on the main theme (using rep-
etition as the large-​scale structuring principle)
continued by a transposition of transitional and
secondary-​theme material to conclude the second
part. The form through “recap.  1” resembles a
parallel binary, except that the parallelism is
lacking—​the two large sections (exposition and
development–​recap.) are structurally defined by
a large-​scale fragmentation rather than repeti-
tion. Green’s (1965) term “balanced binary” is
therefore perhaps more apt. The reason the par-
allelism is lacking is because this large balanced
binary is embedded within a bigger structure
that resembles a sonata form whose develop-
ment is augmented by the addition of recap.  1.
Since the subordinate theme has already been
recapitulated, though, Sammartini composes en-
tirely new subordinate material for this recapit-
ulation. Fitting to its function as such, it is even
more loose-​knit than the original subordinate
theme, so that there is a single fragmentation
chain, 8→2→1, in this last section.
All of the unusual features of this large-​scale
structure can be traced back to a single rad-
ical compositional choice, which is the omis-
sion of cadential material from the exposition.
Because of this, the perfunctory completion of
the balanced binary form with the transposed
subordinate theme is not sufficient to tie off
the piece. Sammartini might have composed
new closing material to follow the transposed
subordinate theme, but the theme does not
lead naturally into such material, and it is hard
to imagine such a solution sounding anything
but awkward and forced. His solution is much
more effective, to follow the subordinate theme
once again with a large-​scale new beginning,
this time using the structuring principle he
declined at the beginning of the development,
repetition. The main theme then leads quite ef-
fectively into a section of newly-​composed ca-
dential material.
The freedom of form evident in this move­
ment derives from the flexibility of fragmen-
tation as a structuring principle, as opposed to
the one characteristic of the “secondary theme”
tradition—​ contrasting tight-​knit themes and
heavy reliance upon caesura.
3.4  INTERACTIONS OF FORM
AND TONAL STRUCTURE
In the expositions analyzed the previous section,
we have consistently found that transitions typ-
ically combine with main themes, placing the
main division of the exposition at the medial
caesura preceding the subordinate theme group.
One may wonder why we do not simply make
this a rule to avoid the case-​by-​case reasoning
from repetition, fragmentation, motion, and
caesura. The answer is that, as argued above in
Section 3.1, only by logically decoupling formal
from tonal structure can we appreciate its scope
and role. Tonal criteria are essential to defining
the formal function of a modulating transition,
which by definition carries out a structural mod-
ulation to a subordinate key and ends with a half-​
cadence in that key (while the non-​modulating
transition, a distinct function, follows a main
theme and ends with a half cadence). What we
have found, then, is that composers regularly
conflate these elements of tonal structure with
elements of formal structure, achieved by inde-
pendent means (repetition, caesura, etc.).13
The exposition of the Andante grazioso from
Richter’s Symphony no.  45 (Example 3.9) is
typical of the tonal structure we associate with
the sonata-​ form exposition, summarized in
Example 3.11. There are four tonal milestones
in the exposition that correspond to formal
divisions: the initial tonic, a dominant at the half
cadence that ends the main theme, the subordi-
nate key dominant at the end of the transition,
and the final subordinate-​key tonic. In addition
to these, one other tonal event, the predomi-
nant of the transition, plays a significant role.
At the deepest level, tonal and formal struc-
ture are tightly coordinated. The point of medial
caesura (end of the transition) is also the most
important way-​station of the tonal‸ process, ar-
rival of the fundamental
‸ line’s 2 (B), now locally
understood as 5 in the context of the dominant
key (E major). Completion of the process occurs
with
‸ the harmonic arrival of the support for this
2, at the end of the exposition. As observed in
the previous section, Richter’s secondary theme
13. One very good reason for coordinating formal and tonal structure is accessibility. Experimental studies show that the
ordinary (modern) listener cannot reliably identify whether a short piece of music begins and ends in the same key (Cook
1987, Marvin and Brinkman 1999). This ability is not actually necessary to appreciate the structure of an average eighteenth-​
century symphonic movement, though, because tonal features are predictably coordinated with formal ones. Experimental
studies remove this crutch (and in cases like Cook’s oft-​cited study, actually introduce confounds where formal cues work
consistently to obscure tonal features).
EXAMPLE  3.11  Summary tonal and formal
structures for the exposition of Richter’s
Symphony no. 45, Andante grazioso
has a feature common to many such themes: it
begins on the dominant, weakening the initial
tonic, something Caplin (1998, 99) classifies as
an important loosening feature. The reason for
the prevalence of dominant beginnings in sub-
ordinate themes may be more tonal than formal,
however. Withholding the tonic harmony ‸ of the
subordinate key as the support for 2 prevents
the beginning of the subordinate theme from in-
terfering with the sense of tonal arrival at the
end of the subordinate theme. Therefore, such
tonic weakening results in a clearer, stronger de-
lineation of the large-​scale tonal structure.
Richter’s exposition is coordinated in tonal
and formal structure, even though the MOPs in
Example 3.11 do not match. The two structures
have a different number of nodes, and are re-
lated by split, as defined in Section 4.4.
The goal of disambiguating formal and tonal
structure is, in a sense, made more pressing by
the regular tonal-​ formal coordination reflec­
ted in the traditional labels for the parts of a
sonata exposition, because we have not really
understood this important phenomenon until
we have clearly shown that it is not a logical
necessity. This is perhaps best demonstrated
by counterexample. To that end consider the
first movement of Boccherini’s String Quartet
in E major op.  2/​ 5, Example 3.12. The set
of six quartets from which this piece comes
are Boccherini’s earliest, composed in 1761,
predating Haydn’s first essays in the genre. Even
Formal Structure • 81
EXAMPLE 3.12  Boccherini, String Quartet in E major, op. 2/​5, formal structure of the first movement
at the (a) local and (b) large-​scale levels, and (c) large-​scale tonal structure

(a)
EXAMPLE 3.12 Continued
EXAMPLE 3.12 Continued

(b)

(c)
at this stage they reflect sure-​handed idiomatic
string writing, often adventurous in harmony
and form and exceptionally varied in texture.
This example, like the majority of movements
in the set, is written in a similar sort of parallel
binary as Richter’s Andante grazioso. (Standard
sonata form, while certainly in evidence in the
set, is clearly at this stage treated as a secondary
formal option by Boccherini, primarily used for
final movements; see §11.3.)
Boccherini’s approach to structuring this
exposition is typical of his own practice as
well as that of many other contemporaneous
composers. He divides the exposition into dis-
tinct statements by means of a series of clear
caesuras. Each of these corresponds to a ca-
dence, preceding in the order specified by Koch
([1782] 1983; see also Burstein 2010):  on I  of
the home key (HK), V of HK, V of the subor-
dinate key (SK), and finally I  of SK, omitting
only the first (I of HK). In modern sonata-​
form terminology, the first statement might
be a main theme or a fusion of main theme
and non-​modulating transition functions, and
the ending of the second statement (mm. 5–​9)
seems to imply that it is a modulating transi-
tion. However, this “modulating transition” is in
the key of the dominant, B major, from begin-
ning to end, making the label awkward if not en-
tirely incorrect. It might, then, on technicality,
be grouped with subsequent material as the
first part of the (proportionately rather long)
subordinate theme group, but this would belie
its clear transition-​like, loose-​knit, character,
as well as the fact that the dominant key seems
somewhat weakly established by the direct mod-
ulation at the beginning of this statement, espe-
cially as compared to the B major groundedness
of the last statement, a tight-​knit theme played
by the cello in its upper register (a Boccherini
trademark). These problems with the concept
of modulating transition are not unique to
this piece; the same situation (a “modulating
transition” beginning in the subordinate key
and therefore not really modulating) would be
encountered frequently in pieces of this era, es-
pecially Boccherini’s.
One feature that is more unique to this
piece, though, is the repetition of the half ca-
dence in the subordinate key. The second of
14. Sufficient evidence for scholarly endorsement of this singularly unenlightened attitude is provided by Boccherini’s
entry in the current New Grove dictionary (Speck and Sadie 2015). Heartz’s excellent historical portrait of Boccherini
(Heartz 2003, 964–​97) gives some sense of how the Haydn/​Boccherini binaries developed as a habitual element early in the
composers’ reception history (993–​7).
these half cadences concludes a highly dra-
matic parallel-​minor phrase (mm. 10–​13) that
contrasts sharply with surrounding music in
its suspenseful chromaticism and rhythmically
spare texture. The feeling of heightened tension
in these four measures is also structural, as can
be seen by comparing the summary formal and
tonal analyses of Example 3.12(c). The arrival on
V of the subordinate key in measure 9 marks the
central and penultimate tonal milestone of the
exposition. However, the principal division of
the form occurs after the parallel minor phrase,
because only this caesura, of the three that di-
vide the exposition, is followed by a stable tight-​
knit theme. The decoupling of formal and tonal
structure is essential to recognizing the special
status of the jarring chromatic phrase, which
involves more than just its surface characteris-
tics, striking as they are. Other theories of form,
which tend to lean upon tonal features as pri-
mary analytical criteria, would simply place the
medial caesura in measure 9 or even measure
4. Closer examination reveals a more purposeful
manipulation of structure that controverts the
too-​frequent facile criticism of Boccherini as
lacking in a sense of deep structure relative to
Haydn. This criticism stems in part from the fact
that, because theories of eighteenth-​ century
form are developed with Haydn and Mozart, and
not their contemporaries, in mind, Boccherini
departs systematically from what we tend to
think is “proper” for sonata form.
But also at work, unfortunately, is the per-
sistence of an old, unexamined, caricature of
Boccherini’s music as effeminate, especially
as contrasted with Haydn’s, and the implicit,
and pernicious, gendering of structure as mas-
culine.14 In fact, the silliness of this kind of
gendered reasoning aside, Boccherini’s deft co-
ordination of his large repertoire of stylistic
topics, and penchant for combining them in
startling juxtapositions, with his often inven-
tive manipulations of tonal and formal de-
sign, is solid evidence of his sure grasp of the
possibilities of musical structure.
The piece is also a nice example of Boccherini’s
practice of writing in parallel binary form, which
is a norm for him and other composers of the
period. The second reprise begins with a re-
statement of the main theme transposed to the
Formal Structure • 85
dominant, structurally securing the principal di-
vision of the form with parallelism, as shown in
the large-​scale structure of Example 3.12(b). The
main theme, however, is completed differently
here, and has a new consequent phrase that
returns promptly and unceremoniously to the
home key, finishing with a half cadence there.
The following music replaces the transition of
the exposition with a development section based
not upon the transition, but a more melodically
active version of the exposition’s striking chro-
matic passage. This development, tonally adven-
turous for the era, modulates to a remote key,
G major, the relative of the parallel (E minor),
and cadences there (in m.  37), but modulates
back to the home key immediately without an
intervening caesura. After a standing on the
dominant (mm. 39–​41) which is followed by a
caesura, Boccherini picks up the thread of the
exposition, transposed down a fifth, starting
from the chromatic minore passage. The large-​
scale formal parsing of the second reprise there-
fore closely parallels that of the exposition, with
an expanded first part, making it overall more
unstable (because of the greater proportional
weight on the structurally deeper part of the ex-
position) and consequently giving greater rhe-
torical strength to its completion.
Another common practice in early-​and mid-​
eighteenth century large binary forms is the
immediate transposition of the main theme
back to the home key (“retransposition”) at the
beginning of the second part. Example 3.13,
another Richter Andante grazioso, shows how
this typically works. At the beginning of the
second reprise the main theme is restated, first
transposed to the dominant, then immedi-
ately restated transposed back to the home key.
Webster (1986) calls this an “immediate reprise,”
and notes its relatively frequent occurrence in
Haydn’s early works. Bonds (1988, 220–​5) also
observes the phenomenon in Haydn’s works,
calling it a “precursory” recapitulation. Galand
(2008) discusses the practice (as an option within
his type 2, “expanded recapitulation,” and type 3,
“Koch’s ‘usual,’ ” scripts) in the work of a wider
range of composers and in relation to eight-
eenth century theory treatises. As the variety of
designations indicates, the practice confounds
a traditional definition of recapitulation, which
holds the essential feature of recapitulation to
be the “double return” of home key and main
theme (Webster 2015). With the immediate
retransposition of the theme, the recapitulation,
according to this definition, would occur too
86 • O r g a n i z ed   T i m e
early, before the development. (Note the loose,
sequence-based material moving to the relative
minor that follows in Richter’s second part.) As
Webster (1986) also observes, this immediate
appearance does not prevent a full recapitula-
tion from happening later; in Haydn’s works, the
full recapitulation is not appreciably less likely
to occur in a movement that has the immediate
retransposition.
While theorists disagree about how to
apply familiar terminology to the immediate
retransposition phenomenon (whether it can
be called a recapitulation or part of a split reca-
pitulation, a “false” recapitulation, or simply a
reprise or ritornello), all essentially agree that
the immediate retransposition does not con-
stitute the essential double return of the para-
digmatic sonata-​form recapitulation. However,
since it is, literally, such a double return, one
is left without a clear sense of principled rea-
soning behind this judgment. This is where
tenets of both tonal structure and formal struc-
ture are useful. In the tonal structure shown in
the network of Example 3.13(b), the B♭ area is
a transitory phase in a move to G minor. This
analysis is well supported by the more definite
articulation of the G minor area with strong
paired cadences, and, more importantly, by
the fact that the B♭ area can be understood as
occurring within a sequential process. The use
of sequential repetition is also essential to un-
derstanding the B♭ statement as a local formal
event. As Example 3.13(a) shows, the span de-
fined by this repetition is relatively local, the
twelve-​ measure main theme section of the
second reprise. Tonal and formal structure
are thus closely coordinated, reinforcing one
another in the second part of the movement,
as confirmed by Example  3.13(c). The only
difference between the two overall structural
shapes is that the tonal structure has an extra
event at the division between parts, which
adds an extra triangle below the development.
This relationship between structures is called
a split, which is distinguished from a true dis-
junction and is discussed in more detail in
Section 4.4.
The parallel binary model is strongly in evi-
dence in the large-​scale formal structure of the
piece. The broad structural shape is the same in
both parts, excepting only the addition of the
short retransition in the second part. The devel-
opment section of the second part takes the place
of the transition of the first part. The sequential
repetition of the first phrase of the main theme
EXAMPLE 3.13  (a) Richter, Andante grazioso from Symphony no. 26, (b) tonal structure, (c) coordi-
nated overall tonal and formal structure

(a)
EXAMPLE 3.13 Continued
EXAMPLE 3.13 Continued

(b)

(c)
creates a somewhat looser version of the theme,
so that fragmentation operates at the principal
division of the piece as well as repetition. In this
way, this Andante grazioso is no different than
the one from Symphony no.  45 (Ex. 3.9), in
which Richter constructs a long-​paced sequence
out of his main theme to achieve the same effect
of strong structural clarity. Both are examples
of parallel binaries in which Richter recomposes
a tight-​knit eight-​measure main theme at the
beginning of the second part as a sequence (or
false sequence) by truncating it to 4–​6 measures
and treating this as a sequential model. As in
90 • O r g a n i z ed   T i m e
the previous example, this technique serves to
reinforce the binary division of the movement,
resulting in an overdetermined formal struc-
ture that defines its main division by means of
fragmentation as well as repetition (parallelism)
and caesura—​not to mention also the individual
repetition of each part. The main distinction
between the two examples is in scope:  in the
movement from Symphony no. 45 the sequence
of the main theme serves as the only develop-
ment, so the glance towards a contrasting key (B
minor, the supertonic) in that example provides
the required element of tonal contrast.
 4
Structural Networks and
the Experience of Musical Time
IN THE previous three chapters we have
seen how three musical modalities, meter, to-
nality, and form, can structure musical time,
emphasizing the essential independence of
these structuring principles. Another striking
feature of these three modalities is that the
same underlying model, temporal hierarchy
and its associated network representation, can
be used to represent all of them. This is deeply
consequential for understanding the experience
of musical structure across the modalities,
and also for explaining structural disjunction.
The latter topic is discussed at greater length
in Chapter  13. In this chapter, we will look
more closely at the first question:  what can we
say about the shapes of temporal-​ structure
networks in the abstract, without reference to
the contents of their nodes? To answer this,
we will develop some mathematical tools for
1. If this assumption does not hold, we may simply add the kind of placeholder “start” and “end” vertices used
occasionally in Chapter 2.
describing different kinds of networks. And,
to understand these networks as generalized
descriptions of the experience of musical time,
Section 4.2 will examine them “phenomenolog-
ically,” as they are revealed in stages over time.
4.1  DEPTH, DISTANCE,
AND CLASSIFICATION OF
STRUCTURAL SHAPES
For a given number of musical events, there
is a specific number of possible structural
descriptions. For present purposes, we can
make a few simplifying assumptions:  that the
chosen sequence of event constitutes a coherent
progression, with the first event connected
to the last one,1 and that the structure is fully
connected, with no structural ambiguities, or
 • 91
EXAMPLE  4.1  Complete structures on four
events (n = 2)
holes.2 Then the structural description will be a
MOP, and, given a total number of events, n + 2,
we can enumerate the MOPs that describe
all the possible ways that the n interior nodes
can relate to the two framing nodes. There is
a simple formula for this number, called the
Catalan number, Cn:
Cn = (2n)!/ ( n + 1)!( n)!
The “!” symbol indicates a factorial operation,
that is, “(n)!” is the multiple of all integers from
1 to n. The Catalan number comes up frequently
in enumeration problems (Stanley 2013). For
present purposes, the most important thing to
notice about this formula is that it grows more
rapidly as n increases: 1, 2, 5, 14, 42, 132, 429,
1430, 4862, 16796,  . . . . This means that if we
endeavor to find a useful classification of pos-
sible structures across different values of n,
there is no hope of completeness (and precision)
unless our classification procedure has recursive
elements. In fact, the classification proposed here
will remain incomplete for higher values of n.
Let us begin then from the simplest cases, n = 2
and n = 3, structures with two or three interior
nodes, or, equivalently, two or three triangles. At
n  =  2, Cn = ( 4 ⋅ 3 ⋅ 2 ⋅ 1) / (3 ⋅ 2 ⋅ 1)(2 ⋅ 1) = 2. The two
possibilities (Ex. 4.1) may be simply described
as left-​weighted or right-​weighted. This basic
left-​right dichotomy will carry through to all
subsequent generations (higher n values), but
compounded with other distinctions.
Consider the next case, n = 3. Example 4.2 shows
the Cn = (6 ⋅ 5 ⋅ 4 ⋅ 3 ⋅ 2 ⋅ 1) / ( 4 ⋅ 3 ⋅ 2 ⋅ 1)(3 ⋅ 2 ⋅ 1) = 5
possibilities, and a corresponding normative
duple rhythm corresponding to each. We can
distinguish three possible shapes, fans, stacks,
and tortoises. To get a fan, we add each successive
node (top to bottom) at the far left or far right
each time. This makes two possible types of fan,
a left fan and a right fan. To get a stack, we add
each successive node as close to the middle as pos-
sible each time. When there is an odd number of
nodes, we must default to the left or right, which
2. Examples of holes appeared in some of the formal structures of Chapter 3. See also Section 13.3, which describes holey
graphs, or HOPs (Hamiltonian outerplanar graphs), in more detail.
92 • O r g a n i z ed   T i m e
leads to two possibilities for types of stacks, one
that starts from the left (a left stack) or from the
right (a right stack). The last possible n = 3 struc-
ture is the symmetrical tortoise. This structure
expands the two intervals of the base triangle
evenly. We may generalize this property also,
expanding the four exterior intervals of this
structure, then the eight exterior intervals of
that structure, and so on, giving a shape like the
spiny shell of an upside-​down tortoise. This def-
inition only works for certain values of n (those
one less than a power of two: 3, 7, 15, etc.), but
we can extend the term to “incomplete” or “un-
even” tortoises that are intermediate between
one complete tortoise and the next.
There is another important distinction to be
made between the fans and stacks and the tor-
toise. Notice that the uneven pure-​duple rhythms
corresponding to fans and stacks at n = 3 all ar-
ticulate four different metrical levels:  down-
beat, strong beat, beat, and eighth, whereas the
tortoise’s even rhythm only articulates three (ex-
cluding the eighth-​note level). The metrical level
of these rhythms corresponds to an important
feature of the graph, the depth of the nodes. Depth
is defined as the number of edges above a node. In
the fans and stacks, there are nodes at depth zero
(downbeat), one (strong beats), two (weak beats),
and three (off-​beat eighth). By distributing its
nodes more evenly, the tortoise limits the max-
imum depth of its nodes to two. The fans and
stacks can be understood as enumerating the
different possible placements of the maximum-​
depth offbeat eighth in the measure.
Depth is an important structural feature
across all modalities. Consider the n = 3 tonal
structures shown in Example 4.3. The structures
with nodes of depth 3 make it possible to embed
one third progression within another. These ei-
ther additionally expand the tonic (the fans)
or the dominant in the middle of the structure
(the stacks). They are analogous to the rhythmic
structures of Example 4.2: all have one structur-
ally remote event (local passing tone), and the
resulting structure depends on the placement of
this event. The fans present two common basic
designs that embed one tonic third-​progression
within another. The right fan describes the in-
terruption structure of periods or binary forms,
where the more local third progression happens in
the latter part of the structure as a recapitulation
EXAMPLE 4.2  Complete rhythmic structures on five events (n = 3)
EXAMPLE 4.3  Complete tonal structures on five events (n = 3)
EXAMPLE 4.4 Maximum-​depth structures (piles) at n = 4
or consequent phrase. In the left fan the more
local third progression happens at the begin-
ning, reflecting the tonally-​complete structure of
a main theme or the exposition of a “sectional”
form (one with a non-​modulating exposition).
In the stacks, the added local third progression
expands the dominant. The tortoise shows a
more regular structure, too regular to embed an-
other complete third progression. Instead, there
is an even expansion (through unfolding) of the
initial tonic and the following dominant.
The definitions of fans and stacks above can
be extended to successive generations, but they
are not quite capable of classifying even the four-
teen possible structures at n = 4. Example 4.4
shows all the maximum-​depth n = 4 structures.
In addition to the two fans and two stacks, there
are four other types that mix the fan and stack
principles. For instance, starting from the base
of a left 3-​fan (i.e., a left fan at n = 3) we could
add a triangle to the right of the deepest node
to make a left 4-​fan, but a different maximum
depth structure, which is not a fan or a stack,
is created by expanding to the left of that node.
This structure has a left fan on top (excluding the
lowest node) and a left stack on the bottom (ex-
cluding the upper triangle). We may call this a
stacked left fan (and similarly for the other mixed
structures), but such designations would get
longer for each subsequent n, rapidly becoming
unwieldy. Nonetheless, it should be evident now
that there is a simple recursive characterization
of maximum-​depth structures. They involve a
binary choice at each stage, so there will always be
2(n−1) of them. We can distinguish between lefty
and righty types, and further characterize them
as involving some mixture of the stack and fan
principles. Let us call this more generic class of
maximum-​depth structures, from pure fans and
stacks to more mixed ones, piles.
There are six other types of structures at n = 4,
as shown in Example 4.5. Four of them are
uneven tortoises, possible intermediate stages
of building an n = 7 tortoise from the n = 3
one. Uneven tortoises are easy to enumerate
(consisting of just the possible ways to add
nodes to the next-​smallest even tortoise), and
are distinguished by the placement of the one
Structural Networks • 93
EXAMPLE 4.5 Rhythmic realizations of the six n = 4 structures that are not piles

or more deepest nodes. Just as the piles consist
of all maximum-​depth structures, the tortoises
include all and only the minimum-​depth ones.3
Still there are two new types of structure at
n = 4 which are neither piles nor tortoises. The
failure of classification here is analogous to one
that occurs in the progression from n = 2 to
n = 3, with the introduction of the new, sym-
metrical tortoise type that defies the left-​right
dichotomy. These two structural shapes simi-
larly represent new properties not captured by
the previous classification, and have some in-
teresting properties. First, their deepest nodes,
like the tortoises, are at depth 3, but they are not
quite minimum-​depth structures because they
have two depth-​3 nodes rather than just one.
Another feature unique to these is that they have
more n = 3 subgraphs than any of the other n = 4
types. For all of the other types, there are two
ways to remove one vertex to get a subgraph.
The removable vertices, which I  will call feet,
are those that belong to only one triangle. For
pure fans and stacks, removing the feet  always
results in smaller fans and stacks, respectively.
The same is true generally of piles. For mixed
4-​piles, one subgraph is a fan and the other is
a stack. The tortoises in Example 4.5 have the
3-​tortoise as one subgraph, while the other 3-​
subgraph is one of the four other types (left or
right fan or stack).4 The two unclassified n = 4
structures have three feet. Removing the back-
ground node leaves a tortoise subgraph, and
removing one of the foreground nodes leaves a
stack or fan, so that all three basic n = 3 types
are represented. These graphs have a maximal
number of feet:  every other node is a foot. An
appropriate name for this type, then (in which
every other node is a foot), is starfish.
What is special about starfish becomes more
apparent if we abstract our graph-​ theoretic
structural shapes a little more. The up-​ down
and left-​right orientation of our drawings of
these graphs is essential to their interpreta-
tion as temporal structures, but is not integral
to their identity as networks per se. One way
to see the properties of these structures qua
networks is to redraw them as triangulations of
polygons, as shown in Example 4.6. Many of the
n = 4 structures are equivalent as triangulations
of a hexagon, because they are rotations of one
another. In other words, what turns a simple
maximal outerplanar graph (a triangulation of a
polygon) into a temporal structure is simply the
identification of one exterior edge as the root,
or the uppermost edge of the structure, and the
assignment of a direction to that root.5 The ab-
straction in Example 4.6 reduces the fourteen
n = 4 types to three graph types by forgetting
the root edge, or, equivalently, grouping them on
the basis of rotation and reflection. For two of the
three graphs in Example 4.6, there are six ways
to do this, but for the third there are only two
distinct ways, because of its high degree of sym-
metry. These are the starfish.
At higher values of n, this kind of symmetry
is a possible but not a necessary property of
starfish, because the definition (that every other
node is a foot) specifies a series of edges on the
exterior of the structure, but says nothing about
the subdivision of the interior. The starfish will
also therefore proliferate in later generations.
Yet there is another feature that is special to the
4-​starfish besides their symmetry, which has to
do with the distance between edges of the graph.
The idea of structural distances generalizes
that of depth, so that we can compare any two

3. Maximum depth and minimum depth can be defined precisely in two ways. Maximum depth structures have the
highest depth value for a single node for the given n. They also have the highest average depth for the given n. Minimum-​
depth structures similarly have the lowest average depth for a given n, but can also be defined as those with the lowest
maximum depth and the fewest nodes at that lowest maximum depth.
4. This can be generalized: for n = 2x each tortoise has exactly one x-​pile subgraph, and there are x of these, in one-​to-​one
relation with the n-​tortoises. To further generalize to other values of n, we may observe that for n = 2x + y –​1 (x > y) there are
(yx ) (“x-​choose-​y”), or x!/​(y)!(x –​ y)! ways to choose y distinct x-​piles, and these correspond one-​to-​one with the n-​tortoises
(which have these y x-​piles as subgraphs).
5. See Sections 13.2 and 13.4.

94 • O r g a n i z ed   T i m e
EXAMPLE 4.6  Triangulations of a hexagon: in each line the rotations and reflections of a single max-
imal outerplanar graph. The two dots indicate the root edge.
EXAMPLE 4.7 Generic formal structure for a large parallel binary form
elements of the structure rather than referring
them exclusively back to the root edge. Consider
the formal analysis of a parallel binary form from
Example  3.11, reproduced as Example 4.7. The
formal distance between a particular theme or
passage and a section that it belongs to is simply
the depth of its lower node within that section.
For instance, as part of the exposition, the main
theme and transition are somewhat deeper (dis-
tance 2) than the subordinate theme (distance 1).
This can be generalized to distances between
passages in different sections at the same or
different levels. A  bipath in the network is an
alternating series of edges and triangles, where
each edge belongs to the triangle on either side.6
The length of the bipath, from edge to edge, is
the number of triangles in it, and the distance
between two edges is the length of the shortest
bipath between them. So, there is a distance of
two between the main theme and exposition,
and a distance of one between the subordinate
theme and exposition in Example 4.7. The dis-
tance between passages in different parts of the
formal structure depends upon their depths
within the smallest common span—​specifically,
it is one less than the sum of these depths. For
6. This definition is due to Fowler et al. (2002), and applies generally to a larger class of graphs called 2-​trees. See
Section 13.4.
instance, the smallest span for the main themes
of each reprise is the whole piece, in which they
have depths of three and four respectively. The
distance between these is then 3 + 4 − 1 = 6.
The subordinate themes are not as deep, so
they are only separated by a formal distance of
3 ( = 2 + 2 − 1). From main theme to subordinate
theme within the exposition is a distance of two,
but the main theme of the exposition to the sub-
ordinate theme recapitulation relate at a deeper
level, putting them at a larger distance of four.
One use of abstracting the polygon triangu­
lations as in Example 4.6 is that we can use them
to characterize all of the paths in the structure
with regard only to their distance (not their di-
rection). The triangulations for the piles and
tortoises are all similar in that they can be un-
derstood as a single long path of length four,
with all other simple paths being portions of this
longer one. A  pile results if we choose an edge
at the end of this long path as the root, so that
the long path is pure depth. Other choices split
the long path up between two sides, making a
minimum-​depth tortoise. The starfish are fun-
damentally different: although they do not quite
make minimum depth graphs, they are minimum
Structural Networks • 95
distance graphs. The distances between any two depth), it is also possible to use the distance-​
exterior edges is at most three. minimizing starfish-​type structure, as in the fi-
While most formal designs are relatively nale of an early C.P.E. Bach symphony (Wq. 174,
balanced like the one in Example 4.7 (minimizing 1755)  shown in Example 4.8. The first reprise

EXAMPLE 4.8  (a) C.P.E. Bach, C Major “Berlin” Symphony, Wq. 174, Allegro finale, (b) basic formal
structure of the movement

(a)

96 • O r g a n i z ed   T i m e
EXAMPLE 4.8 Continued
(b)
EXAMPLE 4.9 Generic structure of the five-​part rondo
consists only of a single non-​modulating main
theme. The second reprise begins with a dis-
tinctive modulating phrase, followed by a con-
sequent based on the main theme, transposed
to G major. After the PAC in G, a development
section follows, leading to a recapitulation in
measure 50. As the analysis shows, the piece
divides up fairly evenly into five parts, the
main theme (mm. 1–​16), the modulating theme
(mm. 17–​32), the development (mm. 33–​49),
and a two-part recapitulation (mm. 50–62
and 63–​74). These sections are structured as a
starfish, lopsided in terms of depth, with a very
low formal depth (of 1) for the main theme and
a higher depth of 3 for all the other parts. This
structure may be understood as a way to min-
imize distance between the parts. No parts
are at a distance greater than the depth of the
graph (3), because the main theme is isolated,
making up the entirety of one side of the prin-
cipal formal division.
The other kind of n = 4 starfish (“right-​
footed”) is exemplified by a generic five-​ part
rondo formal structure, as shown in Example 4.9.
The three repetitions of the main theme consti-
tute the basis of the structure. The final refrain
differs from the others in depth, but all three
refrains are the same distance from one an-
other, as are the interior themes. This homoge-
neity of distance may therefore be regarded as
the guiding principle of rondo, as opposed to the
relative homogeneity of depth typical of binary
form types like the sonata.
One instance of a starfish in the tonal
realm is the local process of cadential expan-
sion. As Example 4.10 shows, the process of
approaching a dominant can be expanded in
a balanced series of stages. Because the dom-
inant is the penultimate, not the ultimate, ca-
dential goal, the result is a starfish structure,
which adds depth to the chords approaching
the dominant, but can also be seen overall as
a distance-​minimizing structure, so that no
component of the cadential process is espe-
cially far from any other. This lends the caden-
tial progression its sense of undivided gesture,
which is especially effective when the stages of
the process are expanded to great lengths on
the musical surface.
The redrawing of structural networks as
polygon triangulations can be hard to visu-
alize. Another way to think of this abstraction
(i.e., equating structural shapes related by ro-
tation and reflection) is by the degree of edges
Structural Networks • 97
EXAMPLE 4.10  Two expanded cadential progressions whose tonal structures are starfish

EXAMPLE 4.11  Vertex degrees for all the n = 4 structures

and vertices, whose pattern is preserved
under rotation and reflection (and also
displays the symmetries of the abstract struc-
ture). The degree of a vertex is the number
of edges incident upon it. Example 4.11
shows all of the n = 4 structural shapes and
the degree of each vertex. The three pos-
sible patterns are (2, 3, 3, 3, 2, 5), (2, 3, 4, 2, 3, 4 ),
and (2, 4, 2, 4, 2, 4 ) . The symmetries of these
are evident from the patterns themselves: the
first is equivalent under reflection (i.e.,
retrograding the pattern in the appropriate
rotation), the second under a 180º-​rotation,
and the third under 120º-​rotation or reflec-
tion. To get a fan, choose the pattern with
the highest-​degree vertex (5 in this case) and
place that on the root edge. This will always
be of the form,
The defining feature of a pile is the presence of
just two degree-​2 vertices, one of which is on
the root. Therefore other piles are produced by
reflections and rotations of the fan and stack
patterns that place the degree-​2 vertices on the
root edge. The starfish, on the contrary, are dis-
tinguished by a maximum number of degree-​2
vertices—​ specifically a pattern where every
other vertex is of degree 2, with n even.
4.2  A PHENOMENOLOGY
OF STRUCTURE
The symmetries and abstractions investigated in
the previous section are useful for classification
and for defining general properties like distances
that are independent of the orientation of the

n –​1 times 
 
Fan: (2, 3, 3,   . . .,  3, 2, n + 1).
Similarly, a stack is always of the form
(n –​ 2)/​2 times (n –​ 2)/​2 times 
     
Stack:   (2, 3, 4, 4,     . . .,   4, 2, 3, 4, 4,     . . .,   4)  for n even,
(n –​ 3)/​2 times (n –​ 1)/​2 times 
       
or:    (2, 3, 4, 4,    . . .,   4, 3, 2, 4, 4,    . . .,    4)   for n odd.

98 • O r g a n i z ed   T i m e
EXAMPLE 4.12  Progressive construction of two structural shapes
network shape. However, the musical qualities of
different kinds of structure are determined more
by their orientation than their abstract shapes.
That is in large part because musical structures
are not revealed all at once, but unfold gradually
over time. A  “phenomenological” investigation
of these structures (inspired by Lewin 1986)  is
therefore valuable to understanding the musical
meaning of structural shapes.7
Consider the five basic structure types at
n = 3 (Ex. 4.2) and their tonal realizations in
Example 4.3. Despite the visual similarity of the
two fan types, their way of evolving over time
could hardly be more different, as Example 4.12
shows. The left fan’s underlying process awaits
completion throughout
‸ the entire sequence. As
soon as the 2/​V arrives, the ultimate goal of the
structure is in sight—​only when it will arrive is
in ‸question. Other processes (the resumption
of 3/​I) simply delay the inevitable. This struc-
ture thus provides a dramatic quality of rising
tension as a series of incomplete structural units
are progressively constructed one below the
next, all pointing forward to the same singular
concluding event.
The right fan works in roughly the opposite
way. It systematically completes structures,
gradually adding retrospective depth as it goes.
It gives the impression of a series of proximate,
mediate, and distant goals on the way to a final
conclusion, providing closure at progressively
higher levels as the process unfolds.
This basic left/​right dichotomy in the ex-
perience of musical structure runs through all
structural shapes in some way or another. The
right and left stack, for instance, have more of
7. Compare also to Hanninen (2012, 152–​7), who discusses evolution of associational networks on out-​of-​time musical
objects. In this very generalized context the number of possibilities is huge and varied. See Sections 13.1–​2 for a discussion
relating out-​of-​time networks to temporal networks.
a mix of left/​right orientations, but at their root
the same distinction can be made: the left stack
points to its ultimate goal early, while the right
stack works its way there, completing more local
structures before opening up the deeper struc-
tural motion. In general, left-​oriented structures
display early-​ opening processes with delayed
closure, and single events that close multiple
processes, while right-​oriented structures have
late openings and more temporally distributed
closure.
The following examples exhibit the different
types of tonal structure in the themes from
Beethoven’s orchestral slow movements. The
first example, the Larghetto of the Violin
Concerto (Ex. 4.13), ‸ illustrates the right fan.
Starting from the 3/​I stated in the first two
measures, Beethoven immediately takes us to
a remote—​bewilderingly remote—​place, when
the following phrase comes to rest on an F♯
major (V/​iii) triad. The remainder of the theme
unravels the meaning of this triad in stages,
completing local structures progressing step-​by-​
step back to the G major goal. First, he folds the F♯
major triad into a fourth-​progression (B–​E) that
completes a 35–36 progression over the tonic.
‸ Then,
a descending-​fifths sequence resolves 6 back ‸ to
the dominant. Finally, the melody returns 2 over
the dominant for the cadence.
This example nicely illustrates the indi-
vidual character of the right fan, where a very
remote event appears early, and the majority
of the musical content consists of the system-
atic process of back-​filling the structural con-
text to rationalize this event. One thing that
makes this right-​fan tonal structure especially
Structural Networks • 99
EXAMPLE 4.13  (a) The Larghetto theme of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto, op. 61, (b) its tonal struc-
ture, as it is revealed in stages

(a)

(b)

striking is its extreme disjunction with the Beethoven swerves from this ‸ path once again,
form and hypermeter.8 The F♯ major triad, though, only coming back to 3/​I towards the end
though at the outer reaches of the tonal struc- of the elongated third phrase of the theme, now
ture, comes at the end of the first phrase. The ‸in a higher, more emphatic register. The drop to
fourth progressions that it initiates therefore 7/​V (and to p) seems to signal a resignation and
cross over the clear boundary between the four-​ willingness to let the theme reach its conclu-
measure phrases, creating a formal disjunction sion, but this is delayed once more by a decep-
that spans the length of the theme, gradually tive cadence, ‸ the prototypical case of expectation
easing as the second phrase progresses. This denied. A 1/​I would tie off all of the incomplete
rather extravagant disjunction gives the theme structure accumulated thus far. Note that the late
a tension that is not otherwise native to the occurrence of the deceptive cadence, allowing for
right fan tonal structure. The arch-​ shaped a build-​
‸ up of expectation, is essential to its effect.
tension curve of mounting and receding levels The 1/​vi does not adequately complete the tonic
of disjunction follows the progress of the tonal third progression, so we instead get an event
structure, making it especially salient. buried deeper within the structure, requiring
‸ the
The adagio theme of Beethoven’s Fifth further effort of working back to the 3/​I to repeat
(“Emperor”) Piano Concerto illustrates the very the cadence, this time with a satisfying ending.
different quality of a left fan
‸ (Ex. 4.14). Here, we Such a description of the passage neglects
are ready for the ultimate 1/​I goal right away with the more distinctive material, however. The left
the half cadence in measure 2.  A  repeat of the fan by itself is not especially interesting, but it
half cadence piles on more incomplete structure, has an important function, building a founda-
increasing the anticipation of the final tonic. tion for great structural depth. It achieves this

8. Hypermeter is discussed in Chapters 5 and 6. This example establishes a relatively clear regular hypermeter of two-​
measure subphrases grouping into four-​measure phrases. There is a wrinkle at the metrical level however: what is notated in
measures 1–​2 as a simple syncopation is actually a higher-​level irregularity. The notated anacrusis initially acts as a downbeat,
and the alignment to the notated meter does not occur until the second two-​measure subphrase.

100 • O r g a n i z ed   T i m e
EXAMPLE  4.14  (a) The Adagio theme of Beethoven’s “Emperor” Concerto, op.  73, (b)  its tonal
structure
(a)
(b)
primarily through repetition (of the incomplete
progression). To take advantage of this pro-
gressive accrual of structural depth, Beethoven
fills this structural skeleton with increasingly
more elaborate processes of returning to the
‸ pected, and it starts a process of return begin-
3/​I. The theme consists of two short phrases
(mm. 1–​2 and 3–​4) followed by ‸a single highly
extended third phrase, and the 3/​I falls late in
the second and third phrases. In the expansive
third phrase especially, Beethoven relishes in
the structural depth, elongating the long as-
cent through a sixth from F♯ to the distant
but inevitable goal of D♯, where the cadential
process can resume. Similarly, in the andante
theme of the Ninth Symphony (Ex. 4.15), as
Beethoven elaborates each phase of a large
left-​fan edifice, the shape of the elaboration
responds to the gradually increasing depth of
its supporting edge. The first phrase, before the
fan has achieved any depth, is a balanced con-
struction, a tortoise. The next phrase moves
towards a cadence, but‸ evades it by deflecting
the melody back up to 3. The effect of this eva-
sion is very much like the deceptive cadence
in the adagio theme of the Emperor ‸ Concerto.
The denial of melodic arrival on 1 means that
the tonic ending of this phrase is much more
deeply buried in the tonal structure than ex-
ning with the repeated two measures that begin
the third phrase. These two ‸ measures, with
their gradual approach to the 3/​I, are now sen-
sibly heightened in effect due to their greater
depth, accentuated by the small right fan
shape represented by the process of return.
‸
After arriving at the last 3/​I, Beethoven
reaches the nadir of the large supporting fan,
and it is here where he concentrates the focal
point of intensity. The change of direction in
the melody is dramatized by carving out new
heights in registral space and by a striking new
feeling of motion in the eighth-​note rhythm
of the chordal texture. The high point in the
melody, a B♭ that remains unresolved in its
own register, is also the point of greatest struc-
tural depth. Beethoven achieves this depth by
building a small stack upon this last leg of the
large supporting right fan.
Structural Networks • 101
EXAMPLE 4.15  (a) The Andante theme of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, op. 125, (b) its tonal structure
(a)

(b)

(Example 4.15 includes the abbreviation “V.E.” out by a chromatic passing chord (viio7/​V ), which
for voice
‸ ‸ exchange, the swapping of chord tones—​ itself changes position before resolving. The
1 and 3 here—​between outer voices. See Cutler result‸ is a large left stack starting with the
[2009].
‸ ‸ Incomplete neighbor patterns filling in 2/​
V , excluding the base triangle which adds a bit
1–​3 voice exchanges are motivic in this theme.) of left-​fan quality to the overall pile. The stack
The use of stacks or stack-​ like shapes as begins by first building tension with a series
a structural basis has a different effect, but of incomplete structural units, like the left fan.
one that similarly features a concentration of Yet unlike the fan, these open units point
structural depth, as in the adagio theme from towards different kinds of events for comple-
Beethoven’s Second‸ Piano Concerto, op.  19 in tion. In Example 4.16, the diminished ‸ ‸seventh
Example 4.16. The 2/​V is stated early, like in the chords point ‸ towards‸ a V, the 3/​I to a 2/​V, and
previous two‸ examples. However, after‸ the re- the earlier 2/​V to a 1/​I. These structural units
sumption of 3/​I in the next phrase, the 2/​V does are completed in stages, so that rather than
not return until the end of the theme. The ii6 of building to a single moment of resolution, the
measure 4 points ahead to it, even as it resolves stack breaks the resolution down into a longer
more directly to the V of measure 7.  Between multi-​step process. Like fans, the stack focuses
measures 4 and 7 the process is further drawn on a single very deep event, but this event is

102 • O r g a n i z ed   T i m e
EXAMPLE  4.16  (a) The Adagio theme of Beethoven’s Second Piano Concerto, op.  19, (b)  its tonal
structure, as it is revealed in a series of stages
(a)
(b)
towards the middle of the passage rather than
towards one end or the other.9
4.3  CENTER, SKEW,
AND BIAS
The preceding analyses have shown that the most
deeply embedded event of a tonal structure is
often a focal point of a theme. Generally speaking
this is achieved by large piles in the tonal struc-
ture, but as we have seen, the distinction be-
tween left and right fans and stacks is crucial to
the musical effect. Also, the structure of a passage
is often not a pure representative of these types,
9. See also Example 2.10, Schumann’s “Mondnacht,” in which a large pile, a stack-​like structure at the base with a right
fan on the surface, creates a great structural remoteness.
but usually resembles one more closely than an-
other. In the theme from Beethoven’s Second
Piano Concerto (Ex. 4.16) for instance, the struc-
ture primarily resembles a stack, but if we include
the base triangle, it is not a pure stack but has a
bit of left-​fan quality. What we need is some way
to quantify what makes a structure more fan-​like,
stack-​like, left-​or right-​oriented, for any struc-
ture, not just the ones captured by the incom-
plete classification of Section 4.1.
Example 4.17 shows another way of drawing a
MOP (different from the polygon triangulations
in Ex. 4.6) to abstract the underlying graph,
drawing it such that the triangles are all of the
same shape (and preferably equilateral, although
Structural Networks • 103
EXAMPLE 4.17  (a) A different drawing of the network from Ex. 4.16, showing the longest bipath,
center, root edge, and skew, (b–​c) different choices of root edge result in a stack or a balanced structure
with minimal skew
(a) (b) (c)

this is not always possible).10 It is easy to see
in this example that there is a unique longest
bipath in the graph starting and ending on a tri-
angle.11 This is not necessarily the case for any
MOP: there may be multiple bipaths of the same
length. However, a useful fact is that, even if
there are multiple longest bipaths, they all will
have the same midpoint. This means that a MOP
always has a well-​defined center, the midpoint
of its longest bipath.12 The center may be a tri-
angle (if the path is an odd length) or an edge
(even length). Since the maximum bipath length
is also well-​defined, we can define the spread of a
MOP as that length divided by n (so it always has
a maximum of 1).
To get a pile from the graph in Example 4.17,
we choose a root edge as far away from the center
as possible. In fact, a pile can be defined as a graph
with maximum spread—​that is, there is a single
longest triangle-​to-​triangle bipath that contains
all other such bipaths (or, equivalently, goes
through all triangles)—​and with the root edge as
far away from the center as possible. More gen-
erally, the distance from the root triangle to the
center, or the skew of the structure, is a measure
of how pile-​like the resulting graph is. We pre-
viously defined an edge-​to-​edge distance, but
since skew is measured from the root triangle
(because the root edge cannot be the center), we
need a more general definition for a bipath that
can begin or end on either a triangle or edge.
The distance of such a bipath is the number of
triangles plus the number of edges on the path,
excluding the initial triangle or edge, divided by
two. The skew is 3 for both Examples  4.17(a)
and (b), which is a maximum value, ( n − 1) / 2.
A  different choice of root edge can reduce the
skew to 0, as shown in Example 4.16(c), resulting
in a balanced structure.
Skew is a measure of the imbalance of a struc-
ture. All and only the piles have the maximum pos-
sible skew of ( n − 1) / 2. Complete tortoises, and
relatively balanced uneven tortoises, have skew
0.13 However, the important distinction between
right and left orientation is ignored by the skew.
Another quantity, bias, can help to capture this.
In a rooted MOP, each triangle-​to-​triangle step in
a bipath can be classified as upward (toward the
root) or downward (away from the root) and left or
right. A bias can be defined for both of these, but
we are most interested in the left/​right bias of a
bipath that goes exclusively downward. This bias
is the difference between the number of leftward
motions and rightward motions, plus or minus
0.5 for a leftward or rightward motions to a final
edge. A positive bias indicates a mostly leftward
oriented path, and a negative bias a rightward
oriented one. The central bias of a rooted MOP can
then be defined as the bias of the path from root
to center. This definition privileges the base of a
graph, and is not effected by differences below the
center. Therefore, a more comprehensive measure
is the overall bias of a rooted MOP, the total number
of all right downward motions in the graph minus

10. See Labelle, Lemathe, and Leroux 2003.

11. We start and end on a triangle for the sake of simplicity. This can always be extended one more step to an edge in each
direction, but there may be two ways to do so for any endpoint.
12. This definition comes from Fowler et al. 2002. The proof of uniqueness is roughly this: Assume that two longest
bipaths have different centers. You could then make a new bipath by putting together half of each of these with the path from
one center to the other, and this bipath would necessarily be longer. (A bit more consideration needs to be given to make sure
this longer path does not double-​back upon itself, but this can be ensured by choice of endpoints.)
13. This property is not unique to tortoises, however. It is also possible to balance a structure by, for example, building
two equal-​sized piles on either side of a 3-​tortoise base, as in Ex. 4.17(c).

104 • O r g a n i z ed   T i m e
EXAMPLE  4.18  The longest bipaths and center of the structure of Ex. 4.15 (Beethoven, Ninth
Symphony, Andante)
EXAMPLE 4.19  (a) An n = 10 starfish (a), (b–​c) two rhythmic structures based on it, and (d) a more
even rhythmic structure based on a higher-​spread graph
(a) (b)
(d)
the number of all left downward motions. The
bias of a left fan is maximally positive, while
the bias of a right fan is maximally negative. The
bias of a stack is small, between  –​ 1 and 1.
The same is true of central bias, although fans are
not uniquely maximal on this measure. The bias
of the graph in Figure  4.17(a) is 2, a little more
rightward-​oriented than a left stack. The central
bias is 1.
The difference between the central bias and
the average bias helps to distinguish between
the orientation of the important base level of
the graph and that of all the local structure. For
instance, Example 4.18 shows the center of the
graph for the andante theme of Beethoven’s
Ninth Symphony (from Ex. 4.15). It has an
overall bias of 1, a small value for such a large
graph, but the central bias is 2, which is maxi-
mally positive for a graph whose skew is 2.
Rhythmic structure has to avoid too much
skew or bias. Pile-​like structures with a high skew
make implausible rhythms, because the mix of
shallow and deep events corresponds to a highly
uneven rhythmic surface. The spread of the graph
is secondary to the skew. Consider the n = 10 star-
fish in Example 4.19(a). While this has a minimum
spread of 0.5, it is impossible to place the root edge
near the center, because there is no exterior edge
near it. The resulting rhythms in Example 4.19(b)
(c)
and (c)  are therefore rather uneven. Notice that
the positive central bias indicates that the thirty-​
second notes happen at the end of the measure
in (c), where they happen in the middle of the
measure in (b). To balance a rhythmic structure at
n = 10, a larger spread is unavoidable. The rhythm
of Example 4.19(d) has a skew of 0 and a spread of
0.7. Although there is no central bias, the average
bias is a positive number, 3, which is manifest in
the rhythm by the placement of sixteenth notes
towards the end of beats. A negative bias would re-
verse the weight of the rhythm towards the earlier
part of structural timespans, resulting in a some-
what more unusual overall rhythm.
4.4  SPLITTING AND
DISJUNCTION
In Section 4.1 above, we generally were able
to define larger classes of structure by recur-
sive processes that build each structure off of
one from the previous generation. The method
of generating larger structures was always the
same, adding a single node and connecting it to
a previous edge to get a new foot. This is the only
way to add a single vertex to a smaller graph so
that all of the previously existing edges of the
smaller graph remain in place, and the root edge
Structural Networks • 105
EXAMPLE 4.20  Unfolding as a split
EXAMPLE 4.21  A split between the formal and
tonal structures of the second movement from
Richter’s Symphony no. 26
remains the same. In some circumstances, how-
ever, it is useful instead to split a single node of
the network into two, dividing its edges between
the two new nodes.
One example of splitting is the unfolding
operation, introduced in Section 2.2 (see es-
pecially Ex. 2.8). Given a simple structure like
Example 4.20(a), for instance, we can split the
dominant as in (b), by replacing two nodes with
one, connected by an edge. This split is left-
ward, generating a new node to the left. All of
the edges to the left and below the split node
transfer to the new node on the left, and the one
going up and to the left is doubled, so that‸both
new nodes are attached to the background 3/​I.
Splitting is especially useful in relating
structure between different modalities, and
discovering structural disjunctions. At the end of
Chapter 3, I claimed that the Andante grazioso
of Richter’s Symphony no. 26 has closely coordi-
nated tonal and formal structures (see Ex. 3.11).
However, there was one significant difference be-
tween the base structures in the two modalities.
Example 4.21 shows the formal structure, whose
major division occurs at the beginning of the
second part. The final chord of the first part
does not correspond to any node in the formal
structure. Tonally, these two events need to be
106 • O r g a n i z ed   T i m e
distinguished, but both are associated with the
boundary between the parts. Therefore, there
are two tonal events at the sectional division for
one formal event. To relate them, we can split
this node of the formal structure. This is actually
a rightward split, even though it is the new node
on the right that occupies the same temporal po-
sition as the original node. This is because the
doubled edge is the one above and to the right
of the original node. Otherwise, the new node
on the left (V) adopts all of the edges to the left‸
of the original node, and the one on the right (2)
those to the right.
Splitting generalizes simple expansion; every
simple expansion is mathematically equivalent
to a split. For any exterior edge of a structure,
if the edge tips down (\), then a leftward split of
the right node is the same as a simple expansion,
and if the edge tips up (/​), then it is a rightward
split of the left node. In other words, it is always
possible to produce the effect of a simple expan-
sion by splitting the lower node of an exterior
edge such that the exterior edge itself is doubled.
While this process results in the same structure
as the simple expansion, there is a conceptual
distinction between the two derivations, since
the process of splitting associates the new node
in a specific way with one of the old nodes (to
its left or right), whereas in the simple expan-
sion, the new node is simply between the two old
nodes, not more closely associated with one or
the other.
Because they may relate by any number of
splits, like the one in Example 4.21, structures
in different modalities may differ substantially
without necessarily having true disjunctions. As
a case in point, Example 4.22 presents a closer
look at the tonal structure of the subordinate
theme of Richter’s Andante grazioso. There are
many more nodes in the tonal structure than
the formal structure. Only a couple of those
shown in the example are expendable, in the
sense that they may be simply deleted without
disconnecting the events that coincide ‸ with
moments of formal articulation ‸ (the 4 of the
main linear descent and the 3 passing tone at the
half cadence). The number of remaining tonal
nodes (twelve) is large relative to the number
of formal nodes (six), because the events that
begin two subphrases (mm. 25 and 31) are rel-
atively remote tonally. This does not automati-
cally indicate disjunctions, though, because the
events they are tonally dependent upon may
not coincide with other points of formal sig-
nificance. To locate disjunctions, it is necessary
EXAMPLE 4.22  The subordinate theme of the second movement from Richter’s Symphony no. 26,
comparing the collapsed tonal structure to the formal structure
to condense the tonal structure until it has the
same set of nodes as the formal structure. In
the second phrase, the V7/​IV at the beginning ‸ To see how true disjunctions may persist
of the cadential subphrase points ‸ ‸ towards 4/​
IV, the main divider of the 3/​I–2/ ​ ​V motion
that outlines the entire phrase. Since the IV it-
self does not coincide with a distinct moment
of formal articulation, ‸ the‸ V /​IV can stand in
7
for the entire V7/​IV–6/
​ ​IV–4/​
​ IV process for the
purpose of coordinating form and tonal struc-
ture. To show this, we can collapse or fuse these
nodes to a single point, reversing the process
of splitting that relates the formal to the tonal
structure. These splits are formally equivalent to
simple expansions, but here the association of
nodes is important, because it is the more ton-
ally remote event (V7/​IV) that coincides with
the formal division.
The third phrase (cadential extension) ends
with a distinct event from the end of the preced­
ing phrase (the cadential dominant), so these
would relate to the formal structure via a split.
Also collapsing with these is the I6 that results‸
from a voice exchange with the initial 3/​I.
Similarly, the cadence itself collapses to a single
point associated with the end of the theme. The
IV that begins second subphrase therefore is
tonally coordinated with the formal structure,
because it divides a process that spans the two
halves of the phrase, the bass cadential third
‸ ‸ ‸
progression (3–​4–​5), even if this is not the most
basic tonal process that occurs within the phrase.
after collapsing the tonal structure, let us return
to the andante variations theme of Beethoven’s
Violin Concerto, whose tonal structure was
explored in Section 4.2 above (see Ex. 4.13).
Example 4.23 presents a more detailed tonal
structure for the theme. The tonal structure
may be collapsed down to a single point per one
or two measures for comparison to the formal
structure. The formal structure is straightfor-
wardly symmetrical, paired phrases that divide
neatly into even subphrases and repeated me-
lodic ideas in the first part of each phrase. Note
that the inclusion of repetitions in the tonal
structure (using the rule stated in Section 2.3),
ignored in Example 4.13, is essential to making
the comparison.
‸ Except for the expansion of
the I–​3 unfolding by repetition, the collapsed
tonal structure retains the left fan shape
discussed in Section 4.2, which is at variance
with the symmetrical formal structure. The dis-
junction is deepest at the phrase boundary in
measure 4, where the F♯ major triad, a maximum
depth element in the collapsed tonal structure,
coincides with the minimum depth node of the
formal structure, the phrase division. The dis-
junction is gradually resolved over the course of
the second phrase.
Structural Networks • 107
EXAMPLE 4.23  Tonal/​formal disjunction in the Andante theme of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto

Although splitting relations between tonal
and formal structure are not true disjunctions,
and do not generate the characteristic sense
of tension associated with disjunction, they
are musically meaningful. Notice in Example
4.22 that many of the splits occur within ‸ ‸ a
given formal span (such as the V7/​IV–6–​ ​ 4/​IV
split), but others occur across formal spans, ‸
such as the
‸ collapsing of the half-​cadential 2/​V
with the 3/​I that begins the next phrase. The
latter type of split represents sectionalization,
the separating of tonal processes into dis-
crete non-​ overlapping phrases. The split in
Example 4.21, for instance, represents an espe-
cially high-​order sectionalization. Some formal
procedures are dependent upon sectionalization
while others are premised on the avoidance of
sectionalization, which results in overlapping
phrases. A style of writing like Richter’s—​for ex-
ample, in the Andante grazioso above—​is highly
sectionalized. In binary forms, small and large
(e.g., sonata form), high-​order sectionalization
between the parts is standard. However, there
are forms that are premised on the avoidance
of such high-​ level sectionalization, such as
the ritornello form discussed in Section 11.2.
Composers like Haydn and Mozart use
sectionalization carefully and deliberately at
lower levels also. For instance, as examples in
Chapter  7 demonstrate, they typically avoid
sectionalization between main themes and
transitions and between subordinate themes
and closing material—​that is, all places within
the exposition except for the medial caesura
(the break preceding the subordinate theme
group). In recapitulations, Haydn often removes
medial caesura sectionalization also (see the
examples from his Symphony no.  100 in §6.3,
for instance). This non-​sectionalization at the
main division of the sonata form exposition
(preceding the subordinate theme group) occurs
when the subordinate theme begins over a dom-
inant pedal, a phenomenon identified by Caplin
(1998, 113–​15) and relating to Hepokoski and
Darcy’s (1997, 2006)  “continuous exposition”
category (see §6.3). It is a significant feature
of Beethoven’s formal practice,14 and as such,
relates to another more radical procedure of
Beethoven’s, his open expositions, discussed in
Section 7.5.

14. One example is the “Tempest” Sonata, op. 31/​2, whose blurring of formal boundaries has been amply discussed
by Schmalfeldt (2011), Caplin (2009a), and Hepokoski (2009a). (See also §7.4.) As Caplin (2009a) points out, however,
as remarkable as the dominant beginning of this subordinate theme is, it is by no means unusual in Beethoven’s music of
this period.

108 • O r g a n i z ed   T i m e
 5
Timespan Intervals
OF THREE kinds of temporal structure dis­
cussed in Chapters 1–​3, the special property of
rhythm is that it involves time as a quantity,
not just a medium for motion. To advance our
understanding of rhythmic structure in the
following chapters, we will need well-​sharpened
tools for relating timespans according to
length and proportion. These will aid espe­
cially in furthering the theory of hypermeter,
which is where rhythmic structure most clearly
interfaces with formal structure, a topic we will
broach in Sections 1 and 3 below in advance of
a fuller treatment in Chapters  6 and 7, and in
pinning down the concept of syncopation, the
subject of Chapter 8. The theory of rhythm ad­
vanced in Chapter  1 prioritized thinking in
terms of timespans over timepoints. The idea
of rhythmic structure proposed there led to
the idea of rhythmic classes, groups of rhythms
having the same structure but differing in exact
durations. We also saw that different rhythms
in a given hierarchy could be related by certain
transformations. Section 4 below will show how
to define these transformations precisely, using
the method of relating timespans developed in
the first three sections.
The primary tool needed for these tasks
comes from an underappreciated chapter in David
Lewin’s otherwise tremendously influential
Generalized Musical Intervals and Transformations
(2007a). In his ­ chapter  4, Lewin describes a
“non-​commutative GIS” of timespans, one that,
from his description of it in an earlier article
(Lewin 1984)  appears to have been an impor­
tant impetus for the group-​theoretic approach
promoted in the first half of the book. Lewin
argues for the timespan interval group in ge­
neral terms as a way of understanding how mu­
sical time works, and focuses on its interesting
mathematical properties (as a non-​commutative
generalized interval system), but his idea
deserves renewed consideration as a basis for
a theory of rhythm and meter in music of the
common practice era.
Lewin’s approach begins from the idea that
no absolute referential duration or timepoint
 • 109
EXAMPLE 5.1  Timespan transformations between subject entries in J.S. Bach’s F minor Fugue from
the WTC I
should be necessary for describing a rhythm.
This is a step in the direction of relativism:  a
timespan is already a relationship between
timepoints, but in Lewin’s system the lengths
of timespans are also measured relative to one
another. While there must be limitations to
this kind of approach—​we clearly, to some ex­
tent, treat very long durations differently than
short ones—​it is also consistent with a number
of basic facts about musical time. For instance,
the essential identity of a piece is not dependent
on small changes of tempo; small fluctuations of
tempo do not upset the rhythmic coherence of
a piece or the identity of its themes or motives;
and the rudiments of musical notation specify
the relative durations of notes, not their exact
durations.
These are obvious, overlearned principles of
musical time, and as long as we are focused only
on conventional metrically regular rhythms,
we can get away without over-​theorizing them.
Lewin shows how a more systematic approach
becomes critical in dealing with a rhythmic lan­
guage like Elliott Carter’s, where metrical orga­
nization relinquishes its absolute control and
notational values can no longer be taken for
granted (Lewin 2007a, 62–​74). Something sim­
ilar is true within the common-​ practice rep­
ertoire when we move from the small-​ scale
rhythmic language to the large-​ scale, to the
topic of phrase rhythm and hypermeter:  again,
metrical organization no longer has absolute au­
thority and notation is equivocal (since multi-​
measure timespans are not directly notated),
and therefore by the same reasoning, a more sys­
tematic theoretical approach is essential.
110 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
5.1  LARGE-​S CALE
RHYTHMIC DESIGN IN
BACH’S F MINOR FUGUE
Large-​scale rhythmic organization in a tonal
genre can be irregular while nonetheless being
deliberate and coherent. Consider, for instance,
the pacing of subject entries in J.S. Bach’s F
minor Fugue from the Well-​Tempered Clavier
Book 1 (WTC I). Example 5.1 shows just the
subject entries of the fugue, preserving all the
notated durations but combining every three
measures into a 6@measure, which is equal to the
length of the entire subject. The example also
shows distances between each subject entry in
terms of timespan intervals. These are written
as a pair of operations, ( + n, × m), where n is a
translation, shifting the entire timespan for­
ward in time, and m changes the length of the
timespan by multiplication. Most importantly,
however, the value of n is measured relative to
the duration of the first timespan, not in abso­
lute units. In the fugue example, m is always 1,
which means that durations of the timespans
never change (because the length of the subject
is fixed). The value of n then measures the dis­
tance between onsets in multiples of the three-​
measure duration of the subject. So ( +1, × 1)
means “start a new timespan of the same dura­
tion directly after this one,” and ( +2, × 1) means
“start a new timespan of the same duration after
twice the length of this one.”
The timespan interval of ( +1, × 1) has a spe­
cial meaning, which we have already explored
in our discussion of meter in Chapter  1:  it is
the operation of simple projection, basic to the
inference of meter from a pattern of durations.
Bach uses such simple projections in the ex­
position of the fugue at the phrase level:  the
tonal answer in the alto follows directly on
the first presentation of the subject and is the
same length.1 The next subject entry in the
bass follows directly on the tonal answer, which
means that its relationship to the first sub­
ject entry is the result of doing ( +1, × 1) twice
(written ( +1, × 1) ° ( +1, × 1)), which is ( +2, × 1).
The last entry, the subject in the soprano, comes
at another ( +2, × 1) from the previous entry, be­
cause a sequential episode intervenes which is ex­
actly the same length as the subject. Bach repeats
this pattern again: after the exposition, there is
another sequential episode, modulating to the
dominant, again exactly three measures long, so
that from the soprano entry to the transposed
subject in the tenor there is another ( +2, × 1).
The exposition of Bach’s fugue exhibits a
high degree of regularity, reflected in the in­
teger values for the timespan intervals between
subject entries. It thus establishes a predict­
able timing of subject entries. In the middle
section successive subject entries are related by
non-​integer values ( +2 5 6 , × 1) and ( +2 1 6 , × 1),
upsetting this predictability. Bach returns to a
regular spacing of ( +2, × 1) for the last two sub­
ject entries, creating a general narrative of re­
turn to order after the disruptions that animate
the middle section of the fugue. In this sense,
the large-​scale timespan relationships reinforce
the conventional dramatic arc expressed in the
key relationships—​the subject begins to appear
in a variety of keys (dominant, mediant, sub­
tonic) at the same time as its appearances be­
come less evenly spaced. Bach does not use the
two techniques in perfect alignment, however;
instead he staggers them for maximum effect.
The first entry after the exposition is in the key
of the dominant (C minor) but is still in the pre­
dictable ( +2, × 1) relationship to the previous
entry. In the next entry, Bach uses a non-​integer
timespan relationship, ( +2 5 6 , × 1), introducing
the first hypermetrical disruption to prevent the
return to the tonic key from sounding like a gen­
uine return. The following entry, in another new
key, A♭ major, though at a non-​integer distance
from the previous entry, is integer-​related to
1. Since the subject is offset from the meter by a quarter note, these timespans do not properly belong to a rhythmic
structure, and may be understood instead as formal units. However, a perceivable hypermeter, reinforced primarily by the
ever-​present countersubjects, is important to experiencing the irregularity of subject entries described below.
the earlier entries (at ( +5, × 1) from the C minor
entry following the exposition).
Despite the return to regularity, however,
there is not a consistent hypermeter running
through the work to which the final entries
realign. If one continues to count in three-​
measure units from the end of the exposition,
the last two entries will be one measure off. But
the idea of a persistent hypermetrical pulse is
perceptually implausible in any case; the lis­
tener would lose track of such a pulse during
the irregular entries, and metrical entrain­
ment does not happen at such slow paces (see
London 2012, 27–​30). The departure–​return
script of the piece therefore plays out in the
relationships between adjacent entries, rather
than their relationship to an absolute refer­
ence point (such as a hypermetrical frame­
work). Such distinctions are easy to make using
timespan intervals.
As noted above, the timespan interval ( +1, × 1)
is a special one, representing the relationship
of projection. Yet most of the transformations
shown in Example 5.1 are larger translations, be­
cause of the intervening episodes. The projection
interval underlies these relationships at a deeper
level, however, as Example 5.2 shows. Instead
of relating the subject entries directly, we can
first relate the subject to a larger timespan
containing it, via the upward pointing arrows.
Since these transformations relate timespans
with fixed onset timepoints, they are all of the
form ( +0, × m). We will classify this below as a
kind of constituent relation (meaning that the
smaller timespan is a constituent of the larger).
The larger timespans then all relate by simple
projection within each of the three large sections
of the fugue, as shown by the horizontal arrows,
including the middle section, where the larger
timespans are of a consistent, though asym­
metrical, length of 6 1 2 measures. The subject
entries themselves can then be said to relate by
the piggyback projection described in §1.3, where
each is contained within larger timespans that
themselves relate by projection.
This particular fugue is remarkably simple
and economical in its materials. The subject
and two countersubjects are optimized for
contrapuntal inversion, so that with transpo­
sition, mode change, and shuffling of voices
Timespan Intervals • 111
EXAMPLE 5.2 A map of timespan relationships in the F minor Fugue, using containment relationships
and projections
EXAMPLE  5.3  The bass and tenor voices of the episode in mm. 30–​4 of the F minor Fugue, and
timespan intervals
providing sufficient variation for the unfolding
of the piece, the repetitions of the subject are
otherwise essentially fixed in musical content
across the entire texture. (The use of a tonal
answer in the alto entry of the exposition is an
isolated one-​time occurrence.) The only other
musical content that Bach requires are episodic
sequences, which, though varying in harmonic
design (descending thirds, ascending by step,
descending fifths, irregular) are all constructed
upon the same contrapuntal foundation:  a
two-​voice imitation at the quarter note based
on the rhythm of the beginning of the first
countersubject. Because of their common
foundation, they are all evaluated against the
three-​measure length of the first episode in
measures 10–​12, which in turn is based on
the length of the subject. It is as if the deter­
mined, plodding subject, like an aging general,
continues to govern the course of the battle
after he hands over the field to his lieutenants,
112 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
the countersubjects, through an intangible but
definite authority over them.
Yet cracks in the fugue subject’s absolute au­
thority eventually materialize. In addition to
the variation in sequential pattern that allows
Bach to freely modulate in the middle section,
the sequences can be extended by additional
repetitions (a half-​ note in length), which is
how Bach disrupts the predictability of subject
entries in the middle section without losing the
sense that the episodes have a normative length.
Example 5.3 isolates the two foundational voices
of the first 3 1 2-​measure episode of the middle
section, illustrating the basic principle of exten­
sion. The episode is based on three repetitions
of a one-​measure pattern. Before the next sub­
ject entry, however, the last half of one of the
one-​measure patterns is repeated in both voices.
This is also a kind of projection, but of only a
fragment of the preceding timespan. The in­
terval ( + 5 6 , × 1 6 ) isolates the last half-​measure
of the entire three-​measure sequential passage,
and half-​measure pattern is then projected,
extending the entire episode by a factor of 1 1 6.
5.2 CLASSIFICATION
OF TIMESPAN INTERVALS
In the preceding analysis, a few distinct types
of timespan intervals have emerged, which we
can begin to classify on the basis of a mixture
of mathematical and musical principles. We have
already noted one relationship is of special mu­
sical significance:
• Projection: ( +1, × 1)
In the fugue, subject entries are usually more
widely spaced, related by larger translations like
( +2, × 1) and ( +2 1 6 , × 1).
• Large translation: ( + n, × 1), n > 1
The large translations with integer values of
n, however, are special, because they can be
constructed by iterating projections. In the fugue
we found that absorbing the subject entries into
larger timespans consisting of subject + coun­
tersubject (or subject + episode based on the
countersubject), mediates the large translations
through the projection of a larger timespan. In
the “consonant phrasing” that frames the work,
for instance, the large translation ( +2, × 1) can
be deconstructed into the simple containment
relationship ( +0, × 2) and its inverse ( +0, × 1 2 ),
with a projection in between.2 Expressed in a
formula:
(+0, × 2) ° (+1, × 1) ° ( +0, × 1 2 ) = ( +2, × 1)
The operation for composing intervals,
“ x ° y ”, means “apply transformation x, then y.”3
Generally speaking, a containment relation­
ship is of the form:
• Containment (general): ( + n, × m) where
m ≤ 1 and 0 ≤ n ≤ (1 − m).
Here we adopt Lewin’s (2007a, 176–​8) “is-​a”
method of naming intervals. A  containment
2. Mathematically speaking, we are conjugating the projection by the containment relationship. Lewin (1984, 2007a)
draws particular attention to the fact that the timespan interval group in noncommutative, which means that the conjugation
of some operation x by y is not equal to x. That is, y° x° y–​1 ≠ x.
3. This is called a right-​action, which, though contrary to the usual mathematical convention, better matches the process-​
oriented language of musical transformation theory.
interval is one where a b reads “a is a
container for b,” or simply “a contains b.”
The boundary cases of containment where
n = 0 or 1 − m are special:
• Containment of an initial timespan: ( +0, × m)
with m ≤ 1 .
• Containment of a final timespan:
( + (1 − m) , × m) with m ≤ 1.
When we invert these containment relations
(taking the interval from the smaller timespan
to the larger one, instead of vice versa) we can
refer to them as constituent relations:
• Constituent (general): ( −n, × m) where m ≥ 1
and 0 ≤ n ≤ m − 1.
• Initial constituent: ( +0, × m) with m≥ 1,
• Final constituent: ( −(m − 1), × m) with m≥ 1.
In the exposition of the fugue, the larger
timespan that contains the subject is created
by combining the subject and answer, which are
themselves related by projection. Such a combi­
nation can occur anywhere two timespans butt
up against one another—​ that is, timespans
related by some transformation of the form
( +1, × m). Given such a relationship, we can ex­
press the combination by converting the interval
that relates the timespans being combined:
• Combination: comb( +1, × m) = ( +0, × (m + 1))
Meaning that if timespan a relates to b by
( +1, × m), then a relates to the combination
a + b by ( +0, × (1 + m)). The constituent rela­
tionship of ( +0, × 2) that we defined as “con­
sonant” in the fugue is therefore special:  it is
the combination of a projection. This shows
that the norm of duple organization so fre­
quently noted in theories of musical phrasing
is a straightforward mathematical consequence
of the elementary musical principles of pro­
jection and combination. Given only the pos­
sibility of iterating or combining projections,
the resulting timespan intervals will all involve
powers of two.
Timespan Intervals • 113
EXAMPLE 5.4  Filling out metrical layers in Haydn’s Piano Sonata in E♭ major, H. 52, mm. 1–​5
In the episodes of the fugue, Bach generated
more irregular types of containment and trans­
lation by means of extension. For instance,
in the fugue, the “dissonant” phrasing of the
middle section is represented by the non-​duple,
non-​integer, constituent relation ( +0, × 2 1 6 ) .
This results from extension of the countersub­
ject-​
based episodes, specifically by repeating
the last half-​measure of their melodic patterns.
In terms of timespan intervals, the process
breaks down into (1)  containment of a final
timespan, (2) projection, and (3) combination.
Specifically:
( + 5 6 , × 1 6 ) ° ( +1, × 1) = ( +1, × 1 6 )
and
comb( +1, × 1 6 ) = ( +0, × 1 1 6 ).
The episode then combines with the subject by
projection:
( +1, × 1) ° ( +0, × 1 1 6 ) = ( +1, × 1 1 6 )
and
comb( +1, × 1 1 6 ) = ( +0, × 2 1 6 ).
In general, then, extension is a special case of
initial constituent ( +0, × m), where 1 < m < 2. The
non-​integer value of m is significant, however,
because it implies irregularity. Also, the means
of constructing an extension, by projecting
a portion of the timespan, is also important
to the musical sense of the term. Although
4. The criterion applied here is that of regularity in rhythmic structure, discussed in connection with projection in section
1.3 and also in Ch. 6. Haydn’s repetition of the half-​measure motive before proceeding to the quarter-​note fragmentation is
important to this effect.
114 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
extensions will always involve a timespan interval
like ( +0, × m) with 1 < m < 2 , not all timespan
intervals of that form are necessarily associated
with extensions, as we will see in Section 5.4.
The extensions that Bach uses to expand
phrases in the fugue are closely related to
the technique of fragmentation, typical of
eighteenth-​century thematic design (see Caplin
1998, 10–​11, and Chapter  3 above). A  nice ex­
ample is the main theme of Haydn’s late E♭
major Piano Sonata (H.52) (Ex. 5.4). Beginning
from a single two-​measure phrase, Haydn sys­
tematically truncates the phase by projecting
successive shorter bits of material from the end.
Though the process is very similar to what we
observed in Bach’s episodes, it serves the oppo­
site purpose of defining metrical layers instead
of subverting them. The assertive rhythm of
the first phrase has holes in its meter: it clearly
articulates a regular series of half-​note spans,
but the quarter-​note spans occur only in broken
series, and eighth-​note spans do not occur at
all. (Compare the example from Haydn’s H.  21
Sonata of 1773 in §1.4.) The process of fragmen­
tation gradually fills in these holes. The first frag­
mentation extends the two-​measure phrase by
one measure, which corresponds to a rhythmic
extension. However, as the process continues,
truncating the idea to a half-​measure, then to a
single quarter-​note beat, the rhythmic structure
subsumes the process so that the extensions no
longer create irregularities in it. Instead, the
fragmented timespans articulate progressively
lower levels of the meter.4 The process traverses
the mostly regular rhythmic hierarchy, drawing
the lis­tener’s attention to each of its layers in
turn, from the declarative initial two-​measure
phrase to the cascade of sixteenth notes. The
effect is a metrical analogue of the old-​fashioned
harmonic trope Haydn uses in measures 1–​2,
♭
I8–​7–​IV–​V7–​I over a tonic pedal, establishing the
meter by touring the metrical levels within a
stable framework, the way the progression tours
the harmonic stations of the key over a stable
pedal point.
5.3 HYPERMETRICAL
HEMIOLA IN A BACH
PRELUDE
Because they do not rely upon any absolute
unit of measurement for duration, the dis­
tinctive feature of timespan intervals is their
relativism to scale. The same transformations
operate proportionally on both large-​and
small-​ scale relationships. This makes them
particularly apt for describing hierarchies of
timespans. They can also reveal parallelisms
that occur at different time scales, as in the
following example, the F major Prelude from
WTC I (Ex. 5.5). The Prelude is based on a persis­
tent half-​measure melodic idea, in an unremit­
ting flow of sixteenth notes. The idea appears
in every half-​measure of the piece, from be­
ginning to end, passed between the right and
left hand.
The first two measures define a pure-​duple
hierarchical arrangement of timespans while
articulating the conventional key-​defining har­
monic progression for preludes. The timespans
are defined by repetition of rhythm and
contour—​ the characteristic melodic idea in
the right hand at the half-​measure level, and
the left-​hand eighth-​note rhythm at the one-​
measure level. The timespans arranged in such
a hierarchy can be generated by just two opera­
tions: projection, ( +1, × 1), and its combination
( +0, × 2). These are shown in the Example 5.5(b),
which consolidates the structural network of
5.5(a) and shows various timespan intervals
in it. The entire hierarchy of timespans from
measures 1–​2 projects to measures 3–​4. The
second phrase articulates half-​ measures by
passing the idea back and forth between parts
and articulates one-​measure spans with the as­
cending harmonic sequence.
Bach uses exchange of parts again in meas­
ures 5–​7, but at a different rate of 1 1 2 meas­
ures. Timespans of this length do not occur in
the kind of simple duple hierarchy established
in measures 1–​ 4. They require an extension-​
by-​half, ( +0, × 1 1 2 ) , applied at the one-​measure
level. As in the previous examples, we can under­
stand this as a combination of the timespan with
the projection of a final containment:
( + 1 2 , × 1 2 ) ° ( +1, × 1) = ( +1, × 1 2 )
comb( +1, × 1 2 ) = ( +0, × 1 1 2 ).
After this extension, the higher levels of struc­
ture are made up of the exact same transforma­
tions as those in measures 1–​2 and 3–​4. This,
again, is the special feature of timespan trans­
formations; because they operate independently
of any absolute durational reference point, such
an expanded structure can be built from the
exact same operations.
Notice that the extension in measures 5–​6
operates on a one-​measure timespan, which
is expected because of its projection from
the previous pattern. When the projection
and extension are composed into a single
timespan relationship, we get an extended
projection:
( +1, × 1) ° ( +0, × 1 1 2 ) = ( +1, × 1 1 2 ).
Because of the way that timespan transforma­
tions scale, this same operation relates measures
3–​4 to measures 5–​7 both at the one-​measure
and at the two-​measure level. The extended pro­
jection is a new type of timespan interval, a kind
of lengthened projection:
• Lengthened projection: ( +1, × m), with m> 1
In measure 8, Bach reverts to the pattern
of measures 1–​ 2, passing the characteristic
melodic idea into the right hand for one full
measure. This removal of the half-​measure ex­
tension is specified by another type of transfor­
mation, a truncated projection, ( +1, × 2 3 ). It can
be decomposed in a similar way, into a projection
and an initial-​containment:
( +1, × 1) ° ( +0, × 2 3 ) = ( +1, × 2 3 ).
The projection in the first part of this equation
does not actually exist in the music; it is the
Timespan Intervals • 115
EXAMPLE 5.5  (a) J.S. Bach’s Prelude in F major from WTC I, (b) hypermetrical analysis
(a)

116 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
EXAMPLE 5.5 Continued
(b)

timespan that would be expected as a continu­ examination, the structural parallel is also
ation of the preceding pattern. The musical se­ expressed in the harmony:  in measures 5–​6 a
mantics of the equation, then, is that the real descending fifths sequence modulates from the
timespan is the truncation (contained within, as home key to the relative minor, and in meas­
an initial) of the expected one. Truncated projec­ ures 6–​7 and measure 8 there is a progression
tion is a kind of shortened projection: that confirms D minor. Similarly, measures 11–​
13 have a continuous descending fifths pattern
• Shortened projection: ( +1, × m), with m< 1 that modulates from G minor back to the home
key, and measures 14–​16 and 17–​18 are an ex­
In measures 9–​10, the textural pattern of panded harmonic confirmation of the home key,
measures 3–​4 reappears, now composed as a F major. (The harmonic design of the entire pre­
chromatic descending sequence rather than an lude is interesting for its neglect of the usual sec­
ascending one. This leads once again into the ondary key, C major, which occurs nowhere as
1 1 2-​measure alternation of hands (as in mm. even a transitory key area.)
5–​7), now continuing for a total of six measures, The entire miniature drama of the pre­
measures 11–​16, with long trills inserted to lude, thus, is based primarily on the inter­
heighten the suspense (when will hypermetrical action of hypermetrical structures, which is
normalcy return?). In the peroration of the neatly expressed by the essential timespan
metrical narrative (mm. 14–​16), the extended transformations. The exposition establishes
rolling arch in the right hand, the longest con­ the basic conflict with the expanded projec­
tinuous string of sixteenth-​notes in one hand, tion ( +1, × 1 1 2 ) applied at multiple levels, then
peaks at the high note of the prelude in measure resolves the conflict temporarily with the
15. Then the left hand joins the right, playing contracted projection ( +1, × 2 3 ). This provisional
the characteristic idea for the first time simul­ resolution occurs in coordination with the con­
taneously in both parts. This brief moment of firmation of the secondary key of D minor. As
togetherness leads into a valedictory two meas­ a resolution of hypermetrical conflict, measure
ures of normal duple organization in measures 8 is imperfect, because it only restores half of
17–​18. The sense of return is reinforced by the the structure laid out in measures 1–​ 2. The
return of the home-​key confirming harmonic drama is therefore only completed when the en­
progression of measures 1–​ 2 (without pedal tire process—​friction introduced by ( +1, × 1 1 2 )
point). resolved by the action of ( +1, × 2 3 )—​plays out
Spelling out this hypermetrical plan in on an expanded time scale, so that the reso­
timespan intervals reveals an interesting fea­ lution brings back the complete structure of
ture of the passage from measure 11 to the measures 1–​2. This resolution is perfectly co­
end:  it is an expanded version of the structure ordinated with the reestablishment and confir­
in measures 5–​8. This can be seen in Example mation of the home key. Bach’s Prelude is thus a
5.6. The network of timespan intervals in the miniature version of the famous hypermetrical
middle appears in both passages, at the one-​ drama of the Scherzo in Beethoven’s Ninth
measure level in measures 5–​8 and at the two-​ Symphony, evocatively described by Cohn
measure level in measures 11–​18. Upon closer (1992a). In fact, we could summarize Bach’s

Timespan Intervals • 117
EXAMPLE 5.6  Common timespan structures at different levels in the Prelude

EXAMPLE  5.7  (a)  A  ski-​ hill graph for the
Prelude, after Cohn 2001, (b) three possible metric
states, the extreme two of which are realized in
the Prelude as consonant (mostly duple) and dis­
sonant (mixed duple and triple) states
(a)
design at a broad level using Cohn’s (2001)
ski-​hill graphs and metrical spaces, as shown
in Example 5.7.5 This shows that Bach’s “con­
sonant” and “dissonant” hypermeters are re­
lated by double hemiola, which corresponds to
the application of extended projection, the
( +1, × 1 1 2 ) transformation, at two levels of
rhythmic structure.

5.4 TRANSFORMATIONS
OF RHYTHMIC
STRUCTURES
The kind of hemiolic interplay observed in
(b) Bach’s F major Prelude above can also occur at
the metrical level, as illustrated in the theme
of Beethoven’s “Ghost” Trio, op.  70, no.  1 (Ex.
5.8). This is an instance of what eighteenth-​cen­
tury theorists refer to as “imbroglio” (see Mirka
2009, 135–​151). In Beethoven’s theme, meas­
ures 2–​3 would more be more accurately notated
as a single measure of 3@, revealing that this five-​
measure phrase is really a four-​measure phrase
with one expanded measure—​note, for instance,

5. Cohn’s examples always involve a single common maximum duration, which would be six measures in this case,
misleadingly implying that the two-​measure units of the duple hypermeter should be grouped in threes at the next level
up. Ex. 5.7 uses an incomplete ski-​hill graph and metric space to avoid asserting a spurious six-​measure duration, similar
to Malin’s (2010) practice. The problem could also be addressed by using Murphy’s (2009) “metric cubes,” which generalize
Cohn’s spaces. Chung (2008) has applied Cohn’s metric spaces to hypermeter and also absorbed them into a larger
transformational system that also includes metric displacements. Using Chung’s system we could distinguish the hypermetric
augmentations operative in this analysis from hemiola, which he generalizes as a “grouping” operation. Although Chung uses
Lewin’s GIS and transformational network formalisms, it is noteworthy that he does not make reference to Lewin’s timespan
GIS, even though the interval group for his “semi-​meters” is derivable as a direct product of the timespan group with the
integers under multiplication.

118 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
EXAMPLE 5.8 Mixture of meters in Beethoven’s Piano Trio, op. 70/​1 (“Ghost”), mm. 1–​5
that the C♯ on the downbeat of measure 3 should
not be on a strong beat because it is not part of
the tonic arpeggiation that is the tonal basis
of the phrase. The metrical disruption of the
main theme reverberates throughout the work,
particularly at the end of the development,
which features a counterpoint of the alternate
meter of the main theme and another alter­
nate meter suggested in the subordinate theme.
Krebs (1994) discusses the narrative of metrical
dissonances in this work in depth. The interpre­
tation of the main theme in Example 5.8, how­
ever, is slightly different than Krebs’s:  it shows
a mixture of meters in one hierarchy, whereas
for Krebs the example features an interaction of
two simultaneous metrical layers, one of which
is “submerged” in measures 2–​3. Krebs’s idea
of metrical dissonance is discussed at greater
length in Chapter 8.
Example 5.8 shows some timespan intervals
between nearby elements of the rhythmic struc­
ture, many of which are worthy of mention. The
projections of half-​note spans that create the
imbroglio in measures 2–​3 actually begin from
a front-​weighted measure 1 (𝅘𝅥  +  𝅗𝅥). The met­
rical disturbance is resolved by expanding the
projected half-​note span in measure 4. Measures
2–​3 are also an augmentation of a single
measure, shown by the expanded projection
( +1, × 2). A less obvious correspondence shown
by the timespan intervals is that the structure
within measure 1—​the ( +1, × 2) and ( +0, × 3)
from the initial 𝅘𝅥 timespan—​is embedded within
the same structure in measures 1–​3, where the
first measure relates to the next two by ( +1, × 2)
and to the larger span by ( +0, × 3).
Example  5.8 shows a lot of timespan
intervals, but they are only a sampling of the
total timespan-​interval picture of the rhythmic
structure. To show them all would be unman­
ageable, but fortunately the highly regulated
organization of a rhythmic structure allows
for a simple summary, as shown in the net­
work at the bottom, from which any indi­
vidual timespan intervals can be inferred.
The ratios relate the relative durations at the
bottom of the triangle, from left to right.
So the 1:2 in measure 1 means that the
measure is divided 𝅘𝅥 /​ 𝅗𝅥 (where 𝅘𝅥 is 1 and 𝅗𝅥 is 2),
and the 1:2 in measures 1–​3 show that this
three-​measure unit divides the same way, 𝅝 /​ 𝅜 at
a higher level. Where no ratio is written, the
value is 1:1, meaning the span is divided evenly.
The ratios can be translated into timespan
intervals by simple formulas. For adjacent
timespans, left to right, the ratio a:b becomes
the interval ( +1, × b a ) . The initial-​constituent
interval that goes up to the next level of the
hierarchy is ( +0, × ( b a + 1)) . In Beethoven’s
melody, the two places with 1:2 ratios show
similar front-​ weighted triple structures,
one nested within the other. At the end of
the melody (m. 4)  the more stable  2:1 struc­
ture appears at the one-​ measure level,
counterbalancing the 1:2 division of measure 1.
The expanded measure (mm. 2–​3) also adopts
the more stable  2:1 grouping essentially by
default because there is nothing to suggest a
1:2 grouping.
The theory of rhythmic structure devel­
oped in Chapter  1 motivated a number of
transformations on rhythms that preserve
the form of a rhythm’s structure. We can now
use timespan intervals to define these more
precisely.
The transformations described in Chapter 1—​
swing, squeeze, meter change, syncopation—​
can actually be constructed out of just one basic
Timespan Intervals • 119
EXAMPLE 5.9  (a) The first two measures of the main theme melody of Haydn’s Symphony no. 104
with a normalized rhythm, and the following transformations applied to it: (b) a simple contraction,
(c) a meter change, (d) a syncopation, (e) a swing, and (f) another swing
(a) (b)
(d) (e)
type:  expansion/​contraction. A  simple expansion
or contraction changes the size of one timespan
in the hierarchy relative to all others, except
those hierarchically below it. Example 5.9(a)–​(b)
shows how a simple contraction affects the
timespan-​ interval makeup of a hierarchy,
using the familiar London Symphony theme
from Chapter  1 with a normalized rhythm
(see Exx. 1.2 and 1.3). As this example makes
clear, the contraction is disruptive, its irregu­
larity reverberating upward through the entire
hierarchy.
At the hypermetrical level, where the ex­
panded timespan would already be at or near the
top of the structure, these upward reverberations
are not a problem. But the expansion would also
act like a tempo change to all the structure below
it, disrupting the projections into and out of
the affected hypermetrical span. Therefore, the
preferred operation at higher metrical levels is
extension/​truncation, which adds (or removes)
structure below to compensate for the change
in the timespan above. We have seen many
examples of extensions at hypermetrical levels
in the previous examples of this chapter (Bach
F minor Fugue episode, Ex. 5.3; Haydn E♭ major
Piano Sonata main theme, Ex. 5.4; Bach F major
Prelude, Ex. 5.5). As an operation, however, ex­
tension affects the shape of the hierarchy, not
just the durations of its timespans, so it is not a
way of relating rhythms within a class, which was
the purpose of the transformations introduced
in Chapter 1.
120 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
(c)
(f)
EXAMPLE 5.10  Two ways that an expansion or
contraction can propagate upward in a network
This distinction between expansion and ex­
tension is not a property of individual timespan
intervals. In the analysis of Bach’s F major Prelude
above we constructed an extended projection,
( +1, × 1 1 2 ), but the same interval could describe
an expanded projection. This would suggest some­
thing musically more radical, a change in the meter
carrying through all the lower levels (so that the
figures become , etc.). In other words,
extension and expansion, properly speaking, are
kinds of transformations of timespan hierarchies.
As timespan intervals, lengthened projections are
created by both.
Since expansions and contractions are the
building blocks of all the transformations from
Chapter 1, we should first understand how these
affect the timespan ratios of the hierarchy. This
can be addressed by propagating the distur­
bance created by the expansion or contraction
upward in the network. There are two possible
situations, diagrammed in Example 5.10: prop­
agation up and to the right, or up and to the
left. The change of the lower ratio effects a
proportional change, p, of the upper ratio,
applied to the left or right side of the ratio as
shown in the example. The proportional change
p can then be determined by the following
formulas,
The second method, syncopation, pairs an
expansion with a compensating contraction
elsewhere in the hierarchy. At their first shared
parent timespan above, the effects of the expan­
sion and contraction cancel one another out.
The result is that all the timepoints between

(1)  p =
( b ′ / a′ + 1 )
( b / a + 1)
or
(2)  p =
( c ′ / d ′ + 1)
( c / d + 1)
for a change of ratio on the left a : b → a′ : b′ or
on the right c : d → c ′ : d ′.
For instance, in Example 5.9(b), a contraction
on the right turns 1:1 into 2:1, so using (1)
p = ( 1 / 2 + 1 ) / ( 1 + 1 ) = 3 / 4.
This is multiplied to the next a up, so that
1 : 1 → (3 / 4 ) : 1 = 3 : 4. This contraction comes
from the left, so we use (2) for the next step up:
p = (3 / 4 + 1) / (1 + 1) = 7 / 8
Which is then multiplied by b, turning 1:1 into  formulas (1) and (2). Syncopation is discussed at
1 : (7 8 ) = 8 : 7.
At the metrical level, isolated expansions
like the one in Example  5.9(b) are clearly not
stylistically admissible for music of the eight­
eenth or nineteenth centuries.6 To make more
idiomatic rhythms, there must be some way of
containing this propagation of irregularity to
the upper levels of the rhythmic structure. There
are three ways this can be done by including one
or more additional expansion or contraction.
One method creates a meter change, another a
syncopation, and the third a swing or squeeze
transformation.
The first method, meter change, uniformly
applies the same expansion or contraction
across all timespans at a certain level, as in
Example  5.9(c). At the point in the structure
where two such expansions or contractions
meet, they affect two adjacent timespans by the
same amount, preserving their 1:1 relationship.
the expansion and contraction shift by a small
uniform amount. Freely defined this way, how­
ever, syncopations can introduce new projec­
tion relationships that would suggest a different
rhythmic structure. We can stipulate two well-​
formedness conditions on syncopations to
prevent this:  (1) the expansion of a timespan
cannot be by the same factor (proportionally) as
a subdivision of the same timespan. For instance
a 𝅘𝅥 timespan subdivided by 2 into can be
expanded by an 𝅘𝅥𝅮, a factor of 3/2 ​, resulting in
a rhythm. But it cannot be expanded by a 𝅘𝅥,
a factor of 2, which would result in a 𝅘𝅥 𝅘𝅥 rhythm.
(2) The absolute size of the expansion and con­
traction must be strictly smaller than any
timespans between the expanded and contracted
ones in the rhythm, and no larger than the af­
fected timespans themselves. Example  5.9(d)
shows a syncopation in two stages. The reader
may want to work out how the compensating
contraction cancels out the expansion using
greater length in Chapter 8.
The third method, swing/​squeeze, involves
simply applying a compensating contraction
directly along the chain of timespans affected
by an expansion lower down in the structure.
Swing/​squeeze is similar to syncopation, but
where syncopation is constrained to involve
relatively small expansions and contractions,
swing/​squeeze involves very large ones. The
constraint instead is that the compensating con­
traction of a swing or squeeze be a simple pro­
portional change. Examples 5.9(e) and (f) show
two swing transformations to the rhythm of
(a). The first produces the correct rhythm of
Haydn’s theme. The expansion of 1:1 to 5:1 at
the beginning of the measure results in a 1:2
after it is transferred up two levels. Changing
this back to 1:1 involves a simple proportional
change (halving the duration of the measure)
normalizing the meter at the measure level and

6. They do become part of a twentieth-​century rhythmic language, most influentially in Stravinsky’s Petrouchka (1911)
and Rite of Spring (1913), but also in earlier works of Bartók such as the Suite for Small Orchestra op. 3 (1905), fifth movement.
Messiaen (1956, chs. 1–​4) explains such a rhythmic practice by means of the “added value.” He also describes such rhythms as
non-​metrical. Even if they are non-​metrical, though, they can still have rhythmic structure governed by metric principles, as
do irregular hypermeters in tonal music. There is a wealth of research on the metrical status of Stravinsky’s irregular rhythms,
e.g. Horlacher 1995, Woodruff 2006, Code 2007.

Timespan Intervals • 121
EXAMPLE  5.11  The rhythm of mm. 1–​5 of Beethoven’s “Ghost” trio, derived from a normative
rhythm through three operations

giving the swung rhythm. Example 5.9(f) is an­
other swing involving a slightly more complex
proportional contraction (2/3​), and a much less
likely, but still plausible, rhythm (the same as in
Ex. 1.4(b)).
As discussed in Chapter  1, these trans­
formations can be used to derive a rhythm
with a given structure from its normative duple
one. The theme of the “Ghost” Trio (Ex. 5.8) is
an enlightening if somewhat unusual example.
Example 5.11 shows the rhythmic structure
(down to the half-​note level) with variables for
each ratio. Below are the rhythms that result at
each stage of derivation and the corresponding
changes in the ratios. The first transformation
puts the music in 3$. The second transforma­
tion is a squeeze of the simplest type, where the
contracted span is at the next level above the ex­
panded one in the structure. 7 (The components
of this transformation are an expansion of the
timespan to the right below r1 by 4, and a con­
traction of the next timespan up by 2.) The last
transformation is exceptional:  a hypermetrical
irregularity is created by an expansion, not
an extension. As a simple expansion, with no
compensating contractions, this irregularity
persists to the highest levels of structure.
The “Ghost” Trio is an extraordinary (though
by no means isolated) early nineteenth-​century
example of a true mixture of meters, meaning
an alternation of meters that both occur within
the same larger rhythmic structure. The tech­
nique is notationally constrained:  Beethoven
has to fake his 3@ meter in two measures of
3$to avoid notating the switch. The use of a
simple expansion in its derivation reflects
its atypicality, because this expansion lacks
a balancing contraction that would normally
regularize the measure level of the rhythmic
structure.

7. Note that the 3/​4 meter could be defined uniformly as a “sarabande” 3/​4 by applying the meter change operation
differently. In other words, the transformational approach dictates that there are two distinct types of 3/​4 meter. The squeeze
transformation is necessary where the 𝅘𝅥 𝅗𝅥 division is a deviation from the prevailing pattern, though.

122 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
 6
Hypermeter
6.1 HYPERMETER
IN THE EYE OF THE
BEHOLDER
Edward Cone coined the term “hypermeasure” in
a 1968 essay to make an analogy between beats
in a measure and measures within a phrase.1 The
analogy itself was not new; Gottfried Weber, for
instance, had, over a century earlier, referred to
it as the “higher rhythm” (“Höhere Rhythmen”).2
Yet Cone’s term stuck and a robust body of theo­
retical literature has grown under its banner. The
idea of hypermeter certainly appeals to widely
held intuitions about the rhythmic organization
of tonal music at the level of phrase and has led
to numerous insightful analyses of individual
works. At the same time, however, the con­
cept of hypermeter seems to change its colors
depending on the analytical situation, coming
1. Cone 1968, 39–​42.
2. Weber 1830, 109–​11; 1851, 85–​8. For more on this history see Grant 2015, 209–​22.
3. See, in particular, his analysis of Beethoven’s op. 59 no. 3 String Quartet in Ex. 148/​2.
to mean different things to different people. This
suggests that the analogy, if productive, is nev­
ertheless potentially deceiving.
One body of thought about hypermeter,
represented by Schachter (1976, 1980, 1987b),
Yeston (1976), Rothstein (1981, 1989, 1995), and
Samarotto (1999a–​b), takes Schenker’s theory
of hypermeter as its starting point. Schenker’s
discussions of rhythm are focused on using
middleground tonal structures as a basis for
claims about rhythmic organization. As a result,
his conception of large-​scale rhythmic organiza­
tion is quite different from most other theories
of hypermeter, because he treats symmetry and
regularity, which are fundamental to the con­
cept of meter, as inessential. This is evident
in his analyses that show large hypermetrical
expansions which create marked irregularities
([1935] 1979, 124–​5; [1925] 1994–​7, 68–​9).3
 • 123
Samarotto (1999a) develops this concept of un­
bounded rhythmic expansion into a theory of
“temporal plasticity,” referring to it as “one of
Schenker’s most important and most charac­
teristic contributions to the analysis of rhythm
in tonal music” (66). Schachter and Rothstein
have helped to clarify the relationship between
tonal structure and hypermeter with Schachter’s
(1979) distinction between “tonal rhythm” and
“durational rhythm” and Rothstein’s (1989), be­
tween phrasing and hypermeter, and “surface”
versus “underlying” hypermeter.4
Another approach to hypermeter is rep­
resented by Benjamin (1984), Kramer (1988),
Temperley (2003, 2008), and Ng (2012). These
authors all share a concern for distinguishing
hypermeter from what Lerdahl and Jackendoff
(1983) refer to as “grouping.” Temperley in par­
ticular has proposed an informative theory of
theme types by exploring the ways hypermeter
and grouping interact in different formal
situations. Such advances would not be possible
without treating regularity as an essential fea­
ture of hypermeter. From this perspective the
extreme irregularities that appear in some of
Schenker’s hypermetrical analyses are unthink­
able. Those theorists, such as Lester (1986),
Lerdahl and Jackendoff, Temperley, and London
(2012), who understand hypermeter as a form
of entrainment behavior, like meter but at larger
timescales, are the most skeptical of extending
the notion much beyond the two-​measure level,
and do not admit of irregularities except in the
form of hypermetrical transitions, where one
hypermetrical pattern disappears and a new one
is established. Psychological research supports
the idea that entrainment to a steady pulse does
not occur for very slow periods, such as might
be represented by four-​measure units at an only
moderately fast tempo. (London 2012, 27–​30)
These differences clearly stem in large part
from semantics—​theorists simply mean different
things, sometimes very different things, by
“hypermeter”—​making it difficult to sort out
where the more substantive disagreements lie,
because surely there are some of those also. The
situation calls for any study to take extra care
in defining what hypermeter is and what it is
not. Schenkerian theorists, who are typically
interested in how rhythmic and tonal structure
interact, often use hypermeter to refer to what
4. The latter distinction is derived from Schenker’s analyses in Der Freie Satz Fig. 148, although Schenker does not limit
himself to two levels of metric prototype (see, for instance, his Ex. 3).
124 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
other theorists call grouping. To those whose
purpose is showing how meter and grouping in­
teract, the importance of regularity to the defi­
nition of meter is essential. Most hypermetrical
analyses that go beyond the two-​ measure
level (such as those in Kramer 1988) rely upon
features of grouping to substantiate the higher
levels of hypermeter. Yet, the compulsion to go
one step further, to the four-​measure level, is
strong, because of the Classical norm of four-​
measure phrasing. The four-​measure unit, not
by accident, is the basic referential object of
theories from Koch’s ([1872] 1983) and Reicha’s
([1814] 2000)  to Riemann’s (1903, 1912)  to
Rothstein’s (1989).
Persistent disagreements over how to de­
fine hypermeter points to underlying flaws in
Cone’s original analogy. One shortcoming of the
analogy is obvious:  hypermeter is unnotated.
In a sense, this is inessential, an accidental fact
of the conventions of musical notation. For in­
stance, the use of double measures in, for ex­
ample, many of Beethoven’s scherzos, where
two notated measures of 3$may stand for a real
measure of 6$, seems to be a mere bow to a no­
tational convention. However, this notational
choice may have significant consequences, as
we will see in the analysis of the scherzo from
Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony in Section 8.4.
The fact that the true measures of the piece are
unnotated gives Beethoven the flexibility to re­
define and create ambiguities about where the
true downbeats fall. Without this freedom, the
central strategy behind the composition would
be impossible to realize—​not only because fre­
quent changes of meter would have been un­
acceptable to contemporary performers, but
because notating a single interpretation of the
true meter (particularly if there were time sig­
nature changes drawing special attention to that
interpretation) would constitute an instruction
to performers, upsetting the balance between
competing metrical orientations.
The same is true, to a greater degree, about
larger-​scale hypermetrical schemes. Irregularity
and ambiguity, which appear only rarely at the
metrical level in tonal music, are a persistent fea­
ture of hypermeter, and are a primary source of
disagreements about hypermeter. Disagreement
about meter is only possible where composers
deliberately notate the true meter incorrectly,
which is certainly not uncommon in the Classical
repertoire. (Mirka 2009 describes numerous
kinds of incorrectly notated meter in Haydn and
Mozart.) Yet such metrical strategies are neces­
sarily limited in the eighteenth and most of the
nineteenth century by the fact the composer
must eventually realign the true meter and the
notated meter without resorting to changes of
time signature.
There is also a qualitative difference be­
tween meter and hypermeter, which is that at
metrical levels a listener can directly synchro­
nize a pattern of expectancy to regular events,
while at hypermetrical levels such entrain­
ment is usually weak or non-​existent, making
rhythmic regularity much more tenacious at
the metrical level (see London 2012). This
influences the criteria for hypermetrical anal­
ysis described in the next section, which are
different than the metrical criteria described
in Chapter 1. Brower’s (1997) valuable critique
of hierarchical theories of deep metrical struc­
ture relates these differences to the distinction
between echoic and working memory. Brower’s
distinction explains why we are unlikely to ex­
perience levels of temporal organization that
exceed working memory, her “background
rhythmic structure,” as metrical. Accordingly,
the hypermetrical analyses below are limited
usually to the four-​measure, occasionally the
eight-​measure level. Deeper levels of rhythmic
structure are theoretically possible, but un­
likely to be aesthetically relevant.
The questions of what it is hypermeter and
whether it exists have typically been approached
by modern theorists as a question about
hypermetrical accent.5 When Cone (1968) coined
the term he was responding to the theory of
large-​scale rhythm proposed by Cooper and
Meyer (1960) who, in attempting to draw an
elaborate analogy with poetic meter, frame their
theory in terms of patterns of accentuation.
Also, because Cone’s book was intended spe­
cifically to address the question of how music
should be performed, it made sense to approach
the topic as a question of accentuation, some­
thing over which the performer has direct con­
trol. Weber (1830, 1851), on the other hand,
introduces his idea of “higher rhythm” as a kind
of grouping of measures. As we will see, Weber’s
way of thinking clarifies some vexing problems
that have clung to the theory of hypermeter as
5. E.g., Lerdahl and Jackendoff 1983, Berry 1985, 1987, Lester 1986, Kramer 1988, Temperley 2003.
an inheritance of Cooper and Meyer’s and Cone’s
concerns about musical iambs and trochees.
Cooper and Meyer and Cone have been re­
peatedly criticized (e.g., in Schachter 1976,
Lerdahl and Jackendoff 1977 and 1983, Kramer
1988)  for counterintuitively attributing stress
levels to timespans rather than timepoints.
Yet it remains misleading to reduce meter to
patterns of stress even when one shifts focus
from timespans to timepoints. For example, two
of the principal determinants of a meter that
are especially important at the hypermetrical
level are “agogic accent” and parallelism. Both of
these are retrospective and involve timespans,
unlike the phenomena usually evoked by the
term “accent,” like dynamic accent, which are
immediate acoustical properties associated with
timepoints. (Cf. §1.2 and Zuckerkandl 1956,
163–​6.) Conflating such very different kinds of
temporal phenomena leads to a great deal of po­
tential confusion.
This danger is particularly apparent in the
persistent dispute over what is the normative
accent pattern of four-​bar hypermeasures, de­
tailed by Kramer (1988) and Temperley (2003).
In addition to the pattern where hypermeter
reflects the accent pattern of 4/​4 meter (`˘`˘),
earlier authors proposed ˘`˘` (Riemann 1903,
1912, Komar 1971)  and `˘˘` (Cone 1968)  in
order to claim that cadences are normatively
accented in the fourth bar of a hypermeasure.
As Kramer points out, these proposals stem
from a confusion of metric “accent” with other
types of accent. The arrival at a cadential tonic
is a moment that is indeed “marked for the
consciousness,” as per Cooper and Meyer’s def­
inition of musical accent (8). The same can be
said for the timepoints that initiate major units
of rhythmic structure:  they are marked in the
sense that they are essential to defining the
rhythmic structure. However, they are marked
in very different ways and for very different
reasons—​one is tonal and associated with an
ending whereas the other is rhythmic and pri­
marily associated with beginnings.
The paradox evaporates when we avoid
rerouting reasoning about timespans, which are
the basic objects of tonal and rhythmic struc­
ture, through their attendant timepoints via a
reductive concept of accent. Since the cadence
is by definition a tonal and formal ending, the
normative alignment should be between the
Hypermeter • 125
ending of the tonal timespan and the ending of
the hypermetrical rhythmic timespan. This leads
to the rule of hypermetrical closure discussed
in the next chapter, which states that full clo­
sure requires the hypermetrical unit to conclude
with the tonic that completes the tonal and
formal processes. In other words, it is the end
of the timespan containing the final tonic that
should coincide with a strong hypermetrical po­
sition, not the beginning of it. This means that
the placement of a cadence in the fourth bar is
not an unfortunate “necessary . . . fact of tonal
music” (Rothstein 1995), but is exactly how
hypermeter logically ought to behave. In fact, as
we will find in the next chapter, placing caden­
tial resolutions outside the cadential timespan is
a common and important method of preventing
cadential closure (elided cadence).
6.2  SOME CRITERIA FOR
HYPERMETRICAL ANALYSES
To preserve the musical insights made from
all the different theoretical starting points
discussed above requires taking something of a
middle ground on the definition of hypermeter.
This is made possible by distinguishing rhythmic
structure from meter, and positing, as suggested
in Chapter 1, that rhythmic structure may exist
independently of meter, while at the same time
maintaining regularity as rhythmic structure’s
essential defining feature. Rhythmic structure
will then not admit of extreme irregularities at
the hypermetrical level, but will also typically be
not so persistently regular as it is at the met­
rical level, since hypermetrical levels are less
constrained by metrical entrainment and their
irregularities have relatively few upper levels
through which to propagate. While the criteria
for hypermetrical analysis will therefore not
look exactly like the ones used in Chapter  1
to infer meter the essential principles are the
same. In particular, the principle of projection
is a basic method of enforcing some degree of
regularity.
The criteria that I will use for hypermetrical
analyses here are similar, in broad outline, to
those used in previous discussions of the topic,
such as Temperley 2008 (who bases his criteria
on Lerdahl and Jackendoff 1983). The first prin­
ciple is uniformity:  as long as downbeats are
persistently articulated, a hypermetrical scheme
will tend to persist unless there is sufficient evi­
dence to the contrary. As in Chapter 1, following
Westergaard (1975), Hasty (1997), and Mirka
(2009), the concept of projection represents this
expectation of regularity. This criterion of uni­
formity distinguishes rhythmic structure from
structure in other modalities. As noted above,
much research on hypermeter has been focused
on its interaction with what is commonly called
“grouping,” which corresponds to what I  call
formal structure here (see Ch. 3). The problem
with using the term “grouping” for formal struc­
ture is that rhythmic structure is also a kind
of grouping.6 The distinction is not between
grouping and accent, but more precisely be­
tween grouping based on principles of regularity
(rhythm) and one based on the principles of rep­
etition and contrast (form).
Example 6.1 presents a simple thought exper­
iment to illustrate how regularity operates on a
rhythmic structure. In (a), the regularity of the
tonal pattern establishes a triple meter. In (b),
an extension within the first beat may not fun­
damentally alter the rhythmic grouping except
to introduce an irregularity within it. However,
a slightly larger extension, as in (c), reorients the
tonal and the rhythmic pattern. Analogously, the
expansion of a phrase by a small amount (e.g., an
added measure) might introduce an irregularity
into the hypermetrical pattern, but a larger ex­
pansion would simply change the level at which
hypermeter interfaces with the tonal and formal
processes. This is essential to what defines the
structure as belonging to the domain of rhythm.
Schenker’s ([1935] 1979, 118–​27) concept of
large-​scale rhythmic organization, because it
treats hypermetrical units as arbitrarily expand­
able, becomes a repackaging of elements of the
tonal structure when it departs from regularity

6. There is a subtle conceptual distinction here in that most theorists think of “grouping,” following Lerdahl and
Jackendoff (1983), as the grouping of musical events. All the forms of temporal hierarchy presented in Chapters 1–​3 are
groupings of timespans. As explained in Chapter 2, the distinction has foundational implications for the theory of tonal
structure, where events (musical notes) are fundamentally different objects than timespans (motions between notes). When
dealing with meter, the difference is mostly semantic, since there is a tendency to think of duration (a timespan) as a property
of musical events, even though it is really the space between timepoints. “Grouping” (formal structure), on the other hand,
involves both the tonal and rhythmic aspects of musical events, which leads to the confused idea of a grouping of musical
events whose tonal and rhythmic aspects are incompatible—​that is, when one is a kind of point (a pitch) while the other is
the space between points (a duration).

126 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
EXAMPLE 6.1  The role of regularity in the determination of rhythmic structure: (a) a simple three-​
beat pattern with a small extension in the first beat becomes (b) irregular without changing the struc­
ture, but (c)  a larger expansion rearranges the relationship between rhythmic structure and tonal
pattern to re-​establish metric regularity
(a) (b) (c)

in this way.7 As explained in Section 0.2, the
shortcoming of this approach is that it either
de-​emphasizes or delegitimizes interactions be­
tween hypermeter and tonal structure, which are
a significant aspect of tonal music.8 On the other
hand requiring perfect regularity of hypermeter
ignores the fact that even in ordinary meter such
regularity is often a fiction of symbolic music
notation.9
Example 6.2 compares the network nota­
tion for hypermeter as temporal hierarchy to
familiar situations encountered in Schenker’s
“measure counting” notation10 popularized
by Rothstein’s (1989) usage. A  simple one-​
measure expansion translates directly as in
(a). Larger expansions fall outside the realm of
rhythmic structure, because a larger expansion
will be taken up by a new metrical layer, as in
(c)  (which might refer, for instance, to a four-​
measure phrase extended through repetition of
a two-​measure cadence). The structure in (b)  is
therefore not possible as a rhythmic structure
because it is too uneven according to the rule of
regularity. In Chapter 13 we will see that the de­
gree of evenness of rhythmic structures can be
precisely defined. When number-​notation like
that of Example  6.2(b) appears in an analysis,
it usually reflects tonal/​formal structure rather
than metric structure in the sense proposed
here. Another common metric disruption is de-
letion, shown in Example  6.2(d), where the be­
ginning of a new large span interrupts the end
of another. This typically replaces the number-​
notation concept of “metrical reinterpreta­
tion” and is discussed further at the beginning
of Section 6.3 below. Another rarer situation
discussed by Rothstein (1989, 58–​63) is what he
calls “successive downbeats” (Ex. 6.2(e)).11 This
occurs when two successive measures both act as
beginnings, the first on the basis of a previously
established pattern, and the second for some
other reason, such as the initiation of a new
parallelism at the two-​measure level. The rele­
vant timespan hierarchy for such a situation is
an extended beginning, where the delay caused by
the late appearance of the parallelism is a prefix
extension. Examples of extended beginnings
appear in the analysis of Mozart’s G minor
Symphony in Section 7.2.
Based on the foregoing discussion, we can
frame the problem of inferring a hypermeter
as a two-​part process: (1) the establishment of
an initial pattern at the beginning of a piece
or after a long pause, and (2)  the continua­
tion or disruption of an already established
pattern. There will be distinct criteria for each

7. See the critique in Lester 1986, pp. 158–​9.

8. As noted above, Schenker’s interpreters have redressed much of this fault by theorizing distinctions between
tonal structure and hypermeter, as in Schachter’s (1976, 1987b) discussions of “tonal rhythm” and Rothstein’s (1989)
explanations of the difference between phrasing and hypermeter. However, both these authors endorse Schenker’s idea
of large hypermetrical expansions in certain instances, which throws into question the grounds upon which one defines a
hypermetric scheme if not by means of regularity. If it often conflicts with tonal structure, then how in other cases can it be
made highly irregular in order to bring it in line with tonal structure? The problem lies somewhere in the nebulous role that
formal structure plays in Schenker’s theory, because irregular hypermeter tends to occur in his analyses where both formal
and tonal groupings work in concert against the “surface hypermeter” defined in terms of surface regularity. See in particular
his analyses of Mozart’s Symphony no. 35 andante (Freie Satz, Ex. 148/​1), Symphony no. 40 ([1925] 1994–​7, 68–​9), and
Beethoven’s op. 28 Piano Sonata (Freie Satz, Ex. 148/​4).
9. Kramer (1988, 98–​102) makes this point quite persuasively. There is abundant empirical evidence that microtiming
in real performance is highly uneven, and that such unevenness is perceived as more correct by listeners than deadpan
(mathematically as notated) performances. See for example Sloboda 1983; Repp 1992a–​b, 1998a–​c, 1998a–​b; Windsor and
Clarke 1997.
10. See Schenker [1935] 1979, Fig. 148 and Schenker [1932] 1969. Schenker may have adapted this method from
Riemann. See, for example, Riemann 1912.
11. Only the situations Rothstein lists as (3) and (4) are relevant here, though.

Hypermeter • 127
EXAMPLE  6.2 A  comparison of Rothstein’s number notation and MOP notation for hypermetric
expansions and contractions. (a)  A  one-​measure expansion translates directly by replacing a one-​
measure span with a two measure span. (b) A larger expansion of the last measure creates a structure
that is too irregular to be metrical, but (c)  a two-​measure expansion is possible one level deeper in
the structure. (d)  Contractions of regular hypermeters are also possible by metrical deletion, which
corresponds to Rothstein’s “metrical reinterpretation.” (e) Rothstein’s “successive downbeats” may be
understood instead as extended beginnings.
(a) (b)

(c) (d)

(e)

of these, based on how the assumption of regu­
larity operates. In the establishment phase, we
may test multiple possible structures against
one another for which incorporates the most
robust set of projections. In the continuation
phase, we can ask a simpler question, whether
any change occurs in the music that is sufficient
to override an already established pattern. The
establishment of hypermeter often relies upon
the hanging span rule:  the tendency to avoid
long hanging timespans at the beginning of a
piece preceding the first larger hypermetrical
unit.12 This is essentially a reformulation of
Lerdahl and Jackendoff’s (1983, 76)  “strong
beat early” rule.
For locating disruptions of established
patterns, the most important criterion is par­
allelism. The immediate repetition of a distinc­
tive rhythm implies that (a) from the beginning
of this rhythm to the point of repetition should
be a hypermetrical timespan, and (b)  these
repetitions should be grouped into a larger
timespan if possible. When the timespan im­
plied by (a) does not fit into a preceding regular
pattern, an irregularity is introduced, resetting
the established pattern to fit the parallelism.
This rule follows from the idea of piggyback
projection described in Chapter  1:  when one
hypermetrical timespan projects onto another,
we also like it to carry its subordinate timespans
along with it. When a repeated (or approxi­
mately repeated) rhythm falls within one larger
hypermetrical timespan then the projection
of this larger timespan carries this distinctive
rhythm (in the form of subordinate timespans)
along with it. The second part of the rule, (b), is
a weaker criterion; it follows from the idea that
the stronger or more significant projections
should involve timespans that are more closely
related in the hierarchy.

12. We could formulate an analogous rule against hanging spans at endings, but it would be less important for inferring
hypermeter.

128 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
EXAMPLE 6.3  Haydn’s Symphony no. 43 (“Mercury”), mm. 1–​34
There are two nuances to the rule of paral­
lelism:  first, especially when surface rhythms
are relatively flat, other rhythms may be
inferred by isolating certain kinds of events,
such as bass notes, changes of harmony (har­
monic rhythm), turning points in melodic
contour, recurrences of a tonic note or tonic
harmony, and so on. Second, there is sometimes
an ambiguity about where a repeated pattern
actually begins. The preceding hypermeter
then determines the interpretation of the
parallelism, preventing the parallelism from
introducing irregularities.
The main theme of Haydn’s Symphony no. 43
(“Mercury”) illustrates both of these points
(Ex. 6.3). The first eight measures are quite un­
ambiguous in defining a pair of four measure
units by means of parallelism, with the four-​
measure spans additionally marked off by the
forte–​piano alternation. The following music
(mm. 9–​26) is remarkable in that it defines a
rather persistent triple hypermeter through par­
allelism. In measures 9–​14, the parallelism is
clear, even though the three-​measure ideas are
hypermetrically flat—​that is, they express the
same literal rhythm in each measure, whether
Hypermeter • 129
we focus on the melody (three slurred quarters
in each measure) or the bass/​harmonic rhythm
(𝅗𝅥 𝅘𝅥). However, other “rhythms” of the passage
show the parallelism (which is, after all, essen­
tially a literal repetition):  the peaks of melodic
contours (Gs), the recurrence of root position
tonic harmony, and the occurrences of all tonic
harmonies all define a distinctive three-​measure
rhythm. In the next twelve measures (15–​26),
the three-​ measure groups involve parallelism
in the literal melodic rhythms, although these
conflict with the hypermetrical implications
of the harmonic rhythm (which suggests three
two-​measure groups). While harmonic rhythm
may drive the hypermetrical analysis in places
like measure 9–​14 where the literal rhythms
are equivocal, the surface rhythms in meas­
ures 15–​ 20, due to their distinctive profile,
take precedence over more abstract harmonic
rhythm.13
Haydn’s use of a persistent triple hypermeter
in this theme also illustrates one of the im­
portant differences between hypermeter and
meter:  when a triple meter is established, we
strongly expect its continuation; any deviation
from it (to duple groupings) would constitute a
strong metric disruption. However, despite the
consistency of Haydn’s triple hypermeter, it
does not firmly root itself even if there is some
sense that the three-​measure timespans rein­
force one another. The return to a four-​measure
grouping in measures 27–​30 is less a disruption
of an established triple pattern than a return
to normalcy. In triple meter, the internal asym­
metry (the uneven 𝅗𝅥 𝅘𝅥 division of the measure)
is easily overridden by the entrainment to
downbeats. In triple hypermeter, the poten­
tial for the first two-​measure span to project
to another two-​ measure span may outweigh
the projections of the three-​measure spans no
matter how persistent the triple pattern is.14
The next eight measures of the “Mercury”
illustrate the second nuance to the rule of par­
allelism, the possible ambiguities of where a re­
peated pattern begins. Measures 27–​30 revert
to four-​measure hypermeter, which puts the ca­
dence in measures 30–​31 over a hypermetrical
boundary. The melodic rhythm of measure 31
is trivial (just a single 𝅗𝅥 .), so it could easily be
interpreted as the end of the preceding me­
lodic unit, which would mean a parallelism from
measures 32–​3 to 34–​5. However, measure 33
also happens to be the same as measure 31,
which means that a parallelism from measures
31–​2 to 33–​4 is also possible. The melodic idea
itself allows for both interpretations, so it is the
preceding context that dictates the hypermeter,
which groups measures 31–​ 2/​
33–​4. The am­
biguity prevents a shift of hypermeter at this
moment. It also means that the cadence of
Haydn’s main theme is elided—​that is, the ca­
dence resolves over a hypermetrical boundary.
This is a technique of avoiding closure:  the
tonic in measure 31 sounds like a beginning
rather than an ending. Chapter  7 explores this
technique in more depth, showing it to be an
important component of classical harmonic
and formal syntax. The main theme/​transition
juncture is one place where such techniques of
avoiding closure are useful, since it permits the
main theme to establish the home key with a
PAC, but prevents that PAC from interrupting
the musical flow so early in the exposition. The
next section of this chapter will illustrate an­
other related technique of avoiding closure in
the main theme that Haydn uses commonly in
symphonies, metric deletion.
The importance of parallelism to establishing
both hypermeter (by means of regularity) and
formal structure (by means of similarity, as
discussed in Ch. 3) means that these two kinds of
structure are habitually conflated at the phrase
level, as the example of the “Mercury” Symphony
illustrates. More specifically, repetition coordi­
nates the pacing of hypermeter and form at the
phrase level, but they still may be slightly out of
phase, because the formal timespans may not
line up squarely with downbeats. The shifting of
form in and out of phase with meter is an impor­
tant expressive tool:  note how Haydn’s change

13. This may also be understood as a counterpoint of rhythms, one of which is the surface rhythm and the other is an
abstract harmonic rhythm. In that case, there is a hypermetrical hemiola in these measures. (Thanks to an anonymous
reviewer for this suggestion.) As shown in Chapter 9, a complete description of such counterpoints includes not only the
relationship of individual structures to one another, but also to a combined structure that reconciles the parts. The analysis in
Ex. 6.3 represents such a reconciled structure.
14. This is not true of Beethoven’s ritmo di tre battute in the scherzo of the Ninth Symphony, but that is because the
notated measures of this piece are not true measures—​they act instead like beats in a shifting 6$–​9$meter. Rodgers (2011)
gives multiple examples of triple hypermeter in the songs of Fanny Hensel Mendelssohn, the expressive potential of which is
dependent upon the fact that, even when sustained over many measures, it never achieves the self-​perpetuating momentum
that would make a switch to duple sound like a disruption rather than a resolution.

130 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
from in-​phase in measures 1–​14 to out-​of-​phase,
formal units beginning on upbeats, in measures
14–​30 plays an important role in expressing the
contrast of affect from the assertive beginning
to the more delicate and lyrical second idea. Both
of these kinds of orientation, in-​phase and up­
beat, are common and comfortable, because the
hypermetrical span begins within, and near the
start of, the formal unit. Section 7.2 will con­
sider a more unusual and unstable out-​of-​phase
relationship between form and hypermeter,
afterbeat melodic ideas, and Mozart’s experi­
mentation with them.
After parallelism, the next important way that
irregularities may be introduced into hypermeter
is by means of harmonic rhythm. The harmonic
rhythm can itself be hypermetrical (harmonies
last for multiple measures), and in these
instances, the timespan of a harmony should be
part of the rhythmic structure, if possible. This
rule is important when irregularities occur near
cadences:  often the extended harmonies of the
cadential progression can introduce an irregu­
larity into the hypermeter. The rule can also be
broadened to apply to closely related harmonies,
such as those with the same bass note (e.g., IV
and ii6). There is an important caveat to this rule,
however, which is that it only applies to har­
monic timespans that are consistent with the
formal structure. So, for instance, if a phrase
ends with an authentic cadence and the following
phrase begins on the tonic, this does not consti­
tute a genuine harmonic timespan that would
influence the hypermeter. Similarly, at a more
local level, a presentation phrase may have a
progression (one chord per measure) like I–​V /​
V–​I: here the repetition of V does not influence
the hypermeter, because it crosses over a formal
boundary (between repetitions of the basic
idea). (It also conflicts with the implications of
parallelism.)
While the criteria for inferring a hypermeter
outlined here are similar to those proposed by
others, and therefore hypermetrical analyses
will tend to agree with those of Temperley,
London, Lerdahl, Benjamin, Kramer, and so on,
there are a couple important differences. First,
other theorists have typically stated criteria in
terms of whether events are heard as accented
or unaccented, whereas they are formulated
here as criteria for inclusion of timespans in
the rhythmic structure. These often amount to
the same practical result:  a rule that harmonic
change imparts accent, for example, tends
to result in the rhythmic grouping of single
harmonies. However, the difference of theoret­
ical grounding does sometimes lead to divergent
interpretations:  the rule that harmonic change
imparts accent, for instance, leads to the notion
that the arrival point of a cadence should have
some kind of hypermetrical accent associated
with it, because that makes it a stronger accent.
The timespan-​ based perspective, however,
suggests that when a cadential resolution occurs
over a significant hypermetrical boundary (i.e.,
has a strong hypermetrical accent) this leads the
final tonic of the cadence to become a beginning
of a new hypermetrical unit, preventing true clo­
sure. This is the elided cadence, illustrated in the
main theme of the “Mercury” symphony above
and discussed at length in the next chapter.
Second, treating hypermeter as an aspect
of rhythmic structure rather than an exten­
sion of meter has important implications.
First, rhythmic structures may incorporate
irregularities, unlike meter, which can only
dissolve and get re-​established. On the other
hand, rhythmic structures by definition do not
include imaginary timespans, whereas a metrical
layer may be supposed to persist, to some extent,
through unarticulated timepoints. In the rela­
tively rare case, then, that the composer leaves
a downbeat silent altogether, irregularity is nec­
essarily introduced into the rhythmic structure,
whereas the persistence of some high-​level met­
rical layer may remain open to question.
Consider, for example, one of Temperley’s
(2008) examples of hypermetrical transition,
from Beethoven’s Piano Sonata op.  10 no.  1
(Ex. 6.4). Temperley (307–​8) evaluates possible
hypermetrical hearings of measure 17–​21, one
of which is his “odd-​strong hearing” shown with
dot notation in the example. These hearings are
higher-​order extensions of the meter, a slow in­
ternal conducting pattern imposed by the lis­
tener. This is evident from the fact that he posits
strong accents on downbeats of measures 17,
19, and 21 where no associated musical events
occur. The accented events in these places are
entirely psychological, an expectation of where
an event could occur. For Temperley, this leads
to conflicting metrical cues making this passage
metrically ambiguous, not as to the location of
the downbeat but at the two-​measure level. He
presents multiple examples of such hypermetrical
transitions:  metrically ambiguous passages
separating areas with clear but conflicting
hypermeter at the two-​measure level. This is an
important discovery, which I will extend in the
next section, arguing that composers use these
Hypermeter • 131
EXAMPLE 6.4  Beethoven, Piano Sonata, op. 10/​1, mm. 9–​24, with hypermetrical analysis. The dot
notation above the staff shows a possible hearing described by Temperley (2008).
kinds of hypermetrical irregularities consist­
ently in certain conventional formal situations.
However, this sort of metrical ambiguity at
hypermetrical levels is quite common and not
limited to such clear instances of hypermetrical
transition. This means that the idea of higher-​
order meter is fairly limited: besides rarely going
plausibly above the two-​measure level, the sorts
of ambiguities illustrated by Temperley often
dispel it even at this level. Consequently, anal­
ysis of hypermeter in the form of rhythmic
structure, which may allow for irregularities, can
often be more informative.
Music may also lack regular hypermeter
for a wide variety of reasons. In Beethoven’s C
minor sonata, for example, the momentary ab­
sence of meter at the two-​measure level is not
a passively introduced ambiguity, but a willful
affront to the established metrical regime. Such
distinctions may come across in an analysis of
rhythmic structure rather than one focused
solely on meter. Example 6.4 gives a rhythmic
analysis below the staff. This analysis is rather
robustly supported by the principles outlined
above, despite the metrical ambiguity that
Temperley finds in the passage. The prevailing
hypermeter of measures 1–​12 cannot continue
through measures 13–​16, because there is no
event on the downbeat of measure 17 to define
this four-​measure span. In fact, no one-​measure
projections are possible at all in measures 17–​21.
132 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
By including measure 17 in the hypermetrical
unit starting in measure 13 as an extension, we
preserve the one and two-​measure projections
from preceding music into measures 13–​15, and
establish a series of two-​measure projections
consistent with the new parallelism in measures
16–​17/​18–​19/​20–​1 and continuing into the
subsequent postcadential music. The unartic­
ulated downbeats also result in a swung meter
that resonates with other, lower level swung
rhythms in the piece, such as the dotted rhythm
in measure 9.  Beethoven’s motivic plan may
therefore explain why he writes the cadential
phrase in this dramatic rhythm.
This analysis draws our attention to the fact
that the music in measures 16–​21, although it
strongly supports the two-​measure and quarter-​
note metrical levels, gives no support to the one-​
measure level. Even a hypothetical even-​strong
meter requires “accented rests” in measures 17,
19, and 21. This feature of the rhythm of the
passage is certainly relevant to our experience of
it, or how one might perform it. Assuming the
music up to measure 16 establishes a strong met­
rical entrainment at the two-​measure level (and
possibly also the four-​measure level), a strong
expectation in measure 17 is forcefully denied.
The music that follows redefines the course of
the rhythmic structure in an unexpected way, a
willfulness that is ironically juxtaposed with the
subito-​feel of the dynamic. The situation is well
described as a confrontation between the irreg­ illustrate two of the more common and impor­
ular rhythmic structure and the expectation of tant manifestations of this technique using
regularity. examples from Haydn’s symphonies. The first
Composers like Haydn and Beethoven often is metric deletion between the main theme
weave local manipulations of hypermeter, such and transition and the second is the technique
as hypermetrical transitions, into a longer Haydn uses in the “Mercury,” hypermetrical shift
range compositional narrative or plan. The preceding the subordinate theme.
triple hypermeter of Haydn’s “Mercury” affords Haydn’s Symphony no. 93 (Ex. 6.6) illustrates
one such example. In the exposition, the sub­ a typical use of metric deletion to begin a tran­
ordinate theme is hypermetrically offset from sition. In measure 36, the expected conclusion
the pattern established at the beginning of the of an eight-​measure consequent phrase is inter­
transition, as shown in Example 6.5(a) (which rupted by the beginning of the transition theme
overlaps Ex. 6.3 by four measures). This kind (which has a clear four-​measure presentation in
of hypermetrical shift, as discussed in the next mm. 36–​9).
section, is a common way to mark off the be­ This phenomenon has been amply discussed
ginning of a subordinate theme. Another typ­ by multiple authors, though from a variety
ical characteristic of Haydn’s sonata forms is of theoretical perspectives and using a corre­
the abridging of exposition’s material in the spondingly wide variety of terminologies. The
recapitulation to achieve a more succinct and term “metrical deletion” comes from Lerdahl
unified gesture. In the “Mercury,” he does this and Jackendoff 1983 (58–​9, 101–​4) who dis­
by rectifying the anomalous triple hypermeter tinguish it from grouping overlap.16 Kramer
within the compass of the main theme mate­ (1988, 103–​6) uses the term “metric overlap”
rial; see Example 6.5(b). The three-​measure idea while others, such as Rothstein (1989, 53–​6),
is regularized in measures 185–​8 as it develops follow Schenker ([1935] 1979, 125–​6) in calling
into a contrapuntal sequence. This initiates a the phenomenon “metrical reinterpretation.”
regular hypermeter that is then sustained into It was also recognized by eighteenth-​century
the subordinate theme which begins in measure theorists.17 Example 6.2(d) diagrams the general
197.15 The transition is eliminated altogether, case. The idea of “metrical reinterpretation” or
and now the main theme flows seamlessly into “overlap” highlights the double function of the
the subordinate theme with no hypermetrical measure, as conclusion of one phrase and the
offset. (See also the example from Haydn’s beginning of another. However, the function of
Symphony no. 100 in the next section, Ex. 6.9, the measure as conclusion is specifically tonal,
which involves a very similar tactic.) not rhythmic. In a rhythmic structure, this kind
of double function would violate the hierarchic
arrangement of timespans. (It does not violate
6.3 FUNCTIONS tonal hierarchy, since it is a chord, not a motion
OF HYPERMETRICAL SHIFT between chords, that has the double function.)
The significance of deletion is that it leaves a
IN HAYDN’S SYMPHONIES wrinkle in the four-​measure hypermeter. The
The technique of hypermetrical shift observed effect is best described phenomenally as an
in the “Mercury” Symphony above is an im­ interruption—​an overlap between an expected,
portant compositional resource in eighteenth-​ but unrealized, completion of one time span
century styles. It is typically used to offset major (shown with dashed lines) with the initiation of
sections, and in this capacity we can see it at another.
work in many pieces across different composers, The example from Haydn’s Symphony no. 93
genres, and time periods. This section will and others like it (such as the allegros of his

15. As in the exposition (Ex. 6.3), there are 7–​6 suspensions that resolve in strong hypermetric positions, according
to the analysis here, which is determined by melodic rhythm and does not take a special status for suspensions or 46 chords
into account. This runs counter to the conventional treatment of suspensions at the metrical level, but it is not immediately
obvious that all harmonic laws operative at the metrical level necessarily transfer to the hypermetrical level.
16. Similarly, LaRue (1970) distinguishes between “elision” and “truncation,” although his distinction is not strictly based
in hypermeter like the distinction between elision and deletion proposed here. Therefore some examples of deletion would be
elisions for LaRue.
17. For example, Reicha [1814] 2000, 26–​7 (“supposition”); Koch [1782] 1983, 34, 54–​6, 218–​20, 230.

Hypermeter • 133
EXAMPLE 6.5  The subordinate theme in the “Mercury” creates a hypermetrical shift in the exposi­
tion, (a), but not in the recapitulation, (b)
(a)

(b)
EXAMPLE 6.6  The main theme of Haydn’s Symphony no. 93 is interrupted by the beginning of the
transition, resulting in a metrical deletion

Symphonies 96, 98, and 104) may suggest that
dynamic accent plays an important role in
resetting the hypermetrical pulse, but the de­
ciding factor is really the parallelism that results
from the sentential design of the transition
theme (in Ex. 6.6, between mm. 36–​7 and 38–​9),
not the change in dynamics or accompanimental
texture. Consider, for instance, Example 6.7, the
end of the main theme of Haydn’s Symphony
no.  100.18 The change of texture and dynamic
happens in the last measure of the main theme
(which is a symmetrical compound period,
like the theme in no.  93), but the transition
nonetheless does not begin until the following
measure and the hypermeter does not reset.
Focusing just on which downbeats feel weightier
or more “accented” would be misleading in this
case. (See also Symphony no.  102, m.  39, and
no. 103, m. 48.19)
Another important hypermetrical technique
is to set off a subordinate theme by means of
hypermetrical shift. The most straightforward
means of doing this is the hypermetrical pause,
which often resembles a composed-​ out fer­
mata or ritard,20 a hypermetrical extension in
the last phrase of a formal section. This kind

18. My form-​functional analysis of this theme differs from Caplin’s (2004); he rejects the function of sequential
presentation for mm. 32–​5 (and 24–​7), resulting in a much more complex and nuanced account.
19. In Symphony no. 103, the true meter of the main theme is out of phase with the notated meter. This example is
discussed further in this chapter and in Chapter 8.
20. Rothstein (1989) uses a similar metaphor for these kinds of extensions (pp. 80–​1), as do eighteenth-​century theorists
like Reicha (2000, 31–​3), who refers to it as “retardation.” An added degree of specificity is required here, however, because
we must differentiate tonal expansions, whereby a resolving chord can be expanded for any number of measures, from the
specifically rhythmic delay, which can only extend a hypermetrical unit by a fraction. This allows for tonal expansions that
maintain the hypermeter, an important technique that is distinct from the hypermetrical pause.

Hypermeter • 135
EXAMPLE 6.7  The end of the main theme in Haydn’s Symphony no. 100 has a change of dynamic and
texture in the last measure of the main theme that does not alter the hypermeter
of hypermetrical pause is often an important
component of the sense of “break” before the
subordinate theme that Hepokoski and Darcy
(1997, 2006) call the medial caesura (see Ch. 3).
Example 6.8 shows how this works in the ex­
position of Haydn’s Symphony no.  100. The
music in measures 62–​ 74 is a post-​
cadential
standing on the dominant that ends the tran­
sition. The two-​measure idea passed between
the parts perpetuates the regular four-​measure
hypermetrical framework from the end of the
transition. In measures 71–​2, however, a sudden
slowing of the melodic activity to quarter
notes extends the phrase by a measure. The
hypermetrical unit is completed by the following
two-​measure “warm up” in the woodwinds,
whose further thinning of the surface activity
contributes to the sense of written-​out ritard.
The hypermetrical break reinforces the sense
of fresh beginning, contributing to the formal
clarity of the exposition.
When approaching the ST group in the re­
capitulation, a similar break to offset the
theme is undesirable, as is a strong cadence in
the main theme. These are useful to delineate
theme groups in the exposition, but would dis­
rupt the continuity and weaken the important
home-​key cadence of the recapitulation. In the
recapitulation of Symphony no.  100, the main
theme’s four-​ measure hypermeter continues
over the liquidation phase in measures 218–​25
136 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
(Ex. 6.9). This liquidation comes from the
dissolving transposed repeat of the main theme
that begins the ST group in the exposition (mm.
75–​ 86). The characteristic subordinate theme
begins in measure 226, still hypermetrically
aligned. The consistency of hypermeter allows
the recapitulation to present the themes in an
unbroken flow without the bold outlines that
delineate theme groups in the exposition.
Haydn also uses hypermetrical placement to
prevent the home key cadence in measure 226
from creating a real sense of closure in spite of its
strong harmonic profile. The resolution falls at
the beginning of a four-​measure span belonging
to the subordinate theme rather than at the end
of the preceding timespan, where it would create
a greater sense of closure. This is the same tech­
nique, cadential elision, used at the beginning of
the transition in Symphony no. 43 (see Ex. 6.3)
and further discussed in the next chapter.
The kind of hypermetrical delineation of the
subordinate theme we find in Haydn’s Symphony
no. 100 can be seen in many examples and gen­
erally seems to be commonly associated with this
moment in the form of his first movements, and
those of other eighteenth-​century composers as
well. Temperley (2008) and Grant (2010) give
some examples of hypermetrical transition at
this formal juncture. The oft-​mentioned moment
of hypermetrical readjustment in the first
movement of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, where
EXAMPLE  6.8  Haydn’s Symphony no.  100, mm. 58–​
78. A  hypermetrical pause precedes the
subordinate theme.

EXAMPLE 6.9  Haydn Symphony no. 100, hypermetrical regularity in the recapitulation, mm. 202–​29

EXAMPLE 6.10  (a) The main theme of Haydn’s Symphony no. 103 is notated a half-​measure off the
true meter. (b) The second part of the transition is fused with the beginning of the ST group. At the
point where subordinate-​theme function takes over, there is a half-​measure deletion that puts the
meter in phase with the notated meter.
(a)

(b)

London (2012, 113–​14) says the transition “hits
mud” (see also Imbrie 1973), is another example.
If there is any doubt about the musical sig­
nificance of such hypermetrical effects to
Haydn, though, consider the first movement of
his Symphony no.  103 (“Drumroll”) where he
cultivates the same effect at the metrical level.
This metrical shift can hardly be incidental, be­
cause in order to make it happen Haydn has to no­
tate the entire main theme and transition against
the meter. Example 6.10(a) shows the meter of
the main theme, which is offset by half a measure
from the notated meter. Such a metric interpreta­
tion follows from the hanging span rule and the
harmonic rhythm rule (since the second halves
of notated measures often have the same or sim­
ilar harmony to the beginning of the following
measure—​see the previous section).21 Note the
relatively inconclusive quality of the phrase de­
spite the fact that it ends with a harmonically
strong PAC:  this reflects the weak placement of
the cadence in the metrical structure shown in
Example  6.10(a). Though it falls on a notated
downbeat, the shifted meter means that this

21. The interpretation is also further corroborated by the correctly notated instances of the theme’s basic idea in the
development, mm. 130–​43, where it interfaces directly with the subordinate theme. Although such vagaries in metrical
placement are often indicative of compound meter, in this piece the tempo and the rhythmic shape of the musical ideas
make the idea of compound meter implausible. Kirnberger called this kind of notation “the most blatant error that can
be committed” ([1776] 1982, 388), more offensive, it seems, than the one corrected by Haydn’s misleading notation: “The
concluding note must always fall on the downbeat of the measure” (390).

138 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
actually acts as the second beat of a measure,
and the resolving tonic therefore only occupies
a fraction of a measure before the next phrase
(and hypermetrical unit) begins. The next chapter
discusses such techniques of hypermetrical
placement of cadences in detail. Of course, to say
that the notated meter does not reflect the true
meter is not to suggest that Haydn’s notation is
a mistake: in fact, the theme must be notated this
way in order to execute a rhythmic transition later
in the exposition without inserting a *3 measure.
In an informative article, Rothstein (2008)
refers to the kind of notation that appears in
Haydn’s Symphony 103 main theme, offset from
the meter by a half measure, as “Italian meter.”
Rothstein argues that there is no correct or incor­
rect meter in such situations, only different kinds
of meter, which he associates with nationalities.
This perspective tends to confuse the issue, how­
ever, because it obscures the difference between
true anacruses and ones that are an artifact of
a particular notational style. The kind of nota­
tion Haydn uses in Symphonies 103 and 88 seem
to be associated more with certain kinds of pas­
toral dance topics than with nationality per se.
(VanHandel [2009] found little empirical support
for Rothstein’s idea of national associations; see
also London 2009). Gavottes, for instance, are
conventionally notated a half-​bar off the true
meter so that the cadences, consistently placed
in the weak part of the (true) measure appear on
notated downbeats. (And it is the weakly placed
cadences that evoke the dance style more than
the way the music is notated.) There is empirical
evidence for the existence of an unnotated meter
in gavottes in the performances of violinists and
keyboardist that specialize in historical styles.
A  study by Dirk Moelants (2011) shows that
most performers consistently treat the notated
third beats of gavottes as downbeats in their ex­
pressive timing patterns.22 (454)
The formal design of the exposition of the
Symphony no. 103 first movement is somewhat
resistant to classification. Although it includes
a clear medial caesura gesture in measure 59,
completing a non-​modulating transition, and has
a clear subordinate theme of the cantabile type
at the end of the exposition in measures 80–​95,
the music between these is less straightforward
22. For additional examples of this kind of discrepancy between heard and notated meter, see the ritornello of Bach’s aria
“Seufzer, Tränen, Kummer, Not” in Ex. 3.6, and the first movement of Boccherini’s Symphony in D major, G. 496.
23. The notation “transition ⇒ subordinate theme” means “section that fuses transition and subordinate theme function”
or “transition becoming subordinate theme,” using Caplin’s (1998) notation for formal fusion. See Schmalfeldt 2011.
in formal function (Ex. 6.10(b)). It begins with
a sequence, indicative of modulating transition
(mm. 60–​3), but has clearly shifted to subordi­
nate theme function by the time the cadential
predominant viio7/​V appears in measure 71 (via
a deceptive cadence in G minor). Hepokoski and
Darcy (1997) classify this as a “continuous expo­
sition” for this reason, meaning that it does not
have a secondary theme zone set off by a medial
caesura. (The gesture in m. 59 comes too early.)
Yet, even though there is no break between
formal functions in measures 60–​79, there is a
marked shift in the meter that helps to set the
subordinate theme function apart. As Example
6.10 shows, the shift occurs with a half-​measure
deletion in measure 67, at the moment where the
passage takes on subordinate theme function.
The recapitulation attests to the importance of
the metrical shift: there the modulating transi­
tion shown in Example  6.10(b) is omitted en­
tirely, and Haydn compensates by recomposing
the end of the first (non-​modulating) transi­
tion (mm. 167–​179) to incorporate the change
of meter.
Other examples classified as continuous
expositions by Hepokoski and Darcy may be sim­
ilarly illuminated by considering the use of metric
shift to set subordinate-​theme functioning ma­
terial apart. One example, Haydn’s Symphony
no. 88, first movement, is remarkably similar to
the example from Symphony no. 103: it begins
with the main theme notated a half-​measure off
the true meter (in 2$rather than 6*) and executes
a hypermetrical transition (in m. 36) just before
a passage functioning as modulating transition
⇒ subordinate theme.23
Another piece that Hepokoski and Darcy cite as
an example of a continuous exposition is Haydn’s
Symphony No. 45 (“Farewell”), first movement.
This is a more “pure” example of the continuous
exposition than Symphony 88 or 103 in that there
is a thorough motivic unity to the exposition and
nowhere the effect that one associates with the
secondary theme—​of a new beginning with a dis­
tinct melodic idea. Nonetheless, Haydn’s use of
hypermetrical shift helps to delineate an identifi­
able transition function.
After a hypermetrically regular main theme,
the transition begins in measure 17 with a repeat
Hypermeter • 139
EXAMPLE 6.11  Haydn’s Symphony no. 45, mm. 17–​41, showing hypermetrical shift
of the main theme basic idea (Ex. 6.11). This is a
typical transition strategy that Hepokoski and
Darcy (2006, 101)  call the “dissolving restate­
ment.” With a reworked version of the main
theme presentation, Haydn slips immediately
into the key of the mediant. The hypermeter
continues apace until the ascending parallel 36 se­
quence in measures 33–​7, which takes one extra
measure to get to the dominant. The result is
a hypermetrical pause that marks off the next
appearance of the main theme basic idea, now in
the parallel of the mediant (A minor). There is
certainly not a half cadence in measure 37, but
the hypermetrical separation of the phrase be­
ginning in measure 38 gives a sense of at least
one aspect of the transition function being
completed. The hypermetrical shift reinforces a
division in the formal structure implied by the
reappearance of the main theme basic idea in
measure 38. What is exceptional about this ex­
position is that A major is not its true tonal goal;
the music following measure 38 pushes forward
to the key of C♯ minor. The continued harmonic
instability and use of sequence sustains the tran­
sition-​like character of the music through almost
to the end of the exposition.
140 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
6.4 INDEFINITE
HYPERMETER AND
HYPERMETRICAL
REINTERPRETATION
For some musical works, the most important
hypermetrical technique may actually be the
absence of a consistent hypermeter altogether.
Such is the case in the first movement of Haydn’s
Symphony no. 95 in C minor, where by denying
the establishment of a regular four-​ measure
hypermeter in the main theme, Haydn is able to
dramatize its emergence in the transition and
contrast the predictable square layout of the
subordinate theme with the fits and starts of the
main theme. This symphony, besides being the
only one of the “London” sets (nos. 93–​104) in
a minor key, is also the only one lacking a slow
introduction before the allegro. It is easy to see
why: the way the allegro begins would not give
the appropriate effect following a slow intro­
duction. Furthermore, the “searching” quality
of this beginning resembles that of a slow in­
troduction, so that it serves something of the
function of a slow introduction even while
EXAMPLE 6.12 Metrical recontextualizations of the initial melodic idea in the main theme and tran­
sition of Haydn’s Symphony no. 95

acting as the main theme of the allegro.24 In
symphonies with slow introductions, metrical
and hypermetrical clarity appear suddenly with
the change of tempo, while in Haydn’s C minor
Symphony, the rhythmic movement typical of
hypermetrical regularity evolves gradually, as if
organically, over the course of the transition, in
parallel with the emergence of the major tonality
of the subordinate key.
Haydn achieves this effect by preventing the
establishment of clear and consistent hyper­
metrical spans within the main theme, using a
two-​fold strategy. The first part of the strategy
derives from the rhythmic shape of the intro­
ductory idea in measures 1–​2 (see Ex. 6.12).25
It clearly establishes regular half-​ note spans,
which group the quarter notes in measure 1, but
does not articulate a half-​note span in measure
2, because beats three and four are empty.
Furthermore, because the downbeat of measure
3 is also empty, no larger spans can be confirmed.
The idea thus pointedly leaves the notes of
measure 2 rhythmically unresolved at multiple
levels and disconnected from the rest of the main
theme. When the idea reappears in measure 10
the situation is partially rectified; by extending
the idea for two additional measures, the one-​
measure spans are now consistently articulated.
The half-​note spans remain absent after the first
measure, but now we can interpret this as the re­
sult of squeeze transformations, giving the idea
the detached character associated with this kind
of rhythm (see §1.2). At the next stage of the
process, in measure 16, the idea becomes a bass
line in counterpoint with a new melody.26 In this
version, the fourth beat of the odd-​numbered
measures is now articulated, while the third
beat remains empty. This introduces a half-​note
time span into the second measure of the idea,
but one that is syncopated. Finally, in measures
21–​4, a stretto on the idea creates a metrically
regular surface across the musical texture. The
gradual increase in the metricality of this ma­
terial resembles a formal strategy Haydn some­
times uses in slow movements; see Section 1.4.
Haydn parallels this gradual progress towards
projective half-​note timespans with a similar
process towards consistency in the four-​measure

24. The effect brings to mind the main theme of Beethoven’s “Tempest” Sonata. Schmalfeldt (2011, 37–​55) shows how
Beethoven’s theme can be understood as a formal fusion of thematic introduction and main theme functions. Although
thematic introduction is not the same function as slow introduction, Schmalfeldt notes the main theme of the “Tempest”
incorporates elements of slow introduction. Haydn’s main theme similarly assimilates some of the traits of slow introduction
without actually being one in any proper form-​functional sense. This admixture is undoubtedly related to Haydn’s interest in
blurring the break between the slow Introduction and Allegro, for example, in Symphony no. 97; see Webster 1991a, 162–​5.
25. Note that this idea is introductory within the main theme, not introductory to the main theme. See Section 11.4.
26. This “new melody” is essentially just a parallel tenths counterpoint to the bass line, but Haydn conceals this fact by
registrally inverting the ↓3rd/​↑2nd contours to ↑6th/​↓7th.

Hypermeter • 141
EXAMPLE 6.13  Denial of four-​measure hypermeter in the main theme of Haydn’s Symphony no. 95,
and its establishment in the transition and confirmation in the subordinate theme

spans. The process begins in the initiation phase
of the main theme (see Ex. 6.13), a compound
basic idea which creates a clear four-​measure
span in measures 4–​7. It is followed by a ca­
dential progression that is too short to con­
firm the four-​measure unit. If the cadence were
completed in measure 10, it would be only
three measures long, but it is instead elided
with the reappearance of the introductory idea.
The extended version of this idea also creates
a four-​measure span in measures 10–​13 which
is denied in roughly the same way by the next
appearance of the basic idea in measure 16. The
next four-​measure span suggested in measures
16–​19 is similarly followed by a short caden­
tial phrase, this time with an additional metric
deletion. It is not until the stretto in measures
21–​4, precisely where the main melodic idea fi­
nally achieves steady half-​note motion, that a
four-​measure unit is confirmed by projection.
This hypermeter then continues unbroken into
the subordinate theme.
As we have seen in previous examples
(Piano Sonata H. 21 Adagio in Exx. 1.15–​1.16,

142 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
EXAMPLE 6.14  Haydn Symphony no. 95, recapitulation, mm. 120–​31
Symphony no.  43 in Exx. 6.3 and 6.5, and
Symphony no.  100 in Exx. 6.8–​ 6.9), Haydn
typically responds to metric and hypermetrical
features of his expositions in his recapitulations,
by, for instance, smoothing over the exposition’s
form-​ defining hypermetrical shifts. The unu­
sual exposition of Symphony no.  95 defines a
hypermetrical “problem” that is left to the reca­
pitulation to solve. A kind of rhythmic version
of Cone’s (1968, 76–​ 7) and Rosen’s (1988,
284–​ 96) well-​known sonata principle applies
here:  Cone’s original formulation states that
the recapitulation “resolves” the exposition by
transposing themes that appear in a non-​tonic
key in the exposition. Haydn’s recapitulation
faces a more pressing rhythmic problem: the in­
definite hypermeter of the main theme. Example
6.14 shows his solution: instead of interrupting
the cadence in measures 124–​5, Haydn deflects
the cadential resolution with a sequence built
out of a continuation of the preceding rhythm.
The new sequence defines a four-​ measure
phrase ending with a cadential resolution
in the fourth measure (conclusive cadential
placement, according to the criteria established
in the next chapter). This completes the main
theme with a full resolution while a modal shift
sets the stage for the return of the subordinate
theme in the tonic. More importantly, it sets
up the four-​measure hypermeter of the subor­
dinate theme within the main theme, and cuts
the hypermetrically halting transition out all
together. This also means that the hypermeter
at the two-​measure level is continuous from the
beginning of the recapitulation into the subor­
dinate theme, whereas the exposition executed
a one-​measure shift at the half cadence of the
transition (mm. 20–​21).
The other rhythmic “problem” of the expo­
sition main theme occurs at the metric level,
the resistance of the initial basic idea (from
mm. 1–​2) to establishing the half-​note level of
the meter. Haydn resolves this problem with
a subtle but marvelous stroke in the same
phrase where he irons out the hypermeter:  at
the cadence in measure 128, the second part
of the idea reappears, but metrically shifted so
that it begins on the downbeat, as shown in
Example 6.15. Now the C follows the double-​
neighbor motive instead of preceding it, and
becomes its resolution—​both its tonal, caden­
tial, resolution, and its rhythmic resolution,
completing the one-​measure span with a pro­
jection at the half-​note level. The new bustling
accompaniment to the subordinate theme (see
Ex. 6.14) celebrates the triumph of rhythmic
normalcy.
The analogy at the root of the term “hyper­
meter” is both enlightening and dangerous. It is
dangerous because one thing that we often take
for granted about meter, its strong tendency
to be perpetuated through the entrainment of
listeners and performers to the different metrical
layers, is not generally a feature of hypermetrical
layers. On the other hand, the analogy does help
draw attention to the more general aspects of
rhythmic structure that are not necessarily de­
pendent upon the psychological phenomenon of
Hypermeter • 143
EXAMPLE  6.15 Metric reinterpretation of the
main motive in the recapitulation of Symphony
no. 95
144 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
meter. Perhaps the greatest value is in the rec­
ognition of more general principles of rhythmic
structure that also exist at lower levels. Although
the force of meter usually conceals them, they
may come into view when composers suppress
metricality. Understanding more general aspects
of rhythmic structure also helps us appre­
ciate how composers take advantage of them at
hypermetrical levels. We have already seen above
how hypermetrical shift and elision play impor­
tant roles in sonata forms. The next chapter will
probe in greater depth the special role of elision
in sonata-​form pieces as it relates to the syntax
of closure.
 7
Hypermeter, Form, and Closure
CLOSURE IS a basic and indispensible compo­
nent of musical semantics. A  listener’s ability
to follow the musical argument of a work is de­
pendent, at the most elementary level, upon
using syntactical indicators of closure to discern
its basic outlines. At a slightly more sophisti­
cated level, differentiation in strength of closure
helps the listener organize a series of musical
statements into paragraphs. The importance of
musical syntax relating to closure is such that
in the eighteenth century, syntactical elements
whose original purpose is to indicate closure find
their way into other semantic contexts. This can
cause considerable confusion in music theory,
for instance in traditions of harmonic analysis
that define cadence harmonically and therefore
find “cadences” or “cadential formulas” in virtu­
ally every part of a phrase.1
Because of its importance, the syntax of clo­
sure involves all of the structuring principles of
1. See Caplin’s (2004, 66–​76, 81–​5) commentary on Ratner 1980 (51–​4), and see also Ratner 1962, 37–​43. This tradition
of assimilating all harmonic syntax to the model of a standard cadential formula goes back at least to Riemann’s earliest work
on harmony (Riemann [1972] 2000) and its antecedents in Hauptmann.
music: tonal, formal, and rhythmic. The harmonic
laws of cadential syntax have been thoroughly
excavated by music theory, and with recent
advances the principles of formal closure are be­
coming better understood. The role of rhythmic
structure in cadential syntax is less well studied,
and is therefore the main topic of this chapter.
Despite progress in distinguishing tonal from
formal closure, music theorists still tend to treat
closure as a unitary phenomenon. Composers
of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth
centuries, however, use the rich musical language
of closure to full advantage, playing the closural
syntax of different modalities against one another
to create a variety of effects, often suggesting clo­
sure in one way while denying it in another. For
this reason, as the analyses of this chapter will
demonstrate, recognizing the independence of
these modalities is essential to understanding the
expressive resources of this music.
 • 145
EXAMPLE 7.1  J.S. Bach Orchestral Suite no. 1 in C, BWV 1066, Menuet II, mm. 1–​8

7.1 HYPERMETRICAL associated with cadences as well as to describe

PLACEMENT IN
CADENTIAL SYNTAX
Theorists typically classify cadences as strong or
weak based on harmonic and melodic factors.
Indeed, the distinction between harmonically
strong cadences (PACs) and weak ones (HCs and
IACs) is a syntactic, not merely a “rhetorical” one
(to use a distinction proposed by Agawu 1987,
1991 and adopted by Caplin 2004). This is easily
demonstrated by showing that the syntax of
a period requires that a weaker cadence in the
first phrase be followed by a stronger one in the
second. Although it is not typically cited as a de­
terminant of cadential strength, we can show the
essential syntactic status of metrical placement
with the same kind of demonstration. Such
“intrathematic” uses of metrical placement to
make syntactic distinctions in cadential strength
are most common in styles of the late seven­
teenth and early eighteenth centuries, because
the role of hypermeter changes in later eras, as
we will see later in this chapter.
Because we commonly use the metaphor of
strength to differentiate the levels of closure
levels of metrical accent (e.g., “strong” beats
versus “weak” beats), one readily assumes that
placing the cadence on stronger beats leads to
stronger closure. This is true to some extent, par­
ticularly at the metrical level; many eighteenth-​
century writers, for instance, state as a rule that
cadences must occur on downbeats.2 Cadential
placement is indeed consistent enough at the
metrical level that it serves as an effective
method for identifying the use of compound
meters, where the notated measure comprises
two “real” measures (see Mirka 2009, 69–​92).3
It is also not hard to find examples, in earlier
music, where the metrical placement of cadences,
rather than any tonal feature, is used to distin­
guish cadences by strength within simple period
or period-​like thematic constructions, as we will
see in the next few examples. But the extension
of this logic to hypermetrical levels is problem­
atic, because a more important hypermetrical rule
of closure, which will be explained shortly, works
against placing cadences in hypermetrically ac­
cented positions, except where the intention is
actually to avoid closure.
Example 7.1, the first eight measures of
Menuet II from J.S. Bach’s first Orchestral

2. Mirka (2009, 74–​6) discusses this rule as it appears in Riepel [1752–​5] 2014, Kirnberger [1776] 1982, and Koch [1782] 1983.
An earlier formulation of the rule, which may have been a source for these authors, can be found in Mattheson [1739] (1981), 321.
3. Two examples below (the Corelli Trio Sonata in Ex. 7.5 and the Haydn Piano Trio in Ex. 7.16) as well as a number in
other chapters (Handel Concerti Grossi, Exx. 3.1(a) and 3.3; Telemann, Siciliano, Ex. 3.7; Boccherini, E major String Quartet,
Ex. 3.12; J.S. Bach: “Seufzer, Tränen, Kummer, Not,” Ex. 3.6; F minor Fugue, Exx. 5.1–​3; F major Prelude, Ex. 5.5) illustrate
compound meter. Some counterexamples, like Haydn’s Symphony no. 103 first movement (Ex. 6.10), are also instructive. As
even this haphazard assortment of examples makes apparent, compound meter is very common in the early eighteenth century
and in chamber genres, and less so in the symphony and in the later eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. A more proper
statistical study could undoubtedly show interesting interactions between time period, genre, composer, and nationality on the
use of compound meters (as well as for the opposite method of double measures, as illustrated for example in the Scherzo of
Beethoven’s Third Symphony in §8.4). One interesting point made by Landon (1978, 626–​7) is that Haydn’s use of compound
meter in the string quartets, very common in first movements in the op. 9, 17, 20, and 33 sets, suddenly becomes a rare choice
starting with the op. 50 set of 1787 (see also Sutcliffe 1992, 67). Landon interprets this as reflecting the direct influence of
Mozart, a plausible explanation given that only one of Mozart’s quartets uses compound time in a fast-​tempo first movement,
and that one, interestingly, is the first of the set of six dedicated to Haydn (K. 387), composed between Haydn’s op. 33 and
op. 50. Landon quotes Saslav’s (1969) over-​extended claim that op. 50 is the first appearance of the “true classical allegro” in
Haydn’s quartets. Movements marked “Allegro moderato” are not always in compound time—​see op. 33/​3 and op. 20/​5 for
example—​and there are plenty of duple or triple meter first movements with various faster allegro, vivace, or presto markings
(op. 9/​6, op. 17/​6, op. 20/​3, 4, 6, op. 33/​5–​6, and all of the early quartets except the two that begin with adagios).

146 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
EXAMPLE 7.2  J.S. Bach Partita no. 4 in D major, BWV 828, Menuet, mm. 1–​8
EXAMPLE 7.3.  J.S. Bach, Partita no. 5 in G, BWV 829, Passepied, mm. 1–​16
Suite, is a period, but the textbook rule of the
period does not hold:  the antecedent phrase
ends with what can only be called a PAC in
C, not a HC or IAC. The PAC, however, is
weakened by delaying its resolving tonic to the
last beat of the measure instead of giving a full
measure of resolution. The PAC of the conse­
quent (in G) is placed instead on the downbeat
of the fourth measure (m. 8). The placement
of the cadence of the consequent allows for
a measure of rest on the resolving tonic, pro­
viding a stronger sense of closure. The cadence
of the antecedent, in spite of the unequivocally
cadential harmonic and melodic progression,
produces at best weak closure because there is
little time (just a beat) allowed to rest on the
resolving tonic.
Example 7.2, from Bach’s D major Partita, is
a similar example, except that the final cadence
of the first part of this binary form is actually a
half cadence in the home key rather than a PAC
in A.  The fact that this exposition nonetheless
is designed as a period, with parallel beginnings
and contrasting cadences, means that the met­
rical placement of the cadence is actually more
significant in determining metrical weight than
4. Rothstein (2008, 132) observes the same principle at work in the keyboard music of C.P.E. Bach.
the distinction between authentic and half
cadences for Bach.4
Another way to achieve a similar effect of weak
PAC in periodic designs is by delaying the me­
lodic resolution without delaying the harmonic
resolution. The effect is essentially the same. The
Passepied from Bach’s G major Keyboard Partita
is a nice example (Example 7.3). This double pe­
riod actually has four cadences at three different
levels of strength. Within the eight-​ measure
antecedent there is what can only be called a
deceptive half cadence (where I6 substitutes
for a tonicized V) in measure 4.  The cadence
in measure 12 is the same. The eight-​measure
units, however, both have PACs, the first in the
home key and the second in D major. The first
PAC resolves harmonically on the ‸downbeat of
measure 8, but the melody reaches 1 only on the
weak part of beat two. It would be inaccurate to
call this‸an
‸ IAC,
‸ because‸ the ‸ ‸structural melody is
clearly 3–​2–​1‸here, not 5–​4–​3. Nor is it an IAC by
evasion:  the 3 at the‸beginning of the measure
delays resolution to 1 rather than substituting
for it. The metrically weak placement of melodic
resolution nonetheless clearly satisfies the re­
quirement of periodic design by preventing a
Hypermeter, Form, and Closure • 147
EXAMPLE 7.4 Mozart, Piano Sonata in A minor, K. 310, iii, mm. 1–​8
sense of full closure in measure 8, reserving it
for the cadence in measure 16.5
These methods of cadential differentiation by
metrical placement survive into the later eight­
eenth century, the difference being that the later
composers are much less likely to use weak PACs
in periodic designs when a half cadence will serve
the same purpose. The technique nonetheless re­
mains essential in certain special situations. The
rondo theme of Mozart’s A minor Piano Sonata,
K.  310 (Ex. 7.4) is a double period like the first
part of Bach’s Passepied. Mozart concludes the
eight-​measure antecedent with a half-​ cadence
that contrasts with the PAC at the end of the
compound consequent (mm. 9–​ 20). The first
four measures are also an antecedent function of
lesser scope, and this phrase also concludes with
a half cadence. Therefore, Mozart, by using har­
monic strength to differentiate cadences in meas­
ures 8 and 20, faces the problem of differentiating
between cadences of the same harmonic strength
in measures 4 and 8. His solution is to use met­
rical placement: the HC in measure 4 resolves in
the weak part of the measure, while the one in
measure 8 resolves harmonically on the downbeat.
In all of these examples, the timespan of the
phrase concluded by each weak cadence contains
the resolution of that cadence; the cadences are
weakened by delaying tonic (or dominant) resolu­
tion so that it occupies only a fraction of a measure.
What happens, though, if the cadence is delayed
even further, so that it occurs on the downbeat
that begins the next hypermetrical unit? Then,
the (hyper)metrical “strength” of the cadence is
actually greater than in the ordinary placement on
the downbeat of the fourth measure of a phrase.
However, this method, cadential elision, is prima­
rily a way of preventing or delaying closure, rather
than of strengthening closure.
Consider Example 7.5, the first part of a
simple symmetrical binary-​form Preludio, the
first movement of one of Arcangelo Corelli’s
5. Caplin (1998, 57–​8) interprets a similar antecedent ending as an IAC to satisfy the requirements of periodic design.
Classifying these as IACs is not necessary, however, if we generally recognize the effect of metrical placement on the sense
of closure.
148 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
Trio Sonatas (op.  4/​3). Although the design is
not periodic in the strictest sense (it would be
antecedent + continuation according to Caplin’s
[1998] classification), it does begin with an ante­
cedent phrase (mm. 1–​4) and therefore requires
cadential differentiation. The meter is a com­
pound 4$, so the one-​measure and two-​measure
levels, as shown in rhythmic structure given in
the Example, both behave like hypermeter (the
two-​measure hypermeter being the rough equiv­
alent of a four-​measure hypermeter in a simple
meter). As in the period from the Menuet of
Bach’s D major Partita (Ex. 7.2), Corelli uses a
PAC in the home key in the antecedent, and ends
with an IAC in the dominant (indicated in bold­
face in the example). Whereas Bach weakens his
internal PAC by delaying the resolution to the
last beat of measure 4, Corelli does so by de­
laying it to the downbeat of measure 5, where
the second phrase begins. The elision prevents a
sense of closure despite the fact that harmony
and melody have all the characteristics of full
cadence, and it does so for essentially the same
reason as Bach’s weakened PAC: there is no time
to rest on the resolving harmony. A  theory of
meter based on strength of accent would lead to
exactly the opposite conclusion:  the downbeat
of measure 5 is actually a stronger hypermetrical
position than the downbeat of measure 4.  Yet,
this stronger metrical placement does not make
the cadence more conclusive; if it did, Corelli’s
thematic design would not work.
The reason that an elided cadence can pre­
vent closure despite actually having a stronger
hypermetrical placement of its final tonic is that
another, more basic, principle, the hypermetrical
rule of closure, trumps the consideration of met­
rical strength. The hypermetrical rule of closure is
that a concluding tonic must fill out all hypermetrical
units. In other words, regardless of where the
final tonic is initiated, it must be sustained
from that point to the end of all hypermetrical
EXAMPLE 7.5  Corelli, Sonate a tre, op. 4/​3, Preludio: hypermeter and cadences
units at the two-​and four-​measure levels and
any deeper levels if they exist. When a cadence
is elided over the boundary of a (notated) two-​
measure unit in the Corelli example, closure then
requires that the tonic be sustained through that
two-​measure unit. Beginning a new phrase that
occupies the new two-​measure unit then denies
the possibility of closure, and this is precisely
what happens in measures 3 and 5 of Corelli’s
theme, where new ideas begin immediately after
the concluding tonics are reached. In measure 8,
on the other hand, the tonic arrives in an espe­
cially strong metrical position, on the downbeat
of a notated measure, and is allowed to fill that
measure to reach full closure. An ending on the
third beat of measure 8 would have sufficed, but
Corelli’s ending is even somewhat stronger, be­
cause it gives some added hypermetrical weight
Hypermeter, Form, and Closure • 149
(recall that the differentiation of beats 1 and 3 of
the compound meter as properly hypermetrical)
while still satisfying the hypermetrical rule of
closure.
Corelli is often admired for the elegance of
his writing but perhaps less often for the tech­
nical mastery that he brings to bear to achieve
that elegance. His Preludio reads like an essay in
the art of formal grouping with and against the
hypermeter. The hypermeter is perfectly reg­
ular throughout the piece, and is reinforced in a
number of ways. (The repeated bass line in mm.
1–​2 and 3–​4, repeated melodic rhythms measure
to measure, changes of melodic rhythm every
two measures, etc.). There are four cadential
progressions in the first part including the two al­
ready mentioned. The first cadence is in measure
3 and occurs over an even–​odd barline like the
one in measure 5, but is an IAC rather than a
PAC. Thus, Corelli uses the IAC/​PAC distinction
to structure the four-​measure level while using
the stronger elided–​non-​elided distinction at the
eight-​measure level. There is also a cadential pro­
gression over the barline in measure 6, a trans­
position of the cadence in the previous measure
to E major. This comes too early in the phrase
to be a true cadence, and has no corresponding
melodic cadential process. Nonetheless, this ca­
dential progression parallels the one in meas­
ures 2–​3, because Corelli is actually compressing a
version of the first two-​measure phrase into one
measure. He does this by accelerating the point
of imitation between the violins to a quarter
note (a stretto effect) and cutting the initial de­
scending bass from the harmonic progression
so only the cadential progression remains. As
a result of this compression, the 7–​6 sequence
from measures 3–​4, when repeated (transposed
to E major) in measures 6–​7, is now positioned
differently with respect to the hypermeter. The
cadence in measure 7–​8, then, is a transposed
repeat from measure 4–​5, but the shift provides
an extra measure for a point of rest on the dom­
inant chord in measure 8.  The effect of this
hypermetrical placement is strong enough that
Corelli is free to evade the expected melodic reso­
lution, substituting G♯ for E in the first violin. The
evasion recalls the chord’s dominant function in
the home key, helping to tie together the larger
binary structure.
Corelli uses similar techniques in the second
part. The PAC in the contrasting key of F♯ minor
receives strong hypermetrical placement,
underscoring its role as one of the principal
cadences of the formal design, but this caden­
tial strength is effectively canceled by the early
beginning of the next phrase (which prevents
it from completing its hypermetrical unit).6
The next two cadences, half cadences in meas­
ures 15 and 17, are again elided. The latter ca­
dence is corrected by an immediate echo of the
one-​measure cadential progression resolving in
measure 18. This slight violation of the prin­
ciple of balance between the parts (the second
is ten measures, the first eight) is necessary for
the formal design: with the half cadence placed
on the downbeat of measure 15, there is not
space left for a final continuational phrase to ca­
dence on the downbeat of measure 16. Corelli’s
solution, the cadential echo, uses this common
stylistic feature in a way that is, indeed, quite
elegant.
In all of these examples, metrical placement
is not merely a rhetorical factor, to recall
again Agawu’s (1987, 1991)  distinction. The
differences of metrical placement are essen­
tial to the grammaticality of the period and
period-​ like designs, making essentially the
same kinds of syntactic strong/​weak contrasts
that can be made by harmonic/​melodic means
in other situations. In fact, multiple examples
above show that metrical placement actually
outweighs basic harmonic contrasts when the
two work against one another.
Elided cadences are also of fundamental im­
portance in later eighteenth-​ century styles.
However, composers like Haydn, unlike Corelli
and other earlier composers, are unlikely to use
elided PACs as a substitute for the half cadence
in periodic designs. (The next section gives
one exception in Mozart’s G major Piano Trio,
K.  564.7) Instead, elision plays a fundamental
role in linking the main theme and transition
of sonata-​ form movements, as demonstrated
in Section 7.3, and in the cadential extensions
of subordinate themes, as well related moments

6. Were the following phrase constructed differently, one might interpret this cadence as ending a shortened 11/​2-​measure
unit. But the parallelism of the first beats of measure 12 and 13, plus the stronger parallelism within measure 13 than from the
second beat of measure 12 to the first beat of measure 13 both help to reinforce the perfectly regular hypermetrical pattern.
7. Another nice example is the rondo theme of C.F. Abel’s String (Flute) Quartet, op. 8/​2, third movement (tempo di
minuetto), which has a perfectly consistent four-​measure hypermeter, and uses an elided PAC at the midpoint of a compound
period design in the main theme. The theme is designed to work with the elided PAC by beginning on an unharmonized tonic note.

150 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
in recapitulations, which will be discussed in
Sections 7.4 and 7.5. The context of Corelli’s
elided cadences prevents them from satisfying
the hypermetrical rule of closure. However, in
subordinate theme groups, where Mozart and
Beethoven often shift cadential endings into
hypermetrically strong positions, the possibility
of satisfying the rule remains open. That is, at
the end of a subordinate theme group it is pos­
sible to fill a four-​measure unit with tonic, and
thereby achieve closure while also achieving a
hypermetrically strong placement of the caden­
tial tonic. We can even trace an important sty­
listic evolution in the treatment of subordinate
theme cadence and hypermeter from Haydn to
Beethoven, where the broadening of harmonic
rhythm, which typifies Mozart’s music espe­
cially, leads to a tendency to use hypermetrically
strong cadences in Beethoven’s piano and violin
sonatas, and eventually all of his sonata-​form
movements.
7.2  MOZART’S AFTERBEAT
MELODIC IDEAS
One way to understand how cadential elision
prevents closure is to see it as a misalignment of
rhythmic and formal structure. The formal unit
must contain the resolving tonic of the cadence to
be complete. In an elided cadence it extends past
the end of the metrical unit, and there is not co­
ordinated moment of completion.8 In Mozart’s G
major Piano Trio (K. 564), hypermetrical elision
results from a persistent afterbeat orientation to
the main theme. The compositional possibilities
of using this kind of unusual metrical orientation
in a main theme seems to have been a preoccu­
pation of Mozart’s in the year 1788, because in
addition to the Trio it appears in first movements
of two other works of that year, Symphonies
no. 39 and 40.
The first eight measures of the Trio’s main
theme are a straightforward sentence (Ex. 7.6a).
If the melodic parts were isolated, though,
they would imply a meter a half-​measure off
the notated one, with the basic idea beginning
on a downbeat. Mozart defines the meter by
reiterating a pedal-​note, G in the left hand of
the piano, but also, even more pointedly, puts a
downbeat before the melody begins, which draws
8. Many of the elided cadences that will be illustrated below, and some in the previous chapter, are also evaded, which
means that the formal structure and hypermeter are aligned (by means of the interruption in the formal structure), but the
formal group lacks a concluding tonic.
attention through contrasting dynamic and
tutti setting. Without this added downbeat, the
melody would begin with an anacrusis, and the
measure count would be set back by one. This kind
of upbeat hypermetrical placement of the melody
is more natural than the afterbeat placement,
anticipating hypermetrical boundaries in­
stead of stumbling over them, but if we simply
eliminated the downbeat of the first measure,
then the PAC at the end of the phrase would re­
solve at the end of a four-​measure hypermetrical
unit, and provide a conclusive end to the theme.
The theme does not end in measure 8, though,
but with the PAC in measure 16. Furthermore, it
is not a simple repetition of the theme: Mozart
modifies the theme to end with PAC in the eighth
measure (m. 16) rather than the ninth. This pre­
cisely fits the highly conventionalized proce­
dure of writing a compound period, except that
the first eight-​measure unit of the period would
normally end with a half cadence. Mozart toys
with precisely this convention: the
‸ melodic and
harmonic approach to 2/​V in measure 8 matches
the typical half-​cadential progression of an ante­
cedent, but Mozart’s carefully constructed con­
text prevents this interpretation. By making this
melodic motive (descending stepwise in quarter
notes) the beginning of his basic idea, he negates
its inherently cadential sense. More importantly,
the clear delineation of two-​measure melodic
ideas, first in the presentation phrase (mm. 1–​5),
and then in the continuation, which is based on
embellished repetition of a one measure motive
(a paradigmatic example of continuational
fragmentation—​see Caplin 1998, ch. 3), dictates
that this moment be understood as the begin-
ning of a two-​measure formal unit, as shown in
the formal structure depicted in Example 7.6.
The afterbeat placement completes the ingen­
ious musical pun, because the stepwise descent
approaching measure 8 not only has the melodic
and harmonic contours of a typical half cadence,
but also, by falling on the downbeat of measure
8, its essential metrical and hypermetrical char­
acteristics as well.
The afterbeat orientation of the entire theme
extends the cadential idea of the compound an­
tecedent over the hypermetrical boundary into
measure 9, which is what makes the cadence
a PAC—​the resolution to tonic occurs within
the two-​measure cadential unit of the formal
Hypermeter, Form, and Closure • 151
EXAMPLE 7.6  (a) Mozart, Piano Trio in G, K. 564, mm. 1–​8, with hypermetric and formal structures,
(b) mm. 9–​16 (piano right hand not included)
(a)
(b)
structure. How then does the theme satisfy
the paired-​cadence requirement of the period
structure? This is usually explained as a “weak–​
strong” pairing; that is, a syntactical distinction
of cadential strength. This is where the metaphor
of strength misleads us, as it does for the Corelli
Preludio in Example 7.5. In Mozart’s period,
the first cadence is actually stronger than the
second:  both are PACs, the first occurring on a
hypermetrically strong downbeat, the second on
152 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
a hypermetrically weak downbeat. But the con­
ventional pairing of cadences in a period is not a
matter of strength so much as conclusiveness. It
the usual set-​up, the half cadence lacks the tonal
conclusiveness of a PAC. In Mozart’s period, the
“strong” PAC in measure 9 is inconclusive be­
cause of the elision. It occurs at a hypermetrical
beginning. The one in measure 16 occurs at a
hypermetrical ending, and is therefore more
conclusive.
EXAMPLE 7.7  (a) Mozart, Piano Trio, K. 564, beginning of subordinate theme (mm. 23–​26), (b) reduc­
tion of the main theme and subordinate theme basic ideas, and the relationship between them
(a)

(b)

This sort of afterbeat placement of me­
lodic ideas may seem awkward in an otherwise
straightforward main theme. But in Mozart’s
Trio it is integral to the compositional design.
The subordinate theme (Ex. 7.7a) is based on a
transformed version of the same melodic idea,
as shown by the reduction in (b). Its basic idea
begins with an elaboration of the same motive
as the main theme, transposed to the new key.
In the subordinate theme, however, the motive
has a significantly different quality, relaxed
and confident, because of its hypermetrical
alignment.
Mozart’s afterbeat melody in the K. 564 Trio
is reminiscent of a similar hypermetrical trick
in the main theme of J.C. Bach’s Symphony
op. 3/​3 (Ex. 7.8). Although written over thirty
years earlier, it is a work Mozart would have
encountered at a formative stage of his life, on
his trip to London in 1764–​5. The parallelism
of measures 1–​4 and 5–​8, and more generally
the steadiness of Bach’s hypermeter, which he
sustains for the first sixteen measures, make it
clear that the whole notes of the first measure
belong to the basic idea of the main theme.
However, in actual content, this measure would
be equally suitable as an ending, and tends to
splinter from the rest of the four-​ measure
phrase because of the contrasting dynamic
of measures 2–​4. Bach immediately plays on
this potential double-​ meaning at the begin­
ning of the transition, which is of the false
consequent type. According to the established
hypermetrical scheme, the half cadence in
measure 17 is elided. It would be appropriate,
then, for the standing on the dominant to last
for four measures after that, but it only lasts for
three. As a result, the tonic chord in measure
20, which is really the beginning of the repeated
main theme presentation, sounds at the same
time like the end of a preceding four-​measure
unit, a false PAC.
Bach did not invent this trick either, though,
and his source, the Italian opera overture, may
have also been a more direct source for Mozart.9
Example 7.9 shows the overture to Galuppi’s
Didone Abbandonata. Notice the forte–​ piano
alternation. Where Bach uses the beginning/​
ending duplicity to shift the hypermeter (by
deletion), Galuppi, like Mozart, maintains
the hypermeter by using an elided cadence.
Although Galuppi’s overture is in a standard

9. Hepokoski and Darcy’s (2006, 80–​6) notion of the “Mozartian loop” is based on the same technique of elision described
here. However, since it has its origin in Italian opera and the ritornello form more generally, it makes little sense to associate
it exclusively with Mozart (unless one’s purview is limited to Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven). A wider perspective would
show that the technique characterizes the style of a range of composers influenced by the Italian style, many (such as J.C.
Bach) much older than Mozart.

Hypermeter, Form, and Closure • 153

EXAMPLE 7.8  J.C. Bach, Symphony, op. 3/​3
EXAMPLE 7.9  Galuppi, Didone Abbandonata, overture, mm. 1–​14
exposition–​ recapitulation form, the idea of
eliding a cadence into the restatement of a
theme that begins on a strong downbeat tonic
note is not unique to this overture and clearly
goes back to the kind of ritornello forms used
by earlier Italian opera composers, discussed in
Section 11.3.
As the J.C. Bach example demonstrates, the
hypermetrical orientation of a main theme
melody is significant not only for how the theme
fulfills the role of beginning, but also—​and
154 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
perhaps even more importantly—​how it acts
as a point of return. Often, it is only through
the many ways that music returns to the main
theme that its true character—​hypermetrical
or otherwise—​ becomes fully apparent. The
unusual hypermetrical placement of the
main theme in Mozart’s K.  564 Trio might be
disorienting at first, but becomes more clear
each time the theme returns, in the consequent
phrase, the repeat of the exposition, and the
recapitulation.
 Such a synoptic view becomes even more
important in the most elaborate of Mozart’s
1788 experiments in afterbeat placement, the
G minor Symphony, K.  550. This main theme
has received multiple divergent hypermetrical
interpretations. The analysis in Example 7.10
shows a hypermeter and formal structure that
are out of phase, with the hypermeter initiated
via the hanging span (aka “strong beat early”)
rule on the first downbeat, with the first formal
group not starting until the melody enters.
A  regular hypermeter in measures 1–​8 is then
strongly supported by parallelism. The strong
parallelism in measures 9–​13, however, is not
consistent with this hypermeter, creating an
extended beginning (see §6.2). Similarly, the
rhythmic parallelisms in the codetta following
the half cadence in measure 16 makes measures
14–​15 into a two-​measure extended beginning.
This then establishes a hypermeter whose con­
tinuation sets up a hypermetrical context for
the repeat of the main theme CBI in measure 20
mimicking that of measure 1.
The hidden irregularity of three measures
(the difference between the nineteen measures
between the theme and its repeat and a norma­
tive sixteen), accounted for in this analysis by ex­
tended beginnings, has been the main subject of
disagreement in the extant hypermetrical anal­
ysis. Lerdahl and Jackendoff (1983, 22–​5) use
the piece to throw the idea of hypermeter, espe­
cially at the four-​measure level, into doubt alto­
gether. Yet they do propose two hypermetrical
schemes at the two-​measure level, both of which
accent odd-​ numbered bars in measures 1–​ 8,
and even-​ numbered bars in measure 14–​ 20.
Schenker’s ([1925] 1994–​7, 68–​9) analysis gen­
erally matches one of Lerdahl and Jackendoff’s
schemes at the two-​ measure level, and also
posits larger units in measures 3–​6 and 7–​9.10
Epstein’s (1979, 68–​ 72) resembles Schenker’s
and also distinguishes phrase grouping from
hypermeter, as in the analysis in Example 7.10.
Kramer’s analysis (1988, 114–​16) agrees with all
of these at the two-​measure level, but disagrees
at the four-​measure level, placing the first unit
in measures 1–​4, as in Example 7.10, instead
of 3–​ 6. Benjamin (1984, 405–​ 8), however,
disputes Lerdahl and Jackendoff’s hypermeter
for measures 1–​8 even at the two-​measure level.
Bernstein (1973), in his music and language
lectures that inspired the Lerdahl-​ Jackendoff
collaboration, gives a hypermetrical analysis
at the two-​measure level that also agrees with
Example 7.10, but at the beginning of his dis­
cussion, performs a recomposed version that
explicitly realizes the two-​and four-​bar levels of
Benjamin’s analysis.11
Taking all of these analyses into account,
there appear to be three main points of con­
tention, two at the two-​bar level and one at the
four-​bar level. Let us consider each of these in
light of the criteria discussed in Section 6.2.
The first is the afterbeat placement of measures
1–​8 (asserted by Schenker, Epstein, Bernstein,
Lerdahl and Jackendoff, and Ex. 7.10) versus an
even-​strong hypermeter that better matches the
formal structure (Benjamin). Favoring the first
interpretation are the rhythm created by alter­
nation of register in the bass line, with low notes
appearing in odd-​numbered measures, and the
harmonic rhythm, which also groups measures
1–​4/​5–​6/​7–​8. The melodic parallelisms favor
Benjamin’s analysis, but only weakly:  the two-​
measure parallelisms are still fairly strong in
Example 7.10, the only flaw being that the two
quarter notes at the beginning of measures 3, 5,
and 7 are missing from measure 1. The afterbeat
interpretation also prevents a hanging span in
measure 1.
The second point of contention is the center­
piece of Lerdahl and Jackendoff’s skeptical dis­
cussion of the theme:  assuming that the piece
begins with two-​ bar spans starting on odd-​
numbered measures, where do they shift to even-​
numbered measures? The criteria of Section 6.2
are unequivocal on this point:  the strong paral­
lelism of measures 10–​11 and 12–​13 define these
rhythmic groups. Since measure 9 continues the
preceding pattern, the parallelism in the following

10. Beyond this, Schenker posits two-​measure units in measures 10–​11/​12–​13/​14–​15 followed by a six-​measure unit,
16–​21. The idea that this six-​measure unit (which includes two measures of the transition) is on the same metrical level as
the preceding two-​measure units exemplifies Schenker’s tendency to posit highly asymmetrical metrical schemes, commented
upon in Section 6.1–​2.
11. Bernstein 1973, 0:54–​1:35. The first hypermetrical interpretation appears from about 1:01–​1:06, the second from
1:10–​1:15. While Bernstein makes it clear that he regards the latter parsing as the correct one, he offers the first as a “deep
structure” analogous to the underlying structure of a sentence that would be derived by a linguistic grammar. This suggests
perhaps that the first hypermetrical analysis is somehow real as an underlying structure, and Mozart has transformed it
for artistic purposes into the second hypermeter. In other words, Bernstein seems to regard the second analysis as more
accurate but also more of a surface-​level analysis.

Hypermeter, Form, and Closure • 155

EXAMPLE 7.10  Hypermeter and form in mm. 1–​31 of Mozart’s Symphony in G minor, K. 550

four measures turns this into an extended begin­ The third point of contention concerns the
ning. This result essentially agrees with Bernstein, four-​
measure spans. Schenker and Epstein
Schenker, Epstein, and Kramer.12 claim that the first four-​measure group starts

12. With the exception that Schenker and Kramer put measure 9 into a three-​measure unit with the preceding material.
Imposing this kind of irregularity on material that is purely parallel is avoided by invoking the extended beginning, a concept
that is not in Schenker or Kramer’s analytical repertoire.

156 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
from measure 3 rather than measure 1, and
Lerdahl and Jackendoff also favor this inter­
pretation, although they ultimately decide that
there is no meter at the four-​measure level at
all. Kramer, however, argues for a hypermeter
at the four-​measure level starting in measure
1. The hanging-​span, parallelism, and regularity
criteria all clearly support Kramer’s reading.
In Schenker’s parsing, there are no confirmed
projections at this level at all, because measures
3–​7 are the only four-​measure group, and there
is also a long hanging span in measures 1–​2.
The lack of consensus about the hypermeter
of this theme should naturally lead us to
question what makes the matter so difficult
to resolve, especially given the theme’s lack of
any apparent aesthetic of complexity. An ex­
planation consistent with the analysis given
here is the inherent instability of an afterbeat
placement of a melody. The evidence for the
two-​measure hypermeter is entirely in the ac­
companiment. If the melody is isolated from it
(as it is when one sings the theme to oneself),
its hypermeter instead necessarily matches the
scheme proposed by Benjamin (who omits the
accompaniment in his analytical example), be­
cause the melody does not articulate the first
downbeat at all. The scheme implied by the
melody alone is also simpler (lacking the shift
in m.  10)  and maintains a consistent conso­
nant relationship with the formal structure.
Furthermore, it is the simplicity and regularity
of the formal structure that lends the theme its
unpretentious aesthetic despite the underlying
rhythmic complications. This feature makes the
hypermeter of the theme tenuous, and lies be­
hind many of the motivic machinations of the
movement, as we will see shortly.
As Bernstein (1973) observes, a synoptic view
of the main theme helps to further substantiate
the afterbeat placement of the melody.13 The
first return of the theme, as a false-​consequent
transition starting in measure 20, has an
afterbeat placement relative to a well-​established
two-​measure hypermetrical pattern. The same
can be said for the repeat of the exposition. At
the end of the development, the four-​measure
hypermeter is established just before the reca­
pitulation. The hypermeter of the theme there­
fore gains clarity progressively over the course
of the piece—​if it is ambiguous in the first eight
measures, by the end of the piece it is consider­
ably less so.
13. See especially his narration during the full performance at the end of the “Musical Syntax” lecture.
Yet, even if this settles the question of the
hypermetrical shape of the main theme, it
raises a still more pressing question: why would
Mozart put this otherwise simple theme in
such an unstable hypermetrical placement? We
have already seen, in the analysis of the G major
Trio composed around the same time, that such
disjunctions of hypermeter and formal struc­
ture can be an element of large-​scale compo­
sitional design. Another work of 1788, the E♭
major Symphony, K. 543, corroborates the idea
that Mozart took a special interest in afterbeat
main themes around this time. In the E♭ major
Symphony, Mozart uses the afterbeat placement
to compose a dreamy, reserved main theme in
subversion the expected assertive beginning for
a symphonic allegro, contrasting it with the met­
rically heavy second main theme (mm. 54–​71).
The G minor Symphony is similar to the E♭
major in its manipulation of ordinary sym­
phonic rhetoric, and similar to the Trio in its
use of hypermetrical reinterpretation of the­
matic material as a dramatic formal process.
One common feature to all of these examples
is that the shift in the alignment of formal and
rhythmic structure creates a dramatic progres­
sion within the exposition. In the symphonic
examples, the shift occurs at the end of the main
theme, where a second main theme (K. 543) or
transition (K. 550) assertively align formal and
rhythmic structures in a grandly symphonic
tutti gesture. In the Trio, as we have already
seen, a shift to upbeat orientation occurs in the
subordinate theme.
The initial melodic idea of the G minor
Symphony is Janus-​ faced tonally as well
as hypermetrically, a feature that Mozart
exploits immediately in the false consequent
of the main theme itself. The return of the
theme is surprising in that the dominant
harmony is extended into the beginning of
the four-​ measure group in measures 20–​ 3,
which seems at first to make this point har­
monically unsuitable for a return. However,
Mozart here reveals that the first two meas­
ures of the theme are harmonically inde­
terminate:  the melody works as well over
dominant harmony as tonic. The feeling of
gradual emergence that the dominant begin­
ning lends to the melody at this moment has
led many (e.g., Schenker and Epstein) to in­
terpret the third measure of the melody as its
true hypermetrical beginning.
Hypermeter, Form, and Closure • 157
EXAMPLE  7.11  Hypermetric transformation of the main theme basic idea in the closing section
of K. 550
The significance of the main theme’s hyper­
metrical instability to a larger compositional
plan is most evident in the return of its basic
idea at the end of the exposition. Example 7.11
shows the end of the subordinate theme and the
beginning of closing material that re-​engages the
main theme motive. In measures 72–​6 the head
motive of the main theme is recalled in four con­
trapuntal layers:  in the strings it is sublimated
into long half-​step suspension motives, in one-​
measure imitation, while it appears in its original
rhythm and scale-​degree quality, also with one-​
measure imitations, in the woodwinds. The close
imitation in the woodwinds hypermetrically
flattens the motive, since it now falls in all four
possible hypermetrical positions.14 The imitation
in the woodwinds also establishes a parallelism
that subtly shifts the hypermeter in the manner
of an extended beginning (see §6.2). Mozart
then immediately seizes upon the hypermetrical
possibilities laid out in the short contrapuntal
passage, announcing the principal motive once
again, in its original rhythm,
‸ ‸ level of transpo­
sition, and tonal sense (6–​5 of G minor), but
now hypermetrically aligned and supported
by dominant harmony instead of tonic. Thus,
the hypermeter that Benjamin (1984) finds
in the theme is real, but as a potentiality. It is
suppressed in the main theme proper to give the
14. On the hypermetrical implications of imitative counterpoint, see the discussion of the “Prague” Symphony in
Section 8.2.
15. On the technique of developmental core, see Caplin 1998, Ch. 10, and §10.5.
158 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
theme its characteristic reticence, to contrast
it with the assertive transition. In the closing
section, the main theme material finds its nerve
and emerges as the agent of expositional closure,
leading directly to the strongly placed cadence of
measure 80.
Mozart retraces this narrative in the devel­
opment, where the main theme material first
reappears in its original afterbeat placement
and minor tonality (Ex. 7.12). He begins to
work the theme into a four-​measure chromatic
descending sequence. The core of the develop­
ment15 begins when this sequence is abruptly
cut off by a forceful statement of the theme
in the cellos one measure early, so that it now
falls on a hypermetrical downbeat in measure
115. The transformation achieved with an air
of triumph in the exposition now takes on
an aggressive bearing. Mozart constructs an
eight-​measure descending sequence out of an
invertible counterpoint on the four-​ measure
melody. This hypermeter is subsequently
maintained up to the end of the develop­
ment. The recapitulation charts the same
hypermetrical transformation of the principal
motive as the exposition until the short coda,
where the theme tragically withdraws to its
afterbeat placement in a valedictory fugato
appearance in measures 285–​92.
EXAMPLE 7.12 A similar hypermetric transformation at the beginning of the development

7.3  MAIN THEME ENDINGS from a method of making local, intrathematic,

IN HAYDN’S SYMPHONIES
With the expansion of binary forms into sonata
forms in the eighteenth century, the technique
of hypermetrical elision also broadens its role
syntactic distinctions between cadences (as in
the Corelli example in §7.1), to serving larger-​
scale purposes. Most significant among these
is weakening the end of the main theme rela­
tive to the end of the transition in sonata-​form

Hypermeter, Form, and Closure • 159

expositions, and distinguishing internal sub­
ordinate theme cadences from the one that
ends the exposition. These are the topics of this
section and the next, respectively.
Because the main theme of a sonata form
is usually relatively short, its cadence comes
early in the exposition, and must serve the
functions of formal articulation and home-​key
confirmation without bringing a premature clo­
sure or detracting from the textural break that
comes at the end of the transition. In a sense,
the intrathematic need to avoid closure in the
small binary forms in small Baroque forms like
Corelli’s (see Ex. 7.5 above) is expanded to an
interthematic problem in Haydn—​ specifically,
the transition necessarily ends with a harmon­
ically inconclusive half cadence, but must sound
more conclusive than the end of the main theme,
which typically ends with a home-​key PAC. And
Haydn has a similar repertoire of hypermetrical
tactics at his disposal.
The evolution of Haydn’s practice in composing
symphony first movements and finales make
an interesting case study in approaches to
this problem. One common solution in first
movements, already discussed in the previous
chapter (see the example from Symphony
no. 93) is the deletion of the last measure of the
main theme from the hypermeter. Haydn used
this technique in some of the small-​scale first
movements of his earliest symphonies.16 He
also uses it quite often in first movements from
1779–​1884.17 He mostly abandons it, however, in
the late 1760s and 1770s, when he was expanding
the scope of his formal designs.18 This first part of
this period is widely referred to, somewhat mis­
leadingly, as Haydn’s “Sturm und Drang” period
(see Landon 1978, Todd 1980, Webster 1991a).
Bonds (1998) shows that the style change of this
period stems not from some personal crisis but
a conscious experimentation and deeper study
into the art of composition. Larsen (1988, 105–​6,
112–​13) refers to this simply as Haydn’s third and
fourth periods (1765–​72/​1773–​8), and speculates
that Haydn’s increasing experimentation in the
symphony and string quartet genres was cut
short by Prince Esterházy’s censure for “learned”
styles around 1772.19 A  survey of Haydn’s tonal
and hypermetrical treatment of the main theme–​
transition juncture of symphony first movement
reveals experimentation and evolving mastery of
techniques of large-​scale rhythmic organization
throughout the entire period.
From 1765 to 1779, we find Haydn using a
number of novel methods for suggesting home-​
key cadence without creating the effect of pre­
mature closure. One technique, which he uses
frequently in the 1770s but largely abandons for
first movements after 1780,20 is the “dissolving
consequent,” where the main theme ends with a
half cadence, giving it the sense of antecedent,
and the transition begins as if it is a consequent
but modulates to the subordinate key.21 This
method, especially in major keys, works best if
hypermetrical irregularities blur the first half
cadence, as is evident, for example, in measures
10–​12 of no. 39 and measures 8–​11 of no. 42.22
A related technique is fusion of the main theme
and transition, which is common in early
symphonies as well as those of 1765–​1779.23 In
these examples, a PAC is often suggested in some
way before being diverted into a half cadence, a
method that typically requires a strong sense of
hypermeter.24 The distinctive feature shared by

16. See symphonies no. 3, 4, 6, 8, and 29.

17. The technique of deletion at the beginning of the transition can be found in first movements of symphonies 70, 71,
74, and 77–​81.
18. An exception being no. 50 (1773).
19. The year 1779 is significant in that he made a new non-​exclusive contract with Esterházy that allowed him to write
works for publication and commission (ibid., 107). This led to works such as the op. 33 string quartets of 1781, and the
Mariazellermesse of 1782. One might speculate that a regularization of Haydn’s approach to symphonies in the 1780s could
reflect a streamlined compositional process that allowed him to focus energies on these more innovative projects.
20. No. 83 in G minor, “La Poule” (1785), is an exception. The technique has a different effect when used in the minor.
Mozart’s G minor Symphony, K. 550 (Ex 7.10) is a similar example.
21. Hepokoski and Darcy 2006, 101–​2; Caplin 1998, 127–​9.
22. Other examples: nos. 41, 44, 48, 61.
23. Main theme–​transition fusion in first movements (or fast second movements) appears in early symphonies no. 18
(mvt. 2), no. 107 “A,” nos. 32, 14, 15, 21 (mvt. 2), 23, and 24. In the 1765–​79 period, it can be found in first movements of
nos. 31, 35, 38, 49, 57, 60.
24. For example, in mm. 13–​16 of no. 31, we anticipate a strong hypermetrical placement of the tonic resolution,
with dominant occupying m. 15 on the model of mm. 9–​12, but when Haydn places the V56 / ​V in m. 15 instead, it puts the
dominant in the hypermetrical location for resolution. In mm. 5–​6 of no. 49, mvt. 2, and mm. 39–​40 and 43–​44 of no. 57,
authentic cadences are hypermetrically elided within the main theme.

160 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
both these methods is that there is no PAC in the
main theme, a trait shared by other more unu­
sual examples of main themes ending in half ca­
dence in the late 1760s and 1770s, such as first
movements of nos. 59, 61, 64, and 69, but rare
in Haydn’s first movements after 1780. Other
techniques of avoiding premature closure in the
main theme that involve a sense of hypermeter
include the weak placement of the main theme
PAC and hypermetrical syncopation.25
Hypermetrical elision is another important
technique for preventing a disjointed effect
within the main theme or at the beginning of
the transition. Haydn elides PACs internal to
the main theme in nos. 36, 49 (mvt. 2), and 57.
Examples of elision at the beginning of the tran­
sition include first movements of nos. 43, 46, 53,
62, and 77 and the finales of nos. 47 and 59.26
Example 7.13 shows an elision between the
main theme and transition in the finale of no. 59
(“Fire”).27 (See also Ex. 6.3 from Symphony
no. 43.) A clear four-​measure hypermeter is es­
tablished in measures 1–​ 12, and the PAC in
measures 12–​13 places the tonic resolution over
the break in the four-​measure span, so that the
continuation of this four-​ measure pattern in
measures 13–​16 prevents the tonic from serving
as a resting point. The sense of measure 13 as new
beginning is reinforced by the repetition of the
horn-​fifths motive from measures 1–​2 (stated in
imitation) and the change in texture. Note that
the sense of a new span beginning at the moment
of resolution is essential to the effect; other­
wise we might simply understand the previous
four-​measure span to be extended to include the
resolution. In this sense, hypermetrical elision
is closely related to metrical deletion, leading
Schmalfeldt (1992) to reject the distinction. Yet
there is an important difference in effect be­
tween the techniques:  elision, by perpetuating
a hypermetrical pattern, gives a greater sense
of continuity from main theme into transition,

EXAMPLE 7.13  In the finale of Haydn’s Symphony no. 59 (“Fire”), the main theme joins the transi­
tion with a hypermetrically elided PAC

25. Weak placement of the resolution is illustrated in the example from no. 103 in Section 6.3; Haydn uses it in the first
movements of nos. 36, 64, 60, 75, and the finale of no. 76. He uses hypermetrical syncopation in no. 76, which is similar to
the example from no. 98 discussed in the next chapter (§8.3).
26. The first movement of no. 77 is an interesting combination of deletion and elision: A four-​measure codetta to the
main theme in mm. 8–​11 and 19–​22 is initiated with a deletion, but then has its own cadence elided with the repeat of the
main theme in m. 12, then the transition in m. 23.
27. Blazin (2009) hypothesizes that this finale was originally composed by Michael Haydn in B♭ and transposed and
reworked by Joseph Haydn for Symphony no. 59. If that is the case, then Michael is the source this particular use of elision.

Hypermeter, Form, and Closure • 161

characteristic of Haydn’s “middle period”
forms. Deletion is a hypermetrical disruption,
so it delineates the main theme and transition
functions more conspicuously, an effect more
amenable to his larger expositions of the 1780s
onward. Elision is also overwhelmingly pre­
ferred as a method of extending the cadential
activity of subordinate themes, as discussed in
the next section, whereas deletion, especially in
symphony first movements, is more common at
the main theme–​transition juncture.
7.4  ELIDED CADENCES
AND EXPOSITIONAL
CLOSURE
The effect of closure is an essential feature of sub­
ordinate theme function, and the subject of some
debate among music theorists. These disputes
take the form of two not-​ exactly-​equivalent
questions: where does exposition reach genuine
closure in the subordinate key? and where does
the subordinate theme (or secondary theme)
group end and the closing section (or closing
theme) begin? Hepokoski and Darcy (2006, chs.
7–​8) combine these in their concept of essential
expositional closure (EEC), which by definition
marks the end of the “S-​zone” and beginning of
the “C-​zone.” Caplin (2004, 56–​66) distinguishes
cadential closure of a theme from the formal
closure of the exposition, regarding the latter
as the function of the subordinate theme group
as a whole, while the former is the more local
function of the cadence within the theme. As a
general rule, Caplin’s formal criterion of closure
is stricter than Hepokoski and Darcy’s EEC. This
is because, for Caplin (1998, 122–​23), where the
subordinate theme group ends depends prima­
rily upon the material that follows it, a closing
section made up of short codettas that do not
develop into an independent theme. Hepokoski
and Darcy’s (2006, 120–​ 4) main criterion
for EEC is constrained instead mostly by the
preceding material—​whether there has yet been
a satisfactory subordinate-​key PAC. Therefore,
where they differ, Caplin’s approach will tend
to locate the end of a subordinate theme group
later that Hepokoski and Darcy’s.
A different way to approach the question of
expositional closure is to enumerate some of
the factors that contribute to the sense of clo­
sure, with an eye to distinguishing the forms of
closure that are privileged by various theories.
Distinguishing between rhythmic, tonal, and
162 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
formal structure is particularly useful because
closure is suggested in a different way in each
of these modalities, and an examination of how
they occur in the expositions of sonata forms
shows that each form of closure is at least partly
independent of the other:
(1)  Tonal Closure is the most familiar kind,
involving the combination of a cadential har­
monic progression with a structural melodic
descent.
(2)  Formal Closure of the exposition is
straightforward, according to the theory of
formal structure presented in Chapter  3:  it
occurs with the caesura that ends the exposition.
However, another important moment of formal
closure in the conventions of large sonata forms
of the late eighteenth century is the subordi-
nate theme closure. This moment conventionally
coincides with the strongest tonal closure, so it
assumes a high-​profile role in debates about ex­
positional closure.
(3)  Rhythmic Closure refers to the com­
pletion of the largest (usually four-​or eight-​
measure) hypermetrical units. Since, by virtue
of the limited scope of rhythmic structure, this
occurs constantly throughout a formal section,
the phenomenon we are interested in is tonal-​
rhythmic closure, the coincidence of tonal closure
with rhythmic closure—​that is, the completion
of a perfect authentic cadence within the largest
hypermetrical unit, such that the resolving tonic
of the cadence is sustained up to the end of the
hypermetrical unit. This is an important con­
dition for full closure of a large formal section
(such as a sonata exposition).
Tonal criteria of closure are universally
recognized and have been thoroughly investi­
gated, and recent advances in the theory of form
have made great strides in better appreciating
formal closure. Yet rhythmic conditions for
closure of large formal sections have been less
often discussed. Caplin (2004, 57)  tentatively
dismisses the idea, and, tellingly, the only sub­
stantial theoretical treatment of it he cites is
over a century old (Riemann 1903). As defined
above, rhythmic closure is a weak condition:  it
only constitutes a kind of closure when asso­
ciated with tonal or formal closure, after the
conditions for tonal closure have already been
met. The simple condition should also itself be
relatively uncontroversial:  a hypermetrical unit
will not sound like an ending if it concludes with
something other than tonic harmony. Rhythmic
EXAMPLE 7.14  Diagram of subordinate theme closure as an element of formal structure in a typical
sonata-​form exposition
closure is analogous to other types of closure in
the sense that all are a kind of completion: just
as tonal closure completes a tonal process and
formal closure completes a thematic-​ formal
process, rhythmic closure is the completion of
a final hypermetrical unit. If some candidate
for a final hypermetrical unit does not end with
tonic harmony, some other tonal or formal pro­
cess must have begun before the unit ends. In
other words, for any place where the criteria of
tonal (and/​or formal) closure are met, we can ask
whether there is an associated rhythmic closure
at some level. Those that do not are less fully
closed: there is no moment where all processes
are brought simultaneously to conclusion. And
if tonal-​rhythmic closure occurs well after tonal
closure, then the moment of tonal-​ rhythmic
closure is, in a very real sense, more complete
than the preceding moment of tonal closure.
In fact, it is not uncommon that tonal, formal,
and rhythmic closure are all temporally disso­
ciated in a sonata exposition, so that closure is
completed in a succession of stages. The elided
cadence is a basic tool for achieving this effect.
Caplin’s (1998, 122–​3; 2004, 80–​1, 90–​6) dis­
tinction between subordinate theme function
and closing section function is especially useful
for understanding formal structure at the end
of a sonata-​ form exposition. Example 7.14
diagrams how the closing section works in a typ­
ical sonata-​ form exposition. The subordinate
theme ends when its longer-​breathed phrasing
gives way to the short repeated post-​cadential
ideas of the closing section. Most expositions co­
ordinate tonal and rhythmic closure with subor­
dinate theme closure in one of two ways: (1) full
tonal-​rhythmic closure occurs at the moment
of subordinate theme closure, or (2)  tonal clo­
sure happens without rhythmic closure at the
28. A good example of this, in addition to the Haydn examples later in this chapter (Exx. 7.16–​17), is the first movement
of Mozart’s “Prague” Symphony (no. 38) discussed in the next chapter (see Ex. 8.6)
beginning of the closing section, and full tonal-​
rhythmic closure occurs only at the end of the
closing section.
Subordinate-​key PACs typically occur multiple
times in an exposition, and often well before the
subordinate theme group seems to have ended.
Hepokoski and Darcy refer to these as “retrospec­
tive reopenings” of S-​theme PACs, and they cite a
wide range of grounds for inferring them (151–​
63). Many of these (because they are retrospec­
tive, based on what happens after the cadence,
not before) bring them almost in line with Caplin’s
definition of subordinate theme closure, especially
their assertion that “S-​space” can be reopened by
the reintroduction of secondary-​theme material
and even the appearance of a non-​elided cadence
within the subsequent material. They also (169–​
70) recognize evaded cadences, which Schmalfeldt
(1992) and Caplin (1998, 101–​6) identify as an
important method of deferring closure.
It is much rarer, on the other hand, for full
tonal-​rhythmic closure to occur “prematurely” in
this way. This is because tonal closure within the
subordinate theme group is usually either evaded,
elided, or both.28 That is, composers typically use
hypermeter to indicate to the listener that, despite
the completion of a strong cadential progression,
the exposition is not yet over.
Another way to describe the closural conven­
tions of the sonata-​form exposition is that there
are four significant types of events which typically
occur in the following order:  (1) tonal closure,
(2)  formal subordinate theme closure, (3)  tonal-​
rhythmic closure, and (4)  formal expositional
closure, with event (3)  coinciding with either
(2)  or (4). Also, tonal closure, (1), can happen
any number of times, one of which will coincide
with (2), but (2) and (4) are usually unique events
(making space for the closing section). Premature
Hypermeter, Form, and Closure • 163
EXAMPLE 7.15  Beethoven, Piano Sonata, op. 10/​1, mm. 76–​105
tonal-​rhythmic closure is the relatively unusual
exception where (3) occurs before (2), in addition
to occurring in one of its usual positions. We will
consider other more unusual occurrences below.
One is Beethoven’s “Tempest” sonata, where there
is no tonal closure coinciding with the formal sub­
ordinate theme closure. This is problematic if one
treats tonal closure as a criterion for formal clo­
sure (as most theories of form do) rather than as
a usual co-​occurrence. Another interesting situa­
tion is the omission of tonal-​rhythmic closure, (3),
from the exposition altogether, a special trait of
Beethoven’s middle-​and late-​period sonata form
practice discussed in the next section.
Example 7.15, from Beethoven’s Piano Sonata
op.  10/​1, illustrates one common strategy for
the subordinate theme–​ closing section junc­
ture. Beethoven establishes a clear four-​measure
hypermeter within an expanded cadential pro­
gression, and the cadential resolution falls at
the beginning of a four-​measure unit—​that is,
the cadence is elided. The closing section, a se­
ries of repeated four-​measure gestures, begins in
164 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
the same measure as the resolving tonic of the
cadence. The cadence unambiguously achieves
both tonal and formal closure, but rhythmic
closure has not materialized. Since a new four-​
measure timespan begins within the cadence, the
listener must wait at least until the end of this
four-​measure span before finding a true point of
rest. But Beethoven does not provide it yet: the
simple circular progression of the codettas (mm.
94–​7/​98–​101) ends with a dominant, leading
into the next repetition. The rhythmic closure
does not appear until the tonic is extended to
fill the last two measures of one of these four
measure spans, in measures 104–​5—​that is, the
last two measures of the exposition. Thus, de­
spite the strong tonal closure at the end of the
subordinate theme, full tonal-​rhythmic closure,
(3), is delayed for another twelve measures, and
coincides with the end of the exposition, (4).
Temperley’s (1996, 2003)  examples of end-​
accented closing themes all derive from this
strategy of dissociating tonal and rhythmic clo­
sure with an elided cadence. Op.  10/​1 differs
from these in that it does not really involve an
end-​accented phrase, since the bass melody
on the downbeat of measure 94 should surely
count as the beginning of the phrase. However,
it involves the same basic technique and has a
similar effect to other examples like Temperley’s
where the closing material is end-​accented. In
fact, any of Beethoven’s early piano sonatas
could serve equally well to exemplify this formal
strategy, because in this genre specifically,
Beethoven’s approach to ending subordinate
themes is virtually invariable in the 1790s.29 This
should not be taken to mean that this is neces­
sarily a model procedure for the form, because
it is not the predominant strategy for other
composers, such as Haydn, or in other genres.30
From the accent-​ based perspective on meter,
one is inclined to view Beethoven’s procedure as
a method of providing the subordinate theme ca­
dence with maximal hypermetrical accent. One
may even be tempted to take such examples
as evidence that subordinate theme cadences
are normatively hypermetrically accented. The
problem with such a notion is that one could
endlessly enumerate counterexamples that do
not seem to be weak or in any respect lacking in
sufficient subordinate theme closure.
The hypermetrical rule of closure implies,
to the contrary, that placing the cadential res­
olution at the beginning of a timespan may
often function as a way of preventing full clo­
sure, because once a new hypermetrical span
has begun, the possibility of coordinated tonal
and rhythmic closure is opened up at least until
the completion of the next hypermetrical unit.
Closure will be achieved by the given cadence
if the following hypermetrical unit is filled by
simple reiterations of tonic, bringing closure
relatively swiftly, or by a short closing section
that denies closure for a few more four-​measure
spans. Or, closure could be further diverted,
leading into a new theme that re-​ opens the
formal process. In all cases, the technique of
eliding subordinate-​theme cadences is primarily
a method of creating continuity by spreading out
the completion of tonal, formal, and rhythmic
processes undertaken by the exposition. As we
will see in the next section, the sense of conti­
nuity created by the strong four-​bar hypermeter
and elided cadences typical of Beethoven’s early
piano sonatas lead to an aesthetic, in his middle
period, of denying full closure altogether in ever
more radical ways, creating continuity between
larger formal sections. The technique also gives
added rhetorical emphasis to the subordinate-​
theme cadence, but more by spreading cadential
activity over a larger range of musical content
than by increasing the metrical accent afforded
to the resolving tonic.
In the example from Beethoven’s op.  10/​1
sonata, tonal closure combines with subordi­
nate theme closure, but is dissociated from
rhythmic closure. Another common technique,
related to this one, is the dissociation of tonal
closure from subordinate theme closure, where
harmonically complete cadences are denied
both rhythmic and formal closure within the
subordinate theme group. Cadential elision
also typically plays a role in this technique to
reinforce the denial of formal closure, com­
monly being combined with the technique of
evaded cadence. An evaded cadence, as defined
by Schmalfeldt (1992) and Caplin (1998, 101–​
6), is one whose final resolution is thwarted by
a new cadential or continuational process be­
ginning at the moment when resolution should
occur. Schmalfeldt and Caplin demonstrate the
importance of evaded cadences for extending
the cadential processes of subordinate themes.
Hypermetrical elision, however, usually
happens in conjunction with cadential eva­
sion, so it can be counted as a crucial factor in
producing the sense of new beginning.31 What
is more, the technique of elision can be used
to a similar effect when the melodic devices of
evasion are ambiguous or absent.

29. The exception being op. 14/​1. He also does not use it in the op. 49 “Light” Sonatas.
30. Beethoven’s earliest work in other genres, such as the op. 1 Piano Trios, the op. 5 Cello Sonatas, the op. 12 Violin
Sonatas, does not push tonal-​rhythmic closure all the way to the end of the exposition. Some other early works can be found
that do, though: the first movements of his Piano Quartet WoO 36/​3, the op. 3 and op. 9/​2 String Trios, the “Gassenhauer”
Clarinet Trio op. 11, the Wind Octet op. 103, the Horn Sonata op. 17, and String Quartet op. 18/​6, and the Second Symphony
(op. 36, 1800–​2).
31. When elision does not occur at an evaded cadence, there will usually be a deletion, so that, either way, the new
beginning that constitutes the defining feature of cadential evasion is also a hypermetrical beginning, denying tonal-​rhythmic
closure. Yet exceptions are in fact possible: one example is Mozart’s “Jupiter” Symphony (no. 41, K. 551), where cadential
arrivals in mm. 71 and 75 are evaded by the interjections of a countermelody in the bass. When the melody resumes in the
upper part (in mm. 72 and 76) it maintains the preceding hypermetrical pattern, so a deletion does not occur, even though
the cadences are evaded. Thus, it is the denial of formal closure (to the subordinate theme), not rhythmic closure, that defers
full closure in this instance.

Hypermeter, Form, and Closure • 165

 Haydn’s C major Piano Trio (H. 27) illustrates
how protracted cadential activity often extends
a subordinate theme group to great lengths. The
movement is written in a compound 4$time, so
that organization at the one-​measure level and
above are hypermetrical. Starting at midway
through measure 23 Haydn introduces thematic
material that puts the hypermeter a half-​measure
out of phase with the notated barlines, as shown
in Example 7.16. The cadential progressions in

EXAMPLE 7.16  Haydn, Piano Trio, H. 27, end of subordinate theme group

166 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
EXAMPLE 7.16 Continued
measures 25 and 27 therefore resolve over the
breaks between spans of four real (2$) meas­
ures, preventing closure as the melodic motion
continues. The first of these evaded cadences
motivates a “one more time” repetition of pre­
vious two-​measure passage, while the second
leads into entirely new material. There are no
harmonic or melodic criteria that would pre­
vent closure midway through measure 25: there
is clear bass support and a clear melodic descent
in the piano’s melody. The resolving tonic note
in measure 25, furthermore, belongs to the
previous phrase and does not initiate the new
one, which begins with the triplets at the piano
marking. The cadence in measure 27 is also ton­
ally unimpeachable, although the melodic G in
this case does belong to subsequent material. In
both cases, ongoing momentum is ensured by
the fact that rhythmic resolution is left open,
leaving space for the reiteration of previous ma­
terial or the introduction of new material.
The ST group continues with a complete the­
matic structure based on new material in meas­
ures 29–​36. To bring closure to the group, Haydn
reorients the hypermeter in in the cadential pro­
gression by expanding the cadential predomi­
nant. According to the harmonic rhythm rule
(see §6.2), the ii6 chord that occupies measure
Hypermeter, Form, and Closure • 167
EXAMPLE 7.17  In Haydn’s Symphony no. 43 (“Mercury”) an elided PAC delays the end of the subor­
dinate theme, leading to a new continuation
35 should be contained in a single one-​measure
timespan, but it would split timespans on the
hypermetrical pattern established up to that
point. This motivates a half-​measure expansion
in the hypermeter, corroborated by the broad­
ening of rhythmic gestures at this moment. As a
result, the mid-​measure resolution in measure 36
falls on the last half-​measure of a hypermetrical
span, bringing full closure to the group.
The subordinate theme in Haydn’s “Mercury”
Symphony uses elision similarly to extend the
theme (Ex. 7.17). The four-​measure hypermeter
is clear and consistent, and the cadence in
measures 67–​68 resolves at the beginning of a
four-​measure unit, motivating a new continu­
ation. This cadence is certainly not evaded, but
also certainly does not bring full closure to the
subordinate theme—​ that occurs in measures
78–​79, where a PAC completes a four-​measure
hypermetrical unit. None of the formal or tonal
criteria mentioned by Hepokoski and Darcy
(2006), for instance, can account for this deferral
of expositional closure.
168 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
For Beethoven at the turn of the century,
hypermeter in subordinate themes becomes in­
creasingly tenacious and the rhetoric of cadential
denial can border on hyperbolic. Example 7.18
shows the ending of the ST group for his op. 23
Violin Sonata in A  minor. The subordinate
theme of this movement is a play on the topic
of contrapuntal dialogue between the piano and
violin. Within the subordinate theme, the contra­
puntal dialogue takes the form of an exchange of
contrasting ideas (a basic idea in E minor answered
by a contrasting idea in the same rhythm in
G major). This statement–​response design fits
neatly into the symmetrical phrasing, creating
an eight-​measure compound antecedent (which
is repeated twice, mm. 30–​37/​38–​45). Then, in
what should be a four-​ measure continuation,
the contrapuntal discourse gives way to heated
dispute. The parts overlap in a stretto-​like half-​
measure imitation, juxtaposing the same motives
in different metrical and hypermetrical positions.
The recomposition in Example 7.19 shows how
the normatively four-​measure continuation gets
EXAMPLE 7.18  End of the ST group in Beethoven’s op. 23 Violin Sonata
behind itself when melodic focus shifts to the
late-​entering violin, which pushes the cadential
resolution fully out of the four-​measure metrical
span. Through this contrapuntal trick, Beethoven
creates the sense that satisfactory closure has
been prevented because of the two players
“talking over” one another. The first evaded ca­
dence is enhanced by a harmonic evasion of root-​
position tonic, and is repeated twice, which leads
the quarreling musicians to angrily raise their
voices (as shown in the dynamics and the registral
and textual amplifications).
The cadence in measure 54, being in the same
hypermetrical position as the previous one, is
also inconclusive, even though, like in measure
25 of Haydn’s Trio, it meets all harmonic and
melodic criteria of a strong PAC (including that
there is a resolving melodic note, in the piano,
Hypermeter, Form, and Closure • 169
EXAMPLE 7.19 A hypothetical recomposition of mm. 46–​8, without the elided cadence
that does not group with subsequent material).
Beethoven, however, shows that the ST group is
not over with a sudden shift in dynamic to pia­
nissimo32 and the slurring of the violin (whose
E on the downbeat does group with subsequent
material). The next two four-​measure continua­
tion phrases rehearse the same techniques: the
parts are rhythmically out-​of-​phase by a half-​
measure, leading to another evaded cadence in
measure 58, at which point the parts swap and
the dynamic and texture intensify once again.
Only in measure 62 does a cadence finally com­
plete the subordinate theme, initiating a short
closing section. As in Op.  10/​1, this cadence
is also elided, which means that full rhythmic
closure is delayed further to the point where
we are finally allowed a moment of rest on the
tonic in measures 68–​9.
In this example, as in op. 10/​1 (Ex. 7.15) and
many other of his piano sonata first movements,
full tonal-​rhythmic closure coincides with expo­
sitional closure rather than subordinate theme
closure. To recognize this situation as distinct
from, for example, Haydn’s Piano Trio H.27 and
Symphony no. 43 (Exx. 7.16–​17), where it is the
end of the ST group that is delayed (along with
full closure) by techniques of evasion and elision,
we must clearly distinguish between different
types of closure, all of which are syntactical.
Equating subordinate-​ theme closure with full
closure (as Hepokoski and Darcy’s concept of
EEC does) may lead to spurious disputes over
the “true” ending of the ST group in cases where
formal closure is disengaged from other types.
An exceptional example of this is Beethoven’s
much-​analyzed “Tempest” Sonata, op. 31/​2 (Ex.
7.20). Schmalfeldt (2011, 55–​7) adroitly lays out
the stakes in the dispute over the moment of
closure in this exposition. Caplin (2009a) views
measure 75 as the end of the ST group, a position
32. Hepokoski and Darcy (2006, 170) define this as an “attenuated PAC.”
33. Another example of a decoupling of tonal and formal closure, similar to the op. 31/​2 first movement in many respects,
is the first movement of op. 81a.
170 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
consistent with the fact that what follows this
clearly fits the usual closing-​ section rhetoric
of a Classical sonata form. Hepokoski (2009a)
puts the EEC at measure 87, while Schmalfeldt
puts the end of ST at measures 85–​7, where the
true root position tonic occurs. One problem, as
Schmalfeldt points out, is that Beethoven’s ca­
dential dominant (m. 74) is separated from the
resolving tonic (mm. 85–​90) so that no conven­
tional localized cadential gesture ever occurs.
(See Schmalfeldt’s Ex. 2.4 on p. 47, which shows
the tonal structure of the passage.) Schmalfeldt
and Hepokoski both accurately identify how and
where the tonal completion essential to full ex­
positional closure occurs. However, Caplin’s
view is also, in a sense, correct: measure 75 is the
true moment of formal closure, or the point at
which the subordinate theme ends and closing
section begins. The real problem of this exposi­
tion, then, is that formal closure is decoupled
from tonal closure in a novel way:  instead of
using hypermeter to deny full closure at this
moment (as in op. 23, op. 10/​1, and other first
movements), Beethoven denies rhythmic and
tonal closure at the moment where the subor­
dinate theme ends. To make sense of this, and
to show how it is both similar to and different
than other of Beethoven’s expositions, we must
acknowledge that tonal, rhythmic, and formal
closure are in principle independent processes—​
more specifically, that the rule of tonal closure
preceding and/​or coinciding with formal closure
is not a logical necessity.33
7.5  BEETHOVEN’S OPEN
EXPOSITIONS
We have already noted how Beethoven, already
in some of his earliest works, cultivates a strong
EXAMPLE 7.20  Beethoven, Piano Sonata (“Tempest”), op. 31/​2, end of exposition: formal closure of
the subordinate theme (m. 75) is not aligned with tonal closure (m. 87).

hypermetrical profile with cadential elisions narrative, and closure-​ as-​

that push full closure to the end of the closing
section, unifying his sonata-​form expositions in
a single unbroken gesture. In his middle period,
these methods evolve into an ever more auda­
ciously unremitting forward motion that blurs
all formal boundaries, including the end of the
exposition.
Interpreters of Beethoven have long char­
acterized the period beginning around 1803 with
concepts like form-​as-​process, continuity, dramatic
struggle. Schmalfeldt
(2011, 23–​ 62) shows how the form-​ as-​
process
thread in the tradition of Beethoven reception,
from Marx to Adorno to Dahlhaus, relates to
techniques of form-​ functional fusion that lend
the music a very real sense of being in a continual
state of becoming. Burnham (2000) focuses on the
tradition of reading this music as narratives of he­
roic struggle, the teleological quality of which is
buttressed by the monumentality of Beethoven’s
approach to closure. While these authors tend to

Hypermeter, Form, and Closure • 171

focus on how such impressions are determined by
form and harmony, Beethoven’s use of hypermeter
is also an identifiable technical innovation central
to the special and revolutionary qualities of this
music. Broyles (1987) has noted the special rela­
tionship between hypermeter and closure in these
works, and relates this to a blending of elements
of the symphonic style, which implies qualities of
rhythmic drive, continuity, and broad dynamic
and rhythmic shaping, into genres in the sonata
lineage.
The end of the ST group and closing section
of Beethoven’s other A  minor Violin Sonata,
op.  47  “Kreutzer,” for instance, resembles that
of the op. 23 sonata in many ways. But there is a
perhaps subtle yet deeply significant difference:
Beethoven has now abandoned the idea that an
exposition must at some point effect full tonal,
formal, and rhythmic closure. This strategy of
binding entire first movements in a relentless
forward motion through denial of full closure
is a recurring formal gambit in his middle pe­
riod, and Beethoven’s methods of denying clo­
sure become increasingly bolder in a succession
of middle-​ period works, the String Quartet
op. 59/​2, the Finale of the Fifth Symphony, the
first movements of both op. 70 Piano Trios, and
the Seventh Symphony first movement.
Hepokoski and Darcy (2006, 177–​9, 245–​7)
note this tendency in some of Beethoven’s works,
including the Fifth Symphony.34 Their terms,
“failed exposition” and “sonata failure” are mis­
leading, however, implying that the purpose of
an exposition or sonata-​form move­ment is to
cadence. The effect of denying closure is better
described as one of continuity or blurring of
formal boundaries. In fact, Broyles’ (1987) and
Burnham’s (2000) description of Beethoven’s
tendency to avoid closure (in early 1800s works)
as an essential feature of heroic aesthetic is a
more generally accurate description, especially
with regards to the most famous example in
the Fifth Symphony, and is, for all intents and
purposes, the opposite of Hepokoski and Darcy’s
“failure.” The technique of denial of closure in
the exposition has precedent in at least two
first movements by Haydn:  his String Quartets
op. 20/​3 and op. 76/​2 (“Fifths”) lack closure in the
exposition but not the recapitulation.35 However,
a more important influence may have been the
overtures of French composers like Cherubini,
admired by the young Beethoven—​see Broyles
1987, 119–​26. The elided ending of the exposi­
tion in these works comes out of the overture tra­
dition (see §11.3), but in pieces like Cherubini’s
overture to Medée, the avoidance of subordinate
theme closure is marked in a rhetorically extrava­
gant way. (See the passage preceding rehearsal E,
which marks the beginning of the second part of
a large parallel binary.)
In Beethoven’s op.  47 first movement, as
in many other examples, the denial of closure
recurs in the recapitulation where it unravels
into an extensive coda that brings the entire
movement to a satisfying conclusion.36 This
piece’s preoccupation with suspenseful pauses,
halting motion on harmonies of tonal disrup­
tion rather than tonal resolution, is closely
associated with the denial of closure in the ex­
position and recapitulation. Fermatas on ton­
ally unstable harmonies appear pointedly at the
end of the curiously modulating main theme
(m. 27, m. 36) and the first part of the subordi­
nate theme (m. 116), in addition to the end of
the exposition and recapitulation. The fermata
in the subordinate theme marks the abandon­
ment of a metrically transcendent universe of
measures 91–​115, where the tactus shifts dra­
matically from the half note to the whole note.
The implicit compound period (in double meas­
ures, with “real” measures of 2/​1) is also aban­
doned here, left incomplete in the middle of
the consequent phrase. Beethoven’s adept use
of suspenseful fermatas is perhaps indebted to
Haydn (see the analyses in §10.4 and §11.1), but
come off as more radical in the context of this
sprawling yet unremittingly restless large-​scale
formal design. Beethoven also toys with the
effect in the false starts at the end of the devel­
opment (mm. 312–​13, 322–​5).

34. See also Hepokoski 2001. Some finale examples, such as Symphony no. 2, are better understood as modeled on
sonata-​rondo practice, where eliding the subordinate theme with the main theme return is a common procedure.
35. Hypermetrical positioning of cadential material is an important factor in op. 76/​2 (the last potential cadential
progression in measures 49–​50 happens in the first two measures of a four-​measure unit—​the listener could be forgiven for
not noticing the cadential syntax of the harmony at all here).
36. In op. 70 no 2, discussed in Section 11.4, the main theme itself is composed as an ending—​at first to the slow
introduction—​, and the unclosed ST group is designed to spill over into the repeat of the exposition. op. 70/​1 has a less
extensive coda, but also a ST group ending with a unique quality of exhaustion, in which the possibility of closure quietly
dissipates instead of being violently denied as in the Kreutzer. The final measures of the coda of op. 70/​1 also “correct” the
metrical irregularity of the main theme, discussed in Chapter 5.

172 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
 Example 7.21 begins from the repeat of the
second subordinate theme. The theme has a
strong four-​ bar hypermeter and two evaded
cadences (with inverted tonics) in measures 168
and 172, resembling those in op. 23. The cadence
in measure 176 ends the theme. The form-​func­
tional labels in Example 7.20 are consistent with
Schmalfeldt’s (2011, 87–​111) analysis of the en­
tire movement. Yet we would miss an important
feature of the passage if we only considered how
Beethoven draws tonal and formal processes to a
EXAMPLE 7.21  Beethoven, Violin Sonata (“Kreutzer”), op. 47, end of ST group
close in measure 176, ignoring the hypermetrical
placement of this ending. Imagine that instead
of the codettas beginning in measure 176, the
music simply stopped with an E minor chord
on the downbeat. Despite the unambiguous
PAC and completion of the formal processes of
the theme, the effect would not be one of pro­
cess completed, but as process abruptly cut off.
Schmalfeldt hits the mark when she says that
“the cadence finally achieved in m.  176 hardly
seems like a goal, because the codettas that
Hypermeter, Form, and Closure • 173
EXAMPLE 7.21 Continued
follow are unrelenting in the intensity with
which they revive the transition’s basic idea.
The pianist’s crashing chords urge the violinist
to slow down; but when the violinist finally
relinquishes eighth notes for whole notes and
a fermata, one has the impression that this has
happened purely out of exhaustion.” Schmalfeldt
offers this commentary as a supplement to her
formal and tonal analysis, which would other­
wise suggest, to the contrary, that the cadence
in measure 176 is the arrival of a highly signif­
icant goal. What her explanation clearly points
to, however, are precisely Beethoven’s rhythmic
techniques of further deferring closure after he
is finished with deferring it by tonal and formal
means. Note that, after the elision of the ca­
dence, the relentless alternation of chords in
the piano remains an intransigent barrier to clo­
sure because it ensures that each hypermetrical
unit ends with a dominant. Only a break from
this mechanical pattern can possibly bring res­
pite. The needed relief arrives where Beethoven
finally writes a long tied-​over chord in measures
90–​1—​but just at this point where a tonic would
bring full closure Beethoven instead substitutes
a dissonant V56/​IV. In other words, where we so
desperately want to hear an ending (to the expo­
sition), we instead get merely a stop, a catching
of the breath, not to bring the ongoing forward
174 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
drive to rest but “purely out of exhaustion,”
before plunging back into the main theme or
onward to the development.
Schmalfeldt is surely also correct that
measure 176 concludes the subordinate theme
and what follows is a series of codettas. The clo­
sure at this moment, however, is purely formal;
there is no ceasing of motion, no rhythmic clo­
sure. In this piece, where incessant forward
drive is the central compositional idea, worked
into the fabric of its 599 measures with an un­
precedented boldness, the effect is singularly
unsubtle. But Beethoven achieves it with a
technique, hypermetrical elision, that was a
staple for generations of composers before
him. What is new about the piece and others of
the period is the lack of full closure anywhere
in the exposition. A younger Beethoven might
have ended the exposition as in Example 7.22.
Instead, he takes the end of the exposition as
another opportunity to substitute an unstable
and disruptive halt to motion in place of true
resolution. The hypermetrical design of the
music leading up to this moment is essential
to its sense of breathlessness and to the cliff­
hanger effect at the fermata.
The corresponding point in the recapitu­
lation of op.  47 (Ex. 7.23) shows how truly te­
nacious Beethoven’s hypermeter is in such
EXAMPLE 7.22 A hypothetical recomposition of mm. 172–​82 that provides full closure
circumstances. The music leading up to the
closing material (where the example begins)
is the same transposed. In measures 510–​14,
however, the closing material loses its tonal
bearings, spinning out sequentially into B♭
major. A four-​bar hypermeter persists unbroken
throughout this, however, so that the arrival on
B♭ major in measure 517 marks a new beginning,
initiating a substantial coda. The hypermeter
even continues without disruption beyond this
cadence, all the way to the return of the main
theme in measure 533.
The first piece of Beethoven’s to experiment
with this sort of continuous sonata form seems
to have been the “Pathetique” Sonata, op.  13,
which is remarkably similar in its aesthetic, on
a smaller scale, to op. 47. As pointed out above,
Beethoven consistently pushed the point of full
rhythmic closure up to the end of his closing
sections in the first movements of his first seven
piano sonatas, even though he only does this oc­
casionally in other works of the 1790s. It makes
sense, then, that the genre of piano sonata would
be the medium in which Beethoven would first
take the crucial step of pushing the moment of
tonal-​rhythmic closure out of the exposition all
37. The violin sonatas are also an important part of this development. As Lockwood (2004) points out, these genres are closely
related in this era, so Beethoven might use movements originally conceived for piano sonatas in violin sonatas or vice versa.
together.37 Beethoven truly cultivates the formal
strategy in the first years of the nineteenth cen­
tury. The examples of op. 13 and op. 47 might
suggest that it is associated with the Sturm und
Drang topic, but more subtle applications of
the technique appear also in works of a bucolic
character, the “Spring” Violin Sonata op.  24,
and the “Pastorale” Piano Sonata op.  28. It
also appears in the op.  30/​2–​3 Violin Sonatas
and the “Waldstein” Piano Sonata op.  53. The
examples of op. 24, op. 28, and op. 30/​3 are all
very similar, with closing sections over a tonic
pedal, making the effect less pronounced (since
the non-​tonic harmony appears over the tonic
pedal). The most radical and forward looking
of Beethoven’s early open expositions is the C
minor Violin Sonata, op. 30/​2, which omits the
expositional repeat altogether, and, at the end of
the movement, delays resolution to the end of a
long coda.
At a remove of over two centuries, it is difficult
to appreciate these innovations: Beethoven’s
tremendous influence over the nineteenth
century was such that these kinds of hyper­
metrical techniques quickly came to be com­
monplace and even conventional. To modern
Hypermeter, Form, and Closure • 175
EXAMPLE 7.23  Steady hypermeter in the closing section of the recapitulation in Beethoven’s Violin
Sonata, op. 47

ears steeped in the great works of subsequent in historical context, it is an epochal shift
generations, it is easy to take Beethoven’s in the language and expressive potential of
sense of hypermeter for granted. But considered musical form.

176 • O rg a n i z ed   T i m e
 8

Syncopation

ALTHOUGH SYNCOPATION is a basic con- syncopation primarily as an operation, displace-

cept of musical rhythm, there is little con-
sensus about how exactly to define it. For the
Oxford Dictionary of Music syncopation consists
of “accenting a weak instead of a strong beat,
by putting rests on strong beats, by holding on
over strong beats, and by introducing a sudden
change of time signature.”1 This definition is
especially broad in terms of the number of mu-
sical phenomena (e.g., changing time signatures)
it includes. But more fundamentally, it defines
syncopation as a property of a rhythm.2 Grove
Music Online, on the other hand, defines synco-
pation as “the regular shifting of each beat in a
measured pattern by the same amount ahead of
or behind its normal position in that pattern.”3
This kind of definition, which has a long and dis-
tinguished history in contrapuntal theory, treats
ment, and secondarily as the type of rhythm
that results from that operation. It is, like the
approach to meter developed in Chapters 1 and
5, fundamentally transformational.
Section 5.4 used timespan intervals to de-
fine syncopation as a rhythmic transformation,
altering the durational proportions of a rhythm
with a given tonal structure. This kind of struc-
tural syncopation is the main topic of this chapter,
and will be explored especially in Sections 8.3
and 8.4, which focus on providing examples
of syncopations that effect hypermetrical
levels of rhythmic structure. However, we must
first distinguish a number of closely related
phenomena having to do with contrapuntal
displacements. These will be discussed in the
first two sections: contrapuntal syncopation is the

1. “Syncopation.” The Oxford Dictionary of Music, 2nd ed. rev. Oxford Music Online. Oxford University Press, accessed July 31,
2013, http://​www.oxfordmusiconline.com.
2. Temperley (2010) discusses these types of definitions and their variable scope.
3. “Syncopation.” Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online. Oxford University Press, accessed August 9, 2013.

 • 177
EXAMPLE  8.1  (a) Haydn Symphony no.  104,
mm. 5–​6 of the Allegro and (b)  its first species
model
(a)
(b)
displacement of a given part from the rhythmic
structure of the larger texture, and gives rise to a
phenomena of metrical dissonance and rhythmic
dissonance. The term “metrical dissonance” is
borrowed from Harald Krebs (1999), but defined
more broadly in Section 8.2. The first section will
additionally distinguish tonal syncopation from
contrapuntal syncopation, as a displacement not of
the literal surface rhythms but of elements of the
harmony from the prevailing rhythmic structure.
8.1 CONTRAPUNTAL
AND TONAL VERSUS
STRUCTURAL SYNCOPATION
The type of displacement familiar from con-
trapuntal theory is tonal/​ contrapuntal syn-
copation, not structural syncopation. In the
main theme of Haydn’s Symphony no.  104,
the continuation phrase includes a typical ex-
ample (Ex. 8.1(a)), a chain of 7–​6 suspensions,
created by displacing one part of the homo-
phonic chord progression in Example 8.1(b).
Because the displacement occurs in a single
part, the second violins, it does not redefine
the rhythmic structure of the passage, which
still matches the meter. Considered in isola-
tion from the other parts, the second violin
line would imply a different rhythmic struc-
ture, displaced from the metrical structure.
Therefore, this may be understood as a contra-
puntal syncopation, a displacement of one part
from the overriding rhythmic structure. The
rhythm of the inner part in 8.1(a) includes non-​
metrical, non-​structural timespans, meaning
timespans that do not belong to the metrical
structure or the overall rhythmic structure
(which here matches the meter). This metrical
dissonance lends a certain sense of tension. It
178 • O r gani z e d   T i m e
is characteristic of contrapuntal syncopations
and will be discussed further below.
We may also understand Example  8.1(a) as
a kind of tonal syncopation, meaning that the
elements of tonal structure, the consonant 36
chords, are displaced from the elements of
rhythmic and metrical structure. From this per-
spective, 8.1(b) represents less a rhythmic nor-
malization of the passage than a re-​alignment
of local tonal structure with metrical struc-
ture. Standard “fourth-​ species” patterns like
this 7–​6 chain are both tonal and contrapuntal
syncopations; the two phenomena are not dis-
tinguishable in such situations. The transfor-
mational view is considerably more explanatory
for these patterns than the passive definition of
syncopation as accenting of weak beats. The op-
eration of displacement derives the dissonances
from a simpler, purely consonant pattern that
acts as a reference.
The distinction between tonal and con-
trapuntal syncopation does become essential
in other circumstances, though. Consider the
F♯ major Prelude from Bach’s WTC I (Ex. 8.2).
The right hand part has a consistently synco­
pated rhythm, in the sense that it frequently
articulates non-​metrical eighth-​note timespans
(a non-​metrical timespan being one that does not
belong to the metrical structure). Bach uses the
same rhythm for different tonal effects, how-
ever: in measure 2 a series of 7–​6 suspensions,
and in measure 4 a series of anticipations.
Therefore, in Example 8.2(b), the rhythm of
measure 2 is shifted back by two sixteenths and
the rhythm of measure 4 is shifted ahead by one
sixteenth. Both shifts normalize the rhythm,
and in measure 4 the effect is satisfactory, but
the rhythmic shift does not work in measure 2
because it pushes the higher notes that decorate
the suspensions out of the chords they belong to,
making awkward dissonances. The anticipations
in measure 4 may therefore be understood as
contrapuntal syncopations, but the suspensions
of measure 2 are not. We can only normalize
measure 2 by assuming that the decorations are
shifted a different distance than the resolutions,
as in Example  8.2(c). The normalized music is
not a displacement of the right-​hand rhythm.
It is, rather, the tonal content of the right-​hand
part that is displaced.
The idea of syncopation as transformation has
obvious explanatory value in these examples of
tonal syncopation, but it may be less clear why we
would want to conceive of syncopated rhythms
themselves as transformations. In the Bach
EXAMPLE 8.2  (a) J.S. Bach, Prelude in F♯ major from WTC I, mm. 1–​4, (b) an attempt to normalize
the music by displacements in the right hand part, (c) a more accurate normalization of the right hand
part is not a simple shift of the rhythm
(a)

(b)

(c)

Prelude, for instance, the rhythm can be normalized
by two different displacements, neither of which
fully corresponds to the tonal displacement. What
the transformational perspective does is to pro-
vide a rhythmic norm from which the syncopated
rhythm may be derived, and in some cases aspects
of musical structure may be appreciated only by
reference to the normalized rhythm.
The great sturm und drang syncopation in
the orchestral main theme of Mozart’s Piano
Concerto in D minor, K.  466 (Ex. 8.3(a)), is an
instance in which the syncopation occupies the
entire texture. Therefore this is necessarily a
structural syncopation: there is no literal rhythm
of the passage, beyond the downbeats them-
selves, that aligns with the hypothetical reg-
ular rhythmic structure of the 4$ meter. Or to
put it differently, a rhythmic structure for the
passage, as in Example 8.3(c), is necessarily ir-
regular in its durational proportions. Following
Chapters  1 and 5, then, we may explain these
irregular proportions though a transformation
applied to a normative rhythm, Example 8.3(b).
The normative rhythm is derived from the struc-
tural description (the network) by assuming per-
fectly regular proportions—​that is, simple duple
divisions at each level.
The question, then, is whether this transfor-
mational description has any advantages over a
more naïve description of the rhythm as one in
which the attacks simply fall on the weak beats.
The latter description would imply that the entire
melody of, not only measures 1–​2, but all of the first
eight measures is metrically and hypermetrically
flat, because every chord falls on a timepoint with
the same metrical status of weak eighth. But this
cannot be the case. The clear formal design of
these eight measures as a symmetrical compound
presentation depends upon its hypermetrical
contour (dividing it into two-​measure ideas, and
metrically aligning the four-​measure repetitions).
The tonal sense of the melody also depends upon
metrical differentiation. The poignant D♯ in meas-
ures 4–​5, for example, is not a simple retardation
because it is not consonantly prepared; it is, rather,
a tied-​over passing note. Its sense as passing note,
however, depends upon its metrical status, as weak
relative to the preceding C♯. We can understand the
metrical shape of the melody only by thinking of
it as a displacement of the normalized rhythm as
shown in Example 8.3(b). The D♯ in measure 4, for
instance, occurs on a displaced beat four; that is
what secures its metrical status as passing note rel-
ative to the preceding C♯, displaced from beat three.4

4. Yonatan Malin (2006, 262–​3) makes a similar demonstration in an analysis of Schumann’s song “Intermezzo” (op. 39
no. 2), which is offered as a response to Robert Hatten’s (2002, 274–​6) question of whether the displaced metrical layers
discussed by Krebs (1999) can have independent structure. In fact, Hatten’s skepticism is well grounded, and similar to Justin
London’s and David Temperley’s doubts about Krebs’ idea of “subliminal dissonance,” which will be discussed further below.
One way to reconcile these disputes is to identify rhythmic structure as something distinct from, and potentially in conflict
with, meter (unlike Krebs, who defines meter as potentially including conflicting layers), and thereby to understand the
structure that we find in the syncopated rhythms of Mozart’s concerto and Schumann’s song as being a phenomenon distinct
from, though intimately related to, meter.

Syncopation • 179
EXAMPLE 8.3  (a) The main theme of Mozart’s Piano Concerto no. 20, (b) a rhythmic normalization,
and (c) the rhythmic structure of the first two measures
(a)
(b)
(c)
Notice that Example 8.3(b) shifts the rhythm
within each measure rather than shift the en-
tire rhythm of the upper strings so that the first
chord of each measure coincides with the down-
beat. This is because, in the original excerpt, the
metrical status of the downbeats and the first
weak eighth of each measure remain distinct—​
the melodic A  in measure 3, for instance, is
metrically weak. Furthermore, the articula-
tion of downbeats in the bass is essential to the
rhythmic character of the upper parts: without
it, they would simply be incorrectly notated, not
syncopated. This is a logical consequence of the
principles of rhythmic structure:  without the
downbeats, the rhythm is perfectly regular, and
therefore necessarily unsyncopated.
As we observed in Chapter 1, syncopation has
a special status among those transformations
defined in Chapters  1 and 5 that distinguish
rhythmic structure from the idealized metrical
structure: only syncopation leads to a real con-
flict between the two temporal structures. Our
examination of Mozart’s syncopated rhythm
shows that the syncopation, like Satan in the
story of Genesis, defies the meter with a struc-
ture that is in fact derived from the meter. The
conflict between a syncopated rhythmic struc-
ture and a metrical structure is similar to the
more literal conflict between rhythmic layers in
contrapuntal syncopations. We will look at these
180 • O r gani z e d   T i m e
more closely and define concepts of metrical and
rhythmic dissonance in the next section.
Section 5.4 showed that syncopations can be
realized as rhythmic transformations by pairing
an expansion and a contraction that cancel one an-
other out at some point higher up in the structure.
Example 8.3(c) applies this to Mozart’s syncopated
rhythmic structure. The ratios inside the rhythmic
structure show the rhythmic irregularities by
giving the proportional difference between the
timespans directly below to the left and right.
Between the one-​and two-​measure level at the
top of the hierarchy, the ratio is 1:1, meaning the
structure is normalized at the one-​measure level.
This happens because the expansions and contrac-
tions always occur within the same measure.
8.2 CONTRAPUNTAL
SYNCOPATION AND
METRICAL DISSONANCE
Discussions of rhythm and hypermeter in pre-
vious chapters have only considered the rhythm
of entire musical textures. The examples above
show that an entire musical texture can some-
times be syncopated (as in the Mozart D minor
Concerto), but often, syncopations occur in one
part of a texture that otherwise expresses a met-
rically normal rhythmic structure. Example 8.4,
EXAMPLE  8.4  (a)  Michael Haydn, Symphony no.  17 (P.  44/​MH. 151), cadence and retransition
at the end of the development, mm. 66–​86, (b) a conflicting-​meters interpretation on the model of
Krebs 1999.
(a)
(b)
for instance, shows a typical use of syncopation
in the symphonic style of the 1770s—​this ex-
ample comes from a work written by Michael
Haydn in 1771. In the retransition following
the half cadence in C♯ minor, Haydn extends the
syncopated chords introduced in the cadential
progression for twelve measures. The syncopation
maintains the energy and sense of anticipation
from the surprising modulation preceding the
cadence though the retransition in spite of the
pianissimo dynamic. A  popular way to explain
this sort of situation is through Harald Krebs’s
(1999) concept of metrical dissonance (displace-
ment dissonance in this case). Krebs defines met-
rical dissonance as a conflict of interpretive layers.
That is, Krebs would explain Example  8.4(a) as
including two conflicting interpretive layers,
designated as upper and lower layers in 8.4(b).
The upper layer includes the attacks in the upper
strings while the lower layer corresponds to the
notated downbeats as projected in the “drum
bass.” The passage is enlivened, this explanation
would go, by the tension of the displacement be-
tween the two layers.
As London (2012, 101–​7) has pointed out, if
these layers are understood as conflicting meters,
such a concept of metrical dissonance is cogni-
tively untenable. Assuming meter is, as London
maintains, the periodic fluctuation of attentional
states, there can only be one meter for an indi-
vidual listener, insofar as an individual’s atten-
tional state is unitary (See §1.1). However, Krebs
does not quite claim so much: he distinguishes
between “metrical layers” that belong to
the notated meter, and other “antimetrical”
layers. His analytical insights may therefore be
shielded from London’s critique by maintaining
a clear distinction between rhythmic and met-
rical structure. Haydn’s retransition certainly
contains distinct rhythms in the different
parts, and taken individually they would imply
different meters. This means we really have three
rhythmic structures in the passage. One is the
structure belonging to the upper parts, one is
that belonging to the bass, and one is the struc-
ture of the entire texture. Distinguishing the last
of these is crucial, because this is the rhythmic
structure that will most closely correspond to
the actual metrical sense of the passage. In this
case, the overall structure happens to be equiva-
lent to that of the bass by itself, but we will see
other examples below and in the next chapter of
Syncopation • 181
overall rhythmic structures that differ substan-
tially from that implied by any individual parts.
If the existence of rhythmic structures were
dependent upon meter, then this explanation
of the conflicting layers in Example  8.4 would
still stand upon shaky footing, since rhythmic
structures conflicting with the prevailing meter
of a passage would not be real except in a very
limited counterfactual sense (the structure
that isolated parts might have in a hypothet-
ical other context). However, if, as suggested
in Chapter  1, rhythmic structure is in some
way prior to and independent of meter, then so
long as the musical texture readily divides into
discernable parts, as Haydn’s surely does, then
the energy created by such syncopations may in-
deed be understood to result from the conflict
between simultaneous rhythmic structures,
and the resulting metrical dissonance. This re-
formulation of Krebs’s idea has the side benefit
of generalizing it:  unlike Krebs’s interpretive
layers, rhythmic structures are not required to
be perfectly regular or uniform.
The next chapter will consider more gen-
erally the problem of how two or more indi-
vidual rhythmic structures combine to make
an overall structure. In the usual situation, one
part takes precedence in defining the upper
layers of structure, while others may fill in
some lower-​level gaps. The theme of Mozart’s
D minor Piano Concerto (Ex. 8.3) is one such
example. The “drumrolls” in the bass articulate
the timespans of the notated measures, and
take priority in defining the meter of the com-
bination. This meter-​ defining part is sparse,
though, leaving the syncopated chords to take
free rein in subdividing the measure, resulting in
a syncopated overall rhythmic structure.
The theme of Mozart’s “Prague” Symphony,
no.  38, shown in Example 8.5(a), is an ideal
place to explore the experience of syncopated
counterpoint (giving a preview of Ch. 9) as well
as syncopated meter. Its exhilarating yet under-
stated effect stems from a layering technique
with parts that exhibit different kinds of syn-
copation. The result is an intricately evolving
rhythmic structure. The first part to enter, a
single note repeated in the first violins, exhibits
the same syncopated rhythm as the D minor
Concerto (Ex. 8.3(c)). In the second measure
5. Depth of syncopation is independent of the ratio between the distance of the displacement and the length of the
timespans it displaces, the basis of Krebs’s classification scheme for displacement dissonances, which instead depends on the
expansion and contraction factors. See Section 4.1.
182 • O r gani z e d   T i m e
(m. 38) the other strings enter with a new layer
in parallel thirds. This part is also syncopated
in the following measure (m. 39), but at the
quarter-​note level. In the first two measures, the
syncopated line of violin I  stands alone except
on the second downbeat, so its rhythmic struc-
ture is primary in defining the rhythmic struc-
ture for the whole texture. In the third measure,
however, the articulation of beats two and four
makes a more symmetrical structure possible.
This structure is also syncopated (because no
parts yet articulate the central beat three of the
measure) but differs from the one implied by the
first violin alone. This example therefore makes
a nice listening experiment comparing isolated
syncopations to combined ones, since Mozart
presents the syncopations in isolation as well
as in combination. Indeed, even though the vi-
olin part is exactly the same in measures 39–​40
as in measure 38, its rhythmic sense feels quite
different in measures 39–​40. That is because it
switches from defining the overall rhythmic
structure to playing against it.
The rhythmic analysis of the combined rhythm
of measures 39–​40 rewards closer examination.
Examples  8.5(b) and (d)  show the derivation
of this structure as a double syncopation, two
embedded syncopations, derived by successive
transformations. It would be possible to derive the
same combined rhythm, what Krebs (1999) calls
the “resultant rhythm,” using a single transforma-
tion as Example 8.5(c) shows. This recomposition
has the same resultant rhythm and differs only
in the rhythmic counterpoint, demonstrating
that the overall rhythmic structure is not de-
fined solely by the resultant rhythm. Mozart
takes advantage of counterpoint to construct a
rhythm more richly layered than the hypothet-
ical alternative in (c), and the rhythmic analysis,
especially when viewed from a transformational
perspective, shows this. The rhythmic structure
of 8.5(c) is also distinguished by the depth of its
syncopation. The depth of a syncopation is the
number of structural layers from the expanded
or contracted timespan to their common parent
(taking the larger of the two distances if they are
different).5 The depth in 8.5(c) is two layers, while
the individual syncopations in 8.5(b) are each at
a depth of one layer. The timespan interval ratios
reflect this: 8.5(c) has a complex 5:3 dividing the
EXAMPLE  8.5  (a)  Syncopated meter in the main theme of Mozart’s Symphony no.  38, (b–​c) com-
parison of two syncopated rhythmic structures with the same resultant rhythm: (b) is from Mozart’s
theme (m. 39)  while (c)  is a hypothetical recomposition; (d)  derivation of simple syncopation as a
balanced combination of contraction and expansion
(a)

(b)

(c)

(d)

measure, whereas the ratios in 8.5(b), 2:1, 3:1,
or their inverses, are all simpler. Therefore, the
question of which structure is more complex
has no simple answer:  one has a syncopation
of greater depth while the other requires more
transformations.
Section 5.4 defined syncopation as a way of
expanding and contracting a regular rhythm in
different places to make it more irregular while
preserving its structural profile. Example  8.5(d)
shows how this works for the rhythm in the lower
voices of Mozart’s theme. These operations do
not work on the combined rhythm, though:  if
the rhythmic expansion in the lower voices also
applied to violin I, its normalized rhythm would be
implausibly irregular. Instead, we have to see the
syncopations as applying before the combination of
parts gives the resulting rhythmic structure. This is
another way to explain the difference between the
rhythmic structures of Examples 8.5(b) and (c): the

Syncopation • 183
one-​step normalization of the rhythm in (c)  acts
the same way on the resultant rhythm as it does on
the lower voice alone.
Through the lens of Krebs’s (1999) theory
the rhythm of Mozart’s theme looks a little
different. Kreb’s theory would highlight the dis-
placement dissonances between three simulta-
neous interpretive layers in measures 39–​40,
one represented by the first violins, one by the
syncopated half-​notes in the lower strings, and
the third being the notated meter. This would
suggest an accrual of dissonance from measures
37–​8 to 39–​40, followed by a sudden switch to
metrical consonance in measures 41–​2. These
conflicts are also metrical dissonances in the
sense that the rhythmic structures, both those
of individual parts as well as the combined
rhythmic structure, include non-​ metrical
timespans. However, the picture looks some-
what different when we consider contrapuntal
rhythmic dissonance, that is, how the individual
parts conflict with the combined rhythmic struc-
ture. This conflict can be understood in the same
way as metrical dissonance:  the appearance of
timespans in the structure of an individual part
that do not belong to the overall structure. The
first two measures are relatively free of contra-
puntal rhythmic dissonance, because the first vi-
olin is mostly left to define the overall rhythmic
structure by itself. There are many more such
rhythmic dissonances in measures 39–​40, where
the lower parts assert themselves.
By focusing on these contrapuntal rhythmic
dissonances, we see a rhythmic structure that is
more elastic, gradually evolving over time, which
is possible because rhythmic structure allows for
irregularities. Krebs’s theory would interpret
measures 37–​8, not as irregular, but as a conflict
between three perfectly regular metrical layers,
one of which is the notated meter, which is pre-
sent but “subliminal” in these measures.6 The way
that the rhythm of the theme evolves as a single
structure also paints a different picture than the
gradual accrual and sudden dissipation of disso-
nance suggested by Krebs’s approach. The initial
rhythmic structure involves only a single synco-
pation, but one that is two levels deep; its effect
is distributed across most of the rhythm. When
the lower parts enter, the original displacement
is confined to the middle of the measure. The
thematic process therefore is a gradual erosion
of the eighth-​note syncopation, a process of con-
formity overtaking individuality. This process is
completed, not cut short, by the rhythmic nor-
malization in the continuation phrase. The way
that the process unfolds, beginning with a single,
uninflected voice, is also telling. The overcoming
of this individual (the syncopated line) does
not come about through the agency of the in-
dividual itself (the line itself does not at first
change), but through the joining-​in of another
voice, which absorbs the violin line into a shared
framework—​ an enactment, through rhythm
and counterpoint, of the enlightenment ethos of
the eighteenth-​century symphony.7 This would
perhaps be an overinterpretation of eight meas-
ures of music, except that Mozart continues to
invoke these ideas, counterpoint as an agent
in the transformation of rhythmic structures,
rhythmic coordination as the symbol of societal
harmony, throughout the entire movement.
This rhythmic process also explains how
these eight measures make a compelling theme
even though they defy any conventional formal
schema. The tonally indistinct first violin line
occupies our attention at first only because it is
alone on stage. When the lower parts enter the
first violin becomes accompaniment at the same
time that its ability to define the overall rhythmic
structure is gradually usurped.8 Because of this
smooth exchange of melodic focus in the first
four measures, Mozart replaces the usual sort of
declamatory thematic design, predicated on a uni-
fied melodic focus, with a formal process that is
less delineated. Because the first real melodic idea,
entering late, only accrues melodic focus gradually
from measure 38 into measure 39, it is, in a sense,
both a one-​measure idea and a two-​measure idea
at the same time. Therefore, the idea can be con-
densed (in m.  40)  to compensate for the initial

6. Krebs (1999) distinguishes between “direct” and “subliminal” types of displacement dissonance, where “subliminal” means
that one metrical layer (usually corresponding to the notation) is imagined. Temperley (2008) raises important questions about
the perceptual validity of this notion of “subliminal” dissonance, echoing the criticisms of London (2012) cited above. Krebs finds
subliminal displacement dissonances in just the kinds of situations that the present approach identifies as syncopated structures.
This suggests a reformulation that resolves Temperley’s misgivings: the “dissonant” effect of syncopations is the conflict of an
irregular rhythmic structure with a perceived metric structure, where the latter is constrained to be regular.
7. See, for example, Heartz 2003, 230–​42. This socio-​political interpretation obviously owes a debt to the methods of
McClary (1987) and also accords with her interpretation of the “Prague” (2001, 102–​7), which focuses more heavily on the
slow introduction and its possible evocations of a bygone Versailles.
8. Rosen (1988, 201) similarly highlights the fluidity of melody/​accompaniment status of the lines in this theme.

184 • O r gani z e d   T i m e
EXAMPLE 8.6  (a) Metric dissonance in the transition of the “Prague” Symphony, (b) a reduction of
the passage, showing the tonal syncopations, and (c) a normalization of (b)
(a)
(b)
(c)
delay. The resulting formal grouping in these four
measures, interestingly, reflects the same kind of
syncopated timespan arrangement that appears at
a more local level in the rhythmic structure.
Mozart also uses a contrapuntal process to
transform a syncopation in the transition of the
movement. The passage, shown in Example 8.6(a),
is based on a tonal syncopation, as shown by the
contrapuntal reduction in 8.6(b) and its normali-
zation in 8.6(c). The orchestral force Mozart puts
behind the counter-​metrical bass line—​the en-
tire orchestra plays on beats two and four, with
only the violins on beats one and three—​draws
attention to the syncopation and brings its met-
rically dissonant quality to the fore. Nonetheless
the clear parallelism of the melodic rhythm makes
this a tonal syncopation, not a structural one.
In the second part of the passage Mozart
does something remarkable: he extinguishes the
rhythmic deviance of the material by, ironically,
developing it into a brief anti-​metrical canon.
In measure 60, the parts are contrapuntally in-
verted, turning the 3–​ 2 suspensions into 7–​
suspensions. The violins then echo the bass line at
a three-​beat delay, metrically offsetting the idea
by a beat. The odd interval of imitation realizes
the more probable metrical alignment of this me-
lodic idea in the upper part, the following part, and
also creates a textural homogeneity that irons out
the metrical dissonance of the tonal syncopation.
After this metrical cleansing, the transition, like
the main theme, ends with a metrically straight
cadential passage (mm. 63–​70). The transition
material is prominent in the movement, being
reused towards the end of the subordinate theme
(mm. 122–​9) and in the development (mm. 162–​
88), in both places undergoing the same process
of contrapuntal dissolution.
The rhythmic normalization that occurs
within the main theme also unfolds on a grander
scale, in the form of metrical and hypermetrical
“corrections” to the main theme. In spite of the
syncopated formal structure in measures 37–​
40, the hypermeter of the main theme is reg-
ular. Its cadence in measures 44–​5, however, is
elided, with the tonic resolution occurring at the
onset of a new hypermetrical timespan (a rep-
etition of the theme)—​see Example 8.5(a). The
main-​theme material returns at the beginning
of the first subordinate theme, measures 71–​6,
6 but in place of a cadence it unravels contrapun-
tally into an expansive fortspinnung passage. The
material reappears a third time at the end of the
exposition creating a narrative across the expo-
sition where the main theme material, initially
rhythmically unstable and formally open with
Syncopation • 185
EXAMPLE 8.7 Mozart “Prague” Symphony, elided and non-​elided cadence at the end of the exposition
an elided cadence, finally achieves closure by
purifying it of these rhythmic deviances.9
Example 8.7 shows the music that precedes
the second reintroduction of main theme ma-
terial, starting from measure 121. These eight
measures, motivically derived from the transi-
tion, have a consistent and regular hypermeter,
and according to this hypermeter, the cadential
resolution in measure 129 is elided. This kind
of elision prevents full closure according to the
rule of rhythmic closure described in the pre-
vious chapter. This particular example resembles
some of those in section 7.4 (Haydn’s Piano Trio
H. 27 and Symphony no. 43) in that there does
not at first appear to be any technique of eva-
sion working in concert with the elision—​that
is, nothing about the melodic content itself in
measure 129 suggests any sort of new beginning.
In any other context, measure 129 would make
a perfectly acceptable ending for a four-​measure
group; the established hypermeter is the only
9. This narrative is strikingly similar to the one for Symphony no. 40 given in the previous chapter.
186 • O r gani z e d   T i m e
factor making it a beginning. Yet hearing this
as a beginning is crucial to understanding what
happens here:  measure 129 corresponds to the
first measure of the main theme (m. 38—​see Ex.
8.4(a)), with the syncopation of the first violin
line, its essential identifying feature, flattened,
and the line transferred into the basses and
cellos to become the most anonymously con-
ventional of late eighteenth-​century symphonic
bass lines: a tonic pedal in driving eighth-​notes
(“drum bass”). The “problem” syncopation now
fully assimilated out of existence, all that is left
is pure symphonic unity in this grandiosely tutti
setting of the theme. Replacing the staggered
cadential gestures of the violin and woodwinds
from measures 42–​5 and the cadential elision
that ended the first version of the theme (mm.
45–​6) is a unified cadential gesture (mm. 134–​6),
now resolving conclusively in the eighth measure
of the theme. The resolution of problems laid out
at the beginning of the allegro comes together
EXAMPLE 8.8 Embedded syncopations in C.P.E. Bach’s D major Symphony, Wq. 183/​1

with tonal-​rhythmic closure of the exposition in
a single transcendent moment.
Other analysts, such as Hepokoski and
Darcy (2006, 152, 162–​ 3), view the cadence
in measure 129 as non-​ elided (disregarding
the hypermetrical correspondence to the main
theme in the music that follows) and as the
moment of expositional closure.10 Underlying
this view is the kind of conflation of formal
closure with full closure discussed in Section
7.4. The reappearance of the main theme ma-
terial creates a high-​level parallelism with the
main theme and subordinate theme group that
indicates the beginning of the closing section.
Therefore, if “expositional closure” is deemed
synonymous with the end of the ST group, it is
appropriate to find such closure in measure 129.
However, the lack of rhythmic closure at this
moment is crucial to the narrative of the expo-
sition, as it is, in a remarkably similar way, in
the G minor Symphony analyzed in Section 7.2.
In both instances, Mozart’s withholding of full
closure can be understood by allowing for the
independence of tonal, rhythmic, and formal
closure, so that formal and tonal-​rhythmic clo-
sure can be decoupled as they are here, a pro-
cedure that would later become standard for
Beethoven (see §§7.4–​5).
It is hard not to imagine that inspiration for
the main theme of the “Prague” came from one
of the outstanding late symphonies of C.P.E.
Bach written ten years earlier (and published
in 1780), the Symphony in D major, Wq. 183/​
1. Bach’s main theme (Ex. 8.8) is based on the
same distinctive materials—​a repeated note in
the first violin in counterpoint with a melody
in the other string parts, based on an extended
V7/​IV harmony—​and constructs similar types
of embedded syncopations within an evolving
rhythmic structure.11 Bach deploys these
techniques differently however, not achieving
the same intricacy of contrapuntal interaction
as Mozart, but creating an even more sophisti-
cated rhythmic structure. The musical interest of
Bach’s theme, in fact, has almost exclusively to
do with its exciting rhythm.
Rather than begin with a syncopated line in
the first violin as Mozart does, Bach uses the
isolated violin part in the first two measures to
establish the basic meter, syncopating it instead
in response to the syncopated melody after it
enters in measure 2, to reinforce its rhythmic
shape. Bach’s unisono melody in the lower strings
has the same quarter-​ note syncopation that
appears in Mozart’s. The extension of the eighth-​
note figure in measure 4, however, shifts the

10. In his analysis of this passage, Ng (2012, 54–​7) accurately points out that a number of cadences preceding measure
129 defer closure by means of rhythmic factors. Yet his ultimate explanation is a nuanced argument based on a large-​scale
voice-​leading analysis (70–​2). A more direct explanation is that these cadences (mm. 111–​12 and 120–​1) are both elided
and evaded. If this were not the case, Ng’s excellent voice-​leading analysis would probably not be tenable. Ng’s analysis of
the hypermeter differs from mine substantially only at the cadence in measure 129 and the following material: he regards
measure 130 as the beginning of the next hypermetric unit, not measure 129. He does not comment on the fact that
this would constitute a hypermetric reinterpretation of the main theme. Hepokoski and Darcy cite thematic reasons to
understand closure as deferred in measures 112 and 121. The advantage of an explanation from hypermeter is that it is
an immediate cue requiring no elaborate retrospections. And in the instance of measure 129, it reminds the listener that
measure 130 is in fact the second measure of the main theme, a fact that is clearly not immediately apparent without the
hypermetrical cue.
11. In another subtler possible reference, a rhythmic motive that pervades Bach’s work, , emerges, in the “Prague,”
during the first subordinate theme and becomes the basic rhythmic element of the lyrical second subordinate theme.

Syncopation • 187
EXAMPLE 8.9  A reduction and rhythmic normalization of Bach’s theme: (a) Bach’s melody, (b) a re-
duction without eighth-​note figuration (pitches are chosen ad hoc to plausibly reflect the melodic and
harmonic content of the original), (c) normalization of quarter-​note syncopations, (d) another reduc-
tion that removes quarter-​note upbeats, and (e) a complete rhythmic normalization. The reconstituted
melody in (f)  restores the motivic content of Bach’s melody by changing the upbeat gestures to
sixteenth notes.
(a)

(b)

(c)

(d)

(e)

(f)

syncopated rhythm ahead by two beats so that it
falls across the barline. This is a half-​note synco-
pation at the hypermetrical level, but it embeds
the quarter-​note syncopation just as Mozart’s
quarter-​note syncopation embeds the eighth-​
note syncopation. While this is happening, Bach
shifts the repeated violin notes to eighth-​note
syncopation, which, like in the Mozart example,
adds rhythmic and metrical dissonance without
affecting the rhythmic structure.
Bach’s embedded syncopations cannot be
normalized directly. However, the issue is not,
as in the “Prague,” that the expansions and con-
tractions of the syncopations apply to parts
separately (they all occur within one unisono
part). Rather, the coordination of rhythmic
and tonal/​formal process is stratified, with the
syncopations applying at distinct levels of elab-
oration. In other words, if we are to view the
syncopations transformationally, we have to
mix these transformations in with the process
that generates the motivic content; the deriva-
tion of the rhythmic structure and motivic con-
tent cannot be neatly segregated. This is shown
in Example 8.9, which reduces Bach’s theme in
stages, alternating tonal/​ rhythmic reductions
with rhythmic transformations (syncopations).
Only by entirely removing the repeated upbeat
arpeggiations can the syncopations be fully
normalized, as in (e), because where this gesture
appears in measure 4, it takes advantage of space
created by the half-​note syncopation. To restore
the diminutions to the normalized melody, the
arpeggiations have to be changed to sixteenth
notes to preserve the rhythmic consistency of
the motive. In Example  8.9(f), this is done by
applying swing transformations throughout the
melody.
8.3 HYPERMETRICAL
SYNCOPATION AND
CONTRAPUNTAL
DISPLACEMENT
Use of syncopation becomes more rarified at
hypermetrical levels because, unlike isolated
extensions or truncations, syncopation requires
the restoration of regularity at some higher level.

188 • O r gani z e d   T i m e
EXAMPLE  8.10  (a) Bourrée I  from J.S. Bach’s Orchestral Suite no.  2 in B minor (BWV 1067)  with
syncopated hypermeter. The reduction in (b) is normalized in (c), and (d) is a recomposition based on
the normalized meter.
(a)
(b)
(c)
(d)
A  sense of hypermetrical regularity, however,
is often highly dependent on the regularity of
levels below. The hypermetrical syncopation in
C.P.E. Bach’s D major Symphony (Ex. 8.8), for
instance, is made possible by the sophisticated
method of first establishing a lower-​order syn-
copation (m. 3), then embedding that within
the higher-​order one (mm. 4–​5). Without the
more local syncopation, an articulation of the
downbeat of measure 4 would introduce a reg-
ularity that would override any possible synco-
pation. This can be seen in the normalization
of Example  8.9(d), which, if it were the true
rhythm, would imply a different, unsyncopated,
4$rhythmic structure.
An example from one of J.S. Bach’s or-
chestral Bourrées (Ex. 8.10) demonstrates
that relatively sophisticated hypermetrical
syncopations can exist even in works of the
early 1700s. In the dance movements of
Bach’s orchestral suites, the regularity of four-​
measure phrases is a near inviolable norm, in-
trinsic to the pieces’ identities as simple dance
music. Therefore, it does seem inevitable that
the five-​measure phrase at the beginning of
this Bourrée is answered by a three-​measure
modulating/​ cadential phrase that “corrects”
the irregularity. The syncopation occurs at
a relatively deep level, as shown by the nor-
malization in Example  8.10(b)–​ (d). A  plau-
sible normalization occurs on tonal elements
reduced to mostly whole-​note and half-​note
levels of motion, reducing out even some of
the surface level harmony of the passage (such
as the recurrent passing viio63 chords).
Brower (1997), in her critique of the percep-
tual salience of deeper-​level rhythmic structure
cited in Section 6.1, claims that such hyper­
metrical disturbances are not heard as syncopa­
tions. While her argument identifies important
limitations to the plausibility of hypermetrical
syncopations, we should hesitate to accept such
a categorical denial. The fact that an expansion
in one place compensates for a contraction in
another is not, of course, sufficient condition
for a syncopation:  it is also essential that the
two rhythmic disturbances are contained in a
single larger structural span. The nature of that
span, then, is critical to the nature of the synco-
pation itself. Where the larger span occurs at a
level of a measure or less, it may be reinforced
by a perceived meter, giving the resolution of
a syncopation (i.e., the expectation that an ex-
pansion or contraction will not be isolated) a
Syncopation • 189
EXAMPLE 8.11  (a) Formal and hypermetrical displacements in the main theme of Haydn’s Symphony
no.  98, (b)  a reduction and normalization of mm. 24–​31, and (c)  a recomposition based on the
normalized reduction
(a)

(b)

(c)

stronger sense of inevitability.12 While the
experience of hypermetrical syncopations is
qualitatively different, and their use is more
limited, they also have important similarities
to syncopations at metrical levels, such as the
general tension–​ release paradigm. In Bach’s
Bourrée, the compensating contraction, which
in other contexts might have the sense of
hypermetrical disruption, here has the sense of
hypermetrical correction, resolving the earlier
disturbance.
The main theme of Haydn’s Symphony
no.  98 (Ex. 8.11) illustrates two kinds of syn-
copation. The one in the continuation/​codetta

12. It is perhaps for this reason that the term syncopation is sometime overly broadened to include any metrical disturbance
at submetrical levels—​including, for example, Stravinskian mixed meters—​as in one of the definitions quoted at the beginning
of this chapter.

190 • O r gani z e d   T i m e
is similar to the Bach example, but uses a
distinctly classical syntax of hypermetrical
disturbances. As discussed in Section 7.3,
Haydn usually undermines the main theme
PAC in his first movement forms somehow,
whether by elision, deletion, or some other
means. In this example the main theme cadence
is undermined by deletion, but not of the more
clichéd type of Symphonies 93 (discussed in
Chapter 6), 104, and others, where the transi-
tion begins with a tutti at the point of deletion.
Instead, Haydn integrates the deletion into the
main theme by overwriting the cadential res-
olution with the initiation of a codetta, using
the main theme basic idea. The codetta balances
the eight-​measure first half of the theme with
an eight-​measure second half (continuation +
codetta). The legitimacy of these eight measures
as a structural span is essential to the effect of
syncopation, that the one-​measure expansion
in the codetta compensates for the deletion.
Here the effect is suspenseful, the possibility of
deeply integrated hypermetrical organization
dangled before the listener, its denial playfully
intimated then retracted as the exuberant tran-
sition begins.
Haydn’s use of a technique usually associated
with hypermetrical truncation, hypermetrical
deletion, is indicative of the deep level of this
syncopation. The principle of syncopation-​ as-​
transformation is particularly evident in the
normalization of this example (Ex. 8.11b–​ c),
which does not involve removing the metrical de-
letion, since that would treat it as a truncation.
Instead, it expands the cadential progression,
replacing the deletion with an elision.
The first eight measures of this example also
exhibit a contrapuntal syncopation. In meas-
ures 19–​23 the melody is structured as a pre-
sentation, and serves as a second, contrasting,
initiating phrase after the first C.B.I.  in meas-
ures 16–​19. If this melodic idea were isolated
from the context, it would have a different
metrical shape, as shown in the ossia meas-
ures of Example  8.11(a). The out-​ of-​context
version of the melody lacks the light and deli-
cate quality that is so essential to the stark con-
trast with the firm and plodding character of
the first initiating phrase in measures 16–​19.
This quality owes much to contrapuntal synco-
pation, the displacement of a rhythmic struc-
ture in the upper part from the meter. As in the
main theme of the “Prague” Symphony (Ex. 8.5),
when parts with conflicting structural shapes
combine, one part (the accompanying part in
Haydn’s Symphony) usually predominates in de-
fining the combined rhythmic structure, a point
that will be further explored in Section 9.1. The
resulting recontextualization of the melody in
measures 19–​ 23 creates some mild rhythmic
dissonances and offsets the formal structure
from the rhythmic one.
8.4  RHYTHMIC PROCESS
AS FORMAL PROCESS
IN BEETHOVEN
We have seen numerous examples of rhythmic
disturbances serving local formal purposes
in Haydn’s and Mozart’s music, such as off-
setting subordinate themes and withholding
expositional closure. In Beethoven’s works,
rhythmic irregularities often take on more
pervasive thematic, motivic, and formal signif-
icance as the two examples of this section, the
Scherzo of the Eroica Symphony and the first
movement of the “Serioso” String Quartet,
op. 95, illustrate.
Hypermetrical syncopation is a principal ve-
hicle for the dramatic narrative of the Scherzo
of the Eroica Symphony, even rivaling tonality
as a primary form-​defining feature. The scant
fourteen-​ measure exposition defines the es-
sential problems that animate this sizable
Scherzo:  the eight-​measure theme, played by
the oboe, is out of alignment both tonally and
metrically, and the second part traces a lengthy
process of correcting both of these features. The
theme is proceeded by an oscillating neighbor
motion over a pedal tone. The two-​note pattern
in the triple meter creates what Cohn (1992a)
calls a “switchback” scheme. An important
feature of the switchback pattern is that it
hypermetrically pairs measures by transferring
the duple implications of the neighbor-​ note
pattern from the quarter-​ note level to the
measure-​to-​measure level. The notated measures
are not the true measures of the piece though,
because, as is often the case in fast minuets
and scherzos, it is notated in double measures,
meaning each two notated measures of 3$
behave like a single measure of 6$(Mirka 2009,
pp. 217–​32). Example 8.12 renotates the music
to show the double measures. This reveals a sig-
nificance to what otherwise might be regarded
as a mere notational convention:  it allows
Beethoven to promote ambiguity at a metrical
level. Were he forced to authoritatively decide
the true alignment of the meter by notating in
Syncopation • 191
EXAMPLE  8.12  Syncopated rhythmic structure in the exposition of the Scherzo from Beethoven’s
“Eroica” Symphony, op. 55, showing two possible metric schemes by renotating in 6$.

6$or 6*, even allowing for realignments through
the insertion of an occasional 3$measure, this
would undoubtedly upset the balance between
the possible metrical schemes in performance.13
The oboe melody begins in measure 7, in
a metrical context set up by the introductory
accompanimental pattern in the strings. Without
the oboe, the music in the strings would define
a well-​ rounded phrase of four real measures
(  =  eight notated measures), albeit one without
much in the way of distinctive melodic char-
acter. The oboe’s melody, however, tramples
on this symmetry by entering early, resulting
in a destabilizing metrical deletion of one real
measure. What’s worse, though, is that ‸ as the
melody continues, the descent from 5 occurs
not one real measure too early, but one notated
measure—​half of a real measure. Example 8.12
shows this in the alternate notation of the upper
staff, which is the meter of the oboe melody out
of context. The resulting rhythmic structure of
the combination does not correspond completely
to either of the conflicting metrical senses of
the independent parts, but shifts from one to
other and back at the points where they inter-
face, as shown in the network analysis. This may
be compared to the contrapuntal syncopation of
Haydn’s Symphony no. 98 in Example 8.11, which
has a very different effect:  in Haydn’s contra-
puntal combination, the established lower voice
predominates to define the overriding meter. In
Beethoven’s, the newly introduced melodic voice
has a much more definite rhythmic shape and,
two measures after its entrance, takes over to de-
fine the overriding meter, so that instead of mild
metrical dissonances and displaced formal struc-
ture, the Scherzo begins with a disorienting met-
rical irregularity.
The strings resume their original metrical ori-
entation when the written-​out repeat of the ex-
position begins in measure 15, by contracting the
last measure of the theme to half of a real measure.
As demonstrated in the previous chapter, a har-
monic resolution that occupies only a fraction of
the last measure of a phrase gives a weak sense
of closure. The rhythmic manipulations in this ex-
position therefore result in two irregularities, a
deletion where the theme begins, and a syncopa-
tion within the theme (as shown in Ex. 8.12), and
these conspire to give the effect of a theme that
is off-​balance from the beginning and ultimately
inconclusive. The perplexity is compounded by
parallel tonal features of the theme:  out of con-
text, it is entirely in B♭ major, the wrong key, even
though, preceding the theme, B♭ is approached
as a dominant of the true home key. Since the
theme outlines B♭ major in the most straightfor-
ward way from the beginning rather than actually
modulating, it is not clear how a proper recapit-
ulation could possibly be staged in this Scherzo.

13. See Lester 1986, 107–​12. This kind of notational ambiguity is an important technique for Beethoven even beyond
the context of Scherzos where such notation is conventional. The first movement of the Fifth Symphony is an example, as
illustrated by London’s (2012, ch. 7) analysis. Double measures were considered incorrect notation by eighteenth-​century
theorists. See, for example, Kirnberger ([1776] 1982, 393–​4).

192 • O r gani z e d   T i m e
EXAMPLE 8.13 Metrical recontextualization of a melodic pattern from (a) the exposition to (b) the
contrasting middle of the Scherzo
(a)
(b)
As with any classical binary form, the second
part of Beethoven’s Scherzo has a responsi-
bility to “right the wrongs” of the exposition.
Usually this would involve converting an open,
modulating, main theme into a closed, non-​
modulating one. The bewildering way that the
modulation is aligned with thematic material
precludes a simple conventional solution to ton-
ally resolving the theme, however. In addition,
the usual tonal task of the second part is here
compounded by a rhythmic one, like in the
first movement of Haydn’s Symphony no.  95
analyzed in Section 6.4. The syncopation of the
oboe melody gives it an inconclusiveness that
must be fixed in the recapitulation. The unu-
sual magnitude of the compositional problems
that Beethoven sets himself are reflected
in the disproportion between the number of
measures devoted to stating the motivating
conflicts (14) and the number devoted to re-
solving them (136).
The oboe theme appears three times in the
second part. At the beginning of the contrasting
middle in measures 41–​8, it is transposed to F
major (dominant of B♭ major), again syncopated
against a two-​ bar pattern established by the
accompanimental texture in the strings. The re-
mainder of the contrasting middle (mm. 49–​72)
consists of a stretto of the theme with a clear
hypermeter modulating to G minor. This stretto
works on rhythmically normalizing the theme
by metrically reinterpreting its cadential me-
lodic pattern (Ex. 8.13). The liquidation of the
oboe theme’s metrically deviant cadential mate-
rial and its juxtaposition with the metrically up-
standing switchback pattern in the contrasting
middle section also draws attention to the mo-
tivic connection between them, their similar
contour and rhythm.
Where does the recapitulation of the piece
begin? This question has no answer, because
Beethoven violates the schematic aspect of the
form even as he is true to its ethos. The theme
appears at its original pitch level in measure 85,
preceded by the same accompanimental pattern
as in the exposition (Ex. 8.14). Beethoven makes
one change to this pattern, however, putting it all
over a dominant pedal so that the entire passage
from measure 73 to measure 92 functions har-
monically as the end of the development. In other
words, when the theme reappears in its original
form, it is in some sense a false recapitulation.
Yet the version of the theme starting in measure
93 is transposed in its entirety, so that, in an-
other sense, one might say that it serves simul-
taneously as both main theme and subordinate
theme, so that the Scherzo, so to speak, has the
exposition of a binary form but the recapitula-
tion of a sonata form.
With the transposed theme beginning in
measure 93, in an emphatic fortissimo tutti,
Beethoven uses the hypermetrically clarified
material from the contrasting middle to fi-
nally bring resolution of the tonal and met-
rical oppositions in the oboe theme. When he
transposes the theme, he immediately adds the
arpeggiation figure from measure 48 to it in
counterpoint, underscoring the importance of
events from the contrasting middle in providing
the necessary tools to normalize the theme.
The theme is then stated in the lower voice in ca-
nonic imitation at two measures, which enforces
a continuation of the two-​ measure metrical
pattern. Beethoven emphasizes hypermetrical
redefinition of the dotted half-​ notes in the
melody with the sforzandi and the first violins’
leap into a higher register. The newly regularized
four-​measure unit is finalized by ending it with
Syncopation • 193
EXAMPLE 8.14  The recapitulation of the Scherzo, featuring a metrical and tonal normalization of the
main theme

the arpeggiation figure in measure 100, whose
sense as upbeat is now well established, and re-
peating the entire four-​measure unit in meas-
ures 101–​ 4 and again transposed in 105–​ 8.
The metrical redefinition of the main theme’s
characteristic cadential figure in the contrasting
middle, shown in Example 8.13, is thus a crucial
step towards the ultimate transformation of the
theme. Given that contrapuntal techniques of
imitation usually serve as a metrically destabi­
lizing force (the passage from the “Prague” sym-
phony in Ex. 8.6 notwithstanding), and that

194 • O r gani z e d   T i m e
contrasting middles and development sections
are usually the passages of greatest overall in-
stability, it is impressive how Beethoven uses
counterpoint and material from the contrasting
middle as the agents of rhythmic normalization
and resolution.
The problems of the theme are not fully solved
in measure 101, however. Its most crucial im-
propriety was that the syncopation squeezed
the cadential resolution, leaving it oddly incon-
clusive. Now the cadence is removed altogether,
leaving a four-​measure roundabout with no exit.
Beethoven leads the theme towards completion
by transposing the four-​measure unit in measures
101–​ 4 to tonicize the subdominant, signaling
impending cadential process. The implication
is realized when the cadential process begins in
earnest with the inverted tonic in measure 111.
The beginning of the process, in the second real
measure of a four-​measure span (  =  the third
and fourth measures of a notated eight-​measure
span), is perfectly placed in the hypermeter to
terminate with a strong cadence—​meaning ca-
dential resolution in the last real measure of the
span or the seventh notated measure. The ca-
dence fully rectifies the aberrant oboe theme by
setting its characteristic motive in the switchback
scheme of the introductory accompanimental
pattern. Yet Beethoven is not quite ready to end
the Scherzo in measure 116: the cadence is evaded
with a new melodic idea—​one that snickers with
a puckish metrical dissonance. The denial of clo-
sure opens up space for a celebratory reworking of
distinctive material from the contrasting middle
in measures 143–​65.
Amongst the extraordinary effects of the
piece is that the theme appears complete only
in its final version. The first appearance, even
without the uncertain effect of the syncopa-
tion, is at most half a theme:  a phrase’s worth
of music. When completed in the recapitulation
(mm. 93–​116) it is twenty-​four measures (or
twelve real measures). Furthermore, the rhetoric
of the piece fits the caricature of Beethoven’s
heroic style impeccably:  a seemly intractable
problem is finally sorted out by bringing the de-
viant melody in line through what appears to be
the sheer force of the composer’s will.
The compositional genesis of this unusual
rhythmic and tonal plan, which can be traced in
the “Eroica” sketchbook (Landsberg 6), is par-
ticularly fascinating. In the earliest of these
sketches (Lockwood and Gosman 2013, pt. 3,
10, 36; Nottebohm 1979, 88–​9), the oboe theme
is hypermetrically aligned, the way it appears in
the ossia measures of Example 8.12. It also is in E♭
major, so that the tonal and metrical problems of
the exposition are absent in this first conception.
The whole piece (a minuet rather than a scherzo)
is correspondingly modest in scope in the second
sketch:  the first part is 19 measures and the
second is 27. A  rhythmic quirkiness is nonethe-
less already present in the theme’s long anacrusis,
and Beethoven’s idea seems to have been to ex-
ploit this with a false recapitulation in B♭ major
that is metrically offset by one notated measure.
The sketches then chronicle a series of two
inspirations that precipitate the essential
shape the piece takes in its final form. The first
is Beethoven’s idea of the switchback pattern,
which explicitly appears on page 42,14 and comes
from a similar pattern that is prominent in the
transition, development, and coda of the first
movement.15 He seems to be thinking generally
about inter-​movement motivic resonances here,
because he also floats the idea of a trio based on
the main-​theme motive of the first movement.
(This relationship persists in the final version of
the trio, but somewhat more artfully concealed
than the obvious derivation apparent in this
sketch.)
The second inspiration was to use the false
recapitulation of the theme in the exposition,
as a kind of “false main theme.” This version
of the theme is not only in B♭ rather than E♭ ,
but also is misaligned with the hypermeter.16
Beethoven’s sketch on page  60 introduces this
“false main theme,” and also uses the switch-
back pattern to set up the hypermeter and the
home key of E♭ . At the same time, he preserves

14. This point is discussed by Nottebohm (1979, 88–​92).

15. It is interesting that on the page facing the one with the first full version of the third movement (as a minuet and
trio), p. 37, Beethoven can be seen toying with the pattern at the bottom, under some work on the coda of the first movement
in which the pattern is prominent.
16. Lockwood and Gosman (2013, pt. 2, 39–​41) provide valuable commentary about the tonality of the different
versions of the theme, asserting that “Beethoven’s Scherzo sketches are largely preoccupied with the harmonic arrangement
of successive entries of the main theme” (40). I would argue that the metric contexts of the theme are at least as evident
a preoccupation, even to speculate that Beethoven worked out the plan for the movement primarily on the basis of the
changing rhythmic character of the theme, and that the tonal alterations merely tag along with these manipulations of metric
contexts. Also, Lockwood and Gosman suggest “that initially the F major entries replaced the B♭ entry found on the page 36

Syncopation • 195
EXAMPLE  8.15  (a)  The basic idea for Beethoven’s String Quartet, op.  95, outlines a syncopated
rhythm. (b) The syncopation is further emphasized when the idea is restated in G♭ major shortly there-
after. (c) In the transition, the rhythmic structure is normalized by repetition of the initial motive.
(a)

(b)

(c)

the basic idea of the false recapitulation from
the earlier version. This is written out again to-
ward the bottom of page 60 in a somewhat more
extended form, but retaining the same method
of correcting the metrical anomaly of the B♭
version by interrupting it with the E♭ version.
The formal meaning of this music has changed
though:  it is no longer clear whether the “false
recapitulation” is the true recapitulation (of
the “false theme”) or if the corrected E♭ theme
is still the real recapitulation—​yet at the same
time, the distinction is also musically irrele-
vant. Beethoven’s conception of the movement
now appears to rapidly take on the grandiose
proportions reflected in the final version. On
page 64 he broadens the E♭ recapitulation, and in
the continuity draft on pages 66–​7 the essential
features of the final version, including the length
of the second part, are in place.
In Beethoven’s works, syncopations can
also take on a dramatic significance in addition
to acting as a motivating force for formal
processes. The first movement of his op.  95
String Quartet begins with a basic idea whose
aggressive spirit largely derives from a rhythmic
anomaly:  the syncopated structure shown
in Example  8.15(a). This rhythmic analysis
incorporates a prominent 𝅘𝅥 𝅗𝅥. | rhythm defined
by the melodic reiterations of the tonic note, as
well as the change from legato to staccato artic-
ulation. The change of speed from sixteenths
to eighths helps to reinforce the sense of com-
pressed time in the first beat to expanded time
in the second and third, which matches the

sketch, whereas the D♭ entry is positioned prior to the B♭ entry” (40–​1), but this seems implausible when we recognize that
the one thing retained from the p. 39 sketch to the later ones is the pairing of B♭ and E♭ entries at the recapitulation. The F
major entry looks more likely to have come about as Beethoven was considering using a tonally contrasting version of the
theme as a way to initiate a more substantial B section, trying out the D♭ version first (on p. 60), then discarding this in favor
of the F version (on p. 61) which leads to the idea of a stretto, subsequently realized in the continuity draft of p. 66.

196 • O r gani z e d   T i m e
transformational description of this syncopa-
tion. At the next level we can add a 2:1 division
of the 𝅗𝅥., articulated by the change of melodic di-
rection and the striking scalar inflections D♭ →♮,
E♭ →♮, giving a 𝅘𝅥 𝅗𝅥 𝅘𝅥 | rhythm.  (Note that a 1:2
divis­ion of the 𝅗𝅥. would give a 𝅘𝅥 𝅘𝅥 𝅗𝅥 | rhythm that
would parse differently on the basis of the half-​
note projection. According to the rules laid out
in §5.4 this is not a well-​formed syncopation,
because it results in a rhythm better classified
as a simple duple structure.)
The syncopated rhythm in the basic idea
stands in contrast to the ordinary metrical
parsing of a 4$measure, which is the rhythmic
structure implied by the bare surface rhythm
(   ). Both structures are present
in the gesture, in the sense that both rhythms
are present, and the underlying syncopated
rhythm might therefore go unremarked except
that, as the deviant element of the opening idea,
it becomes the motivating force for rhythmic
machinations that define a central narrative in
the piece. In the second appearance of the idea
(on ♭ II—​Ex. 8.15b), Beethoven brings out the de-
viant rhythm with a syncopated attack on the G♭
major chord of beat two. Also, in the second part

EXAMPLE 8.16  (a) In the cadential part of the subordinate theme, the syncopated meter of the main
theme reappears, and is juxtaposed with a syncopation of the opposite, delaying, type. (b) The rhythmic
structure in mm. 38–​42 can be derived from the normalized rhythm on the first staff through two
syncopations and an extension, which are broken up into two stages in the example.
(a)

Syncopation • 197
EXAMPLE 8.16 Continued
(b)
of the main theme (mm. 12 and 14, not shown)
he subtly suggests normalizing the initial
sixteenth-​note motive by changing its metrical
placement, but the beginning of the transition
(Ex. 8.15c) forcefully rejects this suggestion and
normalizes the rhythmic structure instead by
brute repetition of the idea (m. 18).
The syncopation of the main theme becomes
an independent motivic element in the piece,
representative, perhaps, of the theme’s in-
temperate disposition. It re-​ emerges to dis-
rupt the languid subordinate theme in the
midst of its cadential process (Ex. 8.16). The
first move towards cadence in measures 31–​4
is hypermetrically regular but resolves decep-
tively. This gives an opening for the main theme
to reassert itself. Extending the bass ascent one
more step, Beethoven arrives at an unstable
V56, which, expanded into a full four-​measure
span, becomes the medium for the reappear-
ance of the characteristic syncopation (in
mm. 34 and 36)  and sixteenth-​note motive of
the main theme. After the startling expanded
♭ VI in measures 38–​9, the subordinate theme
seemingly absorbs the blow in an extraordi-
nary reversal of the quarter-​note syncopation.
The rhythmic structure of measures 38–​42 can
be derived in a series of transformations, an
198 • O r gani z e d   T i m e
expansion and two syncopations, as shown in
Example 8.16(b). In the first line, the theme is
shown with the expansion removed and in a
normalized rhythm derived from the network
by assigning the large timespan a four-​measure
duration and taking duple divisions for all of
the timespans below (the process described
in §1.2). The actual rhythm of the passage is
then derived by applying the transformations
in stages. First, the last measure of the four-​
measure phrase is extended by repetition, and
a local syncopation in m.  39 replicates the
syncopated rhythm implicit in the main theme
basic idea (𝅘𝅥 𝅗𝅥 𝅘𝅥). Then, the last three measures
are syncopated by a quarter-​note with an expan-
sion in measure 39 that extends into measure
40, compensated by a contraction at the end of
measure 42.
Though a fair amount of technical detail is
required to parse this rhythm, this should not
distract us from the meanings and aesthetic
ramifications of the resulting structure. How
do we experience these rhythmic anomalies
and what is the compositional idea motivating
them? The first syncopation of Example 8.16(b)
is exactly like the one in the main theme:  it
consists of an initial contraction followed by an
expansion. When the contraction precedes the
compensating expansion we have the feeling of
a rhythmic event arriving early, interrupting
or intruding upon the expected length of the
contracted timespan. These types of syncopa-
tion, those of the interruption type, hold sway
through the main theme and transition, and
symbolize an impetuous persona associated
with this theme. When, on the contrary, the ex-
panded timespan precedes the contracted one,
we have the experience of a timespan extending
beyond its expected ending, with the following
event coming late. These delay-​type syncopations
have essentially the opposite sense: a timespan
lingers as if unhurried. In Beethoven’s quartet, a
delay-​type syncopation appears first in the tran-
sition, measures 39–​42. It contrasts markedly
with the preceding syncopations, representing a
distinct persona, cautious and reticent, associ-
ated with the subordinate theme.
In measure 40, the effect of delay is made
especially palpable by the preceding silence
and the usual performance practice of taking
a ritard that further prolongs it (in response
to the abrupt drop in dynamic and change of
articulation). In addition, the syncopation is
protracted by its hierarchic depth, which is
increased by the extension. In musical time,
however, it is the syncopation that seems
to be the agent, giving rise to the extension
by lingering beyond the bounds of the nor-
mative two-​measure span. By co-​opting and
transfiguring the signature rhythmic feature
of the main theme, the subordinate theme
achieves a degree of resolution, although the
actual cadential resolution, an elided IAC,
is weak. Like first movements of other of
Beethoven’s middle-​period works, such as the
op.  59/​2 String Quartet or the op.  69 Cello
Sonata, this movement never achieves full clo-
sure within the exposition or recapitulation,
reserving it for the coda (see §7.5).
An even more impressive syncopation occurs
at the end of the development (Ex. 8.17a).
A  new texture in measure 77 and the repeti-
tion of two-​measure ideas in measures 77–​80
establish a clear four-​ measure hypermetrical
pattern. Measure 81 appears to be continuing
the pattern, beginning a new four-​measure unit
in which the sixteenth-​note motive begins to
move more definitely into the more stable met-
rical position of beats two and four. But the
main theme suddenly intrudes in measure 82
to begin the recapitulation, forcefully returning
the sixteenth-​note motive to the downbeat.
Formally, measures 82–​8 fuse main theme and
transition function, and do so simply by com-
bining elements of the original main theme
(mm. 82–​3) and transition (84–​8).17 The three-​
measure modulating passage in measures 86–​8,
an isolated instance of hypermetrical hemiola
from the exposition (mm. 21–​3), now perfectly
compensates for the one-​measure contraction
created by the interruption where the recapit-
ulation begins. A  hypermetrical syncopation
thus ranges from the end of the development
to the beginning of the subordinate theme area
of the recapitulation. The syncopation, an inter-
ruption type, projects the essence of the main
theme persona to a higher level of rhythmic
structure and with profound consequences for
the unfolding of the formal design, displacing
the moment of recapitulation itself. This marks
what may have been one of the most significant
feats in Beethoven’s ongoing preoccupation with
composing sonata forms with a greater sense or
organic continuity by smoothing over important
formal boundaries.18 By tying together a larger
timespan that crosses formal boundaries, the
hypermetrical syncopation enables a disjunction
of rhythmic and formal structure of improb-
able depth, recontextualizing the main theme
in a highly unstable hypermetrical afterbeat
placement (Ex. 8.17b). (On the instability of
afterbeat placement, see §7.2.) This is perhaps
one of the features that provokes Kerman’s
(1967) depiction of the piece as a “radical private
war with every fibre of rhetoric and feeling that
Beethoven knew or could invent” (169).
The lack of closure in the exposition and
recapitulation lend special significance to
the coda of the movement, where Beethoven
brings a final conclusion to the interplay

17. This kind of fusion is conventional for recapitulations; see Caplin 1998, 165–​7.
18. Continuity at the recapitulation is closely related to the phenomenon of off-​tonic returns. Burstein 2005 lists
a number of such returns in Beethoven’s oeuvre, many of which (his category III) use the off-​tonic return specifically to
submerge the moment of recapitulation in a continuous tonal-​formal process. To his list can be added the first movement
of the op. 70/​2 Piano Trio, discussed in Section 11.4, whose main theme, though not beginning off-​tonic in the sense of
harmonic root, begins with what is clearly a midphrase cadential I6. Other examples are discussed in Section 12.4. The general
smoothing-​over of formal boundaries characterizes many of the outstanding features of Beethoven’s style, such as his
penchant for techniques of formal fusion, illustrated at length by Schmalfeldt (2011), and the open expositions discussed in
Section 7.5.

Syncopation • 199
EXAMPLE  8.17  (a)  The recapitulation interrupts the hypermeter of the development, resulting in
a syncopation that extends to the beginning of the subordinate theme, (b) the disjunction between
hypermeter and form at the beginning of the recapitulation
(a)

(b)

of syncopation-​types. The coda begins by and the corresponding syncopated rhythmic

drawing out the syncopation of the main
theme basic idea for a number of measures
through syncopated attacks in the inner
parts in measures 131–​4. The later part of
this phrase is rhythmically complex, com-
bining a one-​measure expansion with two
syncopations. Example 8.18(a) shows the har-
monic rhythm (indicated below the music)
structure. One of these syncopations is an
interruption type (backward displacement)
and the other is a delay-​type (forward dis-
placement), and both penetrate deep into
the rhythmic structure. The first syncopa-
tion occurs with the early C major harmony
on the last beat of measure 134. It is of the
interruption type, representative of the main

200 • O r gani z e d   T i m e
theme’s antagonistic temper. The second
involves the mid-​measure harmony changes
in measures 136 and 137. As a syncopation
of the contrasting delaying type it recalls the
subordinate theme, the more so because it is
prolonged through a one-​measure expansion,
like the syncopation in measures 40–​ 2
(Ex. 8.16).19 Example  8.18(b) begins with a
normalized rhythm derived from the network
of 8.18(a) by applying duple divisions to a
four-​measure span, and then derives the ir-
regular rhythm in three stages.20

EXAMPLE 8.18  (a) Rhythmic irregularities in the coda. The paired operations that constitute each
syncopation are connected by an arrow which shows the direction of displacement. (b) A derivation of
the irregular rhythm in mm. 133–​7 from a normalized version.
(a)

19. These metrical disturbances were a relatively late addition to what began in Beethoven’s sketches as a relatively square
rhythmic profile in this part of the coda, as Ong (2006, 152–​4) demonstrates in his transcriptions.
20. A slightly simpler derivation is possible, with the first two steps as a single 2× expansion of the viio 56 /​iv and iio6 chords
in the third and fourth measures of the normalized version. These two expansions, however, would still be distinct since they
are not in the same measure, and this derivation would obscure the fact that the dominant is short relative to the preceding
elements of what otherwise would be a regular expanded cadential progression.

Syncopation • 201
EXAMPLE 8.18 Continued
(b)
The narrative significance of these syncopa­
tions relies upon how they unfold in musical time.
The first, in measures 134–​5, evolves out of the
preceding pattern established by the syncopated
attacks in the second violin and viola. Measure 134
begins as if it is going to continue this pattern, but
the harmonic change and disturbance in the outer
parts on the fourth beat of the measure create
a new syncopation that crosses the barline and
affects the harmonic rhythm itself. This syncopa-
tion penetrates deeply into the structure, because
it occurs at a principal hypermetrical division. It
is resolved with the added sforzando attack in the
inner parts on the third beat of measure 135. But
the very same chord, by extending across the next
barline, gives rise to the second syncopation. The
202 • O r gani z e d   T i m e
close succession of syncopations, one of the inter-
ruption (main theme) type followed by one of the
delay (second theme) type gives the sense that the
main theme’s rhythmic motto, by overstepping its
bounds, stumbles into the antithetical delay-​type
syncopation. The hotheaded main theme, having
abused us all movement, undoes itself with a final
act of hubris. The extension on a cadential iio6 har-
mony over the barline in measures 136–​7 enhances
the effect, completing the intensive thematic pro-
cess reflected in the movement’s prominent met-
rical disturbances. A  final metrical dissolution of
the main theme’s sixteenth-​note motive follows
before the final cadence arrives with an air of ex-
haustion to draw the comparatively brief yet in-
tense movement to a well-​earned close.
 9
Counterpoint
THE PRECEDING chapters have focused on
disentangling the independent dimensions of
music that shape time:  rhythmic, tonal, and
formal. However, one cannot probe very deeply
into tonal music without encountering added
complexity introduced by the splintering of
rhythmic and tonal material into contrapuntal
layers. We have already begun to address these
with the discussion of unfolding in Chapter  2
and of rhythmic dissonance in Chapter 8.
Counterpoint refers not only to the sepa-
ration of a musical texture into distinct voices,
but specifically the potential for such voices to
simultaneously project non-​coinciding rhythmic
and tonal structures. An investigation of such
phenomena demonstrates that similar princi-
ples obtain concerning counterpoint in both
the tonal and rhythmic domains. In both, the
synthesis of contrapuntal layers into a single
structure is an essential aspect of the contra-
puntal interaction. Furthermore, the basic
tenets of how this synthesis occurs are shared.
Analogous contrapuntal reasoning can even help
us understand common methods of large-​scale
organization expressed in the formal domain, as
argued in Section 9.4.
9.1 RHYTHMIC
COUNTERPOINT
We found in the previous chapter that the allegro
of Haydn’s Symphony no. 98 (Ex. 8.10) derives
an essential part of its thematic content from a
counterpoint of melodies in the main theme that
imply different rhythmic structures by them-
selves. Example  9.1 shows these two melodies
with the rhythmic structures that they each
imply independently. When these are combined,
the rhythmic character of the upper melody is
quite different than what is shown here, though,
because Haydn offsets it by a half note in an
established meter, creating a rhythmic disso-
nance integral to the sense of the melody. The
upper part is therefore absorbed into a rhythmic
structure consistent with the meter that governs
 • 203
the entire passage. This structure, shown at the
bottom of Example 9.1, has as its basis elements
of the lower voice, but includes two timepoints
articulated only by the upper voice. The network
therefore includes some intervals that exist only
between voices, not within any individual voice.
The example introduces two symbols to indicate
such between-​voice intervals, doubled lines and
dashed lines. The doubled lines indicate a span
that represents a direct relationship between the
voices. The upper voice is offset from the lower
voice by a two-​beat anticipation, so the intervals
corresponding to this anticipation are double-​
lined in the structure. This is the same symbol
used for unfolding in Chapter  2, an analogous
phenomenon:  the double line indicates a har-
monic relationship between voices that has been
horizontalized. Other inter-​voice intervals re-
sult from mere temporal juxtaposition caused by
the offset; these derived intervals are shown with
dashed lines.
The idea of counterpoint then implies not only
the structural independence of parts, but also the
existence of a unified structure for the combined
parts. In the domain of rhythm, the unified struc-
ture is the metric framework. In Haydn’s theme,
it is clear that the lower part takes priority in de-
fining the upper levels of this combined rhythmic
structure, because it conforms to the established
meter. The friction between the structure of
the individual voice and that of the combined
rhythm leads to a sort of rhythmic dissonance or
polyphony.
This example demonstrates the concept
of counterpoint, which consists of two basic
elements, the independence of parts, and their
harmonious combination. These two ideas tug
against one another, making the concept some-
times difficult to pin down. To misappropriate
Hegel, if Haydn’s first three bars are the thesis
and the conflicting upper melody the antith-
esis, then the synthesis is the structural res-
olution of the combination, and the resulting
derived intervals and rhythmic dissonance.
Counterpoint is synthesis.
It may seem that a combined metric struc-
ture could be more directly derived by simply re-
ducing the contrapuntal texture to what Krebs
(1999) calls the “resultant rhythm.” We have
seen, though, in the analysis of Mozart’s “Prague”
Symphony in the previous chapter (Ex. 8.4), that
this does not always work. Example 9.2 shows
how the individual structures in the “Prague”
theme synthesize to make a combined struc-
ture. The displaced structure of Example 9.2(a),
which is similar to the rhythmic structure of the
preceding two measures (see Ex. 8.4), becomes
rhythmic dissonance as it is subsumed by the
combined structure of Example  9.2(c). Here,
the doubled lines again show the displacements,
while dashed lines indicate derived intervals
resulting from the juxtaposition of the two lines.
The structure in Example  9.2(d), based on the
resultant rhythm, contains few within-​ voice
intervals and is therefore not plausible.
It is clear in both of these examples that to
make a well-​formed hierarchy for the combined
rhythm, we must reconcile the structures of the
individual rhythms by balancing the fundamental
rhythm-​structural criterion of regularity with the

EXAMPLE  9.1  The main theme of Haydn’s Symphony no.  98 combines melodies with conflicting
rhythmic structures. These are synthesized into a combined rhythmic structure by defining the lower
voice as the principal structure, and adding the timepoints associated with the upper voice below.
Doubled lines in the synthesized structure show between-​voice intervals that repesent the offset be-
tween the voices, and dashed lines show other between-​voice intervals.

204 • O r gani z e d   T i m e
EXAMPLE 9.2  A contrapuntal combination of two rhythmic structures, (a) and (b), in the main theme
of Mozart’s Prague Symphony. The combined structure in (c) shows displacements with double lines
and the other inter-​voice intervals (derived intervals) with dashed lines. An alternative structure that
might be implied by the plain resultant rhythm, (d), is not a good fit for this particular counterpoint.
(a)

(b) (c)

(d)

EXAMPLE 9.3  (a) A counterpoint of displaced rhythms in Beethoven’s op. 97 Piano Trio, subordinate

theme of the finale, (b–​c) two possible analyses of the combined rhythmic structure
(a)

integrity of the individual parts. This generally
entails choosing one voice as the principal one,
retaining its structure in the background of the
overall structure. Consider Example 9.3, from the
sonata-​rondo finale of Beethoven’s “Archduke”
Trio. The rhythms of the parts are related by a
simple 𝅘𝅥𝅮 displacement. The swung rhythm is
perfectly tailored to prevent coinciding attacks
between the offset rhythms while creating a flat
sixteenth-​note resultant rhythm.
An overall rhythmic structure based solely on
the resultant rhythm would match the meter, as
in Example  9.3(b), but this structure has a lot
of dashed lines, neglecting all of the 𝅘𝅥𝅮. spans in
the individual parts. The doubled and dashed
lines at the 𝅘𝅥𝅮 level are embedded in the rhythm,
meaning that one metrical layer is expressed
only between the parts, never within any indi-
vidual part. Below the level of the beat only the
two local 𝅘𝅥𝅯 spans from each part appear in the
structure. A  different analysis, 9.3(c), reflects
more of the structure of the parts, preserving
EXAMPLE  9.4  A  homophonic rhythmic coun-
terpoint in the final refrain of Beethoven’s op. 97
Trio (piano only)
the entire structure of one of the parts (the lower
one), by sacrificing regularity. This analysis better
represents the passage according to a simple con-
trapuntal criterion, which is to retain as much
structure from the individual parts as possible.
The piece has a large final refrain which recasts
the theme in an ecstatic * 6 presto. The final re-
frain has an important musical goal apart from
pure showmanship, which is to resolve the con-
trapuntal dissonance of the main theme. The
final gesture of the piece is shown in Example 9.4.

Counterpoint • 205
EXAMPLE  9.5  The theme of Chopin’s E major Etude, op.  10/​3, and listener responses from Repp
1998c to deviations from a perfectly isochronous rhythm. Bias is the difference in detectability between
an increment, a longer interonset interval (IOI) and a decrement, a shorter IOI. Sensitivity is the av-
erage detectability of both. Repp’s Figure 3 is modified so that data is aligned with the note that ends
the given sixteenth-​note IOI rather than the one that begins it.

80
60
Percent responses

40
20
0
–20
–40
1 2 3 4 5
Bar number

Bias Sensitivity

It recalls the rhythm of individual parts of the
subordinate theme, partially evened out now in
6*, but without the displacement. The purely
polyphonic arrangement of the subordinate
theme rhythm, where the parts are completely
disjunct, lacking any common attacks or common
structural spans, becomes a purely homophonic
arrangement, where the parts have equivalent
and aligned structures, so that the overall struc-
ture is equivalent to the structure of the parts.
A study on microtiming conducted by Bruno
Repp (1998c) provides some interesting evidence
about how counterpoint affects listeners’ experi-
ence of musical time. His first experiment uses
a clever method to show that listeners’ expec-
tations match the kind of microtiming profiles
consistently observed in musical performance.
The listeners heard a flat (perfectly isochronous)
version of the theme of Chopin’s E major Etude,
but with 20–​40 milliseconds either inserted or
removed in a few places (at a tempo of 𝅘𝅥𝅯 = 500
ms). They were asked to identify where the
irregularities occurred. Example 9.5 shows the
results of this first experiment and a MOP of
the rhythmic structure of the melody combined
with the left-​hand part. The implied meter of
this theme is displaced a half bar from the noted
meter. I have shifted Repp’s data ahead one six-
teenth note to align the percent correct with the
first shifted timepoint of attack, rather than the
altered IOI, since the rhythmic hierarchy contains
multiple timespans associated with a given
timepoint. The sensitivity curve averages the
percent correct on increments (late notes) and
decrements (early notes).1 Bias is the difference
between the percentage of correct responses
to a late note versus an early note, divided by
2. Thus, the peaks in the bias profile show where
the listeners expect a slight ritard (and there-
fore are more sensitive to early notes than late
ones). This correlates very closely with the timing
profiles of actual performances, which repli-
cate a well-​known tendency for performers to
show metrical and formal boundaries with slight
tempo increases, with larger-​ scale boundaries
receiving larger increases.2 The bias profile very

1. Repp’s terms (increment and decrement) are more accurate because there is no compensation for the change of one IOI
in the next. I refer to them as early and late notes here to emphasize the phenomenological association of the changes to the
IOI with the first timepoint following the change.
2. See, for instance, Sloboda 1983, Todd 1985. Repp’s performance data (which is not shown here, but very closely
matches the bias profile) is of special interest because it shows that musicians’ timing profiles reflect the implied meter of
the music, even when it differs from the notated meter. In other words, musicians are not simply responding directly to the
notated meter, but reflecting a higher-​order subconscious representation of the music.

206 • O r gani z e d   T i m e
EXAMPLE 9.6  The stimulus of Repp’s (1998c) experiment 2, and the sensitivity and bias curves for
the listener responses. The results are shifted ahead by one sixteenth to align with the endpoint of the
altered IOI.
80
Percent responses 60
40
20
0
–20
–40
1 2
Bias
clearly reflects the expectation of a decrease
in tempo on the strong beats (notated beat 2).
The half-​ measure level of the meter is only
weakly represented in measures 2 and 3, where
the melody is tied over the weak beats (notated
beat 1). The smaller peaks of the bias profile in
these measures come late, where the delayed
melody notes appear. Measure 4, however, where
the melody is not tied over the notated down-
beat, is quite different. Its bias profile has a prom-
inent peak on the notated downbeat indicating
the half-​measure level of the meter.
What makes Repp’s study pertinent to the
topic of rhythmic counterpoint is that the melody
he uses is neither isochronous (i.e., it is not a
steady stream of eighth-​or sixteenth-​notes) nor
is it metrically flat. In the language of Chapters 1
and 5, it contains prominent swung rhythms, par-
ticularly the quarter notes tied to the sixteenths
over the bar lines. Only by contrapuntally com-
bining this rhythm with the other parts do we
get a metrically flat rhythm. In his second ex-
periment, Repp recomposes the theme to realize
the metrically flat resultant rhythm within the
melody itself, as shown in Example 9.6, and he
finds that this indeed leads to a significant change
in the shape of the sensitivity and bias curves of
the listener responses.
Example 9.7 shows the rhythmic counter-
point of the outer voices, and the associated
rhythmic structure. The bass defines the deeper
lever of rhythmic structure, and its syncopations
3 4 5
Bar number
Sensitivity Exp. 1 Exp. 1
carry over into the structure during the held
notes in the melody in the latter half of each
notated bar. In the first halves of bars 2, 3,
and 5, the melody plays an important role in
articulating the eighth-​note level of the meter,
so that between-​ voice spans appear in the
rhythmic structure within these beats. Double
lines indicate the transformation corresponding
to the swung rhythm of the melody, the source
of this rhythmic counterpoint. The dashed lines
show the shift of structural focus from the bass
to the melody and back.
The changes in bias that result from the al-
tered versions of Chopin’s melody, shown in the
lower curves of Example 9.6, generally consist
of a flattening out. Peaks of the bias curve on
the notated second beats are attenuated, and
the tendency to be less sensitive to speeding
up during the tied melody notes mostly goes
away when the tied notes are replaced by re-
peated sixteenths. The changes of sensitivity,
on the other hand, are more difficult to inter-
pret. One might expect that these would occur
approaching the timepoints where new melody
notes are added, but this only occurs in the
second part of the melody, especially the added
repetitions of the climactic C♯ in measure 3.  In
the first part of the melody, we instead see an
increase in sensitivity in the first part of each
notated measure (in mm. 2–​3). This is most
clearly visible in Example 9.7, which shows the
results for the altered melody in open circles
Counterpoint • 207
EXAMPLE 9.7  The outer parts of Chopin’s E major Etude (with the melody an octave higher and the
bass two octaves higher), the rhythmic structure of the contrapuntal combination, and the sensitivity
data for Repp’s experiment 2, shifted ahead one sixteenth to coincide with the endpoint of the altered
IOI. Double lines in the MOP show where the swung melodic rhythm fills in the syncopations in the
bass to articulate the eighth-​note level of the meter via between-​voice spans. Dashed lines show the
shift of rhythmic focus from the bass, which defines the basic meter, to the melody and back. The open
circles in the sensitivity data show the results of Repp’s experiment 2, where the melodic rhythm is
filled out with sixteenth notes, as compared to the results of experiment 1, shown by the lines, which
uses the original melody.

with tails showing how the sensitivity changes
from experiment 1. Generally speaking, there is
no major change of sensitivity (with the possible
exception of the climactic C♯) associated with
the rhythmic framework of the phrase at the
quarter-​note level, since it is defined by the bass.
Yet the fact that the new melody articulates the
downbeats of measures 2 and 3 does lead to a
distinct increase in sensitivity, not for changes
to notes on those downbeats, but at subsequent
notes, where the effect of rhythmic counterpoint
(indicated by the double lines and dashed lines
in the rhythmic structure) is greatly weakened
in the altered version. This does not apply to
measure 4, where the downbeat is articulated in
the original melody, and we see a corresponding
lack of change in sensitivity within the first half
of this measure.
A second potential effect of the melodic alter-
ation in Repp’s experiment 2 is the weakening
of the syncopations in the second part of each
notated measure, where the bass defines the
rhythmic structure in the original version of
the theme. It makes sense to see this effect in the
second half of the melody, beginning from the
climactic C♯, because of its much more promi-
nent contour, especially the leap approaching the
C♯ and the more mobile line in measure 4. The in-
crease in sensitivity in the latter part of measure
3 and 4, in other words, can be explained by the
fact that the altered melody allows durations
to be measured within the melody itself, and
the listener’s rhythmic expectations are corre-
sponding more precise. They are also probably
more regular, given that the more mechan-
ical melody lowers expectations for expressive
alterations of tempo.
9.2  BRAHMS’S USE OF
RHYTHMIC IRREGULARITY
AND RHYTHMIC
COUNTERPOINT
Brahms’s approaches to harmony and tonality
were, on the whole, not especially progressive
when placed alongside such contemporaries as
Liszt, Wagner, and Bruckner. Where he did ex-
tend tonal music into new modes of organization,
and where his technical mastery especially stands
out, was in his artful manipulations of rhythmic
structure and form. In an important middle
phase of his compositional career, he developed
a uniquely refined approach to using conflicting
meters as a form-​defining feature. Many analysts
have noted his sophisticated uses of metric dis-
placement and hemiola.3 Brahms’s systematic
use of multi-​leveled hemiola in pieces like the
Capriccio, op. 76 no. 8, and the First Violin Sonata,
op. 78, have motivated theories of metric spaces,
developed by Cohn (1992b, 2001)  building off
of Lewin (1981, 2007a), applied to a number of
Brahms’s songs by Malin (2010, 57–​61, 145–​76),

3. For example, Frisch 1984, 116–​20, 133–​44.

208 • O r gani z e d   T i m e
EXAMPLE 9.8  The accompaniment of the secondary theme in Brahms’s Symphony no. 2 presents a
potential shifted meter
EXAMPLE 9.9  The shifted meter is realized later in the subordinate theme group
and further extended by Murphy (2009). Volk
and Chew (2007) verified some of these analyses
with computational methods. While the hemiola
in this music is often diachronic, differentiating
thematic sections that appear in succession,
these works often include some interesting
instances of counterpoint of meters. The con-
centration of the repertoire addressed by these
studies in the later 1870s suggests a progressive
development of such rhythmic practices cresting
in this time period, just preceding where Notley
(2006, 38–​42) and others detect the first traces
of a “late style.”
Krebs’s (1999) basic distinction between
displacement dissonance and grouping disso-
nance is useful for understanding Brahms’s
fluid manipulation of meter. Displacement
dissonance refers to the shifting of one meter
forward or backward by a small amount. If the
shift is in units of, say, a quarter note, then
every metric level above the quarter note will
be non-​aligned in the displaced meters. When
displaced meters occur in counterpoint, the
result is a kind of syncopation, as discussed in
the previous chapter.
Many of Brahms’s pieces narrate conflicts
between such shifted meters. For instance, in
his Second Symphony, op.  73, a metric conflict
is subtly introduced into the accompaniment of
the first (F♯ minor) subordinate theme, as shown
in Example 9.8. The shifted meter implied by the
contour of the stretto in the violins (based on a
motive carried over from the transition) could
easily go unnoticed, especially since the clear
harmonic rhythm reinforces the overall meter,
but it has ramifications as the subordinate
theme group unfolds. After a metrically unstable
section that establishes the true subordinate key
(A major), Brahms reestablishes a stable 3$meter
with a new quasi-​stretto dominant extension
(Ex. 9.9), but the meter is shifted a quarter-​note
behind the notated downbeat. Similar formal
processes in his C minor Piano Quartet (op. 60),
Horn Trio (op.  40), and C minor Piano Trio
(op.  101) have been identified by Smith (2001,
2006) and McClelland (2006).
Yet, in counterpoints of displaced rhythms,
it is of primary importance that the metric
percepts of individual rhythms interact to create
a unified rhythmic structure for the passage. In
the Second Symphony, the subordinate theme
reappears transposed to the true subordinate
key of A major, giving an overall ternary struc-
ture to the vast subordinate theme group. When
it does, we can detect three shifted metrical
layers, as shown in Example 9.10:  the melody
in the strings, except for its first note, matches
the notated meter, the horn and clarinet play on
notated second beats, while the high notes of a
new flute line initially imply a meter a 𝅘𝅥 ahead
Counterpoint • 209
EXAMPLE 9.10  The A major return of Brahms’s secondary theme, with its shifted meters
of the notated one, reacting to the disturbance
of the preceding tutti. The effect of this lay-
ering, though, is not one of dissonance but of
fullness. Each instrument plays a role in a har-
monious combination of rhythms that fill the
overriding notated 3$meter. This contrapuntal
meter overtakes and domesticates the wayward
displaced meter of the preceding dominant ex-
pansion. This rhythmic effect matches the tonal
effect of the moment, where the long-​awaited
A  major tonic appears and the song-​like sec-
ondary theme melody glories in its major-​mode
makeover. The Hegelian idea of synthesis seems
especially apt here: the process is not completed
by returning to an initial state (the thesis) but by
uniting the thesis (notated 3$) with the antith-
esis (displaced 3$) to achieve a higher synthesis
(contrapuntal assimilation to the notated 3$).
Malin (2010, 57–​61) finds a similar process of
destabilization through rhythmic displacement
and ultimate return to the notated meter in
Brahms’s song “Das Mädchen spricht,” op. 107/​
3, observing that the performer’s awareness of
the notated downbeat when the meter is dis-
placed may play a crucial role in the creating the
intended departure–​return effect.
4. Compare to the very similar rhythmic counterpoint in Beethoven’s op. 97 Piano Trio, Example 9.3. A greater balance
between parts in the Brahms example results in a more even overall rhythmic structure, but also one that puts less priority on
within-​part over between-​part timespans.
210 • O r gani z e d   T i m e
Counterpoints of displaced meters often
appear as musically unexceptional phenomena,
like the wind parts in Example 9.10. The first
four measures of Example 9.11 are a similar
instance. This is the interior theme of a rondo
form from the second movement of Brahms’s
first Violin Sonata. It is constructed in a simple
rounded binary form, with a four-​measure A part
modulating to the subtonic, C major. (Ex. 9.11
starts with the repeat of the A part.) The second
half of the binary consists of a four-​measure se-
quential contrasting middle and a four-​measure
recapitulation (B–​Aʹ ). The A  part (mm. 29–​32/​
33–​ 6) includes a counterpoint of displaced
meters. The melody straightforwardly articulates
the notated 4$, while the bass, were it isolated as
an independent part, would imply a 4$displaced
by an eighth-​note, and with a squeezed rhythm.
(Note that the true bass notes, in the lowest
register, define the meter of this part.) In coun-
terpoint, though, the accompaniment rhythm
readily participates in the melody’s 4$.4
The situation would be unexceptional were it
not for what happens in the contrasting middle
(mm. 37–​ 40). Brahms nudges the meter, in
a gradual but single-​minded process, into an
EXAMPLE 9.11  Brahms, Violin Sonata in G major, op. 78, iii, first interior theme, mm. 33–​42
eighth-​note displacement that matches the
rhythmic structure of the piano left hand. First
the violin’s accent markings and slurring begin
to appear on the weak eighths in the latter half
of measures 37 and 38. At the same time, the
piano left hand starts to claim more autonomy
by regularizing its rhythm in the same places.
This by itself is not enough to override the
metric inertia and the parallelism in the first
half of each bar. From the end of measure 39 into
measure 40, though, the fragmented repetition
of the slurred figure takes over. The result is a
destabilizing rhythmic irregularity approaching
the recapitulation, and extending partway into
its first measure so as to subtly blur this formal
boundary. Just at the moment where the whole
texture succumbs to the displaced meter, the
piano left hand has a syncopation, in which the
low C♯ on the fourth beat of measure 40 is delayed
by another eighth note, putting it on a notated
downbeat. This helps to undercut the new meter
immediately after it is finally established.
Brahms also makes adept use of what Krebs
calls grouping dissonance in manipulation of
rhythmic structure to delineate formal narratives.
As in the examples investigated by Lewin (1981),
Cohn (2001), and Murphy (2009), these are
often diachronic hemiolas. In some notable cases
Counterpoint • 211
EXAMPLE  9.12  (a)  Symphony no.  2, mm. 14–​31 with rhythmic structure, (b)  ski-​hill graph, and
(c) Cohn space
(a)
(b)
(c)
these diachronic hemiolas have form-​ defining
purposes, a telling example being the pattern
of inter-​variation tempo and meter changes in
Brahms’s Haydn Variations, explained by Epstein
(1995, 80–​5). As a more local phenomenon, such
hemiolic shifts often serve to destabilize an es-
tablished meter for the purpose of transition.
In the Second Symphony, for instance, there are
many such often very localized instances of dia-
chronic hemiola, as in the transition from the first
to the second part of the main theme (Ex. 9.12).
Schachter (1983) provides an extensive and mu-
sically illuminating discussion of this passage.
However he neglects one important fact, which
is that shift to a half-​note metric unit, though it
conflicts with the notated barline, does not con-
flict with, and in fact reinforces, the two-​and
four-​bar hypermetrical units. Therefore, his de-
scription of Brahms “free[ing] the rhythmic
212 • O r gani z e d   T i m e
groupings from the constraint of any metrical
pattern, whether of three beats or of four bars,
so that metre almost disintegrates into mere
pulse” (58), is accurate only at the one-​measure
level. At the two-​and four-​measure levels, pre-
cisely the opposite is true:  Brahms’s procedure
intensifies these metrical layers by maintaining
them over the shift from 𝅗𝅥. to 𝅗𝅥 subdivisions. The
slurring and cello entrance that Schachter points
to as evidence of the perpetuation of the notated
meter in fact reinforce the two-​bar (but not the
one-​bar) level, and therefore are equally consistent
with a new unnotated @ 3 meter. In addition, there
is a second metrical shift in the passage where the
repeated arpeggiation of an A7 chord establishes
a whole-​note metrical unit. This conflicts at an
even deeper level with the notated meter, but is
perfectly aligned to reinforce the larger four-​bar
hypermeter, which further underlines Schachter’s
EXAMPLE 9.13  (a) Brahms, Symphony no. 2, mm. 74–​82, (b) Cohn space
(a)
(b)
main point, which is that this hypermeter re-
mains in force at the timpani roll in measure
32. The passage therefore traverses three metric
states in one of Cohn’s metric spaces, as shown in
Example 9.12(b–​c). (See also §5.3.)
Brahms often uses diachronic hemiola in a
localized way for precisely this purpose. When
it perpetuates deeper hypermetrical levels, such
transitions intensify these deeper metrical
layers in a compelling way. A  very similar in-
stance appears in the Second Symphony in the
transition into the subordinate theme, shown
in Example 9.13. This passage introduces a
6* meter in measure 66 that alternates with
the basic $
3 meter, but is consistent with it at the
one-​, two-​, and four-​measure level. Approaching
the subordinate theme, which begins in measure
82, Brahms utilizes a different diachronic hem-
iola with a series of 𝅗𝅥 chords, making a @3 meter.
This further reinforces the two-​and four-​measure
levels of the rhythmic structure as it disrupts the
one-​measure level. The three meters used are adja-
cent in a Cohn space, as shown in Example 9.13(b).
The counterpoint of rhythmic structures with
conflicting grouping patterns, like the counter­
pointing of displaced meters, leads to an as-
similation of the individual rhythms into a
overriding rhythmic structure. The conflicting
meters introduced in the transition of the Second
Symphony (Ex. 9.13) undergo a process of
Counterpoint • 213
EXAMPLE 9.14  Brahms, Symphony no. 2, development, mm. 236–​49

assimilation through counterpoint, and this pro-
cess constitutes one of most interesting large-​scale
narratives of the movement. The second stage of
the narrative occurs in what Brinkmann (1995,
109) calls “undoubtedly the structural heart of the
development” shown in Example 9.14. Brahms
introduces the * 6 transition motive here, late in a
long development section otherwise dominated
by the motivic material of the main theme. The
passage first recalls the diachronic hemiola from
the transition. Then, in measures 246–​ 9, the
*
6 meter appears in counterpoint with both the $ 3 and
@3 meters in sequence, so that we hear a mixture
of diachronic and synchronic hemiola. The result
is an assimilation of both of the deviant meters
(6*and @ 3 ) to the $3 , with the *
6 meter ironically
acting as an agent on behalf of the one-​measure level
of the $
3 meter when it appears in counterpoint with
the 3@.
The final stage of the metric narrative occurs in
the coda of the movement, which more definitively
brings the deviant meters into counterpoint one
last time. The diachronic conflict between $ 3 and
@
3 reasserts itself in the last part of the develop-
ment, without the mediation of the * 6 motive. The
*6 motive is also absent from the recapitulation,
although the @ 3 again is notably present at the end
of the main theme, the music paralleling that of
Example 9.12 from the exposition. In the coda,
the @3 reappears in measure 485 (Ex. 9.15) in the
first violins, assimilated to the $
3 asserted by the
main theme idea in the bass. Then, at the “sempre
tranquillo,” the *6 idea of the transition makes its
final appearance, over pizzicato bass and bassoon/​
flute chords that maintain the $ 3 meter. This
moment is like a peaceful recollection of the turbu-
lent confrontation of meters in the development,
but it is an important event, because of the absence
of the * 6 motive from the recapitulation. For sat-
isfying closure, the listener must be reminded of
the reconciliation of metric irregularity through
counterpoint that occurred in the development.5

5. The first part of the coda also completes an important rhythmic-​contrapuntal task. As Frisch (1996, 68–​9) notes, the
opening measures of the main theme pose two potential hypermeters in counterpoint. The one associated with the melody
in the bass that introduces the crucial neighbor-​note motive that saturates the movement is overridden by the rhythmic
implications of the melody, whose hypermeter is shifted ahead by one measure. At the beginning of the coda (mm. 477–​92) the
original neighbor-​note motive reappears in the bass, now in a context where its hypermeter matches the overall hypermeter.
(Frisch [1996, 73–​4] interprets the hypermeter differently, not taking into account the surrounding context, which supports
the interpretation of measure 477 as a hypermetric downbeat.)

214 • O r gani z e d   T i m e
EXAMPLE 9.15  Brahms, Symphony no. 2, coda, mm. 485–​500, with annotations showing counterpoints
of meters
Although Brahms built upon Beethoven’s
model in his use of different kinds of rhythmic
displacement and hemiola, he seems to have
adopted a different type of narrative for the
establishing and resolving of rhythmic irreg-
ularity than Beethoven. In the example from
Beethoven’s “Archduke” trio in the previous
section (Exx. 9.3–​4), Beethoven infused the sub-
ordinate theme of this movement with a persist­
ent rhythmic dissonance through displacement.
In the final refrain of the movement, he resolves
this by transforming this dissonant rhythmic po-
lyphony into rhythmic homophony. Brahms, on
the other hand, inclines more towards the par-
adigm of counterpoint as apotheosis—​think of
the finale of Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony—​than
counterpoint as struggle—​as in, say, Beethoven’s
Grosse Fuge. Rather than resolve polyphony with
homophony, Brahms likes to normalize rhythmic
irregularities through counterpoint, as he does in
the Second Symphony. Thus, where Beethoven’s
narrative relies upon the elimination of po-
lyphony, Brahms’s narratives are resolved
through the introduction of polyphony. Distinct
rhythmic structures presented in succession tug
against one another, creating complex rhythmic
structures. But presented in simultaneity, they
must find common ground, ultimately joining
into a shared metrical framework.
Another instance of such a process appears in
the first movement of Brahms’s C minor Piano
Quartet, op. 60. Example 9.16 shows the second
part of the main theme where rhythmic activity
at the eighth-​note level first appears. The quiet
preceding material, introduces the important
𝅘𝅥 𝅘𝅥 𝄽 rhythmic motive, but, as Smith (2005, 19–​
20) points out, in this sparse rhythmic context it
is likely to be heard not as notated but starting
on an upbeat (as 𝅘𝅥 | 𝅘𝅥 𝄽). In fact, it appears in
this form as notated in mm. 28–​30 in the piz-
zicato E♮s, and the two versions of the motive
reappear contrapuntally combined at the end
Counterpoint • 215
EXAMPLE  9.16  (a) Homophonic rhythmic structure in Brahms’s Piano Quartet, op.  60, m.  32,
(b) polyphonic rhythmic structures in the coda, mm. 315–​20
(a)
(b)
of the movement, as shown in Example 9.16(b)
(ibid., 19–​20, 82). Measure 32, then, is when the
motive is fully realized in the notated rhythm,
a 3$rhythm weighted towards beat two. After
combining the two offset forms of the rhythm
in measures 315–​16, Brahms shifts the squeezed
rhythm ahead by a 𝅘𝅥 in the bass in measure 317,
so that the 𝅘𝅥 | 𝅗𝅥 version, now in the piano right
hand, assimilates it rather than vice-​versa. This
completes a process of fully integrating the
motivic rhythm to a regular metric framework
through counterpoint, similar to the processes
discussed in Section 9.2.
An excellent example of Brahms’s counterpoint-​
as-​apotheosis paradigm appears in the finale of
his C minor Trio, op. 101. A number of rhythmic
anomalies are set out in the exposition of the
movement. Perhaps the most striking of these
is the displaced meter discussed at length by
McClelland (2006). It appears first in the opening
theme (Ex. 9.17a), where the melodic parallelisms
and hanging span rule initially imply a meter half
216 • O r gani z e d   T i m e
a measure off the notated one. This meter is force-
fully rejected by the accented notes in measure 4,
which will become the focus of subsequent motivic
fragmentations in the theme.
The subordinate theme of the movement con­
tinues to explore this conflict between notated
and shifted meter, and also introduces another
conflict between the notated * 6 division of the
measure and a $ 3 one. This is again primarily a
horizontal conflict:  the parts are rhythmically
quite homophonic, the only significant exception
being in measures 57 and 59, where the strings’
sforzandi return to $3 , in conflict with the piano’s
reiteration of the 6* melodic idea from the
beginning of the passage. Compounded with the
switch to $3 in measure 54 is a realignment to the
notated meter recalling the metric vacillations of
the main theme. Overall, these rapid switches in
metric sense are jarring and unsettling.
The recapitulation of the movement simply
restates these metric problems rather than re-
solving them. In this respect, Brahms takes a
EXAMPLE 9.17 Metrical irregularity in the main theme of the finale of Brahms’s op. 101 Trio, mm. 1–​8

EXAMPLE 9.18 Metrical irregularity in the subordinate theme of the Trio, mm. 49–​61

page from Beethoven’s playbook by writing a
standard recapitulation that neglects impor-
tant aspects of the material in need of resolu-
tion, saving this for an extensive 66-​measure
coda starting in measure 190. This is an example
of the disjunctive coda, pioneered by Haydn
and cultivated by Beethoven, as discussed in
Section 11.4. There is a complete recapitulation
preceding it, but the recapitulation lacks tonal-​
metrical closure, so the coda provides a necessary

Counterpoint • 217
EXAMPLE 9.19 Rhythmic counterpoint at the beginning of Brahms’s coda, mm. 190–​200

tonal resolution. Like Beethoven in many of his
middle-​period pieces (see §7.5), Brahms uses ca-
dential elision and evasion in the subordinate
theme, repeated in the recapitulation.6
As a formal entity, Brahms’s coda may be un-
derstood as a second abbreviated, major mode,
recapitulation. It unites main theme and subor-
dinate theme material into a single long theme
and repurposes subordinate theme material from
the development section in an extended caden-
tial progression (measures 212–​28). Among the
functions of this coda, which include the major-​
mode catharsis conventional for the finale of
a minor-​key work, perhaps most critical is the
peroration and completion of the narrative of
metric conflicts. The new version of the main
theme starting in measure 190 (Ex. 9.19) is as-
tonishing in its shift of expressive character. It
is also a richly layered rhythmic construction.
The strings play in the shifted * 6 of the original
theme, though now in a more flowing rhythm,
while the piano plays two layers of $ 3 offset
by an eighth note. The * 6 of the strings readily
assimilates the piano’s $ 3 s, aided by the fact
that the $ 3 patterns articulate both beats of the
*
6 meter, one in the left hand and one in the right
hand. Since the bass pulls extra weight in setting
the rhythmic structure, the left hand helps to
reinforce the *6 meter starting on the notated
second beat. The new layers in the piano there-
fore have the added effect of helping to erase the
shift to the notated meter that contributed to the
metric irregularity of the original main theme. In
other words, Brahms, impressively, uses coun-
terpoint here not only to assimilate one aber-
rant meter (the $ 3 meter) but also to erase the

6. The first SK PAC of the exposition occurs in measure 74, which is elided with a repeat of the preceding four-​measure
phrase. This phrase is extended by two measures through a deceptive cadence in measure 78 and is hypermetrically elided
again in measure 80, where a four-​measure retransition opens up into the development starting halfway through measure 84.
The ending of the recapitulation in measures 180–​9 is essentially the same as measures 74–​83.

218 • O r gani z e d   T i m e
EXAMPLE 9.20 Recollection and reconciliation of deviant meters in the closing material of the third
part of the op. 101 finale, mm. 240–​50

irregularities at the level of the measure that give 9.3 COUNTERPOINT

the theme much of its nervous character.7
Brahms recalls the rhythmic antagonists in
a protracted closing section after the structural
cadence of the coda in measure 228. These dra-
matic progressions in measures 240–​2 and 243–​
5, shown in Example 9.20, bring back the offset
3$ meters from measure 190–​ 4, but without
the corrective counterpoint of the 6*theme. The
theme returns immediately thereafter, now with
a counterpoint in the piano that features the
same eighth-​note syncopation as the deviant
3$material, but now the layers all have the same
𝅘𝅥 . periodicity as the 6* meter.
OF TONAL STRUCTURES
The music in Example 9.21(a) would probably
not be the first thing to come to mind under
the heading of contrapuntal music. The theme
presents what is largely a continuous stream
of triplet sixteenths. The rare instances where
more than one note is played at the same time
are limited to single bass notes added to the tex-
ture where there is no rest in the right hand.
If this suggests that this music is not contra-
puntal, though, that would be a rather mistaken
impression.

7. McClelland (2006, 35) points out that “all musical factors now point towards second beats as the notated downbeats”
in this passage, interpreting this as an intensification of metric dissonance because it enhances the conflict with the notated
meter. However, unless one places special phenomenal significance to the manner of notation, the removal of any factors
supporting the notated meter in fact eliminates the metric conflicts of the theme. It now has a clear and regular rhythmic
structure consistent with the meter, it just is not exactly the meter implied by the notation.

Counterpoint • 219
EXAMPLE  9.21  (a) C.P.E. Bach, Keyboard Sonata, Wq. 52/​
verticalization showing the implicit polyphony
(a)
Even in the seventeenth and eighteenth
centuries, musicians explicitly understood that
what may appear on the musical surface to be a
single voice could articulate multiple underlying
contrapuntal lines, a phenomenon variously re-
ferred to as “compound melody” or “implicit po-
lyphony.” The fact that we can extract the bass
voice of Example 9.21(b) as the harmonic support
of the passage, for instance, is relatively unprob-
lematic. Similarly, a closer look shows at least
two upper lines in the first four measures, a main
melody and a distinct inner voice that allows for
resolution of chordal sevenths. The upper voices
of the sequence in measures 5–​10 are perhaps
not quite so clear. Some registers are abandoned
for entire measures, but the preparation and res-
olution of sevenths in each chord necessitate at
least two inner lines, which are registrally dis-
tinct from the high parts of the arpeggios in
every other measure. It is also not immediately
obvious how all of these voices might connect to
the ones in the first four measures.
220 • O r gani z e d   T i m e
4, mm. 1–​
12, (b)  a reduction and
The process illustrated in Example 9.21(b) is
verticalization, the inference of multiple inde-
pendent simultaneous strands from something
presented serially on the surface of the music.
Narrated in the opposite direction—​from voice-​
leading model to musical surface—​ the same
process may be referred to as horizontalization,
which is the term that Schenker uses
(Horizontalierung). In Chapter  2, we noted that
the analysis of tonal structure required an-
other kind of horizontalization, for which I used
Schenker’s term “unfolding.” The generalization
of horizontalization, from the familiar musical
situation depicted in Example 9.21 to the idea of
middleground unfolding, was a critical spark in
the development of Schenker’s late theory (see
Yust 2015c). It also significantly complexifies the
notion of level or hierarchy in tonal structure.
The slurs in Example  9.21(b) show some of
the structural implications of the individual
voices in the reduction of Bach’s theme. The
structure of the bass voice and the main melodic
voice do not line up, though. The main melodic
note in measure 1 (A) comes late in the measure,
and the melody has a different note on the
downbeat where the strongest bass note occurs.
Something similar happens in measure 2.  In
measure 5, the logical starting point of a linear
progression in the bass comes where the melodic
voice is momentarily absent. The starting point
for the melodic linear progression (B) comes two
chords later. These non-​aligned structures pro-
vide contrapuntal interest, showing that even
in this seemingly almost monophonic texture,
contrapuntal thinking is essential to Bach’s har-
monic language.
One is compelled to ask the same question
here that arises in the case of rhythmic counter-
point: given conflicting structures in individual
parts, how can they be reconciled into a single
structure in the combination? The necessity of
such a reconciliation is apparent if we wish to
give a more complete structural description of
the music at the more foreground level. For in-
stance, in measure 2 there is a fifth progression
from G♯ to C♯ that was discarded in the reduction
necessary to verticalize the compound line. That
fifth progression cannot belong to any specific
voice of the verticalized version, though, be-
cause the G♯ belongs to the upper voice while the
C♯ belongs to the inner voice. To include these
more local progressions, the underlying coun-
terpoint must be reconciled in a single structure.
In other words, tonal structure consists of two
very different kinds of hierarchical relationship.
The simple hierarchies represented by maximal
outerplanar graphs only function within a cer-
tain limited range where individual voices retain
their integrity. This kind of structure, consisting
largely, as it does, of familiar types of melodic
figuration like passing and neighbor motion
and arpeggiation, may be referred to as diminu-
tion. When Schenker talks about levels, however,
he is referring more specifically to the hierar-
chical relationships between voices existing at
different levels, which are related by processes of
horizontalization.
Interestingly, contrapuntal tonal structures
can be reconciled by the same basic method that
we used for counterpoints of metric structures
above. A  principal voice establishes the basis
of the combined structure. The other voice or
voices are then added according to their tem-
poral placement relative to the principal voice.
Example 9.22(a) shows the individual struc-
ture of the two outer voices in the Bach passage.
The lower voice then acts as the basis of the
EXAMPLE  9.22  Analysis of the main theme of
Bach, Wq. 52/​4 (Ex. 9.21), showing (a) individual
outer voices and (b) contrapuntally combined into
a single tonal structure
(a)
(b)
combined structure, and the upper-​voice notes
are added in their temporally proper locations
and connected by double lines to the harmon-
ically associated bass note. This is the notation
for unfolding introduced in Chapter  2. In this
example, bass notes intervene between most of
the upper-​voice notes, so that the only upper-​
voice connection
‸ ‸ that can be maintained is the
initial 3–​2 adjacency. However, the structures
of the individual voices are mostly parallel (the
only exception being that the upper voice lacks
an event associated with the bass’s F♯ in m.  5),
so in the combined structure of 9.22(b), the
upper voice notes may be understood to inherit
the relationships between the harmonically as-
sociated bass notes. The combined structure is
completed by the dashed lines, which show de-
rived adjacencies between notes that belong
to different voices and not in the same har-
mony, then the addition of further diminutions.
In Example  9.22(b), a bass passing note and
neighbor note are added as diminutions after
the contrapuntal combination.
Prioritizing of the bass in contrapuntally
combined tonal structures is a general rule, just
as it is in rhythmic counterpoints. This precept
deviates from Schenker’s tendency to favor me-
lodic structure, but it is otherwise consistent with
Counterpoint • 221
EXAMPLE 9.23  (a) J.S. Bach, Cello Suite in C minor (BWV 1011), Gigue, (b) verticalization
(a)
(b)
ordinary musical intuition, especially the essen-
tial role of the bass in defining points of cadential
resolution (see the analyses of Ch. 2, especially
§2.5). It also logically reflects the bass’s special
role as the harmonic foundation for the entire
texture and the source of harmonic stability.
In the Gigue from J.S. Bach’s C minor Cello
Suite (Ex. 9.23), the implicit polyphony is
222 • O r gani z e d   T i m e
not quite as obvious as in the style brisé tex-
ture of Example 9.21, but nonetheless, even
a casual examination reveals that the melodic
outlining of harmonies is essential, as in the
basic tonality-​establishing i–​iv–​V progression
of the first eight bars, outlined in a complete
unbroken cycle of descending thirds. Hence,
we readily understand the E♭ of measure 1,
for instance, as belonging to a tonic chord in C
minor. Nonetheless, the temporal implications
of the leisurely unfolding of that harmony—​
especially the delay of its root—​should not be
hastily discounted. When the first part repeats,
the manner of presentation allows this E♭ to
adopt two senses: the immediate tonal context
of E♭ major (from the ending of the reprise)
gives the E♭ a momentary tonic quality, even
as the listener’s awareness of this as a repeat
of the opening leaves little doubt that it ulti-
‸
mately must be understood as 3 of C minor.8
We find such dual functions of individual
notes in different temporal contexts on multiple
levels in the piece. While the phenomenon is, in
many such manifestations, perfectly ordinary
in this music, it is notably essential to this one.
A simple, very local, example, may be detected in
the verticalization of measures 8–​15. The cycle
of descending thirds continues from where it left
off at the previous half cadence, but here Bach
arranges it into a typical ascending sequence, a
5–​6 pattern over a stepwise rising bass. The way
Bach unfolds the pattern requires individual
notes, the bass notes on the last eighth of each
odd measure, to reflect two harmonic affiliations,
with the 35 and with the 36 chord. Such very local
dual functions do not seem very consequential,
as a necessary and easily assimilated adjustment
to the necessities of the instrumental texture.
We might say this also of the E♭ at the climax of
the first reprise, in measure 15. The preceding
ascending pattern marks this strongly as an ar-
rival at the root of a tonic chord of E♭ major when
it occurs. The subsequent descent, however,
outlines a IV of E♭ major. The phenomenologi-
cally prior (prospective) function of the E♭ is, in
this instance, the higher-​level one. Its retrospec-
tive role in the outlining of A♭ major is more local
and ephemeral.
At deeper levels, dual functions may have
farther-​ reaching implications. The same cli-
mactic E♭ , for instance, has yet another function
at an even higher level of tonal structure. As
Example 9.24(b) shows, the first reprise consists
of two basic tonal processes, both of which
are unfoldings of the outer-​voice structure of
9.24(a). The first part is a progression from the
initial bass C to the initial upper-​voice E♭ , and
the second part reaches back down to the bass,
arriving at the next bass note, E♭ , at the end of
the reprise. The function of the high E♭ with
8. Lewin (1986) discusses the potential multiple identities of musical events in different temporal frames in great detail.
respect to the end of the reprise corresponds to
its local tonal function, the tonic of E♭ . However,
its role in the unfolding from C is of larger signif-
icance for the whole piece, because it is in this ca-
pacity that it helps articulate a fundamental line
in the home key of C minor. This dual function is
basic to the piece. Measure 15 is a very delayed
realization of the home register of the funda-
mental line, so far delayed that by the time we ac-
tually arrive there, the tonal context has moved
on to the relative major, the key that defines the
more local goal of the first reprise. One might
object that the essential function of initiating
the fundamental line is totally imaginary:  the
E♭ never appears literally‸in this register and in
the C minor context, as 3, and therefore it can
only be imagined in measures 1–​3, as an upper
resonance of the E♭ an octave below, perhaps.
Ultimately, such a portrayal, with a seemingly
arbitrarily fabricated imaginary note as the es-
sential structural event, would be altogether
too flimsy, in this case as in others like it. That
is not the explanation offered in Example 9.24,
though; it, like many of the examples given in
Chapter  2, relies upon a firmer reification of
the intervals of structural motion. This reifi-
cation of intervals is a natural consequence of
the network model and essential to the concept
of unfolding. According to this concept, the in-
terval from the low C to the high E♭ , as a struc-
tural interval in the network, may function as
a harmonic, between-​voice, interval. In other
words, as the goal of a motion from the essential
bass note C, the E♭ of measure 15 does represent
the third of a C minor tonic at the level of the
large-​scale tonal progress of the piece. It is not
an imaginary event, but its harmonic function
is expressed by a motion occupying a large tem-
poral portion of the piece, rather than by a literal
chord at a specific moment.
A similar point may be made about the conclu-
sion of the fundamental line. The second reprise
ends with a C4–​C3 descent paralleling the E♭ 4–​E♭ 3
descent of the first reprise, which similarly acts
as an unfolding in the background structure of
Example 9.24. The local role of C4 as the fifth in
an unfolding of F minor‸ does not prevent it from
acting as the final 1, belonging harmonically
with the final C minor tonic of the piece.
The tonal structure of a movement like
this may be best understood by breaking it
down into multiple stages of unfolding and
Counterpoint • 223
EXAMPLE  9.24  A  generative derivation of the tonal structure, starting from (a)  a  basic structure,
which is (b) unfolded between outer voices and expanded, (c) unfolded again with respect to the inner
voice, and (d) further expanded
(a)
(b)
(c)
(d)
diminution, organized in a generative fashion.
This is, in essence, Schenker’s method of voice-​
leading levels. Example 9.24 shows two stages
of unfolding, beginning with a basic struc-
ture, 9.24(a), unfolded in 9.24(b) to create
the major sections of the piece. The tonal and
formal structures are in agreement at this
‸ level.
Example 9.24(b) also adds a subsidiary 4 in the
upper voice, which will become the melodic
climax of the second reprise. The next example,
9.24(c), performs another unfolding, this time
between an inner voice and the already unfolded
outer voices. Many of these are then filled in as
linear progressions or arpeggiations in 9.24(d).
The climax of the second reprise is different
than that of the first reprise in two impor-
tant ways. In the first reprise, the climax (m.
224 • O r gani z e d   T i m e
15)  marks the principle formal and tonal
divisions. The melodic climax of the second
reprise (the high F in m.  57)  is considerably
more deeply embedded in the tonal structure,
making it much more tense. In addition, there
is a small tonal-​formal disjunction here because
the climax is more deeply embedded tonally than
it is formally, as the beginning of the phrase
‸ in
which the large-​scale lower-​neighbor 7 occurs.
The disjunction affects just this moment and
contributes to its restiveness.
As with the syncopations illustrated in the
previous chapter, the generative approach is
illuminating, but it is, one must stress, only a
mental heuristic. There is no reason to think that
someone like Bach used a generative process to
compose. While bits and pieces of generative
thinking may have figured in Bach’s composi-
tional method, it would be wildly implausible
to imagine the kind of thorough-​going process
represented in Example 9.24. Nor is it possible
to conceive of listening as a generative process,
since a listener is necessarily presented with
all levels of structure at once. The purpose of
the generative decomposition is conceptual, to
show how certain tonal relationships are har-
monic at one level and linear at another, and
how certain linear relationships may be passed
down via unfoldings to other harmonically re-
lated events. It is important to recognize, then,
that the objects of each generative level refer
to literal events in the music. They are only ab-
stract in that temporally distinct events may be
combined harmonically: such chords do not cor-
respond to motions occupying a finite temporal
span rather than events at a specific moment.
9.4  FORMAL COUNTERPOINT
Given the idea of form, laid out in Chapter  3,
as a distinct structural modality, and the close
analogy between contrapuntal structure in
rhythmic and tonal modalities, the question
naturally arises whether a similar kind of con-
trapuntal structure exists within form. At a first
pass the answer appears to be “no.” Although
twentieth-​century composers like Elliott Carter
have imagined music with multiple simultaneous
formal structures, and realized this idea in some-
times magnificent and ingenious ways,9 similar
efforts do not seem to have been undertaken by
tonal composers, suggesting that it may simply
be an impossibility. Actually, this line of thinking
turns out to be too simplistic. The tools developed
for thinking about counterpoint in the rhythmic
and tonal cases above compel us to rethink
what counterpoint in form might mean, and in
so doing, we will discover that a kind of formal
counterpoint is in fact ubiquitous in tonal music.
In both the rhythmic and tonal domains, coun-
terpoint means something more than just the
existence of two simultaneous and independent
structures. Essential also is how the two sepa-
rate structures combine to make a single overall
structure. When the individual structures align,
the total structure therefore has the same shape
as the structure of the parts:  this is the situa-
tion of homophony, a contrapuntal consonance.
9. See Carter 1977, 320–​2, 330, Schiff 1998, 38–​9, 84–​6, 298–​9, 306–​7. Another example might be Ligeti’s Sixth Etude
(Taylor 1997).
Non-​ aligned structures lead to contrapuntal
dissonances, such as the metric dissonances il-
lustrated in the previous chapter. Rhythmic and
tonal polyphony, non-​aligned structures in coun-
terpoint, have a similar effect, shown by the use
of double-​lined and dashed edges in the MOPs
of the combined structures. Polyphony opens up
new temporal spaces in the combined structures
that themselves may be filled with further elab-
oration. This is most apparent in the tonal case,
where such polyphony may happen at a very
high level. In the analysis of the Gigue from
Bach’s C minor Cello Suite above (Ex. 9.24), for
instance, the majority of the tonal content exists
within large unfoldings between the essential
bass notes and the upper voice notes appearing
at the melodic climaxes in the middle of each
part. In the typical models for the tonal struc-
ture of sonata form given in Section 2.5, the
subordinate theme group ‸ of the exposition is
created by splitting the 2 of the fundamental line
from its harmonic support, V. The latter is given
added emphasis as the goal of the subordinate-​
theme cadence, which is often expanded to great
proportions. The ‸temporal space opened up by
the separation of 2 from V is the space in which
the tonal content of the subordinate theme lives.
We can conceptualize counterpoint in a
bottom-​ up fashion as a reconciliation of con-
flicting parts, or in top-​down, generative, fashion.
Example 9.25 illustrates the distinction with
simple rhythmic (a) and tonal (b) examples. The
rhythmic example is from the coda of Brahms’s
C minor Piano Quartet, discussed in Section
9.2 (see Ex. 9.16). Here, we may understand the
overall rhythmic structure arising in a bottom-​
up fashion from the combination and reconcilia-
tion of the individual rhythmic structures of the
two parts. We may also derive it top-​down as the
splitting of a homophonic rhythm. The tonal ex-
ample in 9.25(b) is a typical split dominant, which
might represent a local cadential progression.
Similarly in this case, we can proceed bottom-​up,
reconciling two lines in counterpoint with one an-
other by taking the basic‸structure of the bass and
adding the upper-​voice 2 as an unfolding, or we
can proceed top-​down, generating the unfolding
from a hypothetical homophonic background.
By analogy with the rhythmic and tonal
cases, we now have all the conceptual tools
needed to understand what it might mean for
Counterpoint • 225
a formal structure to be polyphonic. To put it EXAMPLE  9.25  Bottom-​up and top-​down
simply, a polyphonic formal structure is one derivations of contrapuntal (a)  rhythmic and
that has splits. Such formal splits characterize (b)  tonal structures. The rhythmic structure is
a phenomenon familiar to even the most ca- from the analysis of Ex. 9.16. The tonal structure
sual student of classical music, the delayed re- is a typical split dominant.
turn. Let us compare two types of small form (a)
that differ in the presence of a delayed re-
turn:  first the parallel binary, which, like the
exposition–​ recapitulation form, presents a
situation of formal homophony. Example 9.26
is a simple minuet from the Anna Magdalena
Bach Notebook, probably written by J.S. Bach.
The main division at the double bar is defined
in three ways:  by caesura, by fragmentation
and motion, and by repetition. Further frag-
mentation divides the parts internally, and the (b)
only other use of repetition is in the sequences.
This is formal homophony:  all of the criteria
work together to define a single overall formal
structure. If one were to devise separate formal
structures, one based on parallelism (repeti-
tion) and one on fragmentation and caesura,
they would look the same.
Now consider the simple rounded binary
form in Example 9.27, the second minuet from
Haydn’s op.  1/​4 String Quartet. The parsing
of the form by means of contrast and caesura,

EXAMPLE 9.26  A small parallel binary: Minuet BWV Anh. 121, and formal structure

226 • O r gani z e d   T i m e
EXAMPLE 9.27  (a) Haydn, String Quartet op. 1/​4, Minuet II, (b) rounded binary as a polyphonic form
(a)
(b)
which divides it into its two basic parts,
prevents the recognition of an obvious repeti-
tion, the recapitulation. The rule of repetition
cannot be directly applied, because the recapit-
ulation is isolated from the A  part by the in-
tervention of the caesura, which takes priority
as a formal boundary. But the recapitulation
surely creates a formal boundary just as an or-
dinary repetition does. To understand why this
is, we may view the recapitulation as a semi-​
independent formal process occurring in coun-
terpoint with the principal process that defines
the binary form. Because the two structural
events are out-​of-​sync—​the caesura happens
in a distinct location from the repetition—​
they constitute a formal polyphony, which may
be reconciled in the same way that rhythmic or
tonal polyphony is reconciled. We assign the
caesura-​based structure to the background,
and then attach the point of repetition by a
double-​lined edge to the moment of caesura.
The double-​lined edge signifies a kind of formal
unfolding:  the moment of repetition is split
from the beginning of the second part. The
split opens up a new type of formal space, a
contrasting middle. Haydn uses an especially
simple and elemental type of contrasting
middle in this minuet, an extended dominant
pedal. The dominant pedal merely delays,
biding the time before the recapitulation
begins. Analogously, other types of split formal
spaces, especially development sections, have
Counterpoint • 227
EXAMPLE 9.28  (a) The basic structure of standard sonata form, (b) a sonata form that recalls the
main theme in the closing section has a doubly split structure
(a)
(b)
a similar sort of provisional character. The ex-
pansion of and inventive deployment of these
spaces is one of the hallmarks of the century of
music-​making that lies ahead of these humble
essays of the youthful Haydn.
In the small binary forms of the seventeenth
and early eighteenth centuries—​in J.S. Bach’s
suite movements, for instance—​the split form
was clearly an option but not a requirement.
This is also true of the binary movements
of early eighteenth-​ century sonatas, where
movements may more often expand beyond the
proportions of simple dances. In Haydn’s early
works, split form is more clearly the norm,
though not exclusively so (see Webster 1980,
1986, and §11.3). In his later works, however,
the split structure of what we now know as
standard sonata form, as shown in Example
9.28(a), clearly becomes the rule, as it does for
many other composers around the same time.
Towards the end of the century, we begin to
see examples of the doubly split form shown
in Example  9.28b, where the main theme is
brought back as the closing section in the expo-
sition and recapitulation (what Hepokoski and
Darcy [2006, 184–​5] refer to as the “P-​based
C”). The operating principle here is a precise
analog to the overall sonata form: the return of
the main theme occurs within a larger section,
the subordinate theme plus closing material,
that is articulated by other means, contrast
and caesura. It therefore takes on a polyphonic
character, the principle of repetition being
temporally split from the formal division by
caesura.
Like the split form itself, the doubly split
form first serves, historically, as an occasional
option initially, but at a certain point begins
to acquire normative status as pieces gain
in size and monumentality. It can be found
in early works of Mozart’s, such as the first
movements of his Symphony no.  21, K.  134,
and String Quartet no. 13, K. 173. It also occurs
228 • O r gani z e d   T i m e
sporadically in Haydn’s works of the 1780s, such
as the String Quartet examples below, and the
first movement of Symphony no.  84. Mozart
begins to use the form frequently in the later
1780s, such as in the first movements of the
last two of the quartets dedicated to Haydn,
K. 464 and K. 465 (1785), and such prominent
examples as the first movement of the “Prague”
Symphony, K.  504 (discussed in §8.2), and the
G minor Symphony, K. 550 (discussed in §7.2),
as well as the finale of the “Prague,” and first
movements of the “Kegelstatt” Clarinet Trio (K.
498), G minor String Quintet (K. 516), and E♭
major Quintet (K. 614).
One possibly influential earlier example is
the first movement of Haydn’s String Quartet
in G major, op.  33/​5 (1781). The movement
begins with a peculiarly succinct and tight-​knit
eight-​measure phrase, whose non-​elided, tonic-​
key cadence seems to come much too soon
(Ex. 9.29a). Haydn extends the main theme by
adding a B section, or contrasting middle (mm.
11–​ 24, not shown) and repeating the eight-​
measure theme (mm. 25–​32), so that the entire
main theme is a small rounded binary form.
There is an unmistakable medial caesura in
measure 48 followed by contrasting material as
shown in Ex. 9.29b. The cadence in measure 65,
however, is evaded by a repeat of the distinctive
eight-​measure theme, the A  part of the main
theme, which Haydn then expands to complete
the exposition. The entire form thus exhibits
the formal polyphony of the split form at three
different levels: the rounded binary form of the
main theme, the repeat of the main theme as
closing material in the exposition and recapit-
ulation, and the sonata form itself. As Rosen
(1997, 78)  points out, the first two measures
of the piece, preceding the main theme proper,
state the cadential idea of the theme, measures
9–​10. This may be understood as a witty refer-
ence to the dual function of the eight-​measure
sentence in measures 3–​9, as a beginning and
EXAMPLE  9.29  (a) Haydn, String Quartet, op.  33/​5, i, main theme, mm. 1–​10, (b)  the end of the
transition through the end of the exposition, mm. 45–​89, and (c) formal structure of the exposition
(a)

(b)

(c)
EXAMPLE 9.30  (a) Haydn, String Quartet, op. 50/​2, i, main theme, mm. 1–​9, (b) the end of the
subordinate theme, mm. 55–​93
(a)

(b)

ending on multiple levels. By beginning with
the cadential idea, it also, like the eight-​measure
theme it belongs to, functions as both a begin-
ning and an ending.10
The first movement of Haydn’s op. 50/​2 has a
similar triply split formal structure. Like op. 33/​
5, it begins with an eccentric gesture of too-​early
closure, a brief theme ending with an unelided
home key PAC in measure 9 (Ex. 9.30a). Also like
op. 33/​5, this theme is ultimately incorporated
into a longer rounded binary main theme group
(with contrasting middle in mm. 10–​ 20 and
repeat of A  in mm. 21–​29). It also has a clear
formal break at the beginning of the subordi-
nate theme, which is a distinctive singing theme
beginning in measure 43.11 The cadence of this
theme is twice evaded in measure 58 and 63; see
Example 9.30b). After the second evasion, Haydn
abandons the next cadential process in a long
and astounding purple patch in measures 65–​76

10. Rosen (1988, 312–​14) also discusses how the idea returns at the end of the piece. He interprets mm. 272–​305 as a
coda, but they may also be understood as part of a lengthy expansion of the main-​theme sentence in its capacity as closing
material of the recapitulation, starting in m. 259. For more on codas, see Section 11.4.
11. Sutcliffe (1992, 77) observes that this is unusual for the op. 50 set, which unlike Haydn’s contemporaneous
symphonies, tends to forswear the second theme in favor of “monothematic” or continuous expositions. (On the basic
distinction between these three exposition types, see §3.3.)

230 • O r gani z e d   T i m e
EXAMPLE 9.31  Formal structure of the exposition of Brahms Symphony no. 2, i
which tonicizes the Neapolitan and ultimately
leads to a half cadence in measure 77 rather than
a PAC. What counts formally speaking as the
closing section, then, occurs without the com-
pletion of any satisfactory tonic-​key cadence in
measure 85. It provides that cadence in an in-
geniously humorous return to the main theme
material: the strangely modular theme of meas-
ures 1–​9 now comes back, transposed to the
dominant, and expanded to give the appropriate
cadential emphasis, to conclude the exposition.
The result is a brilliant spin on the standard
trope of cadential deferral at the end of the ex-
position (see §7.4). In comparison to op.  33/​5,
it exemplifies a point made by Sutcliffe (1992,
49): what might be better described as “comedy”
in the op.  33 set develops into more sophisti-
cated musical wit in op. 50.
The doubly split form, after figuring prom-
inently in Mozart’s late works, becomes even
more common in the early works of Beethoven,
including, notably, the first movement of his
First Symphony (op.  21), which, as Schachter
(1991) has shown, is modeled after Mozart’s
“Jupiter” (K. 551). He also uses it in the first
movement of the Second Symphony (op.  36).12
The parallel between the evolution of sonata
form—​ that is, the gradual solidification of
the large-​ scale split form and abandonment
of simple (homophonic) binary and other
alternatives—​and the subsequent standardiza-
tion of the split form as a prominent option for
shaping the exposition, is suggestive. In fact, a
similar historical trajectory can be assigned to
the use of the split form (i.e., rounded binary)
12. Additional examples: op. 1/​2, i; op. 1/​3, i; op. 2/​1, iv; op. 18/​1, i; 18/​4, i; 18/​6, i.
13. Some examples: Beethoven, Piano Trio, op. 1/​2; Schumann, Piano Quartet, op. 47 (discussed in §11.5); Brahms, Piano
Quartet, op. 25, String Sextet no. 2, op. 36, Cello Sonata no. 1, op. 38.
within the main theme of sonata forms, which
in the examples from Haydn’s string quartets
just considered are unusual for their time, but
become increasingly common in the nineteenth
century.13 Later nineteenth-​century composers
find other novel ways of embedding split forms
within sonata forms, such as in large subordi-
nate theme groups. Brahms includes a formal
split, for instance, in the long subordinate theme
group of his Second Symphony (discussed in
§9.2), as diagrammed in Example 9.31.
The consistency of this trend reflects the value
of formal polyphony for the creation of more in-
tricate formal shapes. Basic formal principles
such as caesura and repetition alone are limited
in the depth of formal structure they can effec-
tively create. As movements of instrumental
works progressively expanded in scope and com-
plexity throughout the eighteenth and nine-
teenth centuries, split forms were an increasing
essential tool for composing grand and richly
contoured formal designs. Formal splits, as we
have seen, open up a distinct type of formal space,
an interior space, a kind of temporally exploded
breath that separates two formal pillars. Others,
such as Schmalfeldt (2004), have noted that in-
terest in interior spaces is a prominent aspect of
nineteenth-​century thought that is reflected in
musical innovations of the period. The growing
interest in and exploration of polyphonic form
and the special type of interior formal state made
possible by them may be a veiled manifestation
of this larger intellectual trend, analogous to the
kinds of interior tonal spaces that we also asso-
ciate with that century’s music.
Counterpoint • 231
 10

Harmony Simplified

10.1  HARMONIC SYNTAX
AND STRUCTURE
Approaches to tonal harmony typically fall
into one of two categories, syntactical explana­
tions that focus primarily on chord-​ to-​
chord
succession, and structural explanations that,
following Schenker, focus on large-​scale process,
counterpoint, and linear continuity. Schenker
famously ridiculed theories based on chord
succession in his essay “Rameau or Beethoven?”
([1930] 1997, 1–​9) and elsewhere (e.g., [1910]
1987). However, as Tymoczko (2011, 226–​67)
has pointed out, a theory of chord succession
can easily produce definite results in the form of
statistical regularity,1 whereas neither Schenker
nor later advocates of his anti-​R amellian stance
have shown how structural theories can repro­
duce this result, much less produce the much
stronger results that one would reasonably ex­
pect of its much more powerful theoretical ap­
paratus. There are surprisingly few attempts,
among them Salzer and Schachter 1969 and
Westergaard 1975, to explicitly derive har­
monic successions from contrapuntal principles
without explicit recourse to root progressions,
and none of these approaches achieve anything
like the quantifiable results obtainable from
chord successions.2 Of course, lack of a result
does not prove Tymoczko’s null hypothesis. And
while we should demand stronger results from a
structural theory, we might expect to find these
in other domains, such as melodic patterns,
higher-​order grammar, or music perception.3

1 Sophisticated statistical analyses of chord succession using hidden Markov models have been produced by Quinn 2010,
White 2013 and 2015, and Raphael and Stoddard 2004.
2 See also the discussion in footnote 24 of Agmon 1995 (205).
3 A suggestive result in the domain of perception, specifically of tonal distance, appears in Yust 2012. Temperley (2011)
discusses possible empirical hypotheses that could be derived from Schenkerian theory.

232 • 
EXAMPLE  10.1 (a, c) Ordinary chord
successions and (b, d) similar ones that are
virtually non-​existent in the common-​practice
repertoire
(a)
(b)
(c)
(d)
Consider the chord successions in Example
10.1(a–​d). The progressions in (a) and (c) are so
utterly ordinary that examples of them could be
enumerated virtually without end, whereas one
would be hard pressed to find a single instance
of progressions like (b) and (d) anywhere in the
common-​practice repertoire. Yet (b) presents the
same chord succession as (a) in the reverse order,
while the root progressions in (d) is of the same
type and direction as in (c), only arranged differ­
ently, with the descending-​fifth progression first
followed by the descending-​thirds progressions
rather than vice versa. Traditionally we would
say that (b)  places chords in functionally
backwards, “retrograde,” order, while (d) violates
an injunction against the iii chord. Quinn and
Mavromatis (2011) show that the preference
for “prograde” over retrograde order evolved
from the seventeenth to the eighteenth cen­
tury. Theorists have frequently noted these and
other chord-​ succession rules as fundamental
components of common-​practice tonal syntax,
but explanations of why progressions like
Examples 10.1(a) and (c) should be preferred to
ones like Examples 10.1(b) and (d) are surpris­
ingly hard to find.4
We might hope that the explanation lies in
the voice leading, but it is not immediately ob­
vious how. Progressions 10.1(a) and (c)  have
exactly the same potential voice-​ leading ef­
ficiency as 10.1(b) and (d)  respectively. The
difference in (a)  and (b)  is solely one of direc­
tion, but triadic voice leading for stronger de­
scending melodic motions is in fact smoother
for retrograde progressions like (b). Note how, in
Example  10.1(a), the descending progressions
from I to ii6 and ii6 to V require leaps in the upper
voices, whereas the upper voices in (b) are uni­
formly stepwise descending. In Example 10.1(c)
and (d)  the voice leadings are equivalent in
smoothness and direction, because the root
motions are exactly the same, differing only in
their order of arrangement.
Schenker ([1935] 1979, 14–​ 15) offers one
possible explanation for the directional dif­
ferentiation between prograde and retrograde
motions:  in a descending fifth progression like
V–​I the first chord has two notes that are step­
wise related to the root ‸ ‸of ‸second
‸ chord, flanking
it above and below (2–​1, 7–​1). The same can be
said for motions by ascending second, but not de­
scending second (or any sort of motion by third).
I will refer to this as convergent voice leading, and
the conjecture that strong progressions are pre­
cisely those that create the possibility of conver­
gent voice leading as the theory of convergence.5
The theory of convergence helps to explain the
special status of V–​I relative to other possible
diatonic descending-​ fifths motions, because ‸ ‸
its otherwise weaker ascending motion (7–​1)

4 It is important to note that this preference does not exist in other types of tonal music such as rock music (Temperley
and de Clercq 2013). The explanation below is consistent with this fact, because it relies upon the existence of highly layered
tonal hierarchy, which can be identified in the repertoire in question, but does not exist in most popular music, which is
typically based on relatively short tonal modules. There may be a similar explanation for the absence of these harmonic rules
prior to the seventeenth century.
5 Although the basic observation underlying this explanation comes from Schenker, it diverges from him in some
significant ways. First, he calls this an “additional reason for the V–​I,” implying that this explanation is ancillary to one
based on the acoustical status of the fifth. The acoustical explanation is much weaker though: it is not obvious how it
distinguishes the descending fifth motion from ascending, and it gives no insight into why dominant chords must be major
while tonics may be minor, or why progressions by ascending second may substitute for ones by descending fifth. (And yet,
an element of acoustics does still lurk in the theory of convergence, since it depends upon distinguishing chordal roots.)
Also, while Schenker rejects the expansion of the V–​I at the deeper level ([1935] 1979, 31) his reasoning for this rejection is
not very clear (ibid., 36). He also allows it at later levels, which dilutes the explanatory power of the V–​I relation altogether.
See the next note.

Harmony Simplified • 233
is strengthened by the fact that it is a semitone
rather than a whole tone—​that is, a true leading
tone. According to this explanation, the weak­
ness of Example 10.1(b) is that the V–​ii6 progres­
sion induces
‸ ‸ ‸ a stepwise descent away from the
tonic: (1)–​7–​6–​  . . . . 
Such voice-​leading-​based explanations require
a certain degree of abstraction, though. An overly
literal reading of Schenker’s explanation of the
V–​I progression, for example, should imply that
the Example  10.1(a) is actually no better than
Example  10.1(b), because only one ‸ of the two
possible stepwise approaches to 1 is realized lit­
erally in either case. That is, to distinguish be­
tween these examples (and the many others like
them) it must be the potential motions of voices
that matter, not necessarily the literal motions
themselves. The reasons why this might be the
case are illuminated by the theory of tonal hier­
archy and unfolding explained in Chapters 2 and
9: in Example 10.1(a), there are indeed two step­
wise approaches to the tonic note in the melody.
One of them is unfolded into the ii6 chord that
precedes
‸ ‸ the V, while the other‸is the more direct
7–​1 over V–​I. The existence of 2 in the V chord is
important not because we are attending directly‸
to the motion in some inner voice where this 2
might literally occur, but‸ because
‸ it is necessary
for understanding the 2–​7 melodic motion as
an unfolding from the V.  Convergence can also
be expressed contrapuntally, where there are
at least two prominent upper ‸ voices to articu­
late the contrary motion to 1, but in the usual
common-​practice situation, where a single me­
lodic line predominates at the cadence, the ex­
pression of both motions in a single line, at
slightly different levels, as displayed in the upper
staff of Example 10.2, is often most efficacious.
The theory of convergence can also be applied
to the distinction between Example 10.1(c) and
(d).6 The insertion of the iii chord between
‸ ‸ the V
and the I neuters the possibility of a 2–​1 descent
‸ ‸
from V to I  by implying an ascent from 2 to 3,
much as the ii6 mollifies the leading tone by
EXAMPLE 10.2  Convergent voice leading asso­
ciated with dominant and predominant cadential
functions
‸
producing
‸ ‸ a linear descent away from 1 through
7–​6.7 The position of the descending thirds in
the overall progression is crucial. The descending
thirds in Example  10.1(c) are acceptable pre­
cisely because they fall in a place in the pro­
gression where strong motion is not essential.
In other words, there is a temporal asymmetry
to harmonic syntax: in initiating situations, de­
scending thirds are perfectly acceptable. Thus,
there is a neater explanation of the rarity of iii
than an arbitrary syntactical injunction against
it, which is hard to theoretically justify. Instead,
it is more likely that the iii chord is just not very
useful, because the‸ ‸ linear
‸ ‸ progressions it may
support (such as 1–​7–​6–​5) have fewer uses.
The temporal asymmetry of harmonic syntax,
the fact that strong progressions are required to
complete, but not necessarily to initiate, signifi­
cant structural tonal spans, also helps to illumi­
nate the functional properties of predominant
chords. Since the dominant chord is essential
to the convergence on the tonic, strengthening
the approach to the dominant with a secondary
convergence on it adds to the overall force of
the cadence. This is shown in the lower staff of
Example 10.2. Because the bass has a melodic
prominence second only to the melody itself,
and is often the only other melodically salient
voice in later eighteenth-​and nineteenth-​
‸
century textures, the convergence to 5 is placed
by convention at least partially in this voice.
For this secondary convergence, the larger con­
text (especially the scalar context) and the more

6 Schenker himself does not do this, though, and in fact undermines this reasoning by accepting the filling-​in of V–​I
with a iii in certain circumstances, as in his analyses of Schumann’s “Aus meinen Tränen spriessen” ([1935] 1979, Fig 22b)
and the development section of Beethoven’s Op. 69 Cello Sonata (ibid., 69). In such examples, the larger-​scale structure
is better explained as involving relationships between keys, as Sections 2.4–​5 argue. The explanatory power of the theory
of convergence is dependent upon the idea that a strong progression is needed to complete a significant descending linear
progression, and therefore the V and I must be directly juxtaposed. This linear progression might itself be very local, but the
conclusiveness of the convergent progression makes the final I available
‸ ‸ to participate in larger-​scale motions.
‸7 Although it should be noted that it is possible to avoid the 2–​3 implication by clearly foregrounding a melodic setting of
the 3 in an incomplete upper neighbor figure, as in the “V –​I” progression. The unanimity of theory textbooks in rejecting
sub6

the “iii6” label for this chord (e.g., Kostka and Payne 2009, Aldwell and Schachter 2011) is evidence for the importance of voice
leading in the syntactical status of the cadential V–​I.

234 • O r g ani z e d   T ime

local status of the predominant–​ dominant
progression relax the ascending semitone re­
quirement. Also, a predominant, if it is not
itself being treated as a local goal, may be dis­
sonant. These relaxed requirements open the
door to the diversity of predominant function,
which includes consonant diatonic chords like
ii, IV, iv, dissonant diatonic chords like ii7 and
iiØ7, and chromatic chords like augmented
sixths, Neapolitans, and applied V7s and viio7s.

EXAMPLE 10.3  (a) Subordinate theme of J.C. Bach’s op. 22/​1 Quintet, iii (Allegro assai) with formal
and hypermetric analysis, (b) tonal structure of the first subordinate theme
(a)

Harmony Simplified • 235
EXAMPLE 10.3 Continued
(b)

It also implies a straightforward and accurate a number of common eighteenth-​century har­

classification of predominant chord types: ‸ all monic idioms, each of which has a distinct struc­
harmonies that include any combination of 4 or tural role. A passing motion from the tonic takes
♯4 and 6 or ♭6.
‸ ‸ ‸
an appropriate position at the beginning of the
This application of the convergence theory to first sentence, as a distinctively initiating pro­
subdominant harmony fills in some of the log­ gression. Note that Bach violates the supposed
ical gaps in Schenker’s explanation of subdom­ syntactic injunction against iii chords here, al­
inant harmony. As Thomas Noll (2015) points though a special dispensation is usually allowed
out, Schenker performs what appears to be a for this sort of usage. This initiating progression
rhetorical sleight of hand in his theory of bass sets the stage for the tonic fifth progression to
arpeggiation ([1935] 1979, 29–​ 31) when he define the theme as the overarching structure, ‸
derives a stepwise line by filling in an arpeggia­
‸ ‸ which is expanded by interruption at 2/​V with
tion from I to V, then removes the ‸ notes
‸ 2 and 3 the half cadence at‸the ‸ end of the first sentence.
after shifting the slurring from 3 to 4. The sub­ Bach expands the 4–​3 portion of the line in the
stantive content of Schenker’s
‸ explanation is first sentence with another favorite harmonic
that the significance‸ of 4 in the bass is its step­ idiom, the cyclic progression IV–​I6–​IV6–​I46–​(IV–​ ‸
wise relation to 5, and the fact that it belongs I‸6–​‸  . . .)
‸ ‸which
‸ allows for a kind of stretto of 6–​
to the fifth-​space of the tonic. What Schenker ‸ ‸ 5–​4–​3–​(6–​5–​
‸ ‸ . . . . )
‸ lines in the outer voices.8 The
does not explain, however, is why the 4–​5 recurring 6–​5–​4 linear progression expanding IV
motion should be more essential to ‸ an
‸ effective structures this progression, which, interestingly,
cadential progression‸ than ‸the 3–​5—​that is, incorporates the I6 in a way that denies it its
why do we find that 2 and 3 are more ‸ readily usual structural status because it is overridden
omitted from the fifth-​space than 4, especially by the third-​progression in the melody. The half
if it is derived from an arpeggiation
‸ of the tonic, cadence at the end of the first phrase provides
which should seem to favor ‸ 3? Convergence the first instance of convergent voice leading in
explains the importance of 4 as a reflection of this example. The upper voice is occupied ‸ with
the fact that strong voice leading is most es­ the larger-​ scale line, descending to 2, at the
sential to the completion of a motion,‸ in this moment of cadential resolution, leaving the bass
case a subsidiary motion approaching 5. It also to resolve‸ the ‸ convergent voice leading of the
does so in a way ‸ that distinguishes the im­ unfolded 6–​4, which has been well articulated
portance of 4—​its indispensability—
‸ ​from in both voices by the idiomatic subdominant-​
its structural status.‸The 4 remains structurally expanding progression.
subordinate to the 3 in many situations even The next sentence is not parallel to the first,
though it is, in a sense, more important. but begins on an extended dominant, some­
The secondary theme of J.C. Bach’s op. 22/​1 thing Bach typically includes as an initiating
Quintet, given in Example 10.3(a), illustrates function somewhere in his subordinate themes

8 This idiom, though a favorite of Mozart’s also, does not receive a special name in Gjerdingen’s (2007) schema theory,
though it might be seen as a kind of “fake-​out Prinner.” That is, it begins as if it will be a Prinner but swaps voices before
completing the formula, creating a potentially endless loop.

236 • O r g ani z e d   T ime

(often at the beginning, but here at the begin­
ning of a compound consequent). It does, nev­
ertheless,
‸ resume the principal
‸ fifth progression
from 5. (Note how the 5 is structurally isolated
from other melodic elements over the extended
dominant by the fact that it connects to the
second half of the phrase to make an ascending
fifth-​progression.) Harmonic theories driven
by functional chord classifications would typ­
ically identify the IV–​V34–​I6 progression in this
phrase as an instance of the S–​D–​T paradigm.
However, it does not display convergent
‸ voice
leading. From “D” ‸to “S” the 6 over IV in the
melody 4
‸ ‸ ascends to 7. In the bass
‸ ‸ from V3 to I ,
6
the 2–​3 ascent precludes the 2–​1 of the possible
convergence between these chords. Accordingly,
it is a progression which belongs syntactically at
the beginning of the phrase, a distinction that is
obscured by the S–​D–​T classification.
In the cadence at the end of this sentence ‸
(mm. 45–​6), Bach retains the structural‸ ‸ 2 in
the melody over the dominant. The 7–​1 motion
therefore does not appear in the upper voice,
but it made prominent by other, highly con­
ventional, means:  the use of‸ the cadential 46,
which makes the inner-​voice 7 momentarily sa­
lient through the contrapuntal 4–​3 resolution.
‸ overall sense of neighbor
For the convergence from IV to V, the 6 appears
prominently in the melody, although ‸its reg­
ister is abandoned before resolution to 5. This is
also highly typical of Bach’s galant style, and a
harmonic/​melodic habit he shares with Mozart
(like many of the tonal idioms illustrated by this
passage), as well as other composers of his own
generation.9
This subordinate theme group has a reg­
ular four-​ measure hypermeter throughout,
and Bach takes advantage of this to elide the
cadence in measure 46, which extends over
the hypermetrical boundary. (See Ch. 7, espe­
cially §7.4, which explains the importance of
hypermetrical placement and cadential elision
especially for the extension of subordinate-​
theme groups.) The cadence, though tonally
complete, lacks the requisite hypermetrical com­
pletion to end the exposition, necessitating a
new phrase. Bach takes advantage of this last
phrase to finish with a nice four-​voice fugato
passage for the winds and strings. The entrances
9 For another example, see measure 3 of the Jommelli presto given in Example 2.24.
10 Note that it does so despite the intervention of a more structural I6 in m. 54, meaning that
directly connect to V as a structural predominant. It nonetheless helps to draw attention to the 6, which is reiterated in the
true structural predominant of measure 54.
of the fugato are based on a simple alterna­
tion of I–​IV, which illustrates a static neighbor-​
‸
motion
‸ voice-​leading paradigm
‸ (where
‸ 6 and
4 act as upper neighbors to 5 and 3). After the
entrances are complete, Bach segues back to the
IV–​I6–​IV6–​I46 harmonic idiom from the first sen­
tence
‸ ‸ of ‸ the theme. This again emphasizes the
{6, 4}–​5 convergence,10 while the contrapuntal‸ ‸ ‸
texture helps to further bring out the {2, 7}–​1
convergence, so that this final cadence is appro­
priately more firmly conclusive than the elided
one that preceded it, in its tonal aspect as well as
its hypermetrical placement.
Play with the harmonic stations of the caden­
tial process is a hallmark of the so-​called classical
style. The subordinate theme of Haydn’s H.  49
Piano Sonata in E♭ major is a good illustration
(Ex. 10.4). After an initial four-​measure presen­
tation (mm. 28–​31), Haydn ‸ frees the bass from
its oscillations around 1 to begin a descending
line. Although the Roman numerals here imply
a possible cadential progression (tonicized
ii going to V), the voice-​leading components‸
of a cadence are lacking. The upper register‸ 2
connects most directly to the earlier 1 in the
same register, so that the melodic line gives‸ an
‸ motion around 1 rather
than descent to 1. Also, the bass line descends
to V, and the essential ascending component of
convergence on the dominant is not articulated.
Therefore, the V7–​vi progression in measure 36
does not have the sense of a deceptive cadence
so much as a voice-​leading correction for the
approach to IV, the true‸ ‸goal of the bass descent.
Having outlined the 6–​4‸interval in the bass and
also combined
‸ the bass 4 with a prominent me­
lodic 6, the IV in measure 37 is a clear caden­ ‸
tial predominant. Only a melodic descent to 1 is
lacking. Rather than provide this right away to
wrap up the theme quickly, Haydn‸stretches out
a process of arpeggiating back to 2 in the lower
melodic register to fill four measures, delaying
the resolution of the predominant as he does
so, even adding an extra measure (m. 40) with
an eccentric leap up to the chromatic lower
neighbor, F♯.
As in the J.C. Bach example, the cadence to
this theme is elided, in measure 42, leading to
a second subordinate theme or closing theme
‸ the expanded IV does not
Harmony Simplified • 237
EXAMPLE 10.4  Haydn, Piano Sonata, H. 49, mm. 28–​60
(Caplin [1998,  123] would refer to this subor­
dinate theme as a false closing section). After
the repeated presentation, the continuation of
this subordinate theme has a sequential pro­
gression that strongly outlines the predomi­
nant ii chord, in what is essentially a condensed
version of the continuation of the first subordi­
nate theme (mm. 33–​7). As the recomposition
in Example 10.5 shows, if Haydn had continued
the sequence pattern one more step, this ii
238 • O r g ani z e d   T ime
chord could function effectively as the predomi­
nant. However, he changes direction on the last
beat of measure 51, going up to G rather than to
B♮ in the bass, so that the progression stumbles
headlong into a disorienting A♭ major chord,
a gesture just bizarre enough to outdo the
earlier melodic leap to F♯. To underscore its
strangeness, Haydn halts suddenly on the
chord, then dwells upon it mysteriously for five
measures.
EXAMPLE 10.5  Recomposition of the final cadence in the exposition of Haydn’s H. 49 Piano Sonata
that avoids the anamalous chord
What is the function of this A♭ chord? Its
Roman numeral designation, ♭ VII, is unhelpful.
But the chord it displaces, the tonicized ii,
does have a clear function as a predominant.
According to the theory of convergence, the
elements of ii essential to this function are
the notes E♭ and G.  One of these, the G, is
missing from the A♭ chord, displaced by its
upper neighbor A♭ . The A♭ chord cannot substi­
tute as a predominant because it lacks a step­
‸
wise approach to 5 from above. Therefore, it is
a neighbor chord to the ii; the A♭ must resolve
downward for the cadential progression to re­
sume its course, and this is eventually what
happens. The strangeness of the chord is due
largely to its false consonance:  though, liter­
ally, a root position major triad, the root of the
chord is actually the unstable tone, while the
functional elements are the third and fifth of
this apparent triad. In the tonal structure of
the passage, the chord that Haydn draws out
for so many measures is the maximum-​depth
element (see Ch. 4).
The two cadences of this subordinate theme
group are examples of expanded cadential pro­
gressions, a common and important technique
in eighteenth and nineteenth-​ century har­
mony, discussed extensively by Caplin (1987;
1998, 109–​11). (For another example, see the
subordinate theme of Beethoven’s op.  10/​
1 in Ex. 7.15.) Of the possible ways to expand
the cadential process, expansions of the pre­
dominant, like in measures 37–​40 and 51–​7 of
Example 10.4, and measures 30–​2 of J.C. Bach’s
Quintet in Example 10.3, are the most popular,
because of the variety of expressions of predom­
inant function. Expansions of the predominant
can consist of progressions between different
harmonies, such as the IV–​ii6 in measures 37–​40
of the Haydn sonata, or passing and neigh­
boring chords outlining a single harmony as in
the J.C. Bach example and in measures 52–​7 and
measure 40 of the Haydn.
Consonant predominant triads have the spe­
cial quality that they themselves can give rise
to new linear progressions and be expanded at
length, as in J.C. Bach’s subdominant-​expanding
progression. Most consonant predominants (ii,
IV, iv) are diatonic, but there is one notable ex­
ception, the Neapolitan. This harmony is spe­
cial:  as a predominant it is both chromatic and
consonant. As such it has a unique semantic
richness, because it can be expanded, possibly at
great lengths, and even tonicized. Because it is
a predominant, these expansions delay the con­
vergent resolution that sets the cadential pro­
cess into motion. By expanding the Neapolitan,
a composer can dwell in a universe that is chro­
matically distant yet only a breath away from the
vortex of cadential convergence, a universe that
also contrasts in mode, conveniently, when the
tonic key is minor.
One composer especially fond of drawing
upon this special semantic richness of Neapolitan
expansions is Schubert. His song “Das Heimweh”
(“Homesickness”) provides an especially striking
example. The song, which will be analyzed fur­
ther in Section 10.3 below, describes a man
overcome by longing for his pastoral moun­
tain home. Example 10.6 gives two passages
from Schubert’s setting of the last stanza. At
the end of the second line, “er fliehet der Städt’
einengende Mauern, einsam” (“He flees the
city’s constricting walls, alone”) Schubert sets
the word “einsam” (“alone”) pointedly with an
unusual harmony, a minor Neapolitan. We will
investigate the functional status of this chord
shortly. Schubert’s setting of the next line, “und
schaut aufweinend vom Hügel die heimischen
Berge” (“and looks up through his tears from the
hills to his mountain home”) has an extended,
two-​measure Neapolitan (♭ II6). By dwelling upon
the chord, Schubert draws attention to its con­
sonant major quality, contrasting the beauty
and serenity of the imagined homeland with
the narrator’s present state, represented by the
Harmony Simplified • 239
EXAMPLE 10.6  Schubert, “Das Heimweh,” (a) mm. 158–​68 and (b) 178–​99, and (c) tonal structures
for the first passage, mm. 158–​68 and (d) the latter part of the second, mm. 186–​99
(a)

(b)

240 • O r g ani z e d   T ime

EXAMPLE 10.6 Continued
(c)
(d)
minor tonic. Yet the momentary pleasure of
this vision is subsumed into the minor context,
and ironically darkens it, because it requires a
flatward scalar voice leading (A♮→♭ ).
In an elaborated repetition of this verse
shown in Example  10.6(b), Schubert deepens
the effect in an ingenious way. He inserts a rep­
etition of the words “aufweinend vom Hügel die
heimischen Berge” that not only stays on the
Neapolitan, but is momentarily in the key of the
Neapolitan. Notice the D♭ passing tone in the
vocal line (m. 180) and the V24 of A♭ in measure
181. In other words, a larger scalar voice leading
(A♮→♭ , D♮→♭ ) transforms the meaning of the chord
from ♭ II6 of G minor to I6 of A♭ major. The seman­
tics of the harmony are now abundantly clear; it
represents a false, Romanticized homeland that
the man described in the poem drags around
with him, incapacitated by the encumbrance of
his hauntingly beautiful vision. The D♮→♭ change
makes the listener feel as if he could live within
this delirious vision forever, but Schubert draws
us back as subtly as he drew us in, again effecting
the change of scale (D♭ →♮) with a well-​placed
accented passing tone in the vocal line (m. 183,
which is the same as m. 166).
The magic of the Neapolitan comes from
its internal contradictions. The functional
elements of the chord, the notes that converge
on
‸ the‸ dominant, are the third ‸ and the fifth
(4 and 6). The acoustical root, ♭2, is both function­
ally inessential and foreign to the key. However,
considering the chord simply as a sonority,‸ as
Schubert’s expansions encourage us to do, ♭2 is
the stable gravitational center. Tonicization of
the chord obviously accentuates these internal
contradictions. They are accentuated also by
another harmonic device that Schubert uses
in the passage, changing the Neapolitan into
a minor triad. The minor Neapolitan is sim­
ilar to the ponderous “♭ VII” that Haydn uses
in Example 10.4:  both result from a manipu­
lation of a predominant harmony that neuters
the function of the chord by preventing con­
vergent voice leading to the dominant. In
Haydn’s chord,
‸ this happens because he raises
a major 6 by half-​ step to where
‸ it can no
longer resolve down by step to 5. Schubert,‸ on
the other hand, chromatically lowers the 4 of
the ♭ II6 so
‸ that it can no longer resolve up by
step to 5. The withdrawal from functionality,
coupled with the dark hue of the excessive
flatward shift, on the word “einsam” expresses
the idea that the man described in the poem is
helplessly alone with his sickness. Where the
chord first occurs (m. 164), Schubert imme­
diately “corrects” it to an ordinary Neapolitan
to recover functional normalcy. Where the
chord reappears at the end of the song (m.
196)  on the words “mit unwiderstehlicher
Sehnsucht” (“with irresistible longing”), how­
ever, Schubert treats it differently, resolving
to an augmented-​
‸ sixth chord. In this resolu­
tion, the ♭4 succumbs to its functional neutral­
ization, descending as a chromatic neighbor
to B♭ . The melodic C♯ of the augmented sixth
fills in, taking over responsibility for the as­
cending component
‸ of the convergent voice
leading to 5. This neighbor function of the ♭ ii
chord has been primed by an earlier passage
(Ex. 10.7; compare also to the final measures
of the adagio from Schubert’s String Quintet,
D.  956), which is also evoked by the ♭ II in 64
posi­tion in measures 162–​3.
Harmony Simplified • 241
EXAMPLE 10.7 A neighbor ♭ II in mm. 146–​55 of “Das Heimweh”

Transferal of the ‸bass’s voice leading duty
(resolving upward to 5) to an upper voice at the
end of the song comes at a price.
‸ By adopting
the descending resolution to 5 (E♭ –​D), the bass
moves in weakly concealed parallels with the
voice,‸ ‸adding additional rhetorical weight to
the 6–​5 motion. This‸ last-​
‸ minute intensifica­
tion of focus on the 6–​5 motion is actually a
culmination of a process that evolves over the
whole passage. The high E♭ first appears in the
vocal line over the first appearance of the minor
Neapolitan, and is reiterated over the following
regular Neapolitan. In an even more dramatic
gesture in the next phrase, Schubert ascends
through bare parallel chromaticism back to the
high E♭ in the first setting of the line “Ach, es
zieht in dahin it unwiderstehlicher Sehnsucht”
(mm. 185–​90). The functionally anomalous E♭
minor triad that accompanies the E♭ here will
be discussed further in Section 10.3. The next
phrase, which repeats the line again over a ca­
dential progression, further targets the high-​
register E♭ –​D. The deceptive cadence in measure
195 then brings the E♭ prominently into the
bass, and following this, the new cadential
phrase again has the voice concentrating its
activity around the resolving high E♭ , even
interrupting the final cadential melodic de­
scent with a melismatic leap back up to E♭ –​D.
As the analyses in Example 10.6 show, all of
this rhetorical weight on E♭ and D is counter-​
structural. The melodic activity in this register
relates via unfoldings within all the harmonies
of the passage, in an adamant but ultimately fu­
tile striving away from the structural descent.
In the deceptively resolved part of ‸ the
song’s final cadence (mm. 193–​5‸ ), the ♭2 of
the Neapolitan takes the place of 2 in ‸ the basic
descending linear progression to 1 (see Ex.
10.6(d)). This, if not for the deceptive resolution
shifting the deep structure to the next cadence,
would violate a percept of Schenker’s theory,
that the Urlinie be diatonic. Schenkerians
correct this problem by adding an implied note,
a note needed to complete a line (here A) which
belongs to a chord (V) but does not appear lit­
erally in the melody (Cadwallader and Gagné
2010, Kamien 1990).11 Yet the analytical li­
cense of implied notes, ironically, undermines
the idea that linear progression is a basic ele­
ment of tonal structure, a foundational premise
for Schenker’s theory. In Chapter  2, we found
that this foundational premise corresponds to
adopting a discovery procedure for tonal struc­
ture that prioritizes linear progressions. But
if they can be conjured out of thin air by the
addition of implied notes, then this criterion
is essentially meaningless. Implied notes are
not really a necessary explanatory device here,
though, if we take another cue from Chapter 2
and separate scalar voice leading from chordal
voice leading. The unfolded A♭ –​F♯ interval is
not a constituent of any chord functional in
the passage. However, the A♭ is chromatic,
arising from a A♮→♭ scalar voice leading which is
reversed (A♭ →♮) over the course of the ♭ II6–​V pro­
gression. The A♭ therefore itself retrospectively
becomes an A♮ in a sense, because the corrective
scalar voice leading precisely coincides with
the unfolding. Another way to put this is that

11 The corresponding concept of Schenker’s is substitution, the idea that another

‸ note of a chord substitutes for one
that would make a stepwise line, although Schenker also discusses the “Phrygian 2” separately as a form of mode mixture
(Schenker 1979, 41–​2). The concept of substitution is salvageable if we weaken it by viewing the claim as a counterfactual,
simply asserting that another note might have appeared which would have made a stepwise line. For an extended defense of
the idea of implied tones, see Rothstein 1991. Rothstein’s point is not necessarily inconsistent with the one expressed here,
because his examples are precisely the type where the lines created by implied tones are unnecessary for the discovery of tonal
structure. Rothstein’s idea of “imaginary continuo” is also closely related to the point made above that often potential voice
leadings between two chords are significant in addition to real voice leadings.

242 • O r g ani z e d   T ime

the requirement of diatony in the background
requires only that the proper scalar context is
restored at the point where
‸ the main represen­
tative of the unfolded 2/​V appears (the caden­
tial dominant).12
10.2  VOICE LEADING
ON THE TONNETZ
The previous section sketched an account of
harmonic syntax that draws upon voice leading
in two senses. There is the real voice leading
implied by prominent melodic motions in the
music. A  theory expressed entirely in terms of
real voice leading, like the theory of melodic
structure described in Chapter 2, severely limits
the generalizations one can make about har­
monic progression, and it is clear that tonal
music exhibits a great deal of regularity in its
use of harmonic progressions abstracted from
literal voicings and voice leadings. Furthermore,
the theory of convergence stated in the previous
section also demonstrated that often it is the po­
tential voice leadings of a given progression that
are of prime importance.
A good tool for exploring the potential voice
leadings of triadic progressions is the Tonnetz.
The Tonnetz originated in the work of the
nineteenth-​ century theorist Ernst Naumann
(anticipated a century earlier by Leonhard
Euler) as a representation of the acoustical
relationships between tones and triads, and was
adopted by Arthur von Oettingen (1866) and
Hugo Riemann (1880). More recently the work
of Richard Cohn (1997, 2011)  and others have
promoted the idea of the Tonnetz as a map of
triadic voice leadings,13 and was reformulated
as a continuous geometry by Amiot (2013,
2016) and myself (Yust 2015b). I will build upon
these more recent theoretical developments
here, in particular drawing the Tonnetz in a way
that reflects the geometry proposed in Amiot
2013 and Yust 2015b.
Cohn (1997, 2011)  derives the Tonnetz by
considering the minimal voice leadings from
any triad. Example 10.8 shows that there are
12 The same reasoning can be applied to the concept of chromatic voice exchange,
between voices, but change their chromatic status after the exchange (e.g., to ♯4/​♭6). This represents a combination of two
separate processes, a voice exchange in the chordal voice leading that coincides with chromatic shifts in the scalar voice leading.
13 Cohn’s work and its precedents in Lewin 2007a and Hyer 1995 led to a large body of theoretical literature generally
referred to as “Neo-​Riemannian theory.” See Gollin and Rehding 2011.
14 This is precisely the argument made by Tymoczko (2011, 412–​17).
EXAMPLE  10.8  Parsimonious operations on
triads
three ways to hold two notes of the triad con­
stant while moving the third by step, corre­
sponding to the three consonant dyads that the
triad contains (minor third/​major sixth, major
third/​minor sixth, perfect fourth/​fifth). These
are called R, L, and P (for “relative,” “leading-​
tone change,” and “parallel,” loosely derived from
Riemann). Each corresponds to a type of voice-​
leading interval:  whole step (R), half step (L),
and chromatic semitone (P). By stringing such
motions together, any triad can be connected to
any other by a series of such voice-​leading op­
erations, and the string of operations reflects a
voice leading between the triads. For instance, a
V–​I progression like G–​C is given by RL, which
reflects the whole tone (D–​ E) and semitone
(B–​C) voice-​leading intervals between them.
There is one problem with arbitrarily stringing
together R, L, and P to get voice leadings, how­
ever, which is that they will sometimes result
in a backtracking that obscures the actual size
of the voice leading. Such backtracking is un­
avoidable when all three operations are used
before repeating one, as in RLP. For instance,
to get from C major to F minor one can move
a whole step G→A (R), a half step E→F (L), and
a chromatic semitone A→A♭ (P). But the chro­
matic semitone partially cancels the whole step
to give a half step G→A♭ . Similarly, the same re­
lationship can be represented as PLR, or E→E♭ ,
G→A♭ , E♭ →F. Again, the whole step and chro­
matic semitone can be reduced. While this may
motivate a more direct geometric representa­
tion of voice leading (Callender, Quinn, and
Tymoczko’s [2008] voice-​leading geometries)14
it may also be fixed by assigning a new label to
‸‸
‸ ‸ where two notes (say, 6/​4) are swapped
Harmony Simplified • 243
each of these:  N  =  PLR  =  RLP, S  =  LPR  =  RPL,
and W  =  PRL  =  LRP. The label “N” stands for
“Nebenverwandt” (neighbor-​related) from Cohn
2000, “S” for “slide” from Lewin 2007a, and “W”
is a new addition to the pantheon, standing for
“whole-​step fifth change,” or a root relation by
fifth, with a change of mode, where two voices
move in parallel by whole step (as in a ii–​V type
progression). Morris (1998) refers to these as
“obverse” operations, with N  =  Lʹ, S  =  Pʹ, and
W = Rʹ, the logic of his labels being that the same
voice-​leading interval is involved in both, dia­
tonic half steps for N and L, chromatic half steps
for S and P, and whole steps for W and R. The ob­
verse operations all move two voices by this in­
terval in parallel, where the parsimonious (PLR)
operations move just one. The combination of
two obverse-​related operations (NL, LN, SP, PS,
RW, or WR) is a transposition (up or down) of
the entire triad by the given interval. If we keep
in mind that the obverse operations are twice
the size of the parsimonious ones, and, option­
ally (by chromatic reckoning), R and W another
two times the size of the others, the most effi­
cient path between two triads, represented by a
string of such operations, accurately reflects the
size of the smoothest possible voice leading be­
tween them.15
Each interval type of the triad gives rise to a di­
mension in the Tonnetz, but there are three such
axes and really only two dimensions, since the
Tonnetz can be drawn in a plane. Furthermore,
each of these axes will cycle back to its original
note after some number of iterations, three for
major thirds, four for minor thirds, and twelve
for perfect fifths. To understand the geometry
of the Tonnetz, we need to reduce these three
cycles to two dimensions, by arranging them in a
12-​by-​12 coordinate system as in Example 10.9.
Because each dimension is cyclic, the points
at the bottom of the graph are understood to
wrap around to the top, and the ones on the left
wrap around to the right. (Shaded lines in the
examples show where the wrap-​around occurs.)
This is called a toroidal geometry. The notes must
be arranged so that the interval of a major third,
EXAMPLE 10.9 A geometric Tonnetz
(xM3, yM3), multiplied by three is (0, 0)  mod 12,
and likewise the interval of a minor third, (xm3,
ym3), times four. In other words, xM3 and yM3 can
be 0, 4, or  –​4, and xm3 and ym3 can be 0, 3,  –​3,
or 6 (with the caveat that both x and y cannot
be 0 and/​or 6). The best solution is one that
minimizes the perfect fifth, (xM3 + xm3, yM3 + ym3),
along with the two thirds, which is (xM3, yM3)  =
(0, 4)  and (xm3, ym3)  =  (3,  –​3), making the per­
fect fifth (3, 1).16 This is shown in Example 10.9.
Note that the notes are arranged circle-​of-​fifth
order on the vertical axis (that is, a projection
onto the y-​axis gives the circle of fifths), making
this a sharpness–​flatness dimension. Along the
horizontal dimension are the four augmented
triads, arranged by ascending fifth or descending
semitone. Horizontal motions therefore cor­
respond to ascending and descending triadic
voice leadings (descending from left to right).
This can be seen by considering the three voice-​
leading intervals previously identified. A  whole
tone is (–​6, 2), with the negative x value indicat­
ing an ascent. A  descending diatonic semitone
is (3, 5) while a descending chromatic semitone
is (3, –​7).
An especially useful feature of this geom­
etry is that it draws our attention specifically to

15 This quantity is more neatly captured by the voice-​leading geometries of Callender, Quinn, and Tymoczko 2008 and
Tymoczko 2011. An advantage of the Tonnetz is the clear distinction it makes between diatonic and chromatic semitones,
and the parallels it draws between triadic and enharmonic dimensions, which will be exploited especially in the next section.
I propose a different method of making this distinction, that instead takes Callender, Quinn, and Tymoczko’s voice-​leading
geometries as a starting point, in Yust 2013b.
16 This is the solution up to swapping or inverting dimensions. There is actually another condition, which is linear
independence of the intervals. Hence the solution (4, 4), (–​3, –​3), (1, 1) is not admissible, because the intervals would all be
collinear, collapsing the space into one dimension. A nicer mathematical route to this solution is through the discrete Fourier
transform as described in Yust 2015b.

244 • O r g ani z e d   T ime

cycles, that there are multiple ways to get from
one point to another that go different directions
in the space. This is true of the diatonic and chro­
matic semitones:  (3, 5)  and (3,  –​7) are actually
the same interval, since 5 = –​7 mod 12. However,
there is a significant difference between them be­
cause they connect the same points in different
directions. The chromatic semitone E→E♭ in
the context of a voice leading from C major to
C minor is a flatward move. The same interval
E→D♯, in the context of E major → G♯ minor, is a
sharpward voice leading. The spelling difference
is therefore reflected by ways of connecting the
notes that differ in vertical direction.
Directions in the horizontal dimension like­
wise reflect direction of triadic voice leading. The
whole step G–​A could be realized as (–​6, 2)  or
(6, 2). The former is the ascending whole step
reflected by the R progression from C major to
A minor, or the RL progression from C major to
F major. The path (6, 2) cannot be realized as a
single voice leading, but only as the difference
between a descending voice leading and some
ascending chordal interval. For instance, from G
major to D major, the third of G major goes down
by whole step to the A, which is a whole step
above the root of G major. Or, from G minor, go
up to the third (a minor third) and down a half
step to A. In this sense, (6, 2), even though it is
an ascending major second, actually involves de­
scending triadic voice leading.
Paths in the toroidal space may also be used
to relate pitch classes and harmonies rather than
necessarily to represent a motion between them.
In particular, if the space is oriented around a
tonal center, then paths from the tonal center
may be understood as what Rings (2011, 41–​9)
calls tonal qualia. The space enriches the idea of
qualia, first by expanding the number of pos­
sible qualia due to the cyclic nature of the space,
and second by providing possible geometric
ways to compare or classify them, such as as­
cending/​ descending in the triadic dimension
and sharpward/​ flatward in the circle-​ of-​
fifths
dimension.
This concept of triadic voice leading, repre­
sented by strings of P, L, R, S, N, and W opera­
tions, makes an important implicit assumption
17 This rule is similar to the defining assumptions of three-​note chord space as presented in Callender, Quinn, and
Tymoczko 2008 and Tymoczko 2011. One of the advantages of the Tonnetz space used here over voice-​leading geometries
is that this assumption can much more easily be discarded, something essential to the classification of harmonic
progressions below.
18 See Yust 2015b and 2016.
19 Because these x-​values are cyclic, we use the circular average.
EXAMPLE  10.10  Triadic orbits of a C major
triad
about how one can get from one triad to an­
other:  they presume that there are just three
discrete voices, and all triads are complete.17 This
assumption can be represented and generalized
by the idea of triadic orbits,18 as shown in
Example 10.10. The triangle divides the pitch-​
class circle into three parts, which are centered
on the average horizontal position of the three
notes of the triad in the Tonnetz space (shown
by the dashed lines).19 The arrows show all the
possible voice leadings that can result from
applying any of the six canonic operations to the
C major triad. All of them occur within one of
these orbits. For a string of multiple operations,
the orbits can be tracked as they turn with the
moving triad. Therefore, we may say that the
rule of strict triadic voice leading states that
these orbit boundaries cannot be crossed. An
advantage of triadic orbits is that the objects
of such voice leadings need not be restricted to
major and minor triads, or even to three-​note
chords at all. Example 10.11 shows some illus­
trative examples: voice leadings involving dimin­
ished triads, “sus chords,” and dyads.
Not all real voice leading fits this notion
of strict triadic voice leading, however:  most
importantly, the convergent voice leadings
described in the previous section. Consider
the basic linear progression E–​D–​C , as shown
in Example 10.12. Like all linear progressions,
it cycles the space, a single rightward cycle
to represent a simple tonal space (a third)
traversed in the descending direction. In se­
quential voice leading, other voices would
move in the same direction, cycling to the right
and outlining other simple descending chordal
Harmony Simplified • 245
EXAMPLE 10.11  Examples of simple triadic voice leadings involving (a–​b) “sus” chords, (c) dimin­
ished triads, and (d–​e) dyads
(a) (b) (c) (d) (e)

(a) (b)

(c) (d)

EXAMPLE  10.12  Convergent voice leadings intervals. However, in the context of a caden­
from (a) V to I and (b) IV to V in Tonnetz space tial progression we may instead have some­
thing like the neighboring motion C–​B–​C. This
(a)
kind of motion does not cycle the space at all.
Instead, it maintains a consistent orientation
in the space from which, as it were, the cycle
of the linear progression may be observed.
Crucial here is the moment where the linear
progression disappears from the right-​ hand
side of the space and re-​emerges on the left,
which coincides with the progression V–​I and
(b) the convergent voice-​leading {B, D}→C, which
the previous section cited as the essential fea­
ture of the strong cadential progression. The
convergent voice leading of the T–​S –​D func­
tional paradigm is an ascending version of the
same
‸ ‸ ‸ phenomenon.
20
Here the neighboring
5–​6–​5 is the “observer”
‸ as the bass cycles to the
left, converging on 5 when S goes to D.

20 In fact, in minor it is an exact inversion.

246 • O r g ani z e d   T ime

EXAMPLE 10.13  (a) Romanesca sequence from C.P.E. Bach’s Keyboard Sonata, Wq. 62/​7, Andantino,
(b) its progression on the Tonnetz, and (c) the basic descending tenths voice leading
(a)

(b)

(c)

One type of harmonic progression where the
strict triadic voice-​leading model has a special
relevance is in sequences. Examples  10.13–​14
gives examples of two familiar sequence types,
the “descending 5–​6” or romanesca and the “as­
cending 5–​ 6” or monte. The latter term was
coined by Riepel ([1752–​5] 1996); see Gjerdingen
(2007, 25–​44, 89–​106). The romanesca sequence
(Ex. 10.13) includes an inefficient voice leading
for every other step, a WRL (LRW) or RWR. The
same triads could be more efficiently connected
by RLR or LRL (e.g., diatonic transpositions)
respectively, but this would imply an ascending
voice leading, rather than the descending one
necessary to represent the uniformly descend­ing
motion required for the sequence. Notice that
when the sequence returns to the tonic triad,
the voices have cycled through chordal stations.
This is directly reflected in the horizontal voice-​
leading cycles made by the patterns in the
Tonnetz. The romanesca makes two leftward
cycles, so the voices all descend overall by
double chordal intervals (fifths and sixths). As
Example 10.13(c) shows, the main voice leading
components are two lines descending in parallel
thirds or tenths.
The monte alternates R and L with LR, RL,
or W.21 In the idealized model of this sequence
(Ex. 10.14(b)), each voice leading is relatively
efficient, moving one or two notes at a time.
However, Bach’s voice leading in the example is
different. From G minor to C major, the note G,
rather than remain in place, as in the idealized
model, descends through F (of an interpolated
applied V56) to E. All of this happens in a single
melodic voice in the right hand, expressing
two components of a convergent voice leading.
The simple ascending motion is apparent from
downbeat to downbeat, while the descent by
third from one voice into another appears
at a more local level in the latter part of each
measure.

21 The pattern R–​LR–​L –​RL–​etc. is a chromatic form of the monte pattern which may also be understood as R–​L –​R–​L –​ . . .
with every third chord elided, as described in Yust 2015a. That article also explains the accommodations required to keep the
progression within a single diatonic scale by means of quantization. Note that diatonic restriction of the pattern may result in a
diminished triad in the pattern, which is not covered by the named triadic transformations. Similar observations can be made
about the romanesca sequence. In that case, the concept of elision helps to explain the inefficient voice leading.

Harmony Simplified • 247
EXAMPLE 10.14  (a) Ascending 5-​6 sequence from C.P.E. Bach’s Keyboard Sonata Wq. 57/​4, (b–​c) an
idealized voice leading, and (d) the real convergent voice leading on the Tonnetz
(a)
(b)
(c)
(d)
As this example suggests, convergent voice
leadings are not limited only to cadential har­
mony but are endemic throughout all tonal har­
mony, which raises two questions, the first being,
why? One reason may be that convergent voice
leadings are a byproduct of linear progressions
between chords colliding with simple effi­
cient voice leading between these same chords.
A linear progression connects two idealized tri­
adic voices, so it necessarily crosses triadic orbit
boundaries (see Ex. 10.10–​ 11 above). Since
idealized triadic voice leadings remain within
these orbit boundaries, they will converge with
linear progressions. According to the criteria
proposed in Chapter  2, linear progressions are
the driving force of tonal structure, adding struc­
tural significance to the progressions connected
by them, especially when they are descending
and even more especially, descending to a root
and/​or tonic. In other words, linear progressions
can explain why strong harmonic motion is as­
sociated with progressions whose idealized voice
leadings ascend—​and thereby converge with de­
scending linear progressions.
248 • O r g ani z e d   T ime
A second question is:  if convergent voice
leadings are so prevalent, then how do they
explain the distinctness of cadential har­
mony? Tonal structure again provides a pos­
sible answer:  the convergence associated with
larger-​
scale linear progressions has the force
of cadence, and at the higher levels these are
constrained by the prevalence of many possible
linear progressions throughout a passage to be
of the strongest type, descending stepwise to the
root of the tonic (see §2.2).
To see how this works, let us take a wider
view of the main theme–​transition of the sonata
from which Example 10.14 is drawn, given in
Example 10.15(a). The first linear progressions
that appear are the parallel thirds in measure
2, which Bach will vary in multiple ways
(horizontalizing them in m.  4, and registrally
inverting them in m.  12). These are the most
local of possible linear progressions, outlining
intervals over a single chord with no harmonic
progression. Although the bass suggests a V–​I
motion, it would be pointless to argue over
whether the V is a real chord or simply the
EXAMPLE 10.15  (a) C.P.E. Bach, Keyboard Sonata, Wq. 57/​4, mm. 1–​12, (b) tonal structure of the
passage
(a)

(b)

byproduct of bass arpeggiation. The important
observation is that the convergent voice leading
which might potentially attend such a progres­
sion does not materialize, because there is no
leading tone over the V. Therefore, these parallel
thirds have the effect of the most surface-​level
passing motions.
The next linear progression is a series of
parallel sixths in measures 5–​6, and occurs at
a significantly deeper level than the thirds of
measure 2. The descending-​fifths sequence here
necessarily creates descending stepwise lines
from one sequential repetition to the next,
as does any such sequence. As the analysis in
Example 10.15(b) shows, the sequence reduces
to parallel sixths that outline the predominant
(iv–​iio) of D minor. These sixths are actually
the same dyads as the thirds from measures
1–​2, reflecting Bach’s penchant for building the­
matic material out of clever hidden repetitions
in augmentation, remarked upon by Rothgeb
(1983).22 The added descending-​ fifths chord
progression creates a small convergence over
each barline, where the efficient ascending voice
leading (e.g., {B♭ →C, D→E} in mm. 5–​6) collides
with the larger-​scale process of descent from
downbeat to downbeat ({D→C, F→E}). The con­
vergent voice leadings, while they add drive to
the overall progression, are ephemeral and do
not have associated linear progressions.

22 The sixths parse differently than the thirds, though, (outlining B♭ –​G /​G–​E rather than A–​F /​F–​D) so it is perhaps
better to think of them as a scalar transposition of the motive up by step.

Harmony Simplified • 249
EXAMPLE  10.16 Voice-​
leading
individual voices
The linear progressions created by the se­
quence in measure 5–​7 serve a larger function.
‸ ‸
The bass B♭ –​G outlines a predominant 6–​4 that
converges to ‸V in measure 8.  The melodic G–​E
leads to the 2 of a large-​scale descending third
progression to the tonic in measure 9 (which
is elided with the repetition of the theme that
begins the transition, forestalling any sense
of
‸ ‸closure; see §7.3). The melody outlines the
7–​2 interval in measure 8 to provide a conver­
gence at the completion of this large-​scale linear
progression.
The monte sequence in the transition tops
the earlier descending sequence, in that it not
only has a local convergence over each barline,
but also a small linear progression associated
with each of these. Yet at root both sequences
do essentially the same thing:  they create a
larger-​scale linear progression that is ulti­
mately inconclusive, because it does not have a
convergent voice leading operating at the level
of the linear progression itself, even though
it may contain more local convergent voice
leadings.
In fact, the sequences are essentially scaled-​
up versions of the kind of surface linear
progressions that we find in measures 2 and
4.  As Example 10.16 illustrates, the simple
linear progressions amount to individual voices
each making a horizontal cycle through the
Tonnetz space. The descending sequence, simi­
larly, makes a horizontal cycle out of efficient
triadic voice leadings. Both cycles lack the “ob­
server” neighbor motion that characterizes
convergent voice leading.
In general, then, we can classify harmonic
progressions into three basic types, each with a
distinct syntactical role. The first, neighbor type,
23 This classification parallels a similar one made by Caplin (1998, ch. 2; 2015), into prolongational (similar to
neighboring), sequential (similar to progressive), and cadential (similar to convergent) types.
250 • O r g ani z e d   T ime
cycles in is a progression without voice-​ leading cycles.
This includes simple alternations of I  and IV,
like in measures 47–​9 of the J.C. Bach example
in the previous section (Ex. 10.3), or of I  and
V, and is appropriate for harmonically treading
water while introducing motivic material at the
beginning of a theme, or delaying the resolu­
tion of a dominant (i.e., neighboring I–​V motion
over dominant pedal). Sequences and sequence-​
like progressions, on the other hand, are of the
progressive type:  they have voice-​leading cycles,
possibly in multiple voices, but these cycles are
coordinated, cycling together in the same di­
rection, leading to parallel linear progressions.
Progressive harmony is appropriate to outlining
intervals that are important to some larger-​scale
process, either cadential or modulatory. The last
type, convergent, involves uncoordinated voice-​
leading cycles, and is generally appropriate for
motion towards a goal, especially, when used
at deeper levels of tonal structure, for cadential
harmony.23
10.3 ENHARMONICISM
The categories of harmonic progression
described above, neighboring, progressive, and
convergent, are defined using triadic voice-​
leading cycles, tours of the horizontal dimen­
sion of the Tonnetz space. The exclusion of
vertical cycles from the classification makes
sense for eighteenth-​ century harmony, since
the usual restriction to closely related keys
precludes the possibility of vertical cycles al­
together. This changes dramatically at the be­
ginning of the nineteenth century, however. In
analyzing the chromatic harmony of this era,
another aspect of the Tonnetz space developed
in the previous section emerges as a critical the­
oretical asset:  the analogy between different
kinds of cycle.
The voice-​leading cycle is a kind of paradox
when viewed from a strictly triadic model of
voice leading. When a progression cycles the
space it may return its original location, yet it
has been altered by the journey. Specifically, the
triad changes its position, all voices swapping
their roles. The progression therefore is in one
sense cyclic, returning to where it began, but in
another sense it has covered real ground, it has
actually gone some place. In mathematics, this
distinction is captured by the concept of path
homotopy.24 A progression that consists of mere
neighboring motion is homotopic to one that
has gone nowhere at all, because we can shrink
the path of that progression continuously down
to a point. However, when a progression cycles
the space, it cannot be shrunk down to a point.
Two paths are homotopic, then, precisely if
they cycle the space the same number of times
and the same direction in each dimension. In
neighboring and progressive voice leadings,
the voices and the triadic progression itself all
belong to the same homotopy class. In conver­
gent voice leadings, some voice or voices belong
to a different homotopy class than the triadic
progression.
By analogy, then, there are also progressive
and convergent voice leadings involving ver­
tical cycles of the space. These correspond to
types of enharmonicism, or essential respellings.
Enharmonicism is a topological paradox similar
to the paradox of triadic voice-​leading cycles.
The traversal of an enharmonic cycle is a non-​
trivial motion, even though it returns to the
place where it began. The beginning point and
ending point of the path are both the same and
not the same. Like voice-​leading cycles, the par­
adox is rationalized by focusing on the path. The
points are indeed unitary objects that do not
change; it is the paths that admit of enharmonic
variants.
The best-​ known type of enharmonicism
is what Paula Telesco (2002) calls immediate
enharmonicism, otherwise known as enhar­
monic reinterpretation. This includes the fa­
miliar reinterpretations of diminished seventh
chords, augmented sixths, and augmented
triads. One nice example appears in the develop­
ment section of the first movement of Mozart’s D
minor String Quartet, K. 421, given in Example
10.17. The goal of the passage is the dominant,
which appears where the stretto on the main
theme material begins in measure 53. Mozart
begins, however, with a sudden tonicization
of a very remote key, A♭ minor. As the Tonnetz
in Example 10.18 shows, this key implicitly
involves two mode shifts from the subordinate
key of F major, first to F minor (A♮→♭ ), then from
the relative of F minor, A♭ major, to its parallel
minor (C♮→♭ ). These return sharpward through
the chromatic semitones of descending lines, C♭ –​
B♭ –​A♮ and A♭ –​G♭ –​F, that make linear progressions
in parallel thirds resolving on the dominant
seventh in measure 45. The E♭ remains in place,
however, ready to exploit the enharmonic space
opened up by the deeply flatward excursion. This
occurs when the key of A minor emerges in the
next measure, where the E♭ resolves upward ‸ as
a D♯, and augmented sixth resolution to 5 of
A minor. Mozart is coy about this resolution: the
first violin leaps away from the E♮ before the full
cadential 46 chord even arrives in measure 46. The
chromatic line in measures 48–​9 underscores the
change of enharmonic sense to the E♭ –​D semi­
tone, which now appears as D♯–​D♮ in A minor.25
If we think of notes as objects, and their spelling
as a kind of tonal identity, then enharmonicism is
a paradox. Clearly the E♭ is a single note through
the passage, but‸somehow it is divided between
one identity, ♭
‸ as 5 of A , and another in which it
is a D♯, a ♯4 of A minor, a very different identity.
The ontological paradox is resolved by thinking of
these distinct functions as paths or orientations
‸ in
a cyclic space. The E♭ is approached as 5 of A♭ , but
is resolved as a secondary leading tone to E. The
point in the space does not change its identity,
but in different contexts we might see it from
above or from below. From above, in F major, it is
an E♭ , a flatward chromatic, whereas from below
in A minor it appears as a sharpward inflection,
a D♯. In Mozart’s progression, we witness one
voice cycling the space:  from the perspective of
the voices touring the space horizontally in par­
allel thirds, the first violin line goes flatward from
the E♭ disappearing below the horizon and re-​
emerging from above where it resolves to E. One
of the enharmonically stable lines resolves to E
from the flat side at the same time, resulting in an
enharmonic convergence, analogous to the triadic
convergences discussed above. The enharmonic
convergence has a similar resolving force. In the
passage from Mozart’s string quartet, he uses it

24 On specifically musical concepts of homotopy, see Yust 2013b and Hughes 2015. For a definition of homotopy in the
context of an introductory treatment of topology see Munkres 1999, ch. 9, or Stahl and Stenson 2013, ch. 9.
25 Schachter (1991) discusses other prominent Mozart movements, the “Jupiter” Symphony, K. 551, first movement,
and the overture to Clemenza di Tito, that use the same enharmonic move: initial tonicization of a remote key leading
ultimately to a tonicized dominant of A minor via an E♭  = D♯ enharmonic reinterpretation. The present example differs in that
the home key is D minor rather than C major, and the remote key is A♭ as opposed to E♭ . Nonetheless, other commonalities
hint at a routine that is in some ways absolute-​pitch dependent.

Harmony Simplified • 251
EXAMPLE 10.17  Mozart K. 421 String Quartet, mm. 38–​55, with the second alternate ending of the
first reprise (m. 41)
to add force to the structural arrival at the key of
the dominant.
The piano introduction of Schubert’s “Das
Heimweh,” Example 10.19, contains another,
slightly more unusual, example. When the piano
strikes the C7 chord, it is understood as a dom­
inant seventh, possibly a dominant of F major,‸
the subtonic, but in any case,
‸ the C is a C (4 of G
minor) and the B♭ is a B♭ (3). Schubert resolves
it, however, as an augmented sixth, the C down
to B and the B♭ up to B—​that is, as if the B♭ were
an A♯. B♭ and A♯ represent the same point in the
space, but the voice leading moves through this
point in a homotopically non-​trivial way, from
the B♭ to the B♮ by diatonic half-​step, then on­
ward to C♯ and then to D by diatonic whole step
and half-​step, and ultimately back to B♭ through
252 • O r g ani z e d   T ime
the descending-​ fifths sequence. As this voice
cycles the vertical dimension of the space, an­
other line, moving from D through C to B (in
the left hand part) makes a voice-​leading cycle,
converging with the enharmonic voice on B. The
convergence gives the progression an added
teleological force.
In the last section of “Das Heimweh” (given
in Ex. 10.6 above) there is a more remark­
able example of immediate enharmonicism.
The commonly recognized forms of this tech­
nique involve dissonant and often ambiguous
chords: diminished sevenths, augmented sixths,
and augmented triads. These chords themselves
have a large vertical spread in the Tonnetz space
that lends them to immediate enharmonicism.
However, in the passage in Example 10.20(a),
Schubert achieves immediate enharmonicism
with consonant triads. The progression, which
follows the ascending chromatic build-​ up,26
sets the final line of the poem, “Ach, es zieht
ihn dahin mit unwiderstehlicher Sehnsucht”
EXAMPLE  10.18  Key relations of the passage
and the triadic cycles (solid arrows) and en­
harmonic convergence (dashed arrows) on the
Tonnetz
EXAMPLE 10.19  Resolution of an augmented sixth as an enharmonic convergence
26 These ascending chromatic parallel thirds intensify a motive introduced in the first section of the song on the words
“so welkt er, ihr entrissen dahin” (“How he wilts when torn away from there [his homeland]”).
(“Ah, they [his native mountains] fill him with
such irresistible longing”) in the most striking
and intensely chromatic way. As the plot in
Example 10.20(b) shows, there is an enharmonic
tour in one voice, the bass, where the note G♭ is
approached as if it were the leading tone, F♯, an
understanding that is aided by the brief antici­
pation in that voice before the jolting harmonic
shift over the bar line. The neighbor tone in the
upper voice, however, is also a diatonic semitone
(D–​E♭ ). As the two voices part ways, sharpward
to F♯ and flatward to E♭ , the F♯ comes into view
from below, as a G♭ . Indeed, in observance of the
very consonance of the E♭ minor chord, it must
be so. The melodic ‸ voice,
‸ ‸ remaining in place over
the neighboring 5–​6–​5 motion, is a witness to the
enharmonic transformation in the bass. When
the E♭ minor resolves in the next measure, a
modal shift has taken place. The upward striving
of the chromatic ascent at the beginning of the
phrase, which gave rise to the G major chord two
measures earlier, opened up the sharpward av­
enue through which the leading tone, the em­
blem of striving, was transformed uncannily
into a lifeless flattened tonic, perfectly reflecting
the impossible combination of hope and inac­
cessibility of the longed-​for homeland described
Harmony Simplified • 253
EXAMPLE 10.20  (a) “Das Heimweh,” mm. 188–​91, (b) enharmonic convergent voice leading
(a)

(b)

in the text. The FØ7 neighbor chord underlines
the new enharmonic status of the G♭ , and also
converts the preceding B♮, an emblem of hope,
into a C♭ , drawn “irresistibly” down to the B♭ .
The previous section posited that conver­
gence is an essential component to the sense
of resolution crucial to cadences. The same
is true for ordinary instances of immediate
enharmonicism:  the enharmonic convergence
of augmented sixths and diminished sevenths
resolutions has an effect of resolution similar
to regular triadic convergence. Even in this un­
usual example of immediate enharmonicism,
where there is no convergence in the sense
of two voices coming together, there is none­
theless an odd sense of arrival at the moment
of enharmonic transformation, a feeling
that
‸ ‸ would seem totally inappropriate to the
♯7–​6 interval in the outer voices. The progres­
sion, G major to E♭ minor, is uniquely suited
to this kind of enharmonicism. It is what
Cohn (1996, 2011)  calls the hexatonic pole, a
special relationship between triads of oppo­
site mode that have two equally distant en­
harmonic interpretations, as PLP and LPL,
and with a strictly triadic voice leading that
is totally semitonal and moves all voices. The
sharpward/​flatward equidistance of hexatonic
poles suggests an enharmonic ambiguity, but
the analysis of Example 10.20(b) suggests an­
other possibility. We can understand a single
voice as making an enharmonic tour in spite of
the others, so that both the melodic D–​E♭ and
the bass G–​G♭ (F♯) are understood as diatonic
semitones, an abdication of the simply-​triadic
model.27
The other kind of enharmonicism, which
Telesco (2002) calls “retrospective,” is the en­
harmonic cycle or tour. Where immediate
enharmonicism is analogous to convergent voice
leading, the enharmonic tour is analogous to
progressive voice leading. Like ordinary progres­
sive voice leading it is often, but need not be,
sequential. Where it is not strictly sequential,

27 Compare this interpretation to that of Damschroder (2010, 56–​8), whose theory reifies the scale step and therefore
confronts the paradox of enharmonicism. Our interpretations agree on upper-​neighbor status of the D–​E♭ –​D motion, but
Damschroder must therefore identify the bass as G♭ , relinquishing the possibility of understanding the approach to this note
as a diatonic semitone, G–​F♯, and hence its dominant-​like quality.

254 • O r g ani z e d   T ime

however, it typically invites interpretation as
some kind of modified sequence.28
Consider, for example, the theme of the fi­
nale to Schubert’s String Quintet (Ex. 10.21).
The theme is based on a simple V–​i alternation
over a dominant pedal. It also suggests a sym­
metrical eight-​measure hypermeter, but the po­
tential eight-​measure phrases are persistently
cut off two measures early (in m. 7 and m. 13).
After the second repetition in C minor, Schubert
transposes the theme unexpectedly up a minor
third, to E♭ minor. Here, he takes advantage of
an important feature he has composed‸ into the
theme:  its strong unison opening on 5. The se­
quential repetition therefore begins by simply
offering a single note, B♭ , for
‸ interpretation in
the preceding context (as 7) and proceeds to
build a new context from it. Schubert repeats
the procedure, cutting off the E♭ minor version
of the theme now another two measures earlier
(after four measures). The next transposition,
however, is up by half-​step, not by minor‸ third.
Nonetheless, the new note presented (5 of the
new key of E minor) is readily
‸ understood in the
preceding context as C♭ , or 6. Repeating the pro­
cedure one more time brings us to Schubert’s
goal, C major, the home key tonic. The E minor
music is again shortened by two measures
relative to the preceding E♭ minor music, to
produce an overall effect of goal-​directed pro­
gressive fragmentation. Tonally, the function of
the passage is to translate an unstable C minor
into a radiantly stable C major, which Schubert
accomplishes with a characteristically ingenious
manipulation of the functional sense of the har­
mony. The pedal, which has been treated as dom­
inant for the course of the sequence, suddenly
at the arrival of C major becomes tonic. The
course of the sequence already dictated that the
downbeat chord be of a major quality, like all the
preceding dominants, but now it is a major tonic.
One might wonder, though, if there is any
rationale behind the irregularity of Schubert’s
sequential pattern, first by minor third, then
by semitone. Since the overall ‸ goal‸ of the pro­
cess fixes the endpoints at 5 and 1, we might
first observe that a perfectly regular sequence
by ascending semitone is not possible, since
it would require too many repetitions for the
hypermetric fragmentation to achieve the nec­
essary drive. Why not, though, an approximately
28 As in, for instance, Cohn’s (2011, 95–​102) examples of chromatic sequences with substitutions.
29 See also Damschroder 2012, 209–​10.
regular pattern, ascending, say, by whole step
and half step? Example 10.21(b) shows the ac­
tual sequential pattern in the Tonnetz while
(c)  shows the more even alternative. The road
not taken is a voice-​leading tour of the space,
something that resembles a diatonic s​ equential
pattern, even if the sequential repetitions are
exact transpositions. Schubert aims instead for
a flatward enharmonic tour. The flatward minor
third transposition is therefore the ideal choice
for covering the extra ground.
The enharmonic tour has a special problem­
atic status for traditional Schenkerian theory.
For Schenker, each key represents some dia­
tonic function in another, structurally deeper
key, and is thereby ultimately traceable back to
the home key. Such relationships are clearly ev­
ident at each stage of the sequence, where each
new key is presented as a modally altered III
or ♭ II of the previous one, but the aggregate of
these relationships is not compatible with the
straightforward fact that the overall progres­
sion is V–​ .  .  .  –​I in C.  The role of hierarchy in
creating this problem is made particularly clear
by the network model, as illustrated in Example
10.21(d). To make the network consistent, an
enharmonic switch needs to be made some­
where, but a large-​ scale progression from V
of C minor to I  of D𝄫 major is hardly tenable,
and changing any one of the local relationships
to an augmented second or augmented unison
would be arbitrary. Nevertheless, where such
enharmonicism is acknowledged in Schenkerian
analysis the latter kind of solution is often the
fallback, as it is for Samarotto (2006), who
interprets a major-​ third cycle in Schubert’s
“Das Hirt auf dem Felsen” as involving an en­
harmonic reinterpretation at a particular point,
even though there is no principled reason to
put the change of spelling here rather than else­
where in the cycle.29 Indeed, it is precisely the
quality of traversing a great distance over the
whole course of the progression and not at any
one particular moment, before “echoing” back
to the home key, that is the special quality of
the enharmonic cycle. Clark (2011a, 195–​200)
documents how this attitude infects the wider
universe of Schubert criticism, such that the
enharmonic progressions are delegitimized in
structural status even by those with no alle­
giance to Schenkerian theory.
Harmony Simplified • 255
 Some authors in the Schenkerian tradi­
tion, such as Proctor (1978), claim that the
tonal language of composers like Schubert
harbors an internal rupture between two
harmonic systems, a twelve-​tone system of
chromaticism and the Schenker-​ conformant
diatonic language. For David Damschroder
enharmonicism reflects a suspension of tonal
logic within an otherwise tonally governed
harmonic framework.30 Positions like these
are hard to maintain when we get down to
nuts and bolts. Each sequential repetition in
Schubert’s theme is just as straightforwardly
tonal as the initial phrase itself. Each transi­
tion from one phrase to the next could be put
in another context where it would be enhar­
monically unproblematic. The enharmonic
paradox only arises when all of these parts are
combined to make the whole theme. But if the
whole theme is tonal, as are each of its parts,
and even each moment of transition between
those parts, where exactly is tonality sus­
pended? If it is not somewhere, or everywhere,
it must be nowhere.
The resolution of this paradox is again
in the topological rationalization of such
cycles through homotopy. The Tonnetz space
described in the previous section has always
been implicit in tonal harmony, not only in the
nineteenth century but over its entire history.
However, enharmonic cycles, a latent potenti­
ality of the system, were assiduously avoided
before the post-​Enlightenment era, in all but
a few exceptional instances. Within this geom­
etry, the algebra of Example 10.21(d) does in­
deed check out. Indeed, it is a precise analog
to another feature of tonal harmony that we
have found to be endemic, the cycling of tri­
adic voices.
The analogy is perhaps best understood by
drawing upon the idea of scalar voice leading
introduced in Chapter  2. I  argued there that

EXAMPLE 10.21  (a) Schubert, String Quintet, Allegretto theme, (b) its path in the Tonnetz, (c) hypo­
thetical alternate sequential route, and (d) network
(a)

30 He specifically attributes this to the suspension of harmonic function typical of sequences (2006, 261–​4; 2010, 48–​50)
and therefore it is not clear whether or how he would extend this reasoning to enharmonic tours that are not sequential, such
as the middle section of “Das Heimweh,” analyzed below.

256 • O r g ani z e d   T ime

EXAMPLE 10.21 Continued
(b)
(c)
(d)
hierarchical relationships between chords in
different keys involves not only voice leading
between chords, but also scalar inflections be­
tween their keys. Thus, a relationship like iii–​I,
which would be a weak triadic progression, since
it involves only motion in one voice, is stronger
as a progression between keys (e.g., E minor to
C major), where the motion includes not only
the triadic voice leading, but also a scalar voice
leading (such as F♯→♮). In a romanesca sequence
from his third “Prussian” sonata (Ex. 10.22),
C.P.E. Bach provides a nice illustration of how
chords can carry a scalar context on their backs
as they move around tonal space. At each stage in
the sequence we can infer a chang­ing scalar con­
text from the passagework and appoggiaturas.
The scales are oriented off of the succession of
triads, consisting of notes nearby in the space,
with a sharpward bias for the minor chords. While
the triadic voices cycle through the stations of
the triad, however, the scalar voice leadings are of
a simple neighboring type. Each inflection, such
as the initial E♭ →E♮, is reversed somewhere to re­
store the original state of the scale.
Now consider how the scalar contexts evolve
in the theme from Schubert’s String Quintet
(Ex. 10.23). All of them go in the same direc­
tion, flatward. At the end of the sequence, the
note G is there, but not in its original “voice.”
That is, if we track the scale-​steps through the‸
series of inflections, the one that began as G (5
of C minor) becomes G♭ in E♭ minor and F♭ minor
(  =  E minor) and then ultimately F in C major.
If we use spelling to track voices consistently
Harmony Simplified • 257
EXAMPLE 10.22  (a) Sequence from C.P.E. Bach, Keyboard Sonata Wq. 48/​3, (b) progression of scalar
contexts in the Tonnetz space: extra “tails” connect chords to the non-​B♭ major notes in their scales, and
dashed arrows connect notes of the diatonic scale to those related by chromatic semitone (inflections)
(a)

(b)

EXAMPLE  10.23  (a) Progression of scales and scalar inflections in Schubert’s Allegretto from Ex.
10.21, (b) the principal enharmonic progression of the passage
(a) (b)

through this process (associating each “voice”
with a letter name), this F is a G𝄫 , and the new G
is an A𝄫 . Just as the bass voice changes its triadic
affiliation from B♭ (root) to D (third) over the
course of Bach’s romanesca sequence, traversing
a triadic space, the scale steps of Schubert’s se­
quence traverse diatonic spaces.
The triadic voice-​ leading cycles of conven­
tional tonal harmony play a crucial structural
role as the harmonic representatives of linear

258 • O r g ani z e d   T ime

progressions, the goal-​directed driving force be­
hind tonal structure. Analogously, enharmonic
cycles correspond to enharmonic progressions,
which are directed motions from one scale
step to another. As with linear progressions
in a sequence, usually one or two enhar­
monic progressions drive the enharmonic tour
from among all the possible ones that can be
identified between the scales. The simplest dia­
tonic spaces to traverse are the semitonal ones.
In the sequence from Schubert’s Quintet, the
semitone common to the initial ‸ ‸ C minor and
the concluding C major, the 7–​1 step (B–​C), is of
particular importance. The traversal involves a
simple path in the Tonnetz space (Ex. 10.23(b)),
which combines a diatonic semitone from the
home key scale with a single chromatic semitone
between the same two notes. The musical pro­
cess of this journey has two or three essential
stages. First, the modulation from C minor to E♭
minor inflects the note C flatward to C♭ . At this
point the note C is necessarily absent from the
basic scale of the key. The next stage, modulating
from E♭ minor to F♭ minor, reintroduces pitch
class C as a D𝄫 . Now the diatonic semitone that
completes the tour exists in the basic scale of
the key. However, the tonal orientation of the
B–​C ( = C♭ –​D𝄫 ) semitone in E minor is reversed
from the original key, where C is the tonic note.
Therefore, the process is completed with one
more modulation to C major. The great sense
of arrival at C major is a testament to the goal-​
directed power of the enharmonic progres­
sion, analogous to the resolving force of linear
progressions.
For a composer like Schubert, enharmonicism
is not a special topic; it is an integral part of his
harmonic language. We encounter enharmonic
tours in virtually every late instrumental piece
of his, the only exception being pure variation
sets.31 While they do not necessarily appear in
shorter songs, in Schubert uses them frequently
in longer multi-​part songs where they serve spe­
cific expressive text-​setting roles, typically to rep­
resent psychological distance and psychological
journeys or transformations. “Das Heimweh,”
which we have already analyzed parts of above
(see Exx. 10.6 and 17–​18), is one such example.
After stating the basic idea in the first stanza—​a
man transplanted from his mountain homeland
withers in the city—​the bulk of the poem, the
31 Yet he even finds ways to incorporate them even into variation sets, as in the Introduction and Variations for Flute
and Piano, D. 802, where despite a lack of such cycles in the theme, Schubert incorporates them into the introduction, the
fugato sixth variation, and the coda.
next two stanzas, consists of a series of images
of the mountain homeland, visual images in
the second stanza and aural images in the third,
hallucinations that haunt the transplant and
cloud his sense of reality. Example 10.24(a)
shows passages from the long second stanza.
Starting with the move to F major in measure
40, Schubert progresses steadily flatward, first to
A♭ via the parallel F minor, then more directly to
♭ III of A♭ (C♭ ), which he then respells as B major.
Next, a substantial passage in B major repeats
the line “Und glühend im Rosenschimmer des
Abends” (“Glowing in the rosy glimmer of eve­
ning”), describing the mountains in the man’s
vision. After this break, Schubert completes the
enharmonic tour as the text steps back from the
visions to reality (“The images hover in front of
him . . . Always they are in front of him”).
Example 10.24(b) presents a broad tonal
analysis of the passage that includes all of these
key areas. The closely related keys in the first
part of the passage set up a large, incomplete
structure in G that is delayed by the move to F
and the rest of the enharmonic tour. The scale
step from A  to G is therefore the most struc­
turally significant interval over the passage.
Schubert accordingly emphasizes the progress
of the enharmonic cycle through this scale step,
first pointedly moving to A♭ in the melody to in­
dicate the mode shift over F. Then, the melody
of the B major section places a heavy emphasis
on G♯ and the subdominant harmony. The en­
harmonic line is completed with the cadence to
G at the end of the passage. This progression is
shown in the Tonnetz graph of Figure 10.24(c).
Note that this line is not structural as a voice
leading between chords. Instead, it is embedded
within the progression of scalar contexts:  con­
sidering just the background structure, D major
to B major to V–​I of G major, the scalar contexts
of the major events (which are all goal tonics of
cadences) contain the notes A, G♯, and G respec­
tively. Since the scalar contexts are determined
by surrounding events, regardless of their
structural status, the emphasis on these notes
in these surrounding events helps to bring out
this particular series of scalar inflections as
a specific expression of the enharmonic tour.
The idea that the main structural event of a
section inherits the emphasis on certain notes
in its surrounding scalar context is similar to
Harmony Simplified • 259
EXAMPLE 10.24  (a) “Das Heimweh,” mm. 31–​67, (b) a summary tonal structure of the enharmonic
tour, (c) the key areas and enharmonic progressions in the Tonnetz space
(a)

260 • O r g ani z e d   T ime

EXAMPLE 10.24 Continued

Harmony Simplified • 261
EXAMPLE 10.24 Continued
(b)
(c)
the principle of unfolding, in which an impor­
tant harmonic event adopts the melodic note
of some other event structurally below it for
the purpose of linear relations within the back­
ground structure (see §§2.2 and 9.3.)
There is at least one other enharmonic
progression that is strongly evident over the
passage. The singer approaches the key of B
major with a grandly protracted ascent to its
third, E♭ (D♯), to represent the text’s “peak
upon peak rising to staggering heights.” This
E♭ relates as an upper neighbor
‸ ‸ to the initiating
note of the sequence, D, the 5–​6 semitone of the
home key of G minor. It returns to D via a chro­
matic semitone, which‸ constitutes
‸ an enhar­
monic traversal of the 5–​6 scale step, facilitated
by the intervening B major context. The E♭ –​D
enharmonic progression (also shown in Ex.
10.24c) is a significant parallel progression to
the A–​G♯–​G one. It also has a special motivic
status:  preparing for the devastating enhar­
monic convergence on the word “Sehnsucht”
262 • O r g ani z e d   T ime
in the last section, which is exactly the same
progression in reverse (see Ex. 10.20). This
connection is especially interesting, because, as
noted earlier, the later progression is based upon
a hexatonic pole progression, from G major to E♭
minor. The main keys of the enharmonic cycle,
as it turns out, are also enharmonic poles, G
minor and B major. In fact, the entire progres­
sion, G minor—​B major—​G major, is a pitch-​
class inversion of the progression G major—​E♭
minor—​G minor (fixing G and D). The tragic
hexatonic pole is an attempt to undo, as it were,
the journey taken over stanzas 2 and 3, met­
aphorically a reenactment of the protagonist’s
journey away from the mountain homeland. It
is hard to believe that these relationships could
be incidental, which underlines the broader
point that Schubert, at this late stage in his
career (1825), demonstrates a mastery of the
enharmonic universe unique for his time, and
comparable to earlier composers’ facility with
the diatonic universe.
 Enharmonic progressions are certainly not
exclusive to Schubert, though. They appear spo­
radically in Haydn and Mozart’s music32 and
are important to the harmonic language of
many composers from Beethoven onward. For
instance, the development section of the an­
dante “Szene am Bach” (“Scene by the Brook”)
of Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony traverses a
flatward enharmonic cycle similar to those we
find frequently in Schubert’s music. Lockwood

EXAMPLE  10.25  (a) Chopin, Mazurka, op.  33/​2, mm. 48–​74, (b)  tonal structure of the passage,
(c) the key areas and enharmonic progressions in the Tonnetz space
(a)

32 See Cohn 2011, 26–​7, who gives examples from development sections Mozart and Haydn’s late symphonies (K. 543
and Haydn’s no. 98, finale—​see also Telesco 2002). Other examples, all in development sections: Haydn’s String Quartet
op. 77/​2 (see Somfai 1970, Lockwood 2012), Mozart, Violin Sonata no. 40, K. 454, ii; Haydn Piano Trio, H. 22, iii (see Telesco
2002). These examples all come from the 1780s and 1790s. Earlier examples are rare, but a few are known, such as passages
from Rameau’s Hippolyte et Aricie and Les Indes Galantes discussed by Telesco (2002) and the development of Scarlatti’s F ♯
major Sonata, K. 319, discussed by Agmon (1990).

Harmony Simplified • 263
EXAMPLE 10.25 Continued
(b)

(c)

(2015, 126–​ 8) argues that this movement is
central to the symphony, pointing out that its
germinal idea can be found in a sketchbook
entry from four years before he began working
on the symphony in earnest, where Beethoven
writes “the greater the brook the deeper the
tone.”33 Lockwood (140) suggests that this idea
is realized in features of register and orchestra­
tion in the movement, but it is not entirely clear
that there are any such long-​range progressions
in these dimensions, since lower-​ register
instruments and tutti textures are present
throughout. Another possible interpretation is
that Beethoven’s “deeper the tone” is a slightly
more figurative one, that he realizes “deeper”
through the flatward dimension of tonal space.
This dimension has the added advantage of its
inherently cyclic nature, so that Beethoven can
return to the home key without ever turning
back on his unwaveringly flatward progression
of keys.34
As a final example, Example 10.25 presents
the middle section of the Chopin Mazurka,
op. 33/​2 (1838), whose main theme is analyzed
at the beginning of Chapter 2. This‸ enharmonic
‸
progression, which traverses the 1–​7 scale step
with great care and precision, rescues this
Mazurka from the banality of its simple and
repetitive main theme. Notice that, unlike in
the long enharmonic tour of “Das Heimweh,”

33 See Lockwood and Gosman 2013 pt. 2, 56–​7 and pt. 3, 96.

34 Lockwood (2015, 138) also suggestively refers to the birdsong in the coda of the movement as an “ensemble cadenza”
of birds(!) This idea can also be linked to the development section, which seems to reference the concertino genre in its series
of woodwind solos. These proceed in exactly the same order as in the birdsong cadenza: a flute and oboe duet (flute leading)
in the G major section (mm. 58–​67) and a clarinet solo in the E♭ major section (mm. 69–​77). This order is tied to the tonal
scheme of the development, in the sense that Beethoven gives each instrument a solo in one of its favored keys (and shortens
the B major section of mm. 79–​84, which is no one’s favored key).

264 • O r g ani z e d   T ime

there is no linear progression in D major oper­
ative over the passage—​all of the higher-​order
structural momentum comes from the enhar­
monic progression. Another interesting fea­
ture of the passage is that the main secondary
key, D♭ /​C♯, is in the same vertical column of the
Tonnetz space as the dominant, while tonics of
the other transitional keys are vertically aligned
with the home key. Cohn (1999; 2011, 126–​8)
tentatively suggests that the vertical columns
of the Tonnetz space, which correspond to his
hexatonic cycles, might represent harmonic
functional categories, an idea that works nicely
for this piece.35

35 More specifically, Cohn’s (2011, 102–​6, 121–​38) voice-​leading zones correspond precisely to vertical positions in the
Tonnetz space. Within a given hexatonic column, the minor triads are slightly to the right of the major triads, so each occupies
a distinct voice-​leading zone.

Harmony Simplified • 265
 11
Reforming Formal Analysis
11.1  TONAL-​F ORMAL
DISJUNCTION AND
THE PHRASE
The current state of the concept of musical phrase
is one of simultaneous unclarity and elemen­
tary importance to tonal analysis. This situation
is perhaps attributable to its long lifespan and
the perennial temptation of the music-​language
analogy from which it originates. Many music
theorists have a lot at stake in what should and
should not be called a phrase, and disagree about
it in rather basic ways. As a cipher for the state of
tonal theory at large, concepts of phrase catalog,
among other things, our reluctance to fully rec­
ognize the independence of different structural
modalities. To understand how, we must first
deconstruct some of the contradictory meanings
and associations of the word.
The paradigm of a phrase comes from the
antecedent and consequent phrases of simple
periods, and this is perhaps the only circum­
stance where there is unanimous agreement
266 • 
about what should be called phrases. Any of the
properties of the phrases of a period may be used
to define phrases generally. These include:
(1) They are normatively four measures long.
(2) They end with cadences of some kind.
(3) They are normally parallel and/​or marked
by caesuras.
The first property is hypermetrical: the phrases
are large spans in the rhythmic structure. The
second is tonal:  the phrases make up the main
tonal division of the period. The third is formal.
The problem with this choice of paradigm for de­
fining phrase is that it is a special circumstance
in which the structure of all these modalities co­
incide, making it unclear how the concept should
be generalized. The usual recourse is to choose
one modality over another. Thus, Rothstein
(1989) chooses tonal structure: “A phrase should
be understood as . . . a directed motion in time
from one tonal entity to another” (5). Caplin
(1998), on the contrary, chooses formal struc­
ture, stating that, while “most theories of form
EXAMPLE  11.1  C.P.E. Bach, A  minor Quartet, Wq. 93, Adagio, mm. 1–​8, with formal and tonal
structure
define phrase in relation to varying degrees of
melodic and harmonic closure,” for him it is “a
functionally neutral term of grouping struc­
ture and refers, in general, to a discrete group
of approximately four measures in length” (260,
n. 5). Although Caplin includes the four-​measure
norm in his idea of phrase, he does not under­
stand these in metrical terms but as a way of
pinning down the absolute size of phrases as
formal groups. While many definitions of phrase
require that they end with a cadence (Blombach
1987, 226), Caplin (2004, 58–​60) makes a strong
case that we should recognize formal units that
lack cadential closure, such as the presentations
of sentences (see §3.1), as phrases.
These ambiguities about how to define phrases
become most problematic when they collide with
two other common, though usually implicit,
assumptions about phrases:  first, that they
reside at some absolute structural level, and
second, that they are ubiquitous—​that is, that
pieces of music are made up entirely of phrases.
Rothstein’s definition of a phrase as a goal-​
directed tonal motion, for instance, leaves a lot
of ambiguity. As we have seen, goal-​ directed
motions pervade tonal structure, and Rothstein
does not specify what kinds of tonal motions are
suitable for defining phrases. One may assume
that phrase-​defining tonal motions are distin­
guished by occurring at a specific level of tonal
structure. Such absolute levels are best defined
by reference to hypermeter, since it is the only
structural modality constrained by real tem­
poral extent. Left to their own devices, either
tonal or formal structure alone as a phrase-​
defining criterion would lead to highly irregular
phrase rhythm. Hence Caplin also, when de­
fining phrase as an element of formal grouping,
appeals to hypermeter with the invocation of the
four-​measure norm.
As is often the case in music theory, the
challenge of defining phrases is to relax the ri­
gidity of the concept(s) without losing—​ and
hopefully enhancing—​its precision. We can do
so by changing the task from simply identifying
phrases to a more nuanced task of distinguishing
between more and less neatly phrased music.
Instead of prioritizing tonal structure or formal
structure in the definition of phrases, then, we
can draw upon the best aspects of Rothstein’s
and Caplin’s definitions and define phrases as the
coordination of tonal and formal structure with
the upper levels of hypermeter. Timespans only
need to appear in the tonal and formal structure,
not to obtain a specific degree of structural depth
relative to the other phrases, to be clear phrases.
The inclusion of hypermeter in the definition
allows for a control of the absolute temporal ex­
tent and regularity of phrases, something that is
important to the common understanding of the
term. A definition that draws upon all modalities
thus saves us from the quandaries of a definition
exclusive to one modality or the other.
While the usual paired-​phrase thematic con­
structions are often neatly phrased, this is not al­
ways the case. Take, for example, the main theme
of the largo movement of C.P.E. Bach’s A minor
Flute Quartet, Wq. 93, in Example 11.1. The first
phrase, measures 1–​4, corresponds to a tonal
span from I to IV. The predominant IV of the first
phrase, however, is‸ structurally secondary to the
one that supports 2 towards the end of the second
phrase. The first part of the second phrase, meas­
ures 5–​6, is therefore structurally fairly remote,
a chromaticized sequence ‸ outlining a melodic
fourth-​progression to 2 within the expanded
Reforming Formal Analysis • 267
EXAMPLE 11.2  (a) Brahms, Symphony no. 4, main theme, (b) tonal structure
(a)

(b)
predominant. There is thus no tonal span that
is even close to matching the span of the second
phrase. For an adherent to the idea that phrases
are determined by tonal motions, it would not
be reasonable to call measures 5–​8 a phrase, and
therefore it would be necessary to call the entire
theme a single eight-​measure phrase. Someone
like Caplin, on the other hand, would have no
qualms with identifying paired phrases here. The
coincidence of a clear formal division with a four-​
measure hypermeter makes it relatively unprob­
lematic to do so, and this analysis is preferable
considering the evident similarity of this theme
to other types of paired-​phrase constructions.
Working from the definition of phrase outlined
above, we can say that this theme is not as neatly
phrased as an ordinary parallel period, because
of the lack of perfect coordination of tonal struc­
ture with form and hypermeter. Nonetheless, the
strong coordination of formal and hypermetrical
structure, which is partly consistent with tonal
structure (in the first phrase) makes for a readily
identifiable pair of four-​measure phrases. (See
also the Larghetto theme from Beethoven’s
Violin Concerto in Ex. 4.13, which has a similar
disjunction between tonal structure and coordi­
nated hypermeter and form.)
The impossibility of relying entirely upon
tonal structure to define phrases is evident from
the theme of Brahms’ Fourth Symphony, given
in Example 11.2. The hypermeter of the theme is
unambiguous and almost perfectly regular, the
only exception being a two-​measure expansion
of the last four-​measure unit. The formal struc­
ture is also unproblematic, based upon a great
deal of repetition at the two-​measure level and
also upon fragmentation. The formal structure
matches the hypermeter perfectly. Therefore,
the theme can be readily divided into four-​
and six-​ measure phrases:  two four-​ measure
presentations, a six-​measure continuation, and
a four-​measure cadential phrase. Most of these
phrases also exist in the tonal structure. The
first, however, is not really a directed motion,
since it consists of neighbor motion over the
tonic. The second presentation‸ outlines ‸ a me­
lodic third progression (from 1 to 6), and ‸ the
continuation
‸ a voice exchange between 4 and
6. The cadential phrase is not a tonal span.
The tonal structure does not define these
as phrases by itself, though. There is no exclu­
sively tonal ‸rationale
‸ ‸ for choosing the third-​
progression 1–​7–​6 (in presentation 2) as a span
as ‸ opposed
‸ ‸ ‸ to the larger fourth-​ progression,
1–​7–​6–​5, of which it is a part. The latter choice,
however, would lead to an eighteen-​ measure
phrase followed by a two-​measure phrase. This
violates an intuitive need for proportionality. We
could account for the proportionality require­
ment by appealing to hypermetrical criteria,
looking for tonal motions consistent with
hypermetrical groupings. This would identify
presentation 2 and the continuation as phrases,
but the cadential phrase still violates any strictly
tonality-​based definition.
Yet simply identifying the phrases of this
theme is not a great victory. While locating
phrase boundaries is generally a pedestrian an­
alytical activity, neatness of phrasing is typ­
ically of considerable aesthetic significance.
Brahms’s theme is not entirely neatly phrased
because of the tonal-​formal disjunction shown
in Example 11.2(b), which actually occurs above
the phrase level. This tonal-​formal disjunction
is essential to the feeling of long-​breathed con­
tinuity produced by the theme, in spite of the
relatively square phrasing and presentation of
ideas. It conjures the sense of Romantic breadth
so prized by Brahms and his contemporaries.
11.2  RITORNELLO FORM
IN THE EIGHTEENTH-​
CENTURY SYMPHONY
As we saw in Chapter  3, in the middle of the
eighteenth century, sonata form as it is pres­
ently understood existed within a continuum of
formal types, including those that lack a main
theme recapitulation or a fully fledged devel­
opment section. What all these types share is
an exposition with certain predictable design
features. The essential feature of this family of
formal types, then, is the binary division marked
by a strong caesura and reinforced by rhyming
closing material. There is another common
eighteenth-​ century formal model, sometimes
referred to as “ritornello form,” that differs from
the large binary forms in this basic respect.
Ritornello form is found in symphony first
movements and overtures, as well as concertos. It
seems to be characteristic especially of the Italian
overture, and is the standard design for symphony
first movements for north German composers J.G.
Graun and C.P.E. Bach. (Bach continued to write
in this form for his entire career, into the 1770s.)
One indicator (though not a perfect indicator) of
ritornello form is that it is always written without
reprises. While sonata-​form first movements can
also sometimes be written without reprises, it is
Reforming Formal Analysis • 269
possible to neatly segregate the two formal princi­
ples by observing that in sonata-​form movements,
even if the reprises do not appear, they could be
inserted without doing violence to (and in fact
enhancing) the formal and tonal logic of the piece,
whereas this is not the case in ritornello forms.
In Mozart’s 46 symphonies, for instance, 21 first
movements lack repeats altogether, but only one
of these (no. 26) is in ritornello form.1 While one
symphonic first movement hardly amounts to a
significant portion of Mozart’s output, this one
example is vital to understanding the composer,
because it demonstrates full awareness of ritor­
nello form as an alternate formal procedure in the
genre. His otherwise rather consistent use of what
we now know as standard sonata form is therefore
not attributable to mere habit or convention, but
a conscious choice. We must therefore ask what
about this formal practice appealed to Mozart: is
there a certain desirable effect associated with so­
nata form directly? Or, does the sonata form facili­
tate other aspects of Mozart’s style? We will return
to these questions below and in the next section.
The term “ritornello” harkens to the Vivaldian
concerto, which suggests (though the exact
meaning of this term is rarely made clear2) that
it refers to a return of material that may occur in
multiple keys. One might then suppose that the
essential difference between ritornello and reca­
pitulation is purely tonal: the recapitulation is re­
quired to coincide with a return to the home key,
whereas the ritornello appears at many stations
of a tour of keys. Under that definition, the dis­
tinction between ritornello and sonata forms
would evaporate. After all, in the ritornello form
of Graun’s symphonies the main theme usually
appears first in the home key, then in the dom­
inant, then in the home key again. This is pre­
cisely the pattern of many sonata-​form pieces,
with the main theme reappearing at the begin­
ning of the development section transposed to
the dominant. If the only distinction between
ritornello and recapitulation were the tonality-​
based one, then the difference between these
forms would amount to empty semantics—​that
in one case we call the return in the dominant a
ritornello, in the other a development.
This fact has, presumably, led theorists
like Hepokoski and Darcy (2006) to reject the
distinc­tion altogether: they analyze C.P.E. Bach’s
symphonies, which are all written in ritornello
form, as sonata forms. However, the application
of their theory of sonata form to this repertoire
tends to brand the composer as inexplicably
bizarre.3 Such a conclusion seems unwarranted
when we recognize that Bach’s model for the form
of a symphonic first movement is quite consistent,
has clear historical antecedents, and simply is not
the same thing as sonata form. The problem, then,
is precisely pinpointing how the ritornello form
differs fundamentally from sonata form.
The overture to Pergolesi’s Adriano in Siria
(1734), Example 11.3, nicely illustrates a succinct
ritornello form. The fugato main theme is
suggestive of a connection between fugal form
and ritornello form, although among Pergolesi’s
opera overtures, which are typically written in
some kind of ritornello form, the fugato style of
this overture is unique (except for the overture
to L’Olimpiade, which is a recomposition of this
one). The essential feature in the design of the
main theme is its beginning on a strong down­
beat tonic note in the principal melody and bass,
and the offbeat entrance of the countermelody.
This feature is also in evidence in the first
movement of J.G. Graun’s F major Symphony,
Av. 49 (Ex. 11.4), whose main theme begins with
a strong unison octave on the tonic note. The
strong tonic beginning enables Graun to elide
the theme, transposed to C major, with the ca­
dence in measure 25, the beginning of the de­
velopment section. This moment is essential to
the piece’s status as a ritornello form. Otherwise
the formal design closely resembles contempora­
neous sonata forms: the exposition has a medial
caesura and brief second theme. The second part
modulates to a contrasting key (D minor), and
presents the thematic material of the exposition

1 Of these other 20, four are in exposition–​recapitulation form, and three of those four are repurposed opera
overtures: K. 111(+120), K. 208(+102), and K. 196(+121), the exception being Symphony no. 23, K. 181. All of Mozart’s
opera overtures use exposition–​recapitulation form, with the possible exception of La Bertulia liberata, K. 118. Mozart thus
maintained a definite, though porous, genre distinction between overture and symphony. The same may be said for Haydn.
2 An exception is Schulenberg (2001, 296–​7), who defines the form in the context of the Baroque concerto.
3 They say of Bach’s symphonies in general that they “combine an oddity of syntax with the lack of a guidepost of an
expositional repeat,” claim that his “manner of approaching [the second rotation] is extremely unorthodox,” and refer to a
moment in Wq. 182/​3 as “eccentrically wrong” (Hepokoski and Darcy 2006, 265). The charge of unorthodoxy, in particular,
shows a lack of historical perspective. Although Bach’s use of ritornello form seems to be fairly unique for the 1770s, it fits
into a distinguished tradition, stemming from the Neapolitan overture and persisting as a standard practice in the North
German tradition for the better part of the eighteenth century.

270 • O r g ani z e d   T ime

EXAMPLE 11.3  Pergolesi, Overture to Adriano in Siria, i
EXAMPLE 11.4  (a) J.G. Graun, Symphony in F major, Av. 49, i, (b) summary tonal and formal struc­
ture. Note: This reduction is transcribed from a manuscript copy, RISM 190010958, based primarily on
the string parts only. The winds mostly double or fill out harmony throughout. There are some evident
copyist mistakes in the viola and cello parts. I  have attempted to find the most reasonable possible
corrections for them.
(a)
EXAMPLE 11.4 Continued

(b)
(main theme, transition, subordinate theme) in
the same order, following what Hepokoski and
Darcy (2006, 19, 206–​7) call the “rotational prin­
ciple,” with both latter parts firmly in D minor.
That is, insofar as the second part may be un­
derstood as a development, it only moves to a
contrasting key; it does not project any greater
degree of tonal instability, fragmentation, or
liquidation relative to the exposition. Still the
second part resembles “development” sections of
the era, particularly in beginning with a transpo­
sition of the main theme to the subordinate key
(see §11.3). The recapitulation (not given) also
follows the same thematic sequence, with a com­
pressed transition and an expanded cadential
area in the subordinate theme.
Graun’s approach to ritornello form is there­
fore not unlike sonata-​form practice of his time.
Other than the stronger tendency towards
a straightforward rotational pattern for the
second part, the essential difference is the eli­
sion of the subordinate-​key cadence. While this
might seem like a very localized event, it is of
fundamental importance to the formal struc­
ture, and has significant repercussions on many
other aspects of the genre. It means that the ex­
position is no longer a discrete section, in the
sense that it would be impossible to repeat it. It
also means that the formal structuring principle
operative at the beginning of the development
is repetition rather than caesura. Accordingly,
the large-​scale formal structure is different: the
development groups with the exposition, rather
than the recapitulation. This conflicts with the
tonal structure, so that the whole movement has
a high-​level tonal-​formal disjunction spanning
the development section, giving this section a
special degree of heightened tension and ex­
citement. Because the primary formal prin­
ciple is repetition, caesura is generally avoided
throughout, giving these forms a feeling of re­
lentless forward momentum. In the Av. 49 first
movement, the only major caesura occurs before
the recapitulation. Similarly, this also leads to a
tendency to eschew large-​scale fragmentation
in the second parts of these forms, the hallmark
of sonata-​form developments.
Ritornello form also imposes constraints
on the design of the main theme, since it must
function as a point of cadential arrival as well as
a beginning. Historically this kind of opening ges­
ture came to define symphonic style generally,
even though ritornello form was ultimately used
only by a limited group of composers. This con­
straint may be one candidate for what may have
dissuaded Mozart and other composers from
ritornello form. Consider the opening of the al­
legro of his “Linz” Symphony, no.  36 (K. 425)
in Example 11.5(a). It would not be inconceivable
to elide the end of the exposition with a ‸repetition
of this theme, but its soft beginning on 3 certainly
does not lend itself to such a treatment, and it
would be markedly out of character for this form.
In still later works, such as Symphony no. 39 (K.
543, Ex. 11.5b), it is nearly impossible to imagine
the main theme functioning as a ritornello. Both
of these allegros follow slow introductions, but the
same point could be made about the opening of
the G minor Symphony, no. 40, which does not.4
While avoiding ritornello form certainly gave
Mozart the freedom to write these kinds of main
themes, this is not a sufficient explanation for his
general use of sonata form, because these examples
come from later works (1783, 1788). In earlier
symphonies, Mozart opens in the traditional sym­
phonic manner, on a forte tonic chord or unisono
melody beginning on tonic, almost invariably.5 This
suggests that this convention of the symphonic
opening far outlasted their particular formal raison
d’être, and that Mozart’s later defiance of this con­
vention, though it took advantage of sonata form,
could not be his main reason for using it.
In Graun’s symphonies, the distinction be­
tween ritornello and sonata forms seems minor,
localized as it is to a single moment; indeed, one
might even imagine inserting a small closing
section before the development to convert one
form into the other, despite the violence this
would certainly do to the work’s form and style.
The more fundamental nature of the distinc­
tion between the two formal practices becomes
clearer when we consider the divergent ways that
each form was developed by later composers,
who realized possibilities latent in the individual

4 The model of Haydn’s symphonies might be in evidence here. If we take the 38 symphonies Haydn composed between
1770 and 1784 (nos. 42–​47, 50–​81) we find that the standard of the strong tonic opening is firmly in evidence, being present
in the majority that lack a slow introduction (23 out of 32). Yet the soft opening (usually contrasting with a subsequent tutti
that provides something like the familiar symphonic opening) is a definite
‸ alternative, appearing as the beginning of the
main theme in nos. 58, 64, 67, 68, 77, 79, usually with a melody on 5, and as an introductory phrase in no. 51. When a slow
introduction is present (six instances), Haydn usually begins the main theme of the allegro at piano (the exception in no. 57).
These latter two types could have been a model for Mozart in his symphonies of the 1780s.
5 Possible exceptions being K. 114 and K. 130, which do begin on tonic notes, but piano rather than forte. In both of
these instances, the basic idea immediately reappears forte in a consequent phrase or repeat.

274 • O r g ani z e d   T ime

EXAMPLE 11.5  Allegro main themes of Mozart’s Symphonies no. 36 (a) and 39 (b)
(a)
(b)
formal logic of each. Sonata form, as is well known
from the Viennese classical tradition, evolved in
directions that would not have been possible with
the ritornello forms. On the other hand, one im­
portant composer, C.P.E. Bach, continued to build
upon and experiment with the ritornello form in
symphony first movements, and as a consequence
these works have suffered Procrustean distortions
under the conventions of sonata-​form interpre­
tation. It is important to understand this music
on their own terms, not only because it includes
some masterful works, but also because it gives us
a picture of the road not taken in the history of
the symphony, how the genre may have developed
differently had ritornello form first movements
remained the dominant convention.
In the sinfonia as in concerto and other genres,
Bach takes the conventions of Graun and other es­
tablished Berlin composers as a stylistic starting
point. (Wagner 1994, 244–​ 61, Schulenberg
2014, 61–​ 9, 209–​10). The importance of J.G.
Graun’s music to Bach may have been amplified
by the special admiration his father, J.S. Bach,
seems to have had for it (Heartz 2003, 380–​1).
Most of C.P.E. Bach’s ritornello forms resemble
Graun’s in that the ritornelli divide the piece into
three sections, with the second beginning with a
dominant-​key ritornello, and the last being a re­
capitulation beginning with a tonic-​key ritornello.
But in other instances Bach takes ritornello form
in directions that put it further out of the reach
of traditional sonata form analysis. He often
conceals his recapitulations, by beginning them in
a subdominant key (Wq. 182/​3, 5, and 6) or even
a submediant key (Wq. 183/​3), or by omitting
the first part of the main theme (Wq. 178). Such
treatments of the recapitulation, while they do
not usually occur with this sort of frequency, are
not unheard of in mid-​eighteenth-​century sonata
forms. Yet two other of these first movements
configure form and tonal structure in a way that
completely defies sonata-​form description, and
are worth examining in more detail.
The monuments of Bach’s unique symphonic
genre are two sets composed in Hamburg in 1773
(Wq. 182) and 1775–​6 (Wq. 183). The first of the
Wq. 182 set, in G major, though unique in certain
ways, is a clear and transparent application of ri­
tornello form. The ritornelli appear in an order
that is common for these symphonies: home key,
dominant, subdominant, and back to home key.
Furthermore, there is a clear rotational principle
at work. Example 11.6 shows the first rotation,
which includes the first two ritornelli. The main
theme ends with a half cadence and is followed by
a distinctive modulating transition that begins
on the dominant of the relative minor with a
loose inversion of the main theme basic idea. The
ritornello in D major is therefore approached not
by an elided PAC but by a half cadence in D major,
in the manner of a medial caesura. It starts with
an exact transposition of the first six-​measure
phrase, and the continuation that follows uses
the same building blocks. However, rather than
sequence down by third to stay in the same key,
as in the main theme, Bach modifies the sequen­
tial continuation to modulate to C major (the
subdominant) ending with a dominant arrival in
Reforming Formal Analysis • 275
EXAMPLE 11.6  C.P.E. Bach, Symphony, Wq. 182/​1, mm. 1–​60

276 • O r g ani z e d   T ime

EXAMPLE 11.6 Continued
that key. A new theme then follows in C major.
This theme has a clear subordinate-​theme char­
acter:  it is loose-​knit, emphasizes cadential ac­
tivity, and ultimately ends with a PAC in C major
elided into the next ritornello.
The remainder of the symphony, though
it is by no means a verbatim transposition of
measures 1–​57, follows the pattern of the first
two parts closely, as diagrammed in Example 11.7.
After the subdominant ritornello is the tran­
sition from part  1 transposed up a fourth,
followed by a ritornello in the home key. Bach
cuts the continuation from this ritornello, to ab­
breviate this last section and also to stay in the
Reforming Formal Analysis • 277
EXAMPLE 11.7  Formal design of C.P.E. Bach’s Symphony Wq. 182/​1, i
home key, going straight into the subordinate
theme from part  2, which then follows part  2
measure-​for-​measure, leading into a final repe­
tition of the main theme in G major, elided with
the subordinate-​theme cadence. Thus, the de­
sign of the piece is clear and tidy, two rotations
with the main theme appearing twice in each,
once at the beginning leading into a transition
and once after a medial caesura leading into a
subordinate theme. The PAC of the subordinate
theme ending the first rotation is elided into the
second rotation, the hallmark of ritornello form.
Despite its neatness, this design stubbornly
resists description in traditional sonata-​ form
language. There are two ways one could go about
trying to assign a modified sonata form schema
to the piece, depending on where one chooses to
end the exposition. The first solution, reflected
in Suchalla’s (1968, 42, 50–​1, 66) and Wagner’s
(1994, 239) analyses, is to identify part 1 as the
exposition. There is an undeniable logic to this
in that the second part of the form would then
begin in the standard mid-​eighteenth-​century
6 It is not totally clear that Hepokoski and Darcy understand part 2 as belonging to the exposition. However, it might be
inferred from their appeal to the rotational principle.
278 • O r g ani z e d   T ime
way, a transposition of the main theme to the
subordinate key. However, there are two serious
faults with this analysis. First, the exposition
would have no subordinate theme, and end with
a half cadence in the subordinate key rather than
a PAC. Second, the one theme that does have the
character of a subordinate theme would appear
as a new theme in a “development” section. If
one identifies the home-​key ritornello as the re­
capitulation (as Suchalla does), then we would
also would have a situation where the material of
the exposition comes back in the second part of
the development, and the recapitulation omits
this material and instead brings back a theme
from the first part of the development. This anal­
ysis makes a fantastic mess out of what is on the
face of it a straightforward formal design.
The other possible avenue is the one taken by
Hepokoski and Darcy (2006, 265), who identify
parts  3 and 4 as a subdominant recapitula­
tion. Parts  1 and 2, then, would be the expo­
sition of a sonata form without a development
(exposition–​recapitulation form).6 The logic
EXAMPLE 11.8  C.P.E. Bach, Symphony Wq. 183/​2, (a) beginning of main theme and (b) end of tran­
sition through most of the second part
(a)
(b)
of this choice is well suited to the foremost
concerns of Hepokoski and Darcy’s theory, me­
dial caesuras and rotations. The clear medial cae­
sura preceding the ritornello in D major strongly
suggests that this initiates the subordinate
theme in the manner of a so-​called monothematic
exposition. Furthermore, the exposition–​
recapitulation analysis matches the rotational
design. Still, to have a subdominant recapit­
ulation in an exposition–​ recapitulation form
Reforming Formal Analysis • 279
would be extreme and unprecedented, not to
mention the fact that the recapitulation is elided
with the cadence of the exposition. Worse yet,
the subordinate theme actually modulates away
from the subordinate key. Hence Hepokoski and
Darcy’s charge that “substantial thematic and
tonal deformations” produce a form “rendered
coherent chiefly by a readily perceptible adher­
ence to the rotational principle” (265). Indeed,
the rotational principle is critical to Bach’s prac­
tice and leads to a high degree of transparency in
works like this, but there is no need to appeal to
deformations if we regard ritornello form as the
underlying model rather than sonata form.
Most of Bach’s symphonies have a three-
r itornello form with an additional truncated
​ the effect of a distinct ritornello. Another short
fourth ritornello that initiates a short coda or
transition into the slow movement. This is the
form of the E♭ major symphony, Wq. 183/​2, first
movement, another of Bach’s creations that resists
sonata-​form interpretation (Ex. 11.8). The second
ritornello of this symphony, however, appears
not in the dominant key as it does all of his other
major-​mode works, but in the subdominant (mm.
30–​3). At first blush, one might suppose that Bach
is treating the subdominant as an alternate sub­
ordinate key, but this not the case. The usual way
of writing a ritornello form is to elide the second
ritornello with the cadence of a subordinate theme
(as in Graun’s symphony in Ex. 11.4). However, no
subordinate theme appears before the subdom­
inant ritornello in Bach’s E♭ major Symphony.
Instead, there is a clear main-​theme–​transition
section (mm. 1–​25) ending with a long domi­
nant and clear medial caesura, followed by just
four measures of sequence (a little running tri­
plet melody traded measure-​by-​measure between
two solo flutes) which modulates rather abruptly
to the subdominant key. The section that follows
reorders some of the elements of the “exposi­
tion” (actually just a main theme and transition),
with a transitional sequence preceding material
adapted from the second half of the main theme
(the unisono trills) in measures 45–​51. The tran­
sitional sequence modulates to F minor, and the
main theme material is transposed to this key,
ending with an F minor cadence in measure 53.
In other words, the section beginning with the
second ritornello behaves entirely like an ordinary
second part (“development”). It is followed by a
retransition (mm. 53–​69), again utilizing the solo
winds in a concertante fashion, that sets up a reca­
pitulation in the ordinary manner.
This piece thus defies sonata form in a rather
basic way, lacking a subordinate theme altogether.
280 • O r g ani z e d   T ime
Since the ritornello form already compromises
the subordinate-​theme cadence by eliding it, this
innovation, eliminating the subordinate theme,
is a natural extension. It creates a special compo­
sitional problem for Bach, though, since the sub­
ordinate theme normally has the crucial function
of providing the final cadence when it returns in
the recapitulation. He solves this in an ingenious
way. After an exact repeat of the 25-​measure main
theme (mm. 70–​94), a transposed and extended
version of the transition (mm. 95–​101) leads into
a partial fourth rotation, shown in Example 11.9.
This rotation lacks the distinctive opening ges­
ture of the main theme, starting instead from the
unisono dominant four bars in, so it does not have
sequential passage in the winds (mm. 105–​10)
leads into a version of the main theme continua­
tion taken from the second part, measures 38–​53,
but cutting out the insertion of measures 45–​51
to build greater momentum into the final cadence.
The cadential material from the development-​like
second part thereby steps in to fulfill the essential
role normally played by a subordinate theme.
On the large scale, the formal structure of the
movement is like that of other three-​ritornello
forms. Each ritornello initiates a major section,
with the principal division occurring at the be­
ginning of the final recapitulatory ritornello.
The tonal structure is different, though. There
is no significant dominant key in the whole
movement; instead, F minor serves as the only
other major key area. Because of its lack of direct
relation to the tonic, though, it does not act as a
true subordinate key, instead ultimately playing
a secondary structural role to the dominant at
the end of the second part. There is therefore no
major tonal division prior to the recapitulation,
and the large-​scale tonal structure matches the
characteristic formal structure of the ritornello
form, as shown in Example 11.10. The charac­
teristic tonal-​formal disjunction of the form
(as in Example 11.4) is still present, but more
localized.
Graun’s symphonies are excellent mid-​
eighteenth-​century works and were popular in
their time, and Bach’s later symphonies were
among the greatest works in the genre of the
1770s. Why, then, does the symphonic ritornello
form seem to meet a dead-​end at this point?
Mozart, for one, certainly was not unaware of
this formal option, as we have seen. But even
though later symphony first movements often
exhibit the influence of the style of Graun and
C.P.E. Bach (for example, the “Paris” Symphony,
EXAMPLE 11.9  C.P.E. Bach, Symphony, Wq. 183/​2, incomplete fourth rotation

K. 297), they still adhere to the basic outlines of
sonata form. For Mozart and Haydn, some basic
limitations of the ritornello form must have made
it less attractive as symphony first movements
expanded in scope and ambition. Most impor­
tantly, giving up the caesura associated with the
subordinate-​key cadence means that repetition
must be relied upon at this juncture as the main
formal structuring principle. This repetition of
the main theme (or at least its basic idea) was
standard for binary forms in the earlier eight­
eenth century anyway. But Haydn and Mozart

EXAMPLE 11.10  Tonal and formal structure summary of C.P.E. Bach, Wq. 183/​2, i

Reforming Formal Analysis • 281

largely abandoned it. Mozart’s symphony first
movements, for instance, only occasionally ex­
hibit this kind of parallelism, and when they
do it is typically very loosely motivic in nature
rather than a full statement of the transposed
main theme basic idea.7 Similar points can be
made about the genres of keyboard sonata and
string quartet, as we will see in the next section.
11.3  FORM(S) AND RECIPES
The status of musical convention is an especially
delicate issue in the theory of musical form.
When writing about form, theorists sometimes
appear to misrepresent composer’s conventions
as basic principles, and other times seem to
doubt the existence of principles altogether and
present descriptive catalogs of conventional
practice as theory. Hepokoski and Darcy (2006),
for instance, double down on the latter strategy.
I have taken a very different tack here, focusing
on isolating underlying principles that guide
formal practice. While we can make a convincing
case that such principles exist, they fall far short
of establishing anything like what we think of as
sonata form as a law of formal organization. Nor
do they allow one to prescribe a limited number
of ways of structuring a piece of music at all; in
other words, these rules do not lead to a closed
classification of forms.
Music theory has a strong tendency to con­
fuse form with forms, or, more precisely, to con­
flate the study of form with that of composers’
recipes. Given that the theory of form belongs
to a branch of music theory originating in prac­
tical compositional teaching, the tenacity of
this conflation is understandable. For musical
form, the speculative tradition has never quite
caught up with its practical tradition. When we
look to eighteenth-​century writers such as Koch
([1782] 1983) for a theory of form, what we get
is largely recipes: a how-​to for building coherent
forms out of individual themes. Certainly there
is much theory of form implicit in such recipes
and how they are explained, and study of recipes,
both as described in treatises and manifest in
works, is a worthy undertaking in its own right.
But recipes are highly contingent upon time pe­
riod, composer, and genre. Good recipes rely
upon principles of form to produce pieces with
a certain amount of predictable formal structure
7 Besides K. 297, examples of strong parallelism are limited to early symphonies K. 16 (1764–​5), K.Anh. 223/​19a (1765),
K.Anh. 221/​45a (1766), K. 48 (1768) and K. 130 and 134 (1772), and K. 200 (1774). (In K. 200 the parallelism excludes two
introductory measures.)
282 • O r g ani z e d   T ime
and coherence, but they can hardly exhaust the
possibilities of formal coherence made available
by those principles.
The archetype of a formal recipe is the
classical sonata form. In its most robust formu­
lation, typically identified as the “traditional”
or “textbook” sonata form, it includes detailed
specifications for the exposition: a main theme
ending with PAC, followed by a modulating tran­
sition ending in half cadence, a second theme in
a new key ending in PAC followed by a closing
theme in that key. It is well recognized that
many pieces in sonata form do not follow this to
the letter, and that for many composers, such as
Haydn, it is anachronistic to treat this recipe as
a norm from which non-​conforming pieces are
deviations. Disparagement of the textbook form
is so widespread among theorists and historians
that it is hardly necessary to quote individuals,
but Larsen’s (1988, 252–​3) assessment is typ­
ical: “the use of these post-​Classical patterns as
standard measures for analyzing pre-​Classical
music must be regarded as irrelevant.” What is
problematic about the textbook form, though,
is not so much its efficacy or importance as a
recipe. Indeed, as a recipe it is not only legit­
imate but also quite important, since it is in
abundant evidence in the most influential of
late eighteenth-​and early nineteenth-​century
composers, Mozart and Beethoven, and was
understood as a kind of norm by many later
composers. What is objectionable is the false
advertising of this recipe as a theory of sonata
form, implying a lack of appreciation for its par­
ticular historical contingency.
Chapter 3 explained how the traditional text­
book sonata form recipe draws upon principles
of tonality and form to produce a predictable
formal structure and tonal-​ formal coordina­
tion. It specifies procedures for expositions and
recapitulations in a great deal of specificity, but
is relatively indefinite when it comes to develop­
ment sections. Caplin (1998, ch. 10), following
Ratz (1951), has outlined a fairly useful script
for development sections, the precore–​ core
model, which applies to many developments by
Mozart and Beethoven, but very few by Haydn.
Whether Haydn has significant recipes for devel­
opment sections is an open question. However,
as a broad claim, it would be wrong to say that
development sections are simply freer or less
predetermined. The matter is composer-​specific.
To get a better picture, however, we must look
beyond these three composers.
Let us consider, for example, the keyboard
sonatas of Baldassare Galuppi (1706–​ 85).
Though Galuppi’s fame stemmed principally
from his operas (Heartz [2003,  264] calls him
“the undisputed master of serious opera for the
quarter century between about 1740 and 1765”),
his sonatas were well regarded and widely
circulated. He was also prolific in this genre,
which suggests that he may have relied heavily
upon formal recipes (see Heartz 2003, 287–​90).
Gjerdingen (2007, 217–​19) speculates that the
excellence of this music, by the most highly
regarded composer of his own day, was lost to
history because it relied so heavily upon an ap­
preciation of eighteenth-​century conventions.
Example 11.11 presents a recipe for Galuppi’s
binary form for sonata movements. The recipe
applies to all sorts of movements in his sonatas,
including slow, moderate, and fast tempos, ex­
cluding only the occasional theme-​and-​variation
or minuet movements. The recipe is fairly restric­
tive, but is not entirely rigid. For convenience
I divide it into seven stages. It is flexible in cer­
tain limited ways: In stage 1 the main theme ca­
dence can be of a few alternate types. Stage 3 may
have a dominant expansion, continuation, both,
EXAMPLE 11.11  (a) Galuppi’s sonata recipe, (b–​c) typical formal structures generated by the recipe
(a)
(b)
(c)
or neither, before the cadential material. In stage
4 the main theme may be repeated sequentially,
and cadences there may occur in different ways: a
subordinate-​key cadence after a single iteration
of the theme, or an HK or CK cadence after a se­
quential repetition of the theme, or no cadences
at all. Finally, the rhyming part of the second re­
prise in stage 7 may vary in the amount of mate­
rial it repeats from the first reprise, from a full
recapitulation (starting with the main theme) to
one that only repeats the closing music.
The most important aspect of flexibility in the
recipe is that there are two ways of writing the
second reprise. One includes an optional stage 6
and full recapitulation and is typical of the longer
fast movements. The other, typical of the shorter
slow movements, omits stage 6 and has a partial
recapitulation. (Galuppi freely varies the number
of movements and arrangement of fast and slow
movements in his sonatas.) In the short slow
movements, the sequences of stage 5 lead into a
weak cadence (HC or IAC) followed by the partial
recapitulation picking up the thread from some­
where in the middle of the exposition (usually
with the dominant expansion following a half
cadence or the sequential transition following
a melodic cadence or IAC). An even greater de­
gree of concision is achieved by using a sequence
from the transition in stage 5, so that it serves
Reforming Formal Analysis • 283
two functions, as part of the recapitulation and
as the sequence following the recall of the main
theme. In this most concise type of movement,
then, the entire second reprise parallels the
first almost measure-​for-​measure. The type typ­
ical of long, fast movements instead has what
amounts to a double recapitulation. The first
is a contrasting-​key recapitulation. It follows the
stage-​5 sequence and is not a full recapitulation,
starting instead from midway through the expo­
sition. It is also in a contrasting key, usually the
submediant (in a major key movement) or the
dominant (in minor keys). This contrasting-​key
recapitulation ends with a PAC and is directly
followed by a full recapitulation.
Galuppi’s recipe shares features with text­
book sonata form but also deviates from it in
important ways. Most obvious are that there is
no second theme, and that full recapitulation
is optional. Actually, there are cases where the
dominant expansion in the SK adopts a some­
what theme-​like character, stating a new idea
and repeating it in the manner of a presentation
phrase. These examples resemble certain sub­
ordinate themes in the canonical Viennese rep­
ertoire noted by Caplin (1998, 113–​15, 2009a)
that begin over the dominant carried over from
the end of the transition, a procedure favored es­
pecially by Beethoven, but appearing occasion­
ally in Haydn and Mozart’s expositions as well
(a nice example is the first movement of Haydn’s
op. 76/​1 string quartet). However, for Galuppi,
the presence of a dominant expansion is a con­
sistent practice whereas a new melodic initia­
tion following a medial caesura is not. Another
difference from the sonata-​form recipes of Haydn
and Mozart is that the non-​modulating transi­
tion does not appear to be an option for Galuppi;
transitions always modulate and usually consist
of a single short phrase. Finally, a very impor­
tant difference of Galuppi’s recipe is the lack of
freedom at the beginning of the second reprise,
in contrast with the usual vagueness with which
textbook sonata form approaches the construc­
tion of development sections. Galuppi is quite
consistent in beginning his second reprises by
transposing the main theme to the subordinate
key, and proceeding from there (after a possible
modulation and possible sequential treatment
of the theme) to a sequence.
Table 11.1 surveys keyboard sonatas
published as op.  1 and op.  2 sets by Walsh in
8 Many of these are available in Holmes 1976.
284 • O r g ani z e d   T ime
London in 1758–​9.8 (Galuppi became well known
in England after traveling to London in 1741–​2
and successfully staging a number of his comic
operas there.) Different aspects of variability in
each part of the formal recipe are indicated in
the columns of the table.
(1)  While a cadence is almost always present
to set off the main theme, the type of cadence
is quite variable. Some cadences are desig­
nated “Mel.” for melodic cadence that are not
harmonically supported (i.e., by root position
dominants). In these instances, there is a clear
completion of a phrase and caesura marking the
end of the main theme, but not attended by a
standard cadential progression.
(2)  The transitions are usually, with only a
few exceptions, sequential, consisting of one or
multiple sequences. One other pattern seen in
the minor-​key pieces is to state the main theme
twice, first in the home key then again in the rel­
ative major, before moving on to the sequential
material.
(3) The first column gives the length of
the dominant expansion, if it is present, and
the other shows whether this is followed by a
caden­tial phrase only, or further continuation
proceeding to a cadential phrase. The dominant
expansion phrase is usually present and can take
a few forms: dominant pedal, linear progression
outlining the dominant, or other dominant-​
centered progression.
(4)  All but three movements state the main
theme at the beginning of the second reprise
in the subordinate key (dominant or relative
major). The few exceptions are in the last three
sonatas of op. 2, where the parallelism is looser
(and one unusual movement where it is absent).
The keys of the main theme statements are
listed in the column. Where there are multiple
statements in sequence, the keys are separated
by a slash. In some cases the theme is modified
to modulate, which is shown with a dash be­
tween the two keys.
(5) Galuppi always follows the initial
theme of the second reprise with one or more
sequences that lead into (or occasionally belong
to) a recapitulation. The length of this sequential
passage can vary: sometimes it includes multiple
sequences; sometimes they can be long (with
a model of three or more measures), but they
are most often short one-​chord or two-​chord
sequences. The table lists the sequence types.
These vary, but he does have a strong tendency
to use descending fifths sequences in minor-​key
movements. In major key movements, the most
common are sequences based on descending par­
allel 6-​3 chords (a one-​chord sequence).
(6)  This column lists the key of contrasting
key recapitulations in the long/​fast movement
types. The usual choices are vi in major and v in
minor, but other closely-​related minor keys, iii
in major and iv in minor, each appear once. Also,
there is one instance where there are two par­
tial recapitulations in a non-​tonic key before the
true recapitulation, op. 2/​1 ii, which is the only
instance where a major key is used (as the second
of these), other than in the one-​movement so­
nata, op. 2/​3, which is a special case. The second
column gives the cadence that follows stage
5 or stage 6 if it exists. The movements with
contrasting-​key recapitulations always lead to
a PAC in the contrasting key followed by a full
recapitulation in the home key. With the ex­
ception of two unusual movements in op.  2/​6,
movements of the slow/​short type always end
this phase with a weak cadence in the home key.
(7)  For slow/​short movements, partial reca­
pitulation can pick up the thread of the exposi­
tion in a number of places, from a sequence in
the transition, the expansion of the subordinate-​
key dominant, or from the continuation or ca­
dential material.
Galuppi is particularly consistent in his
procedure for second reprises, with just three

Table 11.1 Formal summary of a sample of Galuppi’s Keyboard Sonatas

(1) (2) (3)

S ONATA KEY M O V E M E N T C A D. T R A N S I T ION D OM. CON T.?

T YPE E X P.

op. 1/​1 C Maj. Adagio Mel. Sequence 2.5 mm. Cad.

Andantino PAC Parallel phrase 1 m. Cont.–​Cad.
Allegro PAC Sequence 4 mm. Cad.
op. 1/​3 A min. Largo HC Very short 4 mm. Cad.
Allegro PAC Sequence 4 mm. Cont.–​Cad.
op. 1/​5 F maj. Largo PAC New phrase 4 mm. Cad.
Allegro IAC Sequence 4 mm. Cont.–​Cad.
op. 1/​6 A♭ maj. Andantino PAC Sequence None MT in SK
Allegro assai PAC Sequence 7 mm. Cad.
op. 2/​1* D maj. Adagio HC Sequence None Cont.–​Cad.
Allegro assai None Sequence None Cont.–​Cad.
op. 2/​2 D min. Allegro PAC Seq. repeat of MT /​Seq. None Cad.
Giga Mel. Seq. repeat of MT /​Seq. None Cad.
op. 2/​3 E min. Allegro assai Mel. New phrase /​Seqs. 3 mm. Cad.
op. 2/​4 C min. Allegro HC Seq. repeat of MT /​ 8 mm. Cad.
new phrase
Andante PAC Sequence 2 mm. Cad.
op. 2/​5 G maj. Andantino HC Sequence 1 m. Cont.–​Cad.
Presto PAC Sequence 3 mm. Cad.
op. 2/​6 C maj. Allegro HC Sequence None Cont.–​Cad.
Andantino HC No trans.** None** None**
Allegro HC Sequence 6 mm. Cont.–​Cad.
* Theme and variations third movement omitted
** The short second movement of op. 2/​6 has an exposition consisting of just a main theme ending in half cadence

Reforming Formal Analysis • 285

 ( 4) (5) (6) (7)

S ONATA K E Y S OF M T SEQ U E N C E( S) CK C A D. R HYME

RECALL R E C A P.

op. 1/​1, i V–​ii Desc. 6-​3 –​ Asc. 6-​3 vi PAC in vi Full recap.

ii V Long, down by None IAC in HK From cont.–​cad.
step –​ Desc. 6-​3
iii V Chr. monte –​Desc. vi PAC in vi Full recap.
5ths
op. 1/​3, i III Desc. 5ths None HC From dom. exp.
ii III/​i Desc. 5ths None HC From dom. exp.
op. 1/​5, i V Desc. 6-​3 None IAC in HK From dom. exp.
ii V Up by step –​Desc. 6-​3 iii PAC in iii Full recap.
op. 1/​6, i V/​vi (Desc. 6-​3; part of None None From trans. seq.
recap.)
ii V/​I Desc. 6-​3 vi PAC in vi Full recap.
op. 2/​1, i V–​I /​ I–​IV Desc. 5ths None Mel., HK From trans. seq.
ii V Chr. desc. 5ths –​ vi /​V PAC in V Full recap.
Long, up by 5th
op. 2/​2, i III/​iv Desc. 5ths –​Desc. v PAC in v Full recap.
5ths
ii III Chr. monte –​Desc. v PAC in v Full recap.
5ths
op. 2/​3 III/​IV# Long, down by (VII) None*** From trans. seq.***
step –​ Chr. monte –​
Long, up by step
op. 2/​4, i III Desc. 5ths –​Desc. iv PAC in iv Full recap.
5ths
ii III (motivic Desc. 5ths v PAC in v Full recap.
only) –​I
op. 2/​5, i V (condensed) (Chr. monte: part of None None From trans. seq.
recap.)
ii V/​I Long, up by step vi PAC in vi Full recap.
op. 2/​6, i v/​iv (weak Desc. 6-​3 –​ Chr. None None From cad.
parallelism) asc. 5-​6
ii V Desc. 5ths –​Long, None HC Full recap.
down by step
iii No MT parallel Long, down by step None PAC in HK Full recap.
*** Refers to the initial, wrong-​key recapitulation of op. 2/​3

special cases that go outside of his usual, fairly
specific, recipe. One is the one-​movement E
minor sonata, op. 2/​3, the only one-​movement
sonata on the list, much longer than any other
individual movements and written in a special
concertante mode. The second reprise of this
sonata initially follows the slow/​short recipe
except that the recapitulation is in the wrong
key (D major, the subtonic). A  last-​ minute
correction re-​routes the final cadence to a dra­
matic half cadence in E minor, which leads into
a sprawling fortspinnung of mostly sequential
material in a toccata style essentially unre­
lated to the thematic material of the sonata.

286 • O r g ani z e d   T ime

The piece ends with a restatement of the main
theme and final cadence of the exposition in
the home key. The other special movements
are the second and third movements of op. 2/​6.
The second movement is very short, does not
have repeated parts, and does not modulate in
the first part, ending instead with a half ca­
dence. It is best understood as a small binary,
not an example of Galuppi’s sonata-​form prac­
tice. The third movement is the only one with
no recollection of the main theme at the be­
ginning of the second part whatsoever, and
precedes its recapitulation with a PAC in the
home key.
While Galuppi’s recipe is not entirely foreign
to modern habits of sonata-​form thinking, it
would be a great distortion to treat his practice
as some kind of deformation of sonata-​form
convention. What is missed by such thinking
is not only the fact that Galuppi’s practice is
most variable in many of the places where the
textbook sonata-​ form recipe prescribes the
strongest norms (endings of main themes,
endings of transitions, beginnings of subordi­
nate themes, beginnings of recapitulations),
but also, equally importantly, that he is often
the most consistent in places where textbook
notions are least prescriptive, at the beginnings
of transitions, “development” sections, and
the ends of recapitulations. Furthermore, tra­
ditional notions of sonata form are ahistor­
ical:  they can only be said to be established
conventions at the point where they became
antiquated, in the nineteenth century. Nor is it
possible to improve upon them for musical prac­
tice circa 1750. There simply is too much varia­
bility between composers to assign meaningful
conventions at the level of the recipe that would
apply across composers with any specificity.
While it is of critical importance not to con­
fuse recipes with the theory of form, they are
clearly an important part of compositional
practice and are very useful for informing and
evaluating theories of form. The purpose of a
recipe, presumably, is that it always leads to
certain consistent large-​scale formal and tonal
designs. Notable in Galuppi’s design is the mul­
tiply reinforced binary division of the overall
formal structure, which is supported not only
by strong caesura, but also by repetition, and
usually also by fragmentation and motion.
Also notable is the consistent use of fragmen­
tation within each reprise, determined by the
consistent placement of sequence after each in­
stance of the main theme.
The strongest differences between Galuppi’s
formal recipe and the familiar sonata-​ form
recipes of Haydn and Mozart is where the two
are flexible and where they are inflexible. Haydn
and Mozart are relatively inflexible about the use
of a full recapitulation, whereas for Galuppi the
recapitulation is an occasional option. Galuppi
is quite inflexible about the beginning of the
second reprise with the main theme transposed
to the subordinate key, something that Mozart
and Haydn treat as an occasional option. While
differences between composers’ recipes may
sometimes be happenstance, they often may
be linked to significant matters of history, ge­
ography, and genre. This difference is a case in
point:  for Galuppi, the keyboard sonata was a
light, feminine, and modest genre, and he strove
above all for simplicity and clarity in these works.
The reinforcement of the binary division with par­
allelism is not necessary, given the clear caesura
present there, but including it adds an extra de­
gree of clarity and accessibility to the large-​scale
form. As the genre gained in scope and stature
later in the century, the use of split form (with a
recapitulation), as argued in Section 9.4, allowed
for greater breadth in the overall conception of
a movement. Galuppi’s strong parallelisms, in
which an entire theme is repeated usually ver­
batim at the beginning of the second reprise,
precludes the effect of split form even when there
happens to be a full recapitulation.
Mozart’s practice contrasts dramatically with
Galuppi’s in this respect, rarely bowing to the
convention of beginning the second part with
a transposition of the main theme. In all the
binary-​form movements of his nineteen piano
sonatas there are only four instances of paral­
lelism between the parts: the first movements of
nos. 7 and 8 (K. 309–​10), the third movement
of no.  12 (K. 332), and the first movement of
no. 15 (K. 533). However, all of these are weak
parallelisms, in which only the main theme
basic idea is recalled, not the entire theme.
Furthermore, all cases involve a shift in mode: in
K. 309, K. 332, and K. 533, the basic idea is re­
peated in the dominant minor, the parallel of the
subordinate key rather than the subordinate key
proper. The repetition in K. 309 is also special in
that it involves an unusual two-​measure motto,
extraneous to the regular phase-​ structure of
the theme. The first movements of K.  310 and
K.  457 are the only minor-​mode sonata-​form
movements of Mozart’s piano sonatas other than
the slow movement of K. 280. Only in K. 310 is
the repetition in the proper subordinate key (the
Reforming Formal Analysis • 287
relative major). In K.  457, there is a change of
function: the restated idea outlines a dominant
rather than a tonic. All of these devices prevent
the parallelisms from inhibiting the sense of
split form.
Similar observations about the use of par­
allelism and recapitulation may be made in
other genres as well. The string quartet is espe­
cially interesting, since it gained a special level
of prestige by the end of the century primarily
through the efforts of one composer:  Haydn.
Haydn’s earliest string quartets (op. 1, 1762–​4,
op.  2, 1763–​5) are roughly contemporaneous
with Richter’s six op. 5 quartets (between 1757
and 1768) and Boccherini’s earliest sets of string
trios and quartets (op. 1, 1760; op. 2, 1761).
In Richter’s quartets, all first movements
and the two finales in two-​reprise form (nos. 1
and 4)  have full parallelism between the parts,
meaning that the entire opening phrase of the
main theme is repeated in the subordinate key
(dominant or relative major) at the beginning
of the second part.9 All but one also have full
recapitulations, with the sole exception being
the finale of Quartet no. 1.
Boccherini also treats parallelism between
the parts as a rule though not quite as consist­
ently as Richter. Out of twelve allegro-​style
first or second movements in opuses 1 and
2, only two lack the full parallelism between
the parts. One of these (op.  2/​ 3) has only
four measures of dominant expansion before
the recapitulation begins. The other (op.  1/​
5) is an unusual case, with a new theme at
the beginning of the second part, no develop­
mental sequences and no recapitulation of the
main theme. Unlike Richter’s, though, main
theme recapitulations in the fast-​tempo first
or second movements are rare in Boccherini’s
early works, occurring in only one (op. 2/​2) out
of the twelve examples.
Boccherini’s approach to finales is more
varied. In opuses 1 and 2, only half (six) are
in binary form (three are fugues and three are
minuet-​trio finales). Of these six, two have full
parallelism between the parts (op. 1/​1, op. 1/​2),
and neither of these has a full recapitulation.
Three (op. 1/​3, op. 1/​6, and op. 2/​1) have either
no parallelism or weak motivic parallelism be­
tween the parts, and do have full recapitulations.
One (op. 2/​5) has parallelism at the level of the
basic idea only (excluding the five-​measure in­
troductory phrase of the first part), and also
does not have a full recapitulation. Two distinct
recipes are thus in evidence here: one is the split
form (op. 1/​3, 1/​6, 2/​1, and 2/​5), and the other
is a parallel binary form (op. 1/​1–​2).
Haydn’s formal practice is quite different,
even in his early string quartets of the 1760s,
prior to the op.  9 set.10 Of nine fast-​tempo
first movements (excluding op.  1/​3) and eight
binary finales (excluding the rondos in op.  1/​
3–​4) full restatement of the transposed main
theme at the beginning of the second reprise
occurs only twice, in the first movement of
op. 2/​4 and the finale of op. 1/​2. One more first
movement includes the first phrase of the main
theme (op.  1/​4), and two movements include
just its basic idea (op. 1/​2, i and op. 0, v). (The
outer movements of op. 1/​2 also include imme­
diate retranspositions, discussed in §3.4.) At
the same time, there are recapitulations in all
but one movement, op. 2/​4, which is one of the
movements with full parallelism. Thus Haydn is
clearly aware of the range of formal practices of
the era, such as the immediate retransposition
with recapitulation (op.  1/​2, v) and the par­
allel binary (op. 2/​4, i), but strongly prefers the
clear split form.11 Many of his second reprises
begin with motivic reference to the main theme
rather than full parallelism, which enhances
the binary division without detracting from
the effect of split form. Haydn, like Boccherini,
is not as dependent upon a single formal recipe
as composers like Galuppi or Richter.12 But
his preferred formal type, the split form, is
different than Boccherini’s, and over the course
of history Haydn’s preferred form won out over
Boccherini’s, the parallel binary.
By the time he wrote his influential op.  33
String Quartets, Haydn’s practice in this respect
was well established. All first movements and
the one sonata form finale (op.  33/​1:  all other
finales are rondos) reference the main theme

9 Quartets 5 and 6 begin with Larghettos, but the Allegro spiritoso second movements match the formal model of the
other first movements. The finales of nos. 1 and 4, as well as the first movement of no. 3 and second movement of no. 6, are
also examples of immediate retransposition, discussed in Section 3.4.
10 These are “op. 0,” op. 1, 1–​4 and 6, op. 2 nos. 1–​2, 4, and 6. op. 1/​5 is a transcription of a symphony and op. 2/​3 and 5
were cassations made into string quartets by removing the horn part. See Sutcliffe 1992, 1–​6.
11 This conclusion is also supported by Webster’s (1986) more complete survey of Haydn’s early works.
12 This conclusion is reinforced by Brody’s (2016) comparison of Haydn’s minuets to those of other Austrian composers.

288 • O r g ani z e d   T ime

motivically at the beginning of the second re­
prise, but, except in one instance, they do not
display true parallelism and do not start in the
subordinate key. The exception is op. 33/​5, whose
first movement is a unique example of doubly
split form discussed in Section 9.4. The second
reprise of this movement begins with the main
theme in the parallel minor of the home key. All
of these movements also have recapitulations.
Mozart follows the same pattern in his quartets
dedicated to Haydn. All sonata-​form movements
begin their second parts with motivic reference to
the main theme with one exception (K. 458, i),13
but usually in the form of a contrapuntal de­
velopment of the theme (e.g., K.  464, i), har­
monic destabilization of its basic idea (K. 465,
i), or transformation of it in a surprising dis­
tant key (K. 421, i: see §10.4). The only example
approaching parallelism between the parts is in
the E♭ major quartet, K. 428, whose main theme
is one of Mozart’s most unusual and adventur­
ously chromatic constructions. Even this paral­
lelism involves only the ponderous unisono first
phrase of the theme, though, and it is a contra­
puntal development of that melody. Mozart’s
last three quartets (K. 575, 589, and 590) have
no parallelism at all between parts in their first
movements.
All of this suggests that binary-​form paral­
lelism went out of style towards the end of the
eighteenth century. If we were inclined to ex­
plain this as a simple fashion trend and nothing
more, though, we would be at a loss to explain
another fact:  Beethoven, in his last works,
reverses course and embraces this supposedly
outdated practice. In his late string quartets,
full parallelism becomes once again a signifi­
cant norm, appearing in the outer movements
of op. 127, the first movement of op. 132, and
the finale of op. 131.14 Why would these pieces,
which push the boundaries of formal practice
in unprecedented ways, revert to a supposedly
antiquated formal procedure? The question is
misguided:  it suggests that style is simply a
collection of independent features arbitrarily
adopted and discarded from practice at different
times and places. The importance of parallelism
is lies in its effect on formal structure. In the
sonata style of Haydn and Mozart’s time, par­
allelism between the reprises is redundant pri­
marily because of the major caesuras that divide
the parts. This caesura, however, was a casualty
of Beethoven’s sonata-​ form innovations. As
discussed in sections 7.5 and 8.4, Beethoven,
throughout his middle period, continually
challenged the clarity of formal divisions, espe­
cially the end of the exposition and beginning of
recapitulation, undermining them in ever bolder
ways, working towards a new style prizing conti­
nuity, forward drive, and monumentality.
The interdependency of these different
formal methods is on display in Beethoven’s
late quartets. In all the movements listed above
with full parallelism between the parts (op. 127,
i and iv; op. 132, i; and op. 131, vii) the cadence
of the exposition is elided with the development,
weakening or eliminating the crucial caesura. In
contrast, the other three sonata-​form movements
of the late quartets, the first movement of
op. 130 and outer movements of op. 135, which
do not have parallelism between the parts, have
clear caesuras at the end of their expositions.
Beethoven’s use of parallelism, then, amounts ef­
fectively to a rediscovery of the ritornello form of
J.G. Graun and C.P.E. Bach. We need not suppose
that Beethoven was consciously reclaiming this
tradition, though. The ritornello form is a la­
tent possibility, a readily available solution for
large-​scale formal coherence. If anything, the
sonata-​ rondo form, an important finale type
throughout Beethoven’s career, may have served
as a more likely reference point, since it is similar

13 This includes the sonata-​form finales of K .458, K. 464, and K. 465, but not K. 387, whose finale is in a unique sonata-​
fugue hybrid form.
14 Beethoven’s early quartets, the six of op. 18, basically reflect the same practice in evidence in Mozart’s and Haydn’s. He
favors motivic reference to the main theme at the beginning of the development in first movements (nos. 1, 2 3, and 6), or an echo
of closing material (nos. 2 and 5). One first movement, no. 4 (C minor), does display full parallelism (in the key of the dominant,
not the relative major). This quartet is notable in that it is the only one absent from the sketchbooks that include detailed sketches
of all of the other op. 18 quartets (Lockwood 2003, 162), which has led some to speculate that it was actually a revision of an
earlier work (e.g., Kerman 1967, 68). The parallelism of the first movement corroborates this, as evidence that the quartet precedes
an update in style brought on by the more intensive study of Mozart’s and Haydn’s quartets in preparation for his first significant
public foray into the genre. The finales of these quartets are a different story: of the three that use sonata form (nos. 2, 3, and 5) as
opposed to sonata-​rondo, two use full parallelism, but in unusual keys. In no. 2 it is the key of the flatted submediant, and in no. 5
it is the diatonic submediant (relative minor). Only no. 4 has a sonata-​form finale with just a motivic reference to the main theme
at the beginning of the development. The finale of no. 2 may be in dialogue with sonata-​rondo form, since it has no repeats and
has a rondo-​like aesthetic even though the main theme return is not in the tonic key.

Reforming Formal Analysis • 289

to the ritornello form in the use of elision and
avoidance of caesura. Like his appropriation of
fugue (e.g., in the first movement of op. 131 and
the original finale of op.  130, the Grosse Fuge),
Beethoven probably adopted the ritornello form
more as a means towards an aesthetic end rather
than as an imitation of a historical style per se,
a striving towards a sense of unbroken conti­
nuity, integration, and coherence, that, in many
instances (as in op.  132, i) could uncannily co­
exist with the most disparate seeming assem­
blage of musical topics.
11.4  BEYOND THE FRAME
As mentioned in Chapter  3, Caplin’s (1998,
2009b) idea of formal beginning–​ middle–​ end
trajectories existing simultaneously at multiple
levels may be likened to the idea of form as tem­
poral hierarchy. Caplin classifies formal functions
at all levels as initiating, continuational, or ca­
dential. In the network model, most examples of
EXAMPLE 11.12  (a–​c) Three structural shapes and typical manifestations of them at different levels
of formal structure
(a)
(b)
(c)
290 • O r g ani z e d   T ime
such tri-​partite schemes (such as the sentence,
rounded binary, and sonata forms) adopt the
shape shown in Example 11.12(a). However,
some, such as the period (as basic idea—​
contrasting idea—​consequent) or sonata expo­
sition (main theme—​transition—​subordinate
theme) adopt the other possible three-​ part
structure shown in 11.12(b). In this sense, the
network model allows for some added nuance.
It also permits more flexibility, enabling one to
think of the sentence, period, or sonata expo­
sition, for instance, as four-​part schemes, as in
Example 11.12(c), or to think of any of these as
two-​part, without contradicting the three-​part
designations.
Caplin also allows for two other types of
formal function, the framing functions: introduc­
tory (before the beginning) and post-​cadential
(after the end). A  number of well-​known phe­
nomena fit these descriptions well: on the large-​
scale, the slow introduction that sometimes
precedes a sonata-​allegro movement, or a coda
EXAMPLE  11.13 Structural status of an
introduction
that follows it. On the smaller scale, a theme
might begin with a few introductory meas­
ures preceding a presentation or antecedent
phrase, or have extra material, codettas, after
its cadence. The structural distinction between
a framing function and a beginning or ending
function can be expressed by means of imagi­
nary vertices in a structural diagram. These are
vertices preceding the first real event, labeled
“start,” or following the last one, labeled “end.”15
The theoretical purpose of imaginary vertices
is to put a larger structural context around
what is otherwise an unintegrated progression.
Example 11.13, for instance, shows a hypothet­
ical slow introduction to a sonata form, where
the introduction remains formally extraneous
to the body of the movement. Without the imag­
inary edges, the network lacks a root edge above
the introduction and body of the movement,
showing that the two parts are not integrated.
There are two non-​trivial dashed lines, from the
beginning of the introduction and the begin­
ning of the sonata form to the end vertex. These
edges may be understood as potential unreal­
ized spans that might extend the sonata form or
introduction + sonata form into a larger struc­
ture if more music were to follow the end of the
sonata form. In other words, an edge from x to
end indicates that x has the potential to act as
a beginning on a larger scale. The end vertex is,
as it were, a placeholder for a hypothetical later
event that does not occur. Likewise, an edge
from start to x would show that x could act as
a larger-​scale ending. The inclusion of the edge
from the beginning of the introduction to the
end vertex precludes one from start to the end
of the introduction. That is, the status of the
introduction as a possible high-​level beginning
is inconsistent with the idea that it could have
acted as the ending of hypothetical prior music.
This is, indeed, true to the character of a slow
introduction, which as a rule eschews closural
15 See Yust 2006, 40–​1, 54–​5.
rhetoric by adopting a strongly anticipatory at­
titude just before the tempo change.
All of these counterfactual considerations
might seem like much ado about nothing in
the straightforward case imagined in Example
11.13, but in the right context they may be
quite real and even urgent. Imagine, for in­
stance, hearing just the opening thirty meas­
ures of Beethoven’s C minor Piano Trio, op. 1/​3,
given in Example 11.14. The first ten measures
evoke the topos of slow introduction, much like
the beginning of Haydn’s C minor Symphony
(no. 95: see §6.4). The passage is not technically
at a different tempo, but the slow pace makes
it sound like it is in a different meter, a 6$with
the dotted half getting the beat. It is also clearly
extraneous to the principal formal structure of
the main theme, separated from the clear ini­
tiation of a compound sentence that follows
a pregnant fermata filled with a cadenza-​like
gesture in the violin.
Is this beginning really an introduction,
though, or is it actually part of the main theme?
This sort of question is a perennial source of
confusion, as is evidenced, for instance, by the
prolonged debate over the opening measures of
Beethoven’s op.  31/​2  “Tempest” Piano Sonata,
described adroitly by Schmalfeldt (2011, 37–​58).
It sounds like we must decide between one choice
or the other, but in fact, both are true. It is an
introduction, and it is part of the main theme.
An idea can be introductory at different levels,
with respect to the main theme, but not with re­
spect to the entire form, or with respect to just
the exposition, or with respect to the entire form.
The last possibility corresponds to the true slow
introduction.
Hearing just these thirty measures of
Beethoven’s Trio, hypothetical considerations
about how this music might be incorporated
into larger possible structures are quite real.
Example 11.15(a) presents the situation at
the end of the presentation phase of the sen­
tence. At this point we have two distinct
beginnings, the introduction and the presen­
tation phrase. The possible ways the music
could proceed correspond to ways that the next
event could split off the end vertex. One pos­
sibility would be a third structural beginning,
but that does not happen. Instead, we get the
situation in Example 11.15(b): the next phrase
Reforming Formal Analysis • 291
EXAMPLE 11.14  Beethoven, Piano Trio, op. 1/​3, mm. 1–​30
is a continuation that completes a sentence
structure with the presentation phrase. This
split opens up another set of alternatives:  the
introduction could remain introductory, which
would be indicated by a new dashed line from
the end of the introduction to end. Something
different happens in Beethoven’s exposition
16 Compare the first movement of Haydn’s C♯ minor Keyboard Sonata, H. 36.
292 • O r g ani z e d   T ime
though: as we see in Example 11.16, the transi­
tion that follows begins not with the basic idea
of the sentential theme, but with the introduc­
tory idea.16 This, therefore, incorporates the in­
troductory phrase into main theme, as shown
in Example  11.15(c). The imaginary vertices
are now essentially superfluous, since we have
a complete integrated structure, with no free­
standing components. The first phrase is no
longer introductory at this level. It belongs to
the main theme.
The network model gives us a way of pre­
cisely explaining what it means to be “before
the beginning,” an introduction, and how and
why this status may change as we vary the
temporal scope under consideration. At each
major junction in the progress of a sonata form,
the status of an introduction like the one in
Beethoven’s C minor Trio may be reevaluated.
If, in contrast to the situation above, the first
phrase remains introductory to the main theme
and transition, it could be incorporated by a
parallelism at the beginning of the subordinate
theme group. If this does not happen, it may be
brought into the form at the beginning of the
EXAMPLE  11.15  A  structural representation
of the sense of introduction at the beginning of
Beethoven’s op. 1/​3
EXAMPLE 11.16  Beethoven, op. 1/​3, mm. 31–​9
development, or it may remain introductory
over the course of the entire sonata form. It may
even become integrated only after the sonata
form is complete, through a return in the coda
(as in Haydn’s “Drumroll” symphony, no. 103).
While scholars like Caplin and Schmalfeldt have
distinguished between introduction at the the­
matic level and the large-​scale formal level, they
have not made some of these finer distinctions,
such as the possibility of an introduction specif­
ically at the level of the exposition, not the en­
tire form or just the theme.
Compare, for instance, the opening of
Schumann’s Piano Quartet, op. 47 (Ex. 11.17a).
The movement begins with a pregnant Sostenuto
assai, constructed as a short slow introduction
to the following Allegro ma non troppo. Both
sections begin with the same melodic notes
(G–​F–​G–​A♭ ), but are temperamental opposites,
the majestic and the agitated. The Sostenuto
does not return within the exposition, so with re­
spect to the exposition, which is a closed formal
unit, it remains introductory, as the networks of
Examples 11.17(c–​d) indicate.
Yet Schumann’s Sostenuto does ultimately
return at the beginning of the development,
in the passage quoted in Example  11.17(b).
At this moment, the slow introduction is in­
tegrated into the form through the prin­
ciple of repetition, as shown in the network
of Example  11.17(e). Connecting the two
Sostenuto sections creates a new formal span
that combines introduction and exposition.
The Sostenuto remains an introduction at the
level of the exposition, unlike in Beethoven’s
Piano Trio, where the introduction is only
an introduction to the main theme and is in­
corporated into the exposition. However, it is
not an introduction at the level of the entire
Reforming Formal Analysis • 293
sonata form, because Schumann incorporates
it at the level of the binary division.17 The
form of the entire movement is shown in
Example 11.17(f). The Sostenuto returns once
again at the beginning of the coda, so that the
coda of the movement is also integrated, al­
though it remains exterior to the sonata form.
This is usual for codas, as we will see shortly.
An introduction may even become inte­
grated after a piece has moved on from the
first movement entirely. Examples occur in
Boccherini’s symphonies, most notably op. 12/​4
(G. 506) “Casa del Diabolo,” discussed by Noonan
(1996), in which a slow introduction recurs
preceding the finale. This device integrates
these, usually three-​ movement, symphonies

EXAMPLE 11.17  Schumann, Piano Quartet, op. 47, (a) mm. 1–​20, (b) mm. 115–​39, (c) formal situ­
ation during the subordinate theme, (d) at the end of the ST, (e) after the second Sostenuto, and (f) at
the end of the movement
(a)

17 A subtler method of integrating an introduction is to bring it back at the recapitulation, but not the development,
as in, for example, the last movement of Beethoven’s op. 135 String Quartet. Because the beginnings of the exposition and
recapitulation are not directly connected in the sonata form structure, this kind of reevaluation requires the concept of formal
counterpoint discussed in Section 9.4. According to that idea this technique structurally integrates the introduction in a way
similar to recalling the introduction at the beginning of the development.

294 • O r g ani z e d   T ime

EXAMPLE 11.17 Continued
(b)
into multimovement three-​ part forms. The
model of Example  11.13 holds in these cases
at the end of the movement, and the open­
ness of the structure (the multiple connections
to the end vertex) become an essential feature
allowing for the subsequent integration of the
multimovement structure. A similar point may
be made about the later nineteenth-​ century
one-​movement forms that Vande Moortele
(2009) refers to as “two-​dimensional sonata
Reforming Formal Analysis • 295
EXAMPLE 11.17 Continued
(c)

(d)

(e)

(f)

forms.” In Liszt’s B minor Sonata, for instance,
the reappearance of an introduction is an es­
sential marker integrating the large-​scale form.
In fact, one might say that eighteenth-​century
composers like Boccherini anticipated such in­
tegrated multi-​movement structures (see, for
example, his exquisite String Quintet op. 11/​6,
G. 276, “L’uccelliera”).18
In principle, the structural status of codas,
after-​
the-​
end functions, should be perfectly
symmetrical with introductions. Indeed, most
theorists treat them as equal and opposite
counterparts, and an after-​ the-​end function
can be expressed in the language of networks
in the same way as before-​ the-​beginning
function. Yet in practice, codas rarely remain
totally unintegrated the way introductions
often do. The difference is attributable to in­
herent asymmetry of time (something al­
ready explored to some extent in §4.2). To
appreciate this asymmetry, consider the kind
of counterfactuals invoked to make use of the
end vertex applied instead to the start vertex.
Logically, a complete structure can be made
incomplete by removing its essential begin­
ning. However, beginnings without ends are a
part of the ordinary experience of listening to
closed musical structures; they represent the
state of the structure at a particular point in
time as it unfolds and before it is complete. An
end without a beginning is a more artificial sit­
uation. This is what is expressed by a triangle
involving the start vertex. The practical useful­
ness of the start vertex is therefore markedly
different than the end vertex.
Example 11.18 shows how a coda might
appear if it perfectly mirrored the defining struc­
ture for an introduction (as in Example 11.13).
This situation, the adjunct coda, is rare. It requires
that the coda be formally independent of the

18 Boccherini experimented heavily with different forms of cyclic integration in his symphonies, as is evident from
Churgin’s (1993, 185–​91) survey. That these works remain relatively unknown is indicative of the general lack of appreciation
for the diversity of eighteenth-​century music. Webster (1991a) makes a powerful argument when he points out that ideas
of cyclic integration in the symphony, so long thought of as a nineteenth-​century Beethovenian innovation, can be found
in Haydn’s works of the 1770s. Yet when we add Boccherini’s symphonies to the picture, where cyclic plans are much more
frequent and varied, it starts to look as if Webster severely understates his case.

296 • O r g ani z e d   T ime

EXAMPLE  11.18  Structural definition of an Larghetto espressivo introduction that lacks a
adjunct coda tonal beginning, consisting mostly of dissonant
inverted dominant chords. Beethoven belabored
this introduction to an unusual degree in his
sketches (Ong 2006, 143), demonstrating its
vital importance to the plan of the work. The
Allegro agitato also has a weak sense of formal
initiation, with its melodically fragmented be­
ginning and a hushed pianissimo that makes
sonata form, expressing an ending for which strong contrasts with the dynamically intense
the sonata form does not serve as a beginning. music that habitually precedes it. The sense
One possible example is the major mode allegro of lacking of beginning is even stronger in the
tacked on to the finale of Beethoven’s “Serioso” third movement scherzo, which follows attaca
String Quartet, op.  95. This coda is genuinely on the second movement and begins on viio7/​V.
an appendage, sneering at any attempt to find The second movement itself lacks a strong tonal
a logical or organic connection to the rest of the ending (as does the finale, prior to the coda).
work.19 Is it a send-​up of the “seriousness” of the All of this points towards a larger strategy to
rest of the proceedings of the quartet? A brazen unify a multi-​movement work by means other
acquiescence to the conventional requirement than sharing of tonal or motivic material, and
for some breezy major-​mode bravura to stimu­ the adjunct coda at the end of the quartet makes
late the applause after the finale? The strangeness sense as part of such a strategy. Beethoven’s
of this ending is reflected in critical ambiva­ method is to give each movement a well-​chiseled
lence towards it. Kerman (1967), for instance, profile strongly indicative of its place in the larger
suggests that “perhaps Beethoven did not ex­ narrative and lacking in self-​sufficiency, so that
actly see how to end the Quartet in F minor” and interdependencies bind them together. The ten­
compares it unfavorably to the op. 132 finale in dency towards a lack of autonomy in the indi­
which the “volte-​face” from pathos to play “seems vidual movements has led November (2016), for
genuinely earned or achieved” (183–​4). Hatten instance, to posit a radical Romantic aesthetic
(1994, 186–​8) insists that the concluding allegro of the fragment behind the quartet. The way
is not a coda but an “addendum,” and an example the finale ends compels us to look backward for
of Romantic irony “in which the discourse is completion, to retrospectively seek out a strong
shifted to another plane entirely for the conclu­ formal initiation from music that preceded the
sion, and any ultimate integration in the mind of finale. Because the Scherzo also lacks formal
the listener is conceived outside the work itself.” initiation, and the contrasting tonality of the
We might better understand Beethoven’s Allegretto second movement mark this one as
motivations in op.  95 by looking closer at the interior, the search leads all the way back to the
structural implications of the adjunct ending. By first movement. Although the coda does not
the logic of structural networks, the existence overtly recall any earlier thematic material, it
of the adjunct coda implies that the preceding does return noticeably to the rhythmic feel of
form also acts as a large-​scale ending-​without-​ the first movement, a fast simple duple, with
a-​beginning, because the adjunct coda requires even subdivisions of the beat alternating with
an edge from start to the beginning of the coda, dotted rhythms (and even some syncopations
which is also the end of the preceding form. that recall this important rhythmic feature of
Beethoven’s coda thus imparts to the main the first movement; see the rhythmic analyses
Allegretto agitato body of the movement (actu­ in §8.4). Such a multi-​movement strategy would
ally a sonata rondo in Beethoven’s Finale rather also explain another otherwise perplexing fea­
than a sonata form as depicted in Ex. 11.18) a ture of the quartet, its length. In his middle pe­
sense of being a large ending, as opposed to a riod, Beethoven clearly trended towards longer
large beginning. The adjunct coda is therefore works. The op.  59 quartets, for instance, are
particularly appropriate for a finale, and es­ an average 33:55 in length whereas the op.  18
pecially this finale, which begins with a short quartets are considerably shorter, averaging

19 Not that this has dissuaded commentators from trying. See Livingstone 1979.

Reforming Formal Analysis • 297

25:33.20 Ostensibly “serious” op.  95 bucks the
trend in a striking way, being considerably
shorter than any single op. 18 quartet at 19:43.
Brevity, we might surmise, helps to integrate
the multi-​movement design, reinforcing the in­
completeness of individual movements and the
interdependence between them.
The adjunct coda requires a radical indepen­
dence from the thematic processes of the body
of the movement. The vast majority of codas do
not behave this way, but project a clear sense
of integration with the rest of the movement
by repeating the main theme and/​or by begin­
ning in a way that recalls the beginning of the
development section. Analogies to introductory
function therefore do not go very far in helping
us understand the functions of codas.
Kerman (1982), in an important article on
Beethoven’s codas observes that, “that noto­
riously imperfect instrument, sonata theory,
breaks down completely at the coda. A  general
theory depends upon generalisation, and one
simply cannot find a common function for codas.
[  .  .  .  ] That is why in the technical language of
sonata form ‘coda’ is the one term that does not
refer (however imperfectly) to a musical function,
but merely to a position” (141). Even recent
theories of form, which have taken great strides
in honing “that notoriously imperfect instru­
ment,” have done little to reshape our notion of
the coda. Caplin has clarified the concept of mu­
sical function more than anyone by reassessing
the tonal–​thematic roles of the various parts of
traditional forms. But he noticeably departs from
this practice when he gets to codas (Caplin 1998,
ch. 12), instead adopting a traditional definition
and echoing the kinds of points made by earlier
theorists such as Kerman and Charles Rosen.
To understand the situation in which theory
finds itself with respect to codas, it is impor­
tant to recognize that the term “coda” originates
not as a theoretical concept per se but as a no­
tational phenomenon, used in scores to denote
something that follows a da capo. Such an ex­
plicit marking, useful in minuet–​trio or sectional
rondo forms, is unnecessary in sonata forms
where it suffices to simply write a second ending
after the second reprise. By analogy, then, music
following the double bar that ends the second
20 I use the Alban Berg Quartet recording of the complete Beethoven quartets for these numbers. The late quartets
(assuming the Grosse Fuge finale for op. 130) average 35:35, and are more variable (mostly due to op. 135). A one-​way
ANOVA shows that these three groups of quartets (op. 18, op. 59, and the later quartets) differ significantly in length
(F = 7.27, p < .01), but the difference is attributable to the difference from op. 18 to all of the later quartets. (Only opp. 95 and
135 are shorter than the longest of the op. 18 set.)
298 • O r g ani z e d   T ime
reprise may also be considered a notational coda.
Such a notational coda does not necessarily imply
the structural situation of Example 11.18, how­
ever. It does imply that the sonata form is for­
mally closed, as the edge labeled “sonata form”
in the example shows. Yet the sonata form need
not be closed off from the coda by the connection
from the start vertex to the end of the second re­
prise. The alternative is a larger span that extends
from the beginning of the sonata form to the end
of the coda—​that is, a connection that integrates
the coda into a structure spanning the entire
movement. This is indeed the usual structural
status for codas, the integrated coda depicted in
Example 11.19. With respect to the sonata form,
it is indeed “after the end,” but it also functions
as an ending itself, of a somewhat larger struc­
ture. The integrated coda is better understood as
a third part to the form, rather than an add-​on.
When the coda follows full tonal-​metrical
closure in the recapitulation, as it often does, the
tonal status of coda will also match the structural
description in Example  11.18. But tonal closure
of the sonata form often does not coincide with
its formal closure, and is instead delayed to
the end of the coda. This is a disjunctive coda, a
high-​level tonal-​formal disjunction that results
when a passage is a coda in the formal structure
(along the lines of Example 11.19) but extends
the recapitulation in the tonal structure.
An unusual early example of the disjunctive
coda appears in one of Mozart’s early string
quartets, K. 173 in D minor. The second theme
of the piece begins in the dominant key, A minor,
but instead of moving towards a strong PAC in
this key, it digresses, going to E minor, then G
minor, before ending with a half cadence in the
home key. The main theme material returns in E
minor, measure 33, thus giving the whole expo­
sition a split form (i.e., the sonata form is doubly
EXAMPLE  11.19  Structural definition of an
integrated coda
split form as discussed in §9.4). The return is Despite the unusual ending of the exposi­
tonally unusual, appearing not in the subordi­ tion, the recapitulation is utterly conventional
nate key but in a distant key (dominant of the in the sense that Mozart transposes the entire
dominant).21 second theme, given in Example 11.20, up a

EXAMPLE 11.20  Mozart, String Quartet no. 13, K. 173, mm. 87–​136

21 Hepokoski (2002, 148) points out that this return of main theme material is typical of closing themes, which is true, but
presumably to describe something as closing material, at the very least it must be preceded by some kind of cadence or cadential
activity, which is not the case here. To be more precise, we may say that this behaves formally like closing material, but not tonally.

Reforming Formal Analysis • 299

EXAMPLE 11.20 Continued

fourth, basically verbatim. Therefore, instead of
a cadence in the home key, it digresses first to
A  minor (mm. 99–​104), then to C minor (mm.
107–​14), and G minor (mm. 115–​16). Mozart
modifies just the very last few measures of this
music, 112–​18, so that the part ends with a half
cadence in D minor, the home key, rather than in
G minor.
Clearly there is no tonal closure here.22
Nonetheless, Mozart takes advantage of the
similar endings to repeat the second part in the
standard way, making the last eighteen measures
(mm. 119–​36) a coda in the notational sense
(i.e., extra music following the second reprise).
In the formal structure, the exposition, de­
velopment, and recapitulation comprise a large
formally closed unit, a standard sonata-​form
design, as reflected in the placement of repeat
signs. The verbatim repetition of the entire
second theme strongly reinforces the comple­
tion of the second reprise through an exten­
sive rhyme with the end of the first reprise.
The coda is clearly not adjunct:  by bringing
back the main theme, it integrates with the
rest of the movement formally through rep­
etition, creating a large formal span in which
the sonata form acts as a beginning completed
by the coda, as shown in the lower network of
Example 11.21(a).
The tonal status of the coda is different.
While it is formally inessential—​that is, the
form would be closed without it—​it is ton­
ally essential. Individually, the exposition and
development each outline a complete tonal
motion from tonic to dominant in D minor. But
the exposition points towards tonal closure (a
PAC on D minor) not fulfilled by the recapitu­
lation, which itself is tonally open. The state of
affairs at the end of the recapitulation is there­
fore as depicted in Example  11.21(b), where
the end vertex is required to make a complete
structure.
The term coda, while accurate in the sense
that the section follows a complete recapitu­
lation, is potentially misleading in that may
suggest that the passage is surplus, an ex­
pendable add-​on, whereas the opposite is true.
Hepokoski (2002) reflects this notion when
he says of the K.173 first movement that “the
corrective coda (mm. 119–​36), an appendix ex­
isting outside of sonata-​space, finally brings
about (or reflects on) the resolution that the so­
nata proper was not permitted to accomplish”
(149) Whereas “existing outside of sonata-​
space” is accurate—​ there is a well-​ formed
span structured as a sonata form that ends in
measure 117—​“appendix” is not, because the
coda combines with the sonata form to make

22 The second theme does have a PAC after six measures, in measure 22 in A minor, and in the recapitulation in measure
92. But this is clearly provisional, both because it comes so early in the theme, and also because it is immediately followed by
a repetition of the basic idea. The long upbeat of the idea is also important here, because it prevents a full measure of rest on
the tonic, thereby inhibiting a complete sense of closure. See Section 7.1.

300 • O r g ani z e d   T ime

EXAMPLE  11.21  (a)  Formal and tonal structure of the K.  173 first movement, (b)  tonal structure
prior to the coda
(a)
(b)
a coherent whole in the formal structure. The
coda is the sonata form’s ending and comple­
tion. The sonata form itself, then, need not
be understood as “failed” (per Hepokoski) but
merely open or incomplete.
The integrated coda structure, tonally and
formally coordinated, is the usual structural
status of codas in the more common situation
where the sonata form is tonally closed by a PAC
in the home key to match the formal closure
created by the thematic rhyme. The coda then
reopens the tonal and formal structures to pro­
vide a somewhat stronger conclusion extending
the movement into a larger structure with the
sonata form as a beginning and the coda as
an ending. This is the case, in particular, in
some of the famously long codas composed by
Beethoven, in the first movements of the Eroica
Symphony, Piano Sonata op.  81a (“Lebewohl”),
String Quartet op.  59/​ 1, and the finale of
Symphony no. 8.23
While the traditional definition of a coda
derives from the notational phenomenon seen
in the previous example, of music following a
23 See Kerman 1982, Hopkins 1988, and Morgan 1993.
second reprise or da capo, many codas occur in
pieces that do not have a repeat of the second
part and therefore are no longer explicitly no­
tational. Thus Caplin (1998) asserts that “the
‘start’ of the coda is best located at that moment
when the music of the recapitulation no longer
corresponds to that of the exposition, even if
that moment is not perceived as a structural
beginning” (181). The first movement of Haydn’s
String Quartet no. 48, op. 64/​1, is a case where
Caplin’s rule would apply. Example 11.22(a)
shows the ending of the exposition. The closing
section, just six measures long, elides the subor­
dinate theme cadence so that full tonal-​metrical
closure is delayed right up to the end of the ex­
position (see §7.4). Haydn exploits this feature
at the end of the recapitulation (Ex. 11.22b)
to lead us into a fantastical and unexpected
final detour. There is not much subordinate
theme in the recapitulation (the exposition is
“monothematic,” so the subordinate theme lacks
its own identifying basic idea), but the rhyming
cadence and closing material clearly bring the re­
capitulation to an end. When the closing section
Reforming Formal Analysis • 301
EXAMPLE 11.22  (a) Haydn, op. 64/​1, end of exposition (mm. 50–​60), (b) subordinate theme of the
recapitulation and beginning of the coda (mm. 120–​39)
(a)
(b)
begins (m. 129) tonal closure is provisional, not
only because of the lack of hypermetrical closure
but also because of Haydn’s use of register: the
proper register of the fundamental line is an oc­
tave higher. Then, just before we expect a final
two measures to end the recapitulation Haydn
makes a shocking digression in measures 133–​4.
Here he exploits yet another feature of his closing
material, which is its ‸prominent F♯ retardations.
The bass goes to A♭ (♭6), and by reinterpreting F♯
as G♭ Haydn leads us into the improbably remote
region of D♭ major. Ultimately the A♭ dominant
seventh will revert to its proper role in the key
as an augmented-​sixth chord, but not until after
a shocking harmonic digression that initiates
24 Rosen (1971, 133–​4) discusses this coda, which he, interestingly, refers to as part of the recapitulation, in line with
the implications of tonal (as opposed to formal) structure.
302 • O r g ani z e d   T ime
a sprawling 41-​measure coda, longer than the
entire recapitulation (35 measures).24
According to Caplin’s rule and to the tradi­
tional definition, the passage from measures
134–​74 is a long coda. This designation makes
sense in that the passage falls outside of the
sonata-​form proper, which is closed off by the
rhyming closing material just preceding it. Like
Mozart’s coda, though, it is integrated, creating
a larger formal structure in combination with
the sonata form, as shown in the lower network
of Example 11.23. The integration of the parts
is supported especially by the development-​like
fragmentation that begins in measure 139, and
also the rhyming closing material which appears
EXAMPLE  11.23  Tonal and formal structure of the first movement of Haydn’s op.  64/​1 quartet,
showing the disjunction involving the coda
again at the final cadence. Therefore the passage
is certainly not an appendix, an adjunct coda,
even in the formal sense. Tonally, though, the
sonata form is pointedly not completed at the
end of the recapitulation, so, in the tonal struc­
ture, the coda actually belongs within the sonata
form proper, as shown in Example 11.23. In
other words, the digression amounts to a deep
tonal-​formal disjunction, in which a remote
tonal event, ♭ VI, within an uncompleted tonal
process, initiates a major section of the form.
This disjunction animates the passage and lends
to its distinctive feeling of unease. This sort of
deeply cutting disjunction looks ahead to some
of Beethoven’s tonal-​formal innovations, as we
see in the next chapter.
It is with Beethoven that these clarifications
regarding the structural status of so-​ called
codas become really crucial. It is a truism that
Beethoven cultivated the monumental coda
like no other composer before him, but when
scholars have looked closer at some of his fa­
mously long codas, as Kerman (1982), Hopkins
(1988), and Rosen (1988, 324–​52) have, they do
not find a single overriding reason for his use of
codas but instead identify a bewildering diver­
sity of functions and justifications. The apparent
resistance of the topic to generalization is a
peculiar feature of the analytical literature on
codas. Discussions typically proceed case-​ by-​
case, and the explanation of the function of
each coda is often so exceedingly particular to
that individual piece that one could hardly im­
agine it applying in any other instance. Yet the
difference between this analytical discourse and
the one typical of other aspects of form, where
we are able to generalize, classify, and recognize
the individuality of specific works at the same
time, probably has less to do with some radical
difference in the nature of codas themselves and
more to do with the questions we are inclined
to ask about them. We usually are comfortable
taking it for granted that a piece is written in
sonata form. Though composers, one supposes,
are not generally under any compulsion to do so,
we do not tend to ask the question, “why did the
composer choose to write this piece in sonata
form?” as a matter of course. With codas,
however, this always seems to be the urgent
question: why did the composer include a coda
in this movement? It is a good question, and has
led to many remarkable and interesting analyt­
ical observations. However, it is not surprising
that such a vague and necessarily speculative
question leads to diffuse answers.
If we instead ask the kind of question of
“codas” that we are in the habit of asking about
other formal sections, which is, “how do they
work?” we can expect to get answers that are
tend to be more generalizable. Typically, codas
are integrated third parts, as in Example 11.19.
Common methods of formal integration include
those we have just witnessed in the last two
examples:  repetition of main theme material
at the beginning of the coda, development-​like
fragmentation at the beginning of the coda, and
rhyming cadential material at the end of the
coda. In many cases (as in Haydn’s op.  64/​1),
Reforming Formal Analysis • 303
however, this structural shape holds only in the
formal domain, whereas the coda is not a coda at
all in the tonal domain but rather an extension
of the sonata form. We may therefore define, in
addition to the integrated and adjunct codas, a
third type, the disjunctive coda, one that creates a
tonal-​formal disjunction.
The disjunctive coda was clearly an impor­
tant inheritance of Beethoven’s from Haydn.
Notable examples appear in early works such
as the finales of the op.  1/​ 1 and 1/​ 3 Piano
Trios and first movements of the op.  2/​3 and
op.  7 Piano Sonatas and the op.  9/​ 2 String
Trio. These movements follow the same proce­
dure as Haydn’s op. 64/​1: tonal-​metrical closure
is delayed in the exposition to the end of the
closing section. In the recapitulation, the end of
the closing section diverts suddenly and unex­
pectedly to a distant key, delaying the expected
tonal resolution that would complete the overall
tonal arc of the sonata form. Formally, however,
the sonata form is closed and the coda begins
an integrated third part. In many examples,
such as Beethoven’s opp.  1/​1, iv; 2/​3, i; and
7, i, the sense of integration is strongly implied
by returns to main theme material. One prom­
inent such example is the “Waldstein” Piano
Sonata, op.  53, first movement. Interestingly,
not only the technique of delayed tonal-​metrical
closure but also the key of the tonal digression is
the same as in the Haydn example just given: in
a C major movement, the expected ending of
the recapitulation on tonic of the home key is
upended at the last minute, leading momen­
tarily into the improbably distant key of D♭
major. The kind of large-​scale tonal-​formal dis­
junction created by the disjunctive coda is thus
the first type explored by Beethoven. As the next
chapter will show, starting in the early 1800s
and throughout his career thereafter, Beethoven
explored other, more novel, forms of large-​scale
tonal-​formal disjunction on many occasions,
and it is hard not to imagine that the model of
Haydn’s disjunctive codas acted as a crucial prec­
edent to these experiments.
The disjunctive coda takes on an added sig­
nificance for Beethoven as he applies these
techniques of denying tonal-​metrical closure to
expositions as well as recapitulations, and begins
to go further in denying tonal closure altogether.
These techniques are discussed in Section 7.5;
examples include String Quartet op. 59/​2, i; Cello
Sonata, op. 69, i; Finale of the Fifth Symphony;
and first movements of the op. 95 String Quartet
(discussed in §8.4), the Violin Sonata, op.  96,
304 • O r g ani z e d   T ime
and the “Hammerklavier” Sonata op. 106. In all
of these examples avoidance of full closure at the
end of the exposition is duplicated in recapitu­
lation, making the coda a tonally essential con­
clusion to the movement, while it remains an
integrated coda in the formal structure.
The first movement of Beethoven’s Piano
Trio, op.  70/​2, is a particularly fascinating ex­
ample of a disjunctive coda. The piece is one of his
most concentrated experiments in undermining
formal boundaries. In this sense, it relates to his
ongoing practice of weaking expositional clo­
sure (see §7.5) and blurring the beginnings of
recapitulations (discussed in §§8.4 and 12.4).
But it also continues a history of seeking out
ever bolder and more clever ways of integrating
slow introductions that begins with Haydn and
intensifies with Beethoven, described in detail
by Greenberg (2012). The Trio has a slow intro­
duction (Ex. 11.24) that begins with a loosely ca­
nonic idea. After a long dominant, the expressivo
idea in measure 16 gives the impression of a
significant new beginning. The echo of this idea
in the strings (mm. 18–​19) gets stuck midway
through it on the dominant, picking up again
(with the B♭ –​B♭ octave leap) at the beginning of
the allegro, whose initial idea is cadential. The
idea of beginning a theme with a cadence might
be inspired by Haydn (e.g., op.  33/​5; see §9.4),
but Beethoven creates a more radical paradox
here, because his cadential idea actually does end
something (the theme started towards the end
of the slow introduction) at the same time that it
acts as a crucial beginning, the beginning of the
main theme and the entire allegro.
Beethoven’s slow introduction also turns
out to be more deeply integrated into the form
than one would expect. The canonic idea returns,
modified to fit the meter of the allegro, as the
subordinate theme (Ex. 11.25), starting with the
entrance of the left hand of the piano in measure
55. The second part of the theme also derives its
basic idea (in m. 64) from the introduction.
The end of the exposition (Ex. 11.26(a))
lacks a PAC in the subordinate key. It instead
approaches the tonic of B♭ major via a long step­
wise descent, at which point it brings back the
main theme to retransition to the repeat of the
exposition or the beginning of the develop­
ment. The recapitulation ends the same way (Ex.
11.26(b)), hurtling past the home key tonic into
a main-​theme based sequence similar to the be­
ginning of the development.
The fugal theme ultimately appears, then,
four times, in the introduction, twice as the
EXAMPLE 11.24  Beethoven, Piano Trio, op. 70/​2, mm. 1–​23
EXAMPLE 11.25  Beethoven, op. 70/​2, mm. 52–​64
subordinate theme, and in the coda. These do
not coincide with any of the major divisions of
the sonata form. The main occurrences are ex­
terior to the sonata form, whereas the others
appear at subsidiary divisions of the form,
within the exposition and recapitulation. This
is thus a novel instance of contrapuntal form,
as defined in Section 9.4. Example 11.27 shows
EXAMPLE 11.26  Beethoven, op. 70/​2, (a) mm. 86–​93, (b) mm. 197–​205, (c) mm. 219–​25
(a)
306 • O r g ani z e d   T ime
the two “voices” and their synthesis. The so­
nata form defined by the main theme is the
principal voice, but the fugal theme, by virtue
of appearing twice outside of the sonata frame,
defines the most background levels of structure.
The form splits between main theme and subor­
dinate theme within the exposition and recapit­
ulation, as indicated by the double-​lined edges.
EXAMPLE 11.26 Continued

(b)

(c)

EXAMPLE 11.27  Contrapuntal form of op. 70/​2, i

Reforming Formal Analysis • 307

EXAMPLE 11.28  Tonal structure of op. 70/​2, i
The contrapuntal form thus creates an intriguing
paradox: the main theme appears as a structur­
ally interior section, analogous to the develop­
ment of a sonata form. This paradoxical formal
situation matches the paradoxical beginning/​
ending rhetoric and the reticence of the main
theme’s in media res beginning.
Formally, then, both the introduction and
coda are integrated. The lack of tonal closure in
the exposition, however, is matched in the re­
capitulation, delaying resolution to the coda. In
fact, as Example 11.28 shows, there is no non-​
elided home key PAC‸at all in the piece: the coda
ends with a melodic 3 over the tonic, so that the
overall tonal structure of the movement is of an
“imperfect authentic”
‸ form,
‸ with an Urlinie that
descends from 5 only to 3. This aspect of the tonal
structure notwithstanding, complete resolution
does not occur in the recapitulation, within the
frame of the sonata form, but in the coda, after
the reappearance of the fugal theme. The coda,
then, formally integrated but outside of the so­
nata form, is disjunctive, since the tonal resolu­
tion of the recapitulation extends through it.
308 • O r g ani z e d   T ime
The unique and extraordinary formal pro­
cedures in the op. 70/​2 Trio are just one of many
examples of novel and masterly manipulations
of large-​scale tonal and formal structure in
Beethoven’s middle period. Behind the aesthetic
implications of many of these techniques is the
dramatic and disorienting effect of tonal-​formal
disjunction. It seems likely that Beethoven’s
feeling for the dynamics of large-​ scale tonal-​
formal disjunction was originally nurtured on
Haydn’s disjunctive codas and his own early essays
in the technique, which appear to be modeled on
Haydn’s and are the earliest form of large-​scale
tonal-​form disjunction in his music. As we will
see in the next chapter, he began to incorporate
other, more radical, kinds of tonal-​formal dis­
junction into his compositional language starting
from the years of his “new way,” the op. 29 Quintet
and op.  31 Piano Sonatas. The disjunctive coda,
an inheritance from Haydn, may have served as a
model for these other components of his middle-​
and late-​period styles, crucial, ultimately, to the
eventual course of development for instrumental
forms in the nineteenth century as a whole.
 12
Tonal-​Formal Disjunction
12.1  HIGH-​L EVEL TONAL-​
FORMAL DISJUNCTION
IN SONATA FORM
Tonal and formal structures, as we found in
Chapter  3, are usually coordinated by conven­
tion (see especially §3.4 and the analysis of
Richter Symphony no.  26 in Ex. 3.13). There
are strong reasons to expect such coordination
in the eighteenth century: first, the coordinated
structures reinforce one another, adding to the
clarity of both. In particular, a listener that does
not always keep the thread of a long-​range tonal
narrative may easily rely upon obvious formal
cues to keep track of the composer’s overall
musical argument. This is of obvious utility in
an era when composers’ fortunes were inti­
mately tied to the reception of their music from
1 See, for example, the widely cited evidence that erudite and experimental aspects of Haydn’s style were reined in
by his patron Prince Esterházy (Larsen 1988, 105–​7), and that Mozart felt constant pressure to produce accessible music
(Bonds 2008).
non-​ professional and often casual listeners,
particularly aristocratic patrons.1 Furthermore,
the coordination of large-​scale tonal and formal
structure reinforces an overall aesthetic of grace,
balance, and poise, which, it could well be argued,
is basic to the Enlightenment conception of ar­
tistic beauty.
Not surprisingly, then, the composer most
responsible for expanding the use of tonal-​
formal disjunction was one that most openly
confronted the demand for broad accessibility,
Beethoven. If tonal-​formal coordination leads to
a sense of elegance and classical beauty, tonal-​
formal disjunction is ideally suited to drama,
struggle, and teleological drive. Disjunction is
analogous to dissonance, a misalignment that
causes agitation, discomfort, and intensifies
the need to resolve. It is perfectly suited to the
literary and theatrical ideals of music in the
 • 309
EXAMPLE 12.1  Basic outline of sonata form formal and tonal structures. Three types of high-​level
disjunction are possible by delaying the indicated tonal event to a later location in the formal structure.
Romantic era, and becomes a staple of compo­
sitional styles in the generations that followed
Beethoven. Disjunction, as a kind of dissonance,
places greater demands upon the listener, who
must follow a multi-​layered musical argument in
order to appreciate the coherence of the work.
Example 12.1 shows the basic outline of so­
nata form and how it is conventionally coor­
dinated with tonal structure, according to the
models described in Chapter 2 (§2.5). (The tonal
events shown are for the basic major-​key struc­
ture, but other common plans illustrated in §2.5
may be substituted for these.) Our method of
identifying high-​level disjunctions, as in the pre­
vious section, will be to isolate, by deletion of
coordinated structure and collapsing extra tonal
events, a set of common events where the two
modalities have no shared internal structure. We
can classify them, then, according to which edge
is at the base of that common set of events, which
will be shared between the two structures. There
are, accordingly, four possible kinds of high-​
level disjunctions in the sonata-​form contexts
depicted in Example 12.1: over the entire form,
within the exposition, within the second part
(development–​ recapitulation), or within the
recapitulation. The first three of these are as­
sociated with known compositional techniques
exemplified by Beethoven or Schubert or both,
as well as later nineteenth-​century composers.
The fourth (within the recapitulation) appears as
an optional complement to one of the first two
types (over the entire form or within the expo­
sition). This chapter is devoted to exemplifying
each of these types.
2 See Chs. 4 and 14.
310 • O r g ani z e d   T ime
In all of the examples below the tonal struc­
tures are right-​ oriented relative to the con­
flicting formal structures,2 meaning that the
disjunction begins when a more remote tonal
event appears at a basic formal division, and
ends when the appropriate structural tonal reso­
lution appears (at a lower formal level). In other
words, they have the character of a structural
appoggiatura, as opposed to a structural antic­
ipation. Therefore, as shown in Example 12.1,
the defining feature of each of the three types of
disjunction is a delay of the principle tonal event
of a large section of the form:
• Non-​standard subordinate
‸ keys: The dominant
that supports the 2 of the Urlinie is delayed to
some point within the development section
(usually the final standing on the dominant).
The non-​standard subordinate key plays some
lower-​level role within the motion to the
dominant (§12.2).
• Modulating subordinate themes: At the main
formal division of the exposition, the
beginning of the subordinate theme, a less
structural key appears, delaying the more
structural dominant or relative major to some
point later in the exposition (§12.3).
• Off-​tonic recapitulation: The recapitulation
begins on the way to the tonic rather than on
the tonic, delaying this structural event to
some point within the recapitulation (§12.4).
Discussions of structural disjunction elsewhere
(§§3.4, 4.4, 11.1) describe them as being in effect
over a particular passage of music. This is not the
EXAMPLE 12.2  The end of the development of Beethoven’s Quintet, op. 29, i

same thing as the span that contains it, though,
because the disjunction is not in effect until
the first event of divergent structural meaning
appears. For instance, the disjunction made by
a modulating subordinate theme is not in effect
over the whole exposition, but usually takes effect
from the beginning of the subordinate theme
group until the modulation to the true subordi­
nate key is completed. The disjunctions described
below usually begin at the principal formal divi­
sion of their section, but logically it is possible for
them to begin earlier.
12.2 ALTERNATE
SUBORDINATE KEYS
Although the non-​ standard subordinate key
represents the highest level of dislocation of the
possibilities outlined above, it is in a sense the
most natural technique since it places the disjunc­
tion over the development section, the traditional
site for elements of instability and distress. It also
seems to have been the first technique to be sys­
tematically explored. Beginning from the period
of his self-​professed “new path,” Beethoven con­
spicuously experimented with the use of various
non-​standard subordinate keys. The first of these
experiments appears in the op. 29 String Quintet
of 1801. This work was popular in Beethoven’s
own time—​it was one of the most frequently
performed of Beethoven’s works in concerts or­
ganized by Ignaz Schuppanzigh, the foremost
contemporaneous interpreter of Beethoven’s
music (Gingerich 2014, 302)—​ but today it is
less well known and its significance generally
underappreciated.3 From Churgin’s (1990) work
on the sketches, we know that the idea of using
A minor, the submediant, as a subordinate key was
one of the original premises of the work.4
If there is any doubt that Beethoven regarded
the problem of the submediant as subordinate
key as one of establishing a large-​scale connection
to the dominant, he leaves us what appears to
be a clear missive at the end of the development
section, shown in Example 12.2. This passage
comes at the end of a long standing on the dom­
inant (20 measures). The first violin arpeggiates
ostentatiously up to a high A, a dissonant ninth
over the dominant chord, then pointedly resolves
it in a prolonged chromatic descent to G after the
other instruments drop out for two measures.5
The choice of key is telling: the submediant is a
conventional first stage of the modulating tran­
sition in major-​ mode movements, sometimes
even appearing at the very beginning of the
transition.6 Choosing this as subordinate key
suggests the idea of stretching this modulatory

3 Lockwood (2004), for example, does not mention op. 29 in his biography, but refers to the op. 31 Piano Sonatas as
“the border of Beethoven’s first maturity.” (137) Kinderman (2009) also emphasizes the op. 31 sonatas, asserting that his
“innovative tendencies surface more clearly” in these than in earlier works (opp. 28 and 30). Regarding op. 29, Kinderman
discusses only the legal troubles surrounding its publication. (81) The quote “from today on I will take a new path,” attributed
to Beethoven by Czerny, is contemporaneous with the composition of opp. 28 and 29 in 1801. See Kinderman 2009, 61.
4 The finale of op. 29 also has elements that strikingly anticipate elements of his late style in its mixtures of time
signatures and surprising changes of tempo in the finale. Some of this is discussed in an article by Hatch (1984).
5 This moment is highlighted in one of the sketches; see Churgin 1990, 460–​2.
6 For example, Mozart’s Piano Sonata, K. 332, i, or Haydn String Quartet, op. 76/​1, i. See Caplin 1998, 129–​31.

Tonal-Formal Disjunction • 311
EXAMPLE 12.3  The beginning of the development

process out over the development section (al­
though, because the goal dominant is V of the
home key, not the tonic of a subordinate key, the
process is not so much a modulatory one as it
is a series of tonicized functions related to the
home key). The original key plan of the develop­
ment reported by Churgin (1990, 459) confirms
this: its core is a sequence by thirds that begins
and ends in A  minor, which then moves to G
in what appears to be the fragmentation stage.
The final version puts much more emphasis on
the dominant, arriving there (as V of C major)
relatively early in the development (m. 119).
Beethoven also devises a novel and ingenious
way to approach it:  instead of moving through
closely related keys to F major then D minor, he
interjects a change of mode while in F, so that
in place of D minor he hits upon D♭ major, the
key of the Neapolitan, and from this, the most
remote location, directly to the dominant,
with a great melodic emphasis on the note G
(Ex. 12.3). This use of mode mixture en route to
the dominant is recalled by the chromatic passing
tone in the gesture that ends the development
(Ex. 12.2). (The resolution of D♭ to the G 34 does
not treat D♭ directly as a Neapolitan, though, but
instead reinterprets D♭ as C♯ in a common-​tone
diminished seventh. This is an example of an en­
harmonic convergence, as discussed in §10.3.)
The earliest of Beethoven’s experiments with
new subordinate keys, in op. 29, and the op. 31/​1
Piano Sonata (1802), involve closely related keys,
diatonic mediants in major-​key movements that
appear fleetingly at the beginning of the sub­
ordinate theme group in the parallel major, but
ultimately revert to the minor.7 He soon turns

7 Though these kinds of subordinate keys are rare in earlier music, examples of other composers experimenting with
them can be found. Churgin (1992, 25) cites two intriguing examples, Domenico Scarlatti’s Keyboard Sonatas, K. 366
and K. 518, both in F major and using A minor (UM) as subordinate key. Both modulate initially to C major, approaching
A minor as the relative of this. K. 518 has a particularly astonishing fantasia-​like modulatory scheme, going to A major, then

312 • O r g ani z e d   T ime

Table 12.1  Non-​standard subordinate keys used by Beethoven in sonata-​form works.
The relation of  the subordinate key to  the home key is given using Kopp’s (2005)
labels for  mediants. The last columns shows keys in  which the  subordinate theme
or parts of it appear in the recapitulation. (HK = Home Key, MajHK = parallel major
of the home key).

WOR K M V T. DAT E K EY SK REL . S T R E C A P.

String Quintet, op. 29 i 1801 C maj. A min. LM* HK

Piano Sonata, op. 31/​1 i 1802 G maj. B min. UM* LSM–​LM–​HK
Triple Concerto, op. 56 i 1803 C maj. A min. LM* HK
Piano Sonata, op. 53 i 1803–​4 C maj. E maj. USM LSM–​LM–​HK
Leonore Overture No.2 1804–​5 C maj. E maj. USM —​**
Leonore Overture No.3 1805–​6 C maj. E maj. USM HK
Piano Trio, op. 70/​2 iv 1808 E♭ maj. G maj. USM LSM–​HK
Piano Trio, op. 97 i 1810–​15 B♭ maj. G maj. LSM HK
Piano Sonata, op. 106 i 1816–​18 B♭ maj. G maj. LSM HK
Piano Sonata, op. 111 i 1821–​22 C min. A♭ maj. LM HK
Symphony no. 9 i 1817–​24 D min. B♭ maj. LM MajHK–​HK
String Quartet, op. 127 i 1823–​4 E♭ maj. G maj. UM HK
String Quartet, op. 132 i 1825 A min. F maj. LM UM–​MajHK–​HM***
String Quartet, op. 130 i 1825–​6 B♭ maj. G♭ maj. LFM UFM–​HK
String Quartet, op. 135 iv 1826 F maj. A maj. USM LSM–​HK
* Begins in the parallel major (LSM or USM). ** Does not have a full recapitulation. *** Has two full recapitulations in different keys.

to distantly related keys by using these mediant
keys entirely in their parallel modes, beginning
with the most famous example, the Waldstein
Sonata (op. 53). Table 12.1 provides a list of non-​
standard keys that Beethoven uses, showing
that the practice persists but evolves throughout
his career. One notable and revealing fact is
that all are mediant keys, including both dia­
tonic and chromatic mediants. Table  12.1 uses
Kopp’s (2002) labels to classify these: U stands
for upper, L for lower, S for sharp, F for flat, and
M for mediant. The diatonic mediants of the
early examples in major are supplanted by sharp
mediants in major from 1804–​18, and only re­
appear in a movement of unusual construction
in one late quartet (op. 127). The lower mediant
in minor appears in later works, including the
Ninth Symphony.
Interestingly, at the same time that he began
to use mediant keys in major-​mode sonata form,
Beethoven made a marked turn away from
the traditional mediant in minor-​mode sonata
forms. Before 1800, all but one minor-​mode so­
nata form first or last movement in his Sonatas,
Trios, and Quartets use the mediant as a subordi­
nate key (the exception being the finale of Piano
Sonata no. 1, op. 2/​1). Between 1800 and 1805,
of eight minor-​mode first or last movements,
six use the minor dominant as subordinate key.8
The two that do not are unique experiments in
continuous form and enharmonicism:  the first
movements of the C minor Violin Sonata, op. 30/​
2, and the “Appassionata” Piano Sonata in F
minor, op. 57. In section 7.5 we noted a distinct
trend in Beethoven’s works of this period towards
the open exposition, a denial of full closure
within the exposition, leading to a more contin­
uous form. These two works are the most radical
early expressions of this idea, denying tonal clo­
sure altogether (not just rhythmic-​tonal closure).

modulating through C♯ minor and G♯ minor before returning to A minor, within the subordinate theme group. These, however,
are in a “rhyming” binary form, not sonata form.
8 These are op. 23, i; op. 27/​2, iii; op. 31/​2, i and iii; op. 47, i; and op. 57, iii.

Tonal-Formal Disjunction • 313
EXAMPLE  12.4  Mediant relationships on the → A minor ( = LM) has the strictly triadic voice
Tonnetz leading G→A. What distinguishes the mediants
from fifth-​ related triads is that the common
tones change thirds to roots and fifths or vice
versa, while fifth-​related triads exchange roots
and fifths. This means that mediant relationships
tend to involve larger vertical and smaller hori­
zontal distances than the dominants. However,
this is truer of the major-​third mediants (UM
from major, LM from minor, USM, and LFM),
which Beethoven tends to prefer. The chromatic
minor-​third mediants, LSM and UFM, are more
distant vertically, but the same distance hori­
zontally as the dominants.
Thus, while it is clear from Table 12.1 that
Beethoven’s practice of using non-​standard sub­
ordinate keys is exclusively focused on different
kinds of mediant, it is also evident that not all
mediants are created equal. Beethoven prefers
Both also include dramatic enharmonic cycles the subordinate keys that create the least hor­
at the beginning of their development sections. izontal spread on the Tonnetz, and in partic­
Uses of the standard UM in minor are not listed ular rejects one mediant, the UFM, altogether.
in Table  12.1, but it is actually about equally Since horizontal spread is associated with
common in later works as the LM in minor.9 linear progressions, the first fact signals that
One pressing question is why Beethoven uses Beethoven’s use of mediant keys is designed
these specific key relationships—​what is special to avoid linear progressions, precisely what the
about them? Example 12.4 shows how all of the dominant key enables. When he does use keys
diatonic and simple chromatic mediants appear that create a horizontal spread comparable to
in the Tonnetz, which reveals one special fea­ the standard dominant or relative major, they
ture:  chromatic mediants resemble dominants are always in the opposite direction. The step­
in that they share one common tone with the wise motion supported ‸ by
‸ these triads, the LM
tonic. This aspect is emphasized by Kopp (2002) and LSM in major, is 5–​6, an ascending motion
as the source of their special significance in indicative of a larger-​ scale neighbor motion
nineteenth-​ century tonality. The chromatic rather than a linear progression. The rejected
mediants and fifth relationships, furthermore, UFM, on the other ‸ hand,
‸ would support a de­
account for all but one of the possible one-​ scending motion, 1–​♭7, and in that sense is sim­
common-​tone relationships (the other being the ilar to the dominant.
“slide,” e.g., C major → C♯ minor). Similarly, dia­ It might be possible, hypothetically, to transfer
tonic mediants account for all the two-​common the basic structural plans for minor keys from
tone relationships except for the parallel. In the Section 2.5 (see Ex. 2.27) to the upper mediants
Tonnetz, the upper mediants are on the left and of major keys. The prevalence of USM over UM
the lower on the right, the sharp above and flat in Beethoven’s usage suggests otherwise, partic­
below. This accords with the meaning of these ularly‸ ‸ ‸ for the standard 5-​ line scheme,
‸ ‸ in
‸ which
dimensions as described in Section 10.2; note 3–​2–​1 in the mediant key serves as‸ 5–​4–​3 of the
that upper mediants actually involve descending Urlinie (see Ex. 2.27a). The raised 3 of the USM
voice leading according to the strictly triadic counters the descending impetus of the line and
model, and lower mediants to ascending voice would constitute an awkward transformation of
leading. For instance, the progression C major the scalar context for this structural purpose.10

9 After 1800 Beethoven uses III as SK in five instances (opp. 30/​2, 57, 59/​2, and 67, first movements, and op. 131 finale)
and VI in four. Other pieces use the dominant as SK.
10 Schenker does not substantially analyze any of the pieces in Table 12.1 in his later publications, so it is impossible to
know for sure how he would interpret Beethoven’s use of keys such as the USM. Some indication may be gleaned from Fig. 49/​2
and 110b1 of Schenker (1935) 1979, which analyze a short four-​hand Waltz by Brahms (op. 39/​1) that modulates to the UM of
B major. This analysis implies a tonal-​formal disjunction, although in the context of a much briefer piece.
EXAMPLE 12.5  (a–​e) Melodic ideas from the finale of Beethoven’s E♭ major Trio, op. 70/​2, all of which
stem from a common motive outlining a sixth
(a)
(b)
(c)
(d)
(e)
Beethoven’s non-​standard subordinate keys
are thus suited to be as unlike the dominant as
possible in one of its crucial respects, its poten­
tial to support a long-​ range structural linear
progression, suggesting that their purpose is to
yield structural status to the dominant of the
development section, producing a high-​ level
tonal-​formal disjunction. The significance of
this disjunction is corroborated by another fea­
ture of these movements:  in all cases with the
exception of the overtures, the developments
begin with main theme material (sometimes
after a short transitional delay). As we found in
section 11.3, this is a departure from the prac­
tice of Mozart and Haydn. The resulting paral­
lelism between the parts reinforces the formal
division, strengthening the sense of disjunction.
Some of the later works are particularly impres­
sive in this regard: in the op. 106 first movement
Beethoven substitutes for a standard develop­
ment section an elaborate double-​fugue exposi­
tion based on the main theme. In the late quartet
first movements (opp.  127, 130, and 132), the
parallelisms are made especially pronounced by
changes of tempo, explicit in opp. 127 and 130,
and written out in long note values in op.  132
to allow for counterpoint between material from
the two tempi.
The finale of the op. 70/​2 Piano Trio is a char­
acteristic example of Beethoven’s use of the USM
as subordinate key. The piece is heavily saturated
with motivic arpeggiations that outline a sixth.
Example 12.5 shows each of the basic ideas that
play a significant role, (a) from the introduction
of the main theme (which is also the basic ma­
terial of the developmental core), (b)  the main
theme basic idea, (c) the bass line at the begin­
ning of the main theme continuation, (d) an idea
Tonal-Formal Disjunction • 315
EXAMPLE 12.6  Basic structure of the exposition and development of the finale

from the transition derived from the main theme
introduction, and (e)  the subordinate theme
basic idea. What is ingenious about these mo­
tivic resonances is that they each reflect intervals
in the basic tonal structure, shown in Example
12.6. The essential
‸ ‸ progression of the exposition
is from the 3/​5 sixth (upper-​voice/​inner-​voice) of
the main ♭ ♮
‸ ‸ theme basic idea, G/​B , to the G/​B sixth
(as 1/​3 in the USM) of the subordinate theme.
The essential bass progression is reflected in the
melodic sixth of measures 15–​17.11
The analysis of Example 12.6 reveals a simple
tonal structure that is obscured by the formal
structure, an overall descending fifths sequence
that begins, ultimately, from the V/​SK (D major)
that ends the transition of the exposition. This
extends from the subordinate theme itself (G
major) to the beginning of the developmental
core on V/​ii (C major). (On developmental cores,
see ch. 10 of Caplin 1998.) Only in the core does
the sequence become explicit. At the end of the
core it reaches the tonic of the home key, but now
changed to the parallel minor. The reassertion of
consistent activity in the structural register of the
Urlinie in the piano signals a nodal point of the
large-​scale process at this moment. The sequential
progression continues, accelerated, however, into
the fragmentation phase of the developmental
core (mm. 147–​60) until it reaches G♭ in the bass,
at which point the root position triad is immedi­
ately replaced by a viio7/​V leading into the standing
on the dominant. (Another structural sixth here,
from G♭ up to E♭ in the bass, is again reflected at
the foreground in the bass of mm. 159–​60.)
EXAMPLE  12.7  The formal-​ tonal disjunction
between the subordinate theme and development
The fact that the descending fifth progres­
sion actually begins from well within the ex­
position is hidden by the conflicting formal
structure. This, in other words, represents a
high-​level formal-​tonal disjunction that crosses
over the principal formal division of the piece,
the one between exposition and development.
Example 12.6 aligns the basic formal structure
below the summary of the tonal structure. If we
fuse the standing on the dominant that ends
the development, then the conflict between
the structures is the simple but large scale one
summarized in Example 12.7. It occurs with a
five-​event underlying structure involving the
beginning and end of the exposition, the mid­
point of the developmental core, end of the de­
velopment (/​beginning of recapitulation) and
end of the piece. The principal formal division
occurs at the end of the exposition, but in the
tonal structure this event is twice-​demoted in
favor of two others, the end of the development

11 Interestingly, at least one other work of Beethoven’s that uses a chromatic mediant as a subordinate key, the “Archduke”
Piano Trio, op. 97, also derives melodic ideas from motivic sixths, as Rothgeb (1983) demonstrates in his analysis of the piece.

316 • O r g ani z e d   T ime

EXAMPLE 12.8  Tonal-​rhythmic disjunctions in (a) the main theme and (b) subordinate theme
(a)
(b)
and the midpoint of the development. These two
events are one step closer to the background
in the tonal structure, whereas the G major of
the subordinate theme is more distant by two.
Experientially, the disjunction spans the entire
development, reinforcing the conventional in­
stability of that formal function. It is initiated
by the ending of the exposition—​that is, articu­
lation of a major formal boundary—​in a tonally
remote location. The tonal structure realigns
with the more even formal structure only at the
beginning of the recapitulation.
Although claiming a causal link might be
far-​fetched, it is instructive at least to com­
pare the large-​ scale tonal-​formal disjunction
to tonal-​ rhythmic disjunctions built into the
main thematic material. Such a disjunction is
evident in the basic idea of the main theme, as
shown in Example 12.8(a). Beethoven point­
edly accents and extends the note F, which
is of a lower tonal structural order, a passing
tone to E♭ , itself an intermediary in the ar­
peggiation outlined by the idea. The result is a
tonal-​rhythmic disjunction similar to the high-​
level tonal-​formal one, but simpler (involving
only four events rather than five). The effect
of accented dissonance is analogous, on a scale
reduced by many orders of magnitude, to that
of the large-​scale tonal-​formal disjunction. Even
more suggestively, complementary ascending
arpeggiation of the subordinate theme also has
its intermediate note displaced by appoggiatura,
resulting in another tonal-​ rhythmic disjunc­
tion in an expanded hypermetrical context. As
Example 12.8(b) shows, if we consider rhythmic
structure extending only to the level of the beat,
so that the F♯ relates to the D by a split, then this
disjunction is of precisely the same form as the
high-​level tonal-​formal one.
An explanation of Beethoven’s choice of non-​
standard subordinate keys must also take into
account how this choice affects the recapitula­
tion. His practice, shown in the last column of
Table 12.1, reveals some consistent principles
in this respect also. First, with the exception
of the overtures (one of which simply lacks a
recapitulation of the subordinate theme alto­
gether) subordinate themes in the USM always
return transposed down by fifth in the LSM be­
fore they modulate back to the home key. This
is true of op. 31/​1 also, where the subordinate
theme begins in the USM and ends in the UM.
(Note that the three earliest works on the list
use diatonic mediants, but begin the subordi­
nate theme in the more distant parallel major.
This is so that the subordinate theme can be put
in the major when it occurs in the home key in
the recapitulation.) When Beethoven uses lower
mediants, he does not transpose them down by
fifth because this would put them in a remote
key not related to the home key as a mediant.
Transposing them up by fifth would accom­
plish this, but Beethoven rejects this possi­
bility, recapitulating these subordinate themes
instead entirely in the home key except in two
special cases in the late quartets that will be
discussed below.
One might suppose, then, that Beethoven
felt transposition up by fifth to be contrary to
the function of recapitulation, which tradi­
tionally exhibits a subdominant tilt. One of
the exceptions, the first movement of op.  132,
confirms this hypothesis if we think of this un­
usual form, which has led to many divergent
Tonal-Formal Disjunction • 317
EXAMPLE 12.9 Diagram of the exposition and recapitulation of Beethoven’s op. 130 String Quartet, i

interpretations and analytical hand-​wringing,12
as an attempt at a unique solution to the lower-​
mediant subordinate key problem. In place
of a development, this piece has a transition
following the subordinate theme,13 which leads
into a full recapitulation transposed up a fifth
(the main theme is in the minor dominant, E
minor, and the subordinate theme in the UM, C
major). This is followed by a short transition and
another recapitulation, entirely in the home key.
The unusual diversity of materials used in the
exposition makes it possible to present them in
this unique form without danger of monotony.
At the same time, the diversity and complexity
of the exposition exempts the piece from the
requirement of a development section. Most
importantly, though, the extra first recapitula­
tion allows Beethoven to bring the subordinate
theme back in a different mediant key without
compromising the sense of harmonic resolution,
which is provided by the second recapitulation.14
The other exception, op. 130, is also one of the
late quartets and constitutes Beethoven’s only
use of the LFM as a subordinate key. His similarly
unusual approach to recapitulation in this piece,
summarized in Example 12.9, may also reflect a
related attempt to solve the same problem. This
recapitulation omits the most distinctive feature
of the main theme, the adagio material heard in
alternation with the allegro main theme idea. In
essence, Beethoven omits the first part of the
main theme (mm. 1–​20), starting with the second
part (mm. 25–​37). Furthermore, this second part
of the main theme, following the half-​cadence
in measure 20, appears at first to be a kind of
Haydnesque start to the subordinate theme. That
is, following a type of medial caesura gesture,
Beethoven transposes the distinctive material
of the adagio and allegro up a fifth to the key of
the dominant, F major, as Haydn does in his so-​
called “monothematic” expositions to start the
subordinate theme group. However, this passage
modulates back to the home key, concluding the
main theme group with an evaded cadence in B♭
major in measure 37. A  modulation is thereby
built into this passage, which will serve a new
function when reappears to begin the recapitu­
lation in measures 132–​46, going away from the
home key rather than back to it. By starting from
this point in the home key (transposed down a
fifth), the main theme cadence of the recapitula­
tion now occurs in the key of the subdominant,
E♭ major (in m.  145). Yet Beethoven does not
simply reiterate this passage verbatim in trans­
position; it is substantially recomposed to give
it a more tonally unstable feel. This helps to
impart the idea that this first part of the reca­
pitulation extends the tonal instability of the
development section by omitting the true main
theme, which would require stabilizing the tonic
key. (Hence also the development section lacks
the big concluding standing on the dominant
passage that conventionally prepares the home
key for the main theme’s return.) The appearance
of the subordinate theme in the key of the UFM
(D♭ major) therefore does not upset the sense

12 See Kerman 1988, 243–​50; Agawu 1991, 118; McClary 2001, 124–​5; Ratner 1995, 262–​81; Greene, 1982, 149–​58.
For Kerman (1967, 246–​7) the piece is a “sign of the disaffection with traditional sonata procedures which informs all of
Beethoven’s late work,” and “an entirely novel ad hoc solution to the problem of coherence in the sonata style.” For Vitercik
(1993, 241) “the latter stages of the movement surely represent one of the most astonishing designs in Beethoven’s output,
and the terminology of sonata-​form seems singularly inadequate for it.” Samarotto (2009) states that the first recapitulation
“is famously called a restatement of the exposition transposed to E minor (with all the formal problems that entails)” (19) and
later asserts that, in the midst of the second recapitulation “the piece is acting out a pantomime of sonata form, but its inner
conflicts do not allow it to believe in its substance” (22).
13 The passage is often referred to as “the development” (e.g., Kerman 1988, 247; Agawu 1991, 118) because of its
position in the form. Functionally, it is constructed as a transition.
14 See also Rosen 1988, 355.

318 • O r g ani z e d   T ime

of tonal return; the sense of return, rather, is
simply withheld until the subordinate theme is
transposed to the home key in measure 174.
The first part of the main theme, with the
adagio music, reappears only in the coda (mm.
214–​34), firmly in the home key. In a sense
Beethoven splits the recapitulation function
here like he does in op.  132. The subordinate
theme appears in a tonally unstable setting in
the recapitulation proper. The recapitulation
does provide the powerful home-​key PAC, which
is the principal tonal function of the subordi­
nate theme recapitulation. In fact, the preceding
tonal instability even puts additional muscle
behind this cadence. The subsequent coda then
completes the last essential recapitulation
function,15 bringing back the true main theme
with the adagio–​allegro alternation. Whereas the
lack of repetition in the material of the op. 132
exposition provides the necessary conditions
for its unique solution to the lower-​ mediant
subordinate key problem, it is the presence of
repetition that allows for the distinct solution
of op.  130. Specifically, because of the repeti­
tion between the two parts of the main theme,
Beethoven can successfully convey recapitula­
tion function by starting in midway through the
main theme, omitting its proper beginning.
The use of the USM as subordinate key,
Beethoven’s favored non-​ standard option be­
tween 1803 and 1808, leads to a secondary tonal-​
formal disjunction by allowing for recapitulation
in the LSM. The finale of the op. 70/​2 Piano Trio
is particularly impressive in this regard: the sub­
ordinate theme group not only begins in the LSM,
as it does in op. 31/​1, op. 53 (“Waldstein”), and
op. 135, Beethoven actually recapitulates the en­
tire subordinate theme group and closing section
in C major (LSM) before fusing the closing
section into a new transition back to the home
key, where he recapitulates the subordinate
theme and closing section in toto a second time
to conclude the recapitulation. Example 12.10(a)
summarizes the tonal structure of the recapitula­
tion, revealing another formal-​tonal disjunction.
The repeated subordinate theme defines a dis­
crete formal unit as the second part of the reca­
pitulation, but the return to tonic occurs midway
through this section. Example  12.10(b) distills
this disjunction to essential elements. Though
15 To call this an “essential” function of recapitulation would be inaccurate in an eighteenth-​century context, where
recapitulations consisting only of subordinate theme material are not uncommon. This is the large parallel binary form,
Hepokoski and Darcy’s (2006) Type 2 Sonata discussed in Section 3.4. It does seem accurate for Beethoven, however, whose
practice, particularly in his relatively large and complex first movements and finales, is far removed from such older customs.
EXAMPLE  12.10  (a) Tonal and formal struc­
ture in the recapitulation of Beethoven’s op. 70/​2
finale, (b)  the resulting tonal-​formal disjunction
isolated
(a)
(b)
slightly closer to the surface, this disjunction is
similar to the one that spans the development.
It is the same level of complexity, involving five
essential events (beginning of the main theme,
sequence of the main theme in F minor, subor­
dinate theme in C major, and the beginning and
end of the subordinate theme in E♭ major). It is
also a kind of tonal-​formal appoggiatura: a major
formal section (the subordinate theme group)
begins in a remote tonal location, “resolving” at
a subsequent lower-​ level formal location. The
difference between the disjunctions is that the
event that mediates between the point of formal
articulation and the point of tonal articulation is
in a different place. In the recapitulation, C major
appears as part of an unfolding from the F minor
of the sequential repetition of the main theme,
an event that precedes the “appoggiatura” and
its resolution. In the development, the mediating
event is the reappearance of the tonic key in the
parallel minor midway through the development
(the fragmentation phase of the core), and this
occurs between the “appoggiatura” (G major) and
its resolution.
Beethoven’s upper mediant subordinate keys
thus entail two tonal-​ formal disjunctions, one
spanning most of the development section and an
Tonal-Formal Disjunction • 319
echo of that disjunction in the recapitulation. His
subordinate keys (relative major and dom­
lower mediants lead to the first type of disjunc­
inant), an older practice (see Longyear and
tion but not the second. Later composers, partic­
Covington 1988). Schubert usually begins in a
ularly Schubert, but also Schumann and Brahms, non-​standard key and ends in the standard one.
imitate Beethoven’s recapitulatory disjunctions,
An example closer to the effect of Schubert’s
but within expositions as well as recapitulation.
remote second theme beginnings appears in the
The high-​level disjunction within the exposition
finale of the op. 29 String Quintet.17 The mod­
is associated the technique of modulating sub­ ulation here is very quick, though, producing
ordinate theme which, as we will see in the next
nothing like the protracted expository disjunc­
section, was developed by Schubert in particular.
tions characteristic of Schubert.
When a recapitulatory disjunction complements Schubert’s modulating subordinate themes
the modulating subordinate theme, the result are similar to Beethoven’s non-​standard sub­
is a pairing of high-​level disjunctions spanning
ordinate keys in that both represent high-​level
part of the subordinate theme in both expo­ tonal-​
formal disjunctions. In that sense they
sition and recapitulation, more balanced than may be seen as an outgrowth of the new formal
Beethoven’s paired disjunctions, which span terrain opened up by Beethoven in works such as
parts of the development and subordinate theme the “Waldstein” Piano Sonata, which were surely
recapitulation. intimately familiar to Schubert.18 They are also
closely tied to another procedure, the enhar­
monic tour, which Schubert is also likely to have
12.3  DISJUNCTION IN THE learned from Beethoven’s model but expanded
EXPOSITION: MODULATING into a much wider range of formal contexts and
expressive ends.
SUBORDINATE THEMES In the last section, we found Beethoven to
The importance of Beethoven as a model be fairly selective in which non-​standard sub­
for Schubert in instrumental forms is well-​ ordinate keys he was willing to use, primarily
documented.16 One should wonder, then, why just the diatonic mediants and major-​key sharp
Schubert deviates from Beethoven’s practice chromatic mediants. Schubert’s range of keys for
concerning non-​ standard subordinate keys, beginning subordinate themes is much wider.
using them frequently at the beginning of Perhaps the most striking examples are his uses
his subordinate theme groups, but reliably of hexatonic poles, which are among the most re­
modulating to a standard subordinate key, mote tonal relationships possible, reckoned by
dominant or relative major (and occasionally the circle of fifths. In the last chapter (§10.3) we
the lower mediant in minor), before ending saw Schubert using the hexatonic pole as a local
his expositions. While numerous examples progression in the song “Das Heimweh” (see Ex.
of Beethoven using non-​ standard subordi­ 10.20). The hexatonic pole as a key area seems
nate keys are documented above, there are to have been a preoccupation of Schubert’s late
few examples in his works of the kinds of in his life. Well-​known examples of secondary
modulating subordinate themes preferred by themes beginning in the key of the hexatonic
Schubert. Webster (1978/​79) hypothesizes that pole include the late B♭ major Piano Sonata,
Beethoven’s Coriolan Overture was Schubert’s D. 960 (discussed by Cohn [1999], Clark [2011a,
model for the practice, but this modulating 146–​61], and myself [2015b]) and the E♭ major
subordinate theme uses the two standard Piano Trio, D. 929.19 Beach (2015) observes how

16 e.g., Cone 1970, Gingerich 2014.

17 Two other examples are Beethoven’s op. 10/​3 Piano Sonata and Symphony no. 8 first movements. The former begins
its subordinate theme in the submediant and ends in the dominant, which seems to derive from the practice of beginning a
transition in the submediant key, a practice sometimes found, for example, in Mozart’s expositions as well as Beethoven’s. The
latter example is similar, though somewhat more harmonically adventurous. Schubert uses a similar submediant beginning
to the subordinate theme group in his Octet, D. 803, a piece notable for its explicit invocation of a Beethovenian precedent,
the op. 20 Septet. See Gingerich 2014, 139–​76. Another example that is also relatively local in scope is the first movement of
Weber’s Symphony no. 1 (1806–​7) in C major: the second theme has a “false start” in B minor (mm. 60–​5), then D major (mm.
66–​9), before beginning in earnest in the true subordinate key of G major in m. 70.
18 Schubert quotes the “Waldstein” in his song “Ganymede” D. 544.
19 These are both minor hexatonic poles in major-​key movements. An example of the major hexatonic pole as a
contrasting key area a minor-​key piece is found in the song “Der Atlas” from Schwanengesang (D. 957).

320 • O r g ani z e d   T ime

the modulating subordinate theme of the latter
work creates a “disjunction between [formal]
design and [tonal] structure” (251). Indeed, this
is a general feature of such modulating subor­
dinate themes, and may explain their appeal to
Schubert and later composers like Brahms. (The
first movement of Brahms’s Second Symphony,
discussed in Chapter 9, is one example.)
The hexatonic pole is a disjunct major-​third
mediant, meaning that it shares no common
tones with the home key tonic. Schubert often
uses other major-​third mediants to begin sub­
ordinate themes as well, as in, for example, the
Grand Duo, D. 812 and Quartettsatz. One expla­
nation for this proclivity is Schubert’s desire to
approach the dominant via enharmonic cycle.
As we saw in Chapter  10, enharmonic cycles
are analogous to linear progressions like the
Urlinie, and therefore may add an extra dimen­
sion of tonal closure in the hands of a composer
like Schubert, as illustrated especially vividly
in the finale of the String Quintet, for instance
(see Ex. 10.21). When Schubert begins the sub­
ordinate theme in a key that is not mediant to
the home key, it is often a mediant to the sub­
ordinate key and participates in an enharmonic
cycle, as in “Lebensstürme,” D.  947, analyzed
below, and the allegro of the incomplete C major
sonata, D. 840 (the so-​called “Reliquie”). In the
latter example, the subordinate theme begins
in the upper mediant of the subordinate key,
and is approached by an enharmonic cycle in
the transition oriented around ♭ VI of the home
key. Understanding these as an exploitation of
enharmonic space ultimately provides a more
tenable explanation of Schubert’s consistent
use of them than attributing an “unease with
the dominant” to Schubert’s “lyrical impulse”
(Webster 1978/​79, 26), which could easily be
refuted by counterexample.20
One bit of evidence in support of this way of
explaining Schubert’s use of mediants to start
second themes is that in instances when he does
not present a lyrical second theme in a mediant
key, he nonetheless often does include an enhar­
monic cycle in the transition—​ for example, in
first movements of the piano sonatas in D major,
D. 850 and A major, D. 959 and the Violin Sonata
in A major, D. 574—​or in a transition-​like passage
within the subordinate theme group, as in the first
movements of his “Great” C major Symphony (D.
944)  and last String Quartet (D. 887). In other
cases he withholds the cycle in the exposition, but
produces one in the recapitulation, as in the Piano
Sonata in A  minor, D.  845. The first movement
of Symphony no.  4 (“Tragic”) is one of the few
examples of Schubert ending the exposition in a
non-​standard key, VI in a minor-​key movement.
This subordinate theme also contains a promi­
nent enharmonic cycle—​a brazenly unmediated
major-​thirds cycle. Sly (1999) shows how Schubert
uses this cycle to return to the tonic key in the
recapitulation.
The B♭ major Grande Sonate, D.  617, was, in
1823, Schubert’s first published piece with the title
“Sonata” and his only publicly performed sonata-
type work before the premiere of his A  minor
String Quartet in 1824.21 It has received relatively

20 Such comments echo persistent attempts to link Schubert’s innovations in instrumental forms to song that cling to
innumerable analytical studies of his music, a habit that often finds company in the time-​honored traditions of feminizing
Schubert’s music (see Gibbs 1997, 50–​2) and portraying his working method as unreflective inspiration (Clark 2011a).
The latter ideas have been repeatedly criticized, but often the criticism feeds this narrative by reinforcing its unfounded
characterizations of Schubert’s music (as compared to Beethoven’s). For example, McClary’s (2007) characterizations of
passages of Schubert’s music as “subjective,” “vulnerable,” “not safely anchored,” “pleasurable,” and so on could easily be
applied to numerous passages of Beethoven’s music (as she herself points out), just as it would be easy enough to find
“violent,” “heroic,” and “goal-​oriented” passages in Schubert’s music. See also Clark’s (2011a, 161–​74) critique of Dahlhaus.
The notion of the lyrical Schubert is more legitimate, at least, in that it is motivated by historical fact, but a skeptic would find
meager evidence in the literature to substantiate this habitual portrayal. Su Yin Mak’s (2006) survey lists two ways that this
argument is typically made. One is by pointing to melodies written in a cantabile style. The other is by reference to Schubert’s
use of small ternary (ABA) forms, which A.B. Marx, in the later nineteenth century, dubbed “song form” (Marx 1997). It is
not at all clear, though, that Schubert writes in a cantabile style any more than, or in a significantly different way than, other
composers. And the second argument is simply fallacious: the term “song form” is not contemporaneous to Schubert, and
was a fairly arbitrary appellation, with no basis in the conventions of early nineteenth-​century Lied (for which the model
form was strophic). A third argument that might be made is that Schubert engaged in the frequent practice of quoting
his own Lieder in instrumental compositions, typically in variations movements (as in the D. 667 “Trout” Quintet, the
D. 760 “Wanderer” Fantasy or the D. 810 “Death and the Maiden” Quartet) based on previously published songs. This practice
probably represents a (mostly failed) attempt to leverage his fame as a composer of Lieder in an attempt to gain recognition
as a composer of instrumental music (see Gingerich 2014). It was by Schubert’s time a well-​established convention for
independent variations sets to be based on a previously existing song or aria, and such forms were a convenient vehicle for
demonstration of mastery in writing for instruments.
21 Gingerich 2014, 36, 105.

Tonal-Formal Disjunction • 321
little attention from analysts, although it offers a
clear window into his distinctive approach to har­
mony and form in the sonata. First, aspects of dis­
tinctly classical writing are particularly evident in
the main theme, where Schubert shows himself to
be quite at home speaking the dialect of Mozart.22
The transition, shown in Example 12.11, also
reflects an easy assimilation of classical sonata-​
form practice: ‸ note in particular the repeated
high-​register 2s (Cs) in the standing on the

EXAMPLE 12.11  Schubert, Grande Sonate in B♭ major, mm. 20–​53

22 Schumann’s appraisal: “We regard the four-​hand sonata [D. 617] as one of Schubert’s least original compositions,
although there are lightning flashes where he stands fully revealed” (Schumann 1965, 89).

322 • O r g ani z e d   T ime

EXAMPLE 12.11 Continued
dominant that ends the transition. Yet we also
hear a distinctively Schubertian feature:  an un­
derstated introduction of mode mixture into the
harmony (especially the G♭ in the pedal 46, a chro­
matic descent that upward arpeggiations in the
melody struggle resist) prepares the modulation
to follow in the manner of a “promissory note”
(see Cone 1982, 1984). Schubert’s own composi­
tional persona is fully realized when the second
theme begins abruptly in the upper flat mediant
(UFM),23 D♭ major. It could not be aptly described
as “lyrical,” with its use of close imitation and
extra-​vocal melodic registers. Lyricism per se thus
does not seem to be the point of this harmonic
technique. The suddenness of the move to D♭ is
what distinguishes it from the way Schubert’s
predecessors might have handled such a modu­
lation in this context. The suddenness has a spe­
cific purpose, which is to cast a note we have just
heard, F, in a new
‸ light; what was an element of
tonal support, 5, now seen from a different angle
as an agent of major-​ness.24 Indeed, the music
seems to revel in the discovery of this new tonal
23 See the previous section for an explanation of this terminology. Note that this is the one chromatic mediant rejected
by Beethoven as a subordinate-​key option.
24 Clark (2011a–​b) advocates this kind of analytical reasoning and illustrates it in a number of analyses.
region, with the exuberant arpeggiations of the
primo over the harmonically static accompani­
ment of the secondo.
Ultimately the subordinate theme group will
make its way to the dominant through a sequence,
as it does in so many of the expositions that
Schubert composes in this manner. Schubert’s fre­
quent use of this expositional strategy suggests
that it serves some basic structural function. One
possible explanation is that the second key serves
as a platform for the incorporation of an enhar­
monic cycle in the harmonic progression of the
exposition, which imparts its special flavor of
teleological force to the arrival of the (true) sub­
ordinate key. This is illustrated in Example 12.12,
which plots Schubert’s sequential progression on
the Tonnetz. Progressions by fifth are ineffective
for enharmonicism, because each fifth moves a
minimal enharmonic distance. The crucial move,
besides the initial flatward shift to D♭ , is the
mode change that initiates the sequence, where
F descends to F♭ (respelled as E♮). The purpose of
the sequence is to transmute the F♭ –​F chromatic
Tonal-Formal Disjunction • 323
EXAMPLE 12.12  Enharmonicism in the exposi­ progression does both; it simultaneously cycles
tion of D. 617 on the Tonnetz flatward vertically and horizontally in a de­
scending voice-​leading direction. This accounts
for its dual status as part of a linear progression
and enharmonic progression.
Probably the most important aspect of the
modulating subordinate theme for Schubert,
however, is that it creates a significant tonal-​
formal disjunction. The summary tonal anal­
ysis in Example 12.13(a) shows the disjunction
created by the modulating subordinate theme
of the Grande Sonate. There are multiple
disjunctions in the structure of the exposition,
but all of them are of the same basic appoggia­
tura form shown in Example  12.13(b). At the
local level, the pedal 46 beginning the transition
is a structural appoggiatura to the concluding V
and the minor i6 in D♭ is a structural appoggia­
tura to the F major cadence in the subordinate
semitone into a diatonic one, E–​F, the leading tone theme. At a higher level, the D♭ tonality is an
resolution of the new key. Metaphorically, the appoggiatura to the true subordinate key of F
F, which relinquishes structural status in the D♭ major over the entire exposition.
major context of the second theme, has its major-​ Modulating subordinate themes may be
ness stifled as it drops tragically to F♭ , precipitating found in eighteenth-​century music, but all the
a crisis, represented by the sequence, whereby it ones that have been identified (e.g., in Churgin
regains its nerve as the F major context changes 1992, 25, and Longyear and Covington 1988) in­
its status to that of E♮, a leading tone that is now volve the two standard subordinate keys for
not only upward-​pointing but also unstable and minor-​mode movements: the subordinate theme
compelled to resolve. The resolution back to F begins in the relative major and modulates
completes the cycle. to the dominant.25 (See for instance Haydn’s
We may also locate another focal point of Symphony no.  45, discussed in §6.3, Ex. 6.11.)
enharmonicism in the bass. The D♭ functions Longyear and Covington classify this separately
ultimately as an upper neighbor to the domi­ as “Type I.” Indeed, its distinct historical status
nant. Rather than resolve to C directly, Schubert ‸ as an option that long existed within sonata-​
interjects a linear progression down to 3 (A) type forms, unlike Schubert’s novel modulatory
supporting a I6 (of F) which initiates a caden­ schemes, is warranted by the fact that this type
tial progression. This linear progression, accom­ of modulation does not lead to the kind of
plished by the sequence, outlines the diminished tonal-​formal disjunction we found in Schubert’s
fourth from D♭ to A  as a third-​progression, C♯–​ Grande Sonate. The key‸ of‸ III ‸ may support part
B–​A . When the sequence arrives at A minor, the of an Urlinie descent ‸(5–​4–​3) completed by the
C♯–​C♮ scalar voice leading is completed, resolving dominant supporting 2.
the upper neighbor enharmonically as an aug­ A later four-​hand piano piece, the Allegro in
mented unison. This means that the enharmonic A minor, D. 947, also known as “Lebensstürme,”
cycle of this passage is homotopically different exemplifies the poetic effect that Schubert
than the ones illustrated in Section 10.3:  The achieves though the combination of enharmonic­
cycles in the main theme of the String Quintet ism and disjunction especially well. The exposi­
finale, the middle sections of “Das Heimweh,” tion is quite long (259 measures). Example 12.14
and Chopin’s op.  33/​2 Mazurka (Exx. 10.21–​ gives a tonal summary and the associated formal
25) are all simple enharmonic cycles that do functions. It begins with a standard main theme
not tour the space in the horizontal dimension, and parallel transition, with an extensive standing
the dimension of triadic voice leading. The D♭ –​A on the dominant. Example 12.15 presents the

25 I exclude some of Longyear and Covington’s (1988) examples which may be better understood as simple off-​tonic
beginnings or as belonging to transitions.

324 • O r g ani z e d   T ime

EXAMPLE 12.13  (a) Tonal analysis of the exposition, and a fused version for comparison with the
formal structure, (b) the basic form of disjunction, which appears three times in the structure of the
exposition, within the main theme–​transition group, the subordinate theme, and in the background of
the whole exposition.
(a)

(b)

EXAMPLE 12.14  Summary of the exposition of Schubert’s Allegro, D. 947

EXAMPLE 12.15  Mm. 79–​96 of D. 947

passage where the subordinate theme begins: the
secondo descends to the leading tone in a deep
register. The subordinate theme then emerges
over it, a tender melody that contrasts starkly
with the tempestuous main theme. (Although, as
Schmalfeldt [2004] notes, a thread of main theme
material remains present in the syncopated
rhythm of the bass, which is clearly derived from
the main theme.) The subordinate theme in the
key of A♭ major reinterprets the leading tone of
the home key (G♯) as a tonic. The effect is mag­
ical: the upward pull of the leading tone, the mu­
sical emblem of striving and longing, melts away
in an instant. It becomes a tonic, a place to rest,
giving the sense that we have found peace within
suffering, a momentary state of nirvana within a
world of anguish.26
Schubert then repeats the gesture of de­
scent and neutralization of a leading‸ tone, this
time a secondary leading tone to 4 of A♭ major
(C). C major will ultimately prove to be the sub­
ordinate key. Schubert repeats the subordinate
theme in the new key, creating what is in effect
a large-​scale sequence at the beginning of the
subordinate theme.27 The sequence is not exact
though:  in an ingenious stroke, Schubert puts
the melody in a lower register, which highlights
the A♭ –​G voice leading between the keys, and
adds an upper-​ register countermelody in the
right hand of the primo (see Ex. 12.16). The
‸
countermelody
‸ dwells upon E, 5 of the home key
and 3 of the subordinate key, establishing struc­
tural connections by means of register back to
the main theme and ahead to the cadence of the
exposition. The melody takes back the register of
the fundamental line only at the end of a subse­
quent closing section which begins with a recol­
lection of the main theme basic idea in measure
199. The exposition ends on a dominant chord
which completes the interrupted branch of the
Urlinie for the piece.
Example 12.14 also shows the tonal-​formal
disjunction. The exposition’s formal structure
is strongly delineated by repetition between the
main theme and transition, contrast and caesura
at the beginning of the subordinate theme, as well
as fragmentation and motion resulting from the
large-​scale sequence. The marking of the closing
section by a return to the main theme basic idea
amounts to a split form within the exposition, as
indicated by the doubled lines in the formal net­
work (see §9.4). That is, Schubert’s formal plan
invokes the delayed-​repetition principle within
the exposition in addition to the sonata form
as a whole. Because the main division of the ex­
position is at the subordinate theme, where the
structurally remote A♭ appears, the formal and
tonal structures are misaligned at this point.
This disjunction, unlike the one in D.  617, is a
structural appoggiatura. The structural key of C

26 Schmalfeldt (2004, reprinted in Schmalfeldt 2011, 133–​57) finds similarly evocative referential meaning in Schubert’s
tonal sleight of hand, though she chooses her metaphors differently.
27 Compare to the subordinate theme group of Schubert’s last String Quartet (D. 887), which Dahlhaus (1986)
and others refer to as variation cycles within a sonata form. Although variation technique is used in these instances, the
repetitions are sequential, and therefore their function is analogous to that of a developmental core. They therefore extend
and expand upon the teleological drive of the exposition, rather than digress from it. McCreless (2015) reflects the usual
critical stance when he describes the subordinate theme in D.887 as “lazily repetitive” and “leisurely” (10), however one could
just as easily describe the great lengths of Schubert subordinate theme groups as grandiose and sublime, as one might when
confronted with similar expansiveness in Beethoven’s works.

326 • O r g ani z e d   T ime

EXAMPLE 12.16  Mm. 133–​44 of D. 947

EXAMPLE 12.17  Enharmonicism in the exposi­ sonata forms. The first is a method that Beethoven
tion of D. 947 on the Tonnetz explored to great lengths: the use of a main theme
that begins off tonic. The second is to transpose
the main theme to some other key. The latter
method is one of primary interest to Schubert.
There are numerous examples of the off-​tonic
recapitulation in Beethoven’s works, many
of which are discussed by Burstein (2005).28
Altogether, they display a tremendous variety in
the nature and consequences of this deviation
from conventional formal practice. The resulting
disjunction, in particular, can range from very
short to one that encompasses the entire reca­
pitulation. While plenty of off-​tonic beginnings
and returns may be found in works of Haydn
and Mozart, the effect is typically relatively local
in scope. Beethoven, more than any previous
composer, realized their potential to compro­
mise formal boundaries (particularly between
major is delayed at the major formal division by development and recapitulation) through large-​
the appearance of the remote key. scale tonal-​formal disjunctions. This innovation
Example 12.17 shows the enharmonic cycle relates closely to other outstanding aspects of
of the exposition on the Tonnetz. The focal Beethoven’s formal practice, such as the use of
point of the enharmonicism is the ‸E–​D ♯ hypermeter to thwart closure in expositions and
‸ lower
neighbor, which is approached as 5–​♯4 of the recapitulations (discussed in §7.5), to override
home key, a diatonic semitone, and resolved by the caesura preceding the recapitulation (§8.4),
chromatic semitone, as ♭3–​♮3 with respect to the
‸ ‸
and to divorce large-​scale tonal and formal struc­
subordinate key of C major. ture through the use non-​standard subordinate
keys (§11.2).
The Scherzo of the op.  26 Piano Sonata is
12.4  OFF-​TONIC emblematic of Beethoven’s interest off-​ tonic
RECAPITULATIONS recapitulations, and was composed in the crucial
agenda-​setting year of 1801, the same year that
The third type of high-​ level tonal-​
formal dis­ produced the op.  29 String Quintet discussed
junction is the off-​tonic recapitulation. There are in Section 12.2 above. As a miniature study in
two basic ways that composers achieve this in the technique of off-​tonic recapitulation, this

28 An especially impressive example is the first movement of the Ninth Symphony, in which the tonic at the beginning of
the recapitulation is replaced by V/​iv.

Tonal-Formal Disjunction • 327
EXAMPLE 12.18  Analysis of Beethoven’s op. 26 Scherzo
Scherzo has attracted its share of analytical
attention. Although the first note of the piece
is, as it turns out, the tonic, the first chord is
a vi, and a stable tonic chord does not appear
until the end of the brief eight-​measure A part.
The arrival at an initial tonic requires the en­
tire short A  part, and it also determines the
course of the B part (contrasting middle),
which prepares the vi chord at the beginning
of A' (not the underlying tonic) with an applied
dominant.
For this reason, Schenker took a special in­
terest in the piece: he analyzes it in the section
on “auxiliary cadences” in Der Freie Satz ([1935]
1979, 88–​9, Fig. 110e3). Schenker’s discussion of
the piece, like most in this book, is terse, but his
analysis has two far-​reaching implications: first,
he locates the entire Urlinie within a mere two
measures of a mere seven-​measure coda. This
means either that there is a tonal-​formal disjunc­
tion spanning the entire piece up to the coda, or
that the Urlinie is not the ultimate background
of the piece. In fact, we will find that both are
partially true: there is a disjunction, but because
there is some structure behind the Urlinie, it is
not quite so extreme. Second, Schenker’s anal­
ysis implies that manipulation of register is cru­
cial to the tonal structure of the piece, because
the process he identifies as preceding the Urlinie
328 • O r g ani z e d   T ime
is primarily a registral one, a large multi-​octave
initial arpeggiation.
The subject of register is also the context for
Oster’s (1961) commentary on the piece. He
points out that the register of the F–​E♭ motion,
which acts locally as a bass line in the first two
measures but is actually in an alto register, links
it to the F–​E♭ motion at the beginning of the
Trio, where it acts locally as an upper voice, but
in the same register (60). Oster’s idea about the
role of the middle register is intimately related
to the role of register in Schenker’s analysis: the
confinement of the Urlinie to the descant
registers allows the middle register to belong ex­
clusively to the F–​E♭ neighbor motion, helping to
secure this motivic connection. In fact, we can
extend Oster’s points about the Scherzo–​Trio
relationships by making the further observation
that the neighboring motion B♭ –​A♭ answers F–​E♭
in the main theme, and that the same subject–​
response pairing can be discerned in the Trio,
under a different tonal context and with register
again playing a particularly critical role.
In the analysis given in Example 12.18, the
“start” node plays a particularly critical role be­
cause of the non-​tonic beginning. It incorporates
the events of the A  section into a structure in
which the initial tonic is delayed until the end
(m. 8). The process of “getting to the beginning”
unfolds in two stages: first the F of the vi chord
must resolve to E♭ (mm. 2/​4); then the E♭ must re­
solve harmonically to A♭ (m. 8). This A♭ , because
it is an ending, is able to be only half of a be­
ginning. It provides the harmony of initial tonic,
but not the initial note of an Urlinie. This initial
note, as Schenker recognized, comes in meas­
ures 60–​2. Schenker’s analysis, though, glosses
over a crucial fact about these measures:  the
tonic does not occur there in root position (as
he shows) but in first inversion. Schenker’s tonic
is taken from 44 measures earlier, as an exten­
sive unfolding-​cum-​initial ascent. This is crucial
to the tonal structure, because the bulk of the
piece is structured under this unfolding, not the
Ursatz progression, which encompasses only
two measures. In recognition of the importance
of register, Example 12.18 shows the unfolding
starting at the beginning of the contrasting
middle, which brings the tonic note for the first
time into a true bass register, and therefore acts
more effectively as a harmonic beginning.
The A' section of the Scherzo is not a simple
repeat of the A section, although it does track it
harmonically measure-​for-​measure. It introduces
a new contrapuntal line in the right hand. This at
first appears to be a tonally inconsequential bit
of variation technique, simply to add additional
musical interest to the theme. However, it turns
out to play an essential role in the realization
of the tonal structure, which has a couple basic
requirements that would not be met by a simple
repetition:  first, the outer parts need to reach
into more extreme registers than they did in the
A part. Second, the tonic note in the bass register
must be withheld to secure the status of measure
17 as a structural initiation, and saved for the
completion of the fundamental line. The new line
introduced at the beginning of the recapitulation
is in fact an invertible-​ counterpoint counter­
melody to the theme. In the written out repeat
of A' (mm. 53–​60), the countermelody becomes
the bass, breaking through to the lower register
and reaching a low C in measure 60. In the same
measure the melody reaches the next higher rung
in the ladder of the ascending tonic triad, which
is also a high C, the beginning of the Urlinie.
The unusual tonal design of the Scherzo creates
a high-​level disjunction with the formal struc­
ture. The pivotal moment of this disjunction is
the beginning of the recapitulation: here a deeply
embedded tonal event, the vi chord, initiates a
major section of the form. The disjunction is of
precisely the same form, interestingly, as the
large-​scale disjunction in the op. 70/​2 finale (see
Ex. 12.10), but occurring within the second part
of the form rather than across the entire form.
The vi chord acts as a structural appoggiatura that
resolves in two stages (first to V then to I) associ­
ated with lower-​level formal boundaries.
The non-​tonic opening of the op. 26 Scherzo
is not an isolated experiment. The scherzo-​type
Allegretto of op.  27 no.  2, written in the same
year of 1801, is strikingly similar in design. The
Allegretto begins on a I6 rather than a vi, but also
delays structural tonic until the end of the A part.
It also gets there the same way:  by sequencing
the first four measures, which cadence on V,
up a fourth. We also might see a similar idea at
work in the Scherzo of the Eroica Symphony,
analyzed in Section 8.4. That piece also starts
off with a short scherzo-​theme that is tonally off
kilter, cadencing on V. But instead of making the
correction within the A  part, Beethoven delays
it until the A' of a massive second part, where
transposition of the theme up a fourth finally
brings tonal closure. The comparison of the 1801
pieces to the 1803–​4 one, the massive scope of
the latter and the way it unites the working-​out
of rhythmic impasse with the tonal one, testifies
to the rapid development of Beethoven’s style in
this period.
For another truly impressive monument of
even greater scope in the story of Beethoven’s ever
more masterful manipulations of the moment of
recapitulation, let us skip ahead to 1806 with the
second movement of the op. 59/​1 String Quartet.
This movement replaces the scherzo of a typical
four-​movement plan with a unique scherzando
sonata form, marked “Allegretto vivace e sempre
scherzando.” There is substantial disagreement
about how to understand the form of this piece.
It is clear that aspects of sonata form are present,
but sonata-​ form based interpretations differ
on details and some analysts, such as Kerman
(1967, 103–​ 9), reject sonata form altogether.
Kerman’s arguments against sonata form are
weak, however:  he claims that the sonata-​form
recapitulation should be more tonally stable
than the exposition, but generally the oppo­
site is true:  for instance, Beethoven like many
other composers, often introduces destabilizing
sequences in recapitulations that ultimately add
further weight to the final cadence. Lockwood
(1993) demonstrates that Beethoven almost cer­
tainly did in fact conceive of the movement as a
sonata form by showing that canceled repeats in
the autograph manuscript clearly mark off the
three principal components of the form: exposi­
tion, development–​recapitulation, and coda.
Tonal-Formal Disjunction • 329
EXAMPLE 12.19  Formal layout of the op. 59/​1 “Allegro vivace e sempre scherzando”

With the more sophisticated tools of formal
analysis that have come on line in the last decade,
in particular the theory of formal functions,
we are now in a better position to explain how
sonata-​form procedures operate in the piece. As
Richards (2012) accurately intuits, the key to this
form is Caplin (1998) and Schmalfeldt’s (2011)
concept of formal fusion. He also recognizes that
the piece borrows from sonata-​rondo practice to
absorb a scherzo into the larger sonata form.
Specifically, the main theme itself is constructed
as a rounded binary, ABA', like a scherzo. But
A', rather than being closed off as it would be
in an ordinary scherzo or minuet, is fused with
the transition to integrate it smoothly with
the rest of the exposition.29 This type of main-​
theme–​transition design, as Caplin (1998, 131,
237, 274 n.  30)  demonstrates, is not at all un­
usual, but is primarily a feature of the rondo or
sonata-​rondo, which is where it may be found in
Beethoven’s early works and those of previous
composers, not so much in first-​movement so­
nata forms. However, in the nineteenth century
it does become a common feature of expansive
first-​movement designs.30
Example 12.19 outlines the overall form of
the piece. One other unusual aspect of the form,
which perhaps has contributed to confusion over
it, is that like many of Beethoven’s scherzos, in­
cluding the most recently composed one from
the “Eroica” (discussed in §8.4) the A' section is
unusually expansive, exploding the A  part into
something on another order of magnitude in
scope. It first ends on a dominant arrival in the
wrong key (G minor), and is therefore followed
by another return (A'') whose larger sonata-​form
function is a second transition modulating to
the correct subordinate key, F.  In other words,
the Aʹ–​Aʺ music constitutes a two-​part transi­
tion, but instead of ending on V of the home key
as an ordinary non-​modulating transition, the
first part of the transition ends on V of the rela­
tive minor. As we will see below, the second part
of the transition plays an important role in the
recapitulation.
Another disputed aspect of the form of the
piece concerns the onset of recapitulation.
Although the tonic key is prepared by its domi­
nant in measures 233–​6, a deceptive resolution
in measure 237 leads to a tonal digression to G♭
in measures 239–​45 that modulates back to the
home key in measure 257, with the home key
tonic not returning until measure 259. But this
does not correspond to the beginning of the main
theme:  measures 257–​74 clearly parallel meas­
ures 21–​38 of the main theme A part. The music
in measures 239–​56 corresponds motivically to
measures 1–​20 of the main theme, although it
includes added counterpoint and explores distant
keys. Most analysts have therefore recognized
that the recapitulation begins off-​tonic in measure
239, and there is a misalignment of tonal return
and thematic return. A  familiar Beethovenian
method is discernable here in his use of a tonally
disruptive sequence in the main theme A  part,
which can be exploited later to transform the
same material into a modulating theme. Related
methods are used in the Scherzos of op. 26 and

29 My interpretation differs from Richards’ here: what I understand as the contrasting middle of the main theme he
designates as the subordinate theme, and what I and others interpret as the subordinate theme he labels an interior theme.
He argues, following Kerman, that a subordinate theme would not be so tight-​knit, and would not occur entirely in a minor
key. However, the key of the minor dominant is also not at all characteristic of rondo interior themes, and is much more
plausible as a subordinate key, even if it does not revert to the major within the exposition. Nor is there any precedent for
an interior theme of a rondo being recapitulated in a different key. The same arguments apply to the tempting idea that
this section represents the “trio” of the form, espoused by Kerman and others. The most important defining feature of
subordinate themes is their cadential orientation, not so much their regularity of phrase rhythm. The F minor section has a
strong cadential emphasis, with multiple PACs and in particular an elided cadence in measure 132 that extends the theme,
a highly characteristic feature of subordinate themes. The D minor contrasting middle has no genuine PAC at all. Hence,
Richards also uses formal fusion differently, positing a novel large-​scale sonata-​rondo⇒sonata fusion. But, since sonata and
sonata-​rondo are actually formal types rather than functions (see Caplin 2009b), this is not properly speaking a formal fusion.
30 Hepokoski and Darcy (2006, 108–​11) call this the “dissolving reprise.” Some nineteenth-​century examples are
Schubert’s D. 929 Piano Trio and D. 960 Piano Sonata, Mendelssohn’s op. 20 Octet, and Brahms’s First Violin Sonata, op. 78.
Ratner (1995, 117–​23) also sees this as a hybrid of sonata and rondo practice, but in a different sense, interpreting the main
theme as a little rondo form embedded within the larger sonata form.

330 • O r g ani z e d   T ime

op. 27/​1 discussed above, as well as the op. 31/​1
and op.  53 piano sonatas, which are among
the early experiments in non-​standard subor­
dinate keys (see §12.2 above). Example 12.20
aligns three versions of the theme, from the be­
ginning of the piece, the A' part of the main
theme, and the beginning of the recapitulation.
In the second version, Beethoven replaces the se­
quence down by whole step with a sequence by
half step that leads to the dominant of D (treated
as V of G minor). In the third version, he changes
the sequence to one that ascends by fifths, which
helps to return to the home key from the distant
key of G♭  major.
Two other features of how the theme evolves
are evident here. First, it gradually acquires
formal structure lacking in the original version,
which is a continuation–​cadential phrase that is
either lacking an antecedent altogether, or whose
antecedent, the repetitions of B♭ in the cello,
is missing its melody. The subsequent versions
solve this in different ways. The second version
adds an entire phrase after the repeated note,
a compound basic idea that functions as an ini­
tial phrase so that the second phrase assumes its
proper role as a continuation–​cadential phrase.
However, the cadence is now elided through
hypermetric deletion with the sequential rep­
etition and resolves on A  major, the dominant
of D minor, rather than the home key dominant
of F major, opening the theme up tonally. This
hypermetric deletion is the other feature that

EXAMPLE 12.20  The main theme A part aligned with subsequent versions in the A’ part and recapit­
ulation A part to show added phrases, added counterpoint, and metrical deletions introduced

Tonal-Formal Disjunction • 331
EXAMPLE 12.20 Continued
begins to upset the four-​square regularity of the
original theme, and is intensified in the third
version. This version, which begins the recapit­
ulation, solves the initial-​phrase problem differ­
ently, by adding a countermelody to the repeated
notes that can adopt this role. The cadence on
the dominant is also restored, but the deletion
and elision remains in place, so what results is
a sequence by ascending fifths, each subsequent
statement beginning on the dominant of the
last. It is not until the coda, in measures 420–​41,
that the main theme reappears with its original
tonal design and phrase rhythm, but with the
melody included in the initial phrase.
The main motivic idea of the piece, shown
in Example 12.21(a), has the basic outline ‸ ‸of‸a
descending third progression to tonic (3–​2–​1)
332 • O r g ani z e d   T ime
‸ ‸
where the 2–​1 progression
‸ is interrupted by
an unfolding from 5. This is an elemental ca­
dential gesture, an appropriate motive for a
piece that plays with the rhetoric of closure
by starting with a closing phrase missing its
initiating phrase. There are two important
elements that are added to this basic skeleton
in most instances of the motive. The ‸ most im­
portant
‸ is an upper neighbor (♭ )6 that delays
the ‸5. ‸The other optional addition is to fill in
the 5–​1 motion ‸with a descending arpeggiation
or unfolding to 7. Example 12.21(b) shows how
the motive is embedded in a number of places
in the main theme A  part. The theme begins ‸ ‸
by
‸ outlining
‸ the first part ‸of the motive 3–​2–​
(6)–​5 but its completion (1) is denied by the
tonicization of V.  However, the cadence on V
EXAMPLE 12.21  (a) A basic structural motive of the piece, (b) one instance of the motive embedded
in another, (c) four instances of the basic motive on different timescales in the main theme A part
(a)

(b)

(c)
EXAMPLE  12.22  The basic motive and tonal-​
rhythmic disjunction in the retransition of the
main theme
embeds a more local instance of the basic skel­
eton of the motive, transposed. On a larger
scale, the descending sequence
‸ ‸ ‸ begins
‸ ‸ a new
version of the motive, 3–​2(–​♭2)–​♭6–​5, again,‸
not quite completing it, but this time the 1
does appear, ‸delayed, at the end of the A part.
The delay of 1 encompasses a cadential phrase
that contrasts heavily with the previous music
with its dolce legato articulation and mostly
eighth-​note rhythm. It expands the optional ‸ ‸ ‸
concluding arpeggiation of the motive (5–​3–​1),
which allows for another more local ‸ repetition
‸ formal disjunction shown in Example 12.24(a).
of the motive to be grafted into the 3–​1 descent.
Here
‸ ‸ the motive includes the upper neighbor,
6–​5, but with ‸the ♮ 6  “correcting” the previous
‸
minor-​mode ♭6. This playing of parallel-​minor
inflections against uninflected instances of the
upper neighbor is another aspect of the overall
motivic conception.
The motive is presented in unembellished
form at a critical moment in the exposition, the
return to A' within the main theme, shown in
Example 12.22. The role of this phrase is to
retransition from D minor, the key of the B part,
to the home key of B♭ major. As a melodic idea, it
has a special significance in that it will give rise to
the new main theme melody that is introduced at
the beginning of the recapitulation (see Ex. 12.20)
and remains an essential element of the theme
when it is restored to the home key in the coda
(mm. 420–​41). The connection between these
two ideas is largely secured by their rhythmic re­
semblance,
‸ ‸ ‸ but they do also have the same basic
3–​2–​1 outline, with
‸ the main difference
‸ being
that the leap to 5 is replaced by 4 in the recapit­
ulation idea. What is especially interesting about
the gesture in Example 12.22 is the prominent
rhythmic-​ tonal disjunction resulting
‸ from the
strong metric placement of the ♭6. As we will see,
31 Schenker [1935] 1979, 99–​100, Burkhart 1978, Rothgeb 1983.
334 • O r g ani z e d   T ime
this echoes the much higher-​ level disjunction
created by the off-​tonic recapitulation. ‸
The motive also appears (missing the final 1)
in the first leg of the basic tonal structure of the
piece, a magnificent instance of what Schenker
calls a “hidden repetition.”31 This is illustrated
in Example 12.23, which summarizes‸ the ‸ tonal
structure of the entire piece. The ♭6–​5 upper
neighbor takes on a special significance in the
form, appearing in the off-​tonic beginning of the
recapitulation. Hence, it creates the large tonal-​
This disjunction resembles the tonal-​rhythmic
disjunction of the motive in measures 65–​8,
in that both
‸ incorporate a structural appoggia­
tura on ♭6. The structure is complex because it
incorporates two unusual features of the reca­
pitulation. One is the off-​tonic recapitulation,
which is a structural appoggiatura on ♭ VI like
the rhythmic-​ tonal disjunction
‸ in Example
12.22. The other is the early 2/​V, which appears
because of the unusual procedure of transposing
the A' section (the beginning of the transition)
up a fifth to the key of the dominant. We can
factor
‸ out the latter by imagining the role played
by 2/​
‸ V of A' in the tonal structure replaced by
the 2/​V preceding the subordinate theme, which
implies the fusions shown in Example 12.24(b).
The “factored out” part may be isolated by
fusing the upper part of the structure, giving
the disjunction in 12.24(c), which amounts to
a simple anticipation. The more complex dis­
junction in Example 12.24(a) thus represents a
compound of two unusual tonal features of the
recapitulation.
This unusual transposition of the A' section
also relates to the motivic plan of the piece.
Beethoven could have simply repeated the first
three parts of the main theme (A, B, and A') at
EXAMPLE 12.23  Summary tonal structure and formal structure of the entire Allegro scherzando
EXAMPLE  12.24 (a) Tonal-​ formal disjunc­
tion spanning the recapitulation main theme–​
transition group, (b) a simplification by contracting
the events of the recapitulation, (c)  the part
“factored out,” revealed by contracting the spans
before and after the main theme–​transition
(a)
(b)
(c)
their original transposition level. Instead, he
transposes the B part down by fifth to G minor,
and the A' part up by fifth to F major. The A'' then
begins in the home key, as before, and is mod­
ified appropriately to end on the dominant of
the home key to prepare the transposed version
of the subordinate theme. One might initially
suppose that the B part is transposed down to
give the recapitulation an overall subdominant
hue to balance out the more dominant-​leaning D
32 Beethoven’s use of this distinctive dolce cadential phrase for the E minor music creates a fascinating resonance with
a passage just preceding the developmental core, measures 171–​6, where the same music appears in a surprising tonal area,
B major (interrupting a G major chord acting as V/​V in F minor). This passage is also part of an enharmonic cycle, the first
one of the piece. Harmonically, though, the cadential phrase in mm. 171–​6 is superfluous, because the core also begins on a
tonic of B major. Lockwood (1993, 94–​5) shows that this passage was a late addition in the autograph score. While there may
336 • O r g ani z e d   T ime
minor of the exposition. Yet, the transposition
of the A' part, which required additional compo­
sitional effort in reworking the retransition from
B since they are not transposed in the same di­
rection, counters this hypothesis. Both changes
may be explained ‸by‸ the fact that they intro­
duce a structural ♮ 6–​5 neighbor motion. (Note
how the G–​F resolution is especially emphasized
by the recomposition of the retransition idea
from mm. 62–​8 ‸in ‸mm. 298–​304.) This answers
the large-​scale ♭  6–​
‸ 5‸ version of the motive with
an embedded ♮ 6–​5 version, ‸ ‸ a mode-​ mixture
corrective exactly like the ♮ 6–​5 embedded version
of the motive that appears in the main theme
A part. As a result, A'', or transition part 2, which
seemed superfluous in the exposition, takes on a
critical function in the recapitulation, rounding
off the main theme with a return in the home
key before preceding to the‸ subordinate theme.
The placement of this ♮ 6–​5 motion (in the re­
‸
capitulation main theme–​transition) is not ex­
actly the same as it is in‸ other instances of the
motive, preceding the 2 rather than following
it. This makes space for another repetition of
the motive on ‸a ‸structural
‸ level, encompassing
the last major 3–​2–​1 descent from the reattain­
ment of the home key in the transition of the
recapitulation (A'') through the coda. Here the
coda provides space for another ‸ ‸diversion to G
♭
♭
major, against presenting the  6–​5 version of the
motive. One may ‸ ‸ suppose, then, that another
correction of ♭  6–​5 to ♮ 6–​5 should be needed, and
‸ ‸
indeed, Beethoven includes one more digres­
sion towards the end of the coda (not included
in Ex.
‸ 12.23) to offer the most startling setting
of ♮ 6 yet. This digression to E minor, shown in
Example 12.25, accomplishes two tasks, support­
♮ 5 motion, now resolved
‸ ‸
ing the necessary ‸  6–​
as ♮ 6–​♭  6–​5 to include both variants
‸ ‸
chromatically
‸
of 6, and, harmonically, serving as a final valedic­
tory enharmonic cycle to convincingly close this
long and complex movement.
Beethoven moves to E minor with a chro­
matic deceptive resolution of V that recalls the
end of the development section, in which the
bass F moves up by chromatic semitone to F♯. In
E minor, a sequential repetition of the cadential
phrase presents the F♯-​G interval as a diatonic
semitone,32 but the F♯, after it is respelled as a G♭ ,
EXAMPLE 12.25  Beethoven op. 59/​1, ii, mm. 442–​60

ultimately moves up to G by another chro­ K. 545 Piano Sonata is a noteworthy exception.

matic semitone (G♭ –​G♮). The process is shown
in Example 12.26 on the Tonnetz. Note how the
neighbor motion between F♯ and G (in E minor)
and the chromatic passing motion G–​G♭ –​F (in B♭
major) dramatize the process by articulating all
enharmonic variants of the two semitones.
Like Beethoven, Schubert also apparently
took a deep interest in the disjunction produced
by the off-​ tonic recapitulation, but explored
a different method for achieving it, the trans­
position of the main theme to some non-​tonic
key. Schubert frequently begins the recapitu­
lation with his main theme in some key other
than the tonic, usually the subdominant. The
subdominant recapitulation has a history
that predates sonata form itself. There are
many examples in J.S. Bach’s music, for ex­
ample.33 They also appear in works of the mid-​
to late-​eighteenth century by lesser known
composers, as examples catalogued by Churgin
(1992, 26)  attest, including eminent Viennese
predecessors of Haydn and Mozart. But they are
rare in the music that Schubert was more likely
to have taken as models: that of Haydn, Mozart,
and Beethoven. The first movement of Mozart’s
Schenker’s analysis of the movement in Der
Freie Satz ([1935] 1979, Fig. 47/​1) is a prime ex­
ample of the radicalism of his attempt to subju­
gate musical form to tonal structure in his last
published work. Despite the unambiguous re­
turn of the complete main theme in measure 42,
Schenker allocates this to the “development,”
beginning the “recapitulation” with the subordi­
nate theme, shortly after the return to the home
key (m. 58).34 The terms thereby lose all of their
essential formal meaning for Schenker: the “re­
capitulation” is simply the return to the home
key tonic, and the “development” is whatever
precedes that. The analysis has exasperated nu­
merous interpreters (e.g., Laufer [1981], Smith
[1996], Sly [2001]. Clark [2011a, 222–​23]) with
its silence on the matter of the subdominant re­
capitulation in the text.
While Mozart’s subdominant recapitulation
leads to a high-​level tonal-​formal disjunction,
this does not appear to be his main reason for
using it.
‸ Schenker’s
‸ analyses show a motivic use
of the 6–​5 neighbor relationship that may relate
to the use of the subdominant recapitulation
‸ ‸
(which takes part in a larger-​scale 6–​5 spanning

be other reasons that Beethoven thought to include this passage—​it affects the proportions of the development section and
the dynamic arc of the precore—​we might speculate that the specific choice of material was motivated by the fact that, after
having composed the enharmonic cycle in the coda using this same music, he thought to prepare this critical moment by
establishing a precedent for this use of the dolce cadential music.
33 See Ellis 2006, Anson-​Cartwright 2013.
34 This contradicts a comment made in an earlier published analysis (Schenker [1921–​3] 2004, 156) which explicitly
refers to the subdominant recapitulation as such.

Tonal-Formal Disjunction • 337
EXAMPLE  12.26  The enharmonic convergence
in mm. 442–​60 on the Tonnetz. The basic enhar­
monic cycle appears in the solid arrows. Dashed
arrows show subsidiary motions in the same voice
that highlight all enharmonic variants of the two
semitones. The dotted lines show the linear pro­
gression in another voice which does not cycle
the space vertically, meaning that there is an
enharmonic convergence rather than a triadic
enharmonic cycle.
the main theme and transition).35 A  more di­
rect explanation, though, is the similarity of the
main theme and second theme, noted by Laufer
(1981). By using the subdominant recapitula­
tion, Mozart avoids the potentially poor effect of
presenting the two themes back-​to-​back in the
same key.
Examples of subdominant recapitulations
by other later eighteenth-​ century composers
listed by Churgin mostly fall into the “lazy com­
poser” category; that is, the recapitulation is
often a measure-​for-​measure transposition of
the exposition or nearly so. This suggests that
the composer may simply be using the subdom­
inant recapitulation as a way to let the recapit­
ulation “write itself,” with no need for making
the tonal adjustments otherwise necessary to
put the main theme and subordinate theme in
the same key. This is not true of Mozart’s K. 545,
nor is it true of the one prominent example in
Beethoven’s works, the Coriolan Overture, which
Webster (1978/​ 9) suggests may have been a
model for Schubert’s off-​ tonic recapitulations
as well as his modulating subordinate themes—​
that is, both types of tonal-​formal disjunction
prominent throughout his output of instru­
mental music. (See §12.3.)
Schubert’s frequent use of non-​tonic recapitu­
lations, in contrast to those of Mozart and older
composers, points to a specific interest in the
resulting tonal-​ formal disjunctions.36 Coren’s
(1974) survey demonstrates Schubert’s persis­
tent interest in the effect, and his use of keys
other than the subdominant as well as his often
substantial recompositions of the recapitula­
tion, rule out the “lazy composer” explanation.
The Moderato of the incomplete C major sonata
(D. 840) is one prominent example: Sanguinetti
(2015) discusses the effect of a temporally
diffused the moment of recapitulation in this
piece.37
The unusual design of the Fourth Symphony
(D. 417, “Tragic”) first movement is particularly
telling in this regard. At first it appears that the
movement has an unusually stable develop­
ment, in the distant key of B♭ minor, followed
by a recapitulation of the main theme in the
key of the dominant. As Newbould (1992, 97–​
8) points out, however, this is not prepared as
a recapitulation. In fact, it is approached as if
part of a large-​scale developmental sequence,
which would provide the tonal mobility re­
quired for that formal function and otherwise
absent. That is, only by including the G minor
“recapitulation” as part of the development can
it be accurately called a development at all. It

35 Schenker [1921–​2] 2004, 156–​7 and [1935] 1979, Fig. 124/​5a. See in particular Lubben’s notes in Schenker [1921–​2]
2004, 156.
36 A conflicting explanation is given by Clark (2011a, 221–​8), who, employing a transformational picture of the
practice, argues instead in favor of symmetry and balance, which has the virtue of resonating with some aspects of Schubert’s
mediant-​based designs (see also Yust 2015b on the Menuetto of String Quartet no. 13). Construed properly, though, the two
explanations are not necessarily inconsistent and could be reconciled.
37 Sanguinetti claims that “even if we separate out [the] two components” of a standard recapitulation, thematic return
and tonal return, “their independent identification is no less problematic” (331), the problem being that the main theme
basic idea is present throughout the development section. But the subdominant return in measures 169–​82 brings back all
the motivic materials of the main theme, including an essentially verbatim transposition of the first seven measures, whereas
previous phrases only recall the initial basic idea. Furthermore, it is followed by a clear recapitulation of the (main-​theme–​based)
transition in measures 183–​213. Therefore, it may be accurately described as a subdominant recapitulation, a tonal-​formal
disjunction in which the formal recapitulation in measure 169 is separated from the tonal recapitulation in measure 183.

338 • O r g ani z e d   T ime

acquires the sense of recapitulation only in ret­
rospect, when it leads to a recapitulation of the
transition and subordinate theme. Schubert’s
intent in this movement appears, then, to be
to temporally disperse the effect of recapitula­
tion by fusing the development and recapitula­
tion functions.38 However, because part of the
strategy is to open the second part with the
main theme, ultimately the form amounts to a
version of the large parallel binary common in
the mid-​eighteenth century (see §§3.3–​4). This
may explain why Schubert does not further
pursue this method of integrating the second
part in later pieces.
The Violin Sonata in A  minor, D.  385,
provides a relatively early example (1816) of one
of Schubert’s subdominant recapitulations. The
modulating subordinate theme of the piece is
unusual in that it begins in the standard subor­
dinate key, the relative major, and modulates to
a non-​standard one, the submediant (F major).
This tonal plan supports‸ ‸ a‸ large-​scale instance
of a motivic E-​ F-​
E, 5–​6–​5, neighbor motion.
This motive is in evidence at the foreground in
a number of places, as shown in Example 12.27,
including at the beginning of the main theme
and the second phrase of the transition. At the
beginning of the subordinate theme ‸it ‸appears
‸
with a different scale-​degree sense of 3–​4–​3, and
in the development it even appears enharmoni­
cally as a chromatic semitone, E–​E♯–​E.
The upper neighbor figure appears twice in
the deeper tonal structure shown in Example
12.28(a), each time associated with an F major
tonal area. The first is the F major subordinate
key of the second closing theme in the exposi­
tion, and the second is the reappearance of F
major in the recapitulation as the key of the first
closing theme. (Note that there are two closing
themes and no regular subordinate theme, be­
cause the transition ends with a PAC in the first
subordinate key of C major, and the following
theme has the character of a closing theme.) The
use of F major as a second subordinate key (of
closing theme 2)  leads to only a very brief dis­
junction, because it quickly resolves to E.  This
disjunction is not shown in Example 12.27 be­
cause it would require a more detailed formal
analysis, and is therefore closed by the fusing
of the gap between the end of the exposition

EXAMPLE 12.27  Instances of the E–​F–​E motive in Schubert’s D. 385 Violin Sonata, in (a) the main
theme, (b) transition and first closing theme, and (c–​d) development
(a)

(b)

38 On formal fusion, see Caplin 1998 and Schmalfeldt 2011. Caplin discusses many types of formal fusion, such as
main theme⇒transition, transition⇒subordinate theme, closing section⇒subordinate theme, but does not entertain the
possibility of development⇒recapitulation.

Tonal-Formal Disjunction • 339
EXAMPLE 12.27 Continued
(c)
(d)
and beginning of the development. The main
disjunction is created by the off-​tonic recapitu­
lation, which is also associated with the motive
in that the F major area is harmonically linked
to the subdominant area of the recapitulation.
The main theme, transition, and first closing
theme are all transposed in bloc down a fifth (or
up a fourth) from the exposition to the recapit­
ulation, the adjustment coming only with the
last closing theme, which is transposed from F
major to A minor. The subdominant is therefore
a high-​level structural appoggiatura to the tonic
of the second closing theme, with the F major
area acting as an intermediary in the two-​stage
resolution of this appoggiatura, as shown in
Example 11.27(b).
We have seen multiple kinds of tonal-​
formal disjunctions in this chapter occurring
at different places in the high-​level structure of
sonata-​form or binary-​form plans. They are all
linked to specific techniques pioneered in the
early decades of the nineteenth century by in­
fluential composers, Beethoven and Schubert.
They are often closely connected with motivic
plans that unite local melodic ideas with large-​
scale processes. All of them are “structural
39 The meaning of “n = 2” is explained in Chapter 4: n is number of triangles or interior nodes.
340 • O r g ani z e d   T ime
appoggiaturas,” meaning that the main tonal
division of some part (the exposition, recapit­
ulation, second part, or entire form) is delayed
past the main formal division. Often we can
isolate relatively simple disjunct structures
through fusions and deletions, in which case a
handful of types recur in multiple examples, in
different contexts. The simplest disjunction is
between four-​event, n = 2, MOPs. There are only
two types of n = 2 tonal-​formal or tonal-​metric
disjunctions, one of which is an appoggiatura
type (Exx. 12.8 and 12.13), and the other is its
converse anticipation type.39 We also saw three
kinds of disjunctions between five-​event, n = 3,
MOPs, one in 12.7–​8, Examples 12.18 and and
12.22 (Beethoven op. 70/​2, op. 26, and op. 59/​1)
a second in Example  12.10 (op.  70/​2), and a
third in Example 12.28 (op.  59/​1). More com­
plex examples may be referred back to simpler
types. For example, we found the complex n = 6
structure in Example  12.13 (the exposition of
Schubert’s D. 617 four-​hand sonata) to be made
up of three simple n = 2 structures. The more
complex disjunction in Beethoven’s op.  59/​1
“Allegretto vivace e sempre scherzando” (Ex.
12.24) is derived from a fourth simple n = 3 type.
EXAMPLE 12.28  (a) Summary of the tonal structure and formal structure of the movement, (b) the
disjunction in the recapitulation
(a)
(b)
Dealing with this and other complex examples,
such as the exposition of Schubert’s four-​hand
Allegro in A  minor, D.  947 (Ex. 12.14), will be
aided by a bit more mathematics for relating
structural shapes. Chapter 14 will work towards
this goal by describing a geometrical object, the
associahedron, suited to the task, and will re­
visit a number of these analyses to illustrate the
kind of geometrical reasoning made possible by
this theory.
Tonal-Formal Disjunction • 341
 13

Graph Theory for Temporal Structure

THROUGHOUT THIS study we have used
networks to represent temporal structures. With
the exception of Chapter 4 our engagement with
these networks has been more musical than
mathematical. However, they fall under a very
well researched mathematical subject heading,
graph theory, and there are many ideas and
results in this field that may be applied to musical
structures at an abstract level, drawing upon the
theory of temporal hierarchy presented in pre­
vious chapters. This chapter will lay out some
of the concepts and results from mathematical
graph theory that apply to temporal hierarchy.1
13.1 PLANARITY
AND CYCLES
This section will build up to the definition of a max­
imal outerplanar graph in the context of a slightly
different kind of application than the analytical
one we have supposed in the rest of the book, as a
way to illustrate the sense in which we may ascribe
certain temporal properties to the mathematical
construct of a graph. We begin by defining a graph.
Definition: A graph, G, is a set of vertices and a set
of edges. Each edge has one or two endpoints,
which are vertices of G.
We usually think of the edge as a line connect­
ing two vertices in a drawing of the graph. The
way that the graph is drawn, though, is arbitrary
as far as the underlying mathematical object is
concerned. The definition of a graph technically
allows for self-​loops, edges that connect a vertex to
itself, and multiple edges between the same two
vertices. Most of the graphs we will be interested
in here do not admit of these complications, and
can be defined as simple graphs:

1 Many definitions and results in this chapter, especially in the first section, are standard fare of graph theory, and can be
found in any introductory textbook. I have included a number of useful introductory graph theory references in the bibliography:
Harary and Palmer 1973, Zykov 1990, Thulasiramin and Swarmy 1992, Gross and Yellen 1999, Kocay and Kreher 2005.

342 • 
Definition: A simple graph is a graph whose edges
are unique unordered sets of two vertices.
In a simple graph, we are only concerned with
which vertices are connected and which are not.
The pioneering application of graph theory
to music analysis is David Lewin’s influential
Generalized Musical Intervals and Transformations
(Lewin 2007a), which brims with an imaginative
range of musical applications of the transforma­
tional networks defined in the latter half of the
book. Particularly relevant to the following dis­
cussion is a passage from pages 209–​19 in which
Lewin discusses different ways that the con­
cept of precedence may be realized in a directed
network. Lewin’s network-​based approach has
been advanced by others, most notably Rings
(2011)—​see especially pages 24–​35 and 110–​
48—​and Hanninen (2012, 118–​59, 403–​14).
I have mostly used the term Lewin prefers,
network, throughout the book rather than graph
as defined above. These terms are typically used
interchangeably in mathematics, although “net­
work” varies more in meaning. For the ensuing
discussion, distinguishing the underlying math­
ematical object of a graph from its application
is often important, so I will enlist the term net­
work in a more specific capacity as a graph whose
vertices are indexed to a particular set of objects.
Definition:  A network is a graph whose vertices
are assigned to musical objects. The vertices of
a network may be also be referred to as nodes.
This distinction has no real mathematical
ramifications: the only mathematical claims we can
make about a network are claims about its under­
lying graph, since we have specified nothing about
the types of objects that may be associated with the
nodes of a network. (This differs from Lewin’s more
detailed formalism of transformational networks,
which does demand certain group-​theoretic struc­
ture on the objects that “fill” the nodes.2) The dis­
tinction between graphs and networks will be
useful simply at a semantic level, to maintain a
clear distinction between discussions at different
levels of abstraction. Our main interest below will
be the graphs underlying networks.
The remainder of this section will consider
a particular application in which the objects of
a network are chords (usually fixed in voicing)
and the edges show any relationship between
chords that permits them to occur in succession
2 This actually leads to some strange behavior and thorny technicalities, some of which are explored briefly in Yust 2006,
46–​52, and also in Hook 2007.
EXAMPLE  13.1  (a) A  network of chords and
(b)  a randomly generated walk through the net­
work, realized as a chord progression
(a)
(b)
in a conventional harmonic progression (in,
say, a chorale or keyboard harmony exercise).
Unlike the rest of the book, where the objects
of networks are always real events in a partic­
ular piece of music, we will briefly entertain
a more composer-​ like attitude towards the
networks, where the objects are out-​ of-​
time
pitch configurations that may be temporalized
in specific harmonic successions in a variety of
ways. In other words, our networks will act as
what Robert Morris (1995) calls compositional
spaces. This will aid in exploration of some of
the more abstract properties in the underlying
graphs, before we transition back to the analyt­
ical attitude partway through the next section.
Let us suppose, for instance, limiting our
compositional space to a small collection of
chords that can freely move to one another in
any direction. Example 13.1 ‸ is‸ a simple ‸net­
work with just three chords, 3/​I, 2/​viio6, and 1/​I6.
A musical composition based on this network is
a walk through it, a sequence of nodes such that
successive nodes share an edge.
Definition: A walk in a graph is a series of vertices
(which need not be distinct), x0, x1, . . . xn, such
that all xaxa+1 (for 0 < a < n –​1) are edges.
Example  13.1(b) realizes a walk through the
network in 13.1(a) generated randomly. Since the
walk can visit each node any number of times, it
can go on for an arbitrary amount of time, and the
number of walks is limitless. Therefore, it is useful
to characterize a network instead in terms of its
possible paths, which cannot repeat vertices, and
therefore are finite in number:
Definition:  A path is a walk in which all of the
vertices are distinct.
Graph Theory for Temporal Structure • 343
EXAMPLE 13.2  (a) A network on four chords and (b) a randomly generated walk through it
(a)
(b)
The walk in Example 13.1(b) may be broken down
into paths, which in this graph are at most three-​
chord progressions. Given such a small graph,
the possible paths are quickly exhausted:  there
are twelve, and they all appear within the first
nine chords of the randomly generated walk in
the example.
Walks are a temporalization of the elements of
the atemporal network. Randomized walks, like
the one in the previous example, give an unbiased
way to explore the potential temporal properties
of any particular network. In the previous ex­
ample, we experience the structure of the graph
being gradually revealed as we walk through it. To
fully experience the network, though, we need to
do more than just touch upon each node, or even
traverse each edge. The musical potential of the
graph is fully realized only when we experience
each way of flowing through it. In the previous
example,
‸ ‸ ‸ ‸ this ‸ is easy to characterize:  clockwise
‸ ‸ ‸ ‸
(3–​2–​1–​3–​2–​ . . . ) or counterclockwise (3–​1–​2–​3–​
‸ K4 has to do with the crossing edges of 13.2(a).
1–​ . . . ). One learns relatively quickly, hearing the
randomized walk, to think of the progression as
a random toggling between clockwise and coun­
terclockwise flow. This idea of “flow” will remain
a non-​technical metaphor in the ensuing discus­
sion, but as we consider more examples, we will
be able to gradually hone the meaning of it.
Obviously, we are only interested here in
graphs that are connected:
Definition: A connected graph is one where there
is some path from any vertex to any other.
Unconnected graphs can always be split up into
their constituent connected graphs (without
removing any edges).
Now consider the network in Example 13.2(a)
on the four chords I, I6, viio6, and V.  Any one
of these can freely move to any other. When
experiencing the randomized walk in Example
344 • O rga n ized   T ime
13.2(b), we go on for a much longer time before
we have exhausted the musical potential of the
graph. Though we quickly visit all of the nodes
(and are therefore hearing the same chords over
and over), and it also does not take long to use
each edge at least once, we continue to hear new
successions of three to four chords.
The networks in Examples  13.1–​ 2 repre­
sent an important special type of graph called a
complete graph:
Definition: A complete graph is one in which all pairs
of nodes are connected by an edge. It may be
denoted Kn for the complete graph on n vertices.
A complete graph, in other words, is a simple
graph with a maximum number of edges.
Example 13.1 is K3, a triangle, and Example 13.2
is K4, a tetrahedron. We might initially suppose
that the complexity of the potential flow through
However, as Example 13.3 shows, it is possible
to draw K4 without crossing edges. In fact, there
are four different ways to do it, depending on
which node we put in the middle.
This property is called planarity:
Definition: A planar graph is one that can be drawn
on a plane such that no two edges cross.
When drawing a graph the edges need not be
straight, just continuous, but it turns out that it is
always possible to draw planar graphs with straight
edges. Example 13.4 gives two nonplanar graphs
for illustration. Try as you might, you cannot draw
these with non-​crossing edges, no matter how you
move the vertices around or bend the edges.
The drawing of a planar graph creates faces,
regions of the plane bounded by edges but not di­
vided internally by any edges. The four drawings
of K4 in Example 13.3 may be understood as
EXAMPLE 13.3  Four drawings of K4
EXAMPLE 13.4  Two nonplanar graphs
rearrangements of its faces. Notice that the
graph always defines four such regions, the three
internal triangles and the infinite space outside
of the outer triangle. This last face is called the
outer face. Every planar drawing has one outer
face. All of the drawings in Example 13.3 there­
fore have the same faces. The only difference is
which triangle is chosen as the outer face.
In the drawings of K4, the faces of the graph
are all defined by cycles. This is an important con­
cept and will be the main focus of the following
discussion of graph classes.
Definition: A cycle is a path plus an edge connect­
ing the last vertex to the first. A cycle may be
denoted by arranging the vertices in order
within round brackets: (x1 x2 x3 . . . xn). Notice
that the choice of starting and ending point in
the cycle is immaterial. Therefore, all rotations
of a given cycle will be understood as equiva­
lent (the same cycle). That is, (xn x1 x2 . . . xn–​1) is
by definition the same cycle as (x1 x2 x3 . . . xn).
Furthermore, a cycle can always be reversed in
direction. When distinguishing directions, we
may speak of an oriented cycle. Normally, the
term cycle should be understood to mean an
unoriented cycle, meaning that (x1 x2 x3 . . . xn)
is the same as (xn xn–​1 xn–​2 . . . x1).
Cycles are essential to the “flow” through
networks already remarked upon in reference
to the experience of randomized walks through
K3 in Example 13.1 and K4 in Example 13.2. If
our experience of the chord progressions is one
of movement through a harmonic space, it is
the cycles of the graph that describe the pos­
sible ways of moving through it. Therefore, to
assimilate the full structure of the graph, its
total musical potential, is to catalog, not just
its individual objects (chords) or connections
(edges), but more importantly all of its available
cycles. The cycles of K3 in Example 13.1 are easily
described:  there is only one, with two possible
orientations, clockwise or counterclockwise. The
cycles of K4 in Example 13.2, on the other hand,
are much more numerous and entangled. Note
that each of the four faces defines a cycle of three
vertices. There are also three 4-​cycles, shown in
Example 13.5. Distinguishing clockwise and
counterclockwise directions gives an impressive
total of fourteen different oriented cycles.
The cycles of K4 are distinctly non-​hierarchical.
Any three vertices make a 3-​cycle, and each 3-​
cycle can be expanded into a 4-​cycle in three
different ways, all of which overlap with one an­
other. This leads to a high degree of complexity to
the flow of the network for such a small number
of objects. The graph can be parsed into cycles in
multiple ways, none of which is preferable to any
other. This all changes, though, for a graph with
just one fewer edge. The network of‸ Example ‸ ‸
13.6, for‸ instance, relates four chords, 5/​i, 5/​V, 2/​
V6, and 6/​VI6. All progressions are possible except
those moving directly between V6 and VI6 (which
have a tritone leap in the melodic line). This par­
ticular collection of chords is somewhat special
in that all of the usable progressions can logically
go in either direction. Many chord progressions
work better in one direction than the other, a fact
we will account for in the next section.
Again, by playing through the random walk in
Example 13.6(b), we may perceive how the cycles
make up a basic musical substance for the graph.
And the structure of this graph is much more
readily assimilated through the randomized
walk than it is in K4. This is because the cycles
are more limited in number and organize them­
selves into a neat hierarchy. The inner faces of
the graph define two possible 3-​cycles, and these
two cycles combine into one larger 4-​cycle. The
neat hierarchical arrangement of these cycles
helps us to internalize the structure as we experi­
ence the random walk through the network. The
only complexity is that all of the cycles are still
Graph Theory for Temporal Structure • 345
EXAMPLE 13.5 Cycles of K4

EXAMPLE 13.6  (a) A maximal outerplanar graph on four chords, and (b) a randomly generated walk
through this network, musically realized
(a)

(b)

permitted to flow in either direction, so that we
have a sort of unpredictably alternating current.
This hierarchical arrangement of cycles is
captured by a special feature of the graph in
Example 13.6, which is outerplanarity:
EXAMPLE 13.7  (a) An outerplanar graph with a
weakly connected element and (b) a randomized
walk through it, musically realized
(a)

Definition:  An outerplanar graph is a planar

graph that can be drawn in such a way that all
vertices are on the outer face.
The outerplanar feature means that the outer
face can define a kind of master cycle for the
graph with the inner faces as smaller portions
of that cycle. In a larger graph, this hierarchical
arrangement may have additional levels, where
the smaller inner cycles can be pieced into larger
cycles in a succession of stages until arriving at
the outer face. K4 is not outerplanar. The only
way to draw it without crossing edges is to put
one vertex in the middle.
The “master cycle” of the outerplanar graph
in Example 13.6 is referred to in graph theory as
a Hamiltonian cycle:
Definition:  A Hamiltonian cycle is a cycle that
includes all of the vertices of the graph ex­
actly once. A Hamiltonian graph is one that has
a Hamiltonian cycle.
As Example  13.4 shows, K4 has three distinct
Hamiltonian cycles, whereas the outerplanar
(b)
graph has one. While an outerplanar graph
cannot have more than one Hamiltonian cycle,
it is possible for it to have none at all. Consider
Example 13.7, for instance, which adds a weakly
connected element,‸ an applied
‸ V‸6/​V, to a simple
3-​cycle of chords (3/​I, 2/​V, and 1/​I6). This does
not add any cycles to the graph, so in a sense it
does not add significant complexity even though
it does add another element to the network.
We still have one cycle with two orientations,
with the added possibility that each V may be
embellished by the applied dominant.
The graph in Example  13.7 is outerplanar,
but it does not have a cycle on its outer face.
To traverse the complete ‸outer face we have to
reuse one of the vertices (2/​V ). To avoid this, we

346 • O rga n ized   T ime

EXAMPLE  13.8  (a) An outerplanar graph without a Hamiltonian cycle and (b)  a randomized walk
through it
(a)
(b)
would have to add one more edge to integrate
the weakly connected element, which would give
the same graph as in Example  13.6. The graph
in Example 13.8 is similar. Here, there are ‸two
3-​cycles, related through a single element, 5/​V.
There is no master cycle to integrate the two sep­
arate 3-​cycles. Adding a single edge to this graph
(between any of the four more weakly connected
elements) would create a Hamiltonian cycle and
fill out a hierarchy of 3-​cycles combining into 4-​
cycles, and then into the Hamiltonian 5-​cycle.
As is perhaps apparent from these examples, an
outerplanar graph will always have a Hamiltonian
cycle if it is maximal, having as many edges as
possible:
Definition: A maximal outerplanar graph (MOP) is
an outerplanar graph in which the addition of
any edge would result in a graph that is not
outerplanar.
Both of the preceding examples (13.7–​8) are
non-​maximal, as we already observed, but be­
come MOPs with the addition of one edge. In
the graph of Example  13.6, on the other hand,
there is only one more edge that could be added,
and that would turn it into K4, which is planar
but not outerplanar. While maximal outerplanar
graphs are always Hamiltonian, the converse
is not true:  an outerplanar graph can have a
Hamiltonian cycle if the missing edge is an in­
terior one. We will consider such Hamiltonian
outerplanar graphs in Section 13.3.
13.2  DIRECTION AND
CONFLUENCE
Up to this point, we have neglected one essential
aspect of time, which is its inherent directedness.
This is often taken to be the essential feature of
time. This is debatable, because a graph like the
EXAMPLE  13.9  (a) Directed network on I, I6,
and V6, and (b) a randomized walk through it
(a)
(b)
outerplanar graph of Example 13.6 does have dis­
cernible temporal features even if we allow free
flow in all directions. Nonetheless, the directedness
of time is one of its most basic features. What
happens, then, if we restrict direction of flow in
one of our chord networks? For instance, in a net­
work on K3 with the chords I, I6, and V56 (as opposed
to I, I6, and viio6, as in Example 13.1), the rules of
good voice leading require that the progression
I6–​V56 appear only in that direction, not the re­
verse, V56–​I6, since the latter progression would fail
to resolve the leading-​tone and chordal seventh.
To build such a restriction into our graph-​theo­
retic construct, we need to add a concept of direc­
tion into the definition of a graph.
Definition: A directed graph or digraph is a set of
vertices and a set of arrows, where each arrow is
a unique ordered set of two vertices. A directed
network is a network with an underlying digraph
as opposed to an underlying undirected graph.
The underlying graph of a digraph has the same
set of vertices, and an edge between all and only
those vertices connected by an arrow (in either
or both directions) in the digraph.
Example 13.9 gives a directed network on I, I6,
and V56. As is apparent from the musical realiza­
tion, the restriction on the direction of the I6–​V56
Graph Theory for Temporal Structure • 347
EXAMPLE 13.10  (a) Directed network, and (b) a randomized walk through it
(a)

(b)

EXAMPLE 13.11  (a) Directed network on I, viio6, I6, and IV, (b) a randomized walk through it, and
(c) differing orientations of 3-​cycles imposed by different 4-​cycles including the directed edge
(a)

(b)

(c)

progression further simplifies this graph in re­
lation to the unrestricted K3: now the basic cycle
can only go in one direction. This single restric­
tion thus has interesting repercussions on the
meaning of other edges in the graph that are not
themselves restricted in this way. The other edges,
even though they are allowed to go in either direc­
tion, now acquire an implicit orientation in the
direction I6→I and I→V56 , because it is only in that
direction that they can participate in a full cycle.
When a graph includes multiple cycles, we
may even see a cascade of effects from the intro­
duction of a single directed edge. Consider the
network in Example 13.10 on i, V, V56, and iv6. The
underlying graph is maximal outerplanar. It has
two 3-​cycles and one 4-​cycle. The directed edge
from i to iv6 fixes the orientation of one of the
3-​cycles, (i iv6 V), as well as the 4-​cycle around
the outer edge, (i iv6 V V56). The other 3-​cycle
can flow in either direction, (i V V56) or (i V56 V).
However, only one of these, the first, agrees with
the orientation of the larger cycle.
Directing an edge in K4 has more equivocal
results. The network in Example 13.11 has one
directed edge preserving the functional order of
IV→viio6. This fixes an orientation for the cycles
that include this edge, but does not have any
clear ramifications for the cycles that do not in­
clude it. As Example 13.9(c) illustrates, there are
two Hamiltonian cycles including the directed
edge, and they conflict as to how they orient
the two 3-​cycles that do not include IV→viio6.
Furthermore, there is a third Hamiltonian cycle
that does not include the directed edge at all, and
therefore flows freely in either direction.
The difference between the MOP in Example
13.10 and K4 in Example 13.11 illustrates a pro­
perty called confluence (Duffin 1965). This property

348 • O rga n ized   T ime

EXAMPLE 13.12 K4 is not confluent
means, essentially, that a pattern of flow can be
established in the network so that all cycles have
consistent orientations. It is defined as follows:
Definition:  An undirected graph is confluent if,
given any two edges ab and cd, for any cycle
containing both edges in which a precedes b, c
either always precedes d or d always precedes c.
K4 is not confluent, as illustrated in Example
13.12. It contains a cycle (abcd), but also a cycle
(abdc). MOPs, on the other hand, are always con­
fluent because of the way their cycles are hierar­
chically arranged. Given any two edges, you can
find a unique largest cycle containing both and
mutually orient them on the basis of this cycle.
Other smaller cycles containing both edges will
be truncations of the larger one, so the edges will
remain in the same orientation. In fact, MOPs can
be defined as maximal Hamiltonian-​confluent
graphs, meaning they are all and the only graphs
that are confluent, contain a Hamiltonian cycle,
and cannot add an edge without losing the con­
fluence property (maximality).3
At this point, we can begin to transition from
the compositional orientation of the previous
examples to the back to the analytical perspec­
tive we have pursued in the rest of the book. Let
us suppose that we have a MOP and, as in the pre­
vious examples, we specify a direction to just one
edge of that network b→a. The reason for specifying
this directed edge, however, is not to impose func­
tional order on b and a, but to interpret a as the
EXAMPLE 13.13  (a) An unordered collection of chords, (b) connections between these that reflect
logical harmonic progressions, (c) a better arrangement of these that avoids most crossing edges, (d) a
Hamiltonian cycle that puts some progressions in retrograde order, resulting from a choice of i→V as a
root, (e) the choice of an internal edge as root gives partial cycles, (f) another choice of root and the set
of reductions produced by possible cycles including the root, and (g) the first phrase of Bach’s “Christus
der uns selig macht,” from which these chords are taken
(a)
3 For proofs of this see Yust 2006, parts 4–​5.
beginning of a progression and b as the ending. The
reason that the arrow points backwards is that we
can then define a path from a to b and return via
the edge b→a to complete a cycle. By focusing on
cycles completed by a distinct edge, we reflect the
essential constraints that distinguish the analyt­
ical application of graphs from the compositional
one. The objects have distinct places in time and
therefore cannot be repeated, and there are also
are well-​ defined beginning and ending points.
Given the structure of a MOP, these constraints are
all captured by applying direction to a single edge.
Imagine, for instance, being given the collec­
tion of chords in Example 13.13(a), in no par­
ticular order. We connect those chords that
yield possible direct harmonic and voice-​leading
progressions as in Example 13.13(b). The chords
can then be more effectively arranged as in
Example  13.13(c) to avoid crossing edges, but
there is still one crossing, meaning that the graph
is not quite outerplanar. To get an outerplanar
graph, we remove one edge, choosing to retain
the somewhat stronger tonic–​dominant connec­
tion. Now we add direction to one edge and
evaluate the possible cycles. The choice given
in Example ‸ 13.13(d) will give ‸ a progression
starting on 5/​V and ending on 5/​i. Looking at
the largest cycle given by this edge, though, we
see that it imposes some functionally retrograde
progressions. We therefore want to choose an
arrow pointing the‸ opposite ‸ direction. What
about the one from 2/​V to 5/​i, Example 13.13(e)?
Now the order of the progression is good, but
since this is an internal edge, it is not contained
in any Hamiltonian cycle. It splits the network
into two parts, one containing a larger five-​chord
cycle, and the other a small three-​chord cycle,
but no cycle combining both of these. Choosing
‸ ‸
instead another edge on the outer face, 2/​V→5/​V
makes a good progression. Example  13.13(f)
lists all of the cycles as a series of reductions of
Graph Theory for Temporal Structure • 349
EXAMPLE 13.13 Continued
(b)

(c)

(d)

350 • O rga n ized   T ime

EXAMPLE 13.13 Continued
(e)
(f)
(g)
the chord progression, arranged in a network. The
largest one contains all the chords in the graph,
and each move downward in the network removes
one chord, preserving the overall ordering.
The progression produced by the large cycle,
as it happens, is that of the first phrase of J.S.
Bach’s chorale, “Christus, der uns selig macht”
(Ex. 13.13(g)), minus some repetitions and
passing notes. The smaller cycles reflect a struc­
tural analysis of the passage. It is mostly a co­
incidence that we are able to reconstitute this
phrase through the self-​ assembly of its har­
monic objects. Bach happens to use some chords
that are limited in their possible syntactical
roles. We might imagine other musical passages
whose chords could be permuted in certain ways
Graph Theory for Temporal Structure • 351
without violating basic harmonic and voice-​
leading principles. But, in an analytical mode, we
take the beginning and ending points and overall
ordering of events as given. Doing so supplants
the role of syntactical rules and gives, de facto,
the Hamiltonian cycle of the MOP and the root
edge. For the analytical mode, the outer face,
or Hamiltonian cycle, of the MOP is given as a
prior, and what is open for analysis and interpre­
tation are the internal edges.
This little exercise demonstrates the status
of different aspects of the mathematical tech­
nology developed thus far with respect to the
theory of temporal structure developed over
the course of this book. The underlying graph
represents aspects of structured time abstracted
from direction and the choice of starting and
ending point. As a maximal outerplanar graph,
particularly due to the features of Hamiltonicity
and confluence, it restricts the type of flow
through the network to those associated with
structured time. Making the MOP into a con­
crete temporal structure amounts to two simple
choices: (1) one edge on the outer face to serve
as the background edge, and (2)  a direction,
or choice of starting and ending point on the
background edge. In other words, to describe a
temporal structure, a MOP must be rooted and
oriented.
Definitions:  A rooted MOP is a MOP with one
edge on the outer face (or Hamiltonian cycle)
selected as a root.
An oriented MOP is a MOP with a specific direc­
tion assigned to the Hamiltonian cycle.
The root is interpreted as the background
edge of a temporal structure. The orientation is
the direction of time through the Hamiltonian
cycle, on all edges except for the root edge, which
is oriented backwards in time on the cycle.
The reverse temporal orientation of the root
edge explains the odd result in Example 13.13(e)
that choosing a fixed direction for an internal
edge results in opposing orientations on two
segments of the Hamiltonian cycle. The in­
ternal edges of the MOP do not have a fixed
direction, because their direction depends on
their status in a given cycle. When cycles con­
tain the root edge, all other edges are oriented
forwards in time. But when a cycle does not
include the root edge, another internal edge
takes over the role of root edge and is directed
backwards in time.
4 See Yust 2006 parts 4–​5 for proofs.
352 • O rga n ized   T ime
13.3 HOLES
In Section 13.1, we found that a graph neatly
organizes into a hierarchy of cycles when it has the
properties of Hamiltonicity and outerplanarity, and
that Hamiltonicity is assured by the property of
maximal outerplanarity. However, the converse is
not true: it is possible for a graph to be Hamiltonian
and outerplanar but not maximal outerplanar.
We have occasionally encountered such networks
throughout the book. The important temporal
properties of MOPs are also present in these graphs,
Hamiltonian outerplanar graphs, or HOPs.
We have frequently encountered HOPs in
formal structures. In many instances, a passage
may include a series of repetitions (such as a se­
quence) where there is no special reason to prior­
itize one of these repetitions over the others. For
instance, the Corrente from J.S. Bach’s B minor
Violin Partita in Example 13.14 begins with a three-​
times sequentially repeated basic idea. The result is
a phrase structured by repetition, but made up of
three spans that do not parse further into groups.
Similar examples can be found in Chapter  3 and
elsewhere (Ex. 3.7–​10, 3.13, and 9.26).
The difference between a HOP and a MOP is
that a HOP may have holes, while a MOP is chordal:
Definitions: Given a cycle C, in a graph, G, a chord
is an edge in G between two non-​adjacent
vertices in C.
A hole is a chordless cycle of four or more vertices
A chordal graph is one without holes.
The network in Example 13.14 is not a MOP
because it has a hole. MOPs are the chordal
HOPs. They can also, interestingly, be defined
as minimal Hamiltonian chordal graphs.4 That
means that MOPs are precisely those graphs
that are Hamiltonian and chordal such that no
edge can be removed without losing one of these
properties. (Every edge is either essential in fil­
ling a hole or part of the Hamiltonian cycle.) This
definition, interestingly, does not depend upon
planarity or outerplanarity at all (like the defi­
nition from confluence in the previous section).
Holes are generally of use whenever there is
some pure structural ambiguity, when there are no
grounds for structuring a certain sequence of events,
or some reason to want to avoid imputing a struc­
ture. A special instance of this occurs when struc­
ture “tops out,” as is commonly the case in rhythmic
structure. Many of the hypermetrical analyses in
Chapters  6 and 7 consist of a string of regularly
EXAMPLE 13.14  Main theme of the Corrente from J.S. Bach’s B minor Partita for Violin, BWV 1002
EXAMPLE 13.15  (a) “Voi che Sapete” from Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro, an example of simple regular
hypermeter, (b) the hypermetrical structure as a HOP with imaginary vertices
(a)
(b)
divided four-​measure units, like the hypermeter of
the simple familiar tune given in Example 13.15(a).
As it stands, this network, taken as a whole, is nei­
ther a HOP nor a MOP. It can be readily converted
into a HOP, however, by the addition of start and end
vertices, as in Example 13.15(b). The conversion of
13.15(a) into 13.15(b) is, of course, purely a formal
expedient, but is useful insofar as it may permit the
comparison of a topped-​out rhythmic structure to
a more complete long-​range tonal structure via the
mathematical tools outlined here and in the next
chapter. Analogous examples of disconnected tonal
and formal structures are also possible.
In Chapter 4, we saw that one way to repre­
sent the underlying graph of a structural net­
work is as a triangulation of a polygon. We begin
with a polygon on n + 2 vertices, the Hamiltonian
cycle, then add chords such that none cross. If
we continue adding chords until no more can be
added without crossing others, then we have a
triangulation. This is a MOP. If we stop short of a
triangulation, if more chords could yet be added,
then we have a non-​maximal HOP.
The process of adding chords corresponds
to the step-​by-​step parsing of a passage. The
Hamiltonian cycle represents the entire passage
as a coherent motion from beginning to end.
(In the absence of such a coherent motion
subsuming the entire sequence, we can include
start and end vertices.) Each added chord links
non-​ consecutive events to identify a smaller
coherent motion in some contiguous subset
of the passage. The chords also create possible
summaries, excluding the events below the
added chord. A  MOP may be understood as a
complete parsing in this sense, one in which
no further addition of chords is possible. HOPs
(that are not MOPs) are incomplete parsings.
13.4  MOPS AS TREES
The purpose of MOPs and related graph types
used in this book is to represent temporal struc­
ture as a kind of hierarchical organization of
time. Usually hierarchy is associated with a
different type of graph, a tree. In graph theory,
a tree is a graph in which any two vertices are
connected by exactly one path, or, what amounts
to the same thing, a connected acyclic graph.
Definition:  A tree is a connected graph with no
cycles.
Trees are the basic model of hierarchy when
they are assigned a root:
Definition: A rooted tree is a tree with one vertex
selected as the root.
In a tree, there is always exactly one path be­
tween any two vertices. In a rooted tree, then,
each vertex is characterized by its distance from
Graph Theory for Temporal Structure • 353
EXAMPLE 13.16  A non-​outerplanar 2-​tree
the root, its hierarchic depth, and more spe­
cifically by its path from the root, and all the
vertices along that path.
In Chapter  4, we encountered another way
to think of the underlying graph of a MOP,
different from the method of triangulating
polygons recalled in the last section, by making
chains of triangles linked by shared edges. (See
§4.3 in particular.) These chains of triangles can
be understood as a kind of tree, called a 2-​tree.5
Definition: A 2-​tree is a graph type defined recur­
sively as follows: K2 (a graph consisting of just
two vertices and an edge) is a 2-​tree. If a graph
G can be constructed from a 2-​tree by adding
a vertex and connecting it the endpoints of an
edge in the 2-​tree, then G is also a 2-​tree.
This recursive definition says that a 2-​tree is a
graph that can be built by beginning with a single
edge and progressively building triangles off of
previously existing edges. The analogy to a tree
(or 1-​tree) is that it can be defined in a similar way,
through a recursive process of adding vertices and
connecting them to a single vertex (rather than
connecting them to an edge). A 2-​tree may there­
fore be understood as a kind of tree of edges.
MOPs are 2-​trees, but 2-​trees are not nec­
essarily MOPs. Example 13.16 shows the basic
counterexample:  this graph is planar (as are all
2-​trees) but it is not outerplanar because it has
three triangles “growing” out of a single edge.
Therefore, 2-​ trees, like HOPs, are a generali­
zation of MOPs, but a distinct generalization
(HOPs that are not MOPs are not 2-​trees, and
likewise 2-​trees are only outerplanar if they are
MOPs). We can define a MOP as a kind of 2-​tree
by restricting cases like Example 13.16. That is,
MOPs are unary 2-​trees, where “unary” means
that an edge can only be used once as the basis
of a new triangle in the recursive construction.
(See Yust 2006 parts 4–​5.)
5 See Beinecke and Pippert 1969, Harary and Palmer 1973, 51–​79; Palmer and Read 1973; Fowler et al. 2002; Labelle,
Lamathe, and Laroux 2003; Bosquet and Lamathe 2005.
6 “The same” underlying graph means an isomorphic graph, which I have not fully defined here, but which can be found in any
introductory graph theory text. See, for example, Zykov 1990, 11–​16; Gross and Yellen 1999, 60–​74; Kocay and Kreher 2005, 5–​6.
354 • O rga n ized   T ime
Recall from above that MOPs (unary 2-​trees)
do not completely describe a temporal structure,
only its underlying graph. The temporal struc­
ture is completely specified by a rooted oriented
MOP. In Chapter  4, representations of the un­
derlying graph (triangulations of a polygon
or chains of triangles) were used to construct
equivalence classes of temporal structures re­
lated by rotation or reflection. The equivalence
classes are (rooted oriented) MOPs based on the
same underlying (unrooted unoriented) graphs.6
While temporal structures related in these ways
do share some important properties, they can
often be quite dissimilar.
Rooting a 2-​tree is much like rooting a tree,
except that we specify an edge as the root rather
than a single vertex. For unary 2-​trees (MOPs)
the root edge must be exterior (belonging to only
a single triangle). By defining bipaths as we did
in Chapter 4, we can define depth in a 2-​tree as
we would in a tree. We will return to this point.
The recursive definition of a 2-​tree provides
a generative definition of temporal structure,
by building the structured temporal sequence
through a series of reductions (starting from
the most reduced). Example 13.17 illustrates the
process using the chord progression of the initial
phrase of “Christus der uns selig macht.”
While thinking of MOPs as 2-​trees provides a
valuable analogy to ordinary trees, it is also possible
to convert a MOP into a regular tree, specifically
a tree of edges, or edge tree. The process involves
making a new graph, the cycle overlap graph, by
replacing edges and minimal cycles with vertices.
Definitions: If C is a cycle of G, another cycle, Cʹ, is
a subcycle of C if it can be obtained by removing
vertices from C (preserving the order).
A minimal cycle of a graph G is a cycle with no
subcycles. (For simple graphs this is equiva­
lent to a chordless cycle, a triangle or hole. See
the previous section.)
Let G be a simple graph. The cycle overlap graph
of G, COG(G), is a graph with a vertex for each
edge and each minimal cycle of G, and an edge
connecting the vertex of each cycle to each
vertex for an edge in that cycle.
For MOPs, the minimal cycles are all triangles
and the COG is a tree, as in Example 13.18(a).
EXAMPLE 13.17  Showing structure via a generative reconstruction of the first phrase of “Christus
der uns selig macht.” The process reflects the recursive definition of a rooted 2-​tree. Note that the last
two chords could also be added in the opposite order.

In fact, this could be used to construct an alter­
nate definition of a MOP.7 In general, a COG is
not necessarily connected, as Example 13.18(b)
shows, and if it is connected, is not necessarily
a tree, as Examples  13.18(c–​ e) demonstrate.
Yet, not all graphs with trees for COGs are
MOPs:  they may be non-​outerplanar 2-​trees as
in Example 13.18(f), or non-​maximal HOPs, like
Example  13.18(g). MOPs are distinguished by
the vertex degrees in their COGs:
EXAMPLE 13.18  (a) A MOP and its COG, (b) an
outerplanar graph with an unconnected COG,
(c–​e) graphs with COGs that are not trees, (f)  a
non-​MOP (2-​tree) whose COG is a tree, (g)  a
Hamiltonian outerplanar graph whose COG
is a tree
(a)

Definition: The degree of a vertex in a graph is the

number of edges attached to it.

In the COG for a MOP, the cycle vertices are

always of degree 3 and the edge vertices are of
degree 1 or 2.
For maximal outerplanar graphs, the interest
of their COGs is that, because they are trees, (b)
they show precisely the sense in which MOPs
may be understood as hierarchies. To do so, the
COG must be assigned a root, which, for our
purposes, must be a leaf of the tree (and there­
fore an edge vertex, not a cycle):

Definition: A leaf is a vertex of degree 1 in a tree.

(c)
Assigning the vertex af as a root in Example
13.18(a), for example, turns this into a hierarchy
of edges and cycles.
The edge vertices of MOPs (and other HOPs)
are of degree at most 2—​that is, they are either
leaves, representing exterior edges, or they are
interior edges connecting two cycles. The COG
can therefore be simplified by contracting these
degree 2 vertices.

Definitions:  Let G be a graph with an edge xy.

A  contraction (of x to y) of G is a graph G',

7 In parts 4–​5 of Yust 2006 this is demonstrated with respect to clique trees, which are similar to the COGs defined here.
For COGs, it is necessary to specify that each edge-​vertex is connected to no more than two cycle-​vertices.

Graph Theory for Temporal Structure • 355

EXAMPLE 13.18 Continued EXAMPLE  13.19  (a) A  MOP representing the
(d)
tonal structure of a short chord progression,
(b)  its COG, (c)  the edge tree, (d)  the cycle tree,
(e) the dual graph
(a)

(b)
(e)

(f)

(c)

(g)

(d)

exactly like G except that x is removed, and an (e)

edge from x to any z in G is replaced by edge yz
in G', unless such an edge already exists in G.
Let G be a graph whose COG is a tree whose
edge vertices have degree at most two, and
let some leaf of COG(G) be selected as a root.
Then the edge tree of G is a graph produced by
contracting each cycle to the degree-​two edge
vertex directly above it (where “above” means
towards the root).

Example 13.19(a–​c) illustrates the derivation

of the edge tree.

356 • O rga n ized   T ime

EXAMPLE 13.20  Analysis of the theme of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, second movement from Ex.
4.15 and the corresponding edge tree
The edge tree can be further reduced to a
cycle tree by simply removing all leaves (but not
the root) and relabeling the vertices as cycles
as in Example 13.19(d). Alternatively, the cycle
tree can be derived directly from the COG by
contracting all of the edge vertices to an adja­
cent cycle vertex. The cycle tree is related to the
dual (or Poincaré dual)8 of the standard planar
embedding of a MOPs (or HOP), as shown in
13.19(e):
Definition:  Given a drawing of a graph G in the
plane, the dual graph G' has a vertex for each
face of G, and an edge e' for each edge, e, of G,
where e' connects the vertices corresponding
to the faces incident upon e.
In general, G and G' need not be simple graphs
(for instance, G' will have self-​loops where G has
edges that do not belong to any cycles of G). For
MOPs, the dual graph will not have self-​loops, but
it will have double edges to the outer face for all
leaves of the cycle tree, as in Example 13.19(e).
Deleting the vertex for the outer face gives the
graph of the cycle tree.
Example 13.20 depicts a large edge tree using
an analysis from ­chapter  4 (the adagio from
Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, Ex. 4.15). Note
that depth can be readily calculated from the
8 See Gross and Yellen 1999, 290–​1.
edge tree. The climax in the latter part of the
third phrase, as observed in Chapter  4, is the
point of maximum depth. This depth is account­
able in large part
‸ ‸to‸the right-​oriented backbone
of incomplete 3–​2–​1 motions, corresponding to
the supporting left fan of the MOP.
Edge trees and cycle trees give hierarchies on
the edges and cycles of a MOP. But, as we have
just seen, the application of MOPs to temporal
hierarchy also requires them to be oriented, and
this feature is not reflected in the COG or the
other trees derived from it. We cannot there­
fore get a bijective correspondence to MOPs
(or HOPs) with just rooted trees; we need plane
trees, in which branchings are distinguished by
left/​right orientation.
Definition:  A plane tree is a rooted tree with a
fixed left-​to-​right order for the edges pointing
away from the root from each vertex.
The rooted edge tree may produce very differ­
ent temporal structures depending on how it is
defined as a binary plane tree. Example 13.21(a)
illustrates this from the perspective of rhythmic
structure. If the tree on the left is interpreted not
as a plane tree but as a simple rooted tree, then
there are eight possible distinct realizations
of the structure, as shown on the right. Since
Graph Theory for Temporal Structure • 357
EXAMPLE 13.21  (a) A rooted tree (edge tree) with durations assigned and eight possible realizations
of that tree as MOPs (interpreting left-​right orientations of branchings as unfixed), and corresponding
normative rhythms, (b) a similar example labeled with intervals leading to eight possible tonal structures
(a)
(b)
the tree’s branchings are not assumed to be
fixed in their left-​right orientation, then we
can imagine the tree moving freely like a mo­
bile, turning independently at each node so
that the structure below flips from left to right
and vice versa. The possible realizations of the
un-​oriented tree correspond to four of the five
possible 3-​MOPs (all the piles). We can make a
similar demonstration with melodic structure,
as in Example  13.21(b), by fixing the melodic
intervals and how they are divided, but not
the order in which intervals at a given level are
arranged. When the left–​right orientations are
not fixed, these divisions migrate to different
parts of the structure, resulting in a number of
different melodic shapes made up of the same
basic components (in this example, descending
arpeggiation, descending passing motion, and
incomplete upper or lower neighbor).
Chapter  4 defined concepts of distance and
depth useful for describing structural shapes
across modalities. They were defined using
bipaths, which we can now identify simply as
paths in the COG. We can also define distance
and depth directly from the COG:
Definitions:  Let G be a graph. The distance be­
tween two edges or two cycles of G is half the
length of the shortest path between their cor­
responding vertices in COG(G). If G is a MOP
or HOP, then COG(G) is a tree and this path
is unique. The distance between edges is then
equivalent to their distance in the edge tree,
and the distance between cycles is their dis­
tance in the cycle tree.
358 • O rga n ized   T ime
If G is a rooted MOP or HOP, the depth of an
edge in G is its distance from the root edge.
The depth of a vertex is the minimal depth of
its incident edges.
Both concepts live at a level of abstraction
prior to the orienting of the temporal structure.
The concept of depth, however, requires the
COG (or cycle tree) to be rooted, while the con­
cept of distance is even more abstract, requiring
just the COG itself, or an unrooted cycle tree.
For instance, we can define minimal distance
structures, exemplified in Chapter 4 by the star­
fish, on the basis of the unrooted COG alone, or
its corresponding cycle tree (which, unlike the
edge tree, does not rely upon the specification of
a root).
Example 13.22 gives the possible unrooted
cycle trees and the possible rooted cycle trees for
n = 4, 5, and 6 (where, as in Chapter 4, n + 2 is
the number of vertices in the MOP, which means
n + 1 is the number of leaves in the edge tree and
n the number of nodes of the cycle tree). The
latter give rise to multiple MOPs through the
“mobile principle” illustrated in Example 13.21
above, because the planar orientation of each
branching is not fixed. The minimal distance
structures (e.g., starfish) are all represented
by the same unrooted cycle tree at each n. The
minimal depth structures (tortoises) are easy to
enumerate as rooted cycle trees, but it is not nec­
essarily obvious what their unrooted cycle trees
will look like. In the n = 5 case, the tortoises have
two possible shapes as unrooted cycle trees,
one of which corresponds to a minimal distance
EXAMPLE 13.22  Unrooted and rooted cycle trees for (a) n = 4, (b) n = 5, and (c) n = 6
(a)

(b)

(c)

structure, whereas the other corresponds to a
maximum distance structure. At larger n (such as
n = 6), the tortoises will have distinctly shaped
unrooted cycle trees that match neither the min­
imal distance nor the maximal distance shapes.
The number of piles (maximum depth
structures) varies as a straightforward expo­
nential function of n, 2(n  –​ 1). The number of
tortoises does not monotonically increase with
n this way, but is still easy to predict:  let m be
the largest power of two less than or equal to n.
Then the number of tortoises is (m choose n –​ m
+ 1), (corresponding to the number of ways to
add leaves to the next smaller perfectly even
tortoise). The minimal depth structures, on the
other hand, vary more unpredictably in number
with n. At n = 4 and n = 6 the number is small (2
and 4), but it is quite large (14) at n = 5. This is
a consequence of the symmetry of the minimal
distance cycle tree. It is generally true that the
even-​numbered values of n, where the minimal
distance structures are starfish, will always give
smaller numbers of minimal distance structures
than nearby odd-​numbered values of n.9
13.5 REDUCTION
TREES, EVENT TREES,
AND SPANNING TREES
OVER MOPS
As we saw in Chapter 2, many authors who have
proposed systematic theories of tonal structure,
most notably Lerdahl and Jackendoff (1983),
have used a different network model of tonal

9 For n = 1–​15, the number of minimal-​distance structures is 1, 2, 5, 2, 14, 4, 36, 10, 22, 4, 52, 28, 60, 8, 124,  . . . . Notice
that the number goes to a local minimum at n = 10, and the same will happen at n = 22, 46, 94,  . . . . The formula for these is
3(2m) –​2 for any positive integer m, and the number of structures is 2m. Another set of local minima happen at n = 2, 6, 14,
30, 62, . . . or n = 2m+1 –​2, where the number of structures is also 2m. These structures can be recursively characterized, either
as cycle trees, rooted cycle trees, or rooted oriented MOPs. That is, each minimum-​distance n-​structure contains a minimal-​
distance (n –​1)-​structure. For the rooted structures, however, the recursive description must allow for building upward from
the root (which effectively redefines the root at n + 1).

Graph Theory for Temporal Structure • 359

EXAMPLE 13.23  (a) A simple prolongational structure from Lerdahl and Jackendoff 1983 (their Ex.
8.23(b)), (b) an explicit realization of the same tree
(a) (b)

hierarchy:  rooted trees whose nodes corre­ EXAMPLE  13.24  (a) An event tree derived
spond to musical events. This section will com­ from the reduction tree in the previous example,
pare these tree structures to the MOP model (b–​c) splitting the event tree to reconstruct the
used here by defining a possible enhancement reduction tree
of a MOP, a spanning tree, that approximates (a)
the information content of one of Lerdahl and
Jackendoff’s trees. Spanning trees are also of in­
terest for their special relationship to an algebra
that may be defined over the cycles of a graph
(something we found to be central to the inter­
pretation of MOPs above). It is therefore inter­
esting to consider spanning trees over temporal
structures in other dimensions, such as formal
or rhythmic structure. (b)
Example 13.23(a) is a simple prolongational
analysis from Lerdahl and Jackendoff, expressed
in the form of a reduction tree. The tree reflects
a representational model of tonal structure,
meaning that at higher levels, individual events (c)
from below are chosen to stand in as represent­
atives of multiple consecutive events (Cohn and
Dempster 1992). It is reductional in the sense
that it may be understood as a reductional pro­
cess in which less structural events are attached
to more structural adjacent events based on
some kind of tonal dependency relation, then vertices refer to the same event, taking care to
removed at the next higher structural level. keep track of left and right branchings and the
This is made explicit in 13.23(b), which labels order of these (when there are multiple left or
all vertices with the controlling event at the right branchings from a single parent). The
given level. Each branching in a reduction tree resulting tree has one node for each event. Let
is binary, and the parent is always labeled with us call these event trees.
the same event as one of the children. Note The essential question here is whether event
that these trees must be understood not just trees are in bijection with reduction trees. That
as rooted trees, but more specifically as binary would mean we can reverse the process, deriving
plane trees. The distinction between left and the reduction tree from the event tree, and al­
right branchings is necessary to fix the temporal ways arrive unambiguously at the same reduction
ordering of events. tree. The reverse derivation can be performed by
Is it possible to remove the redundant events splitting each parent vertex once for each of its
in reduction trees without losing any informa­ children, as shown in Example 13.24(b). The new
tion? Example 13.24 does just this with the tree vertex is a child with the same label as the parent
in the previous example, by simply contracting and goes on the opposite side from the sibling,

360 • O rga n ized   T ime

EXAMPLE  13.25  An event tree that can corre­
spond to two possible reduction trees
carrying any other siblings with it. Multiple
splits are performed from the outside in. That is,
left branchings are split left-​to-​right and right
branchings right-​to-​left.
In the previous example, this process is un­
ambiguous, yielding a unique reduction tree
for the given event tree, but it does not always
work out this way. Example 13.25 shows the
basic counterexample, in which two possible re­
duction trees correspond to a single event tree.
The problem is that when a parent has left and
right children, reduction trees must specify an
order of gestation between the right and left
children. In a purely combinatorial sense, this
means that the number of event trees is sub­
stantially smaller than the number of reduction
trees, because there are many possible event
trees that have left and right branchings from
a single parent, and the ambiguity multiplies
as the number of left and right branchings
grows. Yet in practice, these situations are ac­
tually quite rare. In the prolongational analyses
in A Generative Theory of Tonal Music left and
right branchings from the same parent appear
only very occasionally among the many, often
very large, prolongational analyses, typically
in very local situations (such as an anacrusis
to a phrase) or codetta-​ like expansions of a
single harmony. Lerdahl and Jackendoff’s law
of normative prolongational structure (1983,
197–​ 201) specifically militates against such
analyses. Furthermore, where distinctions are
made concerning the prolongational order of
left and right children in their analyses, they
tend to be artifacts of formal groupings rather
than tonal relationships per se.10 This is a conse­
quence of the vital role of time-​span segmenta­
tion in Lerdahl and Jackendoff’s prolongational
reductions.11 In sum, then, event trees con­
stitute a significant and conceptually useful
simplification of reduction trees. They mostly
eliminate distinctions in situations that do not
occur in practice, and those few distinctions
they eliminate which do occur in practice are
typically decided by mixing formal criteria into
the tonal analysis.12
The interest of event trees to the present
discussion is that they can also be derived from
MOPs, as spanning trees. They therefore act as
a conceptual bridge between the two methods
of representing tonal structure, isolating their
basic similarities and differences. Spanning

10 Compare, for instance, their analyses of the theme of Brahms’s Haydn Variations (“Chorale St. Antoni”) (209) and
Bach’s C major Prelude from WTC I (263) to that of Schubert’s “Morgengruß” (267). The first has a total of 43 events, two of
which have left-​right children (m. 17 and final tonic in m. 23) and the second has 36 events, and three instances of left-​right
children (the imaginary event between mm. 21–​2 and the dominants in mm. 24 and 27). Both cases include one or two very
local instances and one that involves an expansion of a basic structural chord (final tonic in the Haydn Variations and cadential
dominant in the Prelude). But they all may be characterized similarly, as chords at the beginning of a metrical and/​or formal
unit, preceded by some relatively strong progression (such as a cadence), and subsequently expanded by harmonically similar
chords filling the rest of the phrase or metrical unit. In all four of these instances, Lerdahl and Jackendoff’s prolongational
analysis groups the harmonically similar events before the stronger progressions that precede it. The “Morgengruß” example
has two instances of left-​right children, one involving the structural dominant and one the final tonic. The latter is exactly
like the expanded final tonic of the Haydn Variations. The former occurs at the half cadence in measures 5–​6, and the ordering
of children is exactly the opposite of all of the other examples: Lerdahl and Jackendoff group the progression approaching
the half cadence with the dominant first, and then the subsequent dominant expansion. The common criterion that holds
sway in all of these examples is therefore not tonal (similarity of the chords) but formal. The half cadential progression in
“Morgengruß” groups at a lower level than the dominant expansion because it belongs to its own phrase, the dominant
expansion occurring in a subsequent phrase. In the other examples of post-​cadential expansion, the repetitions of the tonic
chord belong to the same phrase as the cadence itself.
11 As stated in “PRPR2” (Lerdahl and Jackendoff 1983, 221–​3).
12 This point certainly remains open to debate. It is worth noting, then, that the geometrical method of representing
temporal structure in the next chapter offers a method of reintroducing the kinds of distinctions lost from Lerdahl and
Jackendoff’s formalism when translating them into event trees. See in particular Section 14.3 on permutohedra. If the
sequence of events is fully ordered with respect to structural status—​that is, if we have a series of reductions proceeding one
event at a time in a specified order—​then the corresponding mathematical object is simply a permutation. In a permutation,
any event can be compared to any other with regard to structural status. By not allowing ordering of remote events (where
“remote” means that a more structural event temporally intervenes) we get the MOP-​defined temporal structures. But it is
possible to specify just some of these as inadmissible distinctions, giving some concept of structure intermediate between
MOPs and full permutations. To reintroduce the ordering of left-​right children made possible in reduction trees, we could
reintroduce distinctions in cases where at most one more structural event intervenes.

Graph Theory for Temporal Structure • 361

EXAMPLE 13.26  (a) A simple harmonic progression and two possible MOP analyses, (b) spanning
trees over each of these MOPs, corresponding to the same event tree
(a) (b)

trees are also a well-​

studied topic in graph
theory. 13
Definition: A spanning tree for a graph G is a tree
with the same vertex set as G and whose edges
are a subset of those in G.
The spanning tree is a special kind of subgraph:
Definition:  A subgraph of a graph G is a graph
whose vertex and edge sets are subsets of the
vertex and edge sets of G.
Example 13.26(a) provides two possible MOP
analyses of the chord progression in Examples
13.23–​24. Although the second includes some
linear progressions in the bass not present in the
first, the first would be the normally
‸ ‸ ‸preferred
analysis because it shows the basic 3–​2–​1 progres­
sion as the principal progression, and prioritizes
connections between the more stable root po­
sition tonic and dominant over the less stable
inverted tonic. But regardless of which analysis
is preferable, no doubt the distinction between
the two is not only musically meaningful but
critical to expressing how one conceives of the
progression’s tonal structure.
Example  13.26(b) shows that the same
spanning tree exists in each of these MOPs, and
it is the same as the event tree of Example 13.24,
derived from Lerdahl and Jackendoff’s reduc­
tion tree. To be precise, the spanning tree is
defined merely as a graph, and therefore lacks
the structure of an event tree (with a root
and ordered left-​right children), but all of the
necessary structure can be derived from the
oriented rooted MOP of which the spanning
tree is a subgraph.14 If we make the provisional
stipulation that the principle structural event
is always the final one, followed by the initial
event (in other words, the root has only left
branchings and its leftmost child has only right
branchings) then any event tree may be derived
from a spanning tree over a oriented rooted
MOP. (Situations that do not fit these criteria
may be dealt with by the addition of imaginary
start and end vertices.) However, the relation­
ship is not bijective, as we have just seen:  the
event tree of Example 13.24 can be derived as a
spanning tree over at least two different MOPs,
as Example 13.26 demonstrates. Therefore, the
event tree is again a simplification. The spanning
tree over a MOP contains all the information of
an event tree, but also contains additional infor­
mation in its supporting MOP. The conceptual
relationship between all of these constructs may
be diagrammed as follows:
Reduction tree → Event tree ← Spanning tree
over MOP → MOP
Arrows show surjections, a mapping from set X
to Y that covers every element of Y but may map
multiple elements of X to a single element of Y.
In other words, when we have X → Y, the analyses
of type Y are a simplification of those of type X:

13 An interesting implicit invocation of spanning trees worthy of mention is in Rings’ (2011, 110–​48) concept of “oriented
digraphs.” (N.B. the word “oriented” has a different meaning for Rings than it does in this chapter.) Rings’ use of the term “root
node” invokes a graph-​theoretic terminology associated with trees (conveniently coinciding with the music-​theoretic term), but
his oriented digraphs are not necessarily trees. They are connected, though, and therefore have spanning trees. The stipulation
that there is at least one dipath (path of arrows all pointing in the same direction) from each node to the root node readily leads
to the definition of a small canonical set of spanning trees (which would be “in-​trees” or “anti-​arborescences”). The implicit
invocation of spanning trees is important to the concept of hierarchy crucial to Rings’ work.
14 With the caveat that a selection must be made between the two events on the root edge as to which is the primary
structural event. Here we may simply stipulate that it is the final event, consistent with Lerdahl and Jackendoff’s premises.

362 • O rga n ized   T ime

no information is added but some is lost. We can
then assess the value of the information loss
indicated by each arrow, just as we did for “re­
duction tree → event tree” above. We found that
“reduction tree → event tree” is probably a val­
uable simplification—​it eliminates distinctions
that are not especially useful. On the other hand,
for “event tree ← spanning tree over MOP,” the
spanning tree over a MOP appears to be, at least
from the one example considered, a valuable en-
richment of the event tree as a representation of
tonal structure. It adds information that may be
of basic musical significance. This is worth con­
sidering more generally, in addition to consid­
ering the potential value of the spanning tree
as a conceptual enrichment of the simple MOP
(“MOP ← spanning tree over MOP”). The later
question will be taken up in the next section.
Not all event trees can be derived as spanning
trees over multiple MOPs. Example 13.27(a), for
instance, can be completed as a MOP in only one
way, while for Examples  13.27(b) and (c)  there
is clearly one preferable way. Example  13.27(d)
shows the basic situation in which this ambiguity
does exist. The essential factor here is that between
two adjacent left-​siblings, a and c, there is a right
branching (to b). This and the converse situation
(two adjacent right siblings with a left branching
from the second of these) account for all of the sig­
nificant ambiguities. We may think of this as a gap
in the event tree, with two lines of descent pointing
into the gap. The ambiguity is compounded when
there are additional generations in each of these
lines of descent, as in Examples 13.27(e–​f ). Let us
define these gaps as lacunae:
Definition:  Let x and y be adjacent left-​siblings
(adjacent right-​siblings) in an event tree, in
the order x–​y. If x has a right child (y has a left
child), then the tree has a lacuna. The lacuna
is between the rightmost descendent of x and
the leftmost descendent of y.
Lacunae lead to what we will call strong
ambiguities of event trees. These are cases when
the event tree could be derived from spanning
trees over MOPs in more than one way. Larger
lacunae (those with more descendants be­
tween them) lead to more ambiguity, as illus­
trated by Examples  13.27(d–​ f ). Theoretically,
though, lacunae are not the only instances in
which two spanning trees over different MOPs
correspond to the same event tree. Additional
instances are indicated as weak ambiguities in
Examples  13.27(b), (c), and (f). These weak
ambiguities can be dismissed by defining a
reasonable restriction of downward propagation
on spanning trees over MOPs:
Definitions: A downwardly propagated spanning tree
over a rooted MOP, G, is a spanning tree that
may be constructed as follows: beginning with
the root edge of G, add edges recursively such
that the new edge connects a vertex previously
in the tree to one below it (never one above it).
Equivalently, a downwardly propagated spann­
ing tree over a rooted MOP is one that always
includes one but never both lower edges of any tri­
angle of the MOP. In other words, each triangle may
intersect the tree either in one of its lower edges, or
in one of its lower edges plus its upper edge.
A determinate event tree is one that corresponds
to only one downwardly propagated spanning
tree over a rooted MOP.
Example  13.27(a) has no ambiguities and is
determinate according to this definition, as are
13.27(b–​c), which have only weak ambiguities.
Taking Lerdahl and Jackendoff’s analytical
practice as a standard, lacunae are exceedingly
common in practical situations, more so than
would be suggested by a simple combinatorial
assessment of event trees. Their prolongational
basic form (188–​9) sets up adjacent left siblings,
initial tonic and structural dominant, such that
anything right-​branching from the initial tonic
creates a lacuna, and cadential preparations
from the structural dominant extend the lacuna,
increasing the number of strong ambiguities.
Their normative prolongational structure (197–​
201) similarly leads directly to lacunae.
13.6  SPANNING TREES
AND THE CYCLE/​E DGE-​
CUT ALGEBRAS
The final question that we should ask is:  do
spanning trees over MOPs constitute an enrich­
ment of these as analytical objects? The har­
monic examples in the previous section suggest
a tentative yes:  while spanning trees do not
seem to be essential to the representation of
tonal structure—​MOPs on their own have done
an adequate job throughout this book—​ and
some choices required to construct them seem
fairly arbitrary (such as connecting a passing
viio6 to a preceding I or following I6), in certain
places spanning trees may be useful to reflect
asymmetries in the prolongational triangles of
MOPs, where one connection is stronger or of
a different kind than the other. For example,
Graph Theory for Temporal Structure • 363
EXAMPLE 13.27  (a) An unambiguous event tree and its corresponding MOP, (b–​c) event trees with
only weak ambiguities, and the possible MOPs, (d–​f ) event trees with strong ambiguities, and the
corresponding MOPs
(a)

(b)

(c)

(d)

(e)

(f)

the spanning trees above show the more direct
connection of cadential chords to the resolving
tonic than to the initiating one. We have had
other occasions in this book to make distinctions
in kind between edges of a MOP, as in Chapters 2
and 9 (especially §§2.2 and 9.3) where unfolding
transformations create two types of connection,
horizontalizations (doubled lines) and derived
adjacencies (dashed lines), differing from reg­
ular progressions. Consider Schenker’s example
of an unfolding reproduced in Example 13.28.
This double unfolding can be shown by the net­
work with annotated edges added to Schenker’s
example. There is also a spanning tree over

364 • O rga n ized   T ime

this network that retains the intervals of
horizontalization but not the derived adjacency.
The ambiguity of this spanning tree is informa­
tive: in other situations, the same type of double
unfolding might result in different structures
(one where the derived adjacency is instead be­
tween the first and third events, or, more radi­
cally, where the first unfolding is understood to
hierarchically precede the progression from the
first to the fourth event).
If spanning trees are potentially meaningful
in tonal structures, then one ought to immedi­
ately wonder whether something similar could
be true in the domains of rhythm or form. Such
analogies, made possible by the common under­
lying model of temporal structure, have already
proved fruitful (in Chapter  9, for instance). In
the domain of rhythm, the spanning tree might
show the asymmetry of swung and squeezed
rhythms, in which the shorter timespans exhibit
stronger rhythmic connections. For instance,
a theme from one of C.P.E. Bach’s symphonies
used to illustrate squeezes in Chapter 1 (Ex. 1.8)
is actually saturated with squeezed and swung
rhythms. These suggest a spanning tree over the
rhythmic structure, as in Example 13.29. The
tree uses forward connections (initial to middle)
for the squeezes and backwards connections for
EXAMPLE  13.28  Schenker’s summary anal­
ysis of J.S. Bach’s Kleine Präludien no. 1, BWV 924
(Schenker [1935] 1979, Ex. 43(b)), a MOP showing
the unfoldings and derived intervals, and a
spanning tree for this MOP
EXAMPLE 13.29  The beginning of C.P.E. Bach’s Symphony, Wq. 183/​3, and a spanning tree over its
rhythmic structure
the swings. For regular duple divisions, we may
stipulate the following rules:  (1) include more
active spans, (2) all else being equal, include in­
itial spans over final spans. Interestingly, the
resulting structure for Bach’s rhythm is determi­
nate as an event tree. Event trees with lacunae
would result from dividing the long part of a
swung rhythm. This reflects a real rhythmic am­
biguity, in that the rhythm may be un­
derstood instead as a syncopation (making it a
member of a different rhythmic class). Similarly,
the ambiguous rhythm may be under­
stood as a syncopation in two different ways, and
the even triple-​meter rhythm, is ambig­
uous between regular long-​short parsing and a
short-​long sarabande-​type parsing (see §1.2.) All
of these can be described with the same basic in­
determinate spanning tree (like Ex. 13.27(d); see
also Ex. 13.35(d)).
What about formal structure, then? Formal
structures also typically feature basic distinctions
between types of spans. We often distinguish,
for instance, between the thematic parts of a
form and the more episodic material. We could
express this distinction by constructing spann­
ing trees over formal structures that priori­
tize initiating functions and repetition-​ based
tight-​knit structures. Example 13.30 gives three
examples of familiar structures:  in (a), a sen­
tence with a spanning tree that includes the ini­
tial basic idea and repetition-​based presentation
phrase; in (b) a period with a spanning tree in­
cluding the basic ideas and antecedent phrases;
and in (c) a hypothetical sonata form with a tree
prioritizing the themes over looser-​knit mate­
rial. The tree over the sentence is totally unam­
biguous, the one over the period is determinate,
and the one over the sonata form has a single
lacuna around the development section. The
sonata-​form lacuna represents the tension be­
tween its binary and ternary aspects. The part of
the spanning tree that covers the exposition and
recapitulation could equally apply to a ternary
form with a contrasting section in place of the
development. In a ternary form, the stronger
Graph Theory for Temporal Structure • 365
sense of closure dividing the contrasting section
from the main-​theme return would allow the rep­
etition of the main theme in the outer sections to
take over as the primary form-​defining principle,
putting the principal binary division at the main
EXAMPLE  13.30  Spanning trees over formal
structures for (a)  a typical sentence, (b)  period,
and (c) sonata form
(a)
(b)
(c)
EXAMPLE 13.31  (a) Bach’s C minor Keyboard Partita (BWV 826), mm. 1–​8 of the Andante, (b) formal
structure for the passage and spanning tree over the formal structure
(a)
(b)
366 • O rga n ized   T ime
theme return. This tension between repetition-​
based and caesura-​based structure is at the heart
of the idea of split form proposed in Section 9.4.
Another interesting example is the common
Baroque formal procedure typified by the andante
of J.S. Bach’s C minor Partita in Example 13.31(a),
of extending a theme through multiple successive
layers of fragmentation (see Chapter 3). In this
example Bach carefully controls the process
to maintain the clear layering of the formal
divisions. The first sequence in measures 3–​4
has a one-​ measure model (in compound 4$).
Measures 5–​6, marked “Continuation 2” utilize
repetition at the half-​measure level, fragmenting
and liquidating the material of the preceding se­
quence. However, the half-​measure repetition is
not fully sequential until measure 6.  Finally, in
measure 7 the fragmentation proceeds by one
more stage to the quarter-​note level, leading into
the cadence in measure 8.
 In constructing a spanning tree for this EXAMPLE  13.32  Cycle bases and cycle spaces
formal structure, shown in Example  3.27(b), for (a) a MOP, and (b) K4
we can rely almost entirely on the rule of in­ (a)
cluding spans created by repetition, and opting
for initiating ideas over repeated or contrasting
ideas. The resulting spanning tree has a predict­
able shape and is determinate, although it has a
large weak ambiguity.
Spanning trees have an important mathe­
matical connection to algebraic representations
of graphs that are of special interest to tem­
poral structure.15 Recall the special role that (b)
cycles played in explaining the significance of
the maximal outerplanar property in Section
13.1. I  characterized the system of cycles in
outerplanar graphs as hierarchical, whereas non-​
outerplanar graphs like K4 have distinctly non-​
hierarchical collections of cycles. We can get at
this notion by defining a binary addition opera­
tion on subgraphs:

Definition: Let H and H' be subgraphs of a graph

G. Then H + H' is the subgraph of G with the
set of edges that includes all edges in H not in
H' and all edges in H' not in H, but none of the
edges that are shared by H and H', and none of
the edges that occur in neither H nor H'. The
vertex set of H + H' includes just the vertices
incident on one of its edges.
Another way to think of this addition is by
constructing a characteristic function for each
subgraph of G, which is a vector of binary num­
bers with one place corresponding to each edge
of G. If that edge is present in the subgraph
the corresponding place in the vector has a
1, otherwise it has a 0.  The sum of subgraphs
is then just the graph corresponding to the
componentwise sum of their characteristic
functions, modulo 2.
With this definition of addition, the
subgraphs of any graph G make a vector space,
where scalar multiplication is defined as mod-​2
scalar multiplication over the characteristic
func­ tions (i.e., multiplication by 1, the iden­
tity, or by zero, which takes all subgraphs to the
null graph).16 For our purposes, the interest is
not in this larger space but in a subspace that
contains all the cycles of G. Note that when you
add two cycle subgraphs of G sharing common
edges, the result is another cycle. Otherwise the
result is a subgraph consisting of edge-​disjoint
cycles (cycles with no common edges). Therefore
the set of subgraphs consisting of (1)  the null
graph, (2)  all the cycle subgraphs, and (3)  all
the collections of edge-​disjoint cycles, is closed
under addition. This is its own vector space, the
cycle space, a subspace of the larger space of all
subgraphs.
For a MOP, we can generate the cycle space
from just the triangles. This collection of cycles
is a basis for the cycle space, meaning every cycle
is a sum of these, but no element of the basis is
derivable as a linear combination of the others.
Example 13.32(a) illustrates this. If we add adja­
cent triangles we progressively build the larger
cycles of the MOP one vertex at a time. They
therefore have a natural hierarchical order cor­
responding to their size, and in which vertices
are always added as the cycles get larger, never
taken away. The collections of edge disjoint
cycles simply factor into their constituent dis­
joint cycles. We may also define a cycle space for
a non-​outerplanar graph like K4 (Ex. 13.32(b)).
In this case there is also a basis of triangles, and
the pairs of triangles sum to give larger 4-​cycles,
but extending this sum results not in a larger 5-​
cycle but a smaller 3-​cycle, dropping the middle
vertex. In fact, there are four triangles in K4, but

15 The following discussion is based largely upon Gross and Yellen 1999, 123–​74. The algebras discussed below are one of
the motivations for the mathematical theory of matroids.
16 See Kocay and Kreher 2005, 65–​70 and Bondy and Murty 1976, 212–​26.

Graph Theory for Temporal Structure • 367

only three are needed for a basis, and any set of
three works just as well as any other.
The triangles are not the only possible basis
for the cycle space of a MOP. Here is where
spanning trees come into play: it turns out that
we can derive a basis for a graph’s cycle space
from any spanning tree. (See Gross and Yellen
1999, 161–​2 or Kocay 2005, 65–​7 for a proof
of this.) The construction is simple. Let T be a
spanning tree of G and T' a graph with all the
edges of G not in T. T' is called the co-​tree of T.
Adding any single edge from T' to T creates a
single cycle. For each edge in T', take the unique
cycle made that edge plus some edges from T.
The resulting set of cycles (one for each edge of
T') is a basis for the cycle space.
Using this procedure we may translate
our spanning trees into cycle-​ space bases.
Unambiguous event trees that also have no
weak ambiguities (like Ex. 13.27(a)) are precisely
those that correspond to the standard trian­
gular basis. Example 13.33(a) shows a rhythm
and spanning tree that gives the standard tri­
angular basis. Ambiguities (weak or strong)
occur wherever larger cycles appear in the basis.
The larger the cycle, the larger the ambiguity.
This is because a cycle in the basis can have no
chords in the spanning tree, so only the under­
lying MOP can tell us how to triangulate it. (The
ambiguities, that is, correspond to all the pos­
sible triangulations of these maximal cycles in
the basis). Example 13.33(b) gives the basis and
cycle space for one of the ambiguous event trees
of Example  13.27, realized as a spanning tree
over a specific MOP. The event tree has a max­
imum of ambiguity because its corresponding
cycle basis includes the Hamiltonian cycle. Some
subcycles of this therefore do not occur in the
basis but are derived by subtracting out other
cycles that do. (Note that because cycle spaces
are based on mod-​ 2 arithmetic, adding and
subtracting amount to the same thing.)
The rule of spanning-​ tree–​
cycle-​
basis cor­
respondence is that the cycles included in the
basis maximize the number of edges taken
from the spanning tree (which is always all
but one). The cycles derived as sums will al­
ways have fewer edges from the spanning
tree. Therefore, the edges prioritized for in­
clusion in the spanning tree will similarly
be prioritized in defining the corresponding
basis. The result in Example  13.33(b) ‸is‸ a
basis that covers all reductions of the full 3–​1/​I
progression, which may indeed be considered
the most basic elements of the tonal structure
368 • O rga n ized   T ime
according to the theoretical grounds used to de­
fine the spanning tree. Example 13.33(c) shows
a basis corresponding to the examples of a pe­
riod from Example  13.31. It has a 4-​cycle in
its basis but not a complete 5-​cycle. The basic
components of this cycle space include two
simple triangles showing an antecedent made
up of two contrasting ideas and a period made
up of two phrases. The third element is the
4-​cycle consisting of an antecedent phrase plus
a repetition of the basic idea and the concluding
cadence. One of the triangles, the one for the
consequent phrase, is derived by removing the
3-​cycle for the whole period from the 4-​cycle.
The presence of the 4-​cycle in the basis indicates
the weak ambiguity of the underlying event tree.
Since larger cycles in the basis could corre­
spond to either a weak ambiguity, as in Example
13.33(c), or a strong ambiguity, as in 13.33(b),
it would be useful to have a way to be able to tell
the difference between strong and weak ambi­
guity from the cycle basis itself. We can in fact
make this distinction by extrapolating from one
further observation:  when the basis includes
a larger cycle plus some of its subcycles, the
larger cycle and subcycles always share their
upper edge. This is guaranteed by (and an indi­
cation of) the fact that these bases come from
downwardly propagated spanning trees. If we
therefore make this a requirement, we see that
ambiguity only remains when the edge from
the co-​tree is not adjacent (on either side) to
the upper edge of the large cycle. Thus, the am­
biguity of Example  13.33(b) is strong because
the co-​tree edge of the 5-​‸cycle is I –​IV, ‸which
6
does not touch the initial 3/​I or the final 1/​I. In
Example 13.33(c), the co-​tree edge of the 4-​cycle
is the cadential idea, which does meet the end­
point of the period.
The last example of 13.33, (d), is the sonata-​
form example from 13.30. The two weakly ambig­
uous 4-​cycles resemble that of the period: their
co-​tree edges consist of cadential material, so
they intersect the endpoint of the upper edge.
The one ambiguous 4-​cycle in the basis is the one
that gives the standard “Form and Analysis 101”
description of sonata form:  a form consisting
of exposition, development, and recapitulation.
This description is ambiguous as to the parsing
of these three sections. The parsing therefore
must be clarified by the inclusion of another ele­
ment in the cycle basis that represents the binary
background of the sonata form. (One might im­
agine a standard ternary form basis containing
an equivalent 4-​cycle, main theme–​contrasting
EXAMPLE 13.33  (a) Spanning tree for a rhythm that is unambiguous as an event tree and therefore
corresponds to the standard triangular basis for a MOP, (b) spanning tree for a harmonic structure with
a large lacuna, and the corresponding cycle basis, (c) spanning tree for the formal structure of a conven­
tional period, with a weak ambiguity, and the corresponding cycle basis, (d) spanning tree for a sonata-​
form structure, with one small lacuna and two weak ambiguities, and the corresponding cycle basis
(a)

(b)

(c)

(d)

section–​main theme return, but parsed by a
different 3-​cycle, one that groups the main theme
and contrasting section.)
Related to the construction of a cycle basis
from a spanning tree is the dual construction of
a space of edge cuts.17
Definition:  An edge cut of a graph is a minimal
number of edges needed to separate two sets
of vertices in the graph.
For any partition of a graph into two groups
of vertices, there is an edge cut that includes just

17 On this topic, see Gross and Yellen 1999, 123–​74, Kocay and Kreher 2005, 65–​70 and Bondy and Murty 1976, 212–​26.

Graph Theory for Temporal Structure • 369

EXAMPLE  13.34  Spanning tree over the formal structure for a sentence, and its cycle and
edge-​cut spaces
the edges between vertices in different groups,
and none between vertices within the groups.
Edge cuts form a subspace of the alge­
braic space of subgraphs just like the cycles.
The sum of two edge cuts is another edge cut.
Furthermore, a spanning tree can also be used to
define a basis for this space. Because it is a tree,
each of its edges partitions the vertices into two
sets. An edge cut can be defined for each of these
(including just the edge in question from the tree
and any other edges needed from the co-​tree)
based on this partition.
Example 13.34 shows the edge-​ cut basis
and space for the spanning tree over the formal
structure of a sentence (see Ex. 13.30). Notice
how in both cases, because of the unambiguous
spanning tree, the two bases contain just the
simplest elements of their respective spaces.
There is a duality between the edge cut space
and the cycle space reflected in the bases derived
for each of these from the same spanning tree
(see Gross and Yellen 164–​7) The cycle space
basis has one cycle for each element of the co-​
tree (containing just that edge and no others
from the co-​tree). Therefore, for a MOP, it will
always have just n elements. Each edge cut in the
basis for that space, on the other hand, will have
exactly one element for each edge of the tree, so
for a MOP it will have n + 1 elements. Each edge
cut in the basis is therefore linked to one cycle in
the basis for each of its co-​tree edges, and each
cycle is linked to one edge tree for each of its tree
edges. According to these dual relationships, we
can reframe the points made above about how
ambiguities are reflected in the cycle basis in­
stead in terms of the edge-​cut basis.
18 Recall from §5.4 that the swing transformation can be defined as a contraction of a large timespan (here, a contraction
of the measure by half) compensating for the expansion of another timespan within it (multiplying the first 𝅘𝅥 of 𝅘𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅗𝅥 by five).
370 • O rga n ized   T ime
The simplest case is where the spanning
tree has no strong or weak ambiguities, as in
Example 13.34. We found that this corresponds
to a standard cycle basis, meaning the elements
are all and only the triangles of the MOP. In the
corresponding edge-​cut basis, we can see a sim­
ilar minimality property:  each co-​tree edge will
appear exactly twice in the edge-​cut basis (which
is a minimum amount). Ambiguities are then re­
flected by co-​tree edges that appear in more than
two elements of the edge-​cut basis. The greater
the ambiguity, the more times a single edge will
appear.
Example 13.35 presents a simple and illus­
trative case. The same 2-​MOP, as a representa­
tive of four different rhythms, may admit of
four different possible downwardly propagated
spanning trees. Two of these are totally unambig­
uous (corresponding to the normative rhythm
and a simple swung rhythm). A weak ambiguity
results from a deeper swing operation,18 and a
strong ambiguity from a syncopation. Looking
at the edge-​cut bases, we notice that the unam­
biguous structures are simpler:  each tree edge
appears in exactly one element, and each co-​tree
edge in exactly two. The ambiguous spanning
trees give more complex bases, using one of the
co-​tree edges in all three. In the swung rhythm
(weakly ambiguous), the B–​C edge is used three
times, and in the syncopated rhythm (strongly
ambiguous) it is the central C–​A edge. (Note
that, because of downward propagation restric­
tion, the “leaf” element B–​C–​A , must appear in
the edge-​cut basis).
The difference between strong and weak
ambiguity becomes clear if we look at how
EXAMPLE 13.35  Four spanning trees over the same MOP for four different rhythms, and their corre­
sponding edge-​cut bases. Circled vertices show the partition associated with the edge cut.

EXAMPLE 13.36  Spanning tree for sonata form and the corresponding edge-​cut basis

the vertices are partitioned by the different
elements of the edge-​cut space. Because of the
downward propagation property, the elements
of the bases partition the vertices in a way that
respects both vertical and horizontal proximity.
For the trees that lack ambiguities, these two
work in tandem:  vertices in one side of the
partition can be consistently isolated in both
dimensions. The exception in Example 13.35 is
the one that partitions the syncopated rhythm
B–​C/​A–​G. We can associate this basis element
directly with the ambiguity; it includes the
“extra” use of the co-​tree C–​A edge, and its tree
edge is B–​G. These are precisely the edges that
lead to the large cycle in the cycle basis (com­
pare Ex. 13.33b). (In that case it is the tree
edge, B–​G, that is reused an extra time, and the
co-​tree edge C–​A , that creates the large cycle.)
As a partition, it divides the vertices tempo­
rally, but without regard to their vertical po­
sition. In other words, this edge cut partitions
the vertices along the fault-​line of the lacuna,
and in so doing it leaves the vertices on either
side of the partition (specifically C and A) am­
biguous as to their relative vertical position.
As a more precise and generalizable charac­
terization, we can say that a strong ambiguity
corresponds to an element in the edge-​cut basis
with a co-​tree edge (that would be C–​A here)
below the tree edge (B–​G) but not sharing ei­
ther of its endpoints. When this occurs, we
get this kind of purely temporal partition that
results in structural ambiguity.
As a final illustration, Example 13.36 gives
the edge-​cut basis for the spanning tree over
the standard sonata form. Circled vertices show

Graph Theory for Temporal Structure • 371

the partitions and the tree edges that give rise
to each edge cut are labeled. There are two weak
ambiguities associated with the two closing
sections. These share an endpoint with their re­
spective tree edges (the exposition and recapit­
ulation). The strong ambiguity comes from the
372 • O rga n ized   T ime
disconnect between the whole form (the tree-​
edge for the ambiguous edge cut) and the de­
velopment section. This edge cut partitions the
vertices of the form into two temporally defined
halves, leaving the binary division of the form
ambiguous.
 14

A Geometry of Temporal Structure

14.1 ASSOCIAHEDRA distinct voices is related by simultaneity or har­

We have by now established numerous ways
of using MOPs to represent different kinds of
temporal structure. An analysis might involve
structures in multiple modalities, and within
a given modality, one may consider different
possible analyses by varying analytical prem­
ises, comparing different passages, or focusing
on different parts in a complex texture. Many
situations therefore call for comparisons be­
tween structures on the same set of events,
or related sets of events of the same size.
Analyses in Chapters 11, 12, and elsewhere ex­
plain disjunctions by establishing a common
set of events and relating the structures in
two different modalities on the same events.
Counterpoint, the topic of Chapter 9, may lead
to similar situations, where a set of events in two
monic connections, and the two voices poten­
tially differ in structure.
Fortunately, mathematicians over the past
half century have developed powerful tools
that will help us relate temporal structures in
all of these situations. This chapter describes
the associahedron, a geometrical figure that will
enable the use of different kinds of spatial rea­
soning, concepts of direction, distance, region,
and so forth, for comparing all possible MOPs
on the same number of events.1 For each n there
is an ( n − 1)-​ dimensional associahedron. The
associahedron is a polytope, like a polygon or
polyhedron, but in any number of dimensions.
Familiar examples of polytopes occur in up to
three dimensions:  line segments (one-​ dimen­
sional), rectangles and pentagons (two-​dimen­
sional), cubes and prisms (three-​dimensional).

1 Associahedra were first defined by Dov Tamari, and later but independently by Jim Stasheff (Stasheff 2012). For that
reason, they are also called Stasheff polytopes. The following discussion draws heavily upon Loday 2004. See also Yust 2009. An
earlier remark upon this musical application of associahedra also appeared in Jedrzejewski 2004.

 • 373
EXAMPLE 14.1  Finding the coordinates for a given MOP

EXAMPLE  14.2  (a) The 2-​ MOPs and their Example 14.1(a–​b). The result of this process is
coordinates, (b)  these coordinates plotted in a string of n numbers, giving this MOP a unique
two-​dimensions position in an n-​dimensional space. The next
(a)
step will be to construct an ( n − 1)-​dimensional
polytope on these points by reducing the dimen­
sionality of the space.
Let us first examine the easy cases, n = 2 and
(b)
n = 3. For n = 2 there are only two possible MOPs,
and their coordinates, as shown in Example
14.2(a), are (1, 2)  and (2, 1). Example  14.2(b)
plots these in a two-​ dimensional space and
connects them with a line, which amounts to a
one-​dimensional polytope (a line segment). This
line segment exists within a one-​dimensional
subspace, the diagonal line defined by the equa­
tion a + b = 3. For n = 2, then, the structural
possibilities amount to a simple binary oppo­
sition, left-​oriented versus right-​oriented. This
But a polytope can also be 4-​dimensional (e.g., basic directional opposition (left/​ right) will
a tesseract or four-​dimensional hypercube), 5-​ carry over into the higher dimensional cases.
dimensional, or in any number of dimensions. Now consider n = 3, in which there are five
There is one associahedron for each dimension, possible MOPs, as shown in Example 14.3(a).
and its vertices correspond to the possible struc­ The coordinates for these MOPs all satisfy the
tural shapes on n + 2 events (the rooted oriented equation a + b + c = 6, which means they all lie on
n-​MOPs). Its edges represent a particular kind a plane in the three-​dimensional coordinate space
of relationship between these (a flip, which will shown in Example  14.3(b). As in the previous
be defined shortly For MOPs with n interior case, we simplify the geometry by rotating this
vertices (n-​MOPs), the dimensionality of the onto the xy-​plane, as shown in Example 14.3(c).
associahedron is n − 1. We see, then, that the points defined by the five
The first step in defining associahedra is 3-​MOPs form an irregular pentagon.
to establish a coordinate system and define a In these two cases, we readily see that the
method of locating each MOP within that coor­ points define a polytope when connected by
dinate system. The following method was discov­ edges in the obvious way around the outside
ered by Loday (2004, 2007, 2011). It consists of of the figure. (This “obvious way,” connecting
assigning a number to each interior vertex of the points around the outside, is mathematically
MOP that corresponds roughly to its structural known as the convex hull of the points, and can
weight. Consider the unique edges that go up­ be thought of as encircling them with a rope
ward to the left and upward to the right from this or sheet and pulling it tight.) These edges also,
vertex (the lower edges of the unique triangle di­ it turns out, have a special meaning:  points
rectly above this vertex) and count the number connected by edges are precisely those related
of exterior edges below each of these. Then mul­ to one another by a flip. A  flip is a minimal
tiply these numbers to get a unique coordinate difference between two MOPs, as illustrated in
for this position in the MOP, as illustrated in Example 14.4.

374 • O rga n ized   T ime

EXAMPLE  14.3  (a) The 3-​MOPs and their coordinates, (b)  these coordinates plotted in three-​
dimensions make a two-​dimensional polygon, shown with its projections onto the xy and yz planes,
(c) the 3-​associahedron in two dimensions, using equations that rotate and translate the a + b + c = 6
plane onto the xy-​plane
(a)

(b)

(c)

EXAMPLE 14.4  Example of a flip

Definition: Let (abcd) be a 4-​cycle of some MOP.
Either ac or bd must be a chord of this cycle (by
the maximality condition). A  flip exchanges
the edge ac for bd or vice versa.
This is a minimal difference between MOPs in
the sense that it changes as few edges as possible,
exchanging one edge for another while retaining
all the others. Circling around the perimeter
of the pentagon in Example  14.3(c), now, we
see that all adjacent MOPs are related by flip.
Furthermore, there is a left–​right orientation to
any flip. So we can also add direction to the edges
as in Example 14.5 to show this orientation.

Geometry of Temporal Structure • 375

EXAMPLE  14.5  The 3-​ associahedron with in the associahedron. In general, however, we can
directed edges showing the left–​right orienta­ say that composers prefer instead the opposite
tion of flips type of disjunction, an appoggiatura type. Of the
five possible cases of irreducibly two-​dimensional
structural appoggiaturas, four are represented in
Example 14.6; the only one missing is the most
extreme, (123) → (321). The left-​right dimension
of the structural geometry neatly reflects the ap­
poggiatura/​ anticipation distinction, and this
generalizes to higher-​dimensional associahedra.
(Although we have not yet precisely defined how
to generalize the left/​right dimension, consid­
ering that there are multiple ways to do this.)
At the bottom of Example 14.6, a simple tonal-​
rhythmic analogue for each of these structures
is provided, showing the sense in which each
describes a kind of appoggiatura (with rhythmic
structure spanning two measures of $ 4 substituting
for large-​scale formal structure represented in the
examples from Chapters 11 and 12).
Having found a distinct meaning to the x-​
axis in the 2-​dimensional geometry of Examples
The directed edges always point left-​to-​right 14.3(c) and 14.6 we may wonder about the
in the coordinate system chosen in Example 14.5. meaning of the y-​axis. This dimension depends
In the higher dimensional cases, it will always solely upon the middle coordinate, the con­
be possible to define a coordinate system such nectedness of the central vertex of the MOP.
that one or more axes have this property. In However, given the constraint a + b + c = 6 , this
other words, every associahedron has one or is equivalent to saying that it depends upon the
more left/​right dimensions, which is the only connectedness of vertices a and c. In other words,
dimension in the n = 2 (one-​dimensional) case. the y-​axis registers an inner/​outer distinction.
The left/​right dimension has an important In the left-​right dimension the fans are extreme
musical meaning. Let us recall some of the simple cases. In the inner-​outer dimension the stacks
tonal-​formal disjunctions that we discovered mark one extreme (outer-​weighted), where the
in the last two chapters, as shown in Example tortoise marks the other (inner-​weighted).
14.6. Each of these can be plotted in the 3-​ Before continuing on to other dimensions,
associahedron. Two observations can be made let us more precisely define the associahedron.
about all of these disjunctions. One is that they For a given n, each MOP is defined by an n-​tuple
are always maximally distant in the space in the ( a1 , a2 ,…,an ) using the process described above.
sense that they are never on a common edge. This We note that the following must hold:
is a simple consequence of the fact that, in each
case, we isolated the disjunctions by eliminating Proposition: For any n-​MOP, a1 + a2 +…+
points of agreement between the structures. If an = n ( n − 1) / 2
two points were on a common edge, we could
have further isolated the disjunction to the n = 2 Connecting each point where the corresponding
(one-​dimensional) case. The second, more sig­ MOPs are related by a flip gives a convex ( n − 1)-​
nificant, observation is that the tonal structure dimensional polytope in the hyperplane defined
is always to the right of the formal structure in by the preceding equation. (A hyperplane is a
the space. This corresponds to the distinction be­ subspace with dimensionality reduced by one.)
tween a structural appoggiatura and a structural This is the n–​associahedron.
anticipation. If a disjunction were to involve es­ The next case, n = 4, is especially revealing as
sential tonal events coming early relative to the to the properties of associahedra as polytopes.
formal (or rhythmic) structure, it would have the Again, by translating and rotating the plane
character of an anticipation, and the tonal struc­ a + b + c + d = 10 to the xyz-​hyperplane, we ob­
ture would be to the left of the formal structure tain a three-​ dimensional space that contains

376 • O rga n ized   T ime

EXAMPLE  14.6  Tonal-​formal disjunctions from Chapter  12 plotted in the 3-​associahedron. The
arrows point from the position of the tonal structure to that of the formal structure. Below are hypo­
thetical tonal­rhythmic analogues for each disjunction type.

this polytope. The dimensions of this space are z = (a − b − c + d ) / 2

defined by the following equations:2
Hence, in the n = 4 case the left/​ right distinc­
x= ( )
2 / 2 ( −a + d ) tion becomes a two-​ dimensional one, between
the outer vertices and the inner vertices respec­
y=( 2 / 2) ( − b + c ) tively.3 The inner/​outer dimension is wholly
represented by the z-​axis. Example 14.7 shows the

2 Any rotation or reflection of this coordinate system makes an equally good space. A 45º rotation of x and y would
instead give: xʹ = (–​a –​ b + c + d)/​2 and yʹ = (–​a + b –​ c + d)/​2.
3 Or using an alternative projection (see the previous note), between the first two and last two vertices, and from the
first and third to the second and fourth.

Geometry of Temporal Structure • 377

EXAMPLE 14.7  The 4-​associahedron

EXAMPLE 14.8  Faces of the 4-​associahedron and their associated HOPs (incomplete MOPs)

4-​associahedron with directed edges. Note that the
edges always point left-​to-​right along the x or y axis
or both, and never point right-​to-​left along either
axis. The uneven tortoises, 1621, 1261, 1612, and
2161, are isolated at the top of the figure, with high
values of z indicating a heavy structural weighting
of the inner vertices. Below these are the star­
fish (4141 and 1414)  and fans (4321 and 1234),
which are equally weighted between inner and
outer, and then the other piles that are structur­
ally weighted to the outside. At the bottom of the
figure is a square face made by the stacks (4213 and
3124) and stack-​like piles (4123 and 3214), which
all share the same minimum z value. The edges of
this face are orthogonal to the x-​and y-​axes.4
The 4-​ associahedron has fourteen vertices,
twenty-​one edges, and nine faces. The twenty-​one
edges correspond to the possible flips between any
two MOPs, MOPs that share all of their edges ex­
cept for one. Every 4-​MOP has three chords (inte­
rior edges), so all vertices of the associahedron are
degree-​three (attached to three edges). Of the nine

4 This face is special in that it is the only face shared with the permutohedron contained within the associahedron; see
Loday 2004 and §14.3 below. The vertices of the permutohedron correspond to the possible permutations of four things,
and it can be created by truncating the associahedron. In this vicinity of the associahedron, the MOPs act like permutations,
strictly ordering the four interior nodes according to structural status. Other vertices corresponding to piles are also shared
with the permutohedron.

378 • O rga n ized   T ime

EXAMPLE  14.9  (a) C.P.E. Bach, “Württemburg” Sonata, Wq. 49/​3, Adagio, mm. 1–​8, with tonal
and rhythmic structures for mm. 1–​2, (b) a durational reduction of the whole passage, with tonal and
rhythmic structures, (c) positions of these on the 4-​associahedron
(a)

(b)

(c)

faces, there are six pentagonal faces and three rec­
tangular faces. The faces correspond to a collection
of MOPs that share one chord—​that is, they share
all edges except for two. As Example 14.8 shows,
each face is associated with an incomplete MOP (or
HOP) with one chord, which is the structure shared
by all of the vertices around the face. The pentag­
onal faces are 3-​associahedra. This occurs when the
shared chord makes a triangle, leaving a 5-​cycle to
be filled. This 5-​cycle can be filled with the equiva­
lent of any 3-​MOP. Rectangular faces come about
when the shared chord cuts through the middle of
the HOP making two 4-​cycles. The rectangle is a
multiplication of the two possible ways to fill each
4-​cycle (the two 2-​MOPs).
Example 14.9(a), an adagio theme from
one of C.P.E. Bach’s early keyboard sonatas,
illustrates a disjunction that may be plotted in
the 4-​associahedron. The theme reflects a spe­
cial style of writing that Bach often uses for slow
movements. As a rule, he tends to maintain a
duple hypermeter with few irregularities. In
movements like this, the refinements come in the
intricate interaction between the harmonic and
rhythmic structure. We can see this just in the
first two measures. The rhythm resembles that
of a Sarabande in its weighting of beat two of the
3$meter. The first two measures consist simply
of a I–​IV progression, but the IV is decorated
by a passing viio6/​IV that falls on the downbeat

Geometry of Temporal Structure • 379

of measure 2, creating a local tonal-​rhythmic The xʹ and yʹ axes register the large-​scale left/​
disjunction. This can be seen by comparing the right orientation versus the local left/​right ori­
MOPs in Example  14.9(a), for which coordi­ entation. This more clearly shows an appog­
nates are also given. As a disjunction irreducible giatura along the y’ axis, indicative of the local
on 4-​MOPs, this may be represented as a path appoggiatura that appears in measure 2.  The
through the interior of the 4-​associahedron. This xʹ axis registers a large-​ scale anticipation, a
is shown in Example 14.9(c). smaller effect created by fact that more chords
The entire eight-​ measure theme explores are packed into the first measure. There is also
deeper dislocations between harmony and a large difference in the z dimension, with the
rhythm. After a deceptive cadence at the end of tonal structure being more outer-​ weighted
the first phrase, the second begins on an unstable (z = 2) than the rhythmic structure (z = −2).
V56/​V, eventually leading into the cadential pro­ The overall disjunction for measures 1–​8 is
gression (a final four-​measure phrase overlapping similar to the local one but with the left-​right
the last measure of this and extending the ca­ relationships intensified.
dence is omitted for simplicity). The underlying
relationship between rhythmic and tonal struc­ Structure x ′ y ′ z
ture is shown using a “durational reduction” in Rhythmic (2161) 2 −3 −2
Example 14.9(b) in which quarter notes are equiv­
alent to the measures of the original.5 The remote­ Tonal : (1414 ) 0 3 0
ness of the harmony at the main hypermetrical Difference 2 −6 −2
division creates a disjunction here also.
Because of the dimensional bifurcation of the The local appoggiatura effect (y’) is larger be­
left/​right distinctions in the 4-​associahedron, cause now it occurs in both phrases. The large-​
the characterization of disjunctions as struc­ scale anticipation is the same, because the
tural appoggiaturas or structural anticipations distribution of harmonies, with more significant
is now not as clear-​cut. This example is a case harmonies in the first phrase, is the same. The
in point:  are these disjunctions structural inner/​outer distinction (z), however, is smaller.
appoggiaturas like all of the ones we examined Another way to compare structures is by
in the 3-​associahedron in Example  14.6? The x making a path between them around the pe­
and y dimensions are in disagreement, as the rimeter of the associahedron, following the
following comparison suggests: edges. This constitutes a step-​ by-​
step process
of reconciling the structures through a series
Structure x y z of individual flips. For instance, starting from
Rhythmic (2161) −0.7 3.5 −2 the rhythmic structure for measure 1–​2, 2161,
we can get to the tonal structure via the path
Tonal : (3214 ) 0.7 −0.7 2
2161 → 2134 → 3124 → 3214. This gives a series
Difference −1.4 4.2 −4 of structural intermediate stages between them.
The first flip undoes the local appoggiatura, and
The outer left/​right dimension (x) indicates an moves a large distance in the yʹ and zʹ directions,
appoggiatura while the inner left/​right dimen­ oblique to the xʹ dimension. The other flips are
sion (y) shows an anticipation. A 45º rotation of smaller, both going right by small amounts in the
the x, y axes proves helpful in interpreting this xʹ dimension (the second is oblique to yʹ and the
case, though, where x ′ = ( − a − b + c + d ) / 2  and  third is oblique to zʹ). Example 14.10 illustrates
y ′ = ( − a + b − c + d ) / 2: this process by recomposing the rhythmic struc­
ture one flip at a time until it matches the tonal
Structure x ′ y ′ z structure. Schenker does something similar to il­
Rhythmic (2161) 2 −3 −2 lustrate some of his tonal analyses, such as the
Tonal : (3214 ) 0 1 2 analysis of J.S. Bach’s C minor Fugue subject
(WTC I) in “The Organic Nature of the Fugue”
Difference 2 −4 −4 (Schenker [1925] 1996, 31–​54; see Yust 2009).

5 This practice was pioneered by Schachter (1980) and was also used by Lewin (e.g., 2006, 109–​34) and others.

380 • O rga n ized   T ime

EXAMPLE  14.10  Matching the rhythmic to the tonal structure in mm. 1–​2 of Bach’s Wq. 49/​3
Adagio via a series of flips. Note that the operations apply to the structural network, and the varying
proportions that give the swung and squeezed rhythms are applied ad hoc to fit the structure plausibly
to the metric context.

14.2  HIGHER DIMENSIONAL prisms), which occur as cells (3-​ dimensional

components) of the 6-​associahedron and higher-​
ASSOCIAHEDRA AND dimensional associahedra. We will encounter
THEIR FACETS examples of all of these below.
The 5-​ associahedron, a four-​ dimensional
The 5-​associahedron, which is a four-​dimensional polytope, is shown in a two-​dimensional projec­
polytope, can also be visualized with some effort tion in Example 14.11 (just like Ex. 14.8 is a two-​
as we will see below. At higher dimensions, di­ dimensional projection of a three-​dimensional
rect visualization becomes increasingly difficult. polytope). We can grasp this complex struc­
However, these high-​ dimensional objects re­ ture by evaluating its three-​dimensional facets
main tractable if we are able to break them up and how they intersect. It has two types of
into subpolytopes of lower dimension. facets:  some are 4-​associahedra, and some are
The features of the 4-​ associahedron pentangular prisms (the direct product of a
explored above generalize to the higher-​degree 3-​associahedron with a 2-​associahedron). Each
associahedra. Each n-​associahedron contains portion of Example 14.11 highlights a different
(n − 1) -​
associahedra as facets, where facets three-​dimensional facet of the 5-​associahedron
are the ( n − 1)-​dimensional components of an and indicates the family of MOPs forming this
n-​dimensional polytope, like the faces of a three-​ facet with the incomplete HOP made by their
dimensional polytope. These ( n − 1)-​associahedra shared edges. Each of these fourteen shapes is
in turn have ( n − 2)-​associahedra as facets and so a three-​dimensional “side” of the whole four-​
on. Not all of the facets are associahedra, how­ dimensional shape, linked to others by shared
ever:  some are products of lower-​dimensional two-​dimensional faces. The 5-​associahedron has
associahedra. For instance, the rectangular faces seven 4-​associahedra as facets and seven pris­
of the 4-​associahedron are products of two line matic facets. Each 4-​associahedron is linked to
segments (2-​associahedra). Other examples are nine other facets by shared faces, while each
the prismatic faces of the 5-​associahedron, which prismatic facet is adjacent to seven others.
we will see momentarily. The n-​associahedron In the four-​dimensional geometry, the inner/​
has a variety of sub-​polytopes, then, from di­ outer distinctions are now split between two axes.

sub-​polytopes are the edges (2-​

( )
mension 1 through n, where the 1-​dimensional One is designated y = 5 / 5 ( − a − b + 4 c − d − e )
associahedra). and relates the middle node to all the others.
We can also focus on a particular dimension The other, z = ( − a + b + d − e ) / 2 , compares the
and ask:  what types of shape are possible as outer nodes to the second and fourth. The left/​
sub-​polytopes of any n-​associahedron in that right weighting of the structure is split between
dimension? There is only one possible one-​ two dimensions in a similar way to what we
dimensional shape (the 2-​associahedron), but saw when parameterizing the 4-​associahedron.
there are two possible two-​dimensional shapes The main left/​right dimension is a large-​scale
(the 3-​associahedron and rectangle). In three one, x = ( − a + b − d + e ) / 2, comparing the first
dimensions, we have the 4-​ associahedron, two nodes to the last two, while the other,
pentangular prisms, which are facets of the 5-​ w = ( − a + b − d + e ) / 2, is a local one comparing
associahedron, and cubes (actually rectangular the first to the second and the fourth to the fifth.

Geometry of Temporal Structure • 381

EXAMPLE 14.11  A projection of the 5-​associahedron and each of its fourteen facets with the corre­
sponding HOPs shown

382 • O rga n ized   T ime

EXAMPLE 14.11 Continued

Geometry of Temporal Structure • 383

EXAMPLE 14.11 Continued
The disjunctive coda of Haydn’s op. 64/​1 String
Quartet, analyzed in Section 11.5 (Ex. 11.22)
gives one example of tonal-​formal disjunction on
the 5-​associahedron. The basic tonal and formal
structures for the disjunction are reproduced in
Example  14.12(a). One method to feel our way
around this four-​dimensional polytope is to iso­
late intersecting facets that contain both of the
structures. There are a number of ways to do
this, one of which is shown in Example 14.12(b).
The facet containing the tonal structure is a
4-​associahedron defined by a = 5—​that is, the
facet containing all those structures where the
first interior event is the main structural divi­
sion. In the formal structure, the role of prin­
ciple structural division is displaced by the end
of the sonata form and beginning of the coda.
Note that the disjunction is a kind of large-​scale
anticipation rather than a kind of appoggiatura.
The main tonal event appears in advance of the
main tonal division. What is unusual, though, is
not the placement of the tonal event (the PAC
on V), which is exactly where it would normally
be, but the reopening of the form after the reca­
pitulation. In that sense, we might think of this
as something like an appoggiatura-​of-​form, the
withholding of a major formal division after the
384 • O rga n ized   T ime
main tonal division has long since passed but re­
mains unresolved.
The facet containing the formal structure in
Example  14.12(b) is another 4-​ associahedron,
this one defined by the placement of a leaf (degree-​
2 vertex) in the last interior position, indicated by
a constant e = 1. This is the internal division of
the coda where Haydn returns to the home key, a
lower division of the formal structure at the level
of this analysis. Like the facet that contains the
tonal structure, this facet reflects an aspect of
the formal structure that is similar to but not the
same as the tonal structure. The tonal structure
has a relatively low-​level event in the last internal
position, but, importantly, it is more structural
than the preceding ♭ VI, which appears at the prin­
cipal formal division. This is the second major
difference between the two structures, and this
one may be understood as a regular tonal-​formal
appoggiatura, like all of the simpler disjunctions
illustrated in Example 14.6 in the last section. The
♭ VI at the beginning of the coda is, locally, a re­
mote tonal event delaying completion of the tonal
structure at a major point of formal division.
The two facets intersect in a pentagonal face.
Around this face the values of b, c, and d vary
while holding a = 5 and e = 1 constant. A  logical
EXAMPLE 14.12  (a) The tonal-​formal disjunction of Haydn’s op. 64/​1 from ch. 11 (Ex. 11.22) with
coordinates added for translation into the nodes of the 5-​associahedron, (b) the 5-​associahedron with
intersecting facets highlighted, one containing the formal structure and one containing the tonal
structure
(a)

(b)

path between the tonal and formal structures, rightward along the x axis as well as the z axis. The
restricted to the edges of the figure, would trav­ resulting coordinates for the two structures are:
erse this face from (54321) to (54141) to (52161).
The process is a gradual shift of structural weight Structure x y z w
to d, the focal point of the disjunction, from each Formal (32181) 2 −4.5 3 −4
other point in the structure in turn. Starting
from the tonal structure, (54312), a small flip
Tonal: (54312) −3 0 −1 0
to (54321) gets onto the shared face. The next Difference 5 −4.5 4 −4
move to (54141) is mostly along the y axis, and
then to (52161) is rightward in x and leftward in The x axis is a large-​scale left/​right axis and w is
w. The last step leaves this face, exchanging a for a local left/​right. As in the previous example, this
d as the principal structural division, to arrive at disjunction is a kind of anticipation in the large-​
the formal structure, (32181), moving further scale (tonal structure to the left in x), and locally

Geometry of Temporal Structure • 385

an appoggiatura type (tonal structure to the right the central event (the return to C major in the
in w). The inner/​outer dimensions also give diver­ middle of the subordinate theme, favored in the
gent results. The y-​axis focuses specifically on the tonal structure) versus the other interior events
middle position, c, in relation to the others and (the beginning and end of the subordinate
therefore finds the tonal structure to be more inner-​ theme, favored by the formal structure).
weighted. This is the medial caesura of the recapit­ Again, a re-​parameterization of the space will
ulation, which takes on greater weight in the tonal help to isolate the sense in which Schubert’s disjunc­
structure when its resolution is withheld in favor tion constitutes a kind of structural appoggiatura.
of a remote event at the end of the recapitulation. Let us consider the following set of parameters,
The z-​axis, on the other hand, compares a to b and which isolate the first event, because it is relatively
d to e, and so finds the formal structure to be more unaffected by the disjunction (or to put it differ­
inner-​weighted. The differences can be most suc­ ently, it behaves exactly as expected for the form):
cinctly explained as a shift of structural weight from
all of the points represented (end of exposition, be­ x′ = ( −b − c + d + e) / 2 y′ = ( −b − c + d + e) / 2
ginning of recapitulation, medial caesura of recapit­ z′ = ( − b − c + d + e ) / 2
ulation, and the midpoint of the coda) to the point
at the beginning of the coda (d). The form is more ( )
w′ = 5 / 5 ( −4 a + b − c + d + e )
inner-​weighted if point d is considered inner (on
the z-​axis) but not if it is treated as outer (as on the The w’ parameter now will be mostly ignorable,
y-​axis). since it depends only on the status of the first
Chapter  12 (Ex. 12.15) described a tonal-​ event relative to the others. The divide between
formal disjunction created by the modulating left/​right and inner/​outer dimensions is not as
subordinate theme of Schubert’s piano four- clear-​cut in this parameterization, but three of
hands Allegro in A  minor, D.  947, reproduced the axes have clear left/​right orientations, in­
in Example 14.13(a). This provides another ex­ cluding w’ (since a is to the left of all the others).
ample of a structural disjunction irreducible on Besides that, x’ is a large-​scale left/​right axis,
5-​MOPs and therefore traceable in the geometry while z’ makes local left/​right distinctions. It is
of the 5-​associahedron. Once again, we can find in the latter sense (locally, as measured by z’) that
intersecting facets containing each point, the Schubert’s disjunction is an appoggiatura-​type:
one for the tonal structure and the one for the
formal structure (keeping in mind that this is Structure x ′ y′ z′ w′
one of many ways to do so). The facets chosen in Formal (18141) −2 −2 −5 4.5
Example 14.13(b) are those associated with the
principal connections to the initial event in each Tonal : (21615) −0.5 0.5
5 4.5 2.2
modality; in the tonal domain, the connection of Difference −1.5 −2.5 −9.5 2.2
the initial tonic to the cadence in C, and in the
formal domain, the connection from the begin­ The large difference in z′ registers the two structural
ning of the main theme to the medial caesura. appoggiaturas within the subordinate theme (with
Each corresponds to a 4-​associahedron facet, its remote off-​tonic beginning) and the closing
the formal structure belongs to one at the top of section. The other parameters are now fairly equiv­
the figure and the tonal structure to one on the ocal. There is a trace of large-​scale appoggiatura in
right. The coordinates for the two structures are: x’ (again due to the formal weighting of the begin­
ning of subordinate theme), and outer-​weighting
Structure x y z w in the formal structure within the second part of
Formal (18141) −2 −4.5 5 2 the exposition (for the same reason).
Tonal: (21615) 1.5 6.7 −2.5 1.5 Another example of a modulating subordinate
theme given in Chapter  12, that of Schubert’s
B♭ -​major Grande Sonate for piano duo (D. 617), is
Difference −3.5 −11.2 7.5 0.5
reproduced in Example 14.14, reduced to a disjunc­
The main differences between these struc­ tion between 6-​MOPs. These correspond to vertices
tures are along the y and z axes, the inner/​outer in a 6-​associahedron, a five-​dimensional polytope
dimensions. They go in opposite directions that I  will not attempt to visualize(!) Luckily,
in these dimensions though, so rather than though, this is an instance where we do not need
one structure being consistently more inner-​ the entire polytope:  we can instead relate these
weighted, the difference is a matter of favoring structures through one of its three-​dimensional

386 • O rga n ized   T ime

EXAMPLE 14.13  (a): The tonal-​formal disjunction of Schubert’s D. 947 from Ch. 12 (Ex. 12.15) with
coordinates added for translation into the nodes of the 5-​associahedron, (b) the 5-​associahedron with
intersecting facets highlighted, one containing the formal structure and one containing the tonal
structure
(a)

(b)

cells, because the two MOPs do have shared 14.3 EVENNESS

structure, shown in the example as a HOP with
three 4-​holes. The relationship between the two
MOPs is a flip within each one of these holes, so
the paths between them in the 6-​associahedron
consists of three edges, one for each flip (which can
be performed in any order). The product of these
edges is a cubic polytope (Ex. 14.9b), which is one
of the cells of the 6-​associahedron.
In Chapter  6 (§6.2) I  noted that rhythmic
structures differ from those in other modalities
in that highly uneven structures are either im­
possible or implausible in the rhythmic domain.6
The geometries of temporal structure described in
the previous section provide a way of quantify­
ing the unevenness of any structure.

6 See also the discussion of depth in Section 4.1 and of skew in Section 4.3.

Geometry of Temporal Structure • 387

EXAMPLE  14.14  (a) Tonal-​formal disjunction from Schubert’s D.  617, i (from Ex. 12.13) and the
common intermodal structure, (b) the subpolytope of the 6-​associahedron containing the two structures
(a)
(b)
The most uneven structures are always the
piles, and the piles have a special property in
the geometrical interpretation:  their coordi­
nates always consist of some permutation of
the numbers 1, 2,  .  .  ., n. For example, in the
4-​MOPs, the piles have coordinates 4321, 4312,
4213, 4123, 3214, 3124, 2134, and 1234. These
do not include all of the possible permutations,
though:  only permutations that start or end
on 4 appear, and some that do start or end
on 4 are also missing:  4132, 4231, 1324, and
2314 (i.e., those where 3 is between 1 and 2).
These omissions have to do with an essential
difference between temporal structure and per­
mutation, which is worth examining in a bit
more detail.
Consider first the n = 3 case, as shown in
Example 14.15. The 3-​ associahedron includes
four permutations, 321, 312, 213, and 123. The
two others, 231 and 132, are not vertices of the
associahedron, but lie on the long edges connected
to 141, the one vertex that does not represent a per­
mutation. In the permutations, all interior events
are strictly ordered according to depth, with the
vertex assigned 1 being of maximum depth and the
vertex assigned 3 being minimum depth. However,
388 • O rga n ized   T ime
if the middle vertex is assigned minimum depth,
it is impossible to differentiate the two vertices on
either side of it by depth. Both are necessarily of
depth 2. This reflects a general fact about temporal
structures: when two events are remote (separated
by a more structural event) the temporal structure
is agnostic about their relative structural status.
In a regime of strict permutations, all events
would be strictly ordered according to struc­
tural status, regardless of whether they were re­
mote or not. This concept of permutation also
admits of a geometrical interpretation, with all
of the permutations as vertices of a polytope
in ( n − 1) dimensions. In Example  14.15, the
3-​permutohedron is a regular hexagon inside of
the 3-​associahedron, which is an irregular pen­
tagon. The edges of the permutohedron correspond
to a swap between vertices whose values differ by
1. The permutohedron and associahedron share
three edges, which are all of the edges between
piles:  (321) − (312), (312) − (213), (213) − (123).
The permutohedron, however, truncates the part
of the associahedron that contains 141, so that
the edges (321) − (231) and (123) − (132) replace
(321) − (141) and (123) − (141), and a new edge is
added between the new vertices, (231) − (132).
EXAMPLE  14.15  The 3-​permutohedron within
the 3-​associahedron
All of these facts about permutohedra and
associahedra generalize to other dimensions,
as Loday (2004) shows. The n-​permutohedron is
contained within the n-​associahedron as a trun­
cation of it. Their shared structure consists of
the piles and all edges, faces, and so on, made
up exclusively of piles. The permutohedron is
a regular structure and more symmetrical than
the associahedron. All its edges are the same
length, and the faces are of a limited number
of shapes. The minimum-​ length edges of
the associahedron are those it shares with
the permutohedron. Where it departs from
the logic of strict permutation, regions of the
associahedron become more remote.
The three-​ dimensional case, illustrated in
Example 14.16, gives a picture of how this rela­
tionship evolves as the degree increases. Two of
the pentagonal faces of the 4-​associahedron, those
involving all vertices that start or end on 4, be­
have locally just like the two-​dimensional case in
Example 14.15. The more remote vertices, 1621,
1612, 2161, and 1261, involve another level of
truncation special to the three-​dimensional case.
As Loday shows, the best way to understand
these objects is to think of each face as belonging
to a plane (or hyperplane) that truncates the
total space (defined by allowing all possible posi­
tive values for the coordinates while holding the
sum constant. This is an equilateral triangle in
the 2-​dimensional case and an equilateral tetra­
hedron in the 3-​dimensional case, also known as
7 According to Loday’s notation this would be written (12|03). I opt for a different notation here to more clearly
distinguish order position (associated with Roman letters) from structural position (indicated by integers).
simplexes). Each hyperplane is associated with a
partition of the coordinates, such that those on
the left side of the partition get strictly smaller
values than those on the right. For instance, the
4-​permutohedron and 4-​ associahedron share a
face ( 4213) - (3214 ) - (3124 ) - ( 4123), which is on
the bottom in Figure  14.16. This is based on
the partition ( bc / ad ).7 That is, the outer coor­
dinates are higher than the inner coordinates.
The permutohedron allows all such distinctions,
while the associahedron disallows those where
higher-​valued coordinates are flanked by lower
ones. To use the metaphor from the introduc­
tion, the relative prominence of two points
on the coastline can only be compared if no
more prominent point intervenes between
them. For instance, on the front side of the
permutohedron in Example  14.16, there is a
face (1423) - (1324 ) - (2314 ) - (2413). This face
partitions the vertices as (ac / bd ). This compar­
ison is not allowed for the associahedron because
one of higher structural status (b) is flanked by
two of lower structural status (a and c).
As was suggested in the last chapter (note 12),
it might sometimes be desirable to allow some of
the distinctions omitted from the associahedron
while disallowing others, producing a con­
cept of structure intermediate between strict
permutations (a strict structural ordering of
all events) and the MOP-​ defined temporal
structures. This could be expressed in a geometric
figure intermediate between the associahedron
and permutohedron. For instance, we could
allow structural comparison on either side of a
single more structural event, but no more than
that. In the three-​dimensional case, this would
eliminate just one face of the permutohedron,
so we would have a permutohedron with a “hat.”
The eliminated face would be the one on top in
Figure  14.16:  (2431)–(1432) − (1342) − (2341),
defined by the permutation (ad / bc ). This would
be replaced by a single point that marks the in­
tersection of the surrounding faces, (1441). The
surrounding faces are defined by the partitions
(a \ bcd ) , (d \ abc ), (acd \ b), and (abd \ c ).
The vertices of the associahedron can be
distinguished between those that belong to
the permutohedron and those that do not.
The ones that do not can be further distin­
guished according to how far away they are
from the permutohedron. The remoteness of
vertices reflects an important feature of these
Geometry of Temporal Structure • 389
EXAMPLE 14.16  The 4-​permutohedron within the 4-​associahedron

structure-​types as temporal hierarchies. As
structures get more remote in the geometry,
they also get more even. The structures that
behave like strict permutations are the most
uneven. The musical importance of this as­
pect of structure is perhaps best appreciated
in the rhythmic case. There are two ways we
might go about assessing the plausibility of a
given structure-​type as a rhythmic structure.
The simplest is to produce a normative rhythm
and determine if it reflects a plausibly regular
rhythm. The plausibility of the rhythm will, for
the most part, be simply a function of the rel­
ative depth of its vertices. Another approach is
to attempt to produce a non-​normative rhythm
that is reasonably regular and reflects the given
structure. As Chapters  1 and 5 showed, such a
rhythm may be derived from the normative one
by transformations like syncopation.
Example 14.17 gives all normative rhythms
(as a measure of 4$) for the n = 4 case. None are
entirely implausible, but it is clear that the rel­
ative plausibility relates directly to the range of
vertex depths. When this range is high, in all
of the piles, the rhythm mixes sixteenth notes
with half notes and all other durations in be­
tween. Rhythms that only extend to the eighth-​
note level are more ordinary. However, there is
a further distinction to be made between 1414
and 4141, and the more remote vertices 1621,
1612, 2161, and 1261. The latter are more even,
mixing just quarter notes and eighths, whereas
the former, mixing half notes and eighths, some­
what less so.
The geometry of associahedra provides a way
to quantify the sense of evenness described
here. The vertices of the permutohedron in
Example  14.16 are all the same distance from
its center, the point (2.5, 2.5, 2.5, 2.5). The
Euclidean distance of all of these points, given by
( )
( a − 2.5)2 + ( b − 2.5)2 + ( c − 2.5)2 + ( d − 2.5)2 ,
is 2.236. By comparison, the points 4141 and
1414 are at a distance of 3 from the center of the
permutohedron, while the four remote points
are at a distance of 4.123. This distance is thus
a measure of evenness, with the larger numbers
indicating more even structures.8
Another way to understand the significance
of evenness for rhythms is to limit the shortest

8 It is possible to create a coordinate system for these geometries including this measure of remoteness or evenness.
These are the spherical coordinate systems, and they include the distance from the center of the space (which would be set as
the center of the permutohedron) plus n –​2 angles that would specify the projection of the point onto a hypersphere. In
the n = 4 case, for instance, we would be dealing with ordinary spherical coordinates, with the remoteness plus two angular
coordinates. To fully specify such a coordinate system, however, it is necessary to choose n –​2 orthogonal reference points
on the hypersphere. In the n = 4 (three-​dimensional) case these are called the zenith and azimuth. Latitude, longitude,
and elevation on the earth are an example of a spherical coordinate system, where the north pole is the zenith and the
intersection of the equator and prime meridian is the azimuth.

390 • O rga n ized   T ime

EXAMPLE 14.17 Normative rhythms for n = 4

possible duration and look for non-​normative EXAMPLE  14.18 (a) A  3-​ pile represented
rhythms for the given structure. The less even by a normative rhythm, and (b)  a more even
structures can be represented by more evenly syncopated rhythm. An expansion of this struc­
distributed rhythms this way, but their com­ ture with its (c) normative rhythm and (d–​e) pos­
plexity, indexed by the number of different sible syncopated rhythms. (f) A slightly more even
surface durations required and the number of structure can be smoothed out by (g) syncopation.
metrical levels articulated, will be consistently
higher for the less even structures. Consider (a)
the 3-​pile in Example 14.18(a). Its normative
rhythm ranges from eighth note to half note
in surface durations. The syncopated rhythm (b)
in Example  14.18(b) is smoother, with surface
durations ranging from eighth to dotted quarter,
but it still requires three different basic note (c)
values (eighth, quarter, and dotted eighth) and
metrical levels down to the eighth-​note. A larger
stack expanding this one has an uneven norma­
tive rhythm (Ex. 14.18(c)) that can be smoothed (d)
out somewhat by the same syncopation as in
Example  14.18(d). An even narrower range of
durations is achieved by the deeper syncopation (e)
in Example  14.18(e), but the number of met­
rical levels required (down to the sixteenth-​note
level) is the same in all three. The structure in
Example 14.18(f) is more even (a distance of 3 (f)
from the center of the permutohedron, larger
than the 2.236 of the piles, but smaller than
the maximum 4.123 for n = 4). A  syncopa­ (g)
tion for this structure, Example  14.18(g), has
three basic note-​values but only extends to the
eighth-​note level.
At higher degrees, remoteness becomes
harder to visualize, but remains easy to calculate. but Example 14.19(b) is not far behind at 12.65.
Example 14.19 compares structures of varying Example 14.19(c) gets a lesser, but still fairly high
evenness at n = 7, and the remoteness of the value, while Example  14.19(d) is considerably
corresponding vertices of the 7-​associahedron lower. The minimum value for n = 7 is 5.29. Note
(a six-​dimensional polytope). Example  14.19(a) that both the minimums and the range of possible
has a uniquely high remoteness value of 13.42, values increase with the increase of dimensions,

Geometry of Temporal Structure • 391

EXAMPLE  14.19  Temporal structures at n  =  7
and associated normative rhythms. Distances
from the center of the 7-​permutohedron, (4 4 4 4
4 4 4), are (a) 13.42, (b) 12.65, (c) 11.14, (d) 9.59
(a)
(b)
(c)
(d)
and even if the values were normalized so that
the minimum was always 1, the maximum
value would still increase considerably with in­
crease of dimension. This reflects the fact that
the difference between temporal structure and
simple permutation gets more exaggerated at
higher degrees, as the possible number of incom­
parable nodes in the temporal structures grows.
392 • O rga n ized   T ime
EXAMPLE 14.20  Sonata form structure and its
basic coordinates
Evenness is important to formal design
also. Although regularity and proportion
are not among the criteria for determining
formal structure given in Chapter  3—​because
they belong properly to rhythmic, not formal
structure—​ formal structures do have a ten­
dency to be more even, especially in larger
forms. The reason is that more even structures
(as we have just seen in the rhythmic situa­
tion) require fewer high-​depth events. Greater
depths become more challenging to manage
because they require more embedding of the
different kinds of formal criteria. Example
14.20 shows a regular sonata form as a 7-​MOP
with its basic coordinates. This corresponds to
a point on a six-​ dimensional associahedron,
which is a distance of 13.27 from the center of
the six-​dimensional permutohedron. The min­
imal distance (most uneven structures), which
is that of the 7-​piles, is 5.29.
 Epilogue
Time and Memory
I OFFER the final word on time to György Ligeti:
As a small child I  once had a dream that
I could not get to my cot, to my safe haven,
because the whole room was filled with a
dense confused tangle of fine filaments. It
looked like the web I had seen silkworms fill
their box with as they change into pupas.
I  was caught up in the immense web to­
gether with both living things and objects
of various kinds—​huge moths, a variety of
beetles—​which tried to get to the flickering
flame of the candle in the room; enor­
mous dirty pillows were suspended in this
substance, their rotten stuffing hanging
out through the slits in the torn covers.
There were blobs of fresh mucus, balls of
dry mucus, remnants of food all gone cold
and other such revolting rubbish. Every
time a beetle or a moth moved, the entire
web started shaking so that the big, heavy
pillows were swinging about, which, in
turn, made the web rock harder. Sometimes
the different kinds of movements rein­
forced one another and the shaking became
so hard that the web tore in places and a few
insects suddenly found themselves free.
But their freedom was short-​ lived, they
were soon caught up again in the rocking
tangle of filaments, and their buzzing,
loud at first, grew weaker and weaker. The
succession of these sudden, unexpected
events gradually brought about a change
in the internal structure, in the texture
of the web. In places knots formed, thick­
ening into an almost solid mass, caverns
opened up where shreds of the original web
were floating about like gossamer. All these
changes seemed like an irreversible pro­
cess, never returning to earlier states again.
An indescribable sadness hung over these
shifting forms and structure, the hopeless­
ness of passing time and the melancholy
of unalterable past events. (Ligeti, from
program notes to Atmosphères quoted in
Ligeti 1983, 25)
 • 393
 One might say that, while this book has been
all about time, one subject it has managed to
avoid talking about is time—​time, that is, in
Ligeti’s sense of “the hopelessness of passing
time,” which somehow can only be appreciated
through all the evocative but seemingly random
fantasia of imagery of waste that unfolds
through his tangled narrative. It is arguably the
ultimate purpose of art to escape this kind of
time, each feat of artistic creation like the short-​
lived freedom of Ligeti’s insects. Music, in par­
ticular, is of time but above time. As an object
in time, music is gone before it has a chance to
exist. The making of the musical artifact is in the
production of the musical work, the reproducible
experience, which is the striving to overcome
music’s inherent ephemerality. In this sense, the
production of the musical object, the act of com­
position (and in our own era, recording), reflects
the pretension towards immortality that is la­
tent in every act of artistic creation. The subject
of this book is therefore not time but temporal
structure, what is in a sense a paradox, if we see
time the way it is revealed in Ligeti’s dream, as
the stuff out of which the inexplicable sadness
of nostalgia is made. Structure, the organization
of time, is a way of denaturing time, in the sense
that it makes all moments simultaneously pre­
sent, something that defies the definition of a
moment.
What is the source and resolution of these
bewildering paradoxes? I  suggested in the in­
troduction that time is not one thing but two.
A  theory of music’s temporality, one might
naïvely suppose, ought to be a theory of rhythm.
After all, the theory of rhythm as is generally
understood deals with the temporal dimension
of music, whereas the theory of harmony deals
with the other dimension, the tonal one. I  em­
phasize the concept of dimension here, because,
as I pointed out in the introduction, dimension is
a mathematical metaphor, one that emphasizes
separability. The naïve rhythm/​tonality duality
uses the metaphor of dimension to achieve a di­
vision of labor in music-​theoretic institutions,
between harmonic theory and rhythmic theory.
It bears the authority of modern physics, which
has raised the dimensionality of time nearly to
the status of fact (of course it cannot be—​it is
not even a theory, in the sense of a hypothesis,
because it is a way of seeing, a pre-​theoretical
act). But temporality cannot be separated from
any harmonic theory without losing all but its
most elementary features, because harmonic
theory, as a rule, is primarily concerned not so
394 • O rga n ized   T ime
much with what harmonies are as it is with how
they move.
In short, the time of rhythm is specifically a
kind of measureable time. This is not the same
thing as the time of experience, what Bergson
([1889] 1921, 75–​139) calls “duration,” which
is not inherently measurable, because meas­
urement requires the simultaneous presence
of points. Measurability spatializes time, by
turning moments into points. Like the dimen­
sionality of time, the equation of moment with
point is so automatic to modern thinkers that it
is disorienting to try to see from outside of these
metaphorical equivalencies. Roger Matthew
Grant’s (2015) recent work probing the histor­
ical concepts of meter helps to explode this per­
spective by unwrapping the cloak of historical
chauvinism over the intellectual universe of pre­
vious era in which the possibility of fixing time
was not so easily conceded. Explaining meter in
the era before the automatic measurement of
time required music theorists to engage more
deeply with concepts of motion, the motion of
the conducting hand as an image of the motion
of musical rhythm. Measureable time and expe­
rienced time are different things, confused by
the overextended term “time.” Distinguishing
them explains why the theories of rhythm, har­
mony, and form are all temporal, and yet rhythm
is distinguished from the others in that it has to
do with the modality of time. The meaning of
time in the latter sense is measureable time.
Ligeti poses an additional complication, though.
While the time I have been theorizing throughout
this book is experiential time, Ligeti’s melancholy
time also resists structure. It is a web through
which one cannot fashion an escape route, be­
cause it never is what it was. Structured time
must still have a spatial aspect and is therefore
not quite Bergson’s “pure duration.” Time is not
just two things, then, but at least three. It is meas­
urable time, it is time as the substrate of motion,
and it is irreversible time. Irreversible time is
what music by its nature resists. So if the title of
this book provokes the question “why organize
time?” the answer is:  to save it from Ligeti’s
“hopelessness of passing time,” to squirrel what­
ever of experiential time we can into the frozen
gesture of the musical work. If Ligeti’s dream is
a vision of the futility of trying to bottle time, it
is a pointless act that is nonetheless an irresist­
ible human urge, and that lies behind most if not
every attempt at artistic creation. Motion is con­
ceivable only by comprehending the goal of the
motion in view of its preconditions. It requires
time to be visible from the outside, by the god-​
like eye, if not necessarily measureable nonethe­
less arrangeable or organizable. The act of seeing
ourselves as the product of history is the same
act by which we see the insistent final cadences
of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, that endless rep­
etition of the tonic that refuses to relinquish the
musical work’s grip on its piece of time-​space, as
the product of its first four notes. It is the des­
perate act of memory. And, if we are honest with
ourselves, human memory is a feeble thing. But
when we build a house as a safe haven within the
universe of memory, from that place it appears
to be a thing of monumental size. A walk on the
beach is nothing without the views. We must look
ahead and look behind, photograph, and catalog,
to turn existence into experience.
I offer these final thoughts perhaps simply
as a bulwark against the inevitable skeptic who
will, perhaps through one’s inevitable Pavlovian
responses to certain kinds of language, wish to
dismiss this book as a work about structure,
and ergo a remnant of some discredited mod­
ernist philosophy. It is, undeniably, a work about
structure. But denying the structuring of time,
I  would argue, is necessarily submitting to the
hopelessness of passing time in Ligeti’s dream.
And if the reader will indulge me in a last fun-​
house mirror of self-​reference, I offer this book
itself as its own little walk on the beach—​not,
to be sure, in the cliché sense of something easy
and triflingly pleasant—​but rather to observe
that the progress towards an always-​visible goal
is not necessarily as simple or direct as it may
appear to the eye at a particular moment of
time. Getting to a theory of rhythmic structure
required climbing over the rocky scree of distin­
guishing rhythm from meter (and I am indebted
to the capable and helpful anonymous reviewers
engaged by Oxford University Press for their
guidance here). Finding intermodal coordina­
tion and disjunction required a detour through
the brushy headlands of splitting MOPs.
The theory of formal functions looked much
different from miles down the beach than it did
when approached from a theory that maintains
the independence of form and tonality. And if
the reader has made it with me this far, I  sin­
cerely hope that Toleak Point provides new
vistas that could not have been imagined when
the journey began and this goal was seen only
from afar through the haze of the sea spray, and
that this new outlook urges us onwards towards
new destinations.
Epilogue • 395
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 Index of Works
Abel, Carl Friedrich, String Quartet, op. 8/​2, iii, 150n7
Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel
Concerto for Keyboard, Wq. 23, iii, 19
Flute Quartet, Wq. 93, ii, 267–​8
Sonata for Flute Alone, Wq. 132, iii, 22–​3
Sonata for Keyboard, Wq. 48/1, 27n13
Sonata for Keyboard, Wq. 48/​3, i, 257–​8
Sonata for Keyboard, Wq. 49/​3, ii, 379–​81
Sonata for Keyboard, Wq. 51/​4, ii, 25–​6
Sonata for Keyboard, Wq. 52/​4, i, 219–​21
Sonata for Keyboard, Wq. 57/​4, i, 248–​50
Sonata for Keyboard, Wq. 62/​7, ii, 247
Symphony, Wq. 174, iii, 96–​7
Symphony, Wq. 178, i, 275
Symphony, Wq. 182/​1, i, 275–​8
Symphony, Wq. 182/​3, i, 275
Symphony, Wq. 182/​5, i, 275
Symphony, Wq. 182/​6, i, 275
Symphony, Wq. 183/​1, i, 187–​8, 189
Symphony, Wq. 183/​2, i, 279–​80
Symphony, Wq. 183/​3, i, 18–​9, 275, 365
Bach, Johann Christian
Keyboard sonata, op. 17/​2, i, 56–​58
Quintet, op. 22/​1, iii, 235–​6, 238
Symphony, Op. 3/​3, i, 153–​4
Bach, Johann Sebastian
Anna Magdalena Bach Notebook, Minuet, BWV Anh. 121, 226
Cantata BWV 25, “Seufzer, Tränen, Kummer, Not,” 67–​8,
139n22, 146n3
Cantata BVW 212, Klein-​Zschochter müsse so zart, 61–​2
Cello Suite, BWV 1011, Gigue, 222–​5, 226
“Christus, der uns selig macht”, Mattäus-​Passion, BWV 244,
349–​1, 354–​5
Kleine Präludien no. 1, BWV 924, 365
Orchestral Suite no. 1, BWV 1066, Minuet II, 146–​7
Orchestral Suite no. 2, BWV 1067, Bourée I, 189
Partita for Keyboard, BWV 826, Andante, 36​6
Partita for Keyboard, BWV 828, Menuet, 147
Partita for Keyboard, BWV 829, Tempo di Menuetto, 23–​4,
Passepied, 147
Suite for Cello, BWV 1008, 64–​5
Violin Partita no. 3, Preludio, 22
Well-​Tempered Clavier Book I, fugue 2 (C minor), 380
Well-​Tempered Clavier Book I, fugue 12 (F minor),
110–​4, 146n3
Well-​Tempered Clavier Book I, prelude 1 (C major), 361n10
Well-​Tempered Clavier Book I, prelude 11 (F major),
115–​8, 146n3
Well-​Tempered Clavier Book I, prelude 13 (F# major), 178–​9
Bartók, Béla, Suite for Small Orchestra, op. 3, v, 121n6
Beethoven, Ludwig van
Cello Sonatas, op. 5/​1–​2, 165n30
Cello Sonata, op. 69, i, 199, 234n6, 304
Coriolan Overture, op. 62, 320, 338
Grosse Fuge, op. 133, 215, 290
 • 411
Beethoven, Ludwig van (cont.):
Horn Sonata, op. 17, i, 165n30
Leonore Overture no. 2, op.72a, 313
Leonore Overture no. 3, op. 72b, 313
Piano Concerto no. 2, op. 19, ii, 102–​3
Piano Concerto no. 5, op. 73, ii, 100–​1
Piano Quartet, WoO 36/​3, i, 165n30
Piano Sonata, op. 2/​1, i, 313
Piano Sonata, op. 2/​3, i, 304
Piano Sonata, op. 7, i, 304
Piano Sonata, op. 10/​1, i, 131–​3, 164–​5, 170, 239
Piano Sonata, op. 10/​3, i, 320n17
Piano Sonata, op. 13 (Pathetique), i, 175
Piano Sonata, op. 14/​1, i, 165n29
Piano Sonata, op. 22, iii, 42n16
Piano Sonata, op. 26, ii, 327–​8, 330–​1, 341
Piano Sonata, op. 27/​2 (Moonlight), ii, 329, 330–​1
Piano Sonata, op. 28 (Pastorale), 311n3, i, 175
Piano Sonatas, op. 31, 308, 311n3
Piano Sonata, op. 31/​1, i, 20n8, 312–​3, 317, 330–​1
Piano Sonata, op. 31/​2 (Tempest), i, 108n14, 141n24, 164,
170–​1, 291
Piano Sonatas, op. 49/​1–​2, 165n29
Piano Sonata, op. 53 (Waldstein), i, 175, 304, 313,
320, 330–​1
Piano Sonata, op. 57 (Appassionata), 313, 314n9
Piano Sonata, op. 81a (Lebewohl), i, 170n33, 30​1
Piano Sonata, op. 106 (Hammerklavier), i, 304, 313
Piano Sonata, op. 111, i, 313
Piano Trios, op. 1/​1–​3, 165n30
Piano Trio, op. 1/​1, iv, 304
Piano Trio, op. 1/​3, i, 291–​3, iv, 304
Piano Trio, op. 11 (Gassenhauer), i, 165n30
Piano Trio, op. 70/​1 (Ghost), i, 118–​22, 172
Piano Trio, op. 70/​2, i, 172, 199n18, 304–​8, 340, iv, 313,
314–​7, 319
Piano Trio, op. 97 (Archduke), i, 313, 316n11, iv, 205,
210n4, 215
Septet, op. 20, 320n17
String Quartets, op. 18, 289n14, 297–8
String Quartet, op. 18/​6, i, 165n30
String Quartets, op. 59, 297–8
String Quartet, op. 59/​1, i, 301, ii, 329–​37, 340
String Quartet, op. 59/​2, i, 172, 199, 304, 314n9
String Quartet, op. 59/​3, i, 123n3
String Quartet, op. 95, 297–8, i, 196–​202, iv, 297–8
String Quartet, op. 127, i, 289, 313, iv, 289
String Quartet, op. 130, i, 313, 318–​9
String Quartet, op. 131, i, 290, 316–​7, vii, 28​9, 314n9
String Quartet, op. 132, i, 289, 313, v, 297
String Quartet, op. 135, iv, 293n17, 313
String Quintet, op. 29, 308, 311, 313, 327, i, 311–​2, iv,
311n4, 320
String Trio, op. 3, i, 165n30
String Trio, op. 9/​2, i, 165n30, 304
Symphony no. 1, op. 21, i, 231
Symphony no, 2, op. 36, i, 165n30, 231
Symphony no. 3 (Eroica), i, 301, iii, 124, 146n3, 191–​6,
329, 330
Symphony no. 5, op. 67, i, 137–​8, 192n13, 314n9, iv,
172, 395
Symphony no. 6, op. 68, ii, 263
Symphony no. 8, op. 93, i, 320n17, iv, 30​1
Symphony no. 9, op. 125, i, 313, 327n28, ii, 118, 130n14,
357, iii, 101–​2
Triple Concerto, op. 56, i, 313
Violin Concerto, op. 61, ii, 99–​100, 107–​8, 269
412 • I N D E X O F W O R K S
Violin Sonatas, op. 12/​1–​3, 165n30
Violin Sonata, op. 23, 168–​70
Violin Sonata, op. 24, 175
Violin Sonata, op. 30/​2, 175, 313, 314n9
Violin Sonata, op. 30/​3, 175
Violin Sonata, op. 47, i, 172–​6
Violin Sonata, op. 96, i, 304
Wind Octet, op. 108, i, 165n30
Boccherini, Luigi
String Quartets, op. 1, 288
String Quartets, op. 2, 288
String Quartet, op. 2/​5, i, 81–​6
String Quintet, op. 11/​6 (L’uccelliera), 296
Symphony in D major, G.496, i, 139n22, 146n3
Symphony in D minor, G.506 (Casa del Diabolo), 294
Brahms, Johannes
Capriccio, op. 76/​8, 208
“Das Mädchen spricht,” op. 107/​3, 210
Horn Trio, op. 40, 209
Piano Quartet no. 3, op. 60, i, 209, 215–​6, 225
Piano Trio no. 3, op. 101, i, 209, iv, 216–​9
Symphony no. 2, op. 73, i, 209–​10, 212–​5, 231
Symphony no. 4, op. 98, i, 268–​9, 321
Variations on a theme by Haydn, op. 56, 212, 361n10
Violin Sonata no. 1, op. 78, i, 208, 330n30, ii, 210–​1
Waltz, Op. 39/​1, 313n10
Waltz, Op. 39/​12, 42, n.16
Cherubini, Luigi, Medée, overture, 172
Chopin, Frederick,
Etude, op. 10/​3, 206–​8
Mazurka, op. 17/​3, 43, n.18, 47–​9
Mazurka, op. 33/​2, 33–​4, 263–​5, 324
Mazurka, op. 33/​3, 36–​7, 43–​4, 47, 49
Prelude, op. 28/​7, 38
Corelli, Anchangelo,
Trio Sonata, Op. 4/​3,
Preludio, 146n3, 148–​50, 159
Galuppi, Baldassare
Didone abbandonata, overture, 153–​4
Sonata for Keyboard, op. 1/​1, 284–​6
Sonata for Keyboard, op. 1/​3, 284–​6
Sonata for Keyboard, op. 1/​5, 284–​6
Sonata for Keyboard, op. 1/​6, 284–6​
Sonata for Keyboard, op. 2/​1, 284–​6
Sonata for Keyboard, op. 2/​2, 284–​6
Sonata for Keyboard, op. 2/​3, 284–​6
Sonata for Keyboard, op. 2/​4, 284–​6
Sonata for Keyboard, op. 2/​5, 284–6​
Sonata for Keyboard, op. 2/​6, 284–​7
Graun, Johann Gottlieb, Symphony, Av.49, 270–4​
Handel, Georg Friedrich
Concerto Grosso, op. 6/​2, HWV 320, 61–​2, 146n3
Concerto Grosso, op. 6/​3, HWV 321, 63, 146n3
Haydn, Franz Joseph
Mariazellermesse, 160n19
Piano Trio H.22, iii, 263n32
Piano Trio H.27, i, 146n3, 166–​8
Sonata for Keyboard, H.21, ii, 24–​5, 142–​3
Sonata for Keyboard, H.49, i, 237–​9
Sonata for Keyboard, H.52, i, 114–​5
String Quartet, op. 0, 288
String Quartets, op. 1, 288
String Quartets, op. 2, 288​
String Quartet op. 1/​4, iv, 226–​7
String Quartet, op. 20/​3, i, 172 Symphony no. 102, i, 135
String Quartets, op. 33, 160n19, 288–9 Symphony no. 103 (Drumroll). i, 135, 138–​9, 146n3, 293
String Quartet, op. 33/​5, i, 228–​31, 289, 304 Symphony no. 104 (London), i, 14, 133–​5, 178, 191
String Quartet, op. 50/​2, i, 230–​1 Haydn, Johann Michael, Symphony no. 17, MH.151, i, 181
String Quartet, op. 64/​1, i, 301–3​, 384–5
String Quartet, op. 76/​1, i, 284, 311n6 Jommelli, Niccolò
String Quartet, op. 76/​2 (Fifths), i, 172 Astianatte, overture, i, 72–​4
String Quartet op. 77/​2, i, 263n32 Cajo Mario, overture, i, 71–​2
Symphony A, i, 160n23 Eumene, overture, iii, 53–​5, 71–​2, 237n9
Symphony no. 3, i, 160n16 Semiramide riconosciuta, overture, i
Symphony no. 4, i, 160n16
Symphony no. 6, i, 160n16 Leo, Leonardo
Symphony no. 8, i, 160n16 Amor vuol soffrenza, overture, i, 72, n.9
Symphony no. 14, i, 160n23 Lucio Papirio, overture, i, 71–​2, n.8
Symphony no. 15, i, 160n23 Ligeti, Gyögy, Etude no. 6, 225n9
Symphony no. 18, ii, 160n23 Liszt, Franz, Piano Sonata in B minor, 296
Symphony no. 21, ii, 160n23
Symphony no. 23, 160n23 Mendelssohn, Felix, Octet, op. 20, i, 330n30
Symphony no. 24, 160n23 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus
Symphony no. 29, i, 160n16 Ascanio in Alba, overture, 269n1
Symphony no. 31, i, 160n23 Clemenza di Tito, overture, 251n25
Symphony no. 35, i, 160n23 Il ré pastore, overture, 269n1
Symphony no. 36, i, 161 La Bertulia liberata, overture, 269n1
Symphony no. 38, i, 160n23 La finta giardiniera, overture, 269n1
Symphony no. 39, i, 160 Piano Concerto no. 19, i, 4–​5
Symphony no. 41, i, 160n22 Piano Concerto no. 20, K.466, i, 179–​80, 182
Symphony no. 42, i, 160 Piano Sonata no. 2, K.280, ii, 287
Symphony no. 43 (Mercury), i, 129–​31, 133–​4, 136, 142–​3, Piano Sonata no. 7, K.309, i, 287
161, 168 Piano Sonata no. 9, K.310, i, 287–8, iii, 148
Symphony no. 44, i, 160n22 Piano Sonata no. 12, K.332, i, 311n6, iii, 287
Symphony no. 45 (Farewell), i, 139–​40, 324 Piano Sonata no. 14, K.457, i, 287–8
Symphony no. 46, i, 161 Piano Sonata no. 15, K.533, i, 287
Symphony no. 47, i, 161 Piano Sonata no. 16, K.545, i, 337
Symphony no. 48, i, 160n22 Piano Trio, K.498 (Kegelstatt), i, 228
Symphony no. 49, i, 160n23, ii, 160n24, 161 Piano Trio, K.564, i, 151–​3, 154
Symphony no. 50, i, 160n18, 160n24 String Quartet no. 13, K.173, i, 228, 298–​301
Symphony no. 53, i, 161 String Quartet no. 14, K.387, iv, 288n13
Symphony no. 57, i, 160n23, 161, 274n4 String Quartet no. 15, K.421, i, 251–​2, 289
Symphony no. 58, i, 274n4 String Quartet no. 16, K.428, i, 289
Symphony no. 59 (Fire), i, 161, iv, 161 String Quartet no. 17, K.458, i, 289, iv, 289n13
Symphony no. 60, i, 160n23, 161n25 String Quartet no. 18, K.464, i, 228, 289, iv, 289n13
Symphony no. 61, i, 160n22, 161 String Quartet no. 19, K.465, i, 228, 289, iv, 289n13
Symphony no. 62, i, 161 String Quartet no. 21, K.575, i, 289
Symphony no. 64, i, 161, 274n4 String Quartet no. 22, K.589, i, 289
Symphony no. 67, i, 274n4 String Quartet no. 23, K.590, i, 289
Symphony no. 68, i, 274n4 String Quintet K.516, i, 228
Symphony no. 69, i, 161 String Quintet K.614, i, 228
Symphony no. 70, i, 160n17 Symphony K.Anh.221/​45a (Lambach), i, 281n7
Symphony no. 71, i, 160n17 Symphony K.Anh.223/​19a, i, 281n7
Symphony no. 72, i, 161 Symphony no. 1, K.16, i, 281n7
Symphony no. 73, i, 161 Symphony no. 8, K.48, i, 281n7
Symphony no. 74, i, 160n17 Symphony no. 14, K.114, i, 274n5
Symphony no. 75, i, 161n25 Symphony no. 18, K.130, i, 274n5, 281n7
Symphony no, 76, iv, 161n25 Symphony no. 21, K.134, i, 228, 281n7
Symphony no. 77, i, 160n17, 161, 274n4 Symphony no. 23, K.181, i, 269n1
Symphony no. 78, i, 160n17 Symphony no. 26, K.184, i, 269
Symphony no. 79, i, 160n17, 274n4 Symphony no. 28, K.200, i, 281n7
Symphony no. 80, i, 160n17 Symphony no. 29 K.201, i, 45–​7
Symphony no. 81, i, 160n17 Symphony no. 31 K.297 (Paris), i, 280–1
Symphony no. 83, i, 160n20 Symphony no. 36 K.425 (Linz), i, 274–5, ii, 6–​8
Symphony no. 84, i, 228 Symphony no. 38 K.504 (Prague), i, 163n28, 182–​7, 204–​5, 228
Symphony no. 88, i, 139–​40 Symphony no. 39 K.543, i, 151, 157
Symphony no. 93, i, 133–​5, 160, 191 Symphony no. 40 K.550, i, 56, n. 29, 151, 155–​9, 160n20,
Symphony no. 95, i, 140–​4, 193 228, 274, iv, 56, n. 29
Symphony no. 96, i, 133–​5 Symphony no. 41 K.551 (Jupiter), i, 165n31, 231, 251n25,
Symphony no. 98, i, 133–​5, 161n25, 190–​1, 192, 203–​4 iv, 215
Symphony no. 100 (Military), i, 108, 135–​7, 142–​3 Violin Sonata no. 40, K.454, ii, 263n32

I N D E X O F W O R K S  • 413
Pergolesi, Giovanni Battista
Adriano in Siria, overture, 270–​1
L’Olympiad, overture, 270
Rameau, Jean-​Philippe
Hyppolyte et Aricie, 263n32
Les Indes Galantes, 263n32
Richter, Franz Xavier
String Quartets, op. 5, 288
Symphony no. 26, ii, 86–​90, 106–​7, 309
Symphony no. 45, ii, 74–​5, 81, 90
Sammartini, Giovanni Battista, Symphony no. 46, iii, 74–​80
Scarlatti, Domenico
Sonata for Keyboard, K.9, 56, n.29
Sonata for Keyboard, K.319, 263n32
Sonata for Keyboard, K.366, 312–​3n7
Sonata for Keyboard, K.518, 312–​3n7
Schubert, Franz
Allegro for piano four hands, D.947 (“Lebenstürme”), 321,
324–​7, 341, 386–7
“Das Heimweh,” D.851, 239–​42, 252–​4, 259–​62, 320, 324
“Das Hirt auf dem Felsen,” D.625, 255
“Der Atlas,” Schwanengesang D.957, 320n19
Fantasie in C major, D.760 (Wanderer), 321n20
“Ganymed,” D.544, 320n18
Grande Sonate for piano four hands, D.617, 321–​4,
340, 388
Grand Duo, D.812, 321
Introduction and Variations for Flute and Piano, D.802, 259
414 • I N D E X O F W O R K S
“Morgengruß,” Die schöne Müllerin, D.795, 361n10
Piano Quintet, D.667 (“Trout”), iv, 321n20
Piano Sonata D.840 (“Reliquie”), i, 321
Piano Sonata D.845, i, 321
Piano Sonata D.850, i, 321
Piano Sonata D.959, i, 321
Piano Sonata D.960, i, 320, 330n30
Piano Trio no. 2, D.929, i, 320–​1, 330n30
Octet D.803, 320n17
String Quartet no. 12, D.703 (“Quartettsatz”), 321
String Quartet no. 13, D.804, i, 321, iii, 338n36
String Quartet no. 14, D.810 (“Death and the Maiden”),
ii, 321n20
String Quartet no. 15, D.887, i, 326n27
String Quintet, D.956, ii, 241, iv, 255–​9, 321, 324
Symphony no. 4 (“Tragic”), D.417, i, 321, 339–​40
Symphony no. 9 (“Great”), D.944, i, 321
Violin sonata D.385, i, 339–​40
Violin sonata D.574, i, 321
Schumann, Robert
“Aus meinen Tränen spriessen,” op. 48/​2, 234n6
“Herzeleid,” op. 107, 1, 38–​42
“Mondnacht,” op. 39/​5, 38–​9, 103n9
Piano Quartet, op. 47, i, 293–6
Piano Quintet, op. 44, ii, 49–​52
Telemann, Georg Phillip, Kleine Kammermusik, partita II,
Siciliana, 68–​70, 146n3
Weber, Carl Maria von, Symphony no. 1, op. 19, 320n17
 Index

2-​trees (graph theory), 14, 95n6, 354 see also Index of works

Accent Baroque style, 21–​2, 67–​70, 160, 366–​7
agogic, 18, 21, 125–​6 Beach, David, 9, 320–​1
dynamic, 18, 21, 133–​5 Beach, walk on the, 1–​5, 395
harmonic, 131 Beethoven, Ludwig van,
history of, 66–​7 blurring of formal boundaries by, 217–​8, 303, 309–​10,
hypermetrical, 125–​6, 133–​5, 165 199–​202, 327, 340
metrical, 21, 125–​6, 165 compared to Schubert, 326n27
syncopated, 177–​8 codas in, 298, 301, 303–4
Adorno, Theodor W., 171 enharmonicism in, 263–4
Afterbeat placement, 131, 151–​9, 199–​200 formal practices of, 282, 284, 29​6n18, 297–8, 30​8,
Agawu, Kofi, 7–​8, 27, 146, 150 309–​10, 327, 329–​30
Ambiguities of event trees, 363–​5, 367–​72 hypermeter in, 133, 151, 165, 168
Amiot, Emmanuel, 243 influences of, 61, 304
Antecedent function, open expositions in, 108, 170–​6, 187
examples of, 41–​2, 62, 64, 168–​9, 226, 236, 277, 366 rhythmic style, 124, 191–​202
in formal structure, 60, 62, 67, 266 sketches of, 195–​6, 201n19, 263–4, 289n14, 297, 311–​2
with PAC, 147–​8 see also Index of works
in tonal structure, 53–​5, 62 Benjamin, William, 124, 131, 155–​7
Appoggiatura, see Structural appoggiatura Bergson, Henri-​Louis, 394
Associahedra, 341, 373–​91 Bernstein, Leonard, 155–​7
Augmented sixth chord, 235, 241–​2, 251–​4, 302 Bias (of a network), 104–​6
Authentic versus plagal, see Prograde versus retrograde Binary forms, 37, 53–​8, 92–​3, 97, 159, 226–​31, 269,
Auxiliary cadence, 328 281, 283–​7
balanced, 74n11, 80, 313n7
Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel, 25, 147n4, 269, 275, 280–1 small, 51–​2, 67, 193, 210–​1, 228, 290, 330
see also Index of works large, 70–​85
Bach, Johann Christian, 153 versus ternary, 365–6, 368–​9
see also Index of works see also Parallel binary, Exposition-​Recapitulation form,
Bach, Johann Sebastian, 228, 337 Sonata form

 • 415
Bipaths, 95, 104–​6, 358 Closing sections,
Boccherini, Luigi, 81–​6 elision with subordinate theme, 108, 163–​7, 169–​70,
see also Index of works 170–​6, 186–​7, 301, 304
Brahms, Johannes, 208–​19, 320, 321 end-​accented, 164–​5
see also Index of works false, 238, 339n38
Brower, Candace, 125, 189 identification of, 162–​7, 170–​1
Broyles, Michael, 172 recalling main theme material, 158, 186–​7, 219, 228–​31,
Bruckner, Anton, 208 298n21, 326
Burnham, Scott, 173 rhyming, 302
Burstein, Poundie, 31, 199n18, 327 in sonata form, 269, 282, 290, 370–​1
versus closing theme, 339–​40
Cadence, 60–​1, 125–​6, 145, 162, 248, 250, 266 Closure, 33, 45–​7, 99, 126, 145, 158, 160, 185–​6, 192
deceptive, 40, 67–​8, 100–​1, 147, 198, 241–​2 expositional, 162–​76, 301, 304
deferral of, 4–​5, 6, 163–​71 hypermetrical rule of, 126, 130–​1, 136, 146, 148–​51,
expansions of, 97–​8, 164, 237–​9, 269 162–​5, 168, 186–​7, 298n22
extensions of, 107, 131, 218 recapitulatory, 298–​9, 301–​2, 304–​8
evaded, 151n8, 163, 165–​6 Codas, 60, 199–202, 214–​5, 296–​308, 336–​7
examples of, 38, 70, 101–​2, 169–​70, 173–​4, 195, adjunct, 296–​8
228–​9, 230 disjunctive, 217–​8, 298–​301, 304–​8
elided, integrated, 294, 298–​304
in main themes (examples), 130, 142, 149–​50, 151–​4, in Beethoven, 296–​8, 301–​8
160–​2, 185 Codettas, 155, 161n26, 162, 164, 173–​4, 191, 290–1, 361
301, 330n29 Cognition, 5, 7, 15, 20, 206–​8
as a method of preventing closure, 126, 130, 131, 136, Cohn, Richard
148–​52, 191 on constructive conflict, 9
metric placement of, 138–​9, 146–​51, 161, 192, 194 on hemiola,  117–8, 191, 208–​9, 211–​3
in ritornello form, 270–4, 275–​7, 278, 280, 289–90 on neo-​Riemannian theory, 243–​4, 254–​5, 263n32, 265
in subordinate themes, 163–​74, 185–​7, 237–​8, Combination operation on timespans, 113–​4, 115
301, 330n29 Common-​practice harmony, 233–​4
in subordinate themes (examples), 164–​9, 173–​4, 186–​7, Common-​tone relationships, 49
199, 218n6, 237–​8 Complete graph, 344, 354, 367
versus evaded, 151n8, 168, 187n10 Compositional spaces, 343
weak versus strong, 62, 146, 151 Compound melody, 220–​1, 222–​4
Cadential harmony, see Cadence Compound meter, see Meter, compound
Caesura, Cone, Edward, 70, 72, 80, 123–​5, 143, 323
as a criterion of formal structure, 60–​4, 67, 71, 231, Confluence (in networks), 348–​9
266, 284 Connected graph, 344
examples of, 68–​70, 72–​4, 80–​2, 86, 226–​7, 228–​9, 326 Consonance, false, 239
in binary forms, 90, 162–​3, 228, 270–4, 280, 28​7, see also Dissonance
289–90, 366 Constituent relation for timespans, 111, 113–​4, 119
see also Medial caesura Containment relation for timespans, 111–​2,
Cage, John, 5 113–​4, 115–7
Caplin, William, Continuational function, 60–​4, 73–​4, 148–​50, 151–​2, 165,
analyses of, 108n14, 135n18, 170–​1 168–​9, 178, 238, 275
on cadence, 29, 145n1, 146, 165, 239 Continuous exposition, 70–​1, 74, 108, 139–​40
on codas, 298, 301–​2 Contraction (of a graph), 336, 355–​7, 360
on developments, 158n15, 282, 316 Contraction of timespans, see Expansion and contraction of
on expositional closure, 45–​6, 162–​3 timespans
on formal functions, 60, 61–​2, 290–1, 293, 298 Contrapuntal polyphony and homophony, 204–​6, 215–​6,
on fusion, 139n23, 199n17, 330, 339n38 225–​6, 231, 215–​6, 225–​7, 228, 231
on harmony, 250 Contrast, as a criterion of form, 61, 63–​5, 71, 74, 226–​7
on phrases, 266–​8 Contrasting keys, 90, 284–​6
on subordinate theme function, 70, 72–​4, 81, 108, Convergence,
238, 284 enharmonic, 251–​4, 312, 337–​8
on thematic designs, 60–​4, 114, 148, 151 theory of, 42, 233–​42
on tight-​knit design, 72–​4, 81 triadic, 233–​42, 245–​50
on transitions, 160n21, 311n6 see also Voice leading, convergent
Carter, Elliott, 110, 225 Cooper, Grosvenor, 125
Catalan number, 92 Corelli, Anchangelo, 150
Center (of a network), 104–​5 see also Index of musical works
Cezanne, Paul, 5 Counterpoint, 203–​31
Cherubini, Luigi, 172 as apotheosis, 215–​9
Chopin, Frederick, 33 assimilation through, 209–​10, 213–​9
see also Index of works formal, 225–​31, 306–​8, (see also Split, formal)
Chordal graph, 352 imitative, see imitation, contrapuntal
Chromatic mediants, 49, 312–​4, 316n11, 320, 323 reconciliation of, 130n13, 204–​5, 207–​8, 209–​11, 213–​19,
Clark, Suzannah, 255, 321n20, 322n24, 338n36 221, 225–​6

416 • I N D E X
 rhythmic, 130n13, 182–​3, 184–​5, 192n13, 203–​8, Dissonance,
209–​19, 225–​6 accented, 6–​7, 316
tonal, 219–​25, 225–​6, 234 contrapuntal, 205–​6, 225
see also Syncopation, contrapuntal; Dissonance, grouping versus displacement, 209, 211–​2
contrapuntal rhythmic, 18, 24–​5, 118–9, 178, 184, 188,
Cycle algebras, 367–​9 203–​4, 215
Cycle, enharmonic, see Enharmonic tour, Voice see also metrical dissonance
leading cycles Distance (in a network), 95–​8, 358
Cycle overlap graph, 354 Double measures, 124, 146n3, 172, 191–​2
Cycles (in networks), 345, 349–​51, 367 see also Meter, real versus notated
Hamiltonian, 346–​7, 352, 368 Dual graph, 356–​7
minimal, 354 Durational reduction, 379–​80

Da Capo form, 33 Edge-​cut algebras, 369–​72

Dahlhaus, Carl, 171–​2, 321n20, 326n27 Elements of Sonata Theory,
Damschroder, David, 254n27, 256 approach to formal analysis, 59–​60, 282
Darcy, Warren, see Elements of Sonata Theory on closing sections, 228, 298n21
Degree (of a vertex), 97–8, 355 on C.P.E. Bach, 270, 278–9
Deletion, metrical, 127, 133 on dissolving reprise, 140, 160n21, 330n30
in main themes, 133–​4, 153–​4, 160–​2, 190–​1, 192, on expositional closure, 46–​7, 162–​3, 168, 170, 172, 187
194, 331–​2 on medial caesuras and continuous
in subordinate themes, 138–​9, 165n31 expositions, 79–​80, 108, 136, 139–​40, 278–9
in transitions, 142 on Mozartean loops, 153n9
Deletion, in structural networks, 14, 106, 310, 340, 357 on secondary themes, 70–​1
Depth, typology of, 70, 74, 319n15
in formal structure, 107, 231, 267 Elision, hypermetric, see Cadence, elided
in networks, 92–​8, 354, 358–​9, 387–​90, 392 End-​accented themes, 162–​3
of syncopation, 16, 182–​3, 199 Enharmonic progression, 259
in tonal structure, 101–​2, 107, 239, 267, 357 Enharmonic reinterpretation, 251–​4, 312
Development sections, 282–​3 Enharmonic tour, 251, 254–​65, 320, 321, 323–​4, 327,
codas resembling, 298, 302–​6, 336–​7 336–​7n32
contrasting keys in, 58, 90 Enharmonicism, 49–​52, 244–​5, 250–​65, 313, 340
disjunction over, 310–​2, 314, 315, 316–​20 Enlightenment, 17, 61, 184, 256
examples of, 85–​6, 158–​9, 193–​5, 199–​200, 213–​4, Epstein, David, 155–​7
339–​40 Essential expositional closure, see Elements of Sonata Theory on
in parallel binary forms, 53, 83, 85–​7, 95 expositional closure
in ritornello form, 270–4, 280 Euler, Leonhard, 243
in sonata form, 55–​6, 290, 310–​11, 365–6, 371–​2 Evenness (of a structure), 105, 127, 387–8, 389–​92
in unconventional forms, 79–​80, 96–​7, 338–​9 Expanded cadential progression, see Cadence, expansions of
main-​theme based, 158–​9 Expansion and contraction of timespans, 119–​22, 180,
Developmental core, 158n15, 282–3, 312, 316, 326n27 189–​90, 196–​9, 200–​2
Dialogic form theory, 60, 79–​80 Expositions, 70–​80, 81–​2, 108, 159–​62, 162–​76,
Diatonic scale, 247n21 185–​6, 290
Diatonic and chromatic semitones, 244–​5, 252–​4, 258–​9, see also Closure, expositional; Continuous exposition; Open
323–4, 327, 336 exposition
Diatonic transposition, 247 Exposition–​recapitulation form, 55–​6, 70, 153–​4,
Digraph, 347–​9 269n1, 278–80
Dimension, metaphor of, 5–​11, 60, 394 Extended beginning, 127, 155–​6
Directed graph, see Digraph Extension, 112–​3, 114–​7, 119–20, 126–​7, 201–​2
Discrete Fourier transform, 244n16
Disjunction, Fan (network type), 92–​4, 98, 99–​103, 378
general structural, 7, 91, 106, 340–​1, 373, 376–​7 see also Pile (network type)
rhythmic-​formal, 130–​1, 151–​8, 199–​200 Feet (of a network), 94, 105
tonal-​formal, 45, 59, 60–​61 Flip (between MOPs), 374–​5, 378, 380–​1, 385
large-​scale examples of, 274, 280–​1, 298–​301, 302–​8, Form,
309–​41, 376–​7 in the Baroque, 61, 67
local examples of, 68, 81–​6, 99–​100, 107–​8, in Beethoven, 165, 168–​70, 170–​6, 199, 303–4,
224, 267–​9 308, 309–​10
tonal-​rhythmic, 7, 22, 23, 99–​10, 178, 317, 376–​7, historical development of, 76n12, 227–​8, 231, 269–70,
379–​81 287–90
Displacement, in Haydn, 160–​2
rhythmic, 19, 29, 118n5, 178–​84, 190, 191–​2, 200–1, 204–​5, in the mid-​1700s, 71–​3
209–​11, 214n5 in Mozart, 151, 153–​4, 270
tonal, 37, 178–​9, 185 in Schubert, 309
see also Syncopation theory of, 9, 10, 59–​90, 162–​4, 282–​4, 287
Dissolving reprise, 136, 140, 330n30 Formal boundaries, blurring of, 141n24, 199–​200, 211,
Dissolving consequent, 160 289–90, 30​4, 327

I N D E X  • 417
Formal functions, 59, 61–​2, 290–1, 330 enharmonicism in, 263
Formal recipe, 60, 282–90 influence on Beethoven, 172, 217, 318
Formal structure, 59–​90, 266–​308, 309–​41, 365–​6 metric techniques of, 125, 146n3
characteristics of, 19, 59–​60, 69–70, 95–​7, 126 string quartets of, 81, 146n3, 228
coordination with tonal structure, see Tonal-​formal style of, 61, 108
coordination symphonic style, 159–​62, 274n4, 281–2
criteria of, 43, 60–​7, 130–​1 (see also see also Index of musical works
Caesura, Fragmentation, Repetition) Hegelian synthesis, 204, 210
denials of, 9, 53n27 Hemiola, 23, 118–​9, 208–​9, 211–​19
examples of, 290–1, 369–​71, 391 diachronic, 211–​12
independence of, 45, 81–​90, 162–​3, 266–​7, 304, 309 hypermetric, 115–​8, 130n13
multi-​movement, 294–6 switchback, 191, 193, 195
split, see Split, formal Hepokoski, James, 70, 170–​1, 298n21, 300–1, see also
versus recipes, 282 Elements of Sonata Theory
Formenlehre, see Form, theory of Hexatonic cycle, 265
Fortspinnung, 76, 185, 286 Hexatonic pole, 254, 262, 320
Fragmentation, 64–​6, 68, 71, 72, 151, 287 Hidden repetition, 249, 334
developmental, 310, 316–​9 (see also developmental core) see also Motivic design
large-​scale examples of, 80–​1, 86–​90, 28​7, 302, 303, 326 Hierarchy, 6–​7, 345–​7, 353–​5, 362n13, 367
theme-​level examples of, 114, 226, 255, 268–9, 353, 366 rhythmic, 12–​4, 115, 119, 204–​5
versus motion, 64, 74 tonal, 29–​31, 133, 220–​1, 233n4, 255, 359–​60
Framing function, 60, 290–​308 see also Temporal hierarchy
Function, see Formal functions, Harmonic function Holes (in networks), 69–​70, 91–​2, 352–​3, 387
Fundamental line and fundamental structure, see Ursatz and Holzbauer, Ignaz, 74
Urlinie Homophony, see Contrapuntal polyphony and homophony
Fusion, form-​functional, 85, 139n23, 141n24, 160–​1, 171–​2, Homotopy, 250–​2, 256, 324
199, 330, 340 HOP, see Hamiltonian outerplanar graph
Fusion, in structural networks, see also Split,107 Hopkins, Robert G., 303
Hook, Julian, 49
Galant style, 53, 67, 237 Horizontalization, see Verticalization
Galleazzi, Francesco, 70 Hybrid theme types, 62
Galuppi, Baldassare, 283–7, see also Index of works Hyer, Brian, 243n13
Generative Theory of Tonal Music, A, Hypermeter, 8–​9, 14, 123–​44
on hypermeter, 124–​6, 131, 133, 155–​7 and closure, 148–​50, 153 (see also Closure, hypermetrical)
on metrical inference, 20–​1, 128 compared to meter, 20, 110, 119–​22, 123–​6, 143–​4
and representational hierarchy, 12n2, 29–​32, 126n6, criteria for, 126–​33, 155–​71 (see also Hanging-​span rule,
359–​362 Parallelism, Projection)
on tonal structure, 38 indefinite, 140–​3
on the Ursatz, 42–​3 irregular, 255 (see also Irregularity, hypermetric)
Geometry, harmonic, 244 and phrases, 100n8, 266–​7
Gjerdinen, Robert O., 235n8, 247, 283 regular, 148–​50, 168–​76, 237, 353
Gosman, Alan, 195n16 and regularity (see Regularity (in rhythmic structure))
Grammar, 6 shifted, 214n5
Graph theory, 69–​70, 94–​5, 98, 103–​4, 342–​72 triple, 129–​30, 115–​8, 212–​3
Grant, Robert Matthew, 17, 123n2, 394 Hypermetrical deletion, see Deletion, metrical
Graun, Johann Gottlieb, 269, 270–5, 280–​1, see also Index of Hypermetrical pause, 135–​6, 140
musical works Hypermetrical reinterpretation, 143
Grouping, 124, 126n6, 267, 361 Hypermetrical rule of closure, see Closure, hypermetrical
rule of
Hamiltonian, Hypermetrical shift, 133–​40
cycle, see Cycles (in networks) Hypermetrical syncopation, see syncopation, hypermetrical
Hamiltonian Hypermetrical transition, 131–​2, 136–​40
graph, 346 Hypermetrical overlap, see hypermetric deletion
outerplanar graph (HOP), 92n2, 352, 352–​3, 379, 381–7
(see also Holes (in networks)) Imaginary vertices, 34, 91n1, 291–​8, 328–​9, 353, 362
Han Ong, 4 Imbroglio, 118–​9
Hanging span rule, 128, 155, 216 Immediate enharmonicism, see enharmonic reinterpretation
Hanninen, Dora, 343 Immediate reprise, see immediate retransposition
Harmonic function, 6, 223, 232–​43, 246, 255, 265 Immediate retransposition, 53, 86, 288
Harmonic major and minor scales, 49 Imitation, contrapuntal, in closing sections, 158, 236–​7
Harmonic rhythm, 129–​30, 131, 151 in fugue episodes, 112
Hasty, Christopher, 20, 126n6 in introductions, 30​4
Hatten, Robert, 179n4 in main themes, 149–​50, 270
Haydn, Franz Joseph, in recapitulations, 193–​5
and C.P.E. Bach, 25 in subordinate themes, 72, 30​4, 323
formal practices of, 71, 217, 282, 284, 296n18, 318, 327, 337 in transitions, 141, 161, 185
hypermetric techniques of, 133, 159–​62, 165 Implicit polyphony, see compound melody

418 • I N D E X
Implied note, 242–​3, see also Substitution Liquidation, 136, 207, 274
Independence of structural parameters, 7–​8, 10 Liszt, Franz, 208
and closure, 145, 162–​4, 170–​1, 187 Lockwood, Lewis, 175, 195n16, 263–4, 311n3, 329, 336n32
and the phrase, 266–​7 Loday, Jean–​Louis, 373n1, 374, 388
and theories of hypermeter, 126–​7 London, Justin, 12–​13, 15, 124, 131, 179n4, 181, 192n13
and the theory of form, 10, 59–​61, 81–​2
and the theory of tonal structure, 43 Main theme function, 60, 70, 70, 159–​60, 193, 195–​6
Initiating function, 60 grouping with transition, 70, 74, 80, 81, 150, 159–​62
Interiority in Romantic music, 231 Mak, Su Yin, 321n20
Interruption, 53–​5, 56n29, 92–​3 Malin, Yonatan, 179n4, 208–​9, 210
Inflection, see Voice leading, scalar Mannheim composers, 74
Introduction, slow, 140–​1, 291, 291, 293–6, 304 Marx, Adolf Bernhard, 171, 321n20
Introductory function, 60, 141, 290–​96 Matroids, 367n15
Irregularity, rhythmic, 100n8, 120, 122, 131–​3, Mattheson, Johann, 60, 66–​7, 146n2
179, 184 Maximal outerplanar graph, see MOP
as a compositional problem, 172n36, 191–​2, 202, McClary, Susan, 184n7, 321n20
211, 218–​9 McCreless, Patrick, 326n27
structural avoidance of, 111–​4, 124–​5, 126–​7, 128, Medial Caesura, 71–​4, 81, 136, 163, 228, 279
183, 267 examples of, 228, 270, 275–9, 318
twentieth-​century, 121n6 in recapitulations, 108, 386
Isomorphism (of networks) lack of, 139, 284
Medial function, see continuational function
Jackendoff, Ray, see Generative Theory of Tonal Music, A Messiaen, Olivier, 121n6
Jommelli, Niccolò, 53, 71–​2 Meter, 6–​7, 12–​6, 42
see also Index of works change of, 17–​8, 118–22, 122, 124
compound, 138n21, 146, 366
Kant, Immanuel, 35n12 inference of, 19–​24
Kerman, Joseph, 199, 298, 303, 318n12, 329, interacting with rhythmic structure, 114–​5, 24
330n29 mixture of, 118–​9, 121–​2
Keys non-​isochronous, 15n5
in tonal space, 250, 255, 257, 259–​62 real versus notated, 20, 23, 138, 212–​3, 219n7
and tonal structure, 10, 29, 47–52, 234n6 (see also Meter, compound; Meter, shifted;
Neapolitan, 239–​43, 263–​5 Double measures)
see also Contrasting keys, Subordinate keys shifted, 100n8, 138, 216, 219
Kinderman, William, 311n3 submerged, 119, 179n4
Kirnberger, Johann, 146n2, 192n13 triple, 23, 117–​8, 119, 122n7, 130, 365, 379
Koch, Heinrich Christoph, 70, 85, 98, 124, 133n17, versus hypermeter, 124, 126, 130, 143–​4
146n2, 282–​3 versus rhythm, 15–​6, 20–​1, 126, 131–​2, 138–​9, 144,
Kopp, David, 49n21, 313–​4 179–​80, 182
Kramer, Jonathan, 124–​5, 127n9, 131, 133, 155–​7 Metric cubes, 118n5
Krebs, Harald, 119, 178, 179n4, 181–​2, 184, 204, Metric spaces, see also ski-​hill graphs, 117–8, 212–​3
209, 211 Metrical dissonance, 118–9, 178, 180–​2, 184, 188, 195, 225
Metrical reinterpretation, see Deletion, hypermetric
Lacunae (in event trees), 363, 365–6, 371 Metricality, 24–​7, 101–​2, 114–​5, 141, 144
Landon, H.C. Robbins, 146n3 Meyer, Leonard, 32, 125
Landscape, 1–​3 see also Rhythmic Structure of Music, The
Language and Music, 7 Microtiming, 24, 127n9, 206–​8
Larson, Steve, 30, 32 Mirka, Danuta, 20, 118, 125, 126, 146n2, 191
Larue, Jan, 133n16 Modality, see dimension, concept of
Laufer, Edward, 338 Modulating subordinate themes 310–​1, 320–​7, 338, 339
Lerdahl, Fred, see also Generative Theory of Tonal Monothematic exposition, 71, 230n11, 279, 301, 318
Music, A,29, 31, 51 MOPs (Maximal outerplanar graphs), 3, 14, 29–​31
Lester, Joel, 9, 124, 127n7, 192n13 classification of, 91–​108
Levels, Schenkerian, 221 definition, 14, 347
Lewin, David, properties of, 349, 354
on hemiola, 118n5, 208–​9, 211 refinements of, 352, 362–​3, 373–​9
and neo-​Riemannian theory, 243n13, 244 Morris, Robert, 244, 343
and networks, 12n1, 343 Motion, 5, 30–​1, 68–​9, 223, 394
phenomenology of, 99, 223n8 Motion (formal-​structure criterion), 64, 71, 74, 226
and reductional analysis, 32, 380n5 Motivic work,
on transformational theory, 109–​10, 113, 118n5 in Beethoven, 132,  195, 198, 315–​6, 332–​4, 336–​8
Ligeti, György, 393–5 in Brahms, 209, 214, 215–​6
Linear progression, in C.P.E. Bach, 187–​8
and convergence, 234–​5, 245–​6, 248–​50, 258–​9, 321 in Haydn, 143–​4
examples of, 41, 50, 53, 224, 237, 242, 251, 324 in Mozart, 153, 158, 328
and tonal structure, 32–​7, 45, 49, 55–​6, 239, 242, 314–​5 in Schubert, 253n26, 262, 340–​1
and unfolding, 221 see also Hidden repetition

I N D E X  • 419
Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, PLR-​group, see Transformations, triadic
enharmonicism in, 263 Polyphony, see Contrapuntal polyphony and homophony
formal practices of, 270–​74, 280–3, 327, 337 Polytopes, 373–​4
influences of, 146n3, 153 Predominant function, 234–​42, 250
metrical techniques of, 125 Presentation (formal function), 62, 67, 68, 131, 179–​80
stylistic traits of, 108, 151 Proctor, Gregory, 256
symphonic style of, 270–​74 Prograde versus retrograde, 233–​4
see also Index of musical works Projection, 18, 20–​7, 126, 128, 132, 141–​2, 157, 197
Mozartean Loop, 153n9 as operation, 110–​19
Multi-​movement designs, 294–6, 29​7 piggyback, 21, 25, 111
Murphy, Scott, 208–​9, 211 Promissory note, Schubert’s, 323
Prosody, 7, 66
Narrative, Purple patch, 230–​1, 302–3, 304
and Beethoven, 170–​2, 191, 297
and music, 3–​5, 8 Qualia, tonal, 245
rhythmic, 111, 117–​8, 133, 158, 185–​6, 197–​202, 213–​9 Quantization (in voice-​leading spaces), 244n15, 247n21
Naumann, Ernst, 243
Neapolitan chord, 197, 230–​1, 235, 239–​43, 312 Rameau, Jean-​Phillipe, 5
Neo-​Riemannian theory, 243 Ratz, Erwin, 71, 282
Network model for formal structure, 69–​70 Reaching over (Übergreifen), 53n27, 56n29
for rhythmic structure, 12–​4, 119–20, 127–​8 Recapitulations, 282, 283, 287–​9
for temporal structure, 2–​3, 8, 91–​108, 342–​72 abridgement, 108, 133, 136–​7, 139, 143
for tonal structure, 29–​32, 37–​8, 45, 47, 98–​103, 223, 255 closure in, 172, 174–​6, 199–​200, 217–​8, 298–300,
see also MOP 303–​4, 308, 384–6
Network theory, see Graph theory contrasting key, 283–6
Neumeyer, David, 32, 42n16 disjunction in, 310, 319–​20
New way, Beethoven’s 170–​2, 308, 311, 327 double, 80, 95–​7, 318, 319
Newbould, Brian, 338 false, 86, 193–​6
Ng, Sam, 124, 187n10 with non-​standard subordinate keys, 317–​9
Normalization, rhythmic, 19, 179–​80, 183–​5, 188–​91 off-​tonic, 199n18, 310, 327–​41
Normative rhythm, 16–​7, 92–​4, 119–​22, 358, 370, 390–1 as resolution, 142–​4, 172, 192–​3, 216–​7, 318–​9 (see also
transformational derivations from, 121–​2, 197–​9, 201–​2 sonata principle)
and split form, 226–​31
Obama, Barack, 3–​4 subdominant, 275, 278–80, 337–​8
Obverse operations, 244 subordinate theme of, 25–​6
Oettingen, Arthur von, 243 unusual, 318–​9
Off-​tonic recapitulation, 199n18, 310, 327–​9, 331–​41 versus immediate retransposition, 53, 86
One-​more-​time technique, 166–7, 174 versus ritornello, 269–​70, 275
Open exposition, 108, 164, 165, 170–​6, 199, 304, 313–​4, 327 Reduction
Oster, Ernst, 28, 56n28, 328 contrapuntal, 185
Outerplanarity (of networks), 346 durational, 379–​80
Out-​of-​time relationships, 99n7, 343–​7 harmonic, 188–​90, 220–​1, 349–​51, 354, 368
Overture, 53, 70–​4, 76n12, 153–​4, 172, 269–​71 melodic, 33–​4, 53, 55, 153
tree, 360–​3
Parallel binary form, 70, 80, 95, 319n15, 339 Refrain module, 33, 36, 44, 48–​9
examples of, 74, 81–90, 172, 288–9 Register, 8, 34–​5, 100, 101, 242, 264, 329
Parallelism, structural, 301–​2, 316, 326, 328
and form, 68, 85–​6, 90, 266, 281–2, 287–​9, 293 Regularity (in rhythmic structure), 114n6, 123–​4, 126–​8,
and rhythm, 125, 127–​31, 150n6, 153, 155–​7, 216 155n10, 157, 267
Parameters of music, see dimension, metaphor of Reicha, Anton, 124, 133n17, 135n20
Path (in a network), 343–​4 Repetition,
Perception, 5–​6 after a medial caesura, 71
and Schenkerian analysis, 31, 232 at a binary-​form division, 74, 80, 86–​90, 274, 281–2
of hypermeter, 189, 111 as criterion of form, 60–​5, 67–​70
of rhythm, 12, 20, 23, 127n9, 184n6, 206–​8 integrating introductions and codas, 293–6, 300, 303
Performance and analysis of music, 23–​4, 206–​8 main theme–​transition, 70, 76, 140, 160, 326
Periods (theme type), 67, 92–​3, 146–​8, 150, 266–​8, 290 and split form, 226–​7, 231
definition, 61–​4 in tonal structure, 43–​47
examples of, 61, 135, 146–​8, 151–​2, 172 Repp, Bruno, 206–​7
structure of, 365–​6, 368–​9 Resultant rhythm, 182–​4, 204, 207
Permutohedra, 361n12, 378n4, 388–​92 Retransposition, see Immediate retransposition
Phenomenological analysis, 98–​103, 223, 293–6 Retrospective enharmonicism, see Enharmonic tour
Phrase, concept of, 61, 266–​9 Rhyme, formal, 63, 70, 283–6, 300–1, 303
Pile (network type), 93–​4, 95–​6, 99–​102, 105, 358–​9, Rhythm, 5, 7, 12–​27, 59, 66, 109–​10, 394
378, 388 see also Meter, Rhythmic class, Rhythmic structure
Pitch (versus rhythm), 5 Rhythmic class, 16–​9, 109, 119–​22
Planarity (of networks), 344 Rhythmic dissonance, see Dissonance, rhythmic

420 • I N D E X
Rhythmic resolution, 18, 117–8  on form and tonal structure, 59
Rhythmic normalization, see Normative rhythm on formal fusion, 139n23, 199n18, 330, 339n38
Rhythmic structure, 12–​27 on interiority, 231
and closure, 145 Schoenberg, Arnold, 61, 63, 64
compared to formal structure, 60, 69 Schubert, Franz, 262, 311, 320, 321, 338, 340
counterpoint of, 182–​7, 191–​2, 204–​5, 209–​19 Schulenberg, David, 269n2
and network types, 12–​4, 92–​4, 105, 365 Schumann, Robert, 320
regularity in, 19–​20, 114–​5, 126, 133, 196–​7 Schuppanzigh, Ignaz, 311
syncopated, 179–​80, 182–​7, 196–​7, 199, 201–2 Secondary theme, 70–​80, 139–​40, 209–​10, 270, 282, 284 
timespan transformations in, 109, 111n1, 114–​5, 119 see also subordinate theme
versus meter, see Meter versus rhythmic structure Sectionalization, 106
Rhythmic transformation, 16–​20 Semantics, harmonic, 51, 145, 239–​41
Richards, Mark, 330 Sentence (theme type), 61–​4, 67, 68–​70, 72, 151, 290,
Richter, Franz Xavier, 74, 108 365–​6, 370
Riemann, Hugo, 5, 28, 124–​5, 127n10, 145n1, Sequence,
162, 243 at binary-​form division, 74, 86–​90, 283–​7
Riepel, Joseph, 146n2, 247 in continuations, 63–​4, 80, 269, 275, 280
Rings, Steven, 51, 245, 343 descending fifths, 112, 117, 249, 285–​6, 316
Ritornello form, 18–​9, 108, 154, 269–​82, 289–90 in developments, 158–​9, 312
Rock music, 232n4 and enharmonicism, 256–​8, 323–​4, 326–​7
Romanticism, 49, 241, 269, 297, 309–​10 episodic, 112–​3, 117
Rondo form, 33, 97, 210 as fragmentation, 63–​4, 80, 28​7, 326, 366
sonata-​rondo, 289–90, 330 initiating coda, 238, 304, 336–​7
Rosen, Charles, initiating expositions, 328–​9, 330–​1
analyses of, 184n8, 228–​30, 318n14 in modulating subordinate themes, 323–​4, 326
on codas, 298, 303 monte, 112, 223, 247–​8, 250, 280, 286
and the sonata principle, 70, 72, 80, 143 as motion, 68–​9, 74, 86–​90, 326
Rotation, formal, 270–4, 275–​80 parallel 6-​3s, 285–​6, 140
Rothstein, William, in recapitulations, 143, 175, 319
on form, 9, 46 romanesca, 247, 257–​8
on hypermeter, 123–​4, 126, 127–​8, 133, 135n20 transitional, 278–​9, 283–5
on implied tones, 242n11 and triadic voice leading, 245–​6, 247–​8, 249–​50,
on national metrical styles, 139, 147n4 254–​6, 257–​8
on phrases, 266–​7 Shakespeare, William, Hamlet, 38–​42
Sketch studies, see Beethoven, sketches of
Salzer, Felix, 28, 232 Skew (of a network), 104–​5
Samarotto, Frank, 123–​4, 255, 312 Ski-​hill graph (of meters), 117–8, 212–​3
Sammartini, Giovanni Battista, 71, 76, n.12 Slow introduction, see Introduction, slow
Sanguinetti, Giorgio, 338 Sonata form,
Satan, 180 as binary form, 108
Schachter, Carl, as split form, 225, 228, 231
analyses of, 31–​2, 232, 251n25 Beethoven’s approach to, 151, 165, 170–​2, 199–​200,
and durational reduction, 380n5 289–90, 303–​8, 313, 317–​9 (see also Beethoven,
on hypermeter, 123–​5, 212–​3 Ludwig van, formal practices of)
on keys, 10, 51 deviations from, 79–​80, 287, 329–​30
as Shenkerian, 28 disjunction in, 310, 340–​1
Schema theory, see Gjerdinen, Robert O. expositional closure in, 162–​3 (see also Closure,
Schenker, Heinrich, 28–​9, 31–​2, 232, 380 expositional)
on bass arpeggiation, 235 formal structure, 66, 97, 290, 365–​6, 368–​9, 371–​2, 391
on convergence, 233–​4 Haydn’s approach to, 133, 159–​60, 228, 288–9 (see also
on enharmonicism, 255 Haydn, Franz Joseph, formal practices of)
on form, 9, 59, 337–​8 integrating introductions and codas, 293–4,
on hidden repetition, 334 298–​301, 302–​4
on hypermeter, 123–​4, 126–​7, 133, 155–​7 Mozart’s approach to 287–8
on interruption, 53–​7 recapitulation in, 79–80, 86, 193, 327
on mixture, 49 textbook, 282–4, 287
on monotonality, 10, 50–​1 Schubert’s approach to, 321–​2, 326
on non-​standard subordinate keys, 314n10 thematic contrast in, 70–​2, 74, 76
on off-​tonic returns, 328–​9 tonal models of, 55–​8
on Urlinie, 35–​7, 42, 43–​5, 47n20, 242–​3 versus parallel binary, 81–​2, 86
on voice-​leading transformation, 220–​4, 364–​5, see also versus ritornello form, 269–​70, 269–​8, 280–​2
Unfolding Sonata principle, 70, 72, 80, 142–​3
Schenkerian analysis, 8–​9, 10, 28–​32, 50–​1, 59, Sonata theory, see Elements of Sonata Theory, Dialogic form
242–​3, 255–​6 Sonata without development, see
Schmalfeldt, Janet, exposition–​recapitulation form
analyses of, 108n14, 141n24, 173–​4, 291–3, 326 Speculative vs. practical theory, 282–​3
on evaded cadences, 161, 163, 165, 170–​1 Spread (of a MOP), 104–​5

I N D E X  • 421
Smith, Peter, 10, 51 cadential, 6–​7, 145
Split harmonic, 6–​7, 232–​5, 237, 250
between tonal and formal structure, 64, 81, 86–90​, 106–​8, rhythmic, 16–​7
325, 335–​6, 340–​1 versus rhetoric, 146, 150
with end vertex, 291–6 Synthesis, Schenkerian, 35
formal, 225–​31, 287–9, 298–9, 326, 366
rhythmic, 225–​6 Tamari, Dov, 373n1
tonal, 38, 225–​6 Telesco, Paula, 251, 254, 263n32
Squeeze (rhythmic transformation), 17–​9, 24, 119–​22, Temperley, David, 31n6, 124–​5, 131–​2, 136, 162–​3, 179n4
210, 365 Temporal hierarchy, 1–​5, 394
Stack (network type), 92–​4, 98, 99, 101–​4, 376, 378, see also as cross-​domain abstraction, 8, 91, 94, 98–​103, 360,
pile (network type) 365, 373
Stamitz, Johann, 74 evenness of, 389–90
Starfish (network type), 94, 98, 105, 358-​9 form as, 60, 290
Stasheff, Jim, 373n1 network model for, 2–​3, 12–​4, 342, 347, 352, 353–​8, 367
Stasheff polytope, see associahedra versus permutation, 361n10, 388–​90, 391
Stretto, 141–​2, 150, 168, 193, 196n16, 209, 235, 251 versus representational hierarchy, 30–​1, 126n6, 361–​3
Strong beat early, see hanging span versus out-​of-​time structure, see out-​of-​time relationships
Strophic form Temporalization, 5, 344, 349–​52
Stravinsky, Igor, 121n6 Ternary form, 43–​4, 47, 209, 321n20, 365–6, 368–​9
Structural appoggiatura, 319, 324, 326, 329, 334, 384–​7 Text, music and, 38–​42, 67–​8, 239–​42, 252–​4, 259–​62
versus structural anticipation, 310, 340, 376–​7, 380, 384 Tight-​knit vs. loose-​knit, 67, 85, 90, 228, 365–​6
Sturm und Drang, 160, 175, 179 in subordinate themes, 70–​4, 81, 277, 330n29
Subordinate keys, Timbre, 5–​6
in small binary forms, 67, 330n29 Time,
in sonata forms, 56, 71, 162–​3, 209, 278 experience of, 1–​3, 5, 43, 98–​9, 202 
non-​standard, 117, 310, 311–​20, 327 and flow, 347
Subordinate themes, and memory, 393–​5
closure in, 150–​1, 153–​4, 162–​76, 187, 277–80 and motion, 14, 30
dominant beginnings in, 81, 108, 236–​7, 284 as physical quantity, 5–​6, 393–​5, 109
in doubly split forms, 228, 231 and rhythm, 5–​6, 60, 109–​10
false closing sections as, 237–​8 verticalization of, 37–​8, 223, 231
hypermetrical transition preceding, 133, 135–​40 Timespans,
loose-​knit design of, 71, 74–​5 formal, 63–​4
metricality in, 25–​6 non-​structural, 178, 184–​5
in models of tonal structure, 55–​6, 225 as objects of structure, 8, 12–​4, 126, 131
modulating, 310–​1, 320–​7, 338 operations on, 109–​22
multiple, 45–​7 projection of, 20–​3, 110–​1
in non-​standard keys, 317–​8 (see also Subordinate keys, Timespan group, 109–​11, 113n2–​3, 115, 118n5
non-​standard) Timespan intervals, 109–​22, 177, 182–​3
in ritornello forms, 270–4, 277–80 Tonal structure, 28–​58
secondary themes as, 70–​1, 74–​5 (see also Secondary theme) closure in, 162–​3, 300–2, 304
sectionalization of, 108 displaced, 178
structural depth of, 95 distinguished from formal structure, 59, 64, 69, 266–​7
Substitution (in Schenkerian analysis), 29, 242n11 (see also Tonal-​formal coordination)
Successive downbeats, see extended beginning distinguished from hypermeter, 127
Swing (rhythmic transformation), and enharmonicism, 259–​65
definition of, 17–​9, 119–​21 and harmonic syntax, 234, 248–​50, 259–​60
examples of, 132, 188, 205, 207–​8 phenomenology of, 99–​103
and metricality, 24 representational model of, 31, 360, 364–​5
and structural ambiguity, 365, 370–​1 splitting in, 106–​8
Symphonic style, 157, 172, 180–​1, 186, 270–​4, 27​4 verticalization of, 37–​8, 220–​1, 223–​4, 225
Symphony Tonal-​formal coordination, 59, 60–​1
ethos of, 184 and closure, 145, 162–​4
formal conventions of, 19, 81n13, 133–​40, 140–​1, in expositions, 71
159–​2, 269–​70 in modular forms, 45
history of, 53, 74, 76n12, 181, 269–​82, 295–​6 in parallel binary forms, 81–​90
meter in, 146n3 in phrases, 266–​7
Syncopation, 15–​6, 177–​202, 224–​5 shown using fused structure, 106–​7
contrapuntal, 177–​8, 180–​88 in sonata forms, 310
definition of, 15, 177–​8 in theme types, 62–​3, 68
hypermetrical, 188–​202 Tonnetz, 243–​50, 251–​65, 313–​4, 323–4, 327, 337–​8
as an operation, 17–​8, 19, 119–​21, 177, 178–​80, 183 Topics, musical, 8
rhythmic, 181–​3, 365, 370–​1, 389–​91 Toroidal geometry, 244–​5
structural, 177, 179–​80, 182–​4, 187–​8, 189–​202 Tortoise (network type), 92–​4, 95, 101, 358–​9, 378
tonal, 178, 185 Transformations
Syntax, 145, 151, 170, 232 rhythmic, 16–​9, 109–​10, 115, 177–​9, 182–​3, 191, 196–​8

422 • I N D E X
 and structure, 118–22, 188 diatonicity of, 242
triadic, 243–​4, 247, 338n36 epistemological status of, 29, 35–​6, 45
see also Swing, Squeeze, Syncopation, Unfolding in structural models, 56, 314
Transition function, and tonal coherence, 44–​5
beginning off-​key, 311
incipient, 64, 70 Verticalization, 220, 223, 364–​5
interface of —​with main theme, 133–​5, 160 (see also Main Vitercik, Greg, 318n12
theme, grouping with transition) Voice exchange, 102, 107, 243n12
stylistic variation in, 85, 284 Voice leading, 35, 234–​5, 237
tonal and formal aspects of, 81 convergent, 233–​7, 239, 241–​2, 245–​54
types, see Dissolving reprise, Dissolving consequent see also Convergence
Translation of timespans, 113–​4 cycles, 244–​7, 250–​1, 252, 254–​65, 314, 321
Trees (graph theory), 353 see also Enharmonic tour
cycle, 356–​7 geometries, 243, 244n15
edge, 354–​6 levels, Schenkerian, 224
event, 30, 360–​3, 365, 368 scalar, 49–​52, 56, 197, 241, 242–​3, 256–​65
plane, 357–​8 transformation, 37n13
rooted, 353, 357 triadic, 49–​50, 242–​3, 243–​50, 257, 314
reduction, 360–​2 zones, 265n35
spanning, 30, 360, 361–​72
see also 2-​trees Wagner, Richard, 208
Triadic orbits, 245–​6 Walk (in a network), 343, 344
Type 2 sonata form, see parallel binary form Weber, Gottfried, 123, 125
Tymoczko, Dmitri, 49, 232, 243n14 Webster, James, 8, 86, 288n11, 320, 321, 338
Westergaard, Peter, 20, 126, 232
Unfolding, 37–​8, 204, 220–​1, 225, 259–​60, 364–​5 Wit versus comedy, 231
examples of, 42, 223–​4, 242–​3, 329, 332
as a split, 106, 225 Yeston, Maury, 123
of structural dominant, 53, 56, 234
Upbeat placement, 130–​1, 151, 157, 194 Zuckerkandl, Victor, 1, 14, 15, 21, 30–​1, 125
Urlinie and Ursatz, 35–​43, 81, 223, 328

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