I must admit, when I first became a music major, and began to take music theory courses, I felt so optimistic. I felt that through learning the tricks, techniques and styles of myriad composers, from Bach to Debussy and beyond, I could absorb a bit of this beauty.

I felt as if there was some code to crack, something that made these composers stand the test of time: furthermore, I felt that this code could be analyzed and applied to music that I wrote myself.

Let’s just say I was young, naïve, and a bit too optimistic.

Suffice it to say, upon learning more about music theory, after analyzing more pieces, delving deeper into structure, there was no code to crack. I was left face to face with the geniuses of music, who’ve managed to withstand centuries of war, changes in aesthetic opinions and collective amnesia.

While I comment on ‘classical’ music, I don’t mean to restrict myself to such parameters.   I’ve also studied the music of such musical luminaries as Duke Ellington and Paul McCartney, though not in a formal classroom setting.   In fact, I may have learned as much about music, if not more, through late-night conversations about the topic, sharing opinions with others.

And, of course, in the process, I learned that music is a highly individual thing to process.   We all have myriad tastes and considerations in music: some prefer rhythm, others melody, others harmony, some texture: it just depends. So, a great song to one person can be totally meaningless to another (indeed, I’ve had this experience –– playing a song I absolutely adore to an audience that responds lukewarmly).

Thus, we’ve established that music is a highly personal activity. Yet, what explains the phenomena of great pieces and songs that find a mass audience, or stand the test of time?
More on that next week.