Writing About Music

The term “available tensions” is sometimes tossed around relatively loosely, in jazz parlance. The concept, though, is greatly clarified and made more useful by contextualizing it in terms of functional harmony.

Joe Mulholland, chair of Berklee’s harmony department, was kind enough to sit down with me to discuss the formal definition of available tensions.

Jonathan Feist: What is an available tension?

Joe Mulholland: An available tension is a diatonic note added to a chord, reinforcing that chord’s function while sounding “good” with it.

JF: So you make a distinction between “tensions” and “available tensions.” Not all diatonic 9, 11, and 13 notes are “available?”

Joe: Right. Like, you don’t normally have an 11 on a V chord. Though it is diatonic, it sounds poorly with that chord and interferes with the chord’s function.

For example, if you put the tonic of the key against the V chord, you will get something that is functionally at war with itself. The function of a dominant chord is to provide harmonic tension that is resolved by the sounding of the tonic chord. The dominant chord has the leading tone of the key as well as the 4th degree (11 of the V chord), both of which are unstable notes in the parent scale by virtue of their half-step relationship to the note below or above. If you mix the tonic of the key with that chord, you’ve got the most stable note of the key mixed into this highly unstable chord, and it sounds like you just don’t know where you’re going with it.

Fig. 1. G7 Chord with C (V7 with 11)

JF: The V stops functioning like a dominant chord.

JM: Yes, that tonic note C interferes with the dominant function of the chord, G7. Adding the C gives the feeling that you’ve peaked too early—that you’ve confused the target with the means of getting there.

There’s also a mechanical/acoustical reason why it’s not considered available. If you play the tonic of the key against the dominant chord, such as C against a G7, that minor 9th (C against B) sounds very dissonant.

This is really most evident in the V chord, as I mentioned. But it’s also an issue with the III chord. You might think that on an E minor chord in C major, the note C would work fine, because the E and C are both tonic chords. But that minor 9th relationship comes into play here as well, between the B and the C. Best-case scenario, instead of sounding like an E minor chord with a tension, it sounds instead like an inverted C major 7 chord. It won’t sound like a III chord any more. And if you’re not careful with how you voice it, that dissonant minor 9th will pop out.

Fig. 2. E–7 Chord with C (III–7 with 13)

JF: So, does the word “available” just mean that you can use it?

Joe: It means you can use it freely, with no constraints. On our G7 chord, the 9 and the 13 will let you thicken the sound of your chord easily and effectively. They will sound great with the other notes, while reinforcing that chord’s harmonic function.

Fig. 3. G7 (V7) with 9 and 13

Now, one can imagine a C played against a G7 chord, but just not on a rhythmically strong beat, not in a sustained manner, not in a repeated way. It could be used as part of a melodic line, or a passing line. But it shouldn’t be used as a harmonic addition to the chord.

Fig. 4. Modal use of 11 (C) on V (G7)

The term “available tension” primarily refers to harmonic, vertical processes. If you’re doing something melodic, or horizontal, like passing tones between one chord and the next, as long you don’t accent, sustain, or repeat that note, it will be just subsumed into the flow of the line; but if you add it to the chord as an extension, it will sound very wrong. So, they are not harmonically available.

JF: What would you call a tension that isn’t available?

Joe: It might be an “altered tension.” Or, it might make more sense to analyze it as a melodic note: a passing tone, or a neighbor, or an approach tone, depending on where it exists in the line and what its rhythmic nature is.

JF: So, to be “available” implies a simple diatonic context. If you’re the key of C major, on a C7 chord, b9 wouldn’t be an “available tension.”

Joe: Correct, because Db is not in the key. You might call it an “optional” or “creative” tension, but not “available.” As soon as you do something chromatic like that, other implications occur.

The underlying assumption in the diatonic world is that you’re working within a closed system. That’s the baseline—the default position. Now, of course, a lot of music is not that simple, but that’s the baseline that we come from and return to, when discussing harmony in technical terms.

When you introduce chromaticism, you introduce the possibility that other, non-diatonic outcomes might occur. So, if you put b9 on the V7 of IV chord, the implication to the listener is that a IV minor chord is coming instead. It’s because that tension, the b9 on the dominant chord, mimics the sound of V7(b9) in the minor key.

JF: Exactly what does the word “available” refer to? What makes a note “available?”

Joe: The key signature; these notes that are in the key. Your chromatic alteration to my V chord is not coming from the key. You’ve brought another sonic realm into play. The available notes are those available in the key signature’s parent scale. While you might be able to use a chromatic alteration effectively, it’s not called “available,” even if it sounds good. Again, the note has to be contained in the key signature’s parent scale.

JF: Isn’t it subjective to say that a note sounds “good?”

Joe: Not really, not to Western ears. I mean, you can play the melody in figure 4, but that’s really a modal phrase. In that kind of harmonic context, the G chord isn’t really functioning as a dominant. That style is not about functional harmony, it’s about the sound of the G Mixolydian mode. So, in that melody, the note works because it reinforces the sound of the mode.

But if we take as our framework that we’re in a traditional harmonic context, where V7 creates a strong expectation to resolve to I, then a C in a G7 chord would be working contrary to the chord’s dominant sound. If you violate the rules of available tensions, you will be interfering with the rules of functional harmony. We’re talking about functional, diatonic harmony.

Once you make a creative choice to go outside that system, then you have a lot more wiggle room. At that point, reasonable people can disagree about what sounds good and what doesn’t. But within a functional harmonic context, while violating the rules like that might not make you run screaming, most people would agree that it sounds kind of odd. There’s just something kind of whacky about it. The note is just not congruent with what we’re used to hearing.

JF: So, to try to narrow your definition, an available tension can’t be a semi-tone away from a chord tone?

Joe: That’s a good starting point. Be careful to say minor 9th, rather than semi-tone. If you play just a semi-tone above, it’s not as terrible sounding. It’s not as dissonant to the ear. If it’s a minor 9 away, the dissonance is much more evident, because it doesn’t sound like a cluster. Once it sounds like a cluster, pretty much anything sounds okay. GBCD is a cluster and has its own character. But take that C an octave up, and it really jumps out as being much more dissonant, and more like a wrong note.

Fig. 5. Cluster vs. Open Voicing

The exception to the rule you’re suggesting is that some minor 9ths actually sound okay: on dominant chords, for example. It’s safe to say that on a diatonic major chord (I, IV or V), the minor 9 above the third of the chord doesn’t sound good; C against B in a G7 chord sounds terrible in context. But on a dominant chord, if you go chromatic—go outside the key and add a b9 or b13 to a dominant chord—that will sound okay. Just remember that those notes are not called “available” because they are not in the key. The key doesn’t give you those chords. The tensions are chromatic alterations, not available tensions.

Fig. 6. G7 with b9 and b13

JF: Are people surprised by this definition of available tensions?

Joe: Many people haven’t thought about available tensions in this systematically defined way, but when they do, it seems to help clarify things; they have a better framework for defining the musical situation and making informed choices about what to change or accept.

JF: Without this approach, how do people typically learn what would or would not be an available tension?

Joe: Many people learn this intuitively. And in trying to make their chords sound richer, they might commonly reach for altered tensions right away, and then call those “available tensions” because they sound good. But again, I would call them “altered tensions” instead, to acknowledge that they are taken from outside the diatonic system. And someone narrowly trained might think, that’s not fair! They’re not playing by “the rules,” and yet it sounds so cool, and so fresh. They might go, “Oh man, I didn’t know I was allowed to paint outside the lines! Or jump across the fence for a minute!”

The difficulty with this sort of thing is that it is overly simplistic, and ultimately limiting. If the only thing you know how to do is add a 9th to everything, you’ll get pleasant enough results, but you will never discover the creative challenges you face when having to work around “difficult” notes. Sort of like the pearl in the oyster, right? It’s the irritant that results in the beauty! Within a seven-chord major key system, everyone agrees that if you put an 11 on a V chord, or a b9 on a III chord, it just sounds like it doesn’t work, as well as being acoustically unpleasing. The question is, how will you find a way to circumvent those issues and still make music that has a natural flow.

Thinking about available tensions in this way—that they are diatonic notes that reinforce the functional harmony and sound good—makes them easier to use, and helps us to make more effective and deliberate note choices.

Two similar “roadmap” symbols that are often confused are DC and DS.

DC, which stands for “da capo,” means “go to the very beginning and play it again.” Think, C stands for cap, which you wear on your head. “Take it from the top.”

DS, which sands for “dal segno,” means “go to the funny looking ‘segno’ symbol (sign), and play from there.” It is always paired with the aforementioned funny looking segno symbol. Think, S stands for silly sign.

DSs are most common when there is an introduction that you don’t want to repeat.

Either can be paired with a further direction after you repeat, such as “al Fine” (play until the Fine sign, and then stop) or “al Coda” (play until the coda, or follow the “to coda” direction).

In this example of a DC al Fine, we do this:

1. Play measures 1 to 8.
2. Play measures 1 to 4, and then stop.

In this example of a DS al Coda, we do this:

1. Play measures 1 to 12.
2. Play measures 5 to 8.
3. Play measures 13 and 14, and then stop.

Some of the “rules” of music notation are really more appropriately considered “ideals, if you can manage it.” One of these is the desire to set four bars per system.

Often, this is great idea. So much music is based on phrases of four bars, and if you can keep a phrase intact, it is easier to read. Here’s an example of where this works out nicely.

But what if there was a busy bee-like accompaniment, say sixteenth note runs? Fitting four bars per system here would be pretty hard to read, even if we reduced the notation size to make it fit.

Tempting would be to set just two bars per line. This would preserve some sub-phrases and give the sixteenth notes room. However, it would also make the score a lot choppier to read, not only because of the system breaks, but also the additional page breaks that would be required. Figuring three systems per page, we’d need five pages, which is very obnoxious on a music stand or piano desk.

In this case, the best compromise would be three bars per line for the first two systems. Overall, this would be the most readable solution, and the whole piece would fit on three pages—relatively managable. Though the phrases don’t correspond to the systems, the notes are all clear, and this needs to be the primary consideration, in an imperfect world.

I might vary the number of bars per system, to make page breaks easier, and to generally cause logical groupings, where appropriate. The important thing is to let go of the sense that “the rule says four bars per line,” and to choose a measure layout that provides for the most readable score.

People use the word “groove” to mean different things. The perspective that many at Berklee take is as follows, though this is by no means universal.

A groove is a multi-dimensional musical device that generally serves as a bed for a lead melody (or other types of solo, such as rap), though grooves can also occur on their own. Grooves include recurring rhythmic and harmonic patterns, such as a drum beat, chord patterns, and melodic fragments or “background lines,” which are like melodic motifs (sometimes called “licks” or “hooks”).

Rhythm-section based music makes grooves relatively obvious. A rhythm section is generally a drum set, a bass, and a “comping” instrument (usually guitar, piano, organ—basically, anything that can play chords). It plays the groove. The soloist (singer, sax player, rapper, etc.) plays/sings a melody that “hooks up” (intersects rhythmically) with the groove, but does usually not play the same kind of recurring rhythmic pattern exclusively.

A groove is like a mobile, with different recurring parts played by each instrument, each fulfilling a unique role, repeating and rotating around. Most commonly, drums play a drum beat. There might be additional percussion instruments too. The bass plays chord roots and other important harmony notes, generally hooking up rhythmically with the bass drum of the drum set. Comping instruments (guitar, keyboard, accordion, etc.) play chords. Melodic instruments in a groove can offer short melodies.

The roles are the important thing, not the specific instruments. A bari sax can play the bass line. A string quartet can comp chords. You can strum a beat on muted guitar strings.

Single instruments can play grooves solo. Pianos and guitars are especially good at it. But it gets harder from there. Most grooves are played by multiple instruments in a rhythm section. The musical roles are the important thing, not the instrumentation.

Each part in isolation can be very simple and not sound like much. But when the parts are combined, the whole composite sound object is revealed. The parts fit together, complementing and reinforcing each other.

Not all music has a groove—certainly not an obvious groove. It’s really a sense of recurring rhythm, serving as an underlying accompaniment. People could argue that, say, Beethoven had his grooves. But in terms of modern usage of the term, that’s something of a stretch, and said with a wry smile.

Much contemporary classical music deliberately avoids having a groove, perhaps holding as important to the styles an avoidance of repetition in favor of constantly fresh or ambient sounds. So, drum beats are out if you are anti-groove.

But most popular music is groove-based. Some forms (dance music, hip-hop, funk) put the groove as the most prominent and obvious feature. You could just have the groove and never get around to an actual song. Rock, country, etc. use the groove as the bedrock accompaniment for a song, and the lyrics/melody are more what distinguishes the music. The groove still identifies the style, though.

Some people use the words “groove” and “feel” interchangeably, but I find it more useful to distinguish them. A “feel” is a purely rhythmic device, referencing the beat subdivision and emphasis. A “groove” has a feel, but also chords, instrumentation, hooks, and so forth. You could say, “A funk groove has a sixteenth-note feel and a strong backbeat.” (A backbeat is beats 2 and 4, in 4/4 time.) Or, “A swing groove has a triplet feel.”

Another way “groove” is used is as a verb. “That really grooves.” This means that it has momentum, and sounds distinguishable as its own object. It implies “musically good.” If it “doesn’t groove,” it means that the time doesn’t flow naturally and easily. Maybe it is too cluttered, maybe there is an awkward hesitation, or maybe it is just boring.

But if it is “grooving,” it cuts a line aligned with the natural gravity of the universe, and its resulting motion and momentum. Like a tire track.

In musical terms, it means it rhythmically well executed, cleanly orchestrated, and proficiently performed.

Groovy?

Discussions of imaginary barlines tend to get very mathematical. It’s easier to think of them in terms of clarifying syncopation.

An imaginary barline is a notation convention designed to help the music reader know what’s syncopated—off the beat—and what’s not. It’s not an actual notation mark; it is an understanding and a notation convention.

In 4/4, the imaginary barline separates beats 1 and 2 from beats 3 and 4. Only whole notes and non-syncopated half and dotted half notes can be notated as “crossing the imaginary barline.” No other note durations can cross them. Rather, they must be rewritten as pairs of tied notes, with beat 3 being shown. This makes the notation much easier to read.

So, these are acceptable:

The ones below are not acceptable. Again, the reason is that the notes crossing the imaginary barline disguise the fact that the music is syncopated.

Much easier to follow are the following revisions. The notes are tied, and the target note of the tie re-articulates beat 3, and thus clarifies where the syncopation lies.

In some Latin music, there is a notable notation exception to this convention: bass lines with the following syncopated rhythm. But this is a rare acceptable exception to the general rule.

Beams never cross imaginary barlines. Some publishers group beats on each side of it together, while others begin new beam groups on every beat. These are other ways to clarify the metric organization.

These are correct:

These are incorrect:

Similarly, beams are used to clarify other meters besides 4/4, and the other rules of imaginary barlines also apply to them. Many of these signatures can be interpreted in a variety of ways, and thoughtful beaming can greatly clarify how the music is to be performed. Again, it’s about clarifying subdivisions and which beats are emphasized. Meters have subdivisions every two or three beats, and more complex time signatures (e.g., 7/8, 12/8) might have multiple imaginary barlines to consider. Below, the beams show how some other meters are commonly organized. Other options are available.

This concept of clarifying syncopations also applies when you drill down deeper, into smaller divisions of the measure. For example, this notation clarifies beat 2, and thus the fact that the notation is off the beat. This is a clear way to write that rhythm because the relationship between the sounding notes and the meter is clarified, via the tie.

Here, however, the syncopation is more difficult to figure out, and thus, to be avoided.

These “rules” of notation help make music as easy to read, and thus, interpret. When the notation follows the music’s intent, it becomes much easier for the reader to understand, especially at a glance.

In grammar and style guides, a tremendous amount of ink has been devoted to the topic of when to use words and when to use numerals. Many book publishers, including Berklee Press, use the Chicago Manual of Style as their guide for such things. Although CMS makes a valiant attempt at clarifying this topic, the needs of music writing are very specific, and other resources have been necessary in our quest towards clarity and consistency with this.

I found that the most helpful resources are ones devoted to the most technical forms of scientific writing. Fun reading, let me tell you. In this post, I will share some of the insights I’ve gained about when to use numerals and when to use words.

A guiding principle, though, is this: Numerals are different than words, and they are an interruption to the reader’s general flow. They can be a great help in clarifying comparisons and names, but they should be used thoughtfully because there is the danger that they can become annoying.

As with all matters of writing, clarity is key.

The CMS general rule is to write out all whole numbers from –100 to 100. A-hah, you say! You should have written “minus one hundred to one hundred.” Well, I wish I could have, but when quantities are set in close proximity, as in a range, it’s clearer to use numerals.

See the game?

Here’s a sentence that took a ton of research to construct, the process of which was extremely helpful to me in understanding how to render numerals.

1. “A 12-bar blues has three 4-bar phrases.”

[applause, please...]

Here, we have two types of quantities: types of musical constructions (12-bar, 4-bar) and a quantity of objects of these types (three). It’s clearer to have a distinction in how these differing logical organizations are rendered. Compare that above sentence to the alternatives:

2. “A twelve-bar blues has three four-bar phrases.”

3. “A 12-bar blues has 3 4-bar phrases.”

The eye has to puzzle out examples (2) and (3) in a way that it doesn’t have to puzzle out (1). Example (3) is particularly difficult, figuring out the 3 and 4. It’s an example of a numeral being annoying and disruptive rather than clarifying.

By the way, I set parentheses around example numerals because I don’t want to confuse the other numerals with my example numerals. So, each type of number gets a unique treatment, and reading comprehension is served, hopefully.

This gets hairy, hairy, hairy. One of the most difficult types of writing to do is writing about music theory for guitar, as in Jon Damian’s recent book, The Chord Factory. Why? Because there are a great many types of numbers involved. You’ve got:

String numbers
Fret numbers
Finger numbers
Interval numbers
Chord extension numbers
Scale tone numbers

With your first finger on the 1st fret of the 6th string and your third finger on the 3rd fret of the 4th string, play a fifth from the root, and then imagine the C9 accompaniment….

[more applause, please….]

It’s quite murderous, tracking these over hundreds of pages (not to mention, hundreds of books).

Beyond just specifying rule after rule, there are a couple principles that I find helpful to keep in mind.

1. If something is identified or categorized by its number, then use the numeral (or “ordinal” form of the numeral, e.g., 1st, 2nd, 3rd, etc.). 16-track unit, 1st fret, fret 1, page 6. Cmin7(9)

2. If there are two different types of numbers that are likely to be discussed in close proximity to each other, see if there is a logical way to make them different, even if it forces you to violate some “rules.” “Put your first finger on the 1st fret.” Or, rework: Put your 1st finger on fret 1.”

3. If you are comparing more than two quantities, use numerals. I have 2, you have 6, and she has all 9.” That’s an example of numerals being clarifying.

It is a great challenge to make sure that these are stylistically consistent at the book and catalog level, and this is where lists of rules can be helpful. Again, though, you sometimes need to violate the rules to achieve clarity.

Here are the “rules” listed in the Berklee Press Style Guide, which have a specific slant towards music writing and are thus supplementary to CMS. Unfortunately, this list seems to be ever expanding. I think it was originally compiled by Susan Gedutis Lindsay.

Words

Whole numbers (zero to one hundred, including negative numbers)

Numbers that begin a sentence (Three thousand fifty-five people…)

Intervals (Play both notes of the minor third in measure 3.)

Also note: In labels in musical examples, intervals are abbreviated using the numeral and its quality. M (major), m (minor), and P (perfect), as in M7, m3, P5.

Note values up to sixteenths (whole note, half note, quarter note, eighth note, sixteenth note, but 32nd note, 64th note, etc.)

Beat quantities (A half note lasts for two beats.)

Measure quantities (Vamp for sixteen bars.)

Inversions (first inversion)

Finger number (Third finger)

Numerals

Numbers with decimals and fractions (1.56, 2 1/2)

Measure numbers (measures 3–11)

Item names where numbers are important (16-track recorder, 12-bar blues)

Model numbers (DX-7, Hammond B3 organ)

Money ($25)

Note values larger than a sixteenth note (32nd note)

Beat numbers (beats 2 and 4)

Scale degrees (Degree 4 of C major is F.)

Chord degrees (A major triad has a major 3rd.)

Chord numbers (Substitute VI for II at the coda.)

Metronome markings (Set the quarter note to 88 bpm.)

String number (First finger on the 3rd string.)

Fret or position (7th fret or fret 7)

Time signatures (4/4)

Forms (12-bar blues)

###

Chord symbols used to indicate “minor” vary. C minor 7 might have three different renderings: Cmin7, Cm7, C–7.

The third of these is best rendered as an “en-dash.”

The possible dashes are:

- [hyphen], used for compound adjectives such as blue-green algae
- [minus sign on numeric keypad] minus symbol, as in -6 (in some fonts, this looks identical to either a hyphen or an N-dash)
– [en-dash], used for symbols (minor chord symbol, sometimes the negative sign), as well as ranges, e.g., A–Z or 315–19
— [em-dash], used to interrupt sentences—like this.

Making a hyphen is easy enough. Just type the hyphen key.

A minus symbol is also easy. Type the dash on the numeric keypad. Whether this looks different than the hyphen and/or en-dash will depend on your font.

To make an en-dash, on Macintosh, type Option-[hyphen]. On a Windows machine, it’s trickier. You need to use ASCII codes. To do this, type Alt, then 0150. You could also cheat and use the Character Map utility, which lets you copy it to the clipboard and then paste it where you will. In Microsoft Word only, you can use CTRL-[minus sign on numeric keypad]. You can also type [space] [hyphen] [space], but then delete the spaces.

To make an em-dash, on Mac, type Option-Shift-[hyphen]. On PC, use Alt-0151. A low tech alternative is to use two hyphens, which is how it’s done on typewriters. Word will convert two hyphens into an em-dash automatically. Or, again, only in Word, type CTRL-Alt-[minus sign on numeric keypad].

Here’s how to set Finale up to accept an en-dash in minor chord symbols.

1. Choose the Chord tool, and select Chords > Manual Input.

2. Click the note you want to add your minor chord, say C–7, and then in the Chord Definition window, type C–7 in the Chord field. You can type the dash as a hyphen or as an en-dash; hyphen is actually easier, as we will set it to automatically replace the hyphen with a proper en-dash.

3. It will ask you if you want to add it to the library. Say “OK.”

4. Click the Edit button next to “Suffix” to open the Suffix Editor.

5. In the field showing the dash, replace the displaying hyphen with an N-dash, by hook or by crook. Even click “Select” to hunt for it.

Now, when you enter C-7 for a chord, it will automatically display as C–7. My Finale course goes into some more depth on this, but at least now you can do it.

I recommend using the en-dash, as the dash of choice, because the hyphen is too easily lost (particularly with A-7) and the em-dash is too big and dorky (C—7).

If you are using the JazzText font for your chord symbols, though, just use the hyphen, as that (problematic) font doesn’t include an en-dash.

By the way, using the dash for minor is purported to have its origins at Berklee. The story goes that people were getting messier and messier with their lowercase m’s until it was just a line. I will confess to hating it at first, feeling that it was a sort of institutionalized laziness, like having class times officially start at ten minutes past the hour. But it’s grown on me over time.

These days, I prefer it to the lowercase m. The reason is that in Finale, if someone uses the JazzText font for chord symbols, the lowercase letters are actually smallcaps—in other words, just little versions of capital letters.

The problem is that another common convention is to use M for major and m for minor. But if lowercase is just a teeny tiny uppercase letter, and particularly if all chords in the chart are minor, it’s impossible for readers to know whether you intend major or minor.

My own personal preference? I like CMaj7 and Cmin7. It’s easy to tell what’s what, and they are of parallel construction. Berklee Press house style, though, is CMaj7 and C–7. They are certainly easy to tell apart. My only concerns with it are that first, the meaning of the dash is not immediately evident to all musicians (i.e., beyond Berklee), and second, so many people don’t know how to make proper en-dashes, and so use hyphens instead, which again, are difficult to read. And it’s like mixing up two different approaches: an abbreviated word and a symbol.

But if you are “in the know,” as you likely are, now that you have finished reading all this, the dash will serve you well.

Consistency, though, is important. For example, don’t have C–7 and Gmin9 in the same piece. Stick with the same symbol throughout the chart.

The language used to discuss music often reveals the subtle, profound, and even spiritual underpinnings of this mystic art, which in our daily wrangling can seem a mundane and predictable craft, with finite and predictable parameters. By looking at wording in precise degree, I will try to present some insights into music that might not be readily evident, otherwise, and reveal some wizards behind the curtains of house style.

A quick example: chord symbols. Berklee Press holds the following stylistic practice about how to render altered fifths: C7b5, not C7(b5).

What’s interesting about the decision to omit parentheses, as we would have on C7(9), is that at Berklee, the flat-5 is not considered a tension. It is considered a core note of the chord. Setting it in parentheses would suggest that it is more of an optional flavor, than a fundamental characteristic. No, here, life is all about that crazy dissonance.

Chatting about parentheses is how I torture people, all day long, in my work managing Berklee Press. Similar issues frequently cross my desk that lead to some fascinating explorations of music. As a publisher, we have to be careful, because our books are often perceived as sets of “rules,” and particularly books published by Berklee are often held to be definitive works on their subjects. And that’s how we want it.

Funny story, I was once scouting consensus on some other seemingly mundane issue, and the process brought me to the office of one of the Berklee department chairs. I asked what he thought the proper way to render something was, and to answer my question, he grabbed a book from his shelf, which he considered the “definitive reference” on the topic.

What he didn’t know is that I was actually the editor of the book he grabbed.

That act shook my foundations, regarding books, and I have replayed that scene of him reaching up to the shelf for a Final Word, over and over, in my head. Sheesh, if books that were my responsibility were to be considered “definitive,” I’d better take this mission of establishing best practice and consensus very carefully! And, of course, from that moment forward, I haven’t believed a word I’ve read on any subject. I mean, Hell, it could have been written by someone like me!

But his reaching reiterated for me that our books are permanent articulations of Berklee pedagogy and international ambassadors of what we teach here. As such, we try to be persnickety about language and stylistic choices, as do all responsible publishers. Obviously, clarity is a top priority. But beyond clarity, we try to reflect the campuswide consensus on values and approaches to music, and “best practice” regarding what to teach and how to present ideas. As you might guess, this is often a complex charge, for the local cats have varying opinions regarding pretty much every topic, from articulations to Zydeco….

I do regularly poll them, though, and I am fortunate to have worked closely enough with over a hundred Berklee faculty members, whom I can bug to ask about this or that. I find that they frequently are eager to share strong opinions on the minutest of details—as if they were just itching to be asked, for years and years.

In editing their books, we discuss some of their deepest held beliefs and technical practices about their craft. Many of these educators are performing artists who have achieved worldwide acclaim as musicians. Some are hit-song writers, some are Grammy-award winners, and more are teachers of Grammy award winners. They all have profound insights to share about music.

When helping them write about what they are doing, I can press them hard on details, and get them to articulate their thoughts to an unusually precise degree. From these discussions will come many of the topics that I plan to focus on here.

In this blog, I will articulate some of the personal/professional/musical journeys I’ve embarked on, in my role here. I plan to cover a lot of ground: terminology, concepts, stylistic preferences, and perhaps also technical concepts in manuscript preparation. Feel free to post here any thoughts, feedback, or suggestions for topics I might address.

Please see what I write here, though, as my own personal statements, rather than a voice of the college. So many of the fascinating stories behind some of our books haven’t made it public. I’ll try to give my own personal perspective both to our catalog and also to some of the pedagogical choices we’ve made in how to write about music, and hope that it provides some insight and entertainment.

The language used to discuss music often reveals the subtle, profound, and even spiritual underpinnings of this mystic art, which in our daily wrangling can seem a mundane and predictable craft, with finite and predictable parameters. By looking at wording in precise degree, I will try to present some insights into music that might not be readily evident, otherwise, and reveal some wizards behind the curtains of house style.

A quick example: chord symbols. Berklee Press holds the following stylistic practice about how to render altered fifths: C7b5, not C7(b5).

What’s interesting about the decision to omit parentheses, as we would have on C7(9), is that at Berklee, the flat-5 is not considered a tension. It is considered a core note of the chord. Setting it in parentheses would suggest that it is more of an optional flavor, than a fundamental characteristic. No, here, life is all about that crazy dissonance.

Chatting about parentheses is how I torture people, all day long, in my work managing Berklee Press. Similar issues frequently cross my desk that lead to some fascinating explorations of music. As a publisher, we have to be careful, because our books are often perceived as sets of “rules,” and particularly books published by Berklee are often held to be definitive works on their subjects. And that’s how we want it.

Funny story, I was once scouting consensus on some other seemingly mundane issue, and the process brought me to the office of one of the Berklee department chairs. I asked what he thought the proper way to render something was, and to answer my question, he grabbed a book from his shelf, which he considered the “definitive reference” on the topic.

What he didn’t know is that I was actually the editor of the book he grabbed.

That act shook my foundations, regarding books, and I have replayed that scene of him reaching up to the shelf for a Final Word, over and over, in my head. Sheesh, if books that were my responsibility were to be considered “definitive,” I’d better take this mission of establishing best practice and consensus very carefully! And, of course, from that moment forward, I haven’t believed a word I’ve read on any subject. I mean, Hell, it could have been written by someone like me!

But his reaching reiterated for me that our books are permanent articulations of Berklee pedagogy and international ambassadors of what we teach here. As such, we try to be persnickety about language and stylistic choices, as do all responsible publishers. Obviously, clarity is a top priority. But beyond clarity, we try to reflect the campuswide consensus on values and approaches to music, and “best practice” regarding what to teach and how to present ideas. As you might guess, this is often a complex charge, for the local cats have varying opinions regarding pretty much every topic, from articulations to Zydeco….

I do regularly poll them, though, and I am fortunate to have worked closely enough with over a hundred Berklee faculty members, whom I can bug to ask about this or that. I find that they frequently are eager to share strong opinions on the minutest of details—as if they were just itching to be asked, for years and years.

In editing their books, we discuss some of their deepest held beliefs and technical practices about their craft. Many of these educators are performing artists who have achieved worldwide acclaim as musicians. Some are hit-song writers, some are Grammy-award winners, and more are teachers of Grammy award winners. They all have profound insights to share about music.

When helping them write about what they are doing, I can press them hard on details, and get them to articulate their thoughts to an unusually precise degree. From these discussions will come many of the topics that I plan to focus on here.

In this blog, I will articulate some of the personal/professional/musical journeys I’ve embarked on, in my role here. I plan to cover a lot of ground: terminology, concepts, stylistic preferences, and perhaps also technical concepts in manuscript preparation. Feel free to post here any thoughts, feedback, or suggestions for topics I might address.

Please see what I write here, though, as my own personal statements, rather than a voice of the college. So many of the fascinating stories behind some of our books haven’t made it public. I’ll try to give my own personal perspective both to our catalog and also to some of the pedagogical choices we’ve made in how to write about music, and hope that it provides some insight and entertainment.