A Theory of Analogy For Musical Sense Ma

NORTHWESTERN UNIVERSITY
A Theory of Analogy for Musical Sense-Making and Categorization:

Understanding Musical Jabberwocky
A DISSERTATION
SUBMITTED TO THE GRADUATE SCHOOL

IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS
for the degree
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY
Field of Music
in the Program in Music Theory and Cognition
By
Janet Eileen Bourne
EVANSTON, ILLINOIS
August 2015
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© Copyright by Janet Bourne 2015
All Rights Reserved

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ABSTRACT
A Theory of Analogy for Musical Sense-Making and Categorization:
Understanding Musical Jabberwocky
Janet Bourne
This dissertation argues that listeners use analogy (or relational similarity) to make sense of
unexpected or unusual musical events and categorize musical patterns by connecting music to
similar patterns from past experiences. Using Structure-Mapping Theory as a basis, I present an
interdisciplinary framework for analogical listening: retrieval (past experiences), mapping (associating
element of one structure with a corresponding element in a different structure), and evaluation
(inferences based on the event mapped over in context). Humans make analogies from music to
music or music to another domain (between music and language, and so on). I use the framework to
help explain how music theorists perceive musical irony and categorize thematic variations. First, I
use the framework to analyze Beethoven string quartets that scholars consider ironic (op. 95/iv, op.
131/V, op. 130/I) since perceiving musical irony relies partly on a music and language analogy.
Using empirical studies on ironic language along with formal function, sonata theory, and schema
theory, I argue why some theorists hear these movements as ironic. Second, this dissertation argues
that analogy is used to categorize musical themes; themes are relational categories and not perceptual
categories. To demonstrate that a theme is a relational category, I use the analogy framework to
analyze theme and variation movements by Beethoven (op. 109/III), Mozart (K 377/II), and Daube
(from Musical Dilettante). This project responds partly to an “ideal listener” assumption; I consider
how contexts shape perception—particularly, music theorists connecting relations of patterns and
inferences.
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Acknowledgements
I would not have been able to write this dissertation without the help of many people.
First, I want to thank my advisor, Richard Ashley, for everything that he has done for me.
Ric has inspired me, supported me and believed in me my entire time at Northwestern. In his music
cognition class my first year, it felt as if I had come home. He has an amazing encyclopedic
knowledge of the field that has helped guide me over the years to interesting sources that I would
not have found otherwise. His ideas have shaped this project, always pushing me to think critically
about the ideas here. I want to thank him for his patience, encouragement and care for my well-
being over the years. He saw me as not just a graduate student, but a person, and I am infinitely
thankful for that.
My committee members Robert Gjerdingen, Vasili Byros and Dedre Gentner have not only
shaped this project, but my development as a scholar.
I am grateful to Bob for introducing me to schema theory. Ever since the galant class my
first year, schema theory has completely re-wired the way I think about music (and for the better).
He has not only supported me, but been an incredible source of academic knowledge and practical
advice. Not unlike a student of partimenti, I have looked to him as a model for creating engaging
conference presentations and writing beautiful paragraphs. I thank him for the copious amount of
time he has spent working with me. I have learned much about the field, music, radio dramas, and
musicals.
I first starting writing about irony because of Vasili’s Beethoven seminar my first year. Since
then, he has been a fountain of knowledge on music-theoretic matters. He has challenged me to be
more analytically minded in my scholarship, steering me back towards music analysis when I have
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needed it most. I thank him for generously spending time with me and giving me honest advice on
professional matters. I am grateful for everything he has done for me.
I am indebted to Dedre for introducing me to the wonders of analogy. Because of her
analogy and similarity class, I felt like I could finally understand my own thinking. Since then, I have
grown more and more obsessed with analogy. I am so grateful to her for introducing me to these
ideas which play such an important role in this dissertation. I am also grateful for the time she has
spent working with me considering she is an invaluable resource on experimental design.
At Northwestern University, I have had a wonderful support group. I want to thank all the
members of the Music Theory and Cognition Program (past and present) who have helped shape
my ideas: Ji-Chul Kim, Jung-Nyo Kim, Ben Anderson, Ben Duane, Karen Chan Barrett, Matt
Gilmore, Melissa Murphy, James Symons, Cora Palfy, Olga Sanchez-Kisielewska, Kristina Knowles,
Bruno Alcade, Rosa Abrahams, Stephen Hudson, and Miriam Piilonen. I have been grateful not only
for their encouragement, but also for the chance to get to know them and hear their perspectives. I
also want to thank NU’s Graduate Christian Fellowship and the wonderful friends and support I
have found there over these past few years. With prayers and love, they have sat through mock job
talks and mock teaching demonstrations as well as talked with me about ideas in the dissertation. I
want to especially thank the Tuesday night small group (Lauren Sturdy, Jonathan Syrigos, Vlad
Serban, Sylvia Wright, Megan Mascarenhas, Caitlin Makatura, Bryan Van Scoy, and Vienet Romero)
for letting my prayer request always be “my dissertation.” I also want to thank everyone in my
interdisciplinary writing group: Faith Kares, Andrew Owens, Aaron Greenberg, Alex Lindgren-
Gibson, Kate Dugan, and Jaimie Morse. In particular, I want to thank our fearless leader Elizabeth
Lenaghan, who brought us all together. It has been wonderful this year to learn about non-
governmental organizations in the Philippines, Dark Shadows, early modern vitalism, prayer in
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Catholicism, British nonelites in India, and legality of medical examinations. Without their gracious
comments and feedback, the writing in this dissertation would have been considerably worse.
Outside of Northwestern, my family and friends have been supportive of me through the
years. My parents, Jim and Leota Bourne, have always encouraged me and believed in me. I would
not be here today if it weren’t for them. I am so grateful for all the sacrifices they have made for me
over the years. I hope I have made them proud. I thank my brothers, Jeremy and Davy, who have
supported me and endured hearing me talk about the dissertation. I also want to thank Carrie Crow,
who helped my writing through advice and reading suggestions. Finally, I want to thank the people
at Faith EPC for their prayers and thoughts.
Finally, I want to thank my husband, Allen. With infinite patience, he has supported me
throughout this entire process. And, without him, I am not sure where I would be. He celebrated
with me when I was happy, and held me when I cried. He always believed in me, even when I didn’t
believe in myself. For that, I want to thank him. This dissertation is as much his as it is mine. I could
never imagine finding someone I love more dearly, and I thank God every day that He brought
Allen in my life. Although no words express my love for him, I want to include the following quote
for him.
CAPT. MALCOLM REYNOLDS: But it ain't all buttons and charts, little albatross. You
know what the first rule of flying is? Well, I suppose you do, since you already know what
I'm about to say.
RIVER TAM: I do. But I like to hear you say it.
CAPT. MALCOLM REYNOLDS: Love. You can learn all the math in the 'Verse, but you
take a boat in the air that you don't love, she'll shake you off just as sure as the turning of the
worlds. Love keeps her in the air when she oughta fall down, tells you she's hurtin' 'fore she
keens. Makes her a home.
RIVER TAM: Storm's getting worse.
CAPT. MALCOLM REYNOLDS: We'll pass through it soon enough.
I close this acknowledgements section the way J.S. Bach closed many of his pieces: SDG.
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Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1. “Somehow it seems to fill my head with ideas—only I don’t exactly
know what they are!” Who is Listening and what do They Hear?” ………………. 21
 Analogy ………………………………………………..…………..………….. 23
 Research Questions and Hypotheses …………..…………..………………….. 26
 Interdisciplinary Audience: Music Theory and Music Cognition ………………. 32
 Methods and Evidence ….…………..…………..…………..…………………. 34
 Organization …………..…………..…………..…………..…………………… 36
CHAPTER 2. “We have learned to think about the relatedness of things”: Analogy,
Music Theory, and Music Cognition ..…………..…………..…………..……………… 39
 Definitions of Analogy ……………..…………..…………..…………..…………. 41
 Analogical Processes: Retrieval, Mapping, and Evaluation …………..……………. 44
 Mapping: Gentner’s Structure-Mapping Theory …………..…………..………….. 46
 Structural Alignment …………..…………..…………..………………….. 47
 Two Forms of Comparison: Projective Analogy and Mutual Alignment

51
Analogy …………..…………..…………..…………..…………..………..
 Retrieval: The “Analogical Paradox” …………..…………..…………..………….. 52
 Evaluation …………..…………..…………..…………..…………..…………….. 53
 Holyoak and Thagard’s Multiconstraint Theory …………..…………..………….. 54
 Analogy and Similarity …………..…………..…………..…………..……………. 56
 Analogy and Relational Categories …………..…………..…………..……………. 58

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 Approaches to Analogy in Music …………..…………..…………..……………… 63
 Music Theory …………..…………..…………..…………..……………... 63
 Music Cognition …………..…………..…………..…………..………….. 64
 Similarity and Categorization in Music Theory …………..…………..……………. 65
 Meyer’s Conformant Relationships …………..…………..……………….. 66
 Music-Theoretic Patterns …………..…………..…………..…………….. 66
 Thematic Variations …………..…………..…………..…………… 67
 Meyer and Gjerdingen’s Schemata …………..…………..………… 72
 Hanninen’s Associative Sets …………..…………..………………. 76
 Similarity and Categorization in Music Cognition …………..…………..………….. 78
 Pollard-Gott (1983) …………..…………..…………..…………..……….. 78
 Bigand (1990) …………..…………..…………..…………..……………… 79
 Lamont and Dibben (2001) …………..………...…………..……………… 80
 Ziv and Eitan (2007) …………..…………..…………..…………………... 81
 Eitan and Granot (2009) …………..…………..…………..………………. 82
 A Common Theme …………..…………..…………..…………..……….. 82
 Conclusion …………..…………..…………..…………..…………..…………….. 83
CHAPTER 3. “A Knowledge about a thing is a knowledge of its relations”: An

Analogy Framework for Music Analysis …………..…………..…………….………….. 85
 Musical Event …………..…………..…………..…………..…………..………….. 86
 The Analogy Framework …………..…………..…………..…………..………….. 86

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 Step 1: Retrieval …………..…………..…………..…………..…………………… 87
 Musical Use/Exposure …………..…………..…………..………………... 90
 Exposure to Specific Musical Pieces …………..…………..………. 92
 Conventional Musical Patterns …………..…………..……………. 93
 Comparing Listeners …………..…………..…………..…………..………. 94
 Step 2: Mapping …………..…………..…………..…………..…………………… 94
 Musical Relations …………..…………..…………..…………..………….. 95
 Two Levels of Musical Relations: Relations within a Musical Event

and Relations between Musical Events …………..……………….. 99
 Relations within a Musical Event …………..…………..………….. 100
 Relations between Musical Events …………..…………..………… 117
 Two Forms of Analogical Comparison: Unidirectional Listening and

Bidirectional Listening …………..…………..…………..………………… 122
 Four Forms of Analogical Distance in Music: Intra-opus, Inter-Opus,

Intertextual, and Extra-musical …………..…………..…………..………... 123
 Intra-opus Analogy …………..…………..…………..…………… 124
 Inter-opus Analogy …………..…………..…………..…………… 127
 Intertextual …………..…………..…………..…………..………. 129
 Extra-musical Analogy …………..…………..…………..………… 130
 Step 3: Evaluation …………..…………..…………..…………..…………………. 131
 Inferences …………..…………..…………..…………..…………………. 131
 Context …………..…………..…………..…………..…………..……….. 132
 Goals …………..…………..…………..…………..…………..………….. 134

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 Retrieval, Mapping, and Evaluation: Pattern Mapping Taxonomy …………..…… 135
 Pattern that Belongs …………..…………..…………..…………………. 137
 Pattern that Does Not Belong …………..…………..…………..……….. 138
 Pattern that Belongs, but Manipulated …………..…………..…………… 140
 Benefits of Analogy Framework …………..…………..…………..……………… 145
 Conclusion: The Analogy Framework and Research Questions …………………… 149
CHAPTER 4. “No Interpretation could Palliate this Error of a Genius”: Using

Analogy to Perceive Irony in Beethoven’s String Quartets …………..………………. 151
 What is Irony? …………..…………..…………..…………..…………………….. 153
 Perceiving Irony in Language …………..…………..…………..…………………. 154
 Music and Language Analogy …………..…………..…………..…………………. 156
 Perceiving Irony in Music using Analogy …………..…………..………………….. 158
 Retrieval: Violation of Expectation …………..…………..………………... 161
 Mapping: Flouting the Gricean Maxims …………..…………..…………… 164
 Mapping: Extra-musical Analogy …………..…………..………….. 166
 Mapping: Relations between Musical Events …………..………….. 166
 Case Studies …………..…………..…………..…………..…………..…………… 166
 Op. 95/iv (1810) …………..…………..…………..…………..………….. 168
 Op. 131/V (1826) …………..…………..…………..…………..………… 181
 Op. 130/I (1825) …………..…………..…………..…………..………….. 187
 Analyzing Listeners …………..…………..…………..…………..……………… 201

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 My Own Coda …………..…………..…………..…………..…………..………… 205
CHAPTER 5. “Appears Clothed in a New Manner”: Analogy and Hearing

Thematic Variations …………..…………..…………..…………..…………..…………. 207
 A Variations Vignette …………..…………..…………..…………..……………… 208
 Thematic Variations as Relational Categories: Melodies Clothed in a New Manner .. 210
 Analogy Framework and Analyzing Variations…………..…………..…………… 216
 Mapping: Intra-opus Analogy …………..…………..…………..…………. 217
 Mapping: Relations within a Musical Event …………..…………..……… 217
 Mapping: Comparison and Bidirectional Listening …………..……………. 218
 Variations from the Eighteenth to Nineteenth-Century: From Embellishing to

Reinterpreting …………..…………..…………..…………..…………..………….. 221
 Relational Categories: Thematic Categories and Galant Schemata ………………… 225
 Beethoven’s Piano Sonata, Op. 109/III (1820) …………..…………..……………. 227
 Mozart’s Violin Sonata, K. 377/ii (1781) …………..…………..…………..……… 244
 Daube’s Variation from The Musical Dilettante (1773) …………..…………..……… 257
 Conclusion …………..…………..…………..…………..…………..……………. 267
CHAPTER 6. “You’re sure to get somewhere, if you only walk long enough”:
Future Research …..………….…..………….…..………….…..………….…..……… 269
 Dissertation Summary …..………….…..………….…..………….…..…………. 269
 Future Research …..………….…..………….…..………….…..………….…..… 271
 An Empirical Investigation into Analogy for Categorizing Themes …..…… 271

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 Stimuli …..………….…..………….…..………….…..…………. 272
 Experimental Design, Hypotheses and Procedure …..………….… 272
 Predictions …..………….…..………….…..………….…..……… 276
 Follow-Up Studies …..………….…..………….…..………….….. 277
 Connection between Schemata and Topics: Relational Categories,

Perceptual Categories, and Construction Grammar …..………….…..…… 277
 How Modern Listeners Hear Common Practice Music through Film Music. 278
 Analogy as a Window to Musical Communication …..………….…..……………. 280
 Conclusion …..………….…..………….…..………….…..………….…..……… 281
WORKS CITED …..………….…..………….…..………….…..………….…..……… 282

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List of Figures
Figure 1.1.: Diagram of the solar system and atom analogy (graphic from Corral and Jones
2012, 1434) 25
Figure 1.2: Mozart, 12 Variations on “Ah, vous dirai-je maman,” K. 265/300e, mm. 1-8,
25-32 28
Figure 1.3: The basics of the analogy framework 35
Figure 2.1: Disciplines and research questions 40
Figure 2.2: Other disciplines and research questions 41
Figure 2.3: Major components of analogical reasoning (graphic from Holyoak 2012, 236) 44
Figure 2.4: Circles steadily decreasing in size (graphic from Gentner and Smith 2012, 131) 49
Figure 2.5: Causal scenes containing a cross-mapping. The woman in the top scene is
receiving food, while the woman in the bottom scene is giving food (graphic form
Markman and Gentner 1993, 436) 50
Figure 2.6: Schematic of two forms of comparison in analogy (graphic from Jee et al.
2010, 3) 52
Figure 2.7: Visual representation of similarity space (graphic from Gentner and Smith
2013, 10) 57
Figure 2.8: Schematic of the category “visit” (graphic from Goldwater, Markman, and
Stilwell 2011, 360) 60
Figure 2.9: Contextual subtypes list, re-constructed from Hanninen (2012, 37-38) 77
Figure 3.1: The analogy framework 87
Figure 3.2: Sections and subsections of the retrieval step 89

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Figure 3.3: Analogy as Structure-Mapping (graphic from Gentner and Smith 2012, 132) 95
Figure 3.4: Bach, Art of Fugue, Contrapuntus VII, mm. 2-4 98
Figure 3.5: Visual representation of two levels of musical relations: relations between
musical events and relations within a musical event 99
Figure 3.6: Graphic representation of relations within a musical event 104
Figure 3.7: Higher-order relation thematic category 105
Figure 3.8: Revised graphic representation of relations within a musical event 105
Figure 3.9: Proportional rhythms 106
Figure 3.10: Showing rhythm as a relation within a musical event; Clementi, Sonatina Op.
36, no. 1, m. 5 and m. 6 respectively 107
Figure 3.11: (a) Ordinal duration vector key, (b) Clementi rhythm—length approach 108
Figure 3.12: Clementi rhythm—proportional approach 109
Figure 3.13: Dittersdorf, Symphony in C, K. 1, first movement, mm. 1-4 110
Figure 3.14: Example of Aprile from Aprile, Soleggio, MS fol. 40v, Larghetto, mm. 1-4
(graphic from Gjerdingen 2007a, 123) 111
Figure 3.15: Graphical representation of scale degree relation 111
Figure 3.16: Scale degrees 112
Figure 3.17: Clementi, Sonatina in C Major, Op. 36, No. 1, first movement, mm. 1-19 113
Figure 3.18: Dittersdorf, Symphony in C, K. 1, first movement, mm. 1-4, and outline of
contour relation 114
Figure 3.19: Mozart, Sonata in C Major, K. 545, first movement, mm. 1-4, and outline of
contour relation 114
Figure 3.20: Contour 115

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Figure 3.21: Dittersdorf, Symphony in C, K. 1, first movement, m. 1-4 117
Figure 3.22: Harmony 117
Figure 3.23: Correlation (graphic from Hatten 1994, 37) 118
Figure 3.24: Major vs. minor onto tragic vs. nontragic (graphic from Hatten 1994, 38) 119
Figure 3.25: Mapping of minor vs. major onto tragic vs. nontragic 119
Figure 3.26: Mozart, K. 332, first movement, mm. 1-26 120
Figure 3.27: Mapping of singing style vs. horn fifths onto indoors vs. outdoors 121
Figure 3.28: (a) Beethoven, Piano Sonata in F Minor, Op. 2, No. 1, first movement, mm.
1-8, (b) Beethoven, String Quartet in F, Op. 135, third movement, mm. 3-10
(graphics from Caplin 1998, 10) 122
Figure 3.29: Visual representation of analogical distance in music 124
Figure 3.30: Mozart, “Adagio” from Piano Concerto in A major, K. 488, second
movement, mm. 1-12 126
Figure 3.31: Prinner schema (graphic from Gjerdingen 2007a, 455) 128
Figure 3.32: (a) Wodiczka, Op. 1, No. 3, first movement, adagio, mm. 1-3 (graphic from
Gjerdingen 2007a, 46), (b) L’Abbé, Op. 8, No. 1, first movement, mm. 10-14
(graphic from Gjerdingen 2007a, 55) 129
Figure 3.33: (a) Mozart, “Miserocordias Domini,” mm. 23-26, (b) Beethoven, Symphony
No. 9, fourth movement, mm. 92-99 130
Figure 3.34: Beethoven, Piano Sonata No. 26 in Eb major, Op. 81a, first movement,
“Lebewohl,” mm. 1-5 133
Figure 3.35: Visual Representation of the Pattern Mapping Taxonomy 137
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Figure 3.37: Stravinsky, op. 7, etude no. 1, mm. 1-6 139
Figure 3.38: Beginning of “Batman’s Theme,” Elfman, Batman (1989) 139
Figure 3.39: Visual representation of types of pattern manipulation 141
Figure 3.40: Beethoven, Piano Sonata No. 26 in Eb major, Op. 81a, first movement,
“Lebewohl,” mm. 1-5 141
Figure 3.41: Quotation of Wagner in Debussy’s “Golliwog’s Cakewalk” (graphic from
Everett 2009, 32) 142
Figure 3.42: Beginning of Idée Fixe in Berlioz, Symphonie Fantastique, fifth movement 143
Figure 4.1: Grice’s maxims, a component of the linguist H.P. Grice’s Cooperative
Principle 156
Figure 4.2: Linguistic slots that map onto musical slots (graphic from London 1996, 52) 157
Figure 4.3: The Analogy Framework 159
Figure 4.4: The Retrieval Step 160
Figure 4.5: The Mapping Step 160
Figure 4.6: The generic layout of Sonata Form (graphic from Hepokoski and Darcy 2006,
17) 164
Figure 4.7: Beethoven, Op. 95 (Serioso), fourth movement, mm. 126-153 169
Figure 4.8: Beethoven, Op. 132, finale, mm. 290-309 170
Figure 4.9: The analogy framework and Op. 95, relation maxim, form 172
Figure 4.10: The analogy framework and Op. 95, relation maxim, genre 174
Figure 4.11: Graph of Sonata-Rondo form and placement of EEC and ESCs (graphic
from Hepokoski and Darcy 2006, 428) 177
Figure 4.12: The Indugio from Gjerdingen (2007a, 464) 178

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Figure 4.13: Beethoven, Op. 95 (Serioso), fourth movement, mm. 118-20 179
Figure 4.14: The analogy framework and Op. 95, quality maxim 180
Figure 4.15: Beethoven, Op. 131, fifth movement, mm. 13-48 182
Figure 4.16: Beethoven, Op. 131, fifth movement, mm. 41-48 183
Figure 4.17: The analogy framework and Op. 131 185
Figure 4.18: Beethoven, Op. 130, first movement, mm. 13-28 189
Figure 4.19: The Meyer schema from Gjerdingen (2007a); the Aprile variant has a closing
dyad of 2-1 instead of 4-3 in the soprano 191
Figure 4.20: Example of the Aprile variant (with a not as common 5-1 close in the bass
instead of 7-1) from Aprile, Solfeggio, MS fol. 40v, Larghetto, mm. 1-4 (graphic
from Gjerdingen 2007a, 123) 191
Figure 4.21: The Aprile schema in Beethoven, Op. 130, first movement, mm. 13-19 192
Figure 4.24: The analogy framework and Op. 130 199
Figure 4.25: The analogy framework and Op. 95, a modern listener 202
Figure 4.26: The analogy framework and Op. 130, an eighteenth-/early-nineteenth-century
listener or a modern theorist 203
Figure 4.27: The analogy framework and Op. 130, a modern listener 204
Figure 5.1: Autograph of Beethoven’s 1793 letter to Eleonore von Breuning (Beethoven
1793) 209
Figure 5.2: Beethoven, Symphony No. 5, opening 214

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Figure 5.3: Visual representation of similarity space (graphic from Gentner and Smith
2013, 10) 215
Figure 5.4: The Analogy Framework 216
Figure 5.5: A thematic category as a relational category (or schema) that accounts for
theme and its variations 218
Figure 5.6: Major components of analogical reasoning (graphic from Holyoak 2012, 236) 225
Figure 5.7: Locatelli, Op. 2, various opening basses (graphic from Gjerdingen 2007a, 14) 226
Figure 5.8: Beethoven, Op. 109, third movement, theme, mm. 1-16 230
Figure 5.9: Op. 109 thematic category, mm. 1-4 231
Figure 5.10: Key for notating “lengths approach” in rhythm 232
Figure 5.11: Venn diagram rom Beethoven Op. 109 234
Figure 5.12: Beethoven, Op. 109, third movement, var. 6, mm. 1-4, score and box
notation 235
Figure 5.13: Beethoven, Op. 109, third movement, theme, mm. 1-4, score and box
notation 236
notation 237
notation 238
Figure 5.16: Beethoven, Op. 109, comparing theme and var. 1 239
notation 241
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Figure 5.18: The order of variations in op. 109. The shaded yellow sections are relations
shared with the thematic category. The shaded red sections are ambiguous
whether the relations are shared with the thematic category. 243
Figure 5.19: Mozart, K. 377, second movement, theme, mm. 1-16 245
Figure 5.20: Mozart, K. 377, second movement, theme, mm. 17-32 246
Figure 5.21: Mozart, K. 377, second movement, theme, mm. 1-4, grouping structure 246
Figure 5.22: Mozart, K. 377, thematic category, box notation 247
Figure 5.23: Venn diagram for Mozart K. 377 248
Figure 5.24: Mozart, K. 377, theme, box notation 249
Figure 5.25: Mozart, K. 377, second movement, var. 3, mm. 1-4, box notation and score 250
Figure 5.26: Mozart, K. 377, second movement, var. 5, mm. 1-4, score and box notation 251
Figure 5.27: Mozart, K. 377, second movement, var. 6, mm. 1-4, score and box notation 252
Figure 5.28: Mozart, K. 377, second movement, var. 2, mm. 1-4, box notation and score 253
Figure 5.29: Mozart, K. 377, comparing var. 3 and var. 4 254
Figure 5.30: The order of variations in K. 377. The shaded yellow sections are relations
shared with the thematic category. 256
Figure 5.31: Variation of the first chord without pasting tones (graphic from Daube [1773]
1992) 258
Figure 5.32: Daube’s theme (graphic from Daube [1773] 1992, 139-140) 259
Figure 5.33: Daube’s theme, mm. 1-10 (graphic from Daube [1773] 1992, 139) 260
Figure 5.34: Do-Re-Mi schema (graphic from Gjerdingen 2007a, 650) 261
Figure 5.36: Cudworth’s cadence galante (graphic from Gjerdingen 2007a, 147) 262
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Figure 5.37: Daube, thematic category, box notation 263
Figure 5.38: Daube, theme, mm. 1-5 (graphic from Daube [1773] 1992, 139) 264
Figure 5.39: Daube, potential thematic category after hearing only the theme 264
Figure 5.40: Daube, var. 1, mm. 1-10 (graphic from Daube [1773] 1992, 140) 265
Figure 5.41: Daube, var. 2, mm. 1-8 (graphic from Daube [1773] 1992, 141) 265
Figure 5.42: Daube, beginnings of (a) var. 3, (b) var. 4 (c) var. 5, (d) var. 6, (e) var. 7
(graphic from Daube [1773] 1992, 141-142) 266
Figure 6.1: Adjective pairs for excerpt descriptions (graphic from Lamont and Dibben
2001, 253) 274
Figure 6.2: Schematic of experimental design 275

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CHAPTER 1
“Somehow it seems to fill my head with ideas—only I don’t exactly
know what they are!” Who is Listening and what do They Hear?
‘Twas brillig, and the slothy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the momre raths outgrabe
—Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass and
What Alice Found There
After reading the (in)famous Jabberwocky poem, Alice of Alice in Wonderland said:
“It seems very pretty,” she said when she had finished it [the Jabberwocky poem], “but it’s
rather hard to understand!” (You see she didn’t like to confess, even to herself, that she
couldn’t make it out at all.) “Somehow it seems to fill my head with ideas – only I don’t
exactly know what they are! However, somebody killed something: that’s clear at any rate – ”.
(Carroll 1865, 165–66, italics in original)
The poem is filled with “Jabberwocky” sentences, which are sentences with “proper” syntax, but
nonsense words. Understanding music is analogous to understanding the Jabberwocky poem. At
times, music is hard to comprehend, yet somehow it fills our heads with ideas. How can a reader
infer meaning from a nonsensical poem such as the Jabberwocky? How can a listener infer meaning
from music? To paraphrase Alice, “somebody heard something, at any rate.”
As a listener parses incoming information into categories (musical events), he or she learns
associations and expectations. A listener’s exposure to repeating musical patterns may be enough to
create a category in his or her mind (a mental representation). Important to categorization is the
ability to relate musical patterns to each other, either by relating a current pattern to one in long-
term memory or to another pattern recently heard. Yet, music is composed of multiple dimensions.
22
For instance, a musical melody can take shape either as a waltz or a march, but still be the same
melody. On the other side of the coin, two different waltzes can sound similar to each other even
though they involve different pitches and rhythmic content. How could theorists understand, from a
cognitive perspective, these relationships in music? One idea may be that theorists—and listeners in
general—use analogy, a cognitive process, to understand musical relationships.
Similarities of relationships between one musical pattern to other musical patterns—or
analogies—is crucial to musical communication, but it has received less attention as a way to
understand musical meaning. Instead, theorists favor analogies between music and other domains
(e.g. “this melody is like falling snow”) to understand music as communicative (e.g. Hatten 2004;
Zbikowski 2002), some making analogies between music and drama (e.g. Maus 1988; Levinson
2004) or music and narrative (e.g. Almén 2008). Approaches to musical communication have been
varied, from the collection by David Hargreaves, Raymond MacDonald and Dorothy Miell (2005)
which approaches the topic from a variety of disciplines, to Danuta Mirka and Kofi Agawu’s (2008)
investigation limited to eighteenth-century music. Yet, Northup Frye (1957) wrote that “poetry can
only be made out of other poems; novels out of other novels” (97); by extension, music can only be
made out of other musics, and listeners make sense of music through relating musical patterns.
When music theorists do analyze musical patterns, for musical communication or other
reasons, they often discuss clear-cut examples that are not distorted. Some examples are
prototypical, while some are atypical or distorted. These “distorted” examples are members of that
pattern, simply “exploited.” Leonard Meyer (1980) describes Beethoven exploiting musical
conventions: “Beethoven overturned no fundamental syntactic rules. Rather, he was an
incomparable strategist who exploited limits—the rules, forms, and conventions that he inherited
from predecessors such as Haydn and Mozart, Handel and Bach—in richly inventive and strikingly
23
original ways. In so doing, Beethoven extended the means of the Classic Style” (Meyer 1980, 190,
italics in original). These distorted patterns are when patterns “go wrong”—they are on the fringe of
what a pattern should be, but still that pattern. Still, a listener is “supposed to” recognize these
patterns, despite distortion and appearance in unusual contexts. Analogy provides a framework for
relating musical patterns to others in memory for both unconventional and conventional patterns. It
also offers a means for theorists to discuss how these categories, even atypical exemplars, may be
perceptually salient depending upon a listener’s use and exposure to similar previous music. Once
the listener has identified a pattern, he or she can interpret it within a piece’s context. In the pages to
come, I explain how analogy helps answer the following question: When listening, what do listeners
do to make sense of a sequence of musical events, especially when “things go wrong”?
Analogy
Analogical reasoning1 is a powerful, domain-general process—a pillar of psychological
thought, even claimed to be the “core of cognition” (Hofstadter 2001), and the fundamental process
by which people understand their surroundings (e.g. Gentner, Holyoak, and Kokinov 2001; Holyoak
and Thagard 1995). An analogy involves “recognizing a common relational system between two
situations [or events] and generating further inferences guided by these commonalities” (Gentner
and Smith 2013, 2–3). In an analogy, one domain or situation—called the base/source—is more
familiar, better understood or more concrete, while the other domain or situation—called the
target—is less familiar, less understood and more abstract (Gentner and Smith 2012, 130). By “better
understood,” Holyoak (2012) explains that, “the reasoner has prior knowledge about functional
relations within the source analog—beliefs that certain aspects of the sources have causal,
1 I use terms analogy, analogical processing, and analogical reasoning interchangeably.

24
explanatory, or logical connections to other aspects” (234, italics in original). Humans retrieve, or
remember, relational information concerning a source and transfer that information to understand a
target.
According to Jerry Fodor (1983), this transfer from source to target underlies creation of
new scientific theories.
It really does look as though there have been frequent examples in the history of science
where the structure of theories in a new subject area has been borrowed from, or at least
suggested by, theories in situ in some quite different domain: what’s known about the flow of
water gets borrowed to model the flow of electricity; what’s known about the structure of
the solar system gets borrowed to model the structure of the atom; what’s known about the
behavior of the markets gets borrowed to model the process of natural selection, which in
turns gets borrowed to model the shaping of operant responses. And so forth. The point
about all this is that “analogical reasoning” would seem to be isotropy in the purest form: a
process which depends precisely upon the transfer of information among cognitive domains
previously assumed to be mutually irrelevant. (107)
Through analogy, humans perceive one situation through the lens of another; both situations share
the same structure, but not the same appearance. Humans in Western society conceptualize
electricity (target)—an invisible concept—by thinking in terms of water (base/source)—a more
concrete concept. Using analogy, people infer electricity “behaves” like water; they expect electricity
to “flow” and have a “current.” It is not because water and electricity look similar on the surface,
but because they share similar relations. The Oxford English Dictionary defines “relation” as: “an
attribute denoting or concept expressing a connection, correspondence, or contrast between
different things; a particular way in which one thing or idea is connected or associated with another
or others” (“Relation, N.” 2015). Shared relations (how objects connect to each other), rather than
perceptual features (how objects look on the surface), determine whether two situations are an
analogy. An “analog” is a “situation or domain involved in analogical mapping, either the base
(source) or target” (Gentner and Smith 2012, 130). Gentner and Smith (2012) argue that, for
analogy, “what is crucial is similarity in relational structure” (2–3, italics in original).

25
This dissertation’s psychological model of analogy is cognitive psychologist Dedre Gentner’s
Structure-Mapping Theory (Gentner 1983; Gentner 2003). In Structure-Mapping Theory, people
employ analogies through a “comparison process” that aligns two situations (generally, a base and a
target) to reveal common relational structure (Gentner 2003, 107). Humans reason analogically in
three steps: retrieval, mapping, and evaluation. Consider the analogy “atom is like the solar system.”
In the first step, retrieval, people retrieve their knowledge about solar systems and atoms. In the
second step, mapping, they use comparison to align this knowledge so to highlight and map over
relational structure; in this case, one possible relation is smaller objects revolve around a larger one (figure
1.1).
Figure 1.1.: Diagram of the solar system and atom analogy (graphic from Corral and Jones 2012, 1434)
Finally, during the third step of evaluation, listeners evaluate inferences from this mapping: such as,
“if smaller objects revolve around a larger one faster in solar systems, then they probably revolve
faster in atoms as well.” Analogies pervade everyday life, including science, mathematics, problem
solving, creative cognition, legal reasoning, and teaching (Holyoak 2012, 346).
If analogy shapes understanding in so many areas of everyday life, then it may shape
understanding in music as well. If analogy is the “core of cognition” (Hofstadter 2001), then it
follows logically that it is also the “core of music cognition.” This dissertation builds on the idea that
listeners make sense of music partly through analogy, a cognitive process that connects music to past
26
experiences. I argue that analogy can illuminate the cognitive processes behind music theorists’
understandings of music, as they relate music to familiar patterns or musical events. Structure-
Mapping Theory and its analogical steps (retrieval, mapping, and evaluation) will be shown to play a
part in musical thinking and reasoning.
Research Questions and Hypotheses
The psychologist Kevin Dunbar strives to understand how laboratory scientists make
discoveries, and the role analogy plays in this process. Dunbar (1995) used an “in vivo”
methodology to study analogies made “in the wild” by real world scientists in laboratories.2 He
began studying analogy “in the wild” after observing that subjects in controlled psychology
experiments failed to make the analogies he expected. He observed that, instead, “subjects in many
psychology experiments tend to focus on superficial features [surface, not relational, features] when
using analogy, whereas people in non-experimental contexts, such as politicians and scientists [“in
vivo” analogy], frequently use deeper more structural features” (Dunbar 2001, 313). Participants
often used perceptual features (what something looks like on the surface), rather than relations
(connections between objects). He labelled this phenomenon the “analogical paradox” (Dunbar
2001, 313): the fact that participants easily use analogies in naturalistic settings, but often fail to use
them in psychology experiments (at least, without hints or reminders).3 Thus began a part of
Dunbar’s research agenda: contrasting analogy in experimental settings with analogy in naturalistic
settings.
2 According to his analyses, analogical thinking is an important component of scientific reasoning, including hypothesis
generation, experimental design, explanations, and data interpretation (Dunbar 2001, 315).
3 Participants in Gick and Holyoak’s (1980) experiments solved a problem using analogy; yet, only after experimenters
reminded them of an analogous example that could be used to solve the problem.
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If analogy is difficult for participants in experimental settings, then musical thinking rooted
in analogy should also be difficult for participants in experimental settings. Participants in music
cognition experiments may follow a similar pattern to that of participants in analogy experiments.
This observation motivates my first research question.
 Research Question 1: Research has established that listeners in experimental settings

do not categorize musical themes the way music theorists expect them to. Why is
that the case?
Music theorists assume that listeners abstract away perceptual features (e.g. dynamics, tempo,
etc.) to categorize musical themes based on structural features (e.g. pitch, rhythm, meter, etc.) (e.g.
Meyer 1973; Zbikowski 2002). In conflict with these assumptions, results from experiments on
musical similarity (e.g. Lamont and Dibben 2001) and categorization (e.g. Pollard-Gott 1983;
Koniari, Predazzer, and Mélen 2001; McAdams et al. 2004; Ziv and Eitan 2007) indicate participants
often categorize musical excerpts based on perceptual features instead. These findings have
perplexed many music cognition scholars, especially those—like music theorists—expecting
participants to categorize such musical events based on structure. After all, listeners in naturalistic
settings use structural features to categorize themes in various contexts, from a movie-goer
recognizing variations of a protagonist’s theme to a concert-goer noticing repeated sections of a
sonata. Why do participants not categorize themes the way music theorists think they should? To
categorize musical themes based on structural features, I argue that listeners in naturalistic settings
use analogy to map structurally important notes from one musical passages onto parallel notes in
another. In figure 1.2, a listener maps melodic notes between the theme in Mozart’s “Ah, vous dirai-
je maman” and the first variation to help him or her hear these phrases as the same theme. Yet, it is
not just the melody line that facilitates this mapping, but the bass as well, which stays the same up to
a mid-point of the variation.

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Figure 1.2: Mozart, 12 Variations on “Ah, vous dirai-je maman,” K. 265/300e, mm. 1-8, 25-32
My research question, then, echoes Dunbar’s when he encountered the “analogical paradox”: why
do humans make analogies “in the wild” but not in experimental settings? I create the following
hypothesis for research question 1.
 Hypothesis for Research Question 1: The discrepancy of listeners not categorizing

musical themes in experimental settings is a consequence of listeners needing to use
analogy, or analogical processing, to categorize musical themes based on structural,
as opposed to perceptual, features.
I argue that listeners use analogy to categorize themes based on structural parameters since
these structural parameters—pitch, meter/rhythm, harmony—are often relational. Research
question 1 asks why listeners fail to use these relations to categorize musical themes in experimental
settings. Participants in analogy experiments struggle to make analogies since they often overlook
shared relations between two situations. In a similar way, participants in music cognition
experiments on categorizing musical themes overlook shared relations between two musical
passages. Yet, participants in analogy experiments notice relations—and so make an analogy—if
relations are highlighted and made more salient. The outcomes of several analogy experiments (e.g.
Gentner and Markman 1997) indicate that the act of comparison highlights relations, prompting
participants to notice them. If participants compare two objects or situations, then common
relations are more prominent. If participants in music cognition experiments compare musical
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passages before categorizing, then they may also notice shared relations between musical passages,
prompting them to use analogy for categorizing musical themes based on structural—pitch,
meter/rhythm, harmony—over perceptual features (see chapter 2 for a review of similarity).
To introduce my second research question, I revisit Dunbar’s (1995; 2001) research on
analogies “in the wild”—specifically, when scientists use local over distant analogies and vice versa.
Depending on analogy’s purpose, distance between target and sources domains vary.
[The] distance between the source and the target may be large or small. For example, a
designer trying to develop door handles for the auto industry may make an analogy to other
door handles in the auto industry (within-domain, or local, analogies) or may make an
analogy to telephones or oysters in developing design (between-domain, or distant,
analogies)…. Local analogies involve greater superficial similarity between the source and the
target, as compared with the lesser amounts of superficial similarity involves in distant
analogies. (Christensen and Schunn 2007, 29)
Both local and distant analogies depend on relations; yet, local analogies also share perceptual
similarity. For example, furnace : coal :: woodstove : wood have closer semantic relations than furnace : coal
:: stomach : food, which have semantically distant relations (Vendetti, Wu, and Holyoak 2014, 929).
According to Vendetti, Wu, and Holyoak (2014), “whereas near analogies can be solved by matching
identical relations (e.g., the furnace burns coal as a woodstove burns wood), distant analogies require
evaluating or generating a more abstract relation that bridges the domains (e.g., the furnace burns
coal as the stomach “burns’ food)” (929).
While studying scientists in developmental biology and pathogen laboratories, Dunbar
(2001) found that the goal or reason for making the analogy influenced distance between source and
target (316). When scientists were trying to fix experimental problems, they often used local
analogies, which are analogies from highly similar domains (e.g. between HIV and HIV) or a
common superordinate category (e.g. between one virus and another virus) (Dunbar 2001, 316).
When scientists were reasoning about unexpected findings, though, not only was analogy the first
30
cognitive tool they used (Dunbar 2001, 317), but they often used distant analogies. Dunbar (2001)
writes:
Finding that more distant analogies are used following a set of unexpected findings is
interesting for two main reasons. First, analogy use changes with the current goal; a series of
unexpected findings act as a trigger for the wider search for sources and provide a new
mechanisms for expanding the search process. (318)
In addition to discussing musical analogy in experimental settings, I will explore musical analogy in
naturalistic settings: what musical relationships that rely on analogical thinking do music theorists
assume are important? What prompts music theorists to make distant or local analogies? As a first
step at “naturalistic” musical analogy, I analyze when music theorists (as listeners) use distant
analogies to make sense of music.
Local analogies in music are between two musical events (e.g. one musical theme to another
musical theme) while distant analogies are between music and a different domain (e.g. analogy
between music and language, music and narrative, and so on; henceforth called “extra-musical
analogies”). Local analogies use musical relations while distant—or extra-musical—analogies use
more abstract relations. Similar to Dunbar’s finding in scientists, listeners may use extra-musical
analogies for “unexpected findings” in music. When music “behaves” in a drastically unexpected
fashion and not much in the musical domain can explain this behavior, listeners may rely more on
extra-musical analogies to make sense of what they heard. This observation motivates my second
research question.
 Research Question 2: Music theorists perceive some unusually behaving musical

excerpts as ironic. Why do theorists use irony to understand these “unexpected”
findings in music analysis?
The Oxford English Dictionary defines “irony” as: “The expression of one’s meaning by using
language that normally signifies the opposite, typically for humorous or emphatic effect….A state of
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affairs or an event that seems deliberately contrary to what was or might be expected; an outcome
cruelly, humorously, or strangely at adds with assumptions or expectations” (“Irony, N.” 2015). On
the face of it, irony seems an odd leap to make when interpreting music, especially since music lacks
denotative semantics propositional truth value (Cross 2005). Yet, several music theorists (e.g. Hatten
1994; Balter 2009; Zemach and Balter 2007) interpret certain Beethoven string quartet movements
(op. 95/iv, op. 130/I, and op. 131/V) as ironic, or something close to irony. When faced with these
examples, why do music theorists use “irony” to understand these “unexpected” moments in music?
Dunbar’s scientists made distant analogies when encountering unexpected findings; music
theorists—and certain listeners as well—may also make distant analogies when encountering
unexpected findings.
 Hypothesis for Research Question 2: Listeners use distant analogies to make sense
of “unexpected findings” in music—for example, a listener uses an analogy between
music and language to perceive irony in music as a way to make sense of certain
“unexpected findings” in music.
Research question 2 asks why listeners (and music theorists) use irony to make sense of
“musical behaviors” in certain Beethoven string quartets. I hypothesize that when music “behaves”
in an unexpected fashion—and not much in the musical domain can explain it—listeners, like
Dunbar’s scientists, could rely on distant or extra-musical analogies to make sense of these
“unexpected findings” in music. An “unexpected finding” triggers a wider search for sources to help
a person understand what the music could be communicating.4 As a case study, I analyze how some
listeners and theorists perceive irony in music. I hypothesize that perception of irony stems from an
analogy between music and language. Even though this music behaves unexpectedly, its behavior
4 Yet, the opposite is not necessarily true: when music behaves in an “expected fashion,” listeners are just as likely to use
extra-musical analogies. In my project, however, the interest is more on how listeners use extra-musical analogy as a tool
to make sense of unexpected instances in music, more so then on how listeners may use extra-musical analogies even
when the music is expected, as a way of description or interpretation.
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imitates that of ironic language. Therefore, listeners/theorists may infer that musical passages
suggest irony if they are analogous to linguistics passages that also suggest irony. Not all
“unexpected findings” in music are ironic; yet, all instances of ironic music violate expectations, and
so are “unexpected findings.”
On the surface, these two questions seem unrelated. Yet, both ask how listeners use analogy
to understand music. I explore analogies that listeners make between musical themes as well as
analogies that listeners make between music and another domain (specifically, language). I attempt
to do for music theorists what Dunbar did for psychologists and scientists. There are several reasons
I chose to include both questions within the scope of one dissertation. First, a systematic theory of
analogy in music is novel and more examples provide more evidence for analogy in musical thinking.
Second, analogies between musical themes and analogies between music and another domain
demonstrates that it can happen on different levels in music, encouraging the reader to see various
potential for analogy as a method for analyzing music. Finally, this breadth allows me consider
analogy in experimental settings (more in line with music cognition) as well as naturalistic settings
(more in line with music theory). In the “big picture,” I hope to understand who the listener is and
why, from a cognitive perspective, they find certain interpretations of music or musical
communications intuitive and perceive musical patterns the way they do. As part of this, I seek to
understand why listeners make certain choices, categorizations and inferences while listening—and
the role analogy plays in these processes.
Interdisciplinary Audience: Music Theory and Music Cognition
I intend this dissertation to speak to two groups of scholars: music theorists and music
psychologists. I have two goals related to my audience and interdisciplinarity. As a first goal, I hope
this project continues to unite the disciplines or music theory and music cognition; in fact, I think
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my research questions demand such a cross-disciplinary marriage. In my first research question, I
explain why results in music cognition do not follow music theory’s predictions. For music
cognition, then, I further research on this domain-general process and how it relates to music and
analysis. In my second research question, I use music cognition to partly explain music theorists’
intuitions about certain pieces. For music theory, then, I introduce the cognitive process of analogy
as an analytical tool to partly describe cognitive reasons behind music theorists’ intuitions on musical
relationships.
As a second goal, related to my music theory audience, I promote a type of music analysis
Temperley (1999) labels “descriptive.” He divides music theory into two schools, “suggestive” and
“descriptive.” The objective of “suggestive” theory and analysis is “to find and present new ways of
hearing pieces, not to describe the way people hear pieces already” (Temperley 1999, 70). Carl
Schachter and John Rahn’s approaches to analysis represent different sides of this “suggestive” type.
For Schachter (1976), analysis means finding the hidden structures of music: “of course the deeper
levels of structure, by definition, are not as readily accessible to direct perception as are events of the
foreground…. If they were, there would be no point to our analyzing music” (285–286). For Rahn
(1980), analyzing music “is to find a good way to hear it and to communicate that way of hearing it
to other people” (1). In “suggestive” analysis, the role of the theorist is to find imperceptible musical
structures or propose new readings or hearings of a piece.
In “descriptive” music analysis, on the other hand, the role of the theorist is to explain
listeners’ knowledge and to explain why they hear music a certain way. This type of music analysis:
Attempts to describe listeners’ unconscious mental representations of music… What is

sought is a general theory of some aspect of musical perception, a theory that describes
listeners’ general knowledge of music and the principles whereby they infer certain structures
from certain musical inputs…. Explaining why it is that a certain piece or certain musical
features in a piece, bring about a certain experience in the listener. (Temperley 1999, 68,
italics in original)
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Fred Lerdahl, Ray Jackendoff and Leonard Meyer’s approaches to analysis represent this
“descriptive” type. For example, Lerdahl and Jackendoff (1983) insist that: “We take the goal of a
theory of music to be a formal description of the musical intuitions of a listener who is experienced in a musical
idiom” (1, italics in original). Meyer (1973), talking about music criticism, writes:
The primary goal of criticism is explanation for its own sake. Because music fascinates,
excites, and moves us, we want to explain, if only imperfectly, in what ways the events within
a particular composition are related to one another and how such relationships shape
musical experience. (17, italics in original)
This project—and my reasons for analyzing music—falls in the “descriptive” camp. By analyzing
music from a cognitive perspective, I analyze music in a way I think listeners may hear it. Therefore,
I promote “descriptive” music analysis. This stance helps me speak to my audience of both music
theorists and music cognition scholars.
Methods and Evidence
To address my research questions, I combine traditional music-theoretic tools with concepts
and methodologies from cognitive science and linguistics. To transfer analogy from cognitive
science to music analysis, I present an interdisciplinary framework for analogy during musical
listening (henceforth, the “analogy framework”) based on Gentner’s (1983) Structure-Mapping
Theory and the three analogy steps—1) retrieval, 2) mapping, and 3) evaluation. A theorist can use
the analogy framework (figure 1.3) in analysis by considering how a listener performs these steps in
regards to an analogy and (a) piece(s) of music.

35
Figure 1.3: The basics of the analogy framework
The retrieval step accounts for “who” is listening, or information a listener has from experience with
past music or another domain. In the mapping step, listeners associate each element of one structure
with a corresponding element in a different structure, noticing shared relations between two
domains. Listeners then evaluate; they evaluate inferences, recognize musical context, and consider
their own goals as well as composer and performer goals. Listeners make various inferences when
making analogies while listening, including affect (emotion), formal function (Caplin 1998), learned
associations, expectations (or implications) among others. Through the evaluation step, theorists can
help tie together meaning (or inferences) and musical structure.
I combine the analogy framework with more traditional music-theoretic methods of score
analysis, including thematic analysis (Meyer 1973), schema theory (Gjerdingen 2007a), sonata theory
(Hepokoski and Darcy 2006), formal function (Caplin 1998), and, to a lesser extent, associative sets
(Hanninen 2012). My use of score analysis for the first research question differs from my score
analysis for the second. For research question 1, I use score analysis to understand listener
perceptions in experimental settings. Even though I do not analyze stimuli from these experiments,
my analyses of different thematic variation movements are a direct response to results from these
36
experiments. For research question 2, I use score analysis to understand listener perceptions in
naturalistic settings.
In addition to the analogy framework and music-theoretic score analysis, I often quote
claims music theorists, historical figures and others make on their hearing or interpretation of a
musical passage or piece. I incorporate more of these quotations in my text than expected (or,
perhaps, even normal). Yet, my research investigates “the listener” and their modes of hearing. I
consider these quotations additional evidence for the arguments I make: that someone hears this
passage or piece in “that way.” For research question 2, for instance, several listeners (e.g. Hatten
1994; Longyear 1970; Balter 2009) hear Beethoven’s final movement of Op. 95 as ironic.
Organization
Before continuing, I summarize each dissertation chapter.
Chapter 2 reviews scholarship on analogy in psychology, music theory and music cognition
as well as categorization in music theory and music cognition. First, I review how scholars in
psychology conceptualize, define and study analogy. Cognitive psychologists and cognitive scientists
argue that analogy also influences how humans perceive similarity and categorize concepts. Next, I
discuss how music theory and music cognition incorporate analogy (either explicitly or implicitly).
Unlike cognitive psychology, most music-related literature do not place significance on analogy,
though they do for similarity and categorization. I review similarity and categorization in music
theory, before discussing music-theoretic surface-level patterns relevant to this project. Finally, I
review similarity and categorization in music cognition, an area dominated by experiences on
categorizing musical themes.
Chapter 3 introduces the analogy framework and how theorists can use it to analyze music.
The first step is retrieval. As part of this step, I discuss listener cultural context. The second step is
37
mapping. First, I define two levels of musical relations: relations within a musical event and relations
between musical events. I discuss constraints for these relations. Next, I define two forms of
analogical comparison: bidirectional listening and unidirectional listening. Then, I introduce four
levels of analogy in music: intra-opus (local analogy; within a same piece), inter-opus (local analogy;
between pieces), intertextual (local analogy; between specific pieces) and extra-musical (distant
analogy; between music and another domain). Finally, I introduce a third step of evaluation and how
it is used in music: inferences, context, and goals. A pattern mapping taxonomy demonstrates how
these mappings can be executed in music for different effects. I close with benefits of the analogy
framework.
Chapter 4 considers how listeners perceive irony in music. This chapter addresses research
question 2: how music theorists as listeners use distant analogies to make sense of something
“unexpected” in music. In this case, the distant analogy is between music and language, and how
listeners use this analogy to perceive irony in Beethoven string quartets op. 95/iv, op. 131/V, and
op. 130/I.
Chapter 5 considers how listeners use analogy to perceive thematic variations as one
category. This chapter addresses research question 1: how listeners may need to use analogy to
categorize musical themes, a process inhibited by the design of music cognition categorization
experiments. I use the analogy framework to argue when listeners would use intra-opus analogy to
hear relations within a musical event. I discuss differences in how composers vary a theme from the
eighteenth- to the nineteenth-century. Then, I analyze the following theme and variation forms:
Beethoven’s Piano Sonata, Op. 109/III, Mozart’s Violin Soanta, K. 377/ii, and Daube’s pedagogical
example of theme and variations in his The Musical Dilettante.

38
Chapter 6 concludes the dissertation and describes future research. I discuss the design of an
experiment in categorizing thematic variations. I hypothesize that if experimentalists use methods
from analogy experiments, participants are more likely to categorize themes based on structural
notes as opposed to surface features. I also discuss how the analogy framework could be used for
two other score analysis projects: 1) connecting schemata and topics, and 2) analyzing how exposure
to film music impacts how modern listeners hear common practice music. In conclusion, I discuss a
possible model for musical communication based on analogy.

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CHAPTER 2
“We have learned to think about the relatedness of things”: Analogy,
Music Theory, and Music Cognition
Whether or not we talk of discovery or of invention, analogy is inevitable in human thought,

because we come to new things in science with what equipment we have, which is how we
have learned to think, and above all how we have learned to think about the relatedness
of things. We cannot, coming into something new, deal with it except on the basis of
the familiar and the old-fashioned.
—J. Robert Oppenheimer, “Analogy in Science,” an address to the Sixty-Third
Annual Meeting of the American Psychological Association, 1955
[Characters FRY, LEELA, and BENDER are in a spaceship]

FRY: Usually on the show, they came up with a complicated plan, and then explained
it with a simple analogy.
LEELA: Hmmm…. If we can re-route engine power through the primary weapons and
configure them to Mellvar’s frequency that should overload his electro-quantum structure.
BENDER: Like putting too much air in a balloon!
FRY: Of course! It’s all so simple!
—“Where No Fan Has Gone Before,” animated television show Futurama
Both J. Robert Oppenheimer and the writers for the television show Futurama (1999-2013)
draw attention—albeit, in different ways—to humans’ ability to think about the relatedness of things
and how they use something familiar to understand something new or complex. In the preceding
chapter, I proposed two research questions and corresponding hypotheses, which suggest the
cognitive process of analogy as a way to answer these questions. The aim of this dissertation, to
understand how listeners use analogy to make sense of and categorize sequences of music, is
inherently interdisciplinary. To answer these research questions, I draw from literature addressing
analogy, similarity and categorization in at least three disciplines: cognitive psychology, music theory,
and music cognition (figure 2.1).

40
Music
Cognition
Research
Questions
Music Cognitive
Theory Psychology
Figure 2.1: Disciplines and research questions
I first review research in cognitive psychology and its consensus on a definition of analogy and how
humans use the cognitive process of analogy, not only for analogical reasoning but also similarity
and categorization. Then, I review literature on analogy, similarity and categorization in music
theory, including certain music-theoretic categories or patterns. I close by reviewing literature on
similarity and categorization n music cognition experiments, particularly experiments that ask
listeners to categorize musical themes. In chapters to come, I contextualize psychology literature in
music to create a theoretical framework for analogy in listening (chapter 3) and draw from this other
literature in analyses that address research question/hypothesis 1 (chapter 5) and research
question/hypothesis 2 (chapter 4). In the fourth and fifth chapters, I supplement this literature with
other, though minimal, literature from (psycho)linguistics and musicology (figure 2.2).
41
Music
Cognition
Cognitive
Musicology
Psychology
Research
Questions
Linguistics Music Theory
Figure 2.2: Other disciplines and research questions
This chapter, then, reviews the core literature for this interdisciplinary project, guiding a reader
through ink spilled in primarily cognitive psychology, music theory and music cognition.
Definitions of Analogy
As it exemplifies a common understanding of analogy, I begin this definitions section with
an example of analogy from Keith Holyoak and Paul Thagard’s Mental Leaps:
Consider the following discussion between a mother and her four-year-old son, Neil, who
was considering the deep issue of what a bird might use for a chair. Neil suggested,
reasonably enough it would seem, that a tree could be a bird’s chair. A bird might sit on a
tree branch. His mother said that was so and added that a bird could sit on its nest as well,
which is also its house. The conversation went on to other topics. But several minutes later,
the child had second thoughts about what a tree is to a bird: “The tree is not the bird’s chair
– it’s the bird’s backyard!” In this conversation Neil makes a mental leap, exploring
connections between two very different domains. He is trying to understand the relatively
unfamiliar world of creatures of the air in terms of the familiar patterns of everyday human
households. This small example conveys what we mean by analogy, or analogical thinking. The
child’s everyday world is the source analog: a known domain that the child already understands
in terms of familiar patterns, such as people sitting on chairs and houses that open onto
backyards. The bird’s world is the target analog – a relatively unfamiliar domain that the child
is trying to understand. … In a loose sense, there is indeed a some sort of logic – call it
analogic – that constrains the way the child uses analogy to try to understand the target
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domain by seeing it in terms of the source domain. (Holyoak and Thagard 1995, 2, italics in
original)
Analogy involves a mental leap, using a well-understood source5 as a basis for making inferences
about a less understood target6.
Analogy seems intuitive and easy to define; yet, it appears in different forms depending on
its purpose. It can take shape as a literary turn of phrase (“Juliet is like the sun”), but also as a
problem-solving technique in a lab (“Since it worked with this virus, it should work with this one as
well”). It can be a humorous quote, such as the following by Benjamin Franklin: “A countryman
between two lawyers is like a fish between two cats” (quoted in Gentner and Smith 2012, 135).
Analogy can persuade someone to feel a certain emotion; to “convince you to adapt an emotional
attitude” (Thagard and Shelley 2001, 344). As an example, in 1995, the people of Quebec voted
whether or not to separate from Canada. A side opposed to Quebec’s separation used a persuasive
analogy with a negative emotional content: “It’s like parents getting a divorce, and maybe the parent
you don’t like getting custody” (quoted in Thagard and Shelley 2001, 345). Or, humans can use
analogy to convince others to make certain decisions (Bassok 2001). For example, consider this
exchange in The Social Network (Fincher 2010), a movie about Mark Zuckerberg and the creation of
Facebook.
SEAN PARKER: And that’s where you’re headed, a billion dollar valuation. Unless you take
bad advice, in which case you may as well have come up with a chain of very successful
yogurt shops. When you go fishing you can catch a lot of fish, or you can catch a big fish.
You ever walk into a guy’s den and see a picture of him standing next to fourteen trout?
CHRISTY: No, he’s holding a three-thousand point marlin.
SEAN PARKER: Yup!
MARK ZUCKERBERG: That’s a good analogy.
5 Definition of source: “analog from which inferences and explanatory structure are drawn; typically, the more familiar or
concrete domain: for example, in the analogy ‘An electric circuit is like a plumbing system,’ the base is a plumbing system”
(Gentner and Smith 2012, 130, italics in original).
6 Definition of target: “analog one is drawing inferences about; typically the less familiar or more abstract domain: for
example, in the analogy ‘an electric circuit is like a plumbing system,’ the target is electric circuit” (Gentner and Smith 2012,
130).
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EDUARDO SAVERIN: Okay, but we all know that marlins don’t really weigh three-
thousand pounds, right?
Sean Parker convinces Mark Zuckerberg to “go big or go home” by advising him, using analogy, to
catch a “big fish” instead of “a lot of little fish” (Sean Parker succeeds in persuading Mark
Zuckerberg, even though Eduardo Savein identifies flaws in the analogy). Despite an abundance of
ways analogy can be realized, I commit to a single overarching definition here from cognitive
psychology that accounts for different ways analogy can be used.
This project’s core model of analogy is Dedre Gentner’s (1983, 2003) Structure-Mapping
Theory. According to Structure-Mapping Theory, a definition of analogy is:
A type of similarity in which two examples share [the] same system of relations. The concrete
features of the examples may be similar or dissimilar; analogical comparisons are concerned
with whether the features relate to one another in the same way in each case. (Jee et al. 2013,
177)
Analogy, then, is more than just figurative language or an artistic mode of expression, it also helps
humans interpret mundane facets of everyday life, often without them realizing it. Samuel Day and
Gentner (2007) claim that:
Analogical processes may also be involved in the far more routine task of organizing and
interpreting our daily experiences. Intuitively, it seems that analogies with our prior
experience could contribute to our fluency in processing current situations, even when such
analogies are not overtly noticed or intentionally pursued. (39)
Analogy, a cognitive process that helps humans understand their everyday experiences, depends on
comparing two situations or analogs (where one is a base and another a target) that share similar
structures of relations. It helps humans generate inferences on these as well as influences similarity
perception and even categorization.

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Analogical Processes: Retrieval, Mapping, and Evaluation
When a person reasons analogically, he or she performs the following steps, as described by
Gentner and Smith (2012) (for a visual representation, see figure 2.3):
 Retrieval: Given some current topic in working memory, a person may be reminded of a
prior analogous situation…
 Mapping: Given two cases present in working memory (either through analogical retrieval
or simply through encountering two cases together), mapping involves a process of
aligning the representations and projecting inferences from one analog to the other.
 Evaluation: Once an analogical mapping has been done, the analogy and its inferences are
judged. (131)
As seen in figure 2.3 below, Holyoak (2012) adds a learned “schema” as a product of these steps:
In the aftermath of analogical reasoning about a pair of cases, some form of relational
generalization may take place yielding a more abstract schema for a category of situations…
of which the source and target are both instances. (235)
Figure 2.3: Major components of analogical reasoning (graphic from Holyoak 2012, 236)
45
When defining the “mapping” step above, Gentner and Smith (2012) use the following phrases:
“two cases present in working memory,” “aligning representations” and “projecting inferences from
one analog to another.” Before continuing, I explain what each of these phrases mean in turn.
Gentner and Smith (2012) mention that a person considers “two cases present in working
memory,” either through analogical retrieval or two cases encountered together. On one hand, to
have two cases present, humans can remember a better understood situation from long-term
memory, what Gentner and Smith (2012) call “analogical retrieval.” In the analogy electricity is like
water, for example, “water” is a better understood domain from long-term memory used to
understand “electricity,” whereby a person projects one domain onto another. On the other hand,
humans can also compare and notice relational similarities between two cases encountered together.
For example, one might compare one picture of a woman giving food to a squirrel to a second
picture right next to it of a man giving food to a woman. After comparing, one notices both pictures
share a relation of giving. A person did not retrieve either of these pictures from long-term memory;
instead, he or she encountered the pictures together and it prompted him or her to make the
analogy.
Also, in the mapping stage, Gentner and Smith (2012) describe “a process of aligning the
representations.” Although I clarify what “aligning” entails at a later point, this statement assumes
there are typical conceptual cognition representations as well as interactions of representations and
processes (e.g. Palmer 1978). Gentner and Markman (1997) write:
We must have a representational system that is sufficiently explicit about relational structure
to express the causal dependencies that match across the domains. We need a
representational scheme capable of expressing not only objects but also the relationships and
bindings that hold between them, including higher order relations such as causal relations.
(46)
46
In order to have this concept of analogy as “aligning representations,” I presume cognitive
representations exist that encode relationships between objects.
Finally, I further explain “projecting inferences” as part of a mapping stage. After a person
maps over necessary relational structure, he or she generates inferences by filling in “holes” or
“vacancies” in the target’s representation. According to Gentner and Smith (2012):
Once the base and target have been aligned and their common relational structure found, if
there are additional parts of the relational pattern in the base that are not present in the
target, then this missing pattern will be brought over as a candidate inference….Thus, one
way to think about inference generation is as a process of relational pattern completion. The
requirement that candidate inferences be connected to the common relational pattern
effectively filters which inferences will be considered. (132)
As an example of inference generation, Gentner and Smith (2012) use a bathtub analogy:
The amount of water in a bathtub is determined by the rates of water flowing into the tub
and water flowing out through the drain. As long as the inflow of water into the tub exceeds
the outflow the bathtub will continue to fill. Likewise, the amount of carbon dioxide (CO2)
in the atmosphere is determined by the rates of CO2 emissions and CO2 removal. (130)
A person aligns the known fact that “the amount of water entering and leaving the tub determines
the total amount of water in the tub” with the known fact that “the amount of CO2 entering and
leaving the atmosphere determines the total amount of CO2 in the atmosphere” (Gentner and Smith
2012, 132). Then, a person draws new inferences. One such inference might be “the amount of CO2
in the atmosphere will decrease if CO2 removal exceeds CO2 emissions,” since water in a tub will
decrease if the amount draining exceeds water entering (Gentner and Smith 2012, 133). A person
notices a “hole” in the representation of “amount of CO2 in the atmosphere” and uses their
knowledge of “water in the tub” to predict would happen if CO2 removal exceeds its emissions.
Mapping: Gentner’s Structure-Mapping Theory
Mapping, or a “systematic set of correspondences” between the elements of a source and a
target analog, is the heart of analogical thinking (Holyoak and Thagard 1995, 4). Out of all these
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steps, psychologists of analogical research have studied “mapping” the most since “the mapping
process is viewed as pivotal” (Spellman and Holyoak 1996, 308). In the mapping step, listeners
associate an element of one structure with a corresponding element in a different structure; for
music, this generally means placing relationships between musical elements (including note-to-note,
phrase-to-phrase, etc.) in dialogue with each other. Mapping is also “the stage at which knowledge
about the source is carried over to the target” (Blanchette and Dunbar 2002, 672).
Structural Alignment
Structure-Mapping Theory entails a “comparison process” which “involves finding an
alignment between the base and target representations that reveals common relational structure”
(Gentner 2003, 107). Mapping begins with structural alignment (Goldstone and Medin 1994; Gentner
1983; Gentner and Markman 1997): “Identifying correspondences between two analogs, based on
their common relations” (Gentner and Smith 2012, 130). Humans normally focus on objects instead
of relations between those objects, especially if the two analogs do not share surface similarity.
When representations are structurally aligned, however, it prompts humans comparing the situations
to notice relations instead of objects (Markman and Gentner 1993).
In order for structural alignment to occur, the representations must be structurally consistent
due to tacit constraints: one-to-one mapping, parallel connectivity, and the systematicity principle. The first, one-
to-one mapping or one-to-one correspondence (Gentner and Markman 1997; Gentner and Smith 2013),
requires that each of the representation’s elements match at most one element to another in the
representation. On element cannot map onto two different elements in the other representation.
The second, parallel connectivity (Gentner and Markman 1997; Gentner and Smith 2013), ensures that
if two predicates (or relations) correspond to each other, then their arguments also correspond to
48
each other. For example, let us return to our atom and solar system analogy from the previous
chapter. If the relation is REVOLVES, as in smaller objects revolving around a bigger one, and the relation
matches across both representations, the arguments will also match: electrons will map onto planets
(both are the things that REVOLVE) and the nucleus will map onto sun (both are the things that
are being REVOLVED around). Therefore, the alignments must be structurally consistent (Gentner
and Markman 1997, 47). The systematicity principle (Gentner 1983; Clement and Gentner 1991;
Gentner 2003) biases humans to map relations that participate in a common system of relations—
“sets of common relations connected by higher-order relations that can themselves be mapped”
(Clement and Gentner 1991, 92). Thus, humans prefer to map “lower-order matches” (e.g. events)
that are connected through “higher-order constraining relations” (e.g. causal relations) (Gentner
2010, 754). Gentner (2010) writes: “The systematicity principle stems from a tacit preference for
coherence and predictive power. Thus, when a given analogy affords more than one consistent
interpretation, people prefer the more systematic interpretation, all else being equal” (Gentner 2010,
754). The more systematic interpretation is preferred, the only exceptions being when factual or
relevance considerations overrule it in some way.
Consider figure 2.4: two analogous scenes that can be aligned. The elements can be put in a
one-to-one correspondence with each other where the relational structure is consistent in both
scenes. In this example, the relational structure could be labeled steadily decreasing size, as Circle
1>Circle 2>Circle 3 (Gentner and Smith 2012, 131). A perceptual/object match (one that shares
surface similarity) for the pointed-to circle in (a) is the middle circle in (b); it is the same size and
looks the same. A relational match (one that shares relational similarity) for the pointed-to circle in
(a) is the smallest circle on the far right in (b); it is the smallest circle, or the final evolution of the
relation steadily decreasing size.

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Figure 2.4: Circles steadily decreasing in size (graphic from Gentner and Smith 2012, 131)
Comparison highlights common relational structure and accentuates structural
commonalities necessary for structural alignment (Loewenstein, Thompson, and Gentner 2003;
Gentner et al. 2009; Catrambone and Holyoak 1989; Christie and Gentner 2010; Gentner and
Markman 1997; Gentner and Namy 1999; Gick and Holyoak 1983; Markman and Gentner 1993).
Thus, comparison is a “powerful learning mechanism when it occurs; however, it often fails to occur in
situations where it could be effective” (Gentner et al. 2009, 1353, italics in original).
Cross-mappings are often used in experimental stimuli to illustrate the importance of
comparison in analogical processing. A cross-mapping is “a comparison in which two analogous
scenarios contains similar or identical objects that play different relational roles in the two scenarios”
(Gentner and Markman 1997, 47). The 3 in 1:3::3:9 is an example of cross-mapping (Gentner and
Markman 1997). Although 3 is present in both 1:3 and 3:9, it plays different relational roles in each
situation.
Markman and Gentner (1993) used cross-mapping to demonstrate how comparison
highlights relational structures. For stimuli, they used scenes where the same object played different
roles in each scene (cross-mapping; figure 2.5).

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Figure 2.5: Causal scenes containing a cross-mapping. The woman in the top scene is receiving food, while the
woman in the bottom scene is giving food (graphic form Markman and Gentner 1993, 436)
In the top scene of figure 2.5, a man gives food to a woman. In the bottom scene of figure 2.5, a
woman gives food to a squirrel. In these scenes, the act of “giving from one agent to another” is a
relation. The woman is cross-mapped since she appears in both scenes, but plays different roles. In
the top scene, she is given to, while, in the bottom scene, she is the giver. The experimenter, after
pointing to the woman in the top scene, asked participants which object in the bottom scene “went
with” the first object. If the participant chose the woman in the bottom scene, then he or she chose
the same object without considering its relational role, or an object mapping (Markman and Gentner
1993, 438). If the participant chose the squirrel in the bottom scene, then he or she chose the object
51
with the same relational role whether it was the same object or not, or a relational mapping
(Markman and Gentner 1993, 438). If participants just answered the “went with” question, then they
tended to make object mappings. However, if participants compared the two scenes beforehand,
then they were far more likely to make relational mappings.
Markman and Gentner (1993) conclude that comparison causes people to align scenes and
makes common relations more salient. Hence, comparison altered how participants viewed the
scenes. If they just looked at the scenes, they picked the object match. If they compared the scenes
first, it changed what they attended to in the scene; relations became more noticeable, and so
participants chose the relational match instead. Thus, one group of participants engaged in the
activity of comparison, while the other did not. Humans tend to notice surface features or objects
first. Yet, they attend to relational structure if they participate in certain actions, such as comparison.
Two Forms of Comparison: Projective Analogy and Mutual Alignment Analogy
There are two forms of comparison in analogical reasoning: projective analogy and mutual
alignment analogy. Projective analogy is someone relating something familiar to a novel instance,
while mutual alignment analogy is someone comparing two novel situations to each other (figure
2.6):
In projective analogy, the learning results chiefly from inference projection. A well-understood
situation (the base) is aligned with a less understood situation (the target), and inferences are
mapped from the base to the target…. Projective analogy plays an important role in learning
and instruction… But although projective analogy is important in learning, it cannot explain
how the process gets started…. This brings us to a second kind of analogical learning,
analogical encoding or mutual alignment… Analogical encoding occurs when two analogous
situations are present simultaneously and are compared to one another. Here the key process
is not directional projection of information (though inferences can occur), but aligning,
rerepresenting, and abstracting commonalities. If inferences are drawn they may be
bidirectional, with both examples serving as bases as well as targets. (Gentner and Kurtz
2005, 255, italics in original)
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Figure 2.6: Schematic of two forms of comparison in analogy (graphic from Jee et al. 2010, 3)
Mutual alignment analogies are often from the same domain or topic (Jee et al. 2010, 8) as well as
often both partially understood. Thus, humans make analogies either from retrieving a base from
long-term memory or from comparing two situations together in working memory.
Retrieval: The “Analogical Paradox”
“Retrieval” means transferring a prior situation in long term memory to a current one. I use
retrieval to discuss a listener’s past experience with music: musical conventions, cultural information,
and so on. However, retrieval also subsumes a listener’s experience with other domains. These other
domains may be activated if the listener makes an analogy between it and music. In the literature on
analogy in cognitive science, the most relevant information (especially in regards to my first research
question) is the “analogical paradox” (e.g. Dunbar 2001).
Humans often fail to retrieve source analogs from long term memory, even if they are useful
in the new context (Gick and Holyoak 1980; Gick and Holyoak 1983; Keane 1987; Novick and
Holyoak 1991; Ross 1987; Gentner et al. 2009). Dunbar (2001) calls this phenomenon the
53
“analogical paradox,” although it has appeared under other names including “inert knowledge
phenomenon,” “the failure to appropriate retrieval” (Gentner et al. 2009, 1344), “the retrieval gap”
(Holyoak 2012, 224), and “transfer failure” (Blanchette and Dunbar 2002, 673). When humans are
reminded of prior situations, it is often due to surface similarities—such as characters and settings—
instead of relational similarities (Brooks, Norman, and Allen 1991; Catrambone 2002; Gentner,
Ratterman, and Forbus 1993). It is not that people lack the right knowledge, but instead are unable
to retrieve the “right knowledge at the right time” (Loewenstein, Thompson, and Gentner 2003,
120).
Evaluation
After someone matches a base and target domain, the knowledge he or she transfers from
base to target may be proposed as candidate inferences (Gentner and Markman 1997, 51). Gentner
and Smith (2013) indicate that inferences are: (a) highly selective (people do not bring over all they
know about the base to the target), and (b) not necessarily true (6). Gentner and Markman (1997)
provide the following example:
Imagine you have a friend with a sarcastic sense of humor that makes her difficult to get
along with but a helpful temperament that wins her the loyalty of her friends. If you met a
new person and discovered that he had a sarcastic sense of humor, then based on his
similarity to your other friend, you would probably be more willing to suppose that he is
difficult to get along with than to infer that he has a helpful temperament that wins him loyal
friends. (51)
A person is selective in their inferences, yet the inference may not necessarily be true. In the case
described above, the new person met may not be difficult to get along with after all.
After structural alignment and inferences projected from base to target, a person evaluates
the analogy and its inferences as part of the larger evaluation step. According to Gentner and Smith
(2012), at least three factors impact how humans evaluate analogical inferences: 1) factual
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correctness, 2) goal relevance, and 3) new knowledge (133). First, people generally reject inferences
that are clearly false. Factual correctness relates to “adaptability: how easy it is to modify a fact from
the base to fit the target” (Gentner and Smith 2012, 133). Second, inferences that relate to the
reasoner’s current goals are more important in evaluating the analogy than inferences that do not
(e.g. Clement and Gentner 1991). Spellman and Holyoak (1996) claim that:
An analogy may be drawn to help achieve a variety of different goals, such as solving a
problem that has arisen in the target domain, predicting what is likely to happen if various
alternative actions are taken, or generating an explanation of why the target domain behaves
as it does. (308)
Spellman and Holyoak (1996) demonstrate that people who have two possible mappings available to
them for a given analogy select the mapping whose inferences are most applicable to their goals.
Third, reasoners accept inferences that yield more new knowledge than ones that do not: “The idea
is that inferences that potentially yield a significant gain in new knowledge may be desirable (even if
somewhat risky), especially when brainstorming or dealing with unfamiliar domains” (Gentner and
Smith 2012, 133).
Holyoak and Thagard’s Multiconstraint Theory
Structure-Mapping Theory is not the only theory of analogy. Holyoak and Thagard (1995)
put forth a Multiconstraint Theory where analogy is understood as “three interrelated types of
constraints” (15). The first is that “analogy is guided to some extent by direct similarity of the
elements involved” (Holyoak and Thagard 1995, 5, italics in original). Second, there is a “pressure to
identify consistent structural parallels between the roles in the source and target domain” (Holyoak
and Thagard 1995, 5, italics in original). Finally, the third is that “the exploration of the analogy is
guided by the person’s goals in using it, which provide the purpose for considering the analogy at all”
(Holyoak and Thagard 1995, 6, italics in original). These three aspects—similarity, structural and
55
purpose—are not rules, but guidelines to creating and understanding analogy (Holyoak and Thagard
1995, 6). Holyoak and Thagard (1995) argue that:
Ideally, the three constraints will all work together to suggest a single interpretation of how
the source is applicable to the target. But in less-than-perfect analogies the constraints can be
at odds with each other, for example, when structural considerations support
correspondences that are incompatible with object similarities or with the purposes of the
analogist. (37)
To develop their multiconstraint approach, Holyoak and Thagard (1989) combine assumptions of
structural consistency with a pragmatics focus (e.g. attainment of goal states).
There is much agreement between Holyoak and Thagard’s Multiconstraint Theory and
Structure-Mapping Theory. According to the Multiconstraint Theory, for instance, “people implicitly
favor mappings that maximize structural parallelism (in agreement with Gentner’s, 1983, structure-
mapping theory)” (Holyoak 2012, 239). Holyoak and Thagard (1995) also insist that:
The multiconstraint theory and structure mapping theory are in general agreement that the
core of analogical thinking involves finding mappings between relational structures, and that
the use of analogy depends on sensitivity to structure, semantic similarity of concepts, and
the purpose of analogy. However, the theories formulate the constraints in different ways.
The multiconstraint theory….integrates all three types of constraints within a process of
parallel constraint satisfaction. (268)
When relevant, I adopt positive elements that Multiconstraint Theory offers. In my analogy
framework for listening to music, for instance, I consider listener and composer goals, which I
adopted from the Multiconstraint Theory. Yet, Structure-Mapping Theory is the dominant
analogical model used here. This is because Structure-Mapping Theory includes an act of structural
alignment, often prompted though comparison. The Multiconstraint Theory lacks this aspect, at
least in systematic detail. Structure-Mapping Theory also places greater importance on comparison. I
consider this action important to understanding how people listen to music. In addition, Structure-
Mapping Theory includes a projection of inferences. Finally, I interpret Structure-Mapping Theory
as a more active-oriented approach to analogy than the Multiconstraint Theory. Structure-Mapping

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Theory focuses on actions, such as aligning representations, projecting inferences, and so on.
Constraints, on the other hand, seem more passive. They “happen to” a person as opposed to a
person “acting toward something.” This connects to my goal of creating an action-oriented
framework for analogy in listening. Overall, Holyoak and Thagard (1995) call Multiconstraint
Theory a “very general theory” (15). Structure-Mapping Theory, on the other hand, is systematic and
specific; overall, a cleaner model more easily transferred to the listening experience.
Analogy and Similarity
According to Keane and Costello (2001, 287), mechanisms such as structural alignment and
analogy are behind multiple phenomena, including similarity. The Oxford English Dictionary defines
“similarity,” as “likeness, resemblance” and “points of resemblance” (“Similarity, N.” 2015).
Similarity, in the words of William James ([1890] 1950), could also be defined as a “sense of
Sameness” which is “the very keel and backbone of our thinking” (459). Though similarity is a
central theoretical construct in psychology, scholars have accused similarity of being too flexible
(Goodman 1972; Murphy and Medin 1985). Although, similarity loses some flexibility when
grounded in analogy. The philosopher Nelson Goodman (1972) claims that similarity needs a frame
of reference; similarity of A to B is meaningless unless a person knows “in what respects” A is
similar to B. In Medin, Goldstone and Gentner (1993), similarity is often considered flexible but
“respects” as described by Goodman (1972) are systematically fixed through a similarity comparison
process (255).
Gentner and her colleagues recognize three different “classes” of similarity in “similarity
space”: analogy (or relational similarity), literal similarity and mere-appearance (or perceptual
similarity). Perceptual similarity is present when two objects look similar on the surface; they share
similar attributes. For example, a sun and an orange-yellow ball share similar attributes: they are both
57
yellow-orange and round. Relational similarity is present when objects share relations even though
they do not look the same on the surface. For example, a nest and a house are both homes (for birds
and humans respectively): they both share a relation of something living inside. Yet, they do not look
similar on the surface; they do not have shared attributes. Instead of strict categories, these different
“classes” rest on a continuum (Gentner and Medina 1998, 266) where the y axis is “relations shared”
and the x axis is “attributes shared” (figure 2.7).
Figure 2.7: Visual representation of similarity space (graphic from Gentner and Smith 2013, 10)
Consider the often-used analogy between an atom and the solar system (see chapter 1). In analogy,
then: “there is substantial relational overlap with very little object similarity: objects correspond not
because of inherent similarity but by virtue of playing like roles in the relational structure” (Gentner
and Medina 1998, 266). When object-similarity (or perceptual similarity) begins to increase, the
comparison becomes literal similarity. Consider comparing one solar system with another. Literal
similarity then “involves both relational and object [perceptual] commonalities [or similarity]”
(Gentner and Medina 1998, 266). Mere-appearance (or perceptual similarity) contrasts with analogy,
as when comparing a planet with a round ball (Gentner and Medina 1998, 266). The planet and ball
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do not share relations, though they look alike on the surface since they both have a round shape. A
planet revolves around the sun, and a ball does not revolve around anything. Therefore, they share
perceptual features, but not relations.
Gentner and Markman (1997) argue “similarity is like analogy,” since humans use the
alignment process in both (48). Participants judge stimulus pairs with aligned relational similarity as
more similar than stimulus pairs with primarily perceptual similarity (Goldstone, Medin, and
Gentner 1991; Gentner, Ratterman, and Forbus 1993). This implies that humans perceive a
difference between relational similarity and perceptual similarity, a distinction that Gentner and
Markman (1997) find emerges at different points in processing (53). Studies of relational
comparisons find that participants base similarity on local as opposed to relational matches when
they need to respond within 1000 ms (Goldstone and Medin 1994). When they have a longer
response deadline, participants base similarity on relational matches. (Goldstone and Medin 1994).
Analogy and Relational Categories
In the same way that relational similarity differs from perceptual similarity, a category
defined by relations (a relational category) differs from a category defined by perceptual features (a
perceptual or entity category). Barr and Caplan (1987) first made this a distinction between categories,
although they used “intrinsic features” for “perceptual features” and “extrinsic features” for
“relations.” Features are intrinsic when it is true of an entity in isolation (“has wings” is an intrinsic
feature of a bird). A feature is extrinsic when it represents a relationship between two or more
entities. “Used to work with” could be an extrinsic feature of a hammer in the relation between
hammer and worker (Barr and Caplan 1987). Barr and Caplan’s (1987) extrinsic and intrinsic features
connect to Gentner and Kurtz’s (2005) relational and entity (perceptual-based) categories. Entity
categories (or perceptual categories) are categories where the members have “highly overlapping
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intrinsic features and feature correlations” (Gentner and Kurtz 2005, 152). Relational categories, in
contrast, are ones where common relational structure determines category membership (Gentner
and Kurtz 2005, 151). Relational categories can be based on relations that:
May include common function (e.g., both are edible), mechanical causal relations (e.g. both are
strong so they can bend things), biological causal relations (e.g., both need water to grow), role
relations (e.g. both grow on trees), and progeneration (e.g., both have babies). Relational categories
can also be based on perceptual relations such as symmetric in form, mathematical relations
such as prime, or logical relations such as deductively sound. It is these relational systems that
provide the theory-like aspects of concepts and categories. (Gentner 2005, 216)
Relational categories are often contrasted with perceptual one, even though they are not always so
distinct in our perceptual world. An object can be a member of multiple categories simultaneously.
For instance, a cow could be a member of the perceptual category “cow,” but could also be a
member of the relational category “barrier” if it is between a person trying to escape from an angry
bull. Whether or not a person attends to the object as a member of “cow” or “barrier,” most likely
depends on their attention and needs in the situation. Therefore, perceptual features often describe
how an object looks on the surface and are intrinsic to the object (e.g. the color red, a round shape,
etc.). On the other hand, relations describe how an object connects to another object (e.g. to get
from point A to point B).
Markman et al. (2011) recognizes three types of relational categories: role-governed
categories, schema-governed categories, and thematic categories (361). Role-governed categories are
determined by the role that category plays in a relation (Goldwater, Markman, and Stilwell 2011).
Guest is a role-governed category (figure 2.8) since its definition depends on a relation between it and
something else. A guest is a guest when an agent visits a home or establishment that is not their own.
In the same way, host is a role-governed category (figure 2.8) since its definition depends on an agent
whose home is being visited by another agent. Neither of these categories depend on what these
agents look like—they could be men, women, or animals (as in fairy tales or children’s stories).
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Thematic categories are organized around the goals of an organizer (e.g. Barsalou 1983). For
example, a category diet foods could have a wide range of members since their membership depends
on a goal on the part of an agent. Finally, schema-governed categories are determined by a relational
system (Goldwater, Markman, and Stilwell 2011). For instance, consider x visits y (figure 2.8). Due to
its relational system, visit is a schema-governed category as there is one agent in relation to another
agent; the relation of going to a house or establishment that belongs to one agent, but not the other
(Goldwater, Markman, and Stilwell 2011, 360). In this example, role-governed categories guest fits in
x, while host fits in y. In general, category membership can depend on relationships, features or both.
Figure 2.8: Schematic of the category “visit” (graphic from Goldwater, Markman, and Stilwell 2011, 360)
Goldwater, Markman and Stilwell (2011) differentiate these three types of relational categories—
role-governed, schema-governed, and thematic categories—from feature-based or perceptual
categories, which have received the most attention in the categorization literature (see Murphy
2002). Goldwater, Markman and Stilwell (2011) define feature-based or perceptual categories,
writing they “are represented as collections of features describing category members, e.g., birds are
animals with wings and a beak. These features are primarily about the category members themselves
and not about relations among category members and other entities” (361). In their discussion of
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feature-based categories vs. role-based categories [relational categories], Goldwater, Markman and
Stilwell write: “While feature-based categories and role-governed categories are distinct… their
representations can become connected because whenever a role is filled, it is filled with a member of
a feature-based category. For example, the roles of guest and host are most typically played by people”
(361).
As comparison helps structural alignment in analogy, comparison also helps humans
categorize based on relational information. Gentner and Namy (1999) examined how children
acquired categories. Early in development, children think of “like kinds” in terms of perceptual,
object-level commonalities, such as “shape bias” (e.g. Baldwin 1992; Imai, Gentner, and Uchida
1994). Experimenters showed children an orange and called it a “blicket.” When asked whether a
banana or a ball was also a “blicket,” children chose the ball a significant number of times. Children
were basing categorization on “perceptual” categorization (the roundness of the shape) as opposed
to “taxonomic” categorization (fruit). When Gentner and Namy (1999) gave children two examples
of the “blicket” category, children chose the taxonomic choice significantly over the perceptual
match. Gentner and Namy (1999) argue that, “the process of structural alignment may act as a
bridge from an initial perceptually-based category to a later more sophisticated understanding of the
category” (506). The comparison between the exemplars highlighted the relational commonalities
(the taxonomic category) and promoted structural alignment.
Comparison facilitates categorization of relational categories not just for children, but also
adults (Elio and Anderson 1984; Medin and Ross 1989; Jee et al. 2013). For instance, Jee et al. (2013)
used comparison to help participants learn between categories in a geosciences context. Participants
saw images of faults in rocks that were highly similar except for a crucial difference, helping them
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categorize the image as category of “image-with-fault” or “image-not-with-fault.” They found that
“comparing alignable contrasting images facilitates fault classification” (Jee et al. 2013, 180).
In addition to alignment, comparison influences future transfer through relational schema
abstraction, or the use of an abstract relational category. Comparison was positively associated with
participants abstracting a relational schema (Gentner et al. 2009, 1372); essentially, an abstracted
relational category. After comparing two analogs, participants create a relational schema that can be
used as a memory item to transfer relationally similar instances from autobiographical memory to
future situations (Gick and Holyoak 1983; Gentner et al. 2009). Gick and Holyoak (1983)
demonstrated that comparison creates a schema that leads to future transfers, while Gentner et al.
(2009) demonstrated that there could be a backwards effect of using a schema to retrieve from past
memories. According to Gentner et al. (2009), “analogical abstraction [of a relational schema] aids in
relational retrieval from past memories and also applies to future instances in relational transfer”
(1353).
Gentner et al. (2009) ran five experiments which supported the following: “(a) that
analogical abstraction [creation of relational schemas] at recall time promotes relational retrieval of
prior exemplars from long-term memory and (b) (in concert with prior findings) that analogical
abstraction at learning time promotes relational transfer to future exemplars” (1363, italics in original).
Gentner and colleagues (2009) realized relational schemata have two properties: 1) diminished surface
competition, and 2) stronger relational matches. The first property, diminished surface competition, means that
relational schemas have fewer surface features. If used as a memory probe, it will retrieve few
surface matches. The second, stronger relational matches, means that relational information is
“weighted” heavier in memory (Gentner et al. 2009, 1363).

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Approaches to Analogy in Music
Since I have reviewed analogy in cognitive psychology, I will now review analogy in music
literature.
Music Theory
In music theory, Steve Larson, Lawrence Zbikowski and Robert Hatten explicitly discuss
analogy in their research. Larson, especially, uses analogy as a basis or his book Musical Forces. He
writes:
I define an “analogy”…. As a mapping that calls attention to similarities between two

different things – regardless of whether those things belong to the same or to different
domains… When the mapping is between things in different domains, I call that analogy a
“metaphor.” (Larson 2012, 36)
Unlike Gentner’s definition, however, Larson (2012) does not restrict analogy to relational similarity,
but considers any type of similarity. Larson (2012) describes various potential analogies in music:
hearing similarities between passages in one piece, between two different pieces, and hearing music
as similar between two domains (36–50). Zbikowski (2013), in his definition of analogy, draws
attention to relations as a necessary component:
In the case of similarity, both attributes and relations are shared: a pencil and a pen are
similar to each other both in appearance and in function, although the kind of marks each
makes on a writing surface (permanent or impermanent; of relatively consistent coloration or
subject to gradation) are different. In the case of analogy, only relations need be shared: a
finger is analogous to a pen in that it is an approximately cylindrical structure that can be
used to trace characters on a writing surface; unlike a pen or pencil, however, the finger
leaves no discernible marks on the writing surface and its ‘cylinder’ is firmly attached to the
larger structure of the hand. (12)
Zbikowski (2013) mentions relations; yet, features he calls relations—such as “cylindrical
structure”—sound more akin to perceptual features than relations. When Hatten (1994) defines
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analogy, he mentions relationships, and even types of relationships in music, such as part-for-whole,
and so on.
An analogy is a relationship arising from a comparison of relationships: A is to B as X is to Y,

where “as” implies a figural meaning illuminating the nature of one rational pair in terms of
another. A correlation is a more literal mapping of meaning (literal for a given style)
coordinated by the analogous markedness values of the two pairs of oppositions. It is in this
sense that A can “mean” X. “A is to B as X is to Y” does not imply that A means X, but that
it relates to B in some way (similarity, contiguity, part-for-whole, etc.) comparable to the way
X relates to Y. Often, that “way” requires the creativity of metaphor to interpret. Analogy
can best be understood as one of the motivations underlying the mapping of a correlation.
(Hatten 1994, 38)
Although Hatten (1994) does not allude to cognitive literature on analogy, Structure-Mapping
Theory could be a cognitive underpinning to Hatten’s theory of relating music to outside world and
its significations. In summary, these theorists engage with “analogy” to a varying degree and for
different purposes. Larson uses “analogy” to analyze how listeners relate musical concepts to
physical concepts, Zbikowski uses it to understand how listeners hear emotions in music, and
Hatten uses it to motivate correlations in his theory.
Music Cognition
In music cognition, Kielian-Gilbert (1990) as well as Eitan and Granot (2007) connect
analogy to a cognitive or empirical study of music. Kielian-Gilbert (1990) argues that humans relate
different phrases and sections of a piece to each other—or “similarity of musical roles”—using
analogy (69). In Eitan and Granot’s (2007) experiments, participants heard musical phrases as more
similar to each other when they shared analogous changes in intensity. For example, a musical
phrase with a crescendo (gradual increase in loudness) was judged as more similar to a phrase with an
accelerando (gradual increase in speed) than a decelerando (gradual decrease in speed). These results
suggest that listeners judge similarity not just using musical dimensions (e.g., timbre, contour) but
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also relational structure across dimensions (e.g. intensity change or “isomorphic intensity contours”)
(Eitan and Granot 2007, 64). Eitan and Granot (2007) claim that theorists, especially those who
study atonal music, may use such intensity changes as a motivic device in analysis (64).
Similarity and Categorization in Music Theory
Since this dissertation examines how analogy connects to similarity and categorization in
music, I review literature not just on analogy, but also on similarity and categorization in music
theory and cognition (a more copious literature anyway). In music theory, Hanninen (2004) observes
that, “association and categories’ central place in analytical practice may well explain why theorists
have paid them scant attention: plain stones are rarely noticed” (147). In his book Conceptualizing
Music, Zbikowski (2002) devotes an entire chapter on categorization, writing specifically about a
Wagner example:
To understand this music – to make sense of the sonic texture Wagner weaves – requires
being able to assimilate these various musical phrases into a single cognitive construct and
then recall that construct, often after an hour or more of Wagnerian effusion. Understanding
Wagner – or most music, for that matter – requires being able to think in terms of categories
of musical events. (24)
Before these current theorists, Meyer (1967), using the term “pattern” as opposed to category, writes
in Music, The Arts, and Ideas: “Understanding music is not merely a matter of perceiving separate
sounds. It involves relating sounds to one another in such a way that they form patterns (musical
events)” (46). In the following sections, I discuss how music theorists have analyzed similarity and
categorization in music. In particular, I discuss Meyer’s conformant relationships as well as review
music-theoretic patterns or categories relevant to this dissertation.

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Meyer’s Conformant Relationships
Meyer (1973) describes conformant relationships in music as: musical relationships in which
one “identifiable, discrete musical event is related to another such event by similarity” (44). Whether
a listener perceives a musical relationship as conformant or not depends upon the degree of
similarity between them (Meyer 1973, 46). Ockelford (2009) claims that the perception of similarity
is at the heart of understanding musical structure. Meyer (1973) argues that:
The more all the parameters are duplicated in model and variant, the stronger the
conformant relationships. This is specially the case with the primary pattern-forming
parameters of pitch, duration, and harmony. For instance, a motive can be changed in
register, dynamics, tempo, and instrumentation and still be recognizably the same. (Meyer
1973, 46)
For Meyer (1973), two musical themes are similar based on pitch and pitch-class relationships as well
as secondarily rhythmic-metric structure. On the one hand, melody, rhythm-meter and harmony are
primary parameters since they create musical syntax (Meyer 1989, 14). On the other hand, secondary
parameters7 are musical dimensions that do not give rise to musical syntax; for instance, dynamics,
tempo, articulation, timbre, sonority, and texture (14). Secondary parameters have been called
“surface” features of music while primary parameters have been called “deep” features (Lamont and
Dibben 2001, 247). Thus, large differences in secondary parameters should not change how a
musical theme is “categorized.”
Music-Theoretic Patterns
Since my research question 1 asks how listeners categorize musical themes, I review
literature on themes and thematic variations. In addition, I review literature on other music-theoretic
patterns that could also be categorized using analogy: Meyer and Gjerdingen’s schemata and
7To be clear, I do not agree with Meyer’s use of terms such as “primary” and “secondary.” It implies that primary
parameters are more important than secondary parameters. I do not agree with this stance.
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Hanninen’s associative sets. I consider how Hanninen uses musical relations in her associative sets
when creating my analogy framework (chapter 3), while I use schema theory and variations analytical
techniques in the analysis chapters (schemata: chapters 4 and 5; variations: chapter 5).
Thematic Variations
When music theorists discuss similarity, they often discuss musical themes. The theme, or
motive, is any kind of musical event in “a piece or section of a piece that, despite change and
variation, is recognizable as present throughout” (Schoenberg [1934-36] 1995, 169). The intuition of
most music theorists, such as Meyer (Meyer 1973; Meyer 1989), Réti (1951), Schoenberg (1967;
1978), and Zbikowksi (2002), is that themes are perceived as more or less similar due to primary
parameters. If the two musical themes have similar pitch structure, then they would be similar to
each other and possibly in the same musical category. Other features, including instrumentation,
dynamics, tempo, texture and so on, may “create variants within a motivic or thematic category, but
do not define or constitute motives and themes” (Eitan and Granot 2009, 140). Thus, two musical
passages are the same thematic category if they share pitch and meter/rhythm information, whether
or not one is very loud and the other is very soft. Primary parameters that constitute a theme are
often relationship-oriented; therefore, a listener may use analogy to categorize two musical passages
as the same thematic category (see chapter 5).
Analogy, then, helps listeners recognize not just a theme, but also variation on a theme since
variations elaborate upon the basic thematic identity of relations. Ivanovitch (2010) opens his article
on themes and variations by describing this common understanding of variations as elaboration
upon elements of a base theme:
Variation is often seen as a straightforward affair: a self-contained piece called the theme
gives rise, through various elaborations and manipulations, to a series of variations that are
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“based upon” that theme. According to this view, which appears to honor the linear
temporal sequence in which a variation set unfolds, the theme functions effectively as a
repository of elements, a coordinated collection of structural features (such as harmony,
melody, motives, or – more flexibly – a composite voice-leading structure) from which the
variations will select, emphasizing now one aspect, now another. (Ivanovitch 2010, 1)
In the eighteenth-century, music writers recognized that variation form had three different, but
related connotations, most of which considered variation as elaboration or modification:
First, it was a method of composition, by which a simple melody or bass line could be
elaborated in shorter note values to create a fully-worked out piece. In this sense, all music
could be seen as composing out a simple framework…. Second, it was a technique designed
to add interest to a composition by modifying simpler material previously heard…. Finally,
variation could be elevated to the dominating structural principle of a musical work, resulting
in the well-known form of theme and variations. Here, both pattern and elaboration are
experienced in a temporal series. (Sisman 1993, ix–x).
Variation seems straightforward; yet, cognitively-speaking, how do listeners categorize different
variations as one thematic category?
As Ivanovitch (2010) implies, scholars assume a theme is a list of features that may or may
not be changed over time in variation. According to Nelson (1948), the variation theme “may be
regarded as a complex of separate, through interdependent elements. Conspicuous among these
elements are melody, bass, harmony, structure (meaning the plan of parts and phrases), tempo,
dynamics, rhythm, and instrumental tone color” (7). “Every element” the theme has can change,
either in terms of a “slight modification” (“simple embellishment or decoration”) to “radical
alterations that could “threaten the recognizability of the original element or even destroy it
completely” (Nelson 1948, 7). Instead of being “single changes” or “groups of changes,” Nelson
(1948) argues, variation means “combinations of changes with constants” (8). As part of my analyses
(chapter 5), I study combination of changes to measure musical distance between variations (which
are exemplars of a thematic category).

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When humans listen to a theme, Ivanovitch (2010) describes the process as listening for
“potential” (5). Ivanovitch (2010) claims that variations relies on listener engagement:
Creative engagement on the part of the listener is always vital in the realm of variation. To
hear an element of the theme where none literally exists on the page, to imbue a scale with
the properties and implications of a theme, indeed, to hear a theme or variation at all – these
are crucial aspects of the environment of variation that take place with the creative
cooperation of the listener; they are not to be found by pointing at notes. Variation is, in
fact, a matter of trust, a contract between composer and listener, who both agree to behave
in the “variation manner”…. Listeners who become “preoccupied” with variation allow the
composer to lead them through a musical world in which relations between two musical
objects are not measured according to some finely calibrated absolute scale, but are governed
by strategic reassurances (which is why the beginnings and endings of variations are so
important), general shapes, and a willingness to exert one’s mental faculties to fill in the
blanks. (28)
Thus, Ivanovitch (2010) hints at elements important to analogy: a contract between composer and
listener (a focus on listener or composer goals) as well as engagement with the process.
Although several musical forms depends on variations of a theme (e.g. sonata form; Rosen
1976), I limit my analyses to the theme and variations form. The Oxford Music Online defines the
theme and variation form as such:
A self-contained theme is repeated and changed in some way with each successive
statement…. As a genre, strophic theme and variations has often had a poor reputation. This
is in part because its form is paratactic (a chain of separable links) and can therefore seem
like a loose assemblage of small pieces without a coherent shape. However, many composers
have grouped individual variations to create larger-scale musical forms and rhetorical
patterns…. Variation form is unusual in furnishing both the most vacuous and some of the
most profound examples of Western instrumental music. (Jones 2014)
Sisman (1993), arguing that variation form has mostly been denigrated by music scholars, insists that
“the ornamental and decorative techniques assumed to prevail in the variations of Haydn and
Mozart are considered “surface” features, failing to penetrate and transform the thematic model like
“deeper” contrapuntal, characteristic, developmental, or transformational techniques” (1–2). In the
eighteenth-century, aesthetic acceptance of the variation form fell away with emergence of the
“organic metaphor in the arts, in the works of Schlegel, Coleridge, and many others” (Sisman 1993,
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15). Unlike sonata form, variations could not equate with “growing” or “becoming”; individual
variations could not be considered a continuous process of growth, even with the theme serving as a
metaphorical “seed” (Sisman 1993, 15).
The theme and variations form as a whole covers a surprising array of types. To have a
clearer understanding of these different theme and variation form types, two different typologies
emerged in the twentieth-century. The first, by Nelson (1948), groups variation types
chronologically, as seen here:
1. Renaissance and baroque variations on secular songs, dances, and arias:

“In pieces of this kind, the primary aim was the decoration and embellishment of the theme
by means of new figurations and counterpoints” (Nelson 1948, 3–4).
2. Renaissance and baroque variations on plain songs and chorales.
3. The baroque basso ostinato variation.
4. The ornamental variation of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries:

“Successor to renaissance and baroque variations on secular songs, dances, and arias. Both
types aim at the figural decoration of the theme, as indicated above, and the distinction
between them is therefore primarily stylistic…. The stylistic divergence between the two
classes is too wide to be ignored, and in this study ornamental variation will be used in the
restrictive sense of a specific eighteenth- and nineteenth-century decorative type” (Nelson
1948, 5, italics in original).
5. The nineteenth-century character variation:

“Whereas previous variations end to preserve the expression of the theme throughout a
series, the separate members of the character variation frequently alter the expression, or
“character,” of the theme profoundly” (Nelson 1948, 5).
6. The nineteenth-century basso ostinato variation.
7. The free variation of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.
The second, by Sisman (1993; 2014), groups variation types by musical elements, though the list is
still chronological:
1. Ostinato variations:
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“Built upon a short pattern of notes, usually in the bass register, which functions as an
ostinato or ground bass, this type includes continuous variations of late 16th- and 17th-
century dance frameworks” (Sisman 2014).
2. Constant-melody or cantus firmus variations:

“The former is the broader category of which the latter is a historical instance. A melody,
usually widely known, appears intact or with only slight embellishments in every variation,
moving from voice to voice in the texture” (Sisman 2014).
3. Constant-harmony variations:
“This broad category includes many variation sets of the 16th, 17th and 18th centuries in which
the harmonic progression takes precedence in retentive power over the melody. The more
sectional harmonic-metric schemes of Italian and Spanish dance frameworks, such as the
folia and the Romanesca, may be included here, as well as such topical, expressive and
contrapuntal Baroque variation sets” (Sisman 2014).
4. Melodic-outline variations:
“The theme’s melody, or at least the ‘outline’ of its main notes, is recognizable despite
figuration, simplification (unfigured variation) or rhythmic recasting” (Sisman 2014).
5. Formal-outline variations:
“Aspects of the theme’s form and phrase structure are the only features to remain constantly
in this predominantly 19th-century type” (Sisman 2014).
6. Characteristic variations:
“Individual numbers take on the character of different dance pieces, national styles or
programmatic associations” (Sisman 2014).
7. Fantasy variations:
“In this 19th- and 20th-century type, occasionally used as a title, the variations allude to or
develop elements of the theme, especially its melodic motifs, often departing from any clear
structural similarity with it” (Sisman 2014).
8. Serial variations:
“Modification of a serial theme (a 12-note row or some slightly longer or shorter
configuration) in which figuration and accompaniment are derived from the row” (Sisman
2014).
As implied by these taxonomies, the theme and variation form changed over time. Thus, a scholar
could more closely examine shifts from one type to another over time.
I focus, in my analyses, on how composers shift their understanding of variation from the
late eighteenth- to the early-nineteenth-century. In Nelson’s language, this would be the shift from
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ornamental variation to character variation; or, in Sisman’s language, the shift from melodic-outline
variations to either formal-outline, characteristic or fantasy variations. Variations are a profitable area
for studying analogy in music as they depend on a category (theme) that has been altered on the
surface, but still heard as the same due to shared relations. Thereore, a theme could be a relational
category. Also, the genre as a whole prompts listeners to compare variations, meaning that listeners
are more likely to align relational structure.
Meyer and Gjerdingen’s Schemata
Leonard Meyer applied the psychological concept of schemata to music by writing about
patterns that listeners implicitly learn:
Schemata are patterns that, because they are congruent both with human
perceptual/cognitive capacities and with prevalent stylistic (musical and extramusical)
constraints, are memorable, tend to remain stable over time, and are therefore replicated
with particular frequency. (Meyer 1989, 51)
Robert Gjerdingen (2007a) defines “schema” as a “packet of knowledge, be it an abstracted
prototype, a well-learned exemplar, a theory intuited about the nature of things and their meanings,
or just the attunement of a cluster of cortical neurons to some regularity in the environment” (11).
Similarly, Byros (2012) claims that it is a “mentally abstracted prototype of a statistical regularity in a
particular musical style which forms the basis for apprehending future phenomena” (280). Since
musical patterns are style-specific, schemata are mental representations of these patterns as governed
by the grammar conventions of a specific style (Meyer 1973, 27). A “replicated pattern,” such as a
musical schema, is a “culturally and historically determined category of mind” (Byros 2012, 306).
The fact that composers replicate patterns has “direct consequence” on the creation of a mental
category (Byros 2012, 282). Yet, schemata should not be static, but active and engaging.
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In retrospect, the history of music theory may consider Meyer to be the “father” of schema
theory. He described voice-leading or contrapuntal schemata, solidifying this type as the most
commonly discussed schemata in the field. At an earlier point in his career, Meyer used the word
“habit” as opposed to “schema.” For Meyer (1973), norms (or patterns) are the “rules of the game,”
the way a person perceives music (213). In Explaining Music, Meyer discusses how patterns, or
schemata, are events which may imply a particular continuation, striving for closure or stability. He
calls these “implicative relationships” (Meyer 1973, 110), where an implication may or may not be
realized (actualized). By the time of his 1989 book Style and Music¸ Meyer shifted from using “habit”
to “schema,” briefly flirting with the term archetype in his article “Exploiting Limits” (Meyer 1980)
and Explaining Music. In Style and Music, Meyer corrects his understanding and use of the terms
“schemata” and “archetype”:
I have discussed the nature and function off schemata in Explaining Music, pp. 213-26,
“Exploiting Limits,” and (with Burton S. Rosner) “Melodic Processes.” In these studies I
usually referred to such stable, replicated patterns as archetypes. I prefer the term schema,
however, not only because it is commonly used in cognitive psychology, but because there is
a possible confusion with Jungian psychology, which uses archetype to refer to presumably
innate universals. But as far as I can see, the schemata of, say, tonal music are significantly a
matter of learning; that is, they arise on the levels of style rules, not cognitive universals.
(Meyer 1989, 50 n31, italics in original)
In “Exploiting Limits,” Meyer writes about schemata (though, here he uses “archetype”) as part of
style change (Meyer 1980).8 Constraints change over time and patterns do as well; however, some
patterns seem more “archetypal” within a cultural tradition such as Western tonal music (Meyer [1980]
2000, 194). Schemata then provide a listener with a type of “context” (Gjerdingen 1988, 6) in order
to make sense of a piece.
8 All page numbers will be the reprinting in Meyer’s Collection of essays The Spheres of Music (2000).
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Robert Gjerdingen extended Meyer’s work in his galant9 music project, beginning with his
1988 Classic Turn of Phrase which investigates a certain schema of Meyer’s from 1700 to 1900
(Gjerdingen 2007a; Gjerdingen 1988). He shows that the schema event is not characterized by any
single feature, but is a “coordinated set of movements” (Gjerdingen 1988, 64). In identification,
Gjerdingen calls for a “reciprocal relationships” between features and schemata (Gjerdingen 1988,
6). Features are cues to the selection of schemata; however, schemata serve to detect features.
Corpus studies give scholars a way to identify a schema in many different compositions in
order to amass statistical evidence for its presence (Gjerdingen 1988, 34). In Music in the Galant Style,
Gjerdingen discusses many different schemata found in this era of music (which he defines as 1720
to 1780). He writes that the goal is to help people:
Hear this music more as Mozart might have heard it, to imagine musical behaviors more
consonant with the premises and goals of those who lived at galant courts, and to seek a
more realistic account of how galant musical craftsman fashioned raw tones into finished art.
(Gjerdingen 2007a, 452).
9 Many scholars often restrict schema theory analyses to voice-leading patterns in eighteenth-century music. Others,
however, have extended this ideology to musical elements outside of voice-leading (rhythm in particular) and to other
musical styles. Benjamin Anderson (2012) adopts schema theory methodology to explore voice-leading/harmonic
progression patterns in the style of popular music, specifically the music of Elton John. His corpus study concludes with
a theory of musical “archetypes:” patterns, stable over time, which persist and transcend style periods (Anderson 2012,
201). Common features, or central tendencies, emerge when style-specific information is removed from 1970s popular
music and galant style patterns (Anderson 2012, 203). Anderson identifies a 4-3-2-1 archetype as a result of comparing
the galant Prinner to an Elton John schema called the “Levon” (Anderson 2012, 205–208). Stefan Love’s (2012)
schematic analyses of Charlie Parker and jazz include both phrase structures (rhythmic elements) as well as “melodic
paths.” He compares the high-speed composition of galant composers to the improvisation of jazz musicians (especially
Charlie Parker). He identifies phrasing schemata, an adaptable template for beginning and endings phrases and a “path”
through the metrical structure of a blues chorus (Love 2012, 3.2). He follows this by looking at “melodic schemata” or
“recurring stepwise paths” which tend to appear in particular “zones” of the twelve-bar blues. (Love 2012, 4.1) These
melodic patterns, though having features like schemata, differ from the “precise” schemata in other corpus studies. For
instance, the main implications of Love’s “descent to 1” schema are to reach scale degree 1 and appear in a particular
“zone” of the form. It, prototypically, begins on 6, but could, theoretically, begin on another note. These melodic
schemata are more akin to gap-fill melodies (Meyer 1989; Meyer 1980) than the changing-note schema and other galant
schemata. They seem to “reach” up to a particular note before descending to fill in the leap. Love’s melodic schemata, in
this way, may be “plan-based” as opposed to “script-based.”
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Overall, Gjerdingen writes that differences in learning and experience influence how listeners in
various time periods would interpret the same set of pitches and “could lead to somewhat different
meanings in different eras” (Gjerdingen 2010a, 62).
Gjerdingen (2007b; 2010b) connects the acquisition of schemata to the pedagogical style of
eighteenth-century Neapolitan conservatories. Through every exercise the student experiences, she
or he abstracts away features to create a schema. Pedagogical exercises—such as partimenti (see
Sanguinetti 2012)—provided conservatory students with thorough basslines to be realized. The
pedagogical exercises created a “rich store of memories” that a student could later draw on for an
artistic purpose (Gjerdingen 2007b, 115). A musician—through use and experiences—achieves
fluency in these stock musical phrases. A composer who is a “non-native speaker” and does not
have such fluency may use the schemata in a “non-normative manner,” analogous to a person
speaking English as a second language may misuse a common idiom such as “raining cats and dogs”
(Gjerdingen and Bourne 2015).
Other scholars extend the schema concept into other areas of eighteenth and early
nineteenth-century music. Byros (2009a; 2009b; 2012) discusses how eighteenth-century listeners
may use schemata to recognize the key of a piece. For instance, problematic sections in Beethoven’s
Eroica can be explained using schema theory. Byros (2012) writes that his approach is similar to
reader-response theories in literature and he believes his approach to be the “inverse process” of the
Penn School since he ascertains schemata by beginning with reception history as opposed to
corpora, or the “music itself” (286). He does, however, perform a large corpus-study (in addition to
looking at reception history) to pioneer a schema which he calls the le-sol-fi-sol (Byros 2009b; Byros
2009a). The le-sol-fi-sol illustrates why listeners in the nineteenth-century heard beginning measures of
Beethoven’s Eroica in the key of g minor while contemporary theorists hear the same passage Eb
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major. The le-sol-fi-sol – a four-event schema in two stages – has a “dominant” chord orientation
(revolving around the 5 scale degree) and – in turn – has key defining characteristics (Byros 2012,
292). The strong key-defining profile is evidenced by the “normative closing usage,” consistently
creating a cadence (particularly a half cadence) or a cadential-type function (Byros 2012, 295). As a
way to further extend schema theory, some scholars identify rhythmic schemata. Burns (2010), for
instance, writes about six rhythmic archetypes in African music, while Ito (2013) writes about
hypermetrical schemata
A schema, a base abstraction, depends on relations between scale-degrees, contour and
harmonic functions; thus, a listener could categorize it using analogy. Goldwater, Markman, and
Stilwell (2011) refer to relational categories as “schema-governed categories,” providing further
evidence for musical schemata fitting in this category type (361). In addition, Holyoak (2012) also
label relational categories “schemas” (Holyoak 2012, 235). A contrapuntal musical schema
discussed—as an abstraction of a category of situations—depends on relational information, so a
listener may use the cognitive process of analogy to perceive it.
Hanninen’s Associative Sets
The music theorist Dora Hanninen (2004; 2012) has created a formalistic analytical system
that relies on relations between musical elements; therefore, I briefly review her understanding of
musical relations. Hanninen (2004) develops a theory of association using “associative sets,” which is
a “set of segments interrelated by contextual criteria – a category in the context of music analysis”
(150–151). A “contextual criterion” is a “rationale for segmentation that identifies an association
between two or more segments by repetition, equivalence, or similarity within a specific musical
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context” (Hanninen 2004, 149). She defines “contextual criteria” further by claiming that it refers to
relational properties:
The properties that contextual criteria record are not merely predictable but relational: a
contextual criterion represents as association between segments as a property of (two or more)
segments…. Predictable properties such as a particular pitch-class set or rhythm become
significant when they associate two or more segments within a context under consideration –
that is, when they function as relational properties. (Hanninen 2012, 33, italics in original)
Contextual criteria are made up of contextual subtypes (C Subtype), which is “a subtype of
contextual criteria that names the musical space in which association occurs” (Hanninen 2012, 482).
Some examples of contextual subtypes include: pitch contour, pitch-class sets, pitch intervals, scale-
degree ordering and rhythm (Hanninen 2012, 36). For instance, the Cpitch <C4, D5, E5> indicates an
association between two or more instances of a pitch ordering of <C4, D5, E5> (Hanninen 2012,
36). The following (figure 2.9) are a selection of contextual subtype related to tonal music:
C Subtype Description and Comments Sample Individual Criterion

Cpitch Pitch set (ordered) Cpitch <C#3, A2>
Ccseg Pitch contour Ccseg <0132>
CSD Ordered set of scale degrees CSD <565>; CSD <543>, CSD <6543>
(uninterpreted)
CSD :a:<543> Ordered set of scale degrees, key CSD :a:<543>
specified (stronger than above)
CSDint Scale degree interval (+,- indicate CSDint <-3, -4, +2, -3> (NB: SDint <D4,
directed intervals) C4> = -2 not -1)
CSDintq Diatonic interval size and quality (+,- CSDintq <-M3, -d4, +m2, -M3>
indicate directed intervals)
CRN Roman numerals (uninterpreted) CRN, a: <I, ii6, V, I>
CHF Harmonic functions (T=tonic; CHF <T, PD, D, T>
P=predominant; D=dominant)
(uninterpreted)
Figure 2.9: Contextual subtypes list, re-constructed from Hanninen (2012, 37-38)
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As contextual subtypes are relational structure in music, I incorporate some of these subtypes into
my understanding of musical relations (see chapter 3).
Similarity and Categorization in Music Cognition
Since listeners use similarity to extract information from music (Reybrouck 2009),
understanding musical similarity is important not just to music theory, but also music cognition.
McAdams et al. (2004) maintain that:
The perception of similarity between musical materials is a crucial topic in the field of music
psychology because it underlies a large part of the listener’s musical experience, including the
perception of associations between themes or motifs and their variations, the formation of
musical categories, and the sense of familiarity. (207–208)
Special issues of journals dedicated to these topics reflect a growing interest within the field of music
cognition. Music Perception dedicated a 2001 special issue and Musicae Scientiae followed suit with the
2007 and 2009 discussion forums.
A number of experiments have studied how listeners perceive similarity (Lamont and
Dibben 2001) and categorize different musical themes (Deliège 1996; Eitan and Granot 2009;
Pollard-Gott 1983; Ziv and Eitan 2007). Although there are a variety of music-theoretic categories,
as elaborated upon above, most experimenters have chosen “themes” for stimuli in music cognition
experiments. I elaborate upon the main experiments in this area, and note that participants in these
experiments do not categorize themes based on primary parameters as music theorists expect.
Pollard-Gott (1983)
Pollard-Gott (1983) asked musicians (including two experts) and non-musicians to listen to
Franz Liszt’s Sonata in B minor, which employs two main themes (theme A and theme B). To begin,
participants listened and took notes on the first half of the sonata. After this listening phase,
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participants rated similarity (on an 11-point Likert scale) of pairs of eight target passages (four
varitions on each of the two themes). After similarity data was collected, the experimenters told
participants that passages were variations on two themes. At this point, subjects heard one example
of theme A and one example of theme B. Subjects, then, in a forced-choice task, categorized the
same eight target passages as well as unheard themes from the sonata’s second half as either theme
A, theme B, or neither. There were three conditions: a single-listening condition (subjects came in
for one session as described above), a repeated-listening condition (subjects came in three separate
days within a week, but did the same tasks each time), and an “expert” condition (musicians who
had played the piece and were familiar with it). The experts relied on primary parameters for
similarity and categorization. However, all listeners (musicians and non-musicians) in the single-
listening condition rated similarity between excerpts, and categorized them, based on secondary
parameters, such as dynamics and register. Participants in the repeated-listening condition began by
using secondary parameters to judge similarity, but changed dimensions over the course of the
sessions. By the end, they used more primary parameters. For listeners in this repeated-listening
condition, Pollard-Gott (1983) contended that, “the relationships that listeners
perceived…corresponded with higher order thematic structure after repeated exposure, but not after
a single exposure to the music” (92). Only after an increase in familiarity were listeners able to base
their similarity (and categorization) on primary parameters as opposed to secondary parameters.
Bigand (1990)
In Bigand (1990), experimenters constructed a family of four melodies (a1, b1, c1, d1) with
different rhythmic-melodic contours (a, b, c, d) but the same underlying harmonic structure (1).
They applied the same rhythmic-melodic contours to a different harmonic structure (2) to create
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Family 2 melodies (a2, b2, c2, d2). The listeners heard family 1 (a1, b1, c1, d1) twice with instruction
that these melodies were related to each other in the same way. Participants were told to listen
carefully because they would hear the same melodies again as well as four other unrelated, but
similar, melodies. After the listening phase, participants heard eight melodies (4 old and 4 new) in
the test phase. Participants indicated whether the melody in the test phase belonged to the family
heard in the listening phase or not. Bigand (1990) calculated the number of errors for each
participant’s answers. In one condition the family was a True Family (a1, b1, c1, d1), while the
second condition was a False Family (a1, b2, c1, d2). The False Family controlled for memorization;
however, this meant that the melodies in the False Family were not actually members of the same
category. Not surprisingly, the subjects made fewer mistakes when a True Family was presented.
Bigand (1990) concluded that a listener was able to “abstract an underlying structure common to
four melodies that have different rhythmic-melodic contours…. A listener can go beyond the level
of superficial organization to reduce the musical surfaces to a minimal underlying structure
represented them”10 (56).
Lamont and Dibben (2001)
Lamont and Dibben (2001) experimented with thematic similarity. They used Beethoven’s
piano sonata, Op. 10, No. 1, first movement for musical stimuli. Similar to Pollard-Gott’s (1983)
10 A confound with this experiment is that listeners heard the exact same stimuli in the testing phase as in the listening
phase. The participants were told that any new melodies heard in the testing phase would not be part of the Family
heard in the listening phase. Instead of abstracting the underlying harmonic structure as Bigand (1990) concluded,
listeners could have used memorization. If they realized during the testing phase that they had not heard the melody
before, they knew to classify the theme as not part of the Family. If they had heard the melody, they knew that it was
part of the Family. Bigand (1990) said memorization is controlled; however, the one control for memorization was
leading the subjects astray with a “False Family,” a “false” category. A more effective control for memorization would
have been presenting all new melodies in the testing phase (four different melodies that had the same underlying
harmonic structure as the Family in the listening phase and the four melodies with the same rhythmic-melodic contour
heard in the listening phase but with a different underlying harmonic structure).
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Liszt piece, this movement had two different themes (theme A and theme B) with variations. After
hearing the Beethoven piece in its entirety, participants heard thirty-six pairs of themes (each theme
paired with every other theme on the list). All participants rated each pair for their similarity on an
11-point Likert scale. Lamont and Dibben (2001) found that secondary parameters, such as
dynamics, articulation and texture, were the principal dimension of thematic similarity. They had
only a single-listening condition, however, and noted that their results may change with repeated
listening or increased familiarity (Lamont and Dibben 2001, 263).
Ziv and Eitan (2007)
Ziv and Eitan (2007) used the same material as Lament and Dibben (2001) to see if they
could gather different results. Instead of asking about similarity, they decided to take the route of
categorization. They hypothesized that “thematic categorizations based on representations in long-
term memory, would emphasize deeper-level theory based features more than similarity ratings using
short-term memory traces (Ziv and Eitan 2007, 119). They found that features listeners used to
categorize included aspects of texture, melodic contour, rhythm and dynamics, while some “surface
aspects of pitch structure,” such as mode, harmonic color, and common pitch configurations also
may play a part (Ziv and Eitan 2007, 120–121). They found that, “As in L&D’s [Lamont and
Dibben’s] similarity judgments, structural pitch-based structures preeminent in music analysis ---
harmonic, intervallic, or (in Schoenberg) serial – do not seem to play a major role in listener’s
thematic categorizations” (Ziv and Eitan 2007, 121).

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Eitan and Granot (2009)
Eitan and Granot (2009) manipulated both secondary and primary parameters to see which
made more of an impact when participants categorized themes. They created their own stimuli to
control the manipulations of different melodies. In the first experiment, Eitan and Granot (2009)
manipulated three variables: interval class, pitch contour, and “expression” (a compound of
secondary parameters, including dynamics, texture, articulation, and register). They wanted to know
which (if any) of the manipulated variables would influence listeners in classifying musical themes.
As in previous experiments, Eitan and Granot (2009) showed that “motivic classification can often
be related to similarities and differences in secondary parameters – general auditory features, not
specifically related to music” (163). The variables of the second experiment were: pitch intervals
(instead of interval class), rhythm, and “expression” (the same secondary parameters). Participants
tended to use “expression” in categorization. However, the second experiment demonstrated that
musically training participants used rhythm more than “expression,” while non-musicians continued
to use “expression.”
A Common Theme
A common theme (pun slightly intended) is that listeners more often use secondary
parameters (or perceptual features) to categorize themes/motives than primary parameters (or
relations). This finding contradicts music theorists’ ideas on what listeners should use to categorize
themes/motives. Eitan and Granot (2009) concede that:
Our results seem to problematize [music] theorists’ notion of the hierarchy of musical
dimensions shaping motivic identity: pitch intervals or IC [interval class], dimensions
supposedly central in determining motivic identity, were marginalized, and secondary
parameters, assumed to be marginal, were centralized. Correspondingly, the processing of
Express-based categorization was fastest, while that of pitch-based categorization was
slowest. (163, 165)
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Ziv and Eitan (2007) similarly claim that:
Studies of motivic-thematic perception suggest that features considered structurally

important by music theorists are often not those selected by listeners (including experienced
musicians) in categorizing musical events or rating the similarities among them. (102)
Lamont and Dibben (2001), in yet another similar statement, also admit:
There is no evidence to suggest that listeners are using thematic or motivic similarities
[primary parameters], even listeners with musical training … listeners prioritized the more
surface features. (263)
To add to the collection, McAdams et al. (2004) acknowledge that listeners prefer to use surface
features to determine musical similarity (231). Thus, there seems to be a “thematic paradox”:
listeners in experimental settings do not use musical dimensions that music theorists would expect to
categorize themes.
Of the different perceptual features, scholars note that a few are more prominent in
categorization than others. In McAdams et al. (2004), participants, according to their verbalizations,
used tempo, regularity of durational patterns, syncopation, register, contour, repetition, directionality
of gestures, continuity/fragmentation, fluidity/choppiness among others (231). For the Beethoven
piece in Lament and Dibben (2001), dimensions of similarity included dynamics, articulation and
texture.
Conclusion
In research question 1, I mentioned experiments, which I discussed here in depth, that show
participants do not often categorize musical themes based on primary parameters. If musical themes
are based on relational structure (or relational categories), then participants in these experiments do
not notice shared relations in the musical stimuli. They are not making the analogy necessary to hear
similarity between musical stimuli. Many articles have illustrated the necessity of comparison in
making analogies (e.g. Markman and Gentner 1993; Medin, Goldstone, and Gentner 1993; Gentner
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and Namy 1999). To categorize musical themes, listeners may need to compare musical passages to
recognize relational structure, assuming that themes are relational categories. To demonstrate that a
theme is a relational category, I will analyze theme and variations movements “in the wild” as a real
world laboratory (see chapter 5). If themes are relational categories, then “analogy” explains
participant behavior in music categorization experiments. In research question 2, I ask how theorists
use an analogy between music and another domain to make sense of unexpected findings. In this
chapter, I overviewed how humans use analogy to make inferences as well as connect a source and a
target, even ones from different domains. I use this knowledge to make a case for using analogy for
the perception of irony in certain musical movements (chapter 4). To answer both research
questions, though, a theoretical framework for analogy in music listening is needed. In the following
chapter, I create this framework based on literature covered here.

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CHAPTER 3
“Knowledge about a Thing is Knowledge of its Relations”: An
Analogy Framework for Music Analysis
Knowledge about a thing is knowledge of its relations.

—William James, The Stream of Consciousness
The White Rabbit put on his spectacles. “Where shall I begin, please your Majesty?” he
asked.
“Begin at the beginning,” said the King gravely, “and go on till you come to the end: then
stop.”
The preceding chapters have been groundwork for the dissertation’s more complicated task,
which is to consider how listeners use the cognitive process of analogy to make sense of sequences
of music. In the published version of his address to the American Psychological Association,
Oppenheimer (1956) wrote: “we come to new things in science with what equipment we have… we
cannot, coming into something new, deal with it except on the basis of the familiar and the old-
fashioned” (129). By replacing “science” with “music,” the quote becomes, “we come to new things
in music with what equipment we have… we cannot, coming into something new, deal with it
except on the basis of the familiar and the old-fashioned.” Analogy lets listeners use what equipment
they have to understand music in the moment. In the first chapter, I outlined research questions and
hypotheses related to musical analogy. In the second chapter, I reviewed scholarly literature related
to analogy in both cognitive psychology and music. Now, I proceed to the core of this dissertation,
which is creating a theoretical framework for analogy in listening by contextualizing analogy from
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cognitive psychology in music. What is musical retrieval, mapping and evaluation? What is a musical
relation? This theoretical approach, based on Structure-Mapping Theory (Gentner 1983), will be
used to analyze musical “texts” so to answer my research questions. Before explaining the
framework, I first define a “musical event.”
Musical Event
I define a “musical event” as a discrete and identifiable musical unit (e.g. Hanninen 2012,
12). It occurs within a “perceptually significant time span” (Caplin 1998, 9) and its perception as an
individual segment depends on listeners dividing “a continuous spectrum into discrete bins”
(Margulis 2013, 37). This division, or segmentation, depends on a listener assembling the “sound in
groups on the basis of their temporal and/or acoustic properties” (Deliège and Mélen 1997, 391).
Yet, a musical event is not only “raw” musical “properties” (e.g. pitch, duration, etc.), but also
socially and historically constructed (Dibben 2003, 196). I use “musical event” to discuss any
identifiable, discrete, and readily perceptible musical unit in the abstract.
The Analogy Framework
The theoretical framework for analogy during musical listening (or the analogy framework) is
based on research in cognitive psychology on analogy. Figure 3.1 schematizes components of the
analogy framework.
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Figure 3.1: The Analogy Framework
To create this framework, steps of analogy—retrieval, mapping, and evaluation—are applied to
listening to music. A listener may not realize he or she is completing each analogical step. Most
music listening proceeds without conscious attention. Likewise, the cognitive process of analogy in
music listening often proceeds automatically and without conscious attention. Although, a listener
may be aware of interpretations formed from the evaluation step, he or she may not be aware of
how these interpretations came to be.
Step 1: Retrieval
Analogical retrieval in music involves a listener being reminded of relationally-similar musical
or non-musical analogs, depending on knowledge structures formed through musical exposure. As
Gentner and Smith (2013) note, analogical reasoning does not always means “retrieval” in the
definition of “when a person is reminded of a prior relationally similar case” (4). Though a person
can be reminded of a previous analog, sometimes both analogs are present in working memory
and/or physically, as, for example, in instructional analogies (“electric current is like waterflow”) or
persuasive analogies (“Afghanistan is like Vietnam”) (Gentner and Smith 2013, 4). Seeing that
listeners could either be reminded of a past/familiar analog stored in long-term memory or

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encounter both analogs together, a scholar using the retrieval step asks either one or two question:
he or she asks two questions if one analog is a reminding and one question if both analogs are
encountered together. If one analog is retrieved from long-term memory, the first question is: “What
relationally similar situation (in music or otherwise) could a listener be reminded of?” Whether an analog is
retrieved from long-term memory or both analogs are encountered together, an analyst using the
retrieval step should always ask the following question: “What knowledge does a listener have about these
two analogs?”
Some music theorists may consider only the context of the musical work itself to answer
these questions. For example, relationally-similar analogs come only from other sections of the work
and listener knowledge consists of knowledge only of that piece. Dan Harrison (2000) affirms these
assumptions when he maintains music theory’s founding principles include: “A musical object can
be abstracted from history for inspection of parts that are unaffected by the passage of time” and “a
system of tonal organization, though it emerge in some historical period, can be regarded as timeless
and, hence, ahistorical” (31). To begin his description of “the musical object,” Matthew Butterfield
(2002) describes the danger of an analytical approach where “a musical work is usually treated as an
entity that is self-identical through time and putatively exists fully independent of the real contexts in
which it is encountered” (327). These quotations illustrate a stance of historical de-contextualization
in music theory. If they de-contextualize a musical work, then these theorists would de-contextualize
a hypothesized listener as well.
In contrast, I argue that music theorists should consider the cultural context of listeners, and
the questions of the retrieval step give them the opportunity to do so. Context for interpreting a
piece should come not just from the confines of a “musical work,” but also pieces, associations,
conventions and other musical experiences familiar to a listener in his or her time and place. The
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cultural context of a listener—including experiences of this work, but also other pieces or
conventions—impacts potential musical analogs retrieved and their associations. The analogy
framework gives theorists space to consider who is listening (his or her context) and his or her
knowledge structures. It accounts for listener context by incorporating knowledge structures a
listener may have learned through musical use or exposure. Analogies mean making connections
between relations in knowledge structures. An analogy framework provides a systematic way to
consider how listeners connect relational knowledge, and evaluate inferences made from these
connections (see chapter 4 for analyses).
To systematize the retrieval step in analysis, I divide the retrieval step into sections and sub-
sections. The focus of systematization is always on relationships instead of objects themselves. The
primary overarching categories are “listener cultural context” and “perceptual capabilities.”
However, I limit my exploration to “listener cultural context” (figure 3.2) because of my interest in
cultural context.
Figure 3.2: Sections and sub-sections of the retrieval step

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A seen in figure 3.2, the two main sections are i) other domains, and ii) musical use/exposure. Sometimes
listeners do not retrieve a musical analog, but one from another domain instead. Humans in Western
culture gravitate toward making analogies between music and certain other domains, including
language (e.g. Swain 1997) and bodily gestures (e.g. Hatten 1994; Brower 2000; Larson 2012). Since
this section encompasses any analog outside of music, I do not discuss it further; but, focus instead
on analogs within music. I divide music into two subsections (figure 3.2): i) exposure to specific musical
pieces (relationships in an individual exemplar), and ii) conventional musical patterns (relationships in a
general conventional pattern). The first, exposure to specific musical pieces, is more likely to map onto
intra-opus patterns, while the second is more likely to map onto extra-opus patterns. Under
conventional musical patterns, I list form, voice-leading harmonic patterns, and musical associations (figure
3.2). This list is not exhaustive by any means. However, it reflects areas of listener knowledge that
motivate analogical choices as well as conventional patterns in my analyses. In the following
paragraphs, I discuss musical use/exposure, exposure to specific musical pieces, and conventional musical patterns.
Musical Use/Exposure
A listener learns musical knowledge structures, often unconsciously, through exposure to or
use of music. In Explaining Music, Meyer (1973) writes: “Understanding music, to paraphrase what
Bertrand Russell has said of language, is not a matter of knowing the technical terms of music
theory, but of habits correctly acquired in oneself and rightly presumed in others” (16). Hatten
(1994), in his book Musial Meaning in Beethoven, holds a similar sentiment, “How, then, does a musical
style become understandable for a listener? Much of the general expressive significance of tonal
music did not have to be directly taught; it was enculturated through progressive inferences about its
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use and contexts” (248). Both Meyer and Hatten argue that implicit and unconscious musical
exposure influences how listeners learn and understand musical styles.
Yet, musical use influences not just knowledge listeners learn, but also “meanings” and
“communication” ascribed to musical knowledge and pieces. In Emotion and Meaning in Music, Meyer
(1956) first mentions “habits” of listening as a way listeners create musical meaning: “the norms and
deviants of a style upon which expectation and consequently meaning are based are to be found in
the habit responses of listeners who have learned to understand these relationships” (61). “Musical
use” is another way to say “historical contextualization,” but from the listeners’ perspective.
Historical contextualization, according to William Sewell (2005), implies, “We cannot know what an
act or an utterances means and what its consequences might be without knowing the semantics, the
technologies, the conventions—in brief, the logics—that characterize the world in which the action
takes place” (10). A few scholars, often inspired by reader-response theory in literature (e.g. Fish
1980; Iser 1978), have begun to examine how experiences of a listener change his or her
understanding of musical communication. In reader-response perspectives, the “texts were as much
a product of their readers as of their writers… All of these scholars realized that the prior knowledge
and unique frames of reference possessed by individual readers and listeners must substantially
affect their experience of a text” (Gjerdingen 2010a, 62). Gjerdingen (2010a) transfers this ideology
to music by arguing that “people living in different eras will likely develop slightly different schemata
owing to their differing experiences” (62). He penned similar thoughts more than ten years earlier,
writing:
“Native listeners” of eighteenth-century court music – whether we mean by that term the
deceased members of those courts or modern listeners who have immersed themselves in
the galant style to the point of acquiring it as a second language – hear in its compositions
discrete chunks that match memories of meaningful gestures and phrases. Other, more
casual listeners will perceive a pleasant flow of tones, gross changes in texture and dynamics,
and those elements of musical syntax that may transcend the period in question. Because
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their prior musical experiences differ substantially, these two classes of listeners will have
different musical perceptions of the same piece. (Gjerdingen 1996, 380)
The retrieval step analyzes how musical use—or listeners’ historical contextualization—guides
analogical choice in musical perception as well as illustrates how listeners build a musical category or
abstract schema. A listener, when being reminded of a musical analog, could draw from two main
sources of experience: exposure to a specific musical piece (an individual exemplar) or exposure to
conventional musical patterns (a category composed of multiple exemplars).
Exposure to Specific Musical Pieces
A listener could be reminded of, and so retrieve, an individual exemplar of music—a specific
musical piece—and map its relations onto a current analog. According to Edward Cone (1974),
musicians especially rely on a “musical memory,” a store of these individual exemplars of music
ready to be retrieved: “When he [a musician] tries to verbalize the significance of a certain
composition, he often does so by relating it to other musical works” (Cone 1974, 173). If a musical
work alludes to a past work, then listeners connect the past work to the current one.
However, the way someone learns this musical piece may influence the inferences or
understandings he or she has of it. For example, in the episode “The One after Joey and Rachel
Kiss” (Bright 2003) of the TV show Friends, the character Monica (Courtney Cox Arquette) starts
humming Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries.” Her husband Chandler (Matthew Perry) responds:
CHANDLER: What are you humming?

MONICA: It’s “Bolero” from 10.
CHANDLER: It’s “Ride of the Valkyries”….from Apocalypse Now!
The fact that Chandler’s exposure to “Ride of the Valkyries” is through the movie Apocalypse Now
(he may not even know it originates in an opera) influences his perception or associations of the
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piece. If he were to retrieve it to as an analog, his inferences would stem from a war movie instead
of an opera.
Conventional Musical Patterns
A listener could be reminded of, and so retrieve, conventional musical patterns, which are
abstract categories created by exposure to multiple exemplars. Much of musical understanding
depends on knowing musical conventions.
Music comprehension depends to a considerable extent upon the listener’s knowing a

traditional tonal syntax and a set of conventional signs and schemata (even though these may
be grounded in and limited by the nature and capacity of the human ear and mind)…. The
existence of such conventions means that there has been a continuing tradition of musical
representation in which later manners of delineating a particular moral character, a kind of
event, an affective state, or some phenomenon in the physical or mythical world are based
upon and influenced by earlier ones. Just as there are histories of elegiac poetry and of carpe
diem lyrics, of paintings of the Annunciation and of pastoral scenes, so there would seem to
be histories of battle music, pastoral music, love music, lamentation music, and so on.
(Meyer 1973, 69)
Much of the music in this list have both an “artistic” side and a “real world” or “functional” side,
indicating that some conventions may be born more out of necessity then “art.” For instance, there
is music that has been historically played in actual battle, music that has historically been played in
“virtual” battle (opera, moves, etc.), and instrumental music that sounds enough like battle music
that people think “battle” when they hear it. Exposure to a musical style means exposure to its
conventions, implications and associations.
Listeners retrieve from long-term memory—either consciously or unconsciously—
conventions based on relational structure. They then make analogies between a current musical
passage and this convention. In my examples, I often limit my analysis of conventional patterns to
phrasal conventions (such as galant schemata) and musical form conventions (such as sonata form).
In the second chapter, I described phrasal conventions. Here, I discuss why form and genre depend
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on listener experience. According to Grove Music Online, a genre is defined as “a class, type or
category, sanctioned by convention” (Samson 2007). In particular, genre or form entails a set of
conventional expectations held by the listener (Caplin 1998; Hepokoski and Darcy 2006; Cobly
2005; Cobly 2008). Paul Cobly (2005) defines genre as “not a set of textual features that can be
enumerated; rather, it is an expectation” (41). According to James Hepokoski and Warren Darcy
(2006), “genres exist only insofar as production and reception communities agree to act as if they
really did exist, as sets of rules, assumptions or expectations” (606).
Comparing Listeners
Depending on a theorist’s goals, he or she could use the retrieval step to analyze an
individual listener or a group of listeners. The retrieval step is inherently flexible and can take into
account different listeners, even without altering subsections. For example, one could theoretically
compare an eighteenth-century listener to a twenty-first-century listener. Under the “voice-
leading/harmonic pattern” category, an eighteenth-century listener may have a strong representation
of a galant schema, yet a twenty-first-century listener may have a strong representation of a
conventional popular music harmonic pattern (e.g. I-vi-IV-V). The “item” in the voice-
leading/harmonic pattern category changed with the listener even though the category did not.
Step 2: Mapping
A theoretical framework for analogy in music based on Structure-Mapping Theory describes
how listeners align musical relations, and then project and evaluate inferences based on this
alignment. In the mapping step, listeners recognize relations between objects, then associate each
element in a relation of one structure with a corresponding element in a relation of a different
structure (figure 3.3).

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Figure 3.3: Analogy as Structure-Mapping (graphic from Gentner and Smith 2012, 132)
When making musical analogies, listeners map relations between musical elements (note-to-note,
phrase-to-phrase, etc.) from a musical analog onto relations in either another musical analog or a
non-musical analog. First, I further define a musical relation (concept expressing a connection between
musical elements). Then, I discuss how listeners compare the source and the target (unidirectional
listening and bidirectional listening) and the distance there is between the two analogs (intra-opus, inter-
opus, intertextual, and extra-musical). Finally, I discuss mapping patterns in general and a taxonomy for
classifying pattern mappings.
Musical Relations
A musical relation is a concept expressing a connection between musical elements. Relations
always have multiple arguments and these arguments can be either objects or other relations. For
example, the following is a notation of relation x bigger than y, where x and y are objects.
BIGGER-THAN(x, y)
If x is a ball 1 and y is ball 2, then ball 1 is bigger than ball 2.
BIGGER-THAN(ball1, ball2)
For music, examples of pitch relations include higher to and lower to, while examples of rhythm
relations include longer to and shorter to. I purposely use “higher to” instead of “higher than” so I can list
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arguments in the order they appear in the music while simultaneously describing where the relation
is headed (“going higher here”, etc.).
HIGHER-TO(C4, D4)
LOWER-TO(D4, C4)
SHORTER-TO(quarter-note, eighth-note)
LONGER-TO(eighth-note, quarter-note)
When arguments are relations instead of objects, these are called higher-order relations (Gentner
1983). For example, a rhythmic motive is a higher-order relation comprised of relations from every
note to its adjacent note. Consider the relations of this Clementi sonatina rhythmic motive.
RHYTHMIC-MOTIVE[SHORTER-TO(quarter-note, eighth-note), SAME-AS(eighth-note,
eighth-note), LONGER-TO(eighth-note, quarter-note), SAME-AS(quarter-note, quarter-
note)]
According to the systematicity principle (e.g. Clement and Gentner 1991), humans prefer to map
relations connected to higher-order relations. The higher order relation is RHYTHMIC-MOTIVE,
since it is a relation that has arguments that are other relations (e.g. SHORTER-TO(quarter-note,
eighth-note), etc.). Therefore, listeners are likely to map over the rhythmic motive as a higher-order
relation that encompasses the note-to-note relations instead of each note-to-note relation
individually.
The following are several constraints that limit perception of musical relations, and will be
discussed in turn.
i. Musical Parameter
ii. Order
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iii. Contrast or change-over-time

iv. One-to-one mapping
v. Parallel connectivity
vi. Working Memory
vii. Active orientation through comparison
Musical parameter: relations form within a single musical parameter. For example, do to re
forms a relation (e.g. HIGHER-TO) while eighth-note to quarter note forms a different kind of
musical relation (e.g. LONGER-TO). Yet, listeners fail to recognize a relation between do and an
eighth-note since these objects exist between different musical parameters of pitch and rhythm
respectively. However, relations within a single musical parameter can map onto a relation within
another musical parameter. For example, Eitan and Granot (2007) illustrated that listeners mapped
the relation crescendo [GRADUAL-INCREASE-TO(soft, loud)] onto accelerando [GRADUAL-
INCREASE-TO(slow, fast)].
Order: the order of objects within a single musical parameter changes the relation. For
example, do  re creates a different relation than re  do, even though the same objects (do and re)
are used.
Contrast or Change-over-Time: A musical parameter changes over time. Music’s ability to
unfold in time differentiates it from most art forms, and so a musical relation takes place within a
time span. One exception may be an excuse that a score “represents” music. Even with a notated
score’s “static” nature, it still represents music occurring temporally.
One-to-One Mapping: Each of a representation’s elements match one element at most in
another representation. For example, a rhythmic motive half-notedotted-quartereighth-note
follows the relation gradually getting shorter:
RHYTHMIC-MOTIVE; GRADUALLY-GETTING-SHORTER [SHORTER-TO(half-
note, dotted-quarter), SHORTER-TO (dotted-quarter, eighth)]

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In diminution, this gradually getting shorter relation is still represented even though the notes are now
quarter-notedotted-eighthsixteenth-note.
RHYTHMIC-MOTIVE; GRADUALLY-GETTING-SHORTER [SHORTER-TO(quarter-
note, dotted-eighth), SHORTER-TO (dotted-eighth, sixteenth)]
In the Art of Fugue excerpt in figure 3.4, Bach transformed the lower voice of the canon using
diminution; but, the duration’s relations are still the same and can be mapped one-to-one from the
upper voice to the lower voice.
Figure 3.4: Bach, Art of Fugue, Contrapuntus VII, mm. 2-4
Parallel Connectivity: if two relations correspond to each other, then the arguments (objects
or relations) also correspond to each other. In the Bach Art of Fugue example above (figure 3.4), the
arguments of the relation SHORTER-TO(half-note, dotted-quarter) in the upper voice correspond
to SHORTER-TO(quarter-note, dotted-eighth) in the lower voice. Upper voice half-note maps onto
lower voice quarter-note while upper voice dotted-quarter maps onto lower voice dotted-eighth.
However, upper voice half-note could not map onto lower voice dotted-eighth.
Working Memory: a listener can only make relations between objects retained in working
memory. Using Miller’s (1956) famous seven-plus-or-minus-two, I speculate that no more than
seven objects could create a relation.

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Active Orientation through Comparison: a listener actively participates in the music through
creating and building relations while listening. One aspect of active participation is the act of
comparison, where a listener chooses musical objects and relations to compare.
Two Levels of Musical Relations: Relations within a Musical Event and Relations between Musical Events
Music can be relational on at least two levels: 1) a musical event defined by internal relations
within that event, and 2) relations between musical events. I deliberately chose prepositions within and
between to further demonstrate how musical relations can together create a shared system of relations.
As illustrated in figure 3.5, the musical event defined by the relations within can be the same musical
events with relations between.
Figure 3.5: Visual representation of two levels of musical relations: relations between musical events and relations
within a musical event
This hypothesis of relations in music as “within” and “between” draws inspiration from Gentner’s
(2005) discussion of relational categories. Gentner (2005) explains: “By relational categories, I mean
categories whose meaning consists either of (a) relations with other entities, as in predator or gift, or
(b) internal relations among a set of components, as in robbery or central force system” (245, italics in
original). In Gentner’s relational category (a), a category is formed based on its relation with some
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other entity. For example, a gift is only a gift if an agent gives that object (a relation) to another agent.
It might be a baseball bat, a doll or a puppy. The example gift, an agent or entity has to “do
something” to that object in order it to be a member of that relational category. In a similar way,
relations between musical events entails something has been “done” to the musical event. The relation
does not come from that musical event alone, but only in relation to another entity; generally,
another musical event. In Gentner’s relational category (b), the relation is built into the definition of
the category. A robbery is a robbery when an agent takes something they do not own from another
agent. It is defined by internal relations between a set of components within the category. In a
similar way, internal relation within a musical event can define or create that musical event.
Relations within a Musical Event
Relations within a musical event are music-specific relations that are restricted to—and even
define—a musical event. Since I cannot list all possible relations within musical parameters, I only
list parameters that commonly form relations in music most applicable to relations within a musical
event. To create this list, I build off of Meyer’s (1989) primary and secondary parameters and
Hanninen’s (2012) contextual subtypes. Meyer’s primary and secondary parameters serve as an
“umbrella” for “relational” and “perceptual” features in music respectively, while Hanninen’s (2012)
contextual subtypes (figure 2.9) serve as inspiration for specific musical relations.
In eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century Western art music, composers often use
relations with Meyer’s (1989) primary parameters (e.g. melody, rhythm/meter, and harmony) to
define musical events more so than relations in secondary parameters (e.g. dynamics, tempo,
articulation, timbre, sonority, texture). Primary parameters create musical syntax (Meyer 1989), are
music-specific and are defined by learned and culture-specific higher-order sets of relations: tonality
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and meter. For instance, Western pitch and functional harmony connect to a tonal hierarchy
(Krumhansl 1990; Agawu 1991), so tonal context organizes perception of individual notes. E4
functions differently in different contexts depending on key, style, and chord played. In F major, a
melody ending on E4 implies something unfinished and a desire to resolve to F4. Yet, a melody
ending on E4 in E major is already resolved. In an E major chord, E4 is consonant, but dissonant in
a B major chord. In a similar way, rhythm also connects to a hierarchy in meter (London 2004). Two
eighth-notes sound complete in 4/4 time signature, but the same two eighth notes sound vaguely
incomplete in a 6/8 time signature. Therefore, an eighth note functions differently depending on its
metrical context. Meyer (1998) further implies that primary parameters are based on functional
relationships: “In order for syntactic [primary parameter] relationships to arise, the elements
comprising a parameter must be related to one another in a functional way – e.g., leading-tone/tonic
or upbeat/downbeat.…. To take the clearest example, in any syntactic tonal system there are large
and smaller intervals” (Meyer 1998, 8). Elements of primary parameters are often used relationally
and can be used to make musical analogies.
In contrast, secondary parameters are “natural” aspects of auditory organization, not music-
specific and do not often connect to any certain higher-order sets of relations (Eitan and Granot
2009), especially the way they are used in eighteenth and early-nineteenth century art music. For
example, loudness and other secondary parameters are dimensions found in sounds not music such
as speech (e.g. Cruttenden 1997). Depending on their use, listeners can sometimes perceive
secondary parameters as relational. For example, a book falling on the floor is loud compared to the
sound of running water, but soft compared to an explosion. In an experiment by Eitan and Granot
(2007), results suggest listeners can perceive tempo and dynamics relationally if the musical material
heavily emphasizes the contrast. Meyer (1998) further implies that secondary parameters are
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perceptual: “Dynamics may become louder or softer, tempi may be faster or slower, sonorities
thinner or thicker, and so on. But they cannot be segmented into perceptually discrete relationships.
Because they are experienced and conceptualized in terms of amount, rather than in terms of kinds
or classlike relationships (such as “major third” or “antecedent-consequent”)” (8–9). Since
secondary parameters are often not music-specific and accessible without context, then secondary
parameters are often treated as more “intrinsic” and “perceptual” features. As a reminder, perceptual
features describe how an object looks on the surface and are intrinsic to the object (e.g. the color
red, a round shape, etc.). On the other hand, relations describe how an object connects to another
object (e.g. to get from point A to point B) or the internal relations of an object (e.g. it is only X if Y
connects to Z).
When listeners use relations between primary parameters to categorize musical events, these
categories are relational categories. To categorize two musical events as members of one relational
category, a listener can map relations within a musical event. If listeners define a musical event using
non-relational secondary parameters (e.g. events played loudly categorized together), this would be a
perceptual category (e.g. of loudness) since it is characterized by high intrinsic similarity of dynamics.
One musical event is often a member of both a relational category and a perceptual category. For a
non-musical example, a mansion is simultaneously a member of relational category “home”
(assuming someone lives there) and a member of perceptual category “house” (assuming it fits the
perceptual features of “house”). For a musical example, a musical event with a descending melody
from fa to do (primary parameter is pitch and the relation is the organization of pitches in a Prinner
schema; Gjerdingen 2007a) but also a fast tempo (secondary parameter) is a member of both
relational category “Prinner” and perceptual category “fast excerpts.” This approach is not “all or
nothing”; instead, how a listener categorizes a musical event depends on what is salient in the music
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(what a listener attends to), what is within a listener’s perceptual limitations, and a listener’s
expertise. Meyer (1998) discusses how the distinction between primary (syntactic) and secondary
(statistical) parameters benefits theory:
Tonal dissonance, which is a matter of syntactic function, needs to be distinguished from

acoustic discord, which is a matter of statistical amount. Thus the interval of a minor seventh
in a dominant seventh chord implies a resolution because of our understanding of tonal
syntax. But the implication of a minor seventh in a chord built of two perfect fourths are
enigmatic because they are not constrained by a shared syntax. Unlike dissonance, which is
functional, discord is a statistical – a matter of amounts that result from factors such as the
proximity of simultaneously sounding pitches and their partials, attacks and dynamic level,
the acoustical properties of the instrument and so on. (Meyer 1998, 10)
The same auditory signal can be interpreted differently, as either “tonal dissonance or “acoustic
discord”; therefore, the interpretation could be either a relational category or a perceptual category.
Next, I list specific parameters that often create relations within a musical event, based on
Meyer’s (1989) primary parameters and Hanninen’s (2012) contextual subtypes. Listeners use
relationships between these parameters to form relational categories. The first “level” (labeled with
roman numerals) represents a relation within a parameter most likely perceived. The second “level”
(labeled with letters) represents a relation connected to the first “level” that needs either more
cognitive effort, attention, or domain-specific expertise to be perceived compared to the first
“level.”
i. Rhythm
ii. Scale Degrees
iii. Contour
a. Interval size and quality
iv. Harmonic stability/instability
a. Harmonic Functions (local to context)
I discuss each parameter in more depth to argue why listeners hear these musical parameters
as relational, although listeners sometimes struggle or need expertise to hear these relational
categories. As a disclaimer, listeners could hear any element of music as relational with enough
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effort. However, some musical dimensions need less effort than others to be heard as relational
since some dimensions are often relational due to Western cultural listening practices.
Since my research question investigates categorizing musical themes, I discuss these musical
relations in the context of categorizing a musical theme (a thematic category). The term “thematic
category” means a “relational category of a musical theme.”
To graphically represent relations within a musical event in my analyses, I use a version of the
relations within box from figure 3.5 (see figure 3.6).
Figure 3.6: Graphic representation of relations within a musical event
The circle represents the relation itself while the diagonal lines attach arguments to that relation
(whether objects or other relations). The graph moves left-to-right, showing time and order of
objects in musical event. Different rows represent different musical parameters that may give rise to
relations and thus define a thematic category: rhythm, scale degree, contour, and harmonic
stability/instability. A thematic category is a higher-order relation composed of these other relations.
Even though not visually represented, the relations within box (figure 3.6) implies a structure like in
figure 3.7.
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Figure 3.7: Higher-order relation thematic category
In figure 3.7, the () is where relations are categorized parametrically. To make graphics cleaner, I
dispense with individual relations between adjacent notes. Therefore, the relations within box of figure
3.6 is often visually represented like figure 3.8:
Figure 3.8: Revised graphic representation of relations within a musical event
i. RHYTHM
Rhythm cannot be defined easily because it has at least two meanings: as a parameter and as
a local pattern; but a simple definition might be the pattern of time that elapses between note onsets,
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since onsets, as opposed to note durations, determine rhythms. Scholars often describe rhythm
using inter-onset interval (“IOI”), or the time “between the attack-points of successive events”
(London 2004, 4). Since rhythms are based on relative time, humans conceptualize rhythmic
relationship as ratios between two adjacent time-spans, also known as serial ratio (Jones 1976).
Figure 3.9: Proportional rhythms
Honing (2013) writes that rhythms are notated proportionally, calling this “proportional or relative
representation,” since “it indicates how the durational interval between the notes relate” (374, italics in
original, see figure 3.9). These proportional rhythmic patterns are not always exact in performance
due to expressive timing and tempo, though these aspects give musical performance interest (Ashley
2002). According to Honing (2013), both rhythmic pattern and expressive timing “are available at
the same time, with the categorization functioning as a reference relative to which timing deviations
are perceived” (375). Listeners categorize rhythms as serial ratios even if the ratios are more complex
(Clarke 1987). Clarke (1987) asked participants to listen to 10 short, regularly timed musical items
(five or six notes). Then, he played three test notes of serial ratios, all between 1:1 and 1:2. The
results indicated that humans often hear the test notes as either 1:1 or 1:2 even if the note timings
actually formed a more complex ratio. He argues that listeners interpreted the more complex ratios
due to “expressive information, or perhaps accidental inaccuracy” (Clarke 1987, 30).
Rhythmic patterns are based on proportional ratios, and listeners use these relations to make
musical analogies. Proportional ratios are a common analogical relation. In fact, Hofstadter and
Sander (2013) consider proportional analogies (e.g. west : east :: left : right) an analogy-making
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“stereotype” (15). This analogy “stereotype” is relevant for perceiving rhythmic patterns. When
comparing two musical events, listeners could use rhythmic proportionality as a relation to perceive
thematic similarity and categorize musical events as members of the same category. In figure 3.10,
for instance, the two Clementi motives both share a long-short-short-long-long rhythmic relation.
Figure 3.10: Showing rhythm as a relation within a musical event; Clementi, Sonatina Op. 36, no. 1, m. 5 and m.
6 respectively
Some common rhythmic relations include: SHORTER-TO(x, y), LONGER-TO(x, y), DOUBLE-
TO(x, y), HALF-TO(x, y) and so on.
To graphically represent rhythm, I use one of two approaches (depending on rhythmic
complexity). First, a 1) length approach, where a series of durations is represented as a series of ordinal
values. Figure 3.11a is a key for the ordinal duration vector, from which I assign the ordinal values.
Then, I note symbols between the ordinal values—+, - or 0—to represent (respectively) whether
shorter-to-longer, longer-to-shorter, or stays the same. In figure 3.11b, I represent the musical event
in figure 3.10 using a length approach. I write 4 (=quarter note) and 2 (=eighth note): the first note
and the last two notes are longer compared to the second and third. This approach is preferred
when a musical passage is rhythmically complex.
(a)
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(b)
Figure 3.11: (a) Ordinal duration vector key, (b) Clementi rhythm—length approach
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The second is a 2) proportional approach. This approach is preferred when notes neatly fit
proportionally against each other. In figure 3.12, for example, the first, fourth and fifth notes are
notated twice as long as the second and third notes. Therefore, I use a proportional approach,
writings 1 (=eighth note) and 2 (=quarter note, or two eighth notes).
Figure 3.12: Clementi rhythm—proportional approach
Both lengths and proportions are inherently relations. A note is “long” only in relation to a
following note that is shorter than it. Therefore, in a piece, a “long” note could be an eighth note or
a whole note, depending on its surrounding notes in context.
ii. SCALE DEGREES
A melody traveling from one scale degree to another creates a relationship between scale
degrees. Huron (2006) claims he himself has no “native mental code for melodic intervals,” but a
“scale-degree code”; instead of hearing a perfect fourth, he hears so-do or mi-la, but rarely re-so (117).
He and collaborator Bret Aarden ran an experiment to see if listeners encode intervals as scale-
degree dyads. The results were mixed—some musicians encoded intervals as scale-degree dyads
while others did not (Huron 2006, 119).

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The schemata of Meyer and Gjerdingen are based on relations between ordered scale
degrees that often create distinct contours (although I discuss contour separately). Consider the
beginning to Dittersdorf, Symphony in C, K. 1, first movement (figure 3.13). This piece begins with
a musical abstraction that Meyer and Rosner (2000) call the “changing-note schema” and Gjerdingen
(2007a) later renames the “Meyer” schema. Meyer and Rosner (2000) describe this schema as a
melody where:
The main structural tones of the pattern consist of the tonic (1), the seventh or leading tone
of the scale (7), the second degree of the scale (2), and then the tonic again…. A variant of
the changing-note process may occur beginning on the third degree of the scale, producing
the succession 3-2, 4-3. (Meyer and Rosner 2000, 166)
In a Meyer, the soprano begins with a 1-7 dyad and closes with a 4-3, as seen in Dittersdorf’s do-ti-fa-
mi opening. The theme retains its identity even transposed to a new key, demonstrating the
importance of relations between notes and not notes themselves (C-B-F-E).
Figure 3.13: Dittersdorf, Symphony in C, K. 1, first movement, mm. 1-4
The relation can hold even when some pitches differ. For instance, one pitch can substitute
for another, assuming that the substitute pitch: 1) retains a similar melodic contour overall, and 2)
retains the same harmony. Evidence for this can be seen in Meyer and Rosner’s (2000) description
of the changing-note schema and its possible variants. One could argue that Dittersdorf’s Meyer (1-
7, 4-3; see figure 3.13) and the 1-7, 2-1 variant (what Gjerdingen (2007a) calls the “Aprile”; see figure
3.14) both share an abstracted scale degree relation.

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Figure 3.14: Example of Aprile (with a not as common 5-1 close in the bass instead of 7-1) from Aprile, Solfeggio,
MS fol. 40v, Larghetto, mm. 1-4 (graphic from Gjerdingen 2007a, 123).
A listener could perceive the Aprile example (do-ti-re-do) and Dittersdorf (do-ti-fa-mi) example as
members of the same musical category:
SCALE-DEGREE-CATEGORY[DESCENDS-TO(tonic-note, dominant-note),
ASCENDS-TO(dominant-note, dominant-note), DESCENDS-TO(dominant-note, tonic-
note)]
Figure 3.15 illustrates a graphical representation of this relation.
Figure 3.15: Graphical representation of scale degree relation
In a relation between scale degrees, one scale degree builds on the previous one. This parametrical
relationship also has closer ties to contour relations and harmonic functions than others discussed
here.
To represent scale degrees, I use solfége, as in figure 3.16:

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Figure 3.16: Scale degrees
In scores, I use numbers to mark scale degrees. In graphs, however, I use solfége since numbers are
sometimes used to represent rhythm. The analyses typically show only structural notes instead of all
notes in passage.
iii. CONTOUR
a. INTERVAL SIZE, DIRECTION AND QUALITY
Instead of using pitch and perfect intervals to categorize melodies, listeners prefer to
categorize melodies based on contour similarity (Halpern 1984, 166). Contour is defined as “the
pattern of rises and falls along an auditory or musical dimension” (Schmuckler 2010, 169). Although
contour can be relevant to other auditory dimensions (including loudness and timbre), I limit my
definition of contour here to changes in pitch information. When comparing musical motifs,
contour is the most important attribute (Dowling 1978), though participants also use size of tonal
motion (Eiting 1984, 90). Dowling (1978) concludes that contour, an “abstraction,” of atonal
melodies can be held in memory independently of interval sizes or pitches (346). These empirical
studies demonstrate that listeners are sensitive to melodic shapes (as in the Clementi sonatina of
1798-1799 in figure 3.17), implying that contour—or shape of a melodic abstraction—may be a
simpler relation to perceive than intervals.

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Figure 3.17: Clementi, Sonatina in C Major, Op. 36, No. 1, first movement, mm. 1-19
Contour may mean all pitches in a melody, as in the Clementi excerpt (figure 3.17), but also
structural notes of a schema or melodic abstraction. Scholars, more often than not, consider contour
a “surface feature,” since contour often means “all notes in a phrase.” However, I restrict contour to
structural notes. Contour here means shape of structural notes or shape of relational category of the theme.
More often than not, relations become generalizations or abstractions. Listeners can perceive a
contour shape of a theme’s mental representation as a relation. For example, a Meyer or a
“changing-note schema,” a historically-grounded term, gets its name due to a melodic contour
resembling a melodic turn sign (figure 3.18).

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Figure 3.18: Dittersdorf, Symphony in C, K. 1, first movement, mm. 1-4, and outline of contour relation
A contour relation is often represented spatially, maybe more so than other relation types discussed.
Therefore, it is possible to draw the shape of the relation, as in figure 3.18. A theme with a different
contour relation then creates a different shape. For example, mm. 3-4 of Mozart’s Sonata in C
Major, K. 545 (1788), first movement, form a schema called the Prinner (Gjerdingen 2007a), where
the soprano has scale degrees 6-5-4-3.
Figure 3.19: Mozart, Sonata in C Major, K. 545, first movement, mm. 1-4, and outline of contour relation
Instead of a turn shape, as in Dittersdorf, the shape of Mozart’s contour is simply a descent.
For contour, I use spatial or pictorial representation, where a line illustrates direction and
shape of contour.
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Figure 3.20: Contour
I have several reasons for representing contour pictorially (as opposed to contour segments; e.g.
Straus 2005). First, others have already represented contour this way. For example,
ethnomusicologist Charles Adams (1976) created a typology for categorizing contour types and he
used pictorial representations for his graphics. Second, listeners often evoke spatial reasoning when
listening to contour. For instance, they often hear contour in terms of “up” and “down.” A drawing
of contour, then, may provide an accurate shape for how a musical event is heard.
I have grouped ascending/descending interval size and quality in this section as well, since,
even though listeners rely more on contour, their reliance on contour depends on an understanding
of interval distance. Listeners may not recognize specific intervals (e.g. major sixth), but they
understand some intervals are larger than others (e.g. major sixth as larger than a major second). For
example, this could be represented as:
LARGE-INTERVAL-TO(C4-A4)
SMALL-INTERVAL-TO(C4-D4)
Contour relations are connected both to intervals (in the descending/ascending interval size and
quality) as well as scale degree relations.

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iv. HARMONIC STABILITY/INSTABILITY

b. HARMONIC FUNCIONS (LOCAL CONTEXT)
Western listeners (both trained and untrained) can perceive relationships of musical tensions
and relaxations in short and long chord sequences (Bigand, Parncutt, and Lerdahl 1996; Bigand and
Parncutt 1999). In Western music, tension-relaxation and stability-instability relations are partly
determined by “harmonic relations that exist among chords” (Bigand, Parncutt, and Lerdahl 1996,
125) as indicated by seminal music theory texts (Lerdahl and Jackendoff 1983; Meyer 1956; Meyer
1973). Bigand, Parncutt, and Lerdahl (1996) give the following example:
In the key of C major, the chord containing the notes G-B-D-F (dominant seventh chord)
creates tension partly because of the tritone relation between the tones B (leading tone) and
F (the seventh of the chord). This tension needs to be resolved to the tones C and E,
respectively, of the C major triad (tonic chord). (Bigand, Parncutt, and Lerdahl 1996, 125)
They found that tonal hierarchy influenced perceived musical tension. Chords can connect to create
a harmonic stability-instability relation. On a finer note, some listeners—perhaps ones with more
experience—could also be sensitive to relations formed from tonic, predominant and dominant
harmonic functions (Caplin 1998, 23).
In the Dittersdorf excerpt in figure 3.21, a relation of stable-unstable, unstable-stable is
formed due to a I-V-V7-I harmonic progression. In regards to the changing-note schema, Meyer
and Rosner (2000) write: “the pattern is always harmonized by a progression that moves from a
tonic chord (I) to dominant harmony (V) and then from the dominant back to the tonic: that is the
progression is always I-V, V-I. Surrogates for these harmonies are possible: for example, vii for V or
vi for I” (166).
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Figure 3.21: Dittersdorf, Symphony in C, K. 1, first movement, m. 1-4
Chords relate to each other within a musical event and within a tonal context to form a stable-
unstable relation. This perception of harmonic function changes depending on local harmonic
context, which is more salient than an overarching tonal context for an entire piece. Therefore, I am
not arguing for a large scale idea of harmonic function (an entire section functioning as a “V”).
Instead, perception of harmonic function relies on local context.
To represent harmony, I often use Roman Numerals.
Figure 3.22: Harmony
My representation of harmony never goes beyond short prolongations, when a melody may be an
elaboration of a tonic or dominant chord. In some of my analyses (chapter 5), harmony is the least
discussed relation since it remains consistent.
Relations between Musical Events

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Relations between musical events describe how one musical event relates to another within some
dimension. For example, there is a change of mode relation when a piece begins with a musical event in
major followed by a musical event in minor.
CHANGE-OF-MODE-TO(major, minor)
Binary oppositions are a common way to discuss relations between musical events, especially for distant or
extra-musical analogies. According to Robert Hatten (1994; 2004), major and minor are binary
oppositions, with minor “marked” in relation to major. The change of mode relation from major to
minor can be mapped onto similar relations in cultural meaning. He writes: “an opposition in
musical structure (minor versus major mode) can correlate [figure 3.23] with an opposition in
meaning (tragic versus nontragic, for the Classical style), which provides a systematic motivation for
association that is stronger than association by mere properties or contiguities” (Hatten 2004, 12).
Figure 3.23: Correlation (graphic from Hatten 1994, 37)
Since minor is marked, it has a narrower range of meaning: it consistently conveys the tragic (Hatten
1994, 36). Major, on the other hand, is unmarked, and so has a broader range of meanings: it
corresponds to the nontragic in general (Hatten 1994, 36). Hatten (1994) uses the graphic in figure
3.24 to represent this correlation.

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Figure 3.24: Major vs. minor onto tragic vs. nontragic (graphic from Hatten 1994, 38)
As illustrated in figure 3.25, the minor vs. major are relations between musical events that create an
opposition Hatten (1994) “maps”—to use analogy terminology—onto tragic vs. nontragic.
Figure 3.25: Mapping of minor vs. major onto tragic vs. nontragic
Another way to create musical oppositions—and so relations between musical events—for non-
musical analogy is through musical topics (e.g. Ratner 1980; Agawu 1991; Monelle 2000; Monelle
2006). Musical “topics” are “a thesaurus of characteristic figures” considered to be “subjects for
musical discourse” (Ratner 1980, 9). Then, a musical topic is a conventionalized musical pattern
understood by a community to have certain referential or extra-musical association. The way a
musical event’s topic relates to another musical event’s topic not only creates relations between musical
events, but also musical oppositions that listeners map onto cultural opposition. Allanbrook’s (1992)
interpretation of Mozart’s beginning of K. 332 (1783) implicitly describes topics in opposition.

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Figure 3.26: Mozart, K. 332, first movement, mm. 1-26
As seen in figure 3.26, Allanbrook analyzes the first four measures as a “simple singing style” (mm.
1-4), and the next four measures a “parody of learned counterpoint” (mm. 5-8), followed by four
measures of “galant minuet style” (mm. 9-12), which closes the period (Allanbrook 1992, 132). She
writes that the several horn calls in mm. 13-22 “provides an evocative counterstatement to the
opening topics—the out-of-doors answers the salon” (Allanbrook 1992, 133). On the horn call’s
associations, Monelle (2006) writes: “We may observe intuitively that hunting music evoked the
nobility, the outdoors, the forest, adventure, and action” (35). After following the “indoors” singing
style, “outdoors” is a more salient association of the horn calls than “nobility,” “adventure,” and
“action.” Here, singing style vs. the horn fifths maps onto cultural opposition of indoors vs.
outdoors—or even decorum vs. rustic (figure 3.27).

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Figure 3.27: Mapping of singing style vs. horn fifths onto indoors vs. outdoors
The topics together create a relation between two musical events that can be mapped onto a cultural
opposition. This creates an analogy between a musical analog and a cultural, non-musical analog.
So far, all examples of relations between musical events have been analogies between music and
another domain, in that they have mapped a culturally understood relation signifying meaning (e.g.
nontragic-tragic) onto a musical relation (e.g. major-minor). Yet, relations between musical events make
analogies between music and music as well, such as relations of musical form (e.g. Kielian-Gilbert
1990). Consider Caplin’s (1998) theme type of “sentence,” an eight-measure structure that:
Begins with a two-measure basic idea, which brings in the fundamental melodic material of
the theme….The basic idea is repeated in measures 3-4….As a result of repetition, the basic
idea has been unequivocally “presented” to the listener, and so we can speak of this music
fulfilling presentation function….The strongly ongoing quality created by a presentation
generates demand for a continuation phrase, one that will directly follow, and draw
consequences from, the presentation,” before closing with a cadence. (Caplin 1998, 9–10,
italics in original).
Listeners hear some musical themes as “sentences,” such as the ones in figure 3.28a and 3.28b,
because of relations between multiple musical events.

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(a)
(b)
Figure 3.28: (a) Beethoven, Piano Sonata in F Minor, Op. 2, No. 1, first movement, mm. 1-8, (b) Beethoven,
String Quartet in F, Op. 135, third movement, mm. 3-10 (graphics from Caplin 1998, 10)
A listener make an analogy between one musical event and another to hear the Beethoven Piano
Sonata, Op. 2, No. 1, first movement (figure 3.28a) and the Beethoven String Quartet, Op. 135,
third movement (figure 3.28b) as similar, since both themes have relations of a “sentence.” A
listener can align these musical themes and map over the “sentence” relations.
Two Forms of Analogical Comparison: Unidirectional Listening and Bidirectional Listening
There are two ways listeners compare musical analogs, each forming a distinct way of
listening to music: unidirectional listening and bidirectional listening. An important component of
Structure-Mapping Theory is comparison. Unidirectional listening is projective analogy, which is

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comparing a novel analog to a familiar or well-understood one, transferred to music.11 In
unidirectional listening, listeners understand the target in terms of the source; in that they project
inferences from the source onto the target. A listener uses a familiar musical passage heard earlier
(either in the piece or their musical experience) to shape their understanding of incoming musical
passages. For example, listeners use unidirectional listening when using familiar, conventional
patterns to inform perception of a musical event. On the other hand, bidirectional listening is mutual
alignment analogy, which is comparing two novel analogs to each other, transferred to music. In
bidirectional listening, listeners understand both analogs in terms of each other: the analogs inform
each other; both are sources and targets. A listener uses bidirectional listening when recognizing
idiosyncratic or emergent patterns, such as a theme and its variations within a piece. For example,
listeners use a musical pattern just heard to re-shape or re-understand a musical passage heard in the
past. Musical styles encourage different listening comparisons. A Romantic piece balking at
convention (e.g. Meyer 1989) could encourage bidirectional listening (actively comparing themes to
each other), while a galant style piece filled with conventional patterns could encourage
unidirectional listening (actively using conventional patterns to inform musical events).
Four Forms of Analogical Distance in Music: Intra-opus, Inter-opus, Intertextual and Extra-
musical
There are four forms of analogical distance in musical analogy: intra-opus analogy (local
analogy), inter-opus analogy (local analogy), intertextual analogy (local analogy), and extra-musical
analogy (distant analogy).
11Gentner uses the term “projective analogy,” which has a different association then in the music literature. By
“projective” here, I do not mean projecting into the future. Instead, I mean projecting from a familiar source onto a
novel target.
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Figure 3.29: Visual representation of analogical distance in music
1) Intra-opus analogy
Analogies made within one musical piece.
2) Inter-opus analogy
Analogies made between pieces. Within this level, one could distinguish between composer’s
style, historical style, and transhistorical analogy. For these analogy types, a listener may have
more conscious awareness.
a. Composer’s Style
Analogies made between music all by the same composer.
b. Historical Style
Analogies made between music all in the same style.
c. Transhistorical
Analogies made between any music regardless of composer or time period.
3) Intertextual analogy
Analogies between specific compositions; a specific text is modeled by another text.
Within this level, there could also be composer’s style, historical style, and transhistorical analogy.
4) Extra-musical analogy
Analogies made between music and another domain (for example, analogies between music
and language, analogies between music and narrative, and so on).
In theory, a listener could use the same musical event for three of the four analogies: intra-opus,
inter-opus or intertextual, and extra-musical. With enough intra-opus or intertextual analogies, a
listener can learn or create a new conventional musical pattern. That same listener can then make
inter-opus analogies with this new conventional musical pattern.
Intra-opus Analogy
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Theoretically, listeners make different assumptions when mapping patterns in intra-opus
analogy than inter-opus, intertextual and extra-musical analogies. For instance, listeners assume these
patterns will not be encountered outside the work. Recognizing a pattern from one composition in
another would be a different instance of analogy-making. In addition, patterns of intra-opus
analogies gain significance through repetition. The more intra-opus analogies are made, the more
information a listener learns about this pattern or category. Also, patterns of intra-opus analogy
often overlap with patterns of inter-opus analogy. For example, a melody is rarely so original that it
has no basis in convention. Yet, an analogy made between a musical passage and a convention
would be inter-opus rather than intra-opus. As intra-opus analogy involves making sense of
emergent patterns over time, listeners use bidirectional listening more for intra-opus analogy than
others.
Larson (2012) uses intra-opus analogy to argue why the “Adagio” from Mozart’s Piano
Concerto in A Major, K. 488, second movement (figure 3.30) violates expectation. The opening
forms an “antecedent-consequent” period.

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Figure 3.30: Mozart, “Adagio” from Piano Concerto in A major, K. 488, second movement, mm. 1-12
Mm. 1-4 make a “motto” with a “Siciliano rhythm,” ending with a half cadence to create a musical
“question” (Larson 2012, 36). The following consequent—mm. 5-12—begins with the same
“motto,” but ends with an authentic cadence to create a musical “answer” (Larson 2012, 36). He
insists that:
When we describe the music in this way, we make an analogy between measures 1-4 and
measures 5-12…. This analogy maps the motto in measure 1 onto the motto in measure 5,
and the cadence of the question on to the cadence of the answer. Finding these similarities
between measures 1-4 and measures 5-12 makes this analogy possible. And finding these
similarities provides a context for noticing meaningful differences (such as the fact that the
motto begins in measure 1 on C# and in measure 5 on D, that G# in measure 3 precedes
the first cadence and that G in measure 9 precedes the second cadence, and that the first
cadence is incomplete and the second one is complete)…. To hear measures 1-4 and 5-12 as
analogous in this sense relies on hearing measures 1 and 5 as “the same” in some sense
(Larson 2012, 37).
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Larson (2012) writes that listeners familiar with the style will recognize a typical antecedent, and
expect a typical consequent to follow that returns at the same pitch level (39). Instead of returning to
the same pitch level (C#), it begins the expected consequent on D. Because a listener made an
analogy between m. 1 and m. 5, he or she expects a certain degree of similarity. The consequent is
similar, but it is surprising since it begins on the unexpected pitch level D instead of the expected
C#.
The most common intra-opus analogies identify themes, motives, and variations. A theorist
could use intra-opus analogy to analyze theme and variations form since listeners map a main theme
onto in order to hear them as one category. In addition to being from cognitive perspective, this way
of analyzing theme and variations focuses on a theme’s relations instead of addition or subtraction
of features.
Inter-opus Analogy
In inter-opus analogy, listeners relate a current musical event to one in another piece. When
making an inter-opus analogy, listeners often connect relations of stylistic abstractions, such as a
conventional musical pattern that transcends multiple pieces. For example, a listener makes an
analogy between a current musical event and a Prinner schema, which is a stylistic abstraction where
a soprano descends 6-5-4-3 and a bassline descends 4-3-2-1 (Gjerdingen 2007a, 45–60; see figure
3.31).
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Figure 3.31: Prinner schema (graphic from Gjerdingen 2007a, 455)
When a listener hears mm. 1-3 of Wodiczka’s Op. 1, No. 3, first movement (1739) (figure 3.32a) and
mm. 10-14 of L’Abbé’s Op. 8, No. 1, first movement (1763) (figure 3.32b), he or she can make an
inter-opus analogy between these closing ripostes, connecting both musical events to each other and
to the conventional Prinner schema.
(a)
(b)
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Figure 3.32: (a) Wodiczka, Op. 1, No. 3, first movement, adagio, mm. 1-3 (graphic from Gjerdingen 2007a,
46), (b) L’Abbé, Op. 8, No. 1, first movement, mm. 10-14 (graphic from Gjerdingen 2007a, 55)
Since the pattern analogized here (the Prinner) is grounded in the galant style, this is inter-opus
analogy limited to a historical style. Inter-opus analogy can also be limited to a composer’s style, or
analogies made only between music by the same composer. As a result of composer’s style analogy-
making, for instance, a composer-specific schema could emerge. Transhistorical inter-opus analogy, on
the other hand, is not limited to a historical time or place. In this analogy type, a modern listener
could use analogy to project a modern pattern onto an older piece of music.
Intertextual Analogy
Intertextual analogy occurs when listeners make an analogy between specific texts; in short, a
specific text is modeled or borrowed by another text (to which a listener may judge whether or not
he or she thinks the borrowing is intentional). Similar to inter-opus analogy, intertextual analogy
could also be limited to composer’s style (specific pieces by one composer), historical style (specific pieces
within one style) or transhistorical (specific pieces across time and place). Intertextual analogy can
highlight salient differences between two themes. For example, consider the first violin’s theme in
Mozart’s “Misericordias Domini” (1775; figure 3.33a) and Beethoven’s Ode to Joy theme in his
ninth symphony (1824; figure 3.33b):

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(a)
(b)
Figure 3.33: (a) Mozart, “Miserocordias Domini,” mm. 23-26, (b) Beethoven, Symphony No. 9, fourth
movement, mm. 92-99
Both themes share a similar melodic line of mi-fa-sol-sol-fa-mi-re-do-re-mi—even with the same rhythms.
However, once a listener reaches this point in the Mozart excerpt—especially if he or she uses “Ode
to Joy” as a frame of reference—the mi-re-do-ti eighth notes sound different in a salient and striking
way, since a dotted note is expected instead. If a listener uses Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” as a model,
then he or she is surprised by Mozart’s melody being different. Since Beethoven’s piece follows
roughly fifty years after Mozart’s piece, this would be transhistorical intertextual analogy. On the other
hand, if a listener’s first exposure is to Mozart (a likely scenario considering the timeline), he or she
may instead be surprised in listening to Beethoven.
Extra-musical Analogy
Theoretically, listeners tend to use extra-musical analogies (analogies between music and
another domain) to make sense of “unexpected findings” in music. Dunbar’s (2001) subjects used
distant analogies to make sense of “unexpected findings”; therefore, listeners may take a similar
approach. In Western culture, a common distant analogy humans make to understand music is
comparing music and language (e.g. London 1996; Swain 1997). This comparison is not a new one
in music scholarship. According to Dahlhaus (1991), “in the discussion of musical aesthetics the idea
of likening musical structures to verbal ones—that is, comparing a period to a sentence, and a
motive to a word—is a commonplace that goes back to the Middle Ages” (93). Even though it
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existed in the Middle Ages, this analogy between music and language dominated in the eighteenth-
century (Bonds 1991; Mirka and Agawu 2008). In her introduction to Communication in Eighteenth-
Century Music, Danuta Mirka (2008) uses the word “metaphor,” but she means “analogy”:
At that time [the eighteenth-century] theoretical and aesthetic discourses about music were
based upon the metaphor of music as language. Within this metaphor, a composer or
performer was compared to an orator, and a musical piece to an oration subdivided into
parts, periods and sentences. Just as the art of rhetoric has its raison d’etre in persuading the
listener, so the art of composition consisted in arousing his sentiments. The musical
repertory labelled by later generations as the ‘Classical style’ was thus an expression of the
aesthetic stance which conceived of music as communication between composer and
listener. (1)
Using this analogy, listeners assume information about musical communication based on music’s
similarity to language. If a listener does not “get” or “comprehend” an element of a piece, he or she
could default to searching for a potential source elsewhere. One potential source could be a listener
defaulting to a linguistic framework, especially since this is a culturally-ingrained analogy (in the same
way that someone in speech may default to an “up-down” metaphor). If what a listener does not
“get” or “understand” in the music seems to mimic language, and reminds them of language, then it
seems likely that he or she would retrieve this source domain and use it as an analogy.
Step 3: Evaluation
In the evaluation step for musical analogy, a listener performs three simultaneous actions: 1)
judgment of inferences, 2) consideration of musical context, and 3) goal relevance. To put it
succinctly, a listener evaluates inferences in context while considering his or her own goals and goals
of others. These actions helps a listener evaluate the analogy as a whole and anything new he or she
learned from it.
Inferences
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Inferences are first projected during mapping, but then judged during evaluation. Listeners
make various inferences while listening, including affect (or emotion12), formal function (Caplin
1998), learned associations, expectations (or implications) among others. Meyer (1973) describes
how listeners make inferences about function of a musical event:
Not surprisingly, melodies which perform the same general function in a particular kind of
composition often have common characteristics, a kind of family resemblance. Some
melodies seem typical of the beginning of sonata-form movements; others are members of
the class of closing themes. Some melodies are characteristic fugue subjects; others seem like
themes upon which a set of variations might be built. (206)
In this quote, Meyer (1973) describes how melodies that perform the same function often share
common characteristics. He implies that listeners will infer that a musical event with these
characteristics will have the conventional function. When certain listeners make an inter-opus
analogy to map a horn fifths pattern, they infer this pattern has a cadential formal function since the
pitch and harmonic parameters best match a closing phrasal pattern. They then assume that this
passage does (or should) occur at the end of a phrase. The inference most likely takes place as soon
as a listener identifies the pattern.
Context
Listeners evaluate their mappings and inferences in context. An opera buffa coda has a
different meaning as the ending of Beethoven’s String Quartet Op. 95 then it does as the end as an
opera buffa finale. Margulis (2013) describes the importance of context in repetition: “Even the most
literal forms of repetition, then, are differentiated by the associations of the immediately surrounding
12According to Bigand and Poulin-Charronnat (2006), “Emotional responses are consistent between and within
participants, and that they seem to be immediately triggered by short musical excerpts…. It only shows the importance
of the irrepressible emotional responses to music, which nicely mirrors the automaticity and rapidity of cognitive
processes in music perception” (119). This “irrepressible emotional response” could be an example of an inference a
person may make while listening.
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context—the words or notes that precede or follow it—as well as the relevant compositional,
authorial, historical and intertextual situation of the utterance” (27–28); ultimately, “context shapes
perceptual, cognitive, and emotional orientation” (30). Different types of context occur when
humans listen to music. For example, context could be the other musical events surrounding the one
in questions or it could be the venue of the performance.
An analogy framework benefits scholars studying musical context since analogy often means
understanding a familiar pattern in different ways. Evaluation, then, prompts listeners to consider
these patterns in context, which may alter inferences or cause listeners to reconcile incongruous
elements. Therefore, analogy helps identify recontextualization, which Margulis (2013) defines as:
“The process whereby a given element is positioned or understood within a different context”
(Margulis 2013, 32). The analogy framework balances “patterns” and “context”: a framework for
recognizing patterns exist, but also acknowledging music perception as a holistic process where
patterns are not heard in isolation. For instance, consider figure 3.34, which is Beethoven’s Piano
Sonata No. 26, Les Adieux.
Figure 3.34: Beethoven, Piano Sonata No. 26 in Eb major, Op. 81a, first movement, “Lebewohl,” mm. 1-5
Meyer (1973) writes: “Characteristic melodic gestures usually occur in appropriate and familiar
context…. In some cases, however, there is a discrepancy between the normal function of a gesture
and its actual use in a composition” (Meyer 1973, 208). Les Adieux has horn fifths as a beginning;
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therefore, it is an ending as a beginning. A listener maps this opening gesture onto a common horn
fifths pattern. When writing about the horn fifths beginning Beethoven’s “Les Adieux,” Meyer
(1973) observes that:
Use of horn fifths in the first measures of Beethoven’s “Les Adieux” Sonata is unusual in
almost every way. Instead of coming at the end of a fast movement, they are the beginning
of a slow introduction; instead of being accompanimental, they are the main substance; and
instead of reaching emphatic closure on the tonic, they end in a deceptive cadence which is
mobile and on-going. The deviant use of the traditional pattern not only emphasizes the
importance of the motto, but contributes considerably to its peculiar poignancy. (244)
Some listeners, including Meyer (1973), infer that this pattern has a cadential formal function. Yet,
this pattern begins Beethoven’s piano sonata; thus, a listener has to reconcile the ending inference
with the pattern’s actual placement.
Goals
Evaluation incorporates listener goals, or the question of “why are they listening?” Yet,
evaluation also incorporates composer goals. I consider composer goals not through authorial
“intent,” but considering what the listener thinks the composer intends (a phenomenon I call perceived
intent). Meyer (1989) argues that music has intention behind it since a composer makes certain
choices within a constrained musical style (138). He differentiates this type of intention from an
“idiosyncratic” or “personal” one:
The distinction between merely miming and replicating indicates, then, that far from being
irrelevant, comprehending the intentions of composers (collective as well as individual) is
crucial for understanding the choices that results in the compositions on which a history of
music is partly based. But – and this cannot be sufficiently emphasized – it is not some kind of
idiosyncratic, personal intention that is crucial for such a history, but the sort that is implicit in the stylistic
constraints that define the goals of the “game of art” itself. In short, the historically significant
intentions of a football coach, a grand master of chess, or a composer are those that result
from choices made among alternative possibilities permitted by the constraints of both the
style of the activity and the cultural context. (Meyer 1989, 138, italics in original)
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A listener assumes musical gestures are placed together for a reason; therefore, he or she assumes a
composer has intentions. These perceived intentions play into how a listener evaluates inferences in
context.
Retrieval, Mapping, and Evaluation: Pattern Mapping Taxonomy
Listeners retrieve familiar patterns from memory, map those patterns onto incoming music
they hear, and then evaluate the meaning they infer from this mapping. When we discuss intra-opus,
inter-music and intertextual mapping, we often mean how listeners map musical patterns. Pattern is
defined here as a combination of surface-level notes/rhythms/figurations/etc. based on some
convention or commonly understood association; therefore, it is a musical event that depends on
relations within a musical event. The recognition of patterns—or patterns as musical events—is
essential to both music theory and the listening experience in general (Meyer 1967). As a way to
connect pattern mapping and listener background (retrieval step), I create a pattern mapping
taxonomy to analyze what patterns listeners may map while listening.
This pattern mapping taxonomy can be useful in music analysis for a number of reasons.
First, this taxonomy adds to what theorists already do by analyzing patterns according to whether it
is appropriate or not for the historical context of the piece. Second, it can be used in conjunction
with many analytical methodologies, but not tied to a particular one. It could be used to analyze
schemata, topics, themes, and a myriad of other patterns that theorists think a listener perceives in
music. Not only is it not tied to a particular methodology, but it actively connects different analytical
methods, giving theorists a way to easily discuss multiple pattern types. Third, it gives theorists a way
to discuss both novel and conventional patterns in music, and how the listening experiences asks
humans to constantly reconcile convention and novelty. Fourth, it considers how context shapes
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pattern perception; patterns do not exist in isolation, instead they exist in context. Fifth, it
distinguishes between different types of patterns that may be activated during listening, showing that
patterns are not static moments on a score, but, instead, emergent and flexible. Finally—and,
perhaps, most importantly—the taxonomy gives theorists a way to discuss patterns in relation to a
listener or group of listeners. All patterns in this taxonomy rely on someone listening, and what that
listener thinks or assumes he or she perceives in the music.
To account for listener experience or familiarity, the taxonomy depends on a notion of
“belonging”: whether or not the pattern was “around” during the piece’s time period—was it, in the
words of Meyer (1989), a viable choice?—or whether or not a pattern’s interpretation has changed
over time. The pattern mapping taxonomy (figure 3.35) includes four main types (and some sub-
types): 1) listener maps patterns that belong. Under this type, there are two sub-types: i) listener
maps patterns that belong and all goes as expected, and ii) listener maps patterns that belong, but it
was deceptive or evaded. 2) Listener maps patterns that do not belong. 3) Listener maps a pattern
that belongs, but its parameters or context are manipulated so that a listener evaluates it different. In
this type, there are three subtypes: i) pattern in “wrong place” or context, ii) pattern incongruously
juxtaposed with another, and iii) incongruous addition or manipulation to pattern itself.
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Pattern Mapping
Taxonomy
Patterns that Don't Patterns that

Patterns that Belong Belong Belong, but
Manipulated
Expected Wrong Place or

Context
Deceptive or Evaded Incongruous

Juxtaposition
Incongruous
Addition
Figure 3.35: Visual Representation of the Pattern Mapping Taxonomy
Next, I give examples for most of these types of pattern mapping.
Pattern that Belongs
First, I discuss when listeners map over patterns that belong, including expectations for how
it will be realized. I create two subtypes: 1) listeners map patterns that belong and all proceeds as
expected, and 2) listeners map patterns that belong, but it is deceptive or evaded. When Meyer
(1973, 1989) discusses perception of schemata, his discussions often fall within this type of patterns
that belong.
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Figure 3.36: Prinner schema (Gjerdingen 2007a, 455)
When a listener recognizes a Prinner, he or she hears scale degrees 4-3, then has an expectation that
steps 2-1 will follow. Listeners rarely expect a deceptive cadence; instead, they expect an authentic
cadence, but it goes “terribly wrong.” Yet, listeners hear these patterns as “evaded” or “deceptive”
because they map over a pattern with certain expectations for how a composer will realize it.
Pattern that Does Not Belong
A listener can map over a pattern that does not belong. This pattern is anachronistic or not a
possible stylistic choice for the composer. Consider the following literary example; I, as a twenty-
first century person, read an eighteenth-century novel and think the main character acts like a
computer. Since computers did not exist in the eighteenth-century (at least the way think of them),
this pattern mapping is anachronistic. For a musical example, listeners—especially modern
listeners—may connect film music patterns to classical music, even though film music was
composed later chronologically. In these cases, the film music is the source (the more familiar and
better understood concept) and the classical music is the target (the less familiar and less understood
concept).
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As an example, let me give a personal anecdote regarding Stravinsky’s op. 7, etude no. 1
(figure 3.37).
Figure 3.37: Stravinsky, op. 7, etude no. 1, mm. 1-6
On my first hearing, I heard a thematic similarity between Stravinsky’s melody and Danny Elfman’s
Batman (1989) theme (figure 3.38). This would be transhistorical intertextual analogy since I made an
analogy between two specific pieces across time periods.
Figure 3.38: Beginning of “Batman’s Theme,” Elfman, Batman (1989)
Both themes have a salient do-re-me-le-sol, emphasizing le and its stepwise resolution to sol. Hearing
Stravinsky through Batman implicitly and unconsciously colored my perception and judgment of the
piece, even if I intellectually knew Stravinsky came before Batman. In addition, it impacted my
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meaning or interpretation of this etude. I was more likely to use adjectives to describe the Stravinsky
etude that I would also use to describe Batman, since the Stravinsky was my target and Batman my
source in the analogy. Therefore, listeners can map over patterns that do not belong. In this case, the
pattern does not belong because Stravinsky came before the Batman theme, so I “cannot” use the
Batman theme to understand Stravinsky.
Music theory, however, does not often engage in this historically “backwards” listening,
although there are exceptions. In his book on intertextuality, Klein (2005) mentions transhistorical
intertextuality, or opening “the text to all time” (12). Some scholars hint that this “backwards”
listening impacts music theory analysis, especially claims made from analysis. For example, Clarke
(2005), discussing topic theory, argues that topic theorists often do not make a distinction between
the “idealized”/“reconstructed” eighteenth-century listener and a twenty-first century reader (or
listener) (160).Instead, a topic theorist should identify their listener, instead of assuming these two
audiences have same or similar knowledge. Music theorists could use this pattern mapping
taxonomy to analyze “backwards” listening in music: how modern listeners’ present day patterns
influence how they hear older music. This connects to the historical listener literature, which I cover
at a later point.
Pattern that Belongs, but Manipulated
There are also patterns that belong, but the pattern itself is manipulated or changed and so
prompts listeners to assume an adapted meaning or perspective. In figure 3.39, I present a visual
representation of each subtype: subtype 1, patterns in a wrong “place” or context; subtype 2,
patterns incongruously juxtaposed with another, and; subtype 3, incongruous addition or
manipulation to pattern itself. Subtype 1 and 3 are simultaneous mismatches (their mismatch occurs
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within the same temporal space), while subtype 2 is a sequential mismatch (mismatch occurs
between musical events).
Figure 3.39: Visual representation of types of pattern manipulation
For the first sub-type—musical patterns in a wrong “place” or context—consider—once
again—Beethoven’s horn fifths that begin Les Adieux (figure 3.40).
Figure 3.40: Beethoven, Piano Sonata No. 26 in Eb major, Op. 81a, first movement, “Lebewohl,” mm. 1-5
Caplin (2005) recognizes that the horn fifths as a beginning creates a sense of play. He writes:
Here the topic of horn fifths occurs at the very beginning of the work, yet its particular
characteristics are precisely those more naturally associated with closure: the melody
descends and the harmonies are those used in a deceptive cadence…. It is easier to say ‘this
music is in the wrong place.’ And thus we are prompted to explore the aesthetic effect of
this disturbance and even to consider whether the Lebewohl idea will eventually find its more
appropriate formal position as a cadence. (Caplin 2005, 122)
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Caplin’s (2005) rhetoric is one of attention. Because it is music in the “wrong place,” listeners explore
the aesthetics behind it. The play with this pattern causes listeners to ask: “why did the composer
make that choice?”
According to Monelle (2006), associations of hunting music, such as the horn fifths, include
a wide range of related concepts such as “nobility, the outdoors, the forest, adventure, and action”
(35). With these descriptors, any nostalgic associations may be surprising. Yet, Rosen (2002)
describes the Lebewohl horn fifths as the movement’s “kernel” and “a symbol in poetry well
established by 1810 of distance, isolation, and memory” (202). In a similar vein, Hatten (2004)
believes these horn fifths “suggest the distance of a landscape or forest as well as its pastoral
character” (56). Beethoven’s use of horn fifths Lebewohl would be marked, since it appears in the
“wrong place”. A part of this nostalgic expression most likely originates from the Lebewohl’s
translation as “farewell.” Yet, the ending horn fifths placed as a beginning augments this “farewell”
expression. A listener uses the horn fifths as a source for a musical analogy; yet, since the inferences
from the source do not fit the context, a listener has to use discourse such as “distance” and
“isolation” in order to reconcile the manipulation.
Composers manipulate a pattern not just through putting it in its “wrong place,” but also by
putting it adjacent to other incongruous features or events, a method Everett (2009) calls
“incongruous juxtaposition” (32), and the second sub-type.

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Figure 3.41: Quotation of Wagner in Debussy’s “Golliwog’s Cakewalk” (graphic from Everett 2009, 32)
Consider Debussy’s quotation of Wagner’s “desire” leitmotif from Tristan und Isolde in his Golliwog’s
Cakewalk (figure 3.41). Everett (2009) describes this quotation as distorted:
First, he [Debussy] extracts the ascending minor sixth motive and exaggerates the sentiment
(“avec une grande émotion”), and then he juxtaposes this quotation with the grace note
figuration that “mocks” the serious affect of Wagner’s music. By embedding the operatic
leitmotif within the genre of ragtime, Debussy blurs the presumed boundary between
highbrow and lowbrow music. Thus while the affect of “desire” is associated with the
borrowed motif, the changes in musical context brought on by its juxtaposition with the
“mocking” motif, exaggerated expressive indication, and formal content of ragtime negate
the sign-interpretant of “desire” by trivializing it. (32)
Sheinberg (2000) argues that Debussy creates “an aesthetic distance, a double outlook which is,
simultaneously, satirizing and self-satirizing” (144). This, then, is mapping patterns that belong, but
manipulated or distorted to prompt listeners to interpret it differently otherwise. Unlike the previous
example, the manipulation comes not from a pattern in a wrong place (pattern related to context);
instead, it is a pattern placed next to an incongruous other. The listener maps over the correct
leitmotif but the leitmotif quotation on its own is not distorted; it is distorted because of what follows
after the quotation.
A third, and last, subtype of patterns that belong but are manipulated is distortion through
“adding” incongruous musical parameters to the temporal space of the pattern, what I consider
manipulating the pattern itself. Consider the last variation of the idée fixe in the fifth movement of
Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique as seen in figure 3.42.
Figure 3.42: Beginning of Idée Fixe in Berlioz, Symphonie Fantastique, fifth movement
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In this example, the composer alters the pattern through addition. There is a base abstraction of the
theme and then Berlioz “adds” features to this abstraction incongruous to what the pattern
represents. The idée fixe represents the artist’s beloved (Harriet Smithson); yet, features added
prompt listeners to interpret it as grotesque. These features include a shrill Eb clarinet, a metric
change to a 6/8 (which creates a lilting, dancing feel), chromatic grace notes (especially at the head
of the theme), and trills (particularly of the 1 and 4 of the 6/8). Taruskin (2005) calls this fifth
movement variant a “character-transformation” of the idée fixe to “an ignoble dance tune, trivial and
grotesque.”Ritchey (2010) also writes that this variation sounds like a “lilting, mocking caricature”
(181). Listeners map the pattern of the idée fixe and they recognize that these added features do not
match the representation of the pattern. They then have to use language such as “grotesque” or
“caricature” in order to make sense of it.
Listeners may hear similarities between features used in the “ridiculing gesture” of Debussy’s
Golliwog’s Cakewalk and the grotesque caricature of Berlioz’s idée fixe. Both use chromatic grace notes
at the beginning of the gestures and have motives grouped in threes. Therefore, some of the features
that make Debussy’s gesture “ridiculing” may be the same that make the idée fixe a grotesque
caricature.
I finish this type of patterns that belong, but manipulated by mentioning a few pertinent
elements. While the previous type of patterns that do not belong depended on listeners’ awareness
of historical placement, this type depends on listeners’ familiarity with patterns and what they
represent. For the Beethoven, familiarity comes from exposure to a particular pattern: the horn
fifths. For Debussy, familiarity comes from knowledge of a famous musical quotation and what it
represented. Finally, for Berlioz, familiarity comes not just from knowledge of the program, but also
exposure to the idée fixe variations throughout the composition (this is the only example where
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listeners do not need to be familiar with an outside piece or style). Pattern manipulations allude to
composer choice, a la Leonard Meyer in his Style and Music (Meyer 1989), and it prompts some listeners,
after making the analogy, to ask themselves, “What is the motivation for manipulating the pattern in
this way?”
Benefits of Analogy Framework
Using the analogy framework can benefit both music theory and cognition as it serves two
purposes: 1) models a person’s cognitive process when using analogy with music, predicting
inferences a listener could make from different analogies, and 2) guides music theorists when
analyzing music using cognitively-informed analogy. The analogy framework builds upon and
furthers current scholarship by providing a systematic way to study musical relationships as well as
giving space to who the listener is and why, from a cognitive perspective, they find certain
interpretations of music or musical communications intuitive.
That experiencing music depends on perceiving musical relationships is recognized by both
music cognition and music theory. One benefit of the analogy framework is it focuses on musical
relationships instead of musical objects in isolation. In Music, the Arts and Ideas (1967), Leonard
Meyer writes: “Understanding music is not merely a matter of perceiving separate sounds. It
involves relating sounds to one another in such a way that they form patterns (musical events)” (46).
Not only are relationships important to pattern perception, but also to how listeners infer meaning.
According to Steve Larson (2012), “meaning is something that our minds create when they group
things into patterned relations” (33). Therefore, incorporating analogy in music analysis helps
theorists connect meaning (and inferences) and musical structure. In addition, analogy can help
theorists analyze not just how listeners perceive musical relationships and relate them to each other
(e.g. one musical theme to another musical theme), but also how listeners relate musical relationships
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to relationships in other domains (e.g. analogy between music and language, music and narrative,
etc.). I build off of these previous theorists and psychologists to analyze how analogy plays a part in
musical thinking and reasoning; how, from a cognitive and systematic perspective, listeners, based
on their experience and familiarity, perceive relationships in music and infer knowledge from this
perception.
Another benefit of the analogy framework in music analysis is it gives scholars a means to
explore how cultural context of the listener influences meaning and how different groups of listeners
could react differently when listening to a piece of music (especially in the retrieval step). Analysts
may accept that the cultural context of a piece is important to ground any interpretation. In fact,
many methodologies provide brilliant examples of ways to understand the norms of a time period.
An analyst, especially one interested in musical meaning or communication, however, may look
around in a quizzical manner and cry, “What about the listener? Where does his or her cultural
context play a part in analysis?” Temperley (1999) addresses the type of listener usually assumed in
“descriptive” music analysis: “[it] usually aims to account for the perceptions of a fairly wide
population of listeners, rather than just those with extensive formal training, although it will
normally confine itself to listeners who have had some exposure to the kind of music being studied”
(68). Descriptive analyses, including those by Lerdahl, Jackendoff, and Meyer, limit their discussions
of listeners to an “idealization”—the “experienced listener.”
We will now elaborate the notion of “the musical intuitions of the experienced listener.” By
this we mean not just his conscious grasp of musical structure; an enculturated listener need
never have studied music. Rather we are referring to the largely unconscious knowledge (the
“musical intuition”) that the listener brings to his hearing—a knowledge that enables him to
organize and make coherent the surface patterns of pitch, attack, duration, intensity, timbre,
and so forth….A listener without sufficient exposure to an idiom will not be able to organize
in any rich way the sounds he perceives. However, once he becomes familiar with the idiom,
the kind of organization that he attributes to a given piece will not be arbitrary but will be
highly constrained in specific ways….The “experienced listener” is meant as an idealization.
Rarely do two people hear a given piece in precisely the same way or with the same degree of
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richness. Nonetheless, there is normally considerable agreement on what are the most
natural ways to hear a piece. (Lerdahl and Jackendoff 1983, 3)
Instead of just an “idealized listener,” what would it look like to analyze how different listeners with
different experiences perceive musical relationships and patterns, possibly even comparing these
different listeners? The analogy framework could help answer this question.
To be fair, current sub-areas of music theory identify different listeners and “modes of
listening.” In particular, several theorists—especially in the past decade—have attempted to recreate
a “historical listener” or “historical modes of listening”—often regarding eighteenth-century music.
In Music in the Galant Style, a book on galant schemata, Gjerdingen considers a historical mode of
listening by wondering if a modern listener could learn to listen like someone of the eighteenth-
century. He writes:
I suspect that traditions of listening have also been slowly transformed. To recover
something of the older, galant tradition, I attempt an archaeology of utterances from that
distant musical civilization, one whose courtiers share with us relatively few social structures
or modes of thought. As the potsherds from my excavations I present musical phrases—
simple musical behaviors from a different time, now given voice in a different social setting.
Can we hear them as Voltaire, Jefferson, or Mozart heard them? Perhaps that is an
unrealistic question….What can be done is to provide an option for the modern listener, a
method for developing a historically informed mode of listening to galant music… It is a
modern reconstruction of an imagined past. But this conjectured galant mode of listening is
nonetheless intriguing and well supported by the writing and practices of eighteenth-century
musicians. (Gjerdingen 2007a, 18–19, italics in original).
Taking a different approach, both Vasili Byros (2009b; 2009a; 2012) and Danuta Mirka (2009) seek
to recreate an eighteenth-century “historical listener” in their analyses by piecing together
information a historical listener may have known. In his case study of the opening to Beethoven’s
Eroica symphony, Byros (2012) establishes a “correlation between real listeners’ responses,
abstracted from documents in the symphony’s [Eroica’s] reception history, and the replicated
patterns unearthed by my own analysis of several thousand compositions from the long eighteenth
century (1720-1840)” (278). Danuta Mirka (2009), in Metric Manipulations in Haydn and Mozart,
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recognizes that hearing eighteenth-century music the way it was heard by historical listeners is
unlikely, but we can still try to reconstruct the “historical listener”: “one equipped with the
theoretical knowledge of the time (which can be learned from historical treatises) and with a
cognitive mechanism supposedly not different from that of today’s listeners (which thus can be
studied empirically and modelled theoretically)” (xii). Considering any historical listener takes a
stance that historical listening differs from modern, Western culture listening. According to Byros
(2009b), “In order to demonstrate that historical modes of listening may exist, one must articulate
some difference with the present so as to qualify the situatedness of cognition as “historical” in
some way, while maintaining that differences are somehow mediated all the same, in order to allow
“history” a place in cognition” (236). Even though these theorists recognize a difference between
“historical” and “modern” modes of listening, they rarely directly compare the two groups. In
general, theorists do not compare different types of listeners; instead, holding a perspective—such as
a “historical eighteenth-century listener”—for an entire analysis.
Even though theorists could use the analogy framework to analyze the “historical listener”—
and I do for research question 2—, the analogy framework addresses listeners beyond just a
historical listener. It could address listeners with different backgrounds in the same time period or
even compare different groups of listeners to each other (whether “historical” or not). By this, I do
not mean the analogy framework should or does account for each individual, subjective listener
experience—or even that it can account for every individual way a piece of music is heard. Instead, I
mean that the analogy framework provides a space, a method, and terminology for analyzing different
listener experiences. It could be a framework of prediction—what groups of listeners might hear and
when, depending on attention, background, familiarity and so on. Due to the “retrieval stage” in
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analogical thinking especially, the analogy framework provides a space for considering listener
background, or cultural context of the listener.
Connected still to “the listener,” the last benefit of the analogy framework is that theorists
can use it to approach music analysis as participatory in nature. In music analysis, many elements of
listening become lost: active and participatory acts become frozen; process-oriented engagement
becomes “static.” Even though analogy is a thought process, analogy-making involves an action on
the part of a listener. To make an analogy, a person often has to make some effort, as demonstrated
by multiple studies where participants do not automatically make analogies (e.g. Gentner and
Markman 1997). Therefore, a listener using analogy to understand music is a participatory process—
a listener participates in the music process through the action of analogy. Analyzing music with
analogy, then, contributes to efforts by Christopher Small (1998) and others to transform “music”
from a noun to a verb—music becomes “an activity, and not an object—i.e. one ‘musics’ rather than
performing or listening to a ‘piece’ of music” (Butterfield 2002, 329).
Finally, a theorist can use this framework combined with other music-theoretic
methodologies. The framework is flexible enough to be used with other methods for analyzing
music. In the following analysis chapters (4 and 5), I demonstrate how the analogy framework can
be used with various music-theoretic methodologies, including sonata theory, schema theory, formal
function, and thematic analysis.
Conclusion: The Analogy Framework and Research Questions
The analogy framework outlined here can be used to answer both research questions from
the first chapter. My first research question asks: how do listeners categorize musical themes?
Analogy is used to categorize and relate musical material to each other. To answer this research
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question, the analyses of theme and variations (chapter 5) entail intra-opus and inter-opus analogies
as well as mapping relations within a musical event. My second research question asks: how do
listeners perceive irony in music by making an analogy between music and language? Analogy is used
to make sense of “unexpected” events in music—nothing else seems to explain it, unless he or she is
using an extra-musical analogy. To answer this research question, the analyses of Beethoven string
quartets (chapter 4) entails extra-musical analogy and mapping relations between musical events.
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CHAPTER 4
“No Interpretation could palliate this Error of a Genius”: Using
Analogy to Perceive Irony in Beethoven’s String Quartets
Understanding a sentence in language is much more akin to understanding a theme in music

than one may think. What I mean is that understanding a spoken sentence is closer than one
thinks to what is ordinarily called a musical theme. Why is just this the pattern of variation in
intensity and tempo? One would like to say: “Because I know what it all means.” But what
does it mean? I’d not be able to say. As an ‘explanation’, I could compare it with something
else which has the same rhythm (I mean the same pattern). (One says, “Don’t you see, this is
as if a conclusion were being drawn” or “This is, as it were, a parenthesis”, and so on. How
does one justify such comparisons? – There are very different kinds of justification here.)
—Ludwig Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations
“And how do you know that you’re mad?”

“To begin with,” said the Cat, “a dog’s not mad. You grant that?”
“I suppose so,” said Alice.
“Well, then,” the Cat went on, “you see a dog growls when it’s angry, and wags its tail when
it’s pleased. Now I growl when I’m pleased, and wag my tail when I’m angry. Therefore I’m
mad.”
“I call it purring, not growling,” said Alice.
“Call it what you like,” said the Cat.
Lewis Lockwood, in his 2003 book Beethoven: The Music and the Life, writes about the finale for
Op. 95, a tragic F minor string quartet titled “serioso”:
The coda of the Finale has baffled many a dedicated Beethovenian, as it ends the whole
work with a light-fingered, nimble Allegro. Its special character is enhanced by what
immediately precedes it, namely, a pianississimo close in F major that seemingly promises to
conclude the movement on a quiet note of affirmation. But then the coda breaks out with its
running figures in 2/2 meter, sempre piano, building gradually to two climactic arrivals on the
tonic. (329)
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In his 1971 study The Beethoven Quartets, Joseph Kerman uses genre as a way to explain the
incongruity of this coda:
Then, as though something silently snapped, a very fast alla breve section emerges in the
major mode, a fantastic evocation of an opera buffa finale in which all the agitation and pathos
and tautness and violence of the quartet seem to fly up and be lost like dust in the sunlight.
(182)
William Kinderman (1995) explicitly labels this “brilliant, exhilarating coda” as “problematic” since it
“blithely ignores the dramatic tensions of the work up to that point” (293). Kinderman (1995) and
Kerman (1971) both take note of a contrast between the opera buffa style and the serious and tragic
style heard previously throughout the quartet. The comic effect is emphasized through the use of
2/2 meter and quick harmonic rhythm, all features which Johann Joachim Quantz detailed as traits
of humorous music in his 1752 Versuch einer Anweisung die Flöte traversiere zu spielen (Wheelock 1992,
38).
Vincent d’Indy, obviously frustrated by the coda, wrote: “one might imagine [that] some
light Rossinian finale had strayed into this atmosphere of sustained beauty, and we think that no
interpretation could palliate this error of a genius” (Quoted in Watson 2010, 192). Yet, an
interpretation is afforded by Hatten, who suggests that if passages of a musical work are
inappropriate to the context of an entire piece – such as the “error” of the Op. 95 coda – than an
“ironic interpretation would be one way to reconcile that inappropriateness as a compositional effect
rather than a flaw” (Hatten 1994, 135). Hatten (1994) interprets this coda – which he argues to be
“neither a miscalculation nor a poorly solved problem” – as ironic, describing it as a “shift in level of
discourse” due to the piece’s sudden and extreme change to a contrasting genre (187-88). Rey
Longyear, in his 1970 article “Beethoven and Romantic Irony,” also hears this coda as ironic, writing
that Beethoven “destroys the illusion of seriousness which has hitherto prevailed with an opera buffa-
like conclusion” (649). Tamar Balter (2009), a student of Hatten, considers this coda to be the
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“prototypical instance of Romantic irony in music” (158). Is there something systematic about this
passage that leads these authors to use irony as a way to interpret the musical “inappropriateness” of
Op. 95? What motivates listeners to perceive a musical passage as ironic as opposed to sincere?
What is Irony?
Linguistic theories may shed light on the way irony works in music since irony is easier to
study in language than music. Scholars have identified many types of irony (Colebrook 2004;
Muecke 1969). In his 1970 book, Douglas Muecke boils all these types down to two principal kinds:
verbal and situational (25), writing: “the former is the irony or the ironist being ironical; the latter is
the irony of a state of affairs or an event seen as ironic” (49). Irony is not a “static rhetorical tool,”
but is part of a “communicative process” (Hutcheon 1995, 13). Raymond Gibbs (2007), a language
psychologist, defines verbal irony as an utterance in which a “speaker says something that seems to
be the opposite of what they meant” (4). According to the language philosopher Cameron Shelley
(2001), a series of events which “defies the normal way in which situations fit with their repertoire of
concepts” can lead to situational irony (775). While verbal irony has commonly been considered a
linguistic phenomenon, situational irony concerns events governed by fate or a “state of the world”
(Attardo 2000, 794). In Hatten’s (1994) definition, “Irony is a higher-order trope inaugurated by the
contradiction between what is claimed (or observed, or done), and a content that cannot support its
reality (or appropriateness) …. there has to be a potential for reversal in interpreting what is “really
meant” by word or deed” (172).

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Traditional approaches to irony in music often find their origin more in literature or
philosophy than cognitive science.13 Esti Sheinberg (2000)– taking a semiotic and philosophical
perspective – clarifies that “musical incongruities” are what suggest irony in music (50). Byron
Almén (2008) and Michael Klein (2009) use literary theory as a model, considering irony to be a
narrative archetype in the tradition of Northrup Frye (1957). Almén (2008) writes that irony has
different phases: comic and tragic. He describes Frye’s (1957) model:
The comic phases of irony do not entirely displace the initial hierarchy, which is depicted as
humorously flawed and not beyond redemption. Attention is called to the problematic
quality of that hierarchy, but an alternative possibility is not always given …. The tragic
phases of irony, by contrast, feature narratives of despair and integration, in which the safety
of a stable society gives way to unrelieved disasters of oppression. (Almén 2008, 167)
Balter (2009), in her research as well as collaborations with Eddy Zemach (2007), combines
philosophy and semantics of linguistics to identify multiple types of irony in music.
Perceiving Irony in Language
Several empirical studies have shown that certain conditions need to be present for a person
to perceive irony in language. In her experiments, Joan Lucariello (1994) revealed that
unexpectedness – through the violation of some type of norm or schema – and the evocation of
human frailty were always mandatory for understanding situational irony. Lucariello (1994) provides
the following example of situational irony that exhibits both unexpectedness and human frailty: “A
man died when the weather was sunny and calm the day before a hurricane hit; he was electrocuted
by removing an object off of his roof as a precaution against the storm” (132).
13In discussions of musical irony, the role of the performer is often omitted. Performers have the power to enhance the
effect of irony; however, the musical text may prompt musicians to adopt such an interpretation. In this respect, the
performance can greatly maximize or minimize the effect of irony in a piece.
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Other experiments on verbal irony by Herbert Colston (2001) support many of Lucariello’s
(1994) observations, but he found other conditions as well. Colston (2001) concluded from his
experimental data that two specific conditions were necessary to comprehend verbal irony. First, the
utterance must allude to violated expectations (Colston 2001, 279). Ironic utterances mention prior
statements, desires, beliefs or social norms that do not come to fruition. Second, the speaker flouts
one or more of H.P. Grice’s (1975) maxims of conversation (Colston 2001, 306). Grice (1975)
defines “flouting” as “BLATANLY fail[ing] to fulfill [the maxim(s)]” (49). These maxims are: 1)
Quantity, make your contributions as more or less informative as required; 2) Quality, do not say
what you believe to be false; 3) Relation, be relevant; and 4) Manner, avoid obscurity of expression,
avoid ambiguity (figure 1). H.P. Grice, a Pragmatics14 scholar, created the maxims as part of his
Cooperative Principle: “Make your conversational contribution such as is required at the stage at
which it occurs, by the accepted purpose or direction of the talk exchange in which you are
engaged” (Grice 1975, 45). A person implicitly follows the Gricean maxims in any “cooperative”
conversation.
Grice’s (1975) Maxims

Make your contribution as informative as required (do not be under-
informative)
Don’t make your contribution more informative than is required (do not be
over-informative)
1 Quantity
Example of flouting the maxim of Quantity:
Person 1: “Where did you go yesterday?”
Person 2: “Somewhere on this earth.”
Do not say what you believe to be false
2 Quality
Do not say what you lack adequate evidence for
14Pragmatics is an area of linguistics which looks at conversational context, and not the words themselves, to determine
an utterance’s meaning. Notable figures in pragmatics include H.P. Grice (1957, 1975), J.L. Austin (1962), as well as Dan
Sperber and Deirdre Wilson (1986). For a broader review of the field, see The Handbook of Pragmatics (Horn and Ward
2004).
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Example of flouting the maxim of Quality:

(The weather is stormy and bad outside)
Person 1: “Nice weather.”
Be relevant
3 Relation Example of flouting the maxim of Relation:

Person 1: “Do you love me?”
Person 2: “I think we should order pizza tonight.”
Avoid obscurity of expression
Avoid ambiguity
Be orderly
Example of flouting the maxim of Manner:

Mother: “How is your new teacher?”
4 Manner
Child: “She’s mean but fair.”
Mother: “How is that?”
Child: “She’s mean to everybody.”
* “Fair” is re-interpreted later on in the joke, pointing to the ambiguity of using the word
“fair” at all.
Figure 4.1: Grice’s maxims, a component of the linguist H.P. Grice’s Cooperative Principle.
Grice (1975) believed that the only maxim which could create irony when flouted was Quality (53).
Since then, scholars such as Salvatore Attardo (2000) and Galia Hirsch (2011) have concluded that
any maxim which is flouted could create irony. Even though the Gricean maxims are most often
used to analyze everyday speech, scholars have also used it as a tool to analyze written prose (e.g.
Rudanko 2007). Colston (2001) found both of these conditions necessary for a person to perceive
verbal irony in language.
Music and Language Analogy
Why should research in linguistics pertain to music? When listeners make an analogy
between language and music, they use language, a more familiar domain, to understand music, a less
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familiar domain. To perceive irony in music, listeners may make an analogy between music and
language.
A music and language analogy—entrenched in Western culture—structures how a person
listens. According to Justin London (1996), a music-is-language framework “is so well established in
our musical training and the language we use to describe music, it becomes wholly transparent—or
to many listeners music becomes a subclass of linguistic phenomena” (51, italics in original). George
Lakoff and Mark Turner would call this analogy a “basic conceptual metaphor” since it is a common
“conceptual apparatus” and prevalent within a culture (Lakoff 1989, 51). According to London
(1996), this analogy has fixed aspects between source and target domains (52). He includes a list of
some ways where “slots” in language map onto corresponding “slots” in music:
Figure 4.2: Linguistic slots that map onto musical slots (graphic from London 1996, 52)
London considers this analogy useful in two ways. First, it allows listeners to make inferences:
“Thus, we can, for example, regard contrapuntal alternations between instruments as analogs to
turn-taking in conversation or argument, musical discontinuities as parenthesis, and so forth” (52).
Second, this analogy allows listeners “to evaluate musical gestures as we would linguistic utterances,”
for example “anomalous musical structures are considered as a species of Gricean flouting”
(London 1996, 52). Because of the music and language analogy, listeners may have similar
expectations for music as they do for language, such as a desire for composers to “cooperate” and
follow the Gricean maxims. Beyond higher-order relations of “speakers” mapped onto “composers”
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and “hearers” mapped onto “listeners/audience,” listeners can make other analogies between music
and language.
Not only do listeners use a culturally-ingrained “music and language analogy” as a reference
for reasoning about music, but listeners, also, map relations in linguistic structure—such as between
sections or words—onto musical structure. That is, musical passages may suggest irony if they are
analogous to linguistic passages that also suggest irony. A musical work is “conceived as a sequence
of events” (Agawu 2009, 7). The contradictory events in Op. 95, namely the opera buffa coda
following the pathos of the quartet, exhibit similarities to contradictory events in situational irony.
Situational irony is caused by an act of fate and has no “speaker.” Beethoven, however, serves as a
“voice” or “speaker” in Op. 95 since he placed these events – motives, phrases, and the like –
together (Cone 1974). Since a composer acts as a “speaker,” music has the potential to flout the
Gricean maxims in a way analogous to verbal irony. When a listener hears the incongruous and
inappropriate coda, he or she desires to understand or “solve” the musical anomaly. By realizing the
similarity between this passage in Op. 95 and instances of irony in language, a listener may make an
inference that the piece is ironic.
Perceiving Irony in Music using Analogy
Drawing from Colston’s (2001) research on verbal irony and Lucariello’s (1994) research on
situational irony, I propose the following cognitively-informed conditions for perceiving ironic
communication in music:
1) Violation of a temporal expectation generated by some norm or violation of a general knowledge structure
in the form of a schema
2) Flouting one or more of the Gricean maxims.
A theory of analogy could provide an explanation for how such violations of expectation and
floutings of Gricean maxims are perceived similarly in music and language. In short, these
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conditions, in addition to priming a culturally-ingrained “music and language analogy,” give clues to
relations in ironic linguistic structure a theorist could map onto musical structure, prompting him or
her to hear a musical passage as ironic. Each condition relates to a different step of the analogy
framework (figure 4.3).
The violation of expectation condition relates to the retrieval step, while the flouting of Gricean
maxims condition relates to the mapping step. To recognize a violation of expectation, listeners
need to have expectations, often learned from previous experience with musical structures. I use the
retrieval step to analyze knowledge of musical norms and structures as well as Gricean maxim
conventions. Listeners retrieve knowledge they have of music as well as knowledge of how Gricean
maxims are used in cooperative conversation (figure 4.4), then use this knowledge in the mapping
step.
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Figure 4.4: The Retrieval Step
To recognize flouting of Gricean maxims in music, listeners map relations in linguistic structures
that flout the maxims onto similar relations in musical structure. I use the mapping step (figure 4.5)
to analyze not only higher-order relations connected to the culturally-ingrained music and language
analogy (e.g. speakers onto composers, etc.), but also relations connected to flouting of Gricean
maxims.
Figure 4.5: The Mapping Step
Before proceeding to case studies of irony in Beethoven, I will explore these knowledge structures in
more depth: violation of expectation and the Gricean maxims.

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Retrieval: Violation of Expectation
With the right knowledge, music has the ability to create expectations to be either fulfilled or
denied (Meyer 1956; Narmour 1990; Huron 2006; Margulis 2007). Meyer (1956) believed
expectation to be an important part of the listening experience, arguing:
All tendencies, even those which never reach the level of consciousness, are expectations. For
since a tendency is a kind of chain reaction in which a present stimulus leads through a series of
adjustments to a more or less specified consequent, the consequent is always implied in the
tendency, once the tendency has been brought into play. (25)
Musical expectations come about in a number of ways, including “reflexes, conceptual knowledge,
mechanisms of statistical learning, logic, or hard-wiring” (Margulis 2007, 2005). On one level,
musical expectations can be created through the structural elements of the music (e.g. Bharucha
1987; Krumhansl 1995). On another level, genre or form entail a set of expectations held by the
listener (Caplin 1998; Hepokoski and Darcy 2006; Cobly 2005; Cobly 2008). In fact, Paul Cobly
(2005) begins his definition of genre as “not a set of textual features that can be enumerated; rather,
it is an expectation” (41). According to James Hepokoski and Warren Darcy (2006), “Genres exist
only insofar as production and reception communities agree to act as if they really did exist, as sets
of rules, assumptions or expectations” (606). A sonata form movement inherently raises different
expectations than an aria. Since music can create expectations, composers have been known to play
with, delay, or even violate these expectations.
Musical expectations are not all created equal. Elizabeth Margulis (2007) categorizes
expectation by considering the five basic ways they can vary: origin (Where does the expectation
come from?), nature (What is it like to have the expectation?), time course (How long is the
expectation sustained?), object (What kind of entity is the target of expectation?), and consequence
(What is the effect of this expectation?) (205–6). In her research on irony, Lucariello (1994) classifies
ironic events not just as unexpected, but unexpected in a culturally recognized way. These events
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presuppose a general knowledge structure as opposed to being idiosyncratic. Therefore, ironic
violation of expectation may vary within Margulis’ (2007) taxonomy, but must also be culturally
understood.
To recognize a violated expectations within a musical style, a listener has similar or shared
musical knowledge with a composer, and then retrieves this knowledge from memory when
necessary; therefore, this condition relates to the retrieval step. This sharing of knowledge between
composer and listener, or the cultural context of a listener, is equally necessary for understanding
ironic communication (Gibbs and Colston 2012, 303–4). For example, if a speaker says, “100 Main
Street burned to the ground,” this is not ironic in and of itself. However, if the hearer knows that
100 Main Street is the address of the firehouse, the sentence is understood to be ironic. Some
scholars have noted the importance of shared knowledge that is retrieved to understand irony and
other compositional effects in music. Everett (2004) writes: “Irony is communicated more often
through implicit rather than explicit signals: in subtle cases, the transliteral message is embedded in
such a way that only the culturally and ideologically “competent” audience comprehends the double
exposure” (5). Here, I define shared knowledge retrieved in the retrieval step as the stylistic
knowledge structures common to Beethoven and experienced late eighteenth-/early nineteenth-
century listeners. To approach violation of expectation in the following case studies, I consider the
galant voice-leading schemata of Gjerdingen (2007a), Caplin’s (1998) theory of formal function, and
Sonata Theory (Hepokoski and Darcy 2006) as part of the shared knowledge between Beethoven
and his learned audience.
I review galant schemata here only in connection to Beethoven, since it was considerably
reviewed in the second chapter. A few scholars have reservations regarding galant schemata in
Beethoven, a composer associated as much, if not more, with the nineteenth-century than the
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eighteenth-century galant. Regarding possibilities of schemata in Beethoven, however, Gjerdingen
(2007a) writes:
Generations of biographers have depicted him [Beethoven] as so archetypically the German

musician that his deep roots in the Italian galant style have been easy to overlook… But
perhaps a simple example from an early piano sonata can suggest how faithfully he had
absorbed the traditions of the galant schemata, even as he was dilating and dramatizing them
in unexpected ways. (237, italics in original)
Since Beethoven trained with galant methods, his music, including his late style, may be a fruitful
repertoire for schema analysis.
Caplin (1998) defines formal function as the “more definite role that the group [a self-
contained “chunk” of music] plays in the formal organization of the work” (9). Listeners recognize
musical sections as having different formal functions:
By means of specific musical criteria, largely based on harmonic-tonal relations but also
involving processes of grouping structure, melodic directionality and texture. The various
formal functions that I have defined relate to three traditional categories of temporal
expression – beginning, being-in-the-middle and ending. In addition, some framing functions
express the sense of before-the-beginning and after-the-end. (Caplin 2005, 115)
Formal function, then, involves the types of formal categories that a listener would most likely
expect in different temporal points of a piece.
Hepokoski and Darcy’s (2006) Sonata Theory (figure 4.6) is more a dynamic process
concerning tasks and goals than simply a mold or template. The classical sonata form is a musical
plot revolving around the drive towards two perfect authentic cadences (PACs), one at the end of
the exposition (the essential expositional closure [EEC]) and one at the end of the recapitulation (the
essential structural closure [ESC]) (Hepokoski and Darcy 2006, 12). Hepokoski and Darcy (2006)
recognize that the “heart of the theory” is this “recognition and interpretation of
expressive/dramatic trajectories toward generically obligatory cadences” (13). Instead of discussing
“themes” or “key areas,” Hepokoski and Darcy (2006) speak of normative procedures within
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“action-space” or “zones.” A normative exposition begins with a primary theme (P) which proceeds
to a transitional zone (TR). A secondary theme (S) follows in a new key which is secured by the
EEC. After the development, the recapitulation has a similar sequence of “zones,” except that the
return of S resides in the home key, ultimately driving toward the ESC.
Figure 4.6: The generic layout of Sonata Form (graphic from Hepokoski and Darcy 2006, 17)
These modern approaches to eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century Western art music –
based on extensive surveys of pieces from this time period – create an understanding for what might
have possibly been in the sharked knowledge of Beethoven and his audience.
Mapping: Flouting the Gricean Maxims
To hear flouting of Gricean maxims in music, listeners may expect composers to
“cooperate” and so use analogy to map relations of flouting the maxims between language and
music. The Gricean maxims are often applied to – and even assumed in – natural language. Fewer
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scholars, however, have considered them in relation to musical communication. London (1996), a
notable exception, writes that even though pieces of music are not conversations, a listener may
expect music to uphold conversational norms:
When we find in them [pieces of music] violations of [Grice’s] cooperative principle, we tend
to assume that these violations are intentional floutings of one (or more) of the principle’s
maxims. Indeed, we often encounter musical descriptions precisely along these lines: these
that are too long or too short are described in terms of overstatement or understatement,
i.e., violations of quantity, melodic and harmonic non sequiturs (for example, a ‘deceptive’
cadence) are violations of relation; ambiguous (especially tonally ambiguous), rhythmically
chaotic, or overly dense musical textures are violations of manner. (59, italics in original)
In addition to London (1996), Charles Nussbaum (2007) also believes music can behave similar to
conversational structure. He comments, for instance, on music’s ability to flout the maxim of
Relevance: “Musical ‘irrelevance,’ whether thematic, harmonic, or formal, is something we all have
encountered. Mozart’s Musical Joke, K. 522 makes a study of it” (Nussbaum 2007, 125).
Since the maxims represent rational behavior, Grice (1975) does not limit their application to
language alone, but believes they can be applied to non-verbal communication as well (47). A person
expects any speaker attempting to communicate to follow the Cooperative Principle and, therefore,
the maxims. In his Origins of Human Communication, Michael Tomasello (2008) writes that “human
communication is thus a fundamentally cooperative enterprise” (6). If music is a type of human
communication, then a listener should expect the composer to be “cooperative” and implicitly
follow the Gricean maxims. Music’s possible communicative implications have been widely
discussed. For instance, Ian Cross (2005) argues that “music’s apparent ambiguity does not debar it
from being considered to be a communicative medium” (32).
Central to communication, however, is intention (Grice 1975; Tomasello 2008). In order for
music to be communicative, a listener may need to perceive it as having intention of some kind. As
previously mentioned in the third chapter, Meyer (1989) argues that music has intention behind it
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since a composer makes certain choices within a constrained musical style (138). Understanding
music as a form of human communication invites the possibility that listeners expect the composer
to more or less follow the Gricean maxims. If a listener expects a composer to follow the Gricean
maxims, then he or she may be primed to map relations from instances of flouting the maxims in
language to music. Then, a listener might make a particular inference if he or she believes the
composer is flouting one of these maxims. In connection to recognizing instances of flouting the
Gricean maxims, there are other facets of the mapping step to consider, including analogical
distance and level of musical relation.
Mapping: Extra-musical Analogy
Perceiving irony in music involves a distant or extra-musical analogy. The two analogs—
music and language—are from separate domains.
Mapping: Relations between Musical Events
Often, relations involving flouting the Gricean maxims map onto relations between musical
events (as opposed to relations within a musical event). Instances of flouting often involve a
composer’s play with sections of a musical form.
Violation of expectation and flouting the Gricean maxims create relations in language that
could mirror relations in music, prompting a listener to make an analogy to hear these musical
passages as ironic. Listeners then use the analogy framework in order to infer that the piece
communicates irony.
Case Studies
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To illustrate the analogy framework and how it relates to irony, I analyze three Beethoven
movements drawn from middle to late string quartets. These are movements which others scholars
have also heard as ironic.15 I build upon these scholars’ observations and use their analyses as
evidence for my conditions of ironic perception.
With the wealth of repertoire in this time period, the use of only string quartets here may
seem limited. The choice of string quartets was not accidental, however. Beethoven’s society
maintained a divide between amateurs (Liebhaber) and connoisseurs (Kenner) in music. Eighteenth-
century composers, to exercise caution, often composed music catered toward both demographics.
In a 28 December 1782 letter to his father Leopold, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart wrote: “Although
here and there connoisseurs alone can obtain satisfaction, the non-connoisseurs will be satisfied,
without knowing why” (quoted in Bonds 2008, 36, italics in original). The string quartet genre
especially was connected to the connoisseur, often having associations with “exclusivity” (Hunter
2012, 57). Leon Botstein (1994) writes, “By 1827 the quartet form (the Beethoven quartets in
particular) had gained augmented status as sophisticated and profoundly communicative pieces
aimed at the truly educated” (90). Engaged listeners could form Beethoven quartet clubs, as
Christian Friedrich Michaelis (‘M.’) described in an 1829 article of the magazine Berliner allgemeine
musikalische Zeitung:
For some time musicians and friends of music have founded numerous quartet clubs
[Quartettvereine], whose primary, or exclusive exercise is the study of Beethoven’s quartets.
It could be called more than a ‘club’ when some of the latest and most difficult masterworks
are gone through fifty or a hundred more times in order fully to enter into the spirit of the
master, and to play him worthily. (quoted in Hunter 2012, 58)
15Op. 130 is the only exception. Even though scholars have not used the term “ironic” to describe this movement,
however, many have alluded to ironic-like behavior.
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The string quartet presents itself as the ideal genre in which to look at violation of expectations.
Since irony depends so much on shared knowledge for comprehension, it may be a compositional
device more apt to be used and recognized by “insiders,” such as these connoisseurs. Beethoven and
other composers expected to share knowledge with their audience of this particularly
“communicative” genre.
Op. 95/iv (1810)
A mention of op. 95 appeared in a letter from Beethoven to Sir George Smart: “NB. The
Quartett is written for a small circle of connoisseurs and is never to be performed in public”
(Anderson 1961, 2:Letter 664). Beethoven held high opinions for the audience of this quartet. It was
him, as opposed to an editor, who titled the work “Quartett[o] Serioso” (Longyear 1970, 649).
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Coda
Figure 4.7: Beethoven, Op. 95 (Serioso), fourth movement, mm. 126-153
By this point, a reader knows how scholars usually interpret this swift and light end to a previously
serious quartet. As the turbulent F minor movement comes to an assumed close, a “Picardy third”
creates a sense of release (figure 4.7, m. 132). Yet, as we know, the trickster “Picardy third” dissolves
into our opera buffa or “Rossinian” finale (to borrow d’Indy’s description).
An avid Beethoven listener may cry that op. 132 shares a similar finale. Like the “Serioso”
quartet, op. 132 also shifts from pathos-laden minor to joyful major (figure 4.8). Scholars, however,
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tend not to consider the ending of op. 132 ironic. Why does the coda of op. 95 strike such an ironic
tone, but the coda of op. 132 does not? In her comparison, Balter (2009) argues that op. 95 does not
evoke irony through a change in affect or mood, but because the coda alludes to the different genre
of opera buffa (164). Yet, why is this difference significant?
Figure 4.8: Beethoven, Op. 132, finale, mm. 290-309
The conditions outlined earlier, which I analyze through the analogy framework, may explain
why a listener perceives op. 95 as ironic, but not op. 132. The op. 95 coda violates expectations since
it is less common for movements to shift to a different affect, topical genre or use new musical
material without any transition. This expectation, to address Margulis’ (2007) category of “origin,”
stems from familiarity with stylistic norms. As a result, the expectation would be part of a shared
knowledge of retrieval between eighteenth-/early nineteenth-century listeners and composers.

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“The ending of op. 132 violates expectations, as well,” our avid Beethoven listener may
insist, “in its shift to a different affect and use of new musical material.” Both op. 95 and op. 132
satisfy the first condition. A violated expectation, then, is not a sufficient indicator of irony in music.
Zemach and Balter (2007) appear to agree, as they write:
First, music raises expectations: competent listeners project situations they consider right for
the (musical) conditions at hand. Second, listeners compare and contrast the anticipated
situation (a musical event) with the one that does occur in the work. These traits, however,
are necessary, but not sufficient, conditions for musical irony, for contrasting situations and
frustrating expectations have many other uses too: they create tension, drama, or simply add
interest to the work. (183)
The flouting of the Gricean maxims may offer a “missing piece” to complete our irony puzzle. The
flouting of the Gricean maxims offers a condition that works in tandem to expectation. The
unexpected coda of op. 95 provides a paradigmatic example of flouting the Gricean maxims,
specifically Relation and Quantity.
According to the maxim of Relation, whatever statements a speaker adds should be relevant
to the conversation at hand. An abstraction of a relation involved for flouting the maxim of Relation
is:
DOES-NOT-RELATE(x, y)
The coda that Beethoven composed for op. 95 is not relevant to the rest of the quartet in either
affect or genre. In addition, the music of the coda was not previously heard before in the movement.
The fact that Beethoven provides no transition material or preparation for the shift further
emphasizes its irrelevance. To make an analogy between music and language, first a listener retrieves
relevant knowledge of sonata form and formal function conventions as well as knowledge on the
maxim of Relation. In this case, a linguistic flouting of Relation could take be realized as such:
DOES-NOT-RELATE(sentence 1, sentence 2)
In Op. 95, a listener hears piece + coda, where coda does not relate to the rest of the piece.
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DOES-NOT-RELATE(piece, coda)
A listener could make this abstraction from these instances so to map this relation from language to
music (figure 4.9). In the evaluation step, a listener infers the musical passage portrays irony.
Figure 4.9: The analogy framework and Op. 95, relation maxim, form
On the other hand, while the coda for op. 132 may defy expectations, it still relates to other
parts of the movement. Even the change in affect sounds linked, according to Hatten (2004):
Unlike what I have called the addendum [coda] to the finale of the “Serious” Quartet (Op.
95)… The extensive coda to the finale of Op. 132 is thematically and expressively integrated
as a logical outcome to both the movement and the quartet…. Beginning with the
modulation in the first theme at m. 7, we have glimpsed the potential of this ending. (285)
Kinderman (1995), also uses the word “integrated” to describe the difference: “As in the quartetto
serioso, op. 95, the finale of op. 132 contains a coda in the major mode, but the conclusion is now far
more integrated with the work as a whole than it was in the earlier quartet” (298). Both Hatten and
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Kinderman focus on the coda’s thematic material and how it connects to previous themes in the
movement. Kerman (1971), however, places importance on transitions:
The Finale of the A-minor, after resuming the pathos of the first movement of the
composition in a dynamic analogous to that of the F-minor quartet, concludes with an
analogous volte-face to the major mode, Presto. Again the first impression is of lightness and
play, as though a great weight of involvement has been lifted. But the shadows are not quite
forgotten, and the contrast in mood, though again staggering, is not so puzzling because
(among other reasons) the new major-mode material is led in by a definite thematic passage.
The concluding section itself is longer and self-sufficient; Beethoven can afford really to look
at it. In this ending, the prior pathos seems genuinely – “serious” – encompassed. The play
seems genuinely earned or achieved. (183–84)
Seemingly small differences, such as no transition materials, unconnected themes, and switching
genres, ultimately create the effect that op. 95’s coda purposely does not relate to the rest of the
quartet, prompting a mapping between it and the maxim of Relation. Op. 95’s coda aligns with one
of David Huron’s (2006) nine devices for musical humor; particularly, “mixed genres” (284).
Beethoven flouts the maxim of Relation by drastically switching from tragedy to opera buffa.
Op. 132, on the other hand, applies the strategies that op. 95 lacks, evoking a sincere coda and cuing
an expressive genre—defined as “category of musical works based on their implementation of a
change-of-state schema” (Hatten 1994, 290)—which leads “from tragic to transcendent” (Hatten
2004, 280). This move from “tragic-to-transcendence” relates within the context; therefore,
Beethoven does not flout the maxim of Relevance. As no similar expressive genre (other than
perhaps one of “irony”?) easily maps onto op. 95, its coda seems irrelevant to its surroundings.
Instead of “from tragic to transcendent,” the coda of op. 95 could be considered “from seriousness
to frivolity” (figure 4.10). In a case study of selected humorous Peter Schickele music, Huron (2006)
shows that Schickele’s “most common tactic [of mixed genres] is to juxtapose “high art” and “low
art” styles. Typically, the “high art” style is established first, followed by interjections of “low art”
materials” (285). Op. 95 would be an example of this “high art” followed by “low art” styles, or
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“seriousness-to-frivolity.” Therefore, the relation is not just DOES-NOT-RELATE in regards to
structure, but also genres and their associations. This can be mirrored in linguistic examples of
flouting the Gricean maxim of Relation, as well, as seen in figure 4.1:
Person 1: “Do you love me?”

Person 2: “I think we should order pizza tonight.”
The question “do you love me?” is serious, followed by a frivolous response about ordering pizza.
Figure 4.10: The analogy framework and Op. 95, relation maxim, genre
For that reason, op. 95 flouts the maxim of Relation while op. 132 does not, creating a sense of
irony in the former but not the latter.
More often than not, the flouting of one maxim will connect to the flouting of another.
Beethoven takes advantage of Formenlehre to flout the maxim of Quantity in op. 95. This flouting
directly relates to the flouting of Relevance previously discussed. According to the maxim of
Quantity, a contribution to a conversation should be no more or no less informative then required.

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The “perfect amount of information” varies depending on the form of the piece; in the case of op.
95, the form is a modified seven-part sonata-rondo form (ABA’CB’A’’) or Expanded Type 1 Sonata-
Rondo Mixture (Type 41-exp) (Hepokoski and Darcy 2006, 409). Caplin (1998) writes that eliminating
the A between the C and B’, as seen here in Op. 95, is a common-sonata-rondo deviation, often
used by Mozart (238). This modified sonata-rondo also has an effect on the rotational structure of
the movement compared to other rondo types. Hepokoski and Darcy (2006) write:
In one typical scenario, an episodic or developmental “billowing-out” can occur when the
tonic return of Prf, launching Rotation 2 and the recapitulation, is followed by either a closed
episode or a genuine development (often of Prf or TR material) or by both. This episodic
and/or developmental expansion has frequently been mistaken for “Episode 2 (C)” of a
seven-part sonata-rondo in which the third statement of the refrain (A) is eliminated. In
other words, some analysts have parsed this familiarly Mozartian pattern as ABACB’A,
suggesting that it arises as an “incomplete” ABACAB’A design. Once again, we see the
pitfalls of reducing the Type 4 sonata to a mere string of alphabetic symbols. Type 41-exp, the
expanded Type 1sonata-rodo mixture, may more meaningfully be conceived as a rotational
structure…. The Rotation 2 interpolation, even if it is a new and separate episode, frequently
links up at its end with the end of the original TR, now transposed to the to the tonic key.
The Rotation 2 expansion often leads to a crux-point that slips into correspondence
measures in TR-space. This means that it rejoins an ongoing rotation-in-progress, one that
had begun with the second tonic statement of Prf.” (Hepokoski and Darcy 2006, 410)
As opposed to other types, such as the Type 3 Sonata-Rondo mixture, which is four rotations, the
Type 41-exp has three rotations (Hepokoski and Darcy 2006, 410).
Rotation 2: Prf (TR) [development or episode] … TR ‘S/C  RT
Therefore, the second rotation begins at m. 51 and does not end until the beginning of the third at
m. 98.
There are a number of problematic cadences within this piece in addition to expected ones.
The sonata-rondo-space of op. 95 lacks any PACs, a problematic turn of events since a central part
of Sonata Theory involves a piece’s drive to the EEC and ESC. There is a structurally important
i:HC in m. 19 (with caesura-fill in the first violin lasting for a bit). Then all voices stop on a unison
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Db. In a way, this dramatic Db, highlighted by the rests and emphasized by the “sol-le” movement
in all voices, sounds almost as if a wrong turn, playing into Beethoven’s possible use of “play” in this
piece. However, he recovers by transforming it into the seventh of a viio7 in m. 22, marking the A
material as a seed for a beginning of a dependent transition. M. 23 marks the beginning of this
dependent TR in Hepokoski and Darcy’s (2006) tradition of a grand antecedent and dissolving grand
consequent. After a shift from dependent transition to an independent one, an imperfect Medial
Caesura (MC) occurs in m. 43. The MC is lacking, if not completely blown through as some kind of
rejection. This feeds into an S/C blend in v (m. 43); though the short S theme, in a way, questions its
own existence due to the weak MC and also the length of the S/C space. Finally, the exposition fails
to produce a satisfactory EEC, with only a v: IAC as opposed to the expected PAC in mm. 47-48.
This leads directly into the return of A’ (beginning in m. 51), though a severely truncated version.
Beethoven flouts the maxim of Quantity16 (being “under-informative”) with his shortage of
cadences, specifically PACs within the Sonata-rondo space. Caplin (1998) discusses the importance
of “cadential goals” in a sonata exposition (196). Similar to Hepokoski and Darcy (2006), he requires
a PAC to close the Secondary Theme key (196). Where a PAC should occur (mm. 47-48) to close
the Secondary Theme and mark the exposition’s end, a listener hears the previously mentioned
subtle imperfect authentic cadence (IAC) instead. This cadence hides under a continuing flurry of
sixteenth notes in a rush to return to Primary Theme-Refrain (Prf) material. Such a coy IAC creates a
“failed” exposition as it falls short in marking a satisfactory EEC. Hepokoski and Darcy (2006) note
that an EEC can be “more weakly secured” with an IAC, though it is rare (167). The definition of a
16 Of course, attempting to justify flouting of Quantity is difficult since music traditionally expands, contracts, repeats,
and so on. What is too much or too little information in music? It may be that it can be considered “too much” or “too
little” only in relation to another part of the piece (as in Op. 95). It may also be “too much” if it goes above and beyond
what is “necessary” to establish form and “too little” if it falls short of establishing it (also, as in Op. 95). Finally, it may
be “too much” if it draws a listener’s attention enough for them to question.
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“failed” exposition is a “nonclosed expositions,” when there is no proposed EEC-effect (Hepokoski
and Darcy 2006, 177). Therefore, one could argue that this makes a “failed” exposition, though
perhaps not as dramatic as more pertinently failed expositions.
Beethoven’s “under-informative” nature does not end with the EEC, but continues on to
the ESC as well. Certain complications exist for the ESC in sonata-rondos (figure 4.11). As
described by Hepokoski & Darcy (2006):
[Sonata-rondos] present a more complicated conceptual situation: As hybrid forms they can
be viewed from two different perspectives: from that of the sonata and that of the rondo…
the “sonata” aspect will ask for the presence of ESC at the end of the recapitulation’s S
theme…. A simple rondo’s ESC is delayed until the moment of the PAC-closure of its final
thematic statement – which in a sonata-rondo occurs after the recapitulation is completed.
Thus a sonata-rondo presents us with the possibility of two conflicting ESC claims. (428)
Figure 4.11: Graph of Sonata-Rondo form and placement of EEC and ESCs (graphic from Hepokoski and
Darcy 2006, 428).
At the “sonata” ESC moment, Beethoven presents an IAC similar to the exposition, yet eliding with
returning Prf material. The “rondo” ESC moment brings even more surprises, however, since there is
no authentic cadence at all. Beethoven teases his listeners with implications that a PAC, or any
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authentic cadence for that matter, should occur in this moment. For instance, the Indugio (figure
4.12) is a predominant-expansion schema documented by Gjerdingen (2007a). It has a bass that
prolongs scale degree 4, a soprano that outlines scale degrees 2, 4, and 6 (with an emphasis on 6),
and 6/5 figured bass (or, in the case here, the soprano highlights 6 and an inner voice highlights 2).
This schema commonly “served to hold back an expected big cadence, thereby heightening
anticipation” (436). In mm. 118-20 (figure 4.13), an Indugio implies a cadence that is never fully
realized.
Figure 4.12: The Indugio from Gjerdingen (2007a, 464).

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Figure 4.13: Beethoven, Op. 95 (Serioso), fourth movement, mm. 118-20
Such a lack of PACs, in both ESC positions, creates a non-resolving recapitulation
(Hepokoski 2001/2002, 152). This could indicate that the sonata-rondo is “failed.” This “failed”
sonata-rondo as a whole sets up reasonable expectations for a discursive coda which would solve the
“unfinished business” about F minor or F major. The expectation for a coda to “finish” the
“unfinished” especially applies to Beethoven, as Burnham (2000) contends, “Critics from our own
century tend to regard the Beethovenian coda as the locus for unfinished business” (121). For
instance, Beethoven’s contemporary Egmont overture also features a non-resolving recapitulation,
placing the burden on the coda to fully realize the F major via a PAC (Hepokoski 2001/2002). A
listener may expect a similar coda from op. 95, but a rather different one appears instead. If the
sonata-rondo space flouts the maxim of Quantity by being under-informative, the coda flouts the
maxim of Quantity by being over-informative. The coda contains an abundance of authentic
cadences in F major, including a number of PACs such as m. 137 (weak), m. 151, and m. 175. The
coda proves to be irrelevant (as previously discussed) by not solving the problems outlined earlier as
expected – for example, with a triumphant F major. Because of the sudden shift in discourse and
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opera buffa display, the coda sounds like the wrong coda for its context. This makes it irrelevant to the
“failed” sonata-rondo at hand. The lack of cadences (“under-informative”) prior the cadence-
abundant coda (“over-informative”) flouts the maxim of Quantity. Figure 4.14 illustrates the
relations of “under-informative,” that of:
LACKS-INFORMATION(x, y)
Though, it can be flipped to account for “over-informative” as well:
EXCESSIVE-INORMATION(x, y)
A listener maps this relation from language to music.
Figure 4.14: The analogy framework and Op. 95, quantity maxim
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Even though other factors exist, Beethoven’s play with cadences contributes to the
“irrelevant” nature of his coda. Between the violated expectations and the flouting of the Gricean
maxims, a listener perceives irony when listening to op. 95.
Op. 131/V (1826)
The next case study begins more than a decade later. The scherzo of op. 131, according to
both Longyear (1970) and Zemach and Balter (2007), creates irony through a number of unexpected
modulations and play with tempo. During Beethoven’s lifetime, no public performance took place
of this quartet; however, it was rehearsed and “heard by the usual ‘small circle of connoisseurs’,
including Schubert” (Watson 2010, 264).
A playful melody in E major triggers a jesting nature, appropriate for a movement which
Kerman (1971) believes to be the “most childlike of all Beethoven scherzos” (338). The melody
outlines a tonic triad and provides a strong initiating function. After this opening motif, the melody
feeds into a continuation. Beethoven ends the phrase, though, with a jolting rat-a-tat-a-tat of chords
(figure 4.15, mm. 17-18) instead of an expected cadence. After an extended sequence from G#
major (figure 4.15, mm. 19-20), A major (figure 4.15, mm. 21-22), to B major (figure 4.15, mm. 23-
24), a listener assumes Beethoven “means” to conclude the modulation on the dominant. At the
end, however, the scherzo is unable to hold onto its B major dominant: “When it gets there [the B
major], it fusses inordinately, slows down, expostulates with this key and persuades it (against its
better judgment) to try being G# [minor]” (Kerman 1971, 339).

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Figure 4.15: Beethoven, Op. 131, fifth movement, mm. 13-48
The opening motif returns (figure 4.16, m. 41), but this time in G# minor. As a listener, it
seems that the performers are not convinced this is the appropriate course of action. For all
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instruments, Beethoven writes in a ritardando. The players then slow down (figure 4.16, m. 44),
creating the effect that they are confused, before landing on V7 of G# minor. From this V7,
Beethoven creates a deceptive move (figure 4.16, m. 45) to what at first seems to be a VI chord, but
is actually a modulation back to the original E major tonic. The motif repeats, satisfied now with the
current key, and reprises the opening as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place. In terms of
Caplin’s (1998) formal functions, the choice of stopping and re-beginning in the “correct” key
creates an effect of multiple initiating functions strung together. Beethoven’s first “take” at this
motif in G# minor is interrupted, prompting a repeating initiating function in the more appropriate
E major. This second initiating function, then, feeds into a continuation and cadential function as
expected.
Figure 4.16: Beethoven, Op. 131, fifth movement, mm. 41-48
Zemach and Balter (2007) discuss the irony of this movement as such:
These early modulations to the key of the mediant are ironic, because once it becomes clear
that the E major chord is a correct beginning of the reprise, the modulation to G# minor
looks wrong. Beethoven makes it look as if this (unconventional) modulation to the key of
the mediant was a mistake by writing no modulation back to the home key. (187, bold
added for emphasis)
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This piece violates expectations by modulating to the mediant instead of the expected dominant. In
addition to this unusual move, the scherzo shifts suddenly back to the tonic without preparation. In
regards to Margulis’ (2007) question of “origin” (205), these expectations come from conventions
for modulation that would have been part of the shared knowledge between experienced eighteenth-
/early-nineteenth-century listeners and composers. A listener may argue, however, that play with
tempo strikes him or her as more surprising than the modulations themselves. The performers of
this piece slow down dramatically, as if perplexed, creating a type of disillusionment. This creates the
effect that someone maybe made a mistake.
In relation to the mapping, Beethoven’s musical structure mimics the relation of flouting the
maxim of Quality: do not say what you do not have the evidence for or what you do not believe to
be true. The unexpected and quite abrupt return to the opening motif in the tonic, coupled with the
performers’ “confusion,” reinforces the effect that Beethoven did not provide the listener with the
“correct” information; to put rather bluntly, he was “wrong.” The abstracted relation here would be:
INCORRECT-IN-CONTEXT(x, y).
Here, issues arise regarding music’s lack of propositional truth: music cannot have “wrong
information” in the same way language can. Analogy, however, bypasses some of these issues. For
analogy, music does not need to “be truthful.” Instead, music needs to behave, or have relations,
that imitate either “correct” or “truthful” relations in language. In the case study here, an abrupt
transition returning to an opening motif creates behavior with a similar relation: the move was a
mistake. Therefore, the music may have a relation of ABRUPT-TRANSITION(phrase-in-iii,
opening-motif-in-I), while language may have a relation of UNTRUE-IN(sentence, context/reality).
As seen in figure 4.17, these can be re-represented as relation INCORRECT-IN-CONTEXT(x, y).

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Figure 4.17: The analogy framework and Op. 131
A listener maps this relation from language to music and may perceive this moment as ironic as he
or she infers Beethoven as flouting the maxim of Quality.
It may be that a listener prefers to use the term “humorous” instead of “ironic” to describe
op. 131. Humor and irony, while often regarded as different phenomena in the psychology of
linguistics (Hirsch 2011, 531), share many similarities. For instance, violation of expectation is often
considered a cue for both irony and humor (Raskin and Attardo 1994; Hirsch 2011). In this
particular case, op. 131’s humorous nature could be attributed to a Western art music tradition of
“performer bungling.” For this style of humor, pieces are purposely composed in a way that the
composer or performer (or both, in the case of composer-performers) seem to commit mistake after
mistake. Friedrich August Weber, in an 1800 allegmeine musikalische Zeitung article, believed that the
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“artfully imitated bungling”17 of an incompetent composer symbolized the most sophisticated
humorous music (quoted in Mirka 2009, 300). To imitate this “fake bungling,” though, a composer
needed to be “well-acquainted” with the common ways that composers usually “botched”
compositions (Zenck 2008, 57). Essentially, he or she needed to have the right information in his or
her shared knowledge.
Performer/composer bungling provides a methodology for analyzing humor in op. 131.
Claudia Maurer Zenck (2008), for instance, uses such a perspective in her study of Beethoven’s op.
31, no. 1, first movement:
Still, the suspicion arises that those surprising moments are not intended as simply
humorous, but also meant to represent the inept ‘fumblings’ of the fictive composer-persona
– one that apparently is not particularly ingenious nor adequately schooled in the rules of
composition. (62)
Byros (2013) uses Mozart’s K. 279 as an example of performer bungling, writing that Mozart’s
manipulation of common uses of galant phraseology and sonata form create a “parody of a musical
performance” with a “mindless or overenthused performer” (242). For Janet Levy (1992), humorous
music comes from a performer who acts in an inanimate manner. In Beethoven’s Bagatelle in C
Major, op. 3, no. 5, a virtuosic arpeggio repeats for the third time in a “seemingly mindless” fashion
and gives the “impression of something purely mechanical” (Levy 1992, 226). This prompts Levy
(1992) to ask herself: “Has the music gotten stuck? Or the pianist?” (226). The irony conditions
established earlier, however, also explains this Bagatelle example: Beethoven flouts the maxim of
Quantity; he gives too much information.
The tempo fluctuations of op. 131 could easily be heard as a type of performer bungling as
the string players seem lost and confused. In a similar way, the high amount of repetition in this
17 “Künstlich nachgemachte musiklaische Stümperey” (quoted in Mirka 2009, 300 n12).

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movement could also be interpreted as a type of performer bungling; perhaps, as part of the
performers’ lost and confused nature. They lost track of where they were in the piece and ended up
repeating more than they originally intended. Performer bungling also falls in line with Lucariello’s
(1994) other requirement for situational irony: it exhibits “evocation of human frailty.” The ability
for performers and composers to make mistakes shows how “fragile” human nature can be. In the
end, this movement is often considered both humorous and ironic, due to unexpected modulations
and tempo fluctuations.
Op. 130/I (1825)
The final case study here analyzes the first movement of op. 130, the third and last of the
commissioned “Galitzin” quartets: op. 127, op. 132, and op. 130 (Watson 2010, 244). Unlike the
other pieces discussed here, previous scholars have not used the word “ironic” to describe this
movement. However, descriptors similar to irony have been used by some, as seen in this Kerman
1971 quote: “Paradox has to proceed from norms: suspiciously normal features jostle with abnormal
ones all through the Quartet in Bb” (307).
The basis for irony in this movement comes from transformations of sonata form principles.
In “normative” sonata form, the exposition, a tight-knit and stable section, should “propose the
initial tonic… move to and cadence in a secondary key” as well as provide a “referential arrangement
or layout of specialized themes and textures against which the events … – development and
recapitulation – are to be measured and understood” (Hepokoski and Darcy 2006, 16). The
development tends to be “more active, restless, or frequent tonal shifts—a sense of comparative
tonal instability” while the “thematic choice and arrangement is of paramount importance and
derives its significance through a comparison with what had happened in the exposition”
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(Hepokoski and Darcy 2006, 18–19). The recapitulation, as a final step, “resolves the tonal tension
originally generated in the exposition by re-beginning on the tonic” and should bring ultimate
closure (Hepokoski and Darcy 2006, 19). To be a “functioning” sonata, each section should
accomplish its specific goal. Op. 130, on the other hand, seems to turn these roles “upside-down”:
both the exposition and recapitulation appear fragmentary, tonally unstable, and restless, while the
development appears static and serene. Beethoven does not simply create an odd sonata, but one in
which each section accomplishes the “opposite” of its expected goal. Why could we expect
Beethoven to follow sonata form, especially if we take Hepokoski and Darcy’s (2006) eighteenth-
century orientated perspective as a model? Beethoven is often considered closer to Mozart’s world
then Berlioz’s. In his essay “Exploiting Limits: Creation, Archetypes and Style Change,” Meyer
(2000) argues:
In my view, it is not surprising that Beethoven’s use [in op. 131] is more like Mozart’s than
like Berlioz’s—even though the last of Mozart’s works considered here proceeded the C#-
Minor Quartet by forty years while Beethoven’s precedes Berlioz’s work by only four years.
What most affects compositional choices in the internalization of prevalent musical
constraints, and such learning almost always takes place before a composer is twenty. In this
respect, Beethoven and Mozart, who were born fourteen years apart, were near
contemporaries, while Beethoven and Berlioz, who were born thirty-three years apart, were
not. Beethoven’s ingrained Classicism seems evident in the high-level organization. (Meyer
[1980] 2000, 208 n31, italics in original)
Therefore, Beethoven may have lived more in an eighteenth-century world even though he
composed in the nineteenth.
We may commence, for instance, with the fragmentary exposition. It begins adagio ma non
troppo, but is immediately followed by an allegro section. Such a beginning would not be odd; a
listener would simply interpret the adagio as a slow introduction. The allegro section ends abruptly,
however, on a I:HC (figure 4.18, mm. 15-20). This half cadence bridges the allegro to a return of the
adagio in the dominant key of F major. The adagio gently reasserts itself (figure 4.18, mm. 20-24),
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which could be interpreted as the piece either returning to the introduction (perhaps to restart) or it
could prompt a listener to reconsider the beginning as actually a first Primary Theme instead of a
slow introduction. The allegro section follows suit once more (mm. 20-36), also in F major.
Figure 4.18: Beethoven, Op. 130, first movement, mm. 13-28

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The adagio and allegro materials contrast each other on many levels. Their textures differ, since the
adagio draws from an aria cantabile topical style, while the allegro “paraphrases” a canzone with
shimmering sixteenth notes (Ratner 1995, 215). They differ the most, however, in tempo. Beethoven
grouping these themes together without transitions and within a short amount of time creates an
incoherent and confusing effect.
While this analysis argues for two Primary Themes, other scholars have different
perspectives. Hepokoski and Darcy (2006) write:
The opening (and recurring) Adagio ma non troppo, preparing a contrasting Allegro, is not
only repeated with the whole exposition but may also be understood simultaneously as both
an introduction – clearly its principal role – and the onset of a deformational P[rimary
Theme]…. [Op. 130] slow introduction; false first start with Allegro P-material, aborted;
return to slow introduction; restart or continuation of the Allegro. The impression is of two
or more attempts to launch a P-theme, only the last of which succeeds. In turn this suggests
either a need to go back to the “reflective” introduction to allow the faster theme to be
gestated more sufficiently or a momentary indecision or reluctance to face the task that is to
follow. (299–300)
Daniel Chua (1995), believing the work to be in “crisis,” follows a similar train of thought when he
writes that the piece contains two introductions, the first of which is “detachable” and the second
“integral” (205). Whether or not one hears the repeated adagio as a return of a slow introduction, a
separate theme or a combination of both, op. 130’s Primary Theme zone groups together material
that contradicts each other in significant ways.
One could argue, perhaps, that contrasting Primary Themes may not deter an exposition
from fulfilling its main goal of proposing the initial tonic and providing tonal stability. Yet, the
exposition of op. 130 fails on this front as well. The allegro material begins with a variant of the
Meyer schema (Gjerdingen 2007a, 111–21) called the Aprile (Gjerdingen 2007a, 122–28). In the
Meyer (figure 4.19), a soprano opens with 1-7 dyad and closes with a 4-3, while the bass opens with
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a 1-2 and closes with a 7-1. For the Aprile variant (figure 4.20), a composer replaces the normal
soprano close of 4-3 with a 2-1.
Figure 4.19: The Meyer schema from Gjerdingen (2007a); the Aprile variant has a closing dyad of 2-1 instead of
4-3 in the soprano
Figure 4.20: Example of the Aprile variant (with a not as common 5-1 close in the bass instead of 7-1) from
Aprile, Solfeggio, MS fol. 40v, Larghetto, mm. 1-4 (graphic from Gjerdingen 2007a, 123).
The Meyer, and its Aprile variant, functions as a “tonally stable” schemata due to its I-V-V-I
harmonic motion, explaining “why it was a preferred choice for important themes” (Gjerdingen
2007a, 112). Beethoven uses an Aprile for the allegro Primary Theme; however, his use of this
schema is atypical (or deformative). This results in an opening theme that lacks any strong sense of
tonic (figure 4.21).

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Figure 4.21: The Aprile schema in Beethoven, Op. 130, first movement, mm. 13-19
Meyer (1989) comments on Beethoven’s use of this Aprile, maintaining that the “general parallelism
of the parts… and the harmonic process… conform to the norms of the model [the schema]… But
there are striking differences, and because of these, the presence of the schema is much less
apparent” (229). One of the ways the schema is atypical is its missing 1-2 and 7(or 5)-1 dyads in the
bass. As Meyer mentions, these are not the exact notes; however, it still conforms to the harmonic
norms (I-V-V-I) of the schema. In addition to being an atypical version of the schema in terms of its
note choices, the schema is also masked. Meyer (1989) lists various ways the schema is masked,
including a “competing schema” of rising sequential fourths in addition to a greatly elaborated
melodic line (229), which particular masks the convention since it flies by the 1-7 and 2-1 notes. By
disguising this conventional schema associated with tonal stability, the allegro Primary Theme does
not accomplish its goal of establishing a sense of tonic.

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The arrival and choice of the Secondary Theme key (Gb major) further emphasizes an
unhinged nature in this exposition. The piece modulates to its secondary key area by a unison
chromatic scale, beginning on F (the dominant of the tonic key) and rising to Db (ultimately acting
as a dominant to Gb major). This also signals a triply-obscured MC, hidden through an expanded
and modulating caesura-fill as well as an obscured acceptance (Richards 2013, 184). Richards (2013)
notes that an “implied home-key V in a unison texture sounds within TR at m. 51 but then
mysteriously rises in chromatic steps, reaching and sustaining Db at m. 53. Is this Db an unassuming
start to S, or is the MC-preparation, with what follows constituting single-voice caesura-fill, the start
to S instead occurring at m. 55?” (184) Meyer (1989) may label the lyrical Secondary Theme (figure
4.22, beginning m. 55) a gap-fill melody as it begins with a large interval leap up and filled in by a
subsequent descent.

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Despite the Secondary Theme’s success at securing an EEC (mm. 89-90), the piece feels off-kilter
due to its odd manner establishing this unusual key. Kerman (1971) describes the modulation as one
might describe a confused character in a play, arguing:
This staccato unison chromatic scale is the most devastating event yet in the composition. For
nothing so far, not even the hinting at chromaticism, has prepared us for so mechanistic a
move to Db. When Db is coolly treated as the 5th of Gb major, the second key for the
movement, the tonal situation appears utterly precarious; normally Beethoven would never
dream of establishing a contrasting key-area, let alone a remote key (bVI), in so dissociated a
fashion. (309)
Daniel Chua (1995) also finds problems with the way Beethoven arrives at the Secondary Theme key
area: “Beethoven does not actually arrive Gb major, because there was never a departure towards it
in the first place; it is merely a contingent assertion” (206, italics in original).
The exposition, then, does not achieve its supposed goals, namely, to “propose the initial
tonic”—create an atmosphere of tonal stability—as well as move to and cadence in a secondary key
smoothly. Ultimately, the exposition should have a rhetorical role of tight-knit and stable tonality.
The recapitulation is not a different story. Beethoven’s recapitulation further emphasizes an unstable
atmosphere through fragmentary material and multiple modulations by fifths, traveling from Bb
major to Eb major, a “skirting Ab major” (Brodbeck and Platoff 1983, 159), and Db major before
finally returning (relieved, no doubt) to the Bb major tonic. Chua (1995) believes that the “tonal
ambiguity staged by the double opening has highly problematic repercussions in the recapitulation”
(205). The instability heard in op. 130 undermines the recapitulation’s usual goal of bringing closure
and providing resolution.
While the exposition and recapitulation highlight an unstable and fragmentary nature, the
development provides a vision of serenity and stability. From the beginning (m. 104), op. 130’s
development maintains a consistent ostinato pattern and piano dynamics with homophonic texture
that would be the envy of any stable Primary Theme (figure 4.23). The first violin re-contextualizes
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the rising-fourths fanfare of the allegro. This fanfare, which originally sounded so flustered, seems
calm in this context. A separate lyrical melody begins with an ascending octave, perhaps alluding to
the gap-fill of the Secondary Theme. Such texture and dynamics highly contrasts what was heard in
the exposition.
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197
The development sounds notably static compared to the “restlessness” that a listener might
expect from this section. Other scholars note the development’s unusual nature as well. David
Brodbeck and John Platoff (1983), for instance, talk about style expectations in relation to this
movement:
The tables are turned, as it were, since the development is relatively more stable than the
exposition. For this reason it sounds strange, at once dreamy and remote: our inner sense of
style tells us that the development should be more, not less, dynamic than the exposition.
(158)
Kerman (1971) also believes this development would appear strange to an experienced listener,
writing that this development is the:
Most eccentric Beethoven ever wrote, and doubtless the most disruptive contrast he ever
used in a sonata-allegro movement…. In the Bb Quartet the entire development section
exists in a trance, as though somehow another movement has got going without our quite
noticing how. (312)
Even though the word “irony” is not penned, Beethoven’s play with sonata form could imply a
paradoxical or ironic interpretation.
Beethoven violates expectations by turning the sonata movement “inside-out”: breaking
rules inherent to the form. A listener would need to be familiar with sonata form to hear the irony in
this piece (though the contrasting material in the beginning may strike even an inexperienced listener
as odd). Such knowledge of sonata form rules would have been part of the shared knowledge
between composer and eighteenth-/early nineteenth-century listeners that could then be retrieved.
Instead of looking just at “origin” of expectation, however, this movement serves a good example of
other categories in Margulis’ (2007) taxonomy. This movement’s “time course,” especially, differs
from the previous case studies.

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The time course for op. 130’s expectations lasts over the entire form. Many of the other
ironic movements, on the other hand, target a particular moment that violates expectations. This
creates, more often than not, a particular moment that “feels” ironic. To track the irony of this
movement, a listener would need to pay attention to the sections of sonata form and realize what
expectations are being violated and when. Studies in cognitive science imply that listeners struggle
with understanding form as a whole and listeners instead attend to music on a moment-to-moment
basis (e.g. Levinson 1997; Clarke 1999; Tillmann and Bigand 2004). Clarke (1999) writes that the
perceptual present (brief memory store actively available) is short, and so: “it is not possible to have
any direct apprehension of form, but…a sense of form becomes available only through a
retrospective, and in some sense deliberate, act of (re)construction” (476). Yet, Beethoven’s striking
use of tempo, texture and dynamic contrasts makes points in op. 130’s form easier to detect
compared to others and even draw a listener’s attention while listening in the moment. For example,
PT and ST jump back and forth between adagio and allegro, which is a contrast that does not need
(re)construction to be recognized as unusual compared to most sonata forms. In a similar vein, the
development section’s overwhelming calmness in the middle of the piece would also strike a
knowledgeable listener as odd in the moment. He or she recognizes that at this moment in the form,
the music should be more and more tumultuous instead of a calming presence. Even though this
case study recognizes play with overall form, aspects that make it an ambiguous sonata form draws
listeners’ attention in the moment. At the same time, it is possible listeners need several listens of
this movement and even retrospection or (re)construction to perceive irony.
This movement, by playing with conventions of sonata form, has relations that mimic
flouting the maxim of Manner: avoid ambiguity and obscurity of expression. Beethoven can “utter”
an ambiguous form, similar to the way a person can utter an ambiguous sentence. Consider, for
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example, the following sign outside of a men’s suit store: “These suits are so cheap, they won’t last
an hour!” This is an ambiguous sentence. Most likely the store means that the “suits are so cheap,
they will sell out within an hour.” However, a person could interpret the sentence as “these suits are
so cheap, that they would fall apart after wearing them for only an hour.” In this piece, the sonata
form mimics relations similar to an ambiguous statement: x, where x affords multiples interpretation
of the same utterance or is ambiguous, in the context of y. Sonata form normally has a rhetorical
trajectory of tight-knit-to-loose-knit-to-tight-knit, but instead here it is loose-knit-to-tight-knit-to-
loose-knit. This relation of RHETORICAL-TRAJECTORY can be re-represented as
AMBIGUOUS-IN(x, y) as seen in figure 4.24. The object needs to be different, but still similar
enough, to call into question whether it behaves in a “normative” fashion.
Figure 4.24: The analogy framework and Op. 130

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A listener perceives enough similarities to hear this piece as a sonata, yet the rhetoric of its sections
simply do not behave like a sonata should. Such ambiguity may persuade a listener to perceive
Beethoven as flouting the maxim of Manner (avoid ambiguity and obscurity of expression). This
movement could also be mimicking relations that flout the maxim of Quality: do not say what you
do not have evidence for or what you do not believe to be true. Beethoven composes a movement
which does not follow the form. Despite his knowledge of “appropriate” sonata form, Beethoven
composes an “upside-down” sonata instead. Yet, an avid Beethoven listener may cry, “Does not he
actually follow the form well enough through the expected exposition, development and
recapitulation, including all important cadences?” In an “upside-down” sonata, the sections a listener
normally associates with a tight-knit or loose-knit are switched. A listener would expect the
exposition and recapitulation to be “tight-knit” sections, while the development “loose-knit.”
Instead, there is a “loose-knit” exposition and recapitulation with a “tight-knit” development.
Beethoven has turned upside down the expected rhetoric of the sections.
It is not just a matter of “obeying” or “not obeying” rules which makes this form
ambiguous; it seems as if the sonata form sections are deliberately switched around. There have been
many composers which “break” sonata form rules; but such “rule-breaking” does not always follow
with a sense of irony. Beethoven does not completely annihilate the form, but instead simply
modifies it enough so to evoke a sense of irony. He switches the rhetorical associations with the
sections, but still keeps the sections themselves (including the cadences) in check. Brodbeck and
Platoff (1983) note this curious sonata form play as well, claiming that:
In the Bb Quartet the composer has stayed within striking distance of the particular sonata-
form movement with slow introduction. His deviations from traditional procedures are thus
much more telling, for each unexpected event must be understood not only on its own
terms but in terms of the norms from which it diverges. (162)
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Why draw attention to sonata form? An answer may be found if one looks at reasons
humans use irony to communicate in the first place. Considering the risks of miscommunication,
many psychologists wonder why humans are drawn to using irony. Raymond Gibbs Jr. and Jennifer
O’Brien (1991), when discussing various theories of irony, suggest “that the communicative purpose
of irony is to call attention to some idea or attitude that both speaker and listener can derogate”
(527). Beethoven, by using irony, may have attempted to critique sonata form’s expectations by
calling attention to what those expectations would be for each section.
Analyzing Listeners
The analogy framework, since it includes a retrieval step, may predict when or if a listener
hears a piece as ironic. By considering knowledge a listener retrieves during listening, a theorist could
predict if that listener makes a mapping that points toward irony. In regards to these case studies, I
use the retrieval step to briefly compare differences between an eighteenth-/early-nineteenth century
audience—the historical listeners considered here—and a modern audience. I have argued that a
historical audience, as well as modern music theorists, hear irony in these pieces; yet, how about
other modern listeners? To illustrate, I theoretically compare a historical audience and a modern
audience listening to op. 95 and op. 130.
In op. 95, a modern listener retrieves knowledge to perceive irony in this case study. Even if
he or she is not familiar with Western art music, this hypothetical listener most likely expects
different sections to relate to each other through experience with popular music (figure 4.25).
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Figure 4.25: The analogy framework and Op. 95, a modern listener
Unless unexpected changes are built into a genre, then a modern audience still has expectations that
musical sections will relate to the rest of the piece. Yet, op. 130 may be a different story. This
movement draws on specific knowledge of sonata form (as opposed to a general understanding of
form).
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Figure 4.26: The analogy framework and op. 130, an eighteenth-/early-nineteenth-century listener or a modern
theorist
A listener with knowledge of sonata form norms—such as an experienced eighteenth-/early-
nineteenth century listener or a music theorists—maps relations as discussed here, prompting him or
her to hear this piece as communicating irony (figure 4.26). A listener with no knowledge of sonata
form norms, on the other hand, will not retrieve knowledge necessary to make mappings and
perceive irony, at least in the way discussed here (figure 4.27).

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Figure 4.27: The analogy framework and Op. 130, a modern listener
This listener could retrieve other knowledge to make a mapping and infer op. 130 as ironic. Yet, this
mapping would be based on different knowledge than sonata form transformations discussed here.
If theorists consider what knowledge a listener has, then theorists may be able to account for
different kinds of mapping and create different analyses based on different listener experience.
A number of composers outside of Beethoven’s world have reputations for using irony in
their music, and both the conditions and the analogy framework could be used to analyze this irony
as well. Shostakovich, for one, is notorious for his ironic play (Sheinberg 2000). Everett (2004; 2009)
writes on uses of irony, parody, and satire in music by more modern composers, such as György
Ligeti, Kurt Weill, Peter Maxwell Davies, and Louis Andriessen. Due to its inherent flexibility, these
irony conditions could be applied to other composers across time periods. The audience members
present for op. 95 may find its contrasting coda unexpected; yet, the audience members present for a
modern composition where such contrasts may be built into the genre may think nothing of it.
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Musical expectations and degrees of flouting the Maxims may change depending upon cultural and
chronological context; however, the conditions would change with it.18 Therefore, these conditions
could be applied to composers outside of Beethoven and the types of shared knowledge discussed
here. As long as the theorist determines the appropriate shared knowledge for the piece and its
audience, what could be retrieved, the irony conditions could be applied to almost any time period.
My Own Coda
On comprehending humor in Beethoven’s music, Claudia Zenck (2008) writes:
How can later generations, with their different musical means and their different mentality
and wit identify the transgressions of norms…. with certainty as intentionally humorous and
not, for example, as daring ideas of a genius or, on the other hand, as sheer mistakes of a
composer possibly not of first rank? (74)
The same question can be asked for irony. The irony conditions and analogy framework may step a
bit closer to revealing a possible answer. The relevance to theorists of shared knowledge that could
be retrieved is not limited to issues only of irony and humor. In musical meaning in general, the
cultural context of both the piece and the listener makes an impact.
I have used the analogy framework to discuss when listeners may infer irony when listening
to music based on an analogy between music and language. Irony is only one possibility a listener
could have for making an analogy between music and language. Yet, to discuss how musical
behavior mimics linguistics behavior, irony is a good starting point for analysis. Returning to Dunbar
(2001), and hypothesis 2, listeners may be making distant analogies such as this one in order to make
sense of “unexpected findings” in music. In this case, the “unexpected findings” prompted theorists
18The possible extension to pieces with text may prove a bit trickier. For instance, a number of scholars have discussed
how Schubert and Schumann use irony as a device in lieder (Brauner 1981). The presence of lyrics may prompt a listener
to interpret irony differently in song than in instrumental music. Through text, listeners and composers have an
opportunity to exploit semantic meaning. Therefore, the conditions and analogy framework outlined here may not be as
effective a tool for analyzing music and text.
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to use a distant or extra-musical analogy between music and language to make sense of these unusual
musical occurrences. The research here, by appropriating concepts from linguistics and cognitive
science, may illuminate how a listener reconciles inappropriateness in a musical work as evoking a
compositional effect such as irony as opposed to poor writing. If the inappropriateness in music
mirrors other inappropriateness in language, people may, in an effort to create coherence, infer a
musical piece as ironic communication due to an analogy between music and language. To return to
op. 95’s infamous coda, the ending which d’Indy confidently asserted could bear “no
interpretation,” we may simply smile to ourselves when hearing this “problem” in Beethoven. It
does not seem “chance” at all that many listeners’ arrive at similar interpretations.
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CHAPTER 5
“Appears Clothed in a New Manner”: Analogy and Hearing
Thematic Variations
Variation forestalls the monotony, the triviality, in short, that void through which a melody
simply becomes trite, overused, like a street ditty. But if the basic theme, the main melody,
appears clothed in a new manner, under a delicate transparent cloak, so to speak, thus the soul of
the listener obtains pleasure, in that it can automatically look through the veil, finding the
known in the unknown, and can see it develop without effort. Variation demonstrates
freedom of fantasy in treatment of the subject, excites pleasant astonishment in recognizing
again in new forms the beauty, charm, or sublimity already known, attractively fusing the
new with the old without creating a fantastic mixture of heterogeneous figures…. [Variation]
also concerns the freedom of reflection of the listener who now knows how to grasp hold of
the main subject if he is given an inducement to hold onto it when it appears] in different
environments.
—C.F. Michaelis, “Über die musikalische Wiedeholung under Veränderung,”
Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung, 1803
In order to write variations, the composer need not be a great Melopoet, but should possess
all the more Phraseology. His main task is to invent new styles of playing [Spielarten], to adapt
new forms and new figures to the mode; he must successfully retain in the variations the
same analogy between harmony and harmony, between melody and melody that obtains in
the theme; in short, each character which he assigns to the first measure must be continued
throughout.
—Georg Joseph Vogler, Verberesserungen der Forkel’schen Veränderungen
über “God Save the King,” 1793
In the previous chapter, I addressed research question 2 by using the analogy framework to
describe how a listener may perceive irony in Beethoven string quartets. This chapter addresses
research question 1, which asks why participants in music cognition experiments do not categorize
themes based on pitch, harmony and meter/rhythm. I hypothesize that participants fail to categorize
themes based on these parameters since themes are relational categories. Participants, then, need to
use analogy in order to make the desired categorization. Participants often struggle to make
analogies in experimental settings. The best way to facilitate analogy-making is through the act of
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comparison. Thus, these music cognition experiments, before the categorization task, should ask
participants to compare musical stimuli. Before leading my own empirical study, I first use theme
and variations movement by Beethoven, Mozart, and Daube as a real world laboratory to test my
theory of analogy.
In this chapter, I use the analogy framework to analyze three theme and variations
movements. I use it to make two arguments (A and B): (A) themes are relational categories. Thus,
listeners use the cognitive process of analogy to categorize themes. It is accepted that composers
varied a theme differently in the eighteenth- compared to the nineteenth-century. (B) The shift from
an ornamental eighteenth-century to a nineteenth-century style reflects a difference in how
composes altered a theme’s relations. In eighteenth-century variations, composers left relations
intact; therefore, these variations neatly fit a relational category (as in the Mozart and Daube
examples). In nineteenth-century variations, on the other hand, composers altered one or more
relations, making it harder to find a relational category that accounts for every variation (as in the
Beethoven example). A Romantic composer may alter one, two, or even more interconnected
relations to create a process-oriented variation that changes a theme at its very core. Due to altered
relations over several variations, individual variations of a same theme are more different from each
other in a Romantic style than those of a Classical style variation. Nineteenth-century variations
overall tend to be further from each other in similarity space than eighteenth-century variations.
Therefore, nineteenth-century variations are more difficult for a listener to perceive or categorize
since composers alter these relations.
A Variations Vignette
Beethoven composed variations differently than other composers, leading Sisman (1993) to
describe him as “the true innovator in variations” (235). It did not begin this way, as his first
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published work, when he was twelve years old, set of variations WoO 63, was among others that
received “devastating contemporary notice” (Solomon 1977, 28). He later began composing
variations with a more original approach. On November 2, 1793, Beethoven wrote a letter (figure
5.1) to his childhood friend Eleonore von Breuning with a postscript that referred to his variations
on Mozart’s Se Vuol Ballare from Figaro, WoO 40:
The V[ariations] will be somewhat difficult to play, especially the shakes in the Coda…. I
never would have written anything of the kind, but I had already frequently noticed that
there was some one in V[ienna] who generally, when I have been improvising of an evening,
noted down next day many of my peculiarities in composing, and boasted about them. Now
as I foresaw that such things would soon appear in [print], I resolved to be beforehand with
them. And there was another reason for perplexing the pianists here, viz., many of them are
my deadly enemies, so I wished in this way to take vengeance on them, for I knew
beforehand that here and there the Variations would be put before them, and that these
gentlemen would come off badly. (Beethoven 1793, quoted in Shedlock 1972)
Figure 5.1: Autograph of Beethoven’s 1793 letter to Eleonore von Breuning (Beethoven 1793)
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Beethoven acknowledged a shift in his composing of variations, especially when completing op. 34
and op. 35 in 1802. In a letter to Breitkopf and Haertel in Leipzig on October 18, 1802, Beethoven
mentioned these pieces:
I have composed two sets of Variations, one containing 8, the other 30---both are written in
an entirely new style, each in quite a different way. ….. Do not let this proposal be made to
you in vain, for I assure you that you will not regret taking these two works—each theme is
treated in a totally different manner. I only hear what other people say when I have new
ideas, for I never know it myself; but this time I must myself assure you, that the style of
both works is on a totally new plan of mine. (Beethoven 1802, quoted in Shedlock 1972, no.
37, 41)
Beethoven’s claim was justified by a May 1803 review in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung on op. 34:
“The variation are very beautiful and are handled in a particular manner that is also different from
this composer’s earlier variations” (quoted in Senner, Wallace, and Meredith 1999, italics in original)
How did composers treat a “theme” category when composing variations in the eighteenth- and
nineteenth-centuries? How does Beethoven begin composing variations in an “entirely new
manner’? How do listeners recognize or perceive this “new manner” of variations as members of
one category? These historically-oriented questions are similar to ones that current psychologists ask
today when they run music categorization experiments: how do listeners recognize or categorize
variations? Sisman (1993) notes that, “Just as variation ennobles repetition, then, variations is in turn
elevated by the yielding up of its secrets, gradually, so that the listener knows how to hear them,
knows how to find the familiar amid the strange” (237). Variation is about finding the familiar in the
strange, and analogy is a tool that listeners use for this task.
Thematic Variations as Relational Categories: Melodies Clothed in a New Manner
In the first chapter, I hypothesized that: “The discrepancy of listeners not categorizing
musical themes in laboratory settings is a consequence of listeners needing to use analogy, or
analogical processing, to categorize musical themes based on structural, as opposed to perceptual,

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features.” Since participants do not encode relational structure, they do not categorize based on
thematic structure, but perceptual features (e.g. dynamics, timbre, texture, etc.) instead. Before
embarking on my own empirical enquiries (see chapter 6), I first establish a theoretical framework
rooted in music analysis for using analogy to analyze theme and variations.
Scholars in music studies (e.g. Dahlhaus 1991) and cognition (e.g. Margulis 2013) recognize
that a theme and its variations belong to a single category (not unlike how a lion, tiger, and bear (oh
my!) belong to a single category of “carnivore”), so categorization and its cognitive components
impacts how listeners hear themes and their variations. A variation of a theme does not create a new
category; instead, it is an exemplar of a same theme, a new elaboration of an old category. According
to C.F. Michaelis in “Über die musikalische Wiedeholung under Voränderung,” a variation is a same
melody, just clothed in a new manner: “But if the basic theme, the main melody, appears clothed in a
new manner, under a delicate transparent cloak, so to speak, thus the soul of the listener obtains
pleasure, in that it can automatically look through the veil, finding the known in the unknown and
can see it develop without effort” (Michaelis 1803, col. 200; translated by and quoted in Sisman
1993, 236, italics in Sisman). Scholars agree that thematic variations do not constitute each its own
category, but instead are members of one overarching category.
Those in music studies and cognition also acknowledge that listeners abstract this
overarching category encompassing a theme and its variations. Dahlhaus (1991) labels this
underlying structure of a theme’s melody an “abstract melodic framework.” He maintains that, “as a
rule, the abstract melodic framework provides the melodic substance of the variations, and it is to
some extent made concrete by the fact that it advances out of the background into the foreground,
and is not just contained in the melody but actually constitutes the melody itself” (Dahlhaus 1991,
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157–158). In music cognition, Margulis (2013) writes that listeners abstract a thematic category after
hearing many exemplars.
Acquaintance with a body of varied instances can cause a listener to abstract a thematic
category that might not literally match any particular statement, but rather involve a set of
characteristics—for example: large leap in the melody, tremolo in the lower register, and
movement from major to minor—such that new passages could be accurately classified as
either belonging to the thematic family or not. (Margulis 2013, 177).
Variations are members of an abstracted category that listeners form. Snyder (2009) proposes that
thematic variants are categorized based on abstract prototypes, or “(generalized representations of
thematic material)” (Snyder 2009, 114). As the first exemplar heard, listeners may assume the theme
is the thematic category. Yet, as the piece continues, a listener may create a slightly different thematic
category.
Although I agree listeners create thematic categories, I disagree with how most scholars treat
characteristics often attributed to these categories. According to music scholars, listeners should not
categorize thematic variations based on surface features—such as figuration—or objects—such as
an individual pitch. C-B-D-C is the same theme as D-C#-E-D, simply transposed, and a waltz
version of C-B-D-C is the same theme as a march version of C-B-D-C. A list of characteristics that
determines themes and motives often includes pitch, interval, harmony and meter and rhythm.19
Some scholars treat these characteristics like perceptual features, as a static checklist of features a
category “has.” I argue composers use these musical parameters relationally instead, and so should
be treated as relations. Instead of surface features or objects, musical relationships determine
membership of a “theme” category. Though, it is often relations within certain musical parameters
19As an exception, Ivanovitch (2010) writes that a theme is not just a list of characteristics: “From an experiential
standpoint, that is, a theme is not a static arrangement of structural elements. Rather, it stands in a complex and
reciprocal relationship to the variations: it bequeaths to theme a set of expectations about how they might proceed, and
yet exists as a mutable collection of possibilities or potentialities to be activated and reshaped by the course of variations
themselves” (Ivanovitch 2010, 3).
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that determine a thematic category. In his definition of “variations,” Hugo Riemann (1893) writes,
“As a rule, a variation transforms only one or a few elements of the theme: time, rhythm, harmony
or melody” (823). This quotation implies that mostly these parameters define a theme, so relations in
dynamics (e.g. crescendo) would not influence thematic categorization, at least not in late
eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century themes and variation.
Within these musical parameters, though, relations determine whether or not an exemplar
belongs to a thematic category, and not perceptual features. Quotations from numerous music
scholars provide additional evidence that humans use relationships between notes to categorize
themes. Gjerdingen (1992) claims that:
Because musical motives and themes undergo many transformations in a typical

composition, their core identities are often best defined in relative terms. For example, the
famous opening motive from Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony is more than just the exact
pitches G-4-G4-G4-Eb4. When later transformations are taken into account, the motive
emerges as an abstract figure: three relatively short iterations of a single pitch followed by a
leap down to a relatively long tone. (238)
When Schellenberg et al. (2014) discusses a listener’s ability to recognize “happy birthday” played
both very fast on a piccolo and very slow on a tuba, they write: “Your ability to imagine these
previously unheard versions demonstrates that a melody’s identity is based solely on relations between
consecutive tones in terms of pitch and duration” (84, italics in original). In addition, Margulis
(2013) insists that, “the overwhelming majority of people possess relative pitch, and experience the
intervals and relations between the notes as essential” (30, italics in original). Hanninen (2012)
considers a motive to not be just a set of features, but of relationships among segments (117). If
thematic categories depend on relations, then analogy would be the cognitive process used in
categorization.
If listeners categorize themes based on shared relations, instead of shared perceptual
features, then themes are more akin to relational categories then perceptual ones. As a review,
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perceptual or feature-based categories are in force when category membership depends on a
collection of features. For example, birds have wings, beaks, fly, and so on. They are about the
features themselves in isolation (Goldwater, Markman, and Stilwell 2011). Relational categories exist
where category membership depends on relationships between entities or other categories. “Bridge”
is an object over which a person can get from point A to point B (Goldwater, Markman, and Stilwell
2011). Categorizing “themes” may be more similar to the process of categorizing “bridges” than
“birds.” Through comparison, listeners notice salient relations and, after enough comparisons, learn
a relational schema (Holyoak 2012, 236). How this schema type relates to galant schemata
(Gjerdingen 2007a) will be discussed at a later point. Since comparison means action from a listener,
perceiving variations through analogy involves active listening. That themes are relational categories
is significant when one realizes that music cognition experiments, alluded to in research question 1
and hypothesis 1, use methodology that treat themes as if they are perceptual categories. Vogler
writes: “He [the composer] must successfully retain in the variations the same analogy between
harmony and harmony, between melody and melody that obtains in the theme” (Vogler 1793,
quoted in Sisman 1993, 26).
A musical passage can simultaneously be a member of multiple categories. For instance, the
opening to Beethoven’s fifth symphony (example 5.2) is a member of a “thematic” category
(relational category), but also a member of a “loud musical excerpts” category (perceptual category).
Figure 5.2: Beethoven, Symphony No. 5, opening

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A listener recognizes the musical passage is a member of both categories. In addition, he or she can
“flip” between categories, changing his or her experience of musical structure. Although the “music
itself” does not change, a listener’s perception of its category does. In listening for motivic
development, a listener’s attention shifts to its membership as a thematic category (relational
category). If the listener jumps a bit in his or her seat, his or her attention shifts to its membership as
a loud excerpt (perceptual category). This idea of attention shifting between perceptual features and
relations directly connects to similarity space as discussed in the second chapter (figure 5.3).
Figure 5.3: Visual representation of similarity space (graphic from Gentner and Smith 2013, 10)
A listener can attend to the same musical passage differently; mayhap attending to its perceptual
qualities before its relations, or vice versa. Neither way of attention is “wrong,” simply a different
way to perceive the music. However, humans more easily attend to perceptual features. Thus, the
challenge is often to prompt humans to notice relational structure.
In this chapter, I use the analogy framework (figure 5.4) to analyze how Beethoven, Mozart
and Daube varied themes since I consider themes to be relational categories. I use these movements
as a real world laboratory to test my hypothesis. Yet, how these composers vary relations within
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their themes changes depending on their temporal context and mentality of variations. The way
composers alter a theme’s relations influences whether it is variation in an “old” or “new manner,”
and reflects changes in variation form from the late eighteenth- to early nineteenth-century.
Analogy Framework and Analyzing Variations
Following my assumption that themes are relational categories, a theorist can use the analogy
framework to analyze variations of a given theme as members of one category and make claims as to
how they are perceived.
For these analyses, I focus on the mapping step rather than retrieval and evaluation. Within the
mapping step, listeners categorizing thematic variations make intra-opus analogies (since mappings
occur within one piece). The relations mapped are relations within a musical event. Finally, categorizing
thematic variations is an example of bidirectional listening (listeners compare two novel analogs and
understand both in terms of each other; both are sources and targets). Regarding the retrieval step,
though, listeners retrieve one exemplar from memory instead of retrieving one from long term
memory.
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Mapping: Intra-opus Analogy
Listeners use intra-opus analogy to categorize variations since the multiple exemplars
compared to each other come from a single composition. Active comparison is necessary for
categorizing thematic variations, then, since listeners encounter two analogs “together” during the
course of a piece instead of retrieving an analog from long-term memory.
Mapping: Relations within a Musical Event
Thematic categories are defined by relations within a musical event (as opposed to between musical
events), which are relations restricted to a time course of a musical event. A listener, then, uses these
relations to assign musical events to a thematic category. Relations that define thematic categories
are often relationships within musical parameters outlined in the third chapter: rhythm/meter, scale
degree, contour, and harmony.
A thematic category, though, does not rely on a musical relation in isolation. An idea
reinforced by the fact that humans, according to the systematicity principle (Clement and Gentner
1991), often map over sets of relations connected by higher-order relations instead of individual
relations. In fact, a downfall of past thematic analyses is that scholars prefer certain relations over
others. When music theorist Rudolph Réti (1951), for example, discusses thematic processes, he
places more importance on intervallic properties and pitches. By focusing on pitches, Réti overlooks
the importance of meter and rhythm in identifying themes (cf. Eitan and Granot 2009). One benefit
to using the analogy framework, then, is that a theorist can not only consider different relations, but
also how relations interact with each other. Sometimes a relation is altered from one variation to the
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next; yet, its interaction with other relations could be enough for listeners to still recognize that
musical passage as a thematic category.
I adopt the relations within a musical event box notation (chapter 3), using scale degree, contour,
harmony, and rhythm. For the Mozart analysis, I use a proportional approach for rhythm. For the
Beethoven analysis, I use a lengths approach for rhythm. I use this notation styles to analyze
relations for each variation. Then, I determine how closely a variation’s relations align with the
theme’s relations or another variation’s relations. In this way, I measure musical distance between
the different exemplars of the theme and variations; how similar or different they are from each
other. From comparing the many exemplars, I create an overall thematic category, which is the
relational category (or schema) that encompasses or accounts for the theme and all its variations
(figure 5.5).
Figure 5.5: A thematic category as a relational category (or schema) that accounts for theme and its variations
Meyer (1973) contends that:
The greater the amount of change – in both rate and degree – in one parameter, the smaller
must be the changes in other parameters if patterning is to be perceived. If all parameters are
varied simultaneously and independently of one another, the result is not necessarily a more
complex and interesting pattern, but often none at all, a confused hodgepodge of sounds.
The amount of simultaneous variation possible also depends upon the nature of the patterns
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themselves: the more patently structured and archetypal one aspect of a pattern (for instance,
its melodic shape) the more other parameters (e.g., rhythm, harmony, etc.) can be varied
without destroying the impression of conformance. (54)
Thus, each exemplar should keep at least one relation from the thematic category to facilitate
perception.20 The clearest exemplar for a listener to perceive would have several of the connecting
relations. However, nineteenth-century composers play with this knowledge, making it harder to
perceive variations.
Mapping: Comparison and Bidirectional Listening
Comparison, according to psychologists, is important for making analogies (e.g. Markman
and Gentner 1993). Music scholars, as well, have noted that hearing variations depends on
comparing musical material. In the words of Ivanovitch (2010):
At root, the basic act of construing variation is a comparative one: the task of a listener is to
relate two stretches of music, to hear one passage “in terms of” another. To hear something
“as a variation” is perforce to be engaged in such an activity of comparison. (3)
In order to hear two musical events as members of one category, a listener compares musical events
to each other, or hears one passage “in terms of” another. Knowing a piece is a theme and variations
form may be more than enough to prompt a listener to make these comparisons. According to
Deliège (2007):
There are other occasions where a comparison process takes place automatically while
listening to music. This is particularly the case for forms that are based on a Theme and
Variation structure, where a basic statement is repeated a certain number of times, but always
worked out in different ways. (10, italics in original)
To hear a theme and variations, a listener does not hear a musical event in isolation, but compares it
to other, often previous, musical events retrieved from memory (though perhaps not from long-
20 This is especially the case since relational categories are mostly deterministic (Jung and Hummel 2014).
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term memory). Broyles (1987) writes that the heart of variation form “is essentially oriented toward
the past. It is an aesthetic of retrospective….the principal interest of a variation structure grows as
the composer’s memory and imagination begin to exceed that of the listener’s, as the obvious is
exhausted and the composer begins to reveal facets of the theme that the listener had not until then
realized” (Broyles 1987, 89). Recognizing variations means not just remembering past instances, but
also comparing present to past (or present/past to future). Comparison is significant to hearing
thematic variations for at least two reasons.
First, comparison involves an active and participatory stance on the part of a listener.
Ivanovitch (2010) speaks of the “task of the listener,” denoting an action from the listener. He also
uses verbs “engage” and “activity,” showing that a listener is participating in the music. In the
previous paragraph, the Deliège (2007) quote uses words such as “process” and “takes place,”
illustrating a difference between a listener taking and not taking part in comparison. Comparison
involves active listening. One benefit of the analogy framework is that it strives to be a framework for
music analysis that incorporates listening as inherently participatory and action-oriented. A listener
needs to do something, take part, to act for the analogy framework to be effective. A listener needs to
make choices, whether conscious or unconscious. Using the analogy framework, a theorist should
build comparison into the analysis; it is a specific action a listener takes.
Second, comparison is essential to making analogies (e.g. Markman and Gentner 1993;
Gentner and Markman 1997). Humans do not align relational structures naturally. Yet, the act of
comparison often prompts humans to structurally align relations between two different situations.
Similar to these psychology experiments, music scholars have noted the necessity of comparison in
hearing musical variations. In fact, comparison may be the missing link in past experiments that ask
listeners to categorize musical themes. By incorporating comparison into analyses, theorists can use
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a method of analysis that is inherently participatory/action-oriented on the part of the listener as
well as incorporate an action that has been empirically shown to influence the making of analogies.
Since listeners compare two analogs, they are more likely to engage in bidirectional listening
(mutual alignment analogy). In bidirectional listening, both variations a listener compared inform
and shape perception of the other. A listener learns new information about both analogs.
Bidirectional listening is partly facilitated by the act of comparison. In the case of thematic
variations, bidirectional listening serves several purposes. It influences how listeners perceive
similarity between different versions of a theme as well as solidifies variations as members of one
relational category. Also, it can help listeners reinterpret the theme or a previous variation
retroactively. After exposure to two exemplars (e.g. a theme and its first variation), a listener may
begin creating a relational category. After exposure to more exemplars, however, a listener may have
a different representation of the relational category. This newer relational category could be
retroactively applied to the first variation or even the theme to reinterpret it.
Variations from the Eighteenth to Nineteenth-Century: From Embellishing to

Reinterpreting
I analyze two movements of theme and variation form and an eighteenth-century
pedagogical example:
 Beethoven, Piano Sonata Op. 109/III (1820)
 Mozart, Violin Sonata in F Major, K 377/ii (1781)
 Daube, theme and variations example in the Musical Dilettante: A Treatise on Composition (1773)
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Each of these pieces illustrate a different facet of theme and variations form. Johann Friedrich
Daube’s composition from 1773 taught others to compose an eighteenth-century variation on a
theme. It also showcases galant schemata in as well as bidirectional listening’s use in perceiving
thematic variations. Mozart’s violin sonata illustrates a standard theme and variations of the late
eighteenth-century, one of ornamentation. Beethoven’s piano sonata illustrates a “new type of
variation,” the nineteenth-century’s shift from variation as simple ornamentation or embellishment
to variation as reinterpretation.
Jeffrey Swinkin (2012) argues that composers of the nineteenth-century varied themes in
fundamentally different ways compared to the eighteenth. Classical mid-to-late eighteenth-century
variations reflect characteristics of embellishment and change of texture; the composer created “a
multitude of views of the same object” (Swinkin 2012, 37). The appeal of variations in the later
eighteenth century was also “embellishment, which added something fresh to the melody” (Ratner
1980, 255). According to Ratner (1980), variations of the eighteenth-century created “a bit of
musical theater by dressing a tune in different ways to make a series of colorful tableaux, much as
the model in a fashion show would appear in different costumes” (259).
A number of eighteenth-century sources affirm that listeners should recognize a melody
despite variation. In 1773, Daube wrote in The Musical Dilettante: “The art of variation is no small
assistance in embellishing the main melody if it is tastefully employed! No voice part can do without
it. Yet one must not carry this to excess either, so that the main melody does not become obscured”
(Daube [1773] 1992, 136). In Hoyle’s Dictionarium Musicae, the entry for “Variation” states “as in the
first part or straing you have the plain notes of the composition, and the next part is variated, that is,
the notes here and there are altered, and more notes made than in the first part, but yet it is to the
same signification; the second part, or as many parts as ever is made, are all different, and variously
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put together” (Hoyle 1770, 107–108). According to Koch, in his third volume of Versuch einer
Anleitung zur Composition, the “so-called theme for variations… requires a somewhat simple but
flowing melody, capable of many variations, which is at the same time so constituted that it allows
sufficient, unforced changes of harmony. In the variations themselves, the main melody should
always be recognizable” (Koch 1793; quoted in Sisman 1993, 71-72). In his 1802 Musikalisches
Lexikon, Koch summarizes this earlier understanding:
Variazionen, Variazioni….multiple immediate repetitions of a short piece, in which the

melody each time is varied through different methods of subdividing its main notes, and the
passing and neighbor notes connected therewith, yet without completely mitigating the
similarity with the main melody…. So that such variations may have a good effect, one
must… (3) retain the similarity with the main melody in each variation, so that the attention
of the listener is thereby fixed; for as soon as the similarity ends, so does the interest of the
variations, and they give the impression of a group of arbitrarily related pieces [Sätze] which
have nothing in common with each other, and for whose existence and ordering [Daseyn und
Folge] one can imagine no basis. (Koch 1802; quoted in Sisman 1993, 72-73)
Many of these quotes have a rhetoric of “recognition.” Daube ([1773] 1992) cautions against a
melody becoming “obscured” and Koch (1793) stresses a main melody “always be recognizable”
and “retain the similarity with the main melody.” So, a composer intends a listener to recognize
thematic variations as related to the original melody or theme.
Swinkin (2012) contrasts Classical variations with those of the Romantic period, writing that
nineteenth-century composers reimagined their themes significantly more than eighteenth-century
composers. In the nineteenth-century, a theme is “not so much decorated as reinterpreted: its
harmonic and melodic constituents are exposed, then reconfigured” (Swinkin 2012, 37). Swinkin
(2012) explains this dichotomy of eighteenth and nineteenth-century variations from a theme’s
standpoint:
The implicit corollary of the belief that Classical variations are essentially decorative is that
the theme in a Classical set is an autonomous entity with fixed melodic and harmonic
components, susceptible to embellishment but not reinterpretation. In other words, anyone
who presupposed a set of variations to be primarily ornamental would probably also regard
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the theme as self-contained, self-defined and directly given—an entity whose underlying
structural properties are neither laid bare nor fundamentally altered in the course of the
variations. By contrast, anyone who granted variations greater interpretative potency would
probably regard the theme not as an a priori entity but as something whose identity is
contingent upon the processes to which it is subjected….[nineteenth-century] variations
retroactively define what the theme in fact is. (37-38, emphasis added).
Swinkin (2012) uses “autonomous entity,” “contained,” and “self-defined” to describe eighteenth-
century perspectives of themes, but “interpretive potency” and “identity contingent upon processes”
to describe nineteenth-century perspectives. Decades earlier, Meyer (1973) observed a similar shift:
“the history of the theme and variations in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries might be
understood as the search for a way of transforming a ‘naturally’ flat, additive hierarchy (as in most
Baroque and early classical variations) into an arched, processive one – one with functionally
differentiated parts” (10).
Eighteenth-century variations tend to “embellish,” while nineteenth-century variations tend
to “reinterpret.” In my analyses, I find that an eighteenth-century “embellishment” style variations,
such as Daube and Mozart, kept relations consistent. However, nineteenth-century
“reinterpretation” style variations, such as Beethoven, often did not keep as many relations
consistent. This shift from an “embellishment” to “reinterpretation” or “processive” style may be
because composers began altering relations of relational categories, creating variation exemplars that
either were not be members of the category—inhibiting perception—or atypical exemplars. To
analyze a difference between eighteenth and nineteenth-century variations, a theorist could use the
analogy framework and look at thematic relations. Assuming nineteenth-century variations alter a
theme’s relations, then there should be greater variance between exemplars of a nineteenth-century
theme and variation form then an eighteenth.21
21I make these claims, though fully realizing that I am generalizing based on one case study of nineteenth-century
variations (Beethoven) and two case studies of eighteenth-century variations (Mozart and Daube). Although I would
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Relational Categories: Thematic Categories and Galant Schemata
Thematic categories tend to be relational categories, which cognitive psychologists
acknowledge are schemata. Holyoak (2012) uses “schema” to label a relational category a person
learns after mapping multiple exemplars (figure 5.6).
Figure 5.6: Major components of analogical reasoning (graphic from Holyoak 2012, 236)
As an example, he discusses how scientists use a “wave” analogy. After scientists used “wave” as an
analogy for transmission of sound, they extended it for transmission of light:
Ultimately it developed into an abstract schema or relational category….In the aftermath of

analogical reasoning about a pair of cases, some form of relational generalization may take
place yielding a more abstract schema for a category of situations (as in the case of the
evolving “wave” concepts), of which the source and target are both instances. (Holyoak
2012, 235, italics in original)
It is not surprising that galant voice-leading schemata (e.g. Gjerdingen 2007a; Byros 2012) are also
relational categories, though not identical to thematic categories.
have a stronger argument with more case studies, some scholars of case study research argue that one can generalize
based on only one case study (Flyvbjerg 2006).
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Like most thematic categories, galant voice-leading schemata have scale degrees on strong or
weak beats creating a structure upon which a composer would elaborate. Gjerdingen’s (2007a)
description of one schema found in several of Locatelli’s opening basses from 1732 (figure 5.7)
mirrors my discussion of elaborated upon structural notes in variations.
Figure 5.7: Locatelli, Op. 2, various opening basses (graphic from Gjerdingen 2007a, 14)
Gjerdingen (2007a) writes:
Though taken from movements in four different keys and five different tempos, these basses
have obvious similarities. For example, on each bass I have marked a square on beat one, a
circle on beat three, and a square again on beat seven to show that they all share, at
analogous moments, an initial C, a move to A and then a return to C. At a smaller scale, I
have marked asterisk above the stepwise descent through the tones F-E-D-C. (13-14)
Thematic categories and galant voice-leading schemata could both be analyzed in one theme and
variation movement. In one case, a galant schema could be a basis for a more specific thematic
category. In another case, a thematic category could just be a galant schemata (as in the Daube
example below).
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Although thematic categories and galant schemata are relational categories, they do differ in
a number of ways. Thematic categories are less abstract then galant schemata. By that, I mean that
thematic categories are “smaller” patterns that can account for less features, while galant schemata
are “larger” patterns that can account for more features. Thematic categories are more likely to have
more relations and more arguments than galant schemata. For instance, galant schemata often have
four objects in a relation (e.g. Meyer, Prinner, etc.), while a thematic category could have more
objects. As its label suggestions, galant voice-leading schemata are primarily defined by relations
between scale degrees. Although this influences harmony and contour, it is scale degrees and figured
bass that are given priority. Thematic categories, on the other hand, often involve interrelated
relations of meter/rhythm, scale degrees, and more.
The most apparent difference is that thematic categories are ad hoc, while galant schemata
are conventional. On the one hand, listeners build thematic categories bottom-up by listening to
multiple exemplars. Their use may not extend beyond listening to that piece. On the other hand,
listeners learn galant schemata through exposure and use in a cultural context, but they are
conventional and not ad hoc. Since these conventional patterns are “larger,” they share relations
with hundreds of other phrases from the eighteenth-century. Thus, thematic categories align better
with bidirectional listening—analogs inform each other—and galant schemata align better with
unidirectional listening—knowledge of conventional schema acts as source and informs target
analog.
Beethoven’s Piano Sonata, Op. 109/III (1820)
According to Swinkin (2012, 38), variations by middle Beethoven and onward fall in this
latter “reinterpretation” type instead of “embellishing.” This is further evidenced by Tovey’s (1945)
comment about op. 109: “The listener who wishes to understand Beethoven’s variations had better
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begin at once by relieving his conscience of all responsibility for tracing the melody. Moreover, he
need not worry about his capacity to trace the harmony” (125). Beethoven’s interest in variation
followed him in his late period, as final movements for his piano sonatas op. 111 and op. 109 are
both variation forms (Marston 1989, 320-321).
Beethoven closes his op. 109 piano sonata with a “reinterpretation” or “processive” style
theme and variations. After a theme, the movement contains six variations followed by a series of
cadenza-style figurations (mm. 169-187), closing with a da capo of an unelaborated theme (m. 188).
Kinderman (2009) describes this movement’s trajectory as “two cycles of transformation” where
“the first five variations recast the theme and develop its structures and character in a variety of
expressive contexts, while the sixth initiates a new series of changes compressed into a single
continuous process that is guided by the logical unfolding of rhythm development” (245). Hatten
(1994) also mentions an “elevated return of the theme in the final section” as a moment of
transcendence (88). In theory, these variations should sound similar to each other. According to
Hanninen (2012), though, some variations in op. 109 sound closer to the theme than others:
The theme of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 30 in E major, op. 109 begins with the eight-
bar melody….. Core features include a sequence of two major thirds aligned with strong-to-
weak metric positions (G#-E, D#-B in mm 1-2) and the dotted rhythm in m. 1….The
opening bars of variations I-VI each retain some of these core features, but reinterpret
others and introduce new features that distinguish the individual variations…. [There are]
differences in associative proximity (e.g., variation VI is most like the theme; variation IV,
least). (133, emphasis added)
In addition to acknowledging that core features of the theme are “reinterpreted,” she observes that
some—such as variation 6 (var. 6)—are more like the theme, while others—such as var. 4—are not.
This implies a “reinterpretation” style variation since variations differ enough from each other to
recognize a scale in this difference. A thematic category for op. 109 will have to be “larger” than
others to account for such distance in variations. It also implies that not all variations may neatly
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match an overarching thematic category. With respect to perception, listeners may not easily
perceive these variations, especially on first listen, as members of the category. Tovey (1976) fulfills
this prediction, when he considers the following about op. 109:
The student and listener must not take a mistaken view of what a set of variations is
supposed to convey to the ear. If the variations are mere embroidery, then we may be
expected to trace the melody in them. But if the principle of the variation lies deeper, we are
intended to appreciate the depths in the same way as we appreciate other depths: we attend
to what reaches our sense, and we allow the sum of our experience to tell us more in its own
good time. (251)
Since this variation is more a nineteenth than an eighteenth-century style, it may be harder to find a
single thematic category that accounts for the theme and all its variations.
In analyzing op. 109, I focused on: (a) how Beethoven alters relations so that variations in
op.109 differ from each other, and (b) how the order of variations influences perception. Since
Beethoven alters relations, op. 109’s variations are often atypical exemplars of the thematic category.
In regards to order, the variation’s perceptual features can inhibit a listener from recognizing the
relational structure. Yet, the order of the variations can help to emphasize or de-emphasize relations.
First, I discuss the construction of the theme and what segment I analyze in depth. The theme
(figure 5.8) follows a simple binary. The first part closes (figure 5.8, m. 8) with a half cadence in the
tonic key of E major (I:HC) following a Gr+6, what Gjerdingen (2007a) calls an Aug. 6th cadence
(166).22 The second part closes (figure 5.8, m. 16) with an imperfect authentic cadence in E major (I:
IAC).
22For the sake of ease, I restart the count of measure numbers for each variation. Therefore, the first four measures of
variation 1 will be mm. 1-4 and the first four measures of variation 2 will also be mm. 1-4. As I am comparing
particularly segments of the sections to each other, this makes comparison easier.
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Figure 5.8: Beethoven, Op. 109, third movement, theme, mm. 1-16
A listener hears a basic idea (b.i.) in mm. 1-2, and then a repetition of the basic idea (b.i.’) in mm. 3-
4. Together, these groups create a presentation phrase. In this study, I limit my analysis to these first
four measures (the Mozart analysis also is limited to its first four measures). These are the first
measures a listener hears when making comparisons between a theme and its variations, or a
listener’s first exposure to something that needs categorizing. Arguably, mm. 1-2 and mm. 3-4 are
two separate groups. Yet, I analyze them together as a listener may group them together as part of a
presentation phrase, not only because of their placement, but also because they are similar to each
other. In addition, the b.i. and b.i.’ are not clearly differentiated in each variation (e.g. var. 3, var. 5),
often times fusing together, further emphasizing a four measure thematic category.
For op. 109, it is difficult to create a thematic category that accounts for all variations since
they differ from each other. Yet, a listener creates an ad hoc thematic category (figure 5.9) by
listening to the elements of each exemplar. This thematic category would not be clear from the
beginning. Instead, a listener shapes and molds this ad hoc thematic category over the course of the
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movement, most likely arriving at this representation only by the end. At a later point, I discuss how
order influences the creation of this thematic category in op. 109.
Figure 5.9: Op. 109 thematic category, mm. 1-4
For rhythm, I chose to use a lengths approach as the rhythms did not easily fit a proportions
approach. As a reminder, I have included the key for the lengths approach from the third chapter
(figure 5.10).
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Figure 5.10: Key for notating “lengths approach” in rhythm
In regards to scale degrees, some re-representation is necessary to account for a greater number of
exemplars (yet, it still did not capture every exemplar). Although the first note is scale degree 3 (or
“mi”), it does occur as scale degree 5. Therefore, it is re-represented as a general tonic note or [ton].
The fourth note is the same case, so it is also rerepresented as [ton]. The last note appears mostly as
scale degree 5, but sometimes scale degree 7; therefore, it is represented as dominant or [dom].
Contour is visually represented in a way that emphasizes its b.i. + b.i.’ nature, although listeners fuse
these musical events together for the presentation phrase. Finally, harmony stays consistent
throughout the theme and variations, so it is not included in the box notation.
A Venn diagram represents similarity space and the distance between each exemplar of the
thematic category. The Venn diagram highlights which exemplars have which relations of the
thematic category, and which ones do not. The circles each represent a musical parameter whose
relations were analyzed (rhythm, scale degrees, harmony and contour). An exemplar is in a circle if it
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shares that relation with the thematic category. Thus, exemplars clustered in the center where
rhythm, contour, scale degree and harmony intersect share all these same relations with the thematic
category. These exemplars sound the most similar and will be easy to perceive as the thematic
category. Exemplars in just one circle share only one relation with the thematic category. These
exemplars sound the least similar and will be difficult to perceive as the thematic category. In theory,
variations in an “embellishment” style should cluster more in the center, as composers did not alter
relations of musical parameters. On the other hand, variations in a “reinterpretation” style should
appear more in the fringes of the Venn diagram, as composers altered relations of musical
parameters.
In figure 5.11, the Venn diagram for op. 109 has two (or three) exemplars that have the same
relations as the thematic category (most notably, the theme and the last variation fall in this
intersection). It was ambiguous whether or not some exemplars shared the same relations as the
thematic category. I placed those in both intersections with question marks.

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Figure 5.11: Venn diagram for Beethoven Op. 109
Many of the exemplars fall in the fringes of the Venn diagram. For instance, var. 3 and var. 4 share
only harmonic relations with the thematic category and var. 1 shares only harmonic and scale degree
relations. Var. 2 and var. 5 are ambiguous; yet, var. 5’s ambiguity is whether it shares only one or two
relation with the thematic category. Thus, var. 3 and var. 4 are the least similar to the thematic
category (or the least typical), while var. 6 (figure 5.12) is the most similar.
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Figure 5.12: Beethoven, Op. 109, third movement, var. 6, mm. 1-4, score and box notation
According to this Venn diagram, Beethoven alters many relations over each variation, which is in
line with op. 109 fitting a “reinterpretation” variations style instead of an “embellishment” one.
Contour relations is an interesting parameter Beethoven alters, especially since contour is
easy for listeners to perceive. Beethoven alters contour relations to help mask these variations as
members of a same thematic category, which is part of “reinterpretation” style variations. The
theme’s contour (figure 5.13) first descends to scale degree 5, but then ascends to scale degree 5.
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Figure 5.13: Beethoven, Op. 109, third movement, theme, mm. 1-4, score and box notation
In var. 1 (figure 5.14), Beethoven reimagines the theme as a waltz. The first half descends as
expected, but then the second half also descends. It more closely mirrors mm. 1-2 than the theme.
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Var. 3 (figure 5.15), though, has the most striking changes to contour. The melody, transferred to
the bass, has a contour of continuous descent. Kinderman (2009) writes that this variation “suggests
a two-voice Bachian invention in invertible counterpoint” (244).

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This change in contour does not fit the contour relations of the thematic category. Thus, it could
prohibit listeners from noticing the other relations, especially since contour is so salient. A contour
change such as this one could mask how similar the scale degrees are to the thematic category.
Overall, these alterations make the exemplar more difficult to perceive as a member of that thematic
category.
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The order of variations exposes how Beethoven can de-emphasize and re-emphasize
relations, or can influence relations a listener may attend to as they compare the variations to each
other. Order of the variations, then, may influence how easily a listener categorizes the exemplars
since listeners often compare in the order presented to them. In theory, listeners more easily
compare adjacent variations (e.g. var. 1 and var. 2; var. 2 and var. 3), then ones more separate in time
(e.g. var. 1 and var. 5). Once again, this demonstrates that a listener’s perception or understanding of
a thematic category is not an immutable object, but instead mutates and changes. The “music itself”
may not change, but what a listener attends to and perceives does. In his or her comparisons, a
listener most likely attends first to perceptual features. Yet, how Beethoven orders the variations
may guide a listener’s attention to certain relations.
Imagine a listener beginning op. 109, the first natural comparison is between the theme and
first variation (figure 5.16). Focusing first on perceptual features, this listener may notice that var. 1
turns the theme into a waltz with characteristic metric figuration (Yaraman 2002; McKee 2012).
Figure 5.16: Beethoven, Op. 109, comparing theme and var. 1

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When comparing these musical events to each other, a listener tries to highlight relations that could
be part of an ad hoc relational category, which is a category created in the moment to understand
the theme so far. Yet, little relational structure seems mapped over in this comparison. For instance,
the contour does not stay the same, as the theme’s b.i. has a downward contour and its b.i.’ an
upward one. In var. 1, on the other hand, both b.i. and b.i.’ share a downward contour. The scale
degrees remain consistent and can be mapped over with the thematic category’s rerepresentation.
Just from this first comparison, however, several relations are significantly altered, making it harder
for a listener to: (a) create a relational category for both these musical events, and (b) harder to
perceive these musical events as members of one category. However, since Beethoven does not alter
scale degree relations, this could draw a listener’s attention to this relation over the others.
Since var. 4 (figure 5.17) is least similar to the thematic category, its order in the variations is
important for perception. This variation uses “free imitative polyphony” (Tovey 1976, 253) that
“introduces four imitative voices” (Kinderman 2009, 244). Therefore, the additional figuration
further masks and hides otherwise perceivable relations.

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In comparing var. 4 to the original theme, the only relation shared is harmony. Thus, one’s gut
instinct may be that perceiving var. 4 as a member of the same category could be near impossible.
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Yet, this variation occurs in the middle point of the entire movement. By this point in the listening
process, a listener may have already developed a “functional” relational category. The scale degree
relations, especially, have been upheld from the theme through var. 2. Since var. 4 appears in the
middle of the form, a listener may “hear” more of the thematic category in this variation then if it
had been var. 1.
As seen in figure 5.18, the order of variations as a whole creates a trajectory of “departure”
and “return.” The movement begins with variations that closely match the relations of the thematic
category (theme and var. 6). By the middle point of the movement, however, the only shared
relation is harmony (var. 3 and var. 4). Ambiguous exemplars that may or may not share relations
with the thematic category act as transitions from the closest exemplars to the most distant
exemplars. Hence, the movement “departs” from the thematic category, but “returns” to the
thematic category in the end. Overall, Beethoven’s movement reflects a nineteenth-century
“reinterpretation” style variations.

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Figure 5.18: The order of variations in op. 109. The shaded yellow sections are relations shared with the thematic
category. The shaded red sections are ambiguous whether the relations are shared with the thematic category.
Mozart’s Violin Sonata, K. 377/ii (1781)
Before Beethoven composed op. 109 in 1820, Mozart composed K. 377 in 1781. There have
been several studies of variation in Mozart (e.g. Cavett-Dunsby 1985; Ivanovitch 2004). While
Beethoven’s theme and variations reflect a nineteenth-century style of variation, Mozart’s theme and
variations often reflect an eighteenth-century style. Nelson (1948), in his The Technique of Variation,
writes that Mozart’s variations are a part of “the ornamental variation,” which has a goal of “figural
decoration of the theme” (5). Sisman (1993) holds a similar position, arguing that, “a broad view of
Mozart’s variation themes takes in characteristics shared with most other variations of the period:
that is, they are usually two-reprise structures, borrowed from popular vocal or instrumental tunes
when used for independent sets, but are newly composed for variation movements” (Sisman 1993,
198). As in the Beethoven movement, I analyze both similarities between the theme and its
variations as well as how order of variations influences categorization.
Mozart’s theme also has a simple binary form (part 1: mm. 1-16; part 2: mm. 17-32),
although the theme lacks repeat signs. Instead, Mozart writes out the repeats of the thematic
material with small changes. The first hearing of the first “part” of the simple binary also sounds as
if it doubles as an introduction, since the violin has not yet made an entrance. Once the violin enters,
it plays the melody while the piano fades into accompaniment. Both repetitions have a period form,
with antecedents (figure 5.19, mm. 1-4, mm. 9-12) ending in i:HCs and consequents (figure 5.19,
mm. 5-8, mm. 13-16) ending in i:PACs.

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Figure 5.19: Mozart, K. 377, second movement, theme, mm. 1-16
The second part of the small binary is also repeated, once again, written out with small changes. The
second part begins with a contrasting middle with a model-sequence technique (figure 5.20). In the
repetition, Mozart uses voice exchange, so that the piano plays the violin sequences and vice versa.
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Figure 5.20: Mozart, K. 377, second movement, theme, mm. 17-32
The variations, in contrast to the theme, have repeat signs instead of written out repetitions. I limit
myself to analyzing relations of the first four measures of the theme and all its variations.
Figure 5.21: Mozart, K. 377, second movement, theme, mm. 1-4, grouping structure
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In analyzing melody, especially, for this theme, grouping plays a significant part, as a listener, hearing
this entire theme as one musical event, would hear sub-events per measure for each of these
motives. The motives directly connect to one another; the first is a repetition of the third, and the
second is sequenced up a step (figure 5.21).
After analyzing the relations of musical parameters in these musical events (first four
measures of theme and all variations), it is apparent that Mozart has not altered many relations,
which aligns with an “embellishment” interpretation of variations. A listener can easily construct an
overarching thematic category that accounts for every variation (figure 5.22). Here, I use a
proportional approach notation for rhythm.
Figure 5.22: Mozart, K. 377, thematic category, box notation
The rhythm of the theme has an off-kilter feel with its slight syncopation. The scale degrees stay
consistent throughout the movement, with two examples of rerepresentation with the last two notes.
A listener can abstract enough information to recognize that the last note should fit in a dominant
chord (which is indicated in the graph by the color red and in brackets). This note is scale degree 5
in theme and all variations, except for var. 5 (the major variation) where it is scale degree 7. Similarly,
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the second to last note is rerepresented as [tonic]. The contour often keeps the following ‘M’ shape,
where the first peak and the third peak are at the same height, while the second peak is higher.
Finally, harmony alternates between tonic and dominant function measures. I only include harmony
in the box notation if it differs from the expected I and V.
In the Venn diagram (figure 5.23), many of the exemplars cluster together in the center as
they share many relations with the thematic category, further emphasizing the “embellishment” style
variations. If it was more of a “reinterpretation” style, then the pattern would have aligned closer
with the previous Beethoven analysis.
Figure 5.23: Venn diagram for Mozart K. 377

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The theme (figure 5.24) and var. 3 (figure 5.25) share the relations of all parameters with the
thematic category.
Figure 5.24: Mozart, K. 377, second movement, theme, box notation

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Figure 5.25: Mozart, K. 377, second movement, var. 3, mm. 1-4, box notation and score
Most of the variations cluster in the intersection of contour, harmony and scale degrees. Scale
degrees (which intimately connects to harmony and contour), especially, is a musical parameter
whose relations Mozart keeps consistent throughout the movement. It was questionable as to
whether var. 5 (figure 5.26) kept the same scale degrees, as the major mode version of the theme.
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Figure 5.26: Mozart, K. 377, second movement, var. 5, mm. 1-4, score and box notation
Yet, a listener would hear this melody as sharing the same scale degrees, as the relations stay mostly
the same; especially, if the relation is calculated as UP-A-THIRD rather than a specific interval.
According to the Venn diagram (figure 5.23), Mozart keeps the relation of musical rhythm
least consistent throughout the movement. Indeed, theme, var. 3, and var. 4 share the rhythmic
relations of the thematic category; however, the others do not. A reader may notice that the
rhythmic notation for var. 6 is “1” and “0.5 ~ 0.5.” In this variation (figure 5.27), Mozart develops
the theme as a siciliano, a peasant dance in 6/8 (Allanbrook 2008).

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Figure 5.27: Mozart, K. 377, second movement, var. 6, mm. 1-4, score and box notation
To keep the proportional approach, I labeled the first beat as “1,” yet had difficulty notating the
dotted-eighthsixteentheighth note. Thus, I labeled it a “0.5 ~ 0.5” to imply it was somewhat
halving the original 1, just slightly off.
Although probably unconscious, the way Mozart alters rhythmic relations seems strategic in
helping listeners perceive exemplars as members of one category. When a person compares
situations, the relational structure shared is highlighted and made more apparent. A person, listening
in the moment (Levinson 1997), compares musical events to ones previously heard in the piece. He
or she most likely compares it to a relevant musical event recently heard. In the case of theme and
variations, a listener recognizes a simple overall form of theme followed by individual sections.
Then, he or she recognizes that parts of the theme will have analogous parts in the different
variations. In hearing the beginning of var. 3, then a listener most likely compares it to the beginning
of var. 2. In hearing the beginning of var. 4, then a listener most likely compares it to the beginning
of var. 3. Depending on his or her memory, a listener may even compare it to a theme. Hence,
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Mozart’s strategic altering of rhythmic relations; in particular, in transition from var. 2 (figure 5.28)
to var. 3 to var. 4.
Figure 5.28: Mozart, K. 377, second movement, var. 2, mm. 1-4, box notation and score
Var. 2 (figure 5.28) shares all relations with the thematic category, except for rhythm of which it has
a “1-1-2” motif. This is labeled a “1-1-2” motif, as opposed to a “1-1-1-1” motif since scale degree 5
is an elaboration of scale degree 1. Var. 3 (figure 5.25), on the other hand, shares all relations with
the thematic category, although it does not sound similar due to changing perceptual features. For
instance, var. 3 features virtuosic acrobatic runs by the pianist reminiscent of the brilliant style topic
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(Ratner 1980, 18). This perceptual feature of figuration is noticeably absent from the theme. This
further emphasizes that, although relations can be shared, perceptual features often are not, and this
does not influence thematic categorization. According to the analysis, var. 4 shares only rhythmic
and scale degree relations (figure 5.29).
Figure 5.29: Mozart, K. 377, comparing var. 3 and var. 4
How could Mozart facilitate an analogy where listeners recognize var. 4 as a member of the thematic
category, despite being the least like the thematic category? Var. 4, since it only shares two relations
with the thematic category, needs rhythm and scale degrees to be made salient to the listener.
Therefore, Mozart precedes var. 4 with var. 3, which, unlike vars. 1 and 2, shares the rhythmic
relation. In comparing var. 3 and var. 4 (figure 5.29), a listener may take note of this rhythmic and
scale degree relations, helping him or her to categorize var. 4 as a member of the thematic category.
Making this categorization, or noticing the needed relation, may have been more difficult had var. 4
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been followed by var. 2, since then only one relation would have been shared. Listener assumptions
or experience influence attention (Chan Barrrett 2015) and, possibly, categorization as well.
Therefore, a listener, assuming he or she knows it is a theme and variations form, would be
predisposed to categorizing exemplars as members of one category since this is part of the overall
form. Yet, in the quotes above on Beethoven, listeners not only recognize that variations do not
sound like the theme (the melody cannot be “traced in them”), but also know that it is a variation.
Knowledge of form does not make perception automatically clear. Thus, it is significant that Mozart
precedes var. 4 with a variation that shares a rhythmic and scale degree relation. This example
illustrates how perceiving a musical passage is not just about recognizing musical objects, but
participatory on the part of the listener. If a listener had compared var. 4 to var. 2, instead, the
categorization may not have been as apparent, and a listener may have begun a new thematic
category. The comparison to what precedes it shapes a listener’s perception of that musical passage,
helping a listener focus on relational information as opposed to perceptual information.
The rhythmic relations could structure a trajectory for the theme and variations movement
as a whole. Regarding theme and variations form, Caplin (1998) writes that “the basic plan is simple:
a main theme, constructed as either a small ternary or a small binary, is followed by an indefinite
number of varied repetitions” (217). Yet, other repetitions or rotations could be noticed as part of
the classical form. Since rhythmic relations is the most varying aspect in this movement, it could be
used to structure sub-sections within the form as seen in figure 5.30. The most common rhythmic
motifs are “1-2-1” and “2-1-1.” There are seven exemplars total (theme + six variations). The theme
uses a “1-2-1” while var. 1 uses a “2-1-1.” At the middle point, var. 3, the “2-1-1” returns. Yet, var. 4
and 5 have the same pattern of “1-2-1” to a “2-1-1” (figure 5.30). Therefore, it hints on how to
subdivide the structure of the movement.

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Figure 5.30: The order of variations in K. 377. The shaded yellow sections are relations shared with the thematic
category.
As the variations all cluster together in the center, this movement serves as an example of an
“embellishment” type variation. Since it is composed in the late eighteenth-century, it neatly fits into
expectations for the type. Therefore, listeners, in order to categorize these exemplars as members of
one category, use analogy to recognize different relations.
Daube’s Variations from The Musical Dilettante (1773)
When he taught amateurs to compose “embellishment” style variations in his 1773 treatise
The Musical Dilettante: A Treatise on Composition, Johann Friedrich Daube’s instructions read like a
“compose-by-numbers.” He provides a numbered list of figuration styles (what he calls “melodic
motives”) for his readers to adopt in composing variation, including examples without passing tones
(figure 5.31), with passing tones, and with appoggiaturas.

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Figure 5.31: Variation of the first chord without pasting tones (graphic from Daube [1773] 1992)
He maintains that “these variations” can be “combined at will” (Daube [1773] 1992, 139), giving
almost step by step instructions. In his guidance, Daube ([1773] 1992) mentions that, “one would
select from the accompany examples one or two types of variation and, guided by each tone of the
melody and the appropriate chord, continue to write them until the end of the piece” (140). His
instructions encourage an “embellishment” style variation since he asks his readers to “apply” one or
more of the “variations” to a single tone or chord. Sometimes he holds that a composer uses an:
Entire chord for these motives, when actually a single tone was to have been
varied….Indeed, owing to their pure blending quality, the ear is let with the impression of a
single tone when all three of them are played simultaneously on the organ, harpsichord, or
three well-tuned wind instruments. (Daube [1773] 1992, 134)
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As part of his pedagogical initiative, Daube takes one theme (figure 5.32) and varies it while
explaining his process. Thus, this theme and variations example, like the Mozart one above, serves as
an additional example of an “embellishment” style variations.
Figure 5.32: Daube’s theme (graphic from Daube [1773] 1992, 139-140)
Unlike the Beethoven and Mozart examples above, a thematic category for Daube’s
composition is not ad hoc, but a conventional relation category instead. In particular, Daube
combines galant schemata (Gjerdingen 2007a) to compose his theme and subsequent variations.
Considering Daube’s knowledge of the thorough-bass tradition, it is not surprising that he takes
advantage of these patterns and emphasizes the bass’ importance in his instructions: “The first
concern in a piece which is to be varied… is to make certain that the bass is well composed. Then
one should carefully observe to which chords the tones of the upper voice belong in order to
distinguish these from the passing tones” (Daube [1773] 1992, 140). In writing on variations in
Verbesserungen der Forkel’schen Veränderungen über “God Save the King”, Vogler might have alluded to
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these conventional schemata when he wrote “in order to write variations, the composer need not be
a great Melopoet, but should possess all the more Phraseology” (Vogler 1793, quoted in Sisman
1993, 26). “Phraseology” could refer to this repertoire of galant schemata, which saturates Daube’s
theme and variations.
Daube’s theme could teach schemata organization in addition to variations. I will notate
schemata in the score, first, before returning to my relations within a musical event box notation. The
theme is a rounded binary form, with a standing-on-the-dominant contrasting middle. I focus on the
first part of the rounded binary.
Figure 5.33: Daube’s theme, mm. 1-10 (graphic from Daube [1773] 1992, 139)
In mm. 1-2 of figure 5.33, Daube opens with a Do-Re-Mi schema (figure 5.34). In this schema, a
“favored opening gambit,” the first and last stages are stable tonic chords while the middle is a scale
degree 7 bass with figured bass of 6/3 or 6/5/3 (Gjerdingen 2007a, 77-78).
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Figure 5.34: Do-Re-Mi schema (graphic from Gjerdingen 2007a, 650)
The phrase closes with a Prinner schema (figure 5.33, mm. 3-4), where the bass descends 4-3-2-1
and the soprano 6-5-4-3 (figure 5.35, Gjerdingen 2007a, 45–60). If the Do-Re-Mi is a favored
opening gambit, then the Prinner is a favored riposte.
Figure 5.35: Prinner schema (graphic from Gjerdingen 2007a, 646)
In mm. 6-8 of figure 5.33, Daube repeats the Do-Re-Mi schema, but this time closes with a I:HC in
G major. At first, the phrase seems to be heading toward a Cudworth Cadence. A Cudworth
Cadence (figure 5.36) is cadential pattern where a standard bass is in conjunction with a melodic
descent that spans a full octave, from a high 1 to a low 1 (Gjerdingen 2007a, 146).
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Figure 5.36: Cudworth’s cadence galante (graphic from Gjerdingen 2007a, 147)
The 8-7-6-5-4-3-2 descent in the soprano implies the beginning of a Cudworth Cadence; however,
the #4 in the bass turns the cadence into a converging one. The converging cadence, so named
because the “two outer voices move toward each other” to converge on the dominant, has a distinct
ascending bassline of 4-#4-5 (Gjerdingen 2007a, 159–160). As in the previous examples, I limit my
analysis to examining the first four measures of the theme and subsequent variations in detail.
Essentially, I further explore how Daube realizes the Do-Re-Mi in his variations.
In returning to my relations within a musical event box notation, I did not need to create a
separate figure for each variation, unlike the Beethoven and Mozart examples. I only needed to
create one figure to represent the first four measures of the theme and all variations since Daube
does not alter any relations. Figure 5.37, then, is a different way to represent the Do-Re-Mi schema.
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Figure 5.37: Daube, thematic category, box notation
Daube does not alter any relations, so no Venn diagram is needed. All exemplars would be in the
middle overlap of rhythm, scale degree, contour and harmony. The exemplars clustered together in
the middle suggests that Daube composes with an “embellishing” style variation. This thematic
category, also a schema, is simple compared to those found in the Beethoven and Mozart examples.
Only three objects create the web of relations, with an easy to perceive contour and conventional I-
V-I harmony. Thus, a listener may have an easier time perceiving this thematic category (or schema)
compared to others discussed here. Yet, not all exemplars may be as easy at first to hear as this
schema, depending on whether or not listeners recognize structural notes.
Daube’s example demonstrates how bidirectional listening (chapter 3; understanding both
analogs in terms of each other, both analogs inform each other) helps listeners hear, in retrospect,
the structural notes of a musical passage. One might assume that a theme and variations form
composed of galant schemata would have the clearest example of the schema in the theme. On first
blush, someone listening to Daube’s theme could miss scale degree 3 in m. 2 as the structural note,
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instead prioritizing scale degree 5 (figure 5.38). Scale degree 3 only lasts a sixteenth note, while scale
degree 5 lasts at least an eighth note.
Figure 5.38: Daube, theme, mm. 1-5 (graphic from Daube [1773] 1992, 139)
Before recognizing these as a conventional musical pattern, a listener may begin forming a relational
category similar to figure 5.39.
Figure 5.39: Daube, potential thematic category after hearing only the theme
Hearing “sol” as a structural note could hinder a listener from recognizing the measures as a Do-Re-
Mi. Thus, mm. 1-2 of the theme are an ambiguous example of the Do-Re-Mi schema. Typically,
listeners expect the theme of a theme and variations to be the clearest example of the relational
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category, especially in “embellishing” variations. In this example, however, it is the opposite. The
thematic category becomes clearer only as more variations are heard.
With bidirectional listening, a person uses knowledge about a future musical event to
retroactively re-shape his or her initial perception of a theme. To fully recognize mm. 1-2 of the
theme as a Do-Re-Mi, listeners need to make an analogy by comparing this musical event to the
variations. In mm. 1-2 of var. 1 (figure 5.40), the Do-Re-Mi is a more traditional realization. In the
original theme, scale degree 3 flew by in flash. Instead, var. 1 places scale degree 3 on the downbeat.
The figuration of scale degree 3 is reminiscent of scale degrees 1 and 2, which further emphasizes
that scale degree 3 is the structural note. Yet, var. 1 still has some emphasis on scale degree 5.
Figure 5.40: Daube, var. 1, mm. 1-10 (graphic from Daube [1773] 1992, 140)
Var. 2 (figure 5.41) solidifies the Do-Re-Mi schema by emphasizing these scale degrees only. Scale
degree 5 has been downgraded to a pedal point.

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Figure 5.41: Daube, var. 2, mm. 1-8 (graphic from Daube [1773] 1992, 141)
Here, in var. 2, a listener hears the first clear realization of the Do-Re-Mi. If a listener compares this
musical event to the theme or var. 1, the Do-Re-Mis in these exemplars retroactively become clearer.
Through bidirectional listening, the opening measures’ ambiguity is resolved. The Do-Re-Mi is clear
in future variations (figure 5.42), as well, with the exception of some ambiguity rearing its head again
in var. 7 (figure 5.42e). Although, by that point, a listener has a clear understanding of Do-Re-Mi as
thematic category.
(a)
(b)
(c)
(d)
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(e)
Figure 5.42: Daube, beginnings of (a) var. 3, (b) var. 4 (c) var. 5, (d) var. 6, (e) var. 7 (graphic from Daube
[1773] 1992, 141-142)
It may have been ambiguous whether scale degree 3 or 5 was a structural note in Daube’s
theme, although listeners expect clear examples of schemata in a theme. Through comparison, a
listener retroactively recognizes this passage as a Do-Re-Mi even if he or she did not categorize it
that way originally. Thus, conventional patterns are not always clear cut. Comparison and analogy,
then, can benefit a listener categorizing conventional patterns as well as ad hoc ones. After the
structural notes are clear to a listener, Daube’s theme and variations is an example of an
“embellishment” style variation since none of the relations are altered.
Conclusion
In theory, the analogy framework could be used to make several arguments in regards to
themes and variations. For instance, a theorist could use the analogy framework to argue when
listeners may be more or less likely to perceive a musical event as a variation or a new thematic
category. In this chapter, I addressed research question 1 by analyzing three theme and variation
movements by Beethoven, Mozart and Daube. I demonstrated that themes are relational categories,
which implies that analogy is used to perceive them. I also discussed how composers in different
time periods approached the theme and variations form, and how the analogy framework can be
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used to analyze distance between exemplars of a thematic category. In general, eighteenth-century
“embellishment” style variations share more relations with the thematic category then nineteenth-
century “reinterpretation” style variations. An alternative interpretation is that eighteenth-century
structures were schematized, and so easily memorable for music insiders. Nineteenth-century
composers, on the other hand, could only rely on perceived similarity of successive features due to
their musically “unknowledgeable” audience. However, since schemata are relational categories, this
interpretation still implies that eighteenth-century variations share relations, while nineteenth-century
variations do so to a lesser degree, or not at all. As I have now analyzed these pieces, I plan to use
them (especially the Daube) as stimuli in future empirical work that addresses how listeners use
analogy to categorize themes (see chapter 6).

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CHAPTER 6
“You’re sure to get somewhere, if you only walk long enough”:
Future Research
[Alice] went on. “Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?”
“That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,” said the Cat.
“I don’t much care where— ”said Alice.
“Then it doesn’t matter which way you go,” said the Cat.
“—so long as I get somewhere,” Alice added as an explanation.
“Oh, you’re sure to do that,” said the Cat, “if you only walk long enough.”
Dissertation Summary
My research studies how listeners use past experiences to make sense of unexpected or
unusual musical events and categorize musical patterns. I have presented an interdisciplinary
theoretical framework for analogy in listening—retrieval, mapping, and evaluation—based on
Structure-Mapping Theory (Gentner 1983) in cognitive psychology. I have argued that theorists
should consider the context in which some analytic or listening activity takes place. To account for
different contexts, listener or otherwise, theorists can use the retrieval step of the analogy
framework. I have also argued that theorists can use the mapping step of the analogy framework to
specify how listeners actively make mappings between musical events. Finally, I argued that theorists
specify what outcomes, interpretations or understandings occur due to these mappings. The
evaluation step gives a means for discussing inferences music theorists or listeners make. In this
dissertation, I have also used the analogy framework to help explain how theorists perceive musical
irony and categorize thematic variations.

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In examining research question 1, it was suggested that participants do not categorize
musical themes in experimental settings since experiments do not facilitate analogy-making. Analogy
is used to categorize musical themes; themes are relational categories and not perceptual categories
(even though experimenters often treat them as perceptual categories in experiments). To
demonstrate that a theme is a relational category, I used the analogy framework to analyze theme
and variation movements by Beethoven, Mozart, and Daube, using these as a real world laboratory. I
found that composers of eighteenth-century “embellishment” style variations kept relations
consistent while perceptual features changed. However, composers of nineteenth-century
“reinterpretation” style variations did not keep relations as consistent as their eighteenth-century
counterparts, creating less clear relational categories. Consistent with my argument that people use
analogy to categorize thematic variations, music scholars find a difference between these variation
styles. When composers alter relations, theorists recognize this as variation in a “new style,” and
themes and their variations are not easily heard as members of one category since altering relations
blur relational category. However, altering perceptual features does not seem to damage music
theorists’ understanding of thematic categories. Since comparison is important for analogy making, I
incorporate comparison into analyses to help determine salient relations. Now that I have
established a theoretical argument for themes as relational categories, I can pursue empirical research
(see below).
When a listener hears an odd moment that cannot be mapped onto previous experiences
with music, he or she may wonder if a similar relation occurs in other domains. If so, the brain,
working as economically as possible, may use this domain to inform their interpretation of music.
According to research question 2, music theorists use non-musical analogy to make sense of
“unexpected findings” in music; in this case, music theorists use an analogy between music and
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language to hear “unexpected” musical events as ironic since irony is easier to understand in
language than music. Drawing from empirical research in psycholinguistics on ironic language, I use
the analogy framework as well as sonata theory, formal function, and schema theory to analyze how
music theorists use analogy to perceive certain Beethoven string quartets as ironic. If theorists
encounter “unexpected” musical events, then he or she could hear this musical behavior as
analogous to linguistic behavior. The violation of expectation and flouting of Gricean maxims are
relations in ironic language that could be mapped onto relations in music, prompting a music
theorist to use an analogy to hear a musical moment as ironic.
Future Research
I plan to use the analogy framework in several future projects: an experiment, analysis that
investigates the connection between schemata and topics, and an analysis that investigates how
modern listeners hear common practice music through film music.
An Empirical Investigation into Analogy for Categorizing Themes
I plan to empirically investigate analogy as a basis for musical categorization by running an
experiment, adapting experimental designs from other analogical processing experiments (Gentner
and Namy 1999; Christie and Gentner 2010). My experimental design incorporates the following
elements from past experiments: 1) hearing multiple exemplars of a musical category, used to
facilitate analogical processing in both children (e,g, Gentner and Namy 1999) and adults (e.g. Elio
and Anderson 1984; Medin and Ross 1989), and 2) comparison between these multiple exemplars,
necessary for structural alignment (Gentner and Namy 1999; Christie and Gentner 2010; Markman
and Gentner 1993).

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Stimuli
Stimuli for an experiment on musical analogy differs from stimuli in experiments by Gentner
and colleagues. Often, Gentner and colleagues use static pictures where participants can visually see
a relation (e.g. picture of woman giving food to squirrel; Gentner and Markman 1997). However,
this experiment would ask listeners to experience auditory stimuli. Therefore, participants may need
more exposure to the stimuli to hear the relations.
In this study, participants will listen to approximately sixteen musical excerpts. Eight of these
musical excerpts are variations of Theme A while eight of these musical excerpts are variations of
Theme B. The theme category (A or B) is a relational category. The variations differ in musical
figuration. The figuration category is a perceptual category.
I use Daube’s variations from his 1773 The Musical Dilettante: a Treatise on Composition as
stimuli. Variations were chosen as stimuli for several reasons. First, variations include a core
thematic idea that is altered on the surface. In the fifth chapter, I demonstrated that thematic
categories are relational categories using analysis, implying listeners use analogy to categorize
variations as members of one thematic category. Second, composers of theme and variations form
assume that listeners compare different variations to the theme. Even though participants in this
experiment will not know the excerpts they are hearing are from a theme and variation form, they
would still be comparing musical material as a composer might assume they would. Third, a
thematic category is an ideal example of a relational category, while musical figuration is an ideal
example of a perceptual category.
Experimental Design, Hypotheses and Procedure
I will use a 2x2 between-subjects design with categorization choice (perceptual or relational)
as the dependent variable and musical training (musician v. non-musician) and a comparison
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manipulation (no-compare v. compare) as the independent variables (see figure 6.2 for schematic of
experimental design). The no-compare condition acts as a control, expecting results similar to past
experiments on musical categorization (e.g. Ziv and Eitan 2007; Eitan and Granot 2009; Pollard-
Gott 1983; Lamont and Dibben 2001). The following are my hypotheses:
H0: Listeners will pick the perceptual choice (based on surface-level features)
H1: Listeners will pick the structural/relational choice (based on deep-level features)
The design contains two parts: a categorization task phase (force-choice) and a rating phase.
For the categorization task, all participants will complete sixteen trials. Each trial will involve a
categorization judgment. Participants in the no-compare condition will be given one exemplar
(either a variation of Theme A or a variation of Theme B) and will be asked to choose which one of
two choices is the same category as the exemplar. One choice will be a perceptual match (has the
same surface features of the exemplar category but not the same relational structure) while the other
choice will be a relational match (has different surface features but the same structure). For
participants in the compare condition, they will hear two exemplars of a category (either variations
of Theme A or variations of Theme B) and will choose which one of two choices is the same
category as the exemplar. Before making their choice, however, participants in this condition will
actively compare the two exemplars. In theory, the active comparison between multiple exemplars
should facilitate structural alignment and prompt a listener to use analogical processing to categorize
based on relational structure instead of perceptual features. Eight of the total sixteen trials will use
exemplar(s) from Theme A and eight from Theme B. I will also gather response times for each trial.
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Participants will then move on to phase three: ratings. In this phase, participants hear every
excerpt (of both categories) individually. They provide a series of adjectives ratings on bipolar scales
(figure 6.1; as used in both Pollard-Gott 1983 and Lamont and Dibben 2001).
Figure 6.1: Adjective pairs for excerpt descriptions (graphic from Lamont and Dibben 2001, 253)
A two-way (2x2 factorial design) analysis of variance (ANOVA) will be conducted with
categorization choice serving as the dependent variable and musical training condition (musician v.
non-musician) and comparison condition (no-compare v. compare) serving as the independent
variables.
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Figure 6.2: Schematic of experimental design

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Predictions
I predict that participants in the compare condition will choose relational matches
significantly more than participants in the no-compare condition. If participants in the compare
condition categorize based on relations (creating a statistically significant difference between the
compare and no-compare condition), then this implies that analogical processing plays a role in
perceiving and categorizing musical themes. Listeners, then, may be using analogical processing to
perceive musical categories based on relational structure.
Musician v. Non-musician: Previous experiments (e.g. Lamont and Dibben 2001; Ziv and
Eitan 2007) found no difference between musicians and non-musicians in their results, indicating
that musicians often categorize based on perceptual features similar to non-musicians. If this study
finds a difference between musicians and non-musicians, this may indicate the role of musical
training in categorizing thematic categories. Musical training—where humans explicitly learn labels
for categories implicitly learned—should make recognizing relational structure easier. Experts have
more relational knowledge, and so are more likely to categorize based on relational structure while
novices are more likely to categorize based on perceptual features (e.g. Chi, Feltovich, and Glaser
1981; Shafto and Coley 2003; Rottman, Gentner, and Goldwater 2012). Assuming, however, that I
find no differences between musicians and non-musicians, the results of the no-compare condition
should match results of previously experiments (that of participants categorizing based on
perceptual matches).
Time Course: In past studies on similarity, participants that responded quickly (under 700-
1000 ms) based similarity on local or perceptual matches instead of relational matches (Goldstone
and Medin 1994). Eitan and Granot (2009) recorded time spent by their participants in different
types of classification. The fastest participants classified musical excerpts using secondary parameters
277
as criterion and the slowest participants used primary parameters as criterion (165). I predict that
participants making relational matches will have significantly longer time course than those making
perceptual matches. If participants’ response times follow this prediction, then these results provide
further evidence that primary parameters are relational structures and participants could be using
Structure-Mapping Theory for categorization.
Follow-Up Studies
A scholar may argue that this experiment lacks ecological validity. A person does not listen
to music in a series of excerpts; instead, he or she listens to the piece as a whole. I plan to use the
results of this study as a springboard to two follow-up studies which examine more naturalistic
approaches to tracking melodic categorization as a piece develops. One follow-up experiment would
address the potential problems of having one condition with multiple exemplars and the other
condition with only one exemplar. The other follow-up experiment would put these musical
categories within a more natural listening context.
Connections between Schemata and Topics: Relational Categories, Perceptual Categories,
and Construction Grammar
If analogy is a cognitive process used in music perception, then one assumption is the
distinction between relational and perceptual features in music. In this dissertation, I have defined a
musical relation and discussed how it forms a relational category in music. Yet, are relational and
perceptual features already featured in current theories of pattern perception in music theory? How
would the analogy framework work with current theories to create analyses? This project investigates
a “perceptual-relational divide” in music by analyzing whether conventional musical patterns such as
topics and schemata are relational categories or perceptual categories.

278
Topics and schemata as mental representations may be “treated” as similar in cognition:
conventional patterns with associations. Therefore, a superordinate category may subsume both
these patterns: that of a “construction.” Construction Grammar in linguistics argues that language is
built from “constructions,” patterns based on frequency and use where form is conventionally
paired with meaning or function (e.g. Tomasello 2003; Goldberg 2006; Bybee 2010). If the human
mind creates these form-meaning pairings for linguistic categories, it may also do the same for
music, especially for general musical categories that span over multiple pieces and infiltrate entire
styles (see Gjerdingen and Bourne 2015). Listeners may use inter-opus analogy to perceive these
familiar and conventional patterns. The construction grammar literature looks to analogy as a way
for listeners to identify constructions (Bybee 2010, 57–75). Bybee (2010) considers analogy “the
process by which a speaker comes to use a novel item in a construction”. (57) Therefore, listeners of
music may also use analogy to recognize familiar constructions, even if there is a novel aspect
involved.
How Modern Listeners Hear Common Practice Music through Film Music
This next project ask, “How does exposure to film music change how a modern listener
hears late-eighteenth and early nineteenth-century common practice music?” How does it change a
listener’s interpretation to consider that they are hearing Beethoven’s sixth symphony after already
being exposed to the movie soundtrack for Lord of the Rings? What musical patterns or schemata do
people learn when listening to film music? And, do they make an analogy between these film music
patterns and Western, Classical common practice music? If listeners hear a common-practice pattern
similar to a more modern pattern, then they are cognitively more likely to activate the “modern”
version and its associations instead of a “historically contextualized” one. The analogy framework
279
can be used for theorists to make a cognitive argument as to when listeners may merge these
different musical events as one. While other scholars analyze pattern change through time, I instead
will analyze “backward” in time: how a modern listener exposed to current versions of these
patterns or categories may assume they are the same as historicized versions in common-practice
music.
For this project, my methodology will combine the analogy framework, score analysis and
listener reactions to a common-practice corpus and a film music corpus. For score analysis, I will
conduct a corpus study of Austro-Germanic instrumental music (1750-1830; particularly Mozart,
Haydn and Beethoven) and popular American film music (1930-2010), assembling at least thirty
exemplars of each pattern in both corpora. I will analyze common topics and schemata in the score,
how these patterns change over time but remain recognizable, and their contexts for clues to their
associations. For listener reactions, historical sources discussing these patterns in context—
pedagogical treatises and reviews—address how contemporaries may have heard them, in addition
to current scholarship connecting them to other cultural areas (e.g. literature). Film music uses these
patterns paired with images. This imagery either reinforces or differs from historical perspectives of
the patterns. If modern listeners imagined similar film visuals listening to common-practice excerpts,
then it could indicate listeners use analogy to map modern versions onto historicized ones.
Independent Classical music blog reviews and online comments reveal this imagery. If feasible, an
online survey would ask participants to write imagery while listening to common-practice excerpts.
This project gives a present-to-past, longitudinal study of style change—how patterns and their
associations change over time and how listeners’ cultural context impacts if/when they use analogy
to cognitively map them over.

280
Analogy as a Window to Musical Communication
This dissertation begins a research trajectory towards developing a cognitively-based model
of musical communication and sense-making. How do listeners make sense of music? What are
their inferences or understanding? Analogy may be a window into musical communication, though
one of many that could be used to peer inside the house.
To discover a possible “house” for musical communication, I briefly review two skills that
psychologist Michael Tomasello (2003) argues are of particular importance for language acquisition:
intention-reading and pattern-finding (3). The first—intention-reading—includes:
1) “Ability to share attention with other persons to objects and events of mutual interest,”
2) “The ability to follow the attention and gesturing of other persons to distal objects and
events outside the immediate interaction,”
3) “The ability to actively direct the attention of others to distal objects by pointing,
showing, and using of other nonlinguistic gestures,”
4) “The ability to culturally (imitatively) learn the intentional actions of others, including
their communicative acts underlain by communicative.” (Tomasello 2003, 3)
He argues that these skills are necessary in order to learn the:
Appropriate use of any and all linguistic symbols, including complex linguistic expressions
and constructions. Indeed, they basically define the symbolic or functional dimensions of
linguistic communication—which involves in all cases the attempt of one person to
manipulate the intentional or mental state of other persons. Importantly in the current
context, this functional dimension enables certain kinds of abstraction processes, such as
analogy, that can only be effected when the elements to be compared play similar functional
(communicative) roles in larger linguistic expressions and/or constructions. (Tomasello
2003, 3–4, bold added for emphasis)
He holds that use and intentionality give abstractions meaning. The second skill—pattern-finding—
includes:
1) “The ability to form perceptual and conceptual categories of “similar” objects and
events,”
2) “The ability to form sensory-motor schemas from recurrent patterns of perception and
action,”
3) “The ability to perform statistically based distributional analyses on various kinds of
perceptual and behavioral sequences,”
281
4) “The ability to create analogies (structure mappings) across two or more complex
wholes, based on the similar functional roles of some elements in these different
wholes” (Tomasello 2003, 4, bold added for emphasis).
Tomasello (2003) mentions that these skills are necessary to find patterns across different utterances
and construct abstract dimensions of linguistic competence (4). Analogy is one facet of a pattern-
finding skill.
This dissertation isolates analogy’s possible role in musical sense-making. How do listeners
use both of Tomasello’s (2003) skills, intention-reading and pattern-finding, for musical acquisition
and inferring musical communication? Understanding intention-reading in music and how it
connects to musical pattern-finding might be especially rewarding in understanding musical
communication. What is the purpose of knowing patterns if a person does not consider why they are
used and when? The analogy framework is just one facet that could be elaborated upon to tackle
larger issues of musical communication and cognition.
Conclusion
When people listen to music, somehow it seems to fill their heads with ideas; music connects
us to something deeply human and we make interpretations intuitively—meaningful connections
between a past experience and a present response. The analogy framework provides a cognitively-
informed way to analyze music as a participatory action on the part of a listener. This framework
contributes to goals of music theory—recognizing pitch, meter-rhythm and form structures. Yet, it
can also be used to analyze how listeners in different contexts perceive relations and infer
interpretations from these structures. This dissertation looks at the “somehow” of “somehow it fills
my head with ideas”—attempting to answer what that “somehow” is.

282
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NORTHWESTERN UNIVERSITY

A Theory of Analogy for Musical Sense-Making and Categorization:

SUBMITTED TO THE GRADUATE SCHOOL

for the degree

in the Program in Music Theory and Cognition

Janet Eileen Bourne

© Copyright by Janet Bourne 2015

All Rights Reserved

A Theory of Analogy for Musical Sense-Making and Categorization:

Understanding Musical Jabberwocky

thankful for that.

shaped this project, but my development as a scholar.

then, he has been a fountain of knowledge on music-theoretic matters. He has challenged me to be

professional matters. I am grateful for everything he has done for me.

I am indebted to Dedre for introducing me to the wonders of analogy. Because of her

spent working with me considering she is an invaluable resource on experimental design.

at Faith EPC for their prayers and thoughts.

 Research Questions and Hypotheses …………..…………..………………….. 26

 Interdisciplinary Audience: Music Theory and Music Cognition ………………. 32

 Methods and Evidence ….…………..…………..…………..…………………. 34

 Definitions of Analogy ……………..…………..…………..…………..…………. 41

 Analogical Processes: Retrieval, Mapping, and Evaluation …………..……………. 44

 Mapping: Gentner’s Structure-Mapping Theory …………..…………..………….. 46

 Structural Alignment …………..…………..…………..………………….. 47

 Two Forms of Comparison: Projective Analogy and Mutual Alignment

 Retrieval: The “Analogical Paradox” …………..…………..…………..………….. 52

 Holyoak and Thagard’s Multiconstraint Theory …………..…………..………….. 54

 Analogy and Similarity …………..…………..…………..…………..……………. 56

 Analogy and Relational Categories …………..…………..…………..……………. 58

 Approaches to Analogy in Music …………..…………..…………..……………… 63

 Music Theory …………..…………..…………..…………..……………... 63

 Music Cognition …………..…………..…………..…………..………….. 64

 Similarity and Categorization in Music Theory …………..…………..……………. 65

 Meyer’s Conformant Relationships …………..…………..……………….. 66

 Music-Theoretic Patterns …………..…………..…………..…………….. 66

 Thematic Variations …………..…………..…………..…………… 67

 Meyer and Gjerdingen’s Schemata …………..…………..………… 72

 Hanninen’s Associative Sets …………..…………..………………. 76

 Similarity and Categorization in Music Cognition …………..…………..………….. 78

 Pollard-Gott (1983) …………..…………..…………..…………..……….. 78

 Bigand (1990) …………..…………..…………..…………..……………… 79

 Lamont and Dibben (2001) …………..………...…………..……………… 80

 Ziv and Eitan (2007) …………..…………..…………..…………………... 81

 Eitan and Granot (2009) …………..…………..…………..………………. 82

 A Common Theme …………..…………..…………..…………..……….. 82

CHAPTER 3. “A Knowledge about a thing is a knowledge of its relations”: An

 Musical Event …………..…………..…………..…………..…………..………….. 86

 The Analogy Framework …………..…………..…………..…………..………….. 86

 Step 1: Retrieval …………..…………..…………..…………..…………………… 87

 Musical Use/Exposure …………..…………..…………..………………... 90

 Exposure to Specific Musical Pieces …………..…………..………. 92

 Conventional Musical Patterns …………..…………..……………. 93

 Comparing Listeners …………..…………..…………..…………..………. 94

 Step 2: Mapping …………..…………..…………..…………..…………………… 94

 Musical Relations …………..…………..…………..…………..………….. 95

 Two Levels of Musical Relations: Relations within a Musical Event

 Relations within a Musical Event …………..…………..………….. 100

 Relations between Musical Events …………..…………..………… 117

 Two Forms of Analogical Comparison: Unidirectional Listening and

 Four Forms of Analogical Distance in Music: Intra-opus, Inter-Opus,

 Intra-opus Analogy …………..…………..…………..…………… 124

 Inter-opus Analogy …………..…………..…………..…………… 127

 Intertextual …………..…………..…………..…………..………. 129