Music can be thought of as an argument. This is to say, it aims to convince you or impress something upon you, just as I aim to convince you of this relation.

Of course, this begs the question, “what is music trying to convince us of?” As with most good questions, there is no single answer and, if there were, it would essentially answer “what is music?” Fortunately for us, musical arguments usually fall within a few broad categories. One such category is the attempt to make us feel or think about an emotion, often associated with the romantic era and still prevalent in contemporary styles. Famous examples that fit this category are Rachmaninoff’s second Piano Concerto (expressing both weighty fatalism and gently overflowing love) and Adele’s “Someone Like You.” Another, less common category is that of arguments that convince us of certain scenes, associated with the impressionistic era. Of the works in this group, Ravel’s depictions of water are among the greatest (see Jeux D’eau and Ondine). The last group for now are those arguments that convince us of specific events. This category could be described as a combination of the preceding two categories; however, due to its prevalence, it is helpful to group it separately. For this category, let us remember Queen’s masterpiece, “Bohemian Rhapsody.” These need not be strict categories; music of one category will likely contain elements of another or even be a homogenous mixture of two.

While most music falls into one of these categories, there are naturally some pieces which cannot be said to contain specific arguments. Some of these are pieces whose sheer complexity justifies their existence. It is difficult, for example, to pleasurably listen to Boulez’s second piano sonata, yet closer analysis reveals a depth of complexity that cannot be guessed at first glance. Similarly, the music of J.S. Bach, while often deeply emotional, is also so astoundingly intricate that it may be appreciated as art on that basis alone. In a different vein, some composers choose to write pieces that are meant to be background music or create ambience. While there is nothing necessarily wrong with this, music of this form will always be of less importance than the other forms. Extending our metaphor, this form is equivalent to a speaker droning on while listeners daydream, or even converse among themselves. It matters not what they say or why they have said it, only that they have said something. Naturally, it is absurd to think any notion of profundity, complexity, or love can be conveyed in this manner. Worse still is AI music. The AI speaker cannot communicate with our language; it merely takes the sounds we make and the order we make them in and returns some form of it back to us without having said anything.

For the majority of music, however, we may wonder “how are these things conveyed through sound?” Indeed, that question is the unending study of composers and analysts alike. And while a thorough answer would take several semesters to impart, we may, just as was done for the previous question, describe some general techniques commonly used to give music meaning. The one we are probably most familiar with is lyrics. The combination of language and music allow not only greater depth and complexity, but also specificity that no other technique does. It is for this reason that songs make up the majority of the third category of musical arguments. My favorite example of lyrics’ ability to alter the meaning of a work is “Hey Ya!” by OutKast. The music generally has a positive, upbeat feel to it, yet the lyrics read almost like a rejection of love as a concept. While it is difficult to describe the composite effect, it can confidently be said that the impression upon the listener would be radically different were there no lyrics, or even if the lyrics were not so contrasting to the other parts. Similarly, form, our next and last technique to be discussed (and conveniently the last technique that can be easily described in words), can also drastically change the meaning of a section of music. To illustrate, one tried-and-true structure may be generalized to the presentation of a calm, lyrical musical segment followed closely by a more violent and tempestuous section, ending with a repeat of the initial musical idea. When the first idea comes back to us, it feels all the more calming, even if restated verbatim, simply because it follows a period of turmoil. While this simple structure can be incredibly effective, more complex formal layouts, such as the superimposition of one form onto another (see Liszt Sonata in B minor) or the presentation and continual interaction of two contrasting ideas (see Chopin Ballade no. 2), allows music to convince us of things that it otherwise could not. One of the greatest examples of this is Scriabin’s ninth Piano Sonata. It begins with an ominous musical idea followed by a sweet and hopeful second idea. Throughout the sonata, the two ideas alternate with the first growing more and more powerful until the second idea is restated in a static, hopeless shape over the first idea. As before, the feeling impressed upon the listener is beyond words, but we may point out how it arises from the organization of the piece as a whole. It should also be noted that while other musical elements are recognized as they are heard, following the form of a piece of music, just like following an argument, requires remembering what came before. Fortunately, this is not a difficult task; we naturally start to remember and distinguish musical ideas with repeated, attentive listening.

It is also possible for musical elements to be combined in ways that detract from the central argument. In song covers, for instance, changes and additions often detract from the intended effect of the original, making many of them unconvincing. Similarly, if a pianist plays what is supposed to be a frantic, exciting passage at half the original tempo, the music will likely no longer convince the listener of any dramatic effect. Let this remind us that, when listening to classical music, the interpretation is as large a factor as any in how convincing the piece will be, just as is true with literal arguments. As an example, for Scriabin’s Poeme Satanique, I have only ever heard one interpretation that sounds convincingly like demonic laughter: that by Sofronitsky. Detriments may also come within a piece itself. “A Night To Remember” by Laufey and beabadoobee is one of my all-time favorite songs, yet the inclusion of two singers has always baffled me. Of course, music is more than sum of its parts and the reason a song convinces us or doesn’t convince us often can’t be pinpointed to individual flaws or merits. We should then only talk of detriments to the extent that they are useful in critiquing or discussing music, just as we may single out weak points in an argument in order to better understand the whole.

The most important question regarding all of this, heretofore unmentioned, is, as you may have been thinking this whole time, “why should anyone care about any of this?” The most obvious takeaway is that thinking about ‘music as argument’ is simply a helpful tool in describing, critiquing, and thinking about music. Some of us may come away with a reminder of the different types of music or a slightly deeper understanding of the process that goes into writing. Perhaps the most important thing to remember, though, is that music as an artform requires careful attention to be fully appreciated. Countless treasures are available to us if we are willing to just listen a little closer.