Momentum, Mystery, and Musical Unity: A Case Study in Revision
In a recent private lesson, a student brought in a piano work in sonata form that raised some important issues — not just for their piece, but for composers in general who are looking to revise, deepen, or reimagine their work. The piece had strong ideas, a clear structure, and beautiful moments — but also felt, at times, like it plateaued. This post is a deep dive into that lesson: the feedback I gave, and what you, as a composer, might take away from it.
1. If You’re Going for Mystery, Don’t Lead With Clarity
The opening of the piece was spare — mostly isolated octaves, used at the beginning. These moments had a clear shape and recurring contour, hinting at a central theme involving a semitone descent. The student mentioned wanting this to feel Adagio misterioso — ambiguous, unsettled.
But the problem is that in this particular instance, the octave motifs were extremely transparent and clear, even stable—not ambiguous. I told this composer:
“An octave in this case is not a question. It’s a statement of fact: this is the note.”
This opening wasn’t setting up mystery — it was stating things plainly, then moving on before letting anything linger. The grace notes often outlined richer harmonies (like C minor), but the actual chords evaporated as soon as they appeared. There was no resonance — no space for the listener to bask in the sound before the next idea arrived.
What to Try:
Add a pedal under these opening gestures to let the harmony ring out and create some atmosphere. A halo of resonance can go a long way to creating mystery or ambiguity.
Expand the voicing: Instead of an octave, what if it’s a bit messier? Like a distorted minor triad with strange overtones? In tandem with some kind of pedal or bass motion, this could be quite effective, especially once you leverage the strange, distorted overtones native to the piano (no, luckily they are not mathematically perfect overtone series—that is what makes the piano special).
Make the opening denser: Think about what your favorite composers might do in such a moment — fill the space with a sonorous colors rather than a bare dyad.
The point isn’t to abandon the idea — it’s to enrich it. At the time of the lesson, the skeleton was in place. But the piece needed “muscles,” “skin,” even “clothing” to flesh it out.
2. Momentum Isn’t Always About Speed — It’s About Interest
The student was concerned that the slow introduction might lose momentum. That’s a fair worry. But momentum doesn’t mean rushing. It means you’re keeping the listener engaged.
The current version had regular phrase lengths — four-bar structures, fairly predictable pacing — and the textures thinned out too often to keep the energy alive. Rather than shortening the introduction, I encouraged them to lean into the mystery.
“Don’t be afraid to write more music — if the material is interesting, the listener won’t mind. You don't have to give them the answers right away… So you might want to leave that [idea] for later so that when you do get to something that's very clearly A-flat major or E-flat major... it feels like you've earned it.”
What to Try:
Break out of symmetrical phrasing. Try 3- or 5-bar ideas that feel more exploratory or improvisational, that don’t fully settle into a predictable groove.
Layer in fragments: Start a rising gesture that feels like it’s heading somewhere — but delay the arrival, followed by a contrasting idea that evaporates before the listener has time to process it. You’re planting seeds to nurture and develop later on (remember the goal was to create an Adagio misterioso vibe.
Use harmony expressively: Start with something unexpected. Beethoven would often start a piece with a question, something that kept his listeners trying to decode the mystery.
You don’t need to “speed up” the harmonic or durational rhythms — you just need to hold the listener’s attention.
3. Transitions Shouldn’t Be Sudden — They Should Be Deeply Embedded
One moment that stood out — and not in the best way — was around the transition from the development into the recapitulation. The texture flattened into a single repeated note, which felt completely at odds with the rest of the piece’s language. Everything else had been harmonically and rhythmically rich; this was stark and mechanical.
“If you want a transition to land, don’t start it two bars before the next section. Start 50 bars earlier.”
That sounds dramatic, but it’s true. Think of Chopin’s C minor Nocturne (Op. 48, no. 1). The B section’s rhythms bleed into the return of the A section so seamlessly that it feels inevitable. You don’t get there by flipping a switch. You get there by planting seeds. I always come back to this example because it’s so elegant in its execution of this idea, but there are of course many others!
What to Try:
The repeated notes that signaled the transition were introduced far too late. Start using repeated notes subtly in earlier passages — in the right hand or as a pedal — so they become a natural rhythmic outcome once the form starts to pivot.
Consider not using repeated notes at all. Maybe the answer is to bring in a rhythmic gesture or motive from the A section and integrate it into the return.
Or do both. Let one motive transform into another and bridge the gap.
Transitions work when they feel like the natural consequences or continuation of the momentum the music has already built.
4. Themes Should Share DNA, Even if They Look Different
The student described the form as sonata-allegro — A theme, B theme, development, recap. But to my ears, the B theme felt like it belonged to a completely different piece. It was in triplets, lighter in tone, less harmonically intense. Even the texture was different.
“These two themes feel like they’re from different worlds. The only reason we know they’re part of the same piece is because they’re... in the same piece.”
Compare this to Beethoven’s Fifth. Even though the second theme is in the relative major and the pathos feels quite different, the same core rhythm is preserved. It’s a new idea, but it shares DNA with what came before. It’s like you’re taking the opportunity to evaluate the same character from a different point of view.
What to Try:
Drop fragments of the A theme into the B section — even as accompaniment or counter-lines.
Use harmony or rhythm to link sections (or scalar connections) — if the B theme uses triplets, look for ways the A theme could allude to that rhythm earlier.
Find a shared gesture — a leap, a rhythm, a dynamic swell — and let it echo across both worlds.
Unity doesn’t mean sameness. It means belonging.
“How are these two themes part of the same world, and how can I create difference without completely disorienting the listener?”
5. Development Means Change — Not Just Transposition
The motives in the piece repeated — but didn’t transform. There were sequences, transpositions, some variation — but not a sense of real development. The form was executed in a mechanical way, so that the sonata structure would be unambiguous.
I told the student to think about Mahler or Beethoven: how they would fragment an idea, stretch it, invert it, recombine it into something unrecognizable but still traceable.
“Let the rhythms and the notes breathe a little more.””
One example in the piece was a dotted rhythmic figure. It showed up a few times with minor variations, but never truly evolved. There was a brief, exciting moment where it accelerated into 16ths — and then vanished, like a potentiality snuffed out too soon. Sometimes we can be shy to open these doors in our music, but we have to have enough empathy with our ideas to allow these moments to flourish. I always think of the opening of Mahler’s 2nd Symphony as an incredible example of creating life from simple melodic elements. Just track the cellos and basses for the first few minutes of the piece, paying close attention to how the other members of the orchestra naturally emerge from those core ideas, to see what I’m referring to.
What to Try:
Fragment your motive: Try it in retrograde, inversion, different voices. Recombine the fragments (a la Mahler) in an organically evolving trajectory that feels like a stream of consciousness rather than a mechanical structure devised in a lab.
Let it accelerate or dissolve: Turn triplets into quintuplets, break them into scattered cells, or stretch them across longer meters.
Imagine your motive is a character — where does it go? What does it become? where does it want to go?
Trust your ideas to let them grow.
6. Step Away from the Screen
There were moments in the score — whole passages — that felt copy-pasted. Transposed, sure, but identical in shape and pacing. When I asked how the student composed, they admitted most of it was done in notation software.
And that can be a problem if the compositional process depends too much on the software.
Notation software is a tool and can be an insanely powerful sketchbook. But, it does facilitate and even encourages copy/paste strategies, which can save so much time, but can sometimes discourage organic growth or exploring strange paths that happen in the moment, which are much more likely to happen when sitting at the piano, your instrument, or singing through the passage.
“Sing. Play. Record. Transcribe. Sometimes you’ll discover your best ideas by accident.”
What to Try:
Improvise ideas at the piano, voice, or any instrument.
Record your improvisations and transcribe them by hand.
Only enter things into your notation software once they feel alive to you.
7. Notation Should Clarify, Not Confuse
This was a small one, but important. The student used 18/8 in some passages — but they were phrased as two 9/8 bars. They also used tremolo markings where 16th-notes would have been clearer.
If you can write something clearly, just do it.
“I would not use notation that makes the performer ask more questions.”
When performers ask questions about notation, it takes away from time they could be spending focusing on musicality, phrasing, and the things that make the music feel alive.
What to Try:
Don’t reinvent the wheel or take shortcuts because they look good on paper. If there is already a clear way to notate something, use it.
Stick to familiar meters unless you need the ambiguity.
Specify what your tremolos mean (measured vs. unmeasured).
Space your staves with enough breathing room so it doesn’t because a visual soup the performer strains their eyes to parse through.
Clear notation supports expressive performance.
Final Thoughts: A Piece with Potential, A Process to Trust
By the end of the lesson, the student had a clearer sense of how to revise — not just structurally, but philosophically. It's not about correcting what's wrong. It's about following through on what your material is already whispering to you.
The lesson ended with this reminder:
“Distance yourself emotionally from the draft. Then ask: what does this music want to become?”
And that’s the real work of revision. Not fixing, but discovering.
See you in the next blog!
Mathew
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Are you looking for support or guidance on your own music? I offer private lessons and group sessions! You can find info here.
https://mathew-arrellin.com/lessons
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