AUERBACH - Musical Motives. A Theory and Method For Analysing Shape in Music

Musical Motives
Musical Motives
A Theory and Method for Analyzing
Shape in Music
B R E N T AU E R BAC H
1
3
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Auerbach, Brent, author.
Title: Musical motives : a theory and method for analyzing shape in music / Brent Auerbach.
Description: [1.] | New York : Oxford University Press, 2021. |
Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020025132 (print) | LCCN 2020025133 (ebook) |
ISBN 9780197526026 (hardback) | ISBN 9780197526057 (oso) |
ISBN 9780197526033 (updf) | ISBN 9780197526040 (epub)
Subjects: LCSH: Musical analysis.
Classification: LCC MT90.A87 2020 (print) | LCC MT90 (ebook) | DDC 781.2—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020025132
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020025133
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197526026/001.0001
1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2
Printed by Integrated Books International, United States of America
To my wife, Meli, and my daughters, Isabel and Natalie, for
their boundless love and support.
Contents
Acknowledgments  ix
About the Companion Website  xi
PA RT I : T H E G R O U N D S F O R A D I S C I P L I N E
O F M O T I V IC A NA LYSI S 
1. Introduction to Motives  3
Motives Play a Central Role in Music  3
How Motives Move and Move Us  10
“Musical Motives”  20
2. A Brief History of Motives—Composition  25
Motive as a Style Element of Music  25
Early Developments  30
Motives in Ascendance: Compositional Practice, c. 1750–1900  39
More Recent Developments  50
Further Thoughts on Surveying Motives in Composition  53
3. A History of Motives—Theory and Analysis  55
Origins of the Musical Motive Concept, 1600–1750  56
The Rise of Melodielehre, 1750–1890  61
Schoenberg’s Conservative and Radical Conceptions of Motive  69
Unintended Legacy: A New Concept of Motive Develops in the
Twentieth Century  80
An Account of Present-Day Motivic Analytical Techniques  87
Summary: The Bridge to Part II, Methods of Motivic Analysis  100
PA RT I I : M E T HO D S O F M O T I V IC A NA LYSI S 
4. A Universal Nomenclature for Pitch and Rhythm Motives  105

Rules for Labeling Pitch and Pitch-Class Motives  108
Rules for Labeling Rhythmic Motives  119
5. Basic Motivic Analysis  129
Principles of Reduction  130
Principles for Linking Motives  150
Assembling Analysis: Preliminary Narrative Strategies  161
viii Contents
Interlude 1: BMA Narrative Archetypes   165

The Role of Narrative in Motivic Analysis in General and
Its Role in BMA in Particular  165
Theoretical Justification for Framing Motivic Analyses
as Narratives  165
The Four BMA Narrative Archetypes  169
6. Exemplars of Basic Motivic Analysis  183
A Pitch and Pitch-Class BMA of Beethoven’s Op. 2,
No. 1, Movement I  183
A Rhythmic BMA of Beethoven’s Op. 10, No. 1, Movement III  195
Interlude 2: CMA Narrative Archetypes  205
New Freedoms on the Focal Point’s Content and Location  205
Summary of BMA and CMA Narratives  216
7. Complex Motivic Analysis  219
Introduction: A Rationale for CMA  219
Formalizing Complex Motives  221
Complex Motive Assembly  235
The Paired End Products of CMA: Organic Map and Narrative  238
Conclusion to the Methodology Area  261
PA RT I I I : A NA LYSE S A N D C O N C LU SIO N 
8. Analysis of Three Works in Contrasting Styles  267

“L’Ondine,” Op. 101, by Cécile Chaminade  267
“Paranoid Android,” by Radiohead  276
“At the Ballet,” by Marvin Hamlisch  296
9. Conclusion  311
Motivic Theory in Context  311
What Motives May and May Not Be  314
The Persistent Limitations and Future Promise of Motivic Analysis  324
Notes  329
Bibliography  355
Index  367
Acknowledgments
I would like to first to acknowledge my dear friends and colleagues at the

University of Massachusetts Amherst. This project could never have come to
fruition without their support. To Gary Karpinski, Jason Hooper, and Chris
White: thank you for all of your advice generously given about how to improve
this work. I owe a special debt to Jason Hooper for his adept co-mentoring and for
sharing his impeccable research on nineteenth-century conceptions of form and
motive. I would like to thank Erinn Knyt and Roberta M. Marvin for their advice
on navigating the publication and post submission process, and Chair Salvatore
Macchia for graciously protecting my time in the critical last months leading up
to manuscript submission. Laura Quilter, the Copyright and Information Policy
Librarian on campus, deserves recognition for helping me to fully understand
and to negotiate my publishing contract. Thanks go, last, to the graduate students
in the Department of Music and Dance, who bravely volunteered to serve as test
subjects for Musical Motives. Their feedback, both in and out of the classroom,
proved invaluable for improving the book’s style and content.
My sincere thanks go also to the Society for Music Theory for its generous
assistance in the form of a subvention grant helping to cover permissions
and indexing fees. I offer my gratitude as well to the Massachusetts Society of
Professors and UMass’s College of Humanities and Fine Arts for their sustained
and generous professional support in the form of travel grants and computer
replacement funds.
Further afield, I benefited greatly from the help of colleagues who saw and
commented on early versions of this book. Thanks go to Rob Haskins, my good
friend dating back to my Eastman days, for aid proofing the manuscript, and to
Scott Murphy at the University of Kansas for his insights and ideas for correcting
inconsistencies in the chapter on complex motivic analysis. Sincere thanks go
as well to René Rusch and Brad Osborn for their helpful suggestions for car-
rying out research on Radiohead. In particular, I am grateful to Alan Street at the
University of Kansas for his suggestions on broadening and strengthening the
portions of the method concerning narrative. His expertise and research have
not only impacted this project, but also will serve in perpetuity as resources in
my research and pedagogy.
My deep thanks go as well to Suzanne Ryan, former Editor in Chief in
Humanities at Oxford University Press, for believing in this project and for
expertly shepherding it through all but the very last stages of the publication
x Acknowledgments
process. Her feedback and suggestions, simultaneously pithy and kind, provided
the clearest guidelines imaginable for taking the next step forward through draft
revisions. Thanks go, as well, to the capable, supportive staff at OUP—to Sean
Decker, in particular—for their quick, informative, and good natured responses
to every minute query I sent their way.
Finally, I would like to acknowledge my loving, supportive family, for—how
else to put it?—everything! To my parents, Lisa and Richard: thank you for set-
ting me on the path for a life in music and for encouraging me at every step to
continue its pursuit. To my other parents, Ada and José Matos: thank you for all
you do to help keep my household happy and well fed, from emergency school
bus service to regular, world-class dining served at your home and delivered
as take-out. Last, I thank my precious wife, Melissa, and children, Isabel and
Natalie, for their love, good humor, and occasional interest in my work. Each of
them amazes me, daily, for who they are and for their willingness to share this life
with me.
About the Companion Website
www.oup.com/us/musicalmotives
Oxford has created a website to accompany Musical Motives: A Theory and
Method for Analyzing Shape in Music by Brent Auerbach. Supplementary mu-
sical examples are provided here. The reader is encouraged to consult this re-
source in conjunction with the chapters. Examples available online are indicated
in the text with Oxford’s symbol  .
PART I
T HE GROU N DS F OR
A DISC IPL INE OF
MOT IV IC A NA LYSI S
1
Introduction to Motives
Motives Play a Central Role in Music
There are not many absolute truths that can be asserted about music, but here is
one: all music moves.1 The physical embodiment of music, sound waves, causes
particles in the air to vibrate. This in turn causes listeners’ eardrums and then
their basilar membranes, brains, and bodies to do the same. That’s all well and
good, most musicians might think, except that this first attempt at describing
musical “motion” falls far short of capturing what music truly is. Music is not
mere sound waves, although it may be best enjoyed when it actually hitches a
ride on these invisible sails. (Even when it sounds purely in the realm of imagina-
tion, the inner ear, music remains essentially music.) It is a sound-based art that
communicates sensation, emotion, and energy; it impels us to feel, to dance, and
to think. This awareness of what music is gives us cause to revise our original as-
sertion. It is not just that all music moves, but that music moves us.
We take this first point about music and movement as axiomatic. We next ex-
tend it with a claim that will ground this book: through exploring the mechanisms
by which music moves and moves us, we stand to gain understanding about art
and ourselves. Above, I summarized the path by which musical waves manifest
in the body, but how does music pervade our senses and our consciousness? The
answer is suggested by laws of perception known as Gestalt principles that de-
scribe how our brains involuntarily process stimuli, sonic and otherwise. For
example, humans tend to group together pitches that share attributes such as fre-
quency, timbre, and volume. (The well-known “law of common fate” in the visual
domain offers an example: a swarm of dots all moving together gives the impres-
sion of a larger, single entity in motion.) If we lacked this ability, the concept of
melody would likely never have developed in any culture. In musical settings,
we would be wholly unable to untangle the mass of sound waves arriving at our
eardrums into coherent strands. There would be no way to distinguish between
“more important” (solo) and “less important” (supporting) material. In listening
to a rock band play, it would be impossible to tell which sounds were coming
from the singer and which from the drums, bass, and guitars.
Although scientists who study the brain hardly ever take for granted our re-
liance on the processes that render human-intentioned sounds in the air into
music, the rest of us usually do. Anyone who enjoys, plays, or simply “gets” music
Musical Motives. Brent Auerbach, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2021.
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197526026.003.0001.
4 Grounds for Motivic Analysis
does so by grace of a grand illusion that transforms streams of particulate sen-

sory data into coherent wholes. In the case of music, the standard bit of data is a
note, which by itself does not communicate a whole lot of musical meaning. To
confirm this, imagine the sound of a single, brief E4 played in the central register
of the piano, as shown in Example 1.1.2
Now imagine your reaction to my declaration that you’ve just heard a whole
piece of music. Pretend that this “Sonata in E” is being offered to the public
with no ironic or metaphysical wink. You can assume that this pseudo-micro-
masterpiece is meant as music and not as some highfalutin’, aesthetic statement
about music. In other words, it is not supposed to provoke any “big” questions
like “What is the essence of a ‘piece’ of music?” Even so, you’d find this piece fat-
uous. A single note hardly constitutes even the barest musical idea.
The piece is now newly expanded. In Example 1.2, the E4 is connected to a D
and then a C, with all of the notes played briefly and in close register. This second
effort is also not much of a piece, but it is at least recognizable as something.
Something wonderful has happened in that three separate notes are forged into
a coherent, descending, moving line.3 We have generated a recognizable musical
shape in motion, our first example of a musical motive.
Having broached the topic that will occupy our attention for the duration of
this study, we are not yet ready to address the bigger question, “What is a mo-
tive?” We will postpone that activity to c hapters 2 and 3, where paired histor-
ical surveys of the concept will prepare and inform a comprehensive method
for identifying, linking, and interpreting these shapes. A working definition will
have to do for now. Our starting point will be the conception of motive put for-
ward by Arnold Schoenberg (1874–1951), the composer-theorist whose writings
and teachings were instrumental in establishing motivic analysis as a modern-
day discipline. As Schoenberg worked on the manuscript meant to enshrine his
Example 1.1 A single note, E4.
Example 1.2 The one-note piece is extended to three notes.

Introduction to Motives 5
fully realized theory of music, he defined motive as “the smallest part of a piece
or section of a piece that, despite change and repetition, is recognizable as pre-
sent throughout” (1995, 169).4
The open-ended character of Schoenberg’s definition, meant to render the
term “motive” flexible and intuitive, may also be seen as impractically vague.
Consulting his many writings, however, affords us with a set of more useful
particulars. For instance, it is clear that for Schoenberg a motive is a small en-
tity, typically shorter than a four-measure phrase in common or triple time.
A motive’s identity may derive from any musical domain, including articula-
tion, timbre, or harmony. Inclusion of this last area means that, for Schoenberg, a
chord progression may serve as a motive, although that occurs less often in prac-
tice. In the vast majority of published analyses, including those by Schoenberg,
motives are generally assumed to be melodic, monophonic, entities. To facilitate
the present introduction to the concept, we will initially fall back on that assump-
tion. In later chapters, this view will be broadened to allow for more complex,
polyphonic motives that are more analytically rich.
In a separate treatise, The Fundamentals of Musical Composition, Schoenberg
explains that a melodic motive is encoded primarily by its “intervals and rhythms,
combined to produce a memorable shape or contour which usually implies an in-
herent harmony” (1967, 8). Rhythmically, a gesture as small as a two-note pickup
figure may qualify. Similarly pitch-wise, a bare two-note configuration (a basic
intervallic second, third, fourth, etc.) can serve as a motive in analysis. Often the
domains of pitch and rhythm work together: the profile of the three note shape
from Example 1.2 would be sharpened if, in a larger work, it always appeared in
a characteristic rhythm such as q q h. But this does not always happen. In many
instances, analysts will equate one set of pitches with another in the same piece,
even when the gestures have no rhythm in common.
The adagio excerpt by Mozart shown in Example 1.3 illustrates a case in which
pitch motives act independently of rhythm. The first melodic gesture shown in
brackets is a “neighbor” figure, C5–D♭–C, set in a dotted, siciliana rhythm. The
shape is imitated in pitch and rhythm in the alto and tenor voices in mm. 2–3.
The pattern of descending entries suggests the bass should eventually have it,
too, and so it does in mm. 5–7. The characteristic rhythm disappears; however,
the neighbor shape’s pitch-intervallic connection remains strong and audible.5
By virtue of being set in more ponderous, dotted half notes, the neighbor motive
figure seems to gain stature and importance.
Even in cases where this kind of patterning is absent, an open interval can
sound striking enough to suggest itself as an important span to be explored. In
Haydn’s Piano Sonata 31 in E, Hob. XVI: 31 I, shown in Example 1.4, the first
melodic gesture heard is given by the left hand. It is the intervallic fifth, E4-B.
Example 1.3 Neighbor (N) motives in Mozart’s Piano Sonata in F, K. 280 (II),

mm.  1–8.
Example 1.4 Opening of Haydn’s Piano Sonata in E, Hob.XVI: 31 (I).
The melody takes longer to move from its first high B5, but as it does it traverses
the same letter-note span in reverse, B down to E. The two zones of activity, both
fifths, echo each other.
It is worthwhile to mine Schoenberg’s writings for technical guidance in how to
treat motives. That task will in fact be the focus of major portions of a later chapter.
Yet at the same time that we strive to read between the lines of Schoenberg’s
definition to discern more and less “correct” methods, we should keep another
approach in mind. To wit, we should embrace the notion that Schoenberg’s im-
precise mode of communication, in its own ideal way, conveys valuable informa-
tion. It may not directly answer the question “What does a motive look like?”;
however, it squarely addresses an equally important concern, “What is the essence
of motive?” Here we may expressly link the words “recognizable” and “memo-
rable” from our previous Schoenberg quotations. The two terms are functionally
equivalent. Memorability emerges as the essential measure of music’s “unity, rela-
tionship, coherence, logic, comprehensibility, and fluency” (Schoenberg 1967, 8).
Memorability, it turns out, is everything for Schoenberg.
It is easy to test whether a motive within a piece is memorable. The process is
personal, intuitive, and efficient, and even today remains the primary means for
determining which figures in a work qualify as motivic. As a practical matter, the
memorability requirement allows us to derive a working set of subrequirements.
A motive must
• be short enough to fit in memory

• be distinct enough from its surroundings to be perceived as a whole, and
• exhibit sufficient character to compel listeners’ attention.
There is a further advantage in acknowledging the role of memory. Doing so

prioritizes subjectivity and musicianship in analysis, accurately reflecting the
fact that all listeners will hear or remember a piece in different ways.
Schoenberg’s conception of motive has proved itself sufficiently sturdy, having
remained largely in effect for almost a century now. Nonetheless, it could do with
some fortification; an update is well past due. Though academics and performers
of all stripes to this day routinely work with motives, these entities often serve
an auxiliary function in their analyses. Few scholars at present seek to analyze
the motivic content of a piece, in and of itself. Instead their primary goal is usu-
ally to examine a work’s form, harmony, counterpoint, and/or narrative. Motivic
connections, when noted at all, usually are mentioned in asides or footnotes.
Where motives play this kind of supporting role in analysis, authors have two
reasons for pointing them out. One is to bolster evidence for conclusions already
reached by other means. Often, it seems that the more complicated and technical
the primary method is, the more pressing the need to defend it in terms of an
audible motivic connection. Another reason authors turn to motivic analysis is
to demonstrate their cleverness. Even where a motivic relationship is not central
to the primary analytic argument, an author will usually mention it anyway. The
temptation to exhibit her credentials as an analyst possessed of deep musicality
and ingenuity is too strong to pass up.
As we shall soon see, music is oversaturated by motives. This condition
is a boon, artistically. Most composers think in motivic terms as they write.
Consciously or not, they begin by designing a set of shapes and then take in-
spiration in deciding how to deploy them from one passage to the next. When
listeners later partake of their creations, the underlying unity of motivic content
within registers as coherence, with all ideas seeming to connect logically.
Concurrently, the overabundance of motives in music causes problems, analyt-

ically. This condition, together with the flexibility of Schoenberg’s “memorability”
clause, means it is usually possible to assert some kind of motivic connection be-
tween any two events in a work, no matter how dissimilar. It also means that motivic
analysis can yield irrelevant, nonsensical results when carried out without sufficient
training or care. Example 1.5 from Sharpe 1983, shows how one could begin with the
E♭ minor theme from Beethoven’s Sonata in C minor (Pathétique), movement I, and
gradually transform it into the theme from the Colonel Bogey March.6
Sharpe’s demonstration is designed to produce a laughable result; therefore, both
it and its accompanying claim that “there is something wrong with a theory that
allows” for such shenanigans may be set aside (Sharpe 1983, 279–280). The goal of
motivic analysis is not to impose far-fetched readings on works. It is to clarify the
nature of already-intuited connections. As in all things musical, this requires a fair
amount of analytic know-how. Convincingly establishing a motivic connection be-
tween dissimilar shapes is difficult. An analyst must sense the underlying unity, seek
an explanation for the similarity—hidden correspondences in pitch, rhythm, con-
tour, and so forth—and effectively communicate the finding to the audience.
The musical community has long regarded motivic analysis with ambivalence.
Analysts have generally been unwilling to give up on a practice that yields rich
and rewarding results, but at the same time they cannot help viewing it skepti-
cally. One barrier to motivic analysis’s acceptance is the long-standing awareness
that few rules exist for identifying and associating motive forms, which amounts
to saying that no proper theory of motivic analysis exists. The solution to this
problem entails advancing a consistent set of rules for working with motives.
Other barriers to acceptance are cultural in nature. In addition to the distrust
held by many scholars and specialists about the viability of motivic analysis,
there is the matter of the general low regard held for it by musicians of all types.
One might guess that the problem stems from musicians not having had
enough experience in working with motives. The situation is quite the opposite,
in that motives and motivic analysis have become overexposed. Most performers
and academics are aware that little shapes and rhythms recur throughout pieces,
having sat before a score with an instructor or a colleague watching him draw
circles around scads of seemingly insignificant pitch configurations. Charles
Rosen, in a staged moment of doubt, fills two pages of an essay with a host of trite
analytical findings to show “how easy motivic analysis can be.” He asserts that it
can “be taught in five minutes to any student, [who] can produce term papers on
motivic analysis while watching television or doing anything else that engages
his mind while leaving his hands free” (Rosen 1994, 95).
These are harsh words from Rosen, but his agenda is, fortunately, construc-
tive. His aim is to rescue motives by reframing the questions we ask of them,
namely: “What has the composer done to make us responsible for hearing these
Example 1.5 Abuse of analytic transformation technique (Sharpe 1983, 279–280).
The numbers that appear in line (a), which indicate “order position,” track specific
note shifts that occur in subsequent lines.
relationships?” and “How else do these invariances enter into the experience of
the work?” (1994, 97). Questions such as these take motives seriously by acknow-
ledging their role in musical structure and by weaving them into the listening
experience.
The spirit of this book endeavor is closely aligned with Rosen’s. Instead of
suggesting a single avenue toward elevating the status of motives, I will propose
and proceed down many. I start with the premise that the concept of motive can
be strengthened as new attributes are grafted on to it. The chapters and interludes
that follow will carry out this task by introducing increasingly stringent
definitions and rules. The first and perhaps most important step will occur in
the philosophical realm, as Schoenberg’s classical definition is extended. My for-
mulation, which embodies the musical truth declared at the outset, is as follows:
Proposition 1: For a musical figure to earn motivic status it must not only be
memorable, but must move and move us.
The two new requirements “to move” and “to move us” overlap to a large extent;
however, as a thought experiment, it is useful to try and tease them apart. Let us
think for a moment what it would mean to develop a comprehensive theory for
explaining how musical particles are able first, to instantiate motion, and second,
to provoke listeners’ emotions. Were that endeavor to succeed, it would not only
cement the importance of motives; it would also establish them as the smallest
possible elements that can be music. For anyone who wishes to truly understand
music, it is hard to imagine a worthier set of structures to examine than the ones
constituting its very essence.
How Motives Move and Move Us
Our original E4-D-C shape from Example 1.2 will serve us one last time as we
further explore how motives embody motion and musical meaning. The three
pitch events occur successively and thus take time to traverse a distance: this
fulfills the basic definition of motion. The shape, furthermore, stands in direct
opposition to any single-note utterance—for example: just the E alone—that by
itself implies no continuation or direction. By extension, no piece can proceed
forward except through the activity of motives.7 With regard to moving us, this
is where the aforementioned Gestalt principles come into play. If listeners con-
sciously engage the shape as it forms, then at the moment the final C sounds
there will be a real sense that they have moved along with it. Physiologically
speaking, each note heard is a note recreated, or “re-performed” in the brain,
immediately and internally.8
Each listener traverses the same journey that the notes do and in the same time.
That experience is universal. What remains individualized is the manner in which
different listeners feel and conceptualize their journeys. Listener TM, a trained
musician, might imagine herself inside the musical texture, thus experiencing a
downward glide through space. Listener NM, a nonmusician less familiar with
the up/down metaphor of pitch, might regard the notes externally as moving to-
ward or pulling away from him.9 If the E4-D-C gesture is played more rapidly, it
becomes more likely that the two listeners will hear the tones fitting within one
beat. The shape will still be experienced as motion, but perhaps in different ways.
Listener TM now might feel the shape as a footfall in a purposeful stride forward,
while NM may only be able to perceive it as a kind of energy that coils up and then
is released.
The mechanism just described can be represented by the following graphic:
motive motion
The arrow is double-headed, allowing for implication to flow in both directions.

The heads are of different sizes, though, to reflect the unequal logical status of the
two claims. All motives suggest motion; however, motion in music is not created
purely though motivic activity.
The next link in the chain in the experience of hearing music is that con-
necting the sensation of motion with the experience of emotion. This slightly
more complicated mechanism can be represented as follows:
motive motion emotion
The close linguistic correspondence between the latter terms, “motion” and
“emotion,” is hardly coincidental. One of English’s main words for denoting state
of mind, “emotion,” derives its meaning from a reference to literal motion. The
Oxford English Dictionary dates this usage to as early as 1330, when if some-
thing “moved the blood” it meant that it excited or stirred a passion.
This connection invites us to speculate on a mechanism by which musical
motives produce emotion. The motives of a piece, consciously attended to or
not, are perceived as figures in motion. The listener’s mind hears these shapes
while simultaneously re-creating them. This produces a cascade of novel
thoughts. The brain’s self-awareness that it is thinking new things and trav-
eling through virtual space—and all this quite without effort!—causes pleas-
urable sensations: feelings of inspiration, joy, excitement, and so forth. This
mental activity engenders secondary physiologic responses in the brain, where
neurotransmitters are triggered and neurochemicals released, and in the body,
where heart rate and vasodilation are impacted by hormonal signals.10 In the
end it seems there is something to the Old English notion of “moving the blood”
after all.
This informal proof of the causative link between motive and emotion is perhaps
unnecessary, but it remains valuable. Taking the time to consider the mechanism
that links sound, mind, and body helps us to appreciate the primary role motives
play in the musical experience. This, again, helps establish their legitimacy as objects
of inquiry. We can only advance our argument so far, though, by speaking in terms
of a single, abstract third-motive (E-D-C) and idealized listeners. In the next stage of
our philosophical excursion into the role of motives, we open the frame to include
some concrete, real-world examples.
The discussion will move beyond the issue of what motives look like to con-
sider how they interact. The typical textbook account of motives’ behavior
conveys some accurate and useful information. Readers who consult introduc-
tory texts on musical form learn that motives may recur dozens or even hun-
dreds of times throughout a piece, aiding the sense of flow in the music. Before
all that repetition happens, motives typically combine early on to generate a
piece’s larger primary melodies, otherwise known as its themes. This process is
illustrated in Example 1.6, where an early theme from Sousa’s Liberty Bell march
is shown to be made up of four motives.
To facilitate analysis, each unique motive is given a label. For this purpose,
analysts traditionally have used neutral symbols such as “Motive X” or “Motive
alpha” or loosely descriptive names such as “Neighbor figure.” The analysis in
Example 1.6 strives for greater precision in labeling by referring wherever pos-
sible to pitch interval content, namely 3rds (see pickup figure and mm. 3–4), 4ths
(mm. 3–4), and 2nds/stepwise motion (the neighbor shape in m. 1). By means
of the brackets above and below the staff, the graphic further indicates how mul-
tiple motivic interpretations may arise.
The clinical accounts given in musical dictionaries offer the bare and true facts
about motives but illuminate little about their inner life. Our response will be
to step back and take motives in with a fresh perspective. This endeavor has al-
ready begun, in fact, with our earlier etymological study of the word “motive.”
It continues now with an illustration of additional roles played by motives that
Example 1.6 Motives combine to form a theme in Sousa’s Liberty Bell, mm. 5–8.

Example 1.7 The primary motive as a texture element in Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 (I).
is better demonstrated in a musical context. The setting will be an early passage

from Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, mm. 25–48 (see Example 1.7).
One important function that motives achieve through repetition is the forging
of a coherent texture. The passage given in Example 1.7 is twenty-four measures
long, which means that, at Beethoven’s indicated tempo of Allegro con brio (m.m.
h = 108), it will occupy a little more than thirteen seconds. In the context of the
full movement lasting seven or so minutes, this amounts to a modest swath of
canvas. Yet if we take time to fully contemplate it, playing it through in tempo in
the mind, thirteen seconds comes to feel like a significant span of time.
This sonic space is saturated by motive (see arrows). The original, iconic form
of this motive shown in Example 1.8 is constituted in rhythm as three eighth
notes followed by an elongated half note and in pitch as spanning a descending
diatonic third.11
For the purposes of this discussion, the motive will be defined loosely, as a
shape with the rhythmic profile of three- shorts-then-long (S-
S-S-
L), ori-
ented as a pickup gesture with the contour profile of repeated-pitch-then-leap.
Formulating the motive in this looser, generalized manner is tantamount to
arguing that all of the shapes identified in Example 1.7 register as equivalent,
even those that leap upward at the end. Counting up the incidences of the motive
reveals that it occurs about twenty-two times: that averages out to about once per
measure and twice per second. More occurrences could be included in the tally
if we relax the contour requirements further. A space that once was empty is now
motivically embroidered, as in the manner of cloth tapestry or wallpaper.12
This is not an analogy made lightly: a vast body of evidence from art history
attests to humans’ near-universal desire to enliven blank expanses of visual space
with patterns of small, repeating figures. Such figures, known as motifs—the
Example 1.8 The opening four-measure idea of movement I consists of a single

motive characterized by its pitch interval, rhythm, and contour.
Example 1.9 (a) Inner court of the Mausoleum of Mulay Isma’il, Morocco (c. 1727).
From Degeorge and Porter 2002, 79.
Example 1.9 Continued
(b) Pottery from Susa, Iran, c. 4000–5000 b.c.e. (Janson’s History of Art 2007, 91).
cognate with our motive can hardly be missed—appear in tile work from tenth-
century mosques and tapestries from Europe’s Middle Ages (see Example 1.9(a)).13
They also frequently appear in the buildings, furniture, and fabrics associated with
more ornate design styles, such as Beaux-Arts and Art Deco.
Example 1.9(b) shows a piece of early Iranian art dating from more than
5,000 years ago. The work is beautiful—timelessly so. It points up a critical
function of motive as a tool that connects two spheres of existence. The con-
crete world is invoked by the container’s subject matter, the animals it depicts.
The plane of the abstract manifests by means of the decorative, highly artificial
patterning. The vertical lines ringing the top segment are birds’ necks, and the
thick curved and straight lines in the bottom half derive from the ram’s horns,
legs, and body. The horizontal divider between them takes the form of a parade
of hounds, whose elongated bodies create the impression of a gentle spiral. The
stylized animals bind together the real and the abstract in a breathtaking syn-
thesis that makes them seem both utterly familiar and impossibly alien.14
Artists of all kinds have known since time immemorial that the zone lying be-
tween reality and abstract thought is where a kind of magic resides. The shapes
that play about in this realm freely associate. Causality and connections may be
strongly implied—as when one object in a painting resonates with another—but
cannot be proven. Whole other levels of interaction are possible, too, as when
shapes associate loosely with meanings. A set of lines or curves in a painting may
assemble in viewers’ minds so as to remind them of an object or a human figure,
especially if a title is given to nudge their perceptions. But even if viewers do not
recognize a form from their daily lives, they will still assemble the smaller images
into conglomerations that have their own local meanings and directed energies.
A potent description of this instinctive, energetic process is given by
Christopher Alexander in his treatise on visual patterning, The Nature of Order
(2002). In the series of graphics shown in Example 1.10, for example, he shows
how every individual element added to a sheet of blank paper generates a field of
Example 1.10 Five-stage illustration of the visual fields created when a single dot is
placed on a piece of paper (from Alexander 2002, 81–82; numbers and arrows mine).
Example 1.11 Beethoven Symphony No. 5 (I). A singable melody emerges from the
motivic interplay among voices at the surface.
energy and how, taken together, these fields merge in the mind to create a larger
sense of wholeness. Alexander’s diagram models unconscious perception as a set
of stepwise processes.15 The six images in the series describe the effects of placing
a single dot on a piece of paper. It acquires power as soon as it appears, dividing
the visual field into zones and radiating energy as a focal point.
To apply this notion to music, we will delve further into the phenomenon of
motives joining to assemble themes. Example 1.11 centers on mm. 6–10 of the
same Beethoven symphony movement from before. The surface of the music,
shown in the lower staff, acts as the source for the motives. In the upper staff,
which “reduces” the busy surface by concentrating only on changes in pitch, we
see how these separate four-note shapes (dotted circles) assemble into an emer-
gent, singable line.
But wait: we can now be more precise. In this example, it is more accurate to
say that the close succession of motives at the surface can be heard joining to-
gether to create the broader, singable line. This shift in wording, which assigns
the listener an active role in perception, expands our conception of how motives
work. Very quickly, even the most run-of-the-mill motives such as the trivial E-
D-C introduced earlier, acquire new life. They remind us less of dull, nondescript
puzzle pieces and more of ceramic shards inscribed with glowing symbols. We
move beyond the view that motives are simple building blocks; it is more proper
to regard them as elements of expression, artifacts of musical thought.
As for assigning a specific meaning to these motives, that is a compli-
cated task. It is certainly true that a musical shape can accommodate literal,
texted meaning, as in the case of song. In Schubert’s song “Erlkonig,” a re-
curring, high-pitched semitone gesture conveys urgency, fear, and alarm by
literally evoking the cry of a sick child calling out for help (Father! Father!).
Similarly powerful text/music associations are routinely explored in opera and
film music, to the extent that certain note configurations can come to stand
for characters or ideas even when they are not literally present onstage or
onscreen.16 Importantly, for our purposes of studying Western music, we must
clarify that emotional and dramatic meaning is also quite possible in music in
the absence of any text.17
It may seem we have stumbled onto a conundrum: does musical meaning de-
pend on the presence of a text or not? To avoid confusion, we will sidestep that
minefield of intentions and instead assert a second proposition for motives that
concerns meaning:
Proposition 2: At the same time that motives are capable of communicating
many kinds of meaning, at their base level they communicate essentially mu-
sical meaning.
I am claiming here that an inalienable purpose of motives is to communi-

cate intentional musical relationships such as, “these notes follow from those”
or “this pattern resonates with the one adjacent to it.” This is not to deny that
motives carry a host of other meanings intended by the composer and inferred
by listeners.18 We have to start somewhere, though, and so here we temporarily
strip motives of subjective associations so as to concentrate on this more ob-
jective quality.19 The analyses created in the initial methodology chapters, spe-
cifically chapters 5 and 6, will manifest as networks of almost purely musical
association (to the extent that is possible!). Only after the procedure for building
these networks is established will we consider how to layer other associations,
meanings, and stories back onto them.
Proposition 2 may seem radical, but a short thought experiment will help to il-
lustrate that it is not. I invite you to imagine hearing the start of a piece by Mozart
in which one phrase presents a set of small, melodic shapes and the next repeats
them. The first movement of any of his symphonies or overtures will do. Now,
imagine further that you are an amateur listener who does not notice that there is
any correspondence between the phrases. You may be enjoying this music vastly;
I hope you are! If you are, though, you are doing so in a manner differently from
how trained Classical musicians (Mozart included) do. Perhaps you appreciate
the sheen of the violins in the recording, or the sweet harmonies of the chords.
All this is wonderful, but does not change the fact that you are not understanding
the language of this music. Anyone who is unaware of the tonal, formal, and ges-
tural structure of such music, by definition, does not “speak” the language of the
High Classical style.
This extreme declaration is softened by some mitigating factors. First, the hy-
pothetical “you” being addressed is not really meant to apply to you, the reader,
or really anyone. All humans possess the ability to process musical shapes at least
to some extent by virtue of the Gestalt principles mentioned earlier. Composers
who consciously plant motives in their music, moreover, are not doing it to
hide their musical intentions, but to make them clear. One reason of many that
Beethoven repeats the same rhythm of three-shorts-and-a-long so often in his

Fifth Symphony is that he wants the motive to accrue meaning and be memo-
rable. Whenever Franz Liszt, Radiohead, and George Crumb write music, they
employ repetition to achieve the same end. Second, there is no “right way” to
prove that you are hearing motives in the music. You can demonstrate your mo-
tivic literacy by successfully singing a verse of a song from memory. You are enti-
tled to full credit even if you forget some of the words at times and lapse into
half-singing on nonsense syllables. The point is that if there are motives in the
music and you can accurately reproduce them by whatever means, that signals
that you are aware of them.
All this is to say that a person’s knowledge of motivic content need not be ex-
plicit. Most people who know instinctively what motives are can’t define them
even informally or identify them. Surely that is a technicality that means little.
Think about all the fluent speakers of English who, despite consistently demon-
strating the ability to construct a proper noun clause, would be unable to iden-
tify the one that I am just now insinuating into this sentence. Passing grammar
exams does not make one a good speaker. Likewise, the ability to define and list
motives does not make one a good listener and/or musician. It is one’s primary,
unthinking ability to speak a language that defines competence and fluency in it.
And yet, schools continue to require their students to study grammar. They do so
because upper-level skills in reading and analyzing a language serve as important
tools for raising one’s level of expertise. No matter what a person’s current level
of fluency with a language is, an increased knowledge of its grammar will make
them more qualified to describe, teach, and control it.
“Musical Motives”
This book’s title is a play on words. At the most basic level, the term “motive” has
a mundane, technical meaning. It refers to literal note configurations that recur
in pieces. As this introduction has indicated, the goal of this study is to further
both our technical proficiency with and philosophical understanding of these el-
emental musical objects. On the former front, this will require a lot of theoretical
groundwork. New definitions will be developed to account for the many kinds of
content motives may contain: intervallic, rhythmic, harmonic, and so forth. As
part of that process, I will propose a universal nomenclature system for motives.
I will offer, in addition, a set of strict procedural rules for extracting motives from
a busy musical texture (reduction) and for judging which shapes may be linked
in a logical, explanatory chain.
Another reading of the book’s title turns on the common-parlance meaning
of “motive,” indicating “a need or desire, that causes a person to act.”20 The term
“motive” is familiar to most from criminal court proceedings, where it refers to

the reason(s) a defendant might have for committing a crime. In the theater, ac-
tors looking to fully inhabit their characters will often ask the director what their
characters’ motivations are. The term “motive” readily applies to music making
as well. One might assume that only composers, performers, and listeners can
harbor musical motives. That viewpoint makes sense in that it reserves the ca-
pacity for thought and feeling to humans. How could it be otherwise? Can it ever
be said that music itself harbors motives? With a little imagination and a will-
ingness to skirt the metaphysical realm on our part, it turns out that it can. All
it requires is projecting our thoughts about a piece of music outward from our-
selves and onto it.
This behavior may seem complicated, but for most it is as routine as any
other act of personifying objects from daily life. We might say a tight lid
on a jar is stubborn or that a car with a faulty transmission is complaining.
Listeners to music similarly cannot help ascribing human characteristics to
it, intention among them.21 The moment we embrace that kind of metaphor-
ical thinking, a host of new players in the musical fabric pop up that all seem
capable of emotion and desire. Musicians talking about their art often feel
that tones “want” to move in certain ways; for example, a suspension tone that
“seeks” downward resolution or the raised seventh step in a major scale that
“leads to” tonic.
Our impulse to personify phenomena such as music is more than a habit;
it is hard-wired behavior that arises out of our dependence on metaphor for
comprehending the world around us.22 Just as we empathize with inanimate
objects that are acted on by natural forces, we empathize with motives, the most
recognizable objects in music. These entities can be likened to characters that
are subject to musical forces such as tonal or registral gravity (e.g., melody’s
tendency to descend over time). The changes a motive undergoes in successive
appearances in direction, register, and tone will naturally suggest to many its
desires and actions. In some cases, it may seem to flow along with the music, con-
tent in its setting, and in others it may seem to clash or strain against the elements
in the accompanying texture.
Following from the assumption that our culture bestows a sense of life to
motive, the present study will dedicate considerable effort to investigate how
motives convey drama and meaning. The analytic techniques laid out in Part II
of the book will, among other things, offer recommendations for selecting both
motivic main characters and plot archetypes in which to situate them. Potential
storylines include journeys to a far-off destinations and “struggles” against other
motives or musical forces that result in triumph, failure, or synthesis. The ex-
tended sample analyses provided in c hapters 6–8 will demonstrate how motivic
narrative theory applies to the analysis of complete works.
Just earlier, I called attention to the word “motive” as denoting the human
desire to act, which caused the discussion to veer off to entertain the notion of
personified music. In doing so, it skipped over another highly relevant type of
musical motive, that being the practical impulse that underlies a musician’s de-
cision to make or do music. A near-infinite variety of motives explain why indi-
viduals choose to participate in musical culture. Some of these motives seem
purer, such as a composer’s desire to craft something beautiful or a performer’s to
communicate with an audience. Some seem more worldly, such as the desire for
wealth, fame, or influence in public and/or academic sectors.
I would not presume to speak for anyone as to why they engage in musical
activities and thought, but I feel it is appropriate to disclose some of my own
musical motives. My primary aim is to revive discussion, and, if possible, faith in
the discipline of motivic analysis. This is to be achieved by shoring up definitions
and methods of analysis, then applying them to a large set of pieces in a variety of
styles. The large-scale analyses that result will be offered as one argument in the
case for motivic analysis’s viability.
Another argument for motives appeals to their near universality. Motives ap-
pear in most musics, and can thus be used to better understand those musics.
Though I wish it could be otherwise, it will have to suffice for now to assert this
point instead of proving it. It should also be made clear at the outset that discus-
sion and analysis in this book will center on Western Classical music, the rep-
ertoire that originated the notion of motive and the one I know best. Readers,
however, should feel free to apply these principles to any music they like, in-
cluding world music (popular and classical) and jazz. The latter two analyses of
chapter 8, which center on prominent works from rock and Broadway traditions,
are intended as a light primer in this regard.
With regard to my motives as an author, I will admit to a further ambition,
which is that this work will expand the lay public’s awareness of music analysis.
In earlier generations, a significant body of amateur musicians in Europe and
America sought to read published analyses. They subscribed to trade journals
such as The Musical Quarterly and tuned into radio talks such as those given by
Arnold Schoenberg and Hans Keller. As the practice of creating and studying
music migrated from the home into the college and conservatory classroom,
theory and analysis became increasingly insular. The degree of specialization is
so acute at present that most published music analyses are incomprehensible to
all but the relative few who have undertaken graduate-level training in music.
The widespread reliance on expert-level techniques such as Schenkerian and set-
theory analysis has only accelerated that condition.
In contrast to those methods, motivic analysis is more accessible to
nonexperts. As such, this book is intended for the general public. Any individual
with any amount of musical training can hear and work with motives at least
at some level. To reach as many readers as possible, this text has been designed
progressively. Early chapters discuss and analyze the simplest types of motive in
the simplest environments. In later chapters, the scope of the discussion will ex-
pand. More attributes will be grafted on to motives (harmony, contrapuntal and
multivoice content, coloristic features, etc.), and more advanced techniques for
assembling results will be introduced.
The most complex analyses have been written in a manner to ensure that all
who can read music should be able to follow their arguments to some extent.
This does not mean that novice readers will wish to read this book from cover to
cover. There are large swaths of it that concern more purely scholarly issues, such
as the entirety of chapter 3. Amateurs keen to get started with motivic analysis
can skip that chapter, moving directly from the close of chapter 2 to the meth-
odology section initiated at chapter 4. Academics interested in the history and
theory of motive will likely want to engage it. By virtue of the other sections com-
prising historical and analytic research, Music Motives in its entirety is suited to
a professional audience of music theorists, music historians, composers, and
performers. The book may be read as a treatise on motivic theory and analytical
technique. Owing to the instructional, step-by-step tone of many of the analyses,
it may alternatively serve as a text for graduate seminars or advanced undergrad-
uate courses in music analysis and/or Western music history.
2
A Brief History of Motives—Composition
Motive as a Style Element of Music
Chapter 1 established motives as a primary concern of music analysis on the

basis of their capacity to project motion, emotion, and unity. The first lines of
argument supporting that point were couched in somewhat abstract, philosoph-
ical terms. Yet had we opted for a different approach for our first look at motives,
for example, a chronologic musical survey, the same conclusion would be borne
out. It is this:
Proposition 3: Motives constitute one of the several generative forces in music.
The historical account presented in this chapter will support and elucidate this
point. In that it spans several centuries, the survey will need to remain extremely
general. It will also need to remain sensitive to the fact that artistic styles change.
As they do, the sub-elements that characterize them—motives numbering
among these—fluctuate in prominence.
The first task of this chapter will be to establish a context for discussing how
the role of motives has changed over time. We take inspiration from Leonard
Meyer, one of the preeminent style critics of the twentieth century. Meyer’s
Music, the Arts and Ideas advances a model for understanding the life cycle of a
style, musical or otherwise (Meyer 1967, 117–121). The approximate time span
for such a cycle is a generation, or roughly thirty to fifty years. Meyer tracks this
evolution in terms of relative levels of “information,” meaning the number and
sequence of musically meaningful events in pieces, e.g., melodic, harmonic, and
rhythmic schemata.1 In Example 2.1, this trend is represented by the line studded
with dots.
A style’s early, pre-classic phase is marked by a preponderance of highly for-
mulaic content. This time period allows artists and audiences to gain familiarity
with the few conventions that do exist; these stock formulas repeat extensively,
which explains the presence in the example of the inverse curve showing “com-
positional redundancy.” Nearer toward the end of a style period, artists experi-
ment with new options, introducing a great deal of novel content. The common,
basic patterns from the decades before are hardly ever heard; more often, they
are alluded to or presented in distorted form. The development of rock and
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197526026.003.0002.
roll music adheres to Meyer’s style theory. Early rock from the 1940s and 1950s
(Rhythm and Blues), for example, is rife with twelve-bar blues patterns and
verse-refrain structures. Progressive rock, a much later style that prevailed in the
1970s, retains these structures but exhibits far fewer stock harmonic and formal
patterns that were standard in rock’s first period.
In order to apply Meyer’s model to our own view of history, some adjustments
are necessary. To streamline the appearance of his graph, we will strip out the
lines showing “Compositional redundancy” and “Perceived information,”
leaving only “Compositional information.” The next change is necessitated by
our survey’s scope, which causes it to span multiple style periods. Meyer’s model
for a single style must be extended beyond its present edges to account at left
for a style’s prehistory, when it is nascent, and at right for its final passing, when
it becomes obsolete. This change, illustrated in Example 2.2, recasts Meyer’s
arctangent-shaped line as a large, irregular arch.
A further adjustment involves dissecting the concept of “style.” Meyer’s graph
is monolithic and is meant to apply to style movements such as “Galant” or “post-
modern composition” in their entirety. Such an examination, however, could
Example 2.1 Diagram of style development in Meyer 1967 tracking the inverse

relation between information content and redundancy (118).
Time
Compositional
redundancy:
Perceived information
Compositional
information
Preclassic Classic Mannerist
Example 2.2 Extension of the style development curve given in Example 2.1.

(compositional information line only).
Time
Meyer’s Style Evolution
(center zone)
Nascent Preclassic Classic Mannerist Obsolete

A Brief History of Motives—Composition 27
focus in on the specific musical traits that contribute to style, such as major/
minor tonality, orchestral color effects, or “presence of a program.” This adjust-
ment allows for a finer view of style by charting the interplay and fluctuation of
these traits over time.
In case it is not clear, we will soon characterize each of the familiar Western
historical/style periods—Renaissance, Baroque, Classical, and so forth—in
terms of these constituent traits. But which ones should we rely on? We do not
want any major period to lack too many essential traits, nor would we want
it to appear as a caricature, reflecting the effects of a single trait. At the same
time that we seek balance, we should not fear to proceed boldly. It is natural to
worry that this approach will distort and oversimplify history. For those har-
boring such concerns, fear not, because it will. One consolation in this regard is
to accept that the ship, Simplification, set sail ages ago, when society grew com-
fortable branding wide swaths of artistic history with “isms.” Another is that,
by making a renewed effort to specify the content of each style, we are at least
striving to appreciate each historical period in greater detail than a single um-
brella term allows.
To be relevant for the time span under consideration, the style traits we se-
lect should exhibit longevity and a certain kind of universality. The catego-
ries to be listed may be thought of as an abridged set of essentially “timeless”
domains of Western music that have flourished for ages and are applicable for
describing most pieces. (The list is far from comprehensive, of course, as rhythm
is missing!) A quick generalization about one such domain may help illus-
trate: “Counterpoint is a consciously controlled element of composition for most
Western pieces.” Note well that this statement does not indicate that the rules of
counterpoint are stable over time. Such regulations have the tendency to shift
radically in each era. To accommodate such shifts, I allow for all of the style traits
to be technically modified—or even rejuvenated—over time. For example, the
idea of “Standard Form” is relevant for the years 1100–1400 and for 1730–1830,
even though it was ballade and rondeaux forms that were prevalent in the former
period and sonata and rondo forms in the latter.
The traits contributing to style in this account are as follows:
Standard Form: Abstract structural models that carry expectations about

the number, arrangement, and kinds of subsections in a work. Standard
formal schemes typically derive from song and dance traditions in both
simple forms such as call and response, folk song, ballad, and verse-refrain
as well as in highly stylized forms such as ternary and sonata form.
Harmony: A vocabulary that governs the content and ordering of simulta-
neous (“vertical”) pitch structures. Harmony is said to be “functional”
when a syntax is in place that controls the ordering of sonorities, roughly
akin to the way that a grammar functions in language to coordinate word

order and proper sentence construction.
Note: because harmony is built of more than one voice, this trait is interde-
pendent with counterpoint.
Counterpoint: Coordination of multiple voice lines in terms of (1) their ge-
neral interaction (relative distance and direction) in pitch space, and
(2) how they align at certain points to produce vertical sonorities.
Note: following from point (2), counterpoint is interdependent with func-
tional harmony.2
Program: Presence of a storyline or impression from “outside” the music that
is realized in the form and/or by local sonic events in the piece, often mi-
metic ones (e.g., a cymbal crash representing a lightning strike).
Motive: Recurring gestures of pitch and/or rhythm. This trait may coordinate
with harmony and tonality, but is not required to.
The diagram in Example 2.3 arranges these traits according to their relative

influence on successive styles. The arrangement of style periods along the top
line corresponds to the textbook version of music history. The vertical axis charts
the relative degree of prominence for the traits. Placement in the lowest group
indicates that a trait is present nascently, as a noticeable and localized phenom-
enon (e.g., motive in the medieval period); placement in the highest group means
that a trait generally presents as a primary organizing force or premise of works
(e.g., “song forms” for this same era.) Where multiple traits appear together in a
group, I have made an attempt to approximate their increasing relative impor-
tance by listing them from bottom to top.
Despite its appearance, Example 2.3 is not intended as a style chart, per se. It
has been developed to allow us to observe the staggered bell-curves of multiple
traits, rising and falling like the curling stripes on a barber pole. For decades, a
certain trait may be present as a minor element of music. At some point, it will
rise in prominence until it comes to dominate the structure of the music, helping
to define the aesthetic (artistic rules) of its age.
We may take harmony as an example, which is tracked by the dashed line. This
aspect of music was a concern for composers even in the Middle Ages; as such, it
appears as a surface trait in the column designating the years 1100–1400 C.E. It was
not until the Classical period that chord progression at the small and large levels
became a prime concern in the construction of musical works. In the first half of
the twentieth century, harmony’s structural influence waned as composers relaxed
rules of dissonance treatment and chordal syntax. Today, rules about chord order
continue to exist in the genres of pop and rock music, modern Classical music,
and film and TV music; however, they are far more irregular than in the Classical
period’s heyday.
Example 2.3 Historical styles viewed in terms of the relative prominence of five basic traits. The arch exhibited by each (three drawn) peaks
at a different time. A sixth trait, “process” is noted for two streams in the most recent time period.
In place of offering judgment on the quality of any period’s music, we prefer

the more neutral claim that harmony was once ascendant as a structural force
in music and now it is not. To reflect this, the harmony designation is placed
near the top of the columns spanning the years 1730–1830 and 1830–1910. In
the twentieth century, harmony’s influence diminishes to the point where, more
often than not, it serves more as an important, secondary element in music. Its
trend line seems to break off near 1945, but only because it cannot connect to the
three separate compositional streams posited for that time period.3
The arch showing the influence of program music (dotted line), is displaced
rightward (meaning: chronologically) behind harmony. After centuries of ges-
tation, where it only occasionally influenced the design of Renaissance and
Baroque pieces, the idea that a musical work should represent stories, characters,
and events gained prominence. The notion of program quickly rose to become a
hallmark of Romanticism both in symphonies and character pieces and, indeed,
remains a powerful force in many genres today.
A similar arch shape traces the influence of motive across style periods; see the
solid, bold line. Unlike program, however, motive retained much of its promi-
nence into the twentieth century. The discussion to follow will trace this history
in more detail through a series of brief analyses. These have a didactic purpose as
well, which is to begin framing motives in more technical terms. The formal in-
troduction of definitions and methods will not occur until chapter 4. By working
through these preliminary analyses, however, readers will begin gaining expo-
sure to the techniques of labeling, analysis, and interpretation that will occupy us
for the duration of this study.
Early Developments
The composition-based historical survey of motives will officially start in the

High Baroque era. Situating it here will cause the “prehistory,” as it were, of mo-
tive to largely go untreated. What I will say about the roughly 1,000 years leading
up to the Baroque period is that motives are necessarily present in all major
styles and genres. They play a significant role even in the monophonic genre of
Gregorian chant, which dominates the compositional record from 600 to 1000.
Listeners familiar with that genre will readily recognize certain recurring melodic
patterns, among them linear third figures such as E-D-C and D-E-F, “neighbor”
gestures such as F-G-F that decorate a note, and the commonly-found stepwise
“dip” below the final tone that occurs at closing moments.
The stock pitch configurations of chant served to aid singers’ memories. They
served a structural role, as well: Robert Hatten notes that each mode’s “charac-
teristic motives” serve to “express the . . . distinctive features” of it (2015, 316).
For example, a signature gesture of chants written in Lydian mode is to initiate

phrases with the notes F-A-C.4 To modern ears that sounds like arpeggiation
of a major triad, where contemporary musicians would simply have heard it as
emblematic of Lydian-ness. That said, it is extremely difficult to speculate on the
presence of other kinds of meanings, poetic and/or emotional, encoded in chant
motives. While we cannot rule out the possibility that individual musicians asso-
ciated certain shapes with certain sentiments, history informs us that the idea of
a specific motive encoding a specific emotion or meaning generally lay outside
their conception of music.
The phenomenon of recurring pitch and/or rhythm shapes presents in all
major genres appearing in Western composition from 1000 to 1600 C.E. They
appear in organum pieces by Léonin and Pérotin (ca. 1160–1240) in the form of
two-, three-, and four-beat melodic cells that are repeated and rapidly exchanged
among the upper voices. Motives manifest in the song-form pieces and motets
that proliferated between 1200 and 1400 in the form both of “stock” cadences
and melodic/rhythmic patterns favored by individual composers. Motives figure
prominently in pieces written during the long period of the Renaissance, as well.
The composers of sacred music in this period, for instance, explored new ways
of tying together the separate sections of their masses by initiating each with the
same brief segment of music called the “motto.” A bit later, in the sixteenth cen-
tury, Renaissance composers increasingly experimented with “word painting,” a
technique of animating words by setting them to pitch shapes that match their
sentiment. Common examples of this procedure include writing scalar ascents
and descents to set texts about characters “climbing” or “falling” and deploying
strident chromatic tones where the words mention physical or emotional pain.
Identifying a few instances of motive within a six-century span cannot sup-
port any strong conclusions about its role in the music of those eras. Doing
so may nevertheless inform our broad view of how that role evolved. The way
that isolated motivic events manifest in early music, like tips of ice jutting out
from a broad span of ocean, suggests the presence of more massive structures
(icebergs) below. The motivic content that lurks in the music of the medieval
and Renaissance periods is worth exploring further. To do so properly, however,
would require us to engage the other domains of music that motives are geneti-
cally tied up with, such as rhythm, melody, harmony, and counterpoint. (Because
motives are literally composed of these elements, they cannot be understood
wholly separate from them.) Given that the pace of style evolution in music was
as rapid between 1000 and 1650 as it was in later centuries, that is not feasible
here. It would necessitate discussing motive in tandem with medieval counter-
point, scratching that relationship to consider motive in tandem with modal har-
mony and Renaissance counterpoint, and then scratching all of that to consider
it in tandem with the harmonic and contrapuntal practices of tonal composition.
Our survey will formally begin in the early Common Practice era, meaning
the time between 1600 and 1730. As the corresponding column in Example 2.3
indicates—and as those familiar with Baroque music will attest—this is an age
in which motives were very much present at the surface of music. This time
is marked also by the arrival of a new organizational force in music, known
as “functional harmony.”5 In contrast to previous periods, when harmonic
practice was concerned more with how the various voices of a texture are ar-
ranged vertically, seventeenth-century harmony was marked by a new concern
for how chords should succeed one another.6 The Baroque, in other words, is
the first period that accommodates Roman numeral analysis, although some
pieces and genres from the time period obviously fit this generalization better
than others.
Turning now to music, specifically pieces by Bach and Handel, we can ob-
serve two principles of motivic activity in the Baroque. Example 2.4. presents a
theme from the beginning of a gigue by Bach. The structure of this theme reveals
that, even at this time, motives are often designed to project a sense of harmony
through chordal leaps. The first melodic gesture in the piece communicates a
strong sense of F tonic harmony. Another remarkable feature of motives well es-
tablished by the Baroque is that their initial form often suggests their later devel-
opment. The strong sense of upward motion conveyed in m. 1, for instance, hints
that more upward-striving gestures will follow.7
To better engage those later developments, the motive in Example 2.4 will
be named descriptively as a “climbing” idea composed of paired two-note
“arpeggiations.”8 It is here labeled Climb4’: the “4” superscript indicates that the
motive is built of four tones. (If the C4 pickup were included, it would be Climb5,
spanning an octave and a fourth.)
The act of establishing parameters for a motive facilitates the search for other
instances of it. We shall carry that task out now to determine where and how the
music responds to the motive’s original impulse to climb. This occurs as more
and more Arp2 fragments (small brackets) are added in a self-chaining process.
In mm. 14–16, the alternating arpeggiations of F and C chords create a larger
Example 2.4 Upward Climb motive from Bach’s Fourth English Suite,

Gigue, m. 1.
octave-plus-fifth span on seven successive beats. This Climb7 motive is shown in

Example 2.5(a) by the line connecting F2 up to C4. A grander Climb9 rises in the
bass voice in mm. 49–51 spanning F2-A4 (or further if the low C2 is included).9
This passage, shown in Example 2.5(b), occurs very near the work’s conclusion.
Its presence there is doubly satisfying, as it raises the intensity of the music in
the manner of a fireworks finale while also “fulfilling” the implied destiny of the
original Climb idea.
Our other example of motivic treatment in this period is the first movement of
Handel’s Concerto Grosso, Op. 6, No. 1. The intelligibility of this stately instru-
mental work depends largely on listeners’ familiarity with tonal harmony. The
piece would make sense, for example, even if played as a 34-measure set of block
chords. The slow pace here serves yet another artistic purpose. With activity
scaled back in the harmonic realm, the music invites listeners to attend to other
aspects of the work. I would list among these the dynamic and textural contrast
of the full consort alternating with the solo violins and, of course, the develop-
ment of the pitch and rhythmic motives.
Example 2.5 Extensions to the Gigue’s Climb motive. Brackets indicate Arp2

motives.
(a) mm. 14–16, Climb7 spans one and a half octaves.
(b) mm. 49–51, Climb9 spans more than two octaves (climactic presentation).
We begin with some preliminary impressions based on the opening passage

printed in Example 2.6.
In m. 1, the solo violins’ motion from D4 to G3 suggests linear fifth descent as
a prominent motive. After repeating twice, the descending shape undergoes a
change in m. 4 as it is stretched both in pitch and rhythm. The five-note running
gesture elongates to six tones (B5-D), and the shape now takes up the full measure.
This well-meaning account of mm. 1–4 well encapsulates the analytic instinct
to “read into” the audible shifts of content and character that motives routinely
undergo. It is, unfortunately, inconsistent with the goal of establishing a rig-
orous motivic methodology. The two labels, “linear fifth” and “linear sixth” in
the example broach the question of motivic identity (i.e., a motive’s essence).
Analytically speaking, motives are notoriously slippery creatures. As tradition
would have it, a motive may gradually be altered over the course of a piece with
regard to its pitch and rhythmic content, its length in numbers of notes, and even
its overall contour profile. This process produces a series of closely related motive
forms. To effectively fit these forms into a single category, e.g., “Motive Z under
all its transformations,” one must take care when establishing rules for inclusion.
The requirements should be general enough to accommodate all the forms the
analyst wants, but specific enough that the motive retains a distinct identity.
Our preliminary view of this movement assumed that the first clear candidate
shape in m. 1 would serve as the prototype for a motive category. This solution is
workable, but we should be wary of any approach that prioritizes first impulses
Example 2.6 An illusory motivic transformation in Handel’s Concerto Grosso,

Op. 6, No. 1 (I), mm. 1–4.
and heads off other viable interpretations. We need not blindly accept that the
six-note motive in m. 4 must be an enlargement of a central five-note motive,
when the longer one is just as likely to represent the primary shape.
Let us think on whether a six-note shape makes sense in the context of
m. 1. I contend not only that it does, but also that adopting this new perspec-
tive prompts a new way to understand the music. In m. 1, we may now hear the
downbeat G4 in the solo Violin I part connecting across the silence of the rests to
the running notes. The next task is to define this motive in such a way that all of
its surface variations are accounted for. The solution I propose is a “Cascade” mo-
tive (C), constituted as follows:
“Cascade” (C) = any note + linear fifth descent
Under this definition, the two component elements must be attack adjacent: no
pitch events may intercede. Importantly, no restrictions are made on how much
time separates the solitary note from the fifth descent, nor on the size or direction of
the pitch interval that separates them. Formatting the Cascade motive in this broad
manner enriches the analysis as a multitude of candidate shapes spring into view.
Every “C” shape annotated in the full score in Example 2.7 adheres to the
stated requirements. This includes the later, more transformed appearances of
the shape in the systems near the end of the movement. The C motive appearing
in m. 21 is extended by a third (see beam). The forms of C in mm. 29–30 and
32–34 are even more obscured, to the extent that some may dispute them en-
tirely. Yet consider the following: any interpretation of the work’s conclusion
attempted without access to Cascade’s late return would almost assuredly fixate
on the final, dominant V6/5 sonority in m. 34. On the harmonic basis alone, it
is easy to say the end is “suspenseful.” Awareness of the Cascade shapes, how-
ever, enriches this interpretation. The music of mm. 28–34 need no longer be
viewed as a fantasia-like transition to the second movement. At the same time as
it points forward harmonically, the last passage rounds things out, motivically,
by restoring the C motives heard at the outset in mm. 1–6. This discovery of mo-
tivic symmetry provides new evidence to suggest that the movement can, to an
extent, be regarded as a self-contained piece.
The analysis also charts the progress of an important secondary motive, des-
ignated “3rd” because of its characteristic pitch interval span. This smaller shape
associates strongly with the two-beat dotted rhythm of long-short-long (L-S-L),
though it also sometimes occurs independently of it.
The migration of this rhythmic gesture, R = L-S-L, in m. 6 from the ensemble
into the solo Violin I is significant; it provides the first indication that the motives
in this piece shift among the voices. The moment one develops the inkling of a
musical motivation, meaning an idea that can ground a dramatic analysis, it is
wise to pursue it. In this case, examining the motivic content of the solo lines
versus that of the orchestra reveals a progression of events that form a coherent
storyline. This narrative, the first of many to be discussed in this book, is struc-
tured in terms of a long-range double migration, or material swap between the
solo and group voices. The process, as represented by the graphic below, appears
as a kind of invertible counterpoint cast in motivic terms:
Solo voices: Cascade 3rd motive

Group voices: 3rd motive Cascade
Example 2.7 Score of the full movement of Handel’s Concerto Grosso, Op. 6, No. 1,
(I), with annotations indicating the activity of Cascade (C), 3rd, and L-S-L rhythm
motives.
We next impose a dramatic reading onto the analysis to enhance its emotive
content. In m. 6, a new rhythmic element, L-S-L, is injected into the previously
C-based solo violin material; this is indicated by the “R” arrow. This disrup-
tion causes a ripple in the melody. It derails the solo violins, which soon after
abandon all explicit reference to the C motive. Beginning in m. 7, they explore a
contrasting, lyrical idea. The purpose of the new, flowing figure is unclear until
mm. 10–11, where it culminates in a longer, upward-striving version of the 3rd
motive (see beamed notes). This motivic event is highlighted by the parallel
thirds motion in the violins and the dramatic silence of the continuo. The anno-
tated score shows that from this point, the solo voices increasingly concentrate
on the linear third (in both ascending and descending forms) with its attendant
L-S-L rhythm. The motivic 3rds attain their greatest prominence in mm. 16–23.
The material swap sketched by the crossed arrows above occurs in two parts.
The “Solo voice” activity, which abandons C for 3rd motives, is initiated first and
completed in mm. 19–20. A high level of tension is felt there due to the concentra-
tion of 3rd motives and the high register. Some of that stress seems to derive from
harmony, specifically from a fully diminished viio7 of E minor chord. Remarkably,

this chord can be understood to result from melodic motive activity: all of the
linear 3rd shapes identified in the score in mm. 19–20 express motions among
D♯, F♯, A, and C, the notes of the viio7. Soon after the upper voices abandon the
Cascading motive for the linear 3rd, in m. 21 the orchestra (“Group voices”) seizes
on it, completing the exchange. The Cascade motive returns in full in measures 23
and 25.
This analysis of the Concerto Grosso movement traced the development of two
carefully delineated pitch-based motives. By invoking basic pathways—upward
versus downward in pitch space, and migration between solo and orchestral
forces in texture space—we were able to generate musical narratives that can di-
rect future intentional hearings of the piece. To this point, these narratives have
been framed almost purely in musical terms. A myriad of other plot frameworks
are available, however. At the moment that pieces begin supplying analysts with
about this level of motivic complexity, a tipping point is reached. By virtue of our
instincts to project meaning into music, many of us begin to feel the urge to layer
extra-musical interpretations on top of these first-level findings.
Space does not permit a full consideration of how such a narrative could be
engineered to fit this concerto movement. We can at least sketch how such a
reading might go, taking our cue from the contrast in the C motive’s disposi-
tion across the piece.10 In mm. 1–4, the Cascade motive’s descent manifests as
sixteenth notes. By the end, though, the Cascade shape becomes diffuse, com-
prising longer, quarter-note values that drift downward. (We earlier interpreted
the return of the C shapes here as significant, but only from a formal standpoint).
Taking inspiration from David Yearsley’s creative, historically informed reading
of a chorale prelude by Handel’s contemporary, Bach, we could propose a meta-
physical storyline wherein the initial, “bodily” version of the Cascade motive is in
the end “transfigured,” dissolving into a vaguer, more spiritual form (2002, 1–41).
The first portion of this survey has touched on events from a wide swath of
history, from the origins of polyphony to the dawn of tonality. In this account,
the musical motive reached its first maturity in the Baroque, where it gained the
ability to transform and to support large musico-dramatic processes. Of course,
this maturation did not occur everywhere at once. While Handel and Bach lived,
many styles and modes of composition coexisted, each drawing on its own me-
lodic, rhythmic, formal, and harmonic conventions. It is true that one may find
a number of movements from the interior of Baroque concertos, oratorios, and
partitas that exhibit a similar premise as the Handel work above, where a slower
harmonic rhythm facilitates freer motivic development.
On the whole, though, Baroque pieces like this are rare. This point is borne
out when one recalls the vast number of contemporary works that exhibit (1) ex-
tremely rapid harmonic shifts, as in the manner of stylized dances, fantasias,
and chorales, or (2) relatively little functional harmonic sensibility at all, such
as fugues and ricercares drawing on stile antico tradition. It is safer to say that
the Baroque era bore the first fruits of motivic composition from seeds that were
planted long before. In other words, it would still be several generations before
this mode of structuring music would become dominant.
Motives in Ascendance: Compositional Practice,

c. 1750–1900
Following the period in the Baroque in which motives first matured, Classical pe-
riod composers elevated their profile. This development occurred in tandem with
a trend toward increasingly “square” and formulaic composition, as typically found
in the expository regions of works. I am referring specifically to balanced phrase
structures—e.g., 4 + 4 and 8 + 8 formations anchored by half and full cadence
patterns—found in works by composers such as J.C. Bach, Galuppi, Haydn, and
Example 2.8 Three primary motives from Mozart’s Symphony No. 25, (I).
Mozart.11 Another sign of style change is the new level of surface motivic saturation
in Classical pieces, as exemplified in Mozart’s Symphony No. 25 in G minor from
1773. The score of the symphony’s first movement is excerpted in Example 2.9.
The analysis of this work will center on the activity of the three motives stated
near the work’s outset as given in Example 2.8. First there is the four-note,
zigzag shape that is stated in unison in mm. 1–4. It is flexibly defined here as a
“Leap+Leap” contour motive: the two-note expressive intervals that constitute
this shape are initially a descending fourth and a descending seventh, but they
change size and direction in subsequent appearances. Next there is the energetic
“five-note arpeggio joined to ornamented third” motive, which first sounds in
m. 5. The label given to this figure, Arp5⊕↓3rd/turn, employs a special addition
sign to indicate that the component shapes overlap by one note, B♭5. The last mo-
tive, most likely related to the second one by truncation, is the descending third
figure in the horns and Violin I in m. 31 (“↓3rd”).
In Example 2.9(a), we observe a trend in the first 24 measures of motive
statements being literal and tightly packed. In comparing this to Handel’s from
just earlier, one might say that the motivic treatment has grown heavy-handed.
But this comparison is glib. The surface repetition of motives in this later style in-
creasingly serves to stretch out time. Classical phrases are not necessarily longer
than Baroque phrases, but they often feel so because they unfold fewer harmo-
nies. The surface motivic repetition creates interest at two levels. At the same time
we coast on the longer tension/resolution arcs in the harmonic sphere, we enjoy
the brisk chop of a musical surface rippling with motives. The motives support
a wide range of expressive moods. Where the quick succession of “Arp5⊕↓3rd
turns” in mm. 5–9 generates explosive energy, the long stretch of Leap+Leap
motives in mm. 13–24 creates more a feeling of suspense.
In c hapter 1, I said that motives that repeat frequently at the surface serve to em-
broider musical space, implying that they act in some respect as “filler.” A bit of false
logic might follow from this: have motives suffered a regression in the Classical age?
Example 2.9 Score of Mozart, Symphony No. 25, (I).

(a) Th
e first part of the movement’s exposition, mm. 1–16.
It is all well and good that they impart continuity and energy to the music, but if
that is all they do, then they are functioning more as textural elements—like the
stamped patterns on wallpaper—than as meaningful shapes that communicate
through transformation. Here we should be careful. There is no reason to believe
that composers of the late eighteenth century, while forging new musical syntaxes,
would disregard advances in melodic technique pioneered by their forerunners.12
For this reason, we should not allow a work’s dizzying array of texture motives to
blind us to the possibility that a subtler play of shapes lies beneath the surface.
A spotlight examination of three transformations of the Leap+Leap motive in
this movement will clarify this point. Over the course of four appearances across
Example 2.9(b) Measures 29–44, in the second tonal area (STA).
the exposition and development, the transformations of Leap+Leap steer the music
down novel paths of development. The motive appears plainly in mm. 1–4, fulfilling
the role of motto. It returns in mm. 13–24, where it participates in the transition.
Its intervals are fully preserved in mm. 13–20; a two-stage presentation of G5-
D-E♭-F♯4 in whole notes prepares listeners for its upcoming transformation in mm.
21–24. Next, it self-perpetuates in a move toward the viio7 of D major in preparation
for a half-cadence (not shown). The first of the two Leaps inverts direction and is
stretched to the octave, G4-G5. The original, gestural outline of the motive remains
clear, however.
In its third incarnation in mm. 29–36, the Leap+Leap shape is camouflaged.
It undergirds the contrasting theme of the exposition by virtue of the large, two-
measure leaps traded off between high and low voices (see Example 2.9(b)). The
first of these leaps is the recently achieved upward octave. The latter leap is a
seventh, now inverted upward as well and sounding in the horns. The presence
of the Leap+Leap motive here promotes structural unity within the exposition.
Even as the foreground of the music in mm. 29–32 sounds a new theme—a sing-
able, snappy four-measure bit in Violin I—at a slightly higher level it retains the
stately whole-note pacing and large leaping intervals of the motto. In this way
Mozart establishes a balance between new and old: the violin theme feels novel,
but not so much that it feels at all out of place in this movement.13
In preparation for discussing Leap+Leap’s last appearance in the exposition,
it is necessary to view it in terms of its specific intervals. Doing so allows us to
appreciate the jagged, dissonant-interval leaps of mm. 1–4 as the presentation

of a musical problem—or less severely: an issue—that calls for resolution. The
motto’s jaggedness serves as a “hook” designed to attract listeners’ attention.
Upon hearing the large spans of pitch space skipped over by the ↓4th (G-D) and
the ↓o7th (E♭-F♯), listeners wonder whether these gaps will be filled in at some
point. A meaningful resolution will not come from filling them quickly or shod-
dily. Note that the strings in mm. 10–12 make an attempt at the task (Example
2.9(a)). Starting at m. 10 they rapidly connect all of the needed tones from G5
down to F♯4; the original motto notes are shown in circles. This first “answer” to
the question of the gaps, though, fails to satisfy. The lightning bolt-shaped ges-
ture they trace in mm. 10–12 merely summarizes what went before. It does not
indicate how the four-note emblem of Leap+Leap will ultimately be absorbed
into the fabric of the piece.
Much of the activity in the rest of the movement appears dedicated to finding
a more satisfying resolution to this motivic issue. Previous discussion noted how
most of the music through m. 48 works to sustain the Leap+Leap motive’s presence.
All of those occurrences, however, restate the large leaps (particularly of seventh
and octave) without filling them. The possibility of filling in the original G-D and
E♭-F♯ spans is put off once more in mm. 59–70, where the exposition’s closing theme
concentrates on strolling up and down from the local tonic, B♭. The even, stepwise
melodic motion introduced here provides a break from hearing Leap+Leap. It does
not meaningfully “solve” that motive’s issue, though, because the area of the scale
being explored leaves the boundary tones of G-D and E♭-F♯ untouched.
The movement’s development section is short, taking up less than a mi-
nute of time at allegro tempo. Its first portion, lasting fourteen measures
(mm. 83–96), explores the four-measure cadential tag of the exposition
(mm. 81–83). This represents a brief lull in the overall motivic narrative. The
Leap+Leap motive is not taken up again until the close of the development.
This occurs in mm. 97–106, where the music prepares for the moment of
recapitulation.14
Example 2.9(c) shows how the transitional “tails” of these two phrases revisit
our two note-spans of interest. In mm. 102–103, the first tail fills G5-D, though its
E♮ puts it in a mode slightly “foreign” to G minor. The second tail in mm. 107–109
falls one note short of reaching the F♯4, leaving the o7 interval incomplete. In mm.
109–113, the G4-D span is more convincingly resolved by the drawn-out chro-
matic descent in the violas.15 The high drama of this area is signaled by the hushed
dynamics and the imitative texture forged by the high and low strings. The fact that
this “charged” moment can be heard as a filled-in ↓4th produces a resonance: the
moment of retransition can be heard as an elongated restatement of mm. 1–2.
To maintain tension over the course of the recapitulation, the music delays
filling in the remaining open ↓7th for as long as possible. The closing theme
Example 2.9(c) Motivic activity in the development section.
Example 2.9(d) ↓7th Leap filled in near the end of the recapitulation, mm. 181–185.
beginning at m. 177, now in the home key of G minor, takes two stepwise-
descending swipes at this span; see dashed lines below Example 2.9(d). The first
attempt in mm. 182–183 does not fall far enough; the second pitch-class descent
completes the task and reaches F♯. This moment of resolution occurs with little
fanfare. The event nevertheless has a profound impact on the movement, as
evidenced by the last set of developments in the coda.
Example 2.9(e) shows the music of the coda, mm. 201–214. At its start, the
Leap+Leap motive returns, but the troublesome diminished ↓7th has vanished.
Notably, the descending interval that replaces it remains diminished in quality.
The motive sheds tension as the second component leap now mirrors the first
Example 2.9(e) In the coda, the original Leap+Leap motive attains a degree of

resolution through elimination of the ↓7th.
(↓4th+↓4th). The upper and lower strings sound this new version of Leap-
then-Leap in imitation. The high winds then enter at m. 205, guiding it in a
new direction. The high E♭ has to this point consistently served as the launch
point toward F♯4, but no longer. In m. 207, the E♭5 leaps to the more norma-
tive high C6 in preparation for the long-awaited, gentle descent to the tonic,
G. Having solved the “problem” of the Leap+Leap gesture, the piece quickly
concludes with untroubled arpeggiation of the G minor tonic (low strings,
mm. 212–214).
Our discussion of motive in the High Classical period concentrated on two
innovations as responses to Baroque style: the rise of the texture or filler mo-
tive and the use of motives to promote unity and large-scale drama. Moving
forward, it makes sense to similarly conceive the Romantic treatment of mo-
tive as a response to Classical models. Romantic composers escalated these
shapes’ prominence, increasingly making it seem as if music was “about”
motives. This behavior can be regarded as a wholehearted embrace of the mo-
tivic techniques they inherited. The Romantics did not necessarily seek out new
ways of deploying these shapes. They were more keen to continue exploring
the two modes of expression they had observed in their predecessors’ output.
Increasingly, their pieces could be viewed as vehicles not just for exploring
large-scale tonal processes, but for working out the ramifications of one or two
main shapes, from the surface to the deepest levels.
The strongest influence on this generation was Beethoven, whose musical

statements were sufficiently forceful to define the technical and emotional ex-
pectations not only of specific genres (symphony, string quartet, etc.), but of a
whole age. The common thread running through his output is motivic satura-
tion. Many of Beethoven’s most famous works consist largely of transformed
restatements of one or more core gestures: notable examples include the first
movements of the First String Quartet and Fourth Piano Concerto and the en-
tirety of the Appassionata Piano Sonata, Op. 57. Although the new Romantic em-
phasis on motive is most closely associated with this composer, it is also well
represented in works many of his contemporaries, among them Mendelssohn,
Chopin, and Schubert.
The post-Beethoven generation of Romantic composers, active approximately
from 1830–1890, maintained a fascination with motivic processes, although
of course they strove to put their own stamp on them. By the mid-nineteenth
century, two opposing factions had developed within this group, one more con-
servative and the other more ostensibly progressive. The schism between them
was rooted in a host of aesthetic issues concerning tradition, form, process, and
meaning in music. For our purposes, however, it is productive to filter their de-
bate through the prism of motive.
The artists of the New German School such as Wagner and Liszt used
motives to represent characters and ideas in works that often had a literal,
program-based component. In service of this aim, they desired to make their
motivic materials even more distinctive. In many cases this involved length-
ening motives, rendering them into full melodies of the type shown in Example
Web.1(a) .16 The idée fíxe (Leitmotive) of Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique is
meant to depict a specific person, the female love interest of the work’s protag-
onist. Her image or, sonic “calling card” appears in several settings: at a ball, in
the countryside, and in the protagonist’s most disturbed fever dreams.
This shift in motives’ function necessarily limited the kinds of transforma-
tion that could apply to them. Distort a theme too much and listeners might
miss the reference to the character it represents. The three versions of Berlioz’s
idée fíxe shown in Example Web.1 are taken to be equivalent, because the
main pitches, contour, and length remain generally consistent. It is more
the character and mood that are altered, or “thematically transformed,” to
use the technical term. Hearing the different versions produces an effect sim-
ilar to seeing an acquaintance’s physical appearance shift in different settings or
lighting schemes.17
Running counter to the camp that worked to expand motives’ length and dra-
matic content was the other that strived to keep them compact. This latter group
were the formalists, who prioritized aesthetic unity in music. Their most promi-
nent representative was Brahms, though many others such as Mendelssohn and
Saint-Saëns may be included among their number. In the minds of these more
traditionally minded composers, a well-built piece of music exudes a sense of
steady growth and development all the way toward its end.18 A logical way to en-
gineer this dramatic trajectory is to begin by introducing a short melodic shape.
A composer may then subject it to a series of minor alterations, in effect pulling
and kneading at its intervallic and rhythmic content.19
There is another compelling reason that explains why short motives prolifer-
ated in late Romantic pieces. Carl Dahlhaus identifies a cultural paradigm shift
that took place in western Europe during the 1800s, in which audiences and art-
ists demanded that new creative works exude originality to as great an extent as
possible.
During the course of the nineteenth century, for socio-historical reasons

among others, it became virtually obligatory for themes, or their initial ideas,
to be original, because form itself fell into a state of one-sided dependence on
the musical idea. Schematic forms, of the kind predominating in short char-
acter pieces for piano, were sustained exclusively by the quality of the initial
idea, the individual character of which compensated for the conventionality of
the overall outline. . . . In [music] in which every part or detail is supposed to
be an original idea or the consequence of an original idea, conventional ma-
terial is bound to be regarded as superfluous padding, and a work in which
platitudes are conspicuous will be condemned aesthetically as derivative hack-
work. (Dahlhaus, 1980, 44)
In other words, the repetitive formulas and pat cadential figures of the
Classical period fell out of favor. In response, composers turned to exploring
the expressive potential of smaller pitch cells, often comprising only a few notes.
This manifold change in the conception of the art, of course, did not occur in a
vacuum, but went hand in hand with a revision of the view of the composerly
persona. The composer was no longer regarded as a mere craftsperson, as had
been the case for millennia, but instead came to be seen foremost as an artist.
An accompanying tectonic shift took place in the realm of harmony. In con-
trast to the transition to the High Classical period, the one into the Romantic
age was marked by a sharp rise in the use of chromatic techniques. The new em-
phasis on chromaticism, which necessarily led to an expanded chordal palette,
was expressed at all levels of composition. It follows that this development would
have a profound effect on motives, too, and indeed there is ample evidence that
members of both camps, Wagnerians and Brahmsians alike, adapted their me-
lodic style to accommodate the new chromaticism.
On the former front, composers working with Leitmotive—Liszt, and later
Wagner, Mahler, and Strauss—relied heavily on a technique known as real
sequence, in which an initial melodic/harmonic gesture is transposed with chro-

matic intervals intact to start at a higher or lower pitch level.20 This is shown in
Example 2.10, which shows an excerpt from Wagner’s prelude to Parsifal. An im-
pressive degree of emotional tension can accumulate in passages employing real
sequence. The dizzying array of keys—three distantly related ones are rapidly
juxtaposed—often produces the sense that the music is wandering, seeking an
elusive resolution.
The composers in the formalist school incorporated chromaticism in their
motivic practice in a whole other way. In the previous two hundred or so years
of music, the prominent shapes of pieces were most often tonal elements: leaping
and stepwise thirds and fifths as well as neighbor-note figures tethered to scale
degrees. This practice arose out of traditional counterpoint practices that privi-
lege diatonicism. Within that practice, modal, major, and minor note collections
are considered to be inherently structural, while chromatic tones are accorded
unstable, “outsider” status. This tone hierarchy explains the essential similari-
ties of millions of melodies penned during the Common Practice period and
undergirds most theories of melodic structure in tonal music.
Under increasing pressure to base pieces on short, distinctive motives, Romantic
composers began to assemble them from novel combinations of intervals. In the
early stages of this development, motives remained more or less diatonic but began
incorporating large, athletic leaps of the type shown in Example 2.11. In Brahms’s
Intermezzo in A Minor, Op. 118, No. 1, the first 3rd + ↓leap shape, shown boxed,
Example 2.10 Real sequence in Wagner’s Parsifal, Prelude, mm. 45–53.
Example 2.11 The four-note motive of Brahms’s Intermezzo, Op. 118, No. 1

contains a large leap that crosses to the other hand.
closes with a leap of an 11th from A5 to E4; the same holds for its sequenced repe-
tition two measures later. As Charles Rosen has observed, these leaps are a source
of emotion in the music. Their inherent awkwardness, subliminally embedded in
performance, is sensed by listeners as struggle, anxiety, and a sort of nervous en-
ergy (Rosen 2000, 162–197).
Over time, the growing influence of chromaticism accelerated motives’ ev-
olution, allowing them to acquire new forms and behaviors. Just as Romantic
harmony acquired new flavors through modal borrowing (“mixture”), so too
did melodic shapes that could now incorporate chromatic pitches as structural.
These newer romantic motives exhibited both conventionally tonal and uncon-
ventionally chromatic elements.
Late nineteenth-century composers seized on melody’s new quasi-tonal poten-
tial to exploit a new relationship (and thus, a new source of expression) between a
motive and its local environment. In the past, motives were usually treated as mal-
leable, adapting their intervals to accommodate chord changes. Recall the Climb
motive from the Bach English Suite, which manifested first as an F major ar-
peggio but later shifted to accommodate see-sawing C and F harmonies. During
the late Romantic period, motives developed into more rigid entities that sound
less or more dissonant depending on how their notes intersect with local tonality.
“Uranus” from Holst’s The Planets is based on just such a quasi-tonal motive.
Motive U, shown in Example 2.12(a), consistently appears as a descending third,
ascending tritone (TT), and descending large leap.
When sounded in monophony at the movement’s opening, there is no con-
text for understanding this shape; it is a mysterious cipher. In pieces such as this,
Example 2.12 The four-note pitch-cell motive from “Uranus” from Holsts’s The
Planets.
(a) Main pitch-cell motive, “U,” from Holst’s “Uranus.”
(b) Motive U in transition to the march and as march accompaniment figure.

(c) Motive U at the conclusion, mm. 248–250.
the motivic process involves injecting this shape into a diverse set of harmonic
environments. As novel sonic qualities attach to its four tones, listeners can reg-
ister the motive’s progress on its merry-go-round-like journey. In Part b of the
example, the main motive projects the sound of an altered C Dorian scale (the
leading tone, B, is raised above its usual B♭). More than one hundred measures
later, the motive leads to a final cadence in E minor, in which its final note, B,
occurs as the fifth of the harmony (Example 2.12(c)).
More Recent Developments
We will briefly consider the role of motives in post-tonal music of the twentieth
century. Most historical accounts of music, upon reaching the tumultuous, tran-
sitional years around 1900, concentrate first on the issue of harmony, showing
how extreme dissonances resulted as the role of tonic (and the associated collec-
tion of supporting tertian sonorities) was weakened and soon after eliminated.
It is more accurate to say that Western composition fractured here. A set of
traditionalists interested in maintaining the tonal status quo, Holst among them,
went one way, while a set of experimentalists interested in atonality went an-
other.21 The last part of this survey will concentrate on the latter stream that was
famously helmed by Schoenberg, Anton Webern (1883–1945), and Alban Berg
(1885–1935).
In many respects, the pieces that emerged from this Second Viennese School
sound quite different than anything that had been written before. Yet at the
same time that these composers worked to obscure traditional tonal harmony,
they remained deeply concerned that their modern compositions remain in-
telligible. An early strategy to balance out the new post-tonal complexity was
to pen miniatures in standard forms such as gavottes and minuets; this is pre-
cisely what Schoenberg does in his Op. 25 Suite for Piano. Another strategy was
to write songs in which the text could serve as a reference point to gauge the
music’s forward progress; this approach undergirds Berg’s Four Songs, Op. 2
(1910) and Schoenberg’s Pierrot Lunaire (1912). Though effective, these two
stopgap measures came to be regarded by the composers themselves as inade-
quate. For one, these techniques offered little means for unifying a work’s total
harmonic content. For another, they could not aid in the project of developing
lengthy, coherent works that are purely instrumental.
To overcome these deficiencies, post-tonal composers sought to unify their
works in the domains of texture and timbre and by working in synthetic note
collections that could manifest both in melody and harmony.22 Amid all of
this innovation, motivic processes played a conspicuous role in promoting co-
hesion.23 In the wave of post-tonal pieces Schoenberg wrote between 1898 and
1920, motives act as the glue tying one phrase to the next. Example 2.13 illustrates
a set of passages from Schoenberg’s first Piano Piece from Op. 11. It opens in
mm. 1–3 with the presentation of a “Motto” figure composed of two motives. The
first of these is a third leap with a suffix stepwise motion (3rd\); the second is a ge-
neric up-and-down contour gesture (↑↓) followed by a descending 2nd. The two
components are elided at G4 as indicated by the ⊕ symbol.
The quasi-tonal structure of Schoenberg’s Motto = 3rd\ ⊕ ↑↓ 2nd and its role
in the music is not wholly dissimilar to Holst’s Motive U. In m. 6 of Schoenberg’s
piece, there is a rising five-note gesture in the tenor voice that analysts might be
tempted to label a new motive form. In the analysis, it is regarded as an flipped
version of the 3rd shape from mm. 1–2. Following the opening third, D3–F♯, its
suffix component is doubled so that now it ends with two semitones.24
The Motto motive is restated in mm. 9–11, although there the last 2nd turns
questioningly upward. Further exploration of the 3rd\ motive continues in
mm. 13–16. The intervals labeled in m. 13 are reckoned in pitch-class rather
than pitch space. The linking together of 3rd and stepwise suffix fragments
culminates in a full Motto presentation in m. 17. Here, the chordal accompa-
niment is rewritten to cast the shape in a new light. Instead of a dyad major
seventh sliding up a major third, the left hand here is composed as a whole-tone
sonority (G♭, E, and A♭) in which each of its members slides a minor second in
letter name, or pitch-class (pc), space (to F, E♭, and A).
After 1920, shifting conceptions about the format and role of motives played
a significant role in ushering in the next stage of post-tonal composition. I am
speaking here of twelve-tone serialism, a style wherein an initial “row” consisting
of the total chromatic is repeatedly deployed over the course of a work. Reflective
of its role to promote unity, a piece’s central row serves as the source for all of
its melodic and harmonic structures. The practitioners of serialism were acutely
aware that a row is essentially a motivic entity (see Babbitt 1987, 171 and
Example 2.13 Motivic activity in the first of Schoenberg’s Three Piano Pieces,
Op. 11.
Schoenberg 1985, 226). The concept of motive at this relatively late point had
changed, to be sure. It elongated and became fully chromatic, contrasting sharply
with the four-to seven-note shapes that predominated in previous centuries.
Motive had also grown distinctly more abstract. Conceived of as a string of pitch-
classes, a row logically does not exist in any one specific note form. It resides
“outside the work,” continually taking on new countenances as its notes appear in
varied registers and in novel groupings.
Viewed one way, the early twentieth-century phenomenon of the pitch-class
row appears as a diffuse, watered-down form of motive. It no longer fulfills the
original requirements that motive be memorable and self-referential. The mu-
sical relationships it instantiates are less audible, and there is no longer a guar-
antee that any short melodic strings in its interior will recur. But note that we can
change our perspective to regard a work’s central row as a repository of potential
melodic and harmonic relationships. Viewed in this alternate manner, the mo-
tive is elevated to a position of aesthetic preeminence. For twelve-tone works,
the row is a primary element that is preconceived. As such it fulfills a role anal-
ogous to a fugue’s main subject: every aspect of its shape and every possibility
of combination with itself must be understood before composition begins. In
other words, the row (central motive) is the germinal seed of the finished work.
All melodic and harmonic gestures are directly spawned by it; likely, many of the
rhythmic ones are as well.
Motives would continue to evolve in form and function over the subsequent
decades of the twentieth century. Ironically, some of these later developments,
particularly those leading to the development of minimalism, in many ways
bring polyphonic music full-circle back to the motivically rich textures of the
early Middle Ages.25 It is necessary to draw this narrative to a close somewhere,
however, and the spot where they enjoyed peak influence in twelve-tone seri-
alism is perhaps a better place than many others.
Further Thoughts on Surveying Motives in Composition
In the foregoing chronological survey, we saw motives originally serving a util-

itarian function, filling and unifying musical textures at their surface. Over the
course of the late Baroque through Romantic periods, they increasingly encap-
sulated the core material of pieces. In doing so, motives rose to a rank roughly
commensurate with the other organizing forces in music. In other words, it in-
creasingly becomes possible to explain the succession of events in these works
in terms of motivic development. This adds a new capacity to analyze beyond
viewing pieces harmonically as a succession of key areas, formally as adhering to
architectural models, and contrapuntally as products of large-scale voice leading.
The motivic activity of Classical and Romantic music, though important, is

always coordinated to an extent by tonality. Readers will recall that the tension
inhering in the Brahms and Holst examples cited earlier results from pitting a pe-
culiar pitch shape against shifting tonal contexts. Pieces composed before 1890,
moreover, almost universally begin and end in the same key and exhibit strong
tonal leanings. The sense of key, both locally and globally, serves as a barrier
against which the idiosyncratic, jagged motives strain.
For generations, the two independent forces of motive and tonality produc-
tively struggled against one another, and the frisson of their clash was felt across
the European continent. It should be kept in mind that relatively few composers
active in the 1910s, 20s, and 30s pursued free atonality and serialism. Our in-
terest in the few that did stems from the historical impact of their innovations,
motivically speaking. With classic tonality temporarily vacated, motives annexed
their territory. It became common for highly chromatic pitch or pitch-class
shapes to dictate the large-scale harmonic trajectory of works. But this outcome
is merely a special case of a more important condition. For the first time in his-
tory, a work could spring wholly and unilaterally from a single source. The novel
style of composition and the novel aesthetic were one and the same: a fully serial
piece represents the expression of a central motivic utterance projected across
the multiple domains of melody, harmony, rhythm, articulation, and dynamics.26
The history of motives given here has necessarily been highly abridged. It is
too narrow, with far too little attention given to developments in France, Italy,
eastern Europe, and the Americas. And it ends too early, with no mention given
to the role motives play in the most prominent musical styles of the twentieth
century, among them jazz, rock, and music for film and television. Some of these
lacunae will be filled in by subsequent chapters on analysis, which examine mo-
tivic activity in pieces from a variety of genres. With regard to any gaps that per-
sist past this book’s conclusion, it is my hope that they will invite the attention of
future theorists, who may continue fitting styles and genres into this historical
account.
3
A History of Motives—Theory
and Analysis
In this chapter we shift attention away from the compositional history of motives
and toward their theoretical history. The aim is to bridge the conceptual chasm
between our preliminary, working definitions of motive and the formalized
definitions and techniques that will be presented in Part II. This will entail a shift
in tone: the relaxed and curious mode of inquiry favored earlier will give way
here to a more clinical approach.
We assume that no fully formed theory and method of motivic analysis lies
dormant in history, waiting to be revived. At the same time, wisdom cautions
that we should not try to formulate a new method wholly from scratch. A more
prudent strategy is to seek a middle ground between these possibilities. In doing
so, we shall take license to innovate. Yet as we forge ahead, it is incumbent on us
to examine the past to benefit from practices that have previously proven effec-
tive and to jettison those that have proven less so.
The chapter is organized in five sections. The first section will cover 1600–
1750 c.e., the last period in which motive remained in its conceptual prehis-
tory. At that time, the preeminent musical structure was the “figure,” a passage
of music that conveys a single character. The second section covers 1750–1890, a
period in which the influence of figures waned. As this occurred, authors began
theorizing about the smaller musical cells that make melodies logical, pleasant,
and memorable. Their investigations would produce a new group of theoretical
entities such as phrase, Satz, and dessin, all of which to varying degree embody
elements that we today think of as motivic.
The decade 1890–1900 will mark the approximate start of the modern era
of motive, in which theorists developed more precise terminology for motives
and increasingly viewed them as having deterministic forces. The third sec-
tion of this survey nominally covers the time between 1900 and 1950. In truth,
it concentrates on the work of Arnold Schoenberg, the composer-theorist who
worked assiduously to develop and popularize motive-based views of music. His
approach was so influential that most significant motivic developments in the
second half of the twentieth century can be considered responses to his work.
The fourth section, covering 1950 to 2010, treats these later developments.
This late period is marked by stark changes in how motive was conceived and
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197526026.003.0003.
handled in analysis. Specifically, motives in the late twentieth century underwent

intense fragmentation, a “boiling away” of their elements, often leaving behind
only bare pitch intervals and/or rhythms. The survey here will comment on aca-
demic cultural factors that led to this development, many of which persist to this
day. Upon completion of the historical survey, the fifth section of the chapter will
ruminate on past and present conventions of motive and motivic analysis. That
closing area will lay the groundwork for the rules and conventions underlying
the new motivic theory to follow in Part II of Musical Motives.
Origins of the Musical Motive Concept, 1600–1750
Within the two-and-a-half millennium span that music theory has existed, the
concept of motive is a recent phenomenon, only emerging about four hundred
years ago. Although this survey will properly begin at 1600, we will take a two-
page glance at the preceding centuries to establish the context for motive’s place
within music theory.
Music theory entered the Middle Ages as a speculative discipline primarily
concerned with string ratios and scale systems.1 By the ninth and tenth centu-
ries, the (mostly monastic) scholars writing on music increasingly concentrated
on issues more immediately relevant to them. As choir directors and composers,
they were concerned with instructing their fellow clergy in reading music and—
talent permitting—improvising polyphony from a single line of music. The first
three centuries following the year 1000 C.E. thus witnessed the first emergence of
musica practica as a new branch of theory. Guido of Arezzo (991–1033?) is the
most famous innovator of this period: he is credited with inventing staff notation
as well as a method for singing scale steps on syllables (solfege). Later theorists in
the practica tradition responding to new challenges of polyphonic music would,
in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, begin writing major treatises on
rhythm, meter, and counterpoint.
The third and last area of classical theory scholarship to coalesce—the one
most relevant to our discussion on motive—was Poetics.2 Musica poetica, ac-
cording to one of its founders, Joachim Burmeister (1564–1629), concerns how
melody, harmony, and the “affectations of periods” influence listeners’ minds
and hearts to various emotions” (1993 [1606], 16). What is remarkable about this
quote from Burmeister is how it signals awareness, even at this early time, of the
causative link between composers’ technical decisions and the degree of emotion
in their music.
Since time immemorial, theorists writing about music have noted its expres-
sive affects. The ancient Greeks were fervent adherents to cosmology, believing
that all realms of existence are connected and governed by common forces.
A History of Motives—Theory and analysis 57
According to Greek theorists, the straightforward ratios among the counting

numbers (2:1, 3:1, etc.) were reflected in “pleasing” consonances that leapt from
vibrating strings of these same proportional lengths. These theorists saw fur-
ther evidence for their worldview by observing that the different scale systems,
or modes, had different emotive effects on listeners’ psyches. One given mode,
according to Plato and Aristotle, might provoke people to take up arms; an-
other mode might soothe them, and yet a third might cause them grief (Strunk
1998, 5).
Some remarkable similarities in worldview carried over from ancient
Greece to western Europe in the Renaissance era. The latter culture, for ex-
ample, remained heavily invested in cosmology. One of their most powerful
metaphors for communicating this belief, appropriately enough, took musical
form as the “Divine Monochord.” The monochord was, as its name indicates,
a commonplace one-stringed instrument from antiquity used to demonstrate
varying pitch intervals. In drawings depicting its mythically “divine” manifes-
tation, the device is overlaid onto the universe, with fanciful arcs showing how
various earthly and heavenly realms intersect the tuning board.3 Even as the
specific nature of the divine shifted in Renaissance Christian Europe, the con-
viction that humankind’s emotive and physical states (humors) were impacted
by music remained constant.
Setting that similarity aside, the cultural environment in western Europe in
the second millennium was, of course, markedly different than that of ancient
Greece. So although the newly birthed field of Musical Poetics may have taken
inspiration from Classic sentiments, it would evolve in radically new ways. One
of the strongest forces shaping this development was print technology. The ap-
pearance in the late 1400s of a movable-type printing press for music allowed for
sacred and secular pieces to proliferate in standardized forms. Musicians for the
first time in history had access to a canon of pieces that could serve as a point of
reference for discussing compositional technique.4 New treatises on music in-
creasingly exhibited a common sensibility, that specific techniques of melody
and harmony could be cataloged and taught on the basis of examples drawn from
the canon.
The preferred means for communicating this knowledge to budding
composers was also established by this time. Children enrolled in formal ed-
ucation in this society were instructed according to the principles of rhetoric,
the ancient art of assembling and delivering arguments. Rhetoric had become
highly formalized by the 1500s, such that students would be eminently familiar
with its terminology and methods.5 A signal trapping of this discipline is its
extensive meta-language that catalogs figures of speech.6 Some of these terms
pertain to planning an argument, as when students are taught to devise an idea
(inventio) and claims to support it (dispositio). Other terms describe techniques
for amplifying an argument, such as immediately restating an utterance for em-

phasis or interposing a sudden silence to draw in listeners.
With this framework for learning in place, it would not be long before someone
would adapt it to musical purposes. In 1606, Joachim Burmeister published his
Musica poetica, which founded the branch of theory that would eventually house
interpretive analysis.7 His work, for our purposes, also lay the groundwork for
thinking of music in terms of successions of formal segments and emotive fig-
ures, the latter of which can be viewed as precursors to motives.,8
Burmeister defines a figure, also known as an “ornament,” as follows:
a passage, in harmony as well as in melody, which is contained within a definite

period that begins from a cadence, and ends within a cadence; it departs from
the simple method of composition, and with elegance assumes and adopts a
more ornate character. (1993, 156–157)9
This early definition establishes the scope of a figure both as small, occurring
within a single phrase, and as extraordinary, standing out from the rest of
the composition. The definition further folds in a critical bit of form theory.
Burmeister defines the musical period in a way that makes it largely analogous to
the modern segment, a locally cohering stretch of music that lasts a few seconds
and has a clear beginning and end.10 Following this definition, he continues by
enumerating sixteen types (species) of figure, which may manifest in one of three
ways, via harmony, melody, or a combination of the two.11
Burmeister’s position in the poetic tradition is early; thus, many of his
descriptions of ornaments are general. (At this point in history, we are still more
than a century away from the development of more specifically pictorial fig-
ures such as the “sigh” and “lament.”) With regard to the Climax figure shown in
Example 3.1, he describes the technique of “repeating similar pitch [patterns] on
gradations of pitch levels.” The descending gestures that are separated by rests all
resemble each other, but do not repeat exactly; Burmeister, it seems, is most con-
cerned with the broad-stroke notion of restating a compositional idea at a new
pitch height. A similar emphasis on procedure over content applies to many of
his other figures, particularly those concerning voice disposition. One of these,
Example 3.1 Burmeister’s Climax figure. Example 12.7 from Burmeister 1993

[1606].
Fuga realis, refers to the standard technique of gradually thickening a texture by

bringing in voices one at a time in imitation. Others delineate imitation via con-
trary motion and composing fugues with multiple subjects (double fugue).
Some of Burmeister’s ornaments are couched in more specific terms which,
viewed anachronistically, causes them to read as almost motivic. One is Noëma, a
“harmonic affection or period that consists of voices combined in equal note values”
(1606, 165). This highly general rhythmic notion can apply to multiple passages
from different parts of a piece, allowing them to be associated despite exhibiting
different durations (e.g., half notes versus whole notes). Another example is
Pathopoeia, which “arouses the affections” by introducing “semitones that belong
neither to the mode nor to the genus of the piece” (1606, 175). Burmeister does not
explain which foreign semitones a composer should use; his examples identify E♭
(local fa) as a likely foreign tone to appear in G Dorian mode. Nevertheless, his rec-
ognition of this type of figure calls to mind the idea of a higher-level type motive,
one that recasts a compositional decision or act—in this case, the choice to insert
chromaticism to heighten the emotion in texts—as motivic.
After Burmeister concludes his listing of figures, he applies them in service of
one of the first full-scale musical analyses known to history (Palisca 1972). It is of
an Orlando Lassus motet, In me transierunt. In accordance with his definition of
Poetics stated at the outset, Burmeister divides Lassus’s work into “periods,” each
of which exhibits a unique emotional character stemming from its figural con-
tent. As with all truly great advances in theoretical thought, Burmeister’s work
constitutes a dual offering: the terminology he innovates is part and parcel of a
grander method of analysis . . . that he also innovates.
The writings on rhetoric that followed Burmeister’s Musica poetica, notably
Joachim Thuringus’s Opusculum bipartitum (1624) and Athanasius Kircher’s
Musurgia universalis (1650), differ in scope but not in kind.12 They mostly serve
to expand the number of recognized ornaments, although remarkably, Kircher’s
text is the first to conceive the composition process in rhetorical terms through
the introduction of the topics of inventio, dispositio, and elocution (Bartel 1997,
168).13 The next significant development occurred in the 1660s in the writings
of Christoph Bernhard (1628–1692), a student of the Italian-trained Heinrich
Schütz. The figures Bernhard proposes for even the most adventurous styles of
composition are similar to Burmeister’s. Examples include abruptio, a “breaking
off a vocal line instead of achieving” and mora: “inverted [upward] resolution of
a suspension” (Bartel 1997, 164). Bernhard further recommends text painting,
for example ending “questions . . . a step higher than the penultimate syllable”
and employing high and low registers, respectively, for texts “wherein Heaven . . .
and Hell are mentioned” (Hilse 1973, 111).14
Another major development in Poetics was brought about by Johann
Mattheson (1681–1764), a composer of operas and a close friend of Handel.
Mattheson’s many articles, treatises, and letters stand as “valuable standard
sources on music of the Baroque period” (Harriss 1978, 4). More importantly,
they represent “the first serious acknowledgement of the central role of melody
in the newer musical styles emerging in the 1720s and 1730s” (Lester 1992, 161).
Mattheson’s interest in melody is on display throughout his most famous com-
pendium, The Complete Capellmeister, published in 1739.
The center of the book, Part II of three total, concerns melodic construc-
tion. Mattheson lays the foundations for this study of melody in Chapter 2,
where he demands that aspiring composers master all languages they will work
in, and in c hapter 3, where he rehearses common ornaments of figuration such
as trill, tremolo, passing tone, and fill (tirata). Part II, chapter 4, frames the
topic “Melodic Invention” in terms of rhetoric. True to the spirit of invention,
Mattheson suggests eleven general topics, which essentially are sources of inspi-
ration. The first is notation, corresponding to the manipulation of pitch shapes to
assemble melody.
The term “motive” does not specifically appear there; however, the techniques
that show how to assemble melody by experimenting with and recombining
small pitch shapes resonate with modern motivic sensibilities. Mattheson lays
out several such strategies for spurring invention, three of which are reproduced
in Example 3.2. The first technique constrains the composer to work with a single
duration or a small set of varying durations. Another technique, shown last in
the example, utilizes mirror inversion.
A number of passages appearing later in Part II of Capellmeister foreshadow other
types of motive. Chapter 6 catalogs a wide variety of rhythms corresponding to the
meter and stress patterns of poetry.15 Short musical passages built of spondees,
iambs, trochees, and other rhyme schemes are printed with the understanding that
each repetition of these constitutes a poetic unit, a repeating rhythmic shape.
Mattheson’s monumental role in the development of music criticism and
analysis is indisputable; his agency in the development of the concept of mo-
tive is similarly important. As Lester notes, Mattheson’s approach “illustrate[s]‌
the role played by rhythmic and motivic activity in creating successful musical
continuity—aspects of musical structure that had gone unnoted by most ear-
lier writers” (1992, 166). His work was widely read, too. It is well known that
Beethoven and Haydn owned copies of Capellmeister, and that Haydn worked
out all of the exercises in his (Wyn Jones 2010).
The first section of this survey has documented two key developments in the
history of motivic theory. The first was the onset of the practice of music analysis,
which sprung, seemingly fully formed, from the mind of Joachim Burmeister.
His analysis of Lassus’s In me transierunt offers a model for segmentation and
pioneers the idea that specialized configurations of pitch, harmony, and coun-
terpoint communicate meaning. The second development stemmed from
Mattheson in the form of a new school of melody. His approach of breaking
Example 3.2 Excerpt of methods for invention from Mattheson 1981 [1739].
down melody into components that can be manipulated and recombined

to various effects is today widely recognized as an early instance of “thematic
working”(thematische Arbeit), a theoretic concept that would quickly and per-
manently attach to motivic theory.16
The Rise of Melodielehre, 1750–1890
The prehistory of motive is tightly interwoven with rhetoric. The rhetorical

tradition, however, rapidly began to wane in the mid-eighteenth century. As
Baroque-style composition matured in German lands, the classically objec-
tive, formula-driven approach to rhetoric was increasingly displaced by a “freer
and subjective concept of musical expression” (Bartel 1997, 157). Composers

active between 1730 and 1800, working in newly emerging “Sensitive”
(Empfindsamkeit) and Classical styles would radically recast the affective and
formal content of their music.
This survey will say relatively little about the former, emotive content, as-
suming that readers possess passing familiarity with the most common figures
and tropes of Classical music. (Through acculturation, amateur listeners can reli-
ably distinguish, for example, between the “happiness” of major mode versus the
“sadness” of minor, or between the frivolity of a gallop versus the somberness of
a funeral march.) The most profound developments in motivic theory in the long
nineteenth century did not concern whether figures were present—they very
much were!—but how they were deployed. Traditional doctrine in the Baroque
held that pieces should express a single or perhaps two contrasting affects, as in
da capo aria. Classical composers, in contrast, explored far wider ranges of affects
in a single work and interposed them more rapidly.17
In contrast to motives’ expressive content, which is difficult to pinpoint in any
age, their development in terms of literal structure and function between the
years 1750 to 1890 can be tracked with more precision. The composer-theorist
Joseph Riepel (1709–1782) is recognized today as a pioneer in the study of mu-
sical form. He was among the first to codify the modern phrase. In addition, he
demonstrated how phrases may be mechanically manipulated to generate longer
stretches of material by “changing their endings, their contour, their motives,
their meter,” and so forth (Lester 1992, 262).
Riepel does not refer to his smallest phrase components as motivic; however,
his mechanical manipulations of phrase material as shown in Example 3.3 are
suggestive of that idea. Demonstrations of this type signal his recognition of the
Example 3.3 Examples 3 and 4 from Moreno 2000 illustrating Riepel’s treatment of

figures (1755).
role that small pitch-and-rhythm shapes play in analysis and model composi-
tion. The upper line of the example shows how four figures constitute five meas-
ures of melody. Two of the figures return in the cadenza passage presented in
the example’s lower line. Remarkably, there the interval content of both Figures 2
and 4 is significantly altered, and the latter shape is extended through repeti-
tion. The fact that distinct but related forms of the entries labeled “No. 2” and
“No. 4” recur in separate locations signifies that figures, for him, are malleable.
Moreno 2000 expressly associates this chain of logic—in which all of a figure’s
varied recurrences are shown stemming from some “simple prototype”—with
the doctrine of thematic working (thematische Arbeit) (131).
Riepel, along with his contemporaries, J.N. Forkel (1749–1818) and J.A. Scheibe
(1708–1776), continued to subscribe to rhetoric as a living practice. Despite this
stance, certain aspects of their approach contributed to bringing that tradition to
a close. McCreless 2002 singles out Forkel for “detach[ing] the figures completely
from texted vocal music,” claiming them to be “fundamental and analogous forms
of human expression” (873). He credits Forkel and Scheibe for facilitating music
theory’s pivot toward emphasizing secondary over primary rhetoric. In doing so,
they elevated the status of musical gesture as the embodiment of inventio, where
earlier that term merely denoted a step in the creative process. Music was increas-
ingly viewed not just as an argument, but as an argument with a central issue
(status) calling for resolution.18 This late-Baroque maneuver constitutes a water-
shed development in the history of both motive and interpretive analysis.
Near the turn of 1800, the premotivic concept hopped aboard a new convey-
ance. After lumbering into the century on a sturdy wagon powered by rhetoric,
it coasted through it in a sleeker coupe powered by advances in form theory.
Riepel had made important new claims about the constitution and combina-
tion of phrases. Heinrich Christian Koch (1749–1816), building directly on that
theory, describes in detail how a phrase divides into lesser, incomplete segments
(unvollkommene Einschnitten). This awareness is prerequisite to his description
of a process of extending phrases by repeating one of its internal segments “on
the same scale degree or a different one” (Lester 1992, 287).
Riepel and Koch peered ever closer into the workings of melody, distilling
periods and phrases down to the measure-and submeasure levels. Their writings
recognize incomplete segments, yet these segments do not quite qualify as
motives because they are nonfunctional. For Koch, when segments repeat, they
distort more normative four-or eight-measure phrases. This means that any in-
ternal repetitions, if present, technically exist out of time. For motive to emerge
as a fully autonomous concept, some further theorizing was necessary. Theorists
would need to narrow their focus still further on the shapes that make melo-
dies, and they would need to newly characterize those smallest parts as dynamic,
living entities.
Jairo Moreno offers a compelling account of these paired developments in

his article, “Challenging Views of Sequential Repetition: From Satzlehre to
Melodielehre” (2000). The two German words in his title encapsulate the grand
shift in musical thinking that took place between the 1770s and the 1860s.
Early in that period, theorists explained melody in terms of static, building
blocks akin to sentences and paragraphs; this is Satzlehre. Near the close of
that period, theorists regarded the tiniest fragments of melody as almost alive,
dictating its destiny; this is Melodielehre, the study of how expert composers
create.
One of the figures responsible for this shift in thought was Anton Reicha
(1770–1836). He was a Czech theorist that wrote extensively on melody, but
did so largely in the context of form. Reicha’s mature formal theory privileges
models that exhibit tight symmetry and hierarchy (Hooper 2017, 26). Example
3.4(a) illustrates a set of his formal structures, all nesting one within another. The
totality is an eight-measure period, which corresponds roughly to the modern
phrase. This period made up of three rhythmes (members) which in turn are
composed of similar and dissimilar dessins (figures).
Example 3.4 (a) Example J from Reicha 2000 [1814] (125).
(b) Example J5, 7 from Reicha 2000 [1814] (176).
(c) Example B5, 11 from Reicha 2000 [1814] (169).

It is the dessin that is of central importance. Example 3.4(b) illustrates its role
in composition; here, a ten-measure theme is shown to be composed of thir-
teen dessins. The scope and function of the dessin confirms it as an analog of the
modern day pitch-and rhythm-based motive.19 A further aspect of the example
worth commenting on is the window it opens onto Reicha’s technique. He does
not draw hard and fast boundaries around his shapes. Instead, he allows the
bracketed and slurred configurations to overlap, a maneuver that resonates with
modern motive practice.
Reicha’s dessin would be noteworthy on its own. Remarkably, though, Reicha
extends his so-called “decomposition” analysis one more level. In Example 3.4(c),
he identifies a smaller entity called petit dessin at work in a melody from Mozart’s
“Hunt” Quartet. This element appears in m.1, taking the form of a major 2nd
on B♭4-C5. In a manner foreshadowing Schoenberg, the petit dessin establishes
a single, bare interval as the ultimate source of music’s life and energy. On this
basis, Jairo Moreno credits Reicha with a revolutionary role in supplanting
Satzlehere with Melodielehre. A further aspect of this coup is Reicha’s breathtak-
ingly new approach to analysis:
To point out a major second as a melodic unit, and, more importantly, as a po-
tential source for further melodic material, comes as no surprise to us post-
Schoenbergian analysts of motives. But let us make no mistake: never before
Reicha had the analytical scalpel performed such millimetric incisions.
(Moreno 2000, 148)
Rapid theoretical developments occurred in the wake of Reicha’s writings.

One of his immediate successors was Adolf Bernhard Marx (1795–1866). Marx’s
interest in motive spanned his career; however, he was already theorizing about
motives in 1837. Example 3.5(a) reproduces a graphic from his four-volume
Example 3.5 (a) A.B. Marx illustrates a period composed of two phrases.

Example 12 from Moreno 2000 (142).
(b) Two-note motives identified in Marx. Example 13a from Moreno 2000 (143).

treatise, Die Lehre von der musikalischen Komposition, illustrating a period com-
posed of two phrases. Marx quickly narrows his focus to the smaller elements
making up each phrase, commenting that “if we know the construction of the
first bar, we also know what the others are about, the first being a model for the
rest” (1868:1, 32). Moreno informs us that the two-note(!) entities shown brack-
eted in Example 3.5(b) are, for Marx, motive (2000, 141).
Marx’s procedure of starting with melody and focusing on its smallest elem-
ents bears close affinity to Riepel and Koch. But what a difference a few decades
make! While all three theorists’ views of motive hinge on recognition of trans-
posed repetition, Marx’s is truly novel. The additive scale formulations he
proposes stretch to unprecedented lengths. Also significant, Marx’s repetition
occurs at the outset of the phrase instead of internally, suggesting that mechan-
ical repetition could plausibly generate a theme.
Marx’s argument that a cell can self-replicate and chain together advances
a radically new view of melody.20 He writes that “Any union of two or more
tones can be considered a motive.” These motives, which harbor the germ and
root of the forms growing out of them,” provide the basis for all tonal shapes.”21
Marx, positioning himself as inheritor of the theories of Mattheson and
Reicha, conclusively states that it is these elements, the motives, that drive
music forward. 22
Marx’s early writings on motive concern repetition and small-scale melody. His
later views would engage larger-scale analytic issues—in particular, form. In a fa-
mous analysis of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata 16 in G, Op. 31, No. 1, I, Marx describes
the interplay of two kinds of gesture. The gesture labeled A in Example 3.6 embodies
the “will to motion,” the general phenomenon of “going” (Gang) “that arises from
the continuation of a motive over some stretch” (Marx 1868, 1:35, quoted in Moreno
2002, 139). The gesture labeled B is emblematic of a more static idea that is suitable
for communicating a coherent expository thought (Satz).
One notion advanced by Marx that would become especially popular was
that of “motivic debt.” This is a framing device for analysis, somewhat in the
manner of a status, that animates the relationship between themes with op-
posed dispositions such as Satz and Gang. Motivic debt is said to accumulate
when a piece concentrates on one motive type to the exclusion of another. The
longer that occurs, the more the listener comes to expect the return of the ab-
sent type.23 Another analytic archetype originating from Marx holds that the
pitch and rhythm events occurring at a work’s beginning strive toward a later
climactic event or goal (Moreno 2000, 139). These two frameworks for un-
derstanding music stand simultaneously as products of and arguments for an
“organicist” view of music. Organicism, which holds that all aspects of an art-
work are essential and interrelate, has been a dominant force for generations in
the West and will significantly impact the methods to be detailed in Part II of
Musical Motives.
Example 3.6 Example from A.B. Marx illustrating the interplay of static (Satz) and
“will-to-motion” (Gang) gestures. Image from Moreno 2000 (140).
A last set of advancements in motivic theory stemmed from Johann Christian

Lobe (1797–1881), a German flutist and composer who turned at midcareer
to editing journals and writing extensively on composition.24 His Catechism of
Composition of 1863 emerged less than fifteen years after Marx’s Manual on com-
position and shares a close affinity with it. Taken together, the work of these two
theorists effected the last great changeover in compositional theory “from one of
a phrase structural framework driven by the Baroque theory of affect according
to rhetorical strategies, to one of a potentially infinitely expanding structure trig-
gered by an initial motivic inspiration and perpetuated by the laws of organic
musical procreation” (Bent 1994, 16).
Lobe defines the motive in purely melodic terms, as a “note-group to be found
within one measure” (95–96). He theorizes that motives exist in “simple” form,
consisting of a single, held note (!) or in “compound” form containing many
notes in faster duration. (His insistence that motives last for the duration of one
measure can be understood in the context of his views on form, in which the nor-
mative, four-measure phrase is shown to be assembled from four motives com-
bining). He demonstrates how compound motives are often formed through the
joining of several smaller, two-to four-note cells called “members”; these corre-
spond to Reicha’s petits dessins.
Lobe’s first contribution is fixing motive’s place within a hierarchy
of form that, starting with the fragmentary “member,” would reach up-
ward to encompass phrase, period, theme group, and even full piece.25 His
theories on motivic working (motivische Arbeit) would prove even more rev-
olutionary. Like Reicha and Marx, Lobe offers extended demonstrations of
the role motives play in melodic composition. One such chart, reproduced
in Example 3.7 illustrates the logic holding together the primary theme of
Haydn’s Symphony 104, I.
Example 3.7 Ex 1.3.11 from Hooper 2017 (30), after Trippett 2013 (122, Ex. 2.5).
Lobe illustrates motivic working in Haydn’s Symphony 104 (I).
Stage 1 in the chart shows the theme’s basic framework, an eight-measure

idea (Gedanke) built of eight tones. In the stages that follow, this idea is worked
out (Ausarbeitung) via a series of rhythmic and pitch transformations. Some,
such as Stages 2 and 4, produce poor results that are varied but “rambling”
(Herumschweifen). Others, such as Stages 3 and 5, produce better results unified
by the close repetition of rhythmic and tonal patterns.
Lobe later presents an expanded list of transformations that apply to the first mo-
tive of Haydn’s theme (See Example Web.3.1 ). The staves marked Pitch 1, 2, 3, and
4 respectively illustrate transposition, intervallic contraction, intervallic expansion,
and mirror inversion. The staves marked Rhythm 1 and 2 illustrate augmentation
and diminution, and the lowest two staves illustrate fragmentation, free motivic ad-
dition, and figuration. Lobe’s regimented, operational approach to handling motives
would come to the fore of motivic theory in the next century, particularly in writings
by Arnold Schoenberg, Rudolph Réti, and Allen Forte.
The close of this portion of our survey takes us to 1890, the approximate time
when motive emerges as self-standing analytic entity. As evidence for this, one
may note the rising trend of contemporary treatises opening with wholly un-
contested claims about motive. Writing in 1906, Hubert Parry declares motive
simply to be “the shortest complete idea in music,” which under subdivision “will
leave only expressionless single notes, as unmeaning as the separate letters of a
word” (Dunsby 2002, 907). At this same time, Heinrich Schenker (1868–1935)
was initiating his grand project on common-practice tonality that would yield
volumes on harmony, counterpoint, and free composition. The first technical
claim he makes in the first book, Harmony, is as follows:
The Motif, and motif alone, creates the possibility of associating ideas, the only
one of which music is capable. The motif is a primordial and intrinsic associa-
tion of ideas. The motif thus substitutes for the ageless and powerful association
of ideas from patterns in nature . . . Music became art in the real sense of this
word only with the discovery of the motif and its use. (Schenker 1980, 3–4)
Tellingly, the concept of motive serves as a cornerstone on which Schenker’s en-

tire theory of music was to be built.
Schoenberg’s Conservative and Radical

Conceptions of Motive
Near the turn of the twentieth century, the musical shapes that once had been
known as figures evolved into leaner entities responsible for all musical energy
and logic. Yet as radically as the notion of motive had developed, at the turn
of 1900 it remained an idea very much rooted in the previous century. Its an-
alytic applications were largely limited to local melodic-rhythmic phenomena.
No theorists had asked if motives could help explain why a movement explored
one set of harmonic areas and not others, or one set of themes but not others.
Answering these questions became increasingly pressing in light of a pro-
nounced aesthetic trend: since the late 1700s, musical works had been steadily
growing in both length and complexity. The musicians of the age, acutely aware
of this shift, set out to offer explanation of how these larger pieces functioned.26
The most prominent theorist active at this time, Hugo Riemann (1849–1919),
contributed a great deal to elevating motive’s significance. In Riemann’s mature
theory, the motive is established as the original building block of music; he cites
its similarity to word in speech.27 His Catechism of Composition constructs a full
theory of form and harmony on the basis of motive, which requires its scope
to be broadened in most respects. Under Riemann, the motive acquires a dis-
tinctively robust profile that far exceeds one dimension. Its identity is “melodic,”
stemming from pitch. Importantly, though, it is also “rhythmic” and “dynamic,”
stemming from “absolute and relative tone strength” (1889, 5).
Perhaps the only aspect of motives Riemann declines to expand on is their
prototypical length, which remains roughly one measure; Example 3.8 illustrates
a typical case. Note that Riemann invests this shape with some richness by
viewing it as a unity built of smaller subgestures. He opens his analysis of Bach’s
Fugue in B♭ Minor from Book II of the Well-Tempered Clavier by asking readers
to “Consider . . . the initial motive,” which he defines as “a turn, and a step of a
second approached from the fourth” (Bent 1994, 114).
One might presume that having recourse only to compact motives would weaken
their analytic significance. Indeed, Riemann has little interest in pursuing motivic
analysis in a piece-specific, interpretive sense. Motives serve in his theory, rather, as
form-building entities. Part I of Riemann’s Catechism unspools a progression of ever-
larger melodic/formal units. This occurs as two-element motive gestures multiply
and combine to form larger structures all exhibiting the same asymmetrical, weak-
to-strong, binary energy. (For Riemann, the basic force in all music is the tactus,
which manifests first as a two-beat event and then, recursively, at all higher levels.28)
Example 3.8 Riemann identifies the primary motive of Bach’s Prelude in

B♭ Minor, WTC II (from Bent 1994, 114).
It cannot be stressed enough how ambitious Riemann’s view is that small mo-
tivic gestures underlie all music. His steadfast adherence to this principle leads
him down some remarkable avenues, including one where he theorizes on how
harmonic progressions are motivic. At one point, Riemann establishes two ex-
tremely broad categories of harmonic motive, “positive” and “negative,” to rep-
resent motions away from tonic harmony and motions returning to it (1889,
51). His idea to construct motive on the basis of shared patterns of harmonic
function— tonic, dominant, and subdominant— foreshadows the creative,
cross-domain approaches to theory that would flourish a century later. The har-
monic motives Riemann prescribes in Catechism, in fact, closely resemble the
harmonic motives that will be proposed in chapter 7 for use in complex motivic
analysis.
Riemann’s expansive view of motives would greatly influence the next gener-
ation of theorists. The twin giants, Schoenberg and Schenker, would both follow
Riemann’s lead in privileging motive, but would diverge with respect to the
kinds of motives they would recognize. Schenker, for example, would prioritize
tonality-grounded intervallic gestures, such as leaps and linear motions linking
together triad tones.29 Schoenberg, on the other hand, was more inclined to pri-
oritize idiosyncratic, piece-specific shapes.
Of the two, Schenker’s method is more fully organic, in that the same ana-
lytic principles operate at multiple levels. (He has sound reason for declaring the
preeminent motives to be fifths, thirds, and octaves: these intervals are the most
abundant in tonal music at every span, from less than one measure to three hun-
dred measures.) Reflecting Schenkerian theory’s firm entrenchment in modern
American academic musical thought, Part II of Musical Motives will make fre-
quent reference to it. Historically speaking, however, Schenker’s ideas coursed
down a narrow stream of influence at first. His theory would not spread widely
until after his students in Europe brought his ideas to the United States in the
1930s and 1940s (Berry 2003).
Arnold Schoenberg’s (1874–1951) theories, in contrast, promulgated widely
from the start in public lectures, radio broadcasts, and widely read composi-
tion manuals. For this and other reasons to be noted later, this survey views
Schoenberg as the primary force behind the development of the motivic con-
cept in modern times. In addition to founding a school of composition and
serving as a prolific critic of modern music, Schoenberg wrote multiple theo-
retic treatises. These activities resulted in a prodigious analytical tradition. His
views on music in the last century have directly inspired a host of books and
essays, including this one. While space constraints prohibit us from discussing
Schoenberg’s universal theory of music at length, a brief summary of it is nec-
essary to ground the upcoming set of historical terms that, in turn, pertain to
motive’s most recent developments.
Schoenberg’s thoughts concerning music’s organization were not fash-

ioned from whole cloth. His theories are rooted in the Western aesthetic
principle of organicism, which likens an art work to a living creature.30
A living being, plant or animal, may present highly differentiated aspects—
such as a trunk and branches, or fingers, face, and torso—nevertheless, it
spawns from a single cell and remains genetically unified. Organicism dom-
inated the discussion of the “how” and “why” of art in Schoenberg’s time and
for many years thereafter. As late as 1966, Alan Walker asserted, “It should be
the purpose of analysis to reveal the causes of unity” (43). Present-day schol-
arship has changed dramatically in that not all analyses seek to explain unity.
Many still do, however, and it remains a viable mode of inquiry, provided
that it is applied responsibly. To wit: if one does decide to invoke the doctrine
of organicism, one should do so morally, with sensitivity to the long history
of its being used as a tool of Western chauvinism.31
With regard to the anatomy of musical works, Schoenberg’s view holds that
each piece expresses an Idea (Idee or Gedanke), a certain ineffable content that it
was created to express.32 A brief mental exercise may help convey a sense of the
“Idea.” Try to conjure up an immediate impression of a song, such as the Beatles’
“Yellow Submarine” or Duke Ellington’s “Take the A Train.” It is better if you are
unable to recall individual details about it. The goal here is to attempt to fit the
song’s totality in your mind: its sound, its meaning, its groove, what it feels like
to listen to it, just the “everything” of it. The totality of that song can be thought
of as its Idea that infuses all of its aspects. To accommodate all of those melodies
and rhythms and content, the Idea must be expansive. In fact, it must be large
enough to have guided every impulse the composer(s) and band members took
into consideration when planning, performing, and recording and engineering
their pieces.33
The Idea represents the sum total of musical meaning and content in a
piece; it therefore crowns the hierarchy of all of the formal musical entities
Schoenberg recognizes.34 His full taxonomy of music from large down to small
is reproduced in Example 3.9. Proceeding downward through the list, the fully
abstract Idea gradually takes form in sounding music structures. These are
Shapes, which are brief, two-to four-measure complexes containing pitches,
rhythms, and harmonies.35 A piece will typically contain several Shapes, each
of which serves to spawn the content of its own local section of music. Of these,
special consideration is afforded to the Basic Shape (Grundgestalt), the prior-
itized Shape that Schoenberg conceives as occurring at the outset of a work.
This entity represents the first literal reflection of the Idea in Schoenberg’s
theory. Patricia Carpenter calls the Basic Shape “the concrete, technical aspect
of the Idea,” meaning that it renders composerly inspiration into music incar-
nate (1983, 15).
Example 3.9 Hierarchy of formal terms in Arnold Schoenberg’s theory of music.

The quotation concerning the Idea is from Schoenberg 2006 (303–304); that
concerning Grundgestalt is from Carpenter 1983 (15).
ABSTRACT
Idea (Idee or Gedanke)
“The Idea which the composer wanted to present”
Totality of work
Basic Shape (Grundgestalt)

“The concrete technical aspect of the idea”
Central utterance built of pitch, harmony, rhythm, etc.
Shape
Any such utterance, but unmarked
Motive
Short but memorable configuration of pitch, interval, rhythm
Feature
Sub-element of motive, a one-dimensional entity
CONCRETE
Moving further down the hierarchy, we observe that the Basic Shape is assem-
bled out of smaller conglomerations of Motives and Features. Writing in June
1934, Schoenberg was careful to define “motive” in two ways, as
1. “the smallest part of a piece that, despite change in variation, is recogniz-

able as present throughout” and
2. a “complex of interconnected features with regard to intervals, rhythm,
character, dynamic stress, metric placement, etc.” (129–130).
Schoenberg is more consistent about these points in his theoretical discourse

than in the many informal analytical demonstrations he carried out over the
years. Consider the analysis of Mozart’s String Quartet in C, K. 465 (I) shown
in Example 3.10. In this example and in many others like it, Schoenberg’s ana-
lytical brackets are not clearly labeled with regard to content or function. In this
case, anything given a letter label serves as a motive. This includes a, a four-note
idea in which the first three stepwise notes proceed by leap or step to a strong-
beat note. Additional motives noted include b, a descending sixth followed by
some other note, and x, any semitonal motion. The primary forms of a appear in
Example 3.10 Schoenberg’s analysis of motivic activity in Mozart’s String Quartet

in C, K. 465 (I).
mm. 1–4; smaller, derivative forms appear in mm. 7–8; these, too, are specifi-
cally referred to in Schoenberg’s accompanying text as motive, despite their size.
Motive b, first introduced in m. 6, returns in altered form in m. 16.
The situation is less clear in Example 3.11, wherein Schoenberg examines the
content of the opening gesture of Beethoven’s Third Piano Sonata in C, Op. 2, No.
3. Schoenberg refers to mm. 1–2 of Beethoven’s theme as “a gestalt” (shape) that
comprises a set of “characteristics” a through h. Characteristic a, shown both in
the piano music and the first analytic staff below, is “the main line, rhythmically
and harmonically” (2006, 163). Characteristic b is the interval of a second. Other
characteristics include the intervallic fourth skip of m. 2 (f), and the I-V har-
monic progression shown in the lowest line (h).
Schoenberg’s use of the word “characteristic” again makes it difficult to tell
whether both the a and b gestures are motives. The fact that this portion of the
treatise specifically deals with “Kinds of Variation,” helps resolve the issue. The
discussion that follows gives indication that the smaller b shapes (intervals of a
second) are not motives. Their format and behavior is more consistent with the
formal entity known as the feature, which Schoenberg defines as “the [mark] of
motive . . . pitches (intervals), harmony, contrapuntal combination, stress, and
possibly dynamics” 2006, 130).
In other words, the identity of a motive depends on the features that comprise
it across various domains. One page earlier in The Musical Idea, Schoenberg
defines a hypothetical motive, M, in terms of seven component features:
M = a + b + c + d + e + f + g
Example 3.11 Schoenberg’s view of mm. 1–2 of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata in C,

Op. 2, No. 3 (I) as a gestalt.
A second look at Example 3.11 may help to clarify this terminology.36 We see now
that the soprano melody of mm.1–2 constitutes a full motive, M. (Recall that the
full, multivoice complex is a gestalt in Schoenberg’s view). The intervallic entities
called b are features. They cannot be motives because they pass by too quickly
to be individually heard and remembered. Upholding the distinction between

motive and feature leads to a more nuanced understanding of Example 3.11’s
purpose. Schoenberg does not mean to show motives in any of their dynamic
aspects; his aim is to illustrate the latent, genetic content of the music. He is
endeavoring to show composers and interested amateurs how Beethoven’s music
is composed of many features that overlap at the cellular level.37
Schoenberg’s intense interest in music’s smallest elements had both retrospec-
tive and prospective ramifications. On the former front, it allies him closely with
tradition, specifically the dynamic theories of Marx and Reicha. Schoenberg’s
feature and Reicha’s petit dessin are both tasked with illuminating how melodies
cohere on the basis of their interval content. This philosophy is laid bare in one
of Schoenberg’s most famous analyses, concerning the first theme from Brahms’s
String Quartet in A, Op. 51, No. 2, II (Example 3.12). According to Schoenberg,
the analysis unveils that “the A major Andante contains exclusively motive forms
which can be explained as derivatives of the interval of a second, marked by
brackets, a” (1995, 430–431).
It is hard to imagine a humbler element on which to base analysis than the
interval of a second. Yet Schoenberg was not content to note the presence of
features; he wished to understand the processes by which they operate. His
innovations in conceiving and explaining the activity of these microscopic elem-
ents would have a tremendous impact on the future of music theory.
One such innovation took the form of a quasi-mathematical notation for
illustrating how motives and figures combine. This technique was cited earlier
Example 3.12 Schoenberg’s analysis of motives in the melody of Brahms’s String

Quartet in A Minor, Op. 51, No. 2 (II). All labels in the staves refer to the Violin 1
part, meaning that the example is not a string quartet score.
with respect to a hypothetical motive, M, and its component features, a–h.

Here, in analyzing Brahms’s melody, Schoenberg relies on loose addition to
assemble larger and larger melodic elements. His chain of derivation proceeds
as follows:
c is a + b
d is part of c
e is b+b, descending seconds, comprising a fourth
f is the interval of a fourth, abstracted from e, in inversion
(Schoenberg 1995, 431)
Analyses supported by this nomenclature helped popularize the idea that lower-
level musical phenomena behave in mechanistic terms.
This insight did more than alter the musical community’s view of motive;
it ushered in a new understanding of the art of composition. According to
Schoenberg, the Basic Shape (Grundgestalt) of a piece is always present, guar-
anteeing a work’s coherence. Composers generate new phrases by repeating
Grundgestalt material while altering the intervals, rhythms, and other coloristic
features. As these elements repeat, they retain a set of critical traces. Marianne
Kielian-Gilbert identifies three categories of trace that operate simultaneously
and independently, promoting a sense of continuity even when the motive repe-
tition is imperfect:
The repetition of a musical motive can vary or preserve aspects of its material
identity (its sounds: notes, contours, rhythms, harmonies, textures); or its func-
tional identity, by which I mean the relational profile of its internal relationships
(e.g., scale degree, harmonic-tonal or gestural functions); or its processive and
procedural identity, the broader functions and musical roles that it effects (e.g.,
processive, recessive, and static; expository, transitional). (Kielian- Gilbert
1997, 259–260)
At the same time that composers are concerned with coherence, they also wish
to keep listeners engaged. To achieve this, they continually reshape the main idea
to provide novelty. Schoenberg dubbed this practice Developing Variation—one
that paradoxically weds static repetition and dynamic change—and made it a
cornerstone of his theory. He also applied it to his own creative output. In twelve-
tone composition, a technique Schoenberg pioneered, the Basic Shape manifests
as the tone row. This central material is consistently transformed by means of
transposition, inversion, retrograde, and rotation operations, which present the
tones of the row in novel orders and orientations while preserving its pitch-class
interval content.
Schoenberg’s mechanistic conception of musical process partially resusci-

tated music theory’s status as a rational discipline. (It had been formally recog-
nized as a science in Ancient Greece and Enlightenment Europe.) As for early
critical reception (1900–1950) of his analyses, it did not seem to matter much
that Schoenberg’s equations were inconsistent. The spirit of the demonstrations
carried the day. It was enough that Schoenberg’s mathematic “proofs” imparted
the air of empiricism to his analyses. Even as many of his readings of specific
pieces fell into dispute, the deductive impulse at their core would continue to
inspire readers. Decades later, the notion of building a theory and analytical
method around strict operations would flower into a wide range of theories, no-
table among them set theory and transformational theory.38
The few passages and analyses cited so far may give the mistaken impression
that Schoenberg engaged in the same “small-scale” thinking that constrained
motives in earlier ages. In fact, Schoenberg also spoke of motives manifesting
over extremely wide spans of music. The key to his doing so was a special quality
attaching to his grand hierarchy of music depicted back in Example 3.9: fluidity.
The difference between upper-and lower-level entities in Schoenberg’s theory is
one of size, not of kind.39
An awareness that a single set of forces plays out at multiple levels manifests
in Schoenberg’s frequent reliance on melodic reduction, the technique by which
a denser configuration of notes is pruned to reveal their underlying shape.40
Example 3.13 reprints an image from Schoenberg’s Fundamentals text in which
reduction is carried out. Line c) reproduces the first four measures of the melody
of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata in C, Op. 2, No. 3, II. The reduction proceeds in two
stages, with some notes removed in Line b) and yet more in Line a). The essence
of shape a is stepwise content, which Schoenberg posits both when tones are
Example 3.13 Schoenberg’s Example 15 from The Fundamentals of Musical

Composition.
(a)
(b)
(c)
adjacent and when distant, in durations ranging from eighth note to half note.
Shape b is a three-note gesture composed of step-then-third leap.
It may seem at first that Line a)’s purpose is to reduce the ornate melody of
Line c), illustrating its basic construction out of a single, stepwise interval. In
fact, it is best to apprehend these lines together and all at once, with a) appearing
as a reduction of c) and c) simultaneously heard as a composing-out of a). Line
b), in contrast, delves further into the total feature content of the melody, seeking
out all forms, big and small, of a and b. The second, third, and fourth measures of
Line b) are especially noteworthy for two-level bracketing that shows gesture a
embedding within itself.
This self-similar embedding or recursive relation is commonly referred to as a
motivic parallelism. Soon after being formally recognized in analytic practice, it
became prized by theorists of the early twentieth century. Schenker’s name is the
one most commonly associated with parallelism; however, Schoenberg placed
considerable emphasis on it as well.41 In an early writing from 1911 discussing
Brahms’s Third Symphony, I, Schoenberg argues that the F-A key structure of
the first movement’s exposition is predicated by a small-scale F-A♭ motive stated
in the piece’s first measure (1978 [1922], 164). If one were to enlist two-level
bracketing to depict this embedded relation, it would be on a much grander scale
than in Line b) of Example 3.13; however, the same principle would apply.
Through a growing awareness of the activity of motives, analysts gained a
means for diagnosing situations in which small-and large-scale events resonate
with each other. As such, the emergence of the concept of motivic parallelism
stands as a critical event in not just the history of motive, but of all Western
music making. For centuries, musicians and their audiences increasingly
sensed that music “meant something” in its own right, regardless of whether
it was texted or not. To support this intuition, they developed various tools for
apprehending this phenomenon. In 1854, Eduard Hanslick famously proposed
that music’s form serves as the medium by which it dictates its intuited content
and meaning (Savage 2010, 59). Over the years, other authors theorized how
other domains of music could supply meaning, among them large-scale har-
mony (D.F. Tovey), multilevel harmonic syntax (Hugo Riemann) and counter-
point and energetics (Ernst Kurth).
No matter which organizational aspect of music was prioritized, the goal of
critical analysis remained the same. It was to illustrate the elegant complexity that
was presumed to reside in well-made compositions. Complexity on its own was
the easy part. It is all but assured in any piece of music containing thousands of
notes. For the complexity to appear elegant, however, one must limit the number
of explanations for how the notes and ideas coordinate. This logic explains
analysts’ persistent desire to winnow down pieces to the fewest possible number
of core shapes and forces, while giving those shapes free rein to appear at spans
of all sizes. It is a matter of discerning a workable set of “rules for understanding

a piece,” as it were.
Unintended Legacy: A New Concept of Motive Develops

in the Twentieth Century
The previous section of this survey made the claim that Schoenberg’s con-
ception of low-level form did not diverge significantly from his nineteenth-
century forbearers. Motives for him are complex, multivalent gestures, whereas
features are the additive fragments that define motives. No evidence exists that
Schoenberg ever intended for this terminological dichotomy to collapse, yet that
is precisely what happened in American music theory in the decades after his
death. The present section of this historical review will investigate this develop-
ment, which can be symbolized as follows:42
Schoenberg’s feature ⇒ late 20th-century motive
In searching for a cause for this shift, it is overly simplistic to say that theorists
of later generations simply misread Schoenberg. To some extent, yes, they did
do that. Historical context is everything, however: what might be ruled a “mis-
reading” by one generation of scholars might be deemed a “reimagining” by the
next. In this section, a reevaluation of twentieth century events will yield a new
narrative. The momentous theoretic shift symbolized above will be shown as the
product of a surprising, unintended collaboration among scholars hailing from
many disparate—and in some cases: presumably opposing—camps.
Exhibit A in this new account is the analysis by Schoenberg reproduced in
Example 3.13, discussed earlier. In that account, I resisted calling the fragments
in Line b) motives because they are too small and simplistic to accord with
Schoenberg’s definition. Mid-twentieth-century theorists confronting graphics
such as Example 3.13, in contrast, would not have hesitated to call all of the
example’s bracketed entities motives. The difference in approach can be under-
stood in part based on what is known about Schoenberg’s theories now versus
then. Only two theoretical works by Schoenberg were published in his life-
time, Harmonielehre in 1922 and Models for Beginners in Composition in 1943
(Schoenberg 2006, xii). It was not until the 1970s that Schoenberg’s Musical Idea
treatise became widely known through the agency of Alexander Goehr, a son of
one of Schoenberg’s Berlin pupils.43
With little or no access to Schoenberg’s writings detailing the structural hi-
erarchy of music from the surface to the crowning Idea, theorists active be-
tween 1942 and 1967 could hardly be expected to preserve a distinction between
motive and feature. Those who wished to know about Schoenberg’s views on
motives mostly made do with a few relevant passages from Harmonielehre and in
the essays that would later be collected in Style and Idea.
We have noted the profound influence the radio talks/essays had on motivic
theory by virtue of their inspiring, yet loosely systematic, readings. We have not
acknowledged the role of Harmonielehre. That book is not concerned with anal-
ysis, per se; nonetheless, it offers a remarkable number of technical claims about
prominent Classical pieces. One such insight referenced earlier comments on res-
onating small-and large-scale third relations in the exposition of Brahms’s Third
Symphony, I. In addition to exemplifying motivic parallelism, this insight—
for good or ill—established parameters for a motive’s format. A motive, it seems,
could manifest in as few as two notes. According to what Schoenberg thought
in 1922, it could, moreover, present as a rhythmless intervallic entity capable of
reaching across large formal areas.
Schoenberg’s early conception of motive does not fully accord with his ma-
ture theory. Its pervasiveness came to be so great, though, that even present-day
theorists with access to The Musical Idea are likely to confound feature and mo-
tive. In the case of Example 3.13, it is again possible to lay some blame for this on
Schoenberg’s commentary. The relevant accompanying text in Fundamentals is,
again, maddeningly ambiguous: it never says which bracketed a gesture, the two-
note form from line (a) or the five note form from line (c), constitutes the actual
motive.
The midcentury shift in the concept of motive has thus far been attributed to a
general lack of awareness of Schoenberg’s mature theory and to the fogginess of
his on-air and in-print analyses. These two factors make it seem like the feature
⇒ motive shift was an accident of history. That conclusion, critically, overlooks
agency. It fails to account for the active role that theorists played in bringing
about the evolution of motive.
Here we seize on the narrative of motive’s twentieth-century evolution and re-
frame it in active terms. A few decades after Schoenberg opened the door a crack
to the possibility of a two-note motive, theorists rushed to pry it open and charge
through. Embrace of this new, cellular form of motive entailed a theoretic sacri-
fice: motive would shed a key aspect of its original identity, its multifacetedness.
Theorists, of course, still could require motives to exhibit characteristic rhythms,
harmonies, articulations, and so forth. In their excitement to capitalize on mu-
sical connections based on pitch-interval relationships, however, they increas-
ingly neglected to specify those other attributes in their analyses. As a result, a
new theoretic entity emerged that should more appropriately be called a “feature
motive” (my own term). The feature motive is similar to a motive, but “flatter”
in the sense that it exists in fewer dimensions, specifically, often in pitch and
rhythm only.
A watershed event in motive’s twentieth- century evolution was Allen

Forte’s article, “Motivic Design and Structural Levels in the First Movement
of Brahms’s String Quartet in C Minor” from 1983. In it, Forte lays out four
“guidelines” for motivic analysis that are printed here in their near entirety:
1. The motive is primarily an intervallic event, distinct from any particular

pitch manifestation.
2. The original pitch or pitch-class representation of a motive is of singular
importance . . . and we call this referential function of a particular form
pitch-specific which means that the motive designated consists of the same
pitches as the original form of the motive; and the term pitch-class specific
means that the motive is recurring, but at some level of octave transposi-
tion with respect to the original form.
3. The boundary interval of the motive is its most salient feature. The internal
structure is variable or may even be absent in some representation of the
motive . . .
4. A motive may be transformed without losing its basic identity. The trans-
formations which Brahms uses are retrograde, inversion, and retrograde
inversion. He also uses a transformation which I will call minor to major or
major to minor depending on the circumstances. (Forte 1983, 474)
The guidelines, which in hindsight read more like tenets, constitute a full revi-
sion of the motivic concept. They accord to the motive the properties of a math-
ematical set, which is a collection “of all the objects of a specified kind—that is,
consisting of all the objects which satisfy a given condition” (Pinter 2014, 10). Set
theory, originally pioneered by Howard Hansen and Milton Babbitt in the late
1950s, steadily gained influence in the 1970s as theorists increasingly recognized
its capacity for explaining the content and structure of freely atonal works. Near
the time that Forte’s article was published, set theory analysis had begun to ex-
plode in popularity.44
That bit of context helps explain what is most surprising about the four
guidelines, which is that Forte declines to offer a single citation or explana-
tion for any of them. He likely assumed that readers would be comfortable
transferring the essential concepts of set theory to motivic analysis. His own
recent treatise, The Structure of Atonal Music (1972), on set-based analysis
would presumably have served as the primer in this regard. In Chapter 1 of
Structure, he establishes the viability of pitch-class equivalence, then shows
how a set’s content is preserved when it is subjected to uniform transposition,
inversion, and retrograde (Forte 1973, 2–13). He next demonstrates how the
identity, sound, and potential behavior of a set is directly predicated on its
total intervallic content, as measured among all member pairings (Forte
Example 3.14 Excerpt from the Table of Motives given in Forte 1983 (476).
Annotation and arrow added by the author.
1973, 13–18). These set-theory concepts correspond directly to Guidelines

2, 4, and 1.
Two additional features of Forte’s “Motivic Design” would turn out to be sim-
ilarly influential. The first is its protocol for organizing a motivic analysis. Forte’s
analysis opens not with any score excerpts or motivic derivations, but with the
summary “Table of Motives” shown in Example 3.14.45 (Though Forte does not
provide a score to illustrate the origins of each motive, his prose indicates that
they are all derived from events in mm. 1–8.) Twelve central pitch-based motives
are presented in this table in staff notation and are assigned a Greek letter label;
a separate chart lists rhythmic motives. Common variant forms, such as mirror
inversions and retrogrades, are indicated with modified labels such as a bar over
the letter or a prime (′) marking.
This mode of presentation is dry and objective, imparting an air of authority to
the analytic process. (An additional, subtle boost in intellectual cachet is afforded
by the Greek symbols, which call to mind mathematic and chemical formulas.)
Many of the trappings of Forte’s analysis, both organizational and stylistic, would
be emulated for decades following this article’s publication.46
A second notable feature of Example 3.14 appears at the start of the fifth row.
To account for the viola’s double-stopped Gs in m. 7, Forte allows the two notes
of motive theta to appear simultaneously. To his credit, Allen Forte makes it clear
that his decision to allow this vertical form of motive is “unconventional” (477).
It is impossible to know, now, exactly why he felt that disclaimer was necessary.
Was it meant merely to stave off critiques of this isolated analytical decision? Or
did he feel responsible for pointing out the line in the sand demarcating the edge
of traditional motive formatting, even as he tiptoed over it?
The significance of this appearance of a chordal motive, itself a special case
of feature motive, cannot be overemphasized. Forte’s adventurous theorizing is
striking. What is far more striking is that no objections to it were voiced at the
time. The first substantial critique of this article did not appear until decades later,
with the publication of Huron 2001. In its own time, Forte’s essay was greeted by
a critical silence as resounding as “the dog that didn’t bark” from the Sherlock
Holmes tale, “Silver Blaze.” The theory community’s tacit acceptance of this mo-
tive form, along with these four “proto-set theory” guidelines, indicates that the
motive => feature motive shift had by this time all but concluded.
The reason that feature motives were wholly uncontroversial in 1983 was
because the two dominant analytic methodologies of the time already accom-
modated them. The shift would have been all but imperceptible within set
theory. That entire discipline, concerned with parsing and comparing (mostly)
small pitch-class configurations in atonal music, was essentially born of
Schoenberg. The organizational principles he devised and promulgated as
composer and teacher in the early 1900s would later serve as a breadcrumb
trail for midcentury set theory pioneers to find their way through his work.
Schenkerian theorists, on the other main front, would similarly have had little
cause to object to Forte’s chordal motive or to feature motives in general. Pitch
motives in Schenkerian analysis conform to tonality, the environment they in-
habit. Thus, they mostly manifest as thirds, seconds, neighbors, fifth-spans and
the like (Cohn 1992, 154). Furthermore, since these tonal gestures may man-
ifest over long stretches of time, they are typically decoupled from rhythm.47
As tonal intervals with no characteristic rhythms, Schenkerian motives enjoy
privileged status based on their traceable links to a piece’s deep-background
contrapuntal content (Ursatz). When viewed in isolation as configurations of
notes in voice-leading graphs, however, such motives are largely indistinguish-
able from feature motives.48
It is fitting that Schoenbergian and Schenkerian scholars would agree on the
viability of feature motives.49 Some concessions would be necessary for this to
occur, in the form of selective historical amnesia from the former camp and
some methodological slippage from the latter. Both groups seemed willing to
make these compromises, though, to promote a common analytic language. It
came to pass in the second half of the twentieth century that, no matter which
analytical technique one preferred, one could reasonably expect “motive” to refer
to a short, arrhythmic shape enfolding melody and harmony.
The reason this agreement may be characterized as “fitting” was because it
realigned two approaches that—excepting the occasional attempt to integrate
their methodologies (see the fourth section of this chapter)—for decades had
stood quite separate. Here it is important to remember the shared central conceit
that underlies both Schoenberg’s and Schenker’s theories, which is that harmonic
and linear forces are interdependent. According to Schoenberg, a tone row is a
“two-dimensional” entity that can be realized both horizontally to create melody,
or vertically to produce harmonies or chords (Schoenberg 1975, 226). According
to Schenker, the Ursatz is a vertical triad that is composed out horizontally over
the length of a full piece.50
The cautious re-knitting of Schoenberg and Schenker that began in the
1980s accelerated in later decades. In the late 1980s, pitch and pitch-class sets
had become standardized to such an extent that it was acceptable to apply them
in the study of tonal pieces. Forte wrote another essay, “New Approaches to
the Linear Analysis of Music,” to establish a method for this practice (1988).
Soon after, a slew of analyses emerged that rationalized the large-scale key
progressions of certain late Romantic works as “composing out” the iconic, dis-
sonant sonorities sounded at their openings, typically an augmented triad or
diminished seventh chord (see Todd 1988 and Cinnamon 1992). By 1996, it
was not at all controversial for Mark Anson-Cartwright to attribute motivic
significance to a sonority itself, as he does in his “Chord as Motive” essay on
Wagner.
Of all of the changes motive underwent in four centuries, this most recent shift
may well be the most profound. In little more than half a century, the motive was
stripped of most attributes excepting pitch and rhythm and allowed to collapse
into an instantaneous verticality. The primary force of transformation was the
rising influence of set theory, with Allen Forte’s 1983 essay serving as the model
for how the concept of set could extend its tendrils toward the concept of motive.
By the close of the twentieth century, the notion of the set had become so dom-
inant that it essentially co-opted motive. An introductory passage from Joseph
Straus’s Remaking the Past, for example, conflates the two concepts as follows: “A
pitch-class set is a motive from which many of the identifying characteristics—
rhythm, register, order—have been boiled away” (1990, 24). In stating this,
Straus implies that there is no longer room nor need for motives to exist in time
at all. He continues, illustrating all of the pitch-class sets in Schoenberg’s Piano
Piece, Op. 11, No. 1, mm. 1–5 that span a major third with semitone attached to
either end (Example 3.15). It is specifically the pitch-class content, he declares,
that makes the music “motivically coherent” (Straus 1990, 24).
Example 3.15 Analysis of motives (pitch-class sets) in Straus 1990 (24). The work
under study is Number 1 from Schoenberg’s Three Piano Pieces, Op. 11 (cf. Ex. 2.13).
While Straus does not speak for all theorists, his formulation of motive may
be fairly said to represent a presently prevailing view. This is not a condition
to be lamented, necessarily; however, since it establishes a starting point for
any new theorizing on motive, it must be interrogated. Feature motives rose
to prominence for a reason, and they do confer many analytic benefits. Feature
motives are relatively easy to work with, apply to a wide range of musics, and are
good for demonstrating the interrelation of melody and harmony. As we have
seen over the course of this survey, however, there is much they cannot do or no
longer do.
This section’s account of motive’s evolution in the twentieth century is
of course far from comprehensive. By concentrating on Schenkerian and
Schoenbergian theory, for instance, it has neglected to consider how motive
intersected with other developing theories. In a separate conference paper,
I delve further into the twentieth-century intellectual environment that pro-
moted the feature motive, giving special consideration to the impact of a newly
developing third stream of theorizing, transformational theory (Auerbach
2016).51
The topic of the history of motive is rich enough to sustain a host of further
investigations. To continue in this vein, however, would take us too far afield
from our more immediate goal of defining motive and motivic analysis anew.
For this reason, the final part of this chapter will turn away from issues of his-
tory toward those of philosophy and methodology. The section that follows
provides a brief overview of motivic analytic techniques developed over the past
one hundred years. Certain aspects of this survey activity will be carried out
more or less impartially, for example as we identify major treatises and report
on schools of thought. Some criticism will come to bear as well, as we evaluate
each method, cite published commentaries, and make fresh assessments of it.
This active engagement will serve a practical purpose: as the separate aspects of
each method are evaluated as weak or strong, they will either be discarded, or
adjusted and incorporated into the new formal method to be proposed in Part II
of Musical Motives.
An Account of Present-Day Motivic Analytical Techniques
To facilitate discussion of the many analytic approaches to motive explored in

the past century, this account groups them into three areas. The ordering of the
categories corresponds roughly to their chronology.
Method Category 1: Adherence to Schoenberg
The first analytic tradition to be assessed is the one that hews closest to
Schoenberg’s theories and methodologies as originally formulated. One group
of analysts, most notably Josef Rufer (1893–1985) and Patricia Carpenter (1923–
2000), acquired their techniques from studying directly with Schoenberg.
Others, such as Rudolph Réti (1885–1957), absorbed his teachings from a dis-
tance through study of his extensive print and radio output.52 Last, there were
a select set of analysts whose views accorded with Schoenberg’s, it seems,
mainly through force of Zeitgeist. Hans Keller is one such figure: he wrote and
lectured extensively on motivic unity despite claiming that he was largely un-
familiar with Schoenberg’s theories (Garnham 1998, 84). Keller’s student, Alan
Walker, continued his work, releasing several book-length studies that similarly
investigated issues of musical unity in Classical and, in a remarkable extension,
twentieth-century post-tonal  works.
The main element common to analyses in this category is a high degree of
methodological freedom. This freedom pertains to both how motives are iden-
tified and discovered in music and how the various forms are shown to interre-
late. In Rufer’s case, this freedom arises from his close adherence to Schoenberg’s
notion that motive is rooted in gesture. This view is exemplified in Rufer’s dem-
onstration of how two motives unify the three movements of Beethoven’s Piano
Sonata in C minor, Op. 10, No. 1. A portion of his analysis is reprinted in Example
3.16. Motive a, shown in the fifth line of the table (see asterisk), does not refer to
any specific interval or rhythm from the piece; instead it represents triadic arpeg-
giation in general. The essence of motive b (see first line, at star) is descending
motion by step.
Example 3.16 Excerpt of Rufer’s analysis of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata in C minor,
Op. 10, No. 1 (1966). Annotations added by the author.
Rufer’s gesture-based view of motive helps to explain the sheer number of

motivic associations made in his theme table. The bracketed annotations give
the illusion of a consistent method; however, the only real justification for
linking events is whether one reminds him of another.53 That said, many of the
connections he notes, such as those involving recurrences of motive a across
the first movement, seem cogent. Others are dubious, such as that involving
the two forms of b from the main theme, mm. 9–10 (again, see asterisked line,
end of system). The problem here is Rufer’s unmusical parsing. Although the
melody descends in mm. 9–10, there is nothing particularly 2nd-like about it.
If anything, the linear fifth should be parsed as two elided 3rds, G5-E♭ and E♭-C.
(The short duration of the F5 makes the two-note figure marked b2 extremely
unlikely.)
Réti’s Thematic Process in Music (1967) improves a bit on Rufer’s method.
Like Schoenberg and Rufer, Réti favors melody-only analysis. His work is dis-
tinguishable from theirs in how it attempts to formalize analysis. Réti is one
of few theorists for whom motivic analysis serves not as an element within a
theory, but as a discipline unto itself. He devotes two chapters of The Thematic
Process to tracing the history of motives back to Gregorian chant. A third chapter
investigates the psychology of motive as it asks whether the thematic process is
perceived consciously or subconsciously.
Of Réti’s several extensions to motivic analytic method, the most well-known
occurs in Chapter 4, which delineates “Various Categories of Transformation.”
The categories, which are presented as section headings in the text, are listed here
with glosses given in parentheses:
1. Inversion
2. Reversion (retrograde)
3. Interversion (note reordering)
4. Change of Tempo, Rhythm, Accent
5. Thinning, Filling of Thematic Shapes
6. Cutting of Thematic Parts
7. Thematic Compression
8. Change of Harmony
9. Change of Accidentals (while pitch names are retained)
These transformations are, on the whole conventional and are either

retained or have close analogs in modern atonal and tonal theory. Many of the
demonstrations Réti offers of these transformations are convincing, as well. The
techniques of “thinning and filling in,” for example, are demonstrated through
̂ 1̂ (sol-do) motions across the movements of
a survey of variously decorated 5–
Beethoven’s First Symphony. The premise of Example 3.17(a) is that a central
shape of G-B-C, which appears in movement I at the pickup to the Allegro, is just
as likely to appear thinned out as a fourth leap or thickened into the full linear
fourth G-A-B-C (images at center and at right).
Other demonstrations are less theoretically sound. With regard to Beethoven’s
Fifth Symphony, I, for example, he reduces the “Second Allegro Theme” to reveal
the four-note horn call (“Second motto”); see Example 3.17(b). The implication
Example 3.17 (a) In Example 129 from Réti 1967, the motive G-B-C from (I) of
Beethoven’s First Symphony is thinned in movement II and filled in movement III (86).
(b) In Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, (I), Réti derives the second allegro theme in mm.
63–66 from the Second motto event from 59–62, shown below it (1967, 175). The
annotation challenging the status of the E♭5 is newly added.
(c) The Second Allegro theme, mm. 63–66, in context with string accompaniment.
is that the second theme represents a transformed version of the symphony’s

Motto: G4-E♭-F-D. Réti’s point is weakened by the fact that the contour of the
Second Allegro theme is completely different from the Second Motto shown under
reduction below. The former centers around B♭4, while the latter descends the oc-
tave, B♭4-B♭3. Further doubts on Réti’s derivation arise when the Second Allegro
Theme is viewed in a fuller context. Example 3.17(c) reintroduces the lower string
parts supporting the melody. In Beethoven’s harmonization, dominant harmony
controls all of the second measure. If E♭ is a non-chord tone, it cannot also be struc-
tural; the four-note shape Réti arrives at through reduction must be invalid.
The analyses by Rufer and Réti are sufficient for diagnosing two types of
error endemic to this analytic tradition. The first stems from allowing analysts
to posit relationships solely on the basis of intuition. To avoid errors resulting
from this practice in our own method, we might consider outlawing it entirely.
But this would go too far. By removing the personal aspect from analysis, one
risks effacing Schoenberg’s spirit entirely. We gain more, I argue, by retaining
Schoenberg’s associative practices while also reining them in. This may be
achieved by splitting the monolithic act of motivic association into a series of
transparent, objective, and concrete decisions.
The other questionable practice in this tradition involves analysts making
claims out of context. In this case, “context” almost always means “proper har-
monic context.” The literature is rife with criticism of melody-only style analysis. Of
the many essays warning of the dangers of misrepresenting music in this way, John
Rothgeb’s 1987 review of Walter Frisch’s Brahms and the Principle of Developing
Variation stands as authoritative. His critique concerns Schoenberg’s view of
Brahms’s Quartet Op. 51, No. 2, II. In an analysis that serves as a core model for
Frisch, Schoenberg identifies the first four notes of the melody, C♯4-D-E-D as a mo-
tive (see Example Web.3.2 ). Rothgeb believes that shape is invalid, because it
cuts off the melody before it can complete a pattern of 10-10-10 outer voice coun-
terpoint spanning the downbeats of mm. 1–3. This error, according to Rothgeb,
results not from oversight but willful neglect. “Schoenberg’s examples,” Rothgeb
pointedly reminds readers, “do not even sketch the bass,” a practice that contradicts
what is definitively known about Brahms’s approach to composition (1987, 215).
The danger of applying a stylistically insensitive technique is not that an anal-
ysis will fail to explain a piece. It is that the analysis will fail to “understand that it
is failing to explain it,” a problem made all the more pernicious as the investigator
remains unaware of the deficiency (Rothgeb 1987, 201). Our response to the ac-
knowledged weakness of melody-only style analysis is unequivocal, which is that
this practice must be finally and fully abandoned.
Before moving to the next category, I wish to clarify a last point about the
decision to outlaw melody-only style analysis. This stance does not mean that
all motives proposed under the new system must be polyphonic (multivoice)
entities. It means that whenever analysts extract a shape from a musical texture,
they must take harmonic context into account. Doing so is essential to avoid pos-
iting musical shapes that run counter to the composer’s aim.
Method Category 2: Schenkerian-Schoenbergian Approaches
For the past fifty years, many of the sharpest barbs against motivic analysis were
lobbed by Schenkerian analysts. The difference in approaches to reduction fa-
vored by the dual camps could hardly be more extreme. Where Schoenbergian
analysts are more inclined to examine melody only, Schenkerians consider the
full texture. Indeed, the foundation for musical structure in their tradition, the
Ursatz, is a polyphonic structure that incorporates bassline and harmonic elem-
ents. Where Schoenbergians are traditionally given great latitude in how they
extract notes from music, Schenkerians abide by stricter rules for determining
which notes in a local context are structural and which are ornamental.
One might think, given the comparatively thin methodological footing on
which Schoenberg’s method rests, that Schenkerian analysts would have come to
disfavor motivic analysis. In fact, they consistently give high priority to motives.
When reading a commentary written to accompany a Schenker graph, one can ex-
pect that at least a few paragraphs will describe the piece’s motivic content. As pre-
viously noted, the precedent for this concern with motives comes from Schenker
himself. Over time, conventions of Schenkerian analysis gradually shifted so as to
emphasize multilevel motivic correspondences. Knowingly or not, Schenkerians
began to posit musical shapes in their analyses that, under scrutiny, could be said
to violate the formal system’s rules of reduction and hierarchy.54
This secondary hermeneutic impulse precipitates an internal conflict. On
the one hand, Schenkerian analysts have always had a keen interest for working
with motives. On the other, the regimented rule system under which they op-
erate makes them, pace Rothgeb, naturally suspicious of motivic analysis. One
can imagine two ways to reconcile these forces. One is to officially relax the rules
of analysis to accommodate motives, but this has never been seriously consid-
ered. The other strategy, which is to inject some of the methodological rigor of
Schenker into motivic analysis, has.
Over the years, a number of authors have attempted a formal reconcilia-
tion of Schenkerian and Schoenbergian technique. Two recent essays by Allen
Cadwallader (1988) and Jack Boss (1999) fit this description. Though their ter-
minology differs, both operate according to the same principle of “limit[ing]
what [is] called ‘motive’ to segments that are equivalent to diminutions in
the Schenkerian sense or that combine such diminutions” (Boss 1999, §2).
Cadwallader’s method produces a Schenkerian reading of a Beethoven
Bagatelle in which there is near-perfect correspondence between surface and

middleground motives. Boss’s produces a Schoenbergian reading of Beethoven’s
Piano Sonata in C minor, Op. 10, No. 1 that centers around the activity of two
motives. These are identified as alpha, a double-neighbor figure, and delta, a
linear ascending-third gesture that is harmonized in parallels 10ths.
The means by which Boss mingles Schoenberg and Schenker are highly subtle.
Throughout his analysis, the tenets of Schenker remain in effect: he adheres to
strict reduction techniques between surface and middleground layers. Yet the
focus of the analysis is on the interaction of the motivic shapes. The resulting
interpretations feel Schoenbergian because the motives are regarded in dynamic
terms. To take one example, motive alpha, Boss notes, undertakes “a journey to-
ward greater salience” that in the end is thwarted by delta’s resurgence, “pushing
alpha back down into the inner voice” (1999, §11). While Boss’s approach holds
much promise, it would be an exaggeration to say that it fully reconciles the two
methodologies. The priority given to the one discipline over the other evokes a
sense of Schoenberg’s baseball game being played out on Schenker’s home soccer
pitch and according to its rules.
The last major work to be noted in this category is David Epstein’s Beyond
Orpheus (1973). The primary inspiration for this work is Schoenberg. As such, it
relies heavily on Schoenberg’s presentation style and terminology; for example, in
Epstein’s text, the recurring central material is referred to as the Grundgestalt. At
the same time that he declares his Schoenbergian pedigree, however, Epstein also
acknowledges the strong influence Schenkerian theory has on his theory.
In Chapter 1, Epstein summarizes Schenker’s contribution to music, noting the
particular value of his principles for distinguishing structural versus ornamental
notes—that is: systematic reduction—and of his multilayered graphs “to illus-
trate the coordination of foreground gestures with background structure”—that
is, hierarchy (Epstein 1979, 7). Epstein’s sincere admiration for these principles
pervades all of the book’s large-scale analyses, which are further unified by the
common script he follows when carrying them out. Epstein first identifies the pri-
mary motives from the opening measures of a movement. For Beethoven’s Third
Symphony (“Eroica”), there are two such motives, a triad-gesture and a three-note
chromatic shape (see left and right brackets in Example 3.18(a)). He then accounts
for each motive’s activity in multiple structural levels of the piece. The graphic in
part (b) of the example resembles standard Schenkerian reduction; note, though,
that the three-note chromatic shape illuminated in the lower staff is derived from
the surface in a rather free manner. The high-priority tones in Epstein’s reduction
are determined on the basis of melodic correspondences among phrase onsets;
there is no consideration of counterpoint or harmony. A closer look reveals that
the D5-E♭-D♭ shape in the lower staff transforms the three-note shape from part (a)
according to one of Réti’s least rigorous operations, interversion(!).55
Example 3.18 Epstein’s analysis of motives in Beethoven’s Symphony No. 3,

“Eroica” (I).
(a) The main theme, mm. 3–11.
(b) Reduction of the melody in mm. 83–93 to a three-note, chromatic shape

(1979, 115).
Beyond Orpheus was criticized by its early reviewers for engaging in such an-
alytic license, but these complaints never seriously tarnished its legacy (Agawu
1988). To this day, Epstein’s offering is remembered chiefly as a work that
strengthened the credibility of Schoenbergian analysis by incorporating aspects
of Schenkerian methodology.56 This characterization, though no doubt meant
to be charitable, is patronizing. Epstein did not merely bring a Schenkerian sen-
sibility to bear on Schoenberg’s motivic analytical tradition. More accurately, he
wholly revived and refreshed motivic methodology in its own right.
One way that Beyond Orpheus achieved this is by expanding the purview of
motives. Although they chiefly manifest in his analyses as pitch and pitch-class
shapes, the motives at all times are understood to encode other kinds of mu-
sical information. Epstein notes early on that “harmonies are contrapuntally
conceived” (1979, 7). Soon after, he extends the notion of “contrapuntal” to in-
clude motives. These claims of interdependence bear directly on methodology,
as it encourages analysts to keep the harmonic implications of their proposed
motives in mind, thus avoiding the kinds of errors that Rothgeb deplores.
Another of the book’s achievements is that it improves the methodology for
identifying and associating motives. Epstein cites the long-standing lack of clear
“criteria by which pitch shapes can be judged,” as “the greatest single cause of
questionable studies of this sort in the past” (1979, 37). What is missing, in other
words, is a rigorous procedure for reducing ornate textures. As a corrective, he
offers his own set of criteria for linking two or more shapes, which are as follows:
1. Points of contour
2. Rhythm and meter
3. Pattern: consistency and recurrence

4. Degree position of pitches within a key
5. Harmonic content
Mostly, what is described in this list is not new. Some version of Epstein’s Point
#3, wherein shapes attain structural status through repetition and patterning, is
found in every methodology we have encountered. Point #4, as well, has long
held sway in Schenkerian analysis to account for the migration of tonal works
through key areas. If this condition were not in place, it would make it difficult
to assert some common-sense identities, for example, between a thematic ges-
ture occurring in the dominant key in one part of a sonata and then in another
key during the development or recapitulation. As a pitch shape’s letter names
shift due to transposition, the scale degree correspondences among the motive
forms ensure they sound identical. Epstein’s Point #5 acts as a corollary to #4, by
claiming that motives, if truly related, will project similar harmonic profiles.57
There is also precedent for Epstein’s Point #1, which holds that structural pitches
may be drawn from salient moments in phrases, specifically endpoints (onsets and
cadences) as well as high and low points of pitch. In a passage from The Thematic
Process, Réti claims that the basis for relating first-and last-movement themes
in Beethoven’s “Moonlight” sonata inheres “not in the latter’s concrete melodic
course, but . . . through a connection of some of its corner notes” (1979, 93; em-
phasis mine).58 Epstein’s close affinity with Réti, of all theorists, provides a clear
signal that he is operating further beyond the boundaries of Schenkerian analysis
than many assume. The substance of his Point #2 gives similar indication; it reads:
Rhythm and Meter. Significant notes more often than not lie upon rhythmic
and/or metric strong points. This is not to exclude ornamental notes from con-
sideration. Where they are significant, however, ornamental notes will usually
lie in some close and prominent relationship to notes that themselves are struc-
turally important. Discerning these relationships is of course a matter of judg-
ment, and not all judgments may be definitive. (1983, 37)
The idea that a pitch’s structural weight is communicated through its rhythmic
and/or metric salience is intuitive, yet is in many ways antithetical to Schenkerian
thought. The reason is spelled out where Epstein admits it is impossible to specify
when this criterion will apply and when it will not. Schenkerian reduction avoids
this hazard by minimizing rhythmic concerns. In that mode of analysis, the deter-
mination of whether a note is structural depends on other factors, such as its scale
step and its contrapuntal relation to other voices.
Epstein’s theory and technique, despite its flaws, shows promise as a pillar that
could help support a new, refined system of motivic analysis. We have established
that approaches that are too flexible are irresponsible. Stricter approaches that
filter out important, salient tones, on the other hand, can be too limiting. A true
compromise between the Schenkerian and Schoenbergian approaches is un-
likely to ever occur; however, Epstein’s five criteria provide a glimpse of how the
latter method might be resuscitated. What is missing is a means for judging the
relative weight of pitches. Were we to find a way to uniformly implement his cri-
teria in theory and analytic practice, motivic analysis could in the future be insu-
lated from many of the critiques that have been lodged against it.
Method Category 3: Cognitive Approaches
There exists a rich, long-standing tradition of psychologists investigating music.

Many of these scholars have done so with the hope of better understanding the
brain overall. Examples include studying musical memory to better understand
memory in general, or examining musical ability in people with communica-
tive disorders (aphasias) to aid in brain mapping. More recently, scholars have
worked to build an autonomous field centering specifically on the “psychology of
music,” in which the study of brain function is carried out to better understand
how humans conceive music. It is this subfield that has the closest bearing on the
recent history of motive.
It would be wholly appropriate for a study inquiring into the essence of mo-
tive to draw on the significant body of experimental literature on motivic cog-
nition and perception that exists. Done right, this would entail our becoming
fully versed in the data-driven side of music theory; however, we do not have the
time nor resources to accommodate that endeavor. Fortunately, there is a more
expedient path into this subdiscipline. It comes by way of another activity that
cognitive scientists partake in, one that frequently takes up as much of their time
and effort as the actual running of experiments. This activity, known as “concep-
tual modeling,” translates thought processes—which in reality are impossibly ab-
stract and nonlinear—into more concrete representations that typically take the
form of networks and algorithms.
Devising conceptual models for music cognition represents a highly robust
form of theorizing. The most important feature of the models is that laboratory
experiments can be engineered to test them: such usually involves measuring
human and animal responses to aural stimuli and/or by running rule-constrained
computer programs that generate music.59 Another advantage of conceptual
models is that they are designed according to the principles of cognitive science.
In a refreshing break from the tradition that frames musical thinking as a discrete
pursuit with its own symbology and rules, conceptual models resituate musical
thinking as just another kind of knowledge. Conceptual modeling thus tends to
be interdisciplinary, often relying on insights from fields as wide-ranging as neu-

roscience, psychology, and linguistics.60
Our primary reference text from this category will be Lawrence Zbikowski’s
Conceptualizing Music (2002). This work is meant to show how our “under-
standing of music draws on the same cognitive processes” that help us “or-
ganize [our] understanding of the world as a whole” (2002, 4). The first basis
provided for this understanding is category, which is a mental network that each
human consciousness assembles to describe every “thing” it knows. The tutorial
Zbikowski offers on this subject describes the category of bird, shown in Example
3.19. This is a so-called natural category that emerges “from the interaction of
humans with their natural environments” (2002, 39).
In the diagram, the category at far left is established on the basis of various ge-
neral “attributes” that each admit a range of “values” (second and third columns,
respectively). Some values are prioritized via the “prototype effect”: these
manifest where our strongest senses of attributes and commonality align. For
example, most people, on being asked to think of “some bird, any bird,” will im-
agine a small, dull-colored creature with wings and a beak; these values are indi-
cated by the asterisks in the “values” column. According to cognitive psychology,
Example 3.19 Diagram from Zbikowski 2002 of the category “Bird” (42).
attributes values individuals
large
size
medium wren
small*
brown*
color white
cardinal
red
green
Bird
chirps*
chicken
sound clucks
sings
squawks
parrot
flies*
locomotion
runs
each time we encounter some new potential bird, we compare its attributes to
our conception of the category and determine how well it fits.
An illustration of this process is given in Example 3.19 for the category
member, wren. The relative boldness of connector lines reflects the relative
strengths of associations. This explains why wrens likely seem more bird-like
to you than other winged creatures: it all depends on your personal category
structure(s) and prototype(s). Continuing this line of thought, it further makes
sense that people’s category structures change over time as their experiences
shift. This informs another key aspect of categories, which is that they are porous
and changeable. Zbikowski reminds us in the strongest terms that categories are
something our brains impose on reality, not the other way around: “Categories
are not only not given by nature, but also they are subject to change and modifi-
cation as our thought unfolds” (2002, 12).
Shortly after category is established as a basis for thought in general, Zbikowski
translates this phenomenon into musical terms. The musical concept that best
instantiates the notion of category for Zbikowski is motive. To defend this view,
he cites Schoenberg at length, specifically the passages that link musical com-
prehension to the repetition of clearly demarked and recognizable shapes. He
then bolsters this view by systematically analogizing motives to more worldly,
familiar categories.
An important parallel in how we speak about the two worlds, physical and
musical, pertains to a preference for labels that fall within a certain sweet spot
of specificity. The average person, upon seeing a winged creature, will say it is
a bird, as opposed to a “carbon-based life form” (too general) or a “geococcyx
californianas” (too specific). The common category name attaches to the so-
called basic-level, somewhere in the middle of the naming hierarchy where it
provides “maximum utility” (Zbikowski 2002, 31). The same goes for motives
in music. When discussing the opening of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring, musicians
and nonmusicians alike will not refer to the melody from m. 1 as “a bunch of
notes” (too general), nor as “C5-B4-C5-B4-G-E-B-A, with rhythm of a quarter
note–four sixteenth notes–eighth note, also decorated with a shake on the
second note” (too specific). They will instead employ a label that reflects a basic-
level understanding, calling it “the bassoon motive from Rite” or, perhaps in the
isolated context of the score itself, “Motive x.”
Another parallel between category and motive pertains to how instances
of the latter are stored in the mind. As listeners attend to a piece with prom-
inent motivic activity, they are able to identify returns of the primary ges-
ture even when it is altered in register, timbre, and—to a lesser extent—pitch
and rhythm. To show how this kind of recognition is the same as the kind
undergirding our workaday knowledge of birds, Zbikowski examines the
relationships among motive forms in Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, movement
I. His diagram in Example 3.20, following the format of his “Bird” example,

illustrates how a diverse set of “individual” forms of motive at the far right
fit into a single category through the mediation of values in three musical
domains (attributes).
Of the many attractive aspects of the “motive as category” notion, the most
compelling arises out of the way it models attributes. Each bubble in the leftmost
column of Example 3.20 is an independent musical domain. More striking is that
only one of them, “diatonic melodic profile,” expressly concerns pitch or pitch-
class. Through aid of cognitive theory, Zbikowski restores some of the elements
of motivic identity that, once essential, were “boiled off ” during the recent pe-
riod of (de-)evolution described earlier.
Example 3.20 Diagram from Zbikowski 2002 of the category structure of main

motive forms in Beethoven’s Symphony 5 (I), mm. 1–21 (44).
attributes values individuals
mm. 1–2
tutti
mm. 3–5
orchestration solo
mm. 6–7
ensemble
mm. 7–8
f, ff
mm. 8–9
dynamic cresc.
mm. 10–11
piano
mm. 11–12
mm. 12–13
u, –2, –2
mm. 14–15
u, u, –2
diatonic mm. 15–16
melodic u, u, –3
profile mm. 16–17
u, u, –4
mm. 17–18
u, +2, +2
mm. 18–19
Summary: The Bridge to Part II, Methods

of Motivic Analysis
This chapter has provided a historical overview of motive as a theoretic/analytic

concept. The account has been wide-ranging, covering developments over several
centuries; thus, it has been sketched in only rough strokes. It illustrates that the con-
cept of motive has always fluctuated. This is because motives, which are in essence
analytical and compositional tools, exist to serve the aesthetic and intellectual needs
of the musicians who wield them. When seventeenth-century analysts sought to ex-
plain the technical bases for the structural/emotional form of madrigals and mass
movements, they needed motives to take the form of figures. Nineteenth-century
musicians, who possessed a more lyric sensibility, required motives to have larger
profiles and to enfold pitch and rhythm elements. Twentieth-century musicians,
working in an age when time itself was increasingly viewed as relative, shrunk
motives to such an extent that they came to exist outside of time entirely.
I asserted at the outset of this chapter that history will not furnish us with a ready-
made system of analysis. It still can serve us another way. The issues it invokes,
reformulated as a series of questions, offer a starting point for assembly of a new
system. Here, a set of such questions, asked and answered, will deliver us to the
second part of Musical Motives, the chapters covering methodology and analysis.
Question 1: Should a motive manifest as a cell in the twentieth-century sense, or

should it manifest as a longer, memorable shape?
Answer: As both. In this study, the preferred length for motive—the basic
building block of music—will be two to approximately seven ordered notes. In
specifying a minimum length of two, this principle resists the notion that a mo-
tive can exist out of time as a chord. To allow for motives to manifest over sev-
eral measures of music, they may (1) appear under rhythmic reduction, or (2) be
chained together in the manner of Theme = motive1 + motive2 + motive3.
Question 2: On what basis should the tones of an ornamented surface be reduced in
order to determine the structural pitches of a motive?
Answer: The looser, gestural approach favored by Schoenberg will be
discarded. The spirit of Réti’s method, filtered through David Epstein’s approach,
will serve as the model for reduction. In chapter 5 of this volume, Epstein’s five
criteria, discussed earlier, will be revisited and distilled into a set of fixed rules for
reduction that balance tonal and associative impulses.
Question 3: Will motives be considered as pitch or pitch-class phenomena?

Answer: As both. In line with the set-theory understanding of motives, it
will be possible to envision a specific pitch shape such as G4-B-E as an abstract,
arpeggiating set of notes with varying contours, such as G4-B-E5 or C#4-E3-A. At

the same time that we adopt this viewpoint, we will retain a pitch-class under-
standing to observe parallelisms between local note shapes and larger-scale key
motions, since the latter properly have no specified pitch height.
Question 4: Will a motive be considered to be a single-line event or a polyphonic

one?
Answer: As both. The foundation for the method advanced early in Part II
centers on a traditional, single-line motive. This simpler, monophonic shape will
ground what will be called basic motivic analysis (BMA), a mode of inquiry ap-
propriate for novices or for experts looking to quickly or selectively analyze a
work. In light of knowledge about how past composers wrote tonal music and
how we conceive it now, however, this simplified model cannot stand as the
final form of motive. A richer model, adumbrated by Carpenter’s multivoiced
complexes and Zbikowski’s categories, will serve as the basis for complex motivic
analysis (CMA). This form of motive, enfolding multiple voices and exhibiting
textural, harmonic, articulative, and contrapuntal attributes, will be formally
presented with attendant methodology in c hapter 7.
Question 5: What role should traditionally nonstructural domains such as timbre,

dynamics, and articulation play in the conception of motive?
Answer: These domains play no role in BMA, but are accommodated in the
model and methodology of CMA.
Question 6: Should a motive be allowed to extend itself—to develop, in the classic,

Schoenbergian sense—through alterations of its interval content?
Answer: Officially, no. A motive, once defined, will only be associated with
note configurations that perfectly preserve its relations. Despite this restriction,
highly creative associations among motive forms will remain possible—and in-
deed, desirable—due to other flexibilities built into the method.
Question 7: What motivic alterations are allowed, then?

Answer: Motives may always be transformed by interval-preserving opera-
tions, which are primarily transposition and inversion in the pitch/pitch-class
domain and primarily duration scaling in the rhythm domain. They may also
be discoverable under melodic reduction. Some enhanced flexibility, moreover,
is available in CMA. Two motive forms may perfectly accord, but only in lim-
ited respects, for example, in contour but not pitch. The multifaceted nature of
the complex motive will allow us to determine an approximate “degree of corre-
spondence” between it and some other shape manifesting, say, roughly 50 per-
cent or 80 percent of its features.
Question 8: How will the book’s strict methodology impact some of the more
common-sense intuitions analysts have about motivic relations? Will there be cases
in which a clearly audible musical relationship must be excluded from analysis?
Answer: Such exclusions will indeed occur, regrettable as that may seem. An
example would be an ascending melodic third gesture that seems to expand as it
is immediately succeeded by ascending fifth, sixth, and octave gestures. In con-
trast with past methods, there will be little allowance for “temporal proximity” of
events to override a structural dissimilarity among two shapes (Zbikowski 2002,
161). The rigor of this method requires some sacrifice of findings; however, this
“cost” will ultimately prove minimal, either as the finding itself proves inessential
or as the method (particularly CMA) is adjusted to capture the intuited connec-
tion in some other way.
The philosophies rooted in this last set of answers are embodied in the models,
theories, and methods presented in Part II. The express concern of chapter 4 is
establishing a universal nomenclature for motives; however, the exposition of
motive types and labels will fulfill two aims at once. One is to resuscitate motivic
analysis in our culture by working to standardize the language surrounding it. At
present, when multiple analysts discuss the same work—or different works fea-
turing similar pitch and rhythm shapes—each, more often than not, will devise
his or her own system of labels and terminology, thus discouraging communi-
cation. The other aim is to develop readers’ sense of what constitutes a properly
formed motive. The labeling principles, through their innate design, intimate
which shapes are well formed and which are not in this method. The founda-
tional knowledge of basic motives provided in c hapter 4 will prepare readers for
the subsequent demonstrations in chapters 5 and 6 of how such shapes may be
deployed in analysis of full works.
PART II
MET HOD S OF MOT I V IC
A NA LYSI S
4
A Universal Nomenclature for Pitch
and Rhythm Motives
Theorists and analysts have been working with motives for centuries, yet surpris-
ingly no standard convention exists for naming them. The closest approximation
to one is the practice of assigning motives arbitrary letter symbols from the Latin
or Greek alphabets. It is difficult to say whether this approach, which requires
no special musical training, is advantageous or not. On the one side, it allows
novices to rapidly engage in analysis. On the other, this quick-start philosophy is
prone to backfire, as shapes proposed by novices often fail basic tests of audibility
and/or theoretic consistency.
A more seductive aspect of traditional nomenclature is that it lends analyses
a false air of certainty. Readers may recall Schoenberg’s approach of labeling
motives and features with letters and using algebraic symbols to show their in-
teraction; this was discussed at length in c hapter 3. His addition signs work as
expected to show how musical shapes combine, for example in the “chain of
derivations” given for the A major adagio from Brahms’s Quartet, Op. 51, No.
2. His use of the division sign is, however, highly problematic. Example 3.13
reproduced his analysis of the adagio theme from Beethoven’s Piano Sonata
3, Op. 2, No. 3. He establishes motive b as the three-note shape, G♯4-A-F♯. He
writes “b/2” to describe all instances of the second interval, A4-F♯ in isolation.
Importantly, b/2 is never shown applying to the first of b’s intervals, G♯4-A. We
are left to wonder: are both b/2 entities truly equal? Will combining them in re-
verse order also result in b, as logic requires? Almost assuredly not.
Another problem with the letter-naming approach is that it is inefficient. The
act of establishing a set of arbitrary symbols to represent different motives is
tantamount to writing a code. The author is obligated to provide a legend for
all of the motive forms. Readers must periodically glance back at this legend as
they follow an analysis. Memorizing it requires extra work, too. Worse is that
such work rarely pays dividends, as one typically forgets an essay’s motivic code
quickly, specifically the moment one turns to view the next motivic analysis.
A more pressing concern is that analysts lack ready means to compare the
motivic content of one analysis with another. Schoenberg, in analyzing the
first movement of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 5 in C minor, establishes five
primary motives in mm. 1–16. In Example 4.1, motive a = a chordal triadic
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197526026.003.0004.
106 Methods of Motivic Analysis
Example 4.1 Example 52c from Schoenberg’s Fundamentals of Musical

Composition.
utterance; motive b = upward, zigzagging arpeggiation; motive c = the rhythmic

tag of two staccato quarter notes; motive d = the downward sigh, introduced via
pickup; and motive e = descending linear motion of a third. His student, Josef
Rufer, identifies three main motives for the same work (see Example 3.16 from
chapter 3). In Rufer’s analysis, motive a is an arpeggiation idea, and motive b is
a stepwise idea.
Such a large discrepancy between analyses of the same movement, and so far
we are only comparing the results of two very like-minded scholars. It is not nec-
essary to consider at present why their materials diverge. Our concern is that
their analyses do not speak to each other, and that such is the prevailing condi-
tion in this field. Motive a for one author almost never means Motive a for an-
other. Motive a rarely means the same thing for even the same author from one
piece to another.
To dispel this confusion, it makes sense to consider previous achievements
in motive formatting and style. Two potential solutions for the nomenclature
problem are suggested in the work of Rudolph Réti. First, he prefers more func-
tionally descriptive labels over abstract symbols. The modest table of motives he
gives for Beethoven’s Pathétique Sonata shown in Example Web.4.1 is more
inviting than tables populated by long lists of arbitrary letter labels.1 Assuming
one has a thorough knowledge of the piece at hand, it is easy to associate Réti’s
labels with the compositional functions he describes.2
A Universal Nomenclature for Pitch and Rhythm Motives 107
A second aspect of Réti’s labeling approach with potentially far-reaching ap-

plication involves his recognition of the concept of universal musical shapes. He
invokes this notion when discussing “cells,” which for him are special shapes that
represent “the shortest extract of a motive.” The essential feature of a cell is its
pitch interval content, so sensibly, he gives these entities labels such as “fifth,”
“second,” and “third.” Réti is not the first or only analyst to conceive of motives in
an atomistic, intervallic fashion. Schoenberg and Reicha prefer this approach, as
do several present-day theorists, such as Richard Cohn (2005) and Adam Ricci
(2007).
Réti’s straightforward approach suggests that a universal system for labeling
motives is possible; however, no one has proposed one as far as I can determine.
I do so here as a first step toward advancing the status of motivic analysis as a
discipline. Having recourse to standard nomenclature affords analysts many
benefits, starting with improved communication among scholars examining
the same works from different vantage points. A universal system, moreover,
can offer guidance on how to properly identify and frame motives, and just as
importantly, how not to. More immediately, this system should help to clear up
much of the confusion that neophytes have with defining motives. More globally,
it represents an important first step in improving the reputation of motivic anal-
ysis through the adoption of more objective and predictable analytic practices.
I would like to pause to make clear the ramifications of situating the topic of
nomenclature at the head of the methodology section. Nomenclature does not
appear first because the act of identifying and naming motives comes first in anal-
ysis. It is because the naming system informs and impacts the structural logic of
the full analytic system. Another point to remember is that the labeling system to
follow has been developed to account for the majority of pitch and rhythm shapes
that appear in tonal music. I have endeavored to make it as comprehensive as is
practicable. It is not perfect, and some limitations must be kept in mind.
First, it is unwise to assume that improved precision in discussing the con-
tent of musical shapes will resolve all of the methodological problems associated
with motivic analysis. The nomenclature system applies to an art form, music,
therefore it cannot claim universality or comprehensiveness, nor will it convey
any special authority to analyses that rely on it in whole or in part. The system of
nomenclature cannot even fully resolve ambiguity: when encountering any note
shape “in the wild,” it will not restrict analysts from applying a number of dif-
ferent labels reflective of opposing interpretations.
The formal presentation of the nomenclature commences with the musical do-
main of pitch (and, implicitly, pitch-class). Once we have established guidelines
for handling variations in length and disposition, we will move to discuss the
rhythmic domain, which—although equally important in the system—tends to
manifest less complexity.
Rules for Labeling Pitch and Pitch-Class Motives
The system of nomenclature is founded on the principle that pitch and pitch-class
motives are essentially intervallic entities. In this domain, motives are named ac-
cording to their interval content and their length in terms of “number of notes”
(as opposed to their duration in time). There are two aspects of motive that will
always be documented. We will, first, always account for the boundary interval
measured from the starting point to the ending point. We will then examine the
internal disposition of the motive, taking into account whether it is generally
stepwise, leapy, unidirectional, zigzag-like, and so on.
I mentioned earlier that the system has been fashioned for use with the tonal
system. It follows that its terminology will correspond with shapes and figures
common to this music. We frequently speak of “linear” and “arpeggiating”
gestures in describing musical shapes, and so we will rely on that same termi-
nology here. A practical place to begin is by considering the broadest categories
of how notes can be arranged into shapes. The simplest shapes in music are uni-
directional lines. Our nomenclature rules will apply first in this area, progressing
from smaller shapes to larger ones. Soon after, supplementary rules will be pro-
vided to describe melodies that have more complex pitch contours, meaning
melodies that twist and turn and/or repeat notes.
The following set of rules and examples will clarify and demonstrate how the
naming procedure is put into practice.
Rule P1. No one-note pitch motives are recognized. Single-note events, by defi-
nition, have no essential intervallic content, and thus no intrinsic pitch-shape
character.3 Importantly, excluding such phenomena from the pitch-motive
domain does not exclude the possibility of single-note events manifesting as
elements of a rhythmic, textural, and/or rhetorical motive (for example, under
complex motivic analysis).
Rule P2. The simplest pitch motives, typically 2–5 notes in length, are first labeled
according to their intervallic content as measured between first and last notes.
Three relevant guidelines should be cited here, not only because they clarify
how this rule is imposed, but because they will apply quite generally to the full
method.
Guideline 1 (for Rule P2): Diatonic interval measurements are favored. A mo-
tion from a C to an E is usually assumed to be a third, and one from D down to
A is assumed to be a fourth. Enharmonic substitutions are possible when the
music calls for them, as in highly chromatic repertoires. This allows for some
necessary flexibility in labeling, as in the case of a melody that moves from F
down to C♯: that interval may be designated a descending fourth or descending
third, depending on context. (In certain cases, a single label may apply to two
different types of interval, such as “tritone” with regard to an augmented 4th or
diminished 5th.)
Guideline 2 (for Rule P2): Interval measurements are most commonly made in
pitch space; however, pitch-class (note name) space may be invoked to serve the
interests of a particular analysis. For example, the default label for a motive span-
ning C4 to A is a “sixth,” and that for a motive spanning B♭5 down to F is a “fourth.”
In cases when a motive spans more than one octave, for example A3 to C5, the
expected label would be a “tenth.” The same, however, can also be called a “third”
in pc-space if one wishes to associate it with other pitch and pitch-class thirds
in a piece (or wishes to employ standard compound interval terminology). It is
similarly possible, though rarer, to apply a pitch-class label to a pitch interval.
This can yield a counter-intuitive result, for example, measuring the span G2 to
F3, an ascent in pitch, as a “descending second” in pitch-class space.
Guideline 3 (for Rule P2): Whenever possible, the overall direction of a basic
motive in pitch space is indicated by superscript and subscript text, e.g., 4th and
4th, respectively for ascending and descending motion. (This convention cannot
apply to harmonic intervals in which boundary tones sound simultaneously.)
The same superscript and subscript can also be used to represent pitch-class
motion, such as moving a 3rd through C-D-E, even if these notes descend in
pitch space, e.g., C5-D4-E3.
Rule P3. Basic motive labels are further qualified in terms of their internal inter-
vallic disposition. In general, this refers to motives exhibiting stepwise versus
leaping motion or having diatonic versus chromatic character. To signify the
motive’s basic linear, leaping, or chromatic disposition, the number component
will be notated respectively in plain, outline, and bold font.
Demonstration and Discussion
We begin by considering a set of short, unidirectional motives. These simpler

examples will be followed by others of increasing complexity and ambiguity.
In labeling any motive of a second, one need not consider the controlling key,
if any. The second-ness or step-like quality of a motive arises from the fact that
it is composed of two notes a letter name apart. The corollary here is that the
nomenclature generally does not distinguish between whole step and half
step motion. In Example 4.2(a), the motion from a D♭5 up to E♭ is labeled as a
second, specifically 2nd; in (b) the motion from G4 down to F♯ is also a second,
2nd. Examples 4.2(c) and (d) illustrate purely linear motions. The former is a 4th
and the latter a 6th.
Example 4.2 Nomenclature for short, unidirectional motives.
(a) (b) (c) (d)
(e) (f) (g) (h)
The motion from a D♭4 down to B3 in Example 4.2(e) is labeled 3rd, because one
can only directly connect these letter names by leap. All other two-note leaping
motives will similarly appear in outline font when they occur. The interval in
Example 4.2(f) is a 7th. Last, unidirectional linear motives may also exhibit chro-
maticism, filling in smaller boundary intervals with more and more notes. The
motive in Example 4.2(g), though actually composed of three notes, is named a
2nd because it spans the second C4-D. The motive in Example 4.2(h) is a 3rd, that
fills the space between E♭5 and C.
Rule P4Arp. Arpeggiation of triads and seventh chords constitutes a separate spe-
cies of basic motive.4 The appropriate root label for such a motive, “Arp,” applies
in the many cases in which chordal arpeggiation manifests as a recurring ges-
ture. For this reason, the Arp designation typically supersedes the primary in-
terval label from Rule P2. Additional information concerning the length and
direction of the arpeggiation is appended to the root label as follows:
Corollary 1 (for Rule P4Arp). A number can be added to Arp to indicate the
number of notes in the shape, for example Arp4 and Arp5 to describe four-and
five-note arpeggiations in ascent and descent, respectively. In the most basic
case of ascending three-note arpeggiation, the qualifying Arabic numeral is
typically omitted.
Corollary 2 (for Rule P4Arp). The overall direction of an arpeggiation can
be indicated by altering the appearance of the label. Simple upward versus
downward motions are shown via superscript and subscripts as described in
Corollary 1. When necessary, internal directional changes can be represented
by adjusting the relative height of the “Arp” label’s component letters. In cases
of extremely complex pitch contour, this extra pictorial labeling convention
should be curtailed o
r abandoned.
Example 4.3 Nomenclature for arpeggiating motives.
(a) (b) (c)
(d) (e) (f)
We begin once more with unidirectional motives. The three-note, downward ar-
peggiation in Example 4.3(a) is labeled Arp3. So is the one shown in Example
4.3(b), despite the fact that it spans a fifth instead of a sixth. The shared label
reflects the fact that the two motives express the same general musical idea.5 The
six-note, upward arpeggiation in Example 4.3(c) is labeled Arp6. Example 4.3(d)
shows an equivalent motion that arpeggiates a seventh chord. It is important to
note that the internal “stepwise” motion from B♭4 to C5 is in this case considered
a leap and not a step. The Arp label has limited ability to capture the essence of
more complicated arpeggiation patterns. In some cases, such as that suggested by
the small motivic idea of Example 4.3(e), the letters of the label can be configured
to approximate the shape’s contour.
For more complicated arpeggiation patterns, the Arp label does not directly
apply. In Example 4.3(f), for instance, Arp4 only accurately describes the larger
patterns traced by each of the two implied melodic voices; these are the lines that
emerge from a reduction, or pruning, of the surface figuration. If the analyst wishes
to focus more on the surface, oscillating quality of the melody, it can be assigned
a textural motive label in accordance with the rules of complex motivic analysis.
Rule P4Neighbor. Full neighbor motion (away and back from a tone by step in
either direction), another commonplace melodic shape in tonal music, is another
separate category of pitch motive. There are two ways analysts can label such
motives. The designation “N” works best for neighbor gestures that appear
in relative isolation. An alternate, schematic notation with slashes indicating
away-and-back motion—e.g., / \ and \ /for upper and lower neighbors—is also
possible. Double neighbor figures, which surround a note by its two adjacent
pitches, may be labeled as DN.
The opening, tenor melody of the Chopin Waltz shown in Example 4.4(a) is based
on neighbor figures. These are bracketed at the surface and labeled as N. A larger
N can be heard when the successive downbeats of mm. 1–3 are extracted under
reduction (see lines pointing to tenor). The opening of Beethoven’s Bagatelle,
Op. 119, No. 1, shown in Example 4.4(b), furnishes a case of neighbor figures
playing a supporting role to other motives. It is still permissible to label the first
three notes of the melody, D5-E♭-D, as N. The /\ slash notation is favored there
because the first two notes do not stand on their own: they serve as a pickup to the
more structurally important linear 4th that follows. The pickup to m. 3 is similar,
but the first two pitches have been adjusted to accommodate the local V6 har-
mony, resulting in a double neighbor figure around B♭4. In this case, A4 is taken
to be primary, hence the single /sign. The advantage of the slash nomenclature
Example 4.4 Two conventions for labeling neighbor figures.

(a) Chopin Waltz in A minor, Op. 34, No. 2.
(b) Beethoven Bagatelle in G minor, Op. 119, No. 1.

is that it tracks the presence of all of the neighbor figures, without clouding our
view of mm. 1–2 and 3–4 as identical, fourth-based melodies. The presence of
the two linear 4ths running parallel in the bass voice (unmarked) supports this
reading.
Rule P5. Basic pitch motives are frequently decorated by prefix and suffix fig-
ures. These brief figures perform many duties, among them adjusting a motive’s
harmonic profile by shifting its boundary tones or increasing a motive’s rhythmic
interest. Stepwise prefixes and suffixes are indicated by slashes, / or \, to indi-
cate ascent and descent. Leap prefixes and suffixes are indicated with hook no-
tation. The symbols ⎡ and ⎣ are used to show ascending and descending leap
approaches into motives; the symbols ⎦ and ⎤ are used to show ascending and
descending leaps away.
Composers setting motives in tonal contexts frequently adjust them for

variety’s sake or to align them with local harmony. As their name suggests, prefix
and suffix tones lead into or out of a basic motive without impacting its shape.6
Very often, a piece will tend to attach particular forms of these figures to its pri-
mary motives. Because they are nonstructural elements, though, there is little
need to analyze prefix/suffix behavior. The value of recognizing prefixes and
suffixes is that it allows analysts to distinguish the core content of a motive de-
spite minor surface variations.
Due to relatively weak metric placement, an anacrusis (pickup) is likely to be

heard attaching to an upcoming, structural motive. Example 4.5(a) provides
two examples of stepwise prefixes attaching to a six-note ascending shape. The
first pickup note attaches by step; the latter substitutes a more generic down-
ward leaping gesture. Stepwise prefixes are just as likely to attach to arpeggiating
motives. A famous example can be heard in the first four notes of “I Won’t Grow
Up” from the 1953 Broadway show, Peter Pan (Example 4.5(b)). Occasionally, as
in the famous opening to Joplin’s rag, “The Entertainer,” a prefix gesture may take
the form of two notes (Example 4.5(c)). The basic nomenclature is extended by
placing a second slash next to the first.
Stepwise suffixes are rarer. When they occur, it is often in the context of a melody
employing an extra pitch to reach a critical scale degree, such as 2̂ or 7̂ to form a
half cadence. This is what happens in the Haydn Sonata excerpt shown in Example
4.5(d). The melodic descent in mm. 3–4 involving E5-B4 and shadowed by the
alto’s C♯5-G♯4, is not a fourth as it first seems, but a linear third with an added pitch.
Example 4.5 Conventions for prefixes and suffixes.
(a) Stepwise and leaping prefixes.
(b) Prefix stepwise motion in “I won’t grow up,” from Charlap, Styne, and Leigh’s
Peter Pan.
(c) Double prefix stepwise motion in Joplin’s The Entertainer.
(d) Suffix use in Haydn’s Sonata 36 in C♯ minor, Hob. XVI: 36 (II).

Labeling it in this way allows us to connect the motive with the salient surface thirds
in mm. 1–4 and 12–13, as well as to the concluding melodic gesture in mm. 15–16.
The primary motivic motion at the end is revealed to be the 3rd C♯5-A4; it is only in
retrospect that we recognize it, in adorned form, in the alto voice of mm. 3–4.7
Rule P6. Motives may be formed by combining two or more fundamental shapes.
The proper label for a composite motive specifies the content of all linear, leaping,
arpeggiating, and neighbor subshapes using addition signs to indicate discrete (+)
and/or elided (⊕) joinings. The resulting quasi-mathematical expression can
stand directly for the motive. Alternatively, a summary label may be assigned
that takes the form: Bounding Interval/Nickname = [total composite content].
Traditional nicknames should be avoided, except in cases in which a composite
motive can be clearly associated with an iconic work such as Wagner’s Tristan
Prelude or Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade.
While the motivic content of some works can be fully described by the shapes
delineated by Rules P1–5, many pieces rely on more complex motives that de-
rive from the combination of more fundamental shapes. Rule P6 exists to treat
such motives. Due to space limitations, the three examples in the present sec-
tion illustrate basic procedures for identifying and labeling composite motives.
The examples in the section that follows have been constructed to address pitch
motive types that were escaped earlier mention, thus further illustrating the in-
herent flexibility of the nomenclature system.
Example 4.6(a) presents a composite motive containing arpeggiating and
linear elements. Assigning a label here is not difficult but not automatic. The
primary concern is that there is no one way to determine the size of each sub-
element. We may well ask: “Does the three-note arpeggiation, G-B-D, end at
the D3 before moving to a discrete 2nd starting on E (upper reading), or does the
first Arp elide to a fuller, linear 3rd (lower reading)?” To avoid being swamped
by minutiae, we should rely heavily on some reductive logic. Linear seconds
are usually too generic to be significant, so the latter part of the ascent prob-
ably spans the third D3-F♯. The initial leaping idea could be just two notes
long as well, a G2-B 3rd, but it is more likely an arpeggiation. Only in the face
of strong evidence from elsewhere in the score would we opt for a different
parsing. Last, two labels are possible for the lower, preferred reading. Using the
special addition sign to signify the overlap, the motive can be called Arp⊕3rd.
Alternatively, if we want to capitalize on the fact that its boundary interval is
significant elsewhere, a summary label can be given to the whole so that it is

called 7th=Arp ⊕ 3rd.
Example 4.6(b) presents a motive similar to that in Example 4.6(a). This shape
reaches a full octave, which increases the inherent ambiguity of the figure. When
deciding on how to join the arpeggiating and linear components, we chose eli-
sion in Example 4.6(a), because it favored a 3rd motive reading over the less
useful 2nd. That strategy will not work here, so the two interpretations of this
motive are equally viable. One may opt for the Arp⊕4th shown above the staff or
the Arp + 3rd shown below.
Example 4.6 Nomenclature for compound motives.

(a) Two readings of a motive of a 7th.
(b) Two readings of a motive of an octave.
(c) Bach Fugue in B major, WTC I: Two possible readings of subject motives
in m. 2.
Another class of composite motive involves linear gestures that change di-
rection in their interior. By this I mean that the upward and downward linear
stretches are both two or more notes long. In a situation that a one-note direc-
tional shift appears, it will surely register as a neighbor or prefix/suffix event.
The corollary to the present point is that all basic motive prototypes, excluding
the special N and Arp shapes, are unidirectional. The most direct way to label a
truly multidirectional fragment is to use composite nomenclature. The second
half of the subject from Bach’s B major Fugue from Well-Tempered Clavier
I traces an ascent from B3 to E4 and back (see m. 2 of Example 4.6(c)). One
can use elision to create a fourths-based reading as shown below the subject.
Alternatively, the plain addition operator gives the “mixed” third and fourth
reading shown above. This latter interpretation, being more motivically rich
and connecting to the subject’s initial 3rd in m. 1, may be more analytically
valuable.
Extensions to the Rules for Pitch and Pitch-Class Nomenclature
The six foregoing rules constitute the basis of the pitch and pitch-class mo-
tive naming system. As far-reaching as they are, the frequent need for extra
“guidelines” makes it clear that many note configurations still fall outside
their purview. In such cases, the self-determining spirit of motivic analysis is
appropriately honored by allowing musicians to adopt the rules as they like.
I am all for this, but I wish to offer some suggestions for handling trickier
shapes that are likely to confront analysts. The solutions suggested here are
not the only ones possible. They are meant to serve as models for creatively
employing the nomenclature and to show that the rules can be modified as
needed.
The first modification allows for flexible handling of prefixes and suffixes to
accommodate common ornamentations of stock diatonic gestures. As Rule P5
was first presented, all prefix and suffix figures were attached at the edges of a
motive. Often, it feels that a shape is better represented by having the prefixes or
suffixes apply internally.8 Consider the case of Example 4.7(a), where the down-
ward leap of a fifth (D3-G2) is altered by the addition of the incomplete neighbor
tone, A♭. To indicate that this 5th has an internal stepwise prefix to the latter note,
we insert the appropriate slash into the notation: 5\th.
The flexible, internal placement of prefix and suffix figures can also apply to
arpeggiation. Here, creative use of the three letters designating the shape, “Arp,”
can indicate where in the arpeggiation the prefix event occurs. Consider the em-
blematic motive from “The Jetsons” theme, shown at left in Example 4.7(b). The
B♮4 occurs after the A and attaches as a prefix to the third note, C5. The label Ar/p
literally represents the arrangement of arpeggiated and prefix tones. In contrast,
the label A/rp would apply to the “anti-Jetsons” motto given at right, where the
chromatic ornament has shifted to attach to the middle member of the F triad.
These extended label conventions allow analysts to draw direct associations
among shapes that might otherwise be overlooked. This point is illustrated in
Example 4.7(c) by an aria excerpt from Gluck’s Orfeo ed Euridice, “Che fiero
momento.” The reading given above the staff proceeds measure by measure,
yielding four unrelated motives based on 2nds, 3rds, and 4ths. The preferred
reading below identifies a common, arpeggiated basis for the two halves of the
melody. The descending, internally-ornamented arpeggio in m. 9, “Ar\p,” is
arrived at via prefix octave leap and left by stepwise descent. The ascending “in-
ternally ornamented” arpeggio in m. 11, Ar/p, is both arrived at and quit via a
descending semitone. The two halves are equivalent (Arp ~ Arp), with a natural
boundary separating them at the augmented second, B♮-A♭.
Example 4.7 Internal placement of prefix and suffixes.
(a) An incomplete neighbor interposed between D3 and G2 creates a 5\th motive.
(b) Ornamented arpeggio from Jetsons motive and a hypothetical “anti-Jetsons” motive.
(c) Two readings of “Che fiero momento” from Gluck’s Orpheo.

As advantageous as this ornamental nomenclature is in certain circumstances,

it should not be used indiscriminately. One rarely needs to record every twist and
turn of an ornate melody. Usually it is better to seek out the broad outline of the
shape underlying it, reserving prefix/suffix notation for cases where internal fig-
uration tones are especially salient.
Rules for Labeling Rhythmic Motives
The conventions for labeling rhythmic motives can be dispatched more rapidly
than those for pitch and pitch-class. Neither the placement nor the reduced foot-
print of this topic are meant to indicate it is of secondary importance, however.
In motivic analysis, rhythm is regarded as a primary musical domain. The reason
that fewer labeling conventions are necessary is that a piece’s rhythm shapes tend
to be more consistent than its pitch shapes. They are, in other words, more tena-
cious, remaining stable for longer periods of time. As an example, consider the
following common series of events. At the outset of a work, a motive is stated
with a strong, recognizable profile. Upon repetition, it may retain both its pitch
and rhythm elements: some slight alteration in either domain will do little to pre-
vent recognition of it as the same idea. Yet given the option of strictly retaining
either the rhythm or pitch content while varying the other, composers usually
opt for the former. An example of this treatment is on display in the first phrase
of Schubert’s “Neugierige” shown in Example 4.8.
In this and similar cases, the immediately memorable quality of rhythmic
ideas makes them sturdy enough to withstand transplantation to other spots in a
piece and to support novel melodic shapes. We commence now with the rhythm
labeling conventions.
Rule R1. No one-note rhythm motives are recognized. This follows from Rule P1,
earlier; Q.E.D.
Example 4.8 In Schubert’s Neugierige, two vocal phrase segments exhibit the same
rhythm but different pitch content.
Rule R2. A basic rhythm motive, typically 2–5 attacks in length, is first labeled
according to its durations, which are assessed in relative terms as long (L),
short (S), and, where necessary, medium (M). Sounding (note) events must al-
ways be accounted for; rest (silent) durations may be specified by parentheses or
disregarded as the analyst sees fit.
Guideline 1 (for Rule R2): A rhythmic event is typically initiated by a sounding
note. In rare cases, a rest event can initiate a rhythmic shape; this may occur
when a rest falls on a strong beat.
Guideline 2 (for Rule R2): Rests that occur within or at the end of a rhythm
are typically not accounted for by the rhythm label. In such cases, the pre-
vious sounding note is credited extra length that separates it from the next
note attack. The final length of a rhythm, therefore, is often long (L) or
medium (M).
The first step in labeling a rhythmic shape is to assess its general arrangement of
durations in relative terms. Generally, the basic distinction between long (L) and
short (S) durations will suffice. If more specification is desired, the additional
designation of “medium” (M) length can be used. In Example 4.9(a), a three-
note rhythmic idea is twice repeated. The default manner of referring to two du-
ration types, no matter the tempo, is Long and Short. The figure is thus labeled
S-S-L. A similar rhythm appears in part b) of the example, except here the nota-
tion shifts so that it is built of all quarter notes. Assuming a moderate-to-allegro
tempo, most listeners would judge these to be relatively short attacks. One cor-
rect, but less preferred label, is the S-S-S shown above the staff, with the final
quarter rest of each measure acting to delimit the figure. The preferred interpre-
tation, shown below, reflects the fact that listeners more readily perceive attack
points than release points. Overlooking the terminal rest, we label this rhythm
S-S-L, with the “Long” of m. 2 being of indeterminate length of at least a half note.
More simple patterns of mixed duration are shown in Example 4.9(c). The S
and L labels are favored, despite the fact that a wider range of durations are em-
ployed. In Example 4.9(d), an M label appears in m. 3. Note that we have not yet
had any need for rest notation, even in part a), where rests actually appeared.
This is because rests at either terminus of a rhythmic motive are generally not
documented. Empty parentheses ( ) are used to signal rests, as in Example 4.9(e).
Even in such cases, the need to indicate rests is frequently obviated by the strategy
of considering only attack points.
Example 4.9 Nomenclature for simple rhythms.

(a)
(b)
(c)
(d)
(e)
Rule R3. Basic rhythm motives are frequently decorated by prefixes and
suffixes. These one-to two-note figures, signified by dashes “–”, typically
serve a pickup function at the head or a rebound function at the tail
of the shape.
Rule R4. In cases in which a rhythmic motive exhibits a large number of attacks in
a short span of time, longer duration values can substitute for the surface elements
(e.g., a quarter note pulse may appear in place of four sixteenth notes). This ad hoc
rhythmic reduction is indicated by applying sets of angled hash marks, /and \
either above or below the basic S, L and M labeling components.
Example 4.10 shows proper use of prefix/suffix notation for rhythm. It is most
applicable for showing how a prevalent motive recurs with one or occasionally
multiple durations tacked on to either end. In Example 4.10, the same L-S-S mo-
tive appears four times with prefix and suffix durations attaching in mm. 1–2
and  4–6.
We expect that a motivically dense segment of music will state its core mate-
rial at the outset before offering it in decorated forms. In this manufactured ex-
cerpt, the gesture common to the four utterances, L-S-S, only literally appears in
mm. 3–4 and 7–8. When the motive is heard in mm. 1–2, it has a prefix attached
and is labeled –L-S-S. When it returns at the pickup to m. 5, it has both a prefix
and suffix and is labeled –L-S-S–.
Rule R4 establishes a convention of using angled hashmarks to show how
a busy surface rhythm may project a more deep-level duration. An analyst
relying on this convention essentially performs an informal reduction to make a
passage’s complex rhythms more manageable. In Example 4.11, a large four-beat
gesture first appears in mm. 3–4 as L-S-S-L-L.9 It then repeats twice, with its first
L attack dividing into two, equal spans (m. 5 and m. 7).
Labeling the motives in this way allows us to acknowledge both the consist-
ency of the shape and its surface variations. The flexibility of this tool may lead
readers to wonder if the motive in mm. 3–4 could also be designated L-L-L-L,
with both the first and second durations divided in half. Absolutely, it could. In
fact, given musicians’ widely varying hearing habits, we may expect that some
Example 4.10 Convention for prefixes and suffixes (rhythm). Excerpt not from the
literature.
Example 4.11 Measures 1–8 of “Great Gate of Kiev” from Mussorgsky’s Pictures at

an Exhibition.
analysts will prefer surface-like rhythmic labels and others more deep-level
motives. As either strategy will work, it is important not to swear blind allegiance
to either. Engaging in only “deep-beat” analyses can cause one to miss small sur-
face level connections, for example microscopic S-S-L patterns in figuration that
echo a larger, thematic one. Alternatively, assigning S and L labels to every single
attack can lead to labels that look like gibberish, especially in instrumental pieces
with rhythmically busy themes.
Further extensions of the angled hashmark labeling method may be used
to indicate a greater number of duration divisions or unequal divisions.
Practically speaking, a long or short attack in moderate tempo will admit up to
six divisions, after which point the faster notes will blur together. The excerpts
in Example 4.12 illustrate labeling solutions for such subdivisions, including
the use of a filled-in triangle to indicate rapid subdivision as in a glissando;
see part (e). In parts b) and c), some hashes are made bold to indicate the pres-
ence of unequal subdivisions, such as those stemming from dotted rhythms or
compound meter.
Rule R5. Rhythmic motives may be named according to total duration. The tool
for labeling a motive in this way is the “summary label,” which takes the form
Duration = [total S, L, M content]. In cases in which the last note attack is of inde-
terminate length, the number of beats may be estimated.
Rule R6. Rhythmic motives may be composite, resulting from the combination of
two or more fundamental shapes of the type described in Rules R1–5. The proper
label for a composite motive specifies the content of subshapes using addition signs
to indicate discrete (+) and/or elided (⊕) joinings.
Example 4.12 Conventions for handling subdivided durations.

The summary label for rhythm motives serves the same purpose that it does
for pitch and pitch-class motives. It provides a shorthand name for a motive,
while also clarifying its duration and specific content. To illustrate the process
of deriving a rhythm summary label, Example 4.13 reprints select rhythms from
Examples 4.9 and 4.10, with summary labels appended.
The first thing to notice is that summary labels depend to a large extent on
tempo and notation. The rhythm in Example 4.13(a) (originally 4.9(b)) is
sensed as a three-element shape in common time. The motive in part (c), in con-
trast, is felt in hypermetric terms as four beats in a brisk three-quarter meter.
The three shapes in Example 4.13(b) (originally 4.9(d)) exhibit both of these
tendencies. The labels at far left and right, 4h = L-S-S-S-L, and 4qd = L-S-L-S-
S-S-S-L, illustrate how two-measure segments can yield four-beat shapes. The
center shape illustrates a seven-quarter-note rhythm that ignores the impact of
Example 4.13 Reprints of previous rhythm examples with new summary labels

added.
(a) Example 4.9(b) with summary label
(b) Example 4.9(c) with summary labels
(c) Example 4.9(d) with summary label
(d) Example 4.10 with summary labels

syncopation: the 7q shape is free to occur in any beat of a measure in subsequent

appearances. The last issue to note, as indicated by the labels given in Example
4.13(d), is that prefix and suffix events appearing as dashes do not figure into
summary duration calculations.
Rule R6 applies to rhythm in the same way it does for pitch and pitch-class and
thus requires no introductory demonstration.
Extensions to the Rules for Rhythmic Motive Nomenclature
Earlier discussion noted that shorter motives can be assembled into composite
motives using the familiar + and ⊕ operators. For any rhythmic gesture longer
than three notes, it is likewise possible to employ additive nomenclature. Some
caution should be exercised, however. Though composite labels are readily
adaptable to rhythm, they offer only limited benefits. They are best suited to
short, “hybrid” rhythmic motives like the unison gesture presented at the start of
Mozart’s Piano Quartet in G minor, K. 478. In common time, it is h qd e | Ωçq;
the preferred reading is 6q = M M - | S S L, where the latter component has a short
prefix figure.
The last convention to be presented allows analysts to document subtler
rhythmic relationships, such as when a shape’s character depends on an irregular
or phased metric placement.
Rule R7. One or more bar line symbols, | , may be placed among the S, L, and M
duration signs to indicate how a rhythmic shape intersects with meter. Bold text
applied to an individual duration, e.g., S, L, M, indicates that it has a phenomenal
accent that is independent of the written meter. Note, however, this convention
need not apply to local maximal durations (agogic accent).
Discussion and Demonstration
The final symbol to be incorporated into our nomenclature is the bar line, which
provides information about a rhythm’s relation to a governing meter and, to a
lesser extent, its stress profile. Metric stress is assumed for any duration occurring
in a strong-beat position, including the position immediately following the |
symbol. Example 4.14 illustrates some ways that a simple L-S-S-L rhythm may be
set musically and represented with duration and bar line symbols.
In Example 4.14(a) and (b), the rhythm shapes fit comfortably in the meter,
resulting in unambiguous label forms. In Example 4.14(c), syncopation occurs
as the longer durations are intersected by the bar lines. The practical solution for
Example 4.14 Barline notation for rhythmic motives.
(b) (c)
(d). Threefold motive presentation from the theme of Strauss’s Till Eulenspiegels
Lustige Streiche.
(e) Shifting placement of barline notation to indicate phasing.
showing this condition is to allow the bar line symbol to migrate across the “L”
labels as shown.
The bar line notation aspect of this nomenclature is highly approximate. In 4.14
(c), it reflects only the fact that some cross-cutting of the long durations occurs, not
the precise proportions of that division. Both of the split Ls look the same, although
for the first the bar line falls halfway through (after the first of two quarter pulses)
and for the second it falls a quarter way through (after the first of four). This is a
mere quibble, however: the schematic line-through notation communicates plenty
about the presence of syncopation. For this reason, it is not necessary to seek per-
fect precision in placing the vertical line through the duration it intersects.
The remaining examples will illustrate the bar line notation’s ability to make
distinctions among rhythmic motive settings. In the course of surveying even
just a few rhythmic analyses, extended strings of S and L characters quickly blur
together. The bar lines help to break up this visual monotony and remind us of
the characteristics of each gesture.
A last benefit of barline notation is that it affords a useful means for
documenting certain rhythmic transformations. To see how this works, we will
apply the nomenclature to some basic rhythm shapes that occur in Strauss’s
tone poem, Till Eulenspiegels Lustige Streiche. Example 4.14(d) reproduces Till’s
theme from the start of the allegro section, mm. 6–9. The core rhythmic gesture
is S-S-S-L-S; the L value is given in plain text because its length, in the context of
the S values nearby, lends it a natural, agogic accent. We note first that the three
instances of the bracketed motive are not identical: in its third appearance, the
duration of the G♯ is shaved down by one-third of a beat. Even though the length
of the long duration fluctuates, the original S-S-S-L-S label applies equally well to
all three forms.
That issue settled, we may turn to the task of overlaying the bar line notation
on the durations. The results, shown in Example 4.14(e), take advantage of our
ability to place the bar line at spots roughly two-thirds and one-third across the L
duration. The shifting appearance of the labels reflects a dynamic rhythmic pro-
cedure in the music. The phasing is visually confirmed as we intuit the rhythmic
shape drifting to the right across the bar line or, if you prefer, the bar line drifting
to the left. The graphic in Example 4.14(e) is hardly momentous in itself, nor is it
the only way to represent this rhythmic event. It is notable, however, for offering
a way to distinguish between what otherwise would be regarded as three blandly
equivalent patterns: motive Till, motive Till, motive Till.
The very ways that the labels “speak” to each of us prompts our first explora-
tion of multiple rhythmic/metric narratives. It is possible to describe the suc-
cession of events in mm. 6–9 passively, in terms of a static five-note gesture that
is pierced three times at three different locations. We could just as easily frame
the process actively, in terms of the five-note shape driving forward across bar
lines in search of its final, resolved state. In this view, the L value experiences a
“foreshift” within the work’s global, dotted quarter-note pulse, where it migrates
from the second subdivision in its triplet, to the third, and finally to the first.
The effort put into conceiving this motive in such dynamic rhythmic terms
would likely pay off handsomely in a full analysis of Strauss’s tone poem. Similar
rhythmic shifts appear throughout the work, for example, during the solo flute’s
extended hemiola passage at Rehearsal 7 and the murky canonic writing at
Rehearsal Nos. 20–21 that depicts Till confounding the scholars and philistines.
The analysis printed above the flute staff in Example Web.4.2 ) illustrates
the surface rhythmic reading. The classic interpretation of any hemiola is
“backshifting,” where the two-eighth gesture initiates on the first, then third, and
then second subpulse of the triplet beat.10
Example 4.15 summarizes all of the rhythm notation conventions described
in this section. The information given in the top portion of the chart details the
core content of the system. The information below the dotted line pertains to
common extensions to the nomenclature, specifically ornaments, subdivisions,
and composite motive forms.
The discussion of nomenclature for describing the pitch and rhythmic con-
tent of motives will conclude here. While not all potential configurations have
been treated, the ones that have should be sufficient to provide at least a foun-
dation for fluency with the label system. Readers who seek further guidance on
Example 4.15. Summary chart of nomenclature for rhythmic motives.
the topic may consult the opening passages of the extended studies of pitch and
rhythm printed in chapter 6 (the demonstrations of basic motivic analysis). They
are encouraged also to incorporate this nomenclature in their own musical lives
in the course of analyzing and discussing music with peers.
At this point, all necessary groundwork concerning the history, theory, and
premethodology of motive has been laid. Chapter 5 will commence immedi-
ately with the presentation of the theory and method of BMA, the first of the two
modes of motivic analysis to be covered in this text. Discussion of nomenclature
will adjourn until c hapter 7. At the time it becomes necessary to incorporate ad-
ditional domains into our study of motive, we will reopen the topic to establish
conventions for naming/handling elements of contour, harmony, dynamics, ar-
ticulation, texture, and so forth.
5
Basic Motivic Analysis
The first mode of motivic analysis is limited to examining the pitch and rhythmic
content of music. It is called basic motivic analysis (BMA). Were we to rush into
simultaneous treatment of all of the methods needed to address texture, timbre,
ornament, and so forth, chaos and confusion would result. Postponing discus-
sion of those other domains allows the foundational principles of motivic anal-
ysis to emerge with more clarity.
Another practical rationale exists for establishing a limited zone of in-
quiry here. Within the larger curriculum being presented in this book, BMA
represents a minimum competency in studying motives. Many readers will likely
choose to end their studies of motive upon reaching the conclusion of chapter 6.
That is wholly appropriate: the amount of information contained in this and the
following chapter—comprising the method and two demonstrations—can sus-
tain lifelong investigation of motives. Indeed, those who opt to continue beyond
chapter 6 will still likely spend the majority of their time in the future working on
issues related to BMA, calling selectively on their complex motivic analysis skill
set to supplement their core pitch and rhythm findings.
The questions asked and answered at the close of Part I communicated
an initial sense of what is novel about the models being advanced in Musical
Motives. In case it is still not fully clear what distinguishes BMA from tradi-
tional, Schoenbergian analysis of pitch and rhythm, one word should clarify the
matter: rigor. While BMA operates in many of the same ways as traditional anal-
ysis, it will be rooted in a system of rules that govern motivic content and associa-
tion and—at the highest levels—the proper construction of analyses.
Addressing these concerns in order, this chapter will first introduce rules for
deducing pitch and rhythm motives. In accordance with practices followed in
chapters 1–4, the method will continue to allow for surface motives, shapes drawn
directly from music that arise from contiguous notes in a single voice or register.
From this point onward, however, it will concentrate on larger shapes formed
of non-adjacent tones. The section titled “Principles of Reduction” will estab-
lish procedures for deducing these deeper-level, emergent shapes. The following
section, “Principles for Linking Motives,” fills a procedural gap left in chapter
4. There, motives were formalized and named, but no means were provided for
tying them together. This section provides those tools in the form of identity and
association operations. The last stage in preparing readers to analyze on their own
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197526026.003.0005.
calls for guidelines to structure motivic analyses. The section on “Assembling

Analysis” addresses this need by providing a set of narrative archetypes. These
are essentially analytic templates, akin to well-worn frameworks known to un-
derlie myth and storytelling.
Principles of Reduction
Justification for a Reduction Method Rooted

in Auditory Salience
It is not by chance that the topic of reduction is given top priority in this method.
In a very real sense, the whole enterprise of music analysis depends on it.
Without access to any paring-down mechanisms, discussion about a work could
only concern it in its entirety. For this reason, most theories of music include
some means for reducing complex configurations of pitches and rhythms. This
process, put simply, involves examining a given span of music, determining the
relative importance of the events therein, and then rewriting the span with enti-
ties of lesser significance removed.
The reductive process can be illustrated by a linguistic analogy. Most sentences
such as the one printed in Line 1 of Example 5.1 contain words and clauses that
qualify and give deeper meaning to a basic utterance. To determine the sentence’s
essential communicative content, we can prune away these descriptive extras
one stage at a time.
It is true that each new sentence in the series seems barer and less interesting
than the one above it. But then, the goal of performing reduction on a prose or
musical statement is not to uncover a more beautiful version of it. It is to discern
Example 5.1 Multistage reduction of a famous sentence.

Sentence Input Reduction Operation
1. The quick, brown, fox jumped over the lazy dog.
one color adjective deleted

2. The quick fox jumped over the lazy dog.
two character adjectives deleted
3. The fox jumped over the dog.
one prepositional phrase deleted
4. (The) fox jumped.

Core subject-verb sentence remains
Basic Motivic Analysis 131
the statement’s essence. We also employ reduction to increase our knowledge

of the sentence and to better understand the manner in which it has been deco-
rated. Such knowledge is eminently generalizable to our conceptions of linguistic
grammar and human thought.
Two common threads run through every prominent reduction method used
in music.1 The first is that the reduction process is repeatable: the output of all
reductions but the last can be fed back into the pruning machine to be reduced
again. The approximate measure length of the musical span will remain the same,
but it will be filled with less and less material. The second thread is that the reduc-
tive mechanism is rooted in some cognitive reality. In some reduction schemes,
the criterion for retaining notes is aural salience, which means prioritizing events
that stand out in register, rhythm, attack, or timbre. In others, decisions on event
priority are made on the basis of musical syntax. In Example 5.1, syntactic know-
ledge allows us to determine which words may be removed from each sentence
form. Musicians that have mastered counterpoint and/or learned to improvise
extensively on a given theme similarly possess specialized knowledge of mu-
sical syntax. They know, very often implicitly, which notes in a melody may be
removed without altering its basic meaning.2
Having established that our methodology will incorporate reduction, we
can now move to determine which basis it should rely on. Should it be salience,
the approach traditionally favored by motivic analysts? Or should it be contra-
puntal/harmonic syntax, the approach born out of Schenkerian tradition? Time
does not permit us the luxury of a full critique of their relative merits. Our deci-
sion instead will emerge after an informal side-by-side evaluation of reductions
produced under the contrasting philosophies.
The mode of reduction relying on musical salience shall be known as “equal
duration reduction” (EDR). Under this procedure, pitches are prioritized on
the basis of occurring (1) on naturally stressed beats within a metric frame-
work, and/or (2) at regular durational intervals (e.g., “every four eighth notes”).
The contrasting mode of reduction relying on syntactic knowledge will be
represented by Schenker-style reduction, sometimes called “tonal reduction.”
In this method, pitches are prioritized on the basis of harmonic and/or contra-
puntal patterns. At any given level of activity, one determines the vertical chords
present and the voice-leading between them. Non-chord tones such as passing
(P) and neighbor (N) notes are then removed to produce the next, “deeper” layer.
The testing ground for the comparative analysis will be the opening phrase
from Leeman’s March of the Belgian Paratroopers; the melody is given in Example
5.2(a) along with its harmonic context (Roman numerals). Most musicians
would agree that all of the important tones appearing at the surface have been
retained in the intuitive reduction shown in Line b). All that has happened is that
the sixteenth notes occurring on the weakest subpulses have been pruned. As one
Example 5.2 Pierre Leemans’s March of the Belgian Paratroopers.

(a) Paratroopers melody, mm. 1–4, with harmonic context provided by Roman
numeral analysis.
(b) First, intuitive reduction of the Paratroopers melody.
Example 5.3 A comparison of equal duration reduction (EDR) at left and tonal

reduction at right. Line b), which reprints Example 5.2(b) with pitches numbered,
serves as the basis for reduction in both left and right columns.
(b)
(e)
(c)
(d) (f)
would expect, something quite like this preliminary result would be returned by
either of the two reduction strategies.
More striking differences between the reduction methods emerge as the
March of the Belgian Paratroopers melody is input into each. These are on display
in Example 5.3. The multistage results of Equal Duration Reduction appear at left
and those of tonal reduction appear at right. Note that the starting point for both
reductions is Line b). The counting numbers that appear above the upper-left
staff are there to keep track of which notes are eliminated in different stages of
reduction.
A fair bit of agreement seems to emerge at first as we trace a downward path
through each column; however, these surface similarities mask a deep methodo-
logical conflict. In transitioning from Line b) to Line c), a mechanical reduction
excises tones 3 and 6 because they occur on unaccented portions of the beat.
Under tonal analysis—compare the progression from Line e) to Line f)—the

same G4 and B♭ are removed because they are not members of the primary F-A-C
triad being expressed. They are lesser tones that help “compose-out” the tonic
triad in mm. 1–3; see harmonic analysis under the melody in part a).3
The most important comparison to be made is between Lines d) and f), which
represent the local outcomes of the two reductive processes. (On both sides, the
reduction could extend to more stages, but subsequent results would be increas-
ingly bare). The shape that emerges at left, Arp\, is significant for balancing in-
sight with familiarity. It is new in the sense that it was discovered by looking at
the original melody in a new, reductive light. It is familiar in that it matches the
original melody closely: if played in tempo it would aurally resemble Example
5.2(a).
The final entry at right, Line f) in Example 5.3, shows a large-scale pitch shape
emerging from tonal reduction. Readers may initially find it peculiar that the
fourth measure of f) does not appear to be reduced, as all the notes from the orig-
inal melody remain; this includes the A4 that passes between B♭ and G. The reason
for this is that tonal reduction takes into account other criteria in addition to du-
ration. For example, it is generally accepted that the first and last events of any
musical statement carry more weight than those that intervene; this is known as
the principle of “structural accent” (Lehrdahl and Jackendoff 1983, 30–35). With
regard to the present four-measure phrase, then, the tonal-reductive viewpoint
argues that the starting point on F4 and arrival-point on G are structural events
that must be retained.4
The second criterion deriving from Schenker’s understanding of global tone
tendencies is that a hierarchy exists among the notes of the tonic triad that
underlies a segment. (Again, said segment could be of any size, from four meas-
ures to an entire piece.) Of the F4, A, and C5 traced out in the first three measures,
one of the latter two will serve as the high point from which the melody, under
the influence of tonal gravity, will descend.5 In this case, I have prioritized the C5,
which, as many melodies do, moves downward by step to the G4 that closes the
phrase at the half cadence.
We cannot place too much stock in a single side-by-side comparison, but
we can draw some early impressions about the relative advantages of salience-
based reduction (EDR) over tonal reduction. Let us consider practicality and ef-
ficiency. In terms of energy and time invested, EDR is easier to use. In contrast,
learning tonal analysis demands prolonged study both of strict and free counter-
point. Despite this difference, the motivic output of the two methods at the base
of Example 5.3 is roughly comparable. All but one of the shapes produced by
tonal reduction are readily discoverable by the other method. The arpeggiation
shown in Lines e) and f) for instance, emerged in Lines c) and d) through simple
extraction at the beat level and then the measure level. The “4-line” from C5-G4
beamed at far right can be accessed as a surface motive in the music back in Line
a) of Example 5.2 (m. 4) with no reduction necessary at all! In contrast, we note
that the equal duration reduction produces at least one aurally salient shape that
is wholly invisible from the tonal viewpoint: Arp\. We shall return frequently
to the notion of “invisibility” as we develop our methodology, employing it as a
gauge to determine the limits and trade-offs endemic to analytical techniques.
Rules for Salient Reduction Rooted in Principles

from Epstein’s Beyond Orpheus
The arguments made in previous pages imply that it is possible to design an ef-
fective method for motivic analysis that does not depend directly on tonal re-
ductive techniques. To coax this implication further along, we must plug up the
major conceptual gaps that still surround it. Taking our cue from the vociferous
criticisms reported in c hapters 1–3, our response will be to devise a set of reduc-
tion rules that apply consistently.
With regard to salient reduction, this means strengthening the basic princi-
ples of EDR to accommodate more advanced musical issues, such as structural
accent. “Strengthen” is the operative word; we need not build a method from the
ground up. We have in fact already encountered a preliminary model for pitch-
motive reduction in the form of David Epstein’s list from Chapter 3 of Beyond
Orpheus. His first, second, and third criteria, reprinted and relabeled below as
“Epstein Points 1–3” (E.P. 1–3), are most relevant here.6
E.P. 1. Points of contour: Structurally significant pitches usually achieve prom-

inence through their location within thematic contexts, for instance, at high
points or low points, at beginnings and closings (cadences) of motives or of
longer musical ideas.
E.P. 2. Rhythm and meter: Significant notes more often than not lie upon rhythmic
and/or metric strong points. This is not to exclude ornamental notes from con-
sideration. Where they are significant, however, ornamental notes will usually lie
in some close and prominent relationship to notes that themselves are structur-
ally important. Discerning these relationships is . . . a matter of judgment.
E.P. 3. Pattern: consistency and recurrence: These terms effect a partial descrip-

tion of motive itself. . . . Consistent and recurrent appearance of . . . notes within
a pattern will give them greater musical and structural importance.
(Epstein 1979, 37–38)
The list may seem limited, but the generous descriptions attached to each point
go a long way to capture great subtleties. Again, consider the idea of structural
accent. This esoteric idea, though not specifically named in Epstein’s list, is
treated by the “beginning and closings” clause at the end of E.P. 1. Epstein’s Point
2, beyond establishing a preliminary basis for rhythmic/metric reduction, iden-
tifies a further basis for determining if a pitch is structural, namely, on the basis
of its adjacency to an ornament.
The first step toward revising E.P. 1 involves expanding its scope to better har-
ness the power of musical contour. When Beyond Orpheus was published, the
term “contour” was in an early stage of development; in the few cases authors
mentioned it, they nearly always meant relative pitch height. More recently, the
concept has been expanded. First, more rigorous mathematic procedures have
been established for documenting and processing pitch contour. Second and
more importantly, the concept of contour has been generalized, allowing it to
apply to any musical domain built of ordered elements, such as rhythm, dura-
tion, texture, and timbre.
To assemble any contour reading, pitch or non-pitch based, one readies an in-
teger scale to apply within a domain. The n elements of interest (n notes, rhythms,
etc.) are then normalized, meaning they are arranged in integer order from 0 to
n-1 according to the quality under investigation.7 That scale is last applied back
to the events in their original musical context. To demonstrate, we will assemble
a duration contour reading for the Belgian Paratroopers melody, mm. 1–4. In the
preassembly phase, we register the presence of four distinct durations. In increasing
length, they are sixteenth note, eighth note, dotted eighth note, and quarter note.
These durations are arbitrarily assigned the values 0, 1, 2, 3. These values reapplied
to the source melody in order yield the following numerical string: < 2 0 1 1 2 0 1
1 0 0 1 1 1 0 0 1 3 >. Each wider space indicates the presence of a barline.
This process translates all of the Paratrooper durations into an alter-
nate format. For analysis to occur, these values must be interpreted, meaning
reduced. Analysts performing reduction typically focus on maximal and min-
imal values—in this case: 0s and 3s—but also enjoy quite a bit of freedom in how
to proceed.
One possibility is to examine the full string, retaining the first and last values
(structural accents) as well as the interior extremes.8 The only notable interior
high point in this excerpt is the 2 that appears at the downbeat of m. 2. There are
multiple low points, which occur whenever one or more 0s are surrounded by
longer durations. Because very short durations have little impact on listeners, we
will overlook them and assemble our duration contour reduction around three
data points, the 2 from the beginning, the 3 from the end, and the aforemen-
tioned 2 in the middle. If we were to reattach the pitch content present during
these three durations, the new melodic reduction, F4-A-G, would result.
Our second revision of Epstein Point 1 (contour reduction) involves quali-

fying what are “high and low points.” Just earlier we justified omitting minimal
duration values on the basis of their limited salience: these tiny sixteenth-note
events are the shortest and therefore have the least impact on consciousness. It
may similarly be necessary to omit certain maximal and minimal contour values
when ornamental gestures such as neighbor figures present. Consider a case in
which an ascending melody’s highest note, G5, is decorated by an upper neighbor.
Although the A a step above is technically the highest local tone, common sense
dictates that we set it aside in favor of the G. The same condition applies to
lower neighbor figures for a descending line, and even to accented passing tones
occurring on metrically strong beats.
The new version of the contour reduction principle, given here as Reduction
Rule 1 (RR1) takes account of such passing and neighbor tones. In addition, it
specifically requires the analyst to account for the structural accents created at
the start and end of any analytic span. Although it overlaps to an extent with
tonal reduction, RR1 should be regarded mainly as an outgrowth of the philos-
ophy of salience-based reduction.
Reduction Rule 1 (Contour): Structurally significant notes achieve prominence

when they appear at high points or low points in any domain, including pitch,
dynamics, articulation, duration, and timbre. These contour maxima and

minima appear in both global and local contexts. By definition, the start and
end point of any chosen span of music undergoing reduction must be retained
at all subsequent levels; such structural accents cannot be eliminated.
Corollary (to RR1): A tone judged structural according to the salience model
may be disregarded if, at the surface of the music, it is determined to be a non-
structural passing or neighbor tone.
The new rule for contour-based reduction respects the spirit of Epstein’s original
point but offers more guidance for analysts. Its chief strengths are its flexibility and its
responsiveness to certain exigencies of musical composition. I refer here not only to
structural accents, which must be accounted for in all cases, but also to the require-
ment that reduced pitches stand the test of musical relevance (RR1 Corollary).
Another advantage of this recasting of E.P. 1 as RR1 is that it suggests a means
for deciphering E.P. 3, which is unclear in its original formulation. One can only
guess what Epstein means when he says that, “Consistent and recurrent appear-
ance of . . . notes within a pattern” gives them greater “structural importance.”
It is possible that E.P. 3 refers to figurated textures such as the one appearing in
m. 11 of Chopin’s Nocturne in F♯, Op. 15, No. 2 (Example 5.4). It is well known
that patterning can be created by means of slur marks, articulation, and pitch
Example 5.4 Slur pattern delineates a pitch motive in Chopin’s Nocturne in F♯

Op. 15, No. 2, m. 11.
working independently or in coordination. In the case of m. 11 in this excerpt, it

is the three-note slurs that most clearly indicate the larger pattern, the 4th shape.
(see stemmed notes). Again, none of the examples Epstein gives in support of
E.P.3 at all resembles the nocturne excerpt. In light of his penchant for precision,
it is appropriate to take Epstein at his nonword and assume that m. 11 is not the
sort of event E.P. 3 is meant to apply to.
The “recurrences” that Epstein does demonstrate occur at levels far removed
from the musical surface. In discussion of Schumann’s Fourth Symphony, for ex-
ample, he calls attention to the fact that many of the themes start with an up-
beat. In this way, the idea of anacrusis itself becomes “significant to the unity
of the symphony” (Epstein 1979, 37). The fuller context for this claim is that
Epstein continually strives to expand the idea of motive beyond being a pitch or
rhythmic cell. His formulation of E.P. 3 allows him to extend motive to extreme
levels of abstraction, eventually allowing a general “premise” like ambiguity to be
classified as motivic. This was a groundbreaking insight that deeply influenced
all works on motivic analysis to follow, including this one.
We have considered E.P.s 1 and 3, but not E.P. 2, the point that establishes
rhythmic and metric salience as a criterion for reduction. The rule as Epstein
formulates it works well for straightforward melodies such as that from Verdi’s
“Stride la vampa!” aria from Il Trovatore (Example 5.5). The significant notes in-
deed “lie upon . . . metric strong points” in accordance with E.P. 2. An extraction
of one downbeat note per measure creates the succession, B4-B-B-B-A-A-G-F♯,
which creates the larger 4th motive shown beamed.
Epstein’s Point 2, however, lacks a clear means for handling cases in which
pitch motives are masked by rhythmic techniques such as syncopation and
Example 5.5 Metric salience results in a linear motive in mm. 3–10 of “Stride la

Vampa” from Verdi’s Il Trovatore.
Example 5.6 Syncopation in Bach’s Fourth Partita, BWV 828. Structural melodic

tones (treble staff) are metrically displaced at the music’s surface.
cross-rhythm.9 Example 5.6, taken from the “Aria” movement of Bach’s Fourth
Partita for keyboard, illustrates this point. Starting at E4 in the melody, all im-
portant melodic tones sound on weak parts of the beat. This syncopation poses
a problem for a beat-centric reduction, as that would mean no melodic events
would be extracted from m. 2, not even at the downbeat. The analytic treble staff
given above illustrates the melody’s underlying stucture, in which the tones,
E4-D-C♯ and D are restored to their normative metric placement rather than
being shifted a half beat ahead.10
To treat situations like this, we allow analysts to consider more than just note
onsets. Instead of worrying about the fact that the E4 of the melody enters be-
fore beat two of the first notated measure, we concentrate on the fact that the
Example 5.7 Extraction windows lasting a duration of one eighth note occur on

each of five beats.
E4 remains present as beat two arrives. Example 5.7 illustrates the process of
establishing equal duration “windows” and allowing melodic events to intersect
them. The windows yield the same ⎣ 3rd \ /motive observed in the analytic staff of
Example 5.6.
In this instance, the windows were set to occur on each beat and to admit an
eighth note’s duration of material. In other circumstances, an analyst might de-
sire to set the windows on offbeats or spread them to occur every three, four, or
even more beats apart. Example Web.5.1 illustrates how window extraction
may be adjusted to extract motives in music that exhibit grouping dissonances,
otherwise known as cross-rhythms. Near the end of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata
in D, Op. 14, No. 2, III, specifically in mm. 228–232, novel accent patterns in
3/4 time cause the music to behave as if it were in 2/4 meter. In all cases that EDR
is employed, analysts must strive to keep the windows at equal durations (i.e., no
nudging allowed) and sufficiently close together to ensure that the motives they
uncover remain perceptible.
We now turn to the task of clarifying the remainder of E.P. 2. The text fol-
lowing Epstein’s first sentence on rhythmic/metric strong points says, essentially,
(1) that metrically accented ornamental tones need not always be excluded from
consideration, and (2) that these same accented ornamental tones often ap-
pear adjacent to structural pitches. The qualifier “need not always” implies that
analysts can resolve this matter on a case-by-case basis with a clean, binary out-
come: an accented ornamental tone is significant or not. The situation is actually
more complicated than this.
There are many cases in which accented ornamental tones are nonstructural.
That first scenario is typified by an instrumental cliché of the Classical period,
the ornamented arpeggio figure (see Example 5.8). Upon encountering the first
theme from the finale of Mozart’s Piano Sonata in F, K. 332, one technically could
extract the strong-beat notes to generate the shape shown by dotted-beam, B♭5-
G-D-B♭4. No musician would attempt that in seriousness, though. All evidence
Example 5.8 Mozart Sonata in F, K. 332 (III), mm. 1–3.
Example 5.9 Role of ornaments in Brahms’s Intermezzo in A, Op. 76, No. 6.

(a) Ornamental tones as structural in the B theme, mm. 23–28.
(b) Voice-crossing 3rd motives in mm. 1–4.
points to an F-major tonic arpeggio descent as the first structural melodic event
of the piece (solid beam). Beyond the obvious fact that the piece is billed in F
major, the F arpeggio reading allows the right hand’s first note, C6, to function as
the crowning note of the tonic chord (C6-A5-F-C-A4-F5).
In contrast, I know of no musical style, excepting maybe serial composition,
in which accented ornamental tones can be shown to be purely structural. That
would entail a logical impossibility, for tones cannot be ornamental and struc-
tural at the same time. This leaves us to ponder a gray area for accented orna-
mental tones. It may be possible that they function as structural tones in some
cases but not in all.
A new, musical context afforded by the B section of Brahms’s Intermezzo in

A, Op. 76, No. 6, will help frame an argument for treating ornamental notes as
structural (Example 5.9). Grace notes are unusually prominent in this excerpt,
with three appearing in one short phrase. Their placement is suspiciously uni-
form: starting in m. 26, they always appear on the second eighth-pulse of a
measure. These factors draw attention to the graces themselves, as opposed to
the tones they decorate. The decision to grant them structural status is made in
light of two questions. The first is, “Does regarding the E5, D5, and A4 as structural
clarify the nature of the melody here?” The answer to this is yes, as these notes
help form a linear descent from the E5 all the way to the F♯4 of m. 28.11
The next question is, “Do the newly promoted tones resonate with any other
significant motives of the piece?” The answer is again yes. In Example 5.9(a), the
two grace note events, E5-D and D-C♯ are shown to assemble through addition
into a larger linear 3rd. This same shape serves as the basis of the Intermezzo’s
main theme from mm. 1–2 in the A section. In Example 5.9(b), the 3rd = 2nd ⊕
2nd is given in parallel tenths that are masked by a register swap: note the crossed
lines below the music.12
Having noted a number of deficiencies surrounding Point E.P. 2, we are now
prepared to state a revised version of it:
Reduction Rule 2 (Rhythmic/metric reduction): Notes coinciding with rhythmic

and/or metric strong points are typically structural. These strong points may re-
flect the written meter or those of temporary alternate meters created through
displacement or grouping dissonance (syncopation or cross rhythms).
Corollary (to RR2): Metrically stressed ornamental (non-chord) tones should

be disregarded except in cases where strong contextual evidence can be cited
for deeming them structural. The strongest claims for retaining them will ap-
peal to motivic resonances in the piece, local or remote.
Reduction Rules for Larger Musical Spans
Moving past the relatively small-scale reductions explored earlier, we turn to

the issue of reduction as it pertains to larger motives that span multiple phrases.
It will not be possible to apply RR1 and RR2 directly, without refinement. It is
true that musical formulas tend to be recursive, allowing us to treat large-level
structures as if they were “blown-up” versions of smaller ones. We routinely
do this metrically with hypermeter and harmonically with tonal progressions.
Upon shifting our attention to higher levels of musical activity, however, new
complications arise.
The confounding issue is higher-order salience. The reduction techniques in

this book are founded on the principle that tones gain significance when they
are emphasized metrically, rhythmically, or by jutting out in pitch. This is well
and good when there is a limited, stable frame of reference. In moving phrase to
phrase, though, one is likely to encounter radical shifts in the music’s disposition.
A given span of music might be in a much higher or lower register than the one
adjacent to it, the texture/instrumentation might change, and so on.
Were we to forge ahead without qualifying the guidelines from before, we
might lose sight of significant pitches within a phrase if they fail to register as
extremes in the larger span. This could happen if a segment of sixteen measures
with a narrower tessitura were sandwiched between segments exploring wider
pitch ranges. The reverse situation, also undesirable, results from prioritizing
pitches that jut out of their local segments but that fail to assemble into any co-
herent shape. Students newly introduced to equal duration reduction are the
ones most likely to propose such dubious shapes as they rashly extract precisely
one salient pitch from each phrase.
The best way to promote success is to establish parameters for creating the
“limited and stable frames of reference” earlier called for in analysis. One such
ready-made framework is patterning, such as that furnished by melodic and/
or harmonic sequences. In Example 5.10, which shows a later passage from
Mozart’s Piano Sonata in F, K. 332, III, the tight patterning of texture and har-
mony suggests that it would be proper to extract a melodic tone from each
Example 5.10 Mozart Piano Sonata in F, K. 332 (III), mm. 100–112.

four-bar span. In this case, the structural status of all upward-stemmed notes
is based on their being chord tones: this is why the E5 is selected in m. 104 and
not the F.
The soprano line’s chromatic descent through the pitches F5-E-E♭-D, is not the
only motive that can be extracted. Starting with the B4 circled in m. 100, the alto
voice can be shown to progress as a leading tone to the adjacent note name, C,
at the start of the second system. The circled A3 and B♭ follow in measures 108
and 112. The shape that would emerge from connecting the four circled notes is
B-C-A-B♭, a sensible and hummable pitch-class motive. Both of these four-note
motives fit within and are a product of the circle of fifths harmonic chord pro-
gression present (see chord symbols below music).13
A good many medium-scale motives are easily identified; however, we cannot
count on all musical surfaces as being as transparent as this one. Another kind of
stabilizing reference frame can be of great help in murkier settings. Specifically,
it will be necessary to coordinate higher-order reduction procedures with the
findings obtained through form analysis.
Form in music refers to the rich system of knowledge describing the organi-
zation of musical works. In the most general sense, the study of form concerns
the order and function of blocks of material, from the relatively small (phrase
to phrase) to the largest (section to section) levels. When working close to the
surface, the boundaries between formal units of music should inform reduction.
In the eight-measure melodic excerpt from Rossini’s Barber of Seville Overture
shown in Example 5.11(a), the most intuitive shapes that emerge during re-
duction are the ones that respect the caesura (’) boundary between the phrase
segments. These shapes are the G5-A in mm. 92–95 and the A5-B in mm. 96–99;
the stems indicate the priority that attaches to these phrase-anchoring tones by
virtue of structural accent.14
The point of this example is not to argue that motives can never cut across
form boundaries. When they do, however, they should do so in a musically sen-
sitive way. In the case of Rossini’s melody, the two segments are connected: the
first four measures are in a sense answered by the second four. It is for this reason
that it is appropriate to draw the larger G5-A-B beam shown in Example 5.11(b).
This 3rd shape gains standing in two ways. First, it is built of structurally ac-
cented notes, and second, it occurs as a parallelism with the first surface motive
expressed in the theme; see the brace in mm. 92–93.
Many syntactic musical elements nest recursively, and form is no exception.
Multiple phrase segments typically combine to make phrases. Complete piece
structures, typically binary forms, frequently nest within larger ternary or rondo
forms. This implicit hierarchy provides the basis for allowing motives to cut
across boundaries, since a division at one level will likely disappear at a higher
one. This behavior is illustrated in the top-down succession of the two analyses
Example 5.11 Motives crossing phrase boundaries in Rossini’s Overture to Barber

of Seville.
(a) mm. 92–99.
(b) mm. 92–103.
shown in Example 5.11. In the lower reading, the initially separate four-measure

segments fuse to assemble a larger formal unit.
There are many situations in which close patterning of theme, orchestra-
tion, and text (if present) will support the decision to allow a motive to cross
a phrase boundary. In contrast, there is only one in which that practice is
counter-indicated, that being when a piece engages in what I refer to as “full
reset.” A full reset is a moment in which listeners are expected to freshly at-
tend to starting music, which leads them to relinquish concerns about mo-
tivic activity heard before. The prime example of a full reset is the start of a
new movement in a major work. Such moments are usually separated from
the close of the previous movement by silence, a rhetorical element that
Edward T. Cone likens to the frame around a painting (1968, 16–25). It is
true that composers often try to bridge these intermovement gaps. This can
be achieved with the performance instruction, attacca. Another strategy for
Example 5.12 A three-note motive echoes over two movements of Beethoven’s

Sonata in F♯ Major, Op. 78.
(a) Movement. I, mm. 90–93. The movement ends twelve measures later.
(b) Movement II, mm. 1–4.
(c) Improper motive drawn across the “full reset” boundary of movements I and II.
linking movements is to reuse a closing gesture from near the end of the
former at the start of the latter, as Beethoven does in his Piano Sonata in
F-sharp, Op. 78. In Example 5.12, the motive that does this is / ⎣, a stepwise
prefix attached to a downward leap.
The possibility of intermovement associations of the kind documented
in Examples 5.12(a) and (b) is not problematic from the standpoint of reduc-
tion. It would be problematic if an analyst tried to draw a motive spanning the
movements, as in Example 5.12(c). In that case, the provisional shape indicated
by beam would violate the prohibition against motives spanning a full reset.
Due to the frequency with which it occurs in Classical forms, I should
mention another circumstance that produces a full reset. It is “rounding,” the
oment in a piece marked by the return of head material and tonic harmony.
m
Roundings occur often and in pieces of all sizes. In large-scale sonata forms, the
full reset event is so significant that it has earned its own term: recapitulation.
Similar resets occur in rondo forms at the return of each refrain, as well as in bi-
nary forms appearing in instrumental suites and the interior movements of sym-
phonies and sonatas. For pieces of modest scope, only a hint of head material is
needed to bring about rounding, sometimes as little as two measures of melody.
Yet even in such cases, the return of the main idea in tonic carries its full rhetor-
ical significance such that a full reset can be said to occur.
This prolonged treatment of rounding is offered in the hopes of preventing a
common error made by analysts who are just beginning their studies in small-
scale form and newly engaging with period and sentence structures. The excerpt
appearing in Example 5.13, taken from a Haydn rondo in rounded binary form,
Example 5.13 Score of the theme of Haydn’s Piano Sonata in D, Hob XVI: 37

(III), with form annotated. Below, a dubious period is diagrammed spanning the
digression and rounding.
will demonstrate. Its form is indicated by the markings of a, digression, and a’.
Inexperienced analysts might note in mm. 9–16 that one phrase ends on V and
that the next ends on I. Their instinct might be to tie the two four-bar phrases to-
gether into a kind of period, as diagrammed below the passage.
The proposed period cannot be, because the rounding at m. 13 provides a hard
reset of a material. As at the beginning of the work, the four-measure melody that
reappears at the rounding is itself answered by the phrase in mm. 17–20. If the
music of mm. 13–16 serves as antecedent to the final phrase, it cannot also be a
consequent answer to 9–12.15
To reiterate, the rule against motives spanning a full reset prohibits shapes un-
covered through reduction from occurring in gaps between movements or in the
spaces before strong tonic recapitulations. This rule is firm except in the special
situation of the “wind-up” return, in which rising melodic energy and/or addi-
tive phrase segments aid the music’s push toward the moment of recapitulation.
In a concerto or song, this energy often takes the form of a miniature cadenza
over a dominant seventh chord (i.e., an eingang).16 In a serenade or symphony
movement, it might take the form of a sentence-like structure, in which smaller
segments build energy toward a larger culmination segment that serves as the
return. Example 5.14 illustrates a “wind-up” passage in Beethoven’s Piano Sonata
in C, Op. 2, No. 3, III.
The annotations in the score illustrate the wind-up gesture performing its
typical duty, which is to elongate the dominant area. The arrival of V in m. 28
constitutes the structural close of the digression on a half cadence (HC). This is
an event that, according to the earlier argument, cannot connect to the rounding
at m. 40. The retransitional music in mm. 28–39, however, is organically related
to the rounding. The melody in m. 30 reclaims the high G5, and the expectant,
Example 5.14 Beethoven, Sonata No. 3 in C, Op. 2, No. 3 (III), mm. 26–43.

additive phrase rhythm suggests that an important thematic return is imminent.

In this special case, it is the passage’s forward-directed energy that allows for the
medium-sized motive, 2nd, to be posited for mm. 29–40.
The last of our rules concerning reduction will place a limit on its scope. Given
the tremendous variation that works may exhibit in tempo and pacing, this can
only be done in relative terms.
Reduction Rule 3 (RR3) for medium-scale reduction: Except in rare cases, motives

discovered via reduction shall be constrained to a single, major formal section.
Corollary 1 (to RR3): All phrases touched upon in reduction should furnish a

roughly comparable number of tones.
Corollary 2 (to RR3): Notes extracted from separate phrases may be treated as

pitch-class events.
Corollary 3 (to RR3): Except in cases of extremely compact works, BMA will

not admit motives that span a full piece.
The term “section” in RR3 refers to a major formal area of a piece as determined
through study of harmonic, thematic, and rhetorical elements. Put simply, sections
may be thought of as the building blocks of conventional forms. A simple binary
form has two sections, or “reprises,” designated as || a || a’ || or || a || b || according to
their thematic content. Rounded binary and sonata forms have three sections, des-
ignated || a || digression a’ || and || Exposition || Development Recapitulation ||,
respectively. Rondo forms typically contain five or seven sections. When a piece is
composed in nonstandard form, analysts call on their knowledge of the traditional
models to parse it in as reasonable a manner as possible.
The “rare case” clause in RR3 can be invoked when some energy—melodic, har-
monic, rhythmic, textural, or textual—can be shown to flow across segments or
sections, as in the case of the “wind-up” condition described earlier. An argument
can be made for linking formal areas if, for example, their harmonic centers exhibit a
progression such as iv-v-VI (ascent through key area). (It is likely that other aspects
of music in this same hypothetical piece would project over sectional boundaries at
the same time the harmony does.) Speaking generally, the transition and retransition
areas in sonata and rondo forms are the most likely to be involved in dynamic inter-
relation; however, the boundaries between any sections may be overrun.
Corollary 1 to RR3 extends the original principle of reduction to greater spans.
Its purpose is to ensure that reduction at this next level proceeds more or less
“mechanically,” as before. Another way to say this is “evenly,” to avoid situations
in which all of the pitches deemed structural are taken from too narrow a window
of events. Corollary 2 to RR3 reinforces the point brought up by the voice-leading

analysis in Example 5.10. In sequential passages, it is common for the material to
rotate among the voices. Composers do this to generate sonic variety even while
rigorous patterning is occurring. The same principle holds for the several phrases
that constitute a section of a piece. While it is possible that the register of the
voices may hold steady across phrases, it is just as likely that they will shift to
bring forth new colors. To enable analysts to posit meaningful melodic shapes in
such circumstances, pitch-class motives must be allowed by the method.
The point expressed in Corollary 3 is not truly independent of Reduction Rule
3. It rather serves to remind readers of the ultimate limitation of motivic anal-
ysis. There are many occasions in which a piece’s large-scale form and harmonic
structure can be productively seen as stemming from or entwined with motives.
Yet even in these cases, the motivic events themselves tend to be of modest
scope, occurring within the boundaries of one or several formal segments. This
claim accords with Schoenberg’s original notion concerning motives’ size and
with basic truths concerning the limits of human perception. It is well known,
for example, that no real musical experience lasts more than a few seconds.17 In
any instance that we attempt to apprehend (audiate, “hear,” etc.) a musical span
longer than that, we substitute imagined sensation for actual sensation. This kind
of grand thinking, which underpins entire areas of musical knowledge such as
form, is by logical necessity almost entirely metaphorical.
When this book was first conceived, I hoped it would be possible to develop a
salience-based reductive method that could reliably produce piece-long motives.
I soon came to realize that this desire was suspect. I know of no current theo-
ries that claim that concretely heard motives must—or even could—unfurl over
the course of large pieces. While perhaps they could be engineered to do so, no
purely musical reason exists to expand them to that extent. This led me to inter-
rogate this pursuit: what was the motivation behind it? It was ambition, most
likely, the desire to build a special functionality into motivic analysis to enhance
its competitiveness with other analytic methods.
That is a woefully insufficient cause for overextending the reach of a method.
A Schenkerian analysis employs a piece-spanning Ursatz because it must: the
goal of that method is to show how the total structure of a work derives from
its counterpoint and harmony. Motivic analysis, to the extent that it has evolved
away from Schoenberg’s original theory, long ago ceded its claim of serving as
a tool for revealing that kind of total organicism. The most likely effect of pro-
posing piece-long motives, ironically, would be to weaken the analytic enter-
prise. Any such shapes would be composed of motives with elements spread too
far apart to be meaningful.
Motives, in other words, generally do not dictate the grand formal designs
of works. Their role, rather, is collaborative: they run in tandem with other
organizational forces. Acknowledging this limitation does not in any way sug-
gest that we must abandon the idea of comprehensive analysis involving motives.
It means, rather, that we should temper expectations of what a motivic analysis
of a large-scale piece looks like. Instead of producing a single, grand shape, it will
posit a slightly larger set of medium-sized shapes that apply to the component
sections.
This sober recognition, if anything, strengthens both motivic theory and anal-
ysis. The firm upper limit on motivic scope, for one, productively limits our in-
vestigation of shapes to manageable—yet still quite generous—spans. Consider
that a single section of a rounded binary form by Mahler can easily take up hun-
dreds of measures and many minutes of time. For another, it discourages us
from engaging in flights of fancy that could quickly erode this theory’s claims to
systematic rigor.
Principles for Linking Motives
Motivic analysis is concerned with identifying shapes in music and assembling

them into a coherent whole. This portion of the methodology chapter pivots to
address the latter activity by establishing rules for associating shapes within a
work. It is necessary to reassert a guiding principle of the method, which is that
associations among motives should be literal. This rule is global, in that it applies
fully to both basic and complex motivic analysis.
Rule 1 of Motivic Analysis: A relation between two motives is said to be literal

when the second reproduces all of relevant aspects of the first, in order.
The essential identity of a melodic shape is encoded by its composite intervals.

For a five-note pitch string such as D4-B♭-A-C5-D, that means the four successive
intervals between D4 and B♭, B♭ and A, A and C5, and C and D. These intervals can
be measured diatonically in pitch space, resulting in the interval succession <↑6,
↓2, ↑3, ↑2>. If one desires more detail, the interval measurements can be further
specified with tonal qualities, <↑m6, ↓m2, ↑m3, ↑M2>, or even in number of
semitones, <↑8, ↓1, ↑3, ↑2>, although for our purposes both of these will usually
be unnecessary.
To say that a second pitch or pitch-class motive is equivalent to a first one,
the same intervals must appear in order. In tonal music, this occurs under the
four operations illustrated in Example 5.15.18 Under transposition, shown
in Example 5.15(a), the intervals of the starting pitch string (boxed) are fully
preserved, but the new shape starts on a different note. Example 5.15(b)
illustrates transposition involving pitch-class: in that case, the intervals dictate

which letter-name note will appear, but not in which octave it will appear. In
the case of mirror inversion, illustrated in Example 5.15(c), all pitch interval
magnitudes of the starting shape are preserved, while each ascending/de-
scending direction is flipped. This produces the contour of the original shape
reflected upside-down, as if a mirror lay horizontally where the “I” marking is.
Under retrograde (Example 5.15(d)), the original string of notes is reversed,
resulting in the interval values reversing both their order and ascending/de-
scending direction. Example 5.15(e) shows a case in which two operations in
combination apply to the boxed shape to effect a retrograde inversion; this
Example 5.15 Illustration of the basic interval-preserving operations for pitch and

pc. All intervals shown are calculated diatonically, where 2 = step, 3 = third, etc.
(a) Transposition preserves the melodic intervals of a pitch string.
(b) Transposition preserves the melodic intervals of a pitch-class string, but does not
dictate the octave in which the notes of the new string appear.
(c) Mirror inversion reverses the up/down direction of melodic intervals in a pitch
string.
(d) Retrograde reverses both the order and up/ down direction of melodic intervals.
(e) Retrograde inversion reverses the order but not the up-down direction of intervals.
At right, the two strings resulting from these last two operations are shown to be
inversions of each other.
yields the shape at right, which preserves the original string’s interval values
and orientations but reverses their order.
A rhythmic gesture’s identity is encoded by its interval content as well;
however, the distances between attacks in a rhythm are measured in dura-
tion. In discussing this type of distance, analysts often rely on the concept
of “onset interval,” meaning the time between two events as measured in
some musical unit value, such as a sixteenth or eighth note. For example,
the rhythm h q e e h measured with a unit value of e would have the duration
series <4, 2, 1, 1, 4>. Importantly, each interval listed in that series is a pure
time span, which unlike pitch has no upward or downward directed distance.
That means that the operation of mirror inversion generally does not apply
in the realm of rhythm.19
Having established that rhythms cannot be transposed the same way that
pitches are, it is still possible to resize rhythmic shapes to occur as longer
or shorter events. The rhythmic relationships recognized in Musical Motives
are listed in Example 5.16. The primary operation of the method is dura-
tion scaling, which applies the same multiplier to all values of a rhythm.
Consider the rhythm h q e e h. In Example 5.16(a), this rhythm is transformed
to become w h q q w by multiplying all durations by two; the traditional name
for this expansion is augmentation. In the lower line of the example, the
Example 5.16 Illustration of the basic interval-preserving operations for rhythm.

(a) Duration scaling preserves the durations of rhythmic shape.
(b) Retrograde reverses the duration series of the original rhythmic shape.
initial rhythm is transformed by a factor of ½ to become q e x x q. The tra-

ditional name for this acceleration-like scaling is diminution. In both aug-
mentation and diminution, the resultant rhythms preserve the essence of the
original: the duration vector for each pair of rhythms remains the same as
the unit value changes. All of the rhythms given in part a) of the example can
thus be regarded as equivalent.
With inversion excluded from the set of interval-preserving rhythm op-
erations, only retrograde remains. The retrograde relation, which is scarcely
audible in the domain of pitch, is slightly more relevant to rhythm (Example
5.16(b)). It is, in fact, reasonable to assume musicians can sense when the
elements of a differentiated duration series are reversed, and possibly even no-
tice the symmetry. One caution to add about this operation arises in cases of
rhythms built of a single duration, such as q q q q. For an analyst coming upon

a second instance of q q q q, the situation is fully ambiguous from the stand-
point of transformation, since both basic repetition and retrograde performed
on the original will produce it. In general, when pondering the proper label
for describing an ambiguous transformation, one should prefer the more
common, straightforward operation. In this case, simple repetition wins out.
Example 5.17 Summary of all pitch, pitch-class (pc), and duration preserving

operations employed in motivic analysis.
All of the interval-preserving operations described to this point are listed in

Example 5.17, along with prescriptive symbols for indicating their presence. The
chart is organized according to domain, with pitch and pitch-class operations
appearing in the topmost zone. Note that no special nomenclature is reserved for
distinguishing between pitch and pitch-class operations; it will be assumed that
the audience for an analysis can discern the difference on their own.20 In cases
where pitch and rhythm transformations occur jointly, a double barbed arrow is
employed (e.g., the first, third, and fifth arrows). Single barbed arrows are used
in cases in which pitch content alone transfers (e.g., the second, fourth, and sixth
arrows).
The center portion of the chart indicates the nomenclature for documenting
rhythmic relationships. The most important of these is the one that appears
second. This single-barbed arrow indicates a full return of a rhythmic shape
under duration scaling. The trivial case of scaling is “x1,” which is used to show
the literal return of a rhythm motive (pitch content altered). Moving to the entry
just above, the two-barbed arrow carrying a multiplier signifies an operation in
which an original shape’s durations are scaled rhythmically while its pitch/pc
content remains unaltered. (Note that in cases where a motive’s full pitch and
rhythmic content returns, the unmarked “Transposition” arrow, which enfolds
rhythm, is strongly preferred to the “x1” duration-scaling arrow, although both
technically apply.) The third and last arrow in this middle area is used to track
rhythmic retrogrades; however, these will rarely be called upon in analyzing
tonal works. Although it is possible that scaling and pitch retrograde could both
apply simultaneously, no official nomenclature is offered to document that very
rare transformation.
One last motivic relationship is delineated in the lowest line of Example 5.17.
The Sensed connection relation, signified by dashed arrow, violates this method’s
guiding principle in that it does not track literal motivic recurrences. It should
thus be regarded as an unofficial tool that retains an artifact from traditional mo-
tivic analysis, that being the sense of “intuited”—which is to say: unprovable—
relatedness. The Sensed connection tool should be used sparingly, if it all. Also,
to minimize friction with the other transformations, it should only be used to
document musical connections that could be shown to be literal, but simply are
not for reasons of efficacy. One such scenario involves motivic fragmentation.
Where it is technically possible to draw a plain pitch-motive arrow from a source
motive to a smaller, two-note fragment, doing so frequently will compromise
the logic of analysis by suggesting that all like two-note gestures in a work are
interrelated. It is methodologically safer to occasionally suggest that a local bit
of fragmentation “can be heard” as a motivic connection. To avoid too many
intuitions from piling up, I recommend a procedural restriction on “chaining”
these arrows. A small number of dotted arrows may occur successively to show
the progression of a fragment, but these arrows as a group should be strictly con-
fined to a local stretch of measures.
The interval-preserving operations presented in Example 5.17 cohere as a
group. They complement each other such that, when employed creatively and
judiciously, they will allow an analyst to comment meaningfully on the motivic
content of nearly every gesture of a piece. The scope of this group, moreover, has
been intentionally limited to discourage analysts from proposing ad hoc motivic
transformations that, more often than not, are descriptive but not necessarily
meaningful.
A case in point is the informal transformation, “Syncopate,” which one might
imagine applying in instances where an original rhythmic motive shifts the loca-
tion of some of its attacks within the meter. This process, illustrated in Example
Web.5.2 , involves the second theme from Beethoven’s Piano Sonata in C♯
Minor (“Moonlight”), III, in mm. 21–28. Drawing an arrow between the two
theme statements and labeling the latter a product of the “Syncopate” operation
may afford some momentary satisfaction. Consider, though, the uncertainty
that would result from admitting Syncopate to the group of rhythmic trans-
formations. The term is highly vague; how would one know for certain when to
apply it? Looking more closely at this one potential instance, we see that not all
of the attacks of the second “Moonlight” theme in mm. 25–28 are shifted; the
downbeats certainly are not. Should the rule be that all attacks of the original
shape must shift for Syncopate to be declared active? eighty percent of attacks?
Another operation officially excluded from the list of motivic relationships
in Example 5.17 is Fragmentation. Traditionally, this operation is said to man-
ifest when, following the presentation of an idea, the music seemingly seizes on
a short bit of it for developmental purposes. Common source materials for frag-
mentation are running-note and cadential gestures. As chapter 3 noted, frag-
mentation has long been a concern of motivic analysis. And well it should be: it is
nearly ubiquitous in Common Practice composition. For the purposes of assem-
bling a new methodology, however, fragmentation is too inconsistent and illog-
ical to be incorporated.
On epistemological grounds, we have already seen how quickly the notion of
a Fragment operation is undermined by the simple question, “What labels are
appropriate for motive fragments?” Schoenberg’s answer to this question led
him to postulate a set of quasi-mathematic labels such as 3rd ÷ 2 to describe
how two-note fragments are derived from a three-note idea. This type of label
creates a new problem, however, which is that the new shape in question loses
the ability to exist independently. If fragmentation of two unlike motives in sep-
arate locations happens to yield the exact same pitch shape, the two distinct “di-
vide by” labels run counter to the common-sense observation that the resultant
shapes are identical.
The larger issue surrounding small melodic fragments is their generic nature. It
is nigh impossible to determine the true origin of any two-note melodic event. Is it
a primary motive, recurring through the piece, or is it a local entity derived from a
nearby idea? Or is it somehow both of these things? The present discussion cannot
resolve this ambiguity, but does offer a suggestion for responding to it. In cases
where analysts wish to show recurrences of a short motive, they should apply a
unique label and track its influence with solid arrows. In cases where analysts wish
to show the local dynamics of a fragment derived from a proximate theme, they
may use dotted arrows for the limited span that the relationship is relevant.
In exploring the inherent limitations of informal motives such as Syncopate
and Fragment, we gain some deeper awareness of their nature. These operations
and others like them, such as “voice swap,” are best understood as macroscale
techniques that composers use to restate larger blocks of material. When em-
ployed consistently across a work, a gesture such as Syncopate can be viewed as a
type of motive in itself. The gesture becomes a “premise,” to use Epstein’s termi-
nology. Defining and tracking this sort of motivic activity is absolutely relevant
to this study. The proper place for establishing procedures for doing so, however,
is in the chapter that details complex motivic analysis.
The theoretical presentation of the relationships permitted in BMA concludes

with a brief demonstration of proper technique for drawing and labeling opera-
tional arrows. The context for this demonstration will be roughly the first third
(mm. 1–124) of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata 7 in D Major, Op. 10, No. 3, I. The
movement opens with a “14-note” motto gesture. In Example 5.18, this shape
Example 5.18 The presentation of the “motto” in mm. 1–4 of Beethoven’s Piano

Sonata in D, Op. 10, No. 3 (I).
is shown as the source of three primary motives, two pitch-based and the other
rhythm-based. The main pitch motive of interest is a motive of a third that
occurs in both descending and ascending (inverted) forms. The other motive
bracketed is the stepwise-prefix-with-arpeggio (/Arp). The main rhythm mo-
tive of interest consists of fourteen rapid quarter notes leading to a longer, held
note (see topmost brace in the example).
The first pitch- based operation to be demonstrated is transposition.
Transposition can occur diatonically or chromatically, in either pitch or pitch-
class space. The arrows in Example 5.19(a) document pitch transpositions of a
\3rd motive that starts first on D5 and then on B4 and G. Although instrumental
doubling technically causes each instance of 3rd motive to appear in three voices,
its presence is only tracked in the alto.
Example 5.19(b) illustrates a second set of transpositions of the \3rd shape.
One occurs entirely within the twelve measures of score shown. The expansive
\3rd in whole notes that begins at m. 41 elides with a much faster \3rd that begins
at m. 45. In addition to the common pitch content, the latter retains the rhythmic
Example 5.19 Pitch motive activity in Beethoven, Op. 10, No. 3 (I).

(a) Pitch transposition of \3rd motive, with rhythm retained.
(b) Pitch transpositions of \3rd motive, with rhythm altered.

(c) Mirror inversion involving multiple 3rd events, with rhythm retained.
proportions of the former but sounds it eight times faster. For this reason, the
“x1/8” arrow connecting them is double-barbed. The other transposition arrow
indicates that the \3rd beginning in m.41 originates from the “motto” segment
of m. 1. This example introduces the convention of using a large filled-in dot
(see top left of the graphic) to represent motives appearing in distant segments.
The reason a single barbed arrow is used is because the rhythm of the shape at
m. 41 overextends the original’s first duration. True scaling of the motto would
produce one whole note per pitch; therefore, only the pitch content is faithfully
transmitted.
Example 5.19(c), taken from the start of the exposition’s Second Tonal Area,
demonstrates how to label inverted motives. In mm. 71–74, the source \3rd in the
left hand spawns an inversion of itself in the right hand at the pickup to m. 75.
The diagonal lines in the following measures illustrate the subsequent register
swaps. Rather than viewing the music one operation at a time—which would
require new Inversion arrows at the pickups to m. 77 and m. 78—the analysis
reduces the content to two basic forms of the motive, rectus and inversus. Both
of these, it may be recalled, were present in the piece’s original “motto” gesture in
mm. 1–4. (Note that this is a compositional detail that would receive a great deal
more attention if we were developing a full, formal BMA.)
In contrast to the demonstration of pitch motive activity, where rhythmic
issues were invoked tangentially, Example 5.20 concentrates exclusively on
rhythm. Example 5.20(a) demonstrates the most critical rhythmic relation in
motivic analysis, whereby a musical shape returns with new pitches but with
its duration series intact. The single-barbed “x1” arrow linking the 14-note
motto in mm. 1–4 to the closing area theme of mm. 94–97 communicates their
identity relationship. The same relationship ties the 14-note motto to the main
theme of the development section, stated first in mm. 133–137. Example 5.20(b)
Example 5.20 Rhythm motive activity in Beethoven, Op. 10, No. 3 (I).

(a) Rhythmic duplication of the “14-note” motto; pitch content altered in mm.
91–97 and mm. 133–137.
(b) Diminution and augmentation of the original S-S-S-S rhythmic motive.
documents both a diminution and augmentation of the motto’s first four notes.
In the above case (m. 60), the retention of diatonic pitch-class content calls for a
double-barbed arrow. In the case below (m. 105), the original rhythm is scaled by
a factor of two and the pitch content is new.
The last operation from the chart in Example 5.17, Sensed connection, is
demonstrated in Example 5.21. A set of provisional arrows are drawn in the
example to depict the relation between the two-note shapes in mm. 72–75 and
Example 5.21 Potential “Fragment” operation in mm. 71–75.
the upcoming, culminating /3rd in m. 76. The first three of the forward-directed
arrows are printed in solid ink. The other arrows are printed as dotted lines to
signal a looser, aural association. The two dotted arrows chart the same rela-
tionship in two different ways. The larger dotted arrow arcing to the left above
the score indicates a more abstract fragmentation that takes place out of time. It
views all of the C♯4-D motions as pieces of the upcoming /3rd motive. The smaller
dotted arrow within the staves provides an opposite, “reverse-fragmentation” in-
terpretation: it views the C♯4-D motions accumulating into the eventual /3rd.
In place of Fragment, analysts are encouraged to employ dotted arrows to in-
dicate personal hearings of how similar-yet-unrelated shapes resonate. This dis-
cretion applies universally, both to authors of analyses and to readers. The two
dotted arrows given in Example 5.21 may stand, as long as it is understood that
they do not constitute motivic analysis, proper. They may be amended or alto-
gether ignored. To state this as a principle: fragmentation may be illustrated and
discussed in analysis but should not be debated.
Assembling Analysis: Preliminary Narrative Strategies
The paired hairpin dynamics symbol, > <, serves as a metaphor to describe our
intellectual activity to this point. Musical Motives began with the grand promise
of motivic analysis as a tool fit for examining full works and for laying bare uni-
versal aesthetic impulses. From that point, our focus narrowed to close consider-
ation of the musical surface. Having completed our survey of the base elements
structuring our analysis, we can turn our attention back to large-scale questions
such as “How do these shapes interact in support of a comprehensive view of a
piece?” We have finally reached the central turning point, where the decrescendo
stage of our theoretical endeavor gives way to crescendo.
A performing musician who comes across the paired > < symbols in a score
knows that they encode more than simple volume instructions. They portend
changes in air flow, bow stroke, and/or arm weight. In the same way that a
crescendo’s success may be dashed by fatigue, there is an ever-present bugaboo
that threatens to derail performances of motivic analyses. That obstacle inheres
in motives’ microscopic nature, which can distract from the larger musical land-
scape. The danger is that analysts, becoming bogged down in minutiae, will fail
to transcend them.
The way to overcome this tendency is to mandate that all motivic analyses
draw grand, synthetic points. A second global rule will help ensure that occurs:
Rule 2 of Motivic Analysis: An analysis must be structured around a single source

event called a Focal Point that can be shown to furnish all or nearly all relevant
shapes in the piece.
This tenet shall hold for all works, irrespective of style. If we were to attempt a
motivic analysis of even a twentieth-century “moment form” piece, we would
need to structure it around one or more primary events.21 Paradoxically, with
regard to this hypothetical, modern piece, the notion of a central set of motives
playing out organically would directly contradict the composer’s intent. For
analysts adhering to this method, that contradiction must stand, unresolved
and willfully ignored, as we concentrate on building our derivative artwork, the
analysis.22
The graphic in Example 5.22 illustrates one way in which organicism manifests
in music. It takes the form of a schematic showing an intuitive and traditional ap-
proach for assembling analysis. The original motivic source, the Focal Point, is
located at or near a piece’s beginning, and its effects are traced forward in time.
The transformational arrows that appear are unadorned, suggesting an ideal-
ized piece in which all motives recur literally. Solid circle nodes in this and all
diagrams to follow represent musical segments.
This representation implies that some kind of story or narrative underlies mo-
tivic analysis. That narrative may be better understood if reframed as a familiar,
dramatic metaphor. A main character appears in the form of an initiating event.
That character then exerts influence on the events that follow in time. The content
Example 5.22 A model for cognizing motivic activity. Flow of information is from

an early source event; solid circles represent musical segments.
and identity—and energy, too, if one is amenable to that notion—of Event 1

moves forward, propagating itself in left-to-right fashion through the work.
We will explore this issue further in the book’s two Narrative Interludes
(chapters 5.5 and 6.5), noting the conditions necessary for proposing various
plotlines to interpret musical works from the vantage point of motives. For now,
the discussion of BMA’s methodology may be concluded with the proposal of
one last rule:
BMA Narrative Rule: All analyses constructed via BMA shall adhere to the
Propagation template, in which a motivic initiating event is shown returning liter-
ally or transformed over the course of a piece’s subsequent segments.
Corollary (to BMA Narrative Rule): All analyses constructed via BMA will
locate their Focal Point at or very near the beginning of the piece.
This assembly rule plus corollary encapsulates a key aspect of BMA’s simplicity
versus complex motivic analysis. In allowing analysts access to but a single
plotline, BMA requires them to concentrate on the most basic aspects of inves-
tigation, such as identifying proper shapes in an opening source segment and
seeking clear and meaningful correspondences in subsequent segments. The in-
terpretation of the analysis is largely predetermined. Whatever drama unfolds, it
will be shown to steadily progress from beginning to end.
The corollary to the BMA Narrative Rule is in place to guide analysts in their
selection of a Focal Point and to provide some necessary flexibility. For a BMA
to follow the Propagation template, its source material must be located near the
start. At the same time, analysts must endeavor to identify a Focal Point weighty
enough to support a comprehensive analysis. Many pieces begin with segments
that are bare in texture, exhibiting monophony, sustained tones, or repeating
cadential figures; notable examples include Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony,
Tchaikovsky’s Fourth Symphony, and Mahler’s Fifth Symphony. Upon encoun-
tering conditions of this sort, analysts are obligated to scan ahead to find the
first segment of music capable of furnishing sufficiently rich analytical material.
Such a segment might occur at the allegro onset immediately following the slow
introduction. As long as the Focal Point selected can be reasonably said to occur
“near the beginning” of a movement, the conditions of this rule may be said to
be fulfilled.
Interlude 1
BMA Narrative Archetypes
The Role of Narrative in Motivic Analysis in General and Its Role

in BMA in Particular
Although there has been little formal discussion of narrative up to now, the topic
has played and will play a prominent role in this method. Many of the analyses
presented to this point began by reporting on motivic content and succession,
but then continued by casting the objective findings in dramatic terms. No
formal justification has yet been given to support this interpretive activity. Here
that will change, allowing narrative to officially take part in structuring large-
scale analyses, and in so doing, support the original goal of having motives move
and move us.
This Interlude, the first of two, serves two purposes. The first is to fill a theo-
retical gap from earlier by offering arguments in favor of incorporating musical
narratives into motivic analysis. The Interlude’s second purpose is to provide
a last bit of guidance for assembling comprehensive basic motivic analyses
(BMAs). Its last section presents four models, or archetypes, for organizing and
animating motivic findings. One archetype models the activity of a single mo-
tive. The other three archetypes model multiple motives in dialogue. Once this
task is complete, all of the foundational theoretical aspects of BMA will have
been covered. Chapter 6 will address the remaining practical concerns of BMA
by presenting and evaluating sample analyses and, last, offering final consider-
ations of the method as a whole.
Theoretical Justification for Framing Motivic

Analyses as Narratives
There is no requirement that analysts relate a piece’s events as a narrative. It is one

thing to document the connections among musical events. It is wholly another
to impose a storyline on them by imputing agency and desire to the events them-
selves. This distinction is exemplified by two kinds of claims that can be made
about the succession of events depicted at the close of c hapter 5 in Example 5.22.
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197526026.003.0006.
166 METHODS OF MOTIVIC ANALYSIS
Claim 1: Motivic elements located in a piece’s early Focal Point are restated in
later segments in a way that promotes smoothness and comprehensibility.
Claim 2: A piece’s early Focal Point motivates its forward motion and devel-
opment. Focal Point material from this early segment remains recognizable
throughout, even when its surroundings shift. Focal Point content remains
stable in all situations; however, its character may shift, much as a person’s char-
acter is shaped by life experiences.1
If it were our goal to make this analytic system as neat as possible, we would
prefer statements like Claim 1 and outlaw those like Claim 2. Such could easily be
done, and the results would remain rich. Even after quashing all impulses to in-
dulge in metaphor and storytelling, one could still fashion impressive networks
of nodes and arrows documenting motivic processes over time. One could,
moreover, still make wide-reaching claims about musical structure and process.
A key element would be missing, however: emotion. An analysis written in
the spirit of Claim 1 would largely fail to embody the First Proposition of Motive,
that requiring these shapes to move and to move us. Here, then, is another com-
pelling reason for requiring a Focal Point in motivic analysis. It provides a land-
mark around which narrative analysis is oriented.
The idea that a musical work has the capability to suggest a real-world event is
centuries old. Famous examples are furnished by the literally “stormy” passages
in Baroque operas, the bird calls in Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony, the journey
down Smetana’s Moldau, and the adventures of heroes and rogues in Strauss tone
poems. Based on the descriptive titling of such works, we may in certain situ-
ations gather that the composers themselves meant for the music to relate such
impressions. On the contrary, when dealing with a piece that lacks a documented
program, we are on shakier ground when we attempt to assert that any plot, lit-
eral or otherwise, underlies it. The results of each person’s narrative musings on
such works would no doubt make sense to him or her, but it is increasingly un-
likely that they would be meaningful to anyone else.
There are many reasons to doubt the possibility that instrumental music
carries narrative. To counter them, we may cite evidence that widely shared views
on specific musical meanings do in fact exist. One point of common ground is
humanity’s universal impulse to impose narrative on successions of events. Here,
readers may be surprised to learn that many of the nonmusical narratives they
put faith in are, in fact, products of intent and of bias. One may take as example
a set of facts comprising a classic history, such as the history of World War II.
Viewed on their own, the facts and dates tell no overarching story; the cumu-
lative significance of all of the events is imposed later (Nattiez 1990, 245–246).2
A potential analogy can be made for music with respect to its motives, phrases,
BMA Narrative Archetypes 167
and formal areas. The sequence of these sonic events does not necessarily man-
ifest any narrative until an interpreter supplies one. This practice emerges quite
naturally for most: while “listening to a work, we recognize the evocations of
actions, tensions, and dynamisms analogous to those for which the literary work
is a vehicle” (Nattiez 1990, 248).
Another argument for the presence of plotlines in instrumental music is the ex-
tensive set of grand narrative archetypes well known to generations of Classical
music connoisseurs. Some of these are highly poetic, for example, the “darkness to
light” plotline that is associated with symphonies that are billed in a minor mode
but end in major. Others are more technical. Anthony Newcomb (1987) illustrates
how the traditional formal models of music, such as sonata form, constitute plot
paradigms in and of themselves. This view is well supported by the dozens of an-
alytic essays that, upon noticing a deviation or deformation of an expected form,
respond by imposing a vividly dramatic interpretation on the whole.3
The moment we allow that narratives can be posited for even instrumental
pieces, a new question emerges. What kinds of stories can such music tell? Here
we must take care to assemble narratives responsibly, to avoid basing them on
details that are so personal that they resist generalization. One way to avoid this
error is to dig into the cultural history of motives as they appear in the context
of a composer’s career or a style period. One motive with a particularly famous
history is the “sigh” motive, a two-note 2nd shape, written to be performed with
a “down-up” feel through slurring or bowing. This shape proliferated throughout
the Baroque era, coming eventually to be associated with grief due to its outsized
role in pieces of lament such as Purcell’s “When I Am Laid in Earth” from Dido
and Aeneas.
Such historical examination is the purview of so-called gesture studies. Robert
Hatten and Janet Schmalfeldt, writing separately, convincingly argue that clues
to the meaning of a particular gesture—at least as the composer may have con-
ceived it—can be productively deduced from careful readings of his or her other
works (Hatten 1994) or from the physicality of performing it (Schmalfeldt 2005).
For example, if a composer of a song assigns the word, “misery” to a specific
falling figure, then that shape can call to mind the idea of misery when it appears
in one of their other untexted works.
Another way to avoid the pitfall of making a story too specific is to cast it in
freer terms. This entails a retreat from what Roman Jakobsen calls extroversive
practice, which investigates sonic events’ “referential link with the outside
world,” in favor of an introversive practice that investigates “the reference of each
sonic event to other elements” (1970, 12–13). It is of course impossible to actually
achieve full introversion. Even when analysts intend to speak objectively about a
“rising line,” a “fanfare gesture,” or a “contrasting tonality,” their understanding of
these constructs is ineluctably bound to awareness of “outside” notions.4 (In this
case, these concepts, in order, conjure up associations of striving and success,

of court brass ensembles, and of literal territory to be shared or fought over.5)
While acknowledging that fact, we will continue to steer our narrative analysis
craft toward the introversive horizon. There will be storytelling, but the stories
will primarily concern the quasi-adventures of musical shapes, unities, tensions,
and emotions.
To aid us in this endeavor, we will touch on some basic narrative principles.
An extended tradition of literary scholarship has established that the particular
details of a story are often less important than the general framework lying be-
neath it.6 Thus it is that a single framework can dictate the pathways of so many
heroes. One might not immediately associate the character of Theseus from
Greek myth with Luke Skywalker from the Star Wars film saga or Beatrix Kiddo
(“The Bride”) from Tarantino’s Kill Bill films. As protagonists in epic dramas,
they all experience roughly the same sequence of events. Each initially learns of a
prophecy or undertakes a quest. From that point, each obtains a birthright such
as a sword, ventures out to confront a host of enemies, faces a near-death and/or
burial event, escapes, and ultimately triumphs.7
In acknowledgment of their debt to literary theory, the generalized musical
plotlines to be advanced here are deemed “archetypes.” The archetypes formally
proposed in this book’s two Narrative Interludes—and employed throughout—
are of my own design. Yet, if one were to read them alongside any modern trea-
tise on musical narrative, one would observe a number of common traits. The
first concerns the selection of subject matter; i.e., what motives are significant?
Following Hatten, I take it that certain musical events, if known to be rare in
a musical style, are intrinsically “marked” for meaning (1994, 29–66).8 For ex-
ample, fewer pieces in the Common Practice were written in minor. It thus
follows that those that are cast in that mode possess an extra emotional dimen-
sion. (Specifically, they are more likely to be thought of as intensely “sad” or mo-
rose, whereas the mood of a piece written in “unmarked” major mode may not
attract notice at all.) The same principle loosely extends to motive. A jagged,
chromatic motivic shape in a piece will naturally attract more attention than
smoother and more normative diatonic shapes.
In a similar vein, Fred Maus’s essay “Music as Drama” holds that events in music
are conceived as actions and states of being, e.g., running, fleeing, conversing, or
making an outburst (1988). We instinctively listen in this manner to make the
music itself seem rational. More than simply hearing the music, we actively per-
sonify it, mapping a set of human behaviors and conditions onto what in actuality
are soundwaves distinguished by frequency, volume, duration, and timbre.
Consistent with the notion of deep metaphorical frameworks, Maus is keen to
remind us that the identities of the agents committing all of these actions are un-
knowable. One may wonder what realm the imagined protagonist at any moment
resides in. Is it a character or persona in the music, such as a cello theme seeking
resolution, or is it a single note like a high G♯ struggling to break through to A and
beyond? Is the protagonist the composer trying to solve a musical problem, or
the listener trying to navigate a maze of themes and/or tonalities? What is impor-
tant to remember for each such pair of “or” questions is that answering yes to one
does not require us to say no to the other. The fact that listeners regularly flit back
and forth among these brief intuitions of agency is strong evidence, to Maus, of
the archetypal basis of music. The piece, in his words, is “a drama that lacks de-
terminate characters” (1988, 72).9
Past the issue of casting a story lies that of imagining its path. Following
Almén 2003, all narratives presented in this study will proceed under the ex-
pectation that a piece of music will open by invoking one emotional/dramatic
condition and progress to at least one other. That progression in terms of tension,
expectation, and satisfaction will relate to the motivic content; by this I mean the
appearances and interplay of the motives. Our first task, then, will be to delineate
the main narrative archetypes of basic motivic analysis. Following a theoretic ac-
count, the narratives prescribed will be illustrated by a small set of analytic and
interpretive demonstrations.
The Four BMA Narrative Archetypes
The Narrative Rule presented at the close of chapter 5 specifies that all analyses
constructed within BMA will proceed linearly, modeling the music listening
experience. The formal process label “Propagation” was assigned to this chro-
nologic process, as was a representational flow-chart schematic to track the de-
velopment of a single motivic entity. The coupling of these two features results in
the simplest narrative archetype possible. This archetype, called BMA-1, is illus-
trated in Example 5.5.1.
The one-dimensional layout of BMA-1 applies to analyses that concentrate on
the activity and progress of a single motive. As currently formatted it suggests no
Example 5.5.1 BMA-1, Propagation, the simplest narrative archetype for motives

(rebrands Example 5.22).
Focal Material propagates

Point
Event 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
means for modeling a piece that exposes two or more motives in its Focal Point
segment. To address this shortcoming, the method will be extended to include
multicharacter narratives such as “conflict” and “complementation.”
The archetype of struggle or conflict has a long tradition in narrative accounts
of music. For many Western listeners, it comes to mind unbidden when hearing
music with repeating elements, which is to say: in most pieces from the Common
Practice period. Upon hearing static repetition, one is likely to think, “The music
keeps stating the same idea. If it has any intent to move onward, there must be
an obstacle frustrating its progress.” Conflict-based archetypes play a prominent
role in BMA, as it is almost always possible to make a case for multiple agency
in musical works. One does so by peering into a composite motive and reading
it in terms of multiple, contrasting aspects. This approach may sound esoteric;
however, it is so well entrenched that it may be considered the default mode of
motivic analysis.
One way to manufacture conflict out of a single entity is to cast the motive’s
subelements—note: they must all be proper shapes, not features!—in opposi-
tional terms. This strategy is exemplified in Almén’s 2003 narrative analysis of
Chopin’s Prelude in C Minor, Op. 28. He reads the main melody in m.1 (G4-A♭-
G-F-E♭) in terms of two “interlocking” motives. Motive a is a half-step neighbor
established on the basis of the first three notes of m. 1’s melody. Motive b, a de-
scending third, is based on the last three notes. (The two motives are illustrated in
Example Web.5.5.1 .) According to Almén, the prelude undertakes a dialectic
journey from order, into conflict, and to final resolution. He shows this narra-
tive unfolding specifically through the dynamic interaction of his core motives.10
Where motive a is initially “prominent” over b in mm. 1–4, its role diminishes
over time. Almén reads this systematic “reining in” of motive a in terms of a “de-
feat,” a “tragic fate” solemnly marked by the prelude’s final, amelodic chordal
statement in m. 13 (Almén 2003, 27).
A motive’s singular image may also be diffracted into several shapes by
establishing a set of individual, yet closely related forms for it. This is the ap-
proach favored throughout Zbikowski 2002. In analyzing the first movement
of Beethoven’s String Quartet in B♭, Op. 18, No. 6, he identifies three closely re-
lated variants of the prime motive. These are shown in Example 5.5.2. The iden-
tity of each motive form, alpha, beta, and gamma, depends on the presence of
attributes listed in its bubble network.
Zbikowski’s strategy of allowing a single motive to manifest in three ways is a
direct response to Joseph Kerman, who criticized this quartet movement specifi-
cally for its lack of motivic development (1966, 71–74). As he mostly agrees with
Kerman, Zbikowski repeatedly reminds readers that the three forms of motive,
at the deepest level, express a unity. At the same time, he cannot seem to resist
injecting narrative elements into his discussion. Near the beginning, Zbikowski
Example 5.5.2 Figure 4.6 from Zbikowski 2002 showing “models for three forms of
the principal motive” from Beethoven’s Quartet in B♭, Op. 18, No. 6 (I).
(a) (b) (c)
refers to the alpha and beta forms of motive as the “musical Tweedledum and
Tweedledee to the listener’s Alice” (2006, 169).
He proceeds under the unexamined assumption that the three forms exhibit
an observable “progress through the movement,” and that the presence of one
versus another at key points is a source of its overall lighthearted, comic, sen-
sibility (2006, 171). In Zbikowski’s account, this dramatic effect stems more
from syntactic machination—for example, having the “closing” form of the mo-
tive (beta) appear at a section’s opening—than actual conflict among the forms.
Nevertheless, said, his original decision to view a central motive in this way
provides a precedent for doing so in other contexts.
Having acknowledged the possibility of multiple agents in motivic analysis,
we now adapt BMA’s theory to admit them. The narrative archetypes involving
propagation of two or more motivic elements shall fall under the designation,
BMA-2, to distinguish them from BMA-1 (single motive under Propagation).
The three potential outcomes of BMA-2 are listed in Example 5.5.3.
In pieces exhibiting Complementation, the two main motive players are intro-
duced and explored in separate formal areas, with direct juxtapositions kept
to a minimum. As the topmost arrow in Example 5.5.3 indicates, there can be
only one end result of a complementation interaction. Because the motives are
prevented from interacting, they will fail to engage each other. Each motive
will have its say in some portions of the piece; however, neither will establish
dominance. This narrative archetype, “Non-Engagement,” is assigned the label
Example 5.5.3 The three propagative narrative archetypes that manifest under the
condition of divided or multiple motive entities.
Nature of interaction produces Narrative Archetype
Complementation Non-Engagement BMA–2˚
Synthesis BMA–2•
Conflict Triumph BMA–2+
BMA-2o. The “2” aspect of the nomenclature signals membership in the second
category of BMA motive. Mnemonically, the “2” can also be thought of as dis-
unity, or that “more than one” motive form is involved. The superscript open
circle, o, calls to mind the notion of a process left incomplete.
When motives conflict, they are typically put into close contact, jostling and
interrupting each other. One possible narrative outcome resulting from this
conflict is, again, Non-Engagement; note that Example 5.5.3 depicts two arrow
pathways toward this archetype. Non-Engagement may be thought of as the null
outcome of a conflict, which results when the motivic struggle ceases without
resolution. For an example, one may imagine a sonata form work in which a
highly conflicted development is succeeded by a wholly conventional recapit-
ulation that reasserts the independence of its contrasting themes with their at-
tendant motives.
The second type of narrative stemming from conflict is “Synthesis.” When
Synthesis occurs, both of the main motive forms are maintained for the entirety
of the piece or major section. At some point, likely near the end, they are assem-
bled into a cooperative conglomerate. The label given to this archetype is BMA-
2•, with the filled-in circle suggesting a sense of completion or goal fulfillment.
The last likely outcome of Conflict is one motive vanquishing or appearing to
vanquish the other(s). Such is suggested when, over the course of the piece, the
motive presumed to be subsidiary either vanishes suddenly or begins taking
on aspects of the dominant motive. This narrative archetype is designated as
“Triumph” and given the label BMA-2+. (The plus sign loosely represents the
increasing prominence of the “winning” motive.)
The names assigned to the three BMA- 2 archetypes carry dramatic
implications, calling to mind dynamic interactions among characters in a
story.11 At the same time, I indicated early on that the narratives advanced in this
book will be couched in primarily musical terms. Some may chafe at that restric-
tion, preferring to translate the motivic activity they observe into fantastically
dramatic accounts. The path in that direction—a realm of motives personified,
with their specific desires concretely articulated—offers spiritual rewards but is
methodologically treacherous. In the event we should be so bold to venture that

way, it will be critical to equip ourselves with the sturdiest framework possible to
support our musical storytelling.
The framework I recommend originated with Northrop Frye, a literary the-
orist who wrote extensively on the origins and patterns of storytelling across
cultures. In an essay from 1957 on myth creation, he posits that all dramatic
narratives are reducible to four types: Romance, Comedy, Tragedy, and Irony
(satire). His titles are Classically inspired, meaning that the romances do not
necessarily pertain to love, nor the comedies to humor. Instead, each archetype
is defined in terms of (1) its general trajectory of success versus failure and (2) its
setting, meaning whether its events occur in the realm of idealized fantasy versus
that of real experience. Frye’s four types were later adopted and refined by J. J.
Liszka, who conceives the four narrative archetypes as a series of logical oppos-
itions, as follows:
I. Emphasis on Victory
A. Comedy—victory of transgression over order
B. Romance—victory of order over transgression
II. Emphasis on Defeat
A. Irony/Satire—defeat of order by transgression
B. Tragedy—defeat of transgression by order
(Liszka 1989, 133)
The four genres of comedy, romance, irony/satire, and tragedy, are applied
to individual literary works by determining who the protagonists are and then
whether their victory upholds or overthrows/subverts the social order. One must
also determine whether the audience’s sympathies align with the victor or the
vanquished. There is not time at present to offer a full demonstration of this pro-
cedure; however, those interested may consult Example Web.5.5.2 for an il-
lustration of how Disney’s Sleeping Beauty is a romance, how the Wachovski’s
Matrix film trilogy is a comedy, how the musical theater work West Side Story is
a tragedy, and how Heller’s novel Catch-22 embodies satire. The extra wrinkle in
our branch of analysis is that one must take the extra steps of casting the musical
motives as protagonists, establishing the rules of the piece—its style, genre, lan-
guage, and so forth—as the social order, and identifying audience sympathy. This
is no small task; thus, it will not be worth pursuing in all cases. (The Frye/Liszka
archetypes will, for example, shed little or no light on BMA-2o type interactions.)
In cases where high drama is sensed, however—perhaps even once or twice in
late chapters of this book—it may be worthwhile to call on the four archetypes in
the interest of creating a compelling, piece-specific “story.”
The final portion of this Interlude is given over to illustrating examples of BMA’s
three multimotive archetypes. We begin with BMA-2o. An analysis following
the Non-Engagement template will assiduously avoid projecting any sense of
struggle; however, this does not mean it must be bland. Chopin’s Prelude in F♯,
Op. 28, No. 13 is a quasi-ternary form work in which the A section, (mm. 1–20)
is marked by static double-neighbor motives (“DN”) in the melody and accom-
paniment.12 The B section (mm. 21–28) concentrates mostly on fourth-based
motives. These materials are shown in Example 5.5.4(a) and (b).
The DN and 4th pitch shapes are constrained to their respective A and
B areas, with two exceptions. The first such exception is in mm. 6–7 (see
Example 5.5.4(c)). Here the melody adopts a more soaring character as it leaps
up to F♯5, then descends gently through a 4th to C♯. This moment foreshadows the
4th that will serve as the basis of the B theme. The 4th shape is presented once in
this area and then evaporates. By declining to put it in dialogue with the DN mo-
tive, the music—or whatever agency one prefers: the melody, the composer, the
imagined protagonist—expressly avoids any sense of conflict.
A more pronounced blending of the two motive forms is found in mm. 34–38.
This moment of interest caps off the final section, which begins at m. 28 with a
return of the left hand figuration from A. The DN shape is repeatedly expressed
in the tenor’s eighth notes as before. It also appears in a new, drawn out form
in the soprano that concludes the melody in mm. 34–36; this is beamed in
Example 5.5.4(d). Aside from the brief C♯5-F♯ given in m. 30 (not shown), the
4th motive has all but disappeared. It returns in the final two measures, however,
where the left hand material shifts to recall the texture from B. The large, gentle
4th in the tenor does not interrupt or threaten the hegemony of the DN shape,
since the prelude essentially concluded at the downbeat of m. 36. Although the
last two measures of the piece are structurally unnecessary, they do enrich its
narrative. By having the music faintly recall an earlier theme, it causes audience
members to partake in an act of reminiscence. That act will mean something dif-
ferent to all; however, one can predict their responses will register on the intellec-
tual and emotional engagement spectrum somewhere in the vicinity of satisfied
recognition and balance.
Sectional forms, forms like rondo and ternary that are by nature additive and
less organic, are the most likely to support Non-Engagement narratives. To ob-
serve the behavior of multiple motives interacting (conflicting) in closer quarters,
it makes sense to canvass movements written in sonata form. The clear articula-
tion of both the exposition and recapitulation into First and Second Tonal Areas
(FTA and STA) often entails the separate presentation of contrasting themes.13
These separate themes with their attendant contrasting motives are rarely kept
Example 5.5.4 Two-motive interaction in Chopin’s Prelude in F♯, Op. 28, No. 13.
(a) Opening of A section, mm. 1–4, marked by DN motives in pitch and pitch-class.
(b) Opening of B section, mm. 21–22, marked by 4th motives in soprano and tenor
voices.
(c) Prominent 4th introduced in mm. 6–7.
(d) Presence of both motives at the Prelude’s conclusion, mm. 34–38.

apart for the whole work’s duration, however. The central development section
typically explores a host of unpredictable transitions and sequences. (Some
codas, when present, do this as well.) As the development juxtaposes snippets
of old and new themes at a rapid rate, it creates a hotbed of motivic activity. In
narrative terms, the rapid alternation of motivic ideas conveys, to many, a sense
of Conflict. The precise nature and degree of this struggle are, of course, wholly
unspecified. In a more tranquil sonata form piece, the alternation of ideas might
call to mind an intellectual discussion between rational people, whereas in a
grandstanding, full-throated tone poem it might sound more like a battle being
waged across a vast landscape.
The next demonstration will center on the Synthetic narrative (BMA-2•),
which results when motive forms initially in conflict are later subsumed into a
larger whole. The newly composite motive may be horizontally oriented, with the
motives hitched together. Or the synthesis could be vertically oriented, achieved
by stating the motives simultaneously in counterpoint. These two arrangements
are modeled in Example 5.5.5.
The locus classicus for the vertical synthesis of themes or motives is double
fugue, although, for our purposes, there are many other genres that provide
examples of this kind of contrapuntal combination. The so-called cyclic sym-
phony from the Romantic era is one. Example Web.5.5.3 illustrates a mo-
ment near the conclusion of Dvořák Ninth Symphony in which several melodic
motives from previous movements are combined. The sudden escalation of con-
trapuntal complexity in this and like moments imparts heightened interest and
emotional tension to the music. Such synthetic events are often found at rhetor-
ically significant moments, such as at the crux of a sonata’s development section
or near the end of a major work.
Example 5.5.5 Two motives, 4th (diagonal line) and Neighbor (gable), that appear in
conflict initially are later synthesized in horizontal and vertical arrangements.
The third outcome of Conflict noted in Example 5.5.3 is that in which one mo-
tive overpowers the other(s). A Triumph narrative (BMA-2+) typically unfolds
as follows. A piece will first present a local span of conflict, ranging from at least
thirty seconds to two minutes in length. The span will culminate in a forceful
presentation of one of the motives, conveying to it an air of conquest. To consti-
tute an authentic victory, the outcome of the conflict should have a measurable
impact on the remainder of the piece. For instance, a secondary theme or motive,
once “vanquished” in a sonata’s development section, shall be absent or play at
most a measurably reduced role in the recapitulation.
For a demonstration of the Triumph narrative from the literature, we turn to
Beethoven’s Piano Sonata 3 in C, Op. 2, No. 3, I. The primary motivic players in-
volved are DN and 3rd shapes, which trace their roots to the primary theme from
mm. 1–12. In Example 5.5.6, the DN motive is seen to occur when the melody
is blocked in its initial attempt to descend from E4 to tonic (see beamed notes).
Rather than being allowed to continue to C4 at the downbeat of m.3, the melody
restarts on F4. This leap upward causes it to circle back, unfulfilled, to its starting
pitch, E. The 3rd idea emerges more gradually. The first standalone 3rd motive
appears in the bassline in mm. 7–8. A G4-E gesture immediately follows in the
melody. It is stated first as a leaping third and then in filled-in, linear versions.
These new 3rds do little to tip the balance of power between the two motives. The
DN motive dominates the structure of the primary theme in its h √∫∫µ Ωç | q q
aspect, while the 3rd remains subsidiary. Even by mm. 9–12, these thirds partic-
ipate only in the countermelody, which is still unable to reach tonic, remaining
locked in the 5̂-3̂ (sol-mi) region of the C scale.
Example 5.5.6 Measures 1–8 of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata in C, Op. 2, No. 3

(I) introduce two motive forms, DN and 3rd.
Example 5.5.7 Large third-based motives coordinate the voice-leading and

harmony in Stage 1 of the development section, mm. 97–109. (Dashed slurs indicate
enharmonic relationships; some high Fs are omitted.)
The relationship between these two motives, DN and 3rd, is explored at length
in the work’s three-stage development. Stage 1, mm. 91–108, prepares the con-
flict. The first theme to appear is the one just heard at the close of the exposi-
tion in mm. 77–84. This choice of theme initially privileges the 3rd motive. This
can be heard in the two-beat melodic gestures that initiate measures 91 and 93
(D4-B3 and then G4-E, not shown). An even more impressive set of 3rds are com-
posed out in mm. 97–109, as indicated by the equal duration reduction shown
in Example 5.5.7. The bassline of this section takes the form of a chromatically
filled 3rd from B♭1 to D2. The full voice leading is provided so that some of the
smaller 3rds can be seen in the alto and soprano voices (see beams).
Although it is significant that Stage 1 of the development prioritizes the
3rd motive, this alone does not constitute its narrative victory over DN
within the narrative. For Triumph to be invoked, there must be evidence of
a struggle among the players. The first direct conflict between the motives
occurs at the outset of Stage 2 of the development (this subarea in full spans
mm. 109–129). At m. 109, the brief return of the primary theme in D major
interrupts the long string of 3rd motives with a clear presentation of DN (see
Example 5.5.8).
The initial theme is stated calmly and assuredly, but this music provides only
a brief respite from the storm of the development. Its key, D major, is somewhat
unusual in the context of a C major piece. Due to this segment’s impermanence
and its sharp-side tonicization, it seems almost appropriate to call it an “orange
patch,” as a trope on Tovey’s “purple patch.” Although the music sounds peaceful,
its equilibrium is highly unstable. It is almost as if a fuse has been lit at the down-
beat of m. 109, with the wire hissing away in the four measures that follow.
Example 5.5.8 In Stage 2 of the development, mm. 109–129, third motives ascend

to prominence.
The pyrotechnic event in m. 113 takes the form of an explosive dissolution of

primary theme material. The melody attempts to assemble a DN motive—see the
incomplete dashed line in Example 5.5.8—but the introduction of a new melodic
sequence idea blocks the entry of the D5 expected at the downbeat of m. 114. For
the first time in the piece, the 3rd motive seizes control at virtually all levels of
activity. The music of mm. 115–116 contrasts the drawn-out arpeggiation of D7
harmony in mm. 113–114 with linear 3rds given out in syncopation. A beam in
the example shows the melody’s progression through pitch-classes D-C-B♭-A-G
in mm. 115–117; measures 117–120 restates 113–116 at the lower fifth. All of this
3rd activity culminates in mm. 123–127, where the melody descends from C6 to
D5. This last grand gesture, shown beamed in the example’s lowest system, can
be heard as a cascade of elided thirds moving to 2̂ (re) , which awaits structural
dominant support to close the development (HC).
The present account of events advances a Triumph narrative for the develop-
ment section. In order to claim that this narrative manifests at any higher level,
we must determine whether the conflict spills over to impact the rest of the piece.
Example 5.5.9 Recapitulation area, mm. 139–150. The recomposed transition

of mm. 147–155 significantly raises the profile of 3rd motives compared to the
matching passage in mm. 9–12.
Example 5.5.10 The cadenza from the coda, m. 233.
The critical locations to consider in the recapitulation and beyond are those that
present new material. In this sonata, such passages occur in the recapitulation’s
“rewrite” of the primary theme in mm. 139–155 and in the extended coda in
mm. 218ff.
Neither of these areas provide enough evidence that the 3rd idea perma-
nently vanquishes DN in the development section. The first seeming challenge
to the Triumph claim is the recapitulation, which restores the DN idea in mm.
139–142. The return of the opening theme here is more a bow to formal con-
vention than anything else, and thus should not be given too much weight. The
music that immediately follows, in contrast, is unexpected. Instead of recapit-
ulating the music of mm. 5–12, mm. 147–155 substitute a bold recomposition.
Example 5.5.9 illustrates how the new passagework there produces a novel flurry
of chromaticized 3rd motives.
Further indication of the DN motive’s tenacity is provided by the coda. As
shown in Example 5.5.10, the last dramatic peak of the work is constituted out of
chained DN motives. Granted latitude to wax poetic, we might say that this ca-
denza represents an apotheosis of this motivic idea.
Taking this broader view of the movement puts a finer shade on the idea of
how the Triumph archetype applies to this piece and, by extension, how motivic
narratives work in general. There are many occasions in which a single work will
support a single narrative. Just as often, multiple contradictory readings within a
work will be possible. In the case of this sonata movement, we started by positing
a single narrative for a limited span of music, specifically Triumph in the devel-
opment. We sought to confirm this view by seeing whether the motivic trends
initiated in the piece’s middle section carry over to its final one. On the basis of
findings concerning the two passages from late in the piece, one could argue that
the Triumph narrative, in the end, remains unfulfilled.
That interpretation is reasonable, but unsatisfying because it leaves us with a
null result. (This outcome is not all that dire, since the main aim of the analysis—
illustrating the main characteristics of the Triumph archetype—was successful
within the limited frame of the development.) Rather than accepting this bleak
view, I would seek to put the analysis of the coda in productive dialogue with
that of the development. The key to doing so is observing the general trend in
which the DN shape consistently progresses toward 3rd shapes. This conception
invokes A. B. Marx’s view of Beethoven noted in chapter 3, in which each motive
is associated with a general energetic character and function. The DN shape is
always an expository idea, radiating calm, stasis, and symmetry. In contrast, the
3rd is a forward-tilting shape that engenders development.14 This push-and-pull
dynamic between motives is established in the first primary theme and applies,
writ large, to the development. The two returns of the DN idea in the recapitu-
lation are indisputable; however, neither is sufficiently strong enough to close
out the movement. When the primary theme sounds for the last time in mm.
234–237, it functions rhetorically as a springboard for the final push to the end.
The moment itself is almost preternaturally calm. In contrast, the excited music
of mm. 238–258, in motivic terms, consists entirely of linear motion, with no
hint of DN shapes. It is only in light of that last development that we may posit a
final narrative outcome, one in which the 3rd motive emerges Triumphant as the
piece’s agent of purpose and energy.
6
Exemplars of Basic Motivic Analysis
The present chapter extends the work of chapter 5 and its attendant Interlude.
That chapter established the purview of basic motivic analysis (BMA) as pitch
and/or rhythm motive activity. The first Interlude established guidelines for
assembling a BMA as linear in time, with the essential core motive(s) situated at
or near a work’s start. This short chapter will demonstrate the BMA method from
start to finish by applying it to two complete sonata movements by Beethoven.
The first section will present a pitch/pitch-class motivic analysis and the second a
rhythm motive analysis.
A Pitch and Pitch-Class BMA of Beethoven’s

Op. 2, No. 1, Movement I
The first movement of Beethoven’s Sonata No. 1 in F minor, Op. 2, No. 1, is a ca-
nonical work that has been analyzed countless times. It is a standard vehicle for
introducing basic topics in undergraduate theory, among them motive, phrase
structure, and sonata form.1 As such, it is an ideal subject for our first full dem-
onstration of BMA.
At first blush, this early work by Beethoven published in 1795 registers as
Classical. It is characterized by thin textures and sleekly efficient lines. Though
it avoids flashy figuration and flights of pianistic fancy, it is brimming with pa-
thos. The performer must concentrate to keep the work’s fervent emotions in
check behind its cool countenance, so that it merely bristles with nervous en-
ergy. The work begins in F minor, never venturing far beyond this gray realm.
When, for example, it arrives in III (A♭ major) for the Second Tonal Area (STA),
that key remains strongly tinged by F and C flats borrowed from the minor
mode. The development section of mm. 49–100, too, mostly explores minor
keys, with a heavy emphasis on C minor (v). Contributing in equal measure to
the movement’s gorgeous severity is its unusually tight motivic design. Much
in the same way it dwells on minor modes, the piece radiates an aura of motivic
single-mindedness.
Tradition holds that the opening melodic gesture in mm. 1–2 is built of two
motives (Tovey 1931, 12). These are provisionally labeled in Example 6.1(a) as
“Arpeggiate” and “Turn.” The two motives are explored separately and together
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197526026.003.0007.
Example 6.1 The theme of Beethoven’s First Piano Sonata in F minor, Op. 2,

No. 1 (I)
(a) Traditional view of gesture motives in mm. 1–2. These return in loose mirror
inversion in the second tonal area (STA) theme in m. 21.
(b) The first theme, with a potentially important new motive, the 6th, bracketed.
throughout the piece, most notably in the second theme, where they return in
the same close succession but in loosely mirrored inversion (see lower staff, mm.
21–23).2 Example 6.1(b) illustrates a third, potentially-important motive de-
rived from the opening theme, the descending 6th figure in mm. 7–8. This shape,
which precipitates the climax of the first phrase, reappears throughout the work
in many guises. The 6th lends unity to the music as it saturates all registers and
ties together most of the thematic ideas and even key areas.
As stated earlier, this movement’s status as a “standard” underlies its selec-
tion as a practice vehicle for our new nomenclature and BMA method. Couched
as a rehearsal, the analysis will offer a new interpretation—or better: a “perfor-
mance”—of the work that can be measured against all other readings. I will note
at the outset one way in which this analysis will not distinguish itself from earlier
views and several other ways in which it will. Like many previous analyses, this
Exemplars of Basic Motivic Analysis 185
one will limit itself to concerns of pitch and pitch-class. Rhythm, texture, register,
and articulation remain critical musical elements in all works. Here there simply
isn’t time to cover these aspects in any detail beyond occasionally noting how
some distinctive rhythms or articulations associate with the main pitch motives.
Other analysts will surely reap the rewards of examining all of the syncopations
and irregular hypermeter on display in the movement, and may well find ways to
account for them motivically.
Even as it remains restricted to matters of pitch and pitch-class, this anal-
ysis will nevertheless break new ground. First, the scope of the analysis will
be ambitious: not only will we investigate all the major themes of the move-
ment, but we will peer into the figuration to illustrate how the accompanying
voices participate in the motivic process. Second, the motives at all times will
be attended to with particular care. This precision will allow us to identify
novel motivic occurrences, and in turn to ponder a new nonstandard path of
development.
Motivic analysis begins with determining the prototypical forms of the
motives and assigning labels to them. The way forward is already suggested
by Example 6.1(a) and the inherited claim that the work’s first utterance is
built of two motives. Let us proceed, then, by interrogating these first gestures.
Starting with the first, we ask how many notes the arpeggiation is built of. Is
it six spanning from the pickup C4 all the way to A♭5, or is it shorter? We can
safely eliminate the first note as a necessary element of the shape: Beethoven
performs this surgery himself when the theme is recapitulated at m. 101.3 So,
off it comes. If readers are concerned that we might need the C4 later, we can
always posit it as a “4th” fragment to explain the presence of other leaping or
linear 4ths.
We now consider the rest of the arpeggiation. Whenever it appears, it is a
driving gesture that pushes toward a downbeat. For that reason, we will include
the last A♭5 and designate the shape as Arp5. For the next motivic component,
our options are to retain the Turn label from before or to use a more technical
designation, such as 3rd\ /. The latter has the advantage of allowing us to view
connections between this filled-in gesture in m. 2 and other 3rds, linear and
leaping, that appear later. The solution I favor, as illustrated in Example 6.2, is
to apply the summary label Turn = 3rd\ /so as to incorporate both perspectives.4
The last motive from the opening phrase that requires definition is the scalar
descent initiated by the high C6 at m.7. Most analysts regard this figure as
a 6th because of the many prominent 6ths that return throughout the move-
ment. Variations of it are common, however. The melody in mm. 7–8 traces a
clear 6th, but the bass voice in mm. 2–8 does not. This raises more questions.
Is the bass’s motive a sixth preceded by an ancillary tonic pitch (\6th), or is it
Example 6.2 Determination of the specific motive forms present in the theme,

mm.  1–2.
a neighbor-note figure on F followed by an ascending fifth, (\ / 5th). The two

readings, both eminently possible, are indicated above and below the staff in
Example 6.3(a). Examining the rest of the piece does little to resolve this issue.
On the one hand, the most salient motives of the development retrace the same
6th between C and E natural. For example, the soprano’s 6th in mm. 69–81 is im-
mediately answered by two similar 6ths in the tenor in mm. 81–85 and 85–89.
A different result obtains when we examine the motivic content of the tense
retransition in mm. 93–101. The bass voice, shown in Example 6.3(b), moves
through an unambiguous 5th. We should label it accordingly or somehow devise
a way to call it a 6th with its last note deleted. In the coda, mm. 146ff., multiple
scalar descents occur in multiple voices. As Example 6.3(c) indicates, the so-
prano shape’s identity there is complicated by the final, tacked-on F5. Again, it
may be read both as a 6th/or a 5th\ /.
In contrast to the more trivial issue of establishing a uniform length for
Arp (four versus five notes), establishing the model form of the sonata’s main
linear motive has important ramifications. Here I declare that they are all linear
fifths. The reason that some take the form they do is because they add one or
two stepwise pitches at their head or tail ends. Making this determination
promotes more efficient analysis. More significantly, it stakes a claim about the
linear motive’s identity and function. That claim is as follows: the 5th is an ex-
pression of singular harmony, usually tonic in whichever key environment it
appears. The subtle ways in which the fifth manifests result from adjustments
that allow it to fit into various tonic and dominant harmonic environments. The
label “5th\” for the melody in mm. 7–8 indicates that the body of the motive
expresses F minor and that the last E natural extends it, creating a suspenseful
half cadence. The same explanation applies to the transition section in mm.
11–20, where the melody repeatedly descends from E♭5 to G4. This is shown in
Example 6.3(d).
The newly emerging tonic of A♭ major, murky at first, is signaled by the weak,
contrapuntal cadence at m. 15. In the two cadential echoes that follow in mm.
16–20, the harmonic support for the surface linear sixth is clarified, as well. In
these faster E♭5-G4 descents, most of the motive’s main pitches are supported by
A♭ tonic chords. The arrival on the suffix note, G4, only occurs when the new key’s
dominant chord (V) is reached.
This novel interpretation of the linear motive as a 5th makes it possible for
us to identify it where other analyses have overlooked it. One such location is
at the climax of the development, mm. 81–93, shown in Example 6.3(e). The
ascending line from E♮3-C4 in the left hand, shown circled, is identified in many
other analyses. The material of interest begins in the melody at the pickup to
m. 82. The C5 initiates a descent through pitch-class space involving the notes
C-A♭-F-E♮. This is a triadic motion (Arp3) that fills out the fifth motion of C to F
(see stemmed notes). Moments later, starting at the pickup to m. 84, the music
distills this gesture down to its essence of a fifth-plus-stepwise exit: C-F-F-E♮ . . .
or again: 5th\.5
So far, we have identified three primary pitch motives deriving from mm. 1–
8: Arp5, 3rd \ /, and the linear 5th. With these motives at the ready, the BMA
demonstration will take the form of an annotated score with commentary. The
markings in the score given in Example 6.4 indicate most of the prominent
recurrences of the main motives identified. Consistent with the guidelines set
in chapter 5, many of these motives are found in inner voices. Readers should be
aware that this analysis is not intended to be comprehensive; to draw beams or
boxes around every clear motive would create too much visual clutter. It thus falls
to the reader to infer some details from the analysis. The melody in mm. 49–55 is
completely unmarked, for example. Because this music so closely resembles mm.
1–8, it follows that the same motives are present.
Much of the bracketing and beaming speaks for itself, but some finer details
merit further attention. The first narrative to be traced will be of the BMA-1 type
concentrating on the progress of the linear 5th motive. The annotations in mm.
1–8 (Example 6.4(a)) indicate a starting premise, in which 5ths appear in paired
formation. The bass voice’s linear 5th ascent properly begins at m. 5. The soprano’s
5th enters at m. 7 and descends in contrary motion. This paired interaction inten-
sifies as the piece progresses. In mm. 25–28, for example, the /5th occurs solely in
the right hand, allowing for the G4-E♭5 from the recent transition (mm. 11–16) to
sound again. Moments later in mm. 30–33, the right hand reattempts the rising
/5th in a higher octave. This time, the left hand gives chase (paired) and helps
propel the music to its first climax in mm. 33–41; see Example 6.4(b).
The next pair of linear 5th shapes appears in the development section
(Example 6.4(c)). Once more, the right hand begins alone in mm. 69–81, with
Example 6.3 Determination of the specific motive form for linear descent based on
score evidence.
(a) Measures 1–8, bassline. Competing readings of the linear motive are shown
above and below staff.
(b) Retransition, mm. 94–101, lower voices.
(c) Close of the movement, mm. 146–152.
(d) The transition, mm. 9–19.

(e) Climax of development, mm. 81–85. Pitch-class motives in the melody.
a large-scale descending 5th\; this is a direct echo of the original 5th\ from mm.
7–8. Things get decidedly more interesting at m. 81. The first remarkable motivic
event in this location is sounded in the tenor voice. It presents the ascending 5th
idea that opened the piece in mm. 5–8 not only at pitch, from E3, but at rhythm.
In both cases, the line doubles its speed—whole note to half note attacks—upon
reaching A♭3.6 The melody simultaneously declares its descending 5th material,
with extreme emphasis. The new energy derives from the motive being reduced
to its very essence and from being repeated so many times. The paired fifths in
imitation occur as expected in the recapitulation, mm. 130–134 (not shown).
The new wrinkle here is that the left hand version is placed in a very low octave,
allowing for a final, emphatic statement of the ascending motive form.
The set of 5ths in the coda (mm. 146ff.) ends the piece by elevating the com-
plexity of the pairing yet further; see Example 6.4(d). The bass line’s 5th, starting
on the C4 at m. 145, moves down to the F3 in m. 150 before breaking off into a
generic cadential motion in the last two measures. The soprano’s high 5th occurs
in parallel thirds with the bass’s. It starts a measure after in m. 146 and can be
heard “chasing” the bass descent. This interaction between the voices is made
more audible through the new doublings, which paint the soprano and bass in
wider brush strokes. The aforementioned bass descent from C4-F3 is doubled at
the upper sixth, starting with the A♭4 of m. 144 and continuing in the thumb of
the left hand to C4 (see lines inside the system).7
There is yet one more descending line in the alto, an octave that starts at F5 in
m. 145 and descends to the F4 at the very end. There are several ways to parse this
shape. Analysts who wish to retain the sixth motive as a primary shape might
argue that this final gesture elongates it into a seventh starting in m. 146 (E♭5-F4).
Example 6.4 Motivic activity across the full movement.

(a) Beethoven Op. 2, No. 1 (I), mm. 1–24.
To support this view, they might make reference to other prominent surface sixths
expressed in the low register, such as those that occurred in the first transition, mm.
11–20. The idea of hearing a sixth “grow into” a seventh readily suggests a dramatic
interpretation. To invest intentionality into this process, we say that the linear mo-
tive in this piece desires to descend from E♭5. It is repeatedly stymied, however, by
the G4. It is only in the coda that the line breaks through that barrier, passing to F4.
A central premise of this book is that the sentimental attraction of flex-
ible motive forms does not outweigh the methodological hassle of explaining
how sixths can somehow become sevenths, octaves, tenths, etc. It is preferable
(b) Beethoven Op. 2, No. 1 (I), mm. 25–57.
to keep the motive forms distinct. It will still be possible to pursue dramatic
interpretations; however, the narratives must be founded on facts. In adher-
ence to this strategy, Example 6.4(d) reads the alto line in the coda as starting
on F5: it is a linear 4th joined to a 5th. This view is supported by the phrase
Example 6.4 (c) Beethoven Op. 2, No. 1 (I), mm. 69–101.
structure: note this voice’s pause and the sense of half-finishedness at m. 149.

Beyond that, this interpretation produces a more satisfying and elegant
reading than simply calling the line an octave. The music can be shown “up-
ping the ante,” compositionally, intensifying the contrapuntal complexity as a
third 5th in the alto voice is injected and sent chasing the bass and soprano . . .
both in similar-motion descent for the first time. Remarkably, several of these
final 5ths are pure, appearing with no prefixes or suffixes tacked on. Like the
boiled-down 5ths that emerged at the climax of the development, Beethoven’s
(d) Beethoven Op. 2, No. 1 (I), mm. 110–119 and mm. 140-152.
sonata movement ends with the most basic declaration of its essential motivic
idea, C-B♭-A♭-G-F.
Loose Ends
The markings across the large score example attest to the pervasiveness of the
Arp, Turn, and 5th shapes. Indeed, at least one of these motives can be found in
almost every measure of the movement. There are only two locations that are not
well explained by them. The first is mm. 37–40, where the music repeats a por-
tion of the previous passage, mm. 33–36. Under fragmentation, the large /5th
from before is shortened to a 3rd in the left hand starting on C2 (not marked). The
only related gesture sensed in this voice is generic, syncopated arpeggiation. The
right hand explores a filled-in 4th that relates only weakly to the open 4th pickup
gesture that initiated the movement. This is indicated in Example 6.4(b) by the
set of gray equal duration reduction (EDR) windows capturing downbeat events.
The other passage not well explained by the three primary pitch motives is mm.
115–117. This moment occurs in the recapitulation’s transition, which is typically
a highly charged area of sonata form. Composers often deploy new material here
rather than recycling ideas from the parallel location of the exposition, and this is
what Beethoven does. These measures represent a problem for the motivic ana-
lyst. How do we reconcile this passage’s import with its seeming dearth of motivic
content? One answer is to sharpen the search for relevant motivic material.
With enough effort, one could probably knead and fold the melody line at this
location so that it resembles two core shapes put together. The soprano in m. 115
makes a clear reference to the Turn idea; the melody that follows in mm. 116–117
can be reduced at the half note level to an inverted arpeggiation: A♭5-F-C. This im-
plicit association with m. 1 is unsatisfying, however. This melody has a completely
different sensibility than the directed “Mannheim Rocket” arpeggiation that
opened the movement. It is perhaps better to declare a distinct motive form here,
one that recognizes the gesture as an ornamented arpeggiation of the F minor tonic.
The label “/A/r/p”, reflects the downward arpeggiation from A♭5 to F to C, with each
structural pitch being given a short stepwise prefix. The descriptive portion of the
summary label for this motive will be “prefix-arpeggio” here in the text; in the score
example, the shape will be labeled as Arp with multiple internal hashmarks.
The identification of this last motive form will initiate another brief pass
through the work, complete with its own, lesser BMA-1 narrative. Although our
attention to this shape was piqued by a “problem” spot in mm. 115–117, a second
look reveals this to be actually the third occurrence of it. Earlier instances of the
“prefix arpeggio” motive are shown in Example 6.4 in mm. 11–16, mm. 25–29,
and mm. 115–117. The nonstructural tones display great variety in whether they
lead upward (/) or downward (\) to the main tones; the arpeggiating tones, in
contrast, tend to descend. The only ambiguous case is the drawn-out alto melody
of mm. 11–16. Its first two structural tones are the same, A♭4, which results in a
chordal leap rather than a true downward arpeggiation (A♭4-A♭-E♭).
The status of the “A\/r\p” in mm. 11–16 is debatable, hence the quotation
marks applied to it. We will retain it not merely because it is analytically legal to
do so—all of the six notes necessary appear in literal succession—but because it
is crucial to the narrative to be developed. The BMA-1 plot we will assemble for
the Arp motive traces its role as a secondary agent in the piece, whose job is to
support the primary 5th-based lines.
In mm. 11–16, the loose form of “A\/r\p” in the alto, boxed, supports the
soprano’s linear 5th. A more robust form appears in mm. 25–28: the shape
coalesces into \A/r\p as it migrates to the bass, where it is far more audible.
Remarkably, it plays the exact same part as before (harmonizing a linear 5th mo-
tive), and directly echoes the sound of the first prefix-arpeggio gesture. The last
four pitch-classes are again G-A♭-F-E♭.
When this motive returns in mm. 115–119, the double presentation in the
highest register indicates elevated importance. At the same time, it has not aban-
doned its accompaniment role. Example 6.4(d) shows it occurring in conjunction
with F4-E♮-F-G-A♭.8 In addition to supporting this new, miniature BMA-1 anal-
ysis, recognition of the motivic content here aids performance. The counterpoint
is dense here, making these four measures difficult to memorize. I recommend
keeping in mind, first, the inexact (mensuration?) canon at the octave involving
the \ / 3rd gestures in m. 115; observe where the one \ /3rd label applies to both
staves. The next three measures can be remembered according to the mental
script: “/A/r/p motive in m. 116, contrary motion in m. 117, and a repeat of /A/r/p
in m. 118.”
The arpeggiation motive’s last occurrence is in the left hand of mm. 124-
127. This passage in F minor, not shown, parallels the one in A♭ major from
mm. 25–28, so again the prefix-arpeggio motive supports an ascending linear
fifth. Curiously, the left-hand figuration shifts, resulting in a steady descent on
strong beats to each arpeggiated tone: /A/r/p . It is impossible to know whether
Beethoven intended any sense of progression between the four forms of this re-
cently discovered shape. Whether he did or not, one can happily be detected in
the music. From free harmonization in mm. 11–16, the motive is next clarified
in mm. 25–29, highlighted in mm. 115–117, and rendered in a conclusive de-
scending form near the piece’s end in mm. 124–127.
A Rhythmic BMA of Beethoven’s Op. 10, No. 1, Movement III
The finale of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 5 in C minor, Op. 10, No. 1 is a short
piece, lasting only about four minutes even when the indication to repeat the
exposition is followed. The form of the work is straightforward as well; it is cast
in sonata form with a coda spanning mm. 102–122. Were we concerned with
producing a conventional analysis of pitch and harmony, a certain set of events
would likely catch our attention. One is the monophonic gesture that opens the
work, shown in Example 6.5. Another is the “purple patch” spot in mm. 102–112,
where the tempo stretches out to allow an expansion of D♭, Neapolitan harmony
(♭II). Though striking, both of these developments are actually quite common-
place in Beethoven’s music. With the form, pitch, and harmonic ideas emerging
in so straightforward a manner, the likelihood increases that the movement’s
complexity might manifest in one or more other domains. Perhaps rhythm is one
of them!
The same disclaimer proffered in advance of the pitch-based BMA applies here.
The analysis that follows does not presume to explain the full movement. It is in-
tended to demonstrate the rhythm motivic theory and methodology introduced
in c hapters 4 and 5, showing how to work with such shapes in vivo. That will be
our starting point, at least. As more and more deep-level motivic connections are
suggested, we will hardly be able to resist the temptation to assemble them into
some kind of propagative, forward-tilting, narrative. Specifically, we will view
the piece as exploring and then ultimately clarifying a pair of deceptively com-
plex, core rhythm gestures.
We begin by identifying the most prominent rhythmic motive of the piece, the
six-note shape (“6 note”) initiated at the anacrusis and lasting through the first
downbeat (Example 6.5, mm. 0–1). A fitting label for this first event is 6e = S S S S
S | L. The label interprets the rhythm as five short durations, followed by a longer
one. The bar line and the bold text applied to the second “S” indicate that there
are two local stresses on the rhythm, one at the true downbeat and the other on
Example 6.5 Six-note motives in the exposition’s of Beethoven’s Fifth Piano Sonata

in C minor, Op. 10, No. 1 (III), mm. 1–46.
beat two of the alla breve measure. These stresses are associated with the motive,
but do not necessarily define it.
The most direct strategy for carrying out a full rhythmic analysis would be to
identify all appearances of “6 note” in the score. In doing so, we would end up
with a large number of such brackets, but many of them would serve to describe
only surface and/or generic events. A more efficient approach is to selectively
survey the piece for marked rhythmic moments that call out for explanation in
motivic terms. The results of this more targeted approach are shown in Example
6.5, which encompasses the full exposition.
An early moment that invites scrutiny is the music of mm. 14–16. There, the
syncopated sforzando attacks in the left hand announce the main motive in aug-
mentation. A product of duration scaling, the new form of the motive occupies 6
quarter-note pulses: 6q = S | S S S S | L.9
This larger form of the 6-note motive has two functions. First, it punctuates the
exposition by echoing the original motive heard throughout mm. 0–11. The ges-
ture closes the section with an emphatic, transformed version of the main rhythmic
shape. Second, it prepares listeners to hear the STA theme that will enter after the
fermata in m. 17. It turns out that this new, contrasting theme has much more in
common, rhythmically with the primary theme than one might first guess.
The core rhythm motive returns at m. 16.2, but with a shifted bar line. To re-
flect its new stress pattern, S S S | S S L, the motive is labeled as 6eSHIFT in the
example. When analyzing rhythmic motives at the surface level, there is no rule
against cutting off a shape mid-stream, as I have done by ending it at G4. Doing so,
in fact, invites productive speculation as to the function of the tones that follow.
Consider, that the full two-measure phrase segment is also composed of six es-
sential pulses: five quarter notes drive towards, the half note at m. 18. The upper
bracket there, 6q = S | S S S S | L, illustrates the 2x duration scaling of the orig-
inal motive. Spotting the 6q form of the motive is admittedly a bit difficult, because
the first quarter pulse has a prefix and is divided into eighth notes (see –and / \
markings near the first and second S). The motive is there, though: all of the nec-
essary attacks appear in precisely the right places. Once the 6q figure is intuited, it
becomes difficult not to hear. The music makes its presence clear in a number of
ways, such as 1) presenting it in close proximity to the 6q shape from the previous
cadence; 2) setting it off in two-measure phrase segments with pronounced rests;
and 3) setting it so as to replicate the stress pattern of the 6e version.
The unusual construction of the movement’s second theme provides a first
clue on how to frame our emerging motivic analysis in narrative terms. Recall
that over the course of mm. 0–16, the central rhythmic motive was presented in
two versions successively, the eighth-pulse for fourteen measures followed by the
quarter-pulse one. Then, in mm. 16–18, the 6e and 6q forms are presented simul-
taneously. This prompts us to wonder about other ways this 6-note shape might
fit together with itself, and what dramatic effects will result each time it does. To
rephrase this premise, the rhythmic interest in this movement can be thought of
in terms of another motivic “game of pairs.” We posit that no single incidence of
the 6-note shape is remarkable in itself. The fireworks go off at places where two
forms of the motive, once distinct, are imaginatively joined together.
This conceptual framework influences our view of the STA and second theme. In
the brief span of mm. 17–28, the game of pairs is carried out in two ways. We have
Example 6.6 In mm. 23–28, the rhythmic canon in the outer voices saturates
quarter-note pulse space. (Eighth-note attacks have been reduced.)
already taken note of the first interaction with help of the nested brackets in mm.
16–18. Yet at the same time that the music introduces this first rhythmic complexity,
it also seems, paradoxically, to devolve. The pacing in mm. 17–23 is similar to that of
mm. 1–4, specifically with regard to its stop-and-start quality and the exaggerated
separation of phrase segments. These gaps are not smoothed over until mm. 23–28,
where the next game of pairs begins. There, imitation between the hands results in a
new, twofold presentation of the 6q motive. This arrangement, isolated in Example
6.6, allows the core rhythmic idea to saturate the music at the quarter-note pulse level.
This canon is somewhat more complex than the schematic lets on. Because
each 6q figure continues to have a 6e shape embedded in it, there are actually six
6-note motive forms contained in the three measures notated, not three.
Having discovered that the rhythmic motive in mm. 17–28 appears at two
levels of scale, we next inquire into the possibility of a third(!) level. The twelve
measures of the second theme proper are built from six 2-measure phrase
segments: 17–18, 19–20, 21–22, and so forth. The first four constitute the body
of the theme; the latter two extend it with echoes that serve to introduce the imi-
tative element. Extending the theme by these means causes it to take the form of
another, larger M M M M M L built of double-whole note durations. The last L
achieves its super-downbeat status through the discharge of tonal and rhythmic
energy at m. 28, which occurs as the dominant B♭ pedal resolves to E♭ and the
right-hand rhythms burst into tremolo sixteenths.10
The game of 6-note motive pairs has to this point been dispatched through two
configurations, nesting and imitation. A third type of interaction is broached at the
closing area of the exposition, mm. 37–45. At that point, the music briefly pursues
a dialogue between in-phase and out-of-phase statements of the six-note motive.
The new theme entering at m. 37 animates the surface with two rapid-fire S-S-M
gestures. At the next higher layer of pulse, this figure exhibits the duration profile, S
S S S | S L. The metric stress on the fifth S and the sudden offbeat placement of L are
unprecedented features that create strong syncopation. In response, the motive im-
mediately repeats in mm. 38.2–40, phased back into its normative metric setting.
Upon reaching the close of the exposition, the game of pairs is suspended. Little
of import happens in the recapitulation, where mm. 57–101 essentially mirror mm.
1–44, nor, seemingly, in the compact development section. (We will revisit to this
section near the end of discussion.) That leaves the coda. The first part of this section,
mm. 102–114, revisits the STA theme and its two-level, nesting rhythmic motives.
These appear in conjunction with the aforementioned exploration of Neapolitan
harmony. It is the coda’s latter portion, mm. 115–122, that is significant in our narra-
tive for allowing the game of pairs to be invoked and explored one last time.
Attentive listeners will note in mm. 115–116 the return of the 6q shape assem-
bled from two 6e shapes. The difference this time is that all of the eighth notes
sound in one hand, where in mm. 22–24 they occurred via bass and soprano
imitation (see Example 6.7). The rhythmic combination in the coda is coincident
with a pitch-based, thematic combination: the primary and secondary themes
are newly juxtaposed. This time, the order of themes is reversed: the STA version,
6eSHIFT comes first, followed by the First Tonal Area (FTA) version, 6e. This mo-
ment, importantly, enfolds much more than a surface-level linkage of motives
and themes. It sheds light on the meaning and origins of the work’s rhythmic
motive material.
I earlier noted the “start and stop” quality of mm. 1–4, but avoided mentioning
the FTA motive’s most peculiar feature, its metric ambiguity. The label given to
it initially, S S S S S | L, can be said to be the authoritative one. It is possible, how-
ever, to hear it as S | S S S S L. In many performances of this work, the B♮s in meas-
ures 0, 1, and 2 sound stronger than the notated downbeats. Beethoven, almost
certainly aware that the monophonic melody would be heard in this way by some
listeners, plays a trick on them by waiting until m. 3 to reveal the true downbeat.
Anyone who has been listening in the wrong metric orientation will feel a gentle
bump at that point.11 Example 6.8 illustrates how the effect is created.12
Not everyone will hear the 6e motive from the beginning in this fashion.
No matter how one hears it, though, most will agree it to be a quirky gesture
calling into question the status of m. 0. Is this a proper measure of music, or an
anacrusis only?
The rhythmic developments in the coda indicate that Beethoven gave thought
to this question as well. The novel, side-by-side pairing of 6e and 6eSHIFT forms
Example 6.7 In the coda, the linking of FTA and STA forms of the central rhythm
motive, 6e and 6eSHIFT, assembles the higher level, 6q motive.
Example 6.8 Metric ambiguity in mm. 1–4. The horizontal, curving arrows

represent “projections” of an imagined meter, which can persist only for so long
(Hasty 1997).
of the motive calls direct attention to its duality. In addition, the metric ambi-
guity of that first theme form is finally resolved. In this context, the previously
ambiguous rhythm can now only be heard as five pulses leading to a downbeat: S
S S S S | L.13 This final combination of motive forms allows the piece to conclude
its recurrent “game of pairs” by transcending it. Example 6.7 shows how linking
the two forms of the 6e motive assembles the higher level, 6q motive. It turns out
that three forms of the core motive are present in mm. 115–122 at two metric
levels.
Having accounted for all appearances of the central 6-note motive in the ex-
position and recapitulation, the rhythmic analysis is by and large concluded.
Methodologically, it has constrained itself to discussion of only literal rhythmic
motives; meaning, that no 5-, 4-, or 7-note relatives of the main shape were
entertained. Even while operating under this constraint, a fair bit of intellectual
maneuvering—particularly with regard to how 6-note shapes under augmentation
were seen to relate to surface shapes—has allowed for a broad, synthetic reading.
The only aspect in which the analysis remains incomplete is in its neglect of
the development, mm. 46–57. In the interests of time, I will offer only prelim-
inary ideas on how it relates rhythmically to the other sections. To begin with
a general observation, the development feels too short, even for this modestly
sized sonata form movement. The development is terse from a harmonic stand-
point, too. At the start (mm. 46–50), the 2+2 measure construction alternating
tonic and dominant harmony alludes to Classically balanced phrasing. From
there, the music is given room only to tonicize F minor in mm. 50–52 and to
compose out a viio7 chord in the home key of C minor in mm. 54–57.14
The rhythmic content of the development is somewhat threadbare, as well.
The area opens with a clear statement of 6e. That motive is then obscured
through two stages of fragmentation, the first occurring in mm. 47–48 and the
second in mm. 50–54. The eighth-note form of the motive, saturating eighth-
note pulse space, temporarily vaults to prominence over its relatives. That out-
come seems almost churlish, as the constant repetition of the 6e gesture is more
akin to babbling than anything else. This sensation intensifies in m. 52, where the
right hand’s figuration abandons all pretense of stating a coherent melodic line.
The cutting down of the six-note motive down to 5-, 4-, and 3-note units is not
significant in itself, which is to say: we will not work to develop any kind of “ac-
celeration” narrative. Rather, the patterns created by the fragmented forms point
to more significant process illustrated in Example 6.9. The first unit of rhythmic
content that could serve as a pattern model is initiated at m. 46 by the 6e shape,
which is immediately followed by a five-note and then a four-note fragment. The
entirety of this unit lasts four half-note beats; this is indicated as S S S M by the
bracket below the score. The pattern restarts in m. 48 with a full 6e shape, which
this time is followed by a longer string of motive fragments. This second unit lasts
six half-note beats, and conforms to the central rhythmic model in length and
stress pattern ( S | S S S S | L). This pattern of events suggests a purpose for the
development, which is to explore the one form of the primary rhythmic motive
that has been overlooked, namely 6h. After being broached in mm. 48–51, the 6h
form is twice confirmed in the measures that follow. The shift in melodic figura-
tion in m. 51 introduces the third patterned statement, which continues to the
Example 6.9 The development is built of four melodic statements that progress

from four to six half notes in length. This formal area explores 6h, the one form of the
central rhythm not yet treated.
downbeat of m. 54. Upon reaching the climactic melodic tone of the development,
F6, the deluge of rapid S-S-S-L shapes in eighth notes decorates the last 6h shape.
The last few paragraphs have offered new information about the rhythmic
motives of the development. Though these local details are plain enough, they
are not easily absorbed into the overarching plotline staked earlier for the move-
ment. The problem is that the development’s fierce monothematicism actively
avoids pairwise presentations of motives. Put another way, it feels as if the music
in mm. 46–57 is only allowed to develop by means of fragmentation. The formal
area that results, which traditionally would serve as a high point of the sonata,
feels like a collapse. It is curiously stunted, short, and abrupt. Motivically, it fails
to combine any motive forms in a novel way. Its aim, instead, is to take a clear 6e
form of the motive (mm. 46–47) and to systematically dissolve it into four-note
fragments over its twelve-measure span.
Ultimately, it is the mingling of rhythmic processes, combined with sensations
of success and failure, that creates listener interest in this local section and over
the piece as a whole. The development seems to be “up to something,” motivically.
(Again, in scanning the other domains of music, we observe no sign of a melodic,
harmonic, textural, or lyric agenda; the possible exception is, of course, register.)
By pausing the main rhythmic motive’s evolution, the development serves to
tease listeners and to keep them in suspense for the climactic developments that
will only appear in the final measures of the coda.
Afterword
The two BMA-1 readings given in this section complement each other to reveal
the several benefits of this mode of analysis. The constraints imposed on mo-
tive labeling, as is true for many artistic pursuits, unlock a new set of freedoms.
Analysts using BMA are tasked with defining motives rigorously. Yet they re-
main free to set the enforced parameters loosely, yielding a rich assortment of
moderately sized—i.e., phrase-length—events. The goal in doing so is not simply
to fill the score space with brackets and beams. It is to put the discovered shapes
in dialogue with each other.
The result of investigation across these two pieces is discovery of an important
shared trait. Both works pose a prime motive at the start and telegraph a set of
expectations of how that motive will combine with itself. Paired fifth pitch/pitch-
class motives chase each other over the course of Beethoven’s First Piano Sonata,
I; paired 6-note rhythmic motives do the same over the course of his Fifth Piano
Sonata, III. The pairs are always in flux, continually redefining their interrelations
across sections. Each reconfiguration seems like a small adjustment, until the
end, where a final presentation of the pairing idea is amplified by a new motivic
extension, a new player, or even a new dimension of activity. All this from a com-
poser still in his twenties and just embarking on a lengthy publication career!
As one may gather from the impeccable construction of these pieces in terms
of their formal, thematic, and—now more clearly—motivic content, Beethoven’s
inimitable technique was well honed even in his early development.
Interlude 2
CMA Narrative Archetypes
New Freedoms on the Focal Point’s Content and Location
This second Interlude on narrative serves to bridge basic motivic analysis (BMA)
and complex motivic analysis (CMA). By definition, all BMA plotlines are
Propagative, meaning that they locate the Focal Point, or central motivic event,
at or near the beginning of a piece. All other events are conceived as flowing from
it in musical time. Moreover, the Focal Point in BMA is conceived in terms of
pitch and rhythm only. In Interlude 1, these constraints gave rise to four narra-
tive archetypes. The simplest is BMA-1, in which a single pitch and/or rhythmic
motive plays out over the course of a piece. In cases in which an analyst senses
that a work harbors two or more pitch/rhythm motives, three BMA-2 archetypes
can be called on to explain their piece-long interaction. The narratives of
“Non-Engagement,” “Synthesis,” and “Triumph” stem from two interaction
types, complementation and conflict.
The main aspect distinguishing CMA from BMA is that nearly all of the
former restrictions are lifted. Chapter 7, which formally presents CMA, will ex-
plore the ramifications of broadening the Focal Point to include domains beyond
pitch and rhythm—namely harmony, contour, articulation, and so forth. The
Focal Point, moreover, will be allowed to occur anywhere in a piece, not just at
the beginning. Technically, the proper placement for this Interlude on complex
narrative types would be in Chapter 7, between the CMA presentation phase
and demonstration phase. I have decided to introduce the expanded set of nar-
rative archetypes early, however, to avoid interrupting the next chapter’s flow of
discussion.
CMA Archetypes Stemming from an Expanded Focal Point
We first consider the effect that broadening the scope of a Focal Point has on
analysis. The first narrative archetype of complex motivic analysis, diagrammed
in Example 6.5.1, corresponds closely with BMA-1 in that it, too, follows the
flow of time. (Readers should note that in these models, the transformational
arrows that appear are unadorned, suggesting that the motives recur literally or
under duration scaling.) The main aspect that has changed is that the central
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197526026.003.0008.
Example 6.5.1 The Propagative archetype, CMA-1→, is analogous to BMA-1. The

starting event in this case is broadened to occur as a Focal Point with additional
domains beyond pitch and rhythm.
Material propagates
Focal
Point
Segment 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
pitch/rhythm/harmony
articulation/dynamics/etc.
analytic entity occurring near the beginning is expanded. That is to say, the
event no longer manifests as a singular pitch and/or rhythm motive, but rather
as a complex of musical ideas that can be thought of as a kind of Schoenbergian
Grundgestalt. The first task of the following chapter on CMA will be to establish
parameters for the proper scope and content of this Complex. With regard to our
present and more limited aim of establishing narrative types in CMA, however,
the Focal Point can remain a “black box” entity.
Two narrative impulses are associated with CMA-1. The dominant one,
represented by the label CMA-1→, is designated simply as “Propagation.” For a
Propagation narrative to properly manifest, the influence of the Focal Point must
be maintained for the entire length of the piece. This does not mean that all of
its submotivic elements must appear in every segment; the Focal Point’s influ-
ence will naturally wax and wane over time. There is a minimum requirement,
though, that at least one of its elements be present at all times.
The diagram in Example 6.5.1 indicates the simplest mechanism by which a
motivic complex can propagate over the course of a unipart work. To accom-
modate more substantial pieces with pronounced formal divisions, such as so-
nata form, it is necessary to posit a multilevel—that is to say: a hierarchic—path
of motivic influence. Example 6.5.2(a) models how a Propagation narrative
unfolds in such works. As before, the Focal Point appears at or near the begin-
ning of the piece and carries out local development over its first major section.
Contrasting material, in terms of mood, mode, theme, melody, and harmony is
expected at the beginning of the Second Tonal Area and the development. The
Focal Point impacts these subsidiary formal areas by radiating packets of motivic
subelements to their starting points. These initiating events, henceforth called
Local Points, head smaller propagative processes within their sections.
Example 6.5.2(a) illustrates the most common arrangement of this narrative,
in which Focal Point material literally appears in the body of the work. In this
case, it coincides with the music of Segment 1. Example 6.5.2(b) illustrates a
Example 6.5.2 Variants on CMA-1→ that apply in the case of multisection works.
(a) The CMA-1→ narrative across a large work is structured hierarchically. The
Focal Point radiates its materials to two or more “Local Points,” that spawn the
successive content in each section.
Focal
Point Local
Point
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
Section 1 Section 2
(b) A variant of CMA-1→ in which Focal Point material does not occur literally in
any segment of the piece, but is deducible from surveying large-scale motives and
motivic processes.
Focal
Point
Local Local
Point Point
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
Section 1 Section 2
(c) The Dissolution archetype, CMA-1>.

Focal Development via gradual subtraction
Point of elements
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
pitch/rhythm/
harmony
articulation/
more unusual circumstance. In this case, the Focal Point is placed outside the
linear frame of the piece to signify that it does not appear in any given segment.
In other words, the Focal Point’s “idealized” content—its pitches, rhythms, and
other aspects—never appears all at once at the surface of the music. At most,
an approximation of it will appear, requiring the analyst to deduce the full
structure.1
The last type of Propagation narrative for CMA appears only rarely. Example
6.5.2(c) depicts a condition in which a Complex, again posited near the be-
ginning of a piece, is seen to have a diminishing influence over its course. This
narrative process, to be known as “Dissolution,” is represented by the label
CMA-1>. This archetype is best suited to pieces that expressly invoke the no-
tion of Dissolution through programmatic means, for example, of titling and
staging. Examples of this phenomenon include Haydn’s famous “Farewell” from
the end of his Symphony No. 45, in which the players are instructed to depart
the stage in small groups, and Schoenberg’s “O Alter Duft,” the closing song
from Pierrot Lunaire that describes an age lost to history. In the graphic showing
the Dissolution archetype, the graying out of the segment nodes indicates their
increasingly weaker material connection with the Focal Point. Note that the
curving horizontal arrows remain unlabeled in this model. In actual practice, it
would be the analyst’s responsibility to specify which motivic elements are being
shed over time.
CMA Narratives Stemming from Delayed Focal

Point Appearance
The remaining CMA archetypes arise from lifting the second constraint on
BMA, which newly allows for the Focal Point to be located in any segment within
a composition. As we consider the impact of this conceptual maneuver, we will
be aided by an image that illustrates two basic types of informational flow. The
first type, Propagation, shown in the top line of Example 6.5.3(a), will be familiar
from BMA-1 and CMA-1. The second type of flow, Accretion, is shown in the
line below.
Though couched as opposites, the two models shown in part a) of the example
are actually quite similar. Both exhibit a single point of unity, a Focal Point. The
difference between them is the conceptual direction of information flow at the
higher levels. In Propagation, the motives at the beginning are conceived as
having a forward trajectory. In Accretion, the Focal Point appears late in the
work, such that all related motivic events that occur in advance are seen both
as foreshadowing and evolving toward it. There is surprisingly scant theoretical
CMA Narrative Archetypes 209
Example 6.5.3 Two ways of viewing flow of information.

(a) In Propagation, shown above, flow is from an early source event (reprint of Example 5.5.1).
In Accretion, shown below, flow is toward a late source point.
Focal
Point
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
Focal
Point
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
Influence/
Foreshadowing
(b) Accretion archetype with multi-sectional hierarchy.
Section 1 Section 2 Focal

Local Local Point
Point Point
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
pitch/rhythm/harmony
Influence/
articulation/dynamics/etc.
Foreshadowing
precedent for this interpretive practice, which essentially reverses the trajectory
of Propagation; however, the mechanism by which it proceeds is straightforward
enough.2
The arrows appearing in the Accretion-type narrative carry the same informa-
tion about transformations as those in the Propagation narrative. The rightward
pointing arrows appearing “in line” with the piece, critically, still track the expe-
rience of hearing the music in time. It matters not whether musicians are experi-
encing the piece live or rehearsing its sound in their heads. Either way, they are
constrained to process events one at a time, from left to right, as it were. Note
that these surface arrows cannot communicate the sense in which the central or
late “core” motivic material might influence or cause the earlier motives to exist,
say, in a piece in which it is known or surmised that such material was conceived
first. To represent that notion, the graphic employs a separate set of leftward,
back-relating arrows.
In Example 6.5.3(b), the Accretion model is expanded; here, the late core ma-
terial is depicted generating the first segments in each of two major sections.
Similar to Examples 6.5.2(a) and (b) this scheme is hierarchical. The single Focal
Point informs multiple Local Points. The Local Points then head each large sec-
tion of music, generating subsequent events in their proximity in customary, left-
to-right fashion.
To reiterate, the similarities between the Propagation and Accretion narra-
tive types are greater than their differences. This is borne out by their analogous
node structure: either one could easily be translated into the other. Despite the
temptation to collapse these two conceptions into a single narrative script, I have
retained the distinction between them in order to enrich analysis. Doing so
expands the number of archetypes possible among pieces. Moreover, it allows
and encourages an analyst to entertain multiple, contrasting narrative accounts
of even one individual work.
One musician studying a string quartet movement by Haydn might de-
cide the central motivic point occurs at its beginning, in effect, launching the
piece. This strategy aligns with the traditional view of music. (It happens to be
Schoenberg’s view, which is why he unfailingly places the Grundgestalt at the be-
ginning of his analyses.) Another musician might prefer to locate the main mo-
tivic event at a later point in the piece. Her preference in this regard might stem
from a pragmatic desire for an optimally elegant analysis. She may observe the
richest conglomeration of motives occupying a location other than the begin-
ning. Alternatively, she may wish for the analysis to reflect a more “out of time”
(synchronic) view of the piece.
For those possessing a deep familiarity with a work, it is possible to have this
kind of omniscient score sense, so that musical events can be appreciated locally
but conceived globally. Edward T. Cone likens this experience to that of reading
the same mystery story multiple times to better savor it (1977). Although the plot
of a piece or work of fiction is no longer a secret after the first encounter with it,
in repeat hearings or readings, one still feels a degree of rising and falling sus-
pense/emotion while experiencing any segment within. The emotional impact of
any such moment is typically diminished, though, because one’s consciousness is
split. While some of our attention is dedicated to experiencing the segment “in
the moment,” some mental effort is given over to gauging the present experience
in relation to the precognized Narrative curve of the work.3
As analysts begin to explore the new freedom to analyze forward, back-
ward, and even “out of time,” it is important that they remain aware of their own
proclivities. The decision to adopt a Propagative versus an Accretive viewpoint

is highly personal, a fact that recalls the central notion of motive—or perhaps
now: motivic analysis, writ large—moving us. Each time we pose to ourselves the
question, “In what direction am I thinking about this music?,” we gain informa-
tion not only about our knowledge of the piece at hand but also about our own
analytical temperaments.4
To avoid running too far afield from pressing methodological issues, we re-
turn at this point to laying out and defining specific CMA narrative types. The
essential concepts of Accretion—specifically, the changed flow of time at high
levels and of omniscient score awareness—are communicated well by Example
6.5.3(b). For the purposes of delineating the next class of complex motivic anal-
ysis archetypes, it should be sufficient to simply rebrand this image as the model
for all of them.
In the same way that CMA-1 generally aligns with BMA-1, it is proper to re-
gard CMA-2 and BMA-2 narratives in similar terms. Readers will recall that
BMA-2 narratives manifest in three forms, depending on how their motivic
elements interact (Example 5.5.3). If two shapes are put into conflict with one
another, at some point it may seem that one has prevailed and the other has been
vanquished. This instantiates BMA-2+, the Triumph plotline. If the two elements
are peaceably rejoined, then a BMA-2•, or Synthesis plotline is said to manifest.
With the Focal Point broadened to the extent that it embeds a multitude of
pitch/rhythm motives—as well as motives of harmony, articulation, texture, and
dynamics—it becomes increasingly difficult to imagine how one subaspect of
the central motivic complex could fully triumph over the others. In observing a
large-scale work, we are more likely to observe the various elements fluctuating
in prominence. One pitch motive derived from the Focal Point may be dominant
in one formal section, whereas a separate set of pitch and articulation motives
may come to the fore in another.
All of this is to say that the BMA-2 narratives do not enjoy equal representa-
tion in CMA-2. As the idea of Triumph is called into doubt, certain branches of
the CMA-2 narrative tree fade, specifically BMA-2+ and BMA-2o. Example 6.5.4
shows that, as this occurs, the Synthesis narrative comes to the fore. All accretive
Example 6.5.4 The split-aspect Narratives in BMA yield only one meaningful

analog under CMA (cf. Example 5.5.3).
Nature of interaction produces Narrative Archetype
Complementation Non-Engagement BMA–2˚
Synthesis BMA–2•
Conflict Triumph BMA–2+
views of music may be regarded as synthetic to some extent. This sense emerges
more naturally in analyses that posit the Focal Point at or near a work’s conclu-
sion: if the full motivic complex only occurs in a late location, then all preceding
segments will be heard foreshadowing it. In contrast, if an analyst locates the
Focal Point in a more central location within a work, the synthetic narrative will
strictly apply only to the segments up to and including the central motivic com-
plex. The remaining segments will exhibit Dissolution.
Both of the scenarios depicted in Example 6.5.5 exhibit the Synthetic narra-
tive; they merely differ in the degree to which it applies. A reading with a late
Focal Point will be considered more purely synthetic, and will receive the desig-
nation CMA-2<. An accretive hearing that exhibits both synthetic and dissolu-
tion attributes will be designated as a Modified Synthetic narrative, and will be
represented by the label CMA-2< >.
There is one further narrative archetype that applies to CMA for which no
analog in BMA exists. I am referring to analyses in which a single Focal Point
appears multiple times. This narrative, deemed a “Cyclic” arrangement, is
represented by the label CMA-3. As an example, let us envision a piece consisting
Example 6.5.5 Two closely related forms of synthetic narrative.

(a) Accretion Narrative with Focal Point at the end is more purely synthetic
(CMA 2<)
(a) Influence/
Foreshadowing
Focal
Point
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
Section 1 Section 2
(b) Accretion Narrative with Focal Point located centrally exhibits synthetic
tendencies only up to the moment where the FP appears (CMA 2< >).
(b)
Influence/
Foreshadowing Focal
Point
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
of eight segments. We stipulate that Segments 1, 3, 6, and 8 constitute true

refrains, which qualifies them all as instantiations of the Focal Point. Segments 2,
4, 5, and 7 represent the diversionary episodes. This organizational strategy of al-
ternating familiar and new material calls to mind some standard musical forms,
specifically popular music’s verse-chorus form and Classical rondo.
Example 6.5.6(a) arranges these segment nodes in two dimensions. The ver-
tical dimension reflects a segment’s degree of similarity to (read: unity with) the
Focal Point. Since the Focal Point returns at Segments 1, 3, 6, and 8, these four
events are placed at the top of the example, all coincident to one node. The other
segments are placed at varying distances away along the y axis. The other di-
mension represented in the example is time, the passage of which is indicated
by clockwise motion at two levels. As a group, Segments 2, 4, 5, and 7 appear in
clockwise order. Nested within this larger cycle, several miniature, oblong cycles
appear that link the Focal Point with the individual episodes.
The reason the diagram is structured this way, with the “Passage of time”
oriented nonlinearly, is to cement the metaphor of circularity/cycle that is in-
herent to this narrative archetype. As necessary, this Narrative Curve can be
reconfigured with the temporal domain plotted out in a more traditional, left-to-
right, fashion, as in Example 6.5.6(b).
The truest analog for the circular-oriented chart from Example 6.5.6(a) is a
scatter plot of points. (A bar graph can also serve in this regard.) The formats
given in Example 6.5.6(a) and (b) are technically the most accurate, in that they
assert a constant value for each segment. We may contrast this mode of represen-
tation with a line graph, where the plot signals that the process linking points is
continuous; see Example 6.5.6(c). This latter format is admittedly problematic.
Imagine trying to explain what is happening during the sharply downward tran-
sition from Segment 3 to Segment 4 in our hypothetical piece. Is the transition
gradual or instantaneous? Moreover, what aspect of the listening experience is
communicated at the spot located halfway down the slope toward Segment 4?
Three-quarters of the way?
Despite these reservations, there remain good reasons to connect the nodes
of a unity graph. First, recall that the narratives we are assembling are mental
constructs. Though the heights of the relative nodes depend on factual mu-
sical data, the measured degree of unity, all of the motions among them are
imaginary—as is all motion in music. If that is true, then debating the slope and
continuity of these imaginary curves is tantamount to hosting a debate about
angels fitting on pinheads. Second, the concept of the Narrative Curve is not in
any way new: it is a well-enshrined tool of literary criticism pedagogy. Last and
most importantly, the notion of a Narrative Curve in motivic analysis is too po-
tent to abandon. It is a keystone element of this method that, in general, aids in
structuring large-scale analysis and linking it to emotion and meaning.
Example 6.5.6 Cyclic Archetype (CMA-3).

(a) Eight motivic events with a recurring central element (1, 3, 6, 8). Degree of unity
is plotted on a vertical scale (y-axis); time flows clockwise.
Segments 1–8:
1, 3, 6, 8
Passage
of time
Relative unity 7
2
w/ Focal Point
5 4
(b) The same data as in part a), except that the temporal dimension is rendered in its
traditional left-to-right orientation.
1
Relative Unity with Focal Point
0
0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
Segment
While the cyclic archetype, CMA-3 is a likely choice for rondos, not all
movements written in that form are modeled by it. In some cases, the strong
motivic influence of a central episode or coda may tip the balance in favor of
a Synthetic or Accretive plot. On the other end of the spectrum, it is possible
for pieces that outwardly seem to favor nonrepetitive schemes (e.g., preludes
Example 6.5.6 (c) Connecting the points of the graph in part b) results in a graph of
relative unity, also known in CMA as the “Narrative Curve.”
Relative Unity (%) with Focal Point
100
80
60
40
20
0
0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
Segment
or sonata forms) to incorporate enough literal repetition so as to embody the

Cyclic narrative.
Each of the CMA archetypes listed thus far exhibits primary polarities, which
are Propagation for CMA-1 and Synthesis for CMA-2, and secondary polarities,
which describe the common variants of those main types. For example, in CMA-
1, the Dissolution variant (CMA-1>) appears when the core material fails to be
sustained over the course of a work. In CMA-2, the Synthesis/Dissolution var-
iant (CMA-2< >) appears when the motivic climax of the work appears midway
through a work. Following this pattern, we institute a variant of CMA-3, the
“Modified Cyclic” profile, that applies to pieces that blend cyclic and progressive
tendencies. An example of such a piece is a rondo form that features significant
recompositions of refrain material. Consider, for example, an eight-segment
rondo similar to that depicted in Example 6.5.6(a), but that features a new chro-
matic countermelody in its sixth segment. Such a piece is modeled by Example
6.5.7, in which a single refrain event is elevated above the others due to this new
content.
The designation CMA-3↑ applies to such Modified Cyclic works. In addi-
tion to the overarching, circular process expected of all CMA-3 readings, the
Modified Cyclic model accounts for inequality among the subcycles. Narratively
speaking, the unique status of Segment 6 reintroduces an element of direction-
ality to the analysis, which may be felt in terms of a growth process that builds
across Segments 1 and 3, peaks in Segment 6, and last dissipates at the final re-
frain statement in Segment 8.
Example 6.5.7 Modified Cyclic Archetype (CMA-3↑). Variant in which one

instance of the central, recurring events is promoted due to enhanced content.
Focal
Point
6
1,3,8 Passage
of time
Relative unity 7 2
w/Focal Point
5 4
Summary of BMA and CMA Narratives
The two Interlude segments of Musical Motives provide narrative frameworks

for motivic analyses. One reason for developing these plotlines is to counteract
the inherently small-scale nature of motivic analysis. Motivic analyses that lack
these frameworks present visually as a jumble of circles, beams, and labels. Even
if the author’s overall sense of logic and meaning is clear to them, in the absence
of some plotline their reading will likely not translate to anyone else in print or
in person.
The full set of archetypes developed for use in BMA and CMA appear in the
summary chart in Example 6.5.8. According to the theory and methodology
developed in this book, the motivic analysis of any stretch of music beyond a
few phrases in length should be couched in these or comparable terms. The
narratives are grouped according to patterns of informational flow. The most in-
tuitive analyses are Propagative. Both BMA-1 and CMA-1 exhibit this tendency;
they differ merely in how many motivic elements they track. BMA-1 follows the
evolution of pitch and rhythm motives, whereas CMA-1 tracks the progression
of a broader complex of motives.
The three BMA-2 narratives, also Propagative, are on offer to address the dynamic
interplay between two or more primary pitch and/or rhythmic motives. In earlier
discussion, I described how the BMA-2 narratives, when reassessed in light of a
Example 6.5.8 Summary chart of BMA and CMA narrative types.
larger Focal Point complex, collapse to one synthetic CMA-2 narrative type. Both
CMA-2 entries in the summary chart are Accretive and Synthetic; they diverge only
in where they locate the Focal Point in the music, closer to the end (CMA-2<) versus
somewhere in the middle (CMA-2< >). The final narrative entries, CMA-3 and
CMA-3↑, describe fluctuations in motivic unity in works in which the Focal Point
returns more than once.
Here, as always, the insistent tone of argument and the seeming formality
of the summary chart belie a great many flexibilities. An analyst facing a piece
may choose to employ BMA or CMA as he wishes, and then any narrative type
within. He may feel at one time that a particular CMA model applies best, and
then decide a day later that another CMA narrative better captures a different
shading of the work. The possibility mentioned at the outset of this section of
structuring analyses in “comparable terms,” moreover, allows for the develop-
ment of additional archetypes. The ten narratives presently recognized by this
theory are those that emerged naturally as I attempted to marry musico-literary
precedents with a flexible understanding of musical temporality. In the future,
interactions among literary, musical, and other aesthetic and temporal domains
will no doubt furnish further compelling and useful plotlines.
We are nigh approaching the close of this second of two Interludes. On that
occasion, I caution readers not to assume that this means that all theorizing on
this topic will cease. We are still in the midst of transitioning from BMA to CMA,
a move that entails a conceptual broadening of musical space. BMA narratives
occur in essentially one linear dimension, that of time. The CMA narratives re-
tain that first dimension, but add a second that gauges the relative relatedness of
segments. The most rudimentary CMA plotlines, CMA-1 and CMA-2, invoke
the notion of hierarchy. If we grant that a central motivic complex is able to pro-
ject some or all of its material backward or forward in time, then it is fair to say
that it exists out of time to an extent. That is to say: Focal Point material exists
in its own space, allowing relative relatedness to be charted on a second, (typi-
cally vertical) axis. The models for CMA-3, the cyclic narratives, most clearly re-
flect this two-dimensionality of musical segments; however, it applies to all of the
CMA plotlines. We shall explore this topic further in the next chapter, where the
CMA method expressly prescribes a means for comparing the motivic content of
all of a piece’s segments.
7
Complex Motivic Analysis
Introduction: A Rationale for CMA
Two defining aspects of BMA are its prioritization of pitch and rhythm and its
reliance on propagative (chronological, “left-to-right”) processes for interpreta-
tion. These features confer many advantages to the method, not least of which is
accessibility. A further advantage is the impact they have on BMA’s overall char-
acter, causing it to approximate how first-time and/or curious listeners experi-
ence pieces by emphasizing discovery and quick association.
Ironically, these same aspects that benefit BMA within its own sphere manifest
as shortcomings for a method that aspires to analyze more comprehensively. If a
technique focuses purely on pitch and rhythm, it will fail to account for activity
in other important domains of music, among them harmony, dynamics, artic-
ulation, timbre, and ornamentation.1 The most direct solution to address this
shortfall is to propose a method that engages all of the same attributes as in BMA
plus additional ones that it excludes. Almost any passage from the Common
Practice can be called on to illustrate the potential value of such enrichment. As
an example, consider the unremarkable moment from the exposition of Haydn’s
Symphony No. 103, I, shown in Example 7.1. The BMA-style brackets show this
allegro theme to be built of a set of routine rhythmic and pitch motives. This in-
formation is useful for knowing how the surface coheres, but reveals little else.
The desire to know more about a piece’s full content opens up an informed
dialogue with all of the musicians who have engaged or will engage with it, com-
poser, performers, and listeners alike. Starting with the first, it is reasonable to as-
sume that Haydn had more than just a set of pitch shapes in mind when he wrote
this passage. Like any trained European composer of the eighteenth century, he
would also have been concerned with
• coordinating the note-to-note interactions of the voices, in particular the

functional soprano and bass, which is to say: counterpoint.
• ensuring that all lines cooperate to produce intelligible chords and, where
relevant, functional progressions, which is to say: harmony.
• concluding the utterance with a cadence, which is to say: local phrasing
and form.
• imbuing the whole with a vibrant, overall character.
Musical Motives. Brent Auerbach, Oxford University Press (2021). © Oxford University Press.
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197526026.003.0009.
Example 7.1 The allegro theme of Haydn Symphony 103 (I), mm. 40–42 as viewed
under BMA.
It follows that if we wish for motivic analysis to say something about these ad-
ditional kinds of relationships in music, it must be expanded to engage them. For
many of these new domains, such as counterpoint, harmony, and form, it will be
possible to import terminology and techniques from already-established music
theories. For other domains, more creative solutions will be necessary. Indeed,
aspects of music as vague as character or gesture cannot be conceived of in sin-
gular terms at all. Each emanates from the joint agency of many factors, among
them articulation, dynamics, timbre, and intra-/extramusical allusion.
If Propagation is the only framework available for structuring findings,
analysts will be unable to access nonlinear archetypes such as Accretion and
Cycle. These plotlines, as discussed in the previous Interlude, represent alter-
native means for conceiving music. Specifically, the nonlinear accounts model
kinds of nonlinear thinking that expert musicians of all stripes—performers,
composers, and academics—regularly rely on. (Recall that when one has a deep
knowledge of a piece, one is not constrained by time or ordering when sensing
associations among its events.) Nonlinear plots have a further value, too, in fos-
tering creativity in analysis. As analysts gain awareness of the novel archetypes,
they may be inspired to craft multiple narratives for a single piece. A further
hope is that the archetypes will, over time, influence motivic analysis as a whole
to continue evolving beyond the one-way, chronological thinking that has long
dominated it.2
A few last comments will prepare readers for the presentation of the extended
methodology for complex motivic analysis. The definitions and methods given
in this chapter are intended for expert users, those who have mastered BMA and
who are well acquainted with the history and theory of motive. The chapter’s
organization will loosely follow that of c hapter 5. The content in each corre-
sponding area will shift, however, to fit the changing priorities of the new mode
of analysis. For instance, there is no need to reopen the discussion on techniques
Complex Motivic Analysis 221
of reduction; the “salient” approach developed earlier will suffice. The first sec-
tion of this chapter will concentrate on introducing the terms and techniques
necessary for charting and then coordinating musical domains beyond pitch and
rhythm. It will culminate in the unveiling of the complex motive model.
There is similarly no need to rehash the motivic transformation rules estab-
lished for BMA. The second section of this chapter will instead turn to the issue
of interpretation. I mean this term not in its subjective, aesthetic sense, but lit-
erally. At the outset, readers should be aware that elevating a motive’s degree of
complexity—where now many gestures are charted in many domains—results
in a veritable explosion of data points. A piece’s primary motive under this ap-
proach is no longer conceived as a single shape, but rather as a group of many.
The system that handles these complex motives must account for every attribute’s
recurrence through all segments of a piece. Imagine, for example, a piece that
is viewed in twenty segments with a Focal Point encompassing fifteen separate
aspects. A simple, back-of-the-envelope calculation tells us that that analysis will
give rise to approximately 300 data points.
As larger quantities of information come under view in CMA, this branch
of analysis should, in accordance with tradition, continue to affirm motivic
analysis’s perennially intuitive disposition. As such, CMA’s interpretive ma-
chinery has been designed to allow musicians to meaningfully chart the flow
of gestures through pieces. In the latter part of this chapter, two pathways to-
ward that end will be delineated. The first, more informal method of organizing
findings allows analysts to use the arrow notation established in chapter 5 to
trace the path of select attributes of the Complex across the piece. This graph-
ical approach may be thought of as “BMA Plus”. The second mechanism, known
as Quantitative Analysis, examines all data points generated through CMA. The
theory that establishes Quantitative Analysis includes procedures for valuing all
of a complex motive’s attributes and for charting the relative degree to which it
returns in segments. This last interpretive act, entailing a near-comprehensive
motivic comparison, will be aligned with the more humanistic aspects of musical
interpretation, among them narrative, hermeneutics, and performance practice.
Formalizing Complex Motives
Introduction to the Expanded Format
As was the case for the basic motive, the concept of the complex motive draws
on many structural elements from Schoenbergian theory. This borrowing, how-
ever, is neither simple nor wholesale. Though my complex motive is inspired
by Schoenberg, it is not a Grundgestalt by another name. All aspects of that
traditional entity, encompassing both form and function, have been redesigned.
In terms of literal scope, the newer analytic entity occupies a larger footprint. The
expanded breadth of the complex motive results from supplementing treatment
of the classic musical domains—pitch, rhythm, harmony, and articulation—with
new ones such as texture, gesture, and rhetoric. In this way, the complex motive
explicitly formalizes attributes that traditionally were treated in ad hoc fashion,
if at all.
An increase in this analytic entity’s length is mandated by two interdependent
requirements:
Rule CMA1: Complex motives must exhibit at least one significant harmonic root
motion.
Guideline 1 (to Rule CMA1): The length of a complex motive is commensurate

with the segment, a prototypical phrase that (1) represents a complete musical
thought and (2) can be apprehended (audiated) as a simultaneity, which is to
say, retained in the mind’s eye.
The segment, as described in the rule, may be thought of as the common,

“musician’s phrase,” meaning a coherent portion of music that lasts a few seconds
and has a clear beginning and end.3 I make no secret of the fact that Rule CMA1
stems from a pragmatic analytical concern. Making complex motives—and,
just as important: the formal units of music—uniform in length and content is
prerequisite for making direct comparisons among them as they return in their
varied incarnations.
Immediately we may begin to note some of Rule CMA1’s effects. The first is
that complex motives are extended beyond their typical length in BMA. Another
is that these motives are more crisply demarcated. Complex motives do not “run
out of notes” at the point, say, where the analyst feels that enough component
shapes have been bracketed. Their endpoints are determined, rather, on the basis
of small-scale formal issues. In this way, complex motives manifest as viable
segments of a piece.
This last point implies that some form of cadence will appear at the end of
every complex motive. Though this idea will hold in general, I am reluctant to
strictly police it. For all practical purposes, keeping the cadence guideline in
mind should be sufficient. We therefore prefer that all complex motive parsings
conclude with harmonic cadences. Where no conventional points of punctua-
tion can be identified, closure may be signaled by other means such as marked
shifts in rhythm and texture. Failing that, as in rare cases of music built of longer,
undifferentiated stretches, complex motives may be parsed subjectively. Again,
in the spirit of Requirement (2) from Guideline 1 of the rule, a segment’s length
may be defined as the amount of space and material that an analyst is capable of
apprehending as “now.”4
Armed with a clearer sense of complex motives, we may begin to model them.
Example 7.2 revisits the Haydn symphonic excerpt from earlier, rendering it as a
complex motive. The motive takes the form of a multiformat inventory, or more
properly: a network. The suggestion that networks could serve as the frame-
work for motivic analysis was initially broached in chapter 3 in the context of
describing Zbikowski’s categories (2002). In this chapter, the network concept
comes to fruition as it is established as the basis of the complex motive.5
Example 7.2 The allegro theme of the symphony formatted as a motivic complex.

It is important to note from the start that Example 7.2 depicts a mere instance
of a complex motive; it does not show the model in its entirety. The present intro-
duction to the complex motive is meant to lay groundwork for the fuller theoret-
ical account of it appearing in the next section of this chapter.
The pitch and rhythm motives, in a holdover from BMA, are again
represented in musical notation with brackets and labels. The rhythmic con-
tent, indicated above the score, is analyzed as a four-beat gesture in 6/8 time
composed of medium-sized beats. (It would be acceptable to view the rhythm
in terms of a smaller, two-beat shape that sounds twice.) All of the M rhythms
can be subdivided into eighth notes with hashmarks ( /| \ ); however, in this
case, only the last beat receives that treatment. Further details of the rhythm are
signaled through the use of the bar line signs (|) and bold typescript. Together,
these conventions indicate the shape’s irregular metric placement. When
performed in isolation, this excerpt sounds like it begins on a strong beat. In
fact, it begins on beat two, an “off-beat” opening, as in the style of a gavotte. The
bolded M attacks indicate the unusually strong quality of the “beat two” events
in 6/8 time.6
The set of descriptive domains that are listed below pitch and rhythm are for-
matted individually to express their content as efficiently as possible. Harmony,
for example, is here represented both as a Roman numeral succession involving
tonic (I) and dominant (V) chords in E♭ major and, more generally, as an upward-
fifth harmonic root motion (↑5th). The five domains that follow harmony detail
the segment’s more coloristic aspects through combined use of musical symbols
and text. The “Articulations” entry notes the prevalence of staccato attacks, as well
as snapped, down-up slurring. The content of “Dynamics” is used to note volume
and changes in volume, if significant. The “Orchestration/Texture/Timbre” do-
main describes the arrangement of the voices. In the present case, the designa-
tion “high strings” signals both a literal scoring decision, meaning orchestration,
and a sonic connotation of lighter, silkier sound—in other words: timbre. This
domain is also fitting for documenting standard voice configurations and ar-
peggiation patterns that influence a segment’s overall sound, with examples
being “planing,” “Alberti bass,” and “parallel thirds.” It may seem counterintu-
itive to include that last designation here and not separately in Counterpoint.
Counterpoint, as will be explained later, is a “derivative” domain used to loosely
track the behavior of a texture’s outer voices. In contrast, textural arrangements
such as parallel thirds and sixths are often restricted to the upper voices of a tex-
ture, where they serve to thicken the sound of moving lines.
Contour information in this preliminary example is tracked schematically,
with priority given to the melody (black line) over the more static bass voice
(gray line). This information may be denoted in other formats. Two possibilities
include using prose to describe the melody line as “gradually descending from
3̂, followed by upward sweep,” or using a contour vector, such as < 3 4 3 2 1 0
1 3 5 >. The segment’s contrapuntal content is captured in two ways. The first
employs the traditional designations, “parallel,” “contrary,” “oblique,” and “static”
to broadly indicate the type of interaction. In this case, oblique motion at the
start gives over to contrary motion at the end. Below these labels, the counter-
point is described in finer detail, in terms of diatonic intervals measured between
the bass and soprano. If desired, other intervals among alternate voice pairings
can be listed.
The advantages of this expanded network format will be revealed gradually
throughout this chapter and the next. Our more immediate concern, as we move
beyond the overview stage of the complex motive model, is noting the many
challenges of working with it. Chief among these is the model’s multivalence.
Consider that each one of the domains listed in the Haydn example is compli-
cated enough to stand alone as an area of theoretic inquiry. How daunting it is,
then, to see them all yoked together in one network. It is not merely a matter
of finding a balance among harmony, rhythm, contour, and character. There
is reason to worry that, in attempting to address so many richly descriptive
domains, that all will be given short shrift.
These concerns are valid but do not invalidate this line of inquiry. On the con-
trary, they support it. Present-day music theory has become so fragmented that
it is common for individuals to spend their whole careers investigating one or
more of a small set of musical domains. The philosophy of CMA runs counter
to that trend, implicitly arguing that all of these disparate domains should be
rebundled to better reflect their a priori, bound-together state in music. But for a
few ambitious, “network-aware” approaches, relatively few modern analytic sys-
tems fully engage the interplay of melody, harmony, counterpoint, articulation,
and timbre. Most give priority to one or perhaps two of those areas. One impetus
behind the development of CMA is providing analysts with an avenue of investi-
gation that, at least in spirit, aspires to be comprehensive.
A further reason for courage in pressing ahead is that the volume and quality
of results afforded by CMA will outweigh methodological shortcomings. It is
only natural that, as more domains are incorporated into a system, that some wa-
tering down will occur for each. It will be possible to encode some pitch contour
information for melodic gestures within CMA, for instance, but not with the ex-
actitude of a dedicated, expert-level contour analysis. In other words, we must
continually seek out compromise solutions that offer a workable level of detail
that is neither burdensome nor threadbare.
Theorizing the Content of the Complex Motive
Preliminary discussion of the Haydn symphonic excerpt offered a glimpse into

the form and function of complex motives. To now formalize such motives, we
briefly abandon concrete examples in favor of a more abstract approach. No
single, isolated segment of music taken from the literature is rich enough to sup-
port an assembly demonstration encompassing all potential domains of a com-
plex motive. Indeed, most excerpts one regularly encounters wholly lack content
in one or more domains. For instance, the passage given in Examples 7.1 and
7.2 contains no ornaments, dynamic contrast, tempo fluctuation, nor any out-
standing rhetorical gestures.
The format for complex motives is illustrated in Example 7.3. The leftmost
column lists the standard domains; the center column indicates the type of in-
formation tracked by each. Most of these domains are intuitive and have already
received some theoretic attention. Some are new, such as the domain accounting
for “Special Effects.” This domain is reserved for documenting events that are
deemed motivic by virtue of their outstanding character. An analyst has much
latitude in deciding whether an event is sufficiently “marked” for attention to
merit inclusion in this domain. For example, commonplace volume gestures
such as mezzo forte or “hairpin crescendo” fall under the purview of Dynamics.
If, however, a segment were to feature a prominent sforzando or many of them
in series, then that could be counted as a Special Effect. Similarly, basic trills and
grace notes typically count as Ornaments, whereas a more impressive rolled
chord or glissando might count as a Special Effect.7
The new domain appearing below Special Effects is “Embodiment/Allusion.”
This area serves as a repository for two kinds of information. The first, embod-
iment, refers to distinctive (“marked”) physical movements that are required of
performers to execute certain passages. Examples of embodiment include a pi-
anist “crossing” the hands to realize certain textures, a string player shifting to all
“down-bows” for emphasis, or brass players following a score instruction to play
with “bells up.” This domain’s second aspect, Allusion, refers to robust extramu-
sical associations that may accompany certain shapes. For a motive to qualify as
musically allusive, it must refer to a previously existing piece that the composer
knows or can be reasonably assumed to have known. The allusion may be to
other musical works or prominent motives from those works.8 Often, the shape
in question will have earned iconic status through citation in other pieces or
the written literature; it may carry a name such as the “Bach” motive (B♭-A-C-
B♮), or “Tristan chord” (half-diminished seventh chord). Last, it should feature
prominently in the work being analyzed. Dallapiccola’s use of the “Bach” motive
throughout “Simbolo,” from his Quaderno Musicale di Annilibera, for example,
would constitute a valid allusion (Lewin 1993). More generally, Allusion may
Example 7.3 The standard content of and modes of representation for a complex motive.
also manifest as a reference to a genre or topic, usually in the sphere of music.

It would be appropriate, for example, to list content in this domain for a motive
that projects a sense of the “pastoral,” the “hunt,” the “military,” or “storm and
stress.”
Embodiment and Allusion may seem to make an awkward pairing; however,
sound reasons exist for placing them together in one domain. Both aspects,
for one, depend on knowledge located outside of a work’s aural soundscape
and score. Consider Embodiment. For a pianist’s crossing of the hands to reg-
ister to analysts working from a score, they need to be able to visualize it. This
requires some first-hand experience of piano playing, of using one’s one hands
to turn noteheads into notes. (The same argument applies to the other instru-
mental subcultures, of course.) For a performer’s physical gesture to register with
an audience, they must see it, either live or on video. For Allusion, the outside
knowledge comes from immersion in musical culture. Motives gain fame via dis-
course, first as composers write letters to acquaintances and dedicate pieces to
them, and then as historians and theorists dive into that documentary history
and disclose their findings to the public.
A further benefit of causing Embodiment and Allusion to overlap is that
it allows us to resituate the classic rhetorical figure within motivic analysis.
According the “Sigh” shape figure status, for instance, alludes not just to a set of
melancholy gestures in melancholy pieces, but to a long pedagogical tradition
concerned with interpreting and performing a phrasing convention. Invoking
that figure’s name constitutes literal embodiment as well, as the word “sigh”
denotes a movement-sound derived from the human animal. On these bases, the
Embodiment/Allusion domain effectively charts a complex motive in both its
physical and associative aspects.
The column at right in Example 7.3 prescribes the means for representing con-
tent in each domain. For Pitch and Rhythm, the nomenclature is the same as it is
for BMA (see c hapter 4). For Harmony, three labeling systems are recommended.
They may be drawn on freely, depending on the level of specificity desired. The
first is the conventional set of Roman numerals, which indicate chord root and
quality. Any information one wishes to convey about chordal inversion (bass
identity and arrangement of voices) may be relegated to other categories, such
as Counterpoint and Orchestration/Texture/Timbre. The second system is based
on the harmonic function labels, T(onic), D(ominant) and P(re-Dominant).9
The third system, also quite general, tracks root successions as directed distances
in pitch-class space—e.g., “Ascending fifth (A5)” and “Descending Second (D2),”
with aspects of key functionality ignored. This third approach is particularly well
suited to CMA, as a high degree of generality improves an analyst’s chance of
finding literal matches in other segments.
The visual format of Example 7.3 relates further relevant information about
the model. The domains are shown grouped in three areas, the top-to-bottom
ordering of which reflects their relative importance from the standpoint of tra-
dition. (Note that soon, when the domains are combined for the purposes of
calculating similarity across segments, this ordering will inform relative numer-
ical weighting.) The three entries that appear above the first bolded divider are
“essential” (also: “primary”) domains that must be accounted for whenever
CMA is applied to Common Practice pieces. The remaining eight domains are
of secondary import, tracking aspects of music typically regarded as more dec-
orative. A typical CMA will engage at least two or three of these domains. Only
sometimes will it be necessary to invoke most or all of them.
The domains given in the lowest group are Counterpoint and Contour.10 They
are placed here because they are inherently derivative: the information they en-
code is deducible in whole or in part from other domains.11 A string of vertical
intervals in a contrapuntal analysis, for example, can usually be derived from
voices already appearing in the Pitch domain.12 The same holds for a contour-
based description posited for a motive. The pitch contour < 0 2 1 3 >, for example,
conveys a new shade of information about, say, the notes C3-F-D-G, but not
unique information. Contour vectors generalize but also overlap note-specific
content, and for this reason they are accorded lesser status.
We will forego additional domain-by-domain accounting of the model,
allowing the example to speak largely for itself. Curtailing the discussion allows
us to proceed more quickly to the demonstration of complex motive assembly.
It further promotes efficiency by sidestepping overtly technical accounts of the
domains, which in the end might prove extraneous anyway.
While this chapter goes to great lengths to suggest specific mechanisms for
working with domains, analysts are free to jettison approaches they disfavor
and to institute their own. I have only a few words to add about this methodo-
logical freedom, which at first appears sweeping. First, it must be employed re-
sponsibly. No specific means are prescribed for representing any and all of the
domains; however, analysts are still charged with accounting for these domains
in a rigorous manner. To wit: substitute nomenclatures must pass method-
ological muster. Alternative symbol systems need not be traditional, nor even
preestablished, but they must be legitimate in the sense that they are reproduc-
ible and make musical sense.
Second, this freedom does not apply beyond the level of the domains. The ge-
neral format of the complex motive remains a central, nonnegotiable aspect of
CMA. I noted earlier that this framework dictates how a full motivic analysis
is constructed. To say this another way: Complex motives and CMAs interpen-
etrate one other. Therefore, failing to conceive a segment of music as a complex
motive necessarily entails a loss of access to the interpretive techniques associ-

ated with it.
Further Aspects of Working with Complex Motives
The next phase of discussion will flesh out the complex motive concept by
raising three practical concerns. The explanations provided in response to
them directly inform the process of crafting a complex motive and selecting
systems of representation for its domains. This portion of the chapter, dedi-
cated to balancing the domains and maximizing their interpretive power, will
connect the abstract model detailed in the previous section to the concrete
demonstrations to follow. Final reinforcement of this material will take the
form of a sample analysis in which a complex motive is assembled from scratch
from a short Brahms waltz.
Concern 1: Unified and Conflicting Harmony
We noted earlier that harmony frequently plays a major role in establishing the
boundaries of complex motives; however, this is not its primary function. This
domain exists to document the characteristic harmonic content of motives. This
includes noting the presence of a conventional cadence and describing the be-
ginning and ending harmonic states, when different. (If they are the same, some
opposed harmonic state must occur internally, as per the “significant tonal mo-
tion” clause of Rule CMA1.)
No matter how bare a segment under study may initially appear, the default
assumption should be that some harmonic element is present. In many cases,
this tonal motion will be salient. Such is the case for mm. 1–4 of the minuet from
Schubert’s Quartet No. 9 in G minor, shown in Example 7.4. The opening of this
minuet has a strong harmonic sensibility, in that all of its on-beat simultaneities
(chords) are tertian and adhere to Common Practice syntax. Although there
is always room for variance, most trained musicians will agree that the Roman
numerals shown below accurately interpret its chord content. (We will have
more to say about the harmonic function labels later in this section.)
Example Web.7.1 illustrates a situation in which the harmonic content is
murkier; it occurs in mm. 1–8 of the finale of Haydn’s Piano Sonata in E♭, Hob.
XVI: 52. The passage, in one sense, embodies harmonic stasis by means of a tonic
pedal point. Upon noticing this pedal, the analyst need not give up and declare
the harmonic domain empty. Further investigation in cases like this often reveals
the presence of triadic structures functioning harmonically. In the web example
we can see how the melody expresses tonic and dominant states in alternation.
Example 7.4 Derivation of harmonic motives from mm. 1–4 of Schubert’s Ninth

String Quartet in G minor, D. 173 (III), through segmentation and reduction. The
“+6” indicates the presence of an augmented sixth chord.
There is a persistent unfolding of E♭ major I chords and D diminished viio chords,

the latter of which contains both tendency tones in the key, 7̂ (ti) and 4 ̂ (fa).
Harmonic analysis in every context is subjective. This holds particularly for
Common Practice tonal works, though, because the separate voices project har-
mony at different rates and intensities. Pedal points, non-chord tones, canonic
imitation: all of these are common techniques that generate small-scale har-
monic conflict. Analysts should attempt to document such clashes in a Complex’s
Harmony domain when they are relevant. To do so, they will need to cultivate an
attitude of openness. They must be willing and able to flexibly employ notation to
engage harmonic blending events.
Again, due to subjectivity, it is difficult to place absolute restrictions on the
kinds of claims one may make in this domain. The only guideline that will be
offered is as follows:
Guideline 2 (to Rule CMA1): Harmonic claims should never intentionally vio-

late the aesthetic premises of a work.
It would, for example, be misguided to attribute functional harmonic con-

tent to a work of Musique concrète or a spoken word piece by Steve Reich. On
the other hand, an expressly antiharmonic aesthetic can manifest in isolated
moments within an otherwise traditionally tonal piece. It is easy to imagine, for
example, the final segment of a Romantic symphony that is built exclusively of
tonic chords sounding at loud volume and in various rhythms. This hypothet-
ical passage certainly possesses a harmonic identity, tonic, but no meaningful
harmonic-motivic shapes.
Guideline 2 need not apply blindly. For example, I generally advise against
ascribing harmonic-motivic quality to unpitched segments like the first eight
measures of Movement II from Bartok’s Concerto for Orchestra. Yet, I also ac-
knowledge that cases exist in which it may be appropriate to do so. Here I refer
readers to the phenomenon of the “percussion break” that approximates a
pitched event, as in the case of drum set fills or solo segments that exploit drum-
head tuning. Jazz drummers are exquisitely sensitive to harmonic progression
from their experience navigating charts and standards. It follows that they would
tap into all available resources of their kits to project drum-based analogs of
common harmonic tropes, including suspenseful dominants at half cadences
and in ii-V-I turnarounds.
There are, in other words, few limitations as to where one may creatively in-
tuit harmonic gestures in music. This type of projection need not apply only to
nonpitched segments within larger pieces. It can apply to whole works that resist
standard harmonic nomenclature. It is often worthwhile to scout out harmonic
gestures in genres that presumably resist them, such as medieval works and
spoken-word art pieces. Mostly, this kind of postmodern projection does not
constitute an “intentional violation of aesthetic principle.” There is nothing, for
example, untoward about applying set theory methodology to probe harmony
in a High Classical composition.13 It is safe to assume that Mozart did not create
and organize chords according to pitch-class set principles that postdate him by
centuries. It is, at the same time, eminently reasonable to imagine that he would
have been aware of the sonic impact of recurring pitch cells in his pieces, both in
the horizontal and vertical dimensions.14
Concern 2: Preference for Binary Representation in the Domains
The transformational tools of BMA—transposition, inversion, duration scaling,

etc.—are designed to track exact pitch and rhythm correspondences. The reason
for preferring absolute over partial matches is that the former are more meth-
odologically straightforward and thus easier to defend. The same impulse in the
realm of CMA leads to the following guideline:
Guideline 3 (to Rule CMA1): The informational attributes within the domains

of CMA should be formatted in binary terms whenever possible.
Beyond bolstering the strength of individual associative claims, this conven-

tion promotes efficiency at two different points in the analytic process. It does so
first at the outset of analysis, when the content of the Focal Point complex is de-
fined. The binary condition encourages analysts to build only as much detail into
their Complexes as necessary to yield results. It also promotes efficiency at the
stage in which all of the piece’s component segments are compared. For each pair
of segments, relative relatedness is determined by a series of yes or no questions
addressing the presence or absence of a specific attribute.15
Binary formatting is more straightforward for the secondary domains, in
which attributes such as “trill” for Ornament or “Petrushka chord” for Allusion
can be thought of in all-or-nothing terms. It is far more complicated for Harmony,
however. To illustrate why this is, we revisit the Schubert minuet that was earlier
held up as an exemplar of harmonic clarity (Example 7.4). The root identities and
functions of the individual chords are relatively unambiguous. The problem is
that the string of chord function labels given in line a) is highly detailed and spe-
cific, which impedes our ability to directly link this segment with others in the
movement. Were we to uphold the requirement for absolute matches, we would
likely only observe connections among segments containing fully literal returns
of this music. To reduce the specificity of a segment’s content, we can treat har-
mony in the same manner that BMA treated complex melodic strings. This calls
for viewing a segment’s harmonic content in terms of its component parts.
Analysts have freedom to establish any harmonic sub-element in a Complex they
like, provided that it adheres to Rule CMA1. The lower area of Example 7.4 illustrates
a set of potential harmonic motives that might define a Complex; many others are
possible. These “attributes” are derived from the initial string of harmonies in area a)
in two ways, segmentation and reduction. Under segmentation, abbreviated strings
of adjacent harmonies are extracted from the original. Five potential attributes are
shown to result from this process in area b) of the example. The other procedure this
method recognizes is harmonic reduction, which entails pruning out a passage’s
more decorative harmonies and retaining its more structural ones.
Reduction, too, can be performed on strings of Roman numerals and har-

monic function designations alike. Unlike segmentation, though, this proce-
dure requires training far beyond the primer materials given in c hapter 5. To
be fluent with reduction, an analyst should have studied college-level theory
for at least one year. That experience is helpful for learning about how har-
mony is hierarchic, meaning: how a single chord can be stretched out—but
not supplanted—by chords that follow. It is likely that anyone surveying the
function labels in line a), could guess that the first tonic (T) and final dom-
inant (D) will be retained under reduction on the basis of their structural
accents. Only those familiar with Schenker’s concept of “composing out” and/
or Riemann’s concept of harmonic functions, however, would be able to ex-
plain why the second and third function symbols in line a), D and T, are ab-
sent in line c). The reason, to be clear, is that the V chord in m. 2 is a weaker,
decorative chord. Its 6/3 inversion, occurring in the context of a large-scale
G3-F♯-G bassline, acts as a “neighboring” harmony that connects the i chords in
measures 1 and 3.
Concern 3: Potential Redundancy of Complex Material
The present method grants analysts a high degree of freedom in format-

ting Complexes in that, for every domain, they may specify as many or as few
attributes as desired. With no rules to constrain this stage of analysis, this section
offers two further guidelines. The first of these, made only implicitly earlier, is as
follows:
Guideline 4 (to Rule CMA1): In formatting a complex motive, there is never an

obligation to account for all events within a span. This applies to all domains,
including rhythm.
The second addresses an inherently ambiguous condition that occurs when

working with many domains and attributes:
Guideline 5 (to Rule CMA1): Material overlap (redundancy), which is inevi-

table, should be minimized wherever possible.
Looking back one last time at the attributes listed in Example 7.4, we note a
large degree of overlap between the shorter ones uncovered through segmen-
tation and the longer one uncovered through reduction. If one wished to in-
corporate both harmonic attributes 1 and 6 in the complex motive, that would
double count the starting chord. Guideline 5 to Rule CMA1 permits that. No
outright limit is established in this method for how many times a single musical
element might appear in a Complex. Yet at the same time that analysts take ad-
vantage of this interpretive freedom, they should exercise restraint in employing
it. Elegance and efficiency, the hallmarks of a well-built Complex, will be ham-
pered if domains are crowded by redundant bits of data. Such redundancy would
occur, for example, if an analyst were to select Attributes 2, 3, and 5 for inclusion.
Complex Motive Assembly
In this section, we will construct a complex motive. The piece serving as the
basis for the demonstration will be Brahms’s Waltz in B minor, Op. 39, No.
11. The work is of modest scope, yet rich enough in content to ensure a com-
pelling Complex. An annotated score of the waltz is provided in Example 7.5.
The bold, lowercase letter notation and Roman numerals, respectively, de-
tail essential aspects of the form and harmonic content. The bold lines reflect
the piece’s divisions into surface segments, the raw starting material of CMA
work.16 Among the first things to note is how the segmentation respects the
piece’s regular phrasing. Other segmentation schemes are possible, provided
they are well formed: one cannot, for instance, segment a piece in such a way
as to leave out any passages. For example, analysts need not restrict them-
selves to four-bar segments; some readers may already be feeling that mm.
17–24 cohere as one unit.17 The reason I have parsed the digression in two
parts instead of one is because the thematic material and articulation style
shift at m. 21.
With any segment capable of serving as the Focal Point, we arbitrarily select
Segment 1 to do so.18 The first of the three essential domains to be tackled is that
of pitch motive. This content, arranged in four voices (SATB) on three staves, is
shown in Example 7.6.
Beginning with the soprano, we note a surface N shape expressed in measures
1 and 3. This shape recurs in nearly all segments that follow. So does the rising
third gesture initiated in m. 2 at C♯5. The question is whether this shape spans a
3rd or 4th. There is a good case for the latter, as the melodic ascent to F♯5 is quite
audible. The 3rd reading will be preferred, however, because in some subsequent
iterations, such as mm. 18–19, the three notes of the gesture do not always attain
their fourth note.
We consider next whether any pitch motives are supplied by the remaining
voices. The example indicates that none are present in the alto and bass. The
alto runs in parallel with the soprano, a behavior that can be documented
in the orchestration domain. The bass does move by 2nd. This generic mo-
tion can be accounted for with a contrapuntal and/or harmonic designation,
though. This leaves the tenor voice, which traverses a true 4th in its second
Example 7.5 Full score of Brahms’s Waltz in B minor, Op. 39, No. 11, with
segmentation indicated.
half. It begins at the F♯4 of m. 2. Its last two notes, D and C♯, run an octave
below the alto. This “shadowing,” which clouds the tenor’s independence, is
indicated by the dotted curving arrow between the voices. (Such “coupling”
arrows should not be confused with the dashed arrows used to show informal,
Sensed connections.)
Turning to Rhythm, a survey of the piece confirms the importance of two
shapes, the M-S-S-M rhythm from m.1 and the M-M-M rhythm from m. 2.
Because this is a waltz, it is important to establish the melodic pedigree of the M-
M-M gesture. Otherwise, readers might assume that it pertains to the left hand’s
pervasive oom-pah-pahs, a connection that would manifest as analytic white
Example 7.6 A complex motive derived from mm. 1–4 of the waltz.
noise, trivially present in every segment.19 For the Harmony domain, we estab-
lish a single attribute. The chordal motion from tonic in m. 1 to minor dominant
in m. 4 receives the designation, T-D.
In assembling the secondary domains, we first attempt to determine which
are needed. One domain that may be quickly excluded from consideration is
Articulation. It is true that the source segment exhibits a characteristic set of
staccato and legato attacks, but these recur throughout the piece as generic
elements. The domain of Dynamics is slightly more remarkable. Though
sparing in its use of common dynamic designations, the waltz does exhibit
one notable gesture. The crescendo of mm. 3–4 will be claimed as a motivic
element and symbolized in Example 7.6 by a hairpin graphic. The next do-
main, Orchestration/Texture/Timbre, can be thought of as performing a
complementary role to Pitch. Where the Pitch domain describes the specific
notes in the voices, this one describes relationships among voices, such as the
alto shadowing of the soprano at a third below. To capture this relationship,
the Complex’s Orchestration/Texture area contains a stylized symbol indi-
cating the attribute, “Parallel Thirds.”
Only one type of Ornament occurs in Segment 1, that being the grace note
decoration that appears in measures 1 and 3. The grace attacks are brief, but their
impact is significant for imparting a Hungarian snap to the melodic rhythm.20
This ornament type returns in many but not all subsequent segments, rend-
ering it nontrivial. For the model we are building, the Ornamentation category
is assigned a single, binary attribute called, “grace notes,” to document the pres-
ence or absence of these decorative gestures. The last of the secondary domains,
“Special Effects,” accounts for the only musical gesture in mm. 1–4 that could at
all be considered extraordinary, the fp marking. In many instances, a mild accent
like this would not merit including this domain at all. In this case, the accent is
made an attribute because of its resonance with a later accent, the climactic sfor-
zando that appears in m. 25.
Appearing at the bottom, the domain of Counterpoint accounts for two voice-
leading behaviors manifesting in the outer voices. One of these is the “bass pedal”
that is held below the shifting surface harmonies in mm. 1–3. The other is the 5–6
intervallic progression that occurs over mm. 1–4; see the Arabic numbers above
the bass staff. The initial pitch-class fifth from B-F♯ expands to a sixth, A-F♯ when
the bass moves downward by step.
This completes the assembly of our complex motive. Example 7.6 represents
all of this information as a summary network, one that will serve as the basis for
the first full pass through the CMA method in the upcoming section.
The Paired End Products of CMA: Organic Map

and Narrative
All motivic analysis is concerned with comparing musical entities. In BMA, the
entities take the form of pitch and rhythm motives. In CMA, the entities are ex-
panded into attribute complexes that each occupy a full segment of music.
The purpose of Interlude 2 was to establish the narrative frameworks by
which CMA will proceed. The CMA narratives exhibit a great deal of diversity
in terms of how their nodes are laid out in temporal and—with regard to the
graphic representations—visual space. In terms of structure, though, they are
quite unified. For one, all of the narratives are built of nodes reflecting a piece’s
division into discrete segments. For another, those segments relate to each other
organically and in strict hierarchical fashion. A single Focal Point segment
spawns all the content of the other nodes. It may do so directly, or, in the case of
a multisection work, through the presence of one or more intermediary Local
Points.
Recognition of these two structural aspects of this mode of analysis logically
determines the procedure for carrying out CMA. The steps are as follows:
1. The analyst divides the work under study into phrase segments according
to principles of form analysis. Each surface segment constitutes a complex
motivic entity.
2. Taking the full work into consideration, the analyst selects/derives a Focal
Point segment on the basis of its potential for generating all others and its
rhetorical impact.
3. If the piece is composed of more than one main section, the analyst selects
Local Point segments for each on the same basis as in Step 2.
4. The analyst examines all segments of the piece with regard to a) how mo-
tivic attributes flow from Focal Point to the surface, and b) the specific de-
gree to which each surface segment exhibits Focal Point material.
While all of the steps are of equal import, Step 4 is the one in which the findings
are organized and presented. To that end, the method of CMA prescribes two
means for carrying out segment-to-segment comparison. The first mode of anal-
ysis adopts the arrow-based approach of BMA, meaning that it depicts the flow
of motivic information among segments. The analysis that results is in essence a
vastly expanded BMA graphic. This is called the Organic Map. The second mode
of analysis takes a quantitative approach to the segments, tracking their degrees
of similarity with regard to the Focal Point. The result is a line graph that tracks
relative motivic unity on the vertical axis against time on the horizontal axis. This
end product is called the CMA Narrative.
Rule CMA2: The findings of a CMA are communicated by a pair of complemen-

tary modes of representation, the Organic Map that illustrates the flow of motivic
associations in the score and the CMA Narrative that documents in detail the
number of Complex attributes retained in each musical segment.
Example 7.7 represents the four-step procedure of CMA as a flow chart that
culminates in the two end products of Map and Narrative. The Map and the
Narrative fulfill complementary roles, such that a complex analysis cannot be
said to be exhaustive unless both are present. The two processes are, at the same
time, autonomous. A piece’s Map and Narrative can be assembled independently,
Example 7.7 Flow chart representing the full process of complex motivic analysis.
1. Segment Piece
2. Select Focal Point
3. Select Local Points
4. Construct Organic Map Construct Musical Narrative
(final product is an unordered set)
and either can be generated first. One may even be presented in isolation without
the other, for example, to make briefer points about a piece.
The CMA Map and Narrative diverge in how they handle and present data;
however, at their core they are unified as aspects of CMA. For that reason, any
fundamental principles established for one mode—e.g., those constraining Focal
Point selection and multilevel formal hierarchy—will apply to the other. This
point should be kept firmly in mind as we concentrate now on the lowest left
branch of the schematic, examining the act of Map construction. The purpose of
the upcoming sections will be to describe this process and then apply it specifi-
cally to the Brahms waltz still at hand.
CMA Map Assembly
In CMA, analysts are no longer constrained by the Propagational model of in-

formation flow. They are free to experiment with placing a work’s Focal Point
at any location. In doing so, analysts will gain the ability to cultivate different or
even multiple interpretations of a work. In addition to this new analytic freedom
in the horizontal dimension, there is also a new freedom on offer in the vertical,
synchronic (“total-now”) dimension.
Although it may not be immediately obvious, the annotated score of the
Brahms waltz in Example 7.5 invokes three coordinated levels of structure. The
whole piece manifests at the highest level. At the level below this we find the
piece’s sections, each composed of two or more segments. (Although it is pos-
sible to divide it in three sections to reflect its a digression a’ thematic layout,
the present analysis will divide it in two in accordance with its binary reprise
structure). Last, there are the surface segments. The strict hierarchy that controls
these structures dictates that we treat the events of each level equally. Just as a
piece contains a Focal Point, each section must orient around a segment that has
been promoted to primary importance on the basis of motivic richness and/or
rhetorical significance. The characteristics of the Focal Point have now been well
documented. The designation, “Local Point,” refers to the same phenomenon
manifesting one level below.
The principles described here can be expressed more formally by an assembly
rule with corollaries:
CMA Map Rule: All Maps must reflect the strict formal hierarchy of piece > sec-
tion > segment. Graphically, this entails a pyramid-like structure in which elem-
ents from the Focal Point connect downward to a set of mediating Local Points
that occur once per formal section. The motivic content of the Local Points
connects to the surface segments of the piece.
Corollary 1 (to CMA Map Rule): For a CMA Map to be properly formed, every
Local Point must be connected to the Focal Point by one or more transforma-
tional arrows. At the surface level, every segment in a section must connect to a
Local Point, either directly or via an unbroken chain of arrows.
Corollary 2 (to CMA Map Rule): The strength of a connection among segments

is roughly proportional to the number of motivic attributes it entails. A con-
nection may be established on the basis of a single attribute, such as a common
rhythm or pitch shape.
The basic framework for an Organic Map is shown in Example 7.8. The Map
contains a set of nodes, which represent segments, and solid arrows, which indi-
cate standard motivic associations. As always, an arrow can signal a wide range
of relationships, from a single textural attribute to a full match in all domains
(identity relation).
The graphic captures a number of essential Map characteristics, including mul-
tilevel vertical design and the presence of mediating Local Points, one for each
section, shown as larger, bold nodes. In keeping with Corollary 1, none of the
six surface segments is untethered. The genesis of each can be traced through its
Local Point connectivity back to the Focal Point. The goal of the Map—to borrow
a term from Schoenberg—is to offer a “two-dimensional” reading of organicism,
depicting both the top-down, synchronic process by which a Focal Point generates
a work and the left-to-right, diachronic process by which the surface unfolds.
The arrows’ directions in the example are particularly important. For the hy-
pothetical piece represented, the Focal Point connects with the first segment
of Section 1. This predicates a Propagational flow of arrows within. In Section

2, the Focal Point connects to a later segment, which creates a miniature
Accretional flow.
The schematic shown in Example 7.8—and indeed, the larger process of
Map building—owes much to the “time-span reduction” method pioneered by
Lehrdahl and Jackendoff 1983. According to the rules of that method, “a piece
must be exhaustively segmented into time-spans at every level,” from the sub-
beat and beat, to measure and phrase, to the largest sections (Lehrdahl and
Jackendoff 1983, 146). The analyst identifies a “head” event for each segment
based on the strength of its metrical, harmonic, and/or structural accent and
attaches a longer stem to signal retention at the next higher level. The process,
carried out recursively, produces a hierarchic tree diagram.
The most significant overlaps between CMA Map construction and L&J-style
time-span reduction are the shared reliance on segmentation and the prioritiza-
tion of “head” events. Both methods, similarly, allow for prioritized (head) ma-
terial to appear at any point within the span, allowing for Accretion narratives.
There are significant differences between the methods as well. CMA Map con-
struction, for instance, does not require segmentation at all metric levels; this
results in a structure that has fewer levels than typical for their trees . On a related
note, the “head” event of any CMA Map segment is determined based on organic
content and perception of rhetorical strength, which more often than not is dis-
tinct from Lehrdahl and Jackendoff ’s “accent” paradigm.
Sufficient groundwork has been laid for us to develop a CMA Map for the
Brahms waltz. Preliminary discussion of the work indicated its division into two
sections, mm. 1–16 and 17–40, and ten segments. We first treat Section 1, which
requires a Local Point. There are four candidate segments in mm. 1–16. In this
Example 7.8 Schematic of an Organic Map for a piece built of two sections. All
nodes represent segments, including the “Focal Point,” a promoted segment. Solid
arrows represent unspecified motivic associations of the type familiar from BMA.
FOCAL POINT
2 3 4 5
1 6
Section 1 Section 2
case, though, the Local Point must occur at Segment 1, the one whose material
is coincident with the preselected Focal Point. This identity relation is shown
in Example 7.9 by the thick bold arrow at left. It is unadorned, signaling a full
transfer of motive attributes. (Note: a slight change has been made to the Focal
Point derived in Example 7.6, that being the “+” added to allow the N and 3rd
elements to behave as a composite motive.)
Having made this selection, the analyst fills out the Map by documenting the
flow of Local Point elements into nearby segments. Starting on the left side, the
Map posits a full transfer of pitch and rhythm shapes in the upper voices from
Segment 1 into Segment 2 (see boxed material). The first motive attribute we will
observe is the neighbor (N) shape. This motive appears in m. 1 with an M-S-S-M
rhythm. Plain arrows indicate the literal transfer of its pitch and rhythm to the
melody in m. 3, m. 5, and m. 7.
Remarkably, in the present interpretation, no direct connection is asserted
between these early neighbor figures and the last one appearing in mm. 15–16.
The N figure from m. 3 first links with the tenor in mm. 5–7. The “I” above the
downward-sloping arrow indicates the pitch inversion, while the single-barbed
point indicates the shedding of rhythmic content. (The N shape in mm. 5–8 is
partially augmented.) From m.7, the F♯4-E♯-F♯ N motion connects via a long,
single headed arrow to the last N shape in the melody at mm. 15–16. The mul-
tistage path, involving transfers from the soprano to the tenor and back, could
be shortened by means of one single-barbed “I” arrow linking the N shapes of
m. 1 and 15–16. The advantage of positing this more meandering route is that the
aural associations between all of the little, neighboring figures are strengthened
by the literal pitch-class correspondences.
The remainder of the Map excerpt given in Example 7.9 concentrates on
the activity of the other main pitch motives. The rising 3rd motive from m. 2
returns literally in m. 6. It then undergoes both inversion and duration scaling
(x3) to yield the stretched out 3rd in the alto in Segment 4. The arrow linking
this most recent 3rd to the soprano 3rd that follows a measure later indicates
a literal, surface association. It also invokes a highly specialized compositional
technique. Specifically, the topic of “canon” emerges as a potential higher-
order motive, or “premise,” to use David Epstein’s term. Presently, canon is not
accorded a place in the Focal Point’s motivic complex. Were it to appear later
in this CMA, we would only be able to track the association informally with
the dotted, Sensed connection arrow. Of course, we could restart the analysis,
selecting a different segment as the Focal Point. We will not do so in this first
demonstration; however, this recent discovery should drive home the impor-
tance of diligent pre-analysis. If one is surprised by a major compositional
premise midway through study of a piece, that is a sign that one was not fully
prepared to begin that analysis.
Example 7.9 Organic Map for the first section of Brahms’s Waltz in B minor, segments 1–4.
We last trace the activity of the linear 4th motive. After appearing in the tenor
of Segment 1, it moves to the bass of Segment 2, where it elongates into a more
regular attack rhythm of dotted-half notes. The lowest arrow linking Segment 1
to 2 specifies the pitch and contrapuntal correspondences between them. The
shared bass motive ensures that the “5–6 motion” from mm. 3–4 recurs in mm.
7–8 between the outer voice pair as F♯3-C♯6 stretches out to become to E3-C♯6.
Both the pitches and regular rhythms of Segment 2’s bass 4th carry over to
Segment 3. To avoid cluttering the graphic, no arrows attach to the other 4ths
that appear in the soprano and alto in mm. 9–12. This omission should inspire
readers to practice developing their own explanations for these beamed figures.
We could, for instance, draw three separate arrows fanning out from Segment 2’s
bass 4th motive to the three beamed 4ths in Segment 3. Alternatively, we could
retain the lowest curving arrow that points to the bass voice of Segment 3 and
view the alto line as an upper shadow; a faint dotted arrow has been used in past
examples to illustrate similar relationships. No matter which view is taken of
Segment 3’s alto, I advocate using an arrow to derive the subsequent 4th in the
soprano from it. In this way, the staggered 4th motives in Segment 3 can be seen
presaging the overlapping canonic 3rd motives in Segment 4.
Most of the meaningful content of Example 7.9 is treated by the above discus-
sion. This leaves one or two last methodological matters to address, among them
the issue of coverage. This particular Map excerpt reproduces nearly all of the
pitches from Brahms’s piece, but there is no requirement that it do so. Other fine
Maps are possible for this and other works that omit gestures for clarity and/or to
streamline analysis.21 There is yet another property specific to this Map that should
not be generalized, its de-emphasis on the rhythmic domain. It tracks rhythm only
by means of the “x3” duration scaling sign and by maintaining the distinction be-
tween double-and single-barbed arrowheads. This arrow symbology is sufficient
for noting how Focal Point gestures generally shed their duration profiles to mani-
fest as pure pitch motives. For pieces in which rhythmic motives are sensed to play
a more prominent role, it would be appropriate to track them in more detail.
The remaining portion of the CMA Map for Brahms’s Waltz is given in
Example 7.10 The notable difference in this second section is that its Local
Point occurs midway through at Segment 7, which necessitates the use of back-
relating arrows to reach Segments 5 and 6. The leftward arrow linking Segment
7 to Segment 5 is double barbed, indicating that all of the right hand’s pitch and
rhythm material transfers faithfully. The leftward arrow appearing below the
staves indicates that a contrapuntal attribute, the “pedal point,” transfers as well.
The contents of Segments 5 and 6 are of particular interest due to their sen-
sitive formal location. They constitute the digression area, the area of rounded
binary form tasked with creating a sense of contrast with the main, thematic
sections. This contrast manifests subtly at first, partly by means of delaying the
Example 7.10 Organic Map for the second section of Brahms’s Waltz in B minor, segments 5–10.
linear 4th motive’s appearance. The contrast is more keenly felt in the following
segment, where the intense clustering of beamed gestures appears. The pitch ma-
terial in the soprano, alto, and tenor voices in mm. 21–24 is dutifully parsed into
familiar pitch shapes, 3rds and 4ths. There is also, however, a new effect created
by their arrangement, a chromaticized descent in parallel sixths.
The latter portions of the Map should be mostly self-explanatory. Segment 7 does
not perfectly match Segment 1. The later event is cast in major mode instead of
minor and opens with a novel three-note flourish in the right hand. Critically, be-
cause the Focal Point was defined in this mock analysis as simply possessing “grace
notes,” we are obligated to treat this Local Point as identical to it. For Segments 8–
10, a quick scouting of their contents suggests that a kind of motivic “balancing”
strategy informs the waltz’s final measures. This sense emerges as we become sen-
sitive to two long-range echoes of material. The first echo occurs among the pairs
of segments closing each of the two main sections. In the first section, Segment 3
expresses primarily 4th-based motives and Segment 4 mainly 3rd-based motives.
Segments 9 and 10 (end of second section) emulate this strategy. This correspond-
ence allows for a nuanced understanding of the relationship between the segment
pairs. On the one hand, the sameness of pitch motivic materials ensures conti-
nuity. Yet there is also deep harmonic contrast in the sectional closing gestures.
Where Segment 3 favors parallel six-three chord motion, Segment 9 employs a
chromaticized circle-of-fifths chord progression. Contrast and continuity end up
being different sides of one coin: the latter passage simply reharmonizes the former.
The other long-range balancing idea involves the arch-forms projected by each
section’s beginning and end points. The soprano’s last melodic shape in mm. 39–40
is a neighbor figure, which caps the descent from D♯5 initiated in m. 36. Grouped
together as a “3rd + N” gesture, an informal composite motive, this passage echoes
a similar shape seen at the start of this section in Segment 5. This aural association
is noted by the dotted arrow arching over Example 7.10, though it also of course
applies all the way back to mm. 1–2. Recognition of this association invites scru-
tiny of the melody at the close of Segment 4. A similar composite motive is noted
there in Example 7.9. The difference in treatment is that the N there is elided and
decorated by grace notes.
This last bit of discussion has concentrated on the unifying role played by
the N + 3rd composite pitch motive. This Focal Point element appears at all
of the waltz’s sectional boundary points in subtly varied forms. As effective as
the Map is in laying bare the shifting arrangement of the N + 3rd elements, it
offers no mechanism for quantifying how related the four instances of the
shape are. The CMA Narrative is better suited to discern and interpret such
small-scale distinctions. By the time readers have completed their study of how
Narratives are constructed, they will be in a better position to articulate the role
and meaning of these N + 3rd composite motives. Narratives, as we shall see,
are further valuable for handling portions of the music in which there are fewer
demonstrable motivic connections, meaning more desolate regions of the Map

such as Segment 10.
CMA Narrative Assembly
We may continue developing a sense of how CMA Maps and Narratives differ
by comparing their source materials. CMA Maps investigate musical shapes di-
rectly, meaning that they traffic primarily in musical notation and terminology.
Their interpretive arrow networks afford many advantages, but also drawbacks
in that they can be difficult to interpret. This characterization refers not only to
their dense visual fields but also to the ambiguity of arrow labels, which are not
always optimal for documenting the fine differences between motivic events.
Musical Narratives track content through more of an accounting strategy,
meaning a mode of analysis that traffics largely in numbers.
The process of Narrative construction will be briefly summarized and then
illustrated in detail. As always, we begin by identifying the Focal Point in accord-
ance with Rule 2 of Motivic Analysis. The selection will have a strong and near-
immediate impact on the type of narrative the analysis will pursue.
CMA Narrative Rule: The Focal Point of analysis shall be a motive complex co-
incident with a segment of the piece. The location(s) of the Focal Point will deter-
mine the species of narrative (Propagative, Accretional, Cyclic, etc.)
After selecting a Focal Point, the analyst quantifies its sub-elements by assigning
values to each domain such that they sum to 1. Next, the piece’s other segments
are surveyed. Each is assigned a relative value that represents how many Focal
Point elements are present. The Focal Point is automatically assigned the highest
value, causing all others to be less than or equal to it. The segment values are, last,
charted against time.
The result is a line graph that illustrates the overall organic trajectory of the
piece, the profile of which may be interpreted in narrative terms. For example,
most works in which the Focal Point appears early will generate a Propagational
curve that peaks immediately or very early. This high point might be followed by
a lengthy decline, indicating a gradual dissolution of central materials, or by a se-
ries of upward spikes, indicating a cyclical return of Focal Point material. Works
in which the Focal Point is delayed will exhibit Accretional peaks closer to the
middle or right side of their graphs.
It is now possible to commence with the CMA Narrative assembly process. To
ensure continuity with the Map analysis, we will for the time being allow Segment
1 of Brahms’s Waltz in B minor to retain its Focal Point status. Our attention will
therefore concentrate on the same motivic complex from before (Example 7.6) as
we transmute it to numerical form to facilitate cross-segment comparison.
Step 1. Establish Unity Value of Focal Point

The CMA Narrative assembly begins with establishing a unity. The Focal Point
segment is identified and arbitrarily assigned the value of 1.
Step 2. Quantify Focal Point by Assigning Values to Its Attributes

If the Focal Point segment is valued at 1 (100%), all other segments will either tie
this value or be scored lower. To determine how much each element within the
Focal Point is worth, it is necessary to work backward, one domain at a time.
Each domain within the Focal Point is initially assigned a preliminary value of
1 as well. At a later time, these will be scaled and combined to allow segments to
be compared to the Focal Point. Whenever a single motivic attribute is present,
the domain will be scored in binary fashion. Taking, for example, the Harmony
domain, the presence of the sole “T–D” (A5) attribute returns a value of 1 for
Segment 1. It does the same for Segment 2, where the same functions apply to
the boundary harmonies, F♯ minor and C♯ minor (m. 5 and m. 8). It returns zero
values for Segments 3 and 4. For any domain that admits multiple elements—
e.g., the several pitch and rhythm motives for this waltz—fractional and/or dec-
imal values indicate that an incomplete set of subelements return. It is a simple
matter of proportion. If the value of 1 is associated with the appearance of four
pitch elements, then later segments containing 0, 1, 2, or 3 of them should be
scored 0, 0.25, 0.50, or 0.75.
The last step involved in quantifying Focal Point content is to determine how
the domains combine, numerically. Referring back to Example 7.6, we see that
the current Focal Point for the waltz is composed of eight domains, the three pri-
mary ones appearing above the bold line and the five secondary and derivative
ones below. With each of the eight domains exhibiting a value of 1, one possi-
bility is to simply average them to obtain the Focal Point’s score. That strategy,
however, sets an unworkable precedent. A seeming contradiction arises, in that
the five secondary domains that combine to make up 62.5 percent (5/8) of the re-
sultant value outweigh the three primary domains. Under an averaging scheme,
this imbalance would be further exacerbated for Complexes that incorporate
more secondary domains, essentially “packing the court” in favor of coloristic
musical elements.
Another flaw of the domain-averaging method is that it breeds inconsistency
across analyses. In one case, the pitch motive domain might be cataloged with
four other domains, resulting in an effective weighting of 20 percent, where in
another it might appear alongside six other domains and count for only 14 per-
cent. My strategy for minimizing this variability calls for assigning equal weight,
50 percent, to each of the main domain groupings, primary and secondary/de-

rivative. This solution stabilizes the value of the primary domains, ensuring that
each always contributes 16.67 percent (1/6) toward the Complex’s total value.
Similarly, each of the secondary and derivative domains will contribute a portion
toward 50 percent of the total unity score.22
Example 7.11 illustrates how the subelements of the waltz’s Focal Point are
translated into the percent values that apply in analysis. The weighting for each
individual attribute depends on two factors: the value of its coordinating domain
and the number of attributes it shares occupancy with.
Example 7.11 Determination of relative values of unity for each motivic element of

Brahms’s waltz, domain by domain.
It is easier to see how weighting is determined for the lower half area of the ex-
ample, comprising Orch/Texture through Special Effects. The five domains listed
there share 50 percent weighting; that means each will contribute 10 percent.
And indeed, for four of these domains, the reported weighting is 10 percent. The
outlying secondary domain is Counterpoint, which houses two elements that
must share its 10 percent value. Dividing by two yields 5 percent weightings that
are assigned to the “5–6 motion” and the “Bass pedal” attributes.
The three domains in the Primary area share the other 50 percent of the total
Focal Point value, which works out to 16.67 percent for each. The last of these,
Harmony, contains a single element that receives its full share of value. For the
other two domains, the 16.67 percent is apportioned. It divides into three parts
for the three pitch motives (three entries at 5.56 percent) and into two parts for
the two rhythm motives (two at 8.33 percent). At the very bottom of the chart,
all domains and elements sum to 100 percent, the value that stands for complete
organic unity.
Step 3. Apply Values Template to Segments

The template of attribute values developed in Step 2 is next applied to the full
waltz; this is shown in Example 7.12. For each segment, the analyst considers
each motivic attribute in turn. If present, it receives its full value. The 1s and 0s in
the example’s spreadsheet, shorthand for “yes” and “no,” reinforce the notion that
evaluating motivic elements is a binary process. Each 1 that is scored is multiplied
by its “weight” before it contributes to the Total value at the bottom of its column.
To demonstrate the tallying procedure, we examine the column for Segment 2.
The first ten 1 values communicate that most of the Focal Point’s elements return in
Segment 2; the two 0 values at the bottom indicate that the bass pedal and sforzando
marking are absent. The ten 1s, multiplied by the weightings shown in the weight
(%) column (third from left), yield a total of 85 percent for Segment 2, a value that
accords well with our sense that the passage is highly similar to Segment 1.
The advantage of listing the comprehensive cell content in Quantitative
Analysis is that it offers a means for holding analysts accountable for every indi-
vidual claim. In studying any segment, readers may quickly observe how its con-
tent diverges from the Focal Point. This information is highly useful if one wishes
to dispute a result. The transparency of the calculation allows readers to peer
inside segments and formulate a response, for example: “No N motive is present
in Segment 8, despite what Auerbach claims.”
The organization of Example 7.12, with its columns, percentages, and tallies,
exudes objectivity. I assure readers that, in practice, narrative analysis is fluid and
subjective. Cataloging the presence of an attribute is a binary process, yes, but
not always a straightforward one. For example, Segment 3 registers a “yes” (1) for
Orchestration/Texture in its seventh row. This is because the parallel thirds that
Example 7.12 Full tally of motivic complex elements, with 1 and 0 values indicating their presence/absence in each segment. If yes (1), the
weighted value is added to the segment’s TOTAL.
originally manifested among the soprano and alto now arise between the alto
and bass. (The larger context for this attribute is the grander series of parallel six-
three chords that guide mm. 9–12; see the three beams appearing in this segment
in Example 7.9).
Another ambiguous event occurs in the rhythm domain in Segment 4. The
triplet in m. 13 seems to hearken back to the melody of m. 1. Read literally,
the triplet rhythm here diverges from the M-S-S-M shape that was estab-
lished as a central rhythmic motive. To my ear, though, the last G♯5 of the tri-
plet is swallowed up by the first two notes as shown in Example Web.7.2 .
Based on this hearing and its demonstrably genetic relation to M-S-S-M, this
rhythm attribute is scored as present in the spreadsheet.
At this time, no formal mechanism exists to fully document the decision pro-
cess behind scoring choices. It thus falls to analysts to find ways to share such
information, for example, in a texted gloss accompanying the Quantitative
Analysis spreadsheet. If an analyst does choose to include supplemental ar-
gumentation, they should do so sparingly. For one, this mode of CMA was
designed to be detailed in precisely a way so as to preclude extended discussion.
For another, analysts who adhere to the rules of reduction and assembly estab-
lished in c hapters 5 and 6 will ideally already conform with peer views on mo-
tivic associations.
Step 4. Graph and Interpret Segment Totals

The two Interludes of this book establish a basis for comprehending motivic
succession in narrative terms. They further prescribe a means for representing
these narratives. Specifically, they suggest the medium of the Narrative Curve,
a line graph charting the recurrences of musical elements over time. The curves
we will draw resemble those employed in literary theory to depict a plot’s rising
action, climax, and denouement. There is ample precedent in music analysis,
too, for curves of this type, dating back to Wallace Berry’s Structural Functions
in Music. Berry’s intensity curves track “directions of growth and decline” in
various domains that encode a piece’s structure (1976, 9–10). More recently,
John Rink has used such curves to reveal “the patterns of oscillation and flux . . .
manifested throughout [a]‌work” (1999, 234). The main purpose of Rink’s
graphs is to inform musical performance by tracing and controlling pieces’ fluc-
tuating energies. In contrast, our graphs will primarily concern analysis and lis-
tener interpretation—although, naturally, this information may be of interest to
performers as well!
We have considered the CMA archetype models only; we have yet to generate
any of our own Narrative Curves. We shall do so presently in Example 7.13, using
the data generated by the earlier Narrative tally. The two axes of the graph are set
up according to the guidelines established in Interlude 2. The vertical axis charts
each segment’s degree of relatedness to the Focal Point as a percentage value. The
Example 7.13 Narrative Curve resulting from graphing the total values from
Example 7.12.
a digression a’
100
90
80
70
60
50
40
30
20
10
0
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
Segment
horizontal axis lays out the segments in temporal order. Dashed vertical lines
are drawn to indicate the division of the work into formal regions. This is done
not only to aid in reading the piece in graphical format. It also communicates
important information about the status of segments within the hierarchy of the
piece. The Focal Point will appear as a global maximum. Within any section, the
Local Point will appear as a local peak: for example, in Brahms’s waltz, Segment 5
serves as the Local Point of the digression.
The main purpose of the line graph is to communicate the results of the data-
driven analysis in visual terms. In addition, the trend line in the graph may be
considered dynamically, in terms of motions away from and back toward the
state of motivic unity embodied by Segments 1 and 7. The same motions may be
felt as fluctuating levels of musical tension.
The presence of two Focal Point events, it should be recalled, is emblematic of a
Cyclic narrative. The act of classifying a piece’s main plotline is a milestone in the
narrative analysis; nevertheless, we may glean yet more useful information about
the Narrative Curve by inquiring into its behavior within the formal sections. For
instance, we note that all three sections of the waltz exhibit the same downward
trend. The descents are remarkably consistent across Segments 1–4 and 7–10: not
a single uptick value registers. Even the digression, despite starting at a relatively
low point in Segment 5, decreases in value over the course of its short length.
The Narrative developed in this first pass through Brahms’s waltz is one in
which a larger Cyclic structure nests smaller Dissolution-type curves. If we
wished to press forward, investing this Narrative with further emotional weight,
the guidelines established in Interlude 1 suggest that the initial dramatic inter-
pretation should be conveyed in musical terms. In the case of this waltz, the
motivic complex of mm. 1–2 itself will represent the protagonist. The complex’s
inclination, as indicated by the curve patterns among sections, is to gradually
shed its elements. Specifically, in the span of Segments 1–4, the soprano and alto
that are at first bound together in tight double thirds relax into a looser, two-
voice counterpoint. The strict alternation of the rhythmic motives M-S-S-M and
M-M-M that characterizes Segments 1 and 2 gives way to freer rhythmic elem-
ents, such as the triplets and dotted rhythms in Segments 3 and 4.
This dissolution process is interrupted at Segment 5, mm. 17–20, where
the original pitch, rhythm, and orchestration motives return. The Complex,
in response to being partially restored, again attempts to rid itself of identity-
establishing components. In Segment 6, this is reflected in the domains of
Orchestration/Texture and Rhythm, as the M-S-S-M shape is dropped in favor of
the more generic M-M-M rhythm.
It must be noted that much of the tension generated in the digression, impor-
tantly, has little or nothing to do with motive at all. There are powerful formal
and harmonic conventions at play. By sounding fragments of the main theme
over an extended, F♯ dominant harmony, Segments 5 and 6 create a strong expec-
tation that the full theme will soon return in tonic. This occurs at m. 25, where
the Complex is fully restored. Upon its return, the waltz makes one final attempt
at dissolution, which is, at last, successful. The descent of the Narrative Curve
in Segments 7–10 is steep, reflecting the rapid loss of even more attributes than
across Segments 1–4. Nearly all of the Focal Point’s complexity evaporates by
Segment 10, which helps to explain the relaxed sense of closure achieved there.
Re-Casting the Narrative: A Fuller Set of Criteria

Informs Focal Point Selection
The just-completed assembly of a Map and Narrative constitutes our first com-
plete complex motivic analysis. All parts of the construction process contained in
Example 7.7’s flowchart were demonstrated, save one: “Step 2: Select a Focal Point.”
In the interest of simplifying the first demonstration, we opted to base our anal-
ysis on a predetermined Focal Point, that being Segment 1. Doing so caused us to
model the highly idealized situation in which a musician proceeds through anal-
ysis without any revisions or doubts. In reality, false starts and second thoughts
often necessitate adjustments to an analysis even as it is taking shape. To properly
and responsibly demonstrate the CMA process in full, then, it is necessary to ad-
dress the revision process. We will conclude our discussion of the Brahms B minor
Waltz by recasting the Narrative on the basis of a different Focal Point.23
Upon first segmenting a piece, one is faced with a great many candidate spans
for the Focal Point. This is not to say that all segments will produce a workable
CMA: there are factors that impact the number of options. On one side, the field
of candidate segments is narrowed by recognizing that not all Focal Point choices
are equally good. On the other, the field is kept open by the realization that there
is no such thing as an absolutely correct choice. Every candidate segment offers
its own set of advantages and disadvantages.
No absolute criteria can be posited for selecting a Focal Point segment. In their
place, this method prescribes three guidelines to help analysts develop instincts
for determining which segments will work best.
Guideline 1 (to CMA Narrative Rule): Privilege musical segments exhibiting

multivoice (polyphonic) complexity.
This recommendation follows from our long-standing interest in making the

Focal Point as analytically versatile a tool as possible. CMA strives to relate
attributes from the Focal Point to those appearing in every other segment of the
piece. The analyst’s task becomes easier as the Focal Point encompasses more and
more raw material. It is further recommended that analysts choose a segment that
enfolds both diatonic and chromatic gestures. Again, this preference is largely
pragmatic, as it obviates the need to derive diatonic motives from chromatic ones
and vice versa, analytic feats which are difficult to perform convincingly.
Guideline 2 (to CMA Narrative Rule): Favor segments that are emphasized rhe-
torically in the music.
Such emphasis may result from a segment’s placement at the beginning or ending
of a work or major section. It may also be signaled by extremes in dynamics, tex-
ture, or articulation. This second guideline is offered in the interest of creating
coherent Narratives. It is easiest to defend claims that a certain musical passage
is centrally important when it appears that the composer has lavished special
attention on it.
Guideline 3 (to CMA Narrative Rule): Favor segments that, when plotted, pro-
duce curves that conform to Narrative archetypes.
This last recommendation raises a new challenge of chronology. Previous dis-

cussion established that quantification and Narrative plotting directly depend on
the identity of the Focal Point. Strictly speaking, however, it is impossible to envi-
sion a Narrative Curve without a Focal Point already in place. The way out of this
dilemma is to create a set of simpler, provisional analyses. To create one, the ana-
lyst picks a potential Focal Point and subjects it to the full quantification process
to generate a first segment tally and curve. One then repeats the process as many
times as desired, weighing various outcomes at even this early stage of analysis.
In the abstract, the idea of assembling multiple analyses seems wasteful
and burdensome. In practice it need not be. One can dramatically stream-
line the analytic process by examining a small group of potential Focal Points
and seeking ways to accelerate the tallying process. One solution for speeding
up quantification and tally is through automation. For those with program-
ming experience and access to a score coded in a computer language, rend-
ering a Focal Point into a fully fleshed graph would require little more than
establishing a weighting scheme for the attributes and pushing the enter key.
Alternatively, it is quite easy to pare down the scope of a provisional analysis by
concentrating on a reduced set of domains, for example, only Pitch, Harmony,
and Orchestration. The Narrative Curve that results would be somewhat ap-
proximate, but would exhibit enough of a profile to aid in making an informed
decision.
Taking into account the new selection guidelines, Segment 7 of the B minor
Waltz emerges as a stronger candidate for a Focal Point than Segment 1. This
argument hinges in part on Segment 7’s enhanced rhetorical weight. As the
rounding is initiated at m. 25, the music experiences a miniature breakthrough
as it shifts permanently into major mode. The full, two-handed flourish at the
first downbeat plays a role in this development as well. To properly account for
this gesture, it will be necessary to reformat at least one of the domains from the
previous analysis. One option is to account for it as an ornament related to the
grace notes. Another is to recalibrate the Orchestration domain by granting full
credit only to segments in which a sonority of at least five notes appears. In rec-
ognition of the flourish’s highly unique sonic quality, however, I have opted to list
it as a Special Effect.
Fortunately, only minimal adjustments are necessary to reconfigure our pre-
vious Focal Point complex to accommodate Segment 7. They are so few, in fact,
that we can omit the step of reprinting the full image of the Complex and pro-
ceed directly to generating a new segment tally for the piece. This is provided in
Example 7.14.
The new, “Chord roll” attribute appears in the Special Effects row, just above the
Total values. In this new tally, the attribute returns a 0 value in mm. 1–4, reducing
Segment 1 to a value of 95 percent. The only places where the roll occurs are in
Segment 7, where the new Focal Point is located, and in Segment 6, where it serves
as a retransition element preparing listeners for the upcoming climactic arrival.
Example 7.14 New tally of motivic complex elements based on selection of Segment 7 as Focal Point (requires tracking the presence of a new
Special Effect element).
Example 7.15 Narrative Curve resulting from graphing the total values from
Example 7.14.
a digression a’
100
90
80
70
60
50
40
30
20
10
0
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
Segment
The new values in Example 7.14’s Special Effects column impact the final
segment totals in a subtle but profound way. Plotting these new values yields
the curve shown in Example 7.15. Comparison of this with the original in
Example 7.13 reveals that the entire narrative structure has shifted.
The Cyclic aspect has disappeared, replaced by a Modified Synthetic (CMA-
2< >) plotline. To reframe the narrative interpretation, we might say the waltz
begins in media res, in a state that closely approximates the core content. The first
downward sweep in Segments 1–4 and intermediate hill in Segments 5 and 6
are retained from the earlier plot. The difference comes at Segment 7, where the
music surges to its singular high point. This is where the Focal Point material,
originally heard in Segment 1 in a weakened, incomplete state, emerges in major
mode and at full volume. Performing the waltz live opens up the possibility for
pianists to gild this moment further with a dash of expressive choreography. As
they roll out the paired wide chords in the two hands at m. 25, they will naturally
sway the arms and body in the grand manner of a conductor.
On the occasion of recasting the Complex to generate a new Narrative Curve,
we will make a single, earnest attempt to fit a specific, extroversive storyline
to it. The central Complex will again serve as protagonist, with its purest form
appearing in Segment 7. This interpretation will assume that listeners’ sympa-
thies are aligned with this motive, given that its presence can be sensed in nearly
all measures.
As we translate our musical Narrative into a more literary one, we will look
to fit it into one of four archetypes suggested by Frye and Liszka. The question
is whether the Complex should be viewed as a member of the social order or as
transgressor. Our initial impression was that it is repeatedly attempting to shed
its elements. That impulse will be reframed here as a desire to disappear, or to “es-
cape” the waltz’s environment. With the protagonist wishing one outcome—and
the harmony and form of the piece working to constrain it—the archetype at
hand quickly takes shape. This waltz is a comedy. It begins in Segment 1 with a
presentation of the Complex in slight distress. It initially appears in a subdued,
minor mode. It is obligated by local tonal and formal forces to repeat in Segment
2 and to ascend in registral space. In the following two segments, it makes its own
wishes clearer by sinking in register and shrugging off some of its identifying
elements.
In the digression, the portion of the form traditionally associated with high
tension, the protagonist must adapt to a new tonal setting, the dominant minor
key. It does so uneasily, reappearing in mostly recognizable form but also actively
searching for a way out. Note where the inexact repetition of mm. 17–18 into the
following two measures results in a new, leaping contour in the melody at m. 20.
This represents a temporary abandonment of the linear 3rd shape first estab-
lished in m. 2. In the throes of this small identity crisis, the protagonist gathers
its strength in Segment 6 and arrives in triumphant form at m. 25. At that mo-
ment, the core Complex reappears in major and in its loudest, most confident
form. Whatever forces had earlier caused it distress now seem wholly absent. In
Segment 8, it rises in pitch register, but not nearly as high as it did in Segment 2.
Having transformed the mode and sound of the waltz—in other words: having
triumphed over the social order—the protagonist skips, lighthearted, to a con-
tented conclusion. The glib repetition in Segments 9 and 10 of the M-S-S-M
rhythmic element, along with the “pat” circular-fifths harmonic progression,
confirms the lingering impact of the Complex’s transgressive act in Segment 7.
The piece will end in major and in its lowest register.
The comedy archetype advanced here allows for listeners to graft any number
of stories onto this waltz. Presuming Liszka’s formulation remains in effect, how-
ever, makes it likely that those stories will exhibit a fair bit of overlap. There are
only so many ways to frame a tale of a protagonist confronting and overcoming
a social constraint. One could, for example, imagine the waltz depicting a teen-
ager challenging the exclusionary rules of his school or club, or a moral politician
who effects change on a corrupt government by working from the inside. My own
inclination is to view the protagonist as a paired couple in a forbidden romance,
who persevere through adversity and win the approval of their families. Or maybe
they just elope. All of these are equally possible. One can choose one plotline, or
many, or none, depending on the answer to the question: does the presence of a

story enhance one’s intellectual and emotional response to the music?
Conclusion to the Methodology Area
The analytic cadence closing out the CMA demonstration of the Brahms waltz
also marks the structural conclusion of Musical Motives’s methodology section.
The first task of this brief, final coda to c hapters 4–7 will be to encapsulate its
material. To that end, Example 7.16 retrieves all of the main rules for BMA and
CMA and condenses them into a single chart.
Example 7.16 Summary of rules for motivic analysis.

Preliminary Rules
Reduction Rule 1 (RR1): Contour
Reduction Rule 2 (RR2): Rhythm/Meter
Reduction Rule 3 (RR3): Larger span conditions
Global Rules
Approximate order in which rules apply
Rule 1 of Motivic Analysis: literal associations
Rule 2 of Motivic Analysis: Presence of Focal Point
BMA and CMA Specific Rules
BMA Narrative Rule: Rule CMA1: harmonic root motion

Focal Point at outset
yields
Rule CMA2: Map and Narrative
Archetypes
Propagation
CMA Map Rule CMA Narrative Rule
(hierarchy)
yields
Archetypes
Propagation
Accretion
Cyclic
The top-down organization of Example 7.16 loosely reflects the order in

which the rules apply in analysis. The Reduction Rules from chapter 5, desig-
nated as Preliminary Rules, apply even in the pre-analytic stages, when one is
surveying a score to determine what motives of significance may lurk within its
highly active textures. (They, of course, continue to apply to all subsequent stages
of analysis). The Global Rules are central to the philosophy of both BMA and
CMA, and apply as soon as an analysis proper is initiated. The latter of these, Rule
2 of Motivic Analysis, entails the bifurcation of the method into the BMA and
CMA approaches. If the Focal Point of a piece is determined to be a simple pitch-
and-rhythm event located at the start, BMA analysis will commence along with
its attendant archetype shown in the left region of the lowest box. If the Focal
Point is determined to be complex and/or is located at a central or late segment of
the piece, CMA analysis will commence in the right region. This southeast path
entails a further split into Map and Narrative assembly, with the latter attended
by its three potential interpretive plotlines.
The moment that the presentation stage of an analytic methodology concludes
is the moment where critical evaluation, and hopefully constructive revision,
may come to bear on it. To facilitate that endeavor, I have strived to maintain
transparency in all authorial choices. To defuse any potential misinterpreta-
tion of CMA, I would like to make a few last comments to clarify its significance
and scope, which—despite its far-reaching applications—are both meant to be
modest.
At the outset, I wish to dispel any notion that the techniques of narrative anal-
ysis put forth in this chapter offer the only path toward dramatic readings. It is
safe, in other words, to assume that the plotlines proposed for this waltz are dis-
cernable by other means, including engaged listening. Our initial classification
of Brahms’s waltz as a rounded binary form piece, for example, hinged on an
awareness that core material from the beginning returns in its latter half. This
fact makes it likely that any Narrative Curve posited for it will exhibit some kind
of two-peak profile.
A more accurate and productive view of narrative analysis is as a member of
a conceptual triad. Sounding music, motive, dramatic/emotional narrative: all
three aspects must be accounted for because they inform and support each other.
We noted the importance of musical intuition for guiding us at all stages of anal-
ysis, from the initial parsing of segments and form, to the formatting of pitch-
rhythm and coloristic motives, all the way to gauging the “fit” of the Narrative
plotline. Of course, intuition is too subjective to stand on its own. Its insights
must be grounded in concrete details. In CMA, such details are supplied by the
complex motive and, in the end, the meta-narrative, be it musical or otherwise.
The inclusion of this broad array of elements provides a means for evaluating our
musical intuitions with a raised degree of exactitude.
Another point to keep in mind is that the results obtained through CMA do
not represent secret knowledge unobtainable by other means. Much of the nov-
elty of the CMA method is, in fact, couched in quite pedestrian terms, specifi-
cally, the quantification and tallying mechanisms. Not all of it is, of course. The
exception in this regard is the new explanatory power offered through CMA’s
dual output branches. Complex motivic analysis is most effective when it is put
in dialogue with itself, as when the visual plot of the Narrative is read in the con-
text of the Organic Map graphic. This strategy helps analysts to pinpoint the in-
fluence of specific events within the larger trends shown by the curve. In the case
of the Brahms waltz, for example, the claim that the Focal Point “dissolves” or
“evaporates” over the final four segments is supported by reading the Organic
Map and observing how the 4th motive quite literally vanishes from sight and
hearing.
PART III
ANALYSE S A N D C ONCLU SION
8
Analysis of Three Works
in Contrasting Styles
The three analyses presented in this chapter expound on the theory and meth-
odology presented in chapters 5–7. The first of these, an abbreviated complex
motivic analysis (CMA) of a piano piece by Cécile Chaminade, reinforces the
content of chapter 7 by again taking readers through the processes of Narrative
construction: segmentation, Focal Point selection, quantification and tally,
and the drawing of the Narrative graph. The other analyses, one BMA and one
CMA, examine modern works in other genres, a Broadway number by Marvin
Hamlisch and a song by Radiohead. These two works are texted, offering readers
a model for how to integrate a piece’s literal poetic and/or theatric meaning into
an account of its motivic activity.
As a group, the three analyses are intended to bolster the claim that mo-
tivic analysis applies broadly to music. These selections are steeped in Western
traditions, so are not terribly diverse as measured on a global scale. They do di-
verge with regard to their time periods and aesthetics, however. As such, it is
hoped that this brief foray into the late nineteenth-century salon, the Broadway
playhouse, and the alternative art-rock album can point the way toward a future
in which motivic analysis is extravagantly applied to any music that might stir
readers’ passions.
“L’Ondine,” Op. 101, by Cécile Chaminade
Method: Complex Motivic Analysis

Narrative Profile: Modified Cyclic
The first analysis examines “L’Ondine,” Op. 101, a character piece for piano by
Cécile Chaminade (1857–1944). Although she is a somewhat lesser-known
figure today, in her time Chaminade enjoyed great success both as a touring per-
former and composer throughout Europe and America.1 For better or worse, she
is best known for her smaller, salon-type compositions, songs and solo piano
works that number into the hundreds. Of course, a work’s size implies no indi-
cation of its quality. It is only fair, then, to assume that examination of a polished
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197526026.003.0010.
268 Analyses and Conclusion
miniature by this expert French composer would repay similar analytical

dividends as of any by a close contemporary of hers, such as Maurice Ravel, Amy
Beach, or Gabriel Fauré.
“L’Ondine” is an engaging work that takes approximately three minutes
to perform. The score of the piece, with segmentation, appears in Example
Web.8.1 . The work is loosely programmatic in that its title names a water
sprite. The short lead-in of mm. 1–2 introduces an arpeggiated texture, a figure
long associated with flowing water. This arpeggiation is explored throughout
the work, with longer and longer stretches of it creating a wave-play effect of
notes sweeping up and down in register. The design of the piece is straight-
forward in many respects, including its phrase structure and tonality. Most
of the phrases of “L’Ondine” take up four or eight measures and feature clear
cadences: many of these are perfect authentic cadences (PACs), though a good
number of plagal cadences appear, too.2 Tonally, the piece is firmly rooted in
E-flat major, with all but one or two of its phrases beginning on a tonic or dom-
inant harmony.
In declining to pursue some of the more traditional avenues of develop-
ment, such as directed tonality, the piece achieves its dramatic effects prima-
rily by means of its novel formal organization and motivic development. In its
first minute, the piece lays out all three of its compositional modules. The first,
occurring as a material in mm. 3–10, features a graceful melody that starts on E♭6
and descends an octave; the melody floats above supporting arpeggios in the left
hand that emphasize beats one and three. The b idea, first introduced in mm. 11–
14 (Segment 3a), presents another simple melody. This one, however, appears
more calmly in mezzo-forte dynamics and in chorale-like block chords. Upon its
immediate repetition at m. 15, the b idea is ornamented by triplet-sixteenth fig-
uration, with melodic guide tones sounding in the pinky of the right hand. The c
material, first appearing in mm. 19–23 (Segment 4) also employs block chords,
but the sound is more severe. The dynamics are fortissimo, with heavy accents
written in. There is also no longer any real melody to speak of: all we hear is repe-
tition of a three-note fanfare, followed by a low-register echo.
Most returns of the three modules, the main melody (a), repose melody (b),
and fanfare (c), are literal. The only music that resists classification is mm. 32–41
(Segments 7–8). The texture and melody in the first two measures, 32–33, derive
from a, but a new cadence appears in mm. 34–35 that features a curious new
rising figure in the melody. This music leads to what feels like truly novel ma-
terial in mm. 36–41. The texture in this effervescent, veloce segment is almost
completely overtaken by arpeggiating triplet-sixteenth notes. There is little sense
of melody aside from the brief fragments expressed in the top voice of the right
hand, and little sense of harmony beyond the alternation of B♭s and Gs in the bass
voice’s strong beat attacks.
Analysis of Three Works in Contrasting Styles 269
One question about “L’Ondine” that presents early on concerns the role of
mm. 33–41 within the form. It is possible to say that the segment constitutes an
altered a section, with four measures of conventional a material followed by a
new transition leading to the return of b in m. 42. The alternative view regards
mm. 36–41 as autonomous and wholly new. Under the terms of that reading,
remarkably, the a material, mm. 32–35 would act as transition to new d material
starting in m. 36. Either reading can work; however, the latter is preferable due to
an important reprise of the veloce section. When the d material returns in mm.
67–74, its status is elevated. In contrast to before, where it served a transitional
role, it here acts as a concluding gesture that is appropriately set in tonic.
The next question about form asks whether a coda is present and where it
might begin. To advocate for a coda, we would note that the piece feels themat-
ically and tonally closed at m. 67, when the a material cadences in E♭ major one
last time. The passages that follow recapitulate the fanfare, c material and—as just
discussed—the flowing d veloce music. This late return of material is satisfying,
but is it organically necessary? (If yes, then it participates in closing the body
of the piece and therefore does not provide “extra,” coda padding.). There are a
number of ways to argue that it is, beginning with the appeal to the sonata prin-
ciple. The c and d materials originally occurred in the dominant key; at the end
of “L’Ondine,” they settle into the tonic, providing long-range tonal resolution.
Proceeding in accordance with decisions made in the previous discussion,
Example 8.1 diagrams the areas, themes, and keys in the work. “L’Ondine”
presents as a rotational form, in which the starting set of ideas, a-b-c, is traversed
three times. The first rotation, taking up mm. 1–23, presents the core segments
in order. The second rotation of material begins with the return of a at m. 24,
and then incorporates a brief bit of new material, d, before continuing on to the
b and c sections. The final rotation beginning at m. 55 omits b, but compensates
listeners with a final set of cadences that confirm tonic and help balance the du-
rational proportions of the rotations.
The modest dimensions and mostly monochrome tonality of “L’Ondine” point
to a deeper analytic challenge, which is identifying the source of its drama. The
piece is quite tempered in its emotions. Entire sections, in fact, unfold in soft,
simply built 4+4 phrases in E♭ major. Even the flowing d material, though faster
and chromatic, is restrained by piano dynamics and even, legato phrasing.3 At
first glance, only the c idea stands out as at all passionate. It is extroverted, with
grand dynamics and thick chords in alternating registers. It is also harmonically
the most adventurous music, introducing the tonally remote chords, G♭ major, B♭
minor, and an augmented sixth chord and fully diminished seventh chord, both
built on G♭. These chords come about in part from the descending chromatic line
in the soprano voice, which descends measure by measure from G♭6 through F, F♭,
and E♭.
Example 8.1 Form of Chaminade’s “L’Ondine,” Op. 101.
Analysis of “L’Ondine”
The standard procedure in motivic analysis is to scan the opening of the piece in
search of pitch and/or rhythm shapes of potential future significance. The tex-
ture in mm. 1–2 already suggests some motives of interest. There is, first, the
undulating 4ths idea expressed in the bass voice as E-flats and A-flats alternate
on strong beats. The top voice of each measure’s arpeggios, the B♭4-C5 melody
stated on beats 2 and 4, create a 2nd shape. Both of these shapes are retained in
the accompaniment in mm. 3–7, where the first fully realized melody enters and
the piece truly begins. This music introduces two new motivic ideas, the dotted
quarter-and-eighth note rhythms in mm. 3–4 and the longer melodic descent
taking up mm. 4–5.
All of the motives cited so far resonate throughout the piece, meaning that any
could serve as the basis for a BMA. The problem is that they return often and un-
varied, which will make for rather uninspired analysis. They are also completely
diatonic, which diminishes our ability to associate them with the contrasting,
chromatic materials introduced in the c fanfares and the veloce passages. Any full
BMA that results, then, will likely skip over these passages, leaving many score
events unilluminated.
To address this shortcoming, we shall opt for an abbreviated CMA. This frees
us to seek out the most distinctive musical ideas—whose appearance may be
delayed well beyond the start—and to use them to interpret the full piece. We
begin with the preliminary segmentation having already been carried out; this is,
again, shown in Example Web.8.1 .
We initiate the CMA by seeking the segment that will serve as Focal Point. The
strongest candidates will exhibit high complexity in terms of their counterpoint
and their chromatic content. We may immediately exclude Segments 8 and 14a/
b: although the surface harmonies in these veloce areas are remarkably varied
and contain many chromatic tones, there is no counterpoint to speak of. (The
boundary tones of the right and left hands are the same note, indicating basic
chordal planing.) This leaves Segments 3b and 4 (along with their close matches
in segments 9b, 10, and 13) and Segment 7 as the strongest possibilities. The
attributes that make Segment 4 attractive are its forte dynamics and bold accents,
the grand leaps among the voices in wide register, and the aforementioned chro-
matic line in the soprano, descending from G♭6-E♭.
Segment 7 carries a forte indication and marcato accents, and it features a
chromatic linear fragment in the alto voice in mm. 33–34: C♭6-B♭5-A. This seg-
ment, critically, includes all of the main elements listed for Segment 4, plus
others, such as grace notes and a quarter-note triplet rhythm in the melody in
m. 33. (These elements are all present in Example 8.2.) It is true that this specific
form of triplet does not occur elsewhere; however, its general “triplet-ness” can
Example 8.2 Segment 7, mm. 32–35, as Focal Point.
Example 8.3 View of the fanfare material in mm. 19–23, as structured by two

motives in counterpoint.
be associated with all of the passages that contain triplet sixteenth figuration. The
most compelling aspect of this segment is the novel melodic idea that concludes
it in mm. 34–35. The plagal cadence there supports the rising line, F5-G♭-A♭-B♭,
which owes its distinctive, modal sound to the presence of whole tones below its
tonic. This motive will be labeled by its functional solfege in the local key of B♭
major as sol-le-te-do (5̂ ↓6̂ ↓7̂ 1).
A quick, comparative survey of the other segments confirms Segment 7’s suit-
ability as a Focal Point. Our new interest in seeking out sol-le-te-do gestures,
for instance, leads us to note first that the main theme of the piece as stated in
mm. 1–10 avoids stating any notes on D. There is, in other words, a conspic-
uous lack of any type of 7̂, ti or te. This is a status (problem) that calls for redress
at some point in the form of a melodic fill. Choosing Segment 7 also allows a
more cogent reading of the fanfare, c material from mm. 19–23 (Segment 4).
Earlier discussion fixated on the most obvious motive in that passage, which is
the soprano’s chromatic descent. Looking again, it is possible to view the c mate-
rial as grounded by the pitch-class 2nd, D♭-E♭. In Example 8.3, an enlarged ver-
sion of this shape is shown occurring in the tenor among all downbeats. The last
E♭, transfers to the soprano in a way that allows the motive to ingeniously bridge
the formal boundary leading to the return of a in m. 24.
The pitch motive content of Segment 4 reveals this c fanfare material to be
highly organic to the rest of the piece. Once one looks past the shocking new
sound of the texture and chromatic triads, one can see the two-voice motivic
counterpoint undergirding it (see beams).
The next steps of the CMA call for defining/quantifying the Focal Point’s
attributes and documenting their presence in Segments 1–15. The former task
is easily dispatched. In the primary domains, the pitch and pitch-class motives
have been established as the D♭-E♭ second and the sol-le-te-do (5̂ ↓6̂ ↓7̂ 1) me-
lodic ascent. In some cases, the two attributes appear together and their score
is compounded, but this is not always the case. The rhythm motives are “dotted
rhythms” and “triplets” of any size. No harmony attribute is listed in this abbre-
viated CMA; the piece is tightly unified in this primary domain by the strong
plagal progressions that appear in every segment but the last. This leaves the sec-
ondary domains, which are defined as the Texture attribute, “arpeggiation,” the
Dynamics attribute, forte, and the Special Effects attribute, “grace notes.”
Each of these domains and attributes is listed at left in Example 8.4(a), along
with its weighting. Segment 7 is scored as 100, as required by CMA. All but one
of the chart’s attributes are scored as 1s or 0s. An anomalous 0.5 value appears in
Segment 8’s Grace note category. This improvised score describes the faux-grace
note, G6, that occurs in m. 39 when the left hand reaches over the right. The effect
is not a true grace note, but it is not exactly not a grace note, either. The Narrative
Curve is printed in part b) of the example. Due to the rotational form of the piece,
the Curve accords most closely with the Modified Cyclic archetype. Though
there is only one peak, there is a clear correspondence in the Curve between the
first irregular “M” shape traced in Segments 1–6 and the second traced in 8–12.
The close similarity in profile between these two regions of the Narrative
Curve is remarkable, first, in that it appears despite significant differences in ma-
terial. The starting points of each, Segments 1 and 8, differ strongly in their sound
and mood. The former presents a relaxed, lyric melody, in contrast to the latter’s
less tuneful, virtuosic passage. They differ in their degree of relatedness to the
Focal Point, but only by about 8 percentage points. Further comparison of their
column attributes confirms they have much in common. Both segments feature
arpeggiation, even if it unspools at wildly different rates, and both fully lack any
pitch-motive content established as central in Segment 7.
These masked correspondences facilitate an interpretation of Segment 8 as a
varied return of Segment 1. The piece would be fully Cyclic all the way through
Segment 12 if not for the isolated peak at Segment 7. That means that, in the
context of this particular Narrative, the Focal Point’s appearance interrupts the
work’s even keel. The intrusion occurs specifically in the domain of pitch, as
the melody states the linear D♭-E♭ shape in both measures 32 and 33 and then
concludes with the novel sol-le-te-do formula in m. 34–35. What of this seeming
paradox, that a Focal Point could somehow intrude on the work generated from
its content?
Example 8.4 The Narrative of Chaminade’s “L’Ondine,” Op. 101
(a) Tally of Complex elements.
(b) Resulting Narrative curve, with rising trendline (dotted).

To resolve this potential conflict, we note the long-range, accumulative impact

of the Focal Point’s “new” pitch materials. The stepwise D♭-E♭ gesture, first of all,
is not truly new here; it is introduced as early as Segment 4. As earlier discus-
sion indicated, this 2nd gesture is hidden in plain sight in mm. 19–23 below the
descending-chromatic line of the soprano. It functions there to imbue the music
with its first real sense of harmonic variety through the introduction of flatted-
root chords (mixture). More importantly, it contributes to the moderate upswing
in relatedness values in this area of the Curve: compare the hill of Segments 3b–5
with the valleys of Segments 2, 3a, and 6.
The pitch motives in the Focal Point segment individually fulfill the conditions
of “D♭-E♭” motion and sol-le-te-do. The two gestures are separated in time, how-
ever, with the D♭ motive occurring in mm. 32–33 and the sol-le-te-do motive
occurring in mm. 34–35. The latter gesture, moreover, cadences strongly but on
the “wrong do” of B♭. Although the motivic content is fully unified in Segment 7,
the piece remains tonally unresolved and will press further on.
Spurred on by the requirement to seek a final E♭ tonic resolution, the music
launches a highly energetic, veloce segment (Segment 8) that explores arpeggia-
tion and flat-inflected harmony to an even greater extent. Near its end in m.41,
the segment attempts to reconcile/normalize sol-le-te-do by steering the soprano
melody through sol-la-ti-do in E♭ major. The music declines the offer to cadence,
and instead employs B♭5-C6-D-E♭ as a bridge gesture to reach b material in the
dominant key at m. 42. The Narrative Curve descends precipitously in Segment
8, reflecting the music’s failure to retain the primary pitch motives explored in
the previous segment.
Once it is diverted back to b material, the piece retraces its steps by literally
restating Segments 3a/b, 4, 5, and 6 as Segments 9a/b, 10, 11, and 12. What re-
mains is for “L’Ondine” to solve the question of the relationship between the pri-
mary motives. It does so in Segment 13, and the motives are fused together in
the tonic key. The last melodic gesture of the work comprises the four downbeats
in mm. 64–67. B♭-C♭-D♭-E♭ are the sol-le-te-do that leads to tonic. This gesture, it
may be noted, literally includes the D♭-E♭ 2nd motive, and it restores the scale de-
gree 7 tone that was missing in the melody in mm. 3–10.
It is true that the presence of the Focal Point’s two pitch/pc attributes does not
have nearly the same impact on the Narrative Curve here as it did in Segment 7;
however, it is significant enough to elevate Segments 13, 14a, and 14b to a new
plateau. The higher scores of these last four segments nudge the overall trajec-
tory of the Curve upward, as indicated by the dotted trend line drawn across
Example 8.4(b). The gently positive slope of this line indicates the work’s gradual
rise in organicism. Awareness of this fact expands our appreciation of the piece’s
subtle pacing and meticulous design. In one sense, it embraces a lyrical, almost
timeless aesthetic, in that it is built of blocks of material that seem to alternate
more than to progress. In another, though, it bows just enough to tonal and nar-
rative conventions of forward development to allow it to register with Western-
trained listeners as directed and purposeful.
“Paranoid Android,” by Radiohead
Method: Complex Motivic Analysis

Narrative Profile: Cyclic
Radiohead’s “Paranoid Android,” from the 1997 album OK Computer, is widely

recognized as a triumph of modern popular music. Lasting over six minutes,
it is considerably longer than the average rock song, and its span is loaded
with an impressive richness of ideas. According to Radiohead’s bassist, Colin
Greenwood, the song was in fact created by fusing together three works under
separate development by band members (Jabba 1998). Traces of its additive
origins can be heard in the work’s heavily demarcated ABCB structure: the final
formal area briefly recapitulates the energetic B section, causing the song to end
in a high-energy state.
There are many more ways in which “Paranoid Android” is exceptional.
There is, for one, the matter of its lyrical and textural content. The sung text,
reprinted in Example Web.8.2 , is replete with vivid, violent imagery and
raw emotion. The lines of the A section communicate the singer/protagonist’s
malaise, exhaustion, and misery. At a prominent place in that section’s refrain
area, a computerized voice accompanies the singer’s human wail of “What’s
that?” with the sotto voce statement, “I may be paranoid, but (I’m) not an
android.”4
The text in the B section reorients the singer’s point of view outward as he
observes a parade of despised “others.” The people, listed in a series of unnamed
“you”s, are projections of nameless young-urban-professionals that he imagines
being subjected to punishment. Allusions are made to firing squads, beheadings,
and cleansings by fire. The anger within the text gives rise to the most explosive
passages of the album, marked by screams and heavy distortion. The last block of
text in C manages to contrast with both of the sections preceding it. The primary
content is a plea to an unknown entity to “Rain down on me From a great height.”
The protagonist seems to be seeking some response from the heavens, either ab-
solution for his sins in the form of a cleansing rain, or further punishment for
them in the form of more torments. After its first presentation, the verse repeats
two more times. In its third and last iteration, another text that revives the B
section’s imagery (“crackling pigskin,” “screams,” “yuppies,” “panic,” and “vomit”)
sounds against it in verbal counterpoint. The final line of the C section relates the
aphorism, “God loves His children,” in a perfunctory, sarcastic manner that all
but obliterates its sentiments of consolation.5
This first gloss on the lyrics notes two separate locations in which the words
emerge out of separate channels, literally invoking a sense of fractured identity.
The interplay of voices in A is particularly confounding. Is the quiet, unnerving
computer voice an outside consciousness, or is it a subliminal aspect of the
protagonist’s mind? (One may, of course, wonder whether there is any differ-
ence between the two possibilities.) The whole of OK Computer is pervaded by
a specific type of anxiety, specifically that concerning the human identity in an
increasingly digital world. Many tracks on the album incorporate the sounds of
static crackles and distortion that render both sung and instrumental tones into
feedback. The computer voice appears elsewhere, too. It is the most prominent
element of “Fitter, Happier,” a short piece that features the voice reciting a human
welfare “checklist” (e.g., “Not drinking too much, Regular exercise at the gym”)
over a wash of tones and Musique concrète-style sound samples.
The goal of this analysis is to illustrate how the motives of “Paranoid Android”
contribute to its powerful statement on anxiety, anger, and modern-day self-
construction. It should be noted that this argument for unity will gently contra-
dict Radiohead’s own comments about the song. Colin Greenwood at one point
declared that “Paranoid Android” is about “nothing” of significance, and that
they assembled it in this fashion “as a gag” (Jabba 1998).6 This claim holds more
than a kernel of truth, certainly. The band’s general irreverence toward the song
is confirmed by accounts given of early performances of the work:
“When we started playing it live, it was completely hilarious,” recalled O’Brien.

“There was a rave down section and a Hammond organ outro, and we’d be
pissing ourselves while we played. We’d bring out the glockenspiel and it would
be really, really funny.” (Doheny 2002, 62)
This attitude is further reflected by their choice of the Swedish animator, Magnus
Carlsson to create the song’s music video. He did so in the unpolished style of his
animated series, Robin, which follows the exploits of a young, unemployed city
dweller who wears a distinctive purple hat. In the video for “Paranoid Android,”
Robin and his friend, Benjamin, encounter a host of surreal, seedy people. Most
of them threaten Robin and Benjamin in some way: verbally, sexually, and phys-
ically. Despite this, the main characters remain curiously unfazed and emerge
from the cartoonish violence unscathed.7
The band’s comments on “Paranoid Android,” while revealing, are also
ambivalent. Radiohead’s denials that the song holds any deep significance
are so many and so forceful as to render them suspect. Artists of all stripes
are well known to make nihilistic comments about their work so as to close
off questions from fans and critics that they have grown tired of answering.
Brahms, for example, upon being asked what he had learned from his mentor,
Robert Schumann, responded: “nothing but how to play chess” (Kalbeck 1908,
125). Beyond general supposition, the strongest evidence attesting to the
band’s serious regard for “Paranoid Android” is that, following its recorded re-
lease, they rehearsed it for more than a year in order to perform it live (Rip It
Up, 2001).
Analysis of “Paranoid Android”
The compositional complexity of “Paranoid Android” has attracted the atten-

tion of many previous analysts. René Rusch and Brad Osborn, writing separately,
both investigate technical aspects of the work. Their goal in doing so is more
to lay bare Radiohead’s compositional process than to provide an interpretive
reading of the song. Nevertheless, many of their observations will resonate with
the account given in this section. A common thread in these authors’ studies is
interest in explaining the work’s seeming harmonic disunity. Section A, which
begins in the key of C minor, also implies G minor as tonic. The B section, which
begins in A minor, shifts toward a C tonal center for its vamp interludes in 7/8
meter. The C section, written as a passacaglia (ground bass), is tonally ambiva-
lent as well, orienting around both C minor and D minor tonality, the latter of
which is supported by numerous prominent A major chords.
Rusch 2013 is content to leave the tonal ambiguity of the piece unresolved,
citing the ever-present pull between each section’s pair of tonic candidates as
a steady source of “tension” in the music. Osborn’s harmonic analysis, which
focuses on Part C as opposed to the full work, closely aligns with Rusch’s. The dif-
ference is that, instead of concentrating on the harmonic poles of C and D them-
selves, he is more concerned with the wrenching harmonic transitions between
them, as when the A major chord at the end of the Passacaglia moves directly to
C minor to restart its loop instead of “resolving” to D minor as expected (Osborn
2017, 156–158).8
Another trait shared by the two authors is their ambivalence on the matter
of whether “Paranoid Android” coheres as a whole. Osborn states in an early
chapter that the work resists unity at multiple levels. Parts A, B, and C, he notes,
“are not only completely independent of one another thematically, but also fea-
ture different organizational strategies” (2017, 35). He later retreats slightly on
this point by associating “the immediate juxtaposition of C minor and D minor
pitch centers” in the C area with tonal pairings heard “in each of the song’s [other]
major sections” (2017, 158). The three formal areas, in other words, are unified in
their reliance on double-tonic complexes.
Rusch similarly begins with an observation about disunity, pointing out that
“each main section” of the song “features its own motives, phrase rhythm, and
tonal areas.” Soon after, however, she makes two specifically motivic claims about
connections between the song’s formal areas. One of these concerns the prom-
inent, descending chromatic bass lines of the Passacaglia (C3-B2-B♭-A), which
“can be heard as a variant of the bassline that connects “A minor and C major
in the B section” (Rusch 2013, §2.8). Elsewhere, she makes an important aural
association between separate moments in A that arise from the note collec-
tion G-A-B♭-E. In Example 8.5, this collection is shown appearing in the con-
text of a Gmin+6 cadence sonority in mm. 3–6; it returns in mm.17–19, where it
composes out a three-measure gesture that transforms a G minor chord into an
E7 chord (Rusch 2017, §2.5). The same four-note sonority will play a central role
in the analysis to follow. When the time comes for listing the reasons for selecting
Segment 7 as Focal Point, the connection Rusch observes will be cited.
With this short literature review concluded, it is now possible to initiate the
CMA process for “Paranoid Android.” Segmentation of the work is not diffi-
cult, due to its straightforward phrase structure. The patterning of the harmo-
nies and textures strongly suggest that, at an assumed tempo of q = 100, most
phrases last 4–8 measures.9 Strong cadences appear regularly. Closure within the
B area is routinely signaled by syncopated, descending 3rd chromatic gestures on
C3-B2-B♭-A stated in unison by the guitars. Conventional half and full cadences
appear throughout the chorale-like C section.
The transcription of the work given in Example Web.8.3 will serve as the
basis for our analysis. The graphic indicates the basic segmentation of the work,
as well. The only complication that arises when parsing “Paranoid Android”
is posed by all of the material repetition in C. Strictly speaking, the music of
Example 8.5 Rusch’s Example 2b (2013), showing shared harmonic content across

segments in Radiohead’s “Paranoid Android.” Transformative arrows at the bottom
are added by the author.
mm. 74–105 takes up eight four-measure units of music. At the same time, the
passacaglia-like progression, which is built on a “lament bass” of sorts, produces
the effect of a fourfold repetition of a two-segment idea. This interpretation is re-
flected in the use of the lowercase letters a-d, which respectively signal the first,
second, third, and fourth passes through each recurrence of Segments 12–13.
For those who lack access to the full score, the summary diagram in Example 8.6
will likely be of aid.
The next stage of CMA that follows segmentation is selecting a Focal Point
event. To make this decision, we first survey the piece to determine where the
dramatic high points are and to gain a sense of what motives recur. The list of
segments with enhanced rhetorical significance includes numbers 1, 4, 7 (this
essentially a written out repeat of 4), 10, 11, 12d, 13d, and 15.
Of these, the weakest candidate segments are numbers 1, 10, and 11. Segment
1 is, in this case, listed mostly out of habit. Due to its placement at the outset,
listeners attend fully to it and are transported into the sound world of the piece.
A further, pragmatic reason for always reserving consideration for Segment 1
pertains to Narrative construction. We have not yet begun assembling a dramatic
reading of this piece. In case that we eventually want to posit a Propagation plot-
line, it makes sense to argue for Segment 1’s privileged status early on. Segments
10 and 11 are included because they exhibit high levels of intensity. The first of
these follows up the bareness of Segment 9—which consists of little more than a
menacing, semitonal undulation—by adding a vocal scream element. Segment
11 continues with a no-holds-barred guitar solo characterized by “screams” cre-
ated with high notes, tremolo, and feedback. While the raised energy of these
segments merits their inclusion in the original list, other factors weaken their bid
for rhetorical preeminence. Segment 10 is in nearly all regards weaker than 11 in
volume and intensity, so it cannot serve as a high point. Segment 11’s standing is
compromised by a noteworthy textural deficiency, in that it has no vocal compo-
nent at all.
Each remaining candidate segment can be thought of as the most complex
and/or intense unit of its section. Segment 4 (and its mirror, 7) acts as the rep-
resentative for the A material. Segments 12d and 13d, constituting the densest
rotation of all music stated in mm. 74–105, act as the rhetorical representatives
for C material. Segment 15, which caps the piece off with even more extreme
feedback and electronica effects, serves as the most extreme version of B mate-
rial. A further important development in this segment is the reintroduction of
distorted human voices as a noise element. The presence of this element not only
fills the textural gap noted in Segment 11. It also will successfully register as a
scorable element if we, as one may fairly expect, find a way to establish the topic
of human/computer duality as a Focal Point attribute.
Example 8.6 Form of “Paranoid Android” in terms of sections harmony, and segments.
As we survey the score for prominent recurring motives, we must be vigi-

lant for shapes residing in both Primary and Secondary (i.e., the structural vs.
coloristic) domain categories. We begin with rhythm. We need not look far for
signs of a recurring shape: the rhythm guitar presents it at the outset in mm. 1–3.
The rhythm in question is a stylized backbeat gesture that activates beats 2 and
4. A key characteristic of this “Backbeat” motive is the presence of submetrical
syncopation, which results in some of the surface attacks to be “pushed” ahead
by a sixteenth-note pulse, as shown in Example 8.7(a). The Backbeat motive is
maintained throughout the A section, including in Segment 4 where it forms the
basis for the synthesizer’s more ornate figuration (Example 8.7(b)).
The question of whether the Backbeat idea appears in the B area is open to de-
bate. Its presence may be felt in many of the 4/4 measures, such as at m. 42, where
the unison melodic leaps to pitch-class C cause beats 2 and 4 to be accented.
Overall, though, Backbeat’s role is weakened here, as cross-rhythms are intro-
duced to the texture (see the last half of m. 42) and as contrasting grooves in 7/8
time are explored. The Backbeat motive returns strongly in the C area, however.
It appears in m. 74 in the foundational layer of the passacaglia (Segments 12a and
13a). Notably, in the last 12d–13d rotation, this motive provides the backbone of
the last vocal countermelody.
Example 8.7 An important rhythm motive in “Paranoid Android.”

(a) “Backbeat” emphasis in Segment 1. Submetrical syncopation, shown by dashed
arrows, sharpens the sense of accent on beats 2 and 4, shown in bold arrows.
(b) “Backbeat” returns ornamented in the synth voice in Segment 4.

In the realm of pitch, we note the prominence of linear 3rds as early as

Segment 1. (Readers may refer to the full score of the piece to verify the pres-
ence of all of the following motives.) The bass ascent from G2 to B♭ in m. 3 is
immediately answered in mm. 4–5 by the lead guitar’s descent from B♭4 to
G. Throughout the rest of the A section, the 3rd motive appears as an element of
the vocal line; it occurs in mm. 7–9 (C5-E♭ and G-B♭ ascents) and later in meas-
ures 24 and 30–34 (C-A and B♭-G descents). The 3rd motive is less prominent in
the B section, manifesting most often as a surface leaping gesture involving Cs
and As. The shape gains significance when the main tonal areas of this section,
A and C, are viewed as an outgrowth of the bass’s first two notes in m. 41: this
is an unsophisticated yet powerful parallelism. The same relation, involving the
same pitch-classes, is further explored in the piece’s C area. Motions between the
pitch-classes C and A occur in the bassline both at the beginning of Segment 12,
where it is chromaticized, and at the end of Segment 13, where a half-cadence on
an A chord is reached. This placement at both edges of the fourfold-repeating
unit casts the C-A third as the glue that binds this loop of music together. While
all of that occurs, the other linear thirds remain prominent in the interior of the
passacaglia. The most exposed of these is the lead singer’s D-F motions in mm.
81–82 and  84–85.
Another pitch motive we might wish to include in our Focal Point is the motive
of a 2nd. Although 2nds are often generic, those in “Paranoid Android” bear men-
tion because of how exposed they are and how expressively they are employed.
In the A section, the 2nd in descending minor form is associated with misery
and exhaustion, as when the lead guitar accompanies the singer with a mournful
pitch bend in mm. 15–16 (E♭4-D). Moments later in mm. 17–18, the same motive
turned upward and made major (“What’s that?” sung on D5-E♮), communicates
confusion and alarm. This motive grows yet more prominent in the B section. It
undergirds the A-A♭ undulation that gives this music its sinister feel.
The next pitch-based motive to consider is the tritone. This motive comes to
the fore early: the first vocal utterance in mm. 7–10 concludes with a motion from
B♭5 to E♮ on the words, “tryin’ to get some rest.” The stepwise descent in this in-
stance suggests an affinity with the 3rd motive noted earlier, since a diminished
fifth tritone can be viewed as a composite set of thirds, 3rd ⊕ 3rd. In addition,
there are many cases where direct tritone motion is exposed; most of these employ
the boundary tones, B♭ and E. The earliest appears in mm. 3–4 in the bass, pro-
viding a preview of the first line of melody to be sung. The gesture returns in mm.
5–6, 9–10, 11–12, and 15–16, running loosely parallel with the voice in the last
occurrence. The tritone (TT) shape is more hidden in the B section, providing the
boundary tones for the main vamp gesture spanning m. 41 (A♭-D). In the C sec-
tion it constitutes a structural element of segment 13: in mm. 78–81, the bass and
choral melody both express the same B♭-E linear descent heard back in the A area.
The last pitch motive to emerge as central does so as the result of a decision
on how to account for chromaticism in the song. The first chromatic fragment
to actually appear is the B♭4-A-G♯ sounded in the synth voice in Segment 4. It
is always possible to classify a motive on the basis of its span. In this case, that
would mean labeling the shape as a specialized, filled-in form of third (3rd).
That interpretation will not work here. First, it is not at all clear that this motive
even is a third. Although the last note is transcribed as a G♯, one could argue
that it is A♭, and that it might be the same A♭ explored by the semitonal bass
motion in the B section. Another issue to consider is that this piece’s chromatic
gestures vary greatly in length. Some take up three notes, but others take up
four or five. The fact that these shapes often overlap in pitch-class content fur-
ther problematizes the span-label approach. Of what value is it, for example,
to distinguish B♭-A♭ 2nd motives from filled in B♭-A-G♯ 3rd motives? A more
direct solution is called for. Here, we will recognize the presence of “chromati-
cism” (Chr), in general, as a binary motivic element, present or not present as a
pitch/pitch-class attribute.
The pitch motive content of the piece remains fairly consistent throughout. In
contrast, the harmonic syntax shifts drastically among the A, B, and C sections,
serving as a primary agent for shifting the color and mood. The challenge in
working with this domain is to identify salient harmonic gestures that occur in
more than one section of the form. There is no single chord progression, such as
Tonic-Dominant, that qualifies. Instead, there is but a single sonority that plays
a central role in the piece. It is the chord mentioned earlier, built of the notes G,
B♭, D, and E♮. While the chord is made of pitch-classes that can appear in any
vertical order, it tends to appear in the “inversion” that puts G in the bass. This
chord could be called a half-diminished seventh chord on E in second inver-
sion, meaning a iiØ6/5 chord in the key of D minor. In “Paranoid Android,” this
sonority behaves more like a G minor triad with an E natural added to it, in the
manner of an “add 6” chord in jazz.
The Gmin+6 harmony plays a conspicuous role in the outer sections of
the song. It is first heard in m. 4, where the lead guitar enters, with its special
timbre helping to embellish the moment. This arrival produces the effect of a
cadence, which is then echoed in m. 6. (The chord operates in identical fashion
in Segments 2 and 3.) The Gmin+6 harmony is next heard in Segment 4. Here
it migrates to the head of the segment. More accurately, the chord is composed
out, so that the whole segment expresses it. The lead guitar’s ostinato in this area
continually sounds the upper two notes of the chord, D5 and E. At the same time,
the bass guitar follows a smooth path from G down to E. The result is a three-
measure expression of the sonority in mm. 17–19 that repeats in 20–22.10
The Gmin+6 chord plays a prominent role in the C area as well. It returns
at its original pitch-class level in mm. 79–80 to prepare the cadential motion of
Segment 13. As before, the sonority is horizontalized (or “composed out”) by an

impressive descent in the bass in mm. 77–80 that links D3 to E2. The fourfold pre-
sentation of the passacaglia causes this gesture to be restated four times.
Our survey of events in the primary domains has winnowed the original field
of segment candidates down to four: Segments 4, 12, 13, and 15. To decide which
should serve as the Focal Point, we will extend the survey to consider secondary
domains. It will not be necessary to exhaustively account for the activity in every
potential coloristic area. Instead, the process can be abridged by concentrating
on a single, “tiebreaker” domain. (To be sure, the domains of Orchestration/
Texture/Timbre and Ornament are both critical to the sound of “Paranoid
Android,” and both will play a role in the CMA.)
The attribute in question is the one that was cited at the outset as central and
definitive to “Paranoid Android,” that being the theme of (split) Identity. Even
within a piece that is, as a whole, about the human and digital interpenetrating
one another, some segments will embody that process more than others. The
Focal Point, if it is to constitute the essence of the work, should do so as well.
The attribute at hand is perhaps the most expansive one we have yet encoun-
tered. The notion of split Identity is, in fact, a humanistic theme that has been
explored in many fields, among them philosophy, literature, and psychology. The
most appropriate domain for placing such an attribute is Embodiment/Allusion.
On each occasion that a segment of the piece invokes split Identity, it is quite lit-
erally alluding to that much larger topic.
Having established where the attribute of split Identity resides, it must next
be defined so that analysts are clear on what it is and how the piece toggles
it.11 As to the former, “Identity” will be said to manifest where humanity and
technology strive to evoke one another. The clearest type of Identity events in
“Paranoid Android” arise mimetically, such as when the computer voice “speaks”
in Segment 4 (mm. 17–23). This phenomenon manifests in the opposite direc-
tion as well. When Thom Yorke quietly intones nonsense syllables on G5-A♭ in
mm. 45–47, his voice mimics an overmodulated sound signal, meaning techno-
logical gibberish. A less direct form of imitation occurs through gestural echo.
At the climax of the first B section, for example, the voice caps off its most em-
phatic declaration, “I guess he does,” with a long C4 that bends upward an octave.
Moments later in mm. 64–65, the lead guitar, in full electric mode, reproduces
this pitch bend, compressing it to one beat to launch the solo that will take up
most of Segment 11.
Upon taking Identity into account, Segment 4 emerges as an outstanding
choice for the Focal Point. The disjunction between the voices, human and com-
puter, is most intense here. It is further significant that Segment 4 is the one that
delivers the song’s title, which makes literal mention of a troubled, irrational
mental state.
Segment 4, the Focal Point, is represented as a complex motive in Example

8.8. The staves above depict all four of the primary pitch and pitch-class motives
noted earlier. The exposed 2nd involving D5-E♮ appears in the voice. The three
other pitch-based motives appearing in the synthesizer and bass guitar are the
tritone (TT), the linear 3rd, and all-or-nothing chromaticism (Chr.).
The first rhythmic motive, “Backbeat,” which appeared as early as Segment
1, appears in the rhythm guitar part. There is also a new rhythmic motive, the
S-S-S-L duration pattern given in the computerized voice. Further justification
for including the S-S-S-L arises from noting its appearance elsewhere, such as
in Segments 1–3 in the lead guitar riffs and Segments 9–11 in the bassline. The
Harmony domain, for reasons already discussed, manifests as the Gmin+6 chord.
Of the many secondary domains that can be tracked in CMA, only three will
be accounted for in this analysis: Orchestration, Ornament, and Allusion. The
last of these, wherein the Identity occurs, has already been fully treated. The
Orchestration attribute takes the form of parallel-tenths voice leading, which in
this segment coordinates the synth voice and bass. The Ornamentation domain
is centered on the “escape-tone” (ET) gesture shown bracketed in the last beat
of m. 17. The quick motion up to B♭2 is not structural; it is a surface motion that
decorates the bass’s downbeat-to-downbeat motion from G2 to F. Although the
Example 8.8 A complex motive derived from the music of Segment 4.

ET gesture manifests as a rising third in Segment 7, it should be conceived gener-

ally so that other, similar forms can be accounted for. This includes inverted third
presentations, such as the F5-E-D vocal bends that Yorke often uses to ornament
motion among longer notes.
With regard to weighting the Complex’s domains and attributes, we start
by assigning 50 percent unity to the Primary and Secondary domain groups.
The three Secondary domains elements split their 50 percent equally, resulting
in a 16.67 percent weighting for each. The same apportionment applies to the
Primary domains, although further subdivision is required to handle the pres-
ence of multiple pitch and rhythm motives. The 16.67 percent unity value for
pitch-based motives is divided equally among the TT, 3rd, 2nd, and Chr motives.
Similarly, the 16.67 percent divides in half for each of the two rhythmic motives
identified.
Data Interpretation and Narrative

Template in hand, we proceed with scoring the remaining segments of “Paranoid
Android.” The results of this work appear in Example 8.9(a). The Segment totals
in the lowest row are graphed to produce the work’s Narrative Curve, shown in
Example 8.9(b). Note that in this graph, the x-axis folds on itself in two places
to reflect the large-scale repetitions of material. At left, Segments 2–4 share
space with Segments 5–7. At right, the fourfold repetition of Segments 12 and
13 is charted in one region. In both cases, the shaped nodes—triangles, x marks,
and so forth—distinguish segment content across rotations, with small arrows
showing the flow of time.
The Narrative profile of the work is Cyclic. The piece opens in a neutral state
in terms of unity and emotion, with its thin scoring expressing only a portion
of Focal Point material. The degree of unity remains fairly level through the
first three segments of the A section, then rocket to a peak at Segment 4. The
music traces a similar path in Segments 5–7, but at a slightly depressed level
(see dotted plotline below the solid line). Some subtle changes account for the
altered profile. For example, in Segment 5, the voice descends instead of rising
in pitch. In so doing it covers a smaller range and fails to state the B♭-E tritone
as before.
The B section, though highly agitated with regard to rhythm and texture, is
marked by an overall lull in motivic activity. Upon arriving at Section B, the level
of motivic interest drops dramatically, yet the level of tension does not. In con-
trast, the transition to Segment 12a and the C section effects a sharp rise in com-
plexity. What is more, this segment initiates an eight-segment climb that results
from the steady addition of more and more Focal Point elements. Peak unity is
achieved once more in Segment 13d. The moment after this occurs, the piece
reverts to B material. The Curve plunges down in Segment 14 to its lowest level
Example 8.9 The Narrative of “Paranoid Android.”
(a) The full tally of complex elements for “Paranoid Android” based on the Segment 4 as Focal Point. Empty cells signal “0” values..
(b) Narrative Curve resulting from graphing the total values from Example 8.9(a) tallies. Additional dotted arrow paths show motion among
segments under material repetition.
A B C B
4/7 13d
100
12d 13b,c
90
12b,c
80
70 13a
12a 15
1 9
60
11
50 3
2
40 10
5 6
30 8 14

20
10
0
Segments 1–15
yet seen. It recovers to an extent in the final segment, but only to a level roughly
commensurate with the starting value back in Segment 1.
The largely neutral account of “Paranoid Android’s” Narrative is here con-
cluded. We have proceeded just about as far as is possible without invoking an
outside program (extroversive semiosis). Yet, a wholly technical reading seems
insufficient for a piece as charged and evocative as this. The song’s title, lyrics, and
digitally engineered soundscapes are all integral to the experience of hearing/
knowing the work. It seems only fitting, then, that these elements inform our
analysis. We can ensure they do so by following the procedure outlined in
Interlude 2, which calls for taking our discovered archetype (in this case: Cycle),
and layering relevant program elements onto it.
The program element that will serve that purpose in this next, more imagi-
native reading, will be the titular mental state, paranoia. By virtue of this piece
being a song with lyrics, we are acquainted with a fictional, presumably male
protagonist, who is afflicted with the condition. The Focal Point event will be said
to correspond to a maximal state of paranoia; other segment scores will indicate
the protagonist’s shifting levels of it. Note that even within this interpretation, we
remain free to posit a wide range of storylines. In one reading, paranoia might
be viewed as a malady one wishes to be cured of. In another, the paranoid state
might be viewed more neutrally, not as a condition to be feared, but one that, as
experienced, affords a person new views on the self and others.
The next question to be addressed is that of agency, which asks what, spe-
cifically, causes the shifts in unity/tension value from one segment to the next?
Almost immediately, we may cast aside the notion that the song depicts spe-
cific character actions. The lyrics are far too fragmentary and enigmatic for that.
Abandoning the search for a literally representative plot, however, does not
equate to saying that the song must lack a dramatic narrative.
The song’s additive design, exhibiting dramatic contrasts among the sections,
communicates the bare outline of a story. Over the course of the piece, the pro-
tagonist experiences anxiety and despair, rage, a moment of acceptance and/or
resignation, and, lastly, rage once more. The triggering events for this succes-
sion of emotions cannot be known and do not matter. It would, in fact, be just as
correct to designate them as moods, which means they may not even originate
as responses to the environment at all. Moods are as likely to be brought on by
the vagaries of brain activity as by actual experiences. This framework deprives
the protagonist of agency, meaning that he cannot do anything to escape these
thoughts.
If any agency be present, it must derive from another source. Here it will be
taken to be the anatomy, physiology, and chemistry of the brain, which is to
say: the condition of paranoia, itself. In most people’s experience, being paranoid
affords very few, if any, advantages. Individuals that harbor extreme distrust and
suspicion toward humanity have the potential to suffer greatly, as they alienate
others and run themselves down emotionally through the prolonged rehearsal
of irrational fears (Davey 2014, 496). In the realm of art, in contrast, deleterious
health conditions are frequently seen to exude a kind of seductive beauty. The
Romantics, for example, are well known to have regarded sickness, and even
madness, as “pure” human experiences, by virtue of the fact that these conditions
betray no trace of societal constraint.12
The notion of paranoia as a rarefied, strangely beautiful state applies well to
this song. The music that sounds at the arrival of Segment 4, the spot at which
paranoia reaches its first apex, is an exceptionally beautiful moment. The new
texture, created via the introduction of synthesized sound layers and the disem-
bodied, computer voice, is fantastical. “Dreamlike” is perhaps a better word for
the wash of sound, as if the protagonist has fallen into a fugue state.13 The profile
of the Narrative Curve at Segment 4 supports this reading: the motion is steeply
upward, indicative of an unexpected transition. The surprise of this moment
in “Paranoid Android” is further amplified by its location in the piece: it is first
introduced just forty-seven seconds after the song begins.
The early placement of this peak has further narrative consequences. Once the
moment of peak prominence passes for the second time at the close of Segment
7, listeners are left wondering whether it may return. The open question, formu-
lated technically, is whether they are in the process of experiencing a Propagative
or Cyclic narrative. But it can also be phrased more dynamically: the sudden ab-
sence of peak material in the B section causes listeners to want to experience it
again. How and when will it return?
The remainder of this account will elaborate on a narrative that frames max-
imized paranoia as state of grace. Each of the four main sections of the piece
exhbits the same Curve profile, which translates to each section presenting an
initial level of paranoia that subsequently rises. Given this similarity, the ana-
lytical interest derives from examining the subtler differences among the A, B,
C, and B areas. The first pass through the A material coincides with our first
window into the protagonist’s state of mind. The relatively low scores exhibited
in the CMA Narrative at Segments 2 and 3, 42 percent and 46 percent, indicates
that he harbors some paranoia at the outset but not to an extreme degree. Our
preliminary diagnosis is that the subject’s condition is stable, as evidenced by
the nearly flat portion of the curve between Segments 2 and 3. At Segment 4,
the texture is suddenly flooded by Focal Point elements. This is not a develop-
ment that could have been predicted nor rationalized. This is the moment that
his fugue state begins, a hallucinatory event induced either by natural brain
chemistry or possibly the ingestion of drugs.14 The arrival into Segment 4 is
meant to disorient listeners. At the moment the protagonist expresses confu-
sion (“What’s that?”), the voice of his identity fractures. It is here that listeners
first experience the most extreme level of paranoia and partake in its associated
sonic beauty.
After a few seconds, the fugue state evaporates, returning the protagonist to
his original state of mind. In the second pass through A, Segments 5–6, the main
character begins to meditate on paranoia. The lyrics here signal his attempts
to externalize his pain, envisioning punishments that would befall his real or
imagined enemies were he to attain power over them. The scores for this pair of
segments decrease approximately 4 and 8 percentage points, implying that this
shift in thinking takes him further away from the idealized state. The deliverance
he seeks, it seems, cannot be attained by violence, nor by dwelling upon others.
At this early point in the music, the onset of paranoia occurs only through blind
chance, as at Segment 7, when lightning strikes again and he is transported back
to the rarefied state.
The motivic activity in the B section confirms that violent, outward-directed
thought is counterproductive. Segments 8– 11 exhibit the most aggressive
sentiments both in the text and music, yet the Narrative Curve languishes in a
zone of middling unity values. This section, remarkably, is the only one of the
four in which the local peak does not occur at the end, meaning there is no
proper culmination or end-capped moment. The regional peak that does occur
at Segment 6 is also the lowest of the piece. As a whole, the four segments of the B
section are the furthest removed from unity, averaging a score of only 46.
In stark contrast with B, the passacaglia-like C Section is highly directed, nar-
ratively speaking. The four passes through Segments 12 and 13 allow for mo-
tivic elements to accumulate: this explains the consistently upward trend in
values (see arrows in Example 8.9(b)). Significantly, this climb back toward unity
occurs in conjunction with a host of new reflections and sentiments concerning
paranoia. In the first pass through the material, the protagonist adopts an air of
acceptance. He does not specify what he wants to “rain/continue raining down”
on him, but from context we may assume it refers to troubles and suffering, in
general. By the numbers, this new mental tack elevates his level of paranoia sig-
nificantly, from 71 percent unity at the beginning of Segment 12a all the way to
92 percent by the close of Segment 13d.
Due to how the segmentation is carried out, the entirety of mm. 102–105 is
credited as a narrative peak. More precisely, it is the events of the last two meas-
ures of Segment 13d that facilitate the upward surge. In its first three notes, the
rhythm of the words “God loves his,” is indistinguishable from the previous S-S-S
utterances of “The panic, the vomit.” Unlike the previous fragments, though, in
mm. 104–105, he continues into beats 3 and 4 of each measure. The change is
critical, rhythmically: it restores the long-absent S-S-S-L motive. The resultant
texture, patiently assembled over four rotations of the passacaglia, achieves Focal
Point status with a score of 100. This marks the goal of the piece, motivically
speaking. Importantly, this moment of arrival is also the moment in the text that
the main character lashes out with the song’s bitterest sentiment. The delivery of
the words, “God loves his children” is thick with irony.
The sense of attainment felt at this moment is bound up with the cumulative
process that produced it. The peaks experienced in Segments 4 and 7 are sen-
sational; however, we noted there is something not fully satisfying about them.
They come upon listeners like an epiphany, vividly present one moment and gone
the next. Their sudden absence spurs the protagonist to action. In his quest to re-
attain the transcendent state, he explores several approaches. Violent thoughts in
the B section accomplish little; adopting a posture of acceptance proves decid-
edly more effective. After cultivating that sentiment for the duration of the C sec-
tion, the final flash of irony (“God loves his children”) is what removes the final
barrier to ascendancy to peak paranoia. The bitter sentiment here is no more
uplifting than the confused and alarmed state of Segment 4/7; however, it does
express a similar kind of perfect–meaning: a truly maximal–state of distrusting
humanity.
The song, of course, does not conclude in that state. In the final two segments,
it turns away from the C material in such an abrupt, angry fashion, as to make a
dark song even more bleak. It is depressing to imagine a damaged person whose
goal is to recapture a state of paranoia. Is he not even more pitiable if he fails to
achieve even that? Nevertheless, the protagonist attains his desired state of grace
briefly in Segments 12 and 13. The shocking return of B material at Segment 14,
however, wrenches it away. Whatever enlightenment the protagonist experiences
in Segment 13d, it is only transient.
The return of B is fairly literal, except for some alterations that yield new
scores for Segments 14 and 15. Segments 8–11 were angry; here, the level of rage
rises yet further as all sense of restraint falls away. All proper lyrics disappear,
replaced by the screeches of solo guitar and warbling synthesizer tones. Note that
in Example 8.9(a) these segments receive credit in the Allusion domain. Buried
within this texture are quieter fragments of nonsense human utterances, such
as the “na na na” syllables sung in mm. 119–122. Earlier, in the song’s calmer
moments, it seemed that the crisis of Identity could possibly be resolved. By the
end, the swirl of static-y anger offers a more dire prediction on the outcome of
the modern experiment of humanity and technology. As the protagonist’s voice
in “Paranoid Android” goes, so may very well go the voice of humankind. In
other words: it will be lost.
Coda
The preceding Narrative account of “Paranoid Android” endeavors to be com-
prehensive, at least to the extent that it observes motives in every segment
and treats the whole as a unified musical/aesthetic utterance. As we pause to
recover from the recent onslaught of minutiae, the last thing we might wish
to do is reopen the discussion of motive! To dwell further on the microscopic
patterns in the music is to court obsession. Surely we should refrain . . . unless,
perhaps, we have overlooked any crucial motivic correspondences or interpre-
tive themes?
It turns out that we have. So far, we have lavished attention on the main
character’s state of mind, putting great stock in his delusions of persecution and
exaggerated self-importance. No comment has been made on a secondary aspect
of paranoia frequently diagnosed by medical professionals, that involving subjects’
conspiratorial views of their surroundings. It is typical for paranoid people to be-
come irrationally upset by chance events and encounters. This response is closely
associated with their propensity for “elaborating” their delusions “into an organ-
ized system” that opposes them (American Psychiatric Association 2013, 301.0).
Rarely do the stars align such that the overall disposition of an analytic method
aligns with the sentiment of the artwork under study to the extent that happens
here. Fully aware that the act of seeking a hidden meaning in an artwork on the
basis of its smallest patterned events may seem a bit paranoid, I shall press for-
ward nonetheless. Moving beyond the idea that the Focal Point unifies the song,
in this analytic coda I will seek out an even deeper source of organicism in the
work. For reasons that will become clear, the main domain under study will be
Rhythm.
We begin with a brief survey of the piece so as to attach literal, texted meanings
to the two central rhythmic motives. The table in Example 8.10 lists the most out-
standing occurrences of the S-S-S-L and Backbeat shapes, along with a brief de-
scription of the text or musical associative affect for each.
This list is useful for uncovering relationships that project both forward and
backward in time. For example, the guitar’s Backbeat in mm. 1–2 corresponds
to the text’s rhythm sung in m. 57. The spectre of paranoia is thus raised at the
outset by the rhythm guitar. Its G4-E♭ gestures perseverate on a ghostly version
of “(You don’t re-)mem-ber” in which only the last two syllables sound. A sim-
ilar back-relation links mm. 51 with 50, where the untexted bassline pre-echoes
the “(Gu)-cci little Piggie,” comment. Nearer to the end of the piece, another
rhythmic evolution occurs: fragmented forms of S-S-S-L in mm. 98–103 (“The
panic; the vomit”) lead to a true S-S-S-L at mm. 104 (“God loves his child-).
That dense network of small-scale rhythm relations results from a hitherto-
unrecognized, composite Ur-motive. The structure of Example 8.10 provides a first
clue to its source. Reading from the top to bottom, the chart conveys a sense of
progression. From m. 1 to m. 56, the S-S-S-L motive emerges as increasingly prom-
inent. At m. 57, the protagonist’s anger boils over, causing the rhythm to be ex-
tended. The result, shown in bold text in Example 8.10 and notationally in Example
8.11, is the joining of the two main rhythmic motives, S-S-S-L and Backbeat.
Example 8.10 Chart of S-S-S-L and Backbeat rhythmic motives in “Paranoid

Android.”
Example 8.11 Elision of S-S-S-L and Backbeat motives at m. 57.
It is tempting to view the composite rhythm form in m. 57 as the source of all
S-S-S-L and Backbeat gestures. The problem is that the rhythm there does not
fully apply to all of the rhythmic motives noted in the chart. Note, for example,
that in m. 105, the word “children” occurs on a strong beat, which does not fit the
“Backbeat” condition.
For us to say that a single rhythmic gesture underlies all of the others, it needs
to be adjusted. Specifically, it is necessary to relax the Backbeat provision. Doing
so produces a similar composite motive that starts with S-S-S-L but recasts
Backbeat as a more generic “Two-note Tail” gesture. This more general shape
derives from Segment 4, where it is embedded in the speech pattern of the AI
voice; see Example 8.12. Although the words only loosely intersect the meter, the
relative duration of the syllables creates a free meter. Most remarkably, the two
rhythmic gestures here occur as S-S-S-L on the words, “be paranoid” and as the
Two-note Tail on the word, “android.”
Example 8.12 The computerized speech utterance in “Paranoid Android” as an

instance of the composite rhythm, S-S-S-L + “Two-note Tail”.
This last investigation has resulted in us circling back one last time to
the Focal Point segment. The unrelenting scrutiny of the materials leads to
one last conclusion regarding Segment 4. By aid of this reading, one may
claim that Radiohead has found a means to integrate the cryptic AI utter-
ance into the full song. No foreign sound bite, the words themselves em-
body both texted and musical meaning. To say the song’s title, “Paranoid
Android,” is an act that brings its central composite rhythm to life: S-S-S-L
+ Two-note Tail.
In the hands of most bands, the compositional element of the computerized
voice might have remained a novelty. Radiohead puts it in the service of for-
ging the deepest kind of motivic association. In addition to the digital voice
appearing elsewhere on OK Computer, imparting textural organicism to the
album, in the context of this one song it conveys multiple meanings. There is
the texted meaning of the words, the timbral meaning of the split, human/com-
puter Identity, and, in the end, a sweeping, multilevel meaning in which the
rhythms of the utterance relate to the surface materials of the music, itself. The
presence of this sort of connection, along with the myriad conventional pitch
and harmonic associations pointed out in the Narrative analysis, make a strong
argument that “Paranoid Android” is tightly unified. With regard to the “acci-
dental” assembly of the song as related in Doheny 2002, we have no reason to
doubt that the core sections of the piece were conceived separately. The present
findings apply to the life of the work long past that inception point, when the
independent sections merged. The finished song can no longer be regarded as
a nonorganic, additive structure. It is an obsessive, almost overly-ordered crea-
tion, constructed such that the sound of any one moment suggests and informs
all others.
“At the Ballet,” by Marvin Hamlisch
Method: Basic Motivic Analysis

Narrative Profile: Triumph of 3rd shape
“At the Ballet” is a song by Marvin Hamlisch from the Broadway musical A
Chorus Line. The show was a juggernaut, winning nine Tony awards and the
Pulitzer Prize for Drama in 1975. It remained on Broadway for fifteen years,
closing in 1990 after running for more than 6,000 performances.15 This “show
about a show” dramatizes an audition in which eighteen performers aspire to
join the background dance troupe of an unnamed production. In addition
to being judged on their dancing and singing, they are asked by the producer to
divulge details about their pasts. They stand on a white line drawn on an empty
stage and deliver. A Chorus Line unfolds, then, as a series of vignettes that are at
turns amusing, reflective, and poignant.
The song “At the Ballet,” in many ways represents the heart of A Chorus Line.
Marvin Hamlisch once said that “the song set the tone for all the music in the
show; once [it] was written, the creators understood the shape and color of the
piece as a whole” (Wolf 2011, 122). Its subject, the transcendent power of dance,
stemmed directly from show creator Michael Bennett’s primary passions and
very identity as a choreographer.
“At the Ballet,” is sung by three women, Sheila, Bebe, and Maggie; the text
of the song is given in Example Web.8.4 . The women reflect on shared
experiences in which the institution of the ballet has provided them escape
from dysfunctional family lives. Their accounts center specifically around emo-
tional wounds from childhood. Sheila tells of watching her mother discover a
mysterious set of earrings in their car, clear evidence of infidelity by a man who
was routinely “cold” to both of them. Bebe, in the second verse, relates the ex-
perience of hating her mother as a youth. The mother’s specific infraction is her
condescension, of describing her daughter Bebe as merely “different,” which is
to say: distinctly not “pretty.” This comment, which is symptomatic of a long
pattern of slights, results in Bebe’s self-worth being damaged from that point
forward. Maggie, last, tells of her father abandoning the family at her birth, and
of how, to comfort herself, she developed a rich fantasy life in which she imag-
ined dancing with him around the living room.
There are several weighty themes explored by “At the Ballet.” The pattern of
topics is similar for all three soloists. In two of the three women’s accounts, there
is early mention of an absent father figure. This pain is erased in the realm of
ballet, where, in Sheila’s words, “Graceful men lift lovely girls in white.” Tellingly,
the word “men” is paired not with “women,’ but with “girls” to encode father-
daughter age asymmetry. For Maggie, it is important that whenever you “Raise
your arms”—i.e., when you are in need of support—“someone’s always there.”
When Bebe reaches the parallel location in her chorus, she notes that, “Ev’ry
prince has got to have his swan.” Despite having made no earlier mention of her
father, her words here reflect a concern about males being absent from her life,
possibly on account of her failing to attract their attention.
The women relate how, in response to these traumas, they set out to find a
more inviting home with a new, surrogate family. Example 8.13 sketches the path
of their journey, tracking events in terms of form, speaker, and key.
Approximately the first half of “At the Ballet” is given over to introducing the
three women in three rotations. The model for presenting expositional mate-
rial is established by Sheila in mm. 1–47. She sings a single verse (Vs) about her
childhood, followed by two contrasting Choruses (Ch1s and Ch2s) that describe
her experiences with ballet. Bebe’s section, mm. 48–94 is formally identical to
Sheila’s. Maggie’s exposition follows, but this last rotation is heavily altered. In
mm. 95–110, she speaks her verse text instead of singing it, and does so over the
music corresponding to Sheila and Bebe’s Chorus 1. The result is a blended verse
and chorus event, Vm/C1m. At m. 111, the music enters a turbulent area in which
the Chorus1 music appears in C-sharp minor, and the three women revisit me-
lodic fragments associated with “childhood doubt.” This “Crisis” area is exited
at m. 127, with a return of Chorus1 material sung by a more confident Maggie.
This time, her music rises and crescendos to a grand orchestral climax at m. 143,
followed by a brief Denouement section that begins at m. 151.
“At the Ballet” flits rapidly among past and present and between real and imag-
ined scenes. Motions across time and space are communicated and amplified
by dramatic shifts in rhythm, texture, and tempo. Before considering the whole
work in detail, we will concentrate on the formal and motivic content of the first
main section, mm. 1–48, which will here be called “Sheila’s section.” This area,
which communicates its own narrative in miniature, will serve as a reference
point for Maggie and Bebe’s sections.
Example 8.14 illustrates the form of Sheila’s section. The vertical, hashed lines
indicate boundary points where dramatic shifts in text and texture occur. The
section employs an unconventional three-part structure to communicate an un-
conventional story. The first portion of music in mm. 1–21, the Verse in “Rock-
strong four,” sets Sheila’s account of her childhood family life. Next comes a
chorus (Ch1s) in mm. 22–37, in which the song’s title is stated.
As it specifically denotes the ballet, the music in this area shifts to 3/4 meter
and lighter, classical orchestration. All hints of drums and rock beat cease,
replaced by crisp arabesque figures played by flute and oboe. Surprisingly, this
chorus section is not the endpoint of Sheila’s music. At m. 38, she exits the ideal-
ized, fantasy realm of the ballet to initiate a second chorus (Chorus 2s) marked
by a return of the rock beat. The music of mm. 38–48, by means of its triple time,
minor key, serious mood, and hypnotic beat, loosely evokes the dance studio set-
ting, a place of discipline and group effort.
In addition to tracking musical features such as meter and key, Example 8.14
in its lowest line interprets the “plot” of Sheila’s section. Two events of special
import are listed. The first, in mm. 9–11, is a brief segment of ballet-like music
Example 8.13 Form of Hamlisch’s “At the Ballet.” Bold hashed lines divide work into Sheila’s (s), Bebe’s (b), and Maggie’s (m) sections.
Example 8.14 Form of Sheila’s section, mm. 1–47.

Verses Chorus 1s Chorus 2s
m. 1 m. 9 m. 12 m. 22 m. 38 m. 44
Meter 4/4 3/4 4/4 3/4 3/4 3/4
Feel Rock Waltz Rock Waltz Rock Waltz
Key G minor G major G minor A major A minor A minor
Plot Situation Epiphany React/Cope “At the Ballet” Discipline “Home”
that interrupts the Verse. This moment is labeled “epiphany” to signal its role
marking a character’s sudden insight or pivotal decision. In this case, it depicts
Sheila’s mother’s decision to marry an emotionally abusive man. The moment
of epiphany divides the Verse into three parts, serving as a calm moment in
between the first episode naming the abuser and the last describing her silent
witness to the abuse. The other event of note is the final cadence of the section
that appears in mm. 44–48. It is significant that Sheila finally gives name to
her desire here for a “home.” But she is saying more than that. The melody and
rhythm of “But it was home” fully match how “at the Ballet” is set at the close of
Chorus 1. The two realms, ballet and home, are literally woven together.
To this point we have concentrated on the text and texture of Sheila’s section,
but of course musical motives play a pivotal role in it as well. Our discussion of
motives will focus on the progress of four pitch shapes and one globally recur-
ring rhetorical gesture that takes the form of Threefold Repetition. The singers,
in verses and choruses alike, frequently employ this spoken/sung formula to em-
phasize their points.
To gain a better sense of these motives’ forms and functions, we will com-
plete a brief circuit of Sheila’s section with aid of Example 8.15. The pitch content
of Sheila’s utterances in mm. 1–2 is based primarily on the interval of a fourth.
The double iteration, “That’s what he said; that’s what he said,” strings two such
intervals together. The effect is unsettling, perfectly imitating the forehand and
backhand cadence of physical abuse. (Although no physical harm is intimated,
the setting makes it clear that these words land as harshly as blows would.) In
mm. 4–5, the spirit-crushing ultimatum/marriage proposal extended by her
father—“He was probably her very last chance”—concludes with another prom-
inent, stretched out fourth. During the entire time that these shapes are sung in
the voice, the supporting instruments, guitar and bass, imbue the texture with
the same motive to further suggest discomfort and dread (see vamp material
bracketed in m.0).
Sheila’s text in the Verse is deployed rapidly, in a manner halfway between
speech and song. To accommodate all of this text, the vocal line contains many
repeated notes and neighbor motions. The lower neighbor shape (LN) is most
prevalent, occurring sometimes within longer 4th spans (mm. 3–4) and some-
times on its own. Serving as a vehicle for Sheila’s agitated speech, the LN motive
in its wilder, undulating form immediately associates itself with topics of cru-
elty and self-doubt. (In later contexts, the LN shape will return in a more poised,
measured fashion and shed these negative associations). The LN motive’s in-
fluence expands in the second pass through the verse’s bleak music, starting at
m. 12. There we observe an almost constant alternation of Ds and Cs. This mo-
tion, expressed in heavily syncopated rhythm, signals the anxiety of a young girl
witnessing a discovery of infidelity and not knowing how to respond.
Example 8.15 Primary pitch and rhythm motives in Sheila’s section.

(a) Motives of anxiety (4ths and LN) in Sheila’s verse, mm. 1–4.
(b) Threefold Repetition generates a descending 6th, followed by ephiphany (2nd) in

Sheila’s verse, mm. 5–9.

(c) Stately, assured 3rds in Sheila’s verse, mm. 22–33.
The other two motives of interest in this verse segment work in concert to
amplify the impact of the Epiphany moment. As Example 8.15(b) illustrates,
this occurs by way of comic misdirection. In mm. 6–9, Sheila sings a lyrical,
descending melody. The music builds suspense with the rhetorical motive as
the text, “Though she was twenty-two. . . ,” repeats three times. This set-up is
followed at m. 10 by the punchline, “she married him!” Her mother’s momentous
decision is marked by a hopeful, “upturned glance” in the form of a motive of a
rising second (2nd). The irony, in this case, is sharpened by the musical setting.
The announcement of this fateful mistake is incongruously haloed by “pretty”
music: Classical orchestration, triple time, and a surprising major-chord so-
nority. The barest hope of redemption is signaled by this Picardy third and 2nd
motive; however, the moment of salvation is transient. The bleak music from the
beginning returns in force at m. 12, indicating how inadequate her mother’s de-
cision is for effecting lasting change.
Example 8.15(c) details the motivic content in Sheila’s Chorus1. The new
shape appearing here is the linear 3rd, shown beamed. By virtue of the fact that
it first occurs in the “Ballet” area, this motive acquires an association with the
notion of escape from Sheila’s unhappy situation. Two other motives return from
earlier, but are treated differently. Lower neighbors are again present (see slurs)
but no longer teeter, nervously, in syncopation. The LN motives here are instead
tightly regimented, carefully patterned in rhythm, signaling that Sheila’s doubts
are present but under control.
The Threefold Repetition motive returns as well, but does so to express
empowerment instead of irony. Following the two quick presentations of the
3rd motive in mm. 22–27, we expect the sentence structure that is forming
to flower into its last, continuation phase. As anticipated, another linear 3rd
motive initiates at G4 in m. 30. This slight leap to begin higher in register sig-
nals an escape from the gravity of pitch space, but only a temporary one: the
melody in mm. 30–32 descends as before to C4. Remarkably, two ascending
forms of the 3rd motive occur here in the accompaniment. These ascending
3rds (see beams) nest at two metric levels, in quarter notes sounded by the harp
and clarinet and in dotted half notes in the brass. Their light scoring readily
suggests a narrative interpretation, which is that the linear 3rd motive aspires
to ascend. It is in fact now demonstrating its ability to do so, but it is not yet
ready to take full flight over the music.
The last significant motivic event in Chorus1 is the return of the upturned
glance motive in mm. 32–33. When this 2nd appeared in the verse, it relayed the
punchline of a dark joke: “she married him.” Here, it returns to communicate
another type of fleeting, joyful surprise. Surprise, because this may well be the
moment that Sheila herself becomes aware of an avenue leading away from her
unhappy situation. The singer is already at the high point of her vocal line at G4.
The “Hey” that follows provides an unexpected boost to A4.
At m. 38, Sheila’s music takes its leave from the ballet theater and initiates
the second chorus, Ch2s (not shown). The music of mm. 38–48, evoking the
dance studio setting, recalls that of the verse. The mode is cast back into minor,
and the steady rock beat returns, despite the music’s remaining in triple time.
The motives associated with doubt return as well: we can hear Sheila’s voice
wavering once more in lower-neighbor figures. Her melody at the larger level
traces a linear descending 4th on the words “Up a steep and very narrow
stairway, To the voice like a metronome.” The close correspondences in mood
between this area and the verse makes sense, narratively. The young Sheila may
be enamored of ballet, but arriving at her studio nevertheless may provoke
anxiety. Ballet training is well known to be rigorous. Some form of pain in re-
hearsal is all but assured, in the form of muscle and tendon strain and/or verbal
lashing from the studio instructor.
It is appropriate that some musically coded elements of fear and doubt
should return in this section. Here, though, their impact is softened by new
developments. The text in Sheila’s second chorus recalls the experience of
walking toward “the voice like a metronome.” Musicians and dancers defer to
the metronome, which is to say they obey it. The lyric signals Sheila has found
an authority figure to replace her father, a teacher she respects. Another develop-
ment is Bebe’s voice joining hers at m. 40. In this setting, Sheila is no longer fully
alone. The last event of note in Chorus 2 is the final cadence, which was previ-
ously noted for its role tying together the concepts of ballet and home.
The findings concerning the textual narrative and material elements of Sheila’s
section can now be applied to the full piece. The analysis will proceed by coordi-
nating the previous diagram in Example 8.13 with the narrative associations for
the core motives listed in Example 8.16. The 4ths and undulating LN shapes are
associated with doubt and uncertainty, the upturned 2nd with hope and epiphany,
and the linear 3rd with escape. In addition to these pitch-based motives, we
noted a gesture of Threefold Repetition occurring in all three subsegments of
Sheila’s section. This rhetorical motive adds emphasis to whatever sentiment that
is being expressed, whether it be wry humor, hope, or happiness.
Moving forward past Sheila’s section takes us to Bebe’s. The same Verse-
Chorus1-Chorus2 structure governs here, but Bebe begins her verse in A minor
instead of G minor and sings her choruses in D major and minor. This means that
“At the Ballet” exhibits directional tonality. In the same way that the linear third
motives aspire to ascend, so does the key and pitch structure of “At the Ballet” as a
whole.16 Bebe’s epiphany moment at mm. 58–59 further differs in that the humor
is darker (“I hated her”). Also, this time, the epiphany is felt by Bebe herself, not
her mother. Nevertheless, Bebe’s first response of viewing her mother as a toxic
influence only serves, as before, as an imperfect and impermanent solution. The
child Bebe may have earned some solace in asserting herself. This defense mech-
anism, however, proves insufficient for redeeming her.
Following the close of Bebe’s section, the form loosens as the narrative
pursues new developments. Maggie’s section, beginning at m. 95, has no 4/4 rock
beat. Instead, her character exposition is delivered in spoken word. While the
Chorus1, “ballet” music accompanies her, she describes her childhood ritual of
dancing with an imaginary Native American chief. Maggie’s role in this piece is
not simply to round out the trio. Shortly after she begins her verse, she changes
the course of the trio’s spiritual journey. She is the first to plunge into the turbu-
lent waters of the Crisis section (mm. 111–126) and will be the first to emerge
at the song’s climax. In contrast to Sheila and Bebe’s stories of their pasts, which
were compartmentalized, Maggie’s memories are related in real-time in more
immediate terms. The music of her verse quite literally depicts a psychological
rupturing, one so strong that it draws all the women together into a shared mo-
ment of Crisis. The closing portion of this analysis shall investigate the content
and drama of the Crisis and Denouement areas.
Example 8.16 Listing of motives of “At the Ballet” with narrative associations.
Our account will concentrate initially on events occurring in the domains

of key, harmony, and motive; see Example 8.17. The music of Maggie’s section
begins in a highly stable state. As she speaks in mm. 95–110, a solo flute playing
the “At the Ballet” melody in G major accompanies her. At m. 106, the mention of
her “fantasy life” initiates a transition segment.
The break with reality occurs specifically at m. 106; fittingly, this is the mo-
ment where the imaginary father figure is named. The music at this point is rad-
ically upended. Harmonically, an A7 chord with flatted fifth and ninth appears
that functions in G major as an altered ii chord. By enharmonic respelling, it is
an augmented sixth pivot chord that shifts the music to the key of C♯. In the span
of four measures, then, the music wrenches from a placid setting in G major to a
turbulent passage set in C♯ minor. This latter key is highly unstable both in rela-
tion to “At the Ballet’s” starting key, G minor, and its closing key, D major.
The rupture event that happens during this transition has a motivic component
as well. At m. 106, the flute line once more attempts an ascending linear 3rd motive
at the crest of its line on the notes F5-G. Every time we have heard this melody so
far, the line has stopped at the first “Hey.” Could it be that this motion might finally
continue, such that the upturned glance is transformed into a purposeful, ascending
3rd? This very nearly occurs, but no. The pitch-class G continues only by semitone.
The G♯ that follows in m. 110 is a shy substitute for A♮, the note that would more ef-
fectively proclaim a triumphant linear 3rd. The melody’s failure to attain A can be
viewed as a literal “off the tracks” moment that triggers the Crisis section.
The other two women are swept up into the storm that ensues in m. 111
(Example 8.18(a)). They sing a ghostly version of the “ballet” tune in “doo doo
doo” vocables, as if the redemptive power of the beloved discipline has been
Example 8.17 Maggie’s Verse/Chorus and the pre-Crisis area (mm. 95–110).

called into question. More significantly, the women revisit and recite a host of
hurtful quotations from before, which appropriately return as 4ths and oscil-
lating neighbor note motives. Narratively speaking, the forward emotional
progress of the song has been halted, and the women have been cast back fully
into doubt.
The Crisis area, in the narrowest sense, acts to remind listeners of earlier
musical materials. Within the family-forging narrative being advanced here,
though, mm. 111–126 have a more profound function. This segment of music
serves as the crucible into which the three women pour their anxieties. By means
of the fragments they trade, we hear their identities dissolving and begin to see
that each is helping shoulder the pain of the others. The three have come to em-
body sisterhood.
The forging of their bond within the Crisis section is also what precipitates its
end (see Example 8.18(a)). The section closes in mm. 126–127, where Maggie
reattempts the earlier dialogue with her fantasy father: “Maggie, do you wanna
dance?” The words are the same as before, but the outcome is different. This time
the music corrects the harmonic and motivic deviation from earlier. First, the
nervous, semitonal neighbors from the Crisis area are set aside. They are replaced
in mm. 123–125 by more confident major 2nds involving G♯ and A♯.
At m. 127, the key of D major is reclaimed, permanently vanquishing the un-
stable C♯ tonality. Simultaneously, Maggie attains the pitch-class A, the long-
delayed note capping the motion from F5 and G that the flute projected in mm.
108–109. This is shown by the large beam in Example 8.18(a). Once the Crisis
is overcome, no doubts or fears remain to inhibit the piece’s upward trajectory.
The song’s final Chorus1 area savors this shift, motivically. This time, when the
climactic “At the ballet” lyric is reached in m. 137, the music at last surges beyond
a single upturned glance. Maggie is not limited to a single, shy, “Hey” expressed
as an upturned 2nd. Instead, a large-scale C5-D-E stretches over mm. 137–142,
triggering the work’s emotional and musical high point. Where before the music
explored crisis, here it is finally free to reach its climax (see Example 8.18(b)).
Remarkably, when the dramatic peak arrives at m. 143 with the entrance of the
high brass, the three soloists go silent. The decision to have no singing in this sec-
tion makes sense in light of the song’s grand theme concerning the fate-altering
power of dance. At this point in the number, the back stage is illuminated to show
the full cast gracefully dancing: the spectacle of ballet is capable of speaking for
itself.17
The narrative of Triumph through dance is confirmed in the closing seg-
ment of the work, the Denouement section in mm. 151–163 (Example 8.18(c)).
The only motives that return here are those with positive associations. There
is one last “Hey” in m. 154, which prompts the three women to proclaim their
individual salvation. As a family speaking in turn, they invoke the Threefold
Example 8.18 Motives shape the main crisis and resolution of “At the Ballet.”
(a) The Crisis area, mm. 111–122. Crisis resolves at m. 127 as the aspiring Ascending 3rd from m. 103 is finally completed (large beam).
(b) Soon after the first 3rd is completed, another, sung by Maggie, ushers in the climax of the song at m. 143.
(c) Motivic counterpoint and softer, satisfied 3rds in the final bars of “Ballet.”
Repetition scheme one last time: I was pretty, I was happy, I would love to. As
they sing, the horn and vibraphone in mm. 155–157, support their melody with
a slow ascent through A4-A♯-B. This filled in chromatic 2nd places the upturned
glance motive in counterpoint with the threefold declaration of what the ballet
has meant to Sheila, Bebe, and Maggie.
This upward glance motive has undergone a significant journey. Present from
the outset as a seed of hope, it returns at the end to literally flower in the presence
of the women’s achievement. Sheila, Bebe, and Maggie’s final, unified declaration
is that everything they needed was found “At the ballet.” The final cadence of the
piece gilds the lily. The brass section murmurs one last linear third motive in its
ascending, aspiring form (mm. 160–162). The ♭VI-♭VII-I succession confirms the
women’s triumph in such a way that, once more, words seem almost unnecessary.
9
Conclusion
Motivic Theory in Context
Motives are near-ubiquitous due to their intersection with all of music’s structural
domains. This book’s focus has been on Western music, which in the past three
centuries has evolved to prioritize the domains of melody, counterpoint, rhythm,
harmony, form, and narrative. Much of the discussion in previous chapters is
dedicated to exploring the nature of those intersections, which explains the ex-
pansive nature of the book’s methodology area, c hapters 4–7. The material on
extracting basic motives from complicated surface textures delves into reduc-
tion, a learned practice that enfolds melody, counterpoint, and rhythm. The
material describing how prefix and suffix gestures decorate a core shape is de-
pendent on an awareness of harmony. The restrictions imposed at the end of
chapter 5, prohibiting motives from crossing strong phrase and section bound-
aries, turn on issues of small-and medium-scale form. The rules for assembling
and framing the analysis of full works, such as the Focal Point requirement, are
guided by narrative principles.
Were we to imagine a township populated by all available analytic methods,
the motivic analysis personage would reside near the center of that society. An
apt adage for characterizing this citizen would be, “jack of all trades,” in recog-
nition of its great flexibility. As noted in chapters 1–3, analysts of all stripes en-
list motivic analysis regularly. It matters not whether their specialty is set-theory
analysis, Schenkerian analysis, performance-and-analysis, or computer-aided
analysis. A finding derived from any of these areas can nearly always be rein-
forced by restating or analogizing it in terms of a traditional motivic connection.
The suitability of the term “jack of all trades” increases in light of two witty
extensions that the adage has acquired more recently. The first of these, “and
master of none,” suggests with good-natured humor that our factotum cannot
perform any single task perfectly. Motivic analysis is often not the best tool for
analyzing the full pitch content of a work, nor the rhythm content, nor the whole
work, itself! Consider the following situation involving an analyst who is in the
process of developing a complex motivic analysis (CMA). She has taken pains
to select a content-rich Focal Point segment and to posit a robust Complex to
serve as the source of all motivic material. In deploying this Complex, she may
still encounter segments that are only tenuously related to the Focal Point. The
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197526026.003.0011.
“problem” segments in question will almost assuredly receive some value, based
on the presence of at least one source rhythm or interval. Still, fitting these low-
scoring segments into analysis may nonetheless feel “forced” to her.
My concern regarding that situation is not that a later reader will object to our
hypothetical analyst’s CMA. The reader may simply disagree with the analyst’s
decisions about which motives are prominent or with her choice of Focal Point.
I am more concerned about the dissatisfaction our analyst is experiencing. After
devoting all of that time to studying the piece, should she not expect to have a
near-complete understanding of all of its shapes and gestures, and how they go
together?
The first reason why the answer to that question is no is systemic: the piece
at hand might simply resist motivic analysis. As this methodology was largely
derived from western European, nineteenth-century aesthetic/cultural sen-
sibilities, it applies most readily to compositions steeped in that tradition. This
body of work includes most pieces by Haydn, Beethoven, Mozart, Verdi, Chopin,
Dvořák, Tchaikovsky, and Grieg, and their Common-Practice colleagues.
Critically, it does not include all of their works. Particular care should be taken
when engaging these composers’ incidental works, such as short parlor pieces or
miscellaneous offerings known to be dashed off to raise funds or support state
functions. For works outside of the Western Common Practice, some caution
at the outset can prevent wasted effort later. It is certainly possible to apply mo-
tivic analysis to twentieth-century, nonpitched percussion pieces, to fourteenth-
century motets, and to modern day pop tunes from around the globe. The
chances of generating a meaningful analysis for any given piece deriving from
those traditions, though, will vary to some extent based on how closely they hew
to the Western, organic tradition.
Another reason the answer is no stems from the built-in limits of interpre-
tive musical knowledge. Pieces of music are artworks that support myriad inter-
pretations. It is for this reason that analysts revisit the same pieces many times
over the years, much in the same way that a performer might master a work and
then return to it periodically (Agawu 2004, 275–277). It is also the reason that a
wide variety of analytic systems have been developed by theorists. Each method
returns its own type of answer about how a piece’s components fit together. As
such, in cases where motivic analysis points strongly to the influence of a recur-
ring gesture—be it melodic, textural, or even physically embodied motion—the
analyst may need to open up a separate, specialized investigation of it. Motivic
analysis, in other words, can stand alone, but is most potent when it doesn’t.
A further aspect of “and master of none” applies to this book’s author and to its
potentially bifurcating readership. Near the close of chapter 1, I expressed a hope
that a new approach to motives might raise the general public’s interest in reading
and carrying out technical music analysis. In truth, most academics harbor some
Conclusion 313
form of this ambition. In this case, however, I can assure readers that this hope
does not stem from vanity. It is rooted in the firm belief that motives truly are
intuitive. Anyone who has hummed a fragment of a song or can immediately
recall guitar riffs from their favorite piece of rock music is capable of thinking
motivically. This “anyone” is most people; is that not exciting?
Chapters 1, 2, 4, 5, and 6 are written in a more conversational tone in the
hope of reaching past the earshot of academic musicians to that of a more ge-
neral audience. As one might imagine, it is difficult in most places to simulta-
neously engage both types of reader; in all other places, it is nigh impossible. In
chapters 1 and 2, lay readers can follow the main text, while specialists will likely
wish to delve into the citations and endnotes. Simple enough. When it comes
to chapter 5’s treatment of BMA, this balancing act becomes much more diffi-
cult. It may very well be that the primer on melodic reduction given at the start
of that chapter is too complicated for novices and too basic for experts. If I have
succeeded in positioning that material anywhere near the center on this spec-
trum of expertise, it should provide some value to everyone. For true beginners,
it serves as an invitation to step into the world of analysis by laying bare its basic
underlying principles: reduction, recursion, and unity. For experienced analysts,
it offers a new opportunity to ponder the benefits of tinkering with the principles
of reduction. A traditional, tonal counterpoint-based approach will yield generic
shapes that are more likely to resonate at multiple levels, while a salience-based
approach is more likely to yield idiosyncratic shapes that are more emblematic of
individual pieces.
The same rationale supports the decision to include primers on the historical
role of motive in composition in chapter 2, on motivic nomenclature in chapter 4,
and on musical form and narrative analysis in chapters 5 and 6 and Interludes.
Each of the areas in this list represents a well-developed subspecialty practiced by
a vibrant scholarly community that possesses a rich set of conventions and litera-
ture. In the act of summarizing, one could not hope to fully represent even one of
these subdisciplines, let alone all of them. I have therefore endeavored to adhere
to the guiding principles of each on the basis of a small sampling of prominent
treatises. It is here that I feel that the “master of none” sentiment is most apropos.
I expect that seasoned academics from every field impinged on will feel inclined
to protest that their area has been inaccurately represented. In cases where that
has happened, I apologize, especially in cases where my characterizations appear
dismissive. Any perceived affronts should be attributed to inelegant writing or
expression and not to malice.
In light of motivic analysis’s voraciously expansive nature, we can amusedly
observe how “jack of all trades, and master of none,” is modified by the last col-
loquial extension, “but better than one.” The last four words broker the com-
promise between the generalized nature of motivic analysis and the specialized
nature of adjacent theoretic and analytic subdisciplines. Analysts who are used
to working in more established fields may be tempted to write off motivic anal-
ysis as immature or for providing results that are too diffuse. The explanatory
power of this discipline should not be underestimated. The recurrences of shape
in music are responsible for its content, flow, and a great deal of its meaning.
The patterns of pitch, rhythm, harmony, texture, and so forth offer insight into
the thought patterns of composers writing music, performers interpreting it, and
listeners experiencing it.
What Motives May and May Not Be
Motivic analysis, as this book has formulated it, cannot offer a single, expert
ruling on how a piece is constructed. What it does do is allow analysts to quickly
and productively engage many dimensions of a musical work. In asking how
simple motives interact with harmony and form, for example, we are prompted
to study the work’s harmony and form in greater depth. In asking how complex
motives are in part harmonic, we arrive upon a view of harmonic progressions as
patterned, repeating, memorable units.
There is a class of uncharitable adjectives sometimes applied to theoretic enti-
ties that apply with great facility, meaning: in many circumstances. Specifically,
words like “extravagance” and “promiscuous,” carry connotations of moral fal-
libility and decadence (Downes 2010, 6). A classic example of an “extravagant”
harmony is the half-diminished seventh chord, which is capable of pointing to
many resolutions in many keys at once (Smith 1986). Closer to home, motivic
analysis, writ large, may be viewed as extravagant in that essentially a) any piece
can be analyzed by it and b) any gesture in a work can be viewed as a motive. The
wide-ranging utility of motivic analysis need not be viewed in negative terms,
however. Reflective of the fact that music is multidimensional, most convincing
analyses—even those relying heavily on a single technique, such as set theory—
typically augment their findings with information gleaned from examining
melodic contour, rhythm and meter, and a text or program (if known). The ad-
vantage of motivic analysis being a “jack of all trades” is that it has this type of
cross-modal sensibility “baked into it” from the start.
While maintaining the view that extravagance is generally beneficial, that
quality becomes a disadvantage if it is allowed to run rampant. Consider the
danger of broadening an established field to enfold increasingly more musical
domains. That system, sufficiently extended beyond its initial focus, would out-
grow its purpose and threaten to engulf all competing systems. Though such a
development is still far from coming to pass at the present time, this is not a moot
point. Already, within the corner of speculative theory staked out in this book,
Conclusion 315
complex motives have been formatted to allow them to engage all domains of
music. Their purview, moreover, is not limited to the most common domains.
Room has been set aside for motives to accommodate any further domains that
later theorists might wish to add.
This maneuver invites the question, “Can everything in music be conceived as
a kind of motive?” The technical limits imposed on motive in the early chapters
should be sufficient to show that the answer to this is “no.” Such limits, appro-
priately enough, stem from the central proposition that motives must move and
move us: they must exist in time and be memorable. A motive is disallowed from
having too short a duration. As defined, it cannot be a single, isolated event, no
matter how compelling. A grand pause is not a motive, nor is the first, brilliant
E-flat chord of Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony. (Though note: that sound event
grouped with the silence that immediately follows could be a motive). Nor is
a motive allowed to be too large. Excepting the rare case of miniscule novelty
pieces, such as the “Sphynxes” from Schumann’s Carnaval, a full-length piece
cannot be a motive. Taking into account the restrictions on working memory,
chapter 5 set an upper limit on motive length as “the length of a major section”
of a work, for example, the A or B area of ternary form or the recapitulation of
sonata form.
As we retreat from the clearest cases of too small and too large, the answer
to “Can any event be framed as motive?” admittedly becomes less clear. Basic
motives will, by definition, always manifest as pitch and rhythm events. It is com-
plex motives that run the greatest risk of slipping their perch of clear identity
and falling into the “anything goes” category. This peril is felt keenly when one
faces an audience’s inevitable set of hypothetical qualifying questions. Examples
include: “What about fugue subjects?” and “What about the opening guitar lick
from the Rolling Stones’s ‘Satisfaction’ that returns in every refrain-chorus?” In
each case, the inquirer wants to know: can’t each of these be a motive?
We begin with fugue subjects. (Here, “subject” should be understood as
encompassing all main theme entries, no matter their tonal profile.) Analysts
may consider a fugue subject a motive, but they should not unless there is a com-
pelling reason to do so. Most fugue subjects do not function on the whole as
motives, but as themes assembled out of motives. This generalization holds es-
pecially for lengthy subjects, such as the one found in movement II of Handel’s
Concerto Grosso, Op. 6, No. 4 in A minor. The subject of that fugal work, given
in Example 9.1(a), uses twenty-one notes to state four separate gestures. The
first is a syncopated Lower Neighbor. The second is a four-quarter-note ges-
ture read as a two 2nds added together: D5-C + F-E. Next, there is a climactic
high 2nd that could be interpreted as extending the previous shape (presently,
it is not). In the last two measures, there is a continuation idea stated in eighth
notes. Equal duration reduction (EDR) at the quarter note level reveals an //
Example 9.1 Fugal works by Handel and Bach.

(a) The subject of Handel’s Concerto Grosso in A minor, Op. 6, No. 4 (II).
(b) Climax of the Handel movement, mm. 97–104, explores new combinations of
motives from the subject.
(c) The subject of Bach’s Fugue in G♯ minor from Book I of the WTC.
Arp3 shape: C5-D-E-C-A4. Over the course of the piece, these shapes are explored
separately and in novel combinations, most notably in the final climactic meas-
ures, as shown in Example 9.1(b).
The same claim applies to medium- length subjects, such as those found
throughout Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier. The subject of the Fugue in G♯ minor from
Book I is two measures long and takes up fifteen notes; it is shown in Example 9.1(c).
The subject opens with a drawn-out 2nd, which leads to a short arch built of two
elided 3rds. It closes with a steady eighth-note fa-sol-do figure that serves as the
backbone of a iio6-V-i cadential progression. The 4-̂ 5-̂ 1̂ (fa-sol-do) idea frequently
appears on its own, notably in all of the fugue’s modulatory episodes. The subject’s
last and arguably most important motive is the three-note gesture that first appears
in the first half of m.2. This leap-to-a-semitone is labeled in the example as ⎡2nd.
Conclusion 317
For generations, musicians preparing to learn a fugue have been instructed

by their teachers to identify all complete subject and answer entries. This activity
does help to lay bare the basic thematic and tonal form. By our standards, though,
this circling and labeling of themes does not constitute deep analysis. It is more
akin to the armchair or word search-type observation that we saw Charles Rosen
denigrating in c hapter 1. If analysts aspire beyond that level of understanding, a
richer avenue of inquiry is to examine the motivic activity that frequently occurs
independently of the themes.
In the case of this Bach fugue, the semitone at the top of the ⎡2nd is highly
exposed in its first presentation. It juts out in register, and it highlights the dis-
sonant tritone interval, G♯3-C𝄪4. There is nothing about this motive that is inher-
ently aggressive or violent; however, the abrupt dissonance causes me to hear
it as a cry or “wail,” of sorts. Whether it is human or not, I cannot say, but it is
definitely visceral to an extent. The forward drive of the G♯ minor Fugue results
from activity in several domains as, for example, the texture increases from one
to four voices, and the register climbs from the low, tenor opening to the B5 that
eventually enters in m. 26, two and a half octaves above. The specific activity of
the “wail” motive correlates particularly well with the piece’s forward-leaning,
accumulative emotional arc.
This process is illustrated in Example Web.9 . Discounting the fact that the
highest tone sounds at m. 26, the climax of the work actually occurs in mm. 32–
41. Within this final segment, we hear the original 3rd⊕3rd arch stretch to span
a major third G♯3-A♯-B♯. This form of the subject in m. 32 is novel. It is, moreover,
aurally grating and difficult to play. There is also in this span a dramatic uptick
in intensity of fa-sol-do gestures, which repeat in many instances in thicker, dou-
bled orchestration.
The peak moment within this span centers on a “wail” event (m. 39). The
prominence of the ⎡2nd motive has, in fact, been steadily increasing all along.
Following its fourfold introduction in the fugue’s exposition, it spawns rapid
copies in mm. 17–18 while providing a new counterpoint to the subject in the
tenor. In mm. 21–23, it serves as the basis for an ascending sequence as it is rap-
idly exchanged (twice per measure) between the alto and bass voices. Just after
that, the soprano reaches its highest pitch in m. 26 specifically by means of two
chained ⎡2nds. Returning attention to the final segment, we see Bach applying
the most powerful rhetorical tools in fugue, homorhythm and silence, to privi-
lege the “wail” gesture. It sounds, completely alone in the soprano, one last time
in m. 39 (G♯4-B♯-C♯5). The final exposed statement of the ⎡2nd motive confirms
the dour, hopeless mood of the piece, and supports Bach’s choice in the last
measure to deny the music a Picardy third, the major-inflected form of tonic.
Having considered fugue subjects of great and medium length leaves open the
issue of whether the shortest fugue subjects can be motives. Two pieces from
Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier come to mind, the C♯ minor Fugue in Book I and
the E Major Fugue from Book II. It is certainly possible to declare these subjects
pitch motives unto themselves and to trace their development. As one does this,
I advocate that one should impose a similar kind of narrative on these motives
as we did for the G♯ minor Fugue to prevent the analysis from devolving into an
artless search for subjects and answers.
The foregoing discussion indicates that fugues are fully amenable to BMA. Yet
for those familiar with fugues, that point should provoke a bit of cognitive disso-
nance. Although fugue subjects are monophonic entities, fugues are, in the purest
sense, polyphonic. As is well known, a subject is predesigned by the composer
to work with its countersubject(s).1 A complex motive, then, will be far better
suited than a basic one to probe a fugue’s organicism and narrative. Following the
guidelines in c hapter 6, the Focal Point that is posited should be rich, containing
both diatonic and chromatic elements as well as paired subject and countersub-
ject material. For the G♯ minor Fugue, an ideal candidate segment is mm. 32–34,
which presents the subject in the tenor, the two countersubjects in the soprano
and alto, and, a running-sixteenth note idea in the bass that appeared once before
in m. 25. On the basis of these materials, a fuller narrative could be constructed
around the basic “wail” interpretation sketched earlier. Our last answer to the
question of fugue subjects as motives is this: a monophonic subject is generally
not a standalone motive, but will in all likelihood furnish some of the pitch and
rhythm attributes of a fugue’s central complex motive.
The other “what-about” challenge from earlier asked if the first riff from the
Rolling Stones’s song “Satisfaction” qualifies as a motive. Here the answer must
be yes. The riff, depicted in Example 9.2, is one of the most famous in all of classic
rock. Clearly, it is memorable, and for decades it has moved listeners. Set in E
blues and 4/4 time, the motive sounds two B3s on its first two beats, then traces a
syncopated arch motion up to D4 and back. The genius of the motive lies partly in
this two-part, “Hits” and “Arch” arrangement, which is designed to complement
the rhythms and pauses of the chorus lyrics. Well before the first verse arrives,
the guitar hits on B in the intro foreshadow how Mick Jagger will deliver the
most aggressive attacks in his lyric (see italics in the example). The downward
Example 9.2 The main guitar riff (hook) of “Satisfaction” by the Rolling Stones.
Schematic representation of notes, rhythms, and text.
Conclusion 319
3rd portion of the arch in the guitar riff serves as a windup gesture for driving the
music back to the downbeat of every odd measure.
Quick consideration of the “Satisfaction” riff reveals how motive-like it is,
but also opens the lid on a greater conundrum in pop and rock analysis. The
“Satisfaction” riff is not just a motive. It is a hook, a “musical or lyrical phrase that
sticks out and is easily remembered” (Monaco and Riordan 1980, 178 quoted
in Burns 1987, 1). Musical hooks, which are named after their ability to imme-
diately catch and hold listeners’ attention, are the lifeblood of pop. Most of pop
music’s greatest hits feature one or more hooks. The most famous hook in Aretha
Franklin’s “Respect” occurs where the band falls silent and she spells out the
song’s title, a capella. In “Hey Ya,” a 2003 hit by André 3000 with OutKast, it is dif-
ficult to say whether the hook is the basic groove material, the repeating cycle of
G-C-D-E chords occurring in six-and-a-half measures of 4/4 time, or the version
of it given in the chorus (0:33–1:06), where the groove supports a set of hypnotic
“Hey Ya”s and a new line of synthesizer counterpoint.
Other famous hooks, as compiled by the staff at Billboard magazine, include
the opening riff/groove of “Under Pressure” by Queen with David Bowie, and
the choruses of Carly Rae Jepson’s “Call Me Maybe” and the Beach Boys’ “Good
Vibrations” (11/12/15). All of these examples intuitively fit the concept of hook
despite their great variety in textures. The “Satisfaction” lick is a two-bar solo
for guitar. Aretha Franklin’s solo break explores a new texture and lyrical treat-
ment: spelling a song’s title is a common trope in pop music. The chorus of “Good
Vibrations” conveys the song title over a wash of sound full of electronica, a
pulsing beat, and thick, high, vocal planing in the signature Beach Boys manner.2
Are hooks motives, then? Perhaps. All of the hooks noted here are of modest
length and could readily be poured into the complex motive mold. The problem
for most of them is their overexposure. In the case of “Hey Ya,” the hook cycles con-
tinuously, rendering it generic. The same can be said for “Under Pressure.” There
is a steady crescendo of instrumental layering and volume that occurs throughout
the song, but these add little interest to the original idea. In “Call Me Maybe,” the
reverse situation obtains, where the hook is walled off from the rest of the piece.
The verse and pre-chorus of “Call Me Maybe” are thinly scored and quiet. These
areas delay the arrival of the loud, eclectic, and—this is meant in the best way—
bubble-gum chorus. The song is essentially a one-trick pony, in which the main
element the audience truly wants to partake in is hook material.
The potential hook-motives in all three of these songs fail to develop. In the
first two cases, it is because they stagnate; in the third, it is because the hook fails
to connect organically with other segments. This condition of failing to develop is
incompatible with motivic analysis as this theory formulates it, which leads me to
recapitulate a point I have made before: An analyst can consider a hook a motive,
but should not unless there is a compelling reason to do so. The preceding examples
are not anomalous. There there are thousands of songs like “Hey Ya” and “Call Me
Maybe” that will resist analysis when the hook is selected as the Focal Point.
All that said, there are also thousands of popular songs in which the hook event
does appears to be motivically significant. Aretha Franklin’s “Respect” is one of
them. In its 1967 version, the famous R-E-S-P-E-C-T hook is delayed to 1:49, which
is more than two-thirds of the way through the song. Although the “stop time” tex-
ture there seems novel, the spell-it-out moment closely resembles the other choruses
found at 0:21, 0:41, 1:03, and 1:40. All of those earlier arrivals similarly mention
“Respect” and spotlight the backup chorus material of alternating D tonic and G
subdominant harmonies.3 In “Good Vibrations” and “Stayin’ Alive,” the main hooks
similarly resonate across each song. The chorus of the former is sufficiently rich,
orchestrally and contrapuntally, to allow elements such as the theremin’s ghostly
sound to bleed into the verse, bridge, and outro areas. The latter tune, “Stayin’ Alive,”
is likewise unified across its form by rhythm and harmony. The way it avoids the
“Hey Ya” condition is by exhibiting a series of closely related yet distinct hooks. The
hook from the introduction (0:00–0:12) features syncopated guitar riffs and an up-
ward pitch bend in the strings, while the hook in the chorus (0:32–0:57) subtracts
the guitar while adding in the song’s title and stylized panting on “Ha.” Either of
these segments could very well serve as a Focal Point within a fuller CMA.
This last line of argument might seem to imply that motivic analyses of pop
and rock music should aspire to be comprehensive. While CMA is a fine tool,
BMA remains viable in cases where a single aspect of a hook attracts attention.
As an example, Traut 2005 notes a delightful motivic parallelism lurking inside
“My Sharona” by The Knack. It involves the repeated utterances of “My my my.”
When these “my”s appear “spread out over a two measure span” at the build-
up area of the chorus, they “create a nice elongation of the much shorter title
hook, M-M-M-My Sharona” heard shortly afterward (Traut 2005, 69). This point
stands on its own merits, but also could be expanded into an investigation of how
the text’s “S-S-S-L” rhythm resonates elsewhere, such as in the staccato, popped,
register-leap gestures given in the drums and bass, starting in m. 1.
A host of similar “Can’t X be a motive?” queries can be directed toward other the-
oretic entities. One such structure is the schema, as recently formalized by Robert
Gjerdingen’s Music in the Galant Style. Schemata (plural) are compositional modules
that eighteenth-century composers linked together to build phrases, periods, and
larger sections of music (Gjerdingen 2007, 10–16, 29). Schemata are short, usu-
ally occupying only a few measures, and are conceived as networks simultaneously
enfolding information about melody, harmony, and counterpoint. Does this mean
that compositional schemata are motives? I would say, despite their sharing a signif-
icant strand of DNA with complex motives, that mostly they are not.4 Gjerdingen’s
interest in schemata is historical and sociological: he characterizes them as common
formulas that composers learned by rote and deployed in their music, much as
people at formal gatherings deploy prescribed conventions of greeting, speaking,
Conclusion 321
and taking leave. In music, as in life, various schemata succeed each other rapidly.
A schema analysis of a work is thus more interested in disunity than in the kind of
organicism prioritized in motivic analysis.5 In addition, the components within each
schema’s network are bound together. They are not meant to be reduced, extracted,
and sought out elsewhere as separable elements.
Gjerdingen’s analytic practice notwithstanding, it is easy to see how closely
schema theory and motivic analysis overlap and how they could productively in-
teract. The primary aspects listed in a schema’s network translate readily to the
analogous areas of a complex motive; only minor adjustment is needed to recast
Gjerdingen’s scale degree patterns and Roman numeral analysis as melodic and har-
monic motives. What is more, the names of the schemata, which boast descriptive
titles such as Romanesca, Prinner, and Pastorella, already encode information about
topic and allusion, an important secondary domain element of complex motives.
The main factor limiting the integration of the methods is that schema theory
is in a relatively early phase of development. To analyze with schemata, one must
necessarily select for pieces in a tradition for which a full set of schemata have
been defined. Originally, this meant instrumental pieces from the Galant pe-
riod (roughly 1720–1780); however, since the publication of Gjerdingen’s book,
scholars have been steadily working to propose schemata for other genres and
traditions. Recent work by Sherrill and Boyle, for example, establishes fifteen
new schemata for recitative passages in Galant opera (2015). Recitative, impor-
tantly, is a vocal tradition that, prior to now, might be seen as resistant to mo-
tivic analysis because of its highly unpredictable surface melodies and rhythms.
Sherill and Boyle’s method is effective for parsing recitative passages into formu-
laic modules of the type shown in Example 9.3.
Their approach could potentially inform motivic analysis by suggesting the
kinds of motives that are appropriate for a passage. At the surface, short me-
lodic motives can be seen to associate with their schema labels, such as the A3-
D4 4th leap appearing inside their Schema #2 (“Prua”), and the F♯3-A scalar 3rd
inside their Schema #5 (“Vela”). Their segmentation further suggests a means
for applying reduction to recitative. EDR, by nature, is an awkward fit for freely
measured music. A better strategy would be to draw either one or two repre-
sentative pitches from each of Boyle and Sherrill’s modules, or all of them when
a conjunct melody appears (Schema #8). Motivic analysis has the potential for
enriching schema theory, as well. That discipline presently offers few guidelines
about schema ordering (Gjerdingen 2007, 377). The few it does are general,
concerning formal function: for example, Sherrill and Boyle suggest that a set
of interchangeable “initiatory” schemata will proceed to “medial” and “closing”
schemata (2015, 13). On the basis of the tones extracted from segments, other
forces might be called on to explain segment ordering. Example 9.3 subjects one
of their segmentation schemes to reduction in two voices as indicated by up-
ward and downward stemmed notes. Once the large linear 5th is imposed, the
Example 9.3 Example 24 from Sherrill and Boyle 2015. Galant schema

segmentation informs reduction (newly added stems and beams).
syntactic function of the schemata can be rationalized as 1) providing the high

tone D4, 2) elongating the phrase by pausing the long-range descent, and 3) con-
cluding the phrase with rapid descent.
Much has been made of the present method’s open-endedness, specifically in
regard to the operations allowed for associating motives and the domains in-
cluded within CMA. In both cases, readers are encouraged to augment the orig-
inal prescribed lists with their own rigorous, stylistically-relevant operations
and domains. In addition to these extensions, we here note one more. Readers
will recall that the two Interlude sections of Musical Motives explored a set of
archetypes borrowed from literary theory for the purposes of structuring com-
prehensive and moving accounts of pieces. The specific plotlines prescribed—
Propagative, Accretive, and Cyclic—are in no way definitive. Depending on
the cultural sensibilities of the music and the analyst, a host of other plotlines
could be devised. One can easily imagine abandoning the linear, time-directed
narratives that have long held sway in Western aesthetic discourse in favor of
other worldviews. Doing so would introduce intriguing new wrinkles into BMA
and CMA, not least with respect to their graphic representations. In place of left-
to-right oriented flow charts and clockwise loops, analysts could explore alter-
nate criteria for representing motivic activity and relatedness. Inspiration for
these alternate schemes could come from nonrepresentative artworks such as
those shown in Example 9.4 by Wassily Kandinsky (1866–1944).
In Kandinsky’s Several Circles (Example 9.4(a)), the bursts of activity in
the northwest and southeast regions of the canvas suggest two main motivic
conglomerations. In crafting a CMA narrative of a ternary form piece, an analyst
Example 9.4 Nonrepresentative artworks as inspiration for further narrative
archetypes.
(a) Vasily Kandinsky, Several Circles (Einige Kreise), 1926. Oil on canvas, 55 1/4 x
55 3/8 inches (140.3 x 140.7 cm). Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, New York,
Solomon R. Guggenheim Founding Collection, By gift.
(b) Vasily Kandinsky, Little Accents (Petits accents), 1940. Oil on wood panel, 12 5/
8 x 16 1/2 inches (32 x 42 cm). Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, New York, The
Hilla Rebay Collection.
could generate a roughly analogous image by depicting the music’s A and B

sections as two main regions, with like motives grouped inside by color or prox-
imity. Kandinsky’s Little Accents (Example 9.4(b)) could serve as a blueprint for
an alternate motivic scheme. In this case, groups of like motives—even those
separated by great distances in the score—could be organized atemporally in
linear regions, with size and shape used to represent surface variations.”6
The Persistent Limitations and Future Promise

of Motivic Analysis
With all of the effort given over to building flexibility into this method, it
is acutely ironic that it exhibits such consistent unease with the one aspect of
Schoenberg’s theory that was created to treat issues of musical ambiguity. I am
referring here to developing variation. If a melody opens with an ascending 3rd
motive with arsis-to-thesis energy, Schoenbergian theory holds that that shape,
under repetition and subtle alteration, can grow to become a 5th, 6th, and then
eventually an octave or more. The argument that the shape transforms over time
is sustained by appeals to listener memory and to general musical “logic.”
To clarify, the method prescribed in this book does allow musicians to en-
gage with developing variation to a limited extent. If we wish to trace the evolu-
tion of that hypothetical, two-note gesture, we can define it as a complex motive
possessing pitch, rhythm, and contour attributes. Every time the shape returns
spanning a larger interval, the rhythm and ascending contour will be retained.
Mathematically speaking, this amounts to two-thirds (66.66 percent) of the
shape returning. The light that CMA shines on, say, the varied presentations
of a melodic-rhythmic shape thus is more comprehensive in some ways than a
Schoenbergian reading, in that it selectively tracks which aspects of the motive
are retained. In many other ways, of course, it says less. What falls to the wayside,
mostly, is the poetry. A process that Schoenberg would have viewed as evolution
or a yearning for growth is, in this method, rendered clinically as “a pickup figure
occurring three times in succession with x and y degrees of alteration.”
I am exaggerating a bit here. It remains true that this method aspires to inject
poetry and narrative concerns into analysis whenever possible, at the same time
that it privileges literal over varied repetition. It is that last shift in philosophy that
ensures that this analytical approach could never be mistaken for Schoenberg’s.
I am quite certain that he would have detested the “improvements” Musical
Motives makes to his method. Its new rules, which are offered in the spirit of
making Schoenberg’s system more rigorous, at times will block analysts from
commenting on some motivic connections that feel true but cannot be proved.
Having died in 1951, Schoenberg cannot have known the extent to which music
Conclusion 325
theory would flourish as a scholarly discipline. His prescience concerning the

potential fate of his own theories is, however, remarkable:
I would have . . . liked to have brought one or another idea into the world,
and still more to have stood up for it, spoken for it, and fought for it. I would
have liked to have done for myself what my disciples will do. I would also have
liked—I cannot deny it—to have won the glory for it. Now I suppose I must do
without all that, and content myself with what is really there, with all that I have
borne, whose paternity will undeniably be granted to me, and not begrudge
recalling ideas, undoubtedly brought forth by my creative will, that will now
be adopted by others. Unfortunately, I know only too well how disciples differ
from the prophet. How what was free and agile, perhaps even seemingly full of
contradictions, now becomes rigid, pedantic, orthodox, exaggerated, but uni-
form—for the talented, all that is great, like nature is full of contradictions be-
cause they don’t see the real connections, and thus the essential deludes them.
This damned uniformity!
(Auner 2003, 53–54)
These are the words of a musician who ranks artistry above all other concerns,
who would disavow any elegant comprehensive theory were it to require him to
sacrifice even a single intuited insight. But of course, Schoenberg always viewed
himself primarily as a composer, where I view myself primarily as a music the-
orist. My aim in pointing out the irony of Musical Motives—a book that, by the
act of strengthening the terms of a pre-existing theory causes its collapse—is to
first point out the gulf between our philosophies. More generally, it is to remind
readers of the inevitable trade-offs that theorists must always make when seeking
to establish and obey rules that apply to the musical arts.
Not everyone will be satisfied with that answer. For any who feel that the
present method is too literal and restrictive, they may establish and newly in-
clude operations that recognize inexact repetition. In addition to developing
variation analysis, which is still in practice, a number of more rigorous theories
have been developed for this purpose. Among the most promising is the area
of theory concerned with “similarity” relations, in which the degree of overlap
between two entities is determined through comparison of their total pitch,
pitch-class, and interval content.7 The challenge, if one hopes to incorporate
any kind of nonliteral viewpoint into motivic analysis, will not arise at the local
level. Modern music theory already possesses many ways to answer the ques-
tion, “How similar, exactly, are these two events?” It will arise at the macro
level, where the number of motives an analyst juggles at once expands beyond
two, three, or four, as here, to dozens or hundreds, whose individual identities
will be difficult to establish.
One reason, then, that the present method excludes developing variation-
type transformations procedures is to ensure neater frameworks for BMA and
CMA. Another is that many of the more advanced techniques for calculating
similarity require computer-aided analysis. Analyzing music via computer is not
beyond the reach of the average, musically literate reader. Getting started with
computer analysis, however, does require a longer period of training, in which
one must become familiar with the language of encoded music and with running
analytic software. Just as important, one must become adept in developing the
right questions to ask the computer to obtain usable results.
There are many advantages to employing a computer in analysis, such as ef-
ficiency and infallibility. If asked to locate a motive in a piece, a computer can
perform the task millions of times faster than a human and will do so perfectly,
not overlooking any literal repetitions.8 A computer enlisted to calculate levels
of organicism for the data charts used in CMA will never omit a value or average
the applicable domains incorrectly. Its capacity for analyzing many pieces at once
allows researchers to investigate other kinds of “big” theory questions. To in-
quire into the topic of compositional influence, one can isolate an iconic motive
from one composer—say, Beethoven’s “fate” motive—and seek it out in works by
predecessors and successors. This same procedure, applied to many thousands
of pieces, can inform style analysis by establishing which types of motives are fa-
vored in certain time periods and regions.
These extended techniques are worth pursuing. The reason they are not
accommodated here is, again, due to my own analytic proclivities. In traditional,
hermeneutic analysis, one begins working on a piece by applying whatever back-
ground knowledge and expertise one possesses. The decisions one makes on
what motives are important and what form they take are circular: one intuits
a starting set of shapes from the piece, tries out analysis, and then retools the
motive bank in the hopes of improving the result. This kind of give and take ap-
proach, in which one concentrates attention on a single work for a long period of
time, might strike some as myopic. Others, who see the value of this approach,
are more likely to view analysis as an opportunity to actively engage with a piece
of music, to re-perform it, if you will.
Through the continual refining and adjustment of motives, analysts re-
trace the steps by which composers assemble their pieces out of shape and
gesture. The process I am describing should sound familiar to anyone who
has received training in musical analysis, no matter the type. Set theory
analysts engage in dialogue with pieces by customizing their analytic toolbox
in real time. Perhaps the trichord they initially selected would have more
explanatory power if it were a tetrachord that included other interval types,
or perhaps a more compelling story would emerge from circling alternate
sets in the score. Schenkerian analysts devote long hours to drafting multiple
Conclusion 327
voice-leading graphs of a single work, which amounts to recomposing it sev-

eral times over.
Human beings are innately musical, meaning that most everyone seeks out
music. The degrees to which they choose to do this vary tremendously, however.
Some people enjoy hearing it and moving to it when it is present, but that is all.
Some dedicate time to performing it as experts (trained instrumentalists) or as
amateurs (dancing, tapping, and singing along). Some create their own music,
composing new works with the aid of technology and/or by improvising alone or
in groups. In modern Western culture, these activities are informally ordered in
a type of progression. Young musicians typically start with singing and dancing,
and then—time and opportunity permitting—take up trained performance.
Ultimately, those in the Classical stream may opt to study advanced-level music
in academies or universities and pursue a career in music. Those in the popular
music stream may simply find in their young adult years that more and more of
their time is spent making music.
When a musician at any level of proficiency thinks about moving to the next,
he takes stock of himself, asking “do I wish to know more?” Those content with
their level of ability and knowledge will answer “no,” or will not entertain the
question at all. Passionate connoisseurs of music, who wish to experience it more
deeply, in more ways and at new levels, will answer “yes.” Professional and pre-
professional musicians rarely think about these choices anymore; for them, a
day of playing, making, and analyzing music is simply their way of life. Amateur
musicians, in contrast, confront this issue often, since it is their precious spare
time that must be bartered for that needed to read up on their favorite bands,
play music with friends, seek out lead sheets and transcriptions online, or follow
reddit threads on theory and analysis.
This book opened with an appeal to those amateur musicians and will close
with another. If your appreciation for music has at all stagnated—if you feel your
favorite old recordings or your old instrumental noodling patterns are growing
stale—the problem may not be that your attention span has diminished. It is
likely that you have temporarily run out of ways to experience music. If you listen
only, you can get more involved in the making of music by taking up an instru-
ment and/or composing. If you listen and play already, you should explore new
artists and genres . . . but also, you should strive to know more about the music
and musical works you love. Before the age of the Internet, this meant reading
and attending public lectures. Those resources remain. Now, however, they are
supplemented by a host of online video essays that examine the hidden technical
features of well-written music.
Some of these video essays are of extremely high quality, boasting sufficient
creativity, polish, and insight to inspire just about anyone. The video medium
has an inherent weakness, however, which is that it promotes passive learning.
The viewer watches and listens, but does not create. To truly engage the brain,
musically, it is necessary to do something musical. It is in this respect that music
analysis shines. It is this technical, detail-driven practice that allows us to get our
hands on the music as we ask questions of it.
For anyone who feels that they have exhausted all the usual pathways toward
musical wonderment, I prescribe a regimen of music analysis. It is one thing to
listen to an expert point out hidden connections that enhance your appreciation
of your favorite works. Such an experience can be of great value, especially in
providing analytic models worthy of emulation. But know this: no claim or in-
sight into a piece of music you come across, no matter how complex or poetically
perfect it seems, will mean anything to you unless you are able to experience it for
yourself. This is a tall order for the average music fan, who lacks the time and
resources to become versed in diatonic and chromatic harmony, species coun-
terpoint, and twelve-tone space, and all of this before immersing themselves in
Schenker and set-theory. (In truth, it is a sizable task even for professional music
theorists!) Fortunately, there is a way forward through this seeming morass.
There are many pathways to choose from when preparing to embark into the
deep woods of music analysis. Some are short and return a quick data point, while
others are long and lead to deeper routines of questioning. Some of the paths have
been attended to for decades by theorists pruning away inconsistencies and posting
signs for proper analytic conduct. These routes are pretty and well manicured, but
often very narrow. This book stands as an invitation for curious travelers to stroll
down a decidedly different type of promenade. The pathway representing the prac-
tice of motivic analysis is exceptionally wide. It will accommodate specialists pur-
suing the most complex strains of analysis as well as amateurs seeking information
about the most basic (yet still highly satisfying!) echoes and re-echoes of basic me-
lodic and rhythmic shapes. This path, however, is also a bit unkempt, with fewer
traditions and rules in place than others. Hopefully, readers will not find it quite so
wild and woolly as they did before beginning this book.
To anyone that passes this way, I bid you good fortune and happy hunting.
I take cheer in your enthusiasm and await your findings with great anticipation.
The last advice I offer to ensure the best possible results is to analyze respon-
sibly, which entails treating the system with care and keeping its limitations in
mind. Remember that, within the realm of motivic analysis, there are no absolute
truths waiting to be discovered. There are only a myriad of smaller truths. The
first emergence of any of these truths will apply to a single consciousness, the
investigator relying on motives to interrogate her or his own habits of hearing,
understanding, and feeling. This analyst will look to communicate this truth to
others, and this is what a theory of music is for. Musical Motives exists to facilitate
such conversations. It is offered in the hopes that in future discussions that in-
volve motives, musicians will come closer to speaking the same language.
Notes
Chapter 1
1. Victor Zuckerkandl (1956, 75–79) identifies the music–motion connection in the

writings of Hegel, Helmholtz, Hanslick, Schenker, and perhaps most famously, Roger
Sessions. An alternate account is explored in Rowell 1983 (170–172).
2. This book follows scientific pitch notation, in which all pitches within an octave, C
ascending to B, receive the same numerical designation. For example, the lowest note
on an eighty-eight-key piano is A0 and middle C is C4. When describing strings of
melodic pitches, the first note will be given a register designation. All subsequent
notes will be assumed to lie in the same octave unless a new octave is specified (e.g.,
E4-C-D-B3-A-E4 starts above middle C, crosses below it for two notes, and then ends
on the E above).
3. In further support of the argument that all music moves, Gjerdingen 1999 (142) cites
“the conjecture that many motion percepts . . . may be a product of the same type of
neural circuitry” proposed by Grossberg and Rudd 1989 for vision. Sidestepping the
thorniest questions of how the brain responds to music, we will concern ourselves
only with post-listening contemplation. At that stage, it is reasonable to assume any
musician would perceive a series of nonoverlapping pitches that are proximate in reg-
ister as a single, moving line.
4. A precedent for Schoenberg’s account of motive is found in Hugo Riemann’s definition
from the previous century: “A melodic fragment which in itself constitutes the smallest
unit of expressive meaning” (Riemann 1903, 14, cited in McCreless 1990, 227).
5. The connection to the opening soprano idea is actually slightly stronger: its four-note
shape, C3-D♭-C-F is sounded by the bass in mm. 5–8. See also: the semitone trill!
6. Korsyn 2003 cites a like demonstration from Sigmund Spaeth in which the melody
of the song “Yes! We Have No Bananas!” is shown emerging from the absurd com-
bination of Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus and “My Bonnie Lies over the Ocean” (98).
Korsyn’s example opens an important discussion on the “policing” of motivic associ-
ations, which is to say, deciding whether to limit them to one movement or to allow
them to serve as the bases of inter-movement and inter-opus allusions.
7. A more politic way to state this would be to say that forward momentum strongly
correlates with motives and stasis with their absence. I favor the main text’s wording
because it invites us to question common assumptions about motive and motion.
Most would not immediately regard a homophonic chorale as composed of motives
(though one may certainly discern their presence), but to the extent it exhibits for-
ward energy it must be. In contrast, a moment form piece, such as Kontakte by
Stockhausen, may initially appear to exhibit motives at least in the interior of its
330 Notes
nonlinear texture-blocks. But if one interprets these blocks occurring out of time, as
representative of some “now” and completely devoid of forward motion, then those
shapes do not function as motives.
8. “In 1942, Von Békésy was the first to observe that at every point along its length, [the
basilar membrane, a region in the ear] vibrates with maximum amplitude for spe-
cific frequency. This finding confirmed the hypothesis launched eighty years earlier
by Helmholtz, that the cochlea performs a frequency analysis” (Rasch and Plomp
1999, 92).
9. In experiments carried out by Eitan and Granot, a mixed population of musicians
and nonmusicians were exposed to paired sound stimuli in the domains of pitch
(ascent and descent), dynamics (crescendo and diminuendo), and duration (elon-
gation and contraction). They report that “pitch ‘rises’ suggest, as expected spatial
ascent” but are also “significantly associated with moving away (contrary to the
Doppler effect), with acceleration, and with higher energy” (2004, 232–233). In
other words, the up/down pitch metaphor is hardly universal.
10. This series of events is described by Daniel Levitin with regard to brain scans taken of
participants in a listening experiment: “Listening to music caused a cascade of brain
regions to become activated in a particular order: first, auditory cortex for initial pro-
cessing of the components of the sound. Then the frontal regions . . . that we had pre-
viously identified as being involved in processing musical structure and expectations.
Finally, a network of regions—the mesolimbic system—involved in arousal, pleasure,
and the transmission of opioids and the production of dopamine” (2006, 187).
11. The specific quality of an interval, for example major (G4–E♭) versus minor (F4–D) for
thirds, is usually disregarded as an identity marker for tonal motives.
12. The same analogy between motif and motive is noted in Laitz 2008 (768–769).
13. Degeorge and Porter note the role of tile patterns for “bringing out architectural
forms—the verticals, the soffits of an arch.” This role was sufficiently established that
tenth-century “Geometry treatises were even written with the architectural decorator
in mind” (2002, 28).
14. Sims, Marshak, and Grube 2002 describe this piece in similar terms: “The decoration
consists of abstract geometrical motifs, and birds and animals of a particularly ele-
gant stylization that was hardly ever surpassed, anywhere, at any time. Features are
elongated to the point of abstraction, like the long necks of the water-birds pacing
around the rim and the bodies of the hounds, perpetually pursuing themselves in
the next register. Natural shapes are exaggerated, as seen in the extravagantly curved
horns of the bearded mountain goat in the widest register of the beaker.”
15. In modeling perception, Alexander’s graphic represents one of the first of several
“conceptual models” that will be encountered in this study. A fuller definition and
account of conceptual modeling is given in c hapter 3.
16. The term for motives that have acquired such meaning, originating with Wagner,
is Leitmotive. Famous examples from his Ring cycle symbolize Valhalla, Siegfried,
and the “curse” on the Rheingold; famous examples from popular cinema include
the “Empire” theme from the George Lucas’s Star Wars trilogy and the “Shire” music
from Peter Jackson’s The Lord of the Rings trilogy.
Notes 331
17. In support of this notion, we note first that dramatic music is possible without words.
That fact is evidenced by thousands of Classical instrumental pieces written in the “ab-
solute music” tradition as well as by the existence of untexted works written in jazz, folk,
country, and rock idioms. Second, in cases where words appear, they may be regarded
as serving a subsidiary purpose. A song may begin its existence as a poem, but once
music is added, the text’s status changes. In three models of text–music relationships
proposed by Agawu 1992, words are relegated to a lesser position by virtue of either
being dependent on the musical aspect or being subsumed by it (or by the song genre).
18. The emphasis given here to motives’ structural behavior is not meant to enshrine
formalism. A host of scholars, among them Robert Hatten, Lawrence Kramer, and
Susan McClary, have convincingly argued not only that music carries meaning but
also that all such meaning is culturally encoded. Harold Bloom wrote, “There is no
such thing as a poem in itself ” (1997, 43). It follows that there is no such thing as a
piece of music in itself: a musical work is “a relational event, embodying impulses . . .
from a variety of sources” (Straus 1990, 12). All who come in contact with a mu-
sical work bring their experiences to bear on it. There is no cause to investigate that
chain of awareness here. I make reference to it to allow us to separate upper-level mu-
sical meaning—which will always be ineffable to an extent—from the type of modest,
baseline meaning referenced earlier in the main text. Such meaning, which turns on
recognition of the abstract patterning of motives, in my view entails nothing more
than actively listening to a work.
19. Further discussion and argument for this “introversive” mode of analyzing will be
given in Interlude 1.
20. Merriam-Webster, s.v. “motive.”
21. Truly listening to music, often referred to as “active listening,” means preparing our-
selves to receive intelligent communication.
22. See Lakoff and Johnson 2003 for discussion of how conceptual thinking is rooted
in bodily experience. Further discussion of how metaphor applies to musical know-
ledge is given in Brower 2000, including specific narrative schemas like “departure,”
“return,” and “overcoming blockage” (353).
Chapter 2
1. Information theory is a subdivision of mathematics that treats modes of communica-

tion such as speech, sonic waveforms, and alpha-numerical codes. An introduction
to and brief history of the discipline is given in Bose 2008 (1–9).
2. As discussed at length in Straus 1987, Dubiel 1990, and Cohn and Dempster 1992,
counterpoint depends on a set of requirements. Chief among these are a vocabulary
of standard chords and a sense of hierarchy, which holds that a set of two or more
faster notes stand in for or “reduce to” a single, longer representative note. A fuller
discussion of issues surrounding counterpoint will appear in c hapter 5 in the section
on melodic reduction.
332 Notes
3. Of the many oversimplifications present in Example 2.3, the design and content of the
far right columns may be the most egregious. To carry out a responsible style anal-
ysis, it would be necessary to devote many pages to each of the three streams shown.
Within the sphere of popular music, for example, the roles of harmony and motive are
radically different across different subgenres. These two domains play a more domi-
nant role in structuring Motown songs and piano-based rock pieces by the Beatles and
Elton John; in contrast, they generally play a more textural, formulaic role in repetitive
blues-based rock and sample-track rap music. Moreover, it is common for artists to ex-
plore many types of subgenre as they develop, such that the relative prominence of all
the listed style elements fluctuates.
4. The Lydian mode is a diatonic collection that uses the same intervals as a major scale,
but arranges them in a different order over the central note (similar to a “tonic,” but
called a modal “final”). In practice, it sounds like a major scale with a raised fourth
scale degree.
5. This two-word term is fraught with complexity (see Crocker 1962, 16–17, and
Tymoczko 2011, 226–230). Used in this text, it refers to musics that, first, exhibit a
preference for triadic vertical harmonies and, second, favor certain orderings of those
harmonies to produce a forward-tilting sensation commonly referred to as “progres-
sion.” Under this definition, Common-Practice Classical music can be said to exhibit
functional harmony in the form of standard root chord progressions, while world
musics like Gamelan do not.
6. This revolution was initiated by Jean-Philippe Rameau, a composer-theorist whose ac-
tive period wholly coincides with J.S. Bach’s. A set of early chapters in Rameau’s 1722
Treatise on Harmony are remarkable for recognizing inversional equivalence among
chords. (Hard as it may be to believe, it was not at all common before Rameau to regard
two D7 chords, one with a D in the bass versus one with an A in the bass, as the same
creature.) Later chapters in his treatise set out rules for the allowable successions of
chords based on their root motions, a precursor to what became Common-Practice
chord-progression theory.
7. The gigue’s opening gesture, in other words, functions somewhat in the manner of an
opening argument in an oration. There is a long tradition of conceiving purely mu-
sical processes in terms of rhetoric (Butler 1977, Harrison 1990, McCreless 2006).
According to that tradition, a successful piece follows the model of a successful spoken
address in which a central argument is presented, then broken down, challenged, and
proven. It is known that Bach’s duties in Leipzig included instructing students in rhet-
oric. Even were this not the case, as a learned musician of the European Enlightenment,
he would have been acutely aware of this tradition.
8. The motion from F4-A is properly a “chordal leap,” since it does not unfold a full triad.
This text will generally treat chordal leaps as the degenerate case of arpeggiation; hence
the moniker Arp2.
9. No stipulation has been made that the low-level arpeggiating gestures of Climb must
derive from a single triad, thus the label readily applies to these longer tonic-dominant
stretches.
Notes 333
10. In the interests of clarity, the present analysis keeps separate the Cascade and 3rd
motives. This decision does not preclude the possibility of the two being unified at
some deeper level, with both perhaps springing in the abstract from some ur-linear-
third. (This possibility is suggested by the close proximity and interchangeability of C
and the linear 3rd, and especially by that moment in m. 21 where the 3rd grows into
the C motive.) This issue, which is highly complex from both methodological and
philosophical standpoints, will eventually be taken up in the book’s conclusion.
11. This generalization applies primarily to the expository areas of Classical pieces. In
contrast, the transitional and developmental areas in these works exhibit more ir-
regular phrasing. Within them, expansions, elisions, interpolations, and excisions of
material frequently result in asymmetrical phrase structures.
12. This is especially true for dramatic genres such as opera, where it is well known that
Mozart indicated characters’ shifting intent and mood by altering their melodic mate-
rial; see David Lewin’s comments on Mozart’s Figaro (2006). Such practices led James
Webster to comment that “Motivic development within a number is unquestionably
one of Mozart’s most important techniques for generating coherence, precisely in the
supple, unremarkable ways that dramatic music requires (and in full compatibility
with the lessened importance of tonal ‘polarities’ and ‘resolutions’ compared to in-
strumental music)” (1990, 211).
13. As for subsequent development of the second theme, here too one can hear fainter
echoes of “Leap-then-Leap” in mm. 37–48 in the cellos and basses. For each station in
the circle-of-fifths progression, their downbeat notes unfold a large descending seventh.
The square patterning results in a restoration of the motto’s original rhythm and inter-
vallic content from mm. 1–4 (long notes arranged as paired descending leaps).
14. The material here, in terms of motives, harmony, and texture, closely resembles mm.
13–24. In other words, the material that carried out the function of transition in the
exposition is now repurposed as a retransition.
15. The upper voices, remarkably, collaborate to assemble the alternate downward E♭-F♯
span. This is not shown in the analysis; however, readers interested in tracing it can
find the start of the path at the E♭5 in m. 109 in Violin 1 and at the B♭4 in Violin 2.
16. This is not always the case, as many of Wagner’s Leitmotives took short forms, some
as brief as a single sonority (i.e., the “Curse” motive from the Ring).
17. Zbikowski 2002, 54–58, offers a sensitive account of how hearing a Leitmotive in dif-
ferent forms and shadings is akin to the act of remembrance.
18. The term “tradition” should be taken loosely here. Note that for all of Brahms’s pro-
fessed allegiance to tradition, throughout his life he maintained a highly complex
relationship with it. Peter Burkholder (1984), citing Brahms’s technique of mining
harmonies and contrapuntal techniques from earlier ages to create (paradoxically)
“modern” sounds, identifies him as the first truly postmodern composer.
19. The process by which a motive alters its shape over time by gradually shifting its in-
tervallic or rhythmic content is known as developing variation. The origins of the
procedure as well as its implications for motivic analysis will be further considered in
later chapters.
334 Notes
20. Real sequence is generally viewed as a more literal, “mechanical” means of copying
out music, in contrast with diatonic sequence in which the component intervals shift
to conform to single controlling key.
21. To expand on a point made in Example 2.3, musical traditions in the West fractured
starting at about the year 1900. At the same time that post-tonal music developed,
tonality persevered and continued evolving in work by composers such as Elgar,
Vaughan Williams, Prokofiev, Poulenc, Britten, and Barber. This resulted in a living
tradition that Daniel Harrison has fittingly dubbed “enriched tonality” (2016, 1–5).
22. This led to important innovations notably in the domains of texture and timbre
(Schoenberg’s Klangfarbenmelodie) and in a new harmonic practice that might be
termed “contextual tonality.” Contextual tonality occurs when a synthetic (nontonal)
entity relevant to the piece at hand—e.g., a surface chord, scale, or collection—is
“composed out” so that its components coordinate the structure of the larger work.
This phenomenon is often observed in pieces by Liszt and Bartók.
23. This view of twentieth-century music is widely shared, and is in fact a central thesis of
Straus 1990: “The late nineteenth century now appears as a period in which motivic
association, a secondary and dependent determinant of structure in the classical and
early romantic eras, was elevated into a central and independent organizing prin-
ciple” (22). As here, Straus uses Schoenberg’s Op. 11, No. 1 to introduce readers to
motivic unity; however, the motive forms he devises look very different from the ones
that are prescribed by this book’s method.
24. The present analysis uncovers a different sort of unity in this work than the one
afforded by more traditional motivic approaches. Specifically, aural criteria serve
as the basis for parsing and bracketing musical events. This contrasts with the set-
theory view that identifies the many overlapping [014] trichords across the voices (cf.
Wittlich 1974).
25. Many minimalists, Steve Reich prominent among them, cite the Notre Dame School
of polyphony (1160–1250) as an influence on their music (Schwarz 1980, 380).
26. Later composers such as Boulez and Babbitt, cultivated styles of so-called “total seri-
alism,” in which the purview of the row is extended to control the order and types of
events in additional domains such as rhythm, dynamics, and articulation.
Chapter 3
1. Most theorists are well versed in the general account of music theory history to
follow, including its tripartite branching into musica speculativa, musica practica, and
musica poetica. A fuller account is related in Christensen 2002, which sagely advises
readers to treat it as a framework rather than as gospel (5).
2. The first use of the term musica poetica was by Nicolas Listenius in 1537.
3. The idea of the divine monochord stems from Robert Fludd’s 1618 treatise De musica
mundana. See Gouk (2002, 229–233) for a fuller account of Neoplatonism and to
view an image of the divine monochord.
Notes 335
4. An early practitioner of analysis was Johannes Tinctoris (1435–1511). His counter-

point treatise of 1477 reproduces numerous passages of music by close contempor-
aries and critiques the quality of their construction.
5. Bartel 1997 connects the rise of rhetoric with the rise of Christianity, in which “scholars
and writers of the Church adopted the classical rhetorical discipline from their Roman
teachers.” The practice was maintained throughout the Middle Ages by “rhetoricians
focused on the art of composing letters or official documents” (65). The influence of
rhetoric rapidly expanded in the Renaissance “to pervade all areas of civilization, as it
had not been the case during the preceding centuries” (Kristeller 1979, 219).
6. Bartel draws a direct link from “the notion that phenomena must be terminologi-
cally identified and defined in order to be understood and taught” to the teachings of
Aristotle (1997, 83).
7. The first version of Burmeister’s theory of rhetoric appeared in his 1599
Hypomnematum musicae poetica. His 1606 treatise, Musica poetica, returns to his list
of figures and expands it; the latter work is the one usually cited.
8. Burmeister was not the first to observe composers employing special devices to en-
hance the emotional effect of their pieces. Early catalogs of figures, typically quite ab-
breviated, date from as early as 1559 (Palisca 1959, 156). In deploying these, composers
frequently and knowingly violated the rules of strict counterpoint, allowing dissonant
notes to have irregular resolutions. Mid-sixteenth-century musicians were well aware
of the special sound and emotive effect of passages written this way, which explains
their use of the alternate contemporary designation, musica reservata.
9. Burmeister’s understanding of “figure” derives from Quintilian (35–100 c.e.), who
describes it as a special, expressive form of speech that deviates from the “general,
first-kind” of speech (MGG, s.v. “Musik und Rhetoric”).
10. The term “segment,” more fully defined at the beginning of chapter 7, plays a central
role in the theory of motivic analysis to follow, serving as the essential formal unit for
viewing the structure of pieces and for establishing the content of complex motives.
11. Discussions of the pre-Baroque and Baroque eras make frequent reference to “man-
nerism,” the “Doctrine of the Affections” (Affektenlehre), and “Sensitive Style”
(Empfindsamkeit). The three terms are interrelated but distinct. Mannerism is the
most generic of the three, referring simply to any special or ornate departure from
normal style; a mannerism will likely provoke emotion but is not required by defini-
tion to do so. Affection refers to “rationalized emotional states or passions” that could
be roused via external (sonic) stimulus (Buelow 2001, s.v. “Affects”). Though I do not
employ the term in the text, an affect can be regarded as a specific manifestation of
music-emotive theory that may be active at the level of the phrase, as for Burmeister,
or at the level of a piece, in accordance with the dominant aesthetic system of the
Baroque. Empfindsamkeit refers to a style of composition that emerged later, in the
mid-eighteenth century, in which numerous, contrasting emotions are aroused by
means of rapid changes in surface material.
12. Wolfgang Caspar Printz (1641–1717) represents a lesser personage in the develop-
ment of figures. His approach, codified in the three-volume Phrynis mytileneus from
1696, is notable for reorienting figures to the purely melodic domain (Bartel 1997,
336 Notes
120–121). Printz’s classification scheme includes larger categories of silent versus

sounding events.
13. Kircher is further remarkable for being among the first to venture beyond learned
counterpoint to list topics that pertain to recitative-style melody; this occurs in Book
VII of Musurgia universalis (1650).
14. Bernhard’s treatise forgoes Latin in favor of vernacular German, signaling a turn to-
ward practical, composerly concerns (McCreless 2002, 867). Bernhard is, moreover,
“the first author to explicitly apply the concept of the figures to purely instrumental
music” (Bartel 1997, 114). These characteristics are symptomatic of a brave, inquisi-
tive temperament, one that instinctively bridged both religious-secular and German-
Italian musical boundaries.
15. Caplin 2002 establishes a larger context for connecting poetic feet and rhyme
schemes with rhetoric, citing similar examples in works by Mattheson’s precursor,
Printz, and his successor, Joseph Riepel (663–666).
16. This topic is explained in more detail later in this survey. Hinrichsen 2015, quoting
Christoph von Blumröder, notes that “thematic working” had its conceptual roots in
the 1700s, even though specific terms for it came later. He credits Mattheson for his role
in firmly establishing elaboration as one of the primary bases of good composition.
17. These more modern styles thus saw a proliferation of figures associated with specific
emotions. Awareness of this fact is critical in analysis and as such will be treated in
Part II of this book. Specifically, the first Interlude of Musical Motives will touch on
general principles that apply to how figures acquired and held their meaning, and
how awareness of those meanings impacts analysis.
18. Harrison 1990 mines Quintilian’s writings for a fitting rhetorical term to describe a com-
positional “problem.” He lands upon status, “a conceptualized conflict that generates
the need for a persuasive oration and determines its character. For example, the pair
‘accusation’ and ‘denial’ form a status, one that is the basis of many legal disputes” (10).
19. Ironically, where Reicha uses the word “motif,” it is to “[identify] what we would term
theme,” meaning a conventional, eight-measure event (Moreno 2000,165 n. 66).
20. According to Trippett 2013, Marx’s theory is wholly based “on principles of homology
derived from Goethe’s 1790 Versuch die Metamorphose der Pflanzen zu erklären.” In
a later article from 1856, Marx would go further to explain that “the motif . . . corres-
ponds to ‘the germinal vesicle . . . the Urgestalt of everything organic—the true primal
plant or primal animal’” (2013, 111).
21. “Solche Formeln, welche den Keim und Trieb eines aus ihnen hervorwachsenden
Satzes enthalten, wollen wir Motive nennen. Jede Vereinigung von zwei oder mehr
Tonen kann als Motiv gelten; insolchen Motiven [ . . . ] besteht der Inhalt aller
Tongebilde” (Marx 1837, §7, quoted in MGG, s.v. “Thema/Motiv”).
22. Scott Burnham is careful to note, “Despite Marx’s characterization of the motive as
seed, the motive does not represent the starting point of his compositional method.
He introduces it only after the presentation of his Grundformen, and there is no mo-
tivic development undertaken by the student without such a structural framework in
mind from the outset” (1989, 251).
Notes 337
23. A fuller account of this dynamic is provided in E. T. Cone’s essay, “Schubert’s
Promissory Note”; the pun in the title is very much intended (1982).
24. Writing in 1852, Lobe laments the seeming inability of German composers to craft
melodies as beautiful as their French and Italian contemporaries; it is a stance that
fully establishes his pedigree in the tradition of Melodielehre (Trippett 2013, 20).
25. All of the information that follows in this account of Lobe, including examples, is a
paraphrase of Hooper 2017 (29–35).
26. Dahlhaus 1980 identifies a number of important trends in instrumental music com-
position in this era. The pieces grew in scope, with symphonies stretching to and then
past the one-hour mark. At the same time, their melodies contracted, so that the first
idea might appear as a mere fragment lasting only a measure or two. The paradox-
ical, simultaneous exploration of large and small elements stemmed from composers’
concern for pursuing originality. Their solution was to concentrate on motivic devel-
opment at the expense of presenting large, highly formulaic and repetitive melodies
(40–44).
27. “Tatsächlich spielen in der Musik die kleinssten zu engerer Einheit zusam
mengehörigen Bildungen, die Motive, eine ganz analoge Rolle wie in der Sprache
die Worte und bedingt die richtige Abgrenzung der Motive durchaus die richtige
Auffassung, der Verständnis des Ausdrucks grösserer an ihnen gebildeten
Entwickelungen” (Sievers 1967, 65).
28. The perpetually forward- tilting, upbeatness of Riemann’s theory is known as
Auftaktigkeit. An excellent introduction to the Hegelian origins of this philosophy
and its practical impact on Riemann’s theories of rhythm, meter, and form is given in
Waldbauer 1989.
29. This preference is a byproduct of Schenker’s conceiving counterpoint and harmony
as woven together. Doing so means that his entire analytic system is, in a large sense,
motivic.
30. The origins and sustained influence of organicism are discussed at length in
Solie 1980.
31. For generations, the organicist viewpoint also served as a basis for critical judgment.
Between 1940 and 1990, it was common to see European and American critics seize
on “lack of unity” as a cudgel to beat back composers and pieces they did not approve
of. A fuller assessment of this dubious critical tradition is given in Auerbach 2013
(69–75).
32. In the Preface to Schoenberg 2006, Carpenter and Neff document Schoenberg’s
“steady” move “toward an understanding of the Idea as somehow standing for the
wholeness of a work” (Schoenberg 2006, 18).
33. The particular expectations in different musical subcultures strongly impact an
audience’s sense of what constitutes a musical work. To simplify matters, the ana-
lyses in Musical Motives will generally assume that classical artworks inhere in the
scores created by their authors and that popular music artworks inhere in recordings
and live performances. This is by no means a firm rule, and frequent exceptions will
be made.
338 Notes
34. The extensive “Commentary” offered by Patricia Carpenter and Severine Neff, the
translators and editors of Schoenberg’s Musical Idea treatise, remains the authorita-
tive account of his theory (2006, 1–86). In contrast to my own definitions of motive
to follow in part II, which support this book’s more modest, literal, and mechanical
analytic method, theirs faithfully reflect Schoenberg’s expansive view of music’s or-
ganization. Their understanding of Shape and motive, in other words, is inextricably
entwined with Schoenberg’s philosophies of melody, harmony, energetics, and form.
35. Accounts of the length of a shape diverge throughout the literature. Rufer is flex-
ible, allowing shapes to occupy a range of measures depending on tempo (1961
[1954], 28). This seems more or less consistent with Schoenberg’s practice. In the
program notes to his own Four Orchestral Songs, Op. 22, for example, Schoenberg
demonstrates how motives of a minor third and a second “link” to form a three-
measure gestalt (2016, 220).
36. A mild but persistent sense of ambiguity surrounds Schoenberg’s more technical ac-
counts of his theory. Even Carpenter and Neff, for example, are unable to fully un-
tangle motive from feature as they explain, “The features of motive are intervals and
rhythms, which can themselves be treated as motives” (Schoenberg 2006, 27–28).
37. In commenting on the graphic shown in Example 3.12, Carl Dahlhaus explicitly
contrasts Schoenberg’s atomistic approach with “the method dictated by common
musical sense”(!). His aim in doing so is not to ridicule Schoenberg, but rather to de-
fend him for seeking out a new way “to comprehend and analyse [sic] the inner unity
of a work.” In this case that entails relying on a new truism, “that intervals . . . are the
true substance of music” (1987, 130–131).
38. The list of treatises and articles comprising transformational theory is exten-
sive. The research undertaken by the authors Lewin, Cohn, Clough, Douthett,
Klumpenhouwer, Harrison, and others in the late 1980s, under the heading “Neo-
Riemannian Analysis” are recognized as seminal works in this field. For more on the
early history of transformational theory and analysis, see Cohn 1998.
39. This interdependence is consistent with Schoenberg’s view of a musical work as a
living organism, in which the smaller parts like sections, phrases, and motives “are
activated . . . as a result of their organic membership in a living being” (2006, 104).
40. Chapter 5 offers an extended introduction to melodic reduction, characterizing it as
integral to motivic analysis. Schoenberg is not well known for engaging in melodic
reduction. In the context of laying out a method largely inspired by him, however, it
seems only appropriate to cite his examples modeling the procedure first.
41. Burkhart 1978 establishes a definition for motivic parallelism (also known as “con-
cealed repetition”) and provides a brief literature review of the topic in Schenker’s
writings. Alegant and McLean 2001 investigates this phenomenon further, noting
the significance of such cross-level correspondence in both tonal and post-tonal
literatures.
42. The broad, stylized arrow below, imported from Schmalfeldt 2011, indicates “be-
coming,” a process she defines as “the special case whereby the formal function ini-
tially suggested by a musical idea . . . invites retrospective reinterpretation within the
larger formal context” (9). Though Schmalfeldt’s interest in this type of “processual
Notes 339
thinking” is primarily analytical, it applies fully to historical developments as well.

Indeed, Schmalfeldt establishes that her notion of becoming is ultimately rooted in
Hegel’s model of historical change (Monahan 2011).
43. Goehre mentioned The Musical Idea “in essays on Schoenberg’s theoretical writings
in 1973 and 1975. In 1977 Goehr translated and provided commentary on some
segments from The Musical Idea manuscript in The Journal of the Arnold Schoenberg
Institute” (Schoenberg 2006, xiii).
44. See Straus 1991 and Cope 2009 (99–112), for a history of set theory’s development
in music.
45. The modern practice of providing a preliminary list of motives to prepare readers
for upcoming musical and/or intellectual enlightenment dates back to Wolzogen’s
famous handbooks on leitmotivic content in Wagner’s Ring (Thorau 2009).
46. Dunsby and Whittall 1986, for example, begin their motivic analysis demonstration
of Schoenberg’s Piano Piece Op. 19, No. 6 with the presentation of a motive table (158–
161). Surveying analyses from the last twenty years, one still occasionally encounters
authors assigning Greek letters to motives (see Boss 1999 and Zbikowski 2002).
47. Motive, for Schenker, is a melodic pattern . . . that is repeated in the course of a mu-
sical work.” In the case of expansion, “the motive is no longer associated with its orig-
inal rhythmic articulation” (Beach 2012, xvii).
48. Schenker treated the subject of rhythm extensively; however, his late works are am-
bivalent on whether diagrammed pitch events embody rhythm. Schenker once
declared, “The fundamental structure is arrhythmic,” yet elsewhere he said, “the fun-
damental line signifies motion, striving towards a goal,” thereby attributing motion
and temporality to it (London 2002, 703–704).
49. It may seem that this history overlooks the work of Schoenberg’s adherents that
emerged between 1950 and 1980, meaning, the books and articles by Rufer, Réti, and
Carpenter, and BBC radio addresses by Hans Keller. These works enjoyed modest cir-
culation among the academy, quietly sustaining Schoenberg’s legacy during this pe-
riod. As they served mainly to clarify Schoenberg’s theory and methodology, though,
they did not contribute significantly to this age’s shifting conception of motive.
50. In many contexts, the Ursatz’s broad explanatory power comes to increasingly re-
semble Schoenberg’s Grundgestalt. In Carl Schachter’s words, the tonic triad serving
as the basis of the Ursatz is a “matrix” (cf. Schoenberg’s “complex”) “that has rhythmic
properties: it defines the beginning and end of complete and self-contained har-
monic and melodic progressions; it also provides the foundation for form and design,
since motivic and thematic elements always connect (usually quite closely) to tonal
structure (Schachter 1999, 136).
51. There are fascinating overlaps between the atemporal, interval-based relationships
David Lewin traces and the ambitious “chord motives” posited by Réti decades
earlier. One network analysis developed in Lewin’s Generalized Musical Intervals
and Transformations that ties together movements I and III of Beethoven’s First
Symphony is fully presaged in Réti’s Thematic Process: compare Lewin’s Figure 7.8
(1987, 169) with Example 3.17.
340 Notes
52. Walter Frisch has reported that Réti also corresponded with the composer in the
1910s and 1920s. At one point, commenting on Réti’s activities as advocate of new
music, Schoenberg wrote to him, warmly stating, “You are a person who stands very
close to my sphere of thought.”
53. The exception to this claim concerns the strict associations involving the pure inter-
vallic sixth, marked s. In this analysis, s is a secondary element derived from motive a
in the manner shown in mm. 1–3 (staff 5).
54. Cohn 1992 treats the history of this conflict in Schenker scholarship at length and
suggests a number of pathways for resolving it.
55. Enharmonicism is firmly entrenched in Schenkerian theory. There is no rule in that
method against equating two motives in a piece that are spelled differently, e.g., E♭-D-
D♭ versus E♭-D-C♯. It is only the reordering of notes that is anathema, which in truth
holds for most other systems of analysis as well.
56. One such blanket characterization is found in Nicholas Cook’s Guide to Musical
Analysis (1987, 110).
57. This point is recognized in Schoenberg’s original formulation of the Grundgestalt,
and is implicitly maintained in writings by Réti and Alan Walker. In discussing
multimovement connections among Beethoven’s Piano Sonata, Op. 57
(“Appassionata”), Walker notes the plain correspondence between movements I and
III with respect to the use of Neapolitan harmony. Although he does not specifically
denote harmony as motivic, he calls for viewing harmonic motion as an “element”
lending unity to the work (Walker 1962, 86–88).
58. As a testament to this approach’s validity, all modern contour analysis algorithms
grant special status to maxima and minima on the basis of their phenomenal impact
(see Morris 1993).
59. Temperley 2013 describes the close overlap between the fields of cognitive (concep-
tual) modeling and computational modeling. “To call a model ‘computational,’ ” he
explains, “implies . . . that it is specified in a precise, complete, and rigorous way—
such that it could be implemented on a computer” (328). The two types of modeling
have many affinities, rooted not only in approach (theorization of stepwise and net-
work structures), but also in philosophy (the proposition that the human brain is
essentially a computer). That being the case, computational modeling stands as one
of the three main approaches generally understood to constitute the field of cognitive
science (327).
60. A critically important work from this last area is Lehrdahl and Jackendoff 1983,
which posits a comprehensive grammar of tonal music, from the basic perception
of the smallest rhythmic and pitch phonemes to the full landscape of works. While
Lehrdahl and Jackendoff ’s organizational approach at the macroscopic levels is lin-
guistic, when working closer to the surface of the music they are more inclined to
explain perception in terms of basic gestalt principles. Their “well-formedness rules”
establish strict conditions for parsing meaningful pitch and/or rhythmic shapes from
long streams of music, and therefore will be cited where appropriate in chapter 5 on
basic methodology.
Notes 341
Chapter 4
1. Strictly speaking, these configurations instantiate motives only in the most modern
sense. Réti himself refers to them as cells, distinguishing them from motives in the
nineteenth-century  sense.
2. At the same time that Réti’s system is intuitive, it is not without fault. His instincts
regarding the character of motives in many of his analyses are highly personal, a con-
dition that sows seeds for confusion. In the previous example, it is odd, semantically,
to ask readers to distinguish a “finishing” motive from a wholly contrasting—but simi-
larly named—“concluding” motive.
3. Rationalizing pitch motive as an inherently melodic concept, Schenker 1921 [2004]
outlaws one-note pitch motives (27).
4. Rule P4’s labeling convention can technically be extended to cover arpeggiations of all
kinds of chords, such as advanced tonal entities such as augmented sixth chords and
chords that are common in post-tonal music. One should employ it with extreme care in
these other musics, however. The issue is that as one moves farther away from Classical
tonality, it becomes increasingly difficult to distinguish scale steps from chordal leaps.
For many works penned in the twentieth century that rely on chromatic chords, like
C-C♯-E [014], it becomes well-nigh impossible. For this reason, Arp in this study will be
restricted to triads of major, minor, diminished, and augmented quality and to seventh
chords of major, minor, “dominant,” and fully-and half-diminished qualities.
5. On the other hand, recall that analysts are not required to use the Arp designation at
all when labeling these two shapes. We can continue to label Example 4.3(a) and (b) in
the original way, calling them a 6th and 5th based on their boundary intervals. (Rule
P6 later describes a procedure for naming hybrid motives built of two or more elided
intervals.) In many cases, it may make sense to do this, such as if we want to connect
these shapes to prominent motivic 5ths or 6ths appearing elsewhere in a piece.
6. Cadwallader 1988 similarly distinguishes the main body of a pitch-based motive from
tones on its fringes that change its spanning interval. Specifically, he calls the first
melodic gesture of Beethoven’s Bagatelle Op. 119, No 1 on D5-C-B♭4-A an “apparent
fourth,” based on the terminal note participating in the next dominant harmony that
unfolds in m. 2. Remarkably, after assigning a label to the motive that discounts its last
note, he continues to view the apparent fourth as manifesting a parallelism with the
large-scale D5-C-B♭4-A spanning mm. 1–8.
7. It is possible to shift the alto’s motive in mm. 3–4 over by one eighth note so that it
spans B4-G♯, but doing so does not change its 3rd nature.
8. Karpinski 2017 relies on this concept as a pedagogical tool for sight-singing. In his
method, students are taught to conceive of certain wide or difficult leaps—for ex-
ample, from scale degree 1 to scale degrees 6 or 7—in terms of a “prefix neighbor” that
connects to a more easily found structural tone such as scale degree 5 or 1.
9. These particular examples are offered more in the spirit of pedagogical demonstration
than in the service of actual analysis. In a proper study of “The Great Gate of Kiev,”
for example, I would likely propose a shorter rhythmic kernel than this. Specifically,
342 Notes
L-S-S suggests itself as a possible way of unifying the first theme with the second
theme introduced in mm. 30–31, where that rhythm appears in augmentation.
10. The terminology of “foreshift” and “backshift” is taken from Ng 2006.
Chapter 5
1. Dominant methodologies include Schenkerian analysis, Lehrdahl and Jackendoff ’s

time- span reductions (1983), and Robert Morris’s Contour Pruning Algorithm
(1993).
2. The term “structural” is to be taken as neutral, signifying essential communicative and/
or syntactic content. When it comes to subjecting poetic utterances or musical phrases
to successive reductions, it often happens that the most striking bits of information—
e.g., floral adjectives or gorgeous accented dissonances—disappear early in the pro-
cess. This phenomenon is reflected in the famous anecdote about Schoenberg’s
reaction to reading an analysis by Schenker: “[But] where are my favorite notes? Ah
yes, there—the little black ones” (Epstein 1979, fn. 9). Witnessing this process is frus-
trating and disheartening for some. Over time, however, it generally becomes easier to
untangle the aesthetically significant from the structurally significant in music.
3. There is much more that can be said about the reductions presented in the example.
To start, there is the matter of the C4 missing from m. 1, which fits within the tonic
harmony. Chordal leaps of this type are routinely ignored in melodic analysis. They
signal a flitting away from the active melody to touch on an interior voice, in this case
the presumed alto.
4. This insight, not currently appearing in the left side of Example 5.3, could be accounted
for by positing an additional motive that incorporates the two structurally accented
events of the passage, the starting F4 and closing G4. (The upcoming section on princi-
ples of reduction will formally fold this issue in to equal-duration reduction.)
5. The idea of melody, then, can flexibly apply to shorter, phrase-length gestures as well
as to the melodic descent taking up an entire piece of music. The latter typically only
emerges after several reductive iterations.
6. The last two criteria in his list will have less utility in the present system, which aligns
more with twentieth-century (i.e., “nontonal”) pitch-cell practice. For what would be
Epstein Point (E.P.) 4 “Degree position of pitches within a key,” we will have no reason
to give special consideration to motive forms that express prominent scale degrees.
E.P. 5, “Harmonic content,” will generally be irrelevant in the context of BMA. It will
play a role in complex motivic analysis when other domains are grafted onto our
motivic model.
7. Friedmann 1985 offers an early description of this procedure, the results of which
yield a Contour Class (227). Morris 1993 refers to this ordering simply as a “normal-
ized contour” (206).
8. Morris 1993 describes a procedure for performing this first reduction and then suc-
cessively feeding the results back into the reduction machine to boil down every con-
tour to a basic type.
Notes 343
9. These two phenomena are more formally known as metric dissonances, in which
expected accent patterns are shifted via “displacement” (i.e., syncopation) or by
“grouping” (i.e., cross-rhythm, or hemiola) (Krebs 1999). Here we may also note
a slight redundancy in Epstein’s discussion. His text treats dynamics and articula-
tion separately, even though they are interdependent with syncopation and cross-
rhythm; more specifically, these domains help create these rhythmic/metric effects.
We maintain the artificial distinction, however, because musicians effortlessly “see
through” the contributing elements to perceive the metric dissonances more or less
directly.
10. Temperley 1999 describes syncopation as a surface element of musical grammar that
transforms a simpler “underlying structure,” much in the way that in Chomskyan lin-
guistics a highly complex surface utterance in English can greatly transform a deep-
level, subject-verb-object structure (27). Much of that same article is given over to
prescribing rules for understanding how music’s surface syncopations reflect a sim-
pler beat structure that is fore-or back-shifted (see diagonal lines in Example 5.6).
For more on the origins and role of displacement dissonance in tonal analysis, see
Traut 2002.
11. The reduction reflects another of the grace notes’ functions, which is distinguishing
the two voices embedded in the right hand’s melody. The soprano tones occupy the
second and third eighths of each measure and compose a singable melody. The alto is
expressed by the first and fourth eighth notes.
12. Carpenter recognizes this paired set of 3rds as integral to the work’s structure. She
calls this the “Basic Combination,” a contrapuntal 10-10-10 arrangement that gives
insight to the Intermezzo’s pitch-class motivic structure (1988, 42–47).
13. Later in chapter 6 when complex motivic analysis is introduced, it will be possible to
view the harmonic component of a passage as motivic, thus broaching the possibility
that some complex motives are more universal, occurring across separate pieces.
14. Properly speaking, mm. 92–99 of Rossini’s melody constitute the first two parts of a
three-phrase period (Green 1979). That said, recognition of that larger form need not
impinge on this selective reading of the first two segments.
15. Readers familiar with Schenkerian theory will recognize this as a manifestation
of “interruption.” Without access to Schenkerian concepts such as the descending
Urlinie—the melodic entity whose descent to tonic is postponed at scale degree 2
during the half cadence—the present method cannot officially incorporate that term
(Schenker [1935] 1979, 37).
16. The material that occurs between a structural dominant stopping point and a restart
is recognized in numerous formal theories. Rothstein, following Koch, describes a
version of this phenomenon at the phrase level that he calls a “lead-in” (1989, 51–
52). Schenker calls it an “interruption fill” (Goldenberg 2012, §2). In reference to
the analogous formal events at the end of sonata form development, Caplin 1998
distinguishes between the dominant arrival and a subsequent “standing on the dom-
inant.” When the latter phenomenon occurs, “anticipatory motives derived from
the . . . exposition’s main theme often appear to help prepare for the beginning of the
recapitulation” (145).
344 Notes
17. Cognitive limits on higher-level hearing are discussed in Schachter 1999, Lehrdahl
and Jackendoff 1983, and Brower 1993. These limits pose no problem to musicians
comfortable with the idea that analysis by nature admixes sonic and intellectual
constructions. It is this blending that is key. Few musicians, for instance, are willing to
traffic in hypermetric analyses so grandly abstract that they cannot even imagine how
the most stretched-out events sound.
18. A number of other pitch-class transformations are recognized in atonal music,
among them the “M” multiplier, which rescales the intervals of a note string by mul-
tiplying its intervals by a common factor. The most common application of M allows
for a chromatic melody to transform into a line of fourths or fifths by multiplying all
of its “1” values (half steps, as measured in 12-tone space) by 5 or 7.
19. A few twentieth-century musicians have attempted to solve the problem of how to
invert rhythms. One common approach is to subtract all duration values—absolute
or relative (in the case of a rhythm contour)—from a larger value. A straightfor-
ward example of this method may be observed in the first of Milton Babbitt’s Three
Compositions for Piano (Antokoletz 2014, 321).
20. To accommodate a wide range of styles, the transposition operations listed in
Example 5.17 are only lightly formatted; analysts may alter them as they see fit. Rahn
(1980, 40–58), for example, uses the symbols Tx and Tpx to distinguish between pitch-
class (pc) and pitch operations; a similar symbology using Tc could be used to specify
chromatic versus diatonic content.
21. This genre designation indicates both an aesthetic stance and a mode of composition
favored by Karlheinz Stockhausen and other modernists, in which “the discontin-
uous present is the operative mode of listening” and expectations of hierarchy, conti-
nuity, and development are all jettisoned” (Hutchinson 2016, 107).
22. The literature is rife with challenges to the organic viewpoint of music, with no-
table examples appearing in Street 1998, Korsyn 2003, and Chua 2004. Despite the
promise of other modes of analysis, this present one abides by traditional organi-
cism. For those wishing to explore other archetypes and interpretations of music,
it will likely be possible to retain the small-scale techniques of analysis suggested
in chapters 4 and 5 while setting aside the upcoming material on archetypes and
narrative assembly.
Interlude 1
1. This first narrative framework for describing the progress of music dates back gen-
erations. My formulation here echoes a version put forth by Heinrich Schenker in
one of his earliest treaties. In Harmony, he remarks on the “The life of a motif ” as
follows: “The motif is led through various situations. At one time, its melodic character
is tested; at another time, harmonic peculiarity must prove its valor in unaccustomed
surroundings; a third time, again, the motif is subjected to some rhythmic change: in
other words, the motive lives through its fate, like a personage in a drama” (1980, 13).
Notes 345
2. A similar situation obtains in the field of biography, wherein a subject’s life is often
rendered in terms of a coherent, logical arch. Relying on Camus, William Stafford
explains how such a reading transforms reality—in which “actions melt into other
actions” and destiny cannot be sensed—into art, an artificial realm where all causes
and effects can be imagined as rational and knowable (1991, 228–230).
3. To add a further wrinkle, Guck 1994 holds that all analysts, even those who mean to
couch their findings in purely objective terms, tell stories about music. Narrative, then,
is an unavoidable consequence of thinking about music in linguistic terms (229).
4. According to McClary 1995 (with emphasis mine), “The viability of apparently au-
tonomous instrumental music depends” on numerous factors, including “codes of
social signification such as affective vocabularies and narrative schemata” (328–329).
Agawu 1991 offers a more technical account of why the dichotomy between introver-
sive and extroversive semiosis is “ultimately false” (23–25).
5. Mirka 2014 locates an advanced theory of signification as far back as the writings
of J.G. Sulzer (1720–1779), who distinguishes musical signs as more “natural,”
evoking passion, than purely linguistic signs which over time have become “indif-
ferent” or “arbitrary” (26). With regard to music of the high Classical period, Elaine
Sisman 2014 extends an insight from Wye J. Allanbrook to explain that “the strong
connection between feelings and tone painting, as between emotion and expressive
characters and topics, reflects. . . the deep mimetic roots of musical expression” (100).
6. Newcomb 1987 describes the foundational work of Vladimir Propp and Claude Lévi
Strauss in the fields of narratology. Through study of a large, conventional body of
literature, Propp noted patterns of structural relations. He became aware, in Victor
Erlich’s words, that “the basic unit of the tale is not the character but his function”
(Erlich 1981, 250, quoted in Newcomb 1987, 165).
7. The original discovery of the hero’s journey archetype is credited to Joseph Campbell’s
Hero with a Thousand Faces (1949). More recent accounts of general narrative
frameworks may be found in Todorov’s Introduction to Poetics (1981) and Propp’s
Morphology of the Folktale (1968).
8. Markedness is a sociolinguistic term that describes a “weighted opposition,” a bi-
nary state in which one condition is regarded as more typical than the other (Hatten
1994, 34.) A modern-day example of markedness is “male nurse,” as opposed to the
unmarked—and assumed to be female—term, “nurse.”
9. Monahan 2013 expands and enriches the theory of agency by proposing four types of
agent and by formalizing the potential hierarchical relationships among them. (This
maneuver does not in any way challenge Maus 1988, which in Monahan’s opinion re-
mains the “authoritative” treatment of the topic.) In doing so, he is able to clear up the
slippage that inevitably occurs in narrative accounts of music, as authors shift their
points of reference to address elements of the work itself, the fictional composer, and
their own personas/psyches.
10. The other basis for Almén’s narratives is the interplay of “topics,” which connote
various musical styles by means of characteristic textures, rhythms, articulations,
and pitch structures. A composer such as Mozart, for instance, might quickly prog-
ress through a series of topics across adjacent phrases: a “courtly march” might be
346 Notes
supplanted by a passage of “storm and stress” followed by another of “singing style”

(Ratner 1980, 9–29).
11. The archetypes to be delineated in Musical Motives are more concerned with exclu-
sively motivic interactions. They should be viewed as distinct from analyses that at-
tribute drama to motives interacting with tonal space. A masterful example of that
approach is Deborah Stein’s analysis of Schubert’s “Erlkönig,” in which the motives
associated with the Erlking (metaphorically: death) are shown to systematically
annex regions of the song’s G minor tonality occupied by the father and the sick child
(1989).
12. There are many ways to parse motives in the flowing left-hand figuration. Rothstein
2005 prefers a shifted 4+2 grouping, in which the tenor material on E♯3, G♯, F♯, and A♯
connects. To call on a cello metaphor, the next two notes serve as a transition “across
the strings,” as it were, back to the low voice on the next strong beat. Schmalfeldt
2005, in performance prefers to use a smooth wrist motion to connect the first note of
each sextuplet to the rest of the upper-register notes. My own interpretation is meant
to incorporate elements from both of these readings.
13. This terminology comes from Laitz 2008, which divides both the exposition and
recapitulation sections of sonata forms into First Tonal Area (FTA), transition,
Second Tonal Area (STA), and closing area. This naming convention is analogous to
Hepokoski and Darcy’s P, Transition, S, and C zones (2006), but has the advantage of
explicitly casting the drama of the form in terms of a tonal struggle.
14. These categories are loosely based on Marx’s oppositional categories, Satz and Gang,
the former being a “closed,” “well-formed musical structure” and the latter an incom-
plete melodic structure that is “the very embodiment” of musical motion (Marx 1989,
249–256). A fuller demonstration of Satz-like and Gang-like segment interactions in
Beethoven piano sonatas, with commentary by Scott Burnham, can be found in Marx
1997, 104–154.
Chapter 6
1. See Burkhart 1978 (159–161), which is a gloss on Schenker 1922 (25–48). Caplin
1998 (9–21) and Cadwallader and Gagné 2007 (4–12) serve in this regard, as well.
The core motives identified from mm. 1–8 in the analysis to follow are fully derivative
of Schenker 1922. The findings derived from BMA in this chapter constitute a mix-
ture of borrowed and—where indicated—new insights.
2. It is well documented that an early draft of this sonata featured a wholly different
theme in A♭ major (see Nottebohm 1887, 564–567). Kinderman 1995 attributes
Beethoven’s decision to revise the theme to a desire to “tighten [the movement’s] the-
matic and harmonic relations” (32).
3. Barry Cooper traces the origin of this theme to an unpublished piano quartet by
Beethoven written in 1785 (WoO 36, No. 3). In the sonata’s earliest drafts, the main
theme in m. 1 begins without the pickup note, C4, and the arrival on E5 in m. 8 is
followed by a rebound leap on beat 2 to C6. The subsequent changes leading to the
Notes 347
finished form, he notes, allow a closer correspondence with the main theme from
movement II of the sonata (2017, 30).
4. Even at the surface level, ambiguity abounds. It is possible to parse the shape in two
ways to indicate where the 3rd resides. One may define “Turn” as a hollowed-out 3rd
span from the first A♭5 to the last F with interior ornamentation; one can also view it
as a linear 3rd followed by suffixes. In the present analysis, the latter reading is strongly
preferred.
5. It is well known that the themes of many of Beethoven’s most significant works take
the form of arpeggios and scales. What is more remarkable is that often, at a late stage
within such movements, Beethoven atomizes those themes to reveal their intervallic
essence. Charles Rosen believes the composer was acutely self-aware of this proce-
dure, which amounts to nothing less than an interrogation of the raw stuff of tonality,
itself (1972, 404–437).
6. The B♮ that appears in this line is a surface adjustment that allows for harmonic
agreement between the voices as the upcoming C major V chord is tonicized. The
chromaticism does not significantly impact the overall shape or even the sound of
the  /5th.
7. Having the tenor start at A♭4 alters its motivic profile in F minor. It will not do to parse
it as any kind of fifth, for example one spanning A♭-D♭ or G-C. In the home key, it
makes more sense as the 3rd, A♭4-F elided to the 4th, F-C. In one gesture, then, this
voice makes reference both to the ascending 4th pickup that opened the work (at
pitch), and the four Arp gestures that are all constructed as 3rd⊕4th.
8. The status of the \ / 3rd gesture here is ambiguous. It could be considered a retrograde
of the 3rd \ /gesture that began the piece or, more likely, a shape that reverses the order
of the 3rd and neighbor gestures.
9. The bar line between the first two Ss indicates that the second note of the shape has
been promoted to a downbeat stress; however, this effect is masked due to the dis-
tracting, weak beat accents.
10. Edward T. Cone coined the term “structural downbeat” for moments such as this.
These are “points of simultaneous harmonic and rhythmic arrival,” that have the ef-
fect of “[turning whatever] precedes it into its own upbeat” (1968: 24–25).
11. The arrow notation in this example, following Hasty 1997, illustrates how meter is
created through listener expectation due to musical patterning. The third, arching
arrow is dashed and breaks off to reflect the experience of listeners who expect (pro-
ject) another downbeat in the middle of m. 3 but do not get it.
12. Beethoven engineers a similar effect at the beginning (mm. 1–5) of his Piano Sonata
No. 10 in G, Op. 14, No. 2.
13. It is true that some clarification of this metric ambiguity emerged in mm. 9–12 and
66–69, yet it is more effective here because of the tight correspondence with mm. 1–4
in pitch. The harmonic context is also clarified, with clear dominant-tonic motions
coinciding with the arrival of the motive’s last note on E♮6.
14. The appearance of this dissonant chord at the retransition, though somewhat un-
expected, makes sense in light of the main theme’s pitch material. The prominent
B♮s and A♭s resonate with and prepare the upcoming motivic contrapuntal gesture of
348 Notes
mm. 58–59. As the main theme appears, each of these two notes will finally resolve
correctly to C and G, dissolving the tension held at the previous fermata.
Interlude 2
1. See Auerbach 2008 for demonstration of a nonliteral Focal Point event coordinating
the structure of Brahms’s First Rhapsody, Op. 79, No. 1. See Korsyn 2003 for discus-
sion of a related phenomenon occurring in the realm of form, in which listeners may
hear one or more phrase expansions without “the prototype” phrase ever being “ex-
plicitly stated” (93).
2. There is a long tradition of using analysis to investigate late- arrival climactic
moments, of the type that E. T. Cone calls “epiphanies” (1987, 246–248) This compo-
sitional trope is most often found in late Romantic works. James Hepokoski describes
a closely related phenomenon: a “breakthrough” moment, he writes, is” characterized
as “a seemingly new (although normally motivically related) event in or at the close
of the ‘development space’ [that] radically redefines the character and course of the
movement” (1993, 6).
3. Cone explains that, in such cases, our consciousness unfolds in a “double trajectory”
(1977, 558). Note that the two levels of Cone’s trajectory correspond to the two-level
hierarchy implicit in Example 6.5.2(b).
4. This is not to say that analysts’ choice of template necessarily signals their level of
knowledge or experience with a work. Though the Accretion template tends to make
itself available in the later stages of study, an analyst always retains the ability to “hear
forward.” In the end, then, it will come down to personal choice.
Chapter 7
1. It bears mentioning that the sample BMA analyses in c hapter 6 did take care to address
music’s textural complexity by plumbing all of the voices for motives. In doing so, we
already achieved one important advance over traditional motivic approaches that
focus too closely on melodic events (to the exclusion of all others). This step forward,
though, does not change the fact that all shapes identified within that broader texture
remain essentially monophonic. A musical segment in BMA can thus be reasonably
understood to be a container housing one or maybe two one-dimensional motives.
2. An important exception in this regard is Hans Keller’s Functional Analysis (FA), a
non-notational analytic technique for demonstrating musical associations via ped-
agogical recomposition. (Keller’s method is described in detail by O’Hara 2020.)
Written in score format, FAs were intended for performance in between a work’s
movements. A number of these analyses were, in fact, broadcast on the BBC, mostly
between 1957 and 1963. The gradual transformations modeled by FA closely re-
semble developing variation. The critical distinction is that the “conception of
Notes 349
thematic process” is synchronic rather than linear. As such, O’Hara schematizes the
potential connections among entities as a “network of equal motive forms” connected
by arrows signaling forward and backward relationships in time (2019, 21).
3. This definition, which traces its origins to Joachim Burmeister, accords with that
given by Joseph Riepel, who is often considered the first modern authority on form.
Riepel’s basic phrase (Absatz), for example, is defined as that which “contain[s]‌only
as much as is absolutely necessary for it to be understood and felt as an independent
section of a whole” (London 1990, 516).
4. Philosophers since the time of Zeno have grappled with establishing parameters of
a momentary “now.” Cognitive science at the turn of the twentieth century devel-
oped the modern concept of the “specious present,” so called because “the notion of
present, of the ‘now’, is completely absent from the description of the world in phys-
ical terms” (Rovelli, 1995). Over the course of the twentieth century, numerous spans
have been proposed for the “psychological present,” ranging from approximately one
to eight seconds.
5. Network representations are ideal for modeling concepts and/or sensations that
blend two or more domains. This, in large part explains their rise in popularity in
music theory over the past three decades. Network models figure prominently in
transformational theory. Swain 2002 applies them to investigate harmonic rhythm,
which, according to the author, results from the interaction of surface rhythms,
triad identity, and chordal inversion. Networks further serve as the basis for Robert
Gjerdingen’s musical schemata, small compositional formulas that are codefined by
their literal musical content—pitches, scale degrees, harmony—and their syntactic
and topical/rhetorical function (2007).
6. This slight “lopsidedness” is a central characteristic of the theme. A full analysis of the
movement would note how this aspect contributes to the surprise, elided “bang” that
occurs eight measures later, launching the transition section. It would also note the
theme’s continually shifting metric setting throughout the development, with imita-
tive fragments appearing in both off-beat and on-beat orientations.
7. Musically marked events, such as minor key scale degrees and sonorities appearing
in major contexts, are generally good candidates for serving as Special Effects. Not all
Special Effects have the quality of being marked, but many do (Hatten 1994).
8. See Reynolds 2003 for an exhaustive and imaginative treatment of this topic. The au-
thor catalogs a rich panoply of allusion practices, ranging from the hidden quotation
of motives (literal or transformed) from other composers’ works to the use of estab-
lished ciphers (“naming”) to signal specific meaning to other musicians. His Motives
for Allusion engages extensively in technical analysis; despite this, motivic analysis
remains the medium rather than the message. As such, Reynolds 2003 serves more as
a model for interrogating meaning experienced at the intersection of many works as
opposed to the specific narrative content of individual works.
9. Taking inspiration from the theories of Rameau, Hugo Riemann developed these
categories as the syntactic elements of a full-fledged system theorizing harmonic
progression. His system remains in common use in Europe. In the United States,
the harmonic function labels T, D, and PD (adopted from “SD: subdominant”) are
350 Notes
commonly employed as a supplement to Roman numerals by helping to document,

for example, how a Classical phrase conventionally progresses from a Tonic state
(where I is often fleshed out by voice-leading sonorities) through a Pre-Dominant
state (ii or IV), to a cadence involving either arrival on the Dominant or to a new
tonic via Dominant-Tonic motion.
10. The latter of these typically is used to track pitch and pitch-class events, though
contours may be posited for other aspects of music, such as articulation, rhythm, dy-
namics, and so forth.
11. In the process of establishing the model for complex motives, it would have been
eminently possible to exchange the location of counterpoint and harmony, in effect
rendering the former a Primary domain and the latter a Derivative one.
12. Harmony is derivative of pitch, as well, but to a lesser extent in that one identifies
chord roots on the basis of information given in the voices. Treating Harmony as an
independent entity is a compromise made in the face of an unsolvable dilemma.
13. The operative word, “tasteful,” is critical to maintaining balance in this more adven-
turous style of analysis. Whenever an unconventional interpretation is considered,
the analyst should pause to reassess. He should be vigilant for any moment at which
he feels his approach to a reading might appear at all outlandish; that is the moment it
should be abandoned.
14. Schoenberg 1985, Clough 1979 and 1994, and Straus 1990 all set precedents for
applying set theory analysis to works of previous eras. More recently, Dmitri
Tymoczko has argued that triadic, functional harmony, an eighteenth-century de-
velopment, manifests strongly, albeit in incipient form, in the music of Palestrina
(2015).
15. See Mailman 2015, which employs David Lewin’s binary- state GIS in a sim-
ilar manner as here. The author explains the GIS as essentially “a vector of on/off
switches” that applied to each cell “can either ‘reverse’ (make opposite, flip, invert) the
current state of something (with a digit 1) or leave the state of something as is (with a
digit 0) (2015, 235).
16. The segmentation given in Example 7.5 adheres to Lehrdahl and Jackendoff ’s “well-
formedness” principles for musical groups. Such principles promote cohesion and
continuity by requiring, among other things, that groups be composed of “contig-
uous events,” that a full piece counts as a group, and that, in any case that a larger
group contains smaller ones, that it is “exhaustively partitioned” by them (1983,
37–38).
17. On the basis of the sustained F♯ bass pedal, one can argue that mm. 17–24 exhibit no
significant tonal motion and therefore constitute one segment. Alternatively, it is pos-
sible to say that smaller surface harmonic motions are present within mm. 17–20 and
mm. 21–24, allowing each to stand as a viable segment.
18. The present demonstration concentrates on Complex assembly and not CMA in full.
For discussion of the issues that impact Focal Point selection, readers should consult
the next section of this chapter.
19. The present suggestion runs counter to Schoenberg, who explicitly recognizes
“motives of the accompaniment” in his theory (2016, 60).
Notes 351
20. Brahms incorporated Romany elements in his music at all stages of his development.
His interest in folk music in general and Hungarian music specifically—the latter of
which developed out of his early friendship with violinist Eduard Reményi—is de-
tailed in Jan Swafford’s biography of the composer (1999, 55–62).
21. Readers will note that a few note heads, most prominently in the bass, are “unmoored”
with respect to motivic arrow labels. These serve as guide tones to orient readers as
they audiate the Map. These notes are mute with respect to actual motivic meaning
and can thus be ignored, or erased, if preferred.
22. There is no way to justify this weighting scheme over others in absolute terms. A 50–
50 division of weight between Primary and Secondary domain groups is not inher-
ently superior to any others such as 60–40, 75–25, or 98–2. It is born out of a desire
for simplicity. A straightforward averaging of domain groups is preferable to a scaled
weighting scheme that would further complicate the method by introducing other
multiplicative factors.
23. Readers may wonder, if Focal Point selection is meant to occur early, then why delay
this topic until now? It is because in the earlier context of rehearsing the basics of
CMA Narrative assembly, it was necessary to have each process run more or less au-
tonomously. To invite uncertainty into that demonstration would have distracted
from its purpose. And nothing is more uncertain than leaving open the question of
which segment should serve as the Focal Point!
Chapter 8
1. A number of sources, notably among them Citron 1988 and Aichele 2018, describe
the powerful societal forces in music reception that have led to Chaminade’s margin-
alization as a “mere” salon composer.
2. Chaminade’s heavy reliance on the subdominant is consistent with a trend described
by Notley 2005 and Harrison 1994, in which later Romantic composers substituted
IV for V as a new pole opposing the tonic realm. The new prominence of subdomi-
nant harmony manifested at multiple structural levels, from cadence all the way up to
primary tonal areas.
3. The decision to allow a single key to persist for a work’s entirety is unusual. The exag-
gerated monotonality calls to mind Chaminade’s Piano Sonata, Op. 21, in which
the exposition of the first movement never escapes the orbit of the C minor tonic.
In seeking a gendered interpretation for this “subversive” compositional gesture—
which is to say: how the music suggests feminine origins or attributes—Marcia
Citron alights on the metaphor that “a major aspect of desire is being denied [an ex-
pected event or pattern]” (1993, 148–152).
4. The voice is rendered in MacinTalk, a technology developed by Apple in 1984 that is
still used today in many text-to-speech applications. The title of the song makes refer-
ence to the character of Marvin the Paranoid Android, a morose robot from Douglas
Adams’s Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy universe.
352 Notes
5. All published analyses of “Paranoid Android” essentially agree on its main themes
and its fatalistic narrative. According to Rusch 2013, the song “depicts a socially
alienated and anxiety-ridden persona” living in a capitalistic society in which “Power
(‘When I am king’) and materialism . . . generate self-importance (‘Why don’t you
remember my name?’). There, a “plea to be cleansed . . . is met with a cynicism that
God may be passive, leaving the persona no escape from Pandemonium” (§2.1). Letts
2010, in tracing the reception history of OK Computer, fleshes out this consensus with
quotations of Nadine Hubbs, James Doheny, Allan F. Moore, and Anwar Ibrahim and
Mac Randall (28–32).
6. The full quotation is as follows: “Just a joke, a laugh, getting wasted together over a
couple of evenings and putting some different pieces together” (Jabba 1998).
7. As expected, the imagery in the finished music video aligns with the text, particularly
in terms of the setting and themes; e.g., a bar full of repugnant folk, among them an
obese, aggressive administrator wearing a suit. This close correspondence is highly
remarkably, however, in light of a claim by Carlsson that he completed work on the
video using the instrumental soundtrack alone, with no knowledge of the lyrics
(Footman 2007, 160).
8. Sears 2011 analyzes the A section of “Paranoid Android” only; this is done for the
purpose of comparing the results obtained through waveform analysis of the re-
cording with those yielded through traditional formal/harmonic analysis. In contrast
to Rusch and Osborn, Sears selects G minor as the tonic of A, even as he notes the
“destabilizing” role of E natural over this chord in the chorus (2011, 7).
9. At this tempo, the six-measure phrases seem normative. If one transcribes such that
q = 200, as Rusch does, these same phrases seem to shift against the underlying hyper-
meter (2013, §2.5).
10. Where previous six-measure segments functioned in two-bar hypermeter, this one
changes the feel to three-bar hypermeter. The harmonic and metric domains work
in tandem to disorient listeners, as the former suspends all sense of progression and
the other trips up listeners by tugging on the hypermetrical rug on which they are
standing.
11. This has less to do with the mere juxtaposition of human and digital noise; popular
music has routinely, since the 1970s New Wave movement, paired human-acoustic
utterances with computer-and waveform sound elements. The blending, rather, must
purposefully invoke the topic.
12. “In the early nineteenth century,” Charles Rosen explains, “madness had its
attractions as well as its terrors.” Specifically, the condition was tied to the notion of
inspiration: “Madness, for the Romantic artist, was more than a breakdown of ra-
tional thought; it was an alternative which promised not only different insights but
also a different logic” (1995, 646–647). Further glosses on this topic appear in Stein
and Spillman 1996 and Cone 1982.
13. This moment is strongly reminiscent of one from the Beatles’ “Day in the Life” from
their Sgt. Pepper album. At 2:49, following the words, “And somebody spoke and
I went into a dream,” the music switches on echo distortion, and a disembodied voice
sighs a high-pitched “Aaah.” To note further parallels with “Paranoid Android,” “A
Notes 353
Day in the Life,” was assembled out of separate compositions by John Lennon and
Paul McCartney, and centers on issues of anxiety and identity.
14. For “Paranoid Android,” the question of whether drugs are involved is moot. For “A
Day in the Life,” George Martin confirmed that the lyrics, “having a smoke” refers
to members of the Beatles sneaking out of the recording area from time to time to
smoke marijuana (Badman 2000).
15. Fuller details about the show’s history, from genesis to legacy, is provided in Flinn
1989 and Mandelbaum 1990.
16. The fortieth anniversary recording of A Chorus Line includes as a bonus track the
early version of “At the Ballet” that Hamlisch screened for Michael Bennett. The close
correspondence between this piano sketch and the final scored work is uncanny.
The texts are identical, and their forms differ only in that the final version omits the
second chorus before the last “ballet” climax section. As a result, many of the primary
motives of this analysis can be seen as present from the beginning, among them the
hopeful 2nd, the fourths and oscillating neighbor figures and Threefold Repetition.
The linear 3rd, too, is prominent in the early version in both descending and as-
cending forms, though notably falls silent in the place where eventually Maggie will
sing it as a bridge to the Climax area.
17. This moment stands as the embodiment of Michael Bennett’s philosophy that, “by
nature,” dance “is the essence of the Broadway musical” (Stempel 2010, 589).
Chapter 9
1. Eighteenth-century fugal treatises routinely recommended to composers that they design

a three-or four-voice polyphonic passage, and then use it to generate multiple segments
(Marpurg 1970). Schubert and Neidhöfer’s Baroque Counterpoint, a modern stylistic com-
positional treatise, explicitly draws on this same paradigm (2006).
2. Harrison 1997 offers a detailed account of “Good Vibrations” that relates its idiosyn-
cratic tonal and formal structure to its composition from spliced studio fragments.
The section I refer to as chorus is in his analysis called an extended refrain.
3. The verses, as a group, oppose the choruses, but remain organically related to them.
While exhibiting similar grooves and harmonic rhythm, the verses create their subtle
contrast by substituting a new texture and new harmonies—A and G chords that pro-
duce a sense of dominant/subdominant alternation.
4. Gjerdingen’s outside reference points for schemata are rooted in the fields of phi-
losophy and psychology. To explain the concept of schema, Gjerdingen expressly
invokes cognitive categories such as prototypes and exemplars (2007, 10). Following
from this, his formal model for that entity, like my own formulation of the Complex,
takes the form of a network.
5. Gjerdingen’s concentration on Galant style informs his resistance to grand, or-
ganic theories of music. He notes a hierarchy in that style, consisting of parts,
354 Notes
phrases, sections, movements, etc. Critically, there is no firm, syntactic frame-

work: “Replacing a D with a C♯ in a small melodic figure would not cause the whole
musical house to collapse, nor would replacing [one schema with another]” (2007,
425). Other comments made on the same page effectively communicate Gjerdingen’s
disdain for nineteenth-century metaphysics, specifically the “self-inflicted” problem
of determining a work’s unity (2007, 425).
6. Kandinsky’s thoughts on circles in general resonate well with nontraditional modes
of organization, potentially overlapping with developments in advanced mathematics
that track relationships simultaneously on four or more separate axes: “The impor-
tance of circles . . . prefigures the dominant role they would play in many subsequent
works, culminating in his cosmic and harmonious image Several Circles. ‘The circle,’
claimed Kandinsky, ‘is the synthesis of the greatest oppositions. It combines the con-
centric and the eccentric in a single form and in equilibrium. Of the three primary
forms, it points most clearly to the fourth dimension’ ” (Spector 1994, 157).
7. An overview and history of similarity relations can be found in Schuijer 2008 (130–
178). While the algorithms he describes were designed more for network-style and
(Forte-ian) “nexus”-set analysis, there is nothing to prevent them from being adapted
to diatonic collections and tonal musics. For a complementary approach to the topic
rooted in cognitive science, see Hanninen 2004; her investigation of similarity (with
applications for analysis) is based on the mind’s tendency to identify musical events in
terms of porous categories.
8. See Cambouropoulos 2006 and Lartillot 2004 for accounts of the technical complex-
ities of programming computers to return meaningful motivic findings from lengthy
strings of musical data.
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Index
Note: An e following a page number indicates a musical example, figure, or chart
abruptio figure, 59 analytic extravagance, 314–15

abstraction, 12, 53, 72–73, 137, 208 analytic freedom/flexibility, 87, 93–94, 102,
in art, 16–17, 17e 220,  322–24
abuse of analysis, 8–10, 317, 329n6 analyst’s proclivities and, 210–11
Accretion narrative templates (in CMA in CMA analysis, 233, 240
analysis), 208–12, 322 ancient Greece, 56–57
overlap with Synthesis narrative, 211–12,  André 3000, 319–20
215 Anson-Cartwright, Mark, “Chord as Motive,” 85
CMA–2<> (Synthesis/Dissolution variant), ante, upping the, 33, 192
212, 212e, 215, 218 anxiety
CMA–2< (Synthesis), 212, 212e, 218 in “At the Ballet,” 301, 301e, 303
Focal Point in, 248 in “Paranoid Android,” 277, 290–91
information flow in, 208–12, 209e, 242 archetypes, narrative, 130, 165–81, 322.
rondo and, 214 See also Non-Engagement narrative
Add six chord (+6), 279, 284–85, 286 archetype (BMA–2°); Propagation
affect narrative archetype (BMA–1); Synthesis
in Baroque music, 56, 62, 67, 335n11 narrative archetype (BMA–2•); Triumph
in Classical music, 62 narrative archetype
Agawu, Kofi, 94, 312, 331n17, 345n4 BMA,  169–81
agency of motive, 20–21, 22, 165–66, 190, 345n9 CMA, 205–18,  238–39
personification and, 168–69, 170, 172–74, complementation-based, 170, 171–72,
260, 290–91, 344n1 205, 211
Aichele, Michele, 351n1 conflict-based, 170–71, 174, 176–81,
Alegant, Brian, 338n41 205, 211
Alexander, Christopher, The Nature of Order, summary chart, 216, 217e, 218
17–18,  330n15 arch motive, 318e, 319
Allanbrook, Wye J., 345n5 Aristotle, 57, 335n6
allusion. See embodiment/allusion domain arpeggiating motive, 32–33, 106, 108, 113,
Almén, Byron, 169, 170, 345–46n10 332nn8–9, 341nn4–5
amateur listeners and musicians, 19, 22–23, 62, in Beethoven’s Piano Sonata Op. 2, No. 1,
76, 312–13,  327–28 183–84, 185, 186e, 193, 194–95
ambiguity in Chaminade’s “L’Ondine,” 271
in analysis, 12, 107, 109, 116, 154, 157, 186, in composite motive, 115–17
188e, 324 internal placement of prefix figures, 117–18
developing variation and, 324–26 nomenclature for, 110–11, 111e
harmonic,  200–34 arpeggiation, 87
metric, 200–201, 347n13 as texture attribute, 224, 273, 275
tonal, 278 arrows used in analysis, 155–61, 221
ambivalence,  277–78 coupling (register), 236
anacrusis, 113, 137, 200–201 dashed, 155, 157, 161, 210, 236, 243, 245, 247,
analysis of self, 3, 211, 325 282, 347n11
analytic error, 89–92, 146–47 dotted, 155–56, 236, 247
style and harmonic claims, 232 double-barbed, 155, 159, 160, 245
368 Index
arrows used in analysis (cont.) Fugue in E, Well-Tempered Clavier,

single-barbed, 155, 159, 243, 245 Book II, 318
transformational,  241–42 Fugue in G-sharp minor, Well-Tempered
art, nonrepresentative, 322, 323e, 324, 354n6 Clavier, Book I, 316, 316e, 317
art history, motifs in, 14, 15e–16e,  16–18 Gigue from Fourth English Suite, 32e, 32–33,
articulation domain, 5 33e, 49
in complex motivic analysis (CMA), 101, Partita No. 4, BWV 828, 138, 138e
223e, 224, 227e, 237 Prelude in B-flat minor, Well-Tempered
formatting conventions of, 227e Clavier, Book II, 70e
attack points, 120, 121 “Bach” motive, 226
“At the Ballet,” by Marvin Hamlisch, 296–310 “Backbeat” motive, 282, 282e, 286, 294–95, 295e
“aspiration,” 303, 304, 310 back-relatedness, 161,  209–10
content and drama in, 304, 306–7, 310 backshift, 127, 342n10, 343n10
“Crisis” section, 298, 304, 306–7, 308e balance, compositional, 39, 42, 127, 201, 225
Denouement section, 298, 304, 307, 310 Barber, Samuel, 334n21
“epiphany” (“upturned glance”), 300, 301e, barline notation, 125–27, 126e
302, 303, 304, 310 Baroque period, 27
list of motives with narrative constituent style traits, 29e, 30
associations, 305e motives in, 32–39, 167
Threefold Repetition, 300, 301e, 303, 304, motive theory in, 55, 58–61, 100
307, 309e Bartel, Dietrich, 59, 62, 335nn5–6
attributes, 81 Bartók, Béla, 334n22
binary formatting of, 233, 251, 253, 284 Concerto for Orchestra, 232
in cognitive theory, 97–98, 99, 99e basic motivic analysis (BMA), 101, 129–63
concept of motive and, 10, 85–87, 101 of “At the Ballet,” by Marvin Hamlisch,
Gestalt principles of, 3, 10 296–310
improvised (partial) values, 273 distinguishing elements from Schoenbergian
mapping, 240–43, 245 analysis, 129
specifying, 234–35,  237–38 domains considered in, 101, 219
spreadsheet representation, 252e, minimum competency needed for, 129
258e, 274e narrative archetypes, 130, 205, 216, 217e
tally of, 239, 251, 252e, 253, 257, 273 narrative restrictions, 129–30, 205
valuing, 97–99, 170–71, 221–22, 249–51, 257, pitch and pitch-class exemplars, 183–95
271, 273, 285, 286–87 preliminary narrative strategies, 161–63
audiation, 149, 222–23 principles for linking motives, 150–61
audibility, motivic analysis and, 102, Propagation narrative template
105,  130–34 for, 163, 205
Auerbach, Brent, 86, 348n1 rhythm exemplars, 195–207
augmentation, 153, 154e, 160e rules in context of full method, 261e
augmented sixth chord, 314 shortcomings of, 219
Auner, Joseph, 325 Basic Shape. See Grundgestalt
awkwardness,  48–49 Beach Boys, the, “Good Vibrations,”
319–20,  353n2
Babbitt, Milton, 51, 82, 334n26 Beatles, the
Three Compositions for Piano, 344n19 “A Day in the Life,” 352–53nn13–14
Bach, J. C., 39 “Yellow Submarine,” 72
Bach, Johann Sebastian Bee Gees, the, “Stayin’ Alive,” 320
Fugue in B, Well-Tempered Clavier, Book I, Beethoven, Ludwig van
116e, 117 atomization (intervallic view of
Fugue in B-flat minor, Well-Tempered Clavier, tonality), 347n5
Book II, 70 Bagatelle, Op. 119, No. 1, 92–93, 112,
Fugue in C-sharp minor, Well-Tempered 112e, 341n6
Clavier, Book I, 318 Mattheson’s influence on, 60
Index 369
motivic saturation in music of, 46 Boss, Jack, 92, 93

Piano Concerto No. 4, 46 Boulez, Pierre, 334n26
Piano Sonata No. 1 in F minor, Op. 2, boundary (bounding) interval of motive, 82,
No. 1, 183–207, 188e, 189e, 190e–93e, 108, 109, 110, 113, 115, 271
196e–97e, 202e Bowie, David, 319
Piano Sonata No. 3 in C, Op. 2, No. 3, 66, Boyle, Matthew, 321–22
75e, 78e, 78–79, 105, 147, 147e, 177e, Brahms, Johannes, 54
177–81,  180e Intermezzo in A, Op. 76, No. 6, 140e, 141
Piano Sonata No. 5 in C minor, Op. 10, No. 1, Intermezzo in A minor, Op. 118, No. 1,
87, 88e, 89, 93, 105–6, 106e 48e,  48–49
Piano Sonata No. 7 in D, Op. 10, No. 3, 157–61, Rhapsody No. 1, Op. 79, No. 1, 348n1(1)
157e–61e Romany musical elements in works of, 351n22
Piano Sonata No. 8 in C minor (Pathétique), String Quartet in A minor, Op. 51, No. 2, 76e,
Op. 13, 8, 9e,  106–7 76–77, 91, 105
Piano Sonata No. 10 in G, Op. 14, No. 2, Symphony No. 3, 79, 81
139, 347n12 tradition and, 333n18
Piano Sonata No. 13 in F minor use of motives, 46–47
(Appassionata), Op. 57, 46, 340n57 Waltz in B minor, Op. 39, No. 11, 235–38,
Piano Sonata No. 14 in C-sharp minor, 236e, 237e, 240–61, 244e, 246e
Op. 27, No. 2, 95, 156 bridging intermovement gaps (attacca),  144–45
Piano Sonata No. 16 in G, Op. 31, Britten, Benjamin, 334n21
No. 1, 66 Brower, Candace, 344n17
Piano Sonata No. 24 in F-sharp, Op. 78, bubblegum music, 319
144–45,  145e Burkhart, Charles, 338n41, 346n1
String Quartet in B-flat, Op. 18, No. 6, Burkholder, Peter, 333n18
170, 171e Burmeister, Joachim, 349n3
String Quartet in F, Op. 18, No. 1, 46 Hypomnematum musicae poeticae, 335n7
Symphony No. 1, 89–90, 90e Musica poetica, 56, 58–59, 60, 335nn7–9
Symphony No. 3 (“Eroica”), 93, 94e Burnham, Scott, 336n22, 346n14
Symphony No. 5, 13e, 14, 18, 18e, 20, 90e, Burns, Gary, 319
90–91, 98–99, 99e, 115
Symphony No. 6 (“Pastoral”), 166 cadence, 219
Bennett, Michael, 297, 353nn16–17 in Burmeister’s conception of fugue, 58
Bent, Ian, 67, 70 in Classical period, 39, 219
Berg, Alban, 50 complex motive boundaries and, 222
Four Songs, Op. 2, 51 in contour reduction, 134
Berlioz, Hector, Symphonie Fantastique, 46 in harmonic domain, 230
Bernhard, Christoph, 59, 336n14 “stock,” 31
Berry, Wallace, Structural Functions in structural pitches and, 95, 134
Music, 253 cadenza, 147, 180
binary forms, 143, 146, 148 Cadwallader, Allen, 92–93, 341n6, 346n1
rounded, 146–47, 148, 150, 245, 262 caesura, 143
binary representation, 233, 238, 249, 251, “Call Me Maybe” (Jepson), 319
284, 350n15 Campbell, Joseph, Hero with a Thousand
Bloom, Harold, 331n18 Faces, 345n7
blues, 26, 312 canon (body of works), 57
Blumröder, Christoph von, 336n16 canon (imitative technique), 195, 199, 231,
BMA–1. See Propagation narrative template 243, 245
BMA–2+. See Triumph narrative archetype Caplin, William, 336n15, 343n16, 346n1
BMA–2°. See Non-Engagement narrative Carlsson, Magnus, 277, 352n7
archetype Carpenter, Patricia, 72, 87, 101, 337n32,
BMA–2•. See Synthesis narrative archetype 338n34, 338n36, 339n49, 343n12
borrowing, modal. See mixture (modal) “Cascade” motive, 35–39, 333n10
370 Index
category (mental network), 97–99 relation to BMA, 238

as analog to motive, 223 role in CMA, 239
changeability and porousness of, 98 tally of motivic complex elements, 251, 252e,
causality, 12, 17–18 253, 257, 258e, 263, 267, 274e, 288e
chaining (self-replication), 32, 66, 155, 180 coda, 44–45, 180–81, 186, 189–90, 200, 214, 269
Chaminade, Cécile cognitive theory, 96–99, 340n59, 344n17, 349n4
“L’Ondine,” Op. 101, 267–76 coherence, 4, 8, 14. See also unity
Piano Sonata, Op. 21, 351n3 Cohn, Richard, 84, 107, 338n38, 340n54
Chopin, Frédéric, 46 Colonel Bogey March, 8, 9e
Nocturne in F-sharp, Op. 15, No. 2, 136–37, 137e comedy archetype, 173, 260–61
Prelude in C minor, Op. 28, No. 20, 170 Common-Practice music, 32, 48, 69, 156,
Prelude in F-sharp, Op. 28, No. 13, 174, 175e 168, 170, 219, 229, 230–31, 312, 332n3,
Waltz in A minor, Op. 34, No. 2, 112, 112e 332nn5–6. See also Baroque period;
chordal leap, 332n8. See also Classical period; Romantic period
arpeggiating motive communication
Christensen, Thomas, 334n1 among musicians, 102, 105–6, 327–28
chromaticism, 47, 48–50 of musical meaning, 19
chromatic motive, 109 complexity (as aesthetic virtue), 79–80
Chua, Daniel, 344n22 complex motive, 223e
Cinnamon, Howard, 85 assembly,  235–38
circle of fifths, 143, 190e, 192e–93e, 247, 333n13 concept of, 211–12
circular reasoning, 255–57, 326 concerns about working with, 230–35
Citron, Marcia, 351n1, 351n3 formalizing,  221–35
Classical period, 27, 28 harmonic root motion in, 222
motives in, 39–45, 54, 167, 333nn11–12 network structure of, 223–24, 238
motive theory in, 55, 61–65 scope of, 222
style traits, 29e, 30, 195 standard content and modes of
Climax figure, 58, 58e representation, 227e
“Climb” motive, 31, 49, 332n9 theorizing content of, 226–30
Clough, John, 338n38, 350n14 complex motivic analysis (CMA), 101, 219–63.
CMA–1. See Propagation narrative templates See also Organic Map; CMA Narrative
(in CMA analysis) abbreviated readings, 261, 271–73
CMA–2. See Accretion narrative templates (in advantages of, 225
CMA analysis) basic motivic analysis (BMA) compared
CMA–3. See Cyclic narrative templates (in with,  219–21
CMA analysis) of Brahms’s Waltz in B minor, 240–61
CMA Narrative of Chaminade’s “L’Ondine,” 267–76
assembling multiple, 257, 259–61 CMA Narrative, 238–40, 248–55
for Brahms’s Waltz in B minor, 248–55 developing variation and, 324–25
constructing,  248–55 domains considered in, 101, 219–21
Focal Point quantified in, 249–51, 273 flowchart for, 240e
graphical representation of, 253–54, 254e, fugue and, 318
259e, 267, 274e, 289e minimizing redundancy, 234–35
interpretation of, 254–55, 259–61, 287 motivic flexibility in, 101
multiple readings, 257 multiple readings, 255–57
numerical essence of, 251 narrative archetypes, 205–18, 238–39
as paired complement with CMA Map, Organic Map, 238–48
238–40,  247–48 philosophy of, 225
quantitative analysis, 221, 249–53, 257, 263, principles for linking motives, 150–61
267, 273, 274e, 275 procedures for carrying out, 239
for Radiohead’s “Paranoid Android,” 280, provisional, 257
287–93 of Radiohead’s “Paranoid Android,” 276–96
recasting and revising, 255–61, 262 rationale for, 219–21
Index 371
rules for, 261e rondo form and, 213, 214, 215

segmentation in, 233, 234–36, 267, 268, 271, sonata form and, 214–15
279–80, 292,  321–22 verse-chorus form and, 213
“composing out,” 85, 133, 178, 234, 334n22
composite motive, 247 Dahlhaus, Carl, 47, 337n26, 338n37
nomenclature for, 116e Dallapiccola, Luigi, Quaderno Musicale di
pitch, 115–17, 243, 247 Annilibera, 226
rhythmic, 123, 125, 295 dance, power of, 297, 307, 353n17
Synthesis narrative and, 176 “Day in the Life, A,” by the Beatles, 352–53nn13–14
compositional premise, 28, 39, 59, 157, 232, 243 Degeorge, Gérard, 330n13
compositional “problem” or status, 42–43, 63, derivation, 77, 83, 91, 105, 231
66, 272, 336n18 derivative domains, 224, 229
compositional strategy, 7–8, 32–33, 35–39, dessin, 55, 64–65
46–53,  192 developing variation, 73–74, 77, 324–26,
composition-centric vs. analytic-centric 333n19, 348–49n2
thinking, 325 development section. See sonata form
computer-aided analysis, 96, 311, 326, 354n8 diatonicism, 48, 99, 108–9
computer voice (in “Paranoid Android”), 277, digression (rounded binary form), 146e, 146–
285, 291, 295–96, 296e, 351n3 47, 148, 235, 240, 245, 247, 254, 255, 260
conceptual modeling, 17–18, 96–99, 330n15 diminution, 92, 153, 154e, 158, 160e
Cone, Edward T., 144, 210, 337n23, 347n10, directed distance, 152
348nn2–3,  352n12 discrete (+) joining
consonance, 57 pitch motives, 115–17
contour rhythmic motives, 123
analysis, 135–36, 225, 340n58, 342nn7–8 displacement dissonance. See metric dissonance
changing definitions of, 135 dispositio, 57, 59
as domain in complex motivic analysis Dissolution type (CMA–1>). See Propagation
(CMA), 224–25, 227e, 229 narrative templates (in CMA analysis)
formatting conventions of, 227e dissonance, harmonic, 28, 50, 317
points of (corner notes), 94, 95 dissonance, metric. See metric dissonance
contour reduction, 134, 135–37 distortion, 276, 277
Cook, Nicholas, Guide to Musical disunity, 278, 321
Analysis, 340n56 divided durations, 123, 123e, 128e
Cooper, Barry, 346n3 “Divine Monochord,” 57, 334n3
corner notes. See contour Doctrine of the Affections, 335n11
cosmology,  56–57 Doheny, James, 296
counterpoint domains, musical. See also articulation domain;
motivic migration in, 35–38 contour domain; counterpoint domain;
reduction on basis of, 131 dynamics domain; embodiment/allusion
requirements for, 331n2 domain; harmony domain; orchestration/
style and, 28 texture/timbre domain; pitch domain;
counterpoint domain rhythm domain; special effects domain
in complex motivic analysis (CMA), 219–21, in basic motivic analysis (BMA), 129
223e, 224–25, 227e, 229, 238 binary representation of, 233–35
formatting conventions of, 227e in complex motivic analysis (CMA), 101, 206,
coupling, 169 219–21, 222, 249–51, 257, 273, 282–87
cyclic form, 176 contour applied to, 135
Cyclic narrative templates (in CMA analysis), feature and, 74–76
212–16, 276–96,  322 interdependence of, 79, 94
CMA–3, 212–16, 214e, 218 motivic identity on basis of, 5
CMA–3↑ (Modified Cyclic), 215, 216e, dominant (D). See harmonic function labels
218,  267–76 double fugue, 59, 176
Focal Points in, 248, 254–55 double neighbor figures, 111, 112
372 Index
double-tonic complex, 278 enharmonicism, 108, 306, 340n55

drama enriched tonality, 50, 334n21
motives’ conveyance of, 21, 165, 172–73 constituent style traits, 29e
protagonist in, 168–69 Epstein, David, 243, 343n9
text/music associations in, 18, 331n17 Beyond Orpheus, 93–96, 100, 134–41
duality, 201, 280 Epstein Point (E.P.) 1, 134, 135–36
Dunsby, Jonathan, 69, 339n46 Epstein Point (E.P.) 2, 134
duration scaling, 152–53, 153e, 154e, 233 Epstein Point (E.P.) 3, 134, 136–37
duration types (S-M-L), 120, 121e equal duration reduction (EDR), 132, 132e
Dvořák, Antonin approach of, 131
Symphony No. 9, 176 compared with tonal reduction, 131–34
dynamics domain contour reduction, 134, 135–37
in complex motivic analysis efficiency of, 133–34
(CMA), 101, 219–20, 223e, 224, Epstein’s Beyond Orpheus as model
227e,  237–38 for,  134–41
defined, 226 form analysis and, 143–48
formatting conventions of, 227e patterning in, 134, 136–37, 142–43, 149
rhythmic and metric salience as criterion,
efficiency, 133, 229, 233 134,  137–41
Eitan, Zohar, 330n9 rules for larger musical spans, 141–50
electronic music, 280, 319 “windows,” 139, 194
Elgar, Edward, 334n21 Erlich, Victor, 345n6
elided (⊕) joining escape tone, 286, 303
pitch motives, 115–17 expert vs. non-expert analysis, 19–20, 22–23
rhythmic motives, 123 exposition. See sonata form
Ellington, Duke, “Take the A Train,” 72 extramusical associations, 226, 228
elocution, 59 extroversive practice, 167–68, 345n4
embodiment/allusion domain, 349n8
in complex motivic analysis (CMA), family as theme in Hamlisch “At the Ballet,”
227e, 233 297–310
defined, 226, 228 fa-sol-do motive, 316, 317
formatting conventions of, 227e “fate” motive, 326
in Radiohead “Paranoid Android,” 285, feature (characteristic), 73, 73e
286, 293 motive distinguished from, 74–76, 80, 338n36
emotion terminological collapse with motive, 80–87
ancient Greek views on, 56–57 “feature motive,” 81, 84–85, 86
awkwardness in performance, 48–49 feedback (electronic), 277, 280
in eighteenth-century music, 62, 345n5 figure, musical
encoding, 31 in Baroque music, 55, 58–59, 60, 100,
figures associated with, 336n17 335–36n12,  336n14
musica poetica and, 56 Burmeister’s conception of, 335nn8–9
Narrative Curve and, 213 in Classical music, 60, 63
real sequence and, 47–48 early catalogs of, 335n8
as requirement for motive, 3, 10–14, 16, 25, figure, rhetorical, 57–59
166, 315 film music
tone painting and, 31 Leitmotive in, 330n16
Empfindsamkeit, 62, 335n11 text/music associations in, 18
empiricism, 78 First Tonal Area (FTA) (sonata form), 174, 176,
energy, musical, 3, 11, 79, 163 196, 200, 346n13
intervallic cell as generator of, 65 flourish (motive), 247, 257
motive as source of, 69–70, 181, 329n7 Fludd, Robert, De Musica Mundana, 334n3
radiating from Focal Point, 18 Focal Point, 162, 242e, 243, 244e, 246e, 247
“wind-up” return and, 147–48 broadened scope in CMA, 205–8, 218
Index 373
CMA Narrative Rule, 248 Gjerdingen, Robert, Music in the Galant Style,

in Cyclic narrative, 254–55 320–21, 329n3, 349n5, 353–54nn4–5
deduction of, 206–8 glissando, 123, 226
establishment of identity/location, 162–63, Gluck, Christoph, “Che fiero momento” from
205, 212, 235, 240, 248, 255–57, 267, 272, Orfeo ed Euridice, 118, 118e
279, 280, 285–86, 318 Goehr, Alexander, 80, 339n43
located outside of piece, 208 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, Versuch
quantification of, 249–51 die Metamorphose der Pflanzen zu
recasting, 257 erklären, 336n20
segments’ degrees of relatedness to, 253–54 “Good Vibrations,” by the Beach Boys,
sub-elements of, 248, 250 319–20,  353n2
fonts used in labeling motives, 109, 125 grace notes, 140e, 141, 247, 273, 343n11
foreshadowing, 208–12. See also back-relating grammar, study of, 20, 340n60
foreshift, 127, 342n10, 343n10 Granot, Roni, 330n9
Forkel, J. N., 63 Greenwood, Colin, 276, 277
formalization of analysis, 10, 20, 82–84, 100–102, Gregorian chant, 30–31
129, 150, 324–26 grouping dissonance. See metric dissonance
formal training in music analysis, 234 Grube, Ernst, 330n14
form analysis, 143–48 Grundgestalt (Basic Shape), 72–73, 73e, 77, 87,
boundaries, 143–45, 272 88e, 89, 93, 206, 210, 339n50, 340n57
in complex motivic analysis (CMA), 219–21, Guck, Marion, 345n3
240–41, 269, 270e Guido of Arezzo, 56
Forte, Allen, 69 guitar lick. See hook, musical
“Motivic Design and Structural Levels in the
First Movement of Brahms’s String Quartet hairpin dynamic, 161–62, 237–38
in C Minor,” 82–84, 85 half cadence (HC), 39, 113, 133, 147, 186, 232,
“New Approaches to the Linear Analysis of 279, 283, 343n15
Music,” 85 Hamlisch, Marvin, “At the Ballet,” 296–310
The Structure of Atonal Music,  82–83 Handel, George Frideric
fragmentation, 69, 155–58, 161, 161e Concerto Grosso, Op. 6, No. 1, 33–39, 34e,
Franklin, Aretha, 319–20 36e–38e
Friedmann, Michael, 342n7 Concerto Grosso, Op. 6, No. 4, 315, 316e
Frisch, Walter, 340n52 Hanninen, Dora A., 354n7
Brahms and the Principle of Developing Hansen, Howard, 82
Variation, 91 Hanslick, Eduard, 79, 329n1
Frye, Northrop, 173, 260 harmonic function labels (T, PD, D), 71, 228,
Fuga realis figure, 59 234, 349–50n9
fugue state, 291–92 harmonic motive (Riemann), 71
fugue subject, 315, 317–18 harmonic sequence, 49, 142–43, 190e,
“full reset,” 144, 145–46 192e–93e, 334n20
functional harmony. See harmony, functional harmonic syntax, 27–28, 79, 131, 230, 284
harmony, functional, 27–28, 30, 32–33,
Gagné, David, 346n1 332nn5–6
Galant music, 26, 321–22, 353–54n5 harmony domain, 5
Galuppi, Baldassare, 39 chromatic techniques, 47, 48–50
Gang, 66, 67e, 346n14 in complex motivic analysis (CMA), 219–20,
gap-filling motives, 40–41, 43, 45 223e, 224, 227e, 237
Garnham, Alison, 87 as constituent style trait, 30
Gedanke. See Idea (Idee or Gedanke) formatting conventions of, 227e
generic content, 157, 189, 194, 197, 235–37, 255 meaning in music supplied by, 79
Gestalt principles of perception, 3–4, 10–12, 14, reduction,  233–34
19, 340n60 tonal progressions, 141, 349–50n9
gesture studies, 167 unified and conflicting content, 230–32
374 Index
Harrison, Daniel, 334n21, 336n18, 338n38, imagination, music and, 3–4, 11, 19, 21, 97–98,
351n2, 353n2 149, 169, 174, 201, 228
Harriss, Ernest, 60 imperfect authentic cadence (IAC), 146e
hash mark notation, 121–23, 194 incomplete neighbor tone, 117, 118e
Hasty, Christopher, 347n11 information theory, 331n1
Hatten, Robert, 30–31, 167, 168, 331n18 narrative flow and, 162–63
Haydn, Franz Joseph style and, 25–27
Mattheson’s influence on, 60 initiating event (Focal Point), 162, 163, 166,
Piano Sonata in D, Hob. XVI:37, 170, 206
146e,  146–47 intensity curve. See Narrative Curve
Piano Sonata in E-flat, Hob. XVI:52, 230–31 interdependence of domains, 79, 94
Piano Sonata No. 31 in E, Hob. XVI:31, interpretation in CMA, 221, 240, 253–55,
5–6,  6e 259–61, 273,  287–93
Piano Sonata No. 36 in C-sharp minor, Hob. intervallic cells, 47, 55, 66, 68, 107, 341n1
XVI:36, 113, 114e intervallic disposition of motives, 109
Symphony No. 45 (“Farewell”), 208 interval-preserving operations, 77, 101, 151,
Symphony No. 103, 219, 220e, 223 153, 154e, 155, 156
Symphony No. 104, 68e,  68–69 interversion, 89, 93
“head” event, 242 introversive practice, 167–68, 345n4
Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich, 329n1, 339n42 intuition in motivic analysis, 91, 95, 102,
Helmholtz, Hermann von, 329n1, 330n8 154e,  155–57
hemiola (grouping dissonance), 127, 343n9 inventio, 57, 59, 63
Hepokoski, James, 348n2 inversion. See mirror inversion
hermeneutic analysis, 19, 326 inversus, 159
“Hey Ya” (André 3000 with OutKast), 319–20 irony/satire archetype, 173
hierarchy “I Won’t Grow Up” (Peter Pan), 113, 114e
in counterpoint, 331n2
in BMA and CMA, 209e, 210, 241 Jabba (Jason Davis), 276
of form, 64, 68, 143, 240–41, 353n5 Jackendoff, Ray, 133, 242, 340n60, 342n1,
in Organic Map, 241 344n17, 350n16
in Schenker’s theory, 93, 133 “jack of all trades”, 311–14
in Schoenberg’s theory, 72–73, 73e, 78, Jagger, Mick, 318
80–81, 93, 98 Jakobsen, Roman, 167–68
Hilse, Walter, 59 jazz, 27, 54, 232, 284, 331n17
Hinrichsen, Hans-Joachim, 336n16 Jepson, Carly Rae, “Call Me Maybe,” 319
Holst, Gustav, 54 “Jetsons” theme, 117, 118e
The Planets, 49e, 49–50, 50e, 51 Joplin, Scott, “The Entertainer,” 113, 114e
hook, musical, 42–43, 315, 318–20
hook notation (prefixes/suffixes), 113 Kandinsky, Wassily, 322, 354n6
Hooper, Jason, 64 Little Accents, 323e, 324
Huron, David, 84 Several Circles, 322, 324
Hutchinson, Mark, 344n21 Karpinski, Gary, 341n8
hypermeter, 141, 352n10 Keller, Hans, 22, 87, 339n49, 348–49n2
Kerman, Joseph, 170
Idea (Idee or Gedanke), 72, 73e Kielian-Gilbert, Marianne, 77
Schoenberg’s concept of, 73e, 80 Kinderman, William, 346n2
idée fixe, 46 Kircher, Athanasius, Musurgia universalis,
identity (in “Paranoid Android”) 59, 336n13
as Allusion attribute, 285–86, 293 Klangfarbenmelodie, 334n22
computer, 296 Knack, the, “My Sharona,” 320
human, 277, 296 Koch, Heinrich Christian, 63, 66, 343n16
split (fractured), 277, 285, 291–92, 296 Korsyn, Kevin, 329n6, 344n22, 348n1
identity relation. See motivic (shape) identity Kramer, Lawrence, 331n18
Index 375
Krebs, Harald, 343n9 Marvin the Paranoid Android, 351n4

Kristeller, Paul, 335n5 Marx, Adolf Bernhard, 181, 336n20, 336n22,
Kurth, Ernst, 79 346n14
Die Lehre von der musikalischen
labeling. See nomenclature, universal Komposition, 65–66, 67e, 68, 76
Laitz, Steven, 330n12, 346n13 mathematic symbology
“lament” figure, 58, 167, 280 Forte’s use of, 83
Lassus, Orlando, In me transierunt, 59, 60 present study’s use of, 115
leaping motive, 40–45, 48–49, 109, 110 Schoenberg’s use of, 76–77, 105, 339n46
Leeman, Pierre, March of the Belgian Mattheson, Johann, 59–61, 66, 336n16
Paratroopers, 131–34, 135 The Complete Capellmeister, 60, 61e
Lehrdahl, Fred, 133, 242, 340n60, 342n1, Maus, Fred, 345n9
344n17, 350n16 “Music as Drama,” 168–69
Leitmotive, 46, 47–48, 330n16, maximal and minimal values (contour), 94–95,
333nn16–17,  339n45 135–36, 142, 340n58
Léonin, 31 McClary, Susan, 331n18, 345n4
Lester, Joel, 60, 62, 63 McCreless, Patrick, 63
Letts, Marianne, 352n5 McLean, Donald, 338n41
Lévi-Strauss, Claude, 345n6 mechanistic view of music, 77–79
Levitan, Daniel, 330n10 Medieval period, 28, 334n25
Lewin, David, 226, 333n12, 338n38, 350n15 constituent style traits, 29e
Generalized Musical Intervals and music theory in, 56
Transformations, 339n51 stock formulas in chant, 30–31
linear motive, 108, 109–10 melodic blockage, 177, 179, 190
in Beethoven’s Piano Sonata Op. 2, No. 1, 184, melodic reduction. See reduction, melodic
185–87, 188e, 189, 190 melodic sequence, 142, 179
in composite motives, 115–17 Melodielehre,  61–69
line graph. See Narrative Curve melody-only analysis, shortcomings
linguistics, reduction in, 130–31 of,  89–92
listening experience. See also imagination, memorability requirement for motive, 7, 8, 315
musical definition of musical present (“now”),
forward vs. backward trajectories, 208–12 222–23,  349n4
in-time, 205, 219 stock formulas and, 30–31, 39
Listenius, Nicolas, 334n2 Mendelssohn, Felix, 46
Liszka, J. J., 173, 260 metaphor, 21, 57, 149, 161–62, 166, 168,
Liszt, Franz, 334n22 213, 331n2
use of motives, 46, 47–48 metric dissonance, 137–39, 141, 343n9
literary theory, 168–69, 173, 253, 322 displacement (syncopation type), 125–26,
Lobe, Johann Christian, Catechism of 137–39, 141, 343n9
Composition, 67–69, 337nn24–25 grouping (hemiola/phase type), 126–27,
Local Points, 206, 207, 207e, 208, 209e, 210, 239, 136–37, 137e, 141, 343n9
241, 242–43, 244e, 245, 246e, 247, 254 Meyer, Leonard, Music, the Arts and
logic. See coherence Ideas,  25–26
minimalism, motives in, 53, 334n25
MacinTalk, 351n4 minutiae, challenges of, 162
Mahler, Gustav Mirka, Danuta, 345n5
Symphony No. 5, 163 mirror inversion, 60, 61e, 77, 82, 101, 151, 151e,
use of motives, 47–48 154, 159, 159e, 233
Mailman, Joshua, 350n15 mixture (modal), 49, 183, 275
mannerism, 335n11 “M” multiplier, 344n18
“Mannheim Rocket,” 194 Modernism, constituent style traits of, 29e
markedness, 168, 226, 345n8, 349n7 modes, 30–31, 57, 332n4
Marshak, Boris I., 330n14 moment form, 329–30n7, 344n21
376 Index
Monahan, Seth, 345n9 in Renaissance period, 31

monophony, 163 Riemann’s definition of, 70–71, 329n3
mora figure, 59 role of, 149–50
Moreno, Jairo, 62e, 63, 64, 65, 66, 336n19 in Romantic period, 45–50, 54
Morris, Robert, 342n1, 342nn7–8 Schenker’s definition of, 339n47
motif (in art), 14, 15e–16e,  16–18 Schoenberg’s conception of, 4–6, 73
motion requirement for motive, 3, 10–14, 66, scope of, 148, 149, 150
100, 166, 315, 329n1, 329n3, 329n7 single-line (see basic motivic analysis
motive. See also harmonic motive; pitch and [BMA])
pitch-class motives; rhythmic motives size limitations of, 149
agency of, 20–21, 22, 165–66, 168–69, 170, as style element of music, 25–30
172–73, 190, 260, 290–91, 344n1, 345n9 terminological collapse with
alteration of, 101 feature,  80–87
in Baroque period, 32–39, 167 themes assembled from, 12, 18, 65, 66,
boundary-crossing of, 143–45, 148 200–201,  315–16
boundary interval of, 82 transformations of, 34, 41–42, 69, 82, 89–90,
central role in music, 3–10 154–56, 221, 233
chordal, 84, 100 twelve-tone row and, 51, 53, 54
chronological survey of use in Western art twentieth-century concept of, 80–87
music,  30–54 universality of, 22
in Classical period, 39–45, 54, 167, universal nomenclature for pitch and
333nn11–12 rhythm,  105–28
as cognitive category, 98–99 working definition of, 4–6
cultural history of, 167 motivic analysis as discipline
emotion requirement of, 3, 10–14, 16, accessibility of, 22–23, 312–13
166, 315 advantages of, 313–14
essence of, 7 in Baroque period, 55, 58–61, 100
feature distinguished from, 74–76, “boiling away”, 56, 81, 85–86, 99
80, 338n36 in Classical period, 55, 61–65
fugue subjects and, 315–18 commonalities with schema theory, 321
hook as, 315, 318–20 comparative analyses, 105–6
interval quality in, 330n11 in context, 311–14
judgment of potential, 314–24 dramatic readings, 36–39
legal definition of, 21 drawbacks of, 311–12
limitations on, 46 future promise of, 324–28
Lobe’s definition of, 67–68 history of theoretical approaches, 55–102,
in Medieval period, 30–31 334n1
memorability requirement for, 7, 8, 315 as “jack of all trades,” 311–14
in minimalist music, 53 late nineteenth century, 55, 69–80
monophonic, 5 limitations of, 149–50, 324–25
motion requirement of, 3–5, 10–14, Lobe’s influence on, 68–69
66, 100, 166, 315, 329n1, Mattheson’s influence on, 60
329n3, 329n7 pre-1600 approaches to, 56–57
oversaturation,  7–8 present-day techniques, 87–99, 100
performance implications of (see resuscitation of, 22, 102
performance implications) in Romantic period, 55, 64–69, 100
polyphonic, 5, 318 (see also complex motivic Schenkerian analysis and, 92–96
analysis [CMA]) Schoenberg’s influence on, 4–6
in post-tonal music, 50–53, 54 Schoenberg’s methods, 55–56, 71–81
preferred length for, 100 skepticism about, 8
principles for linking, 150–61 in supporting role, 7
as protagonist, 168–69, 173, 174, 255, 259–60 motivic combination, 12, 18, 67, 176, 200–201,
prototype form of, 34–35, 117 315–16
Index 377
“motivic debt,” 66 theoretical justification for framing motivic

motivic function, 186–87, 198 analyses as, 165–69
motivic identity, 34–35 theory, 21, 165–69
motivic interaction, 187, 198 Narrative Curve
“game of pairs,” 189, 192, 199–201, 203–4 graphical representation of, 215e, 248, 253–54,
motivic parallelism, 79, 81, 101, 338n41 259e, 267, 289e
motivic (shape) identity, 14, 46, 143, 150–161, interpretation of 254–55, 260,
283, 320, 341n6 273–76,  287–93
motivic working (motivische Arbeit),  68–69 in literary theory, 213
motto in motivic analysis, 210, 213, 253–54, 254e,
motive as, 42–43, 51, 90–91, 118, 157, 255, 257, 259, 262, 273, 274e, 275, 287,
157e,  159–60 289e, 291, 292
in Renaissance masses, 31 multiple representations of, 257
Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus Narrative Rules
Hunt Quartet, 64e, 65 BMA, 163, 169, 261e
motivic development techniques CMA, 248, 256, 261e
of, 333n12 narrative trajectory, 173, 208, 210, 248
Piano Quartet in G minor, K. 478, 125 Nattiez, Jean-Jacques,  166–67
Piano Sonata in F, K. 280, 5, 6e Neff, Severine, 337n32, 338n34, 338n36
Piano Sonata in F, K. 332, 139–40, 140e, Neidhöfer, Christoph, 353n1
142e,  142–43 neighbor motion, 111–13, 117, 301, 303
String Quartet in C, K. 465, 73–74, 74e nesting. See recursion (nesting)
Symphony No. 25 in G minor, 40–45, 40e, network, 19
41e–42e, 44e, 45e complex motive as, 223–24, 238
multivalence, 80, 219–20, 225 mental,  97–99
musical space models, 349n5
motion through, 11, 39–45, 306–10, 331n22 Newcomb, Anthony, 167, 345n6
motivic migration in, 35–38 New German School of composition, 46, 47–48
motivic saturation of, 14, 46–50 Ng, Samuel, 342n10
repetition of motives stretching, 40–42 nicknames for motive, 115
musical topics, 59, 345–46n10 nodes
musica poetica, 56, 57, 58–59, 334nn1–2 in BMA, 162, 166
musica practica, 56, 334n1 in CMA, 208, 210, 213, 238–39, 241, 242e
musica speculativa, 334n1 Noëma figure, 59
music cognition. See cognitive theory noise, 280, 352n11
musicianship in analysis, 7 “noise” (analytic), 236–37
“musician’s phrase,” 222 nomenclature, universal, 20, 102, 105–28
Musique concrète, 232, 277 historical approaches to, 76–77, 87, 89,
Mussorgsky, Modest, “Great Gate of Kiev” from 105–7
Pictures at an Exhibition, 122e ornaments in, 117–19
“My Sharona,” by The Knack, 320 for pitch and pitch-class motives, 108–19, 228
mythology, 168, 173 for rhythmic motives, 119–28, 228
Non-Engagement narrative archetype (BMA–2°),
Narrative 171–72, 174, 176, 205, 211, 216
basic principles, 168–69 nonstructural tones, 136, 139–41, 194
BMA archetypes, 165–81 Notley, Margaret, 351n2
CMA archetypes, 205–18, 238–39
contradictory readings, 181, 259–61 objectivity, 19, 83, 167, 251, 345n3
dramatic genres, 173, 260 O’Hara, William, 348–49n2
Focal Point in, 162–63, 248 “onset interval,” 152
gauging fitness of, 262 opera, text/music associations in, 18,
in instrumental music, 166–67, 331n17 166, 333n12
role in motivic analysis, 165 “orange patch,” 178
378 Index
orchestration/texture/timbre domain,  5 Parry, Hubert, 69

in complex motivic analysis (CMA), 101, passacaglia, 278, 279, 280, 282, 283,
219–20, 223e, 224, 227e, 238 285, 292
excluded from basic motivic analysis passing tones, 60, 130, 136
(BMA), 129 Pathopoeia figure, 59
formatting conventions of, 227e patterning, 134, 136–37, 142–43, 149
in post-tonal music, 51 pedal point, 230, 231, 245
in Radiohead “Paranoid Android,” 286 perception, music, 96–99
organicism, 337nn30–32. See also unity Gestalt principles, 3–4, 10–12, 14, 19
challenges to, 344n22 limits of, 149
computer-aided analysis of, 326 perfect authentic cadence (PAC), 268
as dominant force in Western music, 66, 312 performance implications, 221, 253,
Focal Point and, 162–63 259, 346n12
in “Paranoid Android,” 294 hand-crossing,  48–49
in Schenkerian analysis, 72, 149 motivic identification and, 195, 200
in Schoenbergian analysis, 338n39 period (Renaissance segment of
two-dimensional representation of, 241 music), 58, 59
Organic Map (CMA), 238–48 period (two-phrase form unit), 39, 64, 65e,
for Brahms’s Waltz in B minor, 242–48, 66,  146–47
244e, 246e Pérotin, 31
construction of, 239, 240–48 personification
drawbacks of, 247 of motive, 168–69, 170, 172–73, 344n1
graphical representation of, 241–42, 242e of non-living things, 21–22
multiple readings, 257 petit dessin, 65, 68, 76
as paired complement with CMA Narrative, “Petrushka” chord, 233
238–40,  247–48 phase (metric). See metric dissonance
relation to BMA, 238 phenomenal accent, 125
visual essence of, 251 phrase, 5, 40, 55, 64, 77
organum, 31 division into segments, 63, 143
originality, compositional, 47, 337n26 Riepel’s study of, 62–63
ornamentation, 60 physicality, 228
as domain in complex motivic analysis Pinter, Charles C., 82
(CMA), 219–21, 226, 233, 238, 286 pitch and pitch-class motives
excluded from basic motivic analysis (BMA), acting independently from rhythmic
129, 141 motives, 5
formatting conventions of, 227e arpeggiating nomenclature, 110–11
metrically accented tones, 134, 139–41 in basic motivic analysis
in Radiohead “Paranoid Android,” 286–87 (BMA),  129–63
of stock diatonic gestures, 117–19 BMA of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata Op. 2,
Osborn, Brad, 278, 352n8 No. 1, 183–95
OutKast,  319–20 in complex motivic analysis (CMA), 223e,
224, 227e,  235–36
Palestrina, Giovanni Pierluigi da, 350n14 directional indication, 109
Palisca, Claude, 59, 335n8 in Fortean analysis, 84
paranoia,  290–94 intervallic disposition, 109
“Paranoid Android,” by Radiohead, 276–96 interval measurements, 108–9
additive origins of, 276 limitation on scope of, 84, 108–9
analysis of, 278–96 operations employed in motivic analysis,
data interpretation and narrative, 287–93 150–52,  154e
Focal Point of, 279, 280, 285–86 ornamentation of stock diatonic
form of, 279–80, 281e gestures,  117–19
protagonist in, 276–77 phrase boundary-crossing of, 143–45, 148
spoken title as rhythm motive, 294–96 rules for labeling, 108–19
Index 379
sample analysis, 157–59 Propagation narrative archetype (BMA–1), 163,

in Schenkerian analysis, 84 169e, 169–71, 187, 194–95, 203, 205, 208,
single-note, prohibition on, 4, 10, 108,  211, 216, 219, 322
341n3 multiple-motive, 170, 171–73, 205
summary label for, 115 Propagation narrative archetypes (CMA),
unidirectional motives, 109–11 205–8, 206e, 211, 215, 216, 218
pitch bends, 283, 285, 287, 320 Dissolution type (CMA–1>), 207e, 208, 212,
pitch cells. See intervallic cells 215, 248, 255
pitch class. See also pitch and pitch-class Focal Point in, 248
motives information flow in, 208–12, 209e,  241–42
directionality of, 109 limitations of, 220
equivalence, 82 for multisection works, 206–7, 207e
motives, 100–101 Propositions (theoretical). See Rules for motivic
in set theory, 51, 53, 54, 77, 84–86 analysis
transposition involving, 151 Propp, Vladimir, 345nn6–7
pitch domain, 155. See also pitch and protagonist
pitch-class  motive in dramatic genres, 173
plagal cadence, 174, 268, 273 motive as, 168–69, 173, 174, 255, 259–60
Plato, 57 in “Paranoid Android,” 276–77, 290–94
Plomp, Reiner, 330n8 prototypes, 34, 63, 97–98
plot. See Narrative. See also drama provisional analysis (scouting), 247, 257
poetic meter, 60 psychology of music, 96–99
Poetics, 56, 59–60 public engagement with analysis, 22, 312–13
points of contour. See maximal and Purcell, Henry, “When I Am Laid in Earth”
minimal values from Dido and Aeneas, 167
polyphony, 53, 56, 91–92, 101, 256, 318 “purple patch,” 178
popular music push (rhythmic), 282
constituent style traits, 29e
motivic analysis in, 26, 276–96,  quantitative analysis
318–20 as element of CMA Narrative construction,
Porter, Yves, 330n13 221, 239, 249–53, 256–57, 263, 267, 273
post modern music, 26, 232 spreadsheet representation, 251, 252e,
post-tonal  music 253, 258e
constituent style traits, 29e subjectivity of, 251
miniatures and song forms in, 50–51 tally, 251, 252e, 253, 257, 258e, 263, 267,
motives in, 50–53, 54 274e, 288e
Poulenc, Francis, 334n21 unity calculation, 249–51
pragmatism, 210, 222, 256, 280 quasi-tonal shapes, 48–49,  133–34
pre-dominant (PD). See harmonic Queen, “Under Pressure,” 319
function labels Quintilian, 335n9, 336n18
prefix figures
for pitch motives, 113–15, 117–19 radio addresses, 22, 71, 81, 87, 339n49
for rhythmic motives, 121–22, 122e Radiohead, “Paranoid Android,” 276–96
Preliminary Rules of motivic analysis. See Rules Rahn, John, 344n20
for motivic analysis Rameau, Jean-Philippe, Treatise on Harmony,
premise. See compositional premise 332n6, 349n9
print technology, 57 Rasch, Rudolf, 330n8
Printz, Wolfgang Caspar, Phrynis mytileneus, real sequence, 47–48, 48e, 334n20
335–36n12,  336n15 recapitulation. See sonata form
program music, 28, 30, 166 recomposition, 180, 215
nineteenth-century, 46, 268 rectus, 159
Prokofiev, Sergei, 334n21 recursion (nesting), 79, 141, 143–44, 199–200,
proof, mathematical, 78 313. See also motivic parallelism
380 Index
reduction, harmonic, 233–34 The Thematic Process in Music, 89–91,

reduction, melodic 95, 339n51
maximal and minimal values in, 135–36, 142 retransition. See sonata form
motives discovered under, 18, 101, 111 retrograde, 77, 82, 89, 151, 152e
musical complexity and, 79–80 in rhythm operations, 153–54, 154e
nonstructural tones in, 135, 136, 139–41 types of, 154e
pruning, 111, 131 retrograde inversion, 82, 152, 152e
role in present study, 100 reversion. See retrograde
in Schenkerian analysis, 92, 95 Reynolds, Christopher, Motives for
in Schoenberg’s analyses, 78e, 78–79, Allusion, 349n8
100, 338n40 rhetoric, 57–59, 60, 61–62, 63, 67, 130, 144,
reduction, principles of, 130–50, 243. See also 332n7, 335n5, 335nn7–8
reduction, melodic; reduction, rhythmic rhetorical motive, 300, 302–3, 307, 309e
comparison of EDR and tonal rhythm and blues, 26
approaches,  131–34 rhythm domain, 5. See also rhythmic motives
Epstein’s Beyond Orpheus and, 134–41 BMA focused on, 129
equal duration reduction method (EDR) in concert with pitch domain, 5
(auditory salience method), 130–41 duration scaling in, 101
higher-order, 142, 143, 243 and equal duration reduction (EDR), 134,
introducing non-experts to, 313 137–41
invisibility resulting in certain methods metric or displacement dissonance in, 125,
of, 134 126, 127, 137–41, 343n9
linguistic analogy, 130–31 as primary domain, 119
repeatability of, 131 in Radiohead “Paranoid Android,” 282,
rooted in auditory salience, 130–34 294–96
rules for (see Rules for motivic analysis) rhythmes, 64
stages of, 130–33 rhythmic emphasis, 125
syntax-based,  131–34 rhythmic motives
tone extraction, 20, 92, 112, 129, 137, 139, acting independently from pitch motives, 5
142–43, 148, 311 angled hashmark conventions, 121–23, 194
reduction, rhythmic, 100, 122 barline notation, 125–27, 126e
redundancy (analytic), 234–35 in basic motivic analysis (BMA), 129–63
redundancy (compositional), 25–26 BMA of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata Op. 2,
register, 149 No. 1, 195–207
swaps, 141, 159 in complex motivic analysis (CMA), 223e,
Reich, Steve, 334n25 224, 227e,  236–37
Reicha, Anton, 64e, 64–65, 66, 68, 76, composite, 123
107, 336n19 consistency of, 119
relatedness, 155, 218, 322. See also unity divided durations, 123, 123e
degree of, 233, 253, 273, 275 duration as prime importance in
Reményi, Eduard, 351n22 labeling,  120–21
Renaissance period, 27 extended rules, 125–28
constituent style traits, 29e identity of, 152–54
cosmological views in, 57 inversion of, 344n19
motives in, 31 operations employed in motivic analysis,
repetition, 119, 154 152–54,  154e
“Respect” (performed by Aretha prefix and suffix conventions, 121–22
Franklin),  319–20 rules for labeling, 119–28
rest notation (-), 120–21 sample analysis, 159–60
Réti, Rudolph, 69, 87, 93, 100, 339n49, in Schenkerian analysis, 84, 339n48
339–40nn51–52, 340n57, 341nn1–2 summary chart of nomenclature, 128e
descriptive labeling system, 106–7 summary label for, 123–25, 124e
Index 381
treatment of rests, 120 Rule P2, 108–10

Ricci, Adam, 107 Rule P3, 109–10
Riemann, Hugo, 79, 234, 337n28, 349–50n9 Rule P4Arp, 110–11, 341n4
Catechism of Composition,  70–71 Corollary 1 (for Rule P4Arp), 110
motive defined by, 329n3 Rule P4Neighbor, 111–13
rigor in motivic analysis, 92–94, 102, 129, Rule P5, 113–15
324, 325 Rule P6, 115–17, 341n5
Riepel, Joseph, 62–63, 66, 336n15, 349n3 Rule R1, 119
Rink, John, 253 Rule R2, 120
Riordan, James, 319 Rule R3, 121–22
“roll” attribute, 226, 257, 259 Rule R4, 121–23
Rolling Stones, the, “Satisfaction,” 315, 318–19 Rule R5, 123–25
romance archetype, 173 Rule R6, 123–25
Roman numerals, 228, 234, 350n9 Rule R7, 125
Romantic period summary chart, 261e
constituent style traits, 29e, 30 Rusch, René, 278–79, 352n5, 352nn8–9
formalist composers, 46–47, 48–49
motives in, 45–50, 54 salience, 93, 95. See also equal duration
motive theory in, 55, 64–69, 100 reduction (EDR)
New German School, 46 higher-order,  142
rondo forms, 143, 146, 148 reduction method rooted in auditory, 130–34
Accretive narrative and, 214 Saint-Saëns, Camille, 47
Cyclic narrative and, 213, 214 “Satisfacti “Satisfaction,” by the Rolling Stones,
Non-Engagement narrative and, 174 315,  318–19
Rosen, Charles, 8–10, 49, 317, 347n5,  on,” by the Rolling Stones, 315, 318–19
352n12 saturation, motivic, 39–45
Rossini, Gioachino, Barber of Seville Overture, in Romantic music, 46–50
143–44, 144e, 343n14 Satz, 55, 66, 67e, 346n14
rotational form, 269, 273, 274e, 292, 298 Satzlehre,  64–65
Rothgeb, John, 91, 92 scatter plot, 213, 214e
Rothstein, William, 343n16, 346n12 Schachter, Carl, 339n50, 344n17
rounded binary form, 146–47, 148, 150, Scheibe, J. A., 63
245, 262 schema theory, 320–22, 353–54nn4–5
“rounding,” 145–48, 146e, 257 Schenker, Heinrich
Rovelli, C., 349n4 concept of motive, 69, 71, 329n1, 339n47
Rowell, L., 329n1 Harmony, 344n1
Rufer, Josef, 87, 91, 106, 338n35, 339n49 motivic parallelism and, 79
Rules for motivic analysis prohibition on one-note pitch
BMA Narrative Rule, 163, 169, 261e motives, 341n3
CMA Map Rule, 241, 261e treatment of rhythm, 339n47
Global Rules of motivic analysis, 261e, 262 Schenkerian analysis, 84–85, 326–27, 337n29, 342n1
Proposition 1 of motive theory, 10 expertise/training required, 22
Proposition 2 of motive theory, 10, 165–66, 315 goal of, 149
Proposition 3 of motive theory, 25 internal conflict of motive and system,
Reduction Rule 1 (RR1), 136 92, 340n54
Reduction Rule 2 (RR2), 141 “interruption” in, 343nn15–16
Reduction Rule 3 (RR3), 148–50 reconciliation with Schoenbergian
Rule 1 of Motivic Analysis, 150, 261e analysis,  92–96
Rule 2 of Motivic Analysis, 162, 261e reduction method in, 131–34
Rule CMA1, 222–23, 230, 261e theories compared with Schoenbergian
Rule CMA2, 239, 261e analysis, 85
Rule P1, 108 Schmalfeldt, Janet, 167, 338–39n42, 346n12
382 Index
Schoenberg, Arnold. See also Schoenbergian “Sphynxes” from Carnaval, 315

analysis Symphony No. 4, 137
as composer and critic, 55, 71 scope of motive. See motive
conception of motive, 4–6, 73, 81, 149 Sears, David, 352n8
concept of developing variation, 73–74, 77, Second Tonal Area (sonata form), 42, 159, 174,
324–26,  333n19 176, 183–84, 206, 346n13
evolution of theoretical concepts, 81 Second Viennese School, 50–53
Four Orchestral Songs, Op. 22, 338n35 Segment
The Fundamentals of Musical Composition, 5, Burmeister’s period compared with, 58
78–79,  81 complex motive length and, 222–25
Harmonielehre,  80–81 in complex motivic analysis, 235–63,
hierarchy of formal terms, 72–73, 73e 335n10
Klangfarbenmelodie, 334n22 in Schenkerian analysis, 92–93
location of Grundgestalt in analyses, 210 tallying of, 251, 252e, 253
mathematical symbology used by, segmentation (parsing)
76–77,  105 in Burmeister’s Lassus analysis, 60
melodic reduction technique, 78–79 in CMA, 231e, 233, 234, 235, 236e,
Models for Beginners in Composition, 80 242, 267, 268, 271, 279–80, 292, 321,
motive-based analysis of music, 55–56, 69, 322e, 350n16
71–81,  107 exhaustive (Lehrdahl and Jackendoff), 242
The Musical Idea, 74–76, 80, 81, 338n34 and harmonic motives, 233
“O Alter Duft” from Pierrot Lunaire, 208 in Rufer’s analyses, 89
Piano Piece Op. 19, No. 6, 339n46 in set theory, 84
Pierrot Lunaire, 51 sensed connection, 155–57, 160–61,
predictions concerning legacy, 324–25 236, 243
radio talks, 22, 71, 81 Sensitive style. See Empfindsamkeit
Style and Idea, 81, 350n14 serialism
Suite for Piano, Op. 50, 50 total, 334n26
theories compared with Schenker, 92 twelve-tone, 51, 53, 54, 77
Three Piano Pieces, Op. 11, No. 1, 51, 52e, 85, Sessions, Roger, 329n1
86e, 334n23 set-theory analysis, 78, 82, 84–85, 326
view of musical work as living organism, applied to previous eras, 350n14
72, 338n39 expertise/training required, 22
Schoenbergian analysis motive and, 85–87, 100–101
basic motivic analysis compared shadowing (voices), 236, 238
with, 129 shape (gestalt), 4–5, 10–12, 14, 19–20, 73e,
complex motive and, 221–22 74–76, 75e,  94–95
in dialog with Schenkerian analysis, 92–96 Sharpe, Robert, 9
fragmentation in, 156 Sherrill, Paul, 321–22
methodological adherents to, 87–92 sigh figure, 58, 167, 228
set-theory analysis influenced by, 84 silence, 144
theories compared with Schenkerian similarity relations, 325, 354n7
analysis, 85 Sims, Eleanor, 330n14
Schubert, Franz, 46 Sisman, Elaine, 345n5
“Erlkonig,” 18, 346n11 slash notation, 111–14
“Neugierige,” 119, 119e Smetana, Bedrich, The Moldau, 166
String Quartet No. 9 in G minor, 230, Smith, Charles, 314
231e, 233 social order, 173, 260
Unfinished Symphony, 163 solfege, 56
Schubert, Peter, 353n1 sonata form, 146, 148
Schuijer, Michiel, 354n7 conflict-based narratives in, 174, 176
Schumann, Robert development, 148, 176, 177–80
and Brahms (chess), 278 exposition, 148
Index 383
Laitz’s division (into FTA, transition, STA, subliminality, 277

Closing), 346n13 suffix figures
motivic activity in, 40–45 for pitch motives, 113–15, 117–19
narrative in, 167 for rhythmic motives, 121–22, 122e
recapitulation, 146, 148, 180, 181 Sulzer, J. G., 345n5
retransition,  147–48 summary label
transition, 149 for pitch motives, 115
Sousa, John Philip, 12e for rhythmic motives, 123–25, 124e
Liberty Bell March, 12 surface motive, 40, 129, 134
Spaeth, Sigmund, 329n6 Swafford, Jan, 351n20
special effects domain Swain, Joseph, 349n5
in complex motivic analysis (CMA), 227e, symmetry, 35, 64, 153, 181
238, 257 synchronic vs. diachronic, 210, 241–42
defined, 226 syncopation (displacement dissonance), 125,
formatting conventions of, 227e 126, 137–39, 156, 343nn9–10
Spector, Nancy, 354n6 submetrical, 282
Spillman, Robert, 352n12 syntax. See harmonic syntax
split consciousness on rehearing music, 210 Synthesis narrative archetype (BMA–2•), 172,
Stafford, William, 345n2 176, 205, 211–12, 216
static, 277 Synthesis narrative archetype (in CMA
status. See compositional “problem” or status analysis). See Accretion narrative
“Stayin’ Alive,” by the Bee Gees, 320 templates
Stein, Deborah, 346n11, 352n12
stock formulas, 25, 26, 30–31 “Table of Motives”, 83, 83e, 339n45
Stockhausen, Karlheinz, 344n21 tactus, 70
Kontakte, 329–30n7 tally. See quantitative analysis
storytelling, musical, 130, 166, 168, 173. Tchaikovsky, Pyotr, 312
See also Narrative Symphony No. 4, 163
Straus, Joseph, Remaking the Past, 85–86, Temperley, David, 340n59, 343n10
331n18, 334n23 tension correlated with CMA Narrative, 254,
Strauss, Richard 287, 290. See also Narrative Curve
Till Eulenspiegels Lustige Streiche, 126e,  126–27 ternary form, 27, 143, 322, 324
use of motives, 47–48 Non-Engagement narrative and, 174
Stravinsky, Igor, The Rite of Spring, 98 texture domain. See orchestration/texture/
Street, Alan, 344n22 timbre domain
structural accent, 133–36, 143, 234, 242 thematic transformation, 46
style thematic working (thematische Arbeit), 61,
constituent traits, 27–28, 29e, 30, 195 63, 336n16
contextual analysis and, 91–92 theme
harmonic claims and aesthetic in contour reduction, 134
premises, 232 motives’ role in assembling, 12, 18, 65, 66,
life cycle of, 25–27 200–201,  315–16
periods, 27 originality of, 47
role of motives in, 25–30 in sonata form, 87, 88e,  89–91
violation of, 232 Thuringus, Joachim, Opusculum
subdominant. See harmonic function labels bipartitum, 59
(pre-dominant) “Till” motive, 126–27
sub-elements of motives, 73, 115, 170, 206, timbre domain. See orchestration/texture/
233,  248–50 timbre domain
subjectivity, 19 “time-span reduction” method, 242, 342n1
in analysis, 7, 232, 251–52 Tinctoris, Johannes, 335n4
in eighteenth-century music, 62 Todd, R. Larry, 85
in harmonic analysis, 231–32 Todorov, Tzvetan, Introduction to Poetics, 345n7
384 Index
tonal reduction. See Schenkerian analysis valuing, 213, 249–51, 250e, 287, 290,
tone painting. See word (or tone) painting 292, 334n24
tonic (T). See harmonic function labels Western chauvinism and, 72
Tovey, D. F., 79, 178, 183 “upturned glance” (epiphany) motive, 300,
tragedy archetype, 173 301e, 302, 303, 304, 310
trajectory, dramatic, 47, 275 Ursatz, 84, 85, 92, 339n50
transformation
analytic,  8–9 variation. See developing variation
arrow representation, 162, 205, 210, 241–42 Vaughan Williams, Ralph, 334n21
motivic, 34, 41–42, 69, 82, 89–90, 154–56, vector, 153, 225, 229, 350n15
221, 233 Verdi, Giuseppe, “Stride la vampa!” from
transformational theory, 78, 86, 349n5 Il Trovatore, 137, 138e
transgression, 173, 260 verse-chorus form, 213
transition. See sonata form verse-refrain form, 26
transparency in analysis, 251, 262 voice swap, 157
transposition, 77, 101, 150–51, 151e, 158e, voicing in instrumental music, 185, 187, 189–90,
158–59, 233, 344n20 235–36, 348n1(2)
types of, 154e Von Békésy, Georg, 330n8
Traut, Donald, 320
trill, 226, 233 Wagner, Richard, 85
Trippett, David, 336n20 Parsifal, 48e
“Tristan chord,” 226 Tristan und Isolde, Prelude, 115
tritone shape, 283, 286–87 use of motives, 46, 47–48, 330n16, 333nn16–17,
Triumph narrative archetype (BMA–2+), 172, 339n45
177–81, 205, 211, 216, 296–310 “wail” motive, 317, 318
“Turn” motive, in Beethoven’s Piano Sonata Walker, Alan, 72, 87, 340n57
Op. 2, No. 1, 183–84, 185, 186e, 193, 194 water sprite representation, 268
twelve-bar blues, 26 Webern, Anton, 50
twelve-tone music. See serialism, twelve-tone Webster, James, 333n12
“two-dimensional” structure of music, 85, weighting
232, 241 of domains, 229, 249–51, 252e, 257, 273,
Tymoczko, Dmitri, 332n5, 350n14 287, 351n22
role in CMA, 229, 351n22
“Under Pressure,” by Queen, 319 strategies of, 249–50
unequal subdivision (rhythm), 123 Whittall, Arnold, 339n46
unidirectional motive, 108, 109–11, 117 “wind-up” return,  147–48
unity Wolzogen, Hans, 339n45
aesthetic, 46 word (or tone) painting, 31, 59, 345n5
analytical explanation of, 72, 87, 137, 170, Wyn Jones, David, 60
313, 334n23, 338n37, 340n57
analytic taste and, 337n31 Yearsley, David, 39
calculating,  250–51 Yorke, Thom, 285
fluctuations in, 218
graphical representation of, 214e–16e, 239, Zbikowski, Lawrence, 170–71, 223, 333n17
254e, 259e, 274e, 289e Conceptualizing Music, 97–99, 101
relative values of, 213, 249–51, 250e, 290 Zeno, 349n4
twelve-tone row and, 51, 53, 54 zig-zag motive, 40–45, 108
underlying, 8, 40–45 Zuckerkandl, Victor, 329n1

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Musical Motives

Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press

© Oxford University Press 2021

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in

You must not circulate this work in any other form

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

4. A Universal Nomenclature for Pitch and Rhythm Motives  105

Interlude 1: BMA Narrative Archetypes  165

8. Analysis of Three Works in Contrasting Styles  267

I would like to first to acknowledge my dear friends and colleagues at the

Motives Play a Central Role in Music

does so by grace of a grand illusion that transforms streams of particulate sen-

Example 1.1 A single note, E4.

Example 1.2 The one-​note piece is extended to three notes.

Example 1.3 Neighbor (N) motives in Mozart’s Piano Sonata in F, K. 280 (II),

Example 1.4 Opening of Haydn’s Piano Sonata in E, Hob.XVI: 31 (I).

•​ be short enough to fit in memory

There is a further advantage in acknowledging the role of memory. Doing so

Concurrently, the overabundance of motives in music causes problems, analyt-

How Motives Move and Move Us

The arrow is double-​headed, allowing for implication to flow in both directions.

motive motion emotion

Example 1.6 Motives combine to form a theme in Sousa’s Liberty Bell, mm. 5–​8.

is better demonstrated in a musical context. The setting will be an early passage

Example 1.8 The opening four-​measure idea of movement I consists of a single

I am claiming here that an inalienable purpose of motives is to communi-

Beethoven repeats the same rhythm of three-​shorts-​and-​a-​long so often in his

“motive” is familiar to most from criminal court proceedings, where it refers to

Motive as a Style Element of Music

Chapter 1 established motives as a primary concern of music analysis on the

Proposition 3: Motives constitute one of the several generative forces in music.

Example 2.1 Diagram of style development in Meyer 1967 tracking the inverse

Preclassic Classic Mannerist

Example 2.2 Extension of the style development curve given in Example 2.1.

Nascent Preclassic Classic Mannerist Obsolete

Standard Form: Abstract structural models that carry expectations about

akin to the way that a grammar functions in language to coordinate word

The diagram in Example 2.3 arranges these traits according to their relative

In place of offering judgment on the quality of any period’s music, we prefer

The composition-​based historical survey of motives will officially start in the

For example, a signature gesture of chants written in Lydian mode is to initiate

Example 2.4 Upward Climb motive from Bach’s Fourth English Suite,

octave-​plus-​fifth span on seven successive beats. This Climb7 motive is shown in

Example 2.5 Extensions to the Gigue’s Climb motive. Brackets indicate Arp2

We begin with some preliminary impressions based on the opening passage

Example 2.6 An illusory motivic transformation in Handel’s Concerto Grosso,

“Cascade” (C) = any note + linear fifth descent

Solo voices: Cascade 3rd motive

harmony, specifically from a fully diminished viio7 of E minor chord. Remarkably,

Motives in Ascendance: Compositional Practice,

Example 2.8 Three primary motives from Mozart’s Symphony No. 25, (I).

Example 2.9 Score of Mozart, Symphony No. 25, (I).

Example 2.9(b) Measures 29–​44, in the second tonal area (STA).

appreciate the jagged, dissonant-​interval leaps of mm. 1–​4 as the presentation

Example 2.9(c) Motivic activity in the development section.

Example 2.9(e) In the coda, the original Leap+Leap motive attains a degree of

The strongest influence on this generation was Beethoven, whose musical

During the course of the nineteenth century, for socio-​historical reasons

sequence, in which an initial melodic/​harmonic gesture is transposed with chro-

Example 2.10 Real sequence in Wagner’s Parsifal, Prelude, mm. 45–​53.

Example 2.11 The four-​note motive of Brahms’s Intermezzo, Op. 118, No. 1

(b) Motive U in transition to the march and as march accompaniment figure.

Further Thoughts on Surveying Motives in Composition

Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press

© Oxford University Press 2021

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in

You must not circulate this work in any other form

4. A Universal Nomenclature for Pitch and Rhythm Motives  105

Interlude 1: BMA Narrative Archetypes   165

8. Analysis of Three Works in Contrasting Styles  267

Example 1.1 A single note, E4.

Example 1.2 The one-note piece is extended to three notes.

Example 1.4 Opening of Haydn’s Piano Sonata in E, Hob.XVI: 31 (I).

• be short enough to fit in memory

The arrow is double-headed, allowing for implication to flow in both directions.

Example 1.6 Motives combine to form a theme in Sousa’s Liberty Bell, mm. 5–8.

Example 1.8 The opening four-measure idea of movement I consists of a single

Beethoven repeats the same rhythm of three-shorts-and-a-long so often in his

Proposition 3: Motives constitute one of the several generative forces in music.

The composition-based historical survey of motives will officially start in the

octave-plus-fifth span on seven successive beats. This Climb7 motive is shown in

Example 2.8 Three primary motives from Mozart’s Symphony No. 25, (I).

Example 2.9 Score of Mozart, Symphony No. 25, (I).

Example 2.9(b) Measures 29–44, in the second tonal area (STA).

appreciate the jagged, dissonant-interval leaps of mm. 1–4 as the presentation

During the course of the nineteenth century, for socio-historical reasons

sequence, in which an initial melodic/harmonic gesture is transposed with chro-

Example 2.10 Real sequence in Wagner’s Parsifal, Prelude, mm. 45–53.

Example 2.11 The four-note motive of Brahms’s Intermezzo, Op. 118, No. 1

Origins of the Musical Motive Concept, 1600–1750

The Rise of Melodielehre, 1750–1890

Example 3.4 (a) Example J from Reicha 2000 [1814] (125).

(b) Example J5, 7 from Reicha 2000 [1814] (176).

(c) Example B5, 11 from Reicha 2000 [1814] (169).

(b) Two-note motives identified in Marx. Example 13a from Moreno 2000 (143).

Stage 1 in the chart shows the theme’s basic framework, an eight-measure

Example 3.11 Schoenberg’s view of mm. 1–2 of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata in C,

with respect to a hypothetical motive, M, and its component features, a–h.

Schoenberg’s feature ⇒ late 20th-century motive

A watershed event in motive’s twentieth- century evolution was Allen

1973, 13–18). These set-theory concepts correspond directly to Guidelines

An Account of Present-Day Motivic Analytical Techniques

Rufer’s gesture-based view of motive helps to explain the sheer number of

Method Category 2: Schenkerian-Schoenbergian Approaches

Bagatelle in which there is near-perfect correspondence between surface and

(b) Reduction of the melody in mm. 83–93 to a three-note, chromatic shape

There exists a rich, long-standing tradition of psychologists investigating music.

be interdisciplinary, often relying on insights from fields as wide-ranging as neu-

Example 3.19 Diagram from Zbikowski 2002 of the category “Bird” (42).

This chapter has provided a historical overview of motive as a theoretic/analytic

Question 1: Should a motive manifest as a cell in the twentieth-century sense, or

Question 3: Will motives be considered as pitch or pitch-class phenomena?

arpeggiating set of notes with varying contours, such as G4-B-E5 or C#4-E3-A. At

Question 4: Will a motive be considered to be a single-line event or a polyphonic