Musical Motives: A Theory and Method for Analyzing Shape in Music
2022; Duke University; Volume: 66; Issue: 2 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1215/00222909-9930949
ISSN1941-7497
Autores Tópico(s)Music Technology and Sound Studies
ResumoMusic analysis is a stage and musical parameters merely players. Some become darlings of analysts, headlining monographs, conference programs, and syllabi; others suffer neglect, earning a curt nod in a footnote. Every now and then, a theorist attempts to revive a parameter's flagging career, upgrading it from bit player to star. This is what Brent Auerbach seeks to do in Musical Motives: A Theory and Method for Analyzing Shape in Music (2021). Motivic analysis was once fashionable—its champions, such as Arnold Schoenberg and Hans Keller, even had receptive nonprofessional audiences willing to listen to their demonstrations on the radio—but it has since fallen on hard times. Auerbach's aim is nothing less than “to revive discussion, and, if possible, faith in the discipline of motivic analysis” (22). The result is easily the most complex and probing treatment of this subject in decades.The scope of Auerbach's ambition is immediately striking. He presents not one but two original approaches to motivic analysis—called Basic Motivic Analysis (BMA) and Complex Motivic Analysis (CMA). These give rise to a theory of musical narrative based on archetypes of Auerbach's creation. This methodology occupies five of the book's eight main chapters (discounting the conclusion). The remaining three present a general theory of motive's role in music (and art more broadly), a brief stylistic history of how motives were used from the Renaissance through 1900, and a history of motivic theory from 1600 to the present. Although the book's nonmethodological chapters are worth examining, I have limited space in this review, which I must devote to BMA and CMA to come close to illustrating their intricacies, their advantages, and their limitations. Because these systems are best understood as direct responses to perceived shortcomings of post-1950 motivic analysis in general, I begin with Auerbach's appraisal of his predecessors.Auerbach divides post-1950 motivic analysis into three main approaches:The first is Schoenbergian, represented by Rudolph Réti (1967, 1978) and Josef Rufer (1966). Auerbach finds their analyses so subjective as to be “irresponsible” (96). They are willing to pluck just about any note from the musical surface—even a non-chord tone on a metrically weak beat—and declare it part of an underlying motive; and their method hides such conflicts between (ostensible) motives and their surroundings by analyzing melody alone, divorced from harmonic context. Auerbach's solution: “outlaw melody-only style analysis” (91).The second approach synthesizes Schoenberg and Schenker. It is represented by David Epstein's Beyond Orpheus (1979). Epstein is Réti and Rufer's polar opposite. He institutes strict criteria for determining whether a pitch shape is a viable candidate for motivic status. Auerbach admires Epstein's rigor, but doubts the soundness of some of his chosen criteria. For example, Epstein tries to consider both metric weight and harmonic weight, but does not have a consistent method for resolving conflicts between those domains. Auerbach's BMA is an attempt to be equally systematic, but without any possibility of internal contradiction.CMA is directly inspired by the third approach, Lawrence Zbikowski's in Conceptualizing Music (2002). Zbikowski treats each motive as a flexible mental category, rather than a fixed pattern of pitches and/or durations. Something like the opening motto of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony is analyzed as a bundle of associated features—the short-short-short-long rhythm, loud dynamics, the descending third contour, and so on—only some of which are present in any appearance of the motto. We can observe how motives are developed by tracking how many prototypical features of a motive are retained from iteration to iteration. This attention to secondary parameters and to the typicality/atypicality of each motivic variant is set aside in BMA, but it becomes the central concern of CMA.Built into these assessments of prior literature are the two methodological objectives that Auerbach repeatedly emphasizes throughout the book. One is systematicity. Auerbach variously describes his theory as “a consistent set of rules” (8), “a set of procedural rules” for extracting motives and linking them in “a logical, explanatory chain” (20), and “a series of transparent, objective, and concrete decisions” (91) entailing the “adoption of more objective and predictable analytic practices” (107). The analyst is discouraged from “engaging in flights of fancy that could quickly erode this theory's claims to systematic rigor” (150). The other objective is for the theory to encompass as much music as possible—the maximum number of components of any given piece, and the maximum number of musical styles. Most of the methodological chapters focus on typical Bach-to-Brahms repertoire, but the final one closely analyzes Chaminade's “L'Ondine,” Radiohead's “Paranoid Android,” and “At the Ballet” from A Chorus Line, to demonstrate the theory's applicability to more diverse repertoire. Auerbach's favorite adjective to describe his analyses is “comprehensive” (4, 10, 107, 150, 165, 219, 221, 225, 251, 293, 320), and he calls his labeling procedure a “universal nomenclature system” (emphasis added). The unwavering pursuit of these two objectives—systematicity and universality—is responsible for the resulting theory's chief benefits and drawbacks.In other people's analyses, motives are most often labeled with Latin or Greek letter symbols. These symbols have major disadvantages. They lack descriptive content, thus requiring the reader to consult a legend to determine which symbol signifies what. And they do not allow comparisons across analyses: Jones's alpha motive may have nothing to do with Smith's. Auerbach's solution is to devise a “universal nomenclature for pitch and rhythm motives,” so that a motive's name immediately conveys a wealth of information.This system alone is enough to make the book a major contribution to music analysis. Although complex, it is relatively easy to learn. It is not wedded to most of the specifics of Auerbach's theory, and thus can be adopted by someone otherwise skeptical of his ideas. And I can easily imagine other theorists' refining the system to suit their particular purposes, by adding new symbols or tweaking the existing ones.The rhythmic notation is simple and is handily summarized by a table on p. 128 of the book. I therefore focus on the system for representing pitch. I have gathered together most of the relevant symbols in Figure 1. I encourage consulting it while following along with my description.Simple pitch motives have a “fundamental shape”—an interval that is measured from the first note to the last. This interval is represented by an Arabic numeral spelling of its name (e.g., 3rd). The direction of the interval is indicated by a superscript or subscript suffix: superscript for an ascending interval (e.g., 3rd) and subscript for a descending interval (e.g., 3rd). The typeface communicates the interval's internal disposition. Plain (Roman) typeface indicates diatonic stepwise motion, bold typeface indicates chromatic stepwise motion, and outline typeface indicates a leap. The exceptions to this are arpeggiated triads and seventh chords. They are symbolized by the abbreviation “Arp,” followed by a number suffix that indicates the length of the arpeggio. Once again, superscripts and subscripts determine direction: thus, Arp3 is an ascending three-note arpeggio; Arp3 is a descending one. If the arpeggio forms a different shape, the letters of “Arp” can be placed at different heights to illustrate the contour (e.g., Arp). The main interval or arpeggio can be attached to a prefix or suffix, which are represented with slashes if they are stepwise and hooks if they are leaps. Fundamental shapes can be joined together into composite motives, discretely (expressed by a “+” sign) or through elision (expressed by a “⊕” sign). Lastly, over the course of a piece, pitch and rhythm motives can be transformed according to a series of operations, shown in Figure 2, which replicates Auerbach's example 5.17.Of course, BMA is more than just tagging surface motives with these labels. Reduction plays a large role. According to Auerbach, linguistic and musical utterances alike have “essential communicative content” (130) and reduction reveals them. But BMA's reduction process is not based on traditional contrapuntal/harmonic syntax. Instead, Auerbach aims to capture “auditory salience.” He does not formally define this concept, except that it is grounded in “cognitive reality” and involves “prioritizing events that stand out in register, rhythm, attack or timbre” (131) by appearing at local high points or low points.His approach to reducing a line to its most salient elements is called “equal duration reduction” (EDR). It favors pitches that occur either in strong metric positions or at regular duration intervals. To demonstrate why he prefers EDR to a syntactic method such as Schenkerian analysis, Auerbach performs side-by-side analyses of the first four bars of Pierre Leemans's “March of the Belgian Paratroopers.” Since the two analyses yield similar results, the laurels are awarded to EDR because it is easier to apply: it does not require “prolonged study both of strict and free counterpoint” (133). One can get by so long as one can distinguish chord tones from non-chord tones, since the latter are deemed nonstructural, even if they occur at a prominent high or low point or on a strong beat.I find Auerbach's case for EDR perplexing. He rightly warns that we “cannot place too much stock in a single side-by-side comparison” (133). But when the comparison covers only four bars of music, might not any stock be too much stock? The brevity of Auerbach's juxtaposition hides how radically EDR and other methodologies can sometimes diverge. One source of divergence is that EDR accounts for passing and neighboring tones but not passing and neighboring chords. The former are reduced away, but the latter are not.To see what a difference this can make, we can compare EDR to its closest analogue in prior literature—the method of “time-span reduction” from Fred Lerdahl and Ray Jackendoff's A Theory of Generative Music (1983)—when they both encounter a passage with metrically accented passing or neighboring chords. My Figure 3 is example 6.12 from Lerdahl and Jackendoff's book, which is a three-layer analysis of the first four bars of J. S. Bach's “O Haupt Voll Blut und Wunden.” The top row is the original, the middle row reduces it to the quarter-note level, and the bottom reduces it to the half-note level. In moving from one level to another, Lerdahl and Jackendoff rely on harmonic weight, rather than pitch contour or metric position. Thus, in bar 1, the V6/5 not the IV6 is chosen for the quarter-note level; and both non-tonic chords are filtered out when moving from the quarter-note level to the half-note level. A Schenkerian analysis would similarly prioritize the tonic pitches in bar 1. But EDR would favor the subdominant and predominant chords instead because they are metrically emphasized and form the melodic high and low points of the phrase. What is least important to one theory is most important to another. I do not mean to suggest that harmonic reduction must be right and EDR wrong. However, this example shows that the latter cannot simply function as a more practical substitute for the former.My other reservation about EDR concerns the exclusion of accented non-chord tones from reductions. In his introduction to the book, Auerbach states that a motive must “be distinct enough from its surroundings to be perceived as a whole, and exhibit sufficient character to compel listeners' attention” (7). Even further, “for a musical figure to earn motivic status it must not only be memorable, but must move and move us” (10). Now, consider any of the most famous motives containing accented neighbor tones—the love theme from Tchaikovsky's Romeo and Juliet, the E7-to-F major motive from Tristan and Isolde, “Maria” from West Side Story, and so on. Are not the accented neighbor tones often the main source of character, memorability, and stirring of the emotions, and therefore crucial components of “essential communicative content”? If salience-based reductions are about preserving what “stands out” should not these non-chord tones be precisely what is retained?Case in point, consider Figure 4, which is Auerbach's example 5.11, an analysis of the secondary theme from Rossini's Overture to The Barber of Seville. The 1^–2^–3^ line that Auerbach has highlighted (in 5.11b) is surely the structural underpinning of the theme, but the dynamically accented and dissonant G-sharp and A-sharp strike my ear just as much as (maybe more than) the structural tones. At moments like this, it seems to me that Auerbach's reductions favor syntax over genuine salience, while nonetheless appealing to the notion of salience.Before moving on to CMA, Auerbach introduces his narrative archetypes. Like his nomenclature system, these represent another potentially major contribution to analysis, capable of being pried away from the main analytical apparatus and used more freely. They are an attempt to supplement the Northrop Frye–derived archetypes of Comedy, Romance, Irony/Satire, and Tragedy that were developed by J. J. Liszka (1989) and most notably applied to music by Byron Almén (2008). Almén's approach gives the analyst the power to determine which archetype fits best. But in Auerbach's system, there is rarely any ambiguity about which archetype is most appropriate for a piece, as the choice of archetype follows logically from one initial decision about a piece's structure: the location of the Focal Point.In both BMA and CMA, all pieces must be construed as “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” (161, emphasis added). In BMA, this Focal Point is a formal segment that occurs “at or very near the beginning of a piece” (163), where the piece's main pitch-rhythm motive(s) make their first substantial appearance. If the Focal Point introduces only one such motive, the piece falls into a Propagation archetype, in which variants of the motive flow freely from their origin point. If the Focal Point introduces two or more main pitch-rhythm motives, the piece matches one of three archetypes: Non-Engagement, Triumph, or Synthesis. In a Non-Engagement narrative, the different motives seem to complement each other and do not directly interact. Movements in rondo or ternary form often fall under this category. Triumph and Synthesis narratives rely on the presence of conflict between different motives. Such conflict can be produced by something like contrapuntal combination or the close quarters of a sonata development. Whether the conflict results in Triumph or Synthesis depends on whether one motive “vanquishes” the other(s).This process is even more systematized in CMA. The analyst begins by segmenting the piece, once again deeming only one segment to be the Focal Point. (The only exception is that there can be literal repetitions of the Focal Point segment, as in a rondo.) The analyst in BMA was allowed to identify multiple motives within the Focal Point, but in CMA, they instead understand the Focal Point as a unified motivic complex. To summarize this complex, the analyst gathers data about every possible domain of the Focal Point (pitch, rhythm, harmony, orchestration/texture, dynamics, counterpoint, etc.). These data are displayed in a table, much in the manner of James Webster's (2009) “multivalent analysis.” All other segments are related back to the Focal Point and given a Relative Unity value intended to capture their degree of resemblance to the Focal Point. Fifty percent of the rating is evenly split among three primary parameters (pitch motive, rhythm, and harmony), which therefore count for 16.67% each. The remaining 50% of the rating is based on all of the applicable secondary parameters. (E.g., if a piece has five such secondary parameters, they are each worth 10%; if it has four, they are each worth 12.5%.) Thus, if a segment matches the Focal Point in every domain but rhythm, its unity score would be 83.33; if it differs in rhythm and one of five secondary parameters, its score would be 73.33; and so forth.These Relative Unity scores are then plotted on a line graph, called a Narrative Curve, which determines the appropriate choice of narrative archetype. As in BMA, one of CMA's chief archetypes is Propagation. But Non-Engagement, Triumph, and Synthesis are not available in CMA, because they rely on the existence of multiple competing motives, whereas CMA relates everything to a single complex. CMA instead includes two alternative non-Propagative archetypes: Accretional and Cyclic. Accretion is effectively the reverse of Propagation. The Focal Point occurs near the end of the piece, rather than at the beginning. Thus, material does not flow out of the Focal Point; it flows toward it, foreshadowing or evolving into the final form. Auerbach does not provide example analyses of pieces that fit this archetype, and so it is left up to the reader to consider what pieces might fit. The Cyclic archetype is more straightforward. It occurs when “a single Focal Point appears multiple times” (212). The Chaminade and Radiohead analyses in chapter 8 present variations on this archetype.Many aspects of CMA narrative archetypes make them an appealing analytical tool—such as the ease with which the graphs communicate a piece's trajectory, the ability to uncover the same plot in pieces that seem otherwise unalike, and the breadth of musical domains the narrative can draw on. And although the archetypes may not sound literary on their own, Auerbach's own analyses—particularly the analysis of “Paranoid Android”—show how much hermeneutic interest can be wrung from them. But the method also demonstrates the pitfalls of Auerbach's preoccupation with systematicity and universality. At least two of the central axioms (on which the system depends) are problematic.The first is structuring all analyses around a single Focal Point. Auerbach never defends the idea that composers compose this way, or that listeners listen this way, or that pieces are inherently structured this way. His justifies the single Focal Point rule in purely pragmatic terms: adhering to it prevents analysts from “becoming bogged down in minutiae” by ensuring that “all motivic analyses draw grand, synthetic points” (162). It seemingly does not matter whether pieces actually have a single defining moment; it is to the analyst's benefit to treat them as if they do, no matter what. Auerbach even goes so far as to say that if an initial selection of Focal Point in CMA does not yield an archetypal Narrative Curve, the analyst should go back and pick a different segment to be the Focal Point. Data are chosen to fit a narrative, not vice versa.Also questionable is the decision to tally a segment's Relative Unity score according to a 50/50 balance of primary and secondary parameters. This weighting matters. For most pieces, the same raw data weighted differently would produce a different line graph, which in turn could alter the overall narrative. So why 50/50? Auerbach does not provide a compelling reason, and consequently, the supposedly objective system rests on an arbitrary ratio. Just as dubious as the choice of ratio itself is the decision to use the same ratio across all repertoires. Auerbach's concept of style in chapter 2 is explicitly modeled on that of Leonard Meyer, who originated the idea of secondary parameters. But Meyer (1989) emphasized that secondary parameters did not carry the same structural weight across musical styles; rather, they grew far more important over the course of the nineteenth century and their gradual rise in power is one of the most characteristic features of Romanticism (208–11, 246). The study of secondary parameters was meant to bring out differences between styles, not erase them in the name of universalism.Because I focus almost exclusively on Auerbach's theory, this review does not do justice to the many fine analyses scattered throughout the book. (Besides the analyses I have already mentioned, chapter 6's BMA analysis of the first movement of Beethoven's Op. 2/1 is a gem.) They demonstrate the rich results that BMA and CMA can yield when carefully applied to the right pieces. To the extent that Auerbach's aim is to create an approach that is more consistent in practice and clearer in communication than all preceding theories, the analyses show that he has succeeded.But this leaves the question of whether we should prize rigor when it eliminates disorder without necessarily eliminating error. BMA and CMA embody precision rather than accuracy. They are more about the elegance of an analysis itself than about its fidelity to musical experiences that exist outside of the analysis. And if unity is more than just a word analysts use, it surely cannot be captured by a seemingly randomly chosen number. Auerbach admits that his method creates “cases in which a clearly audible musical relationship must be excluded from analysis” (102). In such cases, I (like most analysts) would rather report what I hear, not what regulations determine I must report or ignore.Despite my reservations, I hope this book brings about the revival of motivic analysis that Auerbach aims to usher in. I suspect that most future practitioners of motivic analysis will not adopt Auerbach's system wholesale. But much can be gained by adopting or adapting parts of it, and those interested in the subject cannot afford to ignore it.
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