“Since the presence of complicated dissonances does not necessarily endanger tonality, and since on the other hand their absence does not guarantee it, we can ask now, what are the characteristics of that music which is today called ‘atonal’? Permit me to point out that I regard the expression atonal as meaningless… I am not usually a coward; but if I should be asked to give this phenomenon a name, I would prefer—to avoid it entirely.”
— Arnold Schoenberg

What do we mean when we say atonal? It’s a term fraught with associations. I remember attending a party in my twenties where I clashed with the only other musician in the room because he was trying to argue that the reason he disliked a particular popular singer/songwriter was because their music was atonal and he “didn’t like atonal music.” For those who might be unfamiliar, I think it’s pretty safe to assert that there has not yet been a singer/songwriter whose music might be called both “popular” and “atonal.” My issue was not who this guy liked or disliked, it was that he was using atonal in an inaccurate way in order to dismiss something he didn’t like. These are the kinds of hills you’re willing to die on when you’re in your early twenties.

Taken literally, though, atonal means something like “without tone,” and since the word tone is often defined as “a musical sound,” labeling a piece of music as “atonal” is kind of like calling it “nonmusic.” This is why Schoenberg hated the term. It’s not the nicest word for a composer to be forever associated with. His pupil Alban Berg also argued against the label and pointed out that it was first used with a pejorative intention. Consciously or not, this is the way the other musician at the party had internalized the meaning of atonal: it’s not even music.

Here is my highly idiosyncratic, not at all academic attempt to briefly explicate atonality:

Over several hundred years, Western classical music evolved a hierarchical system of organizing pitch called tonality. Even if you are not a musician you are likely familiar with the syllables for singing a major scale: Do, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol, La, Ti, Do. If I sing Do, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol, La, Ti…and stop there, I’ve just made you hear the following Do in your mind’s ear. Tonality is about managing which of these notes are sounding together and how to handle them so that Do always remains the most important. At the center of this system is the concept of consonance and dissonance, consonance meaning a stable sound that you can come to a close on, and dissonance meaning an unstable sound that demands resolution.

Atonal music collapses this binary. Historically, consonances were justified theoretically by the harmonic overtone series—the physical phenomenon that allows for our perception of definite pitch. The basic building block of tonal harmony is the triad, which is made up of the first three different notes in the overtone series. But Schoenberg argues that, since actually every note is present in the overtone series, just farther along the line, the difference between consonance and dissonance is only one of relation—an artificial boundary. As with most binaries, this collapse reveals that the binary was false all along. For me, this is one of the most beautiful things about the universe. Really take that in for a moment: when you hear one note, all notes are present. A single pitch is an infinity.

Schoenberg was perfectly fine with some binaries, however—especially the one between “serious” and “popular” music. Collapsing those is one of the intents of this album and the Schoenberg in Hi-Fi project as a whole.

Drei Klavierstücke, Op. 11 is atonality coming out swinging. It’s considered the first completely atonal instrumental work, and it’s the piece I was most nervous about arranging for this series, especially the ferocious 3rd movement. After the tight motivic cohesion of the 1st, and the dreamy 2nd with its low ostinato, the 3rd is an athematic torrent. Even in the context of Op. 11 it’s shocking, let alone in the context of 1909. I think of it as Schoenberg saying “I really fucking mean it!” But my fears were unfounded as this movement was one of the most straightforward orchestrations I’ve done. It’s all right there on the page, and it personally delights me to hear how Schoenberg partitions the dense onslaught in a way that a single pianist just can’t really convey. (I certainly couldn’t back when I worked on it.)

It’s worth restating that, as with all my Schoenberg arrangements, I have not changed or added any notes to Schoenberg’s scores. I played my previous album of Suite, Op. 25 for someone who really liked it, but kept saying, “but that’s not atonal,” even after I explained he was still hearing the same notes and rhythms Schoenberg wrote. He had internalized the same meaning as the musician at the party—atonal means I’ll hate it.

We are often taught to respect Schoenberg’s music and atonal music generally, but not to love it. I’m not sure I’m arguing anything with this project, but if I am, it’s that this body of work is deserving of unabashed affection.