Mind the Gap:

An Integration of Art and Science in

Music Theory Pedagogy

Lori Lynn Penny

A dissertation submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the

Doctorate in Philosophy degree in Education

Faculty of Education
University of Ottawa

© Lori Lynn Penny, Ottawa, Canada, 2021

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Table of Contents

List of Tables vii

List of Figures viii
List of Abbreviations x
Abstract xii
Acknowledgements xiii
Prelude 1
The Preambular Discourse 1
An Overview of the Dissertation’s Structure 5
Chapter 1 7
Music Theory Pedagogy: Situating Myself in the Discipline 7
Introductory Remarks 7
A Student Perspective 8
An Artist/Musician Perspective 11
A Teacher/Practitioner Perspective 13
An Examiner Perspective 18
An Author/Pedagogue Perspective 20
A Researcher Perspective 25
Integrating Multiple Perspectives 27
Concluding Remarks 30
Chapter 2 32
Literature Review: Seeking Guidance from the Periphery 32
Introductory Remarks 32
A Description of the Problem 32
The Scholarship in Music Theory 35
Music Theory as a Science 36
Interpreting Music Theory for the Purpose of Instruction 39
Imparting the Rules of Music Theory as Pre-Determined Statements of Fact 41
Purposing Repertoire for Music Theory Instruction 44
Theoretical vs. Practical Considerations of Music Theory 48
Thinking Differently about Music Theory Instruction 50
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The Scholarship in Music Theory Pedagogy 52

Recent Trends in the Music Theory Pedagogy Literature 54
The Scholarship in Music Education 57
Early Philosophies of Music Education 58
Aestheticism vs. Praxialism in Music Education 60
Experiential Music Education 63
The Nexus of Music Theory and Music Education 66
The Kodály Method in a North American Context 68
The Application of Kodály’s Methodology 71
Re-Imagining the Kodály Method for an Integrated Music Theory Pedagogy 75
Concluding Remarks 79
Chapter 3 80
Arts-Based Research: Adopting a Musical Lens for My Inquiry 80
Introductory Remarks 80
The Scholarship in Arts-Based Research 81
A Description of Arts-Based Research 83
The Origin of Arts-Based Research 84
The Potential of ScholARTistry 86
A Musical Perspective 87
The Issue of Representation 89
An Integrated Research Methodology 95
The Self-Study of Professional Practice 96
The Research Design 98
The Formative Interaction 100
The Interrogative Interaction 102
The Reflective Interaction 105
The Summative Interaction 106
Concluding Remarks 107
Chapter 4 109
Listening Guides: Choosing Depth over Breadth 109
Introductory Remarks 109
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An Opportunity to Effect Change 110

An Adaptation of the Kodály Method for Music Listening 117
Considering the Repertoire 121
Fine-Tuning the Instructional Process 128
Level 5: Mozart’s Aria 131
Aligning the Score with Examination Requirements 132
Negotiating the Pedagogical Details 136
Level 6: Bach’s Invention 145
Aligning the Score with Examination Requirements 146
Negotiating the Pedagogical Details 149
Level 7: Mendelssohn’s Overture 154
Aligning the Score with Examination Requirements 155
Negotiating the Pedagogical Details 157
Level 8: Josquin’s Frottola 166
Aligning the Score with Examination Requirements 168
Negotiating the Pedagogical Details 171
A Re-Evaluation of Purpose 176
Integrating Art and Science 179
Concluding Remarks 181
Interlude 182
Data Analysis in Arts-Based-Research 182
Establishing Validity 183
Disclosing My Data Collection Process 187
Analyzing the Data 194
Chapter 5 198
Data Analysis: Deriving Meaning from the Collective Experience 198
Introductory Remarks 198
Interrogative Interactions with the Themes 199
Analyzing from a Researcher Perspective 201
Extra-Curricular/New Concepts 205
Analytical Flexibility 209
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Pedagogical Relevance 215

Guided Discoveries 218
Analyzing for Understanding 223
Layering from a Teacher/Practitioner Perspective 226
Sequential Instruction 228
Layering for Understanding 235
Deepening from an Author/Pedagogue Perspective 238
Mozart’s “Queen of the Night” Aria 240
Bach’s Invention No. 1 in C Major 242
Mendelssohn’s Overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream 243
Josquin’s El grillo 247
Deepening for Understanding 249
Preparing from an Examiner Perspective 252
Intermediate Applications 254
Advanced Applications 257
Preparing for Understanding 264
Connecting from a Student Perspective 266
Practical Relevance 269
Connecting for Understanding 278
Singing from an Artist/Musician Perspective 279
Extra-Curricular Concepts 282
Singing for Understanding 287
Reflective Interactions with the Themes 290
Integrating Music and Theory 292
Concluding Remarks 308
Chapter 6 310
Synthesis: Finding a Multiplicity of Meanings 310
Introductory Remarks 310
Summative Interactions with the Data 312
Description: Making Vivid the Experience 313
Interpretation: Accounting of/for the Experience with Theory 318
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Evaluation: Appraising the Merit of the Experience 325

Generalization: Deriving a Thematic from the Experience 331
The Take-Away 338
Concluding Remarks 344
Postlude 346
Final Thoughts 346
References 416
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List of Tables

Table 2.1: Voice-Leading Resolutions of the Dominant 7th Chord and its Inversions 47
Table 4.1: Previous Syllabus Distribution of Musical Concepts for Intervals 114
Table 4.2: Present Syllabus Distribution of Musical Concepts for Intervals 114
Table 4.3: Syllabus Distribution of Repertoire for Elementary Music History 122
Table 4.4: Syllabus Distribution of Repertoire for Intermediate Music History 124
Table 4.5: Comparison of Solmization for Major and la-Based Minor Scales 143
Table 4.6: Chromatic Alterations in Solmization for la-Based Minor Scales 143
Table 5.1: Summary of Introductory Analyzing Data 202
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List of Figures

Figure 2.1: Resolution of the Dominant 7th Chord 40

Figure 2.2: Resolution of the Incomplete Dominant 7th Chord 42
Figure 2.3: R. Schumann, “Ein Choral” from Album für die Jugend, op. 68 (mm. 29-32) 43
Figure 2.4: Bachian Resolution of the Dominant 7th Chord 48
Figure 2.5: Size and Quality of Intervals in the Major Scale 50
Figure 3.1: Guidonian Hand 90
Figure 3.2: Circle of 5ths 91
Figure 3.3: Melody, Musical Line 93
Figure 3.4: Musical Texture 93
Figure 3.5: Rhythm, Musical Time 93
Figure 3.6: Dynamics, Musical Expression 94
Figure 3.7: Tempo, Musical Expression 94
Figure 4.1: Mozart’s “Der Hölle Rache” from Die Zauberflöte (mm. 24-32) 134
Figure 4.2: Mozart’s “Der Hölle Rache” from Die Zauberflöte (mm. 20-35) 134
Figure 4.3: Rhythmic Reduction of Mozart’s “Der Hölle Rache” from Die Zauberflöte 136
(mm. 24-32)
Figure 4.4: Transposition of Mozart’s “Der Hölle Rache” from Die Zauberflöte 137
(mm. 24-32)
Figure 4.5: Proposed Content for Activity #4 of Mozart’s “Der Hölle Rache” from 140
Die Zauberflöte
Figure 4.6: Mozart’s “Der Hölle Rache” from Die Zauberflöte (mm. 43-47) 141
Figure 4.7: Mozart’s “Der Hölle Rache” from Die Zauberflöte (mm. 32-35) 142
Figure 4.8: Mozart’s “Der Hölle Rache” from Die Zauberflöte (mm. 2-6) 143
Figure 4.9: Opening Motive of Bach’s Invention No. 1 in C Major (m. 1) 147
Figure 4.10: Motives and Transposed Motives of Bach’s Invention No. 1 in C Major 149
(mm. 1-3)
Figure 4.11: Derivation of Inverted Motive for Activity #3 of Bach’s Invention No. 1 151
in C Major
Figure 4.12: Derivation of Augmented Fragment for Activity #4 of Bach’s Invention 153
No. 1 in C Major
Figure 4.13: Introduction (Treble Staff Reduction) of Mendelssohn’s Overture to 159
A Midsummer Night’s Dream (mm. 1-5)
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Figure 4.14: Introduction (Grand Staff Reduction) of Mendelssohn’s Overture to 159

A Midsummer Night’s Dream (mm. 1-5)
Figure 4.15: Theme 1 (Fairies’ Theme) of Mendelssohn’s Overture to A Midsummer 161
Night’s Dream (mm. 8-15)
Figure 4.16: Transition Theme of Mendelssohn’s Overture to A Midsummer Night’s 162
Dream (mm. 63-70)
Figure 4.17: Theme 2a (Young Lovers’ Theme) of Mendelssohn’s Overture to 163
A Midsummer Night’s Dream (mm. 134-142)
Figure 4.18: Theme 2b (Clowns’ Theme) of Mendelssohn’s Overture to A Midsummer 163
Night’s Dream (mm. 197-201)
Figure 4.19: Transition Theme from the Coda of Mendelssohn’s Overture to 165
A Midsummer Night’s Dream (mm. 663-670)
Figure 4.20: Soprano Refrain of Josquin’s El grillo (mm. 17-21) 171
Figure 4.21: Four-Part (SATB) Refrain of Josquin’s El grillo (mm. 17-21) 172
Figure 4.22: Tenor Refrain of Josquin’s El grillo (mm. 1-10) 173
Figure 5.1: Harmonic Reduction of Mozart’s “Der Hölle Rache” (mm. 24-32) 261
Figure 5.2: Harmonic Reduction of Mozart’s “Der Hölle Rache” (mm. 43-47) 261
Figure 6.1: Altered Version of Bach’s Fugue in D-sharp Minor from The Well-Tempered 407
Clavier, volume 1 (mm. 1-6)
Figure 6.2: Bach’s “Little” Fugue in G Minor (mm. 1-7) 407
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List of Abbreviations

ABER Arts-Based Educational Research

ABR Arts-Based Research
AERA American Educational Research Association
AKA Alberta Kodály Association
ARCT Associate of the Royal Conservatory of Music
ARMTA Alberta Registered Music Teachers’ Association
CFMTA Canadian Federation of Music Teachers’ Associations
CLG Companion Listening Guide
CM Comprehensive Musicianship
CPDL Choral Public Domain Library
FHM Frederick Harris Music
GMTA Gloucester Music Teachers’ Association
GTA Greater Toronto Area
IKS International Kodály Society
IMSLP International Music Score Library Project
ISME International Society for Music Education
JMTP Journal of Music Theory Pedagogy
KM Kodály Method
KSC Kodály Society of Canada
LG Listening Guide
MEAE Music Education as Aesthetic Education
MTNA Music Teachers National Association
MYC Music for Young Children
OAKE Organization of American Kodály Educators
OGS Ontario Graduate Scholarship
ORMTA Ontario Registered Music Teachers’ Association
POGIL Process Oriented Guided Inquiry Learning
RCM Royal Conservatory of Music
SATB Soprano, Alto, Tenor, Bass
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SMT Society for Music Theory

STEM Science, Technology, Engineering, and Mathematics
U of C University of Calgary
UBC University of British Columbia
VCM Victoria Conservatory of Music
WBM Western Board of Music
WIMA Werner Icking Music Archive
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Abstract

My inquiry, centered on the applied practice of teaching, confronts the detachment that
often disassociates the intellectual study of music theory from the physical experience of music.
This pedagogical detachment, perceived as a split between opposing views of knowledge,
privileges positivist science over interpretive art (Aróstegui, 2003), producing written
competencies that have little or no musical meaning (Rogers, 2004). Endeavouring to re-attach
music theory and the music it was initially intended to explain (Dirié, 2014), I constructed four
Listening Guides to align with the intermediate-level theory curriculum of the Royal
Conservatory of Music. Their construction incorporates elements of design research along with
an underlying framework derived from the Kodály Method’s four-step instructional process.
Given my multi-faceted personal/professional interactions with music theory, my research project
is presented in the form of a quest narrative that weaves together my story and the stories of
participant teachers who established the Listening Guides’ potential usefulness through reviewing
and implementing interactions. This narrative, as a creative representation of arts-based research
practices (Leavy, 2015), is derived from the blurring of specific cognitive findings and less
definable aesthetic knowings (Greenwood, 2012). My data, both the prototypical data I designed
and the empirical data I collected from focus group discussions with my participants, are filtered
through an a/r/tographic lens that acknowledges the coexistence of my artist/researcher/teacher
identities. The analysis of our aggregate narrative, as an exploration of music theory pedagogy
with, about, in, and through music, relies on the evaluative tools of educational criticism (Eisner,
1991). Unfolding in a mostly linear climb, my quest for a fully integrated music/theory
(art/science) pedagogy reaches its apex in the understanding that a music-logic organization
confounds the subject-logic of traditional teaching approaches. Thus, my inquiry challenges the
customary practices of scientific knowledge-building with a model for artistic “ways-of-
knowing” in music theory pedagogy.

Keywords: a/r/tography, art/science integration, arts-based research, design research,

educational criticism, guided discovery approach, Kodály Method, music listening, music theory
pedagogy, quest narrative, Royal Conservatory of Music, spiral curriculum
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Acknowledgements

If it takes a village to raise a child – as the African proverb attests – then it also takes a
community to produce a dissertation. I embarked on this doctoral expedition with the amorphous
intention of exploring my “what if …?” ideas for the teaching of music theory. But it was my
community that brought clarity of shape and form to my research project. Acknowledging that I
could not have made this journey without the assistance I so gratefully received is a mere
scratching at the surface of my indebtedness.
Although the trek from beginning to end was long and arduous, my supervisors’ constant
encouragement kept my momentum moving in a forward direction – despite unavoidable
fluctuations in its velocity. Since I had placed one foot in the field of music education and the
other in music theory, I was accompanied by two supervisors: Dr. Richard Barwell, whose
expertise includes the former, and Dr. Roxane Prevost, the latter. I could not have imagined a
more supportive duo of mentors/tutors. Our frequent exchanges were always thought-provoking
and I left our meetings fairly humming with ideas. Their guidance, born of a mutual trust,
enabled me to launch each new task with confidence and security. Together, they are the rock on
which I stand, and I thank them both with heartfelt appreciation.
My committee members were equally steadfast in their commitment to my inquiry – Dr.
Murray Dineen, Dr. Barbara Graves, and Dr. Mariette Théberge. Drawing inspiration from their
expansive range of research interests, I found a narrative point of departure, a grounding in
educational theory, and an affirming artistic resonance. I thank them for their willingness to read
my text and to provide thoughtful feedback. From my external examiner, Dr. Melissa Hoag, I
received the remarkable gift of professional acceptance. I owe a great debt of gratitude to my
participants – in Kanata, Orleans, and Toronto – whose valuable responses to my Listening
Guides enriched chapters 5 and 6. As fellow members of RCM’s sizable teaching community,
we journey together into the future of music theory pedagogy.
Closer to home, I was surrounded by the nurture and sustenance of my family. Before
student, musician, teacher, examiner, author, and researcher, I am daughter, sister, wife, and
mother. From my family, I derived both the stamina and the perseverance to see this inquiry
through to its completion. I cannot begin to account for either the words or the deeds that
empowered me to find (and then to indulge) my passion for writing. During this lengthy process,
we have grown immeasurably – as individuals and as a family unit. My friends too were a
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perennial source of motivation, bolstering my courage when it waned and weathering with me the
rhythmic ebb and flow of my days/months/years.
Like any worthwhile endeavour, the writing of a dissertation inevitably traverses all manner
of mountains and valleys. As a mature student (referring to my age and not necessarily my
disposition), I was obliged to balance my doctoral studies with the professional duties and
familial responsibilities of my “sandwich” generation. A global pandemic compromised the
balance even further. But with the unwavering support of my personal/professional community, I
reached the end of the expedition. This expedition. From a crisis of purpose in the summer of
2018, I came to an understanding that my research project is larger than me – or the
physical/virtual studio that confines my teaching. Undoubtedly, there is much more work to be
done. I fervently hope that my ideas for an art/science instructional integration will find their
way into the big, wide world of music theory pedagogy.
For in the end is a beginning…

Dedication: I offer this manuscript – and the thinking it entails – to my husband, Keith
Penny, an electrical design engineer who is the science to my art. Or is he the art to my science?

Acknowledging Previously Published Material

Portions of my dissertation are reproduced (with permission) from:

Penny, L. L. (2020). Where is the music in music theory pedagogy? In B. W. Andrews (Ed.),
Perspectives on Arts Education Research in Canada: Issues and directions (Vol. 2, pp.
133-150). Leiden, NL: Brill.

These portions appear in the following sections: integrating multiple perspectives (chapter 1); a
description of the problem, the scholarship in music theory, the scholarship in music theory
pedagogy, the scholarship in music education, the nexus of music theory and music education
(chapter 2); the scholarship in arts-based research (chapter 3); an opportunity to effect change, an
adaptation of the Kodály Method for music listening (chapter 4).

I also wish to acknowledge funding support from the Ontario Graduate Scholarship (OGS)
program for the 2015-2016 academic year.
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Acquiring musicianship … finally comes down to the competence

to use our thinking ability to improve listening and our listening ability to improve thinking.
As long as this cycle can be kept in motion, real education takes place;
we learn so that we can learn even more.
Each new accomplishment leads to … more sophisticated
and more challenging levels of investigation and perception…
The helix is never completed which is why music theory … is endlessly intriguing.
– Michael R. Rogers
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Prelude

An education not founded on art will never succeed.

– Margaret Mead (1901-1978)

The Preambular Discourse

Affiliated with the Society for Music Theory (SMT), the Music Theory Pedagogy Interest
Group, in its mission statement, construes music theory pedagogy as “both the scholarly study of
and the applied practice of teaching all areas of music theory, including rudiments, harmony,
analysis, counterpoint, figured bass, aural skills, keyboard harmony, and other such
subdisciplines” (SMT, 2019). My construal of music theory pedagogy, for the purpose of this
inquiry, is centred on the “applied practice of teaching … music theory,” particularly the teaching
of rudiments as the precursors of harmony. Motivated by a desire to improve my teaching
practice, and to similarly motivate my teacher colleagues, I confront the detachment that often
isolates the intellectual study of music theory, separating it from the physical experience of
music. This pedagogical detachment, perceived as a split between opposing views of knowledge,
privileges positivist science over interpretive art (Aróstegui, 2003), producing written
competencies that have little or no musical meaning (Rogers, 2004). My inquiry endeavours to
reattach music theory and the music it was initially intended to explain (Dirié, 2014) – with the
implementation of an integrated music theory pedagogy.
Just as my instructional expertise has matured over more than four decades of teaching
music theory, so too has my sense of an intrinsic art/science imbalance. In my role as a music
theorist, I acknowledge an allegiance to the analytical realm of music study and therefore, a
fascination with its scientific configuration. But this fascination preserves abstract presentations
of musical concepts that are divorced from aesthetic or sensory experiences in many teaching
environments, including my own. As a music educator, I recognize that traditional deductive
transmissions of musical concepts – by means of explanation, demonstration, or contrived
illustration – do not enhance my students’ learning experiences, nor their appreciation for the
artistic qualities of music.
A dichotomous dance ensues. In theory, meaning a set of principles on which to base my
instructional practice, I champion the integration of art and science in music theory pedagogy.
But in practice, meaning the instructional application of this set of principles, I frequently fall
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short of my integrated ideal. Each September, when I begin a new academic year with a new
group of students, I promise myself that I will include the piano in my teaching – that I will play
examples of the musical elements we will study. I am faithful to my promise for the first few
weeks, until I get caught up in exercises and corrections, problems and solutions. I justify my
dwindling “performances” with the time constraints of schedules and deadlines. Before long, I
revert back to old teaching habits and the piano is forgotten.
However, in the words of David J. Hargreaves (1986):

The intuitive experience and enjoyment of music should come first, such
that the latter acquisition of formal musical skills occurs inductively, that
is, as an integral growth of the [student’s] experience. A good deal of
traditional music [theory] education has worked deductively: the formal
rules have been taught in the abstract, for example, through verbal
description or written notation, rather than in the practical context of
making the sounds themselves. (p. 215)

Music is an acoustic art form; music theory is a scientific analysis of its symbology. Derived
from this visual representation of an aural phenomenon, music theory is essentially a distillation
of music’s component parts. But for many students, these non-contextualized parts are too far
removed from the whole that generates them. Since the primary incentive for music theory
instruction is preparation for written examinations, much music theory teaching is directed
toward helping students develop coping strategies that will foster successful exam experiences.
Although this is problematic in itself – teaching for the exam rather than the subject – I attempt to
do both. I am increasingly aware, however, that I convey my understanding of music theory
without allowing or encouraging my students to develop their own understandings.
Since I associate music theory with the printed score, my response to it is primarily visual.
I am content with this imaging (or imagining) of musical elements – without their tangible
manifestation. I see patterns that have distinct meanings for me because I can also hear the
sounds that these patterns represent. But I cannot assume that my students see and hear in the
same way that I do. As a music theory teacher, I should be enabling their hearing skills. Instead,
I am almost exclusively occupied with their seeing skills. I tell myself that there is not sufficient
lesson time to accommodate both skill sets, but I am effectually compromising my students’
interactions with music theory. Intent on addressing this issue, I set out to broaden/deepen the
scope of my teaching practice with a research project in music theory pedagogy.
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The first part of my inquiry incorporates aspects of design research. Early work in this
discipline, mainly associated with architectural and industrial design, expanded to include
engineering design in the late 1980s. While Herbert A. Simon (1969) established the foundations
for a science of design, Donald A. Schön (1983) challenged Simon’s technical rationality,
promoting an “epistemology of practice implicit in the artistic, intuitive processes” that
practitioners bring to “situations of uncertainty, instability, uniqueness, and value conflict” (p.
49). In a design context, Schön’s reflective “knowing-in-action,” a kind of knowing inherent in
the intelligent actions of professional practice, is aimed at broadly understanding and improving
design processes, rather than developing discipline-specific knowledge.
In the context of my inquiry, I designed four Listening Guides (LGs) that integrate both
artistic and scientific discernments of music in the teaching of music theory. The LGs, which
experiment with alternative practices, may be interpreted as design products aimed at
understanding and improving the pedagogical processes associated with music theory instruction.
Schön (1983) summarizes my practitioner’s approach to their design:

A designer makes things. Sometimes he makes the final product; more

often, he makes a representation – a plan, program, or image – of an
artifact to be constructed by others. He works in particular situations,
uses particular materials, and employs a distinctive medium and
language. Typically, his making process is complex. There are more
variables – kinds of possible moves, norms, and interrelationships of
these – than can be represented in a finite model. Because of this
complexity, the designer’s moves tend, happily or unhappily, to produce
consequences other than those intended. When this happens, the designer
may take account of the unintended changes he has made in the situation
by forming new appreciations and understandings and by making new
moves. He shapes the situation, in accordance with his initial
appreciation of it, the situation “talks back,” and he responds to the
situation’s back-talk. (pp. 78-79)

The particular situation that generated the LGs is rooted in my multi-faceted experiences with
both music theory and music education. As essential components of my inquiry, the LGs are
aligned with the curricular requirements of the Royal Conservatory of Music (RCM), an
internationally respected institution of music education founded more than 130 years ago. In
2016, RCM restructured its theory curriculum to better support students’ performance studies.
This restructuring, focused on musical literacy, provides fertile ground for my exploration of an
integrated music theory pedagogy.
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The Kodály Method (KM), a systematic concept of music education that developed in
Hungary under the leadership of composer, ethnomusicologist, and educator Zoltán Kodály
(1882-1967), gave agency to my ideas of integration. As a practical application of Hargreaves’s
(1986) inductive teaching approach, KM’s music-centered instruction facilitates the enhancement
of written competencies with auditory awareness. KM, which is also consistent with Piaget’s
(1969) child-developmental theories and Bruner’s (1966) instructional theories, features a four-
step pedagogical process – prepare, make conscious, reinforce, and assess – that provides the
underlying theoretical framework for my inquiry (see chapter 3). The LGs brought this process,
in which musical concepts evolve from experiences of active music making (Choksy et al., 2001),
to the rudiments content of RCM’s intermediate-level theory curriculum. Modelled after
Choksy’s (1999b) KM-inspired Listening Strategies, they purpose repertoire (art) for the
integrated teaching of music theory (science).
In the second part of my inquiry, participant teachers offered the “back-talk” that
establishes the potential usefulness of the LGs. My participants, drawn from RCM’s College of
Examiners as well as the Ottawa Region Branch of the Ontario Registered Music Teachers’
Association (ORMTA), critically reviewed the LGs, then implemented them in their classrooms
or studios. Both interactions – reviewing and implementing – concluded with focus group
discussions divided by geographic location (Kanata, Orleans, and Toronto). In these discussions,
the participants shared their experiences with the LGs and responded to one another. Given my
personal/professional immersion in the subject matter, my voice is interspersed with my
participants’ voices. Their perceptiveness assisted my meaning-making in music theory
pedagogy which in turn, assisted my challenging of its old-fashioned instructional traditions.
My research project is presented in the form of a quest narrative that weaves together my
story and my participants’ stories. It is a personal narrative focused on both the self-scrutiny of
my professional practice and the wider-ranging scrutiny of pedagogical practices in my
profession. As an exploration of teaching music theory with, about, in, and through music
(Cornett & Smithrim, 2001), the unfolding of my narrative embraces emergent arts-based
research (ABR) practices that provide opportunities for artistic “ways-of-knowing” and purpose
art for the sake of scholarship. The rendering of my research as a narrative empowers a
generative form of inquiry with the capacity to inspire positive change. Through its telling, the
reader is invited to participate in the interpretation of my story, contextualizing Ainslie Yardley’s
 5

(2008) notion of truth as “that which we individually or collectively perceive to have

authenticity” (para. 14). Thus, by “delving into the artefacts of memory” (para. 18), my narrative
surpasses reportage and reveals why the story is told.
Filtered through the lens of a/r/tography, a methodology associated with living inquiry
(Irwin & Springgay, 2008), my narrative is “inclusive of the collective experience of the
participating community and its members” (Yardley, 2008, para. 32). Representing an essence of
truth, it promotes a new understanding of music theory pedagogy with the potential for
significant influence beyond the experience itself. An a/r/tographic lens, which acknowledges
the coexistence of artist/researcher/teacher identities, accepts and appreciates artistic endeavours
that cannot be measured by scientific means. This lens also recognizes the prismatic filter of my
unique personal/professional perspective, as well as the perspectives of my participants. Seeking
validity, the analysis of our aggregate narrative relies on the four dimensions of Eisner’s (1991)
educational criticism: description, interpretation, evaluation, and generalization (see chapter 6).

An Overview of the Dissertation’s Structure

My research in music theory pedagogy experiments with alternative instructional practices

that integrate both scientific and artistic views of music in the teaching of music theory.
Influenced by KM’s four-step instructional process, my inquiry is guided by four preliminary
questions:

• How can the teaching of music rudiments be integrated with repertoire?

• How can an integrated pedagogy be implemented?
• How can the implementation be improved?
• How can the teaching of harmony be enhanced by an integrated rudiments
pedagogy?

Through the opening chapters, these questions are refined with contextual details that clarify and
focus my research intentions. They also inform my perusal of the scholarly literature. More
robustly stated at the end of chapter 3, these questions inform my analysis of both the
prototypical data I designed for implementation and the empirical data I collected from my
participants. But the question at the heart of my research endeavour – the one that inspired the
LGs – is simply: What might an integrated music theory pedagogy look/sound/feel like?
The object of my quest is a fully integrated music/theory (art/science) pedagogy for the
teaching of music theory. My narrative unfolds in a mostly linear climb toward my objective. At
 6

the end of my climb, when I reached the apex of my quest, I came to understand that fully
integrated instructional materials are non-existent. They require a music-logic organization that
confounds the subject-logic of traditional materials. This is not to say that an integrated music
theory pedagogy is impossible, only that it is not yet supported by appropriate instructional
materials. Next steps involve the development of integrated instructional materials for the
teaching of music theory, but these materials will challenge both the customary presentation of
musical/theoretical concepts and their organization.
In this prelude, I have opened my narrative, established its context, and given background
details that introduce the literary/musical work to come. Each of the six chapters comprises a
necessary part of my quest as a whole, leading me ever closer to my research objective. The
content of these chapters is outlined below:

• chapter 1 – presenting my personal perspectives

• chapter 2 – reviewing the scholarly literature in relevant disciplines
• chapter 3 – positioning my inquiry in ABR practices
• chapter 4 – describing the pedagogical design of the LGs
• chapter 5 – interacting with the participants’ responses to the LGs
• chapter 6 – exploring reluctance/resistance to an integrated pedagogy

A postlude concludes my dissertation with a consideration of next steps and the potential future
of a fully integrated music theory pedagogy. By providing a “pathway into [my] life experience,”
I can offer the reader a “means of making sense of [her/his] own” (Yardley, 2008, para. 26).
 7

Chapter 1

Music Theory Pedagogy: Situating Myself in the Discipline

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I –
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
– Robert Frost (1874-1963)

Introductory Remarks

The subject of music theory is defined as a “branch of … scholarship that studies the
materials and structure[s] of music” (Randel, 2003, p. 879). It encompasses the properties of
single sounds, such as duration and pitch, as well as collections of sounds, including rhythm,
melody, and harmony. For nearly five decades, I have immersed myself in the study of music
theory, observing its various elements from an overlapping succession of personal perspectives:

• student
• artist/musician
• teacher/practitioner
• examiner
• author/pedagogue
• researcher

The whole of my experience, as an integration of its constituent parts, has been shaped by the
unique contribution of each perspective.
In chapter 1, a narrative recounting of my experiences with music theory, and its pedagogy,
establishes my understanding of the subject matter. My narrative, exposed to critical analysis in
subsequent chapters, forms the organizational nucleus of my dissertation. Each perspective,
rendered as an individual interaction with music theory, layers my early observations with more
recent reflections. Although their paths frequently cross, the six perspectives are, for the most
part, chronologically ordered. Despite a blurring of boundaries, each “self” holds independent
attitudes and assumptions that have influenced the progression of my meaning-making.
However, just as it is for musical analysis – a fundamental practice of music theory – too much
fragmentation is dangerous (Rogers, 2004). It negates the comprehensiveness of a holistic
experience. Therefore, the chapter will conclude with a reassembling of these fragmented
perspectives to present my composite view within the discipline of music theory pedagogy. The
 8

notion of integration, or the action of combining parts to become a whole, is central to my

unfolding discussion.

A Student Perspective

My first lesson in music theory was mildly disconcerting. Since my piano teacher had
taken a leave-of-absence, I was enrolled in a theory class at the local college. The first chapter of
our textbook introduced rudimentary elements of notation (Wharram, 1969), beginning with the
musical staff. I recognized the terms on the first page: note, staff, pitch, clef, treble clef, bass
clef. On the second page, I encountered C clefs and for the first time in my musical experience, I
felt uncomfortable with my perceived lack of knowledge.1 Granted, I was a pre-teen in an
unfamiliar college environment, but with no frame of reference for C clefs in my piano repertoire,
I struggled to make sense of them – beyond memorizing an illustration in my textbook. What
about their origin as pitch letters in medieval manuscripts? Or their vocal designations? Why are
they nearly obsolete in modern notation? Grown-up questions such as these did not occur to me
as a child. I simply wondered at the relevance of non-standard clefs.
In retrospect, I understand that I was mistakenly placed in a higher-level rudiments class
but at the time, with my entry-level awareness, I could only surmise that music theory was
excessively complicated. Like thousands of music students across Canada, I followed the
curricular requirements specified by RCM. Providing a structured system of assessment, RCM’s
rudiments curriculum, which encompasses the basic elements and notational conventions of
musical grammar, is sequentially organized to support a progressive series of theoretical or
written examinations. When my theory instruction began in the early 1970s, there were three
rudiments exams – preliminary, grade 1, and grade 2 – which were co-requisites for grade 5,
grade 6, and grade 7/8 practical or performance examinations.
In my juvenile naivety, I assumed that music theory was merely a non-optional accessory
for my piano playing – along with technique, ear training, and sight reading. I accepted the lack
of a practical application for C clefs, and many other notational elements, as a long-established
theoretical tradition. I did not question the directives of RCM. Thankfully, when my piano

1
Moveable C clefs place Middle C, known as C4 (with a vibrating frequency of 261.625565 hertz), on any one of
the five staff lines. The most common are the alto clef, regularly used for viola, and the tenor clef, intermittently
used for cello, bassoon, or trombone. Positioning Middle C on the third and fourth lines respectively, these clefs,
along with the bass F and treble G clefs, establish a reference or “key” for all remaining notes on the staff.
 9

teacher returned from his study leave, the college classroom of my early theory lessons was
replaced with his dining room. In this unpretentious setting, my apathy for music theory
dissolved and my growing affinity was nurtured and developed.
To ameliorate my previous experience, Barbara Wharram’s (1969) textbook was exchanged
for another by Boris Berlin, Molly Sclater, and Kathryn Sinclair (1969). Instead of presenting
every topic in its entirety, with letters (A, B, C) identifying the grade applicability of individual
paragraphs in each chapter, this new book portioned its presentation in a sequential series of
chapters for each grade. That is, topical information was ordered by grade rather than by subject.
Consequently, C clefs, required for grade 2 rudiments, were introduced in chapter 16 – where
they had ample preparation and would not baffle beginning students. Later, as I entered high
school, I was encouraged to teach music rudiments myself. I have done so for more than forty
years.
During my first years of teaching, I continued music theory studies with private lessons in
the advanced subjects of harmony and history. Once again, I struggled with relevance. This
time, I had difficulty connecting the black-and-white consistency of rudiments with the greyish
malleability of harmony – classified as tonal harmony because of its hierarchical organization of
pitches around a central tone or tonic. I missed the solidness of scale patterns and interval
measurements, failing to understand that these rudimentary elements provide the harmonic basis
for Western music of the common-practice period.2 In their place, I met the fluidity of chord
progressions and melody harmonizations that appeared to substitute predictability with
randomness. How was I to make appropriate harmonic choices? If a single note could belong to
multiple chord structures, and these structures could be sequenced in multiple progressions, the
permutations and combinations were seemingly endless.
Tonal harmony provides syntax for the basic rudiments of musical grammar. As such, the
doing of harmony shares commonalities with creative writing. I wrestled with the overwhelming
possibilities of this creativity, feeling little confidence in my understanding of their rightness or
wrongness. My first harmony textbook offered examples of harmonic progressions (Lawless &

2
In the history of Western art music (as opposed to folk music), the common-practice period spans the Baroque,
Classical, and Romantic eras, roughly from 1600 to 1900. Although this time-period encompasses considerable
stylistic evolution, its unifying feature is the tonal system that arranges “musical phenomenon around a referential
tonic” (Hyer, 2001, p. 584). Accordingly, the historical borders of the common-practice period coincide with the
formation and subsequent disintegration of tonality.
 10

Podoliak, 1972), including those designated “special treatment progressions” (p. 30), but it gave
insufficient advice for their usage in the harmonization of melodies or basses. Essentially, it was
a rulebook that documented the limitations of acceptable harmonic formulae, but continually
disappointed my one question: Why? Although the authors clearly stated their belief that
“interest in a subject increases with knowledge” (p. 4), my interest was not well-served and my
knowledge became mired in confusion.
Recognizing this deficiency, my harmony teacher supplemented the textbook by James
Lawless and Tela Podoliak (1972) with a workbook that allowed for both harmonic and melodic
experimentation (Andrews et al., 1972). Unlike many of my contemporaries, I received harmony
instruction at the piano. As a result, I learned to distinguish chord progressions that sounded
good from those that did not. I learned to trust my ears but my teenaged intellect did not yet
grasp the reasoning behind my aural comprehension, nor the logic behind tonal harmony.
Although I was apprehensive about my knowledge deficiencies when I entered a post-
secondary environment, I soon realized that RCM’s harmony curriculum is topically equivalent
to many universities’ first- and second-year theory courses. This equivalency offered me an
opportunity to reconstruct my understanding of tonal harmony. It enabled me not only to
reinforce my earlier experiences but to expand these experiences with additional layers of
meaning. From every author and every professor, I collected new insights and discovered the
answers to many of my why questions.
The author of my first-year harmony textbook was occupied with questions of when,
specifically when “certain melodic progressions imply, normally, certain definite harmonies”
(Lovelock, 1946, p. iii). I found this no-nonsense approach to commonplace progressions
refreshing. In my second year, the absence of a textbook proved an equally refreshing,
unfettering experience. My attention shifted from the authority of theoretical publications to the
expertise of theorist practitioners and I began to understand that meaning-making in music theory
– as in other disciplines – is a personal endeavour. Professor Allan Bell introduced me to
functional harmony and with it, a system of chord classifications that facilitated bigger-picture
thinking.
The importance of ear training also became evident to me. Broadly interpreted as aural
skills, involving the activities of dictation and sight singing, ear training is defined by Michael R.
Rogers (2004) as the “ability to hear musical relationships accurately and with understanding” (p.
 11

100). This emphasis on aural understanding enhances the reciprocal dependency of

hearing/listening skills and thinking skills, providing a tangible framework for music theory.
Along with the ear training that accompanied my theory courses, I took an additional course in
aural perception that strengthened my pre-university experiences with solfège. Using moveable-
do solmization that assigns syllables (do, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti) to specific scale degrees, I began to
audiate or mentally hear the pitches of my written harmonizations.
Still, the intricacies of functional harmony seemed to elude me. Contradicting the
experiences of most students for whom the mind is the “natural leader of the ear” (Rogers, 2004,
p. 103), I could hear and I could produce viable harmonic solutions through an aural process of
trial-and-error. I could even analyze given harmonizations but I could not make rational sense of
my intuitive knowledge. How did I know what I knew? Professor Bell suggested that I begin
tutoring my younger peers and recommended me to several of his theory students, but it was not
until after I completed my undergraduate studies that pieces of the harmonic puzzle began to
come together for me. They arrived in flashes of inspiration over many years of teaching and
thinking. But it was not my student-self who made the necessary connections.

An Artist/Musician Perspective

There was always a piano in our living room – a beautifully carved Martin-Orme upright
(ca.1910). My mother learned to play in her youth; it was only natural that I should do the same.
I loved playing the piano and quickly entered the realm of RCM. Recognizing its institutional
name from the books in our piano bench, I experienced the oneness of a musical community that
gave me an identity and a place of belonging. It also gave me a sense of security in other creative
settings and enlightened my informal encounters with music both at church and at school.
The vice-principal of my elementary school, who was a fine musician, instituted a school-
wide music program. As a student body, we sang at assemblies. In our classrooms, we received
regular singing instruction that incorporated solfa syllables and rhythm duration syllables – such
as ta and ti-ti for quarter notes and pairs of eighth notes, respectively. Although these syllables
were not included in my piano lessons, they served to reinforce my awareness of both pitch and
rhythm. As my experiences broadened, I became fascinated with the inner workings of music,
particularly the patterns I observed. By way of example, I discovered, in my technical practice,
that the upper tetrachord of an ascending melodic minor scale is the same as the upper tetrachord
 12

of its parallel major.3 Of course, I did not possess the theoretical knowledge to express my
discovery with this terminology. I demonstrated for my piano teacher but there was no mention
of the sameness I had noticed in any of my music theory books. Surely, I was not the only one to
have seen it.
With the passing years, I settled into my musician-self. I played for studio recitals, music
festivals, and piano examinations. I also played periodically at church and at school. When I
entered grade 7, I joined the school band and learned to play the clarinet. At my high school, the
music program was exceptional. We had both brass and woodwind specialists who encouraged
the formation of ensembles and invited me to play both the soprano clarinet and the alto clarinet,
one smaller and the other larger than the standard instrument. I especially enjoyed our frequent
music theory tests which included bonus questions designed to challenge those of us who studied
privately. I remember, for instance, encountering F-flat major – a scale that cannot be written
practically with a standard key signature, but must be derived theoretically with an extra
accidental.
This is approximately the same time that I began to teach music rudiments. My new piano
teacher, who had seen potential in me that I was only beginning to see for myself, envisioned and
ultimately orchestrated a teaching opportunity that purposed my interest in music theory – not to
mention her dis-interest in the subject. We created lesson plans at her kitchen table, using the
Berlin, Sclater, and Sinclair (1969) textbook that I knew well. She entrusted me with four
students who were ready for preliminary rudiments. One of these four went on to complete her
studies in Toronto and became a piano examiner for RCM. Eventually, I taught all my teacher’s
rudiments students and added a few of my own. I also began to teach piano, having observed the
first year of my youngest brother’s lessons. The future seemed to be falling into place. My
mother was a school teacher and my father, a banker. I was actively teaching, but I was
increasingly drawn to the numbers that configure the analytical details of music theory.
Given my proclivity for theoretical interactions with music, I must question: How is an
artist/musician perspective relevant for a dissertation in music theory pedagogy? While my
inquiry is unavoidably coloured by my idiosyncratic view of the world (in its totality), nearly
forty years after the unfolding of events I have described, I see that my pianist-self stepped back

3
A tetrachord is a succession of four consecutive pitches that form a distinct arrangement of whole steps and half
steps. Diatonic (major and minor) scales consist of two tetrachords separated by a whole step.
 13

to give prominence to my teacher-self. In similar fashion, music assumes a peripheral role in the
teaching of music theory. Consequently, I am situated in the crux of my pedagogical problem –
music theory that is habitually detached from the music it was designed to explain. A musical
reattachment is necessary, but the how of it is as yet unclear. The re/union of music and theory is
rooted in the collaborative interweaving of notes and numbers, sound and symbol. My approach
to this amalgam is embedded in my continuing story.

A Teacher/Practitioner Perspective

When I was fifteen years old, two “someday” desires came to the fore of my consciousness
and fully ensconced themselves. I aspired to (1) teach music and (2) write about music. I greatly
admired my piano teacher and set out to make a life for myself modelled on hers. Not having
previously encountered the word pedagogy, certainly not in relation to the piano or to music
theory, I chose elementary school music as an area of emphasis for my undergraduate studies. I
reasoned that it was most closely aligned with my career intentions.
Throughout my years at the University of Calgary (U of C), I experimented with many
musical activities. I took voice lessons as a second-instrument study and joined the university
women’s choir. In my last year, I successfully auditioned for the jazz choir. I also accepted a
position as accompanist for a community children’s choir and after a time, assumed the
conductor’s role. I even took a course in music copying through the university’s continuing
education division and later, copied for a small music publishing company that added one of my
student compositions – a vocal solo with piano accompaniment titled Party Shoes (1990) – to its
catalogue of publications. Teaching, however, was my one constant activity. Even when I no
longer lived with a piano, I taught in practice rooms, in churches, and in students’ homes. When
I graduated, my parents bought me a new Yamaha (U1) upright piano that is still a prominent
fixture in my studio.
Undeniably, my teacher-self was ready to embrace the future, but I had earlier stumbled on
something else that intrigued me – or more precisely, some-one else. My choice of elementary
school music placed me under the tutelage of Professor Lois Choksy, a highly regarded
pedagogue and proponent of KM. Indeed, the English adaptation of the Hungarian method,
while the product of many dedicated practitioners, is attributed to her. I met this remarkable
woman in the first years of her tenure at U of C. Attracted by Choksy’s charismatic enthusiasm
and her absolute devotion to KM, I was immersed in its procedural practices through her lectures
 14

and publications (1974, 1981). Although I was also introduced to other methodologies and
philosophies of music education, such as Dalcroze Eurhythmics (Swiss) and Orff-Schulwerk
(German), I favoured KM. Perhaps it was a matter of first exposure, but the others seemed to be
more-or-less rhythm-centric while KM holistically engaged all elements of music. Or perhaps it
was KM’s greater interaction with music theory. Either way, I witnessed its pedagogical
advantages firsthand.
In my fourth year, I completed my practicum under Professor Choksy’s supervision. There
were two of us who together provided eight months of music instruction for the primary division
of an elementary school near the university. We each visited two classrooms twice a week. On
Mondays, we were critiqued by Choksy, her master’s students, and one another; on Fridays, we
were supervised by the classroom teachers. I was responsible for a grade 3 class and a 1/2 split,
which gave me an opportunity to fine-tune my lessons for students at differing levels of
development. The knowledge I gleaned from these experiences is immeasurable. An especially
valuable piece of wisdom comes to mind: every activity must have an educational purpose. I had
asked my grade 3 class to sing a familiar folksong. When they did, without noticeable error, their
singing ended so quickly that I was startled and simply asked them to “do it again.” From
Choksy’s evaluation, I understood not only that the second singing was purposeless, but that I
had overlooked an occasion to broaden or deepen my students’ interaction with the song.
My youthful encounter with Choksy and KM resonated deeply with my desire to teach.
However, my bachelor’s degree in music with a specialization in education, rather than education
with a specialization in music, left me without employable credentials. As a result, I resumed
teaching privately, both piano and theory. But Choksy’s tutoring in music education, along with
Bell’s in music theory, intrinsically influenced both my teaching and my thinking. The seeds of
future endeavours had been planted.
While considering my options, I enrolled in a graduate-level diploma program at U of C.
Having experimented with KM in my practicum, I wanted to explore it further. For three weeks
in each of three consecutive summers, I received intensive training in pedagogical principles and
practices, musicianship skills (with solfège), folk music studies (including dance and movement),
as well as choral techniques – all with an emphasis on KM. Every summer, the North American
faculty was augmented with Hungarian master teachers (Favreau, 1998): Ilona Bartalus, Gábor
Finta, Ildikó Herboly-Kocsár, János Horváth, Edit Lantos (d. 2009), Miklós Takács (d. 2015),
 15

and László Vikár (d. 2017). These teachers, some of whom returned year after year, were all
distinguished graduates of the Franz Liszt Academy of Music (officially the Ferenc Liszt
Memorial and Research Center), except Dr. Vikár who served as Kodály’s research assistant for
many years. But it was the combination of Hungarian and North American expertise that
contributed to the success of the program (Favreau, 1998). The importance of faculty who
worked in our cultural context – adapting and developing KM for use in North American schools
– cannot be overstated.
Each day was filled with singing. It began with the 4-part solmization of chorales (Bach)
and ended with a rehearsal for our end-of-term concert. These concerts generally included a
large-scale choral work, such as A German Requiem (Brahms), which we sang in my second
summer. Although I loved every aspect of the program, I felt somewhat out-of-place because my
colleagues were school music teachers. Why was I there? What did I intend to do with a
teaching method designed for classroom implementation? I came to a partial answer in my last
summer. Our final pedagogy project involved writing a KM-based curriculum for a full
academic year of teaching music – both an overall plan showing the skills and concepts covered
in a single grade as well as a “specific plan of lesson-by-lesson skills and concepts, including the
materials and techniques to be used” (Choksy, 1988, p. 153). This project had no practical
application in my studio, but it sparked my interest. I began to imagine a repurposing of KM for
the teaching of music theory. I had several conversations with my instructor, but it was obvious
that my ideas were still in their infancy. I gratefully accepted my diploma and returned to my
“normal” teaching.
Most students came to my studio for piano lessons, but I supplemented their lessons with
weekly theory assignments. Although RCM’s curriculum had no theory co-requisites until grade
5, I chose to begin music theory instruction at the introductory grade. The preliminary portion of
the rudiments book I used for my own first lessons had been expanded and published separately
for younger students (Wharram, 1974). Grace Vandendool (1984), another RCM-affiliated
author/teacher, released a new rudiments series in three volumes – for preliminary, grade 1, and
grade 2 – that emphasized the relationship between music theory and the piano keyboard. By the
late 1980s, her preliminary volume had also been expanded to become a progressive series of five
preparatory books that I used extensively in my studio (Vandendool, 1984-1987).
 16

Meticulously following RCM’s curriculum and its recommended textbooks, I gradually

broadened my theory teaching to include the advanced subjects of harmony and history. I was,
however, uncomfortably aware that my knowledge of tonal harmony was still partially intuitive.
How could I make sense of what I knew for my students? With multiple options for every
harmonic scenario, how could I help them make appropriate choices? I have been occupied with
these questions for most of my professional career.
I began to unravel the issue with one of my piano teacher’s students. She was preparing for
a grade 4 harmony examination as a co-requisite for her grade 10 piano studies. I had worked
with a few students at the grade 3 level but not grade 4. We used the second volume of a new
harmony series (Andrews & Sclater, 1988), completing all 405 pages. A companion volume
provided solutions for the analytical exercises (Andrews, 1990), giving us a second opinion, but
for the harmonization exercises, we were on our own. We completed them independently, then
compared answers. As I struggled to explain the compromises and exceptions that peppered my
harmonizations, I recognized the need for overarching generalizations to guide our efforts.
Eventually, I understood that the doing of harmony requires problem solving and that my
observations could benefit my students – such as the sameness I noticed long ago in parallel
tetrachords.
As time passed, my collection of observations grew. With repeated teachings of the same
musical elements using the same instructional materials, I began to notice that pertinent
information was missing or that unexplained assumptions were made. I also began to anticipate
my students’ difficulties and endeavoured to avoid potential gaps in their comprehension. I
combed music stores and mail-order catalogues for ancillary support. I found board games, card
games, colouring books, flashcards, knowledge cards, magazines, mazes, note finders, note
spellers, puzzles, staff tablets, storybooks, wipe-off keyboards, wrap-ups, word finders, and
more. These items facilitated the review of notes, rhythms, key signatures, intervals, chords,
terms, signs, symbols, composers, and score excerpts. I even found an unconventional series of
books titled Music Theory for the Bored and Confused (Walden, 1980), which imaginatively
described the development of musical notation.
Most of my teaching, however, was centered around the piano. Occasionally, I
experimented with KM-inspired classes I called ricercars, from the Italian “to seek out” or
“research,” but the business of preparing students for practical examinations, festivals, and
 17

recitals was generally my focus.4 Recognizing the isolation of my home studio, I looked to the
wider musical community for camaraderie and guidance. I had been invited to join the executive
of the Alberta Kodály Association (AKA) when I completed my graduate diploma in Calgary.
Bolstered by the experience, I joined the Edmonton Branch of the Alberta Registered Music
Teachers’ Association (ARMTA) and later, one of its special interest groups. In this smaller
forum, convened for the purpose of exploring music-related technology, I began to experience the
solidarity of professional interactions.
In the late 1990s, my husband was transferred to Ottawa. I sorrowfully left my students,
but the relocation of my studio brought opportunity – I could re-invent myself as a music theory
teacher. Realistically, however, a theory specialist requires referrals from an established
community of practical (instrumental/vocal) teachers. I set out immediately to become a member
of this community. I transferred my ARMTA membership to ORMTA and joined its Ottawa
Region Branch. I made telephone calls and attended meetings. I resumed my piano lessons. In
Edmonton, I had begun preparations for RCM’s highest-level piano examination, hoping to add
ARCT (Associate of the Royal Conservatory of Toronto) to my list of qualifications.
I accepted a number of piano students while I laid the groundwork for my theory
specialization. Since many teachers address rudiments as part of their students’ practical lessons,
I targeted the subjects of history, harmony, counterpoint, and analysis. Before attending
university, I had completed RCM’s grade 10 co-requisite examinations. After graduation, I
tackled the ARCT co-requisites, completing all but grade 5 harmony in Alberta. Within the first
few years of our residency in Ontario, I completed the last written exam. Gradually, I received
more referrals, adding more theory students to my roster. I bought a seasoned Yamaha (G3)
grand piano and continued my piano lessons. When my youngest daughter expressed a desire to
begin piano lessons of her own, I observed her interactions with our shared teacher, just as I had
done with my youngest brother’s lessons. To my surprise, I recognized hints of KM in my
colleague’s teaching. Years earlier, I had encountered a beginning piano method with a similar
holistic approach (Clark & Goss, 1993), but I was reluctant to abandon mainstream methods.
This chance reminder prompted a time of deep reflection that proved to be a turning point
in my professional career. My musings elicited two outcomes: (1) a rekindling of my interest in

4
A ricercar is an instrumental composition of the Renaissance era, either rhapsodic and homophonic in texture,
or polyphonic, as a precursor of the fugue. It often had a “preludial function, ‘seeking out’ the key or mode” of the
following piece (Randel, 1986, p. 706).
 18

KM and (2) the precipitation of my “retirement” from piano instruction. Although my students
generally performed well, they did not excel as pianists. I liked teaching piano, but I did not love
it – not as passionately as my colleague. Either I needed to make a commitment to improve my
teaching skills or I needed to make a change. Thus, after almost thirty years, I elected to
concentrate on the subject I love. Choosing music theory transformed my teaching practice.
Rather than re-active, it became pro-active. In addition to preparing students for RCM’s written
examinations in December and May, I organized condensed summer courses as preparation for
August exams. These courses, mostly harmony and history at grade 3 and grade 4 levels, were
largely populated by the students of my “partner” colleague. Having openly discussed the matter,
we agreed to support one another by teaching to our individual strengths. We shared many
students and within the next few years, I was teaching music theory exclusively.
Although my pre-lesson planning and my post-lesson marking increased exponentially, I
found my niche. I also found that with a more concentrated pedagogical focus, I enjoyed
repeated opportunities to re-enter the thinking I had begun years earlier – about the need for
overarching generalizations. With fewer distractions, I was able to keep music theory at the front
of my brain, so to speak, and to develop my ideas through accumulating experiences. I
considered pursuing an ARCT in theory. This comprehensive diploma program comprises
twelve examination papers that cover “musical style and technique from the Renaissance to the
present” (RCM, 2002, p. 44), along with a research paper and a Viva Voce oral defence. I
attended a workshop given by Dr. Anthony Dawson (d. 2007) who was named a Fellow of the
Royal Conservatory of Music when he retired in 1993. He advised me to consider a master’s
degree as a more suitable alternative. Consequently, I formulated a strategic plan for professional
development. It involved an ARCT in piano performance, graduate studies in music theory, then
an application to RCM’s College of Theoretical Examiners.

An Examiner Perspective

My plans rarely work out the way I envision them. When I first established a connection
with RCM, I was a young student. I recall receiving various communications (applications,
confirmations, schedules, results, certificates) from an address on Bloor Street in Toronto – an
unimaginable distance from southern Alberta. As I grew older and my perspective shifted to that
of a young teacher, the distance seemed to narrow. While in Edmonton, I became an RCM
Affiliate Teacher, part of a mid-1990s initiative to “support and assist independent music teachers
 19

with services and educational opportunities” (RCM, 1995, p. 53). As my connection expanded, I
dared to imagine becoming a member of RCM’s College of Examiners.
From my preliminary inquiries, I learned that theory examiners are typically drawn from
the greater Toronto area (GTA). This geographic concentration facilitates regular marking
meetings and ongoing professional development workshops. In Edmonton, my desire had been
unrealistic but in Ottawa, it gained momentum, particularly with the urging of my teaching
partner who was a piano examiner. She contacted RCM on my behalf and made arrangements
for me to meet the former Chief Examiner of Theoretical Subjects at an RCM-sponsored
workshop. My partner’s persistence left me with no alternative but to submit an application. I
flew to Toronto for an interview and subsequently entered the apprentice program. After two
examination sessions, I was admitted to RCM’s College of Theoretical Examiners.
In this role, I witnessed RCM’s assessment process from the inside out. I saw not only the
official answer keys, but the deliberations behind specific questions and the debates that brought
consensus. I saw genuine efforts to work in favour of examination candidates – to award marks
inclusively, rather than to deduct punitively. I also recognized the expertise of my fellow
examiners. Although I was initially intimidated, distrusting the comprehensiveness of my own
expertise, I asked for their advice and learned from them. Within a few years, my duties
expanded, both at my request and at the request of RCM. I began to mark grade 3 harmony
exams as well as the grade 3, then grade 4 history exams with which I had started. In addition, I
was periodically invited to participate in sampling, a peer-review process designed to ensure
consistent evaluations within the College. This process follows every examination session.
However, in my quest to become a theory examiner, I had inadvertently leapt over two
significant career objectives. My incomplete ARCT was professionally untidy and I had assured
my RCM interviewers that it was “in progress.” Having discounted an ARCT in composition
and/or theory, I chose a performer’s ARCT rather than a teacher’s, particularly after I ceased to
offer piano lessons. The teacher’s exam, although less technically challenging, is divided into
three parts: (1) the performance of repertoire, technical requirements, ear tests, and sight reading;
(2) a Viva Voce portion testing pedagogical principles and applied pedagogy; and (3) a written
examination (RCM, 2001). The performer’s exam, on the other hand, is evaluated as a 60-minute
concert performance of six repertoire selections.
 20

Unfortunately, my intention to complete a performer’s ARCT was suspended by the sudden

death of my colleague. Her presence in my life had been both personal and professional. My
scores were sprinkled with her markings; I filed them away where they remained untouched until
this writing. Whether or not they return to active service remains to be seen, but in an effort to
fill the void caused by her death, I decided to change course. My experiences as a theory
examiner provided significant insights into RCM’s evaluative procedures – the end-products of
my music theory teaching. But the means to these ends required further attention. I concluded
that I could not afford to leave my teaching or my examining for graduate studies. Instead, I
revisited my second “someday” desire – to write about music.

An Author/Pedagogue Perspective

The writer in me has been present since the beginning of my story but remuneration, as a
commonly accepted measure of value, gave both my teacher-self and my examiner-self far
greater prominence. In the early 1990s, I befriended a fellow member of AKA. We had similar
ambitions. Although we lost contact after I moved to Ontario, I was delighted to see her
acknowledged in the preface of Conservatory Canada’s rudiments books (Cook, 2003-2004).
Her vision of me as a creative person profoundly affected my own vision. I had assumed that a
creative musician was a composer – which I most assuredly was not – but my friend encouraged
me to look beyond this narrow definition. She gave credence to my closely guarded aspirations
and coaxed my writer-self into being. We discussed my ideas about repurposing KM for the
teaching of music theory, but I was not yet ready.
My intellectual independence has always been an emotionally charged topic. In my youth,
it defiantly took shape as a spontaneous decision to become a writer. In later years, it was
overshadowed by the dual enterprises of raising a family and running a studio. My youthful
enthusiasm eventually succumbed to insecurity and self-doubt. Thus, my covert longing for an
author identity became entwined with learning to trust myself. As my students worked through
their music theory books, I began to document my observations, particularly in relation to the
gaps produced by informational assumptions or omissions. I imagined pedagogical bridges that
could span these gaps. I explored patterns/repetitions in the subject matter and experimented
with charts that categorized or summarized the material. I asked questions and devised ways of
showing, instead of telling, but I lacked the confidence to begin writing. What if I was wrong?
What if others criticized my work as I was criticizing theirs?
 21

Tentatively, I began to write for my piano students, first a monthly newsletter, then grade-
specific technique charts and lesson assignment planners. Although these materials were
organizational rather than pedagogical, they gave practical purpose to my writer’s imagination.
As I gained momentum, I sought alternate outlets for my ideas. Acknowledging the unwieldiness
of large institutions such as RCM and Frederick Harris Music (FHM), the publishing company
RCM was gifted in 1944 (Schabas, 2005), I approached the Western Board of Music (WBM)
which was centred in Edmonton.5 To my surprise, WBM’s principal accepted my recordbook
proposal and gave me permission to reprint examination requirements from the piano syllabus.
Excitedly, I formed TREK Studio Productions and self-published my first loose-leaf offering – A
Student’s Recordbook: Grade 1 (1995). It provided students with a record of their progress
through the first formal grade of piano study, while involving them in the process.
As I review my work after more than twenty years, I am especially pleased with the
scales/triads pages (see Appendix 1.1 for an example). Rather than providing notated and
fingered technical requirements, I prepared reproducible charts, including solfa syllables, that
were intended for the students’ completion. Endeavouring to link theory and technique, I
reasoned that students should be able to write the scales and triads they played. I also reasoned
that they could create their own technical resources. The grade 1 book was professionally printed
but grades 2 and 3 were done with my newly-acquired laser printer. Before I could finish the
project, however, WBM ceased independent operations.
While still a member of AKA, I wrote a KM-inspired songbook (1997). Choosing Twinkle,
Twinkle, Little Star as a well-known folksong, I devised a variety of instructional activities, both
musical and non-musical, that were centred around the celestial theme of the song. Although I
envisioned it as the first of many, this teaching aid remains a singular phenomenon. Even before
we moved to Ontario, my attention was shifting. The Twinkle, Twinkle songbook had whet my
pedagogical appetite. Granted, it had no specific curricular affiliation, but it inspired me to think
more deeply – beyond the recording of surface details. Consequently, I returned to RCM’s
curriculum as my instinctual “home” and completed a collection of loose-leaf pages titled A
Student’s Assignmentbook: Grade 1, which was never published. Since I could not compete with

5
WBM was an examining body operated by music educators in Alberta, Saskatchewan, and Manitoba.
Established in 1936, WBM granted two diplomas in association with each provincial university: Associate of Music
(performance or teaching) and Licentiate of Music (performance). In 1997, WBM merged with the Western Ontario
Conservatory of Music, forming Conservatory Canada (Orford & Brandhagen, 2013).
 22

RCM or FHM, it became an exercise in working through some of my ideas. The contents, which
referenced RCM’s practical examinations, were ordered in four sections: technical tests, ear tests,
sight tests, and repertoire tests.
With this assignmentbook project, I finally began to write about music theory. It was a
small step but for the first time, I risked recording my own thoughts. I wrote concept statements
in my own words. The sections on scales and triads, as well as those on melodies and rhythms,
were prefaced with one-page theoretical summaries. The ice was broken, so to speak. I planned
a full set of rudiments books in conjunction with the most recent edition of RCM’s (1995) Theory
Syllabus. I was determined to create interactive materials that would engage students not only in
traditional exercises, but in explanatory presentations as well. I wanted active participants rather
than passive receivers.
I had barely begun when Mark Sarnecki (1995) self-published his own rudiments books.
Having studied every RCM-related textbook commercially available, I knew that Sarnecki’s
books brought together many of their best features. His books were effective – I used them in my
studio for two decades – but they were not original. They contained standard explanations and
illustrations which, for most of RCM’s teacher population, were ideal. In 2001, FHM purchased
the copyright for Sarnecki’s Elementary Music Rudiments and added a complete volume that
combined all three grade levels. Over the next few years (2001-2005), FHM also published three
volumes of Sarnecki’s Harmony books.
I abandoned my rudiments project and turned to music history. Prior to the 2002 edition of
RCM’s Theory Syllabus, the history curriculum was based on Joseph Machlis and Kristine
Forney’s (1999) The Enjoyment of Music. At the grade 3 level, examination candidates were
responsible for the portion of the textbook pertaining to nineteenth-century Romanticism. I
assembled a guidebook to assist my students with their reading assignments. Having acquired
the industry-standard music notation software, I included excerpts from the scores of required
repertoire. But rather than merely reproducing the excerpts, I left them incomplete. I asked my
students to supply the notational details I had omitted, aiming to direct their attention to salient
features of the repertoire. Appendix 1.2 shows two pages designed to accompany the fourth and
fifth movements of Hector Berlioz’s (1803-1869) Symphonie fantastique. These interactive
excerpts fulfilled two of my pedagogical objectives: engagement and integration. While the triad
 23

charts (in Appendix 1.1) linked theory and technique, the score excerpts linked theory and
repertoire.
With the 2002 Theory Syllabus, RCM re-organized the music history curriculum. Rather
than a concentrated study of nineteenth-century Romanticism, the grade 3 examination became
an overview of four historical style periods: Baroque, Classical, Romantic, and Modern. Equally
momentous was RCM’s official “divorce” from the Machlis and Forney (1999) textbook. In its
place, three members of the College of Examiners co-authored a complete set of study guides
(Lopinski et al., 2002). Exceedingly frustrated, I rewrote my grade 3 guidebook, assuming that
many teachers, like me, would continue to use Machlis and Forney’s book, despite its newest
revisions (2003). In my updated guidebook, I added “further reflections” to address material that
was new to the syllabus or to explore existing material in greater depth. These were cautious
attempts to move beyond the authority of the printed text. I was challenging myself. When it
came time to submit an examiner’s application, my colleague suggested that I include sample
pages from my guidebook – which I did – but there was no future for it.
I changed course again. In 1995, RCM’s Theory Syllabus had instituted an introductory
harmony examination to smooth the transition between grade 2 rudiments and grade 3 harmony –
the same transition I had struggled with as a student. The pedagogical benefits of this exam were
considerable. Its requirements included elementary harmonic vocabulary for reading (analysis),
melody writing, four-part writing, and two-part writing. The inclusion of elementary
counterpoint, as preparation for the grade 4 counterpoint exam, was also a welcome addition.6
The obstacles for this exam were largely organizational. Introductory harmony was introduced as
a recommended examination but it was not required. Since it was neither a practical co-requisite
nor a theoretical pre-requisite, it was underutilized.
A hopeless cycle of lost potential ensued. There were insufficient numbers of examination
candidates, which did not warrant the development of appropriate or exam-specific teaching
materials. And inadequate or non-existent teaching materials did not attract possible examination
candidates. Consequently, the introductory harmony exam, and its attendant coursework, was
instructionally unsupported. At long last, there was an opening for me. I began work on a

6
Originating in the Renaissance era, counterpoint, from the Latin punctus contra punctum (point against point),
is a compositional technique in which two or more melodic lines are combined in a “musically satisfying way”
(Kennan, 1999, p. 3). The resulting polyphonic texture emphasizes both the linear or horizontal aspects of melody
and the interdependent or vertical combinations of harmony.
 24

manuscript I titled Tonal Relationships in Music: Introductory Harmony, Melody, and Structure.
Based on RCM’s (2002) Theory Syllabus, it was an opportunity to finally experiment with
repurposing KM for the teaching of music theory. Beyond the method’s obvious surface details,
I was interested in Kodály’s underlying principles and practices – both his holistic integration of
musical elements and his instructional progression from the known to the unknown.
I had, by this time, accumulated a fair library of harmony textbooks – some from my early
years as a student, some from my work as a practicing teacher, and some from my curiosity as a
writer. I scoured their pages for ideas and inspiration. As it is now, my writing then was
triggered by reading. Although I had been deferring to other authors for most of my musical
career, I had also been formulating my own ideas. Eventually, I understood that my pedagogical
vision must be generated independently, from inside of myself. I could not expect it to be
delivered – ready-made – from the outside. Ever so slowly, I began to commit my ideas to paper
and my workbook began to take shape. Once I became an examiner, I was able to blend new
insights with the old. Preparing for RCM’s next Theory Syllabus, due for publication in 2009, I
expected the introductory harmony examination to become compulsory.
In March 2007, I attended a collaborative conference in Toronto. It was the first joint
venture between the Canadian Federation of Music Teachers’ Associations (CFMTA), its much
larger American counterpart, the Music Teachers National Association (MTNA), and RCM. I
traveled with my partner colleague since our attendance, as members of RCM’s College of
Examiners, was mandatory. I was new to the College, but her professional circle was expansive.
She introduced me to many of her colleagues, including the Editor of FHM for whom she had
previously done review work. With their combined encouragement, I submitted a preface, a table
of contents, and the first two chapters of my workbook. A year later, I received a letter stating
that there was “unfortunately no room in [FHM’s] publishing plan for a new addition to [its]
catalogue of theory publications” (J. Verkaik, personal communication, February 11, 2008). The
introductory harmony examination did not become compulsory.
Undeterred, I continued writing and resolved to self-publish my workbook. Despite FHM’s
position, there was still a need for introductory harmony teaching materials. When RCM’s
(2009) Theory Syllabus was released, I updated my existing manuscript to include new curricular
requirements and forged ahead. I asked RCM’s Subject Specialist for Junior Harmony to review
my work. Without an editor, I sought a second opinion and knew that her extensive experience
 25

would prove invaluable. Among other projects, she had assisted with the second edition of
Sarnecki’s (2010) harmony books and the revised edition of Wharram’s (2005) rudiments book.
Her suggestions were encouraging and constructive but in due course, I was obliged to
acknowledge that the world of music theory was wider than RCM.

A Researcher Perspective

Concurrent with my admission to RCM’s College of Examiners, I was asked to tutor

several students who were enrolled in an undergraduate music program at Carleton University.
Encountering an alternate harmony curriculum after almost thirty years of teaching, I was unable
to rely on RCM’s familiar syllabus and the comfortable reassurance of its recommended
resources. I found the experience to be somewhat unsettling, but surprisingly liberating, and
along with its remarkable freedom, I found my voice (Penny, 2012). I began to question the
traditional sequencing of theoretical concepts. I questioned their textbook presentations. Writing
instructional materials of my own, I began to actively scrutinize conventional teaching practices
for tonal harmony.
My serendipitous encounter with non-RCM music theory instruction altered the trajectory
of my professional career. Without the prescriptive guidelines of my customary resources, I was
compelled to recognize both my personal knowledge of the subject matter and the potential merit
of other pedagogical approaches. A few words, received at an opportune moment, illuminated
my path. I had assumed that I could not exchange my employment for full-time graduate studies
but I had not considered other options. One of my teacher colleagues, who had completed a
master’s degree in piano pedagogy (Babin, 2005), gifted me with the possibility of part-time
graduate studies. I attended my first class within a month of our conversation and the following
September, I was admitted to the master of arts program at the University of Ottawa (uOttawa).
When I embarked on my graduate adventure, its formal direction was clouded in mystery. I set
out to explore the subject of tonal harmony with the nebulous intention of becoming a more
capable teacher/author, but very early in the genesis of a suitable research topic, I encountered the
discipline of music theory pedagogy.
Having discovered a point of departure, it seemed logical that the first entry in my thesis
notebook should be a definition of pedagogy which my dictionary identifies as the “art, science,
or profession of teaching: EDUCATION” (Webster, 1983, p. 866). Intrigued by the co-
habitation of art and science, I investigated further. Art is defined twofold as a “skill acquired by
 26

experience, study, or observation; a branch of learning: LIBERAL ARTS; [and] an occupation

requiring knowledge or skill; the conscious use of skill and creative imagination especially in the
production of aesthetic objects: FINE ARTS” (p. 105). Science is defined as the “state of
knowing . . . distinguished from ignorance or misunderstanding; a department of systematized
knowledge as an object of study; knowledge covering general truths or the operation of general
laws . . . obtained and tested through scientific method” (p. 1051). The common denominator, of
course, is knowledge and the pursuit of this knowledge fuelled my expedition.
With the encouragement of my advisor, I decided to analyze five university-level textbooks
on tonal harmony, concentrating my pedagogical comparison on a single conceptual element –
the dominant 7th chord (V7). The textbooks I chose are: Harmony and Voice Leading (Aldwell
& Schachter, 2003); The Musician’s Guide to Theory and Analysis (Clendinning & Marvin,
2005); Harmonic Practice in Tonal Music (Gauldin, 2004); Tonal Harmony (Kostka & Payne,
2004); and Harmony in Context (Roig-Francolí, 2003). As my research objectives began to
unfold, a review of the pertinent literature revealed a significant void. Although an imposing
number of publications involved the teaching of music theory, they related to procedural, rather
than pedagogical or philosophical concerns. Indeed, only four relevant sources came to light, and
while these sources contributed to the formation of my research project, none provided a specific
context for my study.
I found myself, once again, treading an uncharted path. I was determined to follow my
interest in music theory, since I had been unable to declare it as a second major at the
undergraduate level, but my interest was focused on the teaching of music theory. How was I to
reconcile this practical/theoretical duality? From my present vantage point, the solution is
obvious. At the time, it was not. I briefly considered Comprehensive Musicianship (CM), a
pedagogical approach that emphasizes the inter-disciplinary study of music (Choksy et al., 2001).
I worried that my experience with KM was twenty years out-of-date and largely unpracticed, but
I remembered its systematic approach to music education. I also remembered its scrupulous
balance of artistic integrity and effective teaching practice (Cramer & Panagapka, 1998). After
careful deliberation, I embraced KM as a theoretical framework for my textbook analyses.
Inspired by Kodály’s vision of universal musical literacy, I initiated my master’s inquiry
(Penny, 2012) with a question of compatibility: Are the pedagogical principles attributed to the
 27

Kodály Method congruent with teaching tonal harmony at a post-secondary level?7 Focused on
V7 as a sample conceptual element, my textbook observations were organized according to three
criteria that structured its pedagogical treatment. These criteria: (1) evaluated the placement of
V7 in a conceptual sequence; (2) determined the procedure by which it was presented; and (3)
investigated the inclusion of correlated musical excerpts. However, as I probed my compatibility
issue on a deeper level, I began to consider a question of conveyance: How should conceptual
knowledge about tonal harmony be taught? This second question led to more questions.
I began to entertain the possibility of doctoral studies, which would allow me to expand
my master’s inquiry and to incorporate wider curricular objectives. In uOttawa’s School of
Music my options were limited but in the Faculty of Education, a doctorate in teaching, learning,
and evaluation seemed the best fit for my future research intentions. Attempting to satisfy the
completion requirements of my master’s program, along with the entrance requirements of a
doctoral program in a new faculty, I added an empirical component to my thesis, authenticating
my assumptions about the customary presentation of musical concepts in a post-secondary
environment, thereby confirming my rationale.
I also took a qualitative research course in which I read and reviewed Elliot W. Eisner’s
(2002) The Arts and the Creation of Mind. This author strongly influenced my perspective as a
novice researcher. I particularly appreciated his ability to illuminate the significance of arts
education – a conviction I intuitively embraced but lacked the clarification to articulate. As a
musician/teacher, I often faced the dismissive attitude that my profession is frivolous and trivial,
but Eisner provided me with the means to defend myself and further, to argue for the centrality of
my discipline in a balanced curriculum. I was perched on the precipice of another more
strenuous graduate adventure. With little time to catch my breath, I took a leap of faith. I had
visions of teaching music theory in a university setting but more importantly, I had questions that
wanted answering. Full-time studies in a new faculty presented a number of challenges but it
opened a new world of scholarly literature for my perusal.

Integrating Multiple Perspectives

The preceding narrative recounts past experiences that contributed to the unfolding of my
meaning-making in music theory and its pedagogy. My experiences are multi-faceted, perceived

7
The subject content of RCM’s grade 3/basic harmony examination is comparable with many university’s first-
year music theory courses.
 28

through multiple overlapping lenses, but these lenses belong to a single set of eyes. Although
each perspective observes unique aspects of music theory pedagogy, they unite to inform my
composite understanding of the discipline. While generally compatible, they are sometimes
conflicted.
A fairly straight line-of-succession connects student to teacher and teacher to examiner. As
a student of music theory, I was primarily concerned with relevance or connectivity. There was
little or no correlation between my piano repertoire and my rudiments exercises, nor between
rudiments and tonal harmony. Without a known context, I lacked a framework or scaffolding for
my new knowledge and without this structural support, there was no correlation between my
aural perception and my intellectual perception of harmony. Essentially, I was lacking a direct
link between music and theory. Although I continued to explore both practical and theoretical
subjects, even extending my knowledge into the realm of contemporary idioms, they remained
separate entities.
As a teacher of music theory, I gathered information – both topical and pedagogical – from
many practitioners and publications. With these varied sources, I was intent on making sense of
the subject matter for myself and for my students. I carefully examined what I knew intuitively
and endeavoured to explain my knowledge with guiding generalizations. I assisted my students
and facilitated their approach to theoretical “problems” – while continuing to expand my own
understanding. I lost sight of an instructional affiliation with musical repertoire, fixing my
attention instead on an internal connectivity within the subject itself. I attempted to build a
bridge between the fundamentals of music rudiments and introductory harmony by proactively
constructing one from the other. Without conscious awareness, my teaching of music theory was
gradually infused with traces of KM.
As an examiner of music theory, I followed Cynthia Chambers’ (2004) “path with heart”
and marketed myself as a theory specialist. I had become a member of RCM’s College of
Examiners to serve my profession and to grow my competence within that profession. However,
I was essentially gathering information from another source. Consequently, my topical
understanding of the subject matter became more detailed and precise, which undoubtedly
improved my teaching, but my pedagogical understanding was at a standstill. An alternate
avenue, involving an alternate perspective, was necessary.
 29

A less direct line-of-succession connects teacher to author and author to researcher. Like
the student/teacher/examiner progression, my student-self permeates these experiences. While
my teacher-self was experimenting with instructional improvements for my students, I was also
considering other teachers of music theory, particularly beginning teachers. I wanted to share the
lessons I was learning by writing supplemental teaching materials. Still, as an author of music
theory, I was hesitant. My ideas were gaining strength but they were not fully formed. I felt
instinctively that KM was an important part of my thinking but its pedagogical philosophy
counters conventional wisdom for music theory instruction. In many respects, the two
approaches are diametrically opposed. Thus, if I meant to challenge hundreds of years of
teaching practices in music theory, I required more than studio credibility. I required academic or
institutional credibility. I also craved further knowledge.
As a researcher of music theory, I widened my curricular allegiances – in the wake of my
tutoring epiphany – and contemplated the future direction of my teaching. It soon became
apparent that my future was mired in the past, both the collective history of my profession and
the individual role I played within it. I chose a road less traveled for my master’s inquiry, which
followed an emergent design similar to that of my personal story. I investigated the compatibility
of KM and music theory pedagogy, allowing the seeds of possibility that were planted long ago
to finally blossom. With my doctoral inquiry, I revisit this compatibility and open a conversation
that could bring its educational potential to fruition.
The conflict I must address involves my identity as a musician. Although a third line-of-
succession extends from student to musician and musician to author, my artist/musician
perspective is, in essence, an outlier. I often suppressed and undervalued this perspective,
especially after I redefined myself as a theory specialist – or crudely simplified, a “music
scientist.” Preoccupied with making rational sense of my intuitive knowledge, I tackled the
harmonic syntax of musical grammar and wrestled with judgements of appropriateness. In so
doing, I side-lined opportunities for creative choice and ignored the repertoire that music theory
was designed to explain. My unfinished introductory harmony manuscript, while pedagogically
interactive, is devoid of musical excerpts from the literature.
Thus, as a musician who teaches music theory, I feel compelled to advocate for integration
and Thomas A. Regelski’s (1982) preservation of the music in music theory. I must widen my
quest for connectivity and add artistic inclusivity to my research mission. Succinctly stated, I
 30

cannot deny my musician-self any longer. My teaching, and perhaps that of my colleagues,
demands a pedagogical transformation. As Natalie Goldberg (2016) wrote thirty years ago: “You
can’t divorce yourself from parts of yourself” (p. 91). So too, I cannot divorce myself from my
musician-self nor can I divorce the inner workings of music from its outer legitimacy as a
musical phenomenon. Sound and symbol are symbiotically intertwined and their relationship
must be emphasized in my teaching of music theory – which begs the question: How?

Concluding Remarks

Chapter 1 presents a narrative rendering of my experiences with music theory and its
pedagogy. These experiences are chronicled through the overlapping observations of six
perspectives: student, artist/musician, teacher/practitioner, examiner, author/pedagogue, and
researcher. My observations begin with my first lessons in music theory and end with my
master’s research in music theory pedagogy, leaving my doctoral story to unfold in subsequent
chapters. A multi-layered integration of these observations constitutes my personal/professional
understanding of the topic at hand. While each perspective has informed my pedagogical
interactions with music theory, I have generally adopted prevailing scientific attitudes in my
teaching. With this inquiry, I wish to explore artistic attitudes by embracing my identity as an
artist/musician.
According to Webster (1983), identity is defined both as the “sameness of essential or
generic character in different instances: ONENESS” and the “distinguishing character or
personality of an individual: INDIVIDUALITY” (p. 597). This dichotomous reference to
conformity and diversity has often besieged my attempts to describe myself, but answering the
existential question – Who am I? – necessitates the consideration of a second question: Where am
I? Chambers (1999) advises that I “can only begin to answer the question as [I] write from here,
from this particular place” (p. 148). In so doing, I acknowledge the role of my environment,
including its inhabitants, in the construction of both my musical identity and my pedagogical
beliefs. But how has my artist/musician perspective influenced my thinking about music theory
pedagogy? How have I arrived at this time and place?
By claiming my identity as a musician, I have gained access to my artistic experiences. I
have opened my inquiry to an art/science integration that brings pedagogically interactive
engagements with music to the teaching of music theory. I have also gained access to the artistic
experiences of my professional community. In chapter 2, I will review the scholarly literature in
 31

music theory pedagogy. Since my field of study is comparatively new and its corpus of literature
fairly small, I will expand my scholarship campaign farther afield and consult the relevant
literature in surrounding research communities.
 32

Chapter 2

Literature Review: Seeking Guidance from the Periphery

If what is seen and experienced is portrayed in the language of logic, then it is science.
If it is communicated through forms whose constructions are not accessible
to the conscious mind but are recognized intuitively, then it is art.
– Albert Einstein (1879-1955)

Introductory Remarks

Having embedded the rationale for my inquiry in my personal narrative, I will likewise
blend my unfolding argument into my literature review. As I seek to understand the complexities
of music theory pedagogy, along with its academic locus, I will align my interpretation of the
literature with the scholarly communities that affect my topic. Within these communities, I will
define pertinent terminology, highlight prominent viewpoints, and explore the feasibility of their
scholarship for my research project.
In chapter 1, my narrative disclosed what I know about music theory and its pedagogy. In
chapter 2, my review of the literature divulges what we know, as scholars within a shared musical
profession. Situated in the nexus between music theory and music education, this knowledge is
derived from three intersecting bodies of literature:

• music theory
• music theory pedagogy
• music education

Each of these research communities has influenced the development of my project and assisted
my meaning-making in the discipline of music theory pedagogy. Before engaging this
scholarship, however, I will offer a full description of my problem along with several guiding
questions. The methodological literature is examined in chapter 3.

A Description of the Problem

Music theory, as a subject independent from its pedagogy, embodies a set of abstract
principles that encompass the properties of single sounds and collections of sounds (Randel,
2003). Narrowing these broad parameters for my research project, I will consider the teaching of
intervals and chords – specific collections of consonant or dissonant sounds – as the constituent
 33

elements of tonal harmony.8 My focus on intervals and chords recognizes the importance of
rudimentary pre-requisites for later studies of harmony and counterpoint.
As a theoretical examiner affiliated with RCM, I am privileged to assess examination
papers written by students of music theory across Canada. Although I mark exams in the subject
areas of rudiments, tonal harmony, and music history, my research interest stems from more than
ten years of evaluative observations that reveal widespread student struggles with the contents
and procedures of basic harmony, previously known as grade 3 harmony.9 Serving as an
introductory application of harmonic principles, the curriculum for this course, and its official
examination, builds on the knowledge of fundamental elements acquired in the study of music
rudiments with an objective to address melody writing, harmonization, and analysis (RCM,
2009). The specific requirements for the basic harmony examination, as they appear in the 2009
edition of RCM’s Theory Syllabus, are itemized in Appendix 2.1.
Thirty percent of the basic harmony exam is allocated to the harmonization of a given
melody contextually presented in the vocal genre of a four-part (SATB) chorale or hymn that
incorporates the setting of text. Limited to major keys, this task examines student comprehension
of the required harmonic vocabulary, including a modulation to the dominant or fifth scale degree
as a traditional goal key.10 In my experience, this harmonization is often poorly executed with
many realizations receiving a failing grade – less than eighteen of the possible thirty marks. A
sample student working, recreated in my penmanship so as to protect the anonymity of the exam
candidate, is illustrated in Appendix 2.2.
Written in May 2013, this disappointing harmonization, in which the candidate has been
instructed to complete the missing voices, is marred by an excess of red ink. Indeed, only the
fourth measure (m. 4) is error free and remains untouched by my examiner’s markings. How did
this happen? Why do students who presumably perform instrumentally or vocally at an advanced

8
Intervals and chords classify the relationships between two pitches and three or more pitches, respectively.
These pitches sound successively as melody or simultaneously as harmony and their organization with reference to a
tonal center (a tonic) within a group of pitches (a scale) demonstrates the principles of tonality. This tonal system
identifies Western art music from the 17th century until the beginning of the 20th century (Randel, 2003).
9
According to RCM’s website, the 2018 national average for basic/level 9 harmony exams – written over three
sessions (December 2017, May 2018, and August 2018) – is 74.2. While this mark warrants honours recognition, it
does not account for the weak results of individual examination tasks, such as melody harmonization.
10
The process of modulation facilitates a change of key from one tonality to another, which may or may not
require a change of key signature. The most common modulations, between closely related keys, often delineate
formal structures such as sonata form (Randel, 1986).
 34

level – given that basic harmony is a co-requisite for grade 9 practical examinations – repeatedly
perform weakly on the harmonization component of their written exams? While explanations for
this weakness vary with individual students, just as specific errors vary, the underlying problem
is entrenched in a pedagogically detached handling of the subject matter. Music theory is
frequently disconnected from the music it is intended to explain (Dirié, 2014).
Prior to 2016, RCM’s formal study of music theory, along with its written assessment, was
initiated concurrently with a grade 5 level of instrumental or vocal performance (RCM, 2009).
While this deferral allows for the accumulation of preparatory competency, it perpetuates the
segmentation of defined subject areas – with the concepts of musical thought disproportionately
lagging behind the skills of musical craft (White, 2002). Furthermore, it promotes the teaching of
music theory as an intellectual abstraction isolated from its practical application, or an exercise of
logic removed from the physical experience of music.
José Luis Aróstegui (2003) recognizes this gap in curricular implementation as a split
between positivist and interpretive views of knowledge. Although music – understood as a
positivist product (a score) and an interpretive process (a performance) – embodies both
knowledge traditions, music instruction is often confronted by a “separation of knowledge” and a
“pre-eminence of positivism” (p. 109), particularly in the evaluation of educational outcomes. In
music theory instruction, this privileging of positivist science over interpretive art frequently
produces “paper-and-pencil” competencies that offer little or no awareness of a given
progression’s sound, nor its “musical sense” (Rogers, 2004, p. 16) – which is evidenced in
Appendix 2.2. Consequently, as Rogers advises, the “study of music [theory] should include
more than black dots and lines on white paper” (p. 16). It should also include the vocal and
instrumental sounds of music.
My interest in music theory pedagogy is rooted in more than forty years of private teaching
and almost fifteen years of membership in RCM’s College of Theoretical Examiners. A desire to
reflectively improve my teaching practice informs my dissertation research and prompts a
question of companionship: How can the art of music be holistically integrated in the
pedagogical communication of its science? My reconsideration of KM for teaching music theory
motivates a second question: How can music theory pedagogy be experientially practiced? The
core issue then – in my endeavour to musically enhance written competencies – is a question of
correlation: Will a holistic and experiential approach to the teaching of music theory engender
 35

auditory awareness? While the philosophical or idealistic nature of this last query renders it
unrealistic as a research question, it nevertheless provides the underlying motivation for my
inquiry. I am convinced that an integrated music theory pedagogy will address my correlation
issue.

The Scholarship in Music Theory

The formal recognition of music theory as an independent scholarly discipline coincides

with the founding of the Society for Music Theory (SMT) in 1977 (McCreless, 2010). Although
music theory has been taught in academic institutions for centuries, there was a general belief
among theorists that its instruction was inadequate because many of its teachers were primarily
historians, composers, or performers. Therefore, one of SMT’s initial objectives was the
acknowledgement of music theory teachers who were professional theorists.
In the years preceding the formation of SMT, music theory was deemed to be little more
than rudiments and its teaching presumed within the aptitude of any good musician (Browne,
2003). But music theorists, including Richmond Browne, were interested in more than teaching;
they were interested in “speculating, explaining, [and] modeling the musical process” (para. 4).
With the mastery of analytical techniques considered a core competency, early members of SMT
were dedicated to speculative theory, continuing the pioneering work of Heinrich Schenker
(1868-1935) in the analysis of tonal music, Arnold Schoenberg (1874-1951) in the development
of twelve-tone composition, Milton Babbitt (1916-2011) in the promotion of total serialism, and
Allen Forte (1926-2014) in the analysis of atonal music.
According to Browne (2003), music theorists were “no longer satisfied with purely
historical answers to questions of analysis” (para. 11). They rejected taxonomical descriptions of
repertoire in favour of analytical explanations based on heuristic techniques, such as Schenkerian
analysis. In scholarly circles, these techniques became central to our profession’s thinking as
well as our teaching. In my un-scholarly experience, however, this was not the case. Music
theory was presented to me as a set of rules to be memorized. There were no discoveries made,
no problems solved, and no experimental or trial-and-error investigations. There were no
questions asked – nor answered. Instead, I was directed to add, complete, explain, insert, name,
solve, transpose, or write detached theoretical elements from pre-determined, fixed formulae.
The word theory implies differing shades of meaning. Outside academia, “music theory” is
typically understood as a thing or a set of things. It is a noun. Although music theory is defined
 36

as a “branch of scholarship that studies the materials and structure[s] of music” (Randel, 2003, p.
879), the study of music theory is commonly identified with its content – the basic or
fundamental rudiments of music. While these rudiments are associated with the contemplative
thinking of past theorists, and certainly represent the outcomes of such thinking, they are far
removed from the act of theorizing, conceived as a verb. Thus, the music theory presented to me
almost fifty years ago is the result of past investigations. This result (a noun), filtered through
RCM’s curricular lens, is the same one I present to my students today.
Within the wider domain of music theory, Patrick McCreless (1997) identifies five distinct
bodies of knowledge and their respective research agendas:

• music systems
• music analysis
• the history of music theory
• the pedagogy of music theory
• music perception and cognition

The first two categories are often inseparable in practice, given the analytical application of
theoretical systems – such as those of Schenker, Schoenberg, Babbitt, or Forte – and the third
traces the historical development of their practices. The last category is significant for both
theoretical/analytical and pedagogical facets of music theory, but with its origin in cognitive
psychology, research in music perception and cognition investigates aspects of musical learning,
while my inquiry focuses on the teaching of music theory. However, despite the increased
attention of late twentieth-century music theorists to the nature and quality of their instruction
(White, 2002), current pedagogical practices, especially those independent of post-secondary
institutions, have more in common with the past than with modern scholarly research
(McCreless, 1997).

Music Theory as a Science

The separation between theory and practice plagues modern musical thought, as does the
historical privileging of theoretical attitudes. Providing little encouragement for my
consideration of an integrated music theory pedagogy, the underlying estrangement, for all
intents and purposes, is an ancient one. But what caused the problem? My brief summary of
early music theory begins with the following definitions of the terms under discussion:
 37

• theory – from the Greek theōria (contemplation or speculation), abstract thought; the
general principles that rationally explain a set of facts or phenomena
• practice – a Greek noun praktikē from the verb praktikos (perform), the application of
beliefs or ideas (as opposed to theories relating to such applications); customary or
habitual actions

In ancient Greece, music was considered both an art of performance (melos) and a science
closely related to arithmetic and astronomy (harmonia). For Pythagoras (5th century B.C.E.),
music was governed by the same mathematical laws that governed the universe (Mark, 2013).
Rhythms were ordered by numbers (as multiples of a primary duration), and so too were intervals
(as consonances generated by simple ratios). Acoustical observations found that segments of a
vibrating string sounded consonant intervals – an octave when divided in the ratio 2:1, a fifth
when divided 3:2, and a fourth divided 4:3 (Burkholder et al., 2014). Consequently, Pythagoras
and his followers valued the scientific aspects of music, which they understood through
knowledge of its mathematical proportions.11 Likewise, one who understood musical proportions
understood the harmony of the universe (Mark, 2013), since the planets and their movements
were believed to correspond to particular musical notes, intervals, and scales. 12
First millennium writers, such as Aristides Quintilianus (4th century C.E.), endorsed the
Greek theorists’ dedication to logic and abstract thought, as well as their systematic definition
and classification of musical concepts. During the Middle Ages, two applications of music
developed in parallel fashion: (1) musica disciplina, regarded as a mathematical science; and (2)
musica sonora, an art communicated by voice or instrument. As the antithesis of disciplined
contemplation, musica sonora was understood through the senses rather than through reason,
influencing behaviour by appealing to the emotions (Mark, 2013). These divisions reflected the
practical study of music, generally as a means of worship, and its purely theoretical study.
Consequently, the performance of early Christian music, although influenced by the
Greek’s theoretical musica, was not considered “true music” – for the highest level of study.
This gulf between theory and practice is summarized by Geoffrey Hindley (1971):

11
No writings by Pythagoras survive, while those of his followers exist only in fragments quoted by later authors.
12
In his Republic, Plato’s (4th century B.C.E.) “harmony of the spheres” gave this unheard music poetic form,
inspiring many literary works through the Middle Ages and beyond – including William Shakespeare’s (1564-1616)
The Tempest and John Milton’s (1608-1674) Paradise Lost (Mathiesen, 2011).
 38

On one side there were the traditional singers who learned and
transmitted important texts by memory but who were ignorant of musical
theory in this rarified abstract sense. On the other side, there were the
scholars for whom the study of musica comprised the analysis of verbal
rhythm and the acoustic analysis of sounds. (p. 60)

Anicius Manlius Severinus Boëthius (ca.480-524) perpetuated the notion of theoretical authority
in his De institutione musica, which treated music as an object of knowledge, not as a practical
pursuit (Burkholder et al., 2014). Describing three categories – musica mundana (music of the
universe), musica humana (human music), and musica instrumentalis (instrumental music) – he
emphasized the ordered principles of music as a numerical science.13
However, discussions of music as a liberal art did not address the practicalities that
concerned Medieval musicians. In the ninth century, the anonymous Musica enchiriadis, along
with its companion Scolica enchiriadis, re-oriented music pedagogy by emphasizing practical
matters over theoretical speculation (Burkholder et al., 2014). Gradually, the philosophies of
musica disciplina and musica sonora were brought closer together, finding confluence in the
treatise of Aurelian of Réôme (fl. 840-850) who was both an erudite musical theorist and a
practical musician (Hindley, 1971). Indeed, his explicit treatment of musical practice initiated
the separation of music theory from its philosophy (Lochhead, 2011).
While the second part of Aurelian’s treatise, titled Musica Disciplina (ca. 843), describes
the practice of 9th-century plainsong, the first part summarizes the prevailing theory of musica.
Here, he defines music as the “science, applicable to sound and song, of correctly controlling
variations of sound” (Reóme, 1968, p. 7). This older music is often thought to be founded on
melody, with harmony determined by presumably fortuitous melodic concurrences (Shirlaw,
1970), whereas newer music is founded on harmony, with melody determined by guiding
harmonic principles. But early polyphony, which combines two or more independent melodic
lines, had its basis in the numerical science of simultaneously sounding consonant or dissonant
intervals. According to Matthew Shirlaw (1970), consonances were the “pillars of harmonic
structure” and dissonances were the ornamental figurations of melody (p. 3). As the theory of
music evolved, the principles of chord succession developed from a “definiteness of harmonic

13
Compiled from Greek sources, Boëthius’ text concludes that only one who has mastered musica speculativa
(music as a reflection of the real) can “truly judge the work of a musician, whether composer or performer” – for
musicians concern themselves with music as a subrational art, rather than with musica as a rational science
(Taruskin, 2005, p. 71).
 39

significance” within a community of sounds as a whole (p. 6). Thus, a tonal key-system
gradually supplanted the earlier modal system, and scientific justifications of harmony, such as
those of Jean-Philippe Rameau (1683-1764), were recognized for their “unprecedented concision
and clarity” (Christensen, 1993, p. i).
In the eighteenth century, music “thinkers” believed that the understanding of a musical
whole was generated by the reconstitution of its analyzed, classified, and labeled parts through
association and interpretation (Regelski, 1982). This reductionist tradition “equated (and thus
confused) factual information … with understanding,” presuming that “to dissect is to know” (pp.
40-41). While the reassembling process was enacted inductively, intuitively, or unconsciously, it
lacked a reliable method for responding to the musical whole – particularly after functioning
“analytically with [atomistic] parts” (p. 40) – and was largely ignored. Since this reassembling
process does not have a scientific basis, its rejection gives the false impression that a holistic
perception or appreciation of music is less important than its analysis, thereby discounting the
artistic basis of music.
Highlighting the underlying art/science dichotomy, David M. Thompson (1980) traces the
development of harmonic theory in North America by distinguishing acoustical approaches,
derived from the naturally occurring harmonic series, and observational or empirical approaches,
formulated from the analysis of common practice. Recognizing the practicality of observation,
he explains that repeated musical patterns often “solidify into a system of rules, which then
[become] codified as music theory” (p. 129). These “rules” configure the science of music theory
– and its pedagogy – but the art of music does not necessarily enter the rubric.

Interpreting Music Theory for the Purpose of Instruction

Common-practice tonality, which is based on the major and minor diatonic scales,
crystallized during the Baroque era (ca.1600-ca.1750). Rameau, who is widely recognized as the
founder of harmonic theory, explained the structure of tonal music in his Traité de l’harmonie
(1722). Understood in the light of modern-era thinking, Rameau attempted to approach music as
a “deductive science, based on natural postulates, in much the same way that [Isaac] Newton
approache[d] the physical sciences in his Principia” (1687) (Gossett, 1971, p. xxii). Following
an analytic-synthetic method, Rameau treated his music and that of his contemporaries as a body
of empirical evidence. Thomas Christensen (1993) elaborates: “Through astute analysis of
[common] practice, he observed consistencies in its behavior, and posited a number of
 40

provisional hypotheses and heuristic arguments to explain it… From this point, Rameau
hypothesized a single master-principle to accommodate these observations” (p. 39).
Although most musical elements had been explained by earlier theorists, Rameau’s unified
system described harmonic practices according to universal laws of nature, specifically the laws
of acoustics. He derived triads and 7th chords (three- and four-note successions of 3rds) from
naturally occurring intervals – the perfect 5th, major 3rd, and minor 3rd – and established the
chords built on the primary notes of the scale as the “pillars of tonality” (Burkholder et al., 2014,
p. 425).14 Relating all other chords to the primary chords, he also formulated the functional
hierarchies of tonal harmony, which I encountered in my undergraduate studies.
For Rameau, music was driven forward by the dissonance of 7th chords coming to rest in
the consonance of triads (Burkholder et al., 2014). The strongest example of this phenomena,
illustrated in Figure 2.1, is the progression from a dominant 7th chord (V7) to a tonic triad (I):

Figure 2.1: Resolution of the Dominant 7th Chord

Brought into the realm of modern music theory pedagogy, it is necessary to identify the musical
concepts involved in teaching the V7-I progression. Since the dissonant element in any 7th chord
is the 7th itself – placed here in the highest treble voice (soprano) – its intervallic relationship
with the fundamental bass note or the root is discordant. In the dominant 7th chord, dissonance is
also created by the interval between the leading tone or scale-degree seven (ˆ7) and the

14
The primary notes of a key/scale are the tonic (or principal note), as well as the dominant and subdominant
(notes a perfect 5th above and below the tonic).
 41

subdominant or scale-degree four (ˆ4).15 This interval is commonly called a tritone.16 In the
progression above, the dissonant notes resolve by step to consonances, while the root falls a
perfect 5th.
Consonant intervals have a “stable, harmonious sound” (Burkholder et al., 2014, p. A5).
They are determined both acoustically, as the sympathetic vibration of sound-wave frequencies
represented by numerical ratios, and psychologically, as a judgement of “pleasantness” that
denotes aesthetic preference or a “relief of tonal tension” within the context of tonal harmony
(Palisca & Moore, 2001, p. 325). Dissonance, as the antonym of consonance, exhibits the
opposing condition of “unpleasantness” or “tonal tension” and music theorists use this distinction
between stable and unstable intervals to discuss the temporal features of a musical work. The
criteria for distinguishing consonant and dissonant intervals in music theory, both acoustical and
psychological, differ with the passing of time.
For me, particularly as a student, the concepts of consonance and dissonance were
inconsequential. If they were discussed, either on paper or in person, I have no recollection of
them. Granted, these terms are historically burdened with semantic problems as well as problems
of grammatical usage – James Tenney (1988) distinguishes qualitive or abstract nouns from
entitive or concrete nouns, referring to the quality of aggregate sounds and the sounds that
manifest this quality, respectively. Perhaps the absence of consonance/dissonance discourse in
my education is attributable to the gradual distillation of Rameau’s theories into a concise corpus
of rules and regulations. Since the work of theorizing was already complete, I had no need to
concern myself with matters of origin or development. Rather, I was directed to the outcomes of
this earlier work and instructed to memorize the resulting rules which I learned by rote. Could an
awareness of consonance and dissonance offer a valuable glimpse at the why behind these rules?

Imparting the Rules of Music Theory as Pre-Determined Statements of Fact

According to Tenney (1988), the “Western musical enterprise has been characterized by an
effort to understand musical sounds, not merely to manipulate them” (p. 103, original emphasis).

15
Scale degrees identify the numbered positions of individual notes within major or minor scales. They are
labelled with Arabic numerals (1, 2, 3, etc.) that often include carets or circumflexes (ˆ1, ˆ2, ˆ3, etc.). Scale degrees
are also named: ˆ1 tonic; ˆ2 supertonic; ˆ3 mediant; ˆ4 subdominant; ˆ5 dominant; ˆ6 submediant; ˆ7 leading tone or
subtonic, depending on its intervallic distance from the upper tonic (half step or whole step).
16
Strictly defined as an interval comprised of three adjacent whole steps, the tritone has been regarded as a
dissonance since the Middle Ages when it was labeled the diabolus in musica (devil in music) and prohibited by
Medieval theorists (Randel, 2003).
 42

Nevertheless, as a teacher, I regularly ask my students to carry out these manipulations and to do
so without the corroboration of musical sounds. But I am not alone. My instructional process
serves as an explanatory case in point and Figure 2.1 provides a sample harmonic progression
(V7-I) for the subsequent discussion.
In my initial presentation of V7’s resolution, I typically draw coloured arrows on an
illustrative staff and recite the following litany: “The leading tone must rise and the chordal 7th
or subdominant must fall.” I inform my students that “if a dominant 7th chord is complete, the
tonic triad will be incomplete” or conversely, “if a dominant 7th chord is incomplete, the tonic
triad will be complete.” This second statement requires a second example. Compare the higher
bass (tenor) notes in Figure 2.1 with those in Figure 2.2:

Figure 2.2: Resolution of the Incomplete Dominant 7th Chord

I continue with a one-sided oration that explains the harmonic tendencies of the tritone and
summarizes the resulting complete/incomplete doublings. I even describe the voice-leading error
caused by my unheeded advice, but my words generally wash over my “audience” with varying
degrees of penetration. Of course, these words convey an understanding of the given chord
progression that is synthesized from my personal experiences. Consequently, I am presenting an
abstract distillate of my knowledge. How can I generate a concrete experience of V7’s resolution
that will have meaningful significance for my students?
Obviously, I can animate the chords shown in Figure 2.1 and Figure 2.2 with the sounds
they represent. My playing provides additional reinforcement for my students who are both
seeing the progressions and hearing them. Not yet satisfied, I play the progressions again,
extracting the tritone from the dominant 7th chord. I ask my students if they can hear this
interval’s dissonance and the inevitability of its resolution. They nod their affirmations but I
soon realize that they are simply and unquestioningly accepting my conclusions. They are
 43

passive receivers of my knowledge since I am perceived to be an authority. How can I encourage

my students to become active participants in their own learning?
I can ask them to play the progressions, adding kinesthetic experiences to their seeing and
hearing. This strategy is helpful for some students but not for others. The required sight-reading
often produces considerable anxiety which negates any potential benefit. While the students’
tactile interaction can be useful, it is still unsatisfactory. Whether the progression is played by
me or by my students, it remains a disembodied simulation of “real” music. Therefore, I look for
an example from the musical literature of the common-practice period and choose the final
phrase of “Ein Choral” from Album für die Jugend, op. 68 by Robert Schumann (1810-1856).
Reproduced in Figure 2.3, this phrase ends with a “textbook” resolution of V7:

Figure 2.3: R. Schumann, “Ein Choral” from Album für die Jugend, op. 68 (mm. 29-32)

Following traditional teaching practices, this excerpt is presented after my discussion – as

proof that the rules I have stipulated are justified. But is there a more musical alternative? What
if I reverse the order of presentation? Since Schumann’s voicing of the dominant 7th chord’s
resolution is similar to the progression in Figure 2.1, I could begin with real music.17 I could
play the entire 32-measure piece and gradually narrow my focus to the final phrase, then to the
final cadence which is comprised of the chords in question. 18 Recalling Browne’s (2003)
predilection for explanations based on heuristic techniques, I could involve my students by
asking them to help me analyze the cadence. Together, we could discover the resolution of

17
Voicing, which includes considerations of spacing and doubling, describes the ordered distribution of chord
members and their vertical arrangement or placement in relation to one another (Gauldin, 2004). It can also refer to
the voices or instruments that perform individual pitches.
18
A cadence is a melodic/harmonic configuration that closes a musical phrase, period, section, or composition
with varying degrees of finality.
 44

dissonance into consonance as it is exemplified by the V7-I progression in “Ein Choral.” From
this experience, we could derive resolution procedures for ourselves. And we could test our
understanding of these procedures by consulting other works of the common-practice period.
This pedagogical proposal, based on the actions of showing rather than telling, is more
easily said than done. It is time-consuming, not only in its preparation but in its implementation.
It requires an unconventional teaching approach which, of necessity, requires careful planning. I
need to orchestrate and facilitate the discovery of every new chord. I need to place that chord in
every conceivable chord progression. And I need to review an extensive body of musical
literature from which to derive these new learnings. Searching for assistance, I consult a varied
selection of harmony textbooks. I am disturbed – but not surprised – by the scarcity of excerpts
or quotations from the musical literature.

Purposing Repertoire for Music Theory Instruction

As a component of my master’s research (Penny 2012), I analyzed five university-level

textbooks on tonal harmony (Aldwell & Schachter, 2003; Clendinning & Marvin, 2005; Gauldin,
2004; Kostka & Payne, 2004; Roig-Francolí, 2003), with specific editions chosen for their
comparable publication dates. Among other criteria, I explored the presence/absence of musical
excerpts in each manuscript’s instructional treatment of V7. While all the textbooks included
musical excerpts to a lesser or greater extent, I was disappointed with the excerpts’ lack of
pedagogical purpose. I was looking for their participation in V7’s initial presentation but rarely
found it beyond a cursory exemplar with a prose telling of its contents. Although the order of
presentation occasionally corresponded with my music-first ideal (Aldwell & Schachter, 2003;
Roig-Francolí, 2003), there was little active engagement with the excerpt(s). What can a written
description of a musical phenomenon, such as the resolution of a dominant 7th chord, contribute
to the exposition of this phenomenon – apart from proof or justification for the ensuing
discussion?
Both as a student and as a teacher, I admit that I often disregard introductory musical
examples because they are generally no more than visual images. Still-life pictures. As silent
depictions of unsubstantiated aural events, they are non-essential elements in my rote-
learning/teaching environment, particularly if the chosen repertoire is unknown to me or to my
students. Without a clearly established instructional purpose, they are pedagogically
meaningless. For example, Miguel A. Roig-Francolí (2003) excerpts two phrases from
 45

Schumann’s “Ein Choral” (mm. 5-8 and mm. 29-32) but his interaction with them involves a
lengthy disclosure of voice-leading guidelines (a.k.a. rules) for the V7-I progression. I am
uninterested – even as a self-confessed music theory enthusiast – until he asks me (his reader) to
“identify an example of voice overlap in one of these phrases” (p. 379). Given this purposeful
doing task, I am finally drawn into his discussion.
As a researcher, I am frustrated in my quest for musical excerpts with inherent or intrinsic
pedagogical value. Their scarcity was confirmed by the textbook analyses of my master’s inquiry
and corroborated with empirical evidence (Penny, 2012). However, I am not willing to give up.
I comb the library for additional harmony textbooks. Some of these are outdated texts: Horwood,
1948; Lovelock, 1946; Reed, 1954; and Rollinson, 1953. I recognize their historical significance
but dismiss their instructional relevance for my current inquiry because musical excerpts are
virtually non-existent – except for a few unidentified measures from the chorale harmonizations
of J. S. Bach, acknowledging the irrefutable influence of Bach’s chorale-based approach to
harmony (Leaver & Remeš, 2018). Eric Rollinson (1953) colourfully describes questionable V7
resolutions as “HIDEOUS” or “UGLY” (p. 30, original emphasis), and I worry that some of my
ORMTA colleagues continue to teach from Frederick J. Horwood’s (1948) succinct but
outmoded missive. In his introductory chapter, Horwood writes: “Exercises in harmony should
never be worked at the keyboard, although the student should play them afterwards to hear the
musical result of his work” (p. 3, my emphasis).
Reviewing Walter Piston’s (1978) textbook, I place it somewhere between my collection of
historic teaching materials and the academic collection that informed my master’s research.
Originally published in 1941, Piston’s influential text details his observations of musical
practices in the common-practice period. Rejecting a mathematical or acoustical basis for tonal
harmony, he extends previous ideas of harmonic function, presents a “new view of chromatic
harmony,” and introduces the concept of harmonic rhythm or the rate at which chords change
(Thompson, 1980, p. 131). In his comprehensive treatment of V7 and its harmonic dissonance,
Piston illustrates his practical philosophy of music theory with excerpts from the works of the
following composers (listed in chronological order):
 46

• Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750)

• George Frideric Handel (1685-1759)
• Joseph Haydn (1732-1809)
• Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791)
• Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827)
• Franz Schubert (1797-1828)
• Felix Mendelssohn (1809-1847)
• Frédéric Chopin (1810-1849)

Musical excerpts are interspersed with generic musical examples throughout Piston’s chapter on
the dominant 7th chord. While most of his excerpts are supported with Roman-numeral analyses,
few are referenced in the surrounding text. The reader, therefore, must imagine their musical or
topical significance. This textbook is an excellent resource but it does not provide an opportunity
for my students to derive their learning from the musical literature.
I turn to my studio collection of harmony textbooks. These are associated with RCM,
either directly or indirectly. Some are written by past/present members of RCM’s College of
Examiners (Andrews & Sclater, 1987-1988; Lawless & Podoliak, 1972; Satory, 2008) and others
by independent music theory teachers (Mackin, 2002; Sarnecki, 2010; Vandendool, 2010). All
are written in accordance with RCM’s theory syllabi but only three are current with its 2009
edition (Sarnecki, 2010; Satory, 2008; Vandendool, 2010). I search for musical excerpts that are
embedded in an introductory explanation of V7’s resolution. I find three textbooks without
excerpts, although two of these (Mackin, 2002; Vandendool, 2010) conclude their discussions of
V7 with analysis exercises drawn from the musical literature. The third text (Sarnecki, 2010) is
completely devoid of musical excerpts in the lesson under scrutiny. It is also the text I have
taught from most consistently since it was first published in 1995.
I am dismayed by my lapse of judgement and begin to realize how heavily my teacher-self
relies on the experiences of my student-self. In my teens, I was introduced to resolutions of V7
with one of RCM’s recommended textbooks (Lawless & Podoliak, 1972). At the end of the
pertinent chapter, the authors include three excerpted (non-continuous) phrases from Schumann’s
“Ein Choral,” but without analysis or explanation. Deprived of meaning, these phrases –
including the one I featured in my pedagogical proposal (see Figure 2.3) – are extraneous and
irrelevant. Consequently, my learning was focused on an arrow-filled chart reproduced in Table
2.1:
 47

Table 2.1: Voice-Leading Resolutions of the Dominant 7th Chord and its Inversions

V7-I V7-vi V7-IV6 V65-I V43-I V43-I6 V42-I6

seventh

fifth

third

root to tonic

(Lawless & Podoliak, 1972, p. 52)

Rightly or wrongly, my teaching is influenced by my learning. I do not, however, utilize

the chart in Table 2.1. I appreciate its thoroughness but I do not approve its abstractness – nor its
complete absence of musicality. Filling this musical void, I adopted William G. Andrews and
Molly Sclater’s (1987-1988) manuscripts as teaching texts, despite their intimidating scope of
350 or more pages. These pages are filled with musical excerpts, although most are positioned in
various exercises for analysis (both melodic and harmonic), keyboard harmony, and chorale-style
(SATB) harmonizations. The SATB resolutions of V7 are illustrated with plentiful author-
constructed examples as well as excerpts from J. S. Bach’s 371 Harmonized Chorales, which are
universally acknowledged as masterpieces of four-part choral writing.19 The accompanying
prose is comprehensive and gives prominence to the musical notation, as indicated in the preface
of the first volume: “Above all, let MUSIC be your text” (1987, p. 3, original emphasis).
Unfortunately, Andrews and Sclater did not update their textbooks for the 2002 edition of
RCM’s Theory Syllabus, or for subsequent editions. The principal stumbling block for my
continued use of these teaching materials was RCM’s adoption (in 2002) of both upper-case and

19
Edited in four volumes by J. S. Bach’s son, Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach (1744-1788), the chorales were
originally published between 1784 and 1787. In numerous later editions, they have served as “supreme models” for
generations of music theory students (Piston, 1978, p. 164).
 48

lower-case Roman numerals for harmonic analysis.20 In 2008, Stephen Satory self-published
Basic Harmony, a similarly music-enriched textbook. Previously titled First-Year Harmony
(2001), it incorporates the refinements in RCM’s harmony curriculum. I used it for several years
and embraced Satory’s (2008) labelling of J. S. Bach’s preferred resolution of V7 – with two
complete doublings – as a “Bachian resolution” (p. 60), shown in Figure 2.4:

Figure 2.4: Bachian Resolution of the Dominant 7th Chord

Although enhanced with historical information, Satory’s manuscript is dense with prose and its
organization, which clusters all the exercises at the ends of chapters, requires significant telling
before any doing can occur. I recommend this textbook for adult students but I discontinued its
use for younger students, returning again to Sarnecki’s (2010) text.
Bluntly stated, I use Sarnecki’s teaching materials because I have found no others more
suitable. They are clearly designed for exam preparation and are fully aligned with RCM’s
theory curriculum. Furthermore, I know every example and every exercise on every page. While
I do not agree with Sarnecki’s pedagogy – or lack thereof – I have learned to maneuver around it.
But I want more than Sarnecki’s contrived examples, I want my teaching, and its supporting
materials, to be grounded in real music.

Theoretical vs. Practical Considerations of Music Theory

There are two classifications for textbooks on music theory: theoretical or speculative and
practical or demonstrative/illustrative. The texts I have earlier deemed academic are, in fact,
theoretical. By way of example, Robert Gauldin (2004) establishes a “linear, functional approach

20
Roman numerals identify the position of a particular triad within a given key. Upper-case and lower-case
numerals indicate the triad’s quality: upper-case for major (I); lower-case for minor (ii); lower-case with an added
symbol for diminished (viio); and upper-case with an added symbol for augmented (III+).
 49

to tonal music,” emphasizing the horizontal relationship between melody and harmony (p. xxi).
In so doing, he situates himself in opposition to the traditionally accepted approach which he
identifies as a “vertically oriented system of harmonic analysis” (p. xxi) – a tradition exemplified
by Piston (1978) as well as Kostka and Payne (2004). Through the correlation of harmony and
interactive melodic lines, Gauldin presents the concept of linear reduction, utilizing layers of
reductive analysis that derive from Schenker’s analytical theory.
There are other proponents of Schenkerian analysis: Aldwell, Schachter, and Cadwallader
(2019); Clendinning and Marvin (2016); Laitz (2015); and Roig-Francolí (2019) – all with newly
revised contributions to the literature. These authors incorporate Schenker’s linear approach to
the structural levels of tonal music as well as his concept of prolongation, or the “expansion of a
chord … by means of one or more other chords” (Cadwallader & Gagné, 2011, p. 68). Indeed,
the textbooks mentioned above have been pedagogically linked in reviews by Rohan Stewart-
MacDonald (2014) and Don Traut (2006), but their theoretical manner of teaching tonal harmony
limits their practical usefulness in my studio – with my RCM-oriented students.
However, Rogers (2004) decisively states that Schenker’s principles “must be fully
recognized as a dominant force in the contemporary teaching of music theory” (p. 69). Almost
every theory textbook published since the mid-1960s has been influenced, more or less
extensively, by Schenker’s profound analytical insights. My first exposure to Schenker came
with the publication of Sarnecki’s (1999) first harmony book. Although Schenkerian analysis is
not explicitly referenced, Sarnecki introduces a simplified version of Schenker’s chord
prolongations. Consequently, Sarnecki, who likely encountered the concept of prolongation
during his studies at the Mannes College of Music in New York City, has influenced thousands
of young harmony students and their teachers.
While Sarnecki’s (2010) utilization of chord prolongations seems to position his
publications as theoretical textbooks, they do not satisfy the criterion of “constituting intellectual
speculation” (Webster, 1983, p. 1133). They are not characterized by contemplation, conjecture,
or abstract reasoning – nor were they intended for this purpose. They are practical textbooks,
disposed to action or procedural usefulness, as are the other textbooks associated with RCM. But
examination candidates continue to perform weakly on their written harmonizations. Despite the
apparent practicality of RCM-recommended textbooks, the teaching of music theory remains
disconnected from its application to music as a performative art.
 50

Thinking Differently about Music Theory Instruction

As a young rudiments teacher, I naively accepted the prevalent tendency toward a scientific
study of music theory. I followed the curricular requirements of RCM and adopted the textbooks
recommended in a succession of theory syllabi (1989, 1995, 2002, 2009): Berlin, Sclater, and
Sinclair, 1969; Lawless, 1975; Sarnecki, 1995; Vandendool, 1984; and Wharram, 1969. With the
formal study of music theory traditionally initiated at a grade 5 level of performance, RCM’s
curricular model did not encourage equitable proficiencies in the comprehension of theoretical
concepts and practical skills. These inequities reinforced the instructional inclination toward
segmented subject areas, despite their interrelationship.
I did not fully grasp the disadvantages of this segmentation, nor did I understand the
drawbacks of teaching music theory without a direct musical link. The recommended textbooks
contain diagrams and illustrations, certainly, but they lack examples drawn from real music. For
instance, intervals, which measure distances between two notes, are introduced in the textbooks
cited above with variations of the visual aid in Figure 2.5:

Figure 2.5: Size and Quality of Intervals in the Major Scale

This image is generally preceded with instructions for determining numerical measurements by
counting letter names or lines and spaces, but qualifying measurements (like perfect and major)
are presented as facts to be memorized without aural associations. Therefore, intervals become
increasingly complex intellectual abstractions wholly purposed for written examinations. Where
is the music in this manifestation of music theory pedagogy?
To be fair, music theory is only one aspect of a comprehensive music education –
musicianship skills, such as ear training and sight reading, are also essential components. In
RCM’s graded curriculum, the aural recognition of intervals and chords is included with every
practical (performance) examination, but this auditory skill does not automatically transfer to a
written context. The dots, so to speak, must be connected. Regelski’s (1982) inductive, intuitive,
or unconscious reassembling process could become a conscious response to the musical whole.
 51

Intervals (and other fundamental rudiments) could be repurposed as exploratory tools for the
study of genuine musical works. Like the grammatical conventions of language, these tools
could elucidate the artistic qualities of music.
Of paramount importance then, is a pedagogical relationship between the abstract symbols
that characterize written music and the concrete sounds they represent. RCM’s theory syllabi are
regularly revised for practical relevance and several of the recommended textbooks suggest an
equivalent standard. Lawless (1975) provides keyboard applications of music theory throughout
his text but these applications are occasionally problematic. Clearly identified as “optional,” their
association with the piano, while pertinent for a significant portion of the student population,
discriminates against non-pianist musicians. Vandendool (1984) similarly emphasizes a
correlation between music theory and the keyboard. She includes musical excerpts drawn from
diverse genres but these excerpts, which generally function as exercise materials, are reduced to
subliminal renderings of musicality because they lack aural interpretations. Regardless,
Vandendool’s pioneering analysis lessons encouraged RCM to incorporate an analysis
requirement in its 2002 syllabus, establishing musical literature as an authentic point-of-contact
for music theory.
The eighteenth-century rationalization and codification of common harmonic principles
incongruously segmented theoretical suppositions from aural or performative experiences. This
attitude permeates the modern teaching of music theory, despite Regelski’s arguments against the
reductionist traditions it preserves. In my RCM context, music theory is also disconnected from
its doing or the act of musical theorizing. Consequently, an experiential mobilization is
necessary. Modern music theory pedagogy requires an experientially integrated approach in
which students are encouraged to relinquish their instructional involvement as passive receptors,
becoming instead, active participants or “listening-and-thinking” musicians. Rogers (2004)
refers to this educational awakening as “intuition enhancement” (p. 9), or the integration of
conceptual knowledge and musical intuition – an instinctive consciousness of musical
information accumulated through musical experience.
Perhaps the subject of music theory is better labelled musical “grammar,” as a term related
to systematic structures of standard usage, replacing the abstract quality of theory with the
concrete reality of practice. But whatever the label, music theory instruction requires an
underlying method and the most effective methods comprise the following (Choksy et al. 2001):
 52

• an identifiable philosophy (set of principles)

• a unified pedagogy (well-defined practices)
• goals and objectives worthy of pursuit
• integrity

Taken a step further, music theory instruction should also stress the importance of musicality
(White, 2002). To this end, SMT expanded its scope of influence to include the Music Theory
Pedagogy Interest Group.

The Scholarship in Music Theory Pedagogy

The development of music theory pedagogy as an independent field of study is documented

in a special issue of SMT’s Music Theory Spectrum. In their article, Robert Gauldin and Mary
Wennerstrom (1989) observe three areas of research activity: (1) pedagogy, involving analytical
methods and compositional strategies; (2) aural skills and sight singing, particularly concerning
the role of technology; and (3) cognition and perception, incorporating various theories and
experimental findings. Situated in the first area, my inquiry is supported by the authors’
emphasis on experiments that show “little connection between what [is] postulate[d] theoretically
and what is actually heard,” as well as their suggestion to redirect instruction away from
“speculative abstractions” toward “musically significant aspects” of theory (p. 69). This musical
significance requires the practical application of theoretical concepts.
Their article also features an extensive bibliography but its value as a pedagogical
barometer is limited. While an impressive number of publications represent the procedural
practices of teaching music theory – in recent editions such as Aldwell, Schachter, and
Cadwallader 2019; Clendinning and Marvin, 2016; Kostka, Payne, and Almén, 2018; Laitz,
2015; and Roig-Francolí, 2019 – few texts explain pedagogical or philosophical practices.21 Of
these few, Rogers’ (2004) overview of pedagogical philosophies and John D. White’s (2002)
guidelines for integrative teaching, along with the Journal of Music Theory Pedagogy (JMTP),
launched in 1987, offer the most relevance for my study.
Rogers (2004) discloses the “dominant thesis” of his book as the “interdependence of
thinking and listening” (p. 8), which represent the conceptual and perceptual aspects of music

21
Conceptualized by Johann Friedrich Herbart (1776-1841) as a theory of education (Kenklies, 2012), pedagogy
is distinguished from procedure, an ordered series of actions, in its theoretical perspective. It is a “practice about a
practice,” or a metapractice, that involves a theory-practice relationship (Usher, Bryant & Johnston, 2003, p. 390).
 53

theory.22 Associated with mind training and ear training respectively, these components are
linked through musical analysis to become a single entity. The resulting synergy encourages my
art/science integration, as does White’s (2002) “musical union” of rhythm, melody, harmony, and
sound. Arguing that separate elements cannot occur independently in a musical context, he
advocates a similar pedagogical union that synthesizes conceptual awareness and perceptual
activity, for “genuine understanding of musical concepts cannot be acquired without the aural and
even tactile experience of actual music” (p. 147). Nevertheless, this pedagogical union
frequently meets with objections, commonly associated with the time-constraints of teaching,
despite the general acceptance of a musical union in analysis.
In her doctoral dissertation, Linda Schwartz (2009) surveys 187 articles in the first twenty
volumes (1987-2006) of JMTP. Thirty-two of these relate to topics in aural musicianship and
eighteen to music cognition and perception, which are Gauldin and Wennerstrom’s (1989) second
and third areas of research. The remaining articles are divided between procedural topics –
related to tonal music, post-tonal music, jazz and popular music – and pedagogical topics,
confined to twenty-seven “critically reflective” articles (Schwartz, 2009, p. 153). Since 2006, a
growing number of submissions in JMTP have investigated the metapractices of music theory
pedagogy, rather than the specific (how-to) practices of procedure. These include: Scott Dirkse’s
(2014) questioning strategies; Jonathan Dunsby’s (2010) virtual and archeological known
unknowns; Anna Ferenc’s (2016) metacognitive reflections; Roger Mathew Grant’s (2012)
formalism; Joshua Groffman’s (2017) guided discovery techniques; Melissa Hoag’s (2013)
recomposition for appreciation, Samuel Ng’s (2014) recorded performances as text, and Peter
Schubert’s (2011) global perspectives.
Elizabeth West Marvin (2012), in her presentation of developments and pedagogical trends
in music theory teaching, identifies the following six themes:

• engagement of professional music theorists in designing/teaching the core curricula

• focus on analysis and repertoire, somewhat less on part-writing
• integration of aural/written skills and increased time devoted to aural training
• increased use of technology in teaching
• growing need for remediation
• two challenges – improvisation and music outside the Western canon

22
Conceptual knowledge involves imagination, abstraction, and symbolization, while perceptual knowledge is
sensory and involves a direct experience of music (Yarbrough, 2003).
 54

Addressing undergraduate musicians’ acquisition of fundamental knowledge, she highlights the

function of a core curriculum in fostering both musical literacy and musicianship, for “all
undergraduates should be able to read, write, and perform music with understanding” (p. 263).
The broader goal, of course, is to foster increasing levels of musical artistry. While a gradual
shift toward student-centered, contextually relevant instruction is evident, few research studies
incorporate a music-centered approach to instruction, in which music theory is derived from the
music itself. And none of these consider the pedagogical challenges unique to RCM’s music
theory curriculum since it is customarily delivered in private studios rather than institutional
classrooms.

Recent Trends in the Music Theory Pedagogy Literature

The recent publication of Leigh VanHandel’s (2020b) edited collection of pragmatic,

“immediately useful resources for instructors of music theory” adds substantially to the
scholarship in music theory pedagogy (p. xiii). Her comprehensive volume addresses “both
sides” of the subject, with conceptual (pedagogical) as well as practical (procedural) discussions
of effective music theory instruction. My attention was immediately drawn to chapter 2, titled
Putting the Music in “Music Fundamentals” (Hoag, 2020), having newly published a chapter of
my own with a similar title – Where is the Music in Music Theory Pedagogy? (Penny, 2020).
Hoag’s approach to teaching music fundamentals, or the rudiments of music, is governed by two
“mindsets.” She “connect[s] everything with sound, constantly” and “integrate[s] repertoire as
much as possible” (p. 14). Her advocacy for the centrality of music in her teaching, both musical
experience and musical literature, mirrors my ambition for this inquiry.
Following Schwartz’ (2009) lead, my survey sampling of the collection’s sixty-eight
chapters boasts twenty-one critically reflective (pedagogical/philosophical) discussions of music
theory pedagogy. One or two, including Hoag’s, are dedicated to each of these topics:

• fundamentals
• rhythm and meter
• diatonic harmony
• chromatic harmony
• aural skills
• post-tonal theory
• form
• popular music
 55

An itemized accounting of pedagogical approaches, in order of presentation, includes working

memory (VanHandel, 2020a), perception (Kleppinger, 2020), small-scale improvisation (Rogers,
2020), cognitive/communicative constraints (Shanahan, 2020), morphology and syntax (Davis,
2020), functional solmization (Karpinski, 2020), language training (Mariner & Schubert, 2020),
curricular diversity (Buchler, 2020), principles of form (Heneghan, 2020), and an integrated
curriculum (Covach, 2020).23 The last and largest part of the collection addresses “Who, What,
and How We Teach.” These discussions involve issues of public accessibility – teaching
students with a broad range of abilities and experiences in community colleges, music industry
programs, and conservatories or institutional schools of music.
Focusing on pedagogy, as Gauldin and Wennerstrom’s (1989) first area of research, I
narrowed my review to thirteen chapters that offer a broad range of strategies. Some, although
adaptable beyond their immediate circumstances, are directed toward specific topics (Buchler,
2020; Covach, 2020; Davis, 2020; Heneghan, 2020) or specific student populations (Baker, 2020;
Palfy, 2020; Snodgrass, 2020). Inevitably, the call for curriculum revision comes to the fore –
adapting/rethinking music theory pedagogy for accessibility/diversity by borrowing from
educational research in linguistics and mathematics, among others. Preparing undergraduates to
serve a wider non-academic community, two authors explore narrative models for their students’
interactions with music theory: J. Daniel Jenkins (2020) uses program notes to improve “writing
skills while engaging in music analysis discourse” (p. 383); and Justin London (2020) encourages
the reading of “great writing about music” (p. 428), giving Haruki Murakami’s novel Kafka on
the Shore (2006) as an example. Deborah Rifkin (2020), however, approaches curriculum
revision from an operational perspective, presenting a case study that uses her institution’s recent
curricular review process to examine “best practices [for] organizational change and collaborative
communication” (p. 433).
There are pearls of wisdom to be found throughout this collection of resourceful writings,
many of which are grounded in Rogers’ (2004) overview of pedagogical philosophies for the
teaching of music theory. But my inquiry is most closely aligned with Hoag’s (2013, 2020)
application of student-centered discoveries. Matthew Heap (2020), in his student-centered
rethinking of the music theory curriculum, uses a “flipped-classroom system” in which students

23
John Covach (2020) promotes integration by bringing popular music into the music theory classroom – either
with a mild revision of the curriculum that “broadens the traditional model, leaving its foundations in place” or a
fundamental revision that “rethinks the model from the ground up” (p. 332).
 56

master the fundamental elements of specific topics before attending class – placing the onus for
learning on the students themselves. This video-reliant redesign preserves valuable class-time for
developing a “deeper understanding of each topic rather than skimming the [topic’s] surface” (p.
446). While I appreciate Heap’s pursuit of depth over breadth (see chapter 4), my pre-
college/university-aged students are not yet ready to assume the level of independence his
redesigned curriculum requires. But they are ready for engagement.
Along with developing his students’ writing skills, London (2020) aims to “stoke” their
curiosity about music. Philip Duker (2020) cultivates a comparable attitude of curiosity by
encouraging his students to ask meaningful/probing questions about the music they are
experiencing through listening or performing. He explains:

Much of the content that is typically taught in a theory classroom answers

questions that are often unasked and assumed by instructors. What
harmonic progressions [characterize] this style of music? How does the
outer voice counterpoint support this surprising passage? What if the
composer had used a diatonic chord [in this measure] instead? These
kinds of questions are often more interesting entry points … than
beginning with “the answers.” Acknowledging these questions at the
outset can be a powerful way to entice students into caring about the
answers discovered through analysis. (p. 463)

I am struck by a commonality of purpose that encapsulates my instructional mission: asking

instead of answering. Earlier in this chapter, I wondered if intervals, or other elements of
rudimentary music theory, could become tools for the exploration of musical literature. Duker’s
objective is similar. And Nancy Rogers (2020), using small-scale improvisations to transform
unconscious experiences of music into conscious knowledge, guides her students to discover the
“principles behind their musical instincts” (p. 89). Thus, music theory is connected to musical
experience (Rogers) and musical literature (Duker) through questioning. It seems reasonable to
assume that the ends of my pedagogical aspirations are within sight, but the means to these ends
remain elusive. While Hoag’s (2020) chapter brings together all three components – experience,
literature, theory – it does not provide a unifying pedagogical/philosophical methodology for
music theory instruction. How are the “dots” to be connected?
The subject of music theory pedagogy is gaining ground as an independent field of study.
As practitioners within this field, we all want the same outcome: to engage our students in a
holistic experience of music theory. We are experimenting in our classrooms or studios and
 57

sharing our ideas in public forums, such as JMTP and The Routledge Companion to Music
Theory Pedagogy (2020). The scholarship is growing but we do not yet have an effective
metapractice of integration with which to build our individualized curricula.
An integrated music theory pedagogy is seldom addressed in the scholarly literature,
particularly as an integration of art and science, leaving a significant opening for its exploration.
Although my inquiry lacks the security of a long-established research community, this lack may
be turned to my advantage. Embracing Vicki Kubler LaBoskey’s (2004) assertion that “those
engaged in the practice of a particular profession are particularly well qualified to investigate that
practice” (p. 842), my inquiry is situated in the nexus between music theory and music education.
Probing the historical interpretations of music theory, I scrutinized the source of my problem.
Exploring the philosophical foundations of music education, I seek a solution.

The Scholarship in Music Education

Propagated by generations of music theorists who teach as they were taught, my

pedagogical problem is embedded in the instructional practices of the past. Since its resolution is
not immediately evident within the purview of music theory pedagogy, although this literature is
expanding, I broadened the boundaries of my investigation. Briefly considering the scholarship
in music pedagogy, which Sang-Hie Lee (1987) defines as the “systematic analysis of techniques
for teaching performance skills” (p. 37), I found that it is typically analogous with instrumental
music pedagogy – and primarily for the piano. As an important contribution to the growth and
development of this field, piano pedagogy research is active both in music and in related areas,
including cognitive sciences, education, engineering, health sciences, neurosciences, psychology,
and technology (Comeau, 2009). But the physical emphasis of instrumental music pedagogy
confines the topic of music theory, with its intellectual emphasis, to the periphery.
Consequently, I turned my attention from music pedagogy to music education.
Referencing the historical interpretations of J. Paul Green and Nancy F. Vogan (1991), Betty
Hanley (2012) associates music education with public (formal) schooling.24 This “school music”
often implies a general music education which is superficially understood as music appreciation
or the survey sampling of musical repertoire. In contrast, Regelski (2004) defends general music
as the “core curriculum” for all music studies, or the “curricular means” by which music

24
Hanley (2012) also recognizes that informal music education occurs in homes, churches, and communities.
 58

contributes to a “general education” (p. 1). Adopting Regelski’s argument, I will regard music
education as the field of study connected with musical training in schools.
My examination of the pertinent literature generated an extensive list (Beynon & Veblen,
2012; Bowman & Frega, 2012; Elliott, 2005; Hermida & Ferreo, 2010; Jorgensen, 2003;
McPherson & Welch, 2012; Moore, 2012; Reimer, 2009; Swanwick, 2012; to name a few),
although this literature, often American, is associated with school music – and frequently
elementary school music.25 Many academic journals are devoted to music education research, as
are several research manuals (Clements, 2010; Conway, 2014; Hartwig, 2014; Phelps, 2005;
Thompson & Campbell, 2009), but music theory, as a subject independent from general music,
receives little more than a cursory nod.26 However, there are lessons to be learned from the field
of music education, despite a fundamental disagreement between music scholars and education
scholars. White (2002) places their dispute in differing assumptions about the relative
importance of substantive knowledge (musical skill) and methodological or philosophical
knowledge (teaching skill), citing lower musical standards in the education field. A brief
exploration of the philosophical basis for White’s argument will precede my examination of the
current literature.

Early Philosophies of Music Education

Several European educators influenced the evolution of American music education. These
were John Amos Comenius (1592-1670), who formulated a naturalistic conception of education;
Johann Heinrich Pestalozzi (1746-1827), who emphasized child-centered methods; and Friedrich
Fröebel (1782-1852), who recognized the importance of self-expression through play (Mark,
2013). Inspired by the work of these educators, Lowell Mason (1792-1872) persuaded the
Boston School Committee to adopt music as a curricular subject. A portion of the committee’s
report, published in 1838 by the Boston Music Gazette, states: “vocal music seems to have a
natural place in every system of instruction which aspires . . . to develop man’s whole nature”
(quoted in Mark, 1982, p. 17). Early in his career, John Dewey (1859-1952) wrote similarly

25
Canadian music education is grossly under-represented in the literature – of the nine books cited in my text,
only one (Beynon & Veblen, 2012) engages the subject of music education from a Canadian perspective.
26
Scholarly journals in music education include: Action, Criticism, and Theory for Music Education; Bulletin of
the Council for Research in Music Education; Contributions to Music Education; International Journal of Music
Education; Journal of Historical Research in Music Education; Journal of Music, Technology and Education;
Journal of Research in Music Education; Research Studies in Music Education; Music Education Research; Music
Educators Journal; and Update: Applications of Research in Music Education, among others.
 59

about aesthetic feeling, claiming that the “end of art is to produce a perfect harmonized self”
(1886, p. 318). His concern for the individual’s development as a social being resembles Plato’s
justification for education in the arts – as does Mason’s (1834) writings which extol the benefits
of music education for the development of intellectual discipline, moral character, and improved
health.27
These three attributes (intellectual, moral, and physical) became the standard criteria for
justifying American music education.28 However, the decline of progressive education,
associated with Froëbel, Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712-1778), and Maria Montessori (1870-
1952), along with the societal changes brought about by world events in the mid-twentieth
century, such as World War II, the Cold War, and the subsequent “Space Race,” precipitated the
Music Educators National Conference to appoint the Commission on Basic Concepts for the
purpose of addressing the philosophical and theoretical foundations of music education (Mark,
1982). Ironically, the commission’s work, which was to provide future direction, resulted in the
culmination of thousands of years of utilitarian philosophy. 29 Only one contributor to the
commission’s publication thought otherwise. Allen P. Britton’s article, characterized by an
emphasis on aesthetic development, rejected utilitarian or extra-musical values as the
philosophical justification for music education – citing Plato as the “original offender” (Henry,
1958). Consequently, Britton instigated the emancipation of music education from the servitude
of social usefulness.30
Breaking this link with societal fulfillment, music education philosophy was soon
dominated by aesthetic philosophy. Originating in the Age of Enlightenment, aesthetics was

27
Music was a crucial component of Plato’s plan for citizenship education (Mark, 2013). Inheriting the
Pythagoreans’ mathematical conception of music, Plato (ca.429-347 B.C.E.) viewed its orderly relationships of pitch
and rhythm as fundamental proponents of good temper (euharmostia) and gracefulness (eurhythmia) (Abraham,
1979).
28
Herbert Spencer (1820-1903), an English philosopher, anthropologist, and sociologist, promoted the power of
music to further emotional development in his Education: Intellectual, Moral, and Physical (1861).
29
Most authors in the commission’s publication, Basic Concepts in Music Education (1958) – including C. A.
Burmeister, E. Thayer Gaston, Robert House, Thurber H. Madison, George Frederick McKay, and John H. Mueller –
referred to the instrumental usefulness of music education (Mark, 1982).
30
Early in the fifth century, Martianus Capella described the educational properties of seven liberal arts:
grammar, dialectic, rhetoric, arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and harmony (music). The first three, which became
the trivium (three paths), were considered the verbal arts and comprised the elements of language as well as the
training of logic and expression (Stahl, 1971). The remaining four, identified by Boëthius as the quadrivium (four
paths), were the mathematical arts unified by arithmetic as the science of number. Thus, the quadrivium (including
music) taught the secrets of the universe through theoretical contemplation, while the trivium included music only as
a utilitarian or practical application (Mark, 2013).
 60

philosophically bound to the art of music (involving imagination, perception, and sensation),
rather than music education.31 As such, categories of aesthetic analysis, including referentialism,
expressionism, and formalism, enabled philosophical inquiries into the “problems” of art –
problems of feeling and form (Allsup, 2010). While modernist composers, like Arnold
Schoenberg (1874-1951) and Igor Stravinsky (1882-1971), used aesthetic philosophy to shape
elitist university programs, Bennett Reimer (1932-2013) established aesthetic philosophy as the
principal rationale for music education in North America.

Aestheticism vs. Praxialism in Music Education

The emergence of aesthetic education was grounded in the writings of Dewey (1934),
Susanne K. Langer (1942), and Leonard B. Meyer (1956), as well as an interest in cognitive
psychology (Bloom, 1956/1964; Bruner, 1963; Goodman, 1968). Assuming that music (and the
arts) are “basic modes of cognition,” Reimer espoused their nonconceptual ways-of-knowing and
their ability to engage experiences of feeling or sentience (Allsup, 2010, p. 52). He adopted
Meyer’s theory of absolute expressionism, in which the meaning of art is a function of its internal
qualitities (including artistic/cultural influences), rejecting formalism (an intellectual experience
of art) and referentialism (the valuation of art derived from non-artistic meaning).32 Reimer
(1970) believed that the nature of “art as art” must be affirmed and the relation of “art to life”
must be recognized (p. 24), converging the relationship between philosophy and advocacy.
While I support Reimer’s focus on the art of music, his approach – which I experienced in my
elementary schooling – is essentially theoretical.
Defending music education as aesthetic education (MEAE), Forest Hansen (1990) asserts
that “[t]here is a ‘knowing how’ to music appreciation just as there is to music making” (p. 7),
but I would argue that an experience of appreciation, lacking participatory insightfulness,
provides indirect knowledge of music. According to David J. Elliot (1991a), it is a
musical/interpretive performing experience that provides direct knowledge of music, since artistic
proficiency contributes to the depth of knowledgeableness. Nevertheless, aesthetic education
gained full acceptance by the music education profession, although Abraham A. Schwadron

31
Alexander Gottlieb Baumgarten (1714-1762) used the term aesthetics to describe the science of perception
(knowledge acquired through the senses) in art theory (Labuta & Smith, 1997).
32
For Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910), an ardent referentialist, the function of art is to “transmit specific emotions from
the artist to the recipient in the most direct and most powerful way the artist can devise” (Reimer, 1970, p. 16).
 61

(1967) recognized the limitations of its narrow focus in the realities of a pluralistic society, and
Douglas C. Lemmon (1977) similarly challenged its cultural uniformity:

Either we must believe that all musicians . . . work according to the

principles of Reimer’s theory of art . . . or only those works and activities
of musicians that can be shown to conform to the conditions laid down by
Reimer’s theory of art can be justifiably included in . . . a curriculum in
music. (p. 8)

Christopher Small (1977) questioned the philosophical veracity of aesthetic education, revealing
its historical development as a scientific worldview, while Howard Gardner (1983) postulated the
existence of a cognitive form of musical “intelligence.” Therefore, as the 1980s progressed, this
loss of confidence brought the philosophical unity of MEAE to a close.
The emergence of a praxial philosophy inspired Elliott (1995) to integrate multicultural and
sociological perspectives on music in the act of musicing.33 Drawing on Aristotle’s notion of
praxis (as action rooted in practice rather than theory), Elliott criticized the widespread doctrine
of musical consuming, or the abstract contemplation of music as an aesthetic object, and offered
instead, musical performing – not as the actualization of an autonomous object, but as an act of
music making. Aristotle (384-322 B.C.E.), who refuted the Pythagorean “harmony of the
spheres” and debunked the idea of number as reality, viewed the “propriety of music (and
education in music) [as] a relative matter, depending on time, place, purpose, age, and station”
(Mathiesen, 2011, p. 259). This contextualization of music education precipitated an Aristotelian
Renaissance in twentieth-century educational philosophy (Curren, 2010).34
According to Elliott (1991a), a “musical/interpretive performing [experience] involves both
generative thinking and evaluative thinking” (p. 33, original emphasis), which jointly provide
direct knowledge of music. Likewise, the inclusive teaching of musicianship, which he describes
horizontally as procedural knowledge and vertically as artistic proficiency (p. 29), simultaneously
develops the “attitudes and critical skills of perceptive listeners” (p. 34). Thus, musical

33
Small (1998) uses the word musicking, which he defines as a present participle (or gerund): “To music is to
take part, in any capacity, in a musical performance, whether by performing, by listening, by rehearsing or
practicing, by providing material for performance (what is called composing), or by dancing” (p. 9).
34
Distinguishing moral virtues, defined as “dispositions to feel and be moved by our desires or emotions,” from
intellectual virtues, as “capacities or powers of understanding, judgment and reasoning,” Aristotle treats moral
virtues as “states of the irrational part of the psyche” that lay the developmental foundation for intellectual virtues
(Curren, 2010, p. 547). The former arise mainly from habit and the latter, from teaching. Aristotle’s “unity of
virtues” thesis asserts their interdependencies, as moral virtues establish the perception of end pursuits, while
intellectual virtues enable the achievement of these ends.
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performing or musicing is “both a form of knowledge and a source of knowledge” (p. 37,
emphasis added), referring to a state of knowing attained conceptually as well as perceptually.
By way of explanation, Cornelia Yarbrough (2003) describes conceptual knowledge as
“ideational” – involving imagination, abstraction, and symbolization – in contrast with perceptual
knowledge, which is sensory and involves a “direct apprehension of the environment through the
five senses” (pp. 5-6). Consequently, musicing embodies the union of theory and practice that I
am seeking.
Elliott (1991a) severely challenged Reimer's philosophical emphasis on the musical
product rather than its process. In musicing, he suggests that “thought and action are interwoven
like themes in a fugue” (p. 25), but practical or procedural knowledge (knowing how) often
remains secondary to propositional or declarative knowledge (knowing that). Propositional
knowledge is supported by logical evidence, whereas procedural knowledge is exercised through
practical success, but an artistic musical performance – or “cognition in action” (p. 29) – is
derived from a complex integration of both generative and evaluative “knowings” (Scheffler,
1988). This direct knowledge or musicianship, similar to Dewey’s (1934) readiness, also enables
knowledge of that “other” musical work – the interpretive performance itself (Elliott, 1991a).
My craving for practical relevance is satisfied but Elliot’s approach, while fulfilling my desire for
artistic correlation, is philosophically polarizing.
A public dialogue, which began with articles in the Quarterly Journal of Music Teaching
and Learning (Elliott, 1991b; Reimer, 1991), fueled an aesthetic/praxial debate that continued
unabated until Reimer’s death. Proponents and detractors of both philosophies contributed their
perspectives. Regelski (1997) approved the praxial intersection of deliberate thinking and doing
but advocated an openness toward all forms of musical activity (ceremony, entertainment,
recreation, ritual, and therapy), extending praxis beyond the Western art tradition; while Maxine
Greene (1995) celebrated praxial experiences of an aesthetic nature, enabling the “poetic use of
[one’s] imagination” (p. 4). Philip Alperson (2010), attempting to resolve the tension, suggested
“robust” praxialism as an inclusive encompassing of aesthetic interests that concern both the
musical product as well as the productive and receptive processes involved in the creation of the
product. Similarly, Elvira Panaiotidi (2005) acknowledged the complementary relationship
between aestheticism and praxialism, arguing for the “multidimensionality” of musical praxis.
Other scholars did not directly engage the debate, such as Estelle R. Jorgensen (1997) who
 63

adopted a dialectic stance (reminiscent of Socrates) instead.35 My own support for Elliot’s
approach is less enthusiastic than it once was.
I am not convinced that Elliott’s emphasis on musical performing completely addresses the
teaching/learning of music theory. While performance is important, “performance alone does not
constitute an education in music” (Choksy, 1999b, p. 190) – nor does Reimer’s “music
appreciation movement” which perpetuates an ideal of connoisseurship through the study of
history, theory, and other information about music, constituting “training for understanding” as a
prerequisite for “appreciating” (Regelski, 2006, p. 285). But an integrated theoretical/practical
approach would unify both the conception and perception of musical wholes – as imagination,
abstraction, and symbolization derived from a direct experience of music.

Experiential Music Education

Elizabeth Gould (2004) poignantly claims that the essentialist philosophies of both
aesthetic education and praxial education are “irrelevant in and irreducible to the lived
experiences of music education practitioners” (p. 291). Rejecting the aesthetic/praxial dualism,
she adopts Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari’s (1987) “nomadic wandering” as the forming,
inventing, and fabricating of new concepts through experimentation and affirmation – or a
philosophy of experience. As such, educational practitioners, exercising intentional ways of
thinking and acting – not necessarily associated with a particular method or approach – “create
their own music education philosophy as they solve the problems of their everyday lives” (Gould,
2004, p.296). Philosophy as experience then, provides an alternative perspective for the
resolution of both theoretical and practical problems.
This musical experience, consistent with Dewey’s (1938) pragmatic premise of “learning
by doing,” attempts to reverse the habitual creation of written competencies that lack auditory
awareness. Rogers (2004) describes music theory not as a subject but as an activity of musical
theorizing, which he explains as “thinking about what we hear [or play] and hearing what we
think about” (p. 7). This hearing/thinking balance, enabled by the aural imagining of a visual or
notated representation, is the essence of music theory conceived as praxis. Thus, an integrated

35
Contradicting the universalist philosophies of the pre-Socratics (including Pythagoras), Socrates challenged the
order and predictability of natural laws through a method of dialogue that emphasized the cultural and contextual
ethics of human conduct. This dialectic process fostered critical thinking and launched the conflict between rote
learning and child-centered learning (Allsup, 2010).
 64

approach to its teaching offers a paradigmatic “middle ground” that allows for the navigation of
music theory pedagogy as a science as well as an art, since both disciplines are included in the
definition of music itself – the “science or art of ordering tones or sounds in succession, in
combination, and in temporal relationships” (Webster, 1983, p. 781). The definition of
pedagogy, as the “art, science, or profession of teaching” (p. 866), further implicates the
instructional cohabitation of art and science.
Admittedly, this dichotomy has coloured my review of the music education literature.
Although I read articles reporting research studies (Nielsen, 2009; Roulston, 2006; Yarbrough,
2003), instructional applications (Andrews, 1990; Espeland, 2010; Luce, 2001), knowledge
traditions (Aróstegui, 2003; Elliott, 1991a; Hansen, 1990; Regelski, 2006), philosophical
paradigms (Jorgensen, 2009), and valuation theories (Westerlund, 2008), my readings were often
preoccupied with the prevalence of opposing educational approaches, such as means/ends
behaviours, concrete/abstract ideals, practical/aesthetic understandings, intrinsic/extrinsic values,
and interpretive/positivist paradigms. For example, Aróstegui (2003) illustrates the confrontation
between a teaching/learning process conducted by an external authority, relatively independent of
the learner’s experience, or a teacher/student interaction in which the learner actively constructs
subject meanings – an opposition that encourages me to choose an interactive posture on behalf
of my students.
Given this instructional posture, I am inspired by Kathryn Roulston’s (2006) exploration of
qualitative studies in music education, where “researchers are involved in knowledge
construction to examine meanings from participants’ perspectives, with findings emerging from
data analysis in an ‘inductive’ or bottom-up, rather than a ‘deductive’ or top-down way” (p. 155,
original emphasis). Although not specific to teaching strategies, this interpretive methodology
can be re-imagined in an instructional context, where teachers are involved in knowledge
construction from students’ perspectives. And just as interpretivist research draws on the notion
of Verstehen or understanding, associated with the German sociologist Max Weber (1864-1920),
so too can inductive teaching strategies that Roulston, citing Michael Crotty (1998), contrasts
with “research [and instruction] that aims to ‘explain,’ or focuses on causality” (Roulston, 2006,
p. 161).
From a student viewpoint, Michael J. Prince and Richard M. Felder (2006) describe
inductive learning as an “umbrella term” that encompasses active learning, inquiry learning,
 65

collaborative learning, discovery learning, and others. Despite identifiable differences, these
inductive methods are all characterized as constructivist, building on the widely-accepted belief
that students construct their own version of reality, rather than simply absorbing the teacher’s
version. David W. Luce (2001) carefully delineates collaborative learning from cooperative
learning, which maintains traditional structures of hierarchical authority, and collaborative
learning from collaborative projects, which differ in philosophy and methodology. Regarding
inductive learning, Luce identifies a significant instructional challenge: “Shifting from traditional
learning approaches to a collaborative learning style entails … [a] curriculum shift from
textbook-based deductive reasoning to a student-focused inductive process [that] question[s] the
utility of textbooks” (p. 21). In this statement, I recognize the epiphany that altered the course of
my professional career and subsequently awakened my researcher-self.
Heidi Westerlund (2008) explores the justification of music education through Dewey’s
(1939) pragmatist theory of valuation. Distinguishing intrinsic from extrinsic values, or the
means and ends of educational practice, Westerlund suggests that musical activities and concrete
acts of music, as the means for enhancing understanding and experience, are intrinsically
valuable musical events in themselves, or the ends of what Dewey calls “consummatory
experiences” (Westerlund, 2008, p. 83). Approaching the notion of value from the learner’s
perspective – as an experience of personal interest – conventional teaching tends to undermine
the “experiential value of means” (p. 81), particularly in music evaluation. These pedagogical
practices, aligned with Aróstegui’s (2003) “pre-eminence of positivism” or the dominant
understanding of music as a positivist product, endorse instructional outcomes that measure the
least essential components of music rather than aesthetic comprehension. But Westerlund’s
advocacy for student-centeredness, which stands in marked contrast with the prevailing teacher-
centered approach, reinforces the proposition that knowledge should be introduced through
experience.
Thus, the inherent value of musical action in education, or a “means-ends integration”
(Westerlund, 2008, p. 86), assumes a constitutive role in creating a life-long interest in music.
Elliott (1991a) maintains that the “integration of a specific body of informed actions and
understandings is the essence of ‘music’ conceived as a verb” (p. 27, emphasis added).
Throughout his contemplation of music as knowledge, Elliott criticizes the indoctrinated view of
musical performance as “secondary and subservient to ‘music-as-object’,” favouring instead its
 66

manifestation in musicing or the doing of music (pp. 24-25). Regelski (2006) similarly
champions the inductive notion of music as praxis – intended “not [only] to be understood, but to
be used” (p. 291, original emphasis). Referencing three types of knowledge that gained
philosophical prominence in the ethics of Aristotle, Regelski describes theoria, knowledge
considered for its own sake, techne, knowledge involved in artisanship or technicism, and praxis,
the “adaptable knowledge needed to serve the idiosyncratic and ever-changing needs of people”
(p. 292). This integrated notion of praxis holistically unites mind and body, as physical
manifestations of theory and practice, with pragmatic effectiveness.

The Nexus of Music Theory and Music Education

Redirecting my literature review toward integration, I soon discovered that music

integration is subsumed within the larger enterprise of arts integration. Described by Lynne B.
Silverstein and Sean Layne (2010) as an “approach to teaching in which the arts leverage learning
in other subject areas” (p. 1) – such as geography, history, language, math, and science – arts
integration enables cross-curricular or interdisciplinary instruction that enhances academic
success, creative problem solving, and multicultural awareness (May, 2013). But the frequent
occurrence of artificial/superficial arts activities tends to devalue or undermine meaningful
artistic objectives, especially in music (Cosenza, 2005; LaJevic, 2013), and arts integration rarely
involves music theory because of its propensity for science. While the interdisciplinary
integration of math and music theory is a notable exception (Douthett et al., 2008; Johnson,
2003), this too is generally predisposed toward intellectual reasoning (science) rather than
aesthetic expression (art).
My inquiry, therefore, requires a modified form of integration. Since instructional
integration is frequently multi-disciplinary, I adopted instead the integration of multiple
perspectives (artistic and scientific) within the single discipline of music theory. The scholarly
literature demonstrates this art/science integration in a broad range of subjects, including
anthropology, archaeology, cognitive development, counselling, criminology, cybernetics,
education, medicine, nursing, psychology, and technology. Offering a representative example in
mathematics education, Robert W. Peck (2014) suggests that integration – as a “creditable
pedagogical ambition” – corrects the imbalance between “practical exercise and theoretical
understanding” (p. 147). For music theory educators, this imbalance is deeply rooted in the
division between skill acquisition and concept inference.
 67

An additional imbalance, between objective and subjective views of knowledge, is also

corrected with an integrated pedagogy. For instance, consonance and dissonance are determined
both acoustically and psychologically, as numerical sound-wave frequencies and judgements of
aesthetic preference (pleasantness/unpleasantness). In the teaching of music theory, a modern
integration that combines acoustical explanations and psychological interpretations could bridge
the ancient gap between scientific and artistic understandings of music. The creation of this
acoustical/psychological bridge is the goal of my research project. KM provides a structural
framework for achieving my goal.
In the twentieth century, three distinct approaches to music education attained international
prominence: Jaques-Dalcroze Eurhythmics (Switzerland), teaching elements of rhythm, tonality,
and structure through expressive movement; the Kodály Method (Hungary), deriving musical
concepts through experiences of singing, hearing, reading, writing, and creating; as well as Orff
Schulwerk (Germany), combining music with dance, drama, and speech through activities of
instrumental play (Choksy et al., 2001). The common denominator that connects these three
approaches is an integrated, activity-based experience of music.
A fourth approach, Comprehensive Musicianship, developed in the United States in the late
1960s. Intended for the education of performing musicians, music consumers, and college music
teachers, CM synthesizes conceptual and musical experiences through performance, analysis, and
composition (Choksy et al., 2001). David Willoughby (1990) summarizes its core philosophies:

• to develop competencies in creating and performing music, as well as critical

listening and analyzing competencies
• to bring into a common frame of reference the totality of musical styles, particularly
those in the twentieth century and in a wide variety of non-Western styles
• to integrate musical content and musical experience
• to actively involve students in the application of concepts with emphasis on music
making and discovery, rather than on routine memorization in a passive learning
environment

CM’s premise that musical literature should be the source of all music learning is another
principle of its approach that is especially relevant for my study. But the application of CM, in
its purest conceptualization, did not gain a firm foothold in the music education profession.
Although it promoted an expansion of traditional attitudes, CM’s pursuit of educational change
created problems, too often resulting in feelings of defensiveness or protectiveness for long-
 68

established music educators (Willoughby, 1990). Our profession was not yet ready for the
idealistic aspirations of CM.
As an undergraduate student, I was exposed to the pedagogies of the three European
approaches, but my practicum, under Choksy’s supervision, utilized the principles and practices
of KM. I was impressed with Kodály’s holistic educational philosophy, which balances artistic
integrity with a systematic approach to music instruction, but I struggled with the applicability of
his classroom-oriented methodology in my private studio. How could KM be adapted for my
teaching of music theory? While I was unable, at the time, to articulate an answer to this
question, my experience with KM intuitively shaped my teaching practice and Choksy’s
influence lingered well beyond my practicum.

The Kodály Method in a North American Context

In North America, KM is generally associated with early-childhood music education,

despite the initial implementation of Kodály’s methodology at the highest level of musical tuition
in Hungary – the Franz Liszt Academy of Music. As a member of the institution’s faculty,
Kodály was disappointed with his students’ deficiencies in musicality. He undertook to improve
their hearing, reading, and writing, which inevitably heightened the inadequacy of their
preparatory training. In response, KM was introduced in Hungary’s kindergartens and while it
remains particularly effective in that setting, its pedagogical principles are equally effective
beyond an elementary level (Choksy et al., 2001).
The North American adaptation of KM, while the product of many dedicated practitioners,
is attributed to Choksy (1981; 1991; 1999a; 1999b). Her career began in Baltimore, Maryland,
where she was both a teacher and a music supervisor for the County Board of Education. While
attending the Peabody Conservatory of Music in Baltimore, she encountered KM for the first
time and was encouraged by her instructor, Katinka Dániel (1913-2010), to travel to Hungary.
There, in 1968, she met Erzsébet Szőnyi (1924-2019), artistic director of the Danube Bend
Summer University at Esztergom, and it was Szőnyi (1998) who suggested that Choksy spend an
academic year in Hungary. This she did, from 1970 to 1971, earning a Kodály certificate from
the Franz Liszt Academy of Music in Budapest. She subsequently taught at Holy Names College
in Oakland, California, then moved to Canada in 1979. Joining the music faculty at U of C, she
later taught at the Mount Royal University Conservatory as well.
 69

Recognized as an international authority, Choksy was instrumental in the North American

dissemination of Kodály’s principles and practices. A founding member of the International
Kodály Society (IKS), the Organization of American Kodály Educators (OAKE), and the Alberta
Kodály Association (AKA), she served as president of the Kodály Society of Canada (KSC) from
1984 to 1988. Academically, she pioneered a graduate diploma in fine arts for Kodály
certification, designed a master’s degree in music with a Kodály emphasis, and while head of the
music department at U of C (from 1993 to 1998), spearheaded the creation of a doctorate in
music with a specialization in the Kodály concept of music education – the first such degree in
English Canada (Cramer & Panagapka, 1998).
As a distinguished educator, Choksy worked diligently, until her retirement in 1998, to
adapt Kodály’s principles and practices for implementation in an English-language context.
Utilizing traditional music appropriate for North America and pedagogical strategies suitable for
North American students, she authored several textbooks that incorporate Kodály’s educational
philosophy. The first of these was written in the year following her extended trip to Hungary and
although she admits it was conceived “more to clarify [her] own thinking than to offer curricular
advice to others” (1999a, p. xiii), Choksy’s pedagogical prose has influenced both pre-service
and practicing teachers across the North American continent. While she did not have an
opportunity to meet Kodály before his death in 1967, Choksy’s adaptation of his methodology
has provided a contextualized “translation” of KM for thousands of music educators.
In 1999, The Kodály Method I: Comprehensive Music Education was released in its third
edition, along with a new companion volume, The Kodály Method II: Folksong to Masterwork.
This second publication is devoted to the continuity of music education for older students. But
what is it that initially attracted Choksy to KM? Simply stated, it was the quality of its pedagogy
(Choksy, 1999a). In 1950, the first singing school was established in Kesckemét, Kodály’s
birthplace, under the direction of his longtime friend Márta Nemesszeghy (1923-1973). Students
received music instruction via KM every day and by 2000, fifty years after the success of this
educational “experiment,” there were more than 240 such singing schools.
Promoting a sequential hierarchy of overlapping and recurring musical concepts, KM
elicits conceptual inferences through the presentation of carefully selected educational
experiences. The instructional tools that facilitate this methodology, which include moveable-do
solmization, hand signs, and rhythm-duration syllables, are enhanced with authentic musical
 70

materials of recognized or unquestioned artistic value. Adopting these tools and materials,
Kodály and his colleagues formulated an instructional sequence that is child-developmental,
rather than subject-logical, opposing conventional content-oriented sequencing. But KM
transcends the instructional tools, materials, and sequencing with which it is often identified.
Embedded in its methodology is a four-step pedagogical process that directs the acquisition of
every new concept, whether rhythmic, melodic, harmonic, or analytic. The four steps of this
process are (Choksy, 1999a):

prepare make conscious reinforce assess

Applied repeatedly, the four steps are supplemented with a series of musical skills that facilitate
the assimilation of each new concept. These skills are also ordered in a pedagogical sequence
(Choksy, 1981):

hearing singing deriving writing reading creating

By way of explanation, the readiness or preparation stage of this process requires the rote-
teaching, through hearing and singing, of a core song repertoire from which the new conceptual
learning is to be derived. It also implies the internalization of previously-learned concepts that
are necessary for the understanding of the unknown element. The procedural or make conscious
stage involves the transfer of a subconscious musical experience to conscious awareness.
Through careful questioning, students are led to the derivation of the new conceptual learning in
a familiar song. Given accurate answers, the teacher names and notates the new element. In the
reinforcement stage, the new learning is located in the remaining repertoire of the preparation
stage. Within these known songs, students practice writing with their newly acquired conceptual
understanding and learn new song materials that contain the relevant concept. The final stage of
the instructional process involves assessment and evaluation which determine whether or not the
new conceptual learning has taken place. Along with reading the new element in unknown
repertoire, understanding is measured with the creative activities of improvisation and
composition.36

36
An illustrative example of Kodály’s four-step pedagogical process, using the dominant 7th chord (V7) as a
sample conceptual element, is outlined in the opening chapter of my master’s thesis (Penny, 2012).
 71

The Application of Kodály’s Methodology

Widespread recognition of KM began in 1964 when the International Society for Music
Education (ISME) held its biennial conference in Budapest. Kodály, elected Honorary President
of the Society, addressed the conference attendees who also witnessed the phenomenal results of
KM firsthand. In 1975, the composer’s widow founded the Kodály Institute of Hungary at
Kesckemét, which was primarily tasked with the training of foreign teachers. Consequently,
music educators from all over the world have travelled to Hungary and KM is currently practiced
on every continent – with translations in Chinese, Estonian, French, German, Japanese, Latvian,
Polish, Russian, Spanish, Swedish, as well as English (Choksy, 1999a, p. 4).
In Canada, KM’s first programs were established in Halifax and Nanaimo, but it was in
Calgary that Choksy spent a significant portion of her teaching career – finding her “path with
heart” and dedicating her professional activities to “research that matters,” (Chambers, 2004, p.
1). She taught public school children, gifted instrumentalists, classroom and music teachers, as
well as undergraduate and graduate students. Believing that those who would teach teachers
should also teach children, Choksy maintained her connection to the classroom and positioned
her research in the lived experiences of her students. Continually seeking the best teaching
materials and the most effective pedagogical practices, she modelled her conviction that
“[t]eaching children keeps one in touch with reality” (Choksy, 1999a, p. xiii).
The child-developmental aspect of KM’s instructional process is influenced by the theories
of Jean Piaget (1896-1980) and Jerome S. Bruner (1915-2016). In Choksy’s (1991)
psychological grounding of KM, she describes Piaget’s (1969) four stages of cognitive
development (sensorimotor, preoperational, concrete operational, and formal operational),
acknowledging developmental diversity in both the acquisition of musical skills and the inference
of musical concepts.37 Piaget reasoned that children mentally organize new information into
schema, psychological structures used to understand reality, through a process of assimilation,
and create new or modify old cognitive structures through a process of accommodation (Cornett
& Smithrim, 2001). Interacting with their environments, children develop intellectually by

37
Bruner (1966) warns against the misinterpretation of Piaget’s pioneering work as principally psychological,
insisting that it is deeply epistemological in its concern for the “nature of knowledge … as it exists at different points
in the development of the child” (p. 7).
 72

experimenting – making discoveries that alter their perceptions of the world through sensory
stimulus. These experiments, and the discoveries they generate, are essential components of KM.
Along with Piaget’s learning theory, Choksy (1991) references Bruner’s theory of
instruction as a means for “achieving improvement in learning” (p. 15, original emphasis).
Bruner’s (1966) theory, comprising four characteristic features (predisposition, structure,
sequence, and reinforcement), presumes that “any subject can be taught in some intellectually
honest form to any child at any stage of development” (p. 33). Made up of propositions that
simplify information, generate new propositions, and increase the “manipulability” of a body of
knowledge, Bruner’s “optimal structure,” follows an “optimal sequence” through enactive,
iconic, and symbolic modes of representation as actions, images, and symbols (p. 41).
Accordingly, early musical experiences should be concrete, immediate, and obvious (enactive),
but with repeated reinforcement at increasingly complex levels, later experiences can become
abstract, remote, and subtle (iconic then symbolic).
Incorporating the repeated reinforcements that characterize Bruner’s (1963) “spiral
curriculum,” KM reinforces musical concepts with increasingly complex musical experiences.
These experiences, progressing from concrete to abstract, precede symbolization. Since
conceptual understandings – as abstract generalizations derived from concrete events – are
acquired experientially, they are not only intellectualized, but are developed and internalized
(Choksy, 1981). Therefore, from a pedagogical perspective, KM’s approach differs
fundamentally from standard educational traditions in music teaching. These traditions exercise a
form of direct instruction characterized by lectures or demonstrations of the subject matter, often
without aural renderings, and allow teachers to rush through an overwhelming number of
concepts in their determination to present as much musical information as possible.
Consequently, students become acquainted with a vocabulary of superficial facts about music,
but they do not develop musical knowledge. As an alternative, Choksy (1999a) suggests that
“teachers must stop trying to cover the vast subject of music and begin to uncover it a little bit at
a time” (p. 171).
Providing a means to this end, Kodály’s pedagogical sequencing, rather than being rigid or
inflexible, is pliant and adjustable – a living method that evolves according to the circumstances
for which it is intended. Despite the complexity of integrating multiple concepts at differing
stages of the instructional process, the emphasis of the process merely shifts. Thus, instead of
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developing a curriculum that comprises “hierarchies of skills and concepts . . . arranged from
simplest to most complex” (Choksy, 1999b, p. 77), which is often the case, Kodály insists that
the music itself must dictate the instructional sequence. A thorough analysis of a chosen work
determines “what the students need to know in order to listen to it with understanding” (p. 78),
which in turn, determines how teachers prepare their students for the new learnings to be derived
from the work.
Although older students are capable of learning more quickly and intellectualize conceptual
knowledge more easily than younger students, intellectualization and internalization are not the
same process. Accordingly, a well-trained Kodály practitioner is unobtrusive, speaking sparingly
and never describing or explaining musical concepts. Instead, these concepts are “demonstrated
by the teacher or inferred and derived by the students” from musical experiences (Choksy et al.,
2001, p. 138). This experiential immersion enables students’ involvement in the educational
process, fostering both their intellectual development and their emotional fulfillment.
Since its presentation to the international community in 1958, KM has weathered the “test
of time” (Bernstorf, 2014), forging connections beyond elementary music education (Gallo,
2010; Towner, 2011). Micheál Houlahan and Philip Tacka (2008) offer a “practical guide for
teaching” (p. 5), which Brent Gault (2009) praises for its detailed application of Kodály’s
educational philosophy. However, comparing their text with Choksy’s (1999a), Corrie Box
(2015) highlights differing curricular goals – the former focused on implementation and the latter
on development. Box’s findings corroborate my interpretation of Houlahan and Tacka’s (2008)
offering as somewhat formulaic, although the authors defend their model lesson plans in response
to concerns voiced by teachers for a “lack of specificity” (p. 4). In contrast, Choksy’s emphasis
on the foundational precepts of teaching allows for the development of an individual, and
contextually appropriate, implementation of KM.
Consequently, Choksy’s North American adaptation of KM derives an integrated
curriculum from the inner logic of music itself, carefully preserving Kodály’s pedagogical
principles and practices, along with his sentiment that a love of music is supported by knowledge
about music which in turn, is accumulated through the experience of music. A re-imagining of
this adaptation for RCM’s curriculum – as an instructional integration of scientific theory and
artistic practice – could benefit examination candidates (see Appendix 2.2) by reconciling a
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theoretical or written representation of tonal harmony with a practical or sensory experience of its
meaning.
Noting that “many individuals never reach [Piaget’s] final stage of development” (Cornett
& Smithrim, 2001, p. 16), which involves abstract and hypothetical problem solving, I am
compelled to question the effectiveness of conventional, non-experiential teaching practices for
music theory pedagogy. Bernard W. Andrews (1990), utilizing a “Deweyan approach to music
instruction” (p. 5), proposes an alternative discovery learning approach that emphasizes practical
exploration over theoretical experimentation.38 With this inductive method, instructional
objectives shift from a “quest for certainty to [a] quest for credibility,” highlighting the fluidity of
hypotheses as “warranted assertion[s]” that are subject to future reformulation (p. 6) – through
Piaget’s developmental processes of assimilation and accommodation.
A guided approach to the discovery of music rudiments has the potential to introduce new
theoretical elements via investigative means. Groffman (2017) proposes an instructional model
derived from Process Oriented Guided Inquiry Learning (POGIL), commonly utilized for the
teaching of STEM subjects (science, technology, engineering, and mathematics) in higher
education. Groffman’s adaptation of discovery techniques for the teaching of music theory,
which includes a three-part learning cycle (exploration, concept formation, and application), is
predicated on student engagement, “emerging at the intersection of … active learning and
motivation” (p. 35). Although the basic tenets of music rudiments – as with science – are “not
particularly open [to] re-invention,” there is value in “having students ‘discover’ [rudimentary]
concepts for themselves” (p. 25). Thus, his groupwork-based guided inquiry method enables
students to reprise the musical/theoretical work of professional theorists from generations past.
While Groffman’s (2017) student-centered approach is intentionally aligned with the
scientific methodology of POGIL, it is also rooted in a social constructivist paradigm influenced
by Dewey and Piaget (Webster, 2011). Consequently, in its proclivity for the student’s active
engagement in guided discoveries, Groffman’s method resembles Kodály’s, with its concept
formation cycle roughly equivalent to the conscious awareness stage of KM’s instructional

38
Disparate views of discovery learning, an educational philosophy often attributed to Bruner (1961), has
provoked a controversial un/assisted debate in recent research. Richard E. Mayer (2004) distinguishes pure
discovery, in which the learning is acquired “without constraint or intervention” by an instructor, from guided
discovery, in which the instructor provides assistance that is “dynamic and responsive to the learner’s current state of
experience and ability” (Honomichl & Chen, 2012, p. 615) – similar to the concept of instructional scaffolding. I
position myself with the latter view.
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process. So too is a guided discovery approach evident in Choksy’s (1999a) uncovering of music
a little bit at a time. Although the term discover implies a slightly more serendipitous “finding”
than uncover, defined as making known or bringing to light (Webster, 1983), it is usually
necessary to un-cover something in order to dis-cover it. Therefore, the music teacher’s
provision of rich concrete experiences enables a natural and sequential progression toward more
complex thinking, fuelled by the student’s motivation to make sense of the subject matter. This
holistic ideal, rather than dissecting and analyzing theoretical elements that are detached from a
practical engagement with music (either auditory or kinesthetic), integrates these elements into a
whole that illuminates the collaborative role of each part.

Re-Imagining the Kodály Method for an Integrated Music Theory Pedagogy

An integrated approach to the teaching of music theory may be likened to the notion of
Gesamtkunstwerk (total artwork). As a synthesis of all the arts (music, poetry, drama, and visual
spectacle), this term was coined by Richard Wagner (1813-1883) to describe his concept of
German opera (Forney & Machlis, 2011). Wagner’s music dramas, as he labelled them, are non-
sectional – they are fashioned from recurring leitmotifs (leading motives) that represent persons,
places, objects, or ideas. These leitmotifs, which replace the arias, ensembles, and choruses of
conventional operas, undergo variation and development through a process of continual
transformation. Similarly, the conceptual elements of music theory recur within the context of
performative experiences. In this experiential context, they are continually subject to processes
of assimilation and accommodation (Piaget, 1969), through increasingly complex reinforcements
(Bruner, 1963).
My inspiration for an integrated music theory pedagogy is drawn from Kodály’s words:

Music must not be approached from its intellectual, rational side, nor
should it be conveyed … as a system of algebraic symbols, or as the
secret writing of a language with which [the student] has no connection.
The way should be paved for direct intuition. (1974, p. 120)

Suggesting that content knowledge emerges as a consequence of situational interactions,

Aróstegui (2003) contends that musical understanding is reached through a complementary
combination of intellectual and experiential knowledge. Recognizing the unbalanced application
of these opposing views in curriculum implementation, I set out to bridge the instructional gap
 76

that traditionally separates music theory and music practice by deriving content knowledge
(science) from aesthetic interaction (art).
My inquiry disrupts traditional curricular models that introduce the formal study of music
theory with a grade 5 level of instrumental performance. Given that music theory, as an object of
historical theorizing, was initially derived from an oral/aural experience, contemporary music
theory pedagogy could be informed by the same derivation process through an integrated
instructional approach. To this end, I embraced Choksy’s adaptation of KM and its holistic
teaching practices, which unite the mind and body (theory and practice) with symbiotic
effectiveness. KM’s instructional integration could benefit RCM’s music theory students, both
mine and those of the wider musical community, not only by enhancing their theoretical
achievements, but by enriching their practical appreciation for – and enjoyment of – music as an
aural artform.
For many years, I envisioned this holistic outcome. RCM’s carefully sequenced theoretical
requirements could be integrated at every practical (performance) level. Rather than delaying the
start of music theory training until grade 5, a spiralled course of study could begin with the
preparatory grades (A and B) – a recommendation that I included in an early draft of my research
proposal. As it happened, RCM did just that, instituting an expanded music theory curriculum
with the 2016 Theory Syllabus. This implementation of theory co-requisites at every level,
particularly the early levels, enables an interactive exchange between the art of music, embodied
in perceptual experiences, and the science of music, expressed in conceptual explanations. It is
an interaction that allows practice to inform theory while it also encourages theory to inform
practice. Thus, theoretical content is reciprocally related to practical experience. But beyond a
curricular re-organization, how is a theory/practice integration to be accomplished?
Within the larger context of RCM’s curriculum, I wondered if conceptual understandings
could stem from instructional modules cumulatively linked with repertoire or technical
requirements (ear training, sight reading, and technique). And if these concepts could be drawn
from the students’ own instrumental or vocal repertoire, Kodály’s insistence that music should
dictate the instructional sequence is satisfied. But knowing what to do is not the same as
knowing how to do it. In the first years of my doctoral studies, which pre-date The Routledge
Companion to Music Theory Pedagogy (2020), I began to experiment. Relying on past
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experiences, my author-self designed a series of music-centered lessons intended to explore the

potential of a KM/RCM integration.
To demonstrate, I chose a familiar work that my youngest daughter was preparing for her
grade 2 piano examination. The specific requirements for this exam are duplicated in Appendix
2.3. My experimental lessons are based on KM’s four-step instructional process (prepare, make
conscious, reinforce, and asses) as well as its progressive series of musical skills (hearing,
singing, deriving, writing, reading, and creating). These sequences, which epitomize the active or
practical pursuit of musical knowledge, provide a framework for my interactive analysis of
Christian Gottlob Neefe’s (1748-1798) Allegretto in C Major (included in Appendix 2.4). A
sample worksheet that highlights the composition’s theoretical content – in preparation,
conscious awareness, reinforcement, and assessment stages – is reproduced in Appendix 2.5.
As a readiness procedure, the preparation stage incorporates both performative experiences
and the internalization of previously-acquired concepts. The first activity presupposes that my
hypothetical student is learning to play the Allegretto in C Major but is unfamiliar with the
composer’s historical background. A simplified version of Neefe’s biography, requiring minimal
student research, opens the sample worksheet. The make conscious stage involves the
transitional moment when an unconscious experience becomes conscious knowledge – when the
unknown becomes known. Having observed that my examination candidate (in Appendix 2.2)
did not recognize the modulation from G major to D major in the third phrase of the given
harmonization (mm. 5-6), I chose to engage the concept of tonicization as the precursor of
modulation.39 With carefully selected questioning, the student is led to discern the characteristic
tendency of a leading tone to rise a half-step to the appropriate tonic. The sample worksheet
attaches written symbolization to this aural phenomenon, thereby transferring the experience
from sound to sight.40
The reinforcement stage requires a guided application of previously-acquired conscious
knowledge. Incorporating multiple concepts at differing stages, this process may address a
number of musical elements, including melody, rhythm, harmony, texture, form, and expression.

39
Tonicization is a brief “disturbance” of key in which a chord other than the tonic assumes the role of a
temporary tonic, being preceded by its own dominant-function harmony. Modulation implies a change of key, which
is established by means of several functional chords and confirmed with a cadence (RCM, 2017).
40
The terminology used in my sample worksheet is consistent with the 2009 edition of RCM’s Theory Syllabus,
but several terms were streamlined or updated in the 2016 edition, including leading tone, half step, and whole step,
which are used in the body of my text.
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It supports or strengthens conscious knowledge through repeated discoveries of known concepts

in varied circumstances, implementing notational symbolization and moving toward abstraction.
With reference to Appendix 2.5, the topics engaged assume prior conscious awareness. The
final evaluation or assessment of conceptual understanding appraises musical knowledge through
the demonstration of specific skill sets. Improvisation or composition, as creating activities,
exhibit comprehension by featuring the new concept in an unfamiliar context. My sample
worksheet involves the subject of elementary counterpoint, or two-part harmony, motivated by
my examination candidate’s inability to handle the relationship between bass and soprano in the
harmonization’s fourth phrase (mm. 7-8).
The notable take-away from this exploration of a KM/RCM integration is its potential for a
music-first derivation of theoretical concepts from the musical literature. Although Neefe’s
Allegretto in C Major is a grade 2 piano piece, its harmonic language is somewhat sophisticated.
The concept of tonicization, which is featured in the make conscious or teaching portion of the
sample worksheet, is not introduced in RCM’s theory curriculum until basic harmony, which is a
grade 9 co-requisite. But the simplicity of Neefe’s two-part texture makes the resolution of three
distinct dominant 7th chords easily identifiable – in mm. 9-10, mm. 11-12, and mm. 13-14. Even
if the word tonicization is not mentioned, the leading tone/tonic relationship at the heart of V7’s
resolution will become conscious knowledge through aural experience. And with repeated
reinforcements in the intervening years, the depth of experiential knowledge that will accompany
the formal introduction of tonicization at grade 9 is substantial.
The “science” of the V7-I progression – how it works – is important, but the “art” in this
progression – how it sounds – is equally important, for it is sound that conveys the composer’s
craftmanship and it is sound from which the listener derives musical meaning. A conversation
with my younger son summarizes the essence of this integrated music theory pedagogy:

He suggested (or reminded me) that chords and chord progressions are
tools to be used in the writing of music – the means to an end, not the end
itself! This is such [a valuable] perspective because it enables [teachers]
to see the forest! So many of us (and our students) are lost in the trees…
A focus on creating or writing music gives purpose to all the little bits and
pieces of music rudiments – and answers the age-old question: Why do
we have to learn this? (L. L. Penny, journal entry, January 19, 2018)

The word music is derived from the Greek mousikē, which involves “any art presided over by the
Muses” (Webster, 1983, p. 781), but music-theory-as-science rarely engages music-as-art.
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Therefore, the question remains: How can the art of music be holistically integrated in the
pedagogical communication of its science?

Concluding Remarks

Chapter 2 includes a review of the scholarly literature in three disciplines: music theory,
music theory pedagogy, and music education. In music theory, I found the source of my
pedagogical problem and in music education, a possible solution. While this statement may over-
simplify the lessons learned from my predecessors, it is a point from which to launch my inquiry.
However, the implication that music theory is “bad” (a problem) and music education is “good”
(the solution) is not my point. From the scholarship in music theory, I discovered the answers to
many of my why questions and from music education, my how questions. But there is much
thinking yet to be done. It is not as straightforward as choosing practical considerations of music
theory over theoretical considerations, or praxial approaches to music education over aesthetic
approaches. It is about integration. Even Rameau understood that “genius may transcend ‘the
rules’” from time to time (Shirlaw, 1970, p. xv). Rather than threatening to destroy scientific
law, musical genius endeavours to fulfill artistic law.
From the scholarship in music theory pedagogy, I discovered a community in which to
explore my ideas of an art/science integration. Like Alperson’s (2010) robust praxialism in
music education, an integrated music theory pedagogy should be inclusive of music as both
process and product, just as Hoag’s (2020) music-centered approach is inclusive of both
experience and literature. But beyond the positioning of music at the center of music theory
instruction, there is need of an overarching pedagogical philosophy that gathers together the
disparate elements of procedure under the auspices of a unified, holistic metapractice.
Choksy’s adaptation of KM offers such a practice. The experiential nature of its four-step
instructional process incorporates many facets of the educational theories I presented in this
chapter. Although KM promises the comprehensiveness of integration, its classroom-oriented
approach presents an obstacle for private studio implementation. But the holistic benefits of
Kodály’s integrated methodology are worth overcoming this obstacle. Consequently, much of
my dissertation is dedicated to the adaptation of KM for the teaching of music theory in RCM’s
curricular context. In chapter 3, following my review of the scholarship in ABR, I will
contextualize my research questions for specific relevance. These questions will be placed at
strategic points in a full exposition of my research design.
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Chapter 3

Arts-Based Research: Adopting a Musical Lens for My Inquiry

What we see [or hear] is not simply a function of what we take from the world,
but what we make of it.
– Elliot W. Eisner (1933-2014)

Introductory Remarks

Music permeates my life. It is my vocation, my inspiration, my leisure, my comfort.

Music nourishes my spirit. I access its sustaining or revitalizing properties through varied
activities: listening, performing, interpreting, analyzing, teaching – and researching. In chapter 2,
it was my teacher-self who sought guidance from the academic communities that surround and
support the discipline of music theory pedagogy. Now, after describing my problem and
reviewing the literature, it is my researcher-self who will take the lead. With careful deliberation,
I determined that ABR is the most suitable epistemological stance for my inquiry.
Aaron M. Pallas (2001) describes epistemologies as “beliefs about what counts as
knowledge…, what is evidence for a claim, and what counts as a warrant for that evidence” (cited
in Siegel, 2006, p. 6). But what does epistemology mean to me? It is the study of knowledge
situated in the five “Ws” of investigative analysis: who, what, where, when, and why. These
interrogatives address the acquisition of knowledge from the perspective of the knower (who);
the content or subject matter of the known (what); its contextual placement (where); its historical
position (when); and the purpose or significance of the knowledge (why). But a sixth question –
How? – encourages a deeper interrogation, addressing both the means by which knowledge is
acquired and the quality of the means. I am intrigued by these means. Their pedagogical
nuances motivate my inquiry.
Positioned on the qualitative side of the epistemological divide, I adopted Norman K.
Denzin and Yvonna S. Lincoln’s (2011) definition of qualitative research as:

… a situated activity that locates the observer in the world. It consists of

a set of interpretive, material practices that make the world visible. These
practices transform the world. They turn the world into a series of
representations. (p. 4)
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Two aspects of this definition attracted my attention. The first is its reference to a “situated
activity” and the second, a “series of representations.” As my grasp of epistemology expanded, I
came to appreciate James Haywood Rolling’s (2013) description of its value as an “ontologically
situated point of view” (p. 33). I also appreciate his suggestion that epistemologies incorporate
strategies by which propositional beliefs may be justified. Consequently, my reckoning of
Pallas’ “beliefs,” which I imagine as nouns or states of being, has transformed into Rolling’s
“situated beliefs,” which imply movement and I imagine as verbs or states of becoming. This
“situatedness” enables the naturalistic, interpretive approaches of qualitative research and leans
toward the artistic representation of these approaches in ABR.
Regarding representation, I grappled with assumptions of impossibility, both my own and
those of my research community. How can I produce an artistic rendering of an inquiry in the
discipline of music theory pedagogy? My master’s inquiry is situated in a constructivist
paradigm but this knowledge came afterward, as reflective insight. For my doctoral inquiry, I
have consciously chosen to embrace the fluidity of ABR – despite my initial hesitation – because
ABR encompasses much more than the representation of research data in an arts-based medium.
It is a holistic integration of the creative arts at every stage of the research process.
Indeed, I am compelled by my musician-self to choose ABR for my inquiry in music theory
pedagogy. Derived from the blurring of specific cognitive findings and less definable aesthetic
knowings (Greenwood, 2012), ABR resonates with my artistic personality in every sense. My
epistemological becoming has given my musician-self an opportunity to step out of the shadows
and together with my researcher-self, to contribute to the becoming of ABR scholarship. In this
chapter, I will review the ABR literature, present my methodological framework, and explain the
specific components of my research design. I will also clarify and contextualize the preliminary
questions presented in the prelude.

The Scholarship in Arts-Based Research

My expedition through the ABR literature examines the epistemological/methodological

foundations of ABR in the context of its potential for my inquiry. While it would be logical, and
academically prudent, to create a comprehensive list of the significant features of ABR, and to
proceed with a critical examination of each feature – analyzing and synthesizing the relevant
literature – such a list is intrinsically biased and significant only to me. The list would be my list,
but this quality of intimacy is the essence of ABR. Thus, my exploration of ABR writings arises
 82

from an excavation of my personal beliefs. These were communicated in chapter 1 and my

scholarly readings are filtered accordingly.
As my personal narrative attests, I embraced the road less travelled because my journey
toward pedagogical enlightenment is also a journey of becoming. My immersion in the literature
gave new meaning to my comprehension of the word becoming, in the sense of “coming into
being.” Peter Gouzouasis (2007, referencing Overton, 1984) introduced me to Georg Wilhelm
Friedrich Hegel (1770-1831), a philosopher of German Idealism who claims that the “organicist”
notion of becoming is fundamental to the life-span, ontogenetic development of human
knowledge. His focus on the process of becoming prompted an understanding that my journey is
also a process – and lessons will be learned by gathering experiences along the way, not by
reaching an elusive destination.
The organization of my ABR review is influenced by Patricia Leavy’s (2009) contention
that the “kind of dialogue promoted by arts-based practices is predicated upon evoking meanings,
not denoting them” (p. 14, original emphasis). This predilection for suggestion may be likened to
the work of the Symbolist poets, such as Paul Verlaine (1844-1896), as well as the Impressionist
painters, inspired by Claude Monet (1840-1926), who sought to capture an imaginative,
dreamlike state or the effect of light on an object, rather than a realistic depiction of either. These
symbols or impressions, reflected in the music of Claude Debussy (1862-1918), both violated and
liberated the artistic conventions of the late nineteenth-century – in much the same way that ABR
has troubled research conventions a century later.
Therefore, the characteristic tenets of ABR will not be presented as general propositions
supported by specific examples. Instead, they will be woven into the fabric of my self-reflective
narrative as it unfolds along the continuum of my becoming. The route may be obstructed or its
passage non-linear, but I will query the scholars who have influenced my interpretation of the
ABR landscape as I progress. Each step of the journey elicits new discoveries or rekindles old
ones – just as Susan McClary’s (2000) contextual re/examination of musical form invites a
re/reading of the standard musical repertoire. My consideration of the ABR literature establishes
the contextual merit of ABR for my inquiry: a re/examination of music education for a re/reading
of music theory.
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A Description of Arts-Based Research

What? Since my inquiry proposes an art/science integration in music theory pedagogy, it

stands to reason that an analogous integration in methodology is required. As an interpretive
community within the qualitative research paradigm, ABR provides an artistic perspective that
fully reflects the musical nature of my pedagogical quest. My thinking is shaped by Leavy
(2015) who describes ABR practices as “emerging tools” that engage artistic media “during all
phases of social research, including data generation, analysis, interpretation, and representation”
(p. 4).41 Blurring the boundaries between art and science, these practices symbolize a holistic
approach to research that emphasizes the “relationship the researcher has with his or her work”
(Leavy, 2009, p. viii). Thus, the central precepts of the creative arts are adapted in order to
conduct social or educational research.
As an alternative to traditional or experimental research methodologies, ABR practices
emerged out of a “natural affinity between research practice and artistic practice” (Leavy, 2015,
p. ix), drawing on narrative, poetry, music, theatre, dance, visual art, or other mediums. These
mediums, enacted through short stories, novels, poems, songs, musical scores, theatrical
performances, documentaries, films, dances, paintings, collages, sculptures, or other
representational forms, comprise “new theoretical and epistemological groundings” that Leavy
suggests are not only expanding qualitative research, but disrupting traditional research
paradigms as well (2009, p. ix). This expansion/disruption facilitates the artistic approach to
knowledge-building that I desire.
For Sophie Claire Ward and Carl Bagley (2010), Leavy’s re-envisioning of qualitative
research, as a synthesis of artistic and research interests, is driven by a desire to “engage more
fully with the sensuous array of sights, sounds and smells of [the] twenty-first century” (p. 273).
But the ambiguity and diversity of ABR – elements of its own becoming – defy the reassurance
of an all-purpose explanation. Continually in the “process of creation,” the ABR genre “demands
an understanding of incompleteness and uncertainty” (Springgay, 2002, p. 20). Assuming that a
mis-understanding invites skepticism and suspicion, I seek illumination in the genre’s awakening.

41
The Faculty of Education at the University of British Columbia (UBC) collected, compiled, and analyzed more
than thirty dissertations that utilize ABR. This study adopted the term practice in place of method, signalling a break
with conventional research (Sinner et al., 2006).
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The Origin of Arts-Based Research

Who? Where? When? Tom Barone and Elliot W. Eisner (2012) claim the term arts-
based research by linking its source with an “educational event” held at Stanford University in
1993.42 Organized by Eisner, this first Arts-Based Research Institute was offered to members of
the American Educational Research Association (AERA) and was followed biennially by seven
more such institutes until 2005. Eisner (1991), who had earlier expressed his conjecture about
the artistic basis of social science, highlighted the relationship between art and educational
research. Describing himself in a “prior life” as a visual artist, Eisner adapted the discipline of art
criticism for the purpose of conducting inquiries in the social sciences and introduced the concept
of “educational criticism” (Cahnmann-Taylor, 2008).
Based on Dewey’s (1934) notion of criticism as the re-education of perception, educational
criticism is the critical disclosure of “significant and often subtle qualities that constitute an act,
work, or object” (Eisner, 1991, p. 85). As an analytic discrimination of details, educational
criticism utilizes the procedural dimensions of description, interpretation, evaluation, and
generalization to make judgements that broaden public understandings. The significance of this
process for arts-based researchers lies in the suggestion of a structural framework and for
educators, in the ability to develop analytical skills, both for themselves and for their students.
As a doctoral student of Eisner’s, Barone (2001b) pursued his personal interest in writing
and transformed educational criticism into an arts-based methodology that he labelled “narrative
storytelling.” Melisa Cahnmann-Taylor (2008) eloquently distinguishes these concepts:

Where educational criticism called on the researcher to function as a

connoisseur to see deeply into a situation and to reveal details that the
[casual] observer would miss, narrative storytelling cast the researcher as
a raconteur, who – if necessary – created facts to fill the holes in the
story. (p. 6)

A raconteur, from the French raconter (to tell), is a skillful storyteller whose amusing anecdotes
often carry the connotation of conviviality. For Barone (2008), the raconteur’s clever stories
initiate “conspiratorial conversations” that are accessible and meaningful to diverse audiences.
These conversations engender aesthetic experiences from which “empathy may be established,

42
Without explanation, Barone and Eisner (2012) abandon the hyphenation between “arts” and “based” in their
most recent publication – despite the term’s consistent appearance as arts-based research in previous texts. To my
knowledge, this renaming has not been addressed, nor has it been replicated in the current literature.
 85

connections made, perceptions altered, emotions touched, equilibria disturbed, [and] the status
quo rendered questionable” (p. 39). Whether in the moment or in the future, the artistry of the
raconteur opens dialogues that transcend academia.
An additional form of arts-based methodology was developed by Sara Lawrence-Lightfoot
and Jessica Hoffmann Davis (1997). Combining empiricism with aesthetic expression, their
“social science portraiture” integrated “systematic rigor and evocative resonance” (Rolling, 2013,
p. 16). However, their work, along with that of Eisner, was denounced. According to the
National Academy of Science, which federally mandated the pre-eminence of science-based
research in American education, it lacked the “key scientific concepts of reliability, replication,
and generalization” (Shavelson & Towne, 2002, p. 75).
By adopting Dewey’s (1934) view that science states meanings while art expresses them,
ABR practices query the privileging of scientific ways-of-knowing. This privilege denies the
opportunity for artistic ways-of-knowing to engage research questions differently – to heighten
consciousness, advance empathic forms of understanding, and “get at” awareness that can
“neither be said in number nor disclosed in literal text” (Eisner, 1997, p. 264). Barone and Eisner
(2012) argue that artistry is ubiquitous, even in fields and activities such as physics, mathematics,
and law, which supposedly refute aesthetic matters altogether. Moreover, the “ubiquitousness” of
art, captured in artistic forms of representation, offers “virtual sensory experience[s]” that
disclose affective states of affairs through material mediums (Eisner, 2008a, p. 6), and purpose
art for the sake of scholarship.43
Struggling with the variability of ABR practices, I considered the meaning of the word
create: “to produce through imaginative skill; to make or bring into existence something new”
(Webster, 1983, p. 304). Thus, the “newness” realized by every creative “doing” (producing,
making, or bringing into existence) implies that each piece of ABR is unique. But whether the
“creativeness” of this arts-based “researching” results in an exceptional work of art warrants
examination since the literature exposes an overt tension. Stephanie Springgay (2002)
vehemently defends the representation of her master’s thesis as a visual art installation by
stressing that the “art in [her] installation was research. It was not illustrative of the written

43
I adopted the metaphorical “messiness” of the term ubiquitousness, as opposed to the “elegance” of ubiquity.
For me, this lack of tidiness characterizes the complexity of the issue.
 86

text, nor was art a metaphorical backdrop to shape arguments about research” (p. 19, original
emphasis). It was art as research.
Distinguishing ABR practices from “arts-informed research,” Rolling (2010) highlights the
“malapropism of arts-based research outcomes as arts products” and insists that ABR practices
require a “far greater creative commitment than dipping one’s toes at the water’s edge” (p. 105).
This artistic commitment, which requires a balanced combination of “theoretically sophisticated
understandings and artistically inspired [artworks]” (Eisner, 2008a, p. 9), is inherently practice-
based (Macleod & Holdridge, 2006; Irwin & Springgay, 2008), and derived from a disciplined
arts praxis (Rolling, 2010). In an ABR context, this praxis is contingent on highly-skilled and
artistically-grounded practitioners.
The artistic product, symbolizing the conscious pursuit of expressive form in the service of
knowledge, provides a heuristic that deepens and makes more complex an understanding of the
often subtle interactions between people, places, situations, or feelings. Consequently, ABR
practices do not “yield propositional claims about states of affairs,” they strive to “create
insight[s] into states of affairs” (Barone & Eisner, 2012, p. 3, emphasis added). As a social
activist, Susan Finley (2008) affirms this position, stating that “art, in any of its various forms,
provides media for self-reflection, self-expression, and communication” (p. 110) – again
purposing art for the sake of scholarship.

The Potential of ScholARTistry

Why? ScholARTistry, a term coined by Lorri Neilsen (2002) to identify blurred-genre

work, is a “hybrid practice” that combines the tools of art with those of education or social
science to “explore the human condition” (Cahnmann-Taylor, 2008, p. 9). ScholARTists, as dual
practitioners, capture the essence of their findings – grounded in the experiences of data
collection and analysis – in “emotionally penetrating ways” (p. 10). Therefore, arts-informed
work, as Neilsen (2002) posits, is not merely “founded on the arts; the arts are integral to the
conception and realization of the work” (p. 212). These artistic workings offer dynamic creative
processes as a conduit for the “activation of dormant dimensions of the mind” (McNiff, 2008, p.
33). For example, Johnny Saldaña (2002) transforms fieldwork data into live-theatre scripts,
producing ethnodramas such as Finding my Place: The Brad Trilogy, an adaptation of Harry F.
Wolcott’s (1929-2012) research in educational anthropology.
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Accepting Finley’s (2008) argument that social change begins with “artful ways of seeing
and knowing ourselves and the world in which we live” (p. 110), I recognize my artist-self in
ABR practices that accept the “precedence of perception over measurement” and legitimize tacit,
intuitive, or felt knowledge (Rolling, 2013, p. 26). Artistic representations of “seeing and
knowing,” implicit in ABR practices, lend themselves to pluralist multiplicities. They
interrogate, negotiate, exchange, re/interpret, and blend meanings, while they de/re/construct
research methodologies (Rolling, 2010). These intellectual “trouble-makings” provoke fresh
perspectives, since a recognition of difference leads to challenge, and challenge stimulates debate
(Barone & Eisner, 2012), which ultimately provides insight. In due course, these imaginative
insights may topple the adverse presumption that arts-based research is an oxymoronic
endeavour.44
As I contemplate my epistemological becoming, I am struck by my increasing attachment
to ABR – despite its academic uncertainty. Of the thirty-three chapters that comprise The Oxford
Handbook of Qualitative Research in American Music Education (2014), three address ABR
practices but only one of these (Pellegrino, 2014), with more than a casual mention. The
approaches presented include case study, ethnography, phenomenology, narrative inquiry,
practitioner inquiry, and mixed methods, but these approaches to music education research may
not always be adequate for telling the “whole story.” ABR practices, embracing the
perceptiveness of subtlety, are not literal descriptions of precise referents. Rather, they
illustrate/illuminate meaning through analogy, cadence, comportment, gesture, innuendo,
intonation, metaphor, simile, or tempo, to name but a few artistic devices. In other words, they
accept/acknowledge/applaud aesthetic expression.

A Musical Perspective

How? The distinctive nature of artistic discovery – involving serendipity and

unpredictability – challenges the methodological stability of ABR. Indeed, Henk Borgdorff
(2011) claims that ABR is “more like exploration than . . . following a firm path” (p. 57). But
artistic practices, rather than focusing on end products, are “dynamic points of departure for

44
Early practitioners of ABR (much like early qualitative researchers) faced harsh criticism regarding their “non-
scientific” research methods. The literature surrounding these methods, aimed at enlarging the “conceptual
umbrella” that defines the meaning of research (Barone & Eisner, 2012), has gradually become less reactive and
more proactive in its implementation of ABR practices.
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interdisciplinary experiments” that seek new forms of knowledge (Slager, 2011, p. 335).
Governed by reflective perspectives, these “unexpected epistemological relations” are not
determined by an established scientific paradigm or model of representation, but an undefined
discipline that Henk Slager labels nameless science (p. 349). Katy Macleod and Lin Holdridge
(2011) disagree, proposing an aesthetic of arts methodologies that “arises from an artist being
‘inside’ the processes of research” (p. 354).
The preceding collection of authors, who I encountered in my perusal of The Routledge
Companion to Research in the Arts (2011), speaks to my fledgling ideas of methodology. But I
query their reluctance to identify ABR practices as an artistic paradigm. Such a paradigm, while
exhibiting a model of continual change – without “ready-made” or “off-the-shelf” procedures –
could also model Macleod and Holdridge’s (2011) “insider” research in which relevancy “within
subject domains must arise from within the subjects themselves” (Biggs & Karlsson, 2011, p.
423). The literary, visual, and performing arts could offer imaginative openings that generate a
fresh synthesis of approaches to the collection, analysis, and representation of research data.
Embedded in the innovative junctures of art, research, and education is an emerging
“culture of art” which is challenging the notion that all educational research must conform to the
standards associated with a “culture of science” (Piantanida et al., 2003). Through my
investigation of ABR in music education, I encountered a/r/tography as a specialized genre
within ABR practices. While not specific to music, this genre aligns beautifully with my
musician’s sensibilities. A/r/t is a metaphor for “artist-researcher-teacher,” an integration that
creates an “in-between” or third space, merging “knowing, doing, and making” (Leavy, 2015, p.
4, quoting Pinar, 2004). Recognizing its “neither-here-nor-there” perspective, I welcome the
a/r/tographer’s identity merger because it enables the fluid becomings of my musician-, teacher-,
and researcher-selves. Indeed, I cannot imagine one without the others.
Since each identity requires an equal measure of expertise or competence, few musicians
choose to practice a/r/tography – or any other form of ABR. Joe Norris (2013) describes Leavy’s
consideration of music as the “weakest chapter in [her] book” (p. 258). Rationalizing its
weakness as coming “not from the book itself but from the lack of research being conducted
through the medium of sound (music),” he concedes that a musical medium is “difficult to
produce on the printed page” (p. 258). Liora Bresler (2005) addresses the complexity of
translating music’s “fluid form into a fixed one” by proposing “music-informed rather than
 89

music-based inquiry” and enhancing her research with musical sensitivities that replace the act of
musicianship with its spirit (p. 171, original emphasis). Leavy (2015) offers a musical model in
which the formal dimensions of music (melody, rhythm, harmony, texture, form, tempo, and
dynamics) are newly conceptualized within the application of ABR practices. But how are these
musical dimensions to be represented in a work of ABR?
The mode of representation is a concern. As the medium through which the “contents of
our mind[s] are shared with others” (Barone & Eisner, 2012, p. 1), a representation records
sensory information about an object or a phenomenon. However, as Norma Daykin (2009) points
out, there cannot be a “simple and direct transfer of [musical] meaning through the chain of
creator, performer, and listener” (p. 126). Music cannot speak for itself.

The Issue of Representation

An artistic representation of music theory offers a sensory interaction that stimulates

knowledge-building in an engaging or intriguing manner. As an early example, Guido d’Arezzo,
an eleventh-century Italian music theorist, used the hymn Ut queant laxi to teach solmization
syllables.45 These syllables were later represented by the “Guidonian hand,” reproduced in
Figure 3.1, which is a mnemonic device that locates pitches within the Medieval hexachords
(scale-like sets of six pitches):

45
The first six phrases of the hymn begin with the notes C-D-E-F-G-A in ascending order. Guido used the initial
syllables of these phrases to name the steps: ut, re, mi, fa, so, la. Modern versions of solmization syllables substitute
do for ut and add ti above la (Burkholder et al., 2014).
 90

Figure 3.1: Guidonian Hand

University of Pennsylvania,
Rare Book and Manuscript Library,
MS Codex 1248.

Similarly, the circle of 5ths is used by modern music theorists to organize key relationships
in a tonal context. The circle, shown in Figure 3.2, is a visual representation of the twelve tones
derived from the chromatic scale.46 These tones generate the key signatures that dictate the
specific ordering of pitches associated with each major scale and its relative minor:

46
The first circle of 5ths appeared in a late 1670s treatise, titled Grammatika, written by Russian composer and
theorist Nikolay Diletsky (fl.1675-ca.1681).
 91

Figure 3.2: Circle of 5ths

Permission is granted to copy, distribute and/or modify this document under the terms of the GNU Free
Documentation License, Version 1.2 or any later version published by the Free Software Foundation.

As a music theorist myself, I am drawn to these artistic interpretations of theoretical data because
they represent a “world of symbology, metaphor, pictorial thinking,” as well as a “visualizing,
intuitive knowing” (Kaplan-Myrth & Smylie, 2006, p. 16). They also provide musical insights
for the representation of my arts-based data.
In her consideration of future directions for music education research, Janet R. Barrett
(2014) envisions the expanded use of music as data, both researcher- and participant-generated.
Arguing that research reports seldom capture or convey the sounds that shape participants’
experiences and identities, she anticipates that technological advances will afford an imaginative
profusion of representational forms (including audio, visual, and digital media), which will lead
to a “deeper, richer engagement” with music as the “primary source” of data (p. 644). Although
music-making as a potential data source is an under-explored topic in music education research,
Kristen Pellegrino (2014) discusses the collection of “music-in-the-moment” data and
 92

differentiates three data types: process-of-music-making, product-of-music-making, and

meanings-of-music-making. (p. 307).47 She also explores the analysis of music-making data
through verbal/non-verbal interactions, musical/non-musical responses, and social
interactions/connections, examining music therapy research to inspire broader analysis
categories.
“Thinking musically” in an a/r/tographic context, Gouzouasis (2007) places a theoretical
analysis of the first movement of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata in E major, op. 109, at
metaphorically significant points throughout a self-reflective discussion of arts-based educational
research (ABER). The musical form, sonata-allegro, is an interpretive component of the research
intended to inform the reader in much the same way that formal structures in music “overtly and
subliminally” inform the listener (p. 34). I confess that I find Gouzouasis’ textual analysis of
Beethoven’s sonata less invigorating than his philosophical ruminations – an appalling
confession for a music theorist – but I admit that the unravelling of his structural interpretations is
thought-provoking. I have returned to Gouzouasis’ (2005, 2006, 2007) ABR writings many
times, discerning new layers of meaning with each engagement, as if perfecting the performance
of a musical composition.
However, in Barrett’s (2014) words: “The central body of work in music education is
inextricably bound to words as prompts for the journey” (p. 645). Metaphor and metonymy, as
analogical renderings of a/r/tography, enable artistresearcherteachers to look at research data
and make sense of the world (Gouzouasis, 2007). As a musicianresearcherteacher, I view my
world through a musical lens. Even when music is not overtly present, I sense the ubiquitousness
of it. I hear the formal dimensions of Leavy’s (2015) musical model, including melody, rhythm,
harmony, texture, form, tempo, and dynamics, in everyday interactions – in words.
Remembering an interview I conducted in early 2013 for a course in qualitative research, I
can still hear my interviewee’s voice replaying in my mind – lifting off the type-written pages of
my transcript.48 I recall audible moments when her portrayal of other hypothetical voices was

47
Pellegrino (2014) cites several studies in her discussion of music-making data: McCarthy, 2009; McNair, 2010;
Stanley, 2008; and Wu, 2010.
48
My interviewee chose “Anne” as a pseudonym. She is a Ph.D. graduate with a background in the visual arts.
She is also an arts-based researcher who, at the time, was teaching arts education as a part-time professor in an urban
university’s teacher education program. I was presented with the opportunity to interview a researcher with
extensive expertise in the area of literacy, but I selected Anne because of her identification with a medium other than
language.
 93

delivered in a song-like fashion, including obvious changes of register. At times, she excitedly
rushed forward, speaking so quickly I could hardly make out individual words. At other times,
she haltingly searched for the next phrase, stumbled to articulate an idea, or interrupted herself as
another thought occurred to her. Toward the end of the interview, there was a rapid exchange in
which our two voices overlapped one another in a simultaneous flow.
Pondering the communicative possibilities of textual representations, I experimented with a
metaphorical representation of Anne’s recorded, pre-transcript text. To facilitate my experiment,
I extracted a quotation from the interview that characterized her point of view regarding ABR
practices. I considered the musical element of melody, summarizing its definition as a
“succession of pitches,” and represented its imaginary contour with Anne’s words, shown in
Figure 3.3.

Figure 3.3: Melody, Musical Line

Texture, or the interweaving of melodies, is represented in Figure 3.4. This rendering is intended
to create the illusion of polyphony, which “combines several distinct melodic lines
simultaneously” (Randel, 2003, p. 669).

Figure 3.4: Musical Texture

Figure 3.5 represents rhythm – the temporal movement of music. In a Kodály-led elementary
music setting, rhythm is associated with song materials and described as the “way the words go”
(Choksy, 1991, p. 109).

Figure 3.5: Rhythm, Musical Time

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Dynamics, which indicate the volume of music, are contextually derived and relationally
dependent. Therefore, they are expressed as general gradations of softer and louder, or gradual
developments of one from the other. Figure 3.6 represents a crescendo, commonly defined as
“becoming louder” (RCM, 2016e, p. 13).

Figure 3.6: Dynamics, Musical Expression

Tempo, or the pace of music, is also relationally dependent. Figure 3.5 represents faster and
slower speeds, respectively.

Figure 3.7: Tempo, Musical Expression

My dissertation is rooted in the element of harmony or “musical space,” which involves

simultaneous musical events or a dimension of music comparable to perspective in visual art.
Depicting both the process and the product of my research – teaching music theory with, about,
in, and through music (Cornett & Smithrim, 2001) – my harmonic metaphor adopts Leavy’s
(2009) reference to the “tonality of lived experience” (p. 262, original emphasis). Indeed, the
musical depiction of an event, a scene, a literary text, or a work of art is not a new phenomenon.
Program music, which is prominent in nineteenth-century instrumental music, evokes extra-
musical ideas or images that are often indicated by a suggestive title or a narrative preface
(Randel, 2003).49 In much the same way that program music represents an imaginative
musical/extra-musical correlation, I am interested in a musical/theoretical correlation for the
interpretation of my research findings.
I am encouraged by Marla Morris’ (2009) statement that “music opens spaces in which to
dream” (p. 42). Musical ontologies, embedded in a multiplicity of artistic practices, have the

49
Examples of program music include: Antonio Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons (1721); Ludwig van Beethoven’s
Pastoral Symphony (1808); Hector Berlioz’s Symphonie fantastique (1830); and Richard Strauss’ Don Juan (1888).
 95

potential to shape educational research – for example, Ted Aoki (2005) advocates a “sonorous”
curriculum in which aural metaphors dwell with the visual; Walter Gershon (2006) experiments
with the implementation of collective improvisation as a “theoretical lens for classroom
observation” (p. 104); and Peter de Vries (2006) engages in music to enhance self-study. ABR,
as a holistic integration of the creative arts at all stages of inquiry, enables the examination of any
topic through an artistic lens. Although music remains one of the least explored art forms within
ABR practices, music is, for me, omnipresent. It informs all facets of my life and by extension,
my research.

An Integrated Research Methodology

The integrated practices of ABR warrant the implementation of an integrated methodology.

Distinct from methods, which include the specific practices, procedures, or processes of inquiry,
methodologies refer to “broader theoretically informed framework[s]” (Barndt, 2008, p. 359).
Deborah Barndt advises against the reduction of arts-based inquiries to the tools and techniques
of art-making. Instead, she highlights the deeper potential of these inquiries to touch minds and
hearts, engaging “full human beings” (p. 359). Methodologies involve interpretive communities,
often related to societal issues, that provide a “pervasive lens or perspective” for all aspects of a
research project (Creswell, 2007, p. 24). This explanation enables me to see that the crux of my
research project is the study of an arts-related topic through an artistic lens – or more specifically,
a music-related topic through a musical lens.
However, my musical approach may be overly simplistic. Frede V. Nielsen (2009)
confronts the contentious relationship between “music pedagogy as a field of research and the
practice of music education” with an understanding that pedagogical research is a science that
serves educational practice (p. 22). Nielsen’s statement conjures the reappearance of both
science/art and theory/practice incompatibilities. Concerning the latter, Jorgensen (2005) equates
theory with philosophy in its handling of conceptual and abstract entities that are separate from
the phenomenal world. But distinct from philosophy, theory is formulated for explanatory
purposes, testing and refuting claims through “qualitative descriptions and quantitative
assessments of observable phenomena” (p. 22). Regarding practice, she confronts its ambiguous
interpretations both descriptively, as something generally done in the phenomenal world, and
normatively, as something desirable or ideal. But is integration pedagogically possible? Can the
hypothetical nature of theory inhabit the experiential realm of practice?
 96

LaBoskey (2004) promotes the “interrelationship of theory and practice” as a viable

alternative to customary teaching traditions (p. 827). In a musical context, Jorgensen (2005)
suggests that the intersection of theory and practice provides an understanding of the “wholes and
parts that comprise the work of music education” (p. 32). Inspired by the curricular potential of
Jorgensen’s philosophical models – as the means for translating ideas into the actions of music
instruction – I am also struck by her “improvisatory and rhapsodic” view of teaching (p. 30).
This realistic focus, which is dynamic rather than static, encourages the functionality of
teacher/student interactions and creates a space for the self-study aspect of my inquiry.
Positioned between the pillars of analytic/intellectual theory and aesthetic/emotional
practice, my inquiry emphasizes the inclusivity of integration and the unity of an integrated
pedagogical praxis. By embracing Regelski’s (1982) plea to “[p]reserve the music in music
theory” (p. 40), I am also joining his petition for an “explicitly stated preliminary or over-
reaching theor[y] to guide, organize, and synthesize” the objects of musical analysis (p. 41).
Elliott (1995) promotes an integrated musical praxis with the intent that music theory “ought to
be understood in relation to the meanings and values evidenced in actual music making and
music listening” (p. 14). Quoting American philosopher/theologian Nicholas Wolterstorff
(b.1932), Elliott (1991a) recognizes that “[b]efore ever there were works of music, there was
music” (p. 23, original emphasis). Elliott’s pioneering concept of music as knowledge offers my
inquiry an artistically grounded methodology. And his praxial philosophy, as an
analytic/aesthetic blend of musical experiences, offers music educators a purposeful and situated
form of action.

The Self-Study of Professional Practice

David E. Gullatt (2007) emphatically states that “[a]rtists learn by doing” (p. 216). This is
surely true of many professions. Teachers learn by doing. Since my teacher-self is inextricably
enmeshed in my inquiry, I will briefly explore pertinent portions of the self-study scholarship in
music education – with Gullatt’s guiding premise informing my exploration. Although Chad
West (2011) does not use the term self-study in his synthesis of the literature, I recognize many of
its inherent qualities in his examination of both action research and teacher research, particularly
his assertion that a “systematic and intentional inquiry carried out by teachers could offer rich
information about real-life issues facing today’s arts programs” (p. 93). Since reflective teachers
continually search for ways to improve their teaching, action research enables an intentional and
 97

systematic process that can “help bridge the gap between theory and practice” (p. 89),
recognizing the authority of teachers in their own right.
West offers a study by Janet Robbins, Mary Kathryn Burbank, and Heidi Dunkle (2007) as
a musically oriented illustration, but he criticizes the authors’ failure to indicate new directions
for further investigation. Without a generalizable application beyond the study itself, I turned to
Tim Cain’s (2010) consideration of teacher action research and its capacity to generate new
knowledge. While this research genre “tends to exist in the margins of mainstream educational
research,” which is certainly true in the field of music education, proponents argue that the action
research process has much in common with the process of teaching (p. 159). Cain also suggests
that action research has similarities with musical processes – such as practicing an instrument –
that require “intelligence” and the “ability to listen to oneself” (p. 160).
Distinguishing Little K knowledge, reflected in an individual’s education and experience,
from Big K knowledge, cumulatively passed from one generation to the next on a global scale,
Cain (2010) emphasizes the potential of teachers’ action research to generate the latter,
influencing both musician-teachers and their educational communities. His discussion of Big K
knowledge in relation to several outstanding musician-teachers of the twentieth century –
including Kodály, Carl Orff (1895-1982), and Shinichi Suzuki (1898-1998) – holds the greatest
significance for me, since my doctoral inquiry is committed to bridging the instructional gap
between music and music theory by incorporating the philosophical underpinnings of KM.
de Vries (2006) proposes an experiential engagement with music to enhance both teaching
and researching processes. His self-study recounts the revelation he experienced as he performed
the C Major Prelude from Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier (volume 1) – “emotions that opened
[his] mind [and allowed him] to reflect on [his] teaching” (p. 249). By utilizing improvisational
playing to enhance concentration, de Vries became aware that he had not engaged his students in
music-making. Instead, he was “telling them what to do with music…, how to do it, [and] when
to do it” (p. 247), without allowing them the opportunity to do it for themselves. This disclosure
resonates deeply with the self-reflective discernments of my own inquiry, aligning the self-
reflective relationship I have with my work and the holistic emphasis of ABR practices.
The story of my epistemological/methodological becoming “traces a
[personal/professional] trajectory something like a quest narrative” (McClary, 2000, p. 66). The
theme of my narrative is an integrated music theory pedagogy. My participants’ narratives will
 98

vary this theme either by augmentation or diminution.50 Metaphorically, my inquiry creates a

“musical bridge” for the holistic teaching of both rudiments and tonal harmony. Infused with the
aesthetic of a/r/tography, it is inspired by Kodály’s vision of musical literacy. But what might my
integrated music theory pedagogy look/sound/feel like?

The Research Design

Encouraging the pedagogical enhancement of written competencies in music theory with

auditory awareness, my inquiry is linked with the most recent edition of RCM’s (2016e) Theory
Syllabus. In this most recent edition, the graded curricular requirements are re-organized to
support the concurrent study of music theory at every practical level, from preparatory to
associate. The momentousness of this re-organization is not to be underestimated. After 130
years of formally instituting the study of music theory at a grade 5 level, RCM’s decision to
restructure the music theory curriculum not only enables a significant instructional
transformation, but it facilitates an essential pedagogical improvement as well.
These revisions eliminate a previously impenetrable barrier, allowing my researcher-self to
look beyond the usual confines of RCM toward a contemporary world of educational thought.
Since RCM’s traditionally segregated curriculum gives way to a newly integrated program of
study, its established corpus of music theory textbooks/workbooks no longer suffice. Therefore,
RCM’s teaching materials require extensive modifications. But instead of simply re-ordering
existing materials, there is a tremendous opportunity to learn from the modern scholarship in
music education and to incorporate the principles/practices of its findings. New materials –
pedagogically integrated materials – are now institutionally viable. The time is ripe for bringing
my ideas to fruition.
The integrated music theory pedagogy that I propose is filtered through my experiences
with KM. My research process, which is also rooted in these deeply influential experiences, is a
creative adaptation of KM’s instructional process. Comprising four steps that direct the
acquisition of every new concept, these steps – prepare, make conscious, reinforce, and assess
(Choksy, 1999a) – are applied repeatedly, ensuring instructional continuity and development in
the manner of Bruner’s (1963) spiral curriculum.

50
In music theory, augmentation (from the Latin augere, to increase) is the lengthening of a note or the
expanding of an interval. Diminution, having the opposite outcome, shortens a note or contracts an interval.
 99

Each stage of the process, which serves a well-defined procedural purpose, fulfills a
pedagogical purpose as well. The readiness or preparation stage requires the internalization of
previously learned concepts necessary for the understanding of a new conceptual element. It also
entails musical engagement with a repertoire of songs in which the new learning is prominent.
The presentation or conscious awareness stage empowers the moment of discovery. It involves
the mental shift from subconsciousness to consciousness, or unknown to known, and enriches the
aural experience with its visual representation – as a corroboration of sound and symbol. In the
reinforcement stage, the new learning is located in both known and unknown repertoire, which
facilitates its generalization. The assessment or evaluation stage determines whether or not the
new learning has taken place, but rather than measuring intangible intellectual capabilities like
comprehension, KM focuses on student behaviours, appraising conceptual learning through the
demonstration of specific, often creative, skill sets.
Derived from the four stages of KM’s instructional process, my inquiry involves formative,
interrogative, reflective, and summative interactions. Each interaction is associated with the
pedagogical purpose of the corresponding stage in KM’s process. My preliminary research
questions are similarly aligned:

• formative (preparation) – How can the teaching of music rudiments be integrated

with repertoire?
• interrogative (conscious awareness) – How can an integrated pedagogy be
implemented?
• reflective (reinforcement) – How can the implementation be improved?
• summative (assessment) – How can the teaching of harmony be enhanced by an
integrated rudiments pedagogy?

These questions are further elaborated in the ensuing discussion.

However, before I explain the design of my research project, I must narrow the sizeable
subject of music theory and extract a workable component. Within the subject’s domain, three
principal areas of study are recognized by RCM: rudiments, harmony, and history.51 Although
these subject areas are clearly delineated, they also intersect. For my master’s thesis, I chose

51
With RCM’s (2016e) Theory Syllabus, the term rudiments replaced the more generic theory. This re-labelling
became necessary when basic elements of harmony and history were included in both the elementary (up to level 4)
and intermediate (levels 5 through 8) theory curricula. Nevertheless, I will avoid confusion by continuing to refer to
the “rudimentary” elements of music as rudiments.
 100

tonal harmony as my central focus, albeit at a comparatively rudimentary level. For my doctoral
dissertation, I planned to broaden and develop the concluding affirmations of my master’s
research, but I came to understand that while the ineffective teaching of harmony undoubtedly
elicits regrettable examination results (see Appendix 2.2), the problem may be more complex
and widespread than I had supposed. It may originate with the ineffective teaching of
elementary/intermediate rudiments.
Presuming that deficiencies in students’ harmonization tasks arise from inadequacies in
their preparatory studies, I settled on rudiments as the central focus of my doctoral research.
Within this topic, the curricular content is generally divided between two main categories or
subtopics: pitch and rhythm. Of these subtopics, I chose pitch content, which further divides into
the basic elements of scales, intervals, and chords. With intervals derived from scales and chords
derived from intervals, these elements are progressively generated one from the other. Likewise,
a cumulative amassing of theoretical knowledge builds through RCM’s elementary and
intermediate rudiments programs, then continues through the advanced study of harmony and
history, which begins at level 9.
Accordingly, I decided to concentrate my inquiry on intervals and chords as precursors of
level 9 harmony – known as basic harmony prior to RCM’s (2016e) Theory Syllabus.
Specifically, I wanted to query teaching approaches for the tritone and the dominant 7th chord,
with particular interest in the resolution of dissonance to consonance and its subsequent
contextualization in the repertoire. Attempting to preserve the music in music theory (Regelski,
1982), I set out to search for the integration of aesthetic experience, as a subjective determination
of un/pleasantness, and analytic inference, as an objective implementation of harmonic
principles. While the preceding statement certainly articulates my research intentions, it is not an
entirely accurate description of the events that transpired.

The Formative Interaction

In Kodály’s methodology, the instructional objectives that prepare, make conscious,

reinforce, and assess new learnings are verbs. They suggest the “goings-on” or “doings” that
structure the active pursuit of conceptual goals. The musical skills that facilitate each new
learning – hearing, singing, deriving, writing, reading, and creating – are also participatory doing
words. KM’s instructional process integrates these musical skills at specified stages, although
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their integration is fluid and not confined by rigid product-driven boundaries. The following list
outlines their common process-oriented interactions:

• prepare through hearing and singing

• make conscious through deriving
• reinforce through writing
• assess through reading and creating

By means of hearing and singing activities, the preparation stage of the process
incorporates two related procedures: the attainment of preliminary conceptual understandings and
the acquisition of a core musical repertoire – both of which function as catalysts for prospective
or future understandings. In my research context, “conceptual understandings” are roughly
represented by the conclusions I reported in my master’s thesis. Briefly summarized, I
considered KM as a pedagogical model for the teaching of tonal harmony. Although I found
little evidence of its instructional process in my data (Penny, 2012), I was encouraged by the
contemporary spiralled approach of Jane Piper Clendinning and Elizabeth West Marvin (2005),
as well as their desire to ensure that music theory is “absolutely relevant” for music practice (pp.
xxiv-xxv). My sampling of university-level textbooks and my interviewing of university
professors, brought into the context of my present inquiry, function like gathering activities that
establish prevalent pedagogical practices in music theory instruction. However, these
“conceptual understandings,” which metaphorically set the stage for my doctoral research,
require the accumulation of a “core musical repertoire.”
To satisfy this component, I constructed four Listening Guides based on required works in
RCM’s (2016e) intermediate theory curriculum, one for each of levels 5 through 8. The specific
works I chose are:

• level 5 – Mozart, “Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen” from Die Zauberflöte
(1791)
• level 6 – Bach, Invention No. 1 in C Major, BWV 772 (1723)
• level 7 – Mendelssohn, Overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream (1826)
• level 8 – Josquin, El grillo (1505)

Inspired by Choksy’s (1981, 1999b) long-range Listening Strategies, each LG comprises a

series of brief teaching segments that facilitate directed listening experiences for students of
rudimentary music theory. These experiences are purposed for active listening rather than a
passive encounter with the repertoire. They encourage listening as a conscious engagement –
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rather than an unconscious diversion or a washing-over of sound while the mind is otherwise
occupied (Choksy, 1981). Designed to incorporate repertoire selections (art) in music theory
instruction (science), my LGs experiment with the teaching of intervals and/or chords, providing
preparatory data for an expanded version of my first question:

• formative – How can the teaching of intervals and chords be integrated with
repertoire from the Royal Conservatory’s (2016e) intermediate theory curriculum?

In the formative or readiness stage of my inquiry, the LGs gave substance to my ideas
about teaching music theory as a derivative of musical experience. They illustrate my imaginings
of an integrated curriculum and provide opportunities to mesh – in the sense of “bringing into
harmony” – both theoretical and practical experiences of music. The specific subject content of
the LGs will be fully disclosed in chapter 4.

The Interrogative Interaction

The conscious awareness stage of KM’s instructional process facilitates the moment of
discovery when a subconscious musical experience becomes conscious knowledge. At this “ah-
ha” moment, the previously unknown is exchanged for the presently known. Through carefully
selected questioning, the new learning is derived, labelled, and symbolized, thereby transferring
awareness from sound to sight – or from practice to theory. Given the significance of this
transfer, I endeavoured to adopt/adapt it for my inquiry. Traditionally, the presentation of
information, particularly in music theory instruction, is delivered through the teacher-centred
practice of telling. But the learning in KM’s conscious awareness stage is derived from the active
student-centred practice of doing, which circumvents the habitual passivity of receiving.
To include this active doing in my research process, I associated the second stage of my
inquiry with questioning and chose to identify it as an interrogative interaction because of this
grammatical parallel. Just as new learning in a Kodály context is derived from “carefully
selected” questions, so too is the new learning I am seeking with my inquiry. While I naturally
gained new insights from the construction of the LGs, my thinking was limited by the boundaries
of my personal experience. Therefore, it was necessary to engage a community of music theory
teachers, to circulate the LGs, and to ask questions.
For this community interaction, I expected to draw participant teachers from RCM’s
College of Theoretical Examiners which numbers approximately thirty members. Once I
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received ethics approval, I sent a recruitment letter to RCM’s Senior Director of Academic
Programs who granted me formal permission. The letter, copied in Appendix 3.1, was sent by
the Academic Office Coordinator to all members of the Theory College in September 2016.
Distributed as an e-mail attachment, it summarized my research intentions and outlined the
details of participation. My recruitment criteria, corresponding with RCM’s examiner
qualifications, included a post-secondary degree/diploma in music, five years of professional
teaching experience in music theory, and knowledge of RCM’s theory curriculum. Four
participants were to be selected on a first-come, first-serve basis to review my LGs – made
conscious as new instructional elements. In my estimation, fewer than four participants would
have restricted the richness of my data while more than four would have restricted its
cohesiveness.
I received two responses almost immediately: one examiner declined my invitation to
participate and the other accepted. Without additional responses, I made arrangements for the
letter to be redistributed a week before RCM’s professional development workshops in
November 2016. At the workshop itself, another of my colleagues agreed to participate, despite
her distant location in Vancouver. I had enlisted two of the four participants I required. After
consulting with my doctoral supervisors, I chose to broaden the parameters of my recruitment
process and requested ethics approval to modify my research project. In addition to RCM’s
College of Theoretical Examiners, I decided to draw participant teachers from the Ottawa Region
Branch of ORMTA, increasing my potential participant pool by more than two hundred
members. Receiving approval, I sent a revised recruitment letter to the Ottawa Region Branch
President. This letter, with highlighted revisions, is copied in Appendix 3.2. In January 2017, it
was distributed by Ottawa’s Website Convenor to all local members as a link in a regularly
circulated e-mail. My recruitment criteria remained unchanged.
Meanwhile, my request for participation was accepted by a third examiner at RCM’s
marking meetings in December 2016. A fourth examiner also expressed interest, asking for more
information about the content of the LGs. I sent him a preview of level 5 and he responded
favourably a month later. By January 2017, I had a full slate of participants. Although it was no
longer necessary to broaden my recruitment parameters, I chose to proceed for two reasons: (1)
the ORMTA teachers, given their various backgrounds, would likely bring less homogeneousness
to my data and (2) the process had already been set in motion. Within several days, I heard from
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nine Ottawa-area teachers, either electronically by e-mail (three) or personally at community

events/meetings (six). One of these teachers is a former ORMTA member who was apprised of
my research project by word-of-mouth. One declined participation because she had few
intermediate-level students.
In the end, I was able to form three groups of four participants each: one based in the GTA,
with the Vancouver participant accessible by Skype; one on the east side of Ottawa, in Orleans;
and one on the west side of Ottawa, in Kanata. While all my participants teach music theory, the
disposition of each group is unique. The Toronto group participants, which include two men and
two women, are all theory examiners as well as theory teachers. All four teach/examine mostly
advanced music theory subjects (level 9 to ARCT). Two are also instrumental teachers but only
one is a pianist – the others play accordion, guitar, and viola, with varied levels of piano
proficiency. The Orleans group participants, all women, are long-established instrumental
teachers who include music theory in their practical lessons. Three are pianists and one is a
cellist. None teach music theory beyond an intermediate level. The Kanata group participants,
also women, are nearer the beginning of their teaching careers. All are pianists and three have
completed graduate studies at the master’s level. Two have recently become members of RCM’s
College of Practical Examiners. These same two teach some advanced music theory subjects as
well as intermediate-level rudiments. The other two participants confine their teaching to
elementary/intermediate levels.
In February 2017, I circulated the four LGs to all my participants as e-mail attachments.
Soliciting both negative and positive feedback, I asked the participants to review each document
with an eye/ear for their potential effectiveness as supplemental teaching materials. In March
2017, I moderated three introductory focus group discussions that I envisioned as
analyzing/interpreting/critiquing “conversations.” Prompted by questions that I sent along with
the LGs, each group discussion was intended to initiate an open dialogue in which my teacher
colleagues could critically examine the LGs and interact with one another. The questions,
itemized in Appendix 3.3, were designed to guide the reviewing process but they were not meant
to be exhaustive nor to limit the participants’ responses. Written feedback was suggested as an
option but it was not required. Our collaborative discussions were recorded, providing audio and
some video data, as well as written observations from field notes, for an expansion of my second
question:
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• interrogative – How can an integrated pedagogy for the teaching of intervals and
chords according to the Royal Conservatory’s (2016e) intermediate theory
curriculum be implemented?

The interrogative interaction was designed to incorporate the unknown/known progression

of a guided discovery approach. Although the musical repertoire and the theoretical subject
matter I addressed in the LGs were known elements for all the participants, my KM-inspired
presentation was unknown. By giving my participants an opportunity to explore the LGs and to
interact with one another, I hoped to engender a pedagogically stimulating experience for
everyone, including me. I valued and continue to value the expertise of my teacher colleagues,
both as individuals and as a collective. Their observational insights strengthened my own. While
the personal narrative at the center of my dissertation is the product of my thinking over many
years, it was significantly influenced by my participants’ experiences. A full description of the
data collected from both introductory and concluding focus group discussions is found in the
interlude that precedes chapter 5.

The Reflective Interaction

The reinforcement stage of KM’s instructional process involves a practical application of

the newly-acquired conscious knowledge over an extended period of time. Through writing
activities, this stage implements the notational symbolization of the relevant musical concept and
moves toward its abstraction. An examination of the known repertoire from the preparation stage
leads to repeated discoveries of the new element in multiple and varied settings. The new
knowledge may also be reinforced by learning and notating unknown repertoire that contains the
conceptual element.
An integral part of this process is the “practical application” of a theoretical concept. The
LGs represent my conceptualization of an integrated pedagogical theory, but this theory requires
applied practice in order to establish its efficacy. During the reflective interaction, the
participants were encouraged to use one or more of my LGs to reinforce or practice the teaching
of intervals and chords in their classrooms or studios. Over the course of the trial period,
determined by the teachers’ scheduling of interval and/or chord presentations, each participant
was asked to describe her/his experience(s) in a Google Docs file shared with the group. I posed
questions for contemplation, suggested in Appendix 3.4, and the remaining participants were
invited to respond to their colleagues’ descriptions, providing reflective insights drawn from their
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own experiences. I, too, expected to respond from my experience, continuing the dialogues that
began with the first focus group discussions. The participants’ stories, including those rendered
from the transcribed data of the previous interactions, were to be woven into my story. This
aggregate narrative was meant to probe the elaboration of my third question:

• reflective – How can the implementation of an integrated pedagogy for the teaching
of intervals and chords according to the Royal Conservatory’s (2016e) intermediate
theory curriculum be improved by the participants in my research study?

The “continuing dialogue” I had imagined did not become reality. Although I documented
my experiences with one of my level 8 students and posted them in Google Docs files as sample
entries, there were no further postings. But I was not deterred. I had received ample feedback at
the interrogative stage and I was assured by participants in each group that the LGs were being
utilized. I resolved to wait for the final stage of my research process.

The Summative Interaction

The assessment stage of KM’s instructional process is an indispensable component of

Kodály’s methodology. It involves a synthesis of conceptual knowledge, which confirms the
understanding of new musical concepts through reading and creating activities. The evaluation
of this conceptual or intellectual understanding is laden with the complexities of personal
interpretation. Therefore, rather than measuring intangible signs of comprehension, KM focuses
on tangible student behaviours, appraising musical knowledge through the demonstration of
specific skill sets, such as performing, analyzing, identifying, and notating (Choksy, 1999a).
Comprehension may be exhibited by the recognition (reading) of a new conceptual element in
unknown musical materials, or the improvisation and composition (creating) of new materials.
These creative activities, which place the concept in unique contexts, are pedagogically
imperative because they confirm the transferability of the relevant conceptual knowledge.
At the summative stage of my research process, I was interested in the assessment or
evaluation of my LGs. To some extent, this appraisal was carried out at the interrogative stage
when the LGs were reviewed by my participants. However, these reviews were fixed on the LGs
as a printed product. At the reflective stage, the LGs were to be animated by my participants –
just as a musical score is brought to life by the musicians who perform it. Essentially, my
product was to become a process. Through this transfer, I wanted to establish the instructional
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viability of the LGs. Therefore, I placed them for use in multiple and varied contexts, then
collected the resulting data.
In August 2017, I conducted three concluding focus group discussions that were prompted
with the questions outlined in Appendix 3.5. Acknowledging the limitations of my singular
experience, I sought recommendations for the artistic/scientific integration of music and music
theory from the collective expertise of the group as a whole. Although the LGs were not used by
every participant, all three focus groups were represented. Our communal effort, derived from
recorded audio data and written observations, augmented my narrative with articulations of the
participants’ individual meaning-making, or assessment of value. Their idiosyncratic teaching
styles brought the element of creativity to the summative stage of my research process. From a
synthesis of this creative element, I extracted generalizable conclusions.
My dissertation, as a piece of ABR, is deliberately open to tacit or intuitive knowledge. It
embodies the integration of artistic expression and scientific analysis since my story is layered
with critical scrutiny. The unfolding of my enriched narrative shapes its validity, satisfying
Barone and Eisner’s (2012) criteria for relevance by arguing that: “The story rings true. The
analysis is cogent and credible. The tale is coherent. The meanings are generalizable.” (p. 162).
Thus, my exploration of music theory pedagogy suggests an integrated beginning – for which
there is no end – inspired by an elaborated version of my fourth question:

• summative – How can the harmony component of the Royal Conservatory’s (2016e)
advanced theory curriculum be enhanced by an integrated artistic/scientific pedagogy
at the intermediate level?

The analysis of my story, relying on Eisner’s (1991) concept of educational criticism,

involves four dimensions: description, “making vivid” the experience; interpretation, accounting
of/for the experience with theory; evaluation, appraising the merit of the experience; and
generalization, deriving a thematic from the experience – for “in the particular resides the
general” (Barone & Eisner, 2006, pp. 100-101). My analysis of the empirical data will occupy
chapters 5 and 6.

Concluding Remarks

My research project arose from an artistic longing for something more in my teaching of
music theory – something more engaging; something more musical. Although my LGs are
products (ends) of this longing, as is my dissertation itself, they represent the process (means) of
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my becoming on behalf of my profession. It is not a static endeavour, nor is it finite. “I knew

from the beginning of this project that I couldn’t see the end! It’s … an evolutionary
progression” (L. L. Penny, journal entry, July 23, 2018). ABR practices enable a continual
process of creation that inspires artful ways of seeing and knowing. While these intuitive insights
express empathic forms of understanding, their artistic nature sometimes proves elusive –
certainly compared to quantifiable numbers or literal texts. At this preambular stage of my
inquiry, when the end result was unknown, my ABR commitment required dedication and a
condition of trust. But I had faith in my capacity to recognize and interpret my findings, for these
collaborative aesthetic/analytic capabilities would be drawn from my experiences as both a
musician/pianist and a music theorist.
My quest for pedagogical integration in music theory is long-lasting and on-going. ABR
practices allow for a holistic approach to research that emphasizes the relationship I have with my
work (Leavy, 2009). This relationship is clearly evident in every stage of the research design,
since my multi-faceted experiences/perspectives are inextricably linked with the LGs as well as
the focus group discussions. I am not a neutral creator, nor facilitator. But the living lens of
a/r/tography encourages the personal stance of my inquiry. Rather than circling the topic of
music theory pedagogy from the outside, looking in, I am positioned on the inside, looking out.
From this internal vantage point, I am seeking guidance from an external community of music
theory educators. Chapter 4 explains the LGs from my design perspective, but it will be my
participants who ultimately determine whether or not the LGs are pedagogically sound from a
usefulness perspective – pun intended.
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Chapter 4

Listening Guides: Choosing Depth over Breadth

To listen is an effort, and just to hear is no merit.
A duck hears also.
– Igor Stravinsky (1882-1971)

Introductory Remarks

From the outset, I intended to design integrated instructional materials for the teaching of
music theory. As my inquiry settled into its present form, my pedagogical ideas began to take
shape as LGs. But intention alone is not sufficient motivation for such a project – it requires both
purpose and opportunity. The first three chapters of my dissertation convey my purpose which is
fully entrenched in my understanding that the science of music theory is pedagogically
disconnected from the art of music – the very phenomenon it was intended to explain. The LGs
constitute my attempt to fill this pedagogical gap by infusing music theory instruction with
repertoire. However, the reconnection I am advocating is considerably more disruptive than
simply sprinkling a theoretical exposé with musical examples. I want to reverse the instructional
process by placing music at the centre of music theory teaching.
As I mentioned in chapter 2, a curricular shift from textbook-based teaching approaches is
not without its challenges (Luce, 2001). Criticizing the status quo is relatively easy. Envisioning
a solution or creating instructional materials to replace traditional textbooks is a far more difficult
task. In chapter 3, I explained the specific components of my research design and introduced the
LGs. In chapter 4, I will give a detailed description of the LGs’ content and disclose the
countless pedagogical decisions that led to their development as distinct entities. Although the
LGs are products of my imagination, they are grounded in decades of educational experiences
and observations. They combine my long-held interests in music theory and music education –
initially fuelled by the undergraduate teachings of Bell and Choksy.
The LGs’ specific content is associated with the newest edition of RCM’s (2016e) Theory
Syllabus. This association lends relevance to my inquiry, both for me and for the wider teaching
community. RCM’s syllabus, subject to an ongoing review process, provides a well-sequenced
music theory curriculum intended to enhance and enrich musical literacy. It also provides a
comprehensive listing of level-by-level requirements from which to select particular musical
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concepts. Emphasizing elements of pitch, the LGs provide preparatory data in answer to my
formative question:

• How can the teaching of intervals and chords be integrated with repertoire from the
Royal Conservatory’s (2016e) intermediate theory curriculum?

Experimenting with the musical/theoretical conventions surrounding the teaching of intervals and
chords, my LGs are purposefully constructed for the pedagogical integration of music (art) and
music theory (science).

An Opportunity to Effect Change

My vision of an instructional reversal is inspired by words attributed to E. Kim Nebeuts:

“To state a theorem and then to show examples of it is literally to teach backwards.”52 In such an
environment, the instructor traditionally introduces a given concept through lecturing, using
general principles to derive a model, showing illustrative applications of the model, giving
practice in similar derivations and applications, then testing for the same on exams (Prince &
Felder, 2006). This deductive style of teaching involves a logical process that infers particular
instances from general laws or principles. But in their campaign for an alternative teaching
approach, Prince and Felder (2006) argue that “people are most strongly motivated to learn things
they clearly perceive a need to know” (p. 123) – a well-established precept of educational
psychology.
With an extensive survey of neurological and psychological research, John D. Bransford,
Ann L. Brown, and Rodney R. Cocking (2000) provide strong support for inductive teaching
methods that encourage deep learning as a precursor for intellectual development (Prince &
Felder, 2007). Inductive teaching, rather than employing a “top-down” logic, utilizes a type of
“bottom-up” reasoning that constructs or evaluates general guidelines from specifics such as case
studies, experimental data, or observations. Through the analysis and interpretation of data,
students “generate a need for facts, rules, procedures, and guiding principles, at which point they
are either presented with the needed information or helped to discover it for themselves” (Prince
& Felder, 2006, p. 123). Thus, generalized conclusions are inferred from particular instances and
complex problems are solved.

52
It is generally accepted that E. Kim Nebeuts is a pen name for Michael Stueben, co-author of Twenty Years
Before the Blackboard: The Lessons and Humor of a Mathematics Teacher (1998). E. Kim Nebeuts read backwards
is Mike Stueben.
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Aróstegui (2003), confronting this same deductive/inductive opposition, criticizes a

teacher-centered process that focuses on the particular knowledge or operational criteria of a
domain and fails to account for students’ experiences. Alternatively, he recommends a
teacher/student interaction that encourages students to interpret the subject matter according to
their own experiential circumstances. This collaborative approach to pedagogy is consistent with
my belief that knowledge should be introduced through experience – as an intangible concept
presented through a tangible event. It also reinforces Kodály’s (1974) petition for nurturing
students’ “direct intuition.”
As my purpose evolved and my inductive posture solidified, I began to ponder the
execution of my pedagogical plan. An opportunity to “audition” my ideas dawned in early 2013
when I was invited, along with music theory teachers from across Canada and the United States,
to respond to a survey conducted by RCM. Subtitled “Looking to the Future,” it was initiated as
a catalyst for the preparation of an updated theory syllabus, originally slated for release in 2015.
The survey queried the perceived strengths and weaknesses of RCM’s theory curriculum and
broached the topic of integration with these questions: “Do you think that the curriculum would
benefit from being separated or divided into … specific courses? Or would a more integrated
approach to material increase effectiveness?” (J. Ringhofer on behalf of RCM, e-mail
questionnaire, February 6, 2013). Preferring integration, I suggested a re-alignment of subject
content for advanced harmony and history courses to coincide with practical levels from grade 8
to ARCT.
Although my survey response pre-dates my formal research proposal, it foreshadows my
quest for theoretical relevance:
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These [courses] could be organized around the “lists” that categorize

practical repertoire – such as list A, B, C, D/E.53 Therefore, history and
harmony at the grade 8 level could comprise Baroque composers and
genres as well as counterpoint and figured bass. Beginning the study of
harmony with counterpoint allows for a melodic (horizontal) focus, which
strengthens the concepts of voice-leading and tonal tendencies. This
focus is also less intimidating for vocal or single-line instrumental
students. At the grade 9 level, the co-requisite theory components could
introduce Classical composers and genres as well as four-part harmony,
including Schenkerian [analysis]. At grade 10, the focus could be on the
Romantic period and chromatic harmony; at the associate level, all the
modern “-isms” and post-tonal theory.54 (L. L. Penny, e-mail response,
February 16, 2013)

Despite the emphasis of my response on harmony and the subsequent re-orientation of my

inquiry toward rudiments, I recognized a significant correlation between RCM’s syllabus
preparations and my bourgeoning research interests.
The survey, in conjunction with additional data collected by RCM, precipitated an
expansion of its theory curriculum to all levels, from preparatory to associate. The rudiments
curriculum (through level 8) was also enriched with melody writing and music history
components, providing a creative context for music theory and offering a basic introduction to
composers, genres, and musical styles (RCM, 2016e). At a professional development meeting in
the fall of 2013, the proposed syllabus expansion was disclosed to all theory examiners in
attendance. Struck by a commonality of purpose, I approached RCM’s Senior Director of
Academic Programs and communicated my uncharacteristically bold desire to become involved
in the project. Shortly thereafter, I was contracted to review the first draft of the new theory
syllabus for both elementary-level and intermediate-level rudiments.
While elementary theory levels (preparatory to 4) are not formally tested by RCM,
intermediate-level examinations require cumulative knowledge from all previous levels.
Beginning with level 1 theory, there are nine concept streams:

53
RCM (2015c) divides performance repertoire into lists according to stylistic periods: list A, Baroque; list B,
Classical; list C, Romantic; list D, Post-Romantic, Impressionist, and early 20th-century; list E, 20th- and 21st-
century.
54
My suggestion was influenced by the underlying philosophy of CM, the curricular approach that brings
together “discrete elements and ideas from the various branches of music study” so that music may be understood as
a “unified whole rather than as detached fragments” (Rogers, 2004, p. 20). Ideally, a CM program combines music
history, harmony, counterpoint, analysis, orchestration, and even applied (performance) studies, with topics in music
theory.
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• pitch and notation

• rhythm and meter
• intervals
• scales
• chords; broadened to chords and harmony from level 5 onward
• melody and composition
• analysis; form and analysis from level 5
• music terms and signs
• music history/appreciation; focused on music history from level 5

Within each stream, musical concepts – as “abstract or generic idea[s] generalized from particular
instances” (Webster, 1983, p. 272) – are systematically introduced and explored. Preparatory
theory, which precedes level 1, does not include melody and composition, analysis, or music
history/appreciation components.
In my review of the proposed syllabus, I welcomed its increased scope and its incremental
dispensing of musical concepts at progressive levels of complexity. Exhibiting the continual
“turn[ing] back on itself” of Bruner’s (1963) spiral curriculum, it repeatedly revisits basic ideas
and builds upon them until the “full formal apparatus” has been grasped (p. 13). While this
spiralled approach is not new to RCM’s theory program, the fundamental concepts previously
introduced with basic rudiments – as the co-requisite for grade 5 practical examinations – were
now sequentially developed through five levels of preparatory/elementary study. These concepts
provide the foundation for intermediate-level understandings of music theory and later, for
advanced levels of musical literacy.
For comparative purposes, the former distribution of musical concepts for intervals is
outlined in Table 4.1. As measures of distance, intervals classify the spatial relationships
between pairs of notes or pitches. Specific concepts defining these relationships are presented
gradually, with new terminology highlighted in bold type:
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Table 4.1: Previous Syllabus Distribution of Musical Concepts for Intervals

Level-by-Level Theory Requirements: Intervals

basic rudiments write/identify: perfect, major, and minor intervals (harmonic
and melodic) within an octave above a given note in [major]
keys up to/including four sharps or flats
identify: melodic intervals below a given note

intermediate rudiments write/identify: all intervals and inversions within an octave (above
and below) in all [major] keys

advanced rudiments write/identify: all intervals and inversions (simple, compound, and
enharmonic equivalents)

(RCM, 2009)

To illustrate RCM’s expanded curriculum, Table 4.2 outlines the redistribution of musical
concepts for intervals in the new syllabus. Basic, intermediate, and advanced rudiments exams –
formerly co-requisites for practical examinations at grades 5, 6, and 7/8, respectively – are
reorganized for concurrent study as four intermediate theory exams (levels 5, 6, 7, and 8).
Additionally, the distinction between reading and writing activities is eliminated, with some
reading or identifying applications re-allocated to the analysis stream:

Table 4.2: Present Syllabus Distribution of Musical Concepts for Intervals

Level-by-Level Theory Requirements: Intervals

preparatory repeated notes, steps, and skips in C major
theory

level 1 level 2 level 3 level 4

elementary half steps (same or half steps perfect and major perfect, major, and
theory different letter whole steps intervals above a minor intervals in
names) numerical intervals given tonic (key major keys up
whole steps in C, G, F major signatures or to/including
melodic and accidentals) in C, three sharps or
harmonic G, D, F, B-flat flats
intervals up major
to/including an minor thirds
octave in C, G, F
major (numerical
size)
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level 5 level 6 level 7 level 8

intermediate diatonic and diatonic intervals diatonic and simple intervals
theory chromatic half in all major keys chromatic compound
steps chromatic intervals below a intervals up
whole steps intervals: given note to/including a
diatonic intervals: diminished and inversions of fifteenth (above
perfect and major augmented intervals or below)
in major keys up enharmonically enharmonic inversions
to/including four equivalent equivalents
sharps or flats intervals
chromatic
intervals: minor

(RCM, 2016e)

By way of explanation, intervals may be derived from horizontal melodic movements –

repeated notes, steps, skips, and leaps – or from the simultaneous sounds of vertical harmonies.
Their identification requires two components: a number that measures distance or the span
between letter names and an adjective (like perfect) that indicates quality or the nuanced span
between specific pitches. Intervals may be diatonically associated with major scales or
chromatically altered with accidentals, such as sharps and flats. They may be enharmonically
“respelled,” using different letter names with the same sound (C-sharp and D-flat, for instance),
or inverted by reversing their position and turning them upside down. They may be simple or
compound – smaller or larger than a perfect octave (8th) – and measured either above or below a
given note.
As such, intervals are the constituent elements of triads and chords, which are the
fundamental pitch components of melody and harmony. Thus, a continual broadening or
deepening of conceptual understanding is essential, for as Bruner (1966) emphasizes, “unless
certain basic skills are mastered, later, more elaborated ones become increasingly out of reach”
(p. 29). This comprehensive spiralling augments and strengthens previous knowledge, rendering
new competencies useful or worthwhile beyond immediate circumstances.
In conjunction with RCM’s expanded music theory curriculum, I was contracted to co-
author five elementary-level rudiments books (preparatory to level 4) for a new theory series.
These books, published in 2016, were eventually titled Celebrate Theory. But in March 2015, I
was part of a two-person team, responsible for pitch content in the following subject streams:
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• pitch and notation

• intervals
• scales
• chords
• melody and composition

This contract was the fulfilment of my adolescent ambition to write music theory textbooks. Its
timing, however, was unfortunate – I was also a full-time doctoral student, preparing to write my
research proposal. But the opportunity to contribute to RCM’s inaugural theory series was
enormously compelling. Besides, I was sure to learn something more about music theory
pedagogy, perhaps something I could use for the LGs.
In the end, I learned a great deal. I changed my student classification to part-time and
travelled to Toronto bi-weekly to consult with my partner who worked in RCM’s Academic
Office. He tasked me first with writing about scales for the preparatory-level manuscript, since
he had written about notes on the staff before I became involved. This seemed straightforward
enough, given that I was fully conversant with the material, but as I sat down to write, I could not
get started. There were things I needed to know. What had already been said? – by my team-
mate and by others? More importantly: Where does the “story” of scales actually begin? The
answers I sought were not historical or even philosophical, they were pedagogical. I wanted to
build a suitable foundation for both present and future learnings about scales. I also wanted to
provide a framework that would connect scales with interrelated musical elements.
Eventually, I understood that I was looking for the instructional processes of preparation,
conscious awareness, reinforcement, and assessment. With this realization, I concluded that I
was unable – or maybe unwilling – to participate in the authoring of RCM’s theory series without
incorporating the pedagogical lessons I had learned from KM. I resurrected the first chapter of
the preliminary rudiments book I had begun in the late 1990s (see chapter 1) and sent it to my
writing partner. To my amazement, he agreed to adopt my Kodály-inspired approach. I had
abandoned my rudiments books when FHM purchased the copyright for Sarnecki’s (2001b)
Elementary Music Rudiments series. But fifteen years later, RCM’s Celebrate Theory series,
including my contributions, would replace Sarnecki’s.
Mid-way through the manuscript for level 2, my partner was forced to leave the project
because of circumstances beyond his control. I was deeply distressed but duty-bound to
complete my obligation. I continued to write pitch content. Several of my examiner colleagues
 117

joined me as co-authors and/or reviewers. One of these, an experienced composer, took over the
melody and composition stream while others assumed my partner’s portion of the content. An
earlier set of manuscripts by Brenda Braaten and Crystal Wiksyk, both affiliated with the Victoria
Conservatory of Music (VCM), was added to the mix. Consequently, my carefully crafted pitch
content was comprehensively edited and modified.
Although I am disappointed that KM’s principles and practices are not clearly visible on
the surface of the Celebrate Theory books, they undeniably form the substructure on which the
series is constructed. RCM’s willingness to implement pedagogical change, even a modicum, is
remarkable. My involvement in this change is also remarkable – but there is further work to be
done. While I endeavoured to derive musical concepts from level-appropriate repertoire, my
efforts were only partially utilized in the final publications. Teaching for active student
participants is much more time-consuming (and space-consuming) than teaching by rote for
passive student receivers (Hoag, 2020). Consequently, many excerpts from the musical literature
were either dropped or moved to the ends of units and repurposed for summarizing analysis
exercises. Thus, my quest for repertoire at the centre of music theory instruction was still largely
unrealized. My LGs are next steps toward the achievement of this aim. Although their writing
was delayed by my work on RCM’s (2016) Celebrate Theory series, the LGs are certainly
informed by the experience and would not have materialized as they did without it.

An Adaptation of the Kodály Method for Music Listening

In the educational setting for which KM was initially designed, a new conceptual learning
is prepared through extensive rote singing experiences. The concept becomes conscious
knowledge, then undergoes a lengthy period of reinforcement through the reading and writing of
folk song materials, both known and unknown. Later, the learning is assessed through sight-
reading as well as improvising and composing activities (Choksy, 1999b). For older students,
particularly those with previous musical training, the pedagogical emphasis shifts from folk
music to composed music. In this older-student context, KM is modified to embrace the teaching
of art music and by extension, the teaching of music theory. Choksy (1999b) outlines her
adaptation of the instructional process as follows:
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The “make conscious” stage might be viewed as the first time the students
actually listen to the work. The music is then reinforced through repeated
listening, each time with a specific focus.
Assessment may take many forms. At a simple level, students might
compose a short work incorporating some techniques learned through the
particular composition. (p. 78)

How are students prepared for this process? Of the various activities through which
elementary-aged students learn music, Choksy (1991) lists singing, moving, playing instruments,
musical reading/writing, listening, and creating. In many classrooms, listening – the activity
commonly associated with teaching art music – is reduced to a “drop the (now proverbial)
needle” exercise. Yet, there is a considerable difference between “being in the presence of sound
… and being totally conscious of that sound” (p. 72). The first, of course, is hearing and the
second, listening. But music listening skills are not innate, they are cultivated and developed
through careful guidance.
In a KM classroom, early listening experiences involve direct oral transmissions or
personal exchanges. The teacher sings multi-versed story songs that are prepared with guided
questions, then repeated many times – like a child’s favourite bedtime story. Once good listening
skills are established, the teacher may substitute singable themes from masterworks, such as the
“Romanze” from Mozart’s Eine kleine Nachtmusik (Choksy, 1991). After several listenings, a
recording of the work may be played. With this intentional preparation, the students bring
familiarity to their formal music listening experiences.
As an intermediate step toward analytical listening, teachers David Brummitt and Karen
Taylor (1996) developed a five-year Kodály-inspired music listening program. Intended for
school-wide broadcast, it comprises a comprehensive series of listening lessons in which a
complete work or movement is repeated daily for five successive days. Each listening, of
approximately five minutes, is prefaced with a brief narration that provides information about the
composer and the featured composition. The script changes from day to day. It both reinforces
the previous day’s narration and incrementally adds new information. Representing every
historical period, musical genre, and instrumental/vocal ensemble, this non-directed approach to
music listening provides anecdotal exposure to art music – sometimes the students’ only exposure
– but it does not replace a directed approach that guides students through a musical analysis of
the selected work prior to its listening (Scott, 2009).
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This prior analysis is a key component of the experience, as Choksy (1981) clarifies: “It is
not so much the music used as the way of approaching it that differs from the old-fashioned
‘music appreciation’ class” (p. 88). In Hungarian singing schools, fourth grade students are
musically conversant in diatonic tonal/modal systems and have an extensive rhythmic vocabulary
as well as basic knowledge of harmonic and structural analysis. They are ready for focused
analytical listening. Consistent with all facets of KM’s pedagogical approach, this listening
begins with singing (Choksy, 1981).
Hungarian students’ earliest listening experiences generally include settings of known folk
songs by Kodály or his contemporary Béla Bartók (1881-1945), a fellow composer and
ethnomusicologist. But the students do not listen to recorded music until the main theme(s) have
been notated and sung in solfa. The initial presentation of themes varies, as the following sample
preparatory activities illustrate (Choksy, 1981):

• the notation may be shown and read by students

• the theme may be taught by rote with the solfa derived by students and notated from
memory
• the theme may be given as melodic dictation and sung from the students’ written
notation

In keeping with the vernacular practices of the Hungarian model, music listening experiences in
North America are typically centered around North American folk songs. Early vocal
experiences are gradually expanded to include instrumental settings of the songs, such as Aaron
Copland’s (1900-1990) rendition of “Simple Gifts” from his orchestral suite Appalachian Spring.
The principal instruments of the orchestra are introduced one at a time, ideally through live
performance.
From this starting point, the music of the Viennese Classical composers provides a wealth
of material for directed listening experiences, particularly that of Franz Joseph Haydn (1732-
1809) and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791). But Choksy (1999a) intentionally avoids
compositions with accompanying stories, like Haydn’s Surprise Symphony, Clock Symphony, or
Farewell Symphony, for in her words, “too many [students] have listened to amusing – and
largely untrue – stories in ‘music appreciation’ lessons rather than to music” (p. 124). At the
fourth-grade level, Choksy suggests Mozart’s keyboard variations on “Ah! Vous dirai-je,
Maman,” a melody recognizable as “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” Haydn’s Cello Concerto in D
 120

Major, op. 101, and Schubert’s Trout Quintet, based on his Lied “The Trout.”55 Since each
listening selection should be heard many times, she chooses to listen in depth to a few works
rather than to “hear” many.
In North American schools, given the twenty-first-century prominence of STEM subjects
(science, technology, engineering, and mathematics), fourth grade students do not possess the
same level of readiness for analytical listening as their Hungarian peers. But even with limited
instructional time, KM-inspired music listening is possible. It does not involve listening to
recordings in every class. Rather, it occupies a portion of several class periods in preparation for
a single listening experience, and then several more with follow-up for the same listening.
Admittedly, this scenario may seem like a substantial investment of time for very little return.
But in every preparatory activity, there are multiple learnings – some old, some new – and it is in
these activities that the elements of music theory reside.56 When the recorded listening takes
place, theoretical elements are connected to real music and their practical relevance is explicitly
revealed.
A well-balanced music listening program is categorized by four basic criteria: composer,
era/style, genre/structure, and instrumentation (Choksy, 1999a). It incorporates a healthy variety
in each category, moving backward and forward from the Classical era – to the Baroque era or
earlier as well as the Romantic era or later. Representative Baroque composers include Johann
Sebastian Bach (1685-1750) and George Frideric Handel (1685-1759). Later composers may
include Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827), Johannes Brahms (1833-1897), Claude Debussy
(1862-1918), Igor Stravinsky (1882-1971), and others. This list of composers is not exclusive
and a specific composer, once introduced, is not “dropped.” Each composer is revisited in
subsequent years, sometimes with the original work studied in greater depth or sometimes with
another work (Choksy, 1999a).

55
The term Lied, plural Leider, commonly refers to a nineteenth- or late eighteenth-century setting of German
Romantic poetry for a solo vocalist and piano accompaniment. “The Trout” (Die Forelle), composed in 1817 by
Franz Schubert (1797-1828), is based on a poem by Christian Friedrich Daniel Schubart (1739-1791), originally
published in 1783.
56
For example, consider the second movement or “Romanze” from Mozart’s Eine kleine Nachtmusik. The
opening rhythm may be spoken in duration syllables (ta, ti, etc.), its structure derived, the rhythm memorized and
notated. At a later lesson, the violin melody may be added to the rhythm. This melody may be read and sung in
solfa syllables, memorized, notated, and harmonized with the root-singing of primary chords. Still later lessons may
add the viola and cello melodies, which may be read and sung in parts, then Mozart’s harmonization analyzed
(Choksy, 1999a, p. 155).
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Despite its pedagogical complexities, the listening framework I have described is feasible,
but it requires a dedicated KM practitioner and a scholastic environment that recognizes the value
of music education. Frequently, one or the other is absent. Even if the tools and materials of KM
– rhythm syllables, solfa syllables, hand signs, and folk songs – are utilized at lower elementary
grades, there is little evidence at upper grades or in secondary schools that teachers are
progressively developing students’ musical understandings (Choksy, 1999b). According to
Choksy, these older students “become more able at [musical] skills they already possess, but they
do not generally add new skills; and rarely are they led to infer more advanced concepts or to
acquire further musical knowledge” (p. 1). Consequently, if publicly accessible school systems
are unable/unwilling to provide adequate musical training for their student populations,
specialized institutions must step forward to fill the gap.
Students of RCM’s music theory curriculum may be in a better position to exhibit aspects
of readiness for analytical listening. But their theoretical knowledge is often experiential and
therefore, subconscious – since music theory is customarily distanced from music performance.
However, with RCM’s recent restructuring of music theory co-requisites for all levels of
performance, students’ theoretical knowledge may now be lifted to the realm of consciousness
and its practical relevance made more obvious.

Considering the Repertoire

As I contemplated the teaching of music theory with, about, in, and through music (Cornett
& Smithrim, 2001), I imagined the ideal repertoire as the students’ own. While this ideal is
pedagogically optimal, its application is realistically impossible. RCM’s instrumental and vocal
syllabi include lengthy lists of repertoire.57 As an example, there are a total of 181 selections for
level 5 piano alone: 22 list A (Baroque) pieces; 28 list B (Classical) pieces; 114 list C
(Romantic/Modern) pieces; and 17 technical studies or études (RCM, 2015c). Of these, 42 are
included in RCM’s Celebration Series: Piano Repertoire 5 (2015b) and Celebration Series:
Piano Etudes 5 (2015a). While RCM’s publications increase the probability of performance for
this small segment of the repertoire, only five selections – chosen by individual students and/or
their teachers – are required for examinations. While some students learn to play multiple works

57
RCM publishes examination syllabi for the following instruments/voices: accordion, brass, cello, clarinet,
double bass, flute, guitar, harp, harpsichord, organ, percussion, piano, recorder, saxophone, trumpet, viola, violin,
voice, and woodwinds.
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in each category from various sources, others focus exclusively on their specific exam repertoire.
Either way, I cannot choose a piece of music that all level 5 piano students will have learned.
And by choosing a piano piece, I have already excluded vocal students as well as those of every
other instrumental discipline.
Therefore, in order to satisfy KM’s mandate for known repertoire, I decided to embrace the
music history component of RCM’s (2016e) rudiments curriculum as my source of repertoire –
despite my apprehension about its lack of historical/theoretical depth. In my review of the pre-
publication content, I had petitioned for pedagogically robust listening selections but by the time
I became involved in the project, RCM was academically invested in an agenda of broad
exposure.58 Table 4.3 lists the elementary-level repertoire requirements, as well as suggested
topics for focused listening, with new composers and compositions highlighted in bold type.
Music history/appreciation is not included at the preparatory level:

Table 4.3: Syllabus Distribution of Repertoire for Elementary Music History

Level-by-Level Elementary Theory Requirements: Music History/Appreciation

level 1 level 2
Telling a Story through Music An Introduction to Mozart
• Camille Saint-Saëns: Carnival of the • Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
Animals (The Elephant, Kangaroos, • life (childhood) and music
Aquarium, The Swan) • Twelve Variations on “Ah vous dirai-je,
• instruments Maman,” K 265
• descriptive titles • changing theme
• Sergei Prokofiev: Peter and the Wolf • Horn Concerto No. 4 in E-flat Major, K
• storyline and characters 495 (Rondo)
• recurring theme

58
I reviewed the proposed content for RCM’s (2016e) Theory Syllabus in two segments: the elementary theory
requirements (preparatory to level 4) in December 2013; and the intermediate theory requirements (levels 5 to 8) in
April 2014.
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level 3 level 4
Bach and Music for Dancing Getting to Know the Orchestra
• Johann Sebastian Bach • Benjamin Britten: The Young Person’s
• life (family) and music (Anna Guide to the Orchestra
Magdalena Notebook) • Pyotr Il’yich Tchaikovsky: The
• Christian Petzold: Menuet in G Major, Nutcracker (Waltz of the Flowers, Dance
BWV Anh. 114 of the Sugar Plum Fairy)
• French Suite No. 5 in G Major, BWV • instrumental families
[816] (Gavotte, Gigue) • range and colour
• Baroque dances (character)
• harpsichord

(RCM, 2016e)

At first glance, the introduction of stand-alone topics in a string of isolated presentations

belies the opportunity to build new understandings on previous experiences. While an
overlapping interaction of composers/compositions could combine both known and unknown
learnings – reminiscent of KM’s reinforcing and making-conscious activities – RCM’s
elementary-level presentations may be interpreted as preparing activities. For instance, the
Rondo from Mozart’s Horn Concerto No. 4 in E-flat Major includes an easily singable theme,
even though its 6/8 meter is not formally introduced until level 5.59 And Petzold’s Menuet in G
Major (from the Anna Magdalena Notebook) is graded for level 3 piano, making it readily
playable, although the Gavotte and Gigue from Bach’s French Suite No. 5 in G Major, graded for
levels 7 and 10, are not (RCM, 2015c).60 Regardless, students’ early exposure to music for
listening paves the way for later, more in-depth music listening experiences.
Since the LGs encompass rudiments topics from levels 5 to 8, I scrutinized the co-requisite
music history content with greater purpose. Table 4.4 lists the intermediate-level repertoire
requirements:

59
The third movement of Mozart’s Horn Concerto No. 4 in E-flat Major is the subject of Choksy’s (1999b)
“Listening Strategy 1.” It is one of several Classical-era works recommended for students’ first directed listening
experiences because the thematic repetition of its rondo form (labeled ABACABA) is clearly audible.
60
The Menuet in G Major is a keyboard piece found in the second Notebook for Anna Magdalena Bach (1725).
It was attributed to Johann Sebastian Bach (BWV Anh. 114) until the 1970s when Christian Petzold (1677-1733)
was recognized as the composer. The Notebook, written for Bach’s second wife, is a compilation of late
seventeenth- and early eighteenth-century works by various Baroque composers, including François Couperin (1668-
1733), Georg Böhm (1661-1733), J.S. Bach himself, and his son Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach (1714-1788).
 124

Table 4.4: Syllabus Distribution of Repertoire for Intermediate Music History

Level-by-Level Intermediate Theory Requirements: Music History

level 5 level 6
Voices in Song An Introduction to Musical Styles of the
• George Frideric Handel: “Hallelujah Baroque and Classical Eras
Chorus” from Messiah Baroque Era (ca.1600-ca.1750)
• oratorio • Johann Sebastian Bach: Invention in C
• chorus (soprano, alto, tenor, bass) Major, BWV 772
• Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart: “Queen of • invention
the Night” from The Magic Flute • polyphonic texture
• opera • motive and sequence
• aria • Brandenburg Concerto No. 5, BWV 1050
• Harold Arlen: “Over the Rainbow” (first movement)
from The Wizard of Oz • concerto grosso
• verse-chorus structure Classical Era (ca.1750-ca.1825)
• Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart: Eine kleine
Nachtmusik (first movement)
• chamber music
• homophonic texture
• sonata form (exposition, development,
recapitulation)
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level 7 level 8
Introduction to Musical Styles of the Expanding Musical Horizons
Romantic and Modern Eras Introduction to Music of the Medieval Era
Romantic Era (ca.1825-ca.1900) (ca.476-ca.1450)
• Felix Mendelssohn: Overture to A • Hildegard von Bingen: Ordo virtutum,
Midsummer Night’s Dream “Quae es, aut unde venis?” (Scene 4)
• program music • plainchant
• concert overture • monophonic texture
• Frédéric Chopin: “Revolutionary” • Anonymous (13th century): Sumer Is
Etude in C Minor, op. 10, no. 12 Icumen In, “Reading Rota”
• étude • canon
• nationalism • polyphonic texture
• chromatic harmony • ostinato
Modern Era (ca.1900 to present) Introduction to Music of the Renaissance Era
• Igor Stravinsky: Petrushka, “The (ca.1450-ca.1600)
Crowd Revels at the Shrovetide Fair” • Josquin des Prez: El grillo
(first tableau) • frottola
• ballet • word painting
• rondo form Global Music Styles
• polytonality • Javanese gamelan: Kaboran (gamelan
• pentatonic scale prawa)
• Hugh LeCaine: Dripsody • gamelan
• electronic music • metallphones
• Duke Ellington: Ko-Ko • Indian raga: “Bhopali” (evening raga)
• jazz • raga
• twelve-bar blues • tala
• sitar

(RCM, 2016e)

Given both the prominence of vocal music in KM and its pedagogical sequencing from
voice to instrument, “Voices in Song” is a welcome starting point. However, the chosen
repertoire does not necessarily meet KM’s “singable” criterion – despite the classification of each
work as a specific vocal genre. In chronological order, the “Hallelujah Chorus” from Handel’s
oratorio Messiah (1741), with its four-part choral setting for soprano, alto, tenor, and bass
(SATB), is the most accessible. The “Queen of the Night” aria from Mozart’s opera The Magic
Flute (1791) is the least accessible. It is written for a dramatic coloratura soprano with great
agility and flexibility in the high upper register. Few female voices occupy this range and fewer
still are capable of elaborate ornamentation with sufficient sustaining power. For young students,
Mozart’s aria is aurally recognizable but orally impossible to reproduce.
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Harold Arlen’s (1905-1986) ballad “Over the Rainbow” is from the musical fantasy film
The Wizard of Oz (1939). Winning an Academy Award for Best Original Song, it was sung by
actress Judy Garland in her starring role as Dorothy. Although the song opens with a large
interval, the ascending octave (or perfect 8th) is easily discernible and many teachers use this
opening as an auditory illustration for interval-recognition training. Its singability is established
by RCM’s (2019) Voice Syllabus, where “Over the Rainbow” is categorized as a list C selection
for level 6. Other practical connections include Dan Coates’ intermediate-level arrangement of
the song for piano, which is a popular selection in RCM’s (2015c) Piano Syllabus for level 5.
And in a more challenging arrangement by jazz pianist George Shearing (1919-2011), “Over the
Rainbow” is a list D selection for level 9.
In RCM’s (2016e) Theory Syllabus, the four historical periods that comprise the common-
practice period are divided between levels 6 and 7. Bach’s Invention in C Major and the first
movement from his Brandenburg Concerto No. 5 both represent genres, structures, and textures
that typify Baroque music, just as the first movement of Mozart’s Eine kleine Nachtmusik typifies
Classical music with a “textbook” version of sonata form. The Invention is also a teaching piece.
Initially written for harpsichord, it appears in RCM’s (2015c) Piano Syllabus at level 7. And
because the level 6 composers have been previously introduced – Bach at level 3 and Mozart at
both level 2 and level 5 – there is finally the potential for reinforcement.
At level 7, the Romantic era is exemplified by Frédéric Chopin (1810-1849) and Felix
Mendelssohn (1809-1847). Exhibiting nationalistic and programmatic features respectively, the
chosen works are appropriately storied since extra-musical associations characterize much
Romantic music. Chopin’s Etude (1831), a virtuosic ARCT-level selection (RCM, 2015c), was
inspired by the Russian invasion of his native Poland during the November Uprising (1830-
1831).61 Mendelssohn’s Overture (1826), although not initially associated with the play’s
performance, was written for William Shakespeare’s (1564-1616) A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
The Modern repertoire selections represent a variety of twentieth-century musical genres
and styles. All three selections have been included as required works for prior advanced-level
history exams: Petrushka (1911) for the equivalent of level 9 history (RCM, 2009); Dripsody
(1955) for an early version of ARCT history (RCM, 1995); and Ko-Ko (1945) for a later ARCT

61
An étude is a genre designed to emphasize the technical aspects of performance. In the hands of Romantic
composers such as Chopin and Franz Liszt (1811-1886), the étude gained concert status but retained its practice of
perfecting a particular technical skill.
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history equivalent (RCM, 2002). Their composers are similarly heterogeneous. Igor Stravinsky
(1882-1971), widely considered to be one of the most influential twentieth-century composers, is
notable for the stylistic diversity of his compositions. These include Russian nationalism, of
which his ballet Petrushka is a prime example, neo-classicism, and serialism.62 Both Hugh
LeCaine (1914-1977) and Edward Kennedy “Duke” Ellington (1899-1974) originate closer to
home – LeCaine from Port Arthur (now Thunder Bay) in northwestern Ontario; and Ellington
from Washington, D.C. Their North American roots lend an element of familiarity to their
“histories” as well as a sense of national kinship.
At level 8, the focus is outward – “Expanding Musical Horizons” in both time and place. I
queried the Medieval and Renaissance repertoire, since unprepared listenings to these early works
are likely to “wash over” students as hearing exercises that do not support conceptual/theoretical
understandings of the music. So, too, for the global music. Kaboran is a classical overture
connected with the elaborate all-night wayang kulit theatre in Cirebon, an ancient cultural centre
on the northern coast of Java.63 Often played before the audience arrives, Kaboran is performed
for the “entertainment of the spirits – and for the enjoyment of the gamelan musicians” (North,
2010). “Bhopali” is an evening raga by part-time Canadian resident Irshad Khan. But given the
improvisatory nature of this selection, it is a singular occurrence. And without adequate
knowledge of the cultural, spiritual, and emotional associations linked with the raga, I am ill-
equipped to interpret this work for myself or for my students. The majority of my colleagues are
similarly disadvantaged.
As it is no-doubt evident, I have some reservations about the music history component of
RCM’s (2016e) rudiments curriculum. There is also a concept/fact dichotomy to consider. For
instance, “Melodies may move higher or lower, or they may repeat.” is a concept concerning
melodic contour. In contrast, “The first two pitches of ‘Yankee Doodle’ are repeated notes.” is a
fact (Choksy, 1991). The concept statement is transferable to multiple musical settings but the
fact statement is not. Thus, the gathering of surface facts about a piece of music is often an
inconsequential endeavour. We, as music theory teachers, must encourage our students to

62
Stravinsky popularized neo-classicism, which imitates eighteenth-century genres and forms, and later adopted
serialism, which extends the systematic ordering of twelve tones to parameters other than pitch – all the while
projecting a “single personality” in every style he embraced (Burkholder, et al., 2014, p. 840).
63
Kulit refers to the rawhide material, usually water buffalo, from which the shadow puppet figures are carved
and punched with holes.
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gather/observe historical phenomena that will support transferable generalizations – for without
transferability, we do not have a secure footing on which to build subsequent teachings.
In an article that documents his personal journey toward a skills-based approach to teaching
college-level music appreciation, Robin Wallace (2013) admits:

The idea that a one-semester music appreciation course should try to

cover a little bit of everything was, I decided, pedagogically destructive.
It was better to teach a few things in depth than to spread the net too
wide. (p. 162)

For the first time since RCM’s founding in 1886, the music theory curriculum provides an
opportunity to completely contextualize theoretical knowledge – to bridge the gap that has
traditionally separated theoretical knowledge from practical knowledge. RCM’s (2016e)
expanded curriculum could facilitate a theory/practice integration. By contextualizing the
traditional elements of music theory with historical content, students could build constructive,
functional knowledge that intrinsically combines music theory and music practice. I am
convinced that a meaningful encounter with the musical literature is didactically viable, as well as
both theoretically and practically valuable. But how do we, as music theory teachers, initiate
these enriched musical experiences?

Fine-Tuning the Instructional Process

In October 2018, I entered the following reflection in my writing journal:

I think I may be confusing two issues: RCM’s music history problem and
my own teaching-music-theory-through-repertoire problem. They’re
obviously connected, since I’m using the history repertoire for my
Listening Guides, but whose problem am I trying to solve? Good
question! The answer may be both. In looking for a PhD-appropriate
project, I took on a pedagogical problem that was not mine. But I
suppose all research stems from a need of some sort – concrete or
abstract, real or perceived. (L. L. Penny, journal entry, October 3, 2018)

Although I disagree with RCM’s selection process, the chosen works constitute required
listening for all students wishing to obtain a Comprehensive Certificate of Successful Completion
from level 5 onward. If I cannot change the current syllabus requirements, perhaps I can change
the way students experience the required repertoire. Perhaps I can bring these works from the
instructional periphery to the centre of music theory pedagogy – where they can relinquish their
decorative role and inform my teaching as well as that of my colleagues. Choksy (1999b)
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considers the “peripheral” approach to be counterproductive. She explains:

To look through art music for an example of, for instance, the harmonic
minor scale, is simply backward. In any core of well-chosen art music, the
harmonic minor scale will appear some place. When it appears it can be
studied. (p. 77)

The implication being that “everything we want to teach” may be found in a core repertoire of
judiciously selected music (p. 77).
Having completed my planning, I set out to create four LGs, one for each level of RCM’s
(2016e) intermediate theory curriculum (levels 5 through 8). These are modelled on the Long-
Range Listening Strategies that Choksy (1981, 1999b) derived from her early observations of
KM in Hungary. Intended to foster students’ understanding and enjoyment of art music, they
comprise a “series of relatively short teaching segments that take place over many lessons”
(1999b, p. 78), including preparatory activities as well as the listening activities themselves. As a
student of Choksy’s, I wrote two such strategies: one for the fourth movement of Franz
Schubert’s (1797-1828) Trout Quintet (Piano Quintet in A Major, D 667), and the other for
Vltava (The Moldau) from Bedřich Smetana’s (1824-1884) set of symphonic poems Má vlast
(My Homeland). At the time, I sensed the potential usefulness of these lessons and filed them
away – both figuratively and literally – for safe-keeping. Now, they form the core of my
pedagogical approach to the musical literature.
Following her description of a representative Listening Strategy, Choksy (1999b) concludes
with this paragraph:

The approach suggested here is very different from the ones commonly in
use… The focus is on the music, throughout. It is better to study two
works a year in this kind of depth than to listen to ten works superficially,
because this analytical approach makes generalizations possible. The
student who has studied Mozart’s Symphony No. 40 in G Minor, who
knows the work thoroughly, can sing its themes, follow its form and its
… key changes, can then listen with much greater understanding to all
Mozart and Haydn symphonies. He or she is able to transfer the
knowledge acquired and, even more importantly, the appreciation that
goes with the knowledge to other works in the same style and period.
(p. 79)

Although my purpose was clear and a pathway chosen, there were many pedagogical
hurdles to overcome. Of the four criteria that constitute a well-balanced music listening program
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– composer, era, genre, and instrumentation – I forefronted era, moving backward and forward
from the Classical period, while simultaneously incorporating sufficient varieties of genre and
instrumentation. I chose the following repertoire from RCM’s (2016e) Theory Syllabus:

• level 5 – Mozart’s “Queen of the Night” Aria from The Magic Flute
• level 6 – Bach’s Invention in C Major, BWV 772
• level 7 – Mendelssohn’s Overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream
• level 8 – Josquin’s El grillo

At level 5, I had no alternative because Mozart’s aria is the only Classical work on the list
of required repertoire. At level 6, there are two Baroque choices: Bach’s invention and the first
movement of his Brandenburg Concerto No. 5. Having encountered a vocal soloist and an
orchestral ensemble in “Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen” (Mozart’s aria), I selected the
invention as an example of a solo keyboard work. For level 7, the Romantic repertoire includes
Chopin’s “Revolutionary” Etude in C Minor and Mendelssohn’s overture. Since the étude was
written for piano and Bach’s invention for harpsichord, I opted for an orchestral selection rather
than another keyboard work, despite their stylistic diversity. Mendelssohn’s concert overture
also gave me an opportunity to explore the components of sonata form, which are introduced at
level 6 with the Classical repertoire. For level 8, my choice was limited to Josquin’s four-part
choral frottola as the only Renaissance representative.
Designed to facilitate students’ understanding of the repertoire, the LGs modify aspects of
KM for the teaching of music theory through art music. They comprise four to six activities,
each with a clearly delineated focus. The activities are laid out on single-sided worksheets, with
specific tasks to be completed during the lesson and written exercises to be assigned as
homework. The teaching segments are student/teacher interactions, meant to be approximately
five minutes in duration. They were intended to be introduced with preparatory activities that
make conscious or reinforce theoretical concepts the students must grasp before listening to the
chosen work with understanding. But once again, I could not choose preparatory repertoire that
would be familiar to all students at all levels.
A compromise was necessary. I decided to bypass the first stage of KM’s instructional
process. Despite this concession, my commitment to KM was undaunted. Rather than preparing
relevant concept inferences with extraneous repertoire, I chose to create self-contained LGs. I
embraced Choksy’s (1999b) pedagogical adaptation, viewing pre-listening tasks as “preparation”
activities, the first listening as a “conscious awareness” activity, repeated listenings as
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“reinforcement” activities, and creative tasks as “assessment” activities. I also accepted

Choksy’s non-chronological stance that Classical music is the “easiest point from which to
embark on [a] journey into music” (p. 76), since its fluid melodies, steady meters, and
uncomplicated forms are most accessible. From this central point, I extended the sequence of
study to include increasingly complex works from a widening historical continuum.
In the context of KM, Choksy’s (1999b) Listening Strategies are “ends” in themselves.
They provide access to the “world of art music” (p. 76). This is not to say that they do not have a
broader purpose. Asking, “What can be taught from this music?” Choky replies, “everything” (p.
77, my emphasis). Indeed, all elements of music can be explored: rhythm, melody, harmony,
texture, structure, and expression. My pedagogical aspirations lie in the outcome of this
exploration, in the music theory that resides behind/beyond the listening. I believe that guided
listening activities can be the “means” to an end. They can provide access to the world of music
theory – with, about, in, and through art music (Cornett & Smithrim, 2001).
For this exploratory means/end purpose, I created, in the fall of 2016, the four LGs that
illustrate my instructional objective. They are included as appendices:

• Appendix 4.1 – level 5 LG for Mozart’s aria

• Appendix 4.2 – level 6 LG for Bach’s invention
• Appendix 4.3 – level 7 LG for Mendelssohn’s overture
• Appendix 4.4 – level 8 LG for Josquin’s frottola

They represent my best attempt to bring art music to the centre of music theory pedagogy. In
their creation, I endeavoured to: (1) “get inside” each piece of music to discover the music theory
it holds; (2) facilitate the accessibility of this music theory; (3) establish its relevance by
connecting music theory to the music it was intended to explain; and (4) teach music, not just
music theory.

Level 5: Mozart’s Aria

Die Zauberflöte (The Magic Flute), K 620 is an opera in two acts by Wolfgang Amadeus
Mozart (1756-1791) on a libretto by Emanuel Schikaneder (1751-1812). It is a Singspiel,
literally “song-play,” which is a German-texted opera with a comic or romantic plot that includes
spoken dialogue. The work premiered in Vienna on September 30, 1791 at Schikaneder’s
theatre, the Freihaus-Theater auf der Wieden, just a few months before the composer’s premature
death. “Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen” (“The vengeance of hell boils in my heart”)
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is an emotionally expressive aria for solo vocalist with orchestral accompaniment. Sung by the
Queen of the Night in the opera’s second act, it depicts the character’s fury as she threatens her
daughter Pamina with abandonment. If Pamina does not kill Sarastro, the Queen’s rival, she will
be her “Tochter nimmermehr” (ENO, 1980).
In collaboration with Schikaneder, Mozart conceived the Queen of the Night’s role for his
sister-in-law, Josepha Hofer (1758-1819), and wrote this demanding aria for her remarkably high
tessitura. It begins in D minor – a key often associated with tragedy and prevalent in Mozart’s
unfinished Requiem, K 626 (Plumley, 2013). The vocal line is often chromatic, modulating to F
major soon after the opening measures and covering a range of two octaves (from F 4 to F6). It
includes grace notes, rapid arpeggios, and virtuosic high notes. Undoubtedly, the gap between
Mozart’s aria and a typical level 5 student’s musical experience is substantial. This gap, which
threatens the aria’s accessibility, requires an instructional bridge.
Following Choksy’s (1999b) recommendation, I asked myself: “What do students need to
know before listening to this work with understanding?” Music of the Classical period tends to
be homophonic, melodic or singable, and predominantly diatonic. Meters are regular, forms are
balanced and symmetrical, dynamics are moderate, with either sudden or gradual changes. Of
these characteristic traits, the selected aria is homophonic, with a single vocal line supported by
orchestra, the meter is common (4/4), and the dynamics fluctuate frequently between forte (loud)
and piano (soft). However, the melody is mostly disjunct, the harmony is unsettled, and the form
does not follow a standard structure. Customarily, these un-characteristic or exceptional traits are
not recommended for study until the “norm” has been established, but in this particular piece, the
exceptions are its salient features.

Aligning the Score with Examination Requirements

Resigned to a seemingly untenable pedagogical task, I sat with a full score of “Der Hölle
Rache kocht in meinem Herzen,” attempting to understand its stylistic nuances with a thorough
analysis. 64 Next, I proceeded to reconcile the score’s contents with the subject requirements for
level 5 theory (RCM, 2016e), listing applicable topics and highlighting level-specific concepts in
bold type:

64
“Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen” is the second of the Queen of the Night’s arias. In the first, “O
zittre nicht, mein lieber Sohn" ("Oh, tremble not, my dear son"), she tells Prince Tamino the misleading tale of
Pamina's abduction by Sarastro and pleads with him to rescue her daughter.
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• pitch and notation

• ledger lines
• enharmonic equivalents
• octave transposition
• rhythm and meter
• upbeat (anacrusis)
• intervals
• diatonic and chromatic half steps
• whole steps
• major, minor, and perfect intervals (above tonic)
• scales
• major and minor (natural, harmonic, and melodic) scales
• relative keys
• scales degrees: tonic, subdominant, dominant, subtonic, and leading tone
• chords and harmony
• tonic, subdominant, and dominant triads
• root position and inversions
• dominant 7th chords (root position)
• functional and root/quality chord symbols
• melody and composition
• stable and unstable scale degrees
• form and analysis
• identification of key (with key signature)
• same, similar, and different phrases (a, a1, and b)
• music terms and signs
• allegro
• common time
• crescendo
• fermata
• slur (legato)
• staccato
• music history
• composer: Mozart
• genre: opera and aria
• performing forces: soprano and orchestra
• relationship between text and music

Rather than focusing on the opening melody, as is generally recommended, I chose the
most recognizable passage of Mozart’s aria, which begins at the end of measure (m.) 24:
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Figure 4.1: Mozart’s “Der Hölle Rache” from Die Zauberflöte (mm. 24-32)

Although there are no conspicuous markers to indicate its location within the aria as a whole, the
melody is both melodically and rhythmically distinct, repeating at m. 35 and again at m. 74 with
a variant. However, this passage is rife with pedagogical complications: it is in F major, instead
of the opening D minor; it is essentially textless; and the second phrase – beginning at the end of
m. 28 – is musically unfinished. A third phrase follows but it is only three measures instead of
the usual four.
Ideally, I would have liked to incorporate the surrounding text:

Figure 4.2: Mozart’s “Der Hölle Rache” from Die Zauberflöte (mm. 20-35)
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While this text appears for the first time even earlier, at m. 17, the key of F major is not stable
until m. 20. Even so, the melody writing component of RCM’s (2016e) intermediate theory
curriculum encompasses a period of two four-measure phrases. If my LGs are to be usable in an
RCM setting, I must work within the confines of an eight-measure period – not the fifteen
measures shown here. Consequently, I started with the excerpt shown in Figure 4.1.
The level 5 LG includes six activities. The first two are preparatory activities intended to
be completed before the work’s first listening which takes place in Activity #3. Although
subsequent activities do not necessarily involve further listenings, a recording is required for the
fifth activity’s assignment. I addressed as many of the syllabus requirements as possible,
endeavouring to link activities with accumulating theoretical knowledge. The relevant concepts,
gathered from the preceding list, are summarized for each activity:

• Activity #1 – common time; upbeat (anacrusis); same, similar phrases (a, a1)
• Activity #2 – identification of key (with key signature); octave transposition
• Activity #3 – Mozart; opera; aria; soprano; legato and staccato; relationship between
text and music
• Activity #4 – tonic triads; root position and inversions
• Activity #5 – diatonic and chromatic half steps; whole steps; stable and unstable scale
degrees; dominant 7th chords (root position)
• Activity #6 – major and minor (melodic) scales; relative keys; orchestra

In a KM context, the teacher/practitioner is unobtrusive, speaking sparingly and

deliberately avoiding the usual telling or explaining behaviours. Instead, musical skills and
concepts are “demonstrated by the teacher or inferred and derived by the students” from
immersive musical experiences (Choksy et al., 2001, p. 138). Consequently, students derive
musical concepts or infer conceptual understandings for themselves – from evidence and
reasoning rather than from the teacher’s definitive statements. As Choksy (1999b) attests:
“Concepts cannot … be ‘taught’” (p. 25). In my role as a music educator, I can teach musical
skills, such as singing, moving, playing instruments, reading/writing, listening, and creating, but I
cannot teach understanding. I can, however, present carefully sequenced musical experiences
through which students may be led to extrapolate their own conceptual understandings about
music.
Maintaining an unobtrusive teaching model in my LGs was the first of many instructional
challenges. To this end, I limited the amount of introductory text, giving concept statements in
short sentences, using language that is direct and uncomplicated. Each statement or set of
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statements is accompanied by one or more doing tasks for the student. These are either analytical
questions or musical/physical actions that support and strengthen the pedagogical focus. They
interactively encourage the student’s involvement in the learning process by presenting carefully
sequenced musical experiences that promote conceptual understandings.

Negotiating the Pedagogical Details

Although my pedagogical focus emphasizes pitch content, I decided to approach Mozart’s

aria through rhythm, intending to help the student become familiar with the work so as to
approach her/his first listening with preparatory knowledge. Carefully analyzing the eight-
measure melody (see Figure 4.1), I noticed considerable rhythmic repetition. Reminded of a
rhythm-erase game that Choksy (1999b) suggests for introducing the main theme of the Rondo in
Mozart’s Horn Concerto in E-flat Major, K 495, I ventured a similar activity. I laid out the
rhythm, without pitch distractions, in a slightly unorthodox presentation:

Figure 4.3: Rhythmic Reduction of Mozart’s “Der Hölle Rache” from Die Zauberflöte
(mm. 24-32)

By stacking two-measure segments vertically, I was able to align rhythms that are the same
in a way that makes their “sameness” immediately obvious. I labelled the opening motive (a) and
asked the student to label repeated (a) or extended (a1) motives, bringing the rhythmic structure
to conscious awareness. The simplicity of this structure aids the rhythm’s memorization which in
turn, facilitates its internalization – for a memorized rhythm is a known rhythm. The take-home
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assignment places the rhythm on the staff in a more typical presentation of two four-measure
phrases. This activity also introduces/reinforces melody writing terminology such as motive and
phrase.
In a KM classroom, rhythms are often presented in stem notation or a type of rhythmic
short-hand that dispenses with note-heads, except for half notes and whole notes. Customarily,
rhythm syllables are not written, they are voiced. These syllables, which are similar to the ones
used in French solfège, originated with the work of Emile-Joseph Chevé (1804-1864). Purposed
for rhythmic reading, they express duration rather than metrical identity, allowing the chanting or
speaking of rhythms – in the correct rhythm. This is impossible using note value names. For
example, if the five-syllable pattern “ta ta ti-ti ta” is read with note values, it becomes “quar-ter
note, quar-ter note, eighth note, eighth note, quar-ter note,” a five-beat or thirteen-syllable pattern
that does not resemble the original rhythm whatsoever (Choksy, 1999b). In the LGs, I decided to
minimize instructional elements that may be unfamiliar to RCM students or teachers. As a result,
I included both note-heads and syllables in the rhythmic notation for Activity #1 (in Figure 4.3).
The second preparatory activity adds pitches to the given rhythm, but in a singable range an
octave below Mozart’s melody:

Figure 4.4: Transposition of Mozart’s “Der Hölle Rache” from Die Zauberflöte (mm. 24-32)

Once again, I needed to make a decision about syllables. Recognizing the debate between an
absolute system of fixed-do and a relative system of moveable-do, as well as the potential
alienation of one user population or the other, RCM formally abstains from an association with
either system. But KM, recognizing the educational benefits of a relative system, uses moveable-
do solmization.
In his travels, Kodály observed the application of moveable-do in the training of English
choristers. This system, originally developed in the eleventh century by Guido d’Arezzo (ca.990-
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1050), was developed by Sarah Glover (1785-1867) and refined by John Curwen (1816-1880) in
the nineteenth century. Moveable-do solmization associates each syllable with a scale degree
rather than a specific pitch. As such, it has proven to be especially advantageous for the teaching
of vocal sight-reading, particularly in the context of a cappella or unaccompanied singing.65 In
KM, solfa syllables are supported by hand signs, also credited to Curwen, as both a physical and
a visual representation of intervallic relationships.
For my LGs, I adopted moveable-do solmization for three reasons: (1) its general
acceptance in English-speaking communities; (2) its central position in KM; and (3) my own
belief in its effectiveness as a teaching tool. The syllables (do, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti) are
abbreviated to consonants (d, r, m, f, s, l, t) for melodic reading and writing.66 These letters,
combined with stems, assist the efficient transcription of melodic/rhythmic dictation, providing
an intermediate step toward staff notation. They often distinguish a higher octave with
superscripts (d1, r1, m1) and a lower octave with subscripts (s1, l1, t1) but again, I chose to
minimize unnecessary complications.
My primary goal with Activity #2 is the melody’s memorization/internalization as an aid to
its transfer from unknown to known. I used the preceding activity’s assignment as a jumping-off
point, giving melodic contour to the static rhythm. With this separation of rhythm and melody,
the student is encouraged to focus on one element at a time. Having previously established the
phrase structure, it is now possible to analyze melodic markers, such as beginning, ending,
highest, and lowest notes, in a tonal context. The transposition assignment moves the melody to
the higher register in which it will be heard. The question – “Is it possible for you to sing the
melody in the transposed register?” – promotes reflection and demonstrates the application of
transposition tasks beyond extraneous exercises for examination purposes.
In every activity, I made a concerted effort to ensure student success by addressing
inconsistencies or ambiguities and by anticipating challenges. Without assuming an extensive
awareness of notational details, I used the writing tasks as “teachable moments.” For example, in
Activity #1, the eighth notes are beamed in quarter-note groupings that reinforce the meter but in

65
KM’s association with moveable-do is not exclusive. Fixed-do is utilized for advanced sight-singing of
modern repertoire that involves complex modulations or ambiguous tonalities.
66
Francophones generally use fixed-do, naming the notes of the C major scale with the seven syllables – but
adopting the earlier si instead of ti. Anglophones use Glover’s nineteenth-century conversion to ti, which enables
abbreviation by ensuring that every syllable begins with a different letter.
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Activity #2, they are beamed in half-note groupings that reflect their presentation in the score.
This adjustment is indicated in the introductory text prior to the melodic excerpt. I also
attempted to facilitate student success by including reminders like “Adjust the stem directions, if
necessary.” – to prevent common errors and misunderstandings.
Directing the student’s attention to the transposed melody from her/his previous
assignment, Activity #3 contains the first formal listening to Mozart’s aria. Since the melody’s
register now corresponds with the score, details of articulation can complete the notation. I added
grace-note embellishments and asked for legato/staccato markings to be supplied by the student.
But rather than requesting definitions of these terms, I questioned their specific performance
applications: “How should these notes be sung?” In so doing, I created an opportunity to discern
the relevance of articulations by discussing the relationship between text and music – one of
RCM’s specific examination requirements. This musical connection is imperative since much of
the activity, of necessity, is devoted to historical information.
The presentation portion of Activity #3 briefly references the composer, opera, aria,
character, and voice type. It also extends to the student’s individual listening experience by
asking for the performer’s name. A short description of the scene prefaces the only open-ended
questions in the level 5 LG: “How do you think the queen feels?” and “How does Mozart show
her feelings in the music?” Although I generally avoid such questions, they are included in
RCM’s (2016a, 2016b, 2016c, 2016d) Celebrate Theory publications. In the level 5 book, the
following request concludes the section on Mozart’s aria: “Describe your experience listening to
this work. What did you like best about it?” (RCM, 2016a, p. 66). Many students have difficulty
or are uncomfortable with this personal reflection.
I am not opposed to reflective questioning per se. I am opposed to unprepared reflective
questioning. Accordingly, I narrowed my questions, hoping that the experiences leading up to
them would provide the student with the context and the vocabulary he/she requires to answer
with confidence. The take-home assignment suggests watching an animated plot summary
(MPR, 2014), which offers additional context for the aria as well as an audio clip of the
highlighted melody. This activity is followed by a matching task that supports the student’s
comprehension of the plot and a translating task that supplies the English version of the aria’s
title. The translation may be found in Celebrate Theory (2016a), in the animation, or in a readily
available translation application.
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With the preparation activities and the first listening completed, the student is ready to
delve into specific theoretical elements derived from the melody. In Activity #2, the student
identified the significant melodic markers, or beginning, ending, highest, and lowest notes, as mi,
so, do, and so respectively. These notes are members of the tonic triad. Indeed, they comprise
most of the melody. The arpeggiations in the second phrase also outline this triad. My first
impulse was to create a make conscious lesson around the tonic triad:

Figure 4.5: Proposed Content for Activity #4 of Mozart’s “Der Hölle Rache” from Die
Zauberflöte

Mozart’s melody is based on a triad. The three notes of a triad are separated by thirds.
• Circle the first note in each of measures 5, 6, and 7. Measure numbers are counted from the
first complete measure.

This is the tonic triad of F major in broken form. It is built on the first note of the scale.
• Write the circled notes on the first staff. Use whole notes.
• Transpose the circled notes down one octave on the second staff.

Triads may also be written in solid or blocked form.

• Write the transposed triad as a stack of harmonic thirds.

The lowest note of a triad is the root. The highest note is the fifth. The middle note is the third.
What is the numerical size of the interval from the root to the fifth? ______
What is the size of the interval from the root to the third? ______
• Complete the following chart for the tonic triad of F major.
solfa syllables letter names
fifth ______ ______
third ______ ______
root ______ ______
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I soon realized that my impulse was inappropriate since tonic triads, introduced at the
preparatory level, are well-known at level 5. Triad inversions, however, are new. The first note
in each of measures (mm.) 29, 30, and 31 generates the tonic triad of F major in broken form (see
Figure 4.1).67 Drawing attention to these notes, I asked for them to be extracted from the excerpt
and placed on a separate staff. Once the triad has been derived from the melody, we can proceed
with our theoretical experiments, observing and recording the results. Consequently, the broken
triad is rewritten as a solid/blocked triad in root position, then re-organized in first and second
inversions (refer to Activity #4 in Appendix 4.1).
Wanting to reinforce the consistent labelling of triad members despite their positioning, I
vertically stacked the words “root,” “third,” and “fifth” according to each presentation. These
labels, which correspond to numeric interval measurements above the root or fundamental, were
introduced at level 1. Assuming them to be known, I asked for the tonic triad’s solfa equivalents
(do, mi, so). Relating these back to the melodic markers from Activity #2, I asked for the same
notes (beginning, ending, highest, and lowest) to be labelled as triad members – third, fifth, root,
and fifth. The concluding assignment connects this triad to the following activity with a four-
measure melody-writing task.
Activity #5 is dedicated to the third phrase of Mozart’s melody since the second phrase is
tonally unfinished. The melody-writing assignment from Activity #4 included a given rhythm
that was taken from the second iteration of the third phrase:

Figure 4.6: Mozart’s “Der Hölle Rache” from Die Zauberflöte (mm. 43-47)

Because the parameters of the assignment limited the available pitch content to the notes of the F
major triad, the students’ melodies will be unavoidably angular. This result opens a space to
discuss the compositional technique of “smoothing out” the melody with non-chord passing

67
In the student’s copy of Figure 4.1, on page 4 of the level 5 LG (Appendix 4.1), the measure numbers are
given as if this excerpt was taken from the beginning of the aria. My deviation from the printed score corresponds
with analysis exercises that typically present the opening measures of a given work. It also isolates the anacrusis or
upbeat as a singular complication, unobscured by measure numbers.
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tones. While this terminology is not introduced until level 7, I can prepare for its introduction by
describing the phenomenon without actually labelling it: “Most melodies use notes from the scale
to fill the skips or leaps between triad members.”
My pedagogical difficulty with this phrase involves Mozart’s use of a chromatic pitch (A-
flat) that does not belong to the scale of F major. Confronting the problem, I created an interval
exercise around whole steps, diatonic half steps, and chromatic half steps, utilizing most of the
melody notes. My derivation of this exercise from the melody itself illustrates the practical
application of interval measurement tasks. The reason I included the third phrase at all relates to
melody writing and the understanding of stable/unstable pitch endings as preparation for the
future disclosure of cadences.
However, I also needed to address the three-measure phrase. Besides its condensed length,
the harmonic content of this phrase is inconsistent with the four-measure version. Instead of the
descending tonic triad from m. 45 to m. 46 – made prominent with longer note values – the
condensed melody arpeggiates a non-linear dominant 7th chord from m. 33 to m. 34:

Figure 4.7: Mozart’s “Der Hölle Rache” from Die Zauberflöte (mm. 32-35)

Since the dominant 7th chord is a new theoretical element at level 5, this shortened phrase proved
to be quite valuable. But because the chord’s presentation is incomplete, I decided on a more
traditional teaching approach. In the assignment for Activity #5, I asked for an intellectual, albeit
tonally contextual, derivation of the dominant 7th chord in F major. Equipped with this
information, the student is asked to aurally complete the melody based on her/his listening to
Mozart’s version.
Although roughly two-thirds of the aria is in the key of F major, it begins and ends in D
minor. Sharing the same key signature (B-flat), these relative keys use the same pitches, with
some alterations, but the tonic or tonal centre is shifted. Recognizing their sameness, KM uses
la-based minor solmization in order to maintain consistent interval relationships between
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syllables. Whole steps and half steps, shown in Table 4.5 with more or less separation, are both
aurally and visually evident:

Table 4.5: Comparison of Solmization for Major and la-Based Minor Scales

Relative Scales: F Major and D Minor (Natural Form)

major F G A C D E F
d r m f s l t d

minor D E F G A C D
l t d r m f s l

Altered notes for harmonic or melodic minor scales use altered syllables, as shown in Table 4.6:

Table 4.6: Chromatic Alterations in Solmization for la-Based Minor Scales

D Minor Scales: Natural, Harmonic, and Melodic Forms (Ascending)

natural D E F G A C D
l t d r m f s l

harmonic D E F G A D
l t d r m f si l

melodic D E F G A B D
l t d r m fi si l

Comparing the placement of so and si in relation to la, the difference between the subtonic (C)
and the leading tone (C-sharp) is also reinforced – the subtonic being a whole step below the
tonic and the leading tone, a half step below.
Once the new key has been established and the pertinent solfa introduced, the aria’s
opening melody is given in Activity #6 as a reading exercise:

Figure 4.8: Mozart’s “Der Hölle Rache” from Die Zauberflöte (mm. 2-6)
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I used only one four-measure phrase since Mozart begins to modulate away from D minor almost
immediately. Like the passage from mm. 24-32, this melody is largely triadic, providing an
opportunity to transfer the tonic triad and the dominant 7th chord to another key context.
Partially influenced by RCM’s (2016a) inclusion of mm. 1-8 in Celebrate Theory, most of
the content for this last activity is aimed at circumventing the erroneous conclusion that the aria is
in F major. I was also intent on addressing the accompaniment. RCM’s excerpt is
understandably given as a piano reduction because the presentation of an orchestral eleven-staff
system is prohibitive, both practically and pedagogically. Similarly limited, I chose to reinforce
the level 4 music history component, which focuses on families of orchestral instruments, as an
encouragement for both the student and the teacher to explore the full score for Mozart’s aria.
Finally, wishing to widen the constraints imposed by RCM’s examination requirements, I
decided to conclude Activity #6 with a challenge question: “What musical mistake is made by the
Queen of the Night at the end of her aria?” The prominence of masonic symbology in Die
Zauberflöte is widely accepted since both Mozart and Schikaneder were Freemasons (Chailley,
1971; Gammond, 1979). But David J. Buch (2004) refutes the pervasiveness of this influence,
citing fairy-tale Singspiel or Märchenoper as the historical/theatrical context for the opera.
Indeed, Peter Gammond (1979) quotes a 1948 publication that describes it as “no doubt the most
fantastic mixture of the sublime and the ridiculous ever put on the stage” (p. 10). While
freemasonry and fairy-tale symbolism are far beyond the experience of a typical level 5 student,
the emotional content of the chosen aria is surely accessible.
The Queen is furious. Mozart expresses her anger in an extreme tessitura with wide
intervals, ascending arpeggios, and prolonged staccato vocalises supported by constant orchestral
motion and the absence of formal repetition (Chailley, 1971). According to Gammond (1979),
the “venomous” character of the aria is convincingly depicted with a “dagger-like” delivery of
the repeated notes (p. 81), included in Figure 4.1. For me, the Queen’s emotional distress is
evident in her musical mistakes. Beyond rational thought, she seems to forget or ignore
melodic/harmonic conventions. The aria ends abruptly, after a chromatic Neapolitan (E-flat
major) chord resolves to the dominant. But in her tempestuousness, the Queen does not complete
the expected authentic cadence. She exits the stage in a clap of thunder while the orchestra
brings her aria to its “brutal, raging termination” (Chailley, 1971, p. 252).
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Level 6: Bach’s Invention

The inventions and sinfonias, commonly known as two-part and three-part inventions, were
written by Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750) for his oldest son Wilhelm Friedemann Bach
(1710-1784). Begun in 1720, they were unpublished during the elder Bach’s lifetime. A
complete manuscript, the Autograph of 1723, resides in the Berlin State Library and a facsimile
of its title page appears in Willard A. Palmer’s (1991) modern edition with the following
translation (p. 1):

Sincere Instruction
in which lovers of keyboard music, and especially those desiring to learn
to play, are shown a clear way not only (1) to learn to play cleanly in two
parts, but also after further progress (2) to proceed correctly and well with
three obbligato parts, and at the same time not only to compose good
inventions, but to develop them well; but most of all to achieve a
cantabile style in playing, and to acquire a taste for elements of
composition.
Prepared by
Joh. Seb. Bach,
Chapel Master to His Serene Highness,
the Prince of Anhalt-Cöthen

Unlike Das wohltemperierte Klavier (The Well-Tempered Clavier), in which Bach

embraced the newly-developed equal temperament tuning system, his inventions and sinfonias
were intended to be playable on keyboard instruments tuned with the older meantone
temperament. Both volumes of The Well-Tempered Clavier contain 24 preludes and fugues, one
in each of the twelve major and minor keys, arranged chromatically in ascending order. But in a
meantone system, sharps and flats are not enharmonically equivalent – meaning that C-sharp and
D-flat, which are produced by depressing the same key, do not sound the same. Consequently,
there are only fifteen inventions and fifteen sinfonias arranged in the following order (C = C
major, Cm = C minor, etc.):

C Cm D Dm E-flat E Em F Fm G Gm A Am B-flat Bm

With two exceptions (E major and F minor), the resulting key signatures use a maximum of three
sharps or flats. According to Palmer (1991), the character of F minor in a meantone temperament
is “considerably more ‘doleful’” than its equal temperament counterpart because there was “no
true A-flat available” (p. 2). Nor was there a true D-sharp.
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Bach’s Invention No. 1 in C Major, BWV 772 is uniformly acceptable in either tuning
system and although it was likely written for harpsichord, it is easily playable on a modern
piano.68 But what do students need to know before listening to this work with understanding?
Music of the Baroque period tends to be melodic, predominantly diatonic, and polyphonic, with
two or more melodies sounding simultaneously. Rhythms are often motoric, forms are repetitive,
and dynamics are generally constant, excepting terraced dynamics that change suddenly from one
level to another. Baroque music also tends to express a single affect, emotion, or mood in each
piece/movement. Bach’s invention conforms to every one of these characteristic traits while
impressively displaying the composer’s contrapuntal genius.

Aligning the Score with Examination Requirements

Utilizing the level 5 LG as a template, I enthusiastically immersed myself in the score for
Bach’s Invention No. 1 in C Major. Finding contrapuntal manipulations of the opening motive
abundantly represented, I examined the score’s contents in relation to the subject requirements
for level 6 theory (RCM, 2016e). Applicable topics are listed below, with level-specific concepts
highlighted in bold type:

• pitch and notation

• transposition up by any interval (major keys)
• rhythm and meter
• thirty-second notes and rests
• intervals
• major, minor, perfect, augmented, and diminished intervals (above any note)
• scales
• major and minor (natural, harmonic, and melodic)
• relative and parallel keys
• scales degrees: tonic, supertonic, mediant, subdominant, dominant,
submediant, subtonic, and leading tone
• chords and harmony
• major and minor triads in major and minor (harmonic) scales
• dominant 7th chords (root position)
• close and open position
• functional or root/quality chord symbols for implied harmonies (I/i, IV/iv, and
V)

68
In the Baroque period, the German “Klavier” (English “Clavier”) was a generic term for keyboard. It indicated
a variety of stringed keyboard instruments, including the harpsichord, clavichord, and fortepiano, in
“contradistinction to the organ” (Randel, 1986, p. 176).
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• melody and composition

• antecedent and consequent phrase pairs (parallel period) given first two
measures
• form and analysis
• identification of key (with or without key signature)
• music terms and signs
• fermata
• music history
• composer: Bach
• genre: invention
• performing forces: harpsichord
• associated style traits: Baroque, polyphonic texture, motive, and sequence

Before proceeding with the listening activities, I needed to determine the exact boundaries
of the invention’s opening motive. In Celebrate Theory (RCM, 2016b), it is identified as a
seven-note motive but I objected to the ending of this shorter motive on the weakest portion of
the beat – without a cadence. And from my analysis, I recognized statements or manipulations of
an eight-note motive, isolated by rests before and after, from measures 7 to 10. Therefore, after
much deliberation, I decided to adopt the longer motive:

Figure 4.9: Opening Motive of Bach’s Invention No. 1 in C Major (m. 1)

Although I remain firmly committed to my decision, the eight-note motive presented a distinct
set of challenges because the last note, despite its rhythmic consistency, is melodically in-
consistent.
The level 6 LG contains four activities. I fully intended to include preparatory activities, as
I had done for level 5, but the brevity of the motive made extensive preparation unnecessary. The
first three activities involve directed listening experiences and the fourth, an audio/visual
interaction. Since the score contains only 22 measures, it is reproduced in its entirety on pages 5
and 6 of the LG (see Appendix 4.2). Beginning with the second activity, students are instructed
to use coloured highlighter pens to identify contrapuntal manipulations of the opening motive
directly on the score provided. This reproduction is intended to limit annotations or visual
distractions on students’ performance scores, if they should happen to have them.
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Much of the learning derived from Bach’s invention is focused on the compositional
techniques associated with polyphonic textures. The theoretical concepts I gathered from the
preceding requirements are addressed in passing – as intermediate steps toward the understanding
of these techniques. In the Theory Syllabus (RCM, 2016e), motive and sequence are the only
required terms beyond invention but in Celebrate Theory (RCM, 2016b), the discussion extends
to imitation and inversion. My LG extends this analytical discussion even further by including
fragmentation and augmentation. The pertinent concepts are summarized for each activity:

• Activity #1 – Bach; invention; motive; transposition (major keys); identification of

key (with key signature); perfect intervals
• Activity #2 – stable and unstable scale degrees; functional chord symbols for implied
harmonies (I); major and minor intervals; major and minor (melodic) scales
• Activity #3 – inversion; counterpoint
• Activity #4 – imitation; sequence; fragmentation; augmentation; polyphonic texture

While I was eager to create listening experiences for Bach’s invention that were consistent
with those for Mozart’s aria, I found that I could not. Both works are distinguished by the very
criteria I utilized in their choosing – composer, era, genre, and instrumentation. Consequently,
with few common elements, my theoretical exploration of the invention was dictated by the piece
itself, not by my pre-suppositions. Unlike the aria, it required a much closer, more detailed
analysis. Although the LGs for both works involve key identifications, major/minor scales, and
stable/unstable scale degrees, none of these recognition tasks are any more complex at level 6
than they were at level 5. The only concept I revisited with increased complexity is transposition,
progressing from the movement of a melody/motive by one octave to more complicated
movements by any interval within an octave. This manipulating of the motive led to other
manipulations characteristic of contrapuntal works, such as imitation and sequence, inversion,
fragmentation, and augmentation.
An additional consideration for the level 6 LG is the playability of Bach’s inventions.
Before their appearance in the final Autograph of 1723, all fifteen inventions were contained in
the Clavier-Büchlein vor Wilhelm Friedemann Bach – a manuscript intended as a music
instruction book for Bach’s son and probably for his younger children as well. Thus, the
inventions were written as both keyboard exercises and composition exercises. Invention No. 1
in C Major is listed in RCM’s Piano Syllabus (2015c) with the Baroque repertoire at level 7. Its
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inclusion in the Theory Syllabus (RCM, 2016e) at level 6 allows for a pre-acquaintance with the
work prior to its potential performance at this later level.

Negotiating the Pedagogical Details

A motive, as a distinct melodic/rhythmic pattern, is often used as a compositional building

block. In Bach’s Invention No. 1 in C Major, the eight-note motive (see Figure 4.9), which is
stated at the outset, becomes the source of virtually all subsequent material. My annotated score,
which contains markings beyond those required by the LG activities, is included as Appendix
4.5. While the motive’s rhythm is somewhat non-descript, its melody or melodic contour is
unique. Consistent with KM’s approach, my first objective with Activity #1 was the
memorization of this motive, achieved through the vocalization of solfa syllables provided by the
student; at level 5, these syllables were provided by me. Once the motive is memorized, the
student can listen for its prevalence in the invention. At this early stage, I wanted only to
establish that the motive can be heard throughout the work and that it is not always the same.
Next, I created a transposition task as the first of many motivic manipulations. In moving
the motive up by the interval of a perfect 5th, the student is following Bach’s compositional plan.
Since standard transposition exercises involve a change of key, I asked for the new key signature
to be supplied – despite the fact that it does not affect any of the pitches in the transposed motive.
As a take-home assignment, the student is directed to complete the first two measures of Bach’s
invention by writing the motive and its perfect-5th transposition on both treble and bass staves,
using the given starting/ending pitches as guides:

Figure 4.10: Motives and Transposed Motives of Bach’s Invention No. 1 in C Major
(mm. 1-3)

Two problems presented themselves in Activity #1: first, the possibility that transposed
motives remain in the original key; and second, the probability that transposed motives are
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frequently altered for harmonic clarity. Both needed to be addressed in Activity #2. Regarding
the former, I invited the student to label the transposed motive with solfa abbreviations in G-do
as well as in C-do. By singing the motive with both sets of syllables, its sameness can be
ascertained in both contexts. But the latter problem required a more sophisticated solution. In
the previous activity’s assignment, I circled the final note on the bass staff because it does not
accurately fit the transposition. The “corrected” note appears in Activity #2, along with an
inquiry about its stability. Once D is established as an unstable pitch (see the transposed motive
on the treble staff in Figure 4.10), the altered C is given harmonic purpose and the implied
harmony on the downbeat of m. 3 can be identified.
The recognition of this altered motive facilitates the analysis of all subsequent motives.
Following a second listening that includes a simultaneous reading of the score, the student is
instructed to highlight eighteen complete statements or transpositions of the motive. The
rhythmic importance of the ending note is established and the assignment queries its various
alterations. Of the eighteen motives highlighted, only five end with the ascending perfect 5th of
the original motive. Three end with the perfect 4th that concludes Figure 4.10. Six major 2nds
and three minor 2nds account for most of the remainder, while a single perfect octave (8th)
completes the list. Just one transposition alters the shape or contour of the motive by ending with
a descending minor 2nd on the downbeat of m. 8.
Along with its multiple endings, I directed the student’s attention to the motive’s assorted
beginnings. These include all the pitches of the C major scale except the subdominant (F) and
the leading tone (B), forming a major pentatonic scale. Referring back to the “possibility that
transposed motives remain in the original key,” there is a second possibility in that transposed
motives may modulate to new keys. Five of the eighteen motives contain accidentals that do not
belong to the key of C major. A strong authentic cadence confirms G major at m. 7, suggesting a
structural division between A and B sections, and another confirms A minor at m. 15, beginning
a third C section – see Appendix 4.5. While I find these underlying structural details fascinating,
they are likely too subtle for my target audience. As a result, I opted for a “treasure hunt” that
locates, in m. 13, a transposed motive on the dominant of A minor, which uses the scale’s
melodic form.
In Activity #3, the compositional technique of inversion is introduced. Summarizing the
fundamental attributes of transposition as a melodic/motivic statement of different pitches with
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the same contour, I presented inversion as the opposite – a statement of the same pitches with a
different contour. This approach offers a connective thread from one topic to the next. Of
course, the inversion technique is more precise than my generalization implies because the
resulting contour is specifically different. It requires a mirrored or upside-down version of the
motive that may or may not involve the same pitches. But rather than simply presenting the
motive’s inversion as a finished product, I outlined a series of deliberate tasks that enable the
student to derive her/his own inverted motive:

Figure 4.11: Derivation of Inverted Motive for Activity #3 of Bach’s Invention No. 1 in
C Major

• Analyze the original motive from Bach’s invention. Label the direction and interval (size
only) between each pair of notes.

↑2

• Invert the motive by changing directions. Keep the numerical intervals the same. Use the
given note as your starting pitch.
• Sing the inverted motive with solfa syllables in C-do.

This derivation process is an essential aspect of KM. It allows the student to participate in
her/his learning as a doer instead of a receiver. It also encourages a sense of ownership and may
spark an interest in further explorations. The inverted motive derived by the student appears on
the lower staff at m. 9, but with an altered ending. Indeed, all inversions and transposed
inversions use major- or minor-2nd endings. To reinforce the learning from Activity #2 – that
transpositions may modulate to new keys – this same concept is applied to transposed inversions
since eight of the nineteen complete inversions contain accidentals that do not belong to C major.
The take-home assignment asks for an inverted transposition that starts with an accidental, unlike
the transpositions from the previous assignment. There are two such inversions, in measures 11
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and 21, but they are identical, despite their differing placements on the lower staff and the upper
staff, respectively.
Preparing for the discussion of imitation in the next activity, the assignment’s focus
narrows to mm. 9-10. These measures contain four successive statements of the inverted motive
arranged imitatively in a sequence of ascending 5ths. While this analysis is factual, its language
is much more appropriate for level 10 harmony and counterpoint, where diatonic sequences are
studied in depth. At level 6, the analysis is excessively complicated and threatens the student’s
understanding of sequence by using the word in a harmonic context rather than the known
melodic context. But by utilizing appropriate language, I can lead the student through these two
measures in readiness for future learnings – a preparatory process Bruner (1966) describes as the
“mastery of those simpler skills that permit one to reach higher skills” (p. 29).
From the student, I derived the interval separating the first two inversions (in m. 9) and the
last two inversions (in m. 10). This is a relatively straightforward task because the second
inversion in each pair is a perfect 5th higher than the first, although the change of clef on the
lower staff in m. 9 requires observation. The interval separating the middle inversions, however,
is more difficult to determine. It is a descending perfect 4th that needs to be inverted before the
ascending pattern becomes evident. Since this conclusion is beyond the scope of RCM’s (2016e)
level 6 curriculum, I asked the student to extract the starting pitches from the score and to arrange
them on the worksheet in the order of their appearance. In this unencumbered presentation, the
perfect 5th is solvable and the sequential pattern is made more obvious. The pattern is not
labelled but the student may notice that all the inversions are separated by perfect 5ths. If so, my
objective has been met. If not, there will be many more such patterns to be detected. And if a
“solving” process has been established for the future, so much the better.
In RCM’s (2016e) Theory Syllabus, the term motive is introduced in the melody writing
stream at level 1. Sequence appears in the music history stream at level 6, although the concept is
used in Celebrate Theory from level 2 onward. At level 6, it is defined as a motive that “repeat[s]
at a higher or lower pitch in the same voice” or part (RCM, 2016b, p. 75). Imitation repeats the
motive in a different part. It is my experience that many students confuse the concepts of
imitation and sequence. Therefore, the matching exercise at the beginning of Activity #4 is
designed to elucidate the matter, with assistance from the teacher. By this stage, the student’s
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score will be highlighted with two colours – one for motives and one for inversions. These visual
clues will aid the identification of imitations and/or sequences from the given descriptions.
To expand the student’s analysis of Bach’s invention, I decided to address the motive’s
accompaniment. It is not always consistent but there are patterns to be discerned nonetheless.
The discussion requires further contrapuntal manipulations: first, the fragmentation of the motive;
and second, the augmentation of the fragment. Once again, I had the student derive the
augmented fragment for herself/himself. Figure 4.12 shows a completed version of the exercise:

Figure 4.12: Derivation of Augmented Fragment for Activity #4 of Bach’s Invention No. 1
in C Major

• Write the first four notes of Bach’s original motive from memory. Use the first staff.
• Rewrite these same pitches on the second staff with longer note values. Use eighth notes.

The term counterpoint, from the Latin punctu contra punctum, meaning point against point,
indicates a polyphonic texture that weaves together two or more melodic lines. The assignment
for Activity #4 is designed to explore this texture. Although the augmentation is essentially a
series of four ascending eighth notes, its rhythmic placement coincides with the motive’s since
they both cadence or conclude on the same beat. However, augmented fragments accompany
inverted motives while descending or inverted augmentations accompany the motives
themselves, but only in the final section. The student is invited to notice these details by
answering specific questions. In addition, all augmentations or inverted augmentations appear on
the lower staff, excepting those in mm. 11-12. This placement is the source of my challenge
question: “What kind of counterpoint does Bach use to exchange the parts in measures 3-4 and
measures 11-12?” This exchange – in which the higher part becomes the lower part and the
lower part becomes the higher part – is known as invertible counterpoint.
Wishing to explore an alternative listening/analyzing experience, I included a link to a
computerized analysis of Bach’s Invention No. 1 in C Major by José Rodríguez Alvira (2005). In
this aural/visual presentation, which is found on a music theory website called teoría, Alvira
constructs the invention’s score. Using a graphic image of the motive, he illustrates the
derivation of each contrapuntal manipulation. As these derivations are placed in numbered
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measures, pre-set audio clips connect the notational symbols with the sounds they represent.
Once the entire score has been assembled, the invention is played without interruption. The
instrumentation – acoustic or synthesized – is not specified, but the resulting sound resembles a
harpsichord.
Alvira’s (2005) analysis, which proceeds without comment or explanation, may be
supplemented with a more detailed exploration of Bach’s score. This later analysis (Alvira,
2015) is offered in five segments: first measures, measures 3-6, measures 7-8, measures 9-12, and
final measures. Alvira uses the same graphic image to animate the motive in imitation, inversion,
augmentation, sequence, and invertible counterpoint. Interactive audio icons allow the student to
engage these contrapuntal manipulations, to aurally recognize them, and to compare their
interactions in mm. 3-4, mm. 7-8, and mm. 19-20. A coda summarizes the invention’s
contrapuntal techniques and its harmonic plan with links to pertinent terminology. Another
electronic analysis of Bach’s Invention No. 1 in C Major (Solomon, 2002) informed the creation
of my level 6 LG but it is no longer available on-line.

Level 7: Mendelssohn’s Overture

On November 19, 1826, seventeen-year-old Felix Mendelssohn (1809-1847) and his older
sister Fanny Mendelssohn Hensel (1805-1847) performed the Overture to A Midsummer Night’s
Dream, op. 21 as a four-hand piano duet at their family home in Berlin. The orchestral version,
conducted by Carl Loewe (1796-1869), premiered on February 20, 1827 in Stettin – capital of the
Prussian province of Pomerania, now Szczecin, Poland. It is unclear whether the duet was an
arrangement of the orchestration or whether it pre-dates the orchestral version (Hinson & Nelson,
2013). Either way, the overture was inspired by the composer’s reading of William
Shakespeare’s (1564-1616) play of the same name in a German translation by August Wilhelm
Schlegel (1767-1845) and Johann Ludwig Tieck (1773-1853).
W. Gillies Whittaker (1939) describes Mendelssohn’s overture as a “perfect piece of music,
so original in conception, so remarkably novel in scoring, so completely representative of every
phase of the play” (p. i). In 1842, King Friedrich Wilhelm IV of Prussia commissioned
Mendelssohn to compose incidental music as accompaniment for Shakespeare’s drama. The
earlier overture (op. 21) was incorporated into the later, larger work (op. 61). Its motives were
distributed throughout, overtly divulging Mendelssohn’s original descriptive intentions. The
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incidental music was first performed with a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the
Neue Palais in Potsdam on October 18, 1843 (Whittaker, 1939).
While Romantic in character, Mendelssohn’s overture is Classical in structure. Initially
conceived as a freestanding concert overture, independent of the play’s performance, it is a fine
example of Romanticism in its programmatic depiction of Shakespeare’s comedy. Its Classicism
is conveyed by the organization of themes into an eighteenth-century sonata form that consists of
three main sections: exposition, development, and recapitulation. In the exposition, three
principal themes are stated, representing the fairies, the young lovers, and the clowns. These are
varied in the development section and restated in the recapitulation. The work is also notable for
its instrumental effects, emulating the fairies’ fluttering wings, the clowns’ rustic dance, the
donkey’s braying, and other elements of the play. These effects are thought to have been
influenced by Adolf Bernhard Marx (1795-1866) who was a music critic, composer, and friend of
Mendelssohn’s (Hinson & Nelson, 2013).
Given the overture’s imaginative appeal, what do students need to know before listening
with understanding? Music of the Romantic period tends to be homophonic, melodic or lyrical,
and often chromatic. Rhythms are varied and flexible, with frequent indications of tempo rubato
(robbed time), forms are loosely defined and sometimes dependent on extra-musical associations,
dynamics are wide-ranging and often abruptly contrasting. In an era that valued freedom of
expression above all, there was an increasing middle-class interest in public concerts and concert
venues. The Industrial Revolution enabled the development of cheaper, more responsive
instruments. As a result, the orchestra increased in size, adding wind instruments, percussion,
and a larger string section. Of these characteristic traits, only the form of Mendelssohn’s overture
is un-characteristic, although it is typical of the concert overture genre. But Mendelssohn
modifies the Classical sonata form, particularly its key structures, for his own descriptive
purpose.

Aligning the Score with Examination Requirements

With disparate LGs as models, I approached the orchestral score for Mendelssohn’s
Overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream with an open mind. However, in the end, I had few
options. It was apparent from the scope and size of the movement that the listening activities
needed to be structural. Reconciled to this less comprehensive analysis, I scrutinized the score in
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search of the subject requirements for level 7 theory (RCM, 2016e). Applicable topics are listed
below, with level-specific concepts highlighted in bold type:

• pitch and notation

• transposition up or down by any interval (major and minor keys)
• rhythm and meter
• double dotted notes and rests
• irregular groupings (triplets)
• intervals
• all intervals and inversions above or below any note
• scales
• chromatic, whole-tone, and octatonic scales
• major and minor pentatonic scales
• chords and harmony
• triads built on any scale degree (major and minor scales)
• dominant 7th chords (all inversions)
• leading-tone diminished 7th chords in minor keys (root position)
• functional and root/quality chord symbols
• authentic and half cadences in major and minor keys (keyboard style)
• melody and composition
• passing and neighbor tones (unaccented)
• contrasting periods
• form and analysis
• implied harmonies of one chord per measure (I/i, IV/iv, and V)
• music terms and signs
• più, sempre
• tutti (div., unis.)
• arco, pizzicato, ritenuto (level 8)
• music history
• composer: Mendelssohn
• genre: concert overture
• instrumentation: orchestra
• associated style traits: program music

As I created the level 7 LG, I struggled with my conscience. Pedagogically, I am dedicated

to the philosophical principles of KM, but I am also influenced by the utilitarian practices of
RCM. In my search for a compromise, I sacrificed – in part – two significant precepts of KM:
(1) its basis in singing, and (2) its pursuit of depth over breadth. Regarding the latter, the
considerable length of Mendelssohn’s overture, which requires more than ten minutes to perform,
is prohibitive. Either a small segment of the work becomes well known or a larger segment
becomes less well known. Having decided to focus on the structure of the overture, which is
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closely aligned with its programmatic content, I chose to address themes in relation to characters,
pertinent details of orchestration, and accessible elements of harmony. Regarding KM’s
emphasis on singing, the orchestral configuration of Mendelssohn’s overture is not especially
conducive to vocal renderings.
The LG for the Overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream contains six activities. The first
two are preparatory activities designed to precede the first listening in Activity #3. They provide
an analytical/theoretical encounter with the four prolonged chords that comprise the overture’s
introduction. Activities #3, #4, and #5 present the exposition’s three principal themes as well as
the transition theme. Given the work’s sizeable length, only brief listenings to the opening
material are suggested. After the exposition is fully introduced, the assignment for the fifth
activity recommends a complete listening. Once the ending has been heard, Activity #6 engages
the coda or concluding section.
The theoretical concepts I incorporated in each activity are summarized below:

• Activity #1 – primary triads; functional and root/quality chord symbols; close and
open position
• Activity #2 – Mendelssohn; orchestra; instrumental families; transposition
• Activity #3 – program music
• Activity #4 – concert overture; sonata form; identification of key; major and minor
(harmonic) scales; parallel keys
• Activity #5 – scale degrees; exposition, development, and recapitulation
• Activity #6 – leading-tone diminished 7th chords, dominant 7th chords,
augmented and diminished intervals; poco ritenuto

Concepts that were used more than once have been listed with the most relevant activity. While
several of these are little more than identification tasks, as was the case for Bach’s invention,
others function as reinforcement for past learnings or preparation for future learnings – in
keeping with KM’s instructional process. The touches of chromaticism throughout
Mendelssohn’s overture give its analysis an enhanced level of complexity. As with Mozart’s
aria, the programmatic or storytelling aspects of the overture warrant exploration. They are
neatly organized by the structure of the work.

Negotiating the Pedagogical Details

The three main sections of sonata form – exposition, development, and recapitulation – are
sometimes prefaced with an introduction. The introductory material may be related to one or
more of the movement’s themes but often it is not. Mendelssohn’s introduction consists of four
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sustained chords marked by fermatas (pauses) that impede the work’s Allegro di molto (very fast)
tempo. These chords “open the portals to the realm of the fairy king Oberon and his queen,
Titania” (Machlis & Forney, 1990, p. 100). The texture gradually thickens as instruments are
added to each successive chord: flutes; clarinets; bassoons and horns; oboes. The chords
themselves thicken from two notes to ten. Their tonal ambiguity underlines the introduction’s
mysterious mood as the first chord is incomplete, suggesting either C-sharp minor or E major,
and the third, an A minor chord, is not consistent with the major key that is eventually
established. This example of modal mixture is the first of many such shifts between major and
minor keys (CIE, 2012, p. 6).
While the preceding description is factually accurate and supported with references, it does
not engender an interactive experience with the introductory chords. Intending to guide the
student to her/his own observations, I noticed that the highest notes in each chord, when read
melodically or horizontally, outline an E major triad in broken form. This known element
provides an instructional entry into Mendelssohn’s overture since the student is able to identify
the triad’s root, quality, and position, as well as the key in which it is the tonic triad. Once these
initial steps have been taken, the discovery work of analysis can begin.
Although it is possible to harmonize each note of the broken triad melody with the tonic
chord, Mendelssohn chooses otherwise. The resulting progression gave me an opportunity, in the
first activity, to introduce the concept of shared scale degrees, or common tones, which will
figure prominently in the voice-leading techniques of future harmony learnings. By writing the
subdominant (IV) and dominant (V) triads on either side of the tonic (I) triad, the student is led to
observe that the first scale degree (tonic) is shared by subdominant and tonic triads, while the
fifth scale degree (dominant) is shared by tonic and dominant triads.69 Thus, Mendelssohn’s
triadic melody is harmonized with the following chords: tonic, dominant, minor subdominant,
and tonic. In the assignment for Activity #1, the student is asked to label each chord with both
functional chord symbols (I, V, iv, I) and root-quality chord symbols (E, B, Am, E).
In Mendelssohn’s orchestration, the broken triad melody is played by the flute, which
places it well above a singable range. Consequently, I suggested that the melody be played on a

69
It is recommended that the subdominant triad be written below the tonic and the dominant triad above. This
placement gives prominence to the common tones and reinforces the relative positions of the dominant, a 5th above
the tonic, and the sub-dominant, a 5th below the tonic.
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piano, so as to be heard in the proper register. For the first assignment, I added the
accompanying chords below the melody, but arranged them on the treble staff only:

Figure 4.13: Introduction (Treble Staff Reduction) of Mendelssohn’s Overture to A

Midsummer Night’s Dream (mm. 1-5)

Ordinarily, melody notes are played on the piano by the right hand and harmony notes are played
by the left hand. As such, the left-hand accompaniment becomes impossible to play – presenting
an instrumental/orchestral problem to be solved.
For Activity #2, I expanded the introductory chords to their full range and added
performance details:

Figure 4.14: Introduction (Grand Staff Reduction) of Mendelssohn’s Overture to A

Midsummer Night’s Dream (mm. 1-5)

Fl. Ob.
Cl.
Hn.

Bn.

Hn.

Of course, the expansion is even less playable than the previous treble staff reduction, but it is
manageable with a student/teacher duet. Their cooperative performance leads to Mendelssohn’s
orchestration of the introduction for pairs of woodwinds and French horns. Since this is likely to
be the student’s first exposure to an orchestral score, a brief statement presents the concept of
transposing instruments, which will be addressed in RCM’s (2016e) intermediate theory
curriculum at level 8. But at level 7, a relatively simple transposition exercise places the clarinet
parts in G major and the French horn parts in C major.
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However, the matter of transposing instruments is somewhat messy. At level 8, the Theory
Syllabus (RCM, 2016e) requires transposition to concert pitch for instruments in B-flat, such as
the trumpet and the clarinet, and instruments in F, such as the French horn and the English horn,
a double-reed woodwind instrument. With few orchestral experiences beyond examination
requirements, students may assume that all clarinets are B-flat instruments and all French horns
are F instruments. While the B-flat clarinet is by far the most frequently used, particularly in jazz
bands, concert bands, and marching/military bands, the A clarinet is widely used in orchestras
from the eighteenth century onward.70 Likewise, the French horn is typically in F, although early
horns were pitched in B-flat, A, A-flat, G, F, E, E-flat, D, and C. But with the invention of
valves in the early nineteenth century, the French horn became fully chromatic and this new
“mechanical” horn gradually replaced its natural predecessor. Therefore, an analysis of
Mendelssohn’s overture, written for clarinets in A and horns in E, will broaden the student’s
knowledge of orchestral instruments and prevent erroneous assumptions.
The first listening experience takes place in Activity #3. As I summarized for the student,
Shakespeare’s play “involves four young lovers and a group of clownish tradesmen who are
manipulated by woodland fairies. The characters are connected by events surrounding the
wedding of Theseus (Duke of Athens) and Hippolyta (Queen of the Amazons).” The focus for
this listening activity is Mendelssohn’s programmatic depiction of the fairies’ realm in the
introduction, and the fairies themselves in the exposition’s first theme. From prior activities, the
student is well-acquainted with the introductory chords and after listening to the overture’s
opening measures, should be prepared to answer an open-ended question – “How does
Mendelssohn create the mysterious mood?” – with specific musical details.
Theme 1 is introduced as a reading exercise because its range and tempo are not suitable for
singing:

70
All clarinets, which are single-reed woodwind instruments, have the same written ranges and the same
fingering systems. The sound produced when a specific pitch is played depends on the particular instrument. All
clarinetists read as though their parts are written in C (concert pitch) and the “instrument itself transposes according
to its size” (Adler, 1982, p. 180).
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Figure 4.15: Theme 1 (Fairies’ Theme) of Mendelssohn’s Overture to A Midsummer Night’s

Dream (mm. 8-15)

The student is directed, with assistance from the teacher, to listen from the beginning of the
movement to the end of the fairies’ theme where there is a sudden fortissimo (very loud) chord
that breaks the pianissimo (very soft) “mood of elfin enchantment” (Machlis & Forney, 1990, p.
100). “How are the fairies’ fluttering wings depicted?” From a recording as well as the excerpt
provided, the student should be able to supply some of the following musical details: lively
eighth notes are played high, soft, and staccato (detached) by divided first and second violins in a
close three- and four-part texture.
The take-home assignment for Activity #3 presents a video summary of Shakespeare’s
comedy (BN, 2010). Several questions confirm the student’s comprehension of the characters,
the interconnecting plots, and Puck’s mischievous pranks. The synopsis provides a basic
understanding of the play and the characters that Mendelssohn presents as contrasting themes. It
also provides a prelude for the next activity in which the genre and its structure are revealed. The
student is asked to recall the three main sections of sonata form. These are required elements at
level 6, although they are not featured in my preceding LGs because neither Bach’s invention nor
Mozart’s aria utilize this form. At level 7, a brief naming task reviews the pertinent information.
While Activity #3 was concerned with a descriptive interpretation of the fairies’ theme,
Activity #4 delves into its theoretical components, but now as the first theme of the exposition.
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Since it is not in the key of E major, as expected, the student is invited to gather consistent
accidentals from the excerpt in the previous activity, to write the resulting E minor scale in
harmonic form, and to determine its parallel relationship with the expected key. This scale
exercise cues the transition theme which begins with a descending E major scale:

Figure 4.16: Transition Theme of Mendelssohn’s Overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream

(mm. 63-70)

Meant to portray the regal majesty of Theseus and his Athenian court, it functions as a
modulatory bridge between the key of theme 1 and the dominant key of the second theme group.
Beginning immediately after the sudden fortissimo chord mentioned earlier, the energetic
transition incorporates a sequential variation of the fairies’ theme and foreshadows the hunting
calls that will be heard later in the movement (CIE, 2012). In addition to the scale that descends
for more than an octave, the transition theme clearly outlines the dominant 7th chord of E major.
This observation reinforces the notion – introduced in the level 5 LG – that melodies are often
based on triads or chords.
Wanting to offer the student a KM-inspired creative task, I revisited the composition
assignment from Activity #4 in the LG for Mozart’s aria. But rather than confining the pitch
palette to the notes of the tonic triad, I suggested using portions of the B major scale. As it was
for the aria, the given rhythm is taken from the theme to be introduced in the next activity. The
student’s melody presents an opportunity – finally – to sing. This singing has both pedagogical
and practical benefits: it re-acquaints the student with solfa syllables and provides a mechanism
for self-assessment since an unsingable melody is generally not a good melody, especially in
student work.
Theme 2a represents two pairs of young lovers, Hermia and Lysander, Helena and
Demetrius. They are separated by Puck’s interference but are re-united at the end of the play.
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The young lovers’ theme is lyrical and expressive, in contrast with the detached buoyancy of the
fairies’ theme. It combines two four-measure phrases that are each repeated (aabb). My excerpt
is extracted from the middle phrases:

Figure 4.17: Theme 2a (Young Lovers’ Theme) of Mendelssohn’s Overture to A

Midsummer Night’s Dream (mm. 134-142)

Taking advantage of the theme’s singability, I instructed the student to write solfa abbreviations
below each note. The chromaticism in m. 139 posed a problem that ultimately gave me occasion
to introduce a chromatic syllable. Having established in the previous activity that A-sharp is a
necessary accidental in the key of B major, the A-natural is now an alteration. This lowered ti, or
seventh scale degree, becomes ta.
Theme 2b is more difficult to sing. Its wide leaps suggest the “hee-haw” or braying of a
donkey:

Figure 4.18: Theme 2b (Clowns’ Theme) of Mendelssohn’s Overture to A Midsummer

Night’s Dream (mm. 197-201)

The boisterous character of the theme is associated with six clown-like tradesmen – a bellows
mender, a carpenter, a joiner, a tailor, a tinker, and a weaver (Bevington, 1988). These amateur
actors are preparing a play for the wedding of Theseus and Hippolyta. Puck happens upon their
rehearsal and with a magic spell, fastens a donkey’s head on Bottom the weaver, who provides
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comic relief throughout Shakespeare’s play. The clowns’ theme is initially accompanied by both
tonic and dominant pedals, suggesting drones. The theme’s rustic nature is also demonstrated in
its simplicity and its extensive use of repetition (CIE, 2012). The donkey’s brays are another
significant feature of theme 2b. The rhythm is conspicuously accented throughout the orchestral
parts and the melody is awkwardly disjunct. The falling 9ths, which widen to 10ths, are beyond
RCM’s level 7 requirements but in this context, it is sufficient to recognize them simply as
intervals larger than an octave. And when compound intervals are studied at level 8, the student
will have already experienced them in a memorable musical setting.
A codetta concludes the exposition of Mendelssohn’s overture with hunting calls in the
horns and trumpets, representing Theseus and his royal hunting party. At this point in the work’s
formal structure, after almost four minutes of music, the central characters and their respective
themes have been introduced. The student is ready to listen to the entire movement but its length
requires that this listening be done at home, so as not to monopolize her/his valuable lesson time.
To guide the student’s independent listening, there are questions in the assignment for Activity
#5 that request specific thematic comparisons. These questions review articulations and
dynamics for the fairies’ theme, the lovers’ theme, and the clowns’ theme. Their differences are
aurally evident from the student’s listening experiences and, referring back to Activity #3,
visually evident from the analyzed excerpts.
The last questions in the take-home assignment are more difficult to answer since they are
not supported by visual evidence. The student must aurally identify the following phenomena:
the fairies’ theme featured in the development section; the introduction returning at the beginning
of the recapitulation; and the transition theme missing from the recapitulation. Without specific
guidance, this identification task may be too daunting – not the recognition of themes necessarily,
but the detection of boundaries between exposition and development sections, as well as between
development and recapitulation sections. However, if the student makes an individual effort,
he/she will either succeed or bring inquiries to the teacher, which will initiate a more informed,
collaborative discussion of the overture’s structure.
Listening to the end of the exposition likely would have been enough for this level, but I
decided to press on to the end of the movement for Activity #6. While all the themes are
presented in the exposition, the sonata structure is not complete. Furthermore, there is no
opportunity to re-hear the themes or to hear them in varied keys/statements. The coda, which
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follows the recapitulation, invites the exploration of an obviously varied or transformed theme.
The coda’s harmonic content also gave me a chance to do music theory more explicitly since the
theory is often buried beneath the structure.
The fairies’ theme reappears in the coda and like the exposition, is interrupted by a
pianissimo chord. Analysis reveals it to be a leading-tone diminished 7th chord, which is a new
theoretical element for level 7. I re-arranged the orchestral parts so as to present the chord in root
position because its inversions are not yet known. And since RCM’s (2016e) Theory Syllabus
confines diminished 7th chords to minor keys at this level, I asked for the root/quality chord
symbol in order to avoid its function as a tonicization of the major dominant. Following the
diminished 7th chord, a slow-moving E minor scale descends to a dominant 7th chord played by
the clarinets and French horns. A level 5 requirement, this chord can be more fully scrutinized.
The transition or royal theme also reappears but it is transformed quite significantly:

Figure 4.19: Transition Theme from the Coda of Mendelssohn’s Overture to A Midsummer
Night’s Dream (mm. 663-670)

The assignment for the last activity calls for another listening of the full movement but directs the
student’s attention to the coda. Again, the focus is comparative, referencing the transition theme
as it appeared in the exposition (see Figure 4.16). The transformed version is missing the lower
portion of the scale as well as the arpeggiated dominant 7th chord. I excerpted two phrases to
show the theme’s rhythmic alteration. This gradual “deterioration” coincides with the tempo
marking poco ritenuto, which means a little slower or held back. My questioning leads the
student to consider the theme’s transformation as a heightening of the tempo change – or a
corroborating of Mendelssohn’s descriptive intent.
The final challenge question explores an interesting feature of the overture’s orchestration.
It is scored for two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, two horns, two trumpets,
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ophicleide, timpani, and strings. Of these, the ophicleide is sure to be unknown. It is a “large
keyed bugle” with a conical bore (Midgley, 1997, p. 74). Patented in 1821 by French instrument
maker Jean Hilaire Asté (1775-1840), the ophicleide was the foundation of the brass section in
Romantic orchestras. Its name comes from the Greek ophis (serpent) and kleis (keys) since it
replaced the Renaissance serpent – an outdated bass wind instrument with a snake-like shape. As
unpredictable and difficult to play as the serpent, the ophicleide was eventually succeeded by the
modern tuba. Through internet articles, pictures, and sound bites, it is hoped that the student will
be inspired to discover these largely “extinct” instruments for herself/himself.

Level 8: Josquin’s Frottola

Presumably written by Josquin des Prez (c.1450-1521), El grillo is a frottola (plural,

frottole) published in 1505 by Ottaviano Petrucci (1466-1539) in his Frottole libro tertio (Third
Book of Frottole). The frottola, as the principal predecessor of the Renaissance madrigal, is a
genre of Italian secular song that was popular in the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries.
Often amorous, comical, or satirical, it typically has four voice parts with the melody in the
highest part. The lower parts are either sung or performed by instrumentalists. Avoiding
contrapuntal complexities, the frottola favours homophonic textures with clear-cut rhythmic
patterns, narrow melodic ranges, and simple diatonic harmonies (Burkholder et al., 2014). Its
poetic form, including a rhymed refrain and one or more stanzas, is likely descended from the
fourteenth-century ballata or barzellatta (Randel, 1986), while its predominantly chordal style
anticipates the seventeenth-century practice of monody, denoting a single melodic line with
instrumental accompaniment.
Josquin des Prez is widely considered to be the first master of polyphonic vocal
composition in the High Renaissance. 71 Although little is known about him, recent research has
clarified some of his biography. As the central composer of the Franco-Flemish School, from the
geographic region that presently combines northern France, Belgium, and the southern
Netherlands, Josquin’s musical style was influenced both by his early training in France and the
many years he spent working in Italy. He composed vocal music in all the important genres of

71
The High Renaissance is a term associated with a brief period of exceptional artistic production at the turn of
the sixteenth century. It is also characterized by a cultural movement toward humanism, compelling artists to infuse
their works with more resonant expressions of human emotionality. Musical aesthetics of the time preferred
consonance, clarity, and natural declamations of text, providing direct emotional appeal for listeners (Burkholder et
al., 2014).
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the time – masses, motets, chansons, and frottole. Encountering the Italian frottola in Milan,
where he served the Sforza family, he wrote at least three such songs: Scaramella, El grillo, and
In te Domine speravi.72 They are generally simpler in texture than his French chansons, being
primarily syllabic and homophonic.
However, according to David Fallows (2003), El grillo (The Cricket) is “not at all typical of
the frottola repertory” (p. 391). Its ascription to “Josquin Dascanio,” sometimes interpreted as
“Josquin d’Ascanio,” prompted a misconstrual of its authorship (McDonald, 2009). The notion
that Josquin des Prez and Josquin Dascanio are one and the same was not put forward until the
mid-twentieth century. To further complicate the song’s history, Fallows mentions several
mistakes in Petrucci’s (1505) print, which is the only early source for El grillo – besides an
unchanged reprint that appeared two years later. As an example, there is a missing note in the
altus (alto) part that was added to the original manuscript, held in Munich at the Bayerische
Staatsbibliothek, when Gaetano Cesari (1870-1934) transcribed all thirteen of Petrucci’s frottola
books between 1904 and 1907 (Fallows, 2003). An astonishing infringement of modern protocol,
Cesari even initialed his addition/correction.
Fallows (2003) himself offers potential solutions for the notational problems in Petrucci’s
manuscript and illustrates these in a revised edition of El grillo. Marianne Hund (2006) refutes
many of Fallows’ emendations, proposing revisions of her own. As it happens, Fallows (2005)
chose to abandon his more ambitious suggestions when he edited The Collected Works of Josquin
des Prez, adhering to the work of previous scholars as well as the recommendations of his
editorial board. Yet, in spite of these problematic details, along with Fallows’ suspicion that El
grillo was included in Petrucci’s collection as “filler,” it remains one of the most popular works
in Josquin’s canon.73
What do students need to know before listening to El grillo with understanding? Music of
the Renaissance period tends to be modal, although generally consonant, melodic, and
predominantly polyphonic, emphasizing blend rather than contrast. Rhythms are metered and
increasingly complex, forms are primarily vocal, and dynamic markings are non-existent, relying
instead on the work’s musical character. With the invention of the printing press in the fifteenth

72
A singer named Carlo Grillo was also employed at Sforza. Some scholars suggest that Josquin wrote El grillo
as a tribute to this singer, or “perhaps even a joke at his expense” (McDonald, 2009, p. 39).
73
The manuscript for Petrucci’s (1505) Frottole libro tertio contains eight gatherings of eight leaves each for a
total of 64 leaves. El grillo is found near the end of the book at ff. 61v-62 (Fallows, 2003).
 168

century, and the subsequent printing of sheet music from movable type, it became cheaper and
easier to distribute music on a wider scale. Accordingly, the demand for music as entertainment
escalated, along with an emerging bourgeois class and a greater number of musically educated
amateurs.
El grillo conforms to this summary of Renaissance characteristics in all but its texture.
RCM (2016d) defines frottola in Celebrate Theory as a “polyphonic vocal genre” and describes
the texture of El grillo as “polyphonic, with frequent homorhythmic passages” (pp. 107-108).
These statements support the era’s tendency toward polyphonic vocal composition as well as
Josquin’s compositional style. However, based on my analysis, I believe that both definition and
description are inaccurate. While it is true that vocal music of the Renaissance, both sacred and
secular, is predominantly polyphonic, the frottola is less complicated – perhaps because it was
meant for amateur performance. Regardless, RCM’s explanations are misleading and potentially
confusing for students who have little or no prior experience with early music.

Aligning the Score with Examination Requirements

As with Mozarts’s “Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen,” I resigned myself to the
pedagogical task at hand, despite my concerns about the chosen work. Without a printed score
for El grillo, I consulted the International Music Score Library Project (IMSLP), which is an
online or virtual repository of public-domain music scores. Also known as the Petrucci Music
Library, after the Renaissance publisher, it is a subscription-based venture that launched in
February 2006. My preliminary search elicited four scores for Josquin’s El grillo deposited
between 2008 and 2012. In order of appearance, these were contributed by the Choral Public
Domain Library (CPDL), Les Editions Outremontaises, Alessandro Simonetto, and Sardus
Orpheus.
My search for the score pre-dated my search for peripheral information about the score.
Naively assuming there to be a single definitive version of El grillo, I rapidly discovered
otherwise. Simonetto’s copy claims to be urtext, as part of the Werner Icking Music Archive
(WIMA) before it merged with IMSLP. The note values are halved but there is no attempt to
impose meter nor the requisite bar lines. Apart from Simonetto’s diminution, a footnote
mentions one additional alteration – a note that replaces what Fallows (2003) describes as a
“perfectly pointless rest in the middle of a word” (p. 393). The CPDL copy, edited by Rafael
Ornes (1999), is less true to the original. Referencing Petrucci’s (1505) source manuscript,
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Ornes’ lists a number of editorial changes: halved note values; added bar lines, tempo indications,
and slurs; inserted accidentals; as well as modernized Italian text and underlay. In comparison,
however, the copies by Les Editions Outremontaises and Sardus Orpheus take great liberties with
the notation, such as exchanging the alto and tenor parts in the final section, rather than allowing
them to overlap one another as the composer intended.
At present, I understand these subtleties but at the time, I was unfamiliar with the song and
ill-equipped to choose the “right” version of El grillo for my LG. Wishing to make a thoroughly
informed decision, I ordered a print score from a reputable publisher – the Oxford University
Press – but this too was disappointing. It turned out to be an adaptation of Josquin’s frottola that
was thoroughly edited and “Englished” by Marlin Merrill (2010). In the end, it was necessary to
consult the original imprint for myself. I found an electronic scan of Petrucci’s (1505)
manuscript on the IMSLP website and a scholarly transcription of the source in volume 28 of
Fallows’ (2005) The Collected Works of Josquin des Prez. At long last, I was ready to analyze
the music that was hidden behind the song’s notational irregularities.
I reconciled the score’s contents with the subject requirements for level 8 theory (RCM,
2016e). Applicable topics, with level-specific concepts highlighted in bold type, are listed below:

• pitch and notation

• alto and tenor clefs
• modern vocal score (short and open)
• transcription to any clef
• rhythm and meter
• breve
• intervals
• compound intervals (inversions)
• scales
• diatonic modes
• chords and harmony
• authentic, half, and plagal cadences
• melody and composition
• passing and neighbor tones
• contrasting periods
• form and analysis
• types of motion: parallel, similar, contrary, oblique, and static
• music terms and signs
• D.C. al Fine
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• music history
• composer: Josquin des Prez
• period: Renaissance
• genre: frottola
• performing forces: SATB, a cappella (level 10)
• associated style traits: word painting

Having wrestled with the previous LGs, particularly the polarity in analyses that range from the
smaller motivic details of Bach’s invention to the larger structural elements of Mendelssohn’s
overture, I was anxious to find middle ground in Josquin’s frottola. I was also anxious for an
opportunity to incorporate KM’s emphasis on singing, especially after the instrumental/orchestral
focus of the Overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
The LG for El grillo contains four activities and a score. Celebrate Theory (RCM, 2016d)
includes the song’s refrain (mm. 1-21) written in cut time (2/2) rather than the original 4/2. This
is the case for all the modern transcriptions I encountered. Caught between my desire to
construct an authentic, historically faithful score and my need to be consistent with modern
editorial practices, I decided to reproduce Fallows’ (2005) score, but in cut time with halved note
values. Beyond this metric modification, I made only one editorial change: I added an accidental
in the soprano part at m. 23, in compliance with the modern transcriptions I studied – all but
Simonetto’s – as well as the recordings I heard.
Despite the myriad decisions to be made about its notation, Josquin’s frottola provides
students with a unique listening experience – one that will likely be entirely new to them.
Consequently, I chose to explore the score in depth, attempting to demystify as many notational
elements as possible. I also chose to embrace the score’s unique elements by encouraging the
student to examine Petrucci’s (1505) original manuscript. These explorations are enhanced with
listening assignments in Activities #3 and #4. Shaded boxes provide brief historical descriptions
of the frottola and Josquin des Prez, assuming both to be unfamiliar.
The theoretical concepts I incorporated in each activity are summarized below:

• Activity #1: breve; Renaissance; frottola; SATB (a cappella); modern vocal score
(short and open)
• Activity #2: C clefs (alto); transcription to any clef
• Activity #3: diminution; homorhythmic texture; syncopation; word painting
• Activity #4: Josquin des Prez; major and minor triads; authentic cadences (chorale
and keyboard style); root/quality chord symbols; passing and neighbor tones; modal
scales
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While the modal system that typifies Renaissance music does not function in the same way as the
tonal system that replaced it during the Baroque era, there are similarities. Josquin’s approach to
melody and harmony foreshadows many compositional techniques of the later common-practice
period. Although his creative process was almost certainly melodic or horizontal, the
simultaneous sounding of these melodic lines was carefully crafted. Indeed, they combine to
produce the harmonic or vertical chord structures that are the central focus of modern tonality.
By extracting these known elements from music that is presumably unknown, students are
encouraged to make connections that will bridge the gap between past and present – a bridge that
will render El grillo more readily accessible.

Negotiating the Pedagogical Details

As with levels 5, 6, and 7, I attempted to introduce Josquin’s frottola one musical element
at a time. I began with the breve which is durationally valued as the equivalent of two whole
notes, requiring a 4/2 time signature. In spite of my preference for consistency, as well as a
pragmatic desire to align myself with RCM’s 2/2 decision, I started with the original 4/2.
Without it, an occasion to experience this little used and often misunderstood meter, as well as an
opportunity to explore a facsimile of Petrucci’s manuscript, would have been lost. Furthermore, I
wanted to provide the student with evidence that the breve exists in real music – that it is not just
a hypothetical note value found in a music theory textbook.
As illustration, I chose the five-measure melody that both opens and closes the frottola’s
refrain:

Figure 4.20: Soprano Refrain of Josquin’s El grillo (mm. 17-21)

By choosing the closing phrase, which ends with a fermata or pause marking, I was able to
prepare – as the first step in KM’s instructional process – for a future discussion of cadences.
But for this first activity, I placed the soprano melody in a four-part texture that RCM labels
modern vocal score:
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Figure 4.21: Four-Part (SATB) Refrain of Josquin’s El grillo (mm. 17-21)

The excerpt in Figure 4.21, illustrates a type of open score in which each vocal part is written on
a separate staff. The voices are indicated by their original Latin designations, but these are easily
translated into the modern soprano, alto, tenor, and bass.
As preparation for later listenings, each part should be sung by the student with registral
adjustments, if necessary, to accommodate her/his vocal range. However, the modality of the
excerpt presents a problem. It opens with an F major chord but closes with a cadence that
suggests G major, and because neither chord belongs to the other’s key, choosing appropriate
solfa syllables is a challenge. Consequently, a third key – C major – is the most plausible choice
since F major is its subdominant chord and G major, its dominant. Although the soprano part
requires a chromatic alteration of fa to fi in m. 20, the F-sharp functions as a temporary leading
tone to the dominant, which is a regular occurrence in tonal settings – recall Neefe’s Allegretto in
C Major (Appendix 2.4). While none of this reasoning is offered to the student, it may emerge
through discussion with the teacher but if not, Josquin’s text is provided to facilitate the student’s
singing.74
Once each part has been vocalized, the assignment for Activity #1 asks for a transcription
of the open score into short score which condenses the excerpt from four staves to two. An
exercise such as this is customary for RCM’s level 8 theory examination, although it seldom

74
KM practitioners sometimes use a neutral syllable, such as lu (loo), to introduce unknown songs for listening or
to aid in memory training (Choksy, 1981, 1999a).
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includes text. As a result, there are often misunderstandings about the length of the bar lines.
Exam candidates tend to extend them through all four staves but in modern vocal score (see
Figure 4.21), these extensions interfere with the text. So too in short score. By having the
student write words between the treble and bass staves, I mean to show her/him that short bar
lines are a necessity for vocal scoring.
In Activity #2, I introduced the student to Petrucci’s (1505) manuscript, included here as
Appendix 4.6. At first glance, it looks quite foreign. The page layout, for instance, isolates the
individual parts in a format that twenty-first-century singers are not accustomed to seeing or
reading. But with closer scrutiny, the manuscript reveals many recognizable elements. The bass
part uses an early form of the F clef which marks the position of F below Middle C on the fourth
line of the staff. Coincidentally, the phrase I selected for the previous activity is clearly visible at
the beginning of the basses’ second system. Directing the student to this line, I asked several
comparative questions, guiding her/him to both similarities and differences in the notation.
The soprano, alto, and tenor parts use early C clefs, which mark Middle C on the first,
second, and third staff lines, respectively. Two modern C clefs – alto and tenor – are introduced
in RCM’s (2016e) theory curriculum at this level. But in Petrucci’s manuscript, the positioning
of C clefs has not yet been standardized to correspond with specific voice types. Consequently,
the tenor part utilizes a modern alto clef, with Middle C positioned on the middle (third) line:

Figure 4.22: Tenor Refrain of Josquin’s El grillo (mm. 1-10)

The assignment for Activity #2 invites the student to rewrite the opening of the tenor’s refrain on
the treble staff at the same pitch. In modern vocal score, the tenor part is written on the treble
staff an octave higher than it sounds. The demand for excessive ledger lines in the student’s
transcription will demonstrate the rationale that justifies this practice.
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Having explored the original manuscript for Josquin’s El grillo, it is necessary, in Activity
#3, to prepare for the exploration of my modern transcription. This transcribed version, which
vertically aligns the separated voice parts, is located on pages 5 and 6 of the LG (see Appendix
4.4). Facilitating the student’s shift to shortened note values requires a conversion of the
frottola’s meter from 4/2 to 2/2 or cut time. To that end, the rhythm from mm. 17-21 of the
soprano’s refrain is reproduced for a diminution exercise (refer to Figure 4.20), with the first
measure given as an illustration. By clapping both old and new rhythms, the student should
recognize their sameness.
While Petrucci’s (1505) manuscript enables a historical analysis of Josquin’s frottola, it
does not support a theoretical analysis. The song’s texture, for example, is impossible to discern
from the original layout – without extensive and painstaking comparison. But in open score, its
predominantly homorhythmic texture is fairly obvious. Characterized by a blocked chordal
presentation, in which all parts simultaneously utilize the same or similar rhythmic patterns
(RCM, 2016d), a homorhythmic texture is best exemplified by a vertical alignment of text. With
few exceptions, the text for El grillo is sung by all four members of the vocal ensemble at the
same time. The exceptions are notable since composers use elements of rhythm, melody, or
harmony to reflect the meaning of the words.
RCM’s (2016e) Theory Syllabus highlights word painting as a stylistic trait associated with
Renaissance music. This type of musical pictorialization reflects the text either through the
depiction of visual images or the expression of emotions/moods (Burkholder et al., 2014). For
instance, Josquin uses long notes in mm. 7-10 to suggest the cricket’s ability to sing for an
extended period, and onomatopoeic exchanges between soprano/alto and tenor/bass (mm. 11-14)
to suggest cricket sounds. A slight syncopation in m. 30 derives from Fallows’ (2003) “perfectly
pointless rest in the middle of a word” (p. 393), but a more elaborate syncopation or rhythmic
displacement highlights the final word “amore” (love). The assignment for Activity #3 asks the
student to translate El grillo’s Italian text to English. As it was for Mozart’s aria, the translation
may be found in Celebrate Theory (2016d) or in a readily available internet application. Using
the translated text, the student is equipped to detect examples of word painting when he/she
listens to a recording of the song.
Activity #4 is focused on chords and by extension, on cadences. The four parts of
Josquin’s frottola combine to create both major and minor chords in root position. Most phrases
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of text end with cadences but most of these cadences end with incomplete chords. Regardless, I
wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to extract a chorale-style cadence from a four-part
vocal work and asked the student to reproduce the authentic cadence that crosses the bar line
from m. 4 to m. 5. This same cadence concludes the refrain in mm. 20-21 (see Figure 4.21), as
well as both phrases of the repeated section in mm. 23-24 and mm. 26-27. Acknowledging the
incomplete chord-of-arrival, the student is asked to rewrite the cadence in keyboard style –
assisted by Josquin’s voicing of both chords in close position – and to complete the second chord
by supplying its missing third. The student’s identification of the implied key and cadence
enables her/him to similarly name the cadence in mm. 36-37. But because the key of this latter
cadence is less straightforward, it is accompanied by a suggestion to “check the surrounding
measures for clues.”
The final assignment, beginning with a listening task, is occupied with several aspects of a
formal harmonic analysis. First, the student is directed to write root/quality chord symbols above
the staff for every change of bass note (F, G, Dm, C, etc.) – an exercise that is not reliant on the
functional classifications of tonality. And recognizing the frequent occurrence of incomplete
chords, I asked for these chord symbols to be bracketed ( ). Although the addition of brackets is
not a conventional analytic procedure, their absence/presence provides a visual means of
distinguishing complete and incomplete chords. With this detailed chordal analysis in place, the
student can now identify decorative notes that do not belong to the specified chords. In El grillo,
these non-chord tones are either passing tones or neighbor tones. While both varieties are
approached and resolved by step, passing tones fill the gap between two different chord tones and
neighbor tones embellish the same chord tone (RCM, 2017). As unaccented decorations, their
rhythmic placement between vertical chord structures provides an element of mild dissonance,
compared with the harsh dissonance of their accented counterparts in later eras.
Additional elements of music theory can be extracted from the transcribed score, but I
chose to highlight only those with salient or pedagogically significant features. The Dorian mode
that descends in the tenor part at mm. 35-36 reinforces the student’s introduction to modal scales
at level 8. The exchange between alto and tenor parts in mm. 7-9 prepares for future discussions
of voice-leading in level 9 harmony. In the challenge question, I addressed the structural
organization of El grillo since the student is likely to encounter differing interpretations of its
formal structure in her/his listening experiences. One of the notational discrepancies noted by
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Fallows (2003) is the positioning of an elaborate double-repeat sign in the source manuscript.
Separating mm. 17-21 (El grillo, el grillo è buon cantore) from the opening refrain, it places
these measures in the following section. But because this configuration makes little sense, either
musically or textually, it is rarely observed in performances. The student is encouraged to
explore an assortment of structural interpretations.
From her/his chordal analysis, the student can also be led to comparative observations that
lay the groundwork for generalized conclusions. This foray into the subjectivity of analysis is
likely to be uncomfortable for many students – and their teachers. My intention is to open a
discussion on the topic of chord qualities and to make space for speculation. In my own analysis,
I noticed that Josquin’s blocked chordal style produces the following inventory of root-position
chords: C, Dm, D, Em, F, G, Am, A. All but D and A, which are chromatically altered versions
of Dm and Am, can be found in the key of C major. Earlier, I mentioned that the D major chord,
with fa raised to fi, functions tonally as the dominant (D) of the dominant (G) in C major. Using
the same reasoning, the A major chord, with do raised to di, functions as the dominant (A) of the
dominant-once-removed (Dm). In addition, I noticed the absence of a chord on B, presumably
because it would be diminished.75 Unlike major and minor chords, which are consonant,
diminished chords are dissonant and were judiciously avoided in most Renaissance music.

A Re-Evaluation of Purpose

My inquiry is fuelled by an awareness that the science of music theory is pedagogically

disconnected from the art of music. The LGs represent my attempt to fill this instructional gap
by reconnecting music and theory – by placing music at the centre of music theory pedagogy and
reversing long-standing instructional practices. This reversal is not offered as an arbitrary or
casual alternative. It is grounded in Kodály’s educational philosophies as well as Bruner’s
instructional theories.
Specifically, I embraced Kodály’s resolve to develop students’ musical literacy and to
make accessible the world’s great art music. As Choksy (1999a) elaborates, musical literacy is
embodied in the ability to read, write, and create within the traditional language of music.

75
In a diminished triad, the outer interval is a diminished 5th or tritone. This unstable interval is generally
considered an inharmonious or harsh-sounding dissonance, but not so for Leo Kraft (1976). He counters convention
by claiming that the term dissonant does not mean discordant or unpleasant. On the contrary, he believes that the
“most interesting and beautiful sounds in music are usually the dissonant ones” (p. 29).
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Through the actions of listening, performing, and analyzing, an appreciation for musical
masterworks is enriched by the gradual accumulation of knowledge about music. Consequently,
the thinking associated with the science of music is interconnected with the interpreting
associated with its art. Of course, these activities are not mutually exclusive, nor are they the
exclusive province of one discipline or the other. Still, KM fully integrates their unique
perspectives in a carefully sequenced progression of holistic musical experiences.
My interest in Bruner’s educational psychology is specific to his concepts of scaffolding
and curricular spiralling. Instructional scaffolding, as a form of structured interaction between
student and teacher, provides gradually decreasing quantities of teaching assistance as students
become more knowledgeable and independent learners. In its early stages, this scaffolding
guides students’ acquisition of knowledge by limiting nonessential options and focusing on
required skill sets. Bruner (1966) believes that with appropriate representation – following a
progression from enactive, through iconic, to symbolic – any subject can be accessible to any
student. In a spiral curriculum, the subject is repeatedly revisited at successively higher levels of
sophistication, reinforcing principles introduced at lower levels. Bruner’s instructional theories
are intrinsically woven into KM. They are exhibited in KM’s scaffolded support for students and
its spiralled approach to music curriculum.
Within a KM framework, the “frequency of occurrence of specific melodic turns and
rhythmic figures” establishes the hierarchical sequencing of its musical skills and concepts
(Choksy, 1999a, p. 174). Thus, the rhythmic/melodic/harmonic content of the music literature
governs the conceptual content of the music instruction. This contextually derivative content is
positioned in a spiralled exploration of its substance, which builds conceptual awareness through
scaffolded musical experiences. As the scaffolding is reduced, these experiences move
systematically toward abstractions of the musical concepts.
The four stages of KM’s instructional process (preparation, conscious awareness,
reinforcement, and assessment) are interwoven with a series of musical skills (hearing, singing,
deriving, writing, reading, and creating), then further entwined with the musical concepts of
rhythm, melody, harmony, texture, structure, and expression. However, this process is not the
usual modus operandi for music theory pedagogy. While KM’s overlapping or “polyphonic”
approach may seem exceptionally complex, its planning, which involves the simultaneous
progression of distinct conceptual inferences, is logical and rational (Penny, 2012). Musical
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elements do not exist in isolation – a factor that should be reflected in their multi-faceted
presentation.
The most prominent pedagogical disparity between traditional forms of music theory
instruction and KM’s instructional process is in their handling of the subject’s specific elements.
One teaches tidy self-contained topics and the other, messy overlapping/spiralling topics. The
study of compositional techniques is given as an example. Until recently, at least in an RCM
context, this topic was not addressed until it became necessary for the completion of melody
writing exercises in the study of basic harmony at level 9. And even then, the discussion
generally involved a superficial sampling of techniques that required minimal student
involvement. But in a KM context, students experience a tangible array of compositional
techniques by listening to artworks, singing the main themes, and analyzing the composers’ artful
manipulations of these themes. As they prepare for future creative activities, the students’ own
musical palettes are augmented by the fruits of their analytical discoveries.
In readiness for these improvisational or compositional tasks, Choksy (1981) suggests
having the students experiment by applying the compositional techniques they have studied to
known songs, such as Frère Jacques. Depending on the extensiveness of the students’ exposure
to repertoire, Choksy illustrates her point by altering the song with the following techniques:

• augmenting or diminishing it
• singing it in a minor key or in a mode, such as Dorian
• changing its meter
• ornamenting it
• substituting its smooth rhythm with a jagged one (using dotted notes or adding
repeated notes)
• changing its legato phrasing to staccato
• inverting it
• singing it in retrograde (backwards)
• changing the intervals of its canonic repetition, both melodically and rhythmically
• harmonizing it with broken chords
• placing it simultaneously in two different keys (producing bitonality)
• reconstructing it with a whole-tone scale
• adding chromatic notes between its melody notes
• accompanying it with dissonant chords

To re-iterate, students are encouraged to experiment with compositional techniques they have
previously learned. This is not an introduction process, it is an application process. The
techniques are put forward by the students, in response to the teacher’s question: How might
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Frère Jacques be handled by a composer? (Choksy, 1981). This process encapsulates one of the
underlying premises of KM – “to invent is to understand” (p. 94).
In view of the preceding model, I believe that students of music theory derive far greater
benefit from a deep investigation of its constituent elements than from a broad survey of its
subject matter. Without the complexities of depth, a surface examination of theoretical elements
compromises not only the richness of significant conceptual understandings, but their
transferability as well. Depth emerges at the intersection of music and theory – for theory
without music is superficial and trivial, particularly if it is taught with paper and pencil as the
positioning of black dots on a set of evenly-spaced lines. These technical or scientific
maneuverings must be reconciled with the artistic phenomena they represent. Sound and symbol
must be brought together if there is to be an integration of art and science in music theory
pedagogy.

Integrating Art and Science

In an ideal world, all things are possible but in the real world, there are practical limitations.
Do the LGs accomplish their goal? In my estimation, they do. Did they take shape as I had
imagined? They did not. I succeeded in connecting music and theory, but KM’s instructional
process is not as obvious as I would have liked. I incorporated Choksy’s (1999b) adaptation of
its four stages by reinterpreting preparation activities as pre-listening tasks, conscious awareness
activities as first listenings, reinforcement activities as repeated listenings, and assessment
activities as creative tasks. But because every student brings a variable or unpredictable level of
knowledge to the process, I needed to ensure that the LGs were suitable for a general student
audience. Therefore, I was limited to reinforcing known musical elements, rather than
introducing unknown elements. In effect, I was not able to teach with the LGs as much as I had
hoped.
Nevertheless, I was able to address some of my lingering concerns about music theory
teaching by fore-fronting the reasoning behind its many “rules.” Sometimes the reasoning is
explicitly presented in the discussion, as in writing the tenor part an octave higher than it sounds.
Sometimes it is implicitly communicated, as in using short bar lines for vocal scores. This sub-
surface communication allows students to think for themselves. And by encouraging student
autonomy, I positioned myself to ask not only what questions, which are fairly straightforward
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observational exercises, but why questions as well, which are generally more complex and require
some thought.
Student autonomy allows an element of subjectivity to enter the topic of music theory,
which is largely objective, particularly at rudimentary levels. Influenced by personal feelings and
opinions, the awakening of subjective discernment is a natural consequence of knowledge
acquisition. It is also nurtured by artistic experience. But subjective discernments, like music
listening skills, are not innate. They are cultivated and developed through careful guidance, in
the manner of Bruner’s (1963) instructional scaffolding. Left to their own devices, many
students struggle with subjective questioning. They simply do not know how to respond because
they have not been properly prepared. Frequently, they have no concrete experiences from which
to derive meaningful answers.
In the music history component of RCM’s (2016) Celebrate Theory series, students are
asked subjective questions with little preparatory assistance. Under “Personal Reflection”
subheadings, the following questions or directions conclude the relevant commentaries:

• level 5: Mozart’s “Queen of the Night” Aria from The Magic Flute – “Describe your
experience listening to this work. What did you like best about it?” (RCM, 2016a,
p. 66)
• level 6: Bach’s Invention in C Major, BWV 772 – “Baroque music is often based on
a single idea or emotion, referred to as an ‘affect.’ In your own words, describe the
musical character conveyed in the performance you heard.” (RCM, 2016b, p. 77).
• level 7: Mendelssohn’s Overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream – “Record your
impressions of this musical composition.” (RCM, 2016c, p. 91)
• level 8: Josquin’s El grillo – “Record your impressions of this listening experience.
Comment on the relationship between the text and music.” (RCM, 2016d, p. 109).

For levels 5 and 7, there is no attempt to contextualize students’ reflections as the same direction
is given for every work at the applicable level. For level 6, there are two sets of directions – one
for the Baroque works and one for the Classical work. Only the directions for level 8 are slightly
more repertoire-specific, excepting those intended for the global music selections.
I appreciate RCM’s desire to broaden students’ musical experiences through an
introduction to music history. But without establishing a pedagogical basis on which to build
relevance, the repertoire, including its artistic association with personal subjectivity, is often
meaningless. I am not saying that questions like “How does this piece make you feel?” should
not be asked. I am saying that students should be prepared – with appropriate knowledge and
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vocabulary – to answer. One of my Orleans group participants, imitating one of her students,
gave this reply to such a question (PG-2O):

I feel like I’m twirling in the sunshine in a meadow of flowers.

Similar replies are quite common and often describe pieces of vastly dissimilar musical character.
My LGs are intended to deepen students’ subjective experiences of music with objective
elements of music theory. This pedagogical integration of art and science is intended to develop
the meaningful subjectivity of musical literacy.

Concluding Remarks

Chapter 4 introduced the LGs that will provide instructional materials for my participants.
Throughout the exposition and analysis of these materials, I disclosed the many decisions that
influenced their final configurations. My observations are offered as an informal critique that
revolves around my formative question:

• How can the teaching of intervals and chords be integrated with repertoire from the
Royal Conservatory’s (2016e) intermediate theory curriculum?

Although direct references to KM’s instructional process tended to lessen from one LG to the
next, Kodály’s principles and practices are ever-present. They intrinsically informed every
decision I made, particularly regarding the inclusion of preparing and reinforcing activities. In
relation to the musical skills that facilitate these activities (hearing, singing, deriving, writing,
reading, creating), I emphasized deriving because it is the skill that most closely exemplifies
KM’s pedagogical approach. And by encouraging students to derive the elements of music
theory from the music itself, I established an art/science link.
My LGs are purposefully constructed for the pedagogical integration of music (art) and
music theory (science). Guided listening experiences provide access to music theory – just as
theory is accessible with, about, in, and through music (Cornett & Smithrim, 2001). Whether (or
not) the LGs are useful representations of my art/science integration within the discipline of
music theory pedagogy is a question for my research participants. In chapter 5, the participants’
stories will be woven into my story. Our aggregate narrative will then undergo a formal critical
analysis in the final chapter. But before engaging the interrogative/reflective data, I will expand
my methodological discussion from chapter 3 in order to address the complexities of data
analysis in ABR and to disclose the specifics of my data collection.
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Interlude

Musical values are not absolutes.

– Lewis Rowell (b.1933)

Data Analysis in Arts-Based-Research

H. Porter Abbott (2002) contends that “[o]ne of the ancient functions of narrative is that it
gives us sufficient understanding to make up our minds about things” (p. 174). His words remind
me that I can derive musical/theoretical/pedagogical meaning from writing as well as from
reading. Abbott goes on to ask: “[I]s it out of the question that wisdom leaks in from the world
of feelings, actions, and consequences?” (p. 174). My experiences with music theory pedagogy –
as student, artist/musician, teacher/practitioner, examiner, author/pedagogue, and researcher –
attest to the certainty that this “leakage” is powerful. Although my personal/professional
experiences may not be perfect, they have value, here and now.
In chapter 3, I mentioned an article by Nielsen (2009) in which he harnesses the
contentious relationship between “music pedagogy as a field of research and the practice of
music education” (p. 22). Considering research questions involving identification and
formulation, result development, and application, Nielsen presents four models of correlation in
music education that describe teaching and researching as separate, co-operative, integrated, and
parallel. Illustrating his integrated model with a reflective practitioner, Nielsen cautions that
practical relevance may erode scientific rigour and therefore, reduce the validity of the research
result. In its place, he suggests a parallel model, which implies a simultaneous “closeness and
distance” (p. 37), distinguishing music education in practice from the practice of research in
music education and nurturing this research on its own scientific premises.
Nielsen (2009) regards music pedagogy as an analytical science that serves educational
practice. While I acknowledge his scientific view of pedagogy, I cannot reconcile my artistic
predisposition with his post-positivist stance. I recognize its legitimacy but even with Nielsen’s
caution about reduced validity, I am firmly committed to the concept of integration – for my
teaching, my researching, and the intersection of teaching/researching in my inquiry. Seeking a
research model that accepts the validity of artistic interpretation, I am inclined toward Roulston’s
(2006) exploration of qualitative studies in music education. In Roulston’s interpretive
methodology, where “researchers are involved in knowledge construction to examine meanings
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from participants’ perspectives (p. 155, original emphasis), findings emerge from data analysis
inductively rather than deductively.
Earlier, I had imagined Roulston’s (2006) inductive or “bottom-up” posture in an
instructional context – with teachers involved in knowledge construction from students’
perspectives – but I would like now to re-instate her original research context. Citing Crotty
(1998), Roulston (2006) contrasts interpretivist research with “research that aims to ‘explain,’ or
focuses on causality” (p. 161), preferring inductive strategies that draw on the notion of
Verstehen, an empathetic, intuitive understanding that is associated with German sociologist Max
Weber (1864-1920). Just as Kodály (1974) advocates paving the way for “direct intuition” in
music education (p. 120), I will embrace the authenticity of direct intuition in both music theory
pedagogy and my research on the topic. However, with my investigative approach centered on
an amorphous process of intuiting, how can I ensure an acceptable level of validity in my data
analysis?

Establishing Validity

According to Barone and Eisner (2012), there are two types of validity in ABR: internal
and external. While internal validity pertains to the reliability of conclusions drawn from the
research premise, external validity involves the relevance of these conclusions for the community
or condition it addresses. Both types of validity enable the research to “withstand logical
scrutiny” (p. 162). In an ABR context, reliability or credibility is equated with truthfulness and
trustworthiness – qualities that Leavy (2015) associates with the concept of resonance.
Unquestionably, every researcher hopes that her/his project will resonate with its audience, but
this is a particular concern for ABR practitioners whose work is frequently met with resistance.
Barone and Eisner (2012) present two concepts that promote credibility in ABR: structural
corroboration and referential adequacy. Defining structural corroboration as a “gathering of
many pieces of evidence that enable one to create a compelling whole” (p. 162), the authors rely
on this evidence not only to support the study’s conclusions, but to deepen its analyses as well as
the conversations it generates. Referential adequacy refers to the meanings engendered by the
study. In my own quest for meaning, I have rephrased Barone and Eisner’s criteria for credibility
as guiding questions:
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• Does the story ring true?

• Is the analysis cogent and credible?
• Is the tale coherent?
• Are the meanings generalizable?

In ABR, there are no operational rules that determine next steps and the criteria listed above
cannot be applied as such. Instead, these criteria must be deliberated and discussed – for “one
needs to exercise judgement in the absence of rule” (Barone & Eisner, 2012, p. 163). While there
are general guidelines for the practice of ABR, and standards within each artistic genre, they
cannot be uniformly implemented or evaluated.
As Leavy (2015) warns: “This is a messy terrain” (p. 268, original emphasis). Like Eisner
before her, she argues for the utility of ABR – not just its novelty. By applying the concepts of
coherence (Baron & Eisner, 2012), comprehensiveness, congruence, and internal consistency
(Cole & Knowles, 2008), the holistic or synergistic quality of ABR is strengthened (Leavy,
2015). But for ABR to be effective, especially in an educational setting, it must be useful and
accessible to significant stakeholders. It must illuminate a “pathway of education” that is both
personally and professionally relevant (Siegesmund & Cahnmann-Talyor, 2008, p. 241). To that
end, Richard Siegesmund and Melisa Cahmann-Taylor (2008) support the term scholARTistry
(Neilsen, 2002), because it captures the integrated purpose of art for the sake of scholarship.
They believe that all researchers, regardless of prior artistic training, can “develop artistic
sensibilities in data analysis and draw on artistic craft to elicit data and share findings” (p. 243).
In this light, I will position myself as a researcher whose artistic sensibilities stem from extensive
musical experiences.
For data analysis in ABR, Leavy (2015) proposes four strategies: having an external
dialogue, having an internal dialogue, using theory, and using literature. I have implemented all
four strategies, both in the analysis of my data and in its describing/interpreting. An internal
dialogue (Tenni et al., 2003) forms the nucleus of my narrative. This dialogue, threaded through
every chapter of my dissertation, is supported by relevant literature and theory. It is also
supported by a writing journal that I began in November 2015 when I was preparing my research
proposal. An external dialogue, informed by the feedback I garnered from my peers, is the focus
of chapter 5. According to Leavy (2015), this peer feedback is “particularly salient” for research
projects that use autobiographical data (p. 269).
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I am reasonably satisfied with my application of ABR practices. All but one. I am

unsettled again by the issue of an artful representation. What is my art product? How can I
respond to Leavy’s (2015) prompt for validity – “What is this art good for?” (p. 277) – if I cannot
explain the aesthetic value of my work? And even more unsettling is Johnny Saldaña’s (2011)
query: “But is it art?” (p. 203, original emphasis). I had assumed, somewhat smugly, that my
identity as an artist/musician essentially guaranteed an artistic product. Surely the artful
reporting of my research in a beautifully constructed dissertation would more than suffice.
Eventually, I abandoned my assumption and began to unravel the problem of artfulness in
my inquiry. A central feature of ABR, the aesthetic quality of my work is intimately tied to
audience response and therefore to its utility/validity (Leavy, 2015). In other words, artfulness
begets usefulness. But in order to achieve “aesthetic power,” my artistic rendering must “get to
the heart of the issue” and present its essence in a coherent form (p. 278). The audience must
then experience my representation as truthful and trustworthy (Chilton & Leavy, 2014). Indeed,
if I am to achieve rigour, my work must have “deep aesthetic impact” (de Freitas, 2004, p. 269).
It must be a work of art.
Is my narrative an artwork? And if so, am I a qualified narrator? Leavy (2015) insists that
I must pay attention to the artistic craft from which I am borrowing. While I am not trained in the
craft of narrating, I am trained in the craft that serves the content of my narration, and since my
experiences in this capacity are genuine, they are expressed with authenticity. Leavy, arguing
that the authentic is aesthetic, quotes Michael A. Franklin (2012): “[T]he best art is the most
honest, authentic art” (p. 89). Consequently, if my artistic representation conveys meaning for
my audience, it may be considered aesthetic regardless of its adherence to the conventions of the
borrowed genre (Leavy, 2015). This possibility provides a partial solution for my problem.
However, I must also keep in mind that the concept of artfulness is related to the unique
perspective every artist-researcher brings to her/his work (Leavy, 2015). Since all artistic
practices are crafts – without formulaic prototypes – each practitioner brings a personal
fingerprint or signature to her/his research project, which may be used to assess it validity
(Barone & Eisner, 2012). Filtered through my personal/professional experiences, my “signature”
is manifest in the words I choose to express my observations. These words are shaped into a
form that suits my research premise and the resultant form constitutes my work of art. As Leavy
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suggests, “[a]rtistic works have a voice” (p. 280, original emphasis). Artful credibility involves
finding and expressing a resonant voice.
Are my LGs artworks? If an artwork is an "artistic production” (Webster, 1983, p. 106),
they are certainly products that include art (music) content. If an artwork is an aesthetic entity of
artistic creation, generally with a physical form (Arts3 Network), they are surely physical entities
created with artistic subject matter, but they are not necessarily aesthetic entities – except in the
sense that they embody an underlying set of creative principles and these principles influence my
work. While the LGs are primarily pedagogical, they are also crafted with artistic intent.
Perhaps even a modest portion of artfulness can be useful.
According to Siegesmund and Cahnmann-Taylor (2008), arts-based researchers “seldom
make an ‘art-for-art’s-sake’ claim” that their work stands alone – independent of its analysis (p.
233). Unlike many conventional artists, they explain their work and offer cues to its reading. As
Barone (2001a) argues, these artist-researchers are capable of playing “two games at once” (p.
171). By assuming dual roles as artist and analyst, the arts-based researcher can both “create and
critique, challenge and explain” (Siegesmund & Cahnmann-Taylor, 2008, p. 234). This duality
invokes the German concept of freischwebend, which literally means “free-floating” or hovering
above (Bauman, 1992). It also calls for epistemological humility since “[k]nowing requires not
knowing: a state of being lost in order to find” (Siegesmund & Cahnmann-Taylor, 2008, p. 234).
Arts-based researchers, disinclined to accept the implied closure of static knowledge claims, find
reflective wisdom in the openness and ambiguity of uncertainty. Eisner (2008b) describes this
knowing process as a “fluid stream rather than a fixed rock” (p. 25).
ABR practitioners must think conceptually, symbolically, metaphorically (Saldaña, 2011),
and thematically (Leavy, 2015). This “artist thinking” applies to the research process as well as
the representation of the research data. But if an artwork is a material (non-textual) medium
prepared for reproduction in a printed publication (Webster, 1983), I can satisfy only part of the
definition. True, the LGs are prepared for my dissertation, but they are creative products of both
textual and non-textual content. However, if art is “something made, not something found,” as
Arthur Bochner and Carolyn Ellis (2003, p. 507) contend, then the LGs are the result of my
pedagogical “makings” – but makings that are designed to be used. As such, they provide
material data for my inquiry, while the participants provide empirical or experiential data.
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Disclosing My Data Collection Process

Along with the artistic legitimacy of the research product, the transparency or explicitness
of the research process is also a notable criterion for credibility (Rolling, 2013). In chapter 3, I
divulged the four interactions of my research design – formative, interrogative, reflective, and
summative – which are derived from the four stages of KM’s instructional process. For the
interrogative interaction, I asked my participants to review the LGs, considering their potential
effectiveness as supplemental teaching materials. Soliciting both negative and positive feedback,
I conducted three introductory focus group discussions in March 2017. These discussions
involved the Toronto group, the Kanata group, and the Orleans group, in this order.
As I remarked in chapter 3, the individual make-up of each focus group is unique.
Although unintentional, they represent distinct populations within the larger music education
community. And the distinctive experiences of each group ultimately influenced our discussions,
as well as my analysis of the discussions. The Toronto group, originally comprised of four
teacher-examiners (two men and two women), was reduced to three on the day of our meeting.
We were scheduled to meet in Guelph but the logistics of our gathering were complicated by a
snowstorm the previous day. One of the participants, unable to travel from his home near Barrie,
offered to host our discussion through AnyMeeting, which he utilizes for on-line teaching.76 The
west-coast participant, who was to attend via Skype, was prevented from doing so by of a power
outage in Vancouver. Her explanatory message was the last communication I received from her,
despite my efforts to contact her after the meeting by e-mail. Given that she is no longer a
member of RCM’s College of Examiners, further interaction is unlikely.
The discussion with my remaining Toronto group participants took place in Guelph as
planned. We met at one of the participant’s homes on Monday, March 13, 2017. I sat at the
dining-room table with two of the participants – one on either side of me – facing my laptop
computer. Once the AnyMeeting link was shared and a few technical difficulties resolved, we
could see the third participant on my computer screen. In front of me, I had clean paper copies of
the LGs which I shared with the participant on my left. The participant on my right had
electronic copies on his own screen. Part way through the discussion, we stopped for lunch,

76
AnyMeeting, a subsidiary of Intermedia (https://www.intermedia.net/products/anymeeting-webinars/pricing),
is a web-based software application that provides webinar services for small businesses. It enables users to host
video conferences or on-line meetings and to share screens remotely.
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although we did not break the web-connection. Having just completed our review of level 5, the
remote participant played several YouTube versions of Mozart’s “Queen of the Night” Aria,
including one by an astonishing fourteen-year-old Robin Schlotz (Su, 2006). After lunch, we
continued our discussion with a systematic review of levels 6, 7, and 8. At the discussion’s
conclusion, the remote participant sent me an e-mail link to the audio/visual recording of our
meeting.
This recording, which reproduces 2:41:42 hours of dialogue, is the only data I collected
from the first focus group discussion. Since I knew that our conversation was being recorded by
the remote participant’s computer, I did not make a second recording with my own audio device.
In retrospect, I wish I had overridden my reluctance to use this second device because the quality
of the AnyMeeting recording is sometimes deficient, causing occasional words or phrases to be
unintelligible. Additionally, the audio and video components are seldom properly synchronized,
making lip-reading nearly impossible. I did not take notes at the time of the meeting because I
was sharing my LGs with one of the participants. While this needless display of timidity
compromised my data collection for the first focus group discussion, I learned a valuable lesson.
All the remaining discussions were recorded on my Sony MP3 IC Recorder and I took notes
during the meetings.
The Toronto group participants are distinguished from the others by their membership in
RCM’s College of Theoretical Examiners. As a result, they are generally more familiar with the
curricular requirements for all music theory subjects. And because most of their theory teaching
involves the advanced subjects of harmony and history (levels 9 to ARCT), they are more apt to
understand the requirements for intermediate rudiments (levels 5 to 8) as preparation for later
theoretical studies. Furthermore, they are intimately involved in RCM’s theory examination
process – not only in preparing students for exams on a studio scale, but in observing students’
responses on a conservatory scale. This positioning allows them to recognize a much wider
range of potential difficulties/misunderstandings for music theory students.
While none of the three Toronto group participants mark rudiments examinations as I do,
we met to review the LGs as examiner colleagues. My interactions with the other groups were
recognizably different as my role shifted from that of examiner to teacher. The Kanata group
participants (four women) are all younger piano teachers who supplement their practical lessons
with theory, two of them beyond the level of intermediate rudiments. The same two are recent
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inductees to RCM’s College of Practical Examiners, but neither is associated with theoretical
examinations at any level. These examiners, along with another of the Kanata group participants,
have completed master’s degrees in music. With similar levels of education, as well as shared
involvements with RCM, we should have met on an equal footing as peers – and we did, to some
extent – but my many years of teaching and examining inevitably tipped the balance. My age,
approximately twenty years beyond theirs, may have been another factor.
One of the examiner participants offered her Kanata home for our introductory focus group
discussion on Wednesday, March 22, 2017. This arrangement circumvented the necessity for
child-care since her four-year-old daughter could be supervised in our midst. As it happened, the
participant who is neither an examiner nor a master’s graduate, but a certified Music for Young
Children (MYC) teacher, was unable to attend because of illness. 77 Consequently, I conversed
with the three remaining participants around the dining-room table, each of us reading individual
paper copies of the LGs. I gave a brief introduction that explained my research premise and re-
iterated the purpose of our meeting. We proceeded more-or-less systematically through all four
LGs. I asked questions sparked by the discussion, or my experiences writing the LGs, and the
participants asked questions of me. Much of the discussion was carried by one participant – as
was the case with the Toronto group – but everyone who was present contributed.
From the Kanata group, I collected data in both audio and written formats: an MP3
recording containing 1:03:24 hours of conversation and observational field notes jotted on my
clean copies of the LGs. Although it was not a requirement, I suggested in the e-mail message I
circulated along with the LGs that written feedback was an option. As a result, I received three
additional pieces of data: two sets of annotated LGs, one from the participant at whose home we
gathered and one from another of the participants, as well as brief comments in an e-mail from
the participant who missed our meeting. I collected similar data from the Orleans group: 2:06:54
hours of recorded conversation, field notes, one of the participant’s written observations – titled
“Random Thoughts” – and another’s written answers to the formal questions I posed before the
introductory discussions (see Appendix 3.6).

77
Since 1980, MYC has empowered its students, ages 2-10, to be creative and expressive through music.
Designed by early-childhood specialist Frances Balodis, MYC’s multi-sensory approach develops children’s musical
skills, such as playing and reading, as well as their cognitive, physical, and social skills (https://www.myc.com).
 190

The Orleans group participants (four women) are older teachers, three of piano and one of
strings. Although they also supplement their practical lessons with theory, one more than the
others, none of them teach music theory beyond intermediate levels. I was acquainted with all
the Kanata group participants as fellow ORMTA members, since we all held positions on the
Ottawa Region Branch council at the time of our first focus group discussion. However, I was
much better acquainted with the Orleans group participants. In addition to ORMTA membership
– either past or present – all of us are current members of the Gloucester Music Teachers’
Association (GMTA), a smaller, more intimate group of music teachers in Ottawa’s east-end.
These women, one of whom inspired my graduate studies with her own mid-life master’s degree,
are my friends as well as my colleagues. These friendships are rooted in a sincere respect for one
another’s expertise.
When RCM (2016e) released the newest edition of the Theory Syllabus, many teachers –
including my participants – had questions. To address these questions, I was invited by GMTA
and Steinway Ottawa, whose manager is also one of my teacher-colleagues, to give a series of
music theory workshops during the 2016-2017 academic year. My presentations addressed four
specific topics: rhythm, pitch (including scales, intervals, and chords), melody writing, and music
history – the last two being new requirements for intermediate-level examinations. Two of the
Kanata group participants and all four of the Orleans group participants attended one or more of
my workshop presentations. Coincidentally, the music history presentation occurred just a few
days before our focus group discussion in Orleans.
Because of the participants’ relative proximity to my home, the Orleans focus group
discussion took place around my kitchen table on Monday, March 27, 2017. All four participants
were in attendance. I discovered early in our meeting that one of the participants had
inadvertently forgotten to bring her LGs, so I stopped the recording and made duplicate copies
for her. Again, the conversation proceeded more-or-less systematically from level 5 through
level 8, with roughly equal contributions from all participants. While the Kanata group was
fairly critical of my approach to music theory pedagogy, the Orleans group was more liberal. It is
reasonable to assume that their openness is attributable to our personal rapport, but their
comparative maturity may also have been a significant factor. Essentially, the younger teachers
were focused on the quantity of supplemental instruction in the LGs, as well as the relevance of
this instruction for exam preparations, while the older teachers were focused on the quality of the
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instruction and its potential for a meaningful experience of examination requirements. In

contrast, the Toronto group participants were focused on theoretical accuracy and the relevance
of the instruction for advanced-level requirements in harmony and history, analysis and
counterpoint.
Prior to the introductory focus group discussions, I considered expanding my research
project to include four additional participants from RCM's College of Theoretical Examiners.
Two teacher-examiners had indicated interest when my recruitment letter was distributed for the
second time in November 2016. Another had approached me before my proposal was completed,
but none of these could participate fully because of time constraints. Optimizing their interest, I
wanted to offer an abridged form of participation that excluded the group activities.
Consequently, in February 2017, I filed a second request to formally modify my project. The
new participants would be asked to critically review my LGs over a two-week period and to
provide written feedback, increasing the richness of my data with insights that are unique to this
specialized educational community. Although I would have appreciated my colleagues’ wisdom,
I did not proceed with this modification, despite the receipt of ethics approval to do so.
Following the introductory focus group discussions, I decided – with input from my supervisors –
that I had more than enough data from the existing groups of participants.
The introductory focus group discussions represent the second stage of my research
process, or the interrogative interaction. At this stage, I was attentive to the potential
implementation of the LGs. During the third reflective stage, I intended to concentrate on the
improvement of the implementation. My reflective interaction is modeled on KM’s
reinforcement stage. This reinforcing instruction involves the practical application of a
theoretical concept over time, moving toward abstraction through various writing activities. In
my research context, I had asked the participants to describe their application(s) of the LGs in
written form, and to share their descriptions by way of a Google Docs file. To encourage this
reflective writing, I also posted questions for contemplation (see Appendix 3.7) and invited the
participants to respond to their colleagues’ reflections as a continuation of the introductory focus
group discussions. I was seeking insights drawn from the participants’ experiences, both as
individuals and as groups.
I documented my own experiences with a student who was working through the level 8 LG
and posted these reflections as sample entries in the Google Docs file I created for each focus
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group. There were no further entries. Appendix 5.1 records my diarized postings, but even these
remain unfinished. Lacking reciprocity from any of my focus groups, I was unmotivated to
reflect on the last activity, although I wish I had persevered, if only to present a complete data set.
The participants’ absence of engagement may have been a consequence of busyness, but it was
also dependent on each teacher’s scheduling of interval and/or chord presentations during the trial
period – with students at the appropriate levels of study. In the end, their pedagogical insights
were merely packaged in a different way. Rather than circulating written submissions via Google
Docs, they waited for an opportunity to engage one another in face-to-face conversations. As a
result, the concluding focus group discussions, instead of the summative interactions I had
envisioned, became reflective interactions. This adaptation inevitably transformed the
summative stage of my research process as well. Its metamorphosis will be fully scrutinized in
chapter 6.
The concluding focus group discussions, with one exception, took place in August 2017.
As reflective interactions, they were generally philosophical in nature – compared with the
predominantly practical nature of the introductory discussions. Without intention, the order of
the concluding conversations was the opposite of the introductory conversations: Orleans,
Kanata, and Toronto. The Orleans group participants gathered around my kitchen table on
Wednesday, August 9, 2017. One of the participants was unable to attend because her presence
was unexpectedly required elsewhere. But with the renewal of my ethics approval certificate, she
and I met separately on Wednesday, November 22, 2017 at my home. From these two meetings,
I collected audio recordings of 1:48:35 and 0:37:22 hours, respectively.
The Kanata group participants met on Friday, August 11, 2017 around the same dining-
room table as our previous meeting. This time, we were joined by the MYC participant who had
missed the introductory discussion. Her two young sons accompanied her, playing with the
daughter of our hostess in an upstairs room. She enthusiastically entered the initial conversation
but as the dialogue continued, she fell silent. Anticipating the possibility of a child-care
intervention, the hostess participant asked to speak first. As one of the RCM examiners and a
master’s graduate, she is quite articulate – her thoughts were presented with confidence and an
easy fluency. I was unaware of the MYC participant’s growing unease until I invited her to
speak and she flatly refused. She collected her children and left the meeting, despite my attempts
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to dissuade her. Afterwards, I discovered that one of her students had recently quit her studio and
begun lessons with the other examiner participant.
Although the emotional turmoil of this presumed “defection” contributed to the MYC
participant’s hasty departure, as well as her subsequent departure from ORMTA council, it was
not the only factor. She had earlier expressed her reluctance to join the Kanata group, fearing
that both her education and her experience were insufficient to offer a credible viewpoint. I
assured her that she was a valued member of the group and erroneously downplayed her fear with
the assumption that she was surrounded by her friends. This was partially true, but the group
dynamic was not as I had assumed. The MYC participant felt intellectually inferior to the other
participants and seeking to relieve her discomfort, she fled. I was shocked. The others, with
whom she was better acquainted, were less so, having previously observed similar reactions from
her. But before leaving the meeting, the MYC participant gave me her annotated LGs, for which
I am deeply grateful.
It occurred to me – after the fact – that the MYC participant’s opinion was, in actuality, the
most pertinent for my inquiry. Not to diminish her competence nor that of the others, she
personifies the average teacher for whom the LGs were written. Her judgement of their
usefulness or non-usefulness was paramount. I reached out to her many times over the next year,
but she politely refused my requests for an interview, which gave her annotated LGs all the more
significance. Along with her annotations, I collected 0:58:37 hours of audio data and another
participant’s written answers to the formal questions I circulated before the concluding
discussions (see Appendix 3.8). But every time I listen to the second Kanata recording, I am
filled with sorrow and regret for the MYC participant’s anxiety. I am also embarrassed because
“I didn’t see it coming and I was powerless to stop it” (L. L. Penny, journal entry, April 18,
2019). However, like most of life’s lessons, the knowledge gained from the experience could not
have been gained otherwise.
Comparatively less eventful, the Toronto focus group discussion yielded 1:33:44 hours of
audio data but no written data. I met with my examiner-colleagues on Wednesday, August 16,
2017, following RCM’s history marking meeting which we attended together. The Administrator
for the College of Examiners kindly arranged a quiet room for us on the fifth floor of the Royal
Conservatory building, located on the University of Toronto’s downtown campus. The three
remaining Toronto group participants were all present.
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Analyzing the Data

By way of summary, the data sets I collected to substantiate my inquiry are as follows:

• AnyMeeting audio/visual recording: 1 discussion of 2:41: 42 hours

• MP3 audio recordings: 6 discussions for a total of 8:08:36 hours
• transcripts from recordings: 252 pages
• LGs annotated by participants: 4 sets
• written responses/reviews from participants: 4 documents
• field notes from introductory focus group discussions: 2 sets
• LGs completed by my students: 1 set, levels 5-7 by one student and level 8 by
another
• diarized reflections on my student interactions: 1 set for level 8 (incomplete)
• journal entries: from November 24, 2015

My formal analysis of the empirical data began with the recordings and proceeded loosely
in the order given above, approximately one year after the concluding focus group discussions
took place. But informally, my analysis began immediately. Ideas came to me with the first of
the introductory discussions and continued to percolate throughout the research process.
Although I intended to isolate individual groups of participants from the others, I could not. I
was a member of each group – a common denominator – and because I learned from every
interaction, my contribution to the group experience was not static. My percolating fragments of
understanding invariably entered each successive conversation. Perhaps I was simply excited to
share my newfound cognizance, but it also seemed intellectually dishonest to withhold the
insights I was gathering. Besides, I was anxious to explore these insights collaboratively.
From this rather esoteric process, I derived meaningful outcomes, particularly for my
teacher-self and my author-self. However, an inquiry of this sort is expected to resonate with a
much wider audience. The research process must be exoteric and it must be academically
trustworthy. To this end, I began my formal analysis by listening to the audio recordings. The
MP3 files were copied to a CD that I could play while I was driving. As a result, the group
discussions gradually permeated my consciousness, since I often listened during my weekly trips
to Kanata for teaching. But the most fruitful listening experiences occurred during my longer
trips to Toronto for marking or sampling, especially one such trip in September 2018.
From these purely auditory encounters, I extracted six themes that are associated with my
six personal perspectives:
 195

• singing – artist/musician
• analyzing – researcher
• deepening – author/pedagogue
• layering – teacher/practitioner
• preparing – examiner
• connecting – student

The order of their presentation corresponds with the order in which they were revealed in the
data. Their association with various aspects of my person came later, in an interesting “ah-ha”
moment. The first theme – singing – was immediately obvious to me. The other themes, which
generally overlap, were revealed more slowly, with each new theme seeming to emerge from its
predecessor.
Once the themes were established and settled, I proceeded with the active work of analysis,
although my older daughter, as research assistant, had begun transcribing the audio data long
before. In the early months of 2019, I started to read her transcriptions while listening to the
recordings with headphones at my computer. She had highlighted in red type the passages of
which she was unsure – either because the conversation was indecipherable, or the terminology
was beyond her musical experience. I addressed each passage, adding my interpretation to hers,
then tidied the transcription documents with consistent formatting. I also named the participants
by substituting her generic labels (participant 1, participant 2, etc.), with abbreviated identifiers.
This editing process enabled me to actively internalize the recorded data which enhanced my
previous, more passive listening experiences.
Wanting to fully appreciate the subtleties that differentiate the interrogative data and the
reflective data, I decided to analyze them separately. I printed the transcripts for the three
introductory focus group discussions and gathered six coloured highlighter pens, assigning a
specific colour to each of the themes as follows:

• singing – pink
• analyzing – orange
• deepening – yellow
• layering – green
• preparing – blue
• connecting – purple

I read the introductory transcriptions in chronological order and coloured the participants’
comments according to their thematic applicability. The boundaries between themes were not
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always clear-cut and many comments were relevant for more than one theme. Consequently, my
choice of colour was frequently influenced by the neighbouring dialogue. As I read, the
boundaries between themes gradually became more definitive.
With the colouring of the introductory transcriptions completed, I opened six new Word
documents, one for each theme. I systematically copied the coloured comments into the
appropriate files, in the order presented above, capturing pertinent fragments of the surrounding
dialogue – including my own – to provide context for the participants’ comments. I also included
repeated statements of similar ideas or opinions since the repetition of these ideas implies their
relative importance. In each of the six theme files, the data was organized chronologically, both
from one focus group discussion to another and within in each discussion.
Following the same order of presentation, I printed each file single-sided and cut the
printed pages into discrete conversations identified by transcript and page number. Taping
together the exchanges that crossed from one page to the next, I spread these conversations across
my tabletop, sorted them into related topics, then arranged them in a sequence that suggested a
narrative progression. When the rough sequencing was accomplished, I re-ordered each file and
imported it into my dissertation document under the appropriate subheading. But as I studied the
analyzing data set, which was the most plentiful, I realized that it would provide a more logical
beginning for my narrative. And in compliance with this new logic, I shifted the themes into a
different order: analyzing, layering, deepening, preparing, connecting, and singing. The amended
order seemed to resemble a steadily expanding pedagogical process.
As I prepared to articulate the outcomes of my interrogative data analysis, I welcomed
Leavy’s (2015) advice:

Begin from where you are, learn as you go, trust your intuition, take risks,
balance your goals and abilities, and accept that no research product can
be all things to all people. We would all love to be able to make work
that is simultaneously great research and great art, but that isn’t always
possible, nor is it always the goal. The question may be: Is it good
enough to achieve the intended purpose? (p. 285, original emphasis)

The purpose that motivates my research project is the pedagogical reconnection of music and
music theory. The feedback I gathered from my peers establishes both reliability and relevance
for my project.
 197

As Leavy (2015) contends, it is vital that ABR presents “multidimensional portrayals” of

human experience (p. 281). Like ethnographer Ruth Behar (1996), my role in this external
dialogue is that of a vulnerable observer and my vulnerability, in keeping with Siegesmund and
Cahmann-Taylor’s (2008) interpretation, requires “setting aside privilege and power and
assuming a stance that Barone calls epistemological humility” (p. 238). It also requires an
unpretentious relationship with my research participants that does not involve a process of telling,
but of sharing and listening (Siegesmund & Cahmann-Taylor, 2008). For me, this dialogical
process demands a receptiveness to the open exchange of ideas, and my narrative recounting of
the participants’ feedback demands a commitment to the honest portrayal of these exchanges.
“Good research tells a story” (Siegesmund & Cahnmann-Taylor, 2008, p. 239). I trust that my
story rings true.
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Chapter 5

Data Analysis: Deriving Meaning from the Collective Experience

Narrative is [a] way of creating order out of chaos,
or as Robert Frost said regarding poetry:
making a “temporary stay against confusion.”
– H. Porter Abbott (b. 1940)

Introductory Remarks

The music theorist in me is well-acquainted with deriving meaning from an abstract art
form. I decipher its symbols, observe distinctive features, ponder nuances, confirm structures,
and translate my findings into a linguistic form. I am not troubled by this translation nor the
representation of my data within the constraints of language for in many ways, a musical work
functions much like a narrative. Both music and text produce “strong or subtle combinations of
feeling and thought” through the rhetoric of causation, conflict, and closure (Abbott, 2002, p. 36).
Both rely on the repetition of themes and motives/motifs for interpretation.
Although my theorist-self was ready, I was hesitant to begin this chapter until I chanced
upon a book ironically titled The Gifts of Imperfection and Brené Brown’s (2010) insightfulness
turned the tide. In answer to my questions – “Why am I writing a dissertation? What do I hope
to gain from its completion?” (L. L. Penny, journal entry, June 15, 2018) – I found a call-to-
action. And in her statement that “[i]ntuition is not independent of any reasoning process” (p. 87,
my emphasis), I found an affirming integration of art and science. Rather than representing
contradictory perspectives or conflicting ways of thinking, art and science can be complementary.
As inter-dependents, science can explain art while art gives meaning to science.
Brown (2010) describes her work as “making connections.” Quoting William Plomer
(1903-1973), she argues that creativity is the “power to connect the seemingly unconnected” (p.
96). I see my work in a similar light. In chapter 4, I gave a detailed analysis of the LGs’ content.
I documented the myriad decisions that led to their creation by aligning the chosen works with
RCM’s examination requirements and negotiating the pedagogical hurdles that presented
themselves. In chapter 5, I will analyze the empirical data I collected from my participants,
including transcriptions of both introductory and concluding focus group discussions as well as
written observations – my own and my participants’. The themes are presented as verbs or the
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doings that express my call-to-action. The data is rendered as an aggregate narrative that weaves
the participants’ stories into my story. This narrative telling represents our collective or
communal efforts at meaning-making in the discipline of music theory pedagogy.
Chapter 4 was occupied with my formative question:

• How can the teaching of intervals and chords be integrated with repertoire from the
Royal Conservatory’s (2016e) intermediate theory curriculum?

Chapter 5 addresses both my interrogative and my reflective questions:

• How can an integrated pedagogy for the teaching of intervals and chords according to
the Royal Conservatory’s (2016e) intermediate theory curriculum be implemented?
• How can the implementation of an integrated pedagogy for the teaching of intervals
and chords according to the Royal Conservatory’s (2016e) intermediate theory
curriculum be improved by the participants in my research study?

At the interrogative stage of my research process, I asked the participants to consider the
potential effectiveness of my LGs as instructional tools. At the reflective stage, the LGs were
animated by five participants and their students, transforming the product into a pedagogical
process. My analysis of the resulting data provides reflective insights drawn from our shared
experiences. The themes that emerged are analyzed in the context of KM’s instructional process
and its four stages: preparation, conscious awareness, reinforcement, and assessment.

Interrogative Interactions with the Themes

With the re-ordering of my six themes, a narrative path that explores ever greater depths of
pedagogical discernment suddenly opened before me. I saw the data as gradually intensifying
observations – reminiscent of Bruner’s spiral curriculum. Just as Bruner (1963) argues that the
effective use of basic ideas requires a “continual deepening of one’s understanding of them … in
progressively more complex forms” (p. 13), so it is that my understanding of the data requires a
“continual broadening and deepening of [my] knowledge” (p. 17). And the more deeply I
grasped the essence of my participants’ observations, the more meaningfully I could relate them
to my research in music theory pedagogy. Indeed, as my narrative unfolds, it becomes evident
that each new theme is not “new” at all, it is simply a variant of a familiar one.
I am mindful of Bruner’s (1963) emphasis on the fundamental structure of a subject and the
educational provision of a “general picture in … which the relations between things encountered
earlier and later are made as clear as possible” (p. 12). Not always obvious, the themes were
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subtly buried beneath the introductory focus group discussions, informing the discussion topics.
Naturally, the participants’ commentaries influenced my detection of these recurring themes, as
well as the direction/development of my data analysis. The analytical process occupied most of
2019. It followed a circular course that enabled me to revisit the themes again and again, with
new insights triggered by old ones. These insights, which shaped my responses to the
participants’ observations, are reinforced by the principles and practices of KM. Gathered from
the relevant literature, they encompass all the instructional accoutrements of KM’s approach,
which is discovery-based, experiential, interactive, holistic, spiralled, and student-centered, to
name but a few of its descriptors.
The following list gives an overview of the interrogative themes and their subthemes:

• analyzing – extra-curricular/new concepts; analytical flexibility; pedagogical

relevance; guided discoveries
• layering – sequential instruction
• deepening – Mozart’s “Queen of the Night” Aria; Bach’s Invention No. 1 in C Major;
Mendelssohn’s Overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream; Josquin’s El grillo
• preparing – intermediate applications; advanced applications
• connecting – practical relevance
• singing – extra-curricular concepts

The analyzing data comprises the participants’ methodical examination of the LGs and
refers to the pedagogical feasibility of the surface content, particularly concerning details of
constitution and structure. The layering data emphasizes the reinforcing element of the LGs’
organization and highlights the participants’ views regarding the acquisition of theoretical
knowledge through listening activities. With the deepening data, the layering discussion narrows
to considerations of interpretation and the participants’ reactions to the LGs’ subjective
components. The preparing data involves the pedagogical attribute of readiness, or preparation
for future learnings, and the participants’ observations of this attribute in the LGs. While the
preparing data is focused on a readying relationship between rudiments and more advanced
theoretical subjects, the connecting data is concentrated on filling the gap between music theory
and music performance. It accentuates the participants’ responses regarding the LGs’ potential
for practical relevance. The singing data explores the issue of connectivity from the opposite
point of view by probing the participants’ feedback about singing as a viable experiential conduit
for student interactions with music theory.
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Analyzing from a Researcher Perspective

The rationale for my selection of analyzing as a theme arising from the data is twofold: it
involves both the participants’ methodical examination of the LGs and my methodical
examination of their feedback. An analyzing point of departure seemed logical because my
experience as a music theorist, including the detailed examination of works from the musical
literature, could prove useful. Additionally, it seemed that analyzing was the work of my
researcher-self and it was a timely opportunity for this perspective to step forward. In hindsight,
my selection was most likely influenced by curiosity. I simply wanted to know what the
participants thought of my LGs and the pedagogical approach they illustrate.
However, as I immersed myself in the data, I began to worry about the general orientation
of analysis toward the “separation of a whole into its component parts” (Webster, 1983, p. 82).
What can separation offer my inquiry? The underlying premise of my pedagogical approach is
integration – I am arguing against separation. But in order to explain and interpret my data, I
needed first to determine the essential elements at its core and to distill their essence. I was
interested in the details my participants extracted from the LGs and subsequently chose to
address during our first focus group discussions. These details, which include attributes of
constitution and structure, relate to the LGs’ potential for implementation according to my second
(interrogative) research question:

• How can an integrated pedagogy for the teaching of intervals and chords according to
the Royal Conservatory’s (2016e) intermediate theory curriculum be implemented?

Fixed on the LGs’ surface content, my analyzing theme provides a foundation on which the
remaining themes are constructed.
On the surface, my inquiry is occupied with issues of compatibility between KM and music
theory pedagogy. Below the surface, I am looking for an art/science integration that unites them
as interdependent parts of the same whole. Since analysis scrutinizes the nature of the
relationships that connect autonomous parts of the whole, my analyzing theme forms a
pedagogical bridge that connects the art of music and the science of music theory. Rogers (2004)
places analysis at the center of music theory teaching as the “activity that links mind training
[and] ear training” (p. 74) – in other words, the thinking and doing of conceptual and perceptual
interpretations of music. For Rogers, musical analysis includes the following characteristics:
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• explanations – how and why a piece of music works

• connections – the causal logic behind musical events
• relationships – how events affect one another
• patterns – the grouping together of individual events
• hierarchies – levels of connection or relationship between events
• comparisons – similarities and differences, both internal and external

In my research context, these characteristics guide the whole of my data analysis.

Although the part I have identified with an analyzing theme is primarily concerned with
explanation, my interaction with the data does not end there. Rogers (2004) warns against
confusing analysis with description, which he defines as a “preliminary fact-gathering enterprise
that answers ‘what happens?’ and ‘where does it happen?’” (p. 74, original emphasis).
Description then, is an indispensable first stage of analysis but is not complete in itself. Thus, the
whole of my data analysis exhibits a continual broadening and deepening as I move from one
theme to the next.
In a musical setting, Rogers (2004) distinguishes style analysis from critical analysis. The
former seeks to understand the “general principles that govern typical stylistic procedures” while
the latter “uses these general principles to explain how and why particular events in a specific
composition are actualized” (p. 77). Adopting a critical stance, my analyzing data begins to
explain the how and why of the LGs’ implementation from the participants’ perspectives. The
following table summarizes their comments across the LGs (levels 5-8):

Table 5.1: Summary of Introductory Analyzing Data

Participants’ Reviews of the Listening Guides

level 5 level 6 level 7 level 8
extra- musicianship motivic analysis score reading Renaissance
curricular/new skills notation
concepts rhythm syllables
motives

analytical the A/B-flat literal contextualization tonal elements in

flexibility argument interpretations melody/harmony a modal work
abnormalities disconnections
major/minor key
discrepancies
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pedagogical sound and measure-number key relationships short score

relevance symbol prompts the diminished passing/
associations 7th chord neighbouring
an interval- tones
measuring modal scales
exercise C clefs

guided leading questions challenge transposing for complexities

discoveries simplified questions orchestral levels of meaning
representations instruments digging
lowered ti as ta

From the participant who hosted the Kanata group meetings, I received an unexpected gift
– the categorization of her contributions to our introductory discussion as the “five things [that
she] said a lot” (ABs-1K). Having conducted her own research for a master’s degree, she was
somewhat familiar with the process of data analysis. Therefore, in her review of the LGs, she
offered a summary in the form of these five criticisms:

• no scores (for Mozart’s aria or Mendelssohn’s overture)

• no labels or titles for the activities
• unexplained concepts (from the syllabus) in the activities/assignments
• non-syllabus concepts in the activities/assignments
• weak connections (occasional) between the activities and the assignments

Recognizing the spirit of collegiality from which they were offered, I accepted her observations
without offence. It was only later, when I began to internalize the content of our discussion, that
I noticed a hint of opposition. I had asked for negative feedback – and received it. I realized,
however, that there were two mitigating factors: (1) I had not properly explained the LGs’
underlying premise; and (2) my Kanata group participants had not necessarily delved beneath the
LGs’ surface content.
In any case, the hostess participant’s criticisms were helpful. Concerning the absence of
full scores for longer works, she suggested including links to the IMSLP database, particularly
for Mendelssohn’s Overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Depending on the publisher, the
length of this score can be prohibitive – 188 pages, in my participant’s estimation – but because
Mendelssohn’s work is in the public domain, such a link is not an infringement of copyright or
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intellectual property laws.78 Another of the participants mentioned micro-scores and a third
participant, for Mozart’s “Queen of the Night” Aria, suggested including only the first three or
four phrases. This would suffice for some repertoire but as the hostess participant pointed out,
the melody I excerpted for most of the level 5 activities is in the middle of the aria (mm. 24-47).
The remaining criticisms were similarly organizational in nature. It became immediately
obvious, as a topic of discussion for all three focus groups, that I should have prepared
explanatory Companion Listening Guides (CLGs) to assist the teacher. Because my ideas have
been brewing for many years, they seem ordinary to me, but they may not seem ordinary to
others. One of my Orleans group participants described my pedagogical approach as “organic”
(AC-1O), implying qualities of inevitability or instinctiveness, but these qualities do not
automatically guarantee comprehension. And while I am fully committed to a process of guided
discovery for the student, it is imperative that the participating teacher understand the conceptual
focus of each activity or assignment prior to its teaching. Somehow, by labelling or some other
means, he/she must be let in on the pedagogical plan.
Regarding unexplained syllabus concepts or non-syllabus concepts in the
activities/assignments, these are the outcomes of deliberate decisions made at the time of the
LGs’ construction. The first complaint results from the reinforcing or supplemental function of
the materials, instead of a making conscious or presenting function. The second is from my
choice to use pitch and rhythm syllables, drawn from KM’s instructional “tool kit,” for the
facilitation of specific conceptual understandings. My participants’ reactions to the use of
rhythm syllables are addressed in the next section, and solfège or solfa syllables are addressed
with the singing data under a later subheading. Regarding activity/assignment connectivity, the
Kanata group hostess felt that “[s]ometimes the connections between the activities and the
assignments were really strong, and then sometimes [they weren’t] as strong” (ABs-1K). From
this observation, I recognize that my connections may be too subtle for some users and may need
fortification, but I am not convinced that they must always be clearly evident. Some assignments
are intended to bridge activities by connecting forward rather than backward, but these intentions
could be fully explained in the teacher’s CLGs.

78
The link I would use is: http://ks4.imslp.info/files/imglnks/usimg/a/a6/IMSLP27213-PMLP60228-
Mendelssohnop21fullscore.pdf. It accesses a scan of Mendelssohn’s Overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream in an
1874 publication by Breitkopf and Härtel (Leipzig), edited by Julius Rietz (1812-1877). The .pdf file is 56 pages in
length.
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Happily, the participants’ comments were occasionally complimentary. The first statement
from one of the Toronto group participants summarizes his overall thinking that the LGs were
“quite good” (CP-1T). He opened with: “I liked the kind of meat-and-potatoes aspect of it. Like
kind of getting to the heart of things, and identifying them for the [students], and not going into it
with any expectations that they know the particular term or anything like that” (CP-1T). Of
course, the perfectionist in me is always striving for more but at this early stage, I gladly accepted
“quite good.”
The remaining analyzing data is organized according to the subthemes listed in Table 5.1:
extra-curricular/new concepts, analytical flexibility, pedagogical relevance, and guided
discoveries. Each subtheme is illustrated with subtopics most salient for the implementation of
an integrated music theory pedagogy. Although an effort has been made to give voice to all the
participants in all three focus groups, some participants were more vocal than others. Following
my consideration of the subthemes, I inserted a brief section titled “Analyzing for
Understanding,” which constitutes my summarizing examination of the participants’ reviews. It
is intended to further distill aspects of how and why from the what and where articulations of the
participants. At this explanation stage of my data analysis, the analyzing for understanding
section introduces one of my findings, which involves the notion of reluctance or resistance, and
begins the spiralling process of broadening/deepening that continues throughout chapter 5.

Extra-Curricular/New Concepts

Musicianship Skills: “That’s the bottom line.” An integrated approach to music theory
pedagogy involves students’ acquisition of musicianship skills. Most dictionaries I consulted
(Britannica, Cambridge, Collins, Macmillan, Merriam-Webster, and Oxford) equate musicianship
with musical performance skills – if it appears as an entry independent of musician at all. But I
am interested in more than the physical act of playing an instrument or singing – I am interested
in the mental processes that inform these performances. Dictionary.com (2019) approaches my
sense of musicianship with: “knowledge, skill, and artistic sensitivity in performing music.” This
definition implies a synthesis of musical skills that brings together all the necessary components
of a comprehensive music education.
RCM includes musicianship as one of four main areas of development for a well-rounded
musician – the others being repertoire, technique, and literacy. For RCM, musicianship skills
comprise ear training and sight reading, which are placed in a practical or performance context.
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However, as stated in the Theory Syllabus (2016e), musicianship skills “support the goals and
requirements of both [the] performance of repertoire and theoretical concepts” (p. 7). While this
second provision is implicit in the listening and reading of ear/sight activities, it is seldom explicit
– especially in the writing of music theory exercises. Accordingly, musicianship skills, which
often incorporate sung pitches or spoken rhythms, are not usually associated with music theory
instruction.
I expected the rhythm syllables that I used to introduce Mozart’s “Queen of the Night” Aria
to be problematic. My expectation was met with the consensus that students are generally “pretty
weak on the rhythm” (CP-1T). One of the Kanata group participants gave the following reason
for this weakness:

KS: Because, especially in Ontario, there is no music specialist, for the

most part. The kids are lucky if they get music class in school. So, ta and
ti-ti, some of them know it, if they [are] lucky enough to have school
music class. But other than that, they don’t know what ta and ti-ti are.
(1K)

Although the participants themselves were mostly familiar with ta (for a quarter note) and
ti-ti (for two eighth notes), there were several discussions about ti-ka-ti-ka (for four sixteenth
notes) and students’ probable lack of prior syllabification experiences. Other topics of discussion
included the absence of standardized syllables for more complex rhythms and the verbalization or
non-verbalization of rests. One of the Orleans group participants was taught to use shh along
with a gesture for rests but in a KM context, rests are indicated with unarticulated gestures since
verbalized sounds would obstruct the silences they symbolize. However, this non-verbal
expression may not be common knowledge. Another of the Orleans group participants conveyed
her confusion by asking, “Why is there nothing [or no syllable] under the rest?” (JK-1O). Her
uncertainty gives further incentive for the CLGs, perhaps with an explanatory teacher page
alongside each student page.
I asked the participants if they had any suggestions for vocalizations. Could the rhythm be
articulated in a different, more universal way? A Toronto group participant offered rhythmic
words, like “co-ca co-la,” “pop-corn,” “chips,” which she uses with her younger students, but she
stresses that the these words are “easily translatable,” and that “whatever they’ve been using …
absolutely works” (CM-1T). One of the Kanata group participants had a similar solution, giving
“Ma-ni-to-ba” as an example for four sixteenth notes (DM-1K). In the end, the actual
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syllabification is of little importance, excepting one essential component: the spoken syllables
must match the rhythm. “If [the students] have a concrete example they can hear, [then]
hopefully they [can] relate the symbols on the page to what they’re hearing,” which for this
Toronto group participant, is the “bottom line” (CP-1T).
The same participant welcomed a rhythmic entry into Mozart’s aria (see Appendix 4.1),
recognizing my expectation that students will “pick up on the [rhythmic] pattern” (CP-1T). One
of his fellow participants also found value in this approach, describing her own training as “so
focused on the other aspects of ear training, so pitch-centered” (CM-1T), that she struggled with
rhythmic connections. The hostess participant in Kanata was less impressed. She “never” uses
what she termed “Kodály rhythm syllables” but is “always just counting” (ABs-1K).
Consequently, she “wondered if there could be sort of a fusion of ideas by having [students] list
counts underneath,” particularly because I asked for a “total beat count” later in the activity
(ABs-1K). One of her colleagues agreed, suggesting that the counting will help students
“understand the syllables, too” (KS-1K). Therefore, by adding “space to write the numbers” and
“seed[ing] it by putting … 4, 1 – just a couple [of numbers] so they understand what [to do]”
(ABs-1K), students will be able to count the beats more easily. But counting the beats is not the
same as verbalizing the rhythm.79 I was envisioning a rhythmic experience for the student, not a
mathematical or theoretical one. In this largely unfamiliar, music-centered approach, the
math/theory is derived as a by-product of the music – it is not the focal point.
The LGs are designed to cultivate musicianship skills that promote the growth of
understanding through musical experience. The remote Toronto group participant made the
following comment about my handling of musicianship in the first activity for level 5:

JR: I think you’ve emphasized elements of repetition, you’ve emphasized

motives, you [made] it tactile by inviting clapping, it has a [reinforcing]
effect with the syllables, and as you said, it doesn’t really matter what
they articulate, as long as they’re creating that sound and it’s engaging.
So, I think it’s great. And then you have them actually connect sound
and symbol – an assignment writing it down. (1T)

He also recognized my intent to craft an integrated experience of music theory for the student.

79
Although the terms beat and rhythm are sometimes used interchangeably, they do not represent the same
musical phenomena. The beat is a regular, recurring stress that underlies most music. Beats are then metered in
regular groups that are demarcated by accented beats. Rhythm comprises the patterns of longer or shorter sounds
and silences that are arranged over the beats (Choksy, 1991).
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In general, the Toronto group participants were fairly well-attuned to my pedagogical

aspirations, which may have been due, at least in part, to their work as theory examiners. In this
capacity, they had advance-knowledge of RCM’s curricular re-organization, as well as its
adoption of updated terminology and new concept streams for rudiments (music history, melody
and composition). This knowing allowed the Toronto group participants to focus on the
instructional content of the LGs while the other participants, without the same access to RCM’s
new curriculum, were struggling to digest the changes. Consequently, both the Kanata group and
the Orleans group participants were often distracted by syllabus requirements and their revised
naming or positioning.
One of the Orleans group participants commented:

JK: I needed, I myself needed, both an appendix – “What do all these new
terms mean?” – and a glossary of symbols, because I’m used to writing
capital A, or capital M for major. That’s not the case right now, and
that’s just one example of so many. So, if I had both an appendix and a
glossary, that would help me a lot. (1O)

This request was reiterated by one of her colleagues who also asked for “some kind of a glossary
where [all the] terms are defined” (PG-1O). Another suggested “putting up … ‘new’ signs like
they do when they put a new stop sign on the road” (AC-1O). While replacing old terminology,
such as semitones, with the new half steps is undoubtedly challenging, it is likely more so for the
teacher than for the students.
Other participants were hesitant to implement some of the new concepts. For example,
motives, which were formerly included with the melody writing component for introductory
harmony (RCM, 2009), are now introduced with melody and composition at level 1 (RCM,
2016e).80 This particular repositioning is significant for rudiments teachers who have not
previously taught harmony and therefore, have not concerned themselves with concepts that are
typically associated with compositional techniques. Referring again to level 5, Activity #1, a
Kanata group participant asked: “Why introduce the concept of shorter phrases combining into
longer phrases?” (ABs-1K). Since one of her students had expressed confusion with the activity,
she felt it was “[m]aybe … a red flag” (ABs-1K). But the confusion was generated by a

80
A motive is a short rhythmic and/or melodic fragment that is “sufficiently well-defined to retain its identity
when elaborated or transformed and combined with other material” (Randel, 1986, p. 513). Demonstrating the
potential to generate complex textures, it often serves as the basic structural unit for extended compositions.
 209

misreading of the concept statement. Shorter motives may be combined into phrases. While I
tried to use very specific – and consistent – terminology, the concept was not easily grasped by
my participant or her student. I explained that motives are the “shorter bits,” phrases are the
“longer bits,” and motives combine to make phrases. Once an understanding of motives becomes
more widespread, the possibility of confusion will be lessened.
The level 6 LG provides the student with a different motive and an opportunity to explore
its manipulations by undertaking a full motivic analysis of Bach’s Invention No. 1 in C Major. I
asked my participants if this analytical focus posed a problem. They responded very positively:
“Not from where I’m sitting… You certainly have to go digging, [but] that’s good” (CP-1T). “I
found this really a fun one. I liked searching for this [motive]. I hope that kids would think it
was fun, too” (JK-1O). In Orleans, it was likened to “Where’s Waldo?” and “Geocaching”
games, perhaps because of the highlighting activities. Several participants encouraged this use of
colour-coding to identify motives, inversions, and augmented fragments. A Toronto group
participant extends the practice to more advanced analytical tasks: “I like … using colours for
this very purpose. I do that with … sonatas and [structures] like that” (CP-1T). An Orleans
group participant saw this practice extending to other creative outlets: “I thought it was nice of
you to let the [students] choose their own colours. It … accommodates their inventory, and their
artistic perception, and a whole lot” (JK-1O). For me, the process of colouring assigns visual
codes to specific manipulations of the motive, facilitating classification/identification. This
visual awareness then reinforces students’ aural awareness of the invention’s structure.

Analytical Flexibility

Literal Interpretations: “It’s not … pirate’s code.” Musical analysis, like many kinds of
analysis, is often troubled by ambiguity. In Bach’s invention (see Appendix 4.2), I was anxious
about my decision to extend the motive that appears in Celebrate Theory (RCM, 2016b) from
seven notes to eight notes, particularly since one of the Toronto group participants authored the
music history portion of RCM’s publication. I need not have worried, but he brought up an
interesting point:
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JR: You were discussing at the start of this section of our meeting about
the motive and the difficulty finding it. When it says here, “Listen to…
Do you hear the given motive throughout the invention?” Well,
obviously the answer is “Yes,” but is the motive the exact pitches that
you’re defining or is the motive the rhythm? Because we hear “ba-da-da-
da-da-da-da-dun...” So, are you wanting them to respond to exactly that
motive with the perfect 5th at the end? Or are they going to be
responding to the fact that that motive is very obvious, but sometimes the
last note or last pitch is changed, or sometimes it’s inverted? How do you
want them to respond? (1T)

I wanted the student to listen for the motive’s shape or melodic contour, but I had not anticipated
a literal interpretation of my directive. I know – and my participants know – that the end of the
motive is inconsistent and therefore, not the focus of my listening attention. But I was reminded
that a first-time listener would/could not make this same judgement.
Responding to my participant, I wondered if I should ask the student to listen for the
motive’s rhythm, which would include its inversions but exclude the ending interval. He replied:

JR: It would identify [the rhythm] as the nucleus. I think you could
operate on two levels. You could say, “Here’s how it opens. Do you hear
that? And do you hear how the template of the rhythm serves many
different” – I don’t know if you want to use variations – “changes or
manipulations?” Because I’m just thinking, sometimes it goes up “ba-da-
da-da-da-da-da-dun...” So, maybe it would be nice for them to hear how
that unifies the piece, but they might be disinclined to think about it if it’s
not matching that perfect 5th. (1T)

These are useful suggestions, but they are reminiscent of traditional teacher-centered approaches
that are deeply ingrained in current teaching practices. Their telling tendencies discourage
student-centered, guided discovery approaches. It is unlikely that the average student will aurally
identify more than a few instances of the motive’s opening without repeated listenings.
Consequently, from this first listening experience, I hoped for two modest outcomes: (1)
recognition that the motive appears throughout Bach’s invention, and (2) that it is not always the
same. More precise “noticings” will come later, one at a time.
As the activities unfold, the student is exposed to more and more complex manipulations of
the motive and her/his aural analysis is supplemented with a visual analysis of the score. Another
of the Toronto group participants welcomed this approach, saying “I like the idea that they’re
thinking of the kernel of the idea, the motive – how it drives the whole piece. They get to notice
it a lot. They should notice” (CP-1T, participant’s emphasis). Although my adoption of an eight-
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note motive caused a fairly lengthy instructional exploration of altered endings, the extra effort
was worthwhile since the inclusion of abnormalities, or notes that do not follow rigid
transpositions, is beneficial for the student. My view was endorsed by an Orleans group
participant who admitted that her “difficulty with theory is [that] we’d learn the rules and then
not find pure examples of them. So, starting out with impure examples, I think, is good” (AC-
1O). Extending this line of thought, she suggested that music theory is not “pirate’s code, it’s
just guidelines.” And an awareness or experience of altered endings may assist the student later
when he/she encounters real or tonal answers in the context of a fugue.
The notion of analytical flexibility is an important part of my petition for integration in
music theory pedagogy. The literal interpretation of a musical score implies the precise
measurement of a scientific blueprint, but musical analysis is not necessarily precise. It requires
the figurative or metaphorical interpretation of an artistic portrayal. This non-literal approach
allows for a wider, more inclusive view of music as both a visual product and an aural process. It
also allows for a wider view of music theory and its instruction. The LGs attempt to nudge the
student – and the teacher – toward an aural/visual experience of music theory. But because this
integrated experience is derived from music-as-art, it is not always precisely rendered.
A case in point involves the host participant in Kanata and her observations of the level 5
LG for Mozart’s “Queen of the Night” Aria (see Appendix 4.1). Focusing on the notes of the
tonic triad in F major, she challenged my assumption that Mozart’s melody begins on A or the
triad’s third. In Activity #2, I added pitches and corresponding solfa syllables to the rhythm
introduced in the first activity. The student, using information that he/she was given, will have
identified the melody’s beginning syllable as mi. In Activity #3, articulations (legato/staccato
markings) and grace notes were added as decorations of the melody. In Activity #4, following
the extraction of an F major triad from Mozart’s melody, the student is asked to re-identify the
melody’s beginning note with triad-specific terminology. I wanted to emphasize that A is both
mi and the third of the tonic triad. But in my participant’s estimation, “[t]hat’s a bit confusing
because it’s actually a grace note that begins [the] melody” (ABs-1K). In her literal
interpretation, the melody begins on B-flat instead of A. A less rigid interpretation is influenced
by RCM’s exam culture, which customarily ignores decorations or melodic embellishments in
analysis. Either way, the A/B-flat argument is not really the point. Much more significant is the
activity’s potential for the fostering of analytical flexibility.
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However, my participant’s response leads me to ponder the pedagogical infallibility of this

and similar activities. To satisfy my desire for instructional accountability through all the LGs, I
must consider two courses of action: (1) the elimination of latently problematic exercises, or (2)
the clarification of would-be problems. In this instance, if I eliminate the exercise, I also
eliminate the learning it entails. In effect, I would be avoiding the problem of “impure
examples.” But if I take the time to clarify that grace notes, as decorative or non-essential notes,
are not included in the analysis, I can create a teachable moment that will prepare the student for
later learnings. This adaptable reading of Mozart’s melody generates an understanding that the
artistry in every piece of music obliges a modicum of flexibility.

Contextualization: “That’s the vocabulary we use.” If flexibility involves an inclination

to change or more importantly, a willingness to compromise, then context provides the
circumstance or the setting for said modification. The opening of Mendelssohn’s Overture to A
Midsummer Night’s Dream (see Appendix 4.3) offers an analytical context that is ripe with
pedagogical rewards – both musical and interpretive. The four chords that form the overture’s
introduction are particularly useful for dispelling assumptions about the relationship between
melody and harmony.
The remote participant in Toronto addressed a potential melody/harmony disconnect in the
LG’s first activity. The following excerpt reflects the progression of his personal meaning-
making as he read through the activity and its take-home assignment:
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JR: **plays the introductory chords** So, it says, “Play…” Okay, so I

guess here’s where my disconnect comes: in the context, the way we see
it, [the melody] is a tonic chord, but none of the harmonies, except the
first and the last… The middle harmonies are not… Do we have…? So,
you’re guiding them to that [knowledge]. It says, “Some members of the
tonic triad are also members…” So, that’s good. Okay, I can follow
what you’re doing there, so that’s good. You’re trying to associate
melody with harmonic context, and explaining that there can be choices,
or ambiguity. In other words, one single note can render different
harmon[ies]. So, I think that’s a good angle – to make them aware. And
I like how you draw attention to the mixed mode. You know, I tell my
students these opening chords are the portal to Oberon and Titania. It’s
like saying in a story, “Once upon a time…” I think these really suspend
our whole belief system to enter this story, this story about magic. And to
me, the money chord is that third chord, and you brought attention to its
quality. Do [students] know that the IV chord is normally major, but that
it’s minor [here]? Are we addressing…? You said, “How did the
accidental…?” Is that a surprise element? Or do they have to show
root/quality [chord] symbols?
LLP: Yes, [in] the assignment at the bottom [of the page]. (1T)

The participant’s experience of my instructional process mirrors the kind of experience I hoped to
initiate for the student.
Incidentally, the participants from all three focus groups mentioned my reference to
members of the tonic triad. “What is a member?” (DM-1K). Apparently, starting with the level 5
LG, I was “throwing [them] for a loop” (ABs-1K). While I have utilized this term in my studio
for many years, it seems to be an anomaly. Nevertheless, I decided to persist with its use because
I have not come across another word – outside the generic notes – that expresses my intention as
clearly. And after their initial queries, all the participants accepted my members label and
adopted its use, at least in the context of our discussions.
A harmonic analysis of the introduction from Mendelssohn’s overture offers the student an
opportunity to contextualize the primary chords of E major. Through this integrated aural/visual
experience, he/she will encounter a minor subdominant chord in a major-key context. This
alteration serves to open the door or to normalize other such encounters of modal mixture, since
the fairies’ theme (theme 1) is not in the expected key of E major but in its parallel minor. In the
third activity, the student is directed to listen for the musical depiction of the fairies’ fluttering
wings. In Activity #4, he/she is guided through an analysis of the theme’s opening measures in
order to determine its key (E minor). The excerpt contains C-naturals, G-naturals, and a few D-
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naturals. The inconsistency of D-natural highlights the pliancy of minor keys, which may appear
in natural, harmonic, or melodic forms according to various compositional circumstances. The
Toronto group participants commented as follows:

CP: Good explanation for … level [7].

CM: Yeah, I really like this. So, if [the students] find three accidentals,
they’ll see that sometimes it’s D-natural, sometimes its D-sharp.
JR: I’m a little confused by the question. It says here: “What two
[accidentals] are consistently added?” Which ones are we talking about?
D-natural, but also the G-natural?
CM: The C-natural and the G-natural. And then it’s sometimes D-sharp
and it’s sometimes D-natural. So, the next question…
JR: Is that maybe then not three accidentals? I wasn’t clear about the
“two” part.
CM: No, because then the next question addresses that by saying, “Well,
if it’s a minor scale, ascending, descending, then what scale is [it]?”
JR: Okay, thank you.
CM: And this is done with the teacher, right?
LLP: Yes, this is done with the teacher. So [he/she] can direct them
around [the accidentals]. (1T)

The assumption that there are three accidentals in the excerpt is an expected first step in the
student’s reasoning process since there are, in fact, three accidentals in m. 8. But after this first
measure of the theme, all the remaining Ds are sharp. Therefore, the strategic word is consistent.
Although one of the participants quoted above expressed confusion with the activity, his
puzzlement – and subsequent clarity – illustrate the instructional progression of an integrated,
process-driven approach to music theory pedagogy. Furthermore, the contextualization in
Mendelssohn’s theme of both the subtonic (D-natural) and the leading tone (D-sharp) encourages
the student to recognize that minor keys are not limited to any one configuration. Nor is
Mendelssohn limited by the Classical conventions of sonata form. A fluid implementation of
parallel major and minor keys compliments his Romantic/programmatic depiction of
Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Considering the phenomenon of contextualization in a larger, more diverse historical sense,
I asked the Orleans group participants how they felt about working with tonal elements, such as
cadences, in Josquin’s frottola (see Appendix 4.4), which is a pre-tonal or modal work. The
following conversation ensued:
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JK: I think that happens all the time.

ABn: I think it’s unavoidable. There’s tone. That’s just how we’re
defining it and how it [is] perceived. Yeah.
AC: And our ears are going to hear common-practice harmony… Even if
that isn’t what Josquin was thinking.
JK: But he must have been hearing it in a certain way. He had to have
heard it that way.
AC: Yeah.
ABn: We just hadn’t identified it.
JK: Or thought it a necessity.
ABn: I don’t know. Is that kind of … revisionist, if we do that? If we
apply what we know now or how we understand it to what they did before
they had [our] vocabulary?
LLP: Maybe. But at the same time, I mean, we live here and now. And
we take a certain understanding to [the piece] that we can’t help.
ABn: Yes. And that’s the vocabulary we use. (1O)

Context provides the student with a frame of reference that enables her/him to fully
understand the topic at hand – whether it be major/minor key discrepancies or tonal elements in a
modal work. Revisionists support the adaptation/modification of policies or principles, which in
an educational environment allows for the intellectually honest re-interpretation of subject matter.
Thus, by viewing the modality of El grillo through the recognizable lens of tonality, unknown
elements can be derived from the known. Consequently, a flexible approach to analysis
heightens the student’s ability to experience El grillo without previous knowledge of Renaissance
music. It also brings Josquin’s frottola out of the realm of unfamiliarity and establishes an
informative link to familiar musical elements.

Pedagogical Relevance

Sound and Symbol Associations: “Wanting … to draw the connection.” The basic
premise behind my writing of the LGs is an instructional reliance on showing rather than telling.
I am also committed to furthering the student’s participation in her/his own learning process. My
responsibility, as both author and teacher, is to provide activities/exercises that encourage a
purposeful engagement with the learning. This engagement should create an association between
sound and symbol – between musical repertoire and theoretical concepts. However, the
individualized components of music theory are customarily experienced through a set of written
tasks that drill examination requirements. While these drills provide repeated practice for an
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eventual assessment purpose, they do not encourage a pedagogically instructive engagement with
the learning. Where is the musical relevance in this detached form of teaching music theory?
In the assignment portion of the second level 6 activity, it was suggested by a Kanata group
participant that I add measure numbers to some of the exercises, specifically in relation to naming
the intervals of altered endings in Bach’s invention. But I wonder whether her suggestion is
pedagogically grounded. I entered the following paragraph in my writing journal:

I guess I’m unclear about her reasoning. Does she want me to give
measure numbers to the student, which would take all the fun out of
searching for altered endings, or does she want the student to give them to
me, which begs the question: Why? Why would I need this information?
[The exercise is] not meant to be a make-work project – contrary to what
it may seem! (L. L. Penny, journal entry, May 29, 2019)

She explained: “There [were] a couple of spots where you [asked] for measure numbers in the
assignments, and then other spots that I thought, ‘Oh, well, maybe we could chuck a few more
measure numbers in’” (ABs-1K). Adding measure numbers to the task does not necessarily serve
a pedagogical purpose. It does not deepen the current learning nor move it forward.
My participant’s request for measure-number prompts is likely symptomatic of a more
complicated problem. Many teachers’ experiences of music theory pedagogy do not mesh with
the detailed workings of an integrated instructional process. This incongruity is further illustrated
by the participant’s review of Activity #5 in the level 5 LG. She questioned the derivation of an
interval-measuring exercise from the second melody I excerpted from Mozart’s aria (see
Appendix 4.1). Part of our exchange is reproduced below:

ABs: [T]his part down here is written similarly to [the melody]. In some
ways it looks like a reduced score, just jogged off by two beats. So, if
we’re talking about the distance between triad notes, when the F starts …
here and goes up to an A, and then drops down to the C over here… It’s
easy to lose the sense that [it’s] a triad, just because it goes up a third and
then down a sixth. And then analyzing the spaces between. I know the
melody doesn’t have either a B-flat or a B, that … the drop of a sixth
between the A and the C makes the tonic triad harder to visualize. Also,
if you said in the previous line that the distances between members can be
filled, why are we not filling the distance between A and C?
LLP: Again, very good point… What I wanted to do was to pull the
exercise from the actual melody.
ABs: And we can’t recreate Mozart. There’s nothing between A and C.
It’s the way he wrote it.
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LLP: Right. Well, there is actually [an] F in between…

ABs: But if we’re measuring [whole/half step] distances between, no.
(1K)

I intended the similarity that my participant disapproved because I wanted there to be a

reason for measuring half steps and whole steps – beyond the clinical drills that are routinely
used for exam preparation. But perhaps I was relying too much on the word may in my concept
statement: “The distance between triad members may be filled with whole steps or half steps.”
This implies the possibility that whole/half steps may or may not fill the skips/leaps between triad
members. She took it more literally and went on to propose that I qualify my statement by
orienting it to the tonic triad, which is the triad in question. Ordinarily, I agree with as much
specificity as possible. In this case, however, I wanted my concept statement to be generalizable
or applicable in multiple circumstances. In this way, I can repeat the same statement, thereby
contributing to its reinforcement, and avoid the invention (or re-invention) of a new statement for
every similar encounter.
For me, the notion of pedagogical relevance implies a purposeful correlation between my
teaching and my students’ learning. Teaching, as the imparting or concerted sharing of
knowledge and experience, is also a form of helping or attending to the needs of others. In this
second capacity, a teacher can help her/his students grow in understanding by creating specific
interventions or leading by example. Either way, the teaching must be relevant and it must be
useful for long-term applications. In Mendelssohn’s overture, the exposition’s transition theme
modulates to the dominant key in preparation for the second theme group. This modulation is
typical of sonata form and therefore, a generalizable concept that can inform future analyses. But
leading the student to understand structural modulations through a showing process is far more
labour-intensive than a routine telling. It is also a process that is largely unexplored in music
theory pedagogy.
All three focus groups addressed my handling of the key relationship in Mendelssohn’s
modulation. “[W]hen you’re asking in this assignment [for Activity #4] to use portions of the B
major scale, [you’re] wanting them to draw the connection that the key signature can be four
sharps, but they’re writing A-sharps everywhere?” (JR-1T). According to this Toronto group
participant, “[t]hat’s actually a big leap.” Since one of the challenges for students is that a change
of key does not always involve a change of key signature, he asked, “Is there a way of maybe
making that connection? Maybe like a hint, or something?” (JR-1T). While I have guided the
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student to infer this connection through careful questioning, further reinforcement will be
required. My integrated or process-driven approach is foreign to most student/teacher
partnerships. They will be expecting a hint, if not an outright telling.
It is my hope that pedagogically relevant showing instructions will encourage not only
participatory experiences of music theory, but also meaningful associations of sound and symbol.
For example, my Toronto group participants singled out the diminished 7th chord I extracted
from the coda of Mendelssohn’s overture because it connects the musical literature with RCM’s
examination requirements in music theory (for level 7) as well as in musicianship – the A-sharp
diminished 7th chord is included in the Piano Syllabus (RCM, 2015c) as a technical requirement
for level 6.
At level 8, the LG for Josquin’s frottola provides the student with an opportunity to engage
some of the more esoteric components of RCM’s (2016e) theory curriculum. “Yeah, a lot of it’s
dealing with 4/2 and the different clefs” (CP-1T). It also allows the student to make practical
sense of components such as open score, and to develop an understanding that “pitches, or the
clefs, move to accommodate the music” (ABn-1O). But rather than telling the student, I designed
a showing exercise:

PG: So, in that [assignment], are you expecting them to – when they
rewrite it – to start with Middle C below…? The first line below the
staff? Or as it is … here?
LLP: No, at pitch. At the same pitch.
PG: Okay.
AC: Hence the last question at the bottom.
LLP: Yes. (1O)

Bringing her experience as a string player to the task, one of the Orleans group participants
recognized my reasoning immediately. In answer to the question – “Why is it helpful to write the
tenor part an octave higher than it sounds?” – she responded: “So you don’t have too many ledger
lines, which is part of the reason, I believe. It certainly is for violas and cellos” (AC-1O). While
I cannot always count on a pertinent practical experience, I can surely awaken the student’s
curiosity and perhaps the teacher’s as well.

Guided Discoveries

Complexities: “It’s a leading question.” Pedagogically relevant teaching practices

establish a utilitarian form of applicability or connectivity for the student’s learning. Rousing the
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student’s curiosity can instill in her/him a strong desire to pursue this learning. But as a teacher, I
do not wish to leave the student’s learning to chance. While I embrace unexpected encounters
with the subject matter, and the personalized learning these encounters entail, I also accept my
educational duty to craft a well-sequenced path of discovery for the student – one that will enable
her/him to engage developmentally appropriate content in the course of her/his quest for ever
greater knowledge.
Because the LGs are aligned with RCM’s (2016e) theory curriculum, I must accept its
institutional judgement of level appropriateness. However, the LGs’ repertoire does not wholly
conform to RCM’s curricular requirements. In chapter 4, I outlined several of these non-
conformities and described my instructional approach to them as preparation for later learnings.
By avoiding the unknown labels of specific terminology, I was able to incorporate theoretical
elements from more advanced levels. For example, the concept of transposing instruments,
which is included in the Theory Syllabus (2016e) at level 8, is particularly germane for the level 7
LG since Mendelssohn’s overture (see Appendix 4.3) is generally heard as an orchestral work,
rather than the piano duet of its premiere.
One of the Kanata group participants questioned the complexity of my transposing
instruments activity/assignment:

ABs: The … abbreviations over the line are hard to read. You probably
know that. Just with horn and [bassoon], it’s … hard to read it lined up.
LLP: Okay, yes.
ABs: It needs to be pushed off somewhere. And of course, the use of [a]
whole note passage makes the instrumentation hard to read. “Who’s
supposed to play what?” It’s just because we don’t have stem directions
to help us. So, again…
LLP: And that’s… Actually, to be quite honest, I want that difficulty.
ABs: Okay.
LLP: Because that leads … into the fact that this [passage] is really
difficult to manage on the piano. So, let’s spread it out and give it to a
bunch of instruments.
ABs: Now, I also wondered if… This one point about transposition. You
explain it well enough. You say, “Put it up a minor third.” Are we, at
level 7, transposing orchestral instruments?
LLP: No. Which is why I didn’t go there, and I gave them the…
ABs: You told them what to do. (1K)
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Not only are transposing instruments beyond the curricular boundaries of level 7, but
Mendelssohn’s scoring for clarinets in A and French horns in E does not correspond with RCM’s
level 8 requirements which limit transposing instruments to clarinets in B-flat and horns in F.
A Toronto group participant also questioned the exercise. After stating that some
orchestral instruments must be transposed, I directed the student to transpose the clarinet parts up
a minor third. “Do they have a reason for doing that?” (CP-1T). I also asked for the French
horns’ interval of transposition to be identified. “They’re not expected to know that, [are they?]”
(CP-1T). This participant, along with his Kanata group counterpart, automatically categorized
the assignment as a transposing instruments task and reacted to its perceived misplacement at
level 7. But the assignment is simply a transposing task. Although it is situated in an orchestral
context, I made no mention of concert pitch and I did not expect the student to know the interval
of transposition. I did, however, expect her/him to gather clues, make observations, and derive
the interval of transposition. By placing intervals in this musical setting, I am reinforcing the
utilitarian function of interval measurements for exploratory analytical purposes.
Regarding the Kanata group participant’s question – “Who’s supposed to play what?”
(ABs-1K) – the answer is easily decipherable by investigative means. The student is encouraged
to participate in this process of discovery as a preparatory experience of personal meaning-
making that will ultimately pave the way for analytical independence. Although the student is
not yet transposing for orchestral instruments, he/she is transposing by intervals. The application
of this skill in an orchestral context prepares her/him for the more advanced concept to come. At
level 8, the student’s earlier experience will then expand through a process of conscious
awareness to become intelligence. The Toronto group participant wondered if this process could
be fast-tracked. “Can you say, ‘When [the] clarinet plays a C, it sounds like [an A]. What is the
[interval] difference?’” (CP-1T). There are two reasons to circumvent this accelerated approach:
(1) the student requires time to absorb her/his contextualized experience of transposing; and (2)
the presentation of information about transposing instruments requires a pedagogical purpose
ancillary to its telling. Furthermore, skills or concepts are ideally introduced one at a time.
The participants are accustomed to viewing the subject of music rudiments as a whole,
particularly those who teach harmony and history. They do not necessarily consider the
intricately sequenced parts that create this whole. A topic of concern for the Kanata hostess
participant was my use of what she termed “leading question[s]” (ABs-1K). In the last activity
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for Mozart’s aria, I asked the student to identify the type of chord that in a minor key contains re,
ti, and si. Her response was that this could be a diminished triad on the leading tone, but that my
next question – “What chord member is missing?” – made her solution incorrect. “[I]t’s a
leading question because you want the answer to be [a] dominant 7th [chord], but there is another
perfectly acceptable answer, which [is] a diminished triad” (ABs-1K). I defended the activity
with a reminder that diminished triads are unknown elements at level 5, while dominant 7th
chords are known.
However, it is true that my musical analysis is not entirely correct. Mozart harmonizes the
melody in m. 5 with a leading-tone diminished 7th chord that will not enter the student’s
vocabulary until level 7. Consequently, it may seem prudent to eliminate the exercise but once
again, there is learning that will be lost. I am not suggesting a breach of intellectual honesty; I
am suggesting a simplified representation of dominant-function harmony, using a chord that is
known to the student. This simplification invokes Bruner’s (1963) words: “Detailed material is
conserved in memory by the use of simplified ways of representing it” (p. 24). In effect, I am
leading the student to an elementary understanding of advanced functional harmony by referring
to a known chord within a recognizable fundamental structure.
This activity was meant to open a student/teacher dialogue or to instigate a shared
discovery. The take-home assignment, with its excerpt from the piano reduction of Mozart’s
opening melody (mm. 1-4), also generated discussion for the focus groups. One of the Kanata
group participants was concerned about the presence of triad inversions in the excerpt, but
inversions are known elements at this level. One of the Toronto group participants asked about
the notation of half notes with thirty-second note stems, assuming this to be an unknown element
for most students. While his statement is correct, the reduction’s notation presents an ideal
opportunity for exploration or student/teacher interaction. How can the undulating effect of
Mozart’s orchestral tremolo be reproduced by the pianist? I would have liked to ask this question
and then answer it on the student’s behalf – to ensure accuracy – but allowing her/him to reach an
independent conclusion is significantly more valuable.
As I was writing my portion of the Celebrate Theory (2016) books, I endeavoured to
explain every detail as thoroughly as possible, but my quest for thoroughness was overridden by
the editorial team. In my exuberance, I had not left an opening for the teacher’s input. With the
LGs, I chose an alternate approach – as exemplified by this final assignment. A Toronto group
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participant, who himself has authored a number of theory books for RCM, dismissed the
unknown-ness of the pianist’s tremolo: “Does it matter? [My writing partner] and I often run into
things and we say: ‘That’s the teacher’s job.’ You can’t explain everything” (JR-1T). On the
topic of whether to explain or not to explain, his colleagues responded with suggestions to “[a]sk
your teacher what the interesting symbols are” (CP-1T), or “how to realize the interesting
symbol[s]” (CM-1T). But if the student asked her/his teacher to play the first two measures, no
explanation would be necessary.
The teacher’s participation in the instructional process may vary greatly. When the Kanata
group conversation turned to the LG for Josquin’s El grillo, one of the participants exclaimed:

ABs: What a fun piece this is! And it’s such an easy Renaissance piece to
teach because it’s not completely foreign. And even when you had that
reference to the old score, [we] can still figure out what’s going on. Some
Medieval scores, it’s like, “I can’t…” You know. (1K)

But in the next breath she admitted:

ABs: I didn’t know the answer to your question, actually. You said,
“Find the bass part. Compare the melody at the beginning of the second
system with the bass part in our transcription.” Maybe I looked at the
wrong line. “Are the pitches the same?” I thought so. “Is the rhythm the
same?” Yes. “What metrical element is missing?” I’m like, “Bar lines?”
LLP: Yes!
ABs: So then, my question was: “If so, why here? Why not everywhere?
Why are we just focusing on [the] bass part?” (1K).

Once the participant realized that the voice parts are notated separately in Josquin’s original
manuscript, she understood my focus. But she did not completely understand that I wanted the
student to bring musical knowledge – acquired from an interaction with part of the refrain in the
previous activity – to an exploration of the manuscript. Equipped with this experience, the
student will discover that he/she can read the bass melody from its original notation.
It became evident that many of my participants are unfamiliar, and therefore possibly
uncomfortable, with the guided discovery processes that are embedded in the LGs. Perhaps the
difficulty arises from the implication that their students’ discovery learning requires discovery
teaching. Or perhaps it stems from a deep-rooted assumption that teachers should know all the
answers – and their feelings of inadequacy if they do not. These were my feelings as a young
teacher, but over the course of my career I have learned to embrace new ideas with less anxiety.
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The challenge questions were intended to encourage exploration beyond RCM’s curricular
requirements, but they invariably caused feelings of apprehension. Since invertible counterpoint
is not officially introduced until level 10 harmony and counterpoint, my mention of the topic at
level 6 initiated dialogue with every one of the focus groups. While I clearly achieved my
exploratory goal, I did not anticipate the unease it generated. A similar uneasiness was caused by
the matching exercise that opens the last activity for Bach’s invention (see Appendix 4.2).
According to one of the Toronto group participants, it seemed overly complicated, but he
recognized the exercise as the “only chance we get to do that kind of counterpoint” (CP-1T).
One of his colleagues observed: “It reminds me of our analysis exams” (JR-1T) – a correlation I
was pleased to see identified. However, analysis is an ARCT-level examination. I asked whether
my exercise was appropriate for level 6. He replied that “at first [glance], it looks a little
overwhelming” (JR-1T), but once he realized that it was intended as a teacher-assisted exercise,
he was reassured.
I received a similar response regarding the chordal analysis exercise that closes the last
assignment for Josquin’s frottola (see Appendix 4.4): “On the face of it, that seems complex”
(CP-1T). But the exercise is actually quite straightforward because every chord is in root
position – an “[a]mazing” coincidence (JR-1T). However, the scope of the exercise, which
includes root/quality chord symbols for every change of bass note, may be overwhelming for
some students and therefore inhibitory. Designed as a take-home assignment, this identification
task occupied one of my students for most of his rudiments lesson. While an excessive
expenditure of lesson-time is undesirable, the exercise provided my student with a contextualized
discovery of major and minor chords that was especially useful in preparing for his level 8 theory
exam. The experience also allowed him to explore the inner workings of El grillo as an exemplar
of the Renaissance frottola. With every analytical task, a new level of meaning was added to his
understanding of music theory – and to my understanding of music theory pedagogy.

Analyzing for Understanding

Exploration: “Little bits of extra information.” A voyage of exploration conjures the

image of sea/space travel through an unfamiliar environment with the idea of gathering
information that will engender familiarity. This procuring of knowledge, which is sometimes
unexpected, constitutes the act of discovery. In an educational context, an inquiry-based,
constructivist learning process encourages the student to solve problems by drawing on her/his
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past experiences and previously existing knowledge. In a musical context, an exploratory venture
illuminates the elemental components of a specific composition by means of a thorough analysis.
The discovery or uncovering of these components is dependent on the student’s prior
experiences.
Analyzing for understanding necessitates an interpretive type of analysis that exposes
students to the “dangers (and delights) of speculation” (Rogers, 2004, p. 80). Rather than
regurgitating the thinking of others, they are developing their own ideas. Rogers (2004) suggests
that the doing involved in this type of analysis is more important than the result. Accordingly, he
stresses the value of preliminary processes – such as testing, revising, and discarding hypotheses;
weighing and weighting facts; debating with oneself. These processes “accumulate, through
experience, the habits of thinking and listening that we label musicianship” (p. 80). The
processes of musicianship also inform the doing of my data analysis. But in this research
context, the result is of equal importance since the act of organizing and verbalizing my thoughts,
albeit in written form, aids the clarity of my thinking.
Returning to the five criticisms conveyed by the host participant in Kanata, I will re-address
the last one – occasional weak connections between the activities and the assignments – as I
recapitulate the participants’ responses to an integrated music theory pedagogy. Of the five, this
criticism is the most pedagogically oriented. In relation to Activity #1 for Mendelssohn’s
Overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream, she commented:

ABs: I just wasn’t sure that the assignment and the activity matched. So,
in the activity, we talk about chord identifications [and] primary chord
harmonizations. You know, “We can harmonize notes a certain way.”
But the assignment builds into close/open positions, accompaniment vs.
melody, and chromatic alterations – which are all good topics to know.
But I just wasn’t sure how the two things connect. (1K)

In the ensuing conversation, she acknowledged that the “first part of the assignment makes sense
with the activity. It was just the last [questions]” (ABs-1K). These are listed below:

• How did the accidental in measure 3 affect the chord’s quality?

• Is the final chord in close or open position?
• Is it possible to play all of the accompaniment with your left hand?

My participant may have been reacting to the interpretive nature of the questions. Her
reaction exemplifies Rogers’ (2004) view that some teachers feel “reluctant to pursue more
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uncharted leads, preferring the safety of questions with explicit answers” (p. 79). While such
questions/answers emphasize the merits of accuracy and rigour, they do not invite speculation.
Consequently, the student may be learning music theory but he/she is not doing it, for there is no
theorizing in memorized answers. The pedagogical usefulness of my last question is embedded
in its potential to create awareness. If the student is physically unable to play the excerpted chord
progression single handedly, he/she may discern the existence of a problem to be solved. This
problem leads to an exploration of Mendelssohn’s orchestral solution in Activity #2.
The reasoning behind my instructional approach is not meant to be blatantly obvious, nor is
it meant to be concealed or hidden. While my logic may be subtle, it is present nevertheless. I
can explain its subtleties in the teacher’s CLGs, but the implementation of my approach will
require both the student’s and the teacher’s openness to interpretive analysis. I must, however,
tread carefully. I am upsetting familiar tasks within an existing culture of music theory teaching.
This culture prizes formal knowledge, including “theoretical and historical information, as well
as labels or terms related to music” which, according to Robert A. Cutietta and Sandra L. Stauffer
(2005), “grows directly out of verbal learning” (p. 128) – rather than procedural or doing
learning. Consequently, formal knowledge is often acquired without direct contact with music.
In verbally-based learning, knowledge is mediated through words. While the indirectness
of this learning in a musical setting is fairly obvious, it cannot be completely discounted. The
LGs contain a number of textboxes that introduce historical/theoretical information or pertinent
terminology. But this information/terminology is not essential for the student’s learning.
Instead, it is intended as an enhancement of her/his interaction with the listening
activities/assignments. The Toronto group participants were noticeably enthusiastic about the
textboxes. “I like these boxes. Little bits of extra information just for [the students’] own
identification of… That’s really good” (CP-1T). This participant suggested content for
additional boxes, including chromaticism and coloratura soprano. Some of his suggestions were
quite specific. In relation to Mozart’s aria, he offered: “Note the contrast between the first part
and the second part. One’s more triadic [and] one’s more linear, with some notes outside the
scale. This is a stylistic feature of Mozart” (CP-1T).
Although my author-self is flattered by the participants’ responses, my researcher-self is
curious about the why of the textboxes’ popularity. On the surface, they explain, or “clarify with
a little side note” (CP-1T), some of the extraneous information that is not necessarily crucial for
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the teaching of music theory. But underneath, the textboxes are effectively telling boxes. Their
presence in the LGs may bring a sense of familiarity to the teachers who are comfortable with
traditional – verbal – methods of sharing knowledge. The other side of my assumption is the
teachers’ possible dis-comfort with non-traditional – experiential – methods of instruction.
While a combined approach may be advantageous, an integrated music theory pedagogy is not a
neatly contained presentation of a singular topic. It is likely to mix chord identifications, primary
chord harmonizations, close/open positions, accompaniment of melodies, and chromatic
alterations, since the central focus of an integrated pedagogical approach is not an isolated
musical element. It is the repertoire that connects these elements together.
If the participants were uncomfortable with my repertoire-based music theory pedagogy,
they did not openly mention it in our focus group discussions. They may not even have been
aware of it. But analysis for understanding is like sleuthing. It is an active doing process and my
investigation revealed covert traces of reluctance or resistance in the participants’ reviews of the
LGs. I should not be surprised. After all, I am endeavouring to overturn nearly 300 years of
music theory teaching. Or at least to begin the process.

Layering from a Teacher/Practitioner Perspective

It was my teacher-self who recognized the layering theme in my data because it is most
closely aligned with the curricular concerns of day-to-day teaching. I was reminded of RCM’s
carefully sequenced program, particularly in relation to the cumulative study of music theory. As
an illustrative example, RCM’s examination requirements at level 5 include perfect, major, and
minor intervals; at level 6, augmented and diminished intervals; at level 7, inversions of intervals;
and at level 8, compound intervals – see Table 4.2 for a comprehensive list of concept inferences
for intervals across RCM’s (2016e) theory curriculum. This continual broadening or deepening
of conceptual understandings exemplifies Bruner’s (1963) spiral curriculum.
Having explored the surface content of the LGs with the analyzing data, I dipped below the
surface for further exploration with the layering data. This action of layering, or arranging in
layers, expands Bruner’s process of sequential instruction for the purpose of adding depth and
complexity to the research process. With each successive layer comes a deeper level of
understanding. At its explanation or description stage, the analyzing data opened the story of my
participants’ responses to the LGs. The layering data continues this story by exploring additional
characteristics of Rogers’ (2004) musical analysis: connections, relationships, and patterns.
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Although aspects of all three characteristics are found in the layering data, I am most interested in
exploring the notion of connection, which involves causal logic or the pedagogical implications
of the participants’ viewpoints. Specifically, I equated layering with the reinforcement stage of
KM’s instructional process and extracted the participants’ views in relation to the reinforcing of
theoretical concepts.
Reinforcement, as a supporting or strengthening practice, is not new to music theory
pedagogy. The utilization of repertoire for this task is also not new, but musical
examples/excerpts are often extraneous to the conceptual learning. In many written settings, they
are deemed non-essential and are frequently ignored by the student and/or the teacher. They are
rarely heard. Music listening, if it occurs, is generally undertaken as a separate, appreciation
activity. It is seldom associated with the derivation of theoretical concepts. A case in point is
illustrated by a Kanata group participant who did not recognize the interrelated, preparatory
nature of Activities #1 and #2 in the level 5 LG. The first thing she did with her students was to
listen to Mozart’s aria. “What piece are we talking about? Okay. Well, let’s have a listen”
(ABs-1K). Given her prior experiences with music listening activities, “that made sense” to her,
just as it did for one of her colleagues who “would completely do that too” (KS-1K).
As a young teacher, I often did the same. Although I was intent on making sense of music
theory for myself and for my students, I lost sight of its instructional affiliation with repertoire.
But I knew from my experiences with KM that understandings about music are constructed
sequentially – one from the other. In a KM context, which incorporates Piaget’s (1969) theory of
cognitive development as well as Bruner’s (1966) theory of instruction, the inference of musical
concepts requires repeated reinforcements at increasingly complex levels. 81 This comprehensive
spiralling process supports or strengthens previous knowledge with repeated discoveries of
related concepts in varied circumstances. It also requires interactions with repertoire, providing
musical materials for the study of theoretical content. The LGs, which integrate music listening
activities and music theory teachings, reinforce musical concepts with increasingly complex
experiences derived from the musical literature. This non-traditional inclusion of repertoire in
the teaching of music theory is the focal point of the layering data.

81
Rather than the repeated rewards of behaviourism, my use of the term reinforcement is associated with the
repeated applications of constructivism. Consistent with the third stage of KM’s instructional process, reinforcement
denotes the strengthening of conceptual understandings with additional or newly learned materials (Choksy, 1999a).
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My analysis of the layering data revolves around the notion of sequential instruction. This
subtheme, which exhibits the reinforcement stage in KM’s instructional process, itself revolves
around a prominent subtopic: directed listening. Since the LGs rely on carefully sequenced aural
experiences for the implementation of an integrated music theory pedagogy, I am interested in the
participants’ reactions to these experiences. Our layering discussions involved the topics of
student/teacher collaborations and the recognition of instructional connections. The subsequent
layering for understanding section then revisits the idea of reluctance or resistance that surfaced
in the analyzing data. It considers the causal logic that connects the participants’ views of the
LGs to underlying hesitancies. While these hesitancies are largely unexpressed, they may signify
fundamental reservations about my approach to an integrated music theory pedagogy.

Sequential Instruction

Directed Listening: “What are you hearing?” According to Dorina Iuşcă (2016), “music
listening [lessons] combined with interactive teaching methods form higher levels of familiarity
with classical music and convey higher preference” (p. 111). Her study re-imagines Robert
Zajonc’s (1968) psychological theory of repeated exposure, which effects an attitude of fondness
by mere exposure to a stimulus, in an educational context. Although Iuşcă is primarily interested
in generating the development of musical preference, Zajonc’s mere-exposure effect, enacted
through a series of directed listening experiences, may also generate an affective/cognitive
relationship between music and music theory.
Cutietta and Stauffer (2005) describe music listening as a “form of cognition in which one
is thinking musically” (p. 126). Repeated listenings deepen this musical thinking through
sensory experiences that engender increasingly insightful understandings. Thus, repetition
enables a continual layering of knowledge that constitutes reinforcement. The LG for Bach’s
invention did not prompt discussions of instructional layering. Perhaps the analytical format of
its activities did not invite deeper/richer interpretations, although I would argue that Bach’s
manipulation of the motive – by imitation, transposition, inversion, fragmentation, and
augmentation – exemplifies a compositional layering process. But because the level 6 LG leads
the student through aural/visual interactions with these manipulations, the cumulative work of
instructional reinforcement may already be done. And since this reinforcing work occurred on
the surface of the LG, it was considered with the analyzing data.
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The groundwork for KM’s instructional reinforcement is frequently laid at the preparation
stage. In the level 5 LG, the preparatory activities are intended to introduce specific components
of Mozart’s aria before the first listening. These pre-listening engagements with both the rhythm
and the melody from mm. 24-32 ensure an active listening experience for the student since he/she
is tasked with recognizing the pertinent portion of the aria when it is heard for the first time. As I
mentioned earlier, this did not happen for the student of a Kanata group participant, although it
happened for the participant herself:

ABs: So, I had this up on the stand and we’re listening away and it’s all
very pleasant. And then about, you know, a minute in, I’m like, “Oh!
Right.”
DM: There it is!
ABs: “That’s the rhythm she’s talking about.” It’s very noticeable, but I
think [students] would actually miss it if they were working on their own.
(1K)

If the student has clapped the rhythm and sung the melody with solfa syllables, he/she is not
likely to miss it. Through these early interactions, and the brief analyses that accompany them,
Mozart’s rhythm and melody will have become known elements. While the participant suggested
adding a score as further assistance, this addition is not be necessary until later, when exploratory
analytical activities are undertaken.
Instead of using repertoire to illustrate music theory, I am advocating the use of music
theory to explain the repertoire. Although this reversal may seem inconsequential, it is actually
quite significant. The student’s focus shifts from theory to music – from disembodied musical
elements, like intervals and chords, to the musical whole created from a combination of these
elements. Rather than reinforcing the student’s grasp of a specific element with generic exercises
and memorization tasks, her/his understanding is strengthened with integrated activities that
include both aural experiences of a musical work and visual interactions with its notated score.
Just as the individual elements of music theory can be combined to form a musical
composition, the composition can be analyzed by gradually disentangling its individual elements.
This progressive analysis enables the student to accrue discrete layers of understanding that are
determined by the music itself. Referring to the piano reduction from the opening of Mozart’s
aria (see Appendix 4.1), a Toronto group participant listed several musical elements that appear
in the accompaniment. Besides those queried in the assignment exercises – the D minor triad, in
both solid/blocked and broken form, along with the melodic minor scale fragment – he
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mentioned the dominant 7th chord and pedal tones. These four measures also contain the tremolo
discussed earlier with the analyzing data. “I’m not sure how far you go” (CP-1T). The student’s
analytical interactions with theoretical elements are largely dependent on her/his prior musical
knowledge. But for the LGs, they depend on practical limitations of space as well.
In order to include additional musical elements, I asked the Orleans group participants how
they felt about having more activities. They responded enthusiastically:

AC: I’m big on lots of activities, more repetition.

ABn: I like things to do. And … doing things with the kids. I find it
reinforces well and it’s something that you can do with them in the
lesson. I think, good. Not pages and pages, but yes. Maybe twice what
you have here?
LLP: So rather than… Oh, okay!
ABn: But I don’t know, what do you think?
PG: What did you say?
ABn: I was saying maybe twice the amount.
PG: My kids love doing this stuff.
ABn: Yeah, it’s good. Find the things… And it’s good to work at it
together because it can spark discussion, or prompt questions… (1O)

The Toronto group participants felt similarly. In discussing the level appropriateness of
specific musical elements, such as the chromaticism in the second melody from Mozart’s aria
(introduced in Activity #5), they took the option of additional activities a step further. I had
recommended coming back to the same repertoire at higher levels and received unanimous assent
“because [the students] are already familiar with the piece. They can hear [it]” (CP-1T). But
another of the group suggested “some kind of box that’s beyond,” arguing that “if you have a
student who’s thirteen doing this as opposed to a student who’s six, [chromaticism is] something
you can talk about” (CM-1T, emphasis added). Her suggestion immediately awakened my
imagination. I began to envision higher-level activities at the end of each LG that would provide
further exploration of the repertoire. Or perhaps a challenge question for each assignment. But
these are layering ideas for another day.
In the level 7 LG, I intended to layer the programmatic elements of Romanticism and the
structural elements of Classicism, just as they are layered in Mendelssohn’s compositional style.
I defined program music, since it is a new concept at level 7, but I did not define sonata form
because it was introduced in RCM’s (2016e) theory curriculum with Mozart’s Eine kleine
Nachtmusik at level 6. As the overture’s formal structure began to take shape, I asked the student
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to “[n]ame the three sections of sonata form.” One of the Kanata group participants suggested
that a review of the form was warranted, implying that an explanatory sentence (or two) should
be added. However, a reconsideration of sonata form need not be rendered as a telling exchange.
This approach places the responsibility for re/learning on the teacher, enabling the student to
passively accept the information. But by addressing the topic as an asking exchange, the
responsibility is placed on the student, enabling an active re/learning experience.
Reinforcement, as an action of strengthening support, indicates a form of layering that
requires additional information or interaction. But review, as a literal “viewing again,” does not
necessarily add substance to the object/subject under consideration. Yet, a somewhat stagnant
review process is the task that customarily prepares music theory students for examinations.
Consequently, the non-implementation of review in the LGs, addressed by the Kanata group
participant above, was also a topic of discussion for the Orleans group participants. Because I
did not follow established patterns of review, they asked for clarification: “So, it’s a reminder?”
(ABn-1O). In response to another participant’s query, “Any concept that’s discussed has been
dealt with in an earlier level?” (AC-1O), my answer is “Yes.” If the student is unsure of the
concept/skill or requires help with its interpretation, I am counting on the teacher to intercede.
There is a fairly good chance that intercession will be necessary since all four LGs place
relevant musical concepts/skills in unfamiliar contexts. This unfamiliarity, which is an essential
feature of reinforcing activities in KM’s instructional process, allows the student’s learning to
move forward. Every transferal of knowledge from unknown to known adds another layer to the
student’s previous theoretical understanding. Whether this transfer is accomplished
independently or collaboratively, every student/teacher partnership embodies a unique
opportunity for sharing. As an example, one of the Orleans group participants recommends that
her older students read a book titled Night’s Daughter, which is Marion Zimmer Bradley’s
(1985) re-imagining of Mozart’s The Magic Flute. According to my participant, the author “adds
one little element, and it makes the plot make sense, or more sense than it currently does” (AC-
1O). She did not divulge this element to the group but in keeping with a guided discovery
approach, encouraged us to borrow her book instead.
Although making sense of the opera’s plot, including its Masonic references (Chailley,
1971), provides valuable background information for the student, I am interested first and
foremost in helping her/him make sense of Mozart’s music. One of the Toronto group
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participants saw my facilitation of this helping process as a “step[ping] up from rhythm to pitch
to integration to application” (JR-1T). He explains:

JR: I think … you’ve [built] a wonderful graduated system through

igniting the awareness, cultivating the awareness, of what this music
contains. And I’m just reinforcing what everyone else has said – the idea
that harmony and melody are interdependent. And so, you’re making that
very clear, and giving them a chance to focus on elements that we all take
for granted because of our training, but we’re shocked when students
don’t. You know, we forget what it’s like, and then students often just
don’t make the connection. You’re casting a spotlight on these things,
and I think it’s great. And then you have the activity at the bottom,
engaging them to write a melody focusing around the F major triad,
ending with the root. (1T)

Avoiding the possibility of student misunderstandings is an unpredictable pursuit since

even the best laid plans can go awry. “[Thinking] as a teacher, I’d be like, ‘Well, of course –
yup, great’” (ABs-1K), but thinking as a student, without the benefit of related experiences, is a
challenge. One of the Toronto group participants highlighted the pedagogical importance of
exemplars as implements of reinforcement. By providing the student with a model, such as the
melody from Mozart’s aria, misunderstandings can be avoided. For instance, an exploration of
the melody’s component parts can introduce the student to the practices and procedures of
melody writing, beginning with an awareness of patterns. “[S]o they’re really looking at
different parts of how a melody is put together – step-wise motion, repetition, breaking up a
chord” (CP-1T). To my participant’s list of patterns, I would add a well-defined set of
parameters that ensure a successful melody writing experience for the student. As the teacher, I
can also offer advice from my own melody writing experiences.
Naturally, the teacher is encouraged to embellish and enhance the LGs with anecdotes from
her/his experiences. Although I struggled, in their writing, with how much information to
include and how much to leave for the teacher, I am coming to understand that the student is
better served if my materials are exercised collaboratively. However, I was reminded by one of
the Kanata group participants that I must also consider the “prior knowledge of the teacher” (KS-
1K), which steers me back to the need for CLGs. “You don’t know what they’re coming with…
So, you want to give them the materials they need” (KS-1K). But “[i]t’s a balancing act” (ABs-
1K). How much involvement is too much?
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Although I chose to focus most of the activities for Mendelssohn’s overture on themes from
the exposition, I decided that I could not leave the development and recapitulation sections
without acknowledgement. And because it is unreasonable to expect the teacher to devote more
than a few minutes of the student’s practical lesson to this endeavour, the student must tackle
her/his first listening to the full overture as a take-home assignment. Therefore, I am dependent
on the teacher’s assistance because of the potential unmanageability of my accompanying
questions. The Kanata group participants questioned my assumption/expectation that
Mendelssohn’s themes would be audibly recognizable in unfamiliar sections of the overture. A
portion of our discussion is excerpted below:

ABs: [T]his is a huge piece. I wrote [in my annotated LG]: “A complete

score with themes labelled seems necessary at level 7.” I just don’t think
they’re going to be able to find all the themes…
LLP: To be quite honest, I don’t … necessarily expect them to find all
[the themes]. And these questions are probably a little bit difficult for
them to … answer.
ABs: “What theme is featured in the development?”
DM: Yeah.
LLP: But in a way, that doesn’t really matter to me. What matters …
more is that they have a chance to listen to [the overture] and bring
knowledge to it.
ABs: And someone will get it.
LLP: And someone will. And it will open a conversation. So, even if
they come to their next lesson and say, “I listened to it, but I couldn’t find
the theme!” … that again, opens the conversation.
KS: [It’s] a teaching moment. (1K)

I love the layering aspect of teachable moments – the fleeting, unplanned opportunities that allow
me to offer insights to my students at a time when they are most receptive. However, others may
be less comfortable with the conversations they generate, particularly teachers who may not be
confident with their own knowledge and do not wish to appear un-knowledgeable to their
students.
CLGs could remedy this situation. They could provide an overview of each work,
including a structural analysis, and explain pertinent terminology. One of the Orleans group
participants proposed the use of bold type to highlight important terms, like concert overture, in
the LGs themselves. These visual cues draw the student’s attention to essential vocabulary. In
RCM’s (2016) Celebrate Theory series, significant terms are bolded, sometimes repeatedly, but
excessive “bolding” can interrupt the student’s reading of the text. However, a single usage of
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bold type, “just the first time” the term is presented (ABn-1O), is often beneficial. “[N]ow you
know this term, we can just go ahead and use it” (AC-1O). The unknown becomes known.
It is the layered application of this terminology, and the conceptual understandings it
represents, that are emphasized and reinforced throughout the LGs. But they are not necessarily
quick studies, as an Orleans group participant points out:

ABn: [I]t’s just so much work sometimes, to have to do all that. But
doing it one page at a time, a little bit at a time, it’s layer-by-layer. And
… then after, over a period of several weeks, or perhaps even months,
listen to [the work] again and [ask], “What are you hearing?” And at this
point, it’s taken … time to absorb and to process it, and to have some
vocabulary to be able to understand what [they’re] listening to. (1O)

I am grateful for this participant’s encouragement, but I appreciate even more her recognition of
the process that lies beneath the listening activities/assignments:

ABn: Yeah, I think the process is important. To have, you know, a little
start. Looking at it this way, and this way, and this way. Because it’s just
so much to do, if you can get it within a structure that’s relatively
manageable… (1O)

The LGs are structured as one-page activities that encourage student/teacher interactions of
approximately five minutes. Each activity concludes with an independent take-home assignment
that either reinforces the current activity or prepares the next one. Every activity/assignment
features at least one aural experience of the repertoire.
“[M]usic listening is a covert form of thinking and knowing in action” (Cutietta & Stauffer,
2005, p. 124). It involves a process of layered reinforcement that I tried to use as consistently as
possible in all the LGs. Although my choice of repertoire may seem arbitrary, it is organized by
era, starting with Classicism in the center of the common-practice period and branching out –
both before and after – from this central point. Because I chose distinct genres and
instrumentations, I was able to explore diverse theoretical topics but regrettably, I was unable to
connect the LGs together. Nevertheless, they follow a similar format, and according to an
Orleans group participant, “you find a path” (JK-1O). In her view, I created a “neat effect, in the
way [I] approach[ed] rhythm and pitch and structure, harmon[ic] structure, that carries from one
to the other” – an effect she thought was “very reinforcing” (JK-1O). I was concerned that it
might be too subtle, but my approach shapes my work, whether I am aware of its presence or not.
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Theoretical concepts travelled forward in my mind from one LG to the next and even from
one activity to the next. But I cannot assume this to be true for the student or for the teacher. In
our discussion of the notational irregularities in Josquin’s frottola, the same Orleans group
participant reminded me that if students “did the first half [of the activity] before their break, or
the [previous] day, they won’t put two and two together” (JK-1O). Her reminder evidences
another balancing act – I must negotiate the balance between too much direction and not enough.
I must find a sweet spot in the middle of an overlapping presentation that connects the new
learning with the student’s old, well-established learning. This reinforcing connection is
particularly salient for the level 8 LG and its unfamiliar Renaissance repertoire.
To illustrate, I queried the participants about my decision to begin with a 4/2 version of El
grillo and then to transform it through diminution to a 4/4 (or 2/2) version. As a layered mixture
of both old and new, this inclusiveness allowed me to access the frottola’s original manuscript as
well as its modern transcription. A Toronto group participant responded: “I think you’ve
addressed it well. I mean, you’re trying to identify the original, and then preparing them for the
modern transcription. I guess to have that duality is probably good. I think the duality is good”
(JR-1T). Later, he added: “I think it would be remiss not to have had the 4/2, [and] then to have
the diminution” (JR-1T). I worried about the clarity of my transformation as well as the
reinforcement of tonal elements, such as chords and cadences, in a pre-tonal work. An Orleans
group participant replied: “[Y]ou addressed the foreshadowing … of tonal [elements] in the first
paragraph [of] the fourth activity, so I think that kind of opens the door” (AC-1O). Her next
point provides the causal logic that rationalizes the activity: “It explains why we’re doing it.
Why we would hear it that way” (AC-1O). Even though Josquin’s frottola pre-dates tonality, we
hear it with tonal ears and analyze it with the tools of our modern tonal system.

Layering for Understanding

Guided Discoveries: “Bread crumbs.” I envisioned the LGs as instructional applications

of reinforcement. Utilizing repertoire as a catalyst, they provide students with an integrated
experience of music theory through directed music listening activities. These directions bring
educational value to unconscious experiences of hearing by integrating purposeful actions of
listening and thinking. Cutietta and Stauffer (2005) explain:
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Evidence that an individual is indeed listening to music is that he or she

is, at the very least, consciously attending to musical sounds.
Furthermore, the focus and direction with which one listens to and for
something in music implies intent, and intention is yet another critical
element in the covert act of listening. (p. 126)

Thus, directed music listening facilitates a form of intentional listening that serves to reinforce
the student’s learning with cumulative musical/theoretical discoveries.
The layering of these discoveries creates a connection between educational events. This
connection brings increasing awareness to the student’s acquisition of musical knowledge.
Consequently, her/his ability to recognize musical elements, such as motives, structural markers,
or stylistic features, is improved – even if the elements have been modestly transformed. The
recognition of these transformations is aided by the practice of analytical flexibility, as discussed
earlier with the analyzing data. Although Claude McLean (1999) argues that listening is a skill
“frequently challenged by the culture in which we live,” it is one that can be “finely honed
through guidance” (p. 247). This guidance, which heightens awareness with repeated
reinforcements, can also connect the surface elements of music to deeper levels of personal
meaning-making.
The concept of word painting may serve as an example. It is a musical depiction of the
text’s literal or figurative meaning, which lends itself to extra-musical understandings of rhythm,
melody, or harmony. An exploration of these additional understandings provides the student
with an opportunity to delve beneath the surface content of the music. Presenting several
straightforward applications of word painting, Josquin’s frottola offers the student an easily
accessible experience with the interpretation of musical gestures – “[w]hich leads to why you
would have them translate the [text], so they’re really connected to the words” (CP-1T). Once
again, I want the student to be actively involved in a process of guided discovery, which would
not have been the case if I had given her/him a ready-made translation.
However, the implementation of discovery teaching processes may need more guidance for
the teacher than I have offered, as one of the Orleans group participants commented:
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JK: I appreciate you leading people to discover things for themselves.

But at … first, I was swimming. I was not quite into the system. And so,
I thought of my lovely Living Language book, which has a blue line
across [the top of the page], [that] tells you either what’s going on in the
book or what’s going on in the chapter. And for the longest time, I paid
absolutely no attention to the blue line. Then I figured out what it was:
“This is what we’ve covered. This is what we’re going to cover.” And
knowing what it was, and being able to say, “Oh, I’ve forgotten. Oh, it’s
right there, I’ll just leap back to that.” – I call it my kind of guiding path.
ABn: Like a timeline.
JK: And it gave… It seemed to be…
AC: Bread crumbs.
JK: Yes. It seemed to be really a foundation for me, and a ready access to
what I needed to review, what was coming, and the context. And so, I
suggested… I picked out a lot of things, terms and things, that because I
haven’t taught theory as theory for so long, were new to me, or needed
refreshing. So, that’s a suggestion, and also the idea of an appendix that
lists everything. Not just the new stuff, but every term, every composer,
the whole kit and caboodle. And then a glossary for the symbols, because
the symbols have changed over the years too, which is a lot of work. And
I don’t know if it’s necessary for a supplementary thing, but I think it
would be a big boon to teachers and to students. (1O)

The “terms and things” suggested by this participant were added to the annotated LGs she gave
me. For level 8, they include: frottola, open/short score, C clefs, word painting, cadences,
chorale/keyboard style, and modal/tonal harmony. These topics outline the conceptual pathway
that threads through the activities and assignments for Josquin’s El grillo. To this “guiding
path,” she added terms for a glossary – a cappella, diminution, homorhythmic texture,
syncopation, passing/neighbouring tones, and modes – as well as applicable symbols, (pt) for
passing tone and (nt) for neighbouring tone.
Initially, I heard thoughtful, constructive recommendations in my participant’s comments.
Now, I hear an underlying hesitancy that is rooted in reluctance or resistance to my pedagogical
approach. And she is not alone. The implementation of her recommendations will undoubtedly
increase the usability of the LGs, particularly since one of her colleagues supposed that “it
requires a fair amount of work on the part of the teacher before you start working [on the LGs]
with the student” (ABn-1O). Some of this work will be lessened when the new syllabus
requirements become more familiar for teachers, but if the LGs are perceived as work intensive,
their potential usefulness will be compromised. The Living Language (2011) books, mentioned
in the excerpted conversation above, place a “progress bar” across the top of each page that
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summarizes the course material in every unit. It indicates the user’s position within the unit and
how much progress has been made. This is certainly appreciated in a book of more than three
hundred pages but may not be necessary for a booklet-sized LG. However, referring back to the
Kanata group participant’s criticism regarding the lack of labels or titles for activities, a guiding
path of some sort seems justified. Perhaps a list of topics could be added to each
activity/assignment – provided the list does not undermine the student’s discoveries.

Deepening from an Author/Pedagogue Perspective

The deepening theme is a derivative of the layering theme, in much the same way that my
author-self is derived from my teacher-self. Experimenting with instructional improvements for
my students, I have wanted for many years to share the lessons I was learning by assembling
supplemental materials for other teachers of music theory, particularly beginning teachers. While
most of my early writings were organizational assignmentbooks or recordbooks, I also attempted
A Child’s Songbook (Penny, 1997), revolving around the English lullaby Twinkle, Twinkle, Little
Star. Its KM-inspired activities gave substance to my first pedagogical venture. Although the
assignmentbooks/recordbooks had enabled me to flirt with who, what, where, and when
explanations of music theory – even some why connections – it was the songbook that initiated
my how thinking. This deepening of my authorial experience into the realm of interpretation
provides impetus for the deepening theme in my data analysis.
The writing project that motivated my graduate studies was a student’s workbook titled
Tonal Relationships in Music: Introductory Harmony, Melody, and Structure. As a repurposing
of KM for the teaching of advanced music theory, it incorporates the method’s holistic
integration of musical elements and its instructional progression from the known to the unknown.
It also incorporates my growing awareness that musical elements are explained or connected by
their relationships. In Rogers’ (2004) construal of musical analysis, relationships determine how
events in one part of a piece affect or are affected by events in another part. These interactions
often involve “long-range perception,” including matters of “balance, temporal proportion, and
retrospective hearing” which he describes as “re-interpreting past events on the basis of new
information” (p. 75). Again, the notion of re/interpretation is emphasized.
With the layering data, I explored the LGs’ cumulative reinforcement of theoretical
concepts and the participants’ views of the resulting instructional process. With the deepening
data, I probe the pedagogical nurturing of interpretive skills that enable the student to make
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independent judgements or come to independent conclusions. My desire to address these skills is

precipitated by the open-ended questions/instructions that close the music history units in RCM’s
(2016) Celebrate Theory series (see chapter 4).
Concluding her/his level 5 study of the “Queen of the Night” Aria from Mozart’s The
Magic Flute, the student is instructed to: “Describe your experience listening to this work”
(RCM, 2016a, p. 66). The nine-year-old student of an Orleans group participant, when given this
and a similar instruction related to repertoire at the next level, replied, “Oh, I feel like butterflies
and twirling” (PG-1O). According to my participant, her student “feels the same thing for every
piece,” which seems unimaginable, but “that’s what she has, though” (PG-1O) – a feeling of
twirling in a flowery meadow with butterflies. While the music history component of Celebrate
Theory initiates interpretive experiences for the student, he/she is not adequately prepared to
describe these experiences. Without an effective process of rudimentary analysis, along with the
vocabulary necessary for communicating analytical discoveries, the student is unable to move
beyond superficial descriptions of a feeling – any feeling – that may or may not relate to the
music. Perhaps my participant’s student experienced a feeling of pleasantness that she associates
with butterflies and the memory of a family picnic. This association may be personally
meaningful, but it lacks a specific theoretical connection to the repertoire.
As I mentioned in chapter 2, Tenney (1988) contends that the “Western musical enterprise
has been characterized by an effort to understand musical sounds, not merely … to impose upon
it either a willful personal ‘vision’ or a timid imitation of inherited conventions, habits,
assumptions, or ‘assertions’ ” (p. 103, original emphasis). Since consonance and dissonance may
be determined acoustically and psychologically – through subjective discernments of
“pleasantness” and “unpleasantness” – their distinction within the context of tonal harmony may
pave the way for other, more meaningful, interpretive experiences. Furthermore, judgements of
aesthetic preference require the corroboration of musical sounds. Thus, consonant and dissonant
intervals may offer a valuable glimpse at how music works.
The act of interpretation implies the derivation and the explanation of personal meaning,
both of which require critical analysis. Based on Dewey’s (1934) notion of criticism as the re-
education of perception, Eisner’s (1991; 2008) concept of educational criticism discloses the
often subtle, constituent qualities of an artwork through aesthetic criteria. Within ABR practices,
educational criticism utilizes description, interpretation, evaluation, and generalization
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procedures to make judgements that broaden understandings. Rather than a collection of

superficial details, it is an analytical discrimination of these details. Extracted from Eisner’s
critical approach to ABR, the process of interpretation holds promise for an integrated music
theory pedagogy by providing students with the requisite tools for seeing and describing. These
tools may then support creating activities such as melody writing.
The deepening data comprises my participants’ views of musical interpretation, with all
three groups stressing the pedagogical value of interpretive skills. Since the LGs are unique to
the individual compositions with which they are paired, the interpretive focus of each LG is also
unique. Therefore, the deepening data is organized according to individual levels with level-
specific subtopics: emotion, manipulation, orchestration, and notation. Although not always
applicable, programmatic or word painting elements are often prominent. In the deepening for
understanding section, the participants’ reluctance or resistance becomes increasingly evident.
Their occasional references to “academic” tasks, like analysis, suggest a tacit belief that the
science of music theory is separate from the art of music – implying that academic/scientific
pursuits are intrinsically non-musical and so too, the attendant pedagogy.

Mozart’s “Queen of the Night” Aria

Interpreting Emotion: “It really resonates with them.” In music theory teaching, the
usual tendency is to ask direct questions for which the answers are clearly evident. This is
certainly true in my studio, where my students recognize recurring patterns of asking/answering.
For the most part, we are comfortable with the status quo, but comfort does not necessarily
encourage growth. I asked the Toronto group participants to consider the inclusion of open-
ended questioning in the LGs and received this affirmation: “Well, you’re going to confront
[these questions] at some point. So, yeah” (CP-1T). At level 5 (see Appendix 4.1), I asked the
student, “How do you think the queen feels? How does Mozart show her feelings in the music?”
I invited the participants to offer alternate ways of approaching these questions. They gave me
excellent suggestions, for instance:
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JR: Sometimes …, in [the] aural analysis [for our harmony books], we

gave boxes [addressing] the same thing. You know, you have a clear idea
of what… “Does she feel anger, or vengeance, [or] betrayal?” There are
many good answers [students] could give. I think a teacher wouldn’t care
as long as they’re engaging with the sentiment. And I think the kicker, of
course, is the next [question] because you’re saying… Well, you’re
trying to really tie the music … to the description. So that’s wonderful,
it’s reinforcing, in the user, the fact that it’s okay to make a judgment or
an observation about the feeling or the emotion. “But how is [the] music
reflecting this?” So that’s wonderful. You could give just maybe two or
three or four boxes and give different emotions so that it points the
student in the [right] direction. (1T)

At this point in the activity, I imagined that the teacher would assist the student by helping
her/him with suitable expressions of emotion. But if the teacher is uncomfortable with the task or
unsure of its outcome, having guidance in the form of tick-boxes would be advantageous.
Another of the Toronto group participants was equally interested in modifying the exercise to
make it less onerous for the student. “Can you maybe … direct them to: ‘She feels angry. Here’s
how the music reflects that.’ So they have an idea. ‘Here’s a concrete example of what I’m
asking, for future reference.’” And once a concrete example has been given, “[t]hen you can start
expecting them to think for themselves” (CP-1T). This recommendation was inspired by the
manner in which the participant “liked things presented” to him as a young student. “Give me a
good concrete example. Okay, then I can make connections when I do future work of the same
type” (CP-1T).
But rather than handing it to her/him on a platter, so to speak, my inclination is to draw as
much information as possible from the student. These questions can then lead to the
development of autonomous conclusions. However, the questioning may not always be
sufficient, or the desired pathway, sufficiently obvious:

PG: I think a good example is in that “Queen of the Night” Aria when
she’s doing that little **sings the vocalise** You know. And what
emotions was the queen feeling? Well, if a child hadn’t seen the little
animated [summary] first, she’s not going to know the story (or he), and
this sounds like a happy little dance! (PG-1O)

To some extent, the student’s misunderstanding of the queen’s emotional state is immaterial
because the potential for learning in her/his mis-interpretation, and subsequent re-interpretation,
is enormous. I am not advocating the acceptance of misinformation. Instead, I am promoting an
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awareness of the teachable moments inherent in unintentional misunderstandings. “Ah-ha”

moments are part of the discovery process. And if the student is encouraged to make interpretive
discoveries, the learning will be that much more meaningful:

AC: They own it.

ABn: Yeah, it really resonates with them then, when they can relate it to
something [personal]. (1O)

Discerning the meaning of the text – how the queen feels – is surely a worthy application of
the student’s interpretive skills. Discerning the musical pictorialization of the text – how Mozart
depicts the queen’s feelings – adds another layer of complexity to the student’s discovery. One
of the Toronto group participants proposed the following:

JR: This is …, I think, the first time you’ve matched the words with the
music. So, maybe just a comment that even the English translation works
well. In other words, the emphasis, the longer notes are accented notes in
the melody. I know this is a harmony-based aspect, but because the
words are here maybe just a comment saying, “Observe or try to say the
words…” (maybe they can’t do it in German…) but, “Observe how
the words are served well by the rhythms chosen.” (1T)

I had not considered this facet of the text setting, although I included words along with the
melodies I used in Activities #5 and #6. The participant’s reasoning is compelling: “Because …
this is the first time you actually integrate the words with the music, and it flows well. In
German and in English” (JR-1T). This “flow” is a significant feature of Mozart’s musical style,
but it may be too sophisticated for my level 5 audience. While the participant’s “observe”
directive is somewhat problematic because of its passive nature, my attempt to create a
relationship between the text and the music may be just as elusive. I asked: “What musical
mistake is made by the Queen of the Night at the end of her aria?” An Orleans group participant
guessed that “she ended on so rather than do?” (JK-1O). While this is correct, the participant’s
hesitation causes me to think that even though I presented my query as a challenge, I too may
have overestimated my audience. The queen is furious. She does not end on a stable scale
degree. “Tut, tut. Unforgivable!” (ABn-1O).

Bach’s Invention No. 1 in C Major

Interpreting Manipulation: “Is that where they make a model?” Bach’s invention does
not require the same level of interpretation as Mozart’s aria. Inventions do not generally
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illustrate emotions, although they are subject to the Baroque doctrine of the affections which held
that the principal aim of music was to “arouse the passions or affections” (Randel, 1986, p. 16). 82
However, the subtleties of this musical rhetoric are beyond the competencies of a typical level 6
student, except for the notion that a Baroque composition generally imparts a unity of affection.
In RCM’s (2016e) Theory Syllabus, the instructional emphasis shifts from the relationship
between text and music at level 5 to associated style traits at level 6. Since Baroque music is
predominantly polyphonic, the level 6 LG explores polyphony in the context of Bach’s invention.
Therefore, the emphasis of the deepening data shifts from emotion to manipulation, but this
compositional maneuvering is better suited to the analyzing data, which incorporates the surface
treatment of Bach’s motive and its single affection.
For the deepening theme, which is associated with the complexities of interpretation, I
found only one application: “Is that where they make a model?” (CM-1T). I asked the student to
write an inverted motive in Activity #3:

CM: Oh, so you want them to be able to say down a third, and so then
they’ll follow their own instructions?
CP: Right. Size only is good.
LLP: Right. They’ve got an arrow and a number, and then all they have to
do is turn the arrow upside down and keep the same number. And that
way, they’ll be able to build the inversion.
CP: Yeah. That’s good, I like that. (1T)

My intention is for the student to discover the inversion for herself/himself – not for me to
display a ready-made example. As an alternative to the usual presentation of exemplars, I am
offering the student an opportunity to build her/his own example. While this building process
involves lengthy instructions, the end result is more meaningful for the student, particularly if the
objective is to “see what you hear and hear what you see” (AC-1O).

Mendelssohn’s Overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream

Interpreting Orchestration: “We want to engage their imaginations.” At level 7, the

emphasis of the deepening data shifts again – from emotion, through manipulation, to

82
The doctrine of the affections, or the German Affektenlehre, is a theory of musical aesthetics that was widely
accepted in the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries. It “embraced the proposition that music is capable of
arousing a variety of specific emotions within the listener.” Influenced by the Enlightenment’s tendency toward the
encyclopaedic organization of knowledge, Baroque theorists attempted to “delineate music into affective categories”
(“Doctrine of the Affections,” 2014).
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orchestration. In Mendelssohn’s overture, the orchestral enriching of melody and harmony adds
depth to both the horizontal and the vertical aspects of music. But the programmatic element of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream, as it was for the storyline in The Magic Flute, can be confusing for
many students. “What a cast of characters and what crazy roles they played!” (JK-1O). The
Orleans group participants brought up a noteworthy point about the appropriateness of this work
for level 7 students:

AC: I sometimes find that for younger people, the ambiguity of who’s the
good guy… “No wait, he’s not the bad guy, he’s the good [guy].” You
know. That is upsetting for some younger people if [they] don’t have
clear-cut good guys, bad guys – at first. “Who do you trust?”
ABn: Yeah, they like things in black and white. Black and white is good.
It takes a little bit of growing, I think, before you can see the shades of
grey, [doesn’t] it? Black and white is how they see things in the early
stages.
LLP: Right.
AC: For that reason, it may be a good choice. Confusing, but good. (1O)

In other words, Shakespeare’s plot is complicated, but the introduction of these complications in
the context of Mendelssohn’s overture can enable the student to experience, in small measure, a
broader range of characterizations – the implication being that this experience can encourage
growth beyond binary, either/or thinking.
The orchestral rendering of these characters adds yet another dimension to the student’s
experience. A Toronto group participant disclosed his role in writing the description of
Mendelssohn’s overture for RCM’s (2016c) level 7 Celebrate Theory book. He commented: “I
really love seeing your fleshing-out of all the musical ideas possible. This is wonderful” (JR-1T).
But because the overture did not accommodate the singing of melodies and by extension, the
recognizing of these melodies in later listening experiences, I chose an instrumental focus for the
corresponding LG. I began with the piano – an instrument for which most students have at least
a passing familiarity – and decided that my choice was justified when I discovered that the
overture was first performed as a piano duet by the young composer and his sister. It was
orchestrated a year later.
With a pianistic entry into Mendelssohn’s overture, I meant to demonstrate both its origin
and the inevitability of its orchestration since the work cannot be played by a single pianist.
Thus, the overture’s orchestral texture becomes an interpretive element of the storyline’s
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characterization. The Orleans group participants discussed the instructional significance of this
element:

ABn: I think too, just that the orchestration… I was actually going to ask,
before you said you brought up the piano for the reasons you did, if it was
deliberate. Because we couldn’t think in terms of … a single melody.
We had to think in terms of a number of instruments, a number of sounds
that were creating the whole effect. Because you’re going from … opera
to counterpoint to orchestral [music], which are very, very different
genres, and different kinds of listening.
JK: And lovely to have [the students’] ears opened to it.
AC: Yes.
ABn: Just the experience of different sounds, and the different ways of
making music. (1O)

Of course, the student’s listening experience is paramount but as an author/pedagogue, I have an

opportunity to enhance the experience by bringing theoretical knowledge to her/his listening.
Ideally, sound and symbol are integrated. However, listening and reading are vastly
different activities. They are mutually beneficial but reading in an orchestral context is multi-
layered and can be overwhelming for many students – as it was for one of the Toronto group
participants in his youth:

JR: I had trouble with [orchestral] scores when I started at the Royal
Conservatory … and [for] me, it was hard enough to read the white part
in the … score, but to look at a score that has no highlighting? And then,
I wouldn’t have understood. “Why is it even in this order?” (1T)

He recommended sensitizing the student to the way a score is laid out – perhaps in the textboxes I
used periodically – but this information may be better placed in the CLG for the teacher. In
conversation with the Toronto group participants, it became obvious that teachers’ experiences
with this topic vary greatly. One of the group, who is the principal violist of a symphony
orchestra in southwestern Ontario, explained that the ordering of woodwind and brass
instruments in an orchestral score coincides with the conductor’s sight lines. This was a
revelation for the rest of us.
But once the intricacies of score reading are addressed, the orchestral setting of the various
themes – each representing a distinct group of characters from Shakespeare’s play – can be
scrutinized. In Activity #3 (see Appendix 4.3), I asked interpretive questions about the
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introduction and the first theme as preparation for a definition of program music. A Toronto
group participant thought I could give more responsibility to the student:

JR: I love how earlier, [at level 5], you were asking the students [about]
the mood of the music, and then asking how the mood was evoked. Here,
you’re telling them [that in] the opening, there’s a mysterious realm.
Maybe if [you] took out the word mysterious and introduced them to the
realm of the fairies, and then asked, “What is the mood of this music?”
Then maybe that might engage them again with the atmosphere and …
how the music creates that atmosphere. (1T)

His suggestion is definitely in-line with my intention to draw as much of the learning from the
student as possible. It also allows me to reinforce the student’s previous experience with the
same kind of questioning that was used for Mozart’s aria.
As our conversation continued, another of the Toronto group participants worried about
open-ended questions that may seem too esoteric:

CP: “How are the fairies’ fluttering wings depicted?” Is that too open-
ended, or…?
JR: Well, I think it gives the teacher [some latitude]. I would say …
through the repeated rhythm. I would say the articulation. I would say
maybe the scurrying back [and forth] or the undulating scurrying. I think
there’s several ways of addressing [it]. I think we want to engage their
imaginations and I think there could be some nuances to their answer[s].
CP: Yeah, and they’re sitting with the teacher [for] this part.
JR: Yeah, I think their teacher will probably guide them. (1T)

Despite his initial worry, the apprehensive participant concluded that open-ended questioning is a
valuable component of interpretation. “I like the way it’s making the [students] think and
directing [them] to the recorded material” (CP-1T).
Helping the student think is my primary goal with the LGs. Helping her/him think
interpretively is a deepening experience that for me is the gateway to enjoyment. But the Orleans
group participants were generally more inclined to appreciate music listening in its own right –
unencumbered by music theory or the need for supporting theoretical knowledge. We had a
thought-provoking discussion:
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ABn: There’s the element of enjoyment, but there is the element of

learning, too. I was saying to [another participant], I like to read a book,
but I don’t always like to analyze it. I don’t really care about getting into
what this character did and what that character did and what that word
meant. And so too with music. Sometimes [I] just want to enjoy it and
listen, but I do appreciate that this is an academic exercise. But
sometimes the kids, or the students, where they’re coming from (even an
adult student), they haven’t come to that stage of development. They may
want to just enjoy and let it wash over [them]. And it takes some of the
fun out of it when you have to get into … analyzing it. But having said
that, I do recognize it’s an academic exercise. But I still always bear in
mind that there’s supposed to be some fun here, too. And just not
thinking. Just sheer enjoyment. Just sheer listening.
PG: That’s where I think that animated one, going back to The Magic
Flute, … I think that’s the frosting on the cake there. Just to know what
the storyline is, especially since it’s in German… But I think the kids
would really like seeing that [animation], and then being able to listen to
the piece and say, “Oh, yeah!”
JK: I go through stages. First, I have that wonderful overwhelming
feeling. But then, if I’ve analyzed the music, and I never sit down and
just analyze the music – I’m searching for something or I’m looking at
the music, I’m playing the music or doing it with a student. And you
begin to understand it and you see the form and the structure and the
melodic line and the transpositions and all this… And then when you
hear the music again, it seems to add a depth to it. You’re not necessarily
listening for those things, but you’re aware that there’s been this
monumental brain behind it. (1O)

I am intrigued by the “monumental brain” behind every musical work, especially the works I
chose to engage for my inquiry – the ones I have come to know intimately. It is this deep sense
of knowing that I wish to share with my students.

Josquin’s El grillo

Interpreting Notation: “I’d let them experiment.” At level 8, I observed the interpretive
or discovery aspect of the deepening data in discussions about the notation for Josquin’s frottola.
An Orleans group participant remarked, “Once students are at this level, I think they are intrigued
by the different ways of notating. ‘Oh! That’s not the only way to do it’” (AC-1O). Her
comment initiated a conversation about the placement of accidentals in Renaissance manuscripts,
which in itself is trivial, but it speaks to the issue of relevance in music theory teaching,
particularly regarding musical notation or the standardized/systematized representation of
musical sound. As a student of music theory, I was presented with a series of “this is…”
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statements. This is a half note. This is a sharp. This is where the sharp is placed on the staff. I
accepted these statements without question or comment. As a teacher of music theory, I make a
concerted effort to explain the reasoning that supports each statement. While the terminology
occasionally defies logic – Why is a sharp called a sharp? – the placement of musical symbols is
fairly logical and often historically grounded.
As an author of music theory, I noticed the underlying pedagogical implications of
traditional teaching approaches in the following Orleans group discussion:

PG: Now, when they rewrite [the open score] in … short score, then
they’d have to put the sharp before the note, right?
ABn: Yeah, how would you deal with that?
LLP: Right. So that’s… Yes, the difficulty is then getting down to the
[short score at the] bottom of the page.
AC: I think that would highlight … the different ways of writing, which
might be… Of why we now write it next to [the note], because when
we’re writing it in closed score, we need to put it… Have it easier to find.
ABn: Yeah, it needs to be faster to see.
AC: Short score, sorry.
LLP: Right. Not at all. Okay, then I will leave it as is. Certainly, for the
first example. When it’s in the open score, should I pull it down [onto the
staff] to give them an example of what to do when they write it in short
score?
AC: I think I might just, in the directions to the assignment, say, “Put
accidentals next to the pitch, not over.” Or words to that effect.
PG: I’d just let them… I’d let them experiment.
LLP: See, I’m … in favour of doing that!
ABn: Yeah, I just like the idea of a challenge, an experiment, and seeing
how it goes. But I can see how some teachers would want to know
specifically, exactly… This must be done like this. Some people just
really need to know and are very uncomfortable with open stuff.
PG: I mean, most kids are oblivious to sharps and flats anyway. (1O)

Two things stand out for me in this exchange. The first is a reference to experimentation, which
often leads to deepening discoveries, and the second, a spontaneous remark about students’
inattention. Although casually articulated, this remark contains a modicum of truth. There are
many reasons for the student to ignore accidentals, but a lack of engagement may stem from an
introduction to these symbols by means of “this is…” statements. In order to be engaging, music
theory must be relevant.
Deepening experiences of interpretation can provide the connectivity that engenders
relevance. An examination of the frottola’s original manuscript offers the student an opportunity
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to connect modern notational symbols with their historical precursors, which may satisfy some of
her/his why questions. An elementary analysis of the modern transcription allows the student to
connect El grillo’s modality with elements of common-practice tonality, such as chords and
cadences. Since most cadences end with incomplete chords, a modest level of interpretation is
required, but the surrounding measures give ample clues to the chords’ qualities. Consequently,
the most valuable opportunities for interpretation are found in Josquin’s word painting and the
manner in which he establishes an expressive relationship between text and music.
Excepting Bach’s invention at level 6, the concept of word painting or programmatic
writing has been a significant aspect of the deepening data, perhaps because it encourages open-
ended questioning. But in my quest to furnish the student with vocabulary and the means to
describe word painting, I asked her/him direct questions about textural and rhythmic
irregularities, linking them with specific words in the text. Although these questions have
specific answers, they are meant to draw the student’s attention to musical anomalies. And once
this awareness has been created, it is a relatively small step to the contemplation of why in open-
ended questioning. For example, the Toronto group participants mentioned Josquin’s treatment
of the final word amore, which is highlighted with melismatic text setting rather than the
prevailing syllabic setting. Although the “M word” (melisma) is not applicable at this level (CM-
1T), it is surely possible to point out the rhythmic “busyness” of mm. 35-36. It is also possible
for the student to extract meaning from this illustration of word painting – the cricket
enthusiastically sings out of love.

Deepening for Understanding

Open-Ended Questioning: “You’re working out ideas.” An Orleans group participant

relayed her experiences with student interpretations initiated by open-ended questions:
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JK: When I ask that sort of question about [a] piece, I have not shared my
open-ended answer with the student at all. This is an interpretation of the
piece or “How am I approaching this piece?” I am thrown aback by some
of the answers I get. Their imagery is so different, their approach is so
different. I see a different mood, I see a different atmosphere for the
piece, and it is quite legitimate. The student who can vocalize this
usually is imaginative and creative enough that the perception is good.
It’s appropriate. And I think that’s one of the necessary things – that we
need to make these things on paper come to life. And if you listen to
several renditions of [El grillo], they’re delightful! And they bring the
word painting right out front. You can’t miss it, if you’re looking at the
score and listening at the same time. So, I think it’s a wonderful thing to
bring out. I think that’s what it’s all about. (1O)

This sentiment was shared by everyone in the group. Another participant added her thoughts:

AC: That’s one of the huge paybacks of teaching, is hearing these

different perceptions and, “Wow, I never thought of it that way!” And
the insight into the varieties of musical experience, and the insight into
how that student learns, perceives, performs, whatever. And giving them
that permission too, is definitely helpful, I think. (1O)

As a music theorist, I derive insights from the printed page as much as from the
actualization of printed notation, or perhaps even more so. I am beginning to understand,
however, that my perspective is somewhat unusual. I often disregard extra-musical associations
because they seem to me to be superfluous, but my analysis of the deepening data is enabling me
to see that music in performance is equally thought-provoking – and that programmatic
interpretations of this music, if such interpretations are applicable, can facilitate meaning-making
experiences for the student.
Prior to the first set of focus group discussions, I circulated several questions for the
participants to ponder. One of the Kanata group participants addressed the following:

• What is your position on the issue of breadth vs. depth in student listening
experiences? Why?
• How might these listening experiences contribute to the systematic development of
both theoretical concepts and aural skills?

Framing her answer with the premise that the amount of depth a student can handle “really
depends on the student,” she responded:
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ABs: [L]istening experiences contribute to development, of course. I

mean, all the questions asked in the Listening Guide[s] are the same kinds
of questions the student[s] should ask themselves when analyzing their
own repertoire, listening to ear training, listening to music. “What are the
primary chords?” Questions like that. By drawing attention to these
concepts, the Listening Guides create awareness. (1K)

This is the feedback I was hoping to receive, but she went on to quote Bono, the primary
lyricist of the Irish rock band U2: “The more you know the less you feel” (Hewson, 2004). Her
reference and subsequent comments reminded me of the Orleans group discussion I quoted
earlier – about the element of enjoyment in music listening:

ABs: So, at this [intermediate] stage…, it’s like, “Okay, how in depth do
you want to go?” I mean, that’s a whole other psychological and
philosophical question… Do we just want to listen to this? “Hey, that
was fun, and it was a concert overture.” And that’s fine for this stage.
But I mean, you’re doing something different. You’re looking at it very
academically, and you’re working out ideas, and this is … a framework.
(1K)

She concluded by saying that “[s]ome students are wildly interested and some aren’t” (ABs-1K).
But I feel compelled to try to reach all students, even those who are not “wildly interested” in
music theory. By contextualizing the teaching of music theory in a music listening environment,
I hope to inspire at least some of “those who are not.”
However, I must first overcome the teachers’ reluctance or resistance. The deepening data
revealed two areas of concern: (1) the participants’ perceptions about the “academic” nature of
analysis; and (2) their presumptions about listening to music for pleasure. To some extent, these
perceptions/presumptions are interrelated. They suggest that formal musical analysis, as the
province of professional theorists, interferes with the listening pleasure of the non-professional
masses. But knowledge begets enjoyment. If the student comes to know a piece of music
through analysis, he/she will be more inclined to enjoy listening to it. This analysis should
include both formal and informal interactions with the music (as process and product), since
every observation constitutes an act of analysis. An integrated music theory pedagogy attempts
to bring aural/visual awareness to these observations – as essential components of a guided
discovery approach.
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Preparing from an Examiner Perspective

The preparing theme is associated with my examiner perspective because in this role, I see
most overtly the results of students’ preparedness (or unpreparedness) for music theory
examinations. As a member of RCM’s College of Examiners, I am privileged both to serve my
profession and to grow my competence within the profession I serve. Derived from these
examining experiences, my understanding of music theory has matured and I have gained an
increased awareness of the pedagogy it entails. Consequently, I am better equipped to prepare
my students for exams. While this emphasis on preparation – as an instructional process – is
advantageous as an immediate goal, it could have far-reaching advantages not only for my
students, but for my colleagues and for the wider music community as well. Indeed, small
samplings of my pedagogical “preparing” ideas have been distributed across Canada and parts of
the United States in RCM’s (2016) Celebrate Theory publications. The LGs give further
substance to my ideas.
In their reviews of the LGs, the participants recognized analyzing, layering, and deepening
experiences that provide students with opportunities to explore, reinforce, and interpret musical
phenomena. For me, this is a vertical teaching progression that allows the student’s knowledge
of music theory to develop and grow, gaining in complexity as specific topics are excavated and
significant discernments begin to accumulate. With the preparing data, the participants
considered the LGs’ potential for broadening experiences in addition to the deepening
experiences previously discussed. This seems to me to be a horizontal teaching progression that
encourages the student’s musical/theoretical knowledge to widen, branching out and linking up
with the more advanced subjects of harmony and history through music listening experiences.
Elliott (1991a; 1995) proposes musicing as the action through which students develop the
critical abilities of perceptive listeners. This music-making action generates both verbal and non-
verbal knowledge – the former validated through logical evidence (knowing-that) and the latter
through practical success (knowing-how).83 Distinguishing formal knowledge from procedural
knowledge, Elliott adopts the term musicianship to cover the “horizontal range of capacities that
constitute procedural musical knowledge and the vertical sense of competency, proficiency, or
artistry we intend when we say that someone ‘really knows how’ to make music” (1991a, p. 29).

83
Elliott bases his notion of musicing, which manifests intelligence in actions as well as words and symbols, on
philosopher Gilbert Ryle’s influential book, The Concept of Mind (originally published in 1949).
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Although Elliot’s horizontal/vertical analogy is aligned with music as a practical process, and
mine tends toward a practical/theoretical integration of process and product, I am motivated to
broaden my data analysis by his multidimensional view of musical experiences and their
pedagogical interconnectedness.
These connections are nurtured by readiness, which for Bruner (1966) requires “mastery of
those simpler skills that permit [the student] to reach higher skills” (p. 29). For Kodály, readiness
involves a similar hierarchical arrangement of musical skills and concepts, but the sequence of
their instruction is dictated by the music (Choksy, 1999b), with readiness or preparation activities
determined by the new learnings to be derived from a specific work. In musical analysis, Rogers
(2004) describes characteristic analytical hierarchies that denote levels of connection or
relationship between musical events. Like its instructional counterpart, Rogers’ notion of
hierarchical awareness grows out of pattern perception. Gradually, information is accumulated
through sequential musical experiences and these experiences extend into the realm of more
advanced study through preparation.
The act of preparing, or making ready, constitutes the first stage in KM’s four-step
instructional process. This preparation stage is twofold. It requires: (1) the internalization of
previously learned concepts necessary for the understanding of new conceptual elements; and (2)
musical engagement with a repertoire of songs in which the new learnings are prominent. Within
the framework of my inquiry, the preparing data is primarily focused on the LGs’ potential for
the construction of necessary understandings. However, these constructions are also embedded
in the musical literature, although the chosen repertoire is sometimes less than ideal. KM’s
objectives at this first instructional stage are generally expressed as the integration of
participatory actions: preparing through hearing and singing. While I am pedagogically focused
on active listening, my intent is the same as Kodály’s – preparation (both verbal and non-verbal)
that functions as a catalyst for prospective or future understandings.
Since the LGs already incorporate an array of topics from RCM’s (2016e) most recent
rudiments curriculum, I expected the preparing data to reference advanced subject matter. While
much of it does, referring to assorted aspects of harmony and history, two rudiments-related
topics arose as well: ear training and melody writing. Although ear training is generally taught in
the context of a practical lesson, and is examined in the same context, its technical composition is
essentially theoretical. As a result, I have included discussions of ear training with the preparing
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data, rather than the subsequent connecting data. The participants’ observations of both
intermediate and advanced applications of preparation are followed by a brief preparing for
understanding section. The issue of reluctance or resistance, which became gradually more
prominent as my data analysis deepened, is less prominent with the broadening implications of
the preparing theme. I am led to conclude that the participants generally support the
implementation of preparatory activities in the context of an integrated music theory pedagogy,
but an art/science listening/thinking dualism lingers.

Intermediate Applications

Ear Training and Melody Writing: “It’s useful to them.” According to the Kanata group
participants, students who have experienced intervals in a musical setting, and have attained an
aural awareness of the experience, are better equipped to identify intervals in ear training
exercises. Our conversation was initiated by one of my pre-circulated questions:

• Do you help your rudiments students connect intervals and chords to their ear
training? How?

One of the group offered her experience:

DM: [W]hen we start out, with my kids, we do the circle of 5ths. So, I
actually maybe do it incorrect[ly]. But instead of making their theory and
ear training go together… Basically, if they know – like when they write
it – if they see an F, they know a perfect fourth is B-flat, because they
know their key signatures really well. So, I think my kids are better at
knowing their key signatures. Like [I’ll ask], “What’s E major?” and
they’ll just say, “Four sharps.” So, … that’s how I connect… (1K)

Even though she was somewhat unsure of herself, the participant quoted above brought up
an important point: “They know [intervals] because of the key signatures and their scales” (DM-
1K). This contextualization is vital because without it, the measurement of intervals becomes a
“counting exercise, basically” (KS-1K). And to memorize the number of half steps in every
interval is not only “[t]oo much work!” (ABs-1K), but it has no real musical meaning. It is also
unreliable. I have witnessed the break-down of this half-step counting system – both in my
studio, where transfer students struggle with identifying/writing intervals, and on RCM’s
rudiments examinations, where exam candidates enharmonically misspell intervals. These
misspellings are not isolated errors. They adversely affect transpositions and other interval-
related exercises as well.
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However, assuming that intervals are properly situated in major keys with a secure
knowledge of key signatures, there is also an issue of usefulness to consider:

ABs: I take that a little further. So, I don’t teach [a] perfect 4th from C to
F, in the key of F [major], it’s always so to do. It’s always G up to C [in
C major]. And I wrote a long spiel, in answer to that question, about how
working with chords, breaking them down, teaches intervals in a way that
actually helps [the students’] melody playback. Rather than, “Here’s an
interval. Here’s a melody playback.” They’re completely unrelated!
DM: Yeah, and that’s the thing that I still need to connect with my kids,
because they know… They can write [intervals] like pros now, right?
ABs: Their theory is fine.
DM: And they can hear them like pros, but they can’t…
KS: Put the two together.
DM: Well, “What’s the F?” Like yeah, I don’t know.
LLP: And … the so-do perfect 4th is much more useful because it’s part
of [the] tonic triad. But eventually, what they will come to know is that
there are many perfect 4ths, and you can find them in different places.
But that one is particularly important.
ABs: Mostly, it’s useful to them. (1K)

The “long spiel” that the first participant mentioned is excerpted from the notes that
accompanied her annotated LGs:

ABs: When working on ear training, I teach melody playback and interval
recognition as a connected exercise. For example, I would begin by
having the student sing or [play] a tonic note followed by the lower fifth
of the scale: do-so1-do. After the student is easily able to sing and
recognize this sound, I add the [leading tone]: do-so1-ti1-do. The pull of
the [half step] below the tonic is powerful, and they are easily able to
recognize the shape. Then, we begin a new shape, only using notes of the
tonic triad: do-mi-so-mi-do. Using a full 4-note chord or even two tonics,
thirds, and fifths, we practice outlining by ear different patterns. I then
combine the two concepts together: do-mi-so1-ti1-do. The student has
been exposed to a major 3rd, major 6th, another major 3rd, and a [half
step] – all within the context of key and with an awareness of a chord
progression: I-V-I. In time, I include notes of the IV chord for more
varied intervals. (aLG)

This participant’s systematic approach to ear training and the resulting contextualization of
significant intervals and chords is quite impressive. I can offer only one addition – that the first
melodic pattern (do-so1-do) be derived from a piece of music. The repertoire need not be
complicated. The final phrase of Frères Jacques, for instance, would do nicely: “Ding, dang,
dong. Ding, dang, dong.”
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Melody playback, in which the student is asked to play a short melody after hearing it
several times, is an aural practice that optimally incorporates the student’s knowledge of music
theory.84 But it can be drilled without that knowledge – as a purely aural experience based on
trial-and-error. Crudely summarized, melody playback is often the result of listening without
thinking. Melody writing, conversely, is a written practice that serves as a synthesis of the
student’s theoretical knowledge. In my experience, however, it is frequently the result of
thinking without listening. A combination of the two would be ideal.
Just as thinking, or an awareness of theoretical elements, can facilitate successful playback
experiences, interpretive listening can aid the student’s melody writing competencies. Having
analyzed Mozart’s aria, he/she may be led to notice, “‘Oh, I could do that if I want to express…’
You know, anger or whatever” (PG-1O). In Orleans, we returned to the concept of melody
writing several times. One of our conversations is excerpted here:

LLP: And maybe that translates, even a little bit, into melody writing, as
you were saying, [participant’s name], too. That… Just the ability to first
of all have an opinion, and then to be able to translate that into some kind
of musical something of their own, and to… Maybe our job, as teachers,
is just to create a safe space for that to happen. For them to be able to
voice how they feel about a piece of music and then to be able to put
something to paper. Which of course…
PG: And then to listen to what they put on the paper. Because melody
writing, I have students… They write something and I say, “Did you play
this?” “No.” “Okay, let’s play it!” They play the question [phrase], I
play the answer, and it’s this… And they look at me, and it’s like, “Yeah!
It doesn’t work!” You know. And it’s interesting, how it gets
mechanical. Answer the question, write the… Use this rhythm, use these
notes. But where does the music part come in?

84
In the musicianship portion of RCM’s (2015) piano examinations, the examiner will “identify the key, play the
tonic triad once, and play the melody twice (p. 15, original emphasis). Beginning with level 5, the tonic triad is
expanded to a four-note chord and the melody, which becomes progressively more complex, is played three times.
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LLP: Right. And maybe … the discernment of pleasantness or

unpleasantness comes a little bit into that discussion, too. And it’s a very
fine line to work with their … creations, and to criticize them. I mean,
first of all you have to… But I think by creating or giving them very
small parameters, so that what they create will essentially… If their first
compositions are on the black keys entirely, for instance, they can’t come
up with anything that doesn’t… That’s too crunchy. But what I often do
for my students is… Well, we play it through, of course, and in the end
it’s always, “Your ear will know what to do. Where does it want to
[go]?”
ABn: I think that has to do with the safe place, too. To be able to do that,
and to do it, and then think about it a little more, or try some other things,
or in a few weeks come back to it. And give them the opportunity to say,
“Oh my gosh, that really didn’t work so well. Let’s try something else.”
So, … the idea to grow and to develop – to evolve. That way, they have
a safe space. (1O)

Needless to say, the creation of a supportive environment in which the student feels free to
experiment is not something that originates with a set of instructional materials. This kind of
support lies within the teacher’s domain. But the LGs can provide assistance by increasing the
student’s base of knowledge and therefore, contributing to her/his understanding of how to
handle melody writing tasks.
Creative successes at intermediate levels can bring confidence to more complex tasks at
advanced levels. Although one of the Orleans group participants criticized what she considers to
be the “mechanical” side of melody writing – “use this rhythm, use these notes” (1O-PG) – the
utilization of fairly stringent parameters helps to ensure the student’s early success. As her/his
experiences grow in number, so too do they grow in complexity. The initial parameters are
gradually relaxed until they eventually disappear, in the manner of Bruner’s (1963) scaffolding.
But good melody writing involves more than stringing random notes over an arbitrary rhythmic
pattern – even if the notes are selected from a specific list and the rhythm is pre-determined.
There is an intuitive “rightness” about the process that comes with experience – and knowledge.

Advanced Applications

Harmony and History: “To start thinking about…” The Toronto group participants,
presumably because of their experiences as examiners, were slightly more attuned to the
preparation of intuitive knowledge in the LGs. While some of the preparatory activities include
explicit melody writing tasks, most of the student’s preparation for more advanced subjects is
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drawn from harmonic analysis. The Kanata group participant, quoted earlier, outlined her
intervallic approach to ear training “within the context of key and with an awareness of [the I-V-
I] chord progression” (ABs-aLG). This awareness is fundamental to the study of harmony. From
the preparing data, I extracted discussions about specific intervals and chords, such as the tritone
and the dominant 7th chord, as well as some of the procedural mechanisms of harmony,
including chord spellings/symbols, common tones, non-chord tones, and implied harmonies.
Many of these harmonic concepts are introduced in RCM’s (2016e) intermediate theory
curriculum (levels 5-8). However, as separate parts of music theory, their place or function
within a musical whole is not necessarily addressed. The LGs are meant to fill this gap. In the
last activity for Mendelssohn’s Overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream, I isolated a dominant
7th chord that precedes the final transformation of the royal theme – where the composer
highlights the chord’s significance by marking it with a fermata (m. 657). Among several
analytical tasks, I asked the student to “[n]ame the interval between clarinet parts.” One of the
Toronto group participants singled out this request:

CP: Because that’s… The interval between the clarinet parts is the
tritone. I’m just wondering if that’s the reason for putting that question
there – is to get them to understand that.
LLP: I don’ think they have the word tritone. They might. But I’m
happy for them to say diminished 5th. Actually, that’s interesting,
because I could easily go there. I could easily say that this interval is a
[tritone].
CP: It’s a very important interval. (1T)

In a harmonic context, the tritone is a significant interval because it is key-defining. It is also

imbedded in the dominant 7th chord, which is an equally significant element of harmony.
I included the dominant 7th chord in the LG for Mozart’s aria, as well as for Mendelssohn’s
overture, because it is a new curricular element at level 5. The chord’s appearance in Activity #5
initiated a preparing discussion with the same participant:

CP: Do we point out the special nature of the dominant 7th to them? Do
we care if they know that at this level?
LLP: It would be a really good thing. Maybe that’s part of the “more”…
CP: Later on. Okay.
LLP: I think at this level, at least for me, I just want them to be able to
spell it, and [to] be able to find it. But yes, there’s certainly more
discussion that could happen.
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CP: I did like the common tones between chords, and you did it more
than once, that I saw, and that’s really important to me.
LLP: I’m always looking ahead to harmony and so, trying to bring [in] as
many concepts that I know they’re going to need later [as I can]. (1T)

Perhaps the key to future learnings is exposure. If the student is exposed to specific chords early
and often, it stands to reason that he/she will begin to recognize them in the performance
repertoire. And from her/his own observations, the student will begin to develop an
understanding of the chords’ characteristic properties.
This understanding is extremely useful when the student is introduced to the concept of
implied harmonies, which are the harmonies suggested by a melody’s configuration. Indeed, the
presence or absence of a strong harmonic foundation differentiates a good melody from a bad
melody. In the fourth activity for the “Queen of the Night” Aria, I stated that “Mozart’s melody
is based on the notes of an F major triad,” and directed the student to circle prominent notes from
this triad in the excerpt. The same Toronto group participant responded as follows:

CP: Yeah, I think it’s good because the average student probably doesn’t
make the connection. They’re just playing the dots on the page and not
thinking any farther. And in particular, the Classical spectrum of things.
It’s just what’s on the page, and I encourage my students to get off the
page as quickly as possible. And chord spelling is big for me. If you
can’t spell the chords, you’re kind of hooped. This is good – making
them think early there is this sense of the tonic triad projected over time,
which helps with their harmony later. (1T)

I especially appreciate his last comment – concerning the “tonic triad projected over time” –
because many students assume that triads are always solid structures. They play triads in broken
form as technical exercises but in theoretical exercises, triads are ordinarily written in
solid/blocked form. Consequently, music theory students forget that broken chords exist – that
chords can manifest themselves as horizontal entities. They are not always vertical.
The Toronto group participants mentioned the LGs’ preparation for implied harmonies
several times. “Implied harmony, good introduction to… Like, ‘What chord is implied by C and
E?’” (CP-1T). This participant is referring to the first beat of m. 3 in Bach’s invention which,
because of its two-part organization, is an incomplete chord. But if the student has had previous
experiences with implied harmonies, he/she should be able to supply the missing chord tone
without difficulty.
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Analysis often requires interpretation, which should be practiced from the outset. But a
piece of music is composed of many intricate details, and the interpretive nature of analysis
implies that it is fully dependent on the knowledge of the doer at the time of its doing. I got
caught in this interpretive web with my analysis of the second excerpted melody from Mozart’s
aria (see Appendix 4.1). Once the student becomes aware that most melodies are based on
broken chords, I was intent on ensuring that he/she understands there is more to the story – that
most melodies fill the skips or leaps between chord members with other notes, diatonic or
chromatic. My discussion with the Toronto group is included below:

LLP: So, I guess this is trying to address the … other notes in the middle.
That the triads are not the whole melody.
CP: Yeah.
CM: But that’ll make it easier later on when they’re trying to decipher
implied harmony, right?
CP: Exactly. Yeah, good point.
LLP: And eventually they will have to [identify] non-chord tones too and
so, although I can’t use words like passing tones etc. at this level, I can
begin to open that topic for them, just in a small way.
CM: Are there chord changes?
LLP: There are, technically.
CM: I-V-I, I-IV-I.
LLP: Yeah, there are technically chord changes in there but I…
CM: But, I mean, because they’re not really passing notes, would you say
here?
LLP: Yeah.
CM: But, like I said, I think it’s great that they start to see things, so that
it’ll be easier when they’re trying to decipher [implied harmonies]. (1T)

The participant who challenged my analysis is entirely correct. Mozart’s harmonization of

the first melody, from which I extracted an F major triad, is V6-vi-iii6-IV-I6-V6-I-IV6/4-I-IV6/4-I.
Figure 5.1 shows the melody along with a reduction of its accompaniment:
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Figure 5.1: Harmonic Reduction of Mozart’s “Der Hölle Rache” (mm. 24-32)

The second melody, from which I derived an interval exercise, is I6-ii6/5-vii°7/V-I6/4-I6-I-V8/6/4-

7 5
/ /3-I, shown in Figure 5.2:

Figure 5.2: Harmonic Reduction of Mozart’s “Der Hölle Rache” (mm. 43-37)

Both are considerably more complex than I intimated. Was I wrong to simplify the harmonies?
Did I misrepresent Mozart’s melodies for the student? While it is always my intent to teach with
“scrupulous intellectual honesty” (Bruner, 1963, p. 13), in this instance, it is necessary to begin
the analytical unpacking of these melodies with elements that are known to the student, such as
tonic triads and dominant 7th chords. But there is certainly more to this story too. When the
student is ready, and if he/she is receptive, a comprehensive harmonic analysis could be
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undertaken – with assistance from the teacher and/or a CLG. However, the issue of readiness is
paramount.
Despite her analytical apprehension, the participant grasped my larger purpose “that they
start to see things” (CM-1T). And not only to see, but to hear: “I think that this sets it up really
well for the Mendelssohn later, for hearing harmonically. And I really like the way you’ve
outlined those first four chords” (CM-1T). Perhaps an alternate or simplified harmonization is
acceptable since it can grow in complexity along with the student’s intellectual maturity. And
perhaps it is advantageous for her/him to recognize that a melody – even Mozart’s or
Mendelssohn’s – can be harmonized in multiple ways. This recognition creates opportunities for
experimentation. However, some topics, like invertible counterpoint, may be better left for later.
“Yeah, it would take some leg-work on their part to understand invertible counterpoint – all the
ins and outs of [it]. That’s a challenge!” (CP-1T). Regardless, it is possible to properly prepare
the student for future experiences with contrapuntal textures.
For the preparation of topics in music history, the Toronto group participants were again
the most vocal since they all mark RCM’s history examinations – two of them at advanced
(ARCT) levels. An Orleans group participant requested additional information:

PG: Maybe even more on the composer himself? Is that…? My kids

love learning about composers. Nitty-gritties about the composers. You
know, it’s like… **gasps** Really?
ABn: Yeah, what would the composer have been thinking?
AC: He did what? (1O)

Although it was comically delivered, the thought behind her request is sincere. A similar desire
for background information was conveyed by the Kanata group participants.
In Toronto, the conversation assumed larger preparing dimensions:

CP: [I]s this a place to address musical style, at all? Like with Mozart,
you have to contrast this diatonic/triadic thing to something with
chromaticism. A lot. Is that a place for this? To start thinking about…
Because that’s a tough thing on the history [exams] – a stylistic feature.
Yeah, it’s usually not really well done. (1T)

My initial response to this participant’s query was that the LGs are not the place for discussions
of finely nuanced stylistic features. But his question gave me pause to think. Even though a
typical level 5 student is not ready for a sophisticated discussion of Mozart’s diatonic/chromatic
approach to the subtleties of tonality, he/she could begin a process of noticing. Consequently, my
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revised response to his query is more accommodating. The LGs could include musical style
features but there is a potential implementation problem. While my participant suggested
additional information-sharing textboxes, I am hesitant to take this course of action since it
amounts to a telling exercise that counters my pedagogical emphasis on the process of deriving or
discovering.
The LGs’ analytical approach may already open the door to stylistic interpretation by
encouraging the student to notice specific theoretical elements in other repertoire that he/she is
studying. Another of the Toronto group participants articulated this notion in relation to
Mozart’s aria:

CM: [With] this Activity #5, just outlining what the features are and what
the remarkable features are, … gets them thinking a different way. Like,
because often we find [on] history [exams] that they don’t really know
what to talk about. It’s more a running dialogue of what they’re playing.
(1T).

Nurturing the student’s exploration of the musical literature and enabling her/him to think
differently about music theory is my primary objective.
Preparing for future learnings in music history, the student may also be introduced to the
concept of timbre or tone colour through exposure to the sounds of instruments other than the
piano. Many students are acquainted with instrumental timbres from their participation in school
music ensembles, including concert bands, jazz bands, or even string orchestras. While some of
these students pursue private studies on a variety of instruments, the majority are pianists. Few,
however, have seen or heard a harpsichord. Bach’s Invention No. 1 in C Major, because it was
originally written for this instrument, gives the student an occasion to explore the harpsichord’s
unique timbral qualities.
Although I did not specifically introduce it in the level 6 LG, I mentioned the harpsichord
in conjunction with the student’s first listening to Bach’s invention. My concern about the
instrument’s lack of explanation was relieved by a Toronto group participant:

CP: I think that’s enough, just to make them think, “Harpsichord, oh

yeah.” And hopefully they ask good questions about the harpsichord.
And [the teacher] could go into the [explanation]: “Cristofori invented the
harpsichord, or the piano, in 1705.” Blah, blah, blah. Get them going
that way. That would be nice. (1T)
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I do not wish to shirk my pedagogical responsibility in the matter but I, too, feel that the type of
description he has offered is better communicated by the teacher. As author, I believe it is my
role to stay on track – to maintain an inquisitive analytical perspective, and not to lose sight of
my integrated art/science, music/theory mission.
When the repertoire invites it, timbral discussions are entirely appropriate and rather timely.
In Mendelssohn’s Overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream, for instance, the orchestration is an
intrinsic component of the work. “Ah yes, getting to think about instrumental colour. Great
idea! Because I find that missing a lot from the history exams – the nature of instrumental colour
and how important it is. It’s not addressed enough” (CP-1T). An awareness of timbral
distinctiveness can begin at level 6 with Bach’s invention and continue at level 7 with
Mendelssohn’s overture. Consequently, it becomes part of the student’s noticing of theoretical
elements in the musical literature that he/she studies and performs.
Along with an expansion of the student’s analytical/theoretical awareness, listening
experiences can expand her/his historical awareness. By incorporating unfamiliar repertoire from
outside the confines of the common-practice period, the student’s base of knowledge enlarges.
For example, an engagement with 4/2 meter in Josquin’s El grillo can prepare for other such
engagements in similar repertoire. One of the Toronto group participants remarked: “Me, I
would stick with the 4/2 because of the student who is onto other Renaissance vocal music.
They’re going to run into it anyway. So [this way], they’ve had some experience with it” (CP-
1T). In other words, the student’s music reading skills will have been prepared. They will have
been reinforced and enriched as well.

Preparing for Understanding

Choosing Repertoire: “A connection.” An analysis of El grillo also prepares the student

for interpretations of word painting, which is a common feature of secular vocal genres in the
Renaissance era. From my experience as an examiner, I appreciate that many history students
struggle with descriptions of these phenomena. With even less familiarity, rudiments students
are apt to encounter the same struggles. As I explained to the Orleans group participants, even if
I define word painting, I cannot simply ask the student for examples. This is a question that is
often badly answered on music history exams because examination candidates do not know how
to respond. For example, they write, “Fair Phyllis I saw sitting all alone,” but they do not
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describe its musical depiction.85 This first line of text is set for soprano alone, representing
Phyllis, and the second line – “Feeding her flock near to the mountainside” – for soprano along
with the remaining voices, which represent her flock. Thus, word painting is found in the
composer’s depiction of the text – not in the text itself.
My pedagogical approach to solving this problem of musical depiction involves asking the
student both direct and indirect or open-ended questions. Direct questions about text
displacements or rhythmic syncopations, for instance, illustrate common language/vocabulary as
well as common strategies for the description of word painting. Given these examples, he/she is
better prepared to answer questions like: “How does the music imitate the cricket’s chirping?”
And such a question, which focuses on a specific occurrence of word painting, will prepare the
student for later requests at advanced levels that are completely open.
I asked open-ended questions with the knowledge that answers will be manageable for
many students, but they will not be manageable for others. Teachers may also have difficulty.
They are liable to want a single “correct” answer rather than an assortment of possible answers
that invite dialogue. However, by starting slowly and moving incrementally one step at a time,
the student can be led to an understanding of what to do or how to answer questions that require
her/his interpretation of musical events. Thus, he/she will have gathered enough experience to be
able to answer confidently. “Agreed” (PG-1O). The student’s interpretive encounter with
Josquin’s cricket may foreshadow an additional encounter. “There’s another cricket in the
Ancient Voices of Children [1970]. A connection” (CP-1T). American composer George
Crumb’s (b. 1929) highly virtuosic work, subtitled “A Cycle of Songs on Texts by Federico
Garcia Lorca” (1898-1936), was a required work for the ARCT history examination until
independent study topics displaced it, and other twentieth-century works, in RCM’s (2016e)
Theory Syllabus.
The choice of repertoire is a crucial consideration for an integrated music theory pedagogy
– for a core of well-chosen musical works is the source of its subject matter. An integrated
pedagogical approach creates both relevance and usefulness since a growing understanding of
music theory enables the student’s broadening preparation for future music studies. In essence,
music theory enables her/him to analyze increasingly complex works of musical literature. But

85
Published in 1599, Fair Phyllis is an English madrigal by John Farmer (fl.1591-1601). Written for four
unaccompanied voices (SATB), its clever word painting expresses a lighthearted, pastoral text (Forney & Machlis,
2007).
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the literature is dual-purposed: music theory both explains it and is derived from it. The Kanata
group participants discussed some of RCM’s repertoire choices:

ABs: It’s a bit cherry-picked, the repertoire.

LLP: Very. And even El grillo, while it’s, you know, a cute little piece…
ABs: It’s fun.
LLP: It is historically, academically… [Scholars] don’t even know that it
was written by Josquin. This is the only version of it, and there are
mistakes in it. They believe that it was … added as an after-thought to fill
… pages at the end of a collection. So, it doesn’t represent a frottola very
well. It certainly doesn’t represent Josquin very well. So, it’s…
KS: Interesting that they chose it then…
ABs: It’s catchy!
KS: You know what? Catching the students’ interest is a way to keep
them going.
LLP: That’s really what [RCM’s] all about. And trying to get them to
listen to a variety of repertoire. But for me, just scratching the surface of
it, just listening to it, does not really give them any real insights into it.
Or what’s there, or…
KS: What they need.
ABs: But maybe that’s not the goal too, right? Maybe the goal is just to
have a listen and… (1K)

While the participants expressed approval for the preparing or readiness activities in the
LGs, a faint undertone of reluctance or resistance entered this excerpted discussion. It hints at a
separation between music listening and music theory, assuming the student’s interest would not
be served if her/his listening involved too much thinking. This assumption perpetuates traditional
views of music theory as a non-musical science.

Connecting from a Student Perspective

Maintaining an attitude that there is something to be learned in every circumstance, my

student-self is a constant presence. As a student of music theory, I was concerned about the lack
of connectivity between my early study of rudiments and my later study of tonal harmony – the
central topic of my preparing theme. Even more concerning was the lack of connectivity
between my practical training and my theoretical training. In essence, I was missing a direct link
between the art of music and the science of music theory. My connecting theme revolves around
this missing link. It interrogates my attempt, with the LGs, to reconcile music and music theory
as an integrated entity.
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In the horizontal broadening experiences that comprise the preparing data, my participants
considered the implementation of the LGs from a readiness perspective. This element of
preparation allows the student’s musical/theoretical knowledge to connect with the more
complicated components of rudiments, such as ear training and melody writing, as well as the
more advanced subjects of harmony and history. With the connecting data, the student’s
knowledge of music theory is encouraged to widen into the domain of her/his performance
studies. By joining or linking the student’s practical and theoretical understandings of music, the
LGs encourage a holistic comprehension of music as an integrated artistic/theoretic
process/product. Consequently, he/she will experience music as a whole that combines
intimately interconnected parts.
According to Regelski (1982), historical understandings of the musical whole were reduced
to its analyzed, classified, and labelled parts, thus equating or confusing factual information with
knowledge. Since the reconstitution of this atomistic analysis relied on intuitive processes of
association and interpretation, music as a whole was often neglected. Even with observational or
empirical approaches that formulate harmonic theory from the analysis of common practice,
repeated musical patterns frequently “solidif[ied] into a system of rules, which then [became]
codified as music theory” (Thompson, 1980, p. 129). These “rules” configure music theory as a
science separate from music as an art. My inquiry counters their segregation in conventional
teaching with a practical/theoretical reconnection that emphasizes the inclusivity of integration
and the unity of an integrated pedagogical praxis.
LaBoskey (2004) advocates the educational viability of an interrelationship between theory
and practice. In a musical context, Jorgensen (2005) suggests that the intersection of theory and
practice provides not only an understanding of the musical work, but an understanding of the
“wholes and parts that comprise the work of music education” (p. 32). Inspired by the curricular
potential of Jorgensen’s suggestion, I am convinced that her dynamic view of teaching, which
encourages the functionality of student/teacher interactions, will allow the hypothetical nature of
theory to inhabit the experiential realm of practice – by way of a mutually beneficial connection.
The act of connecting implies a fastening together that usually requires intervention by
some means or matter. The intervening methods/materials provide both parties with access and
communication. In the context of my inquiry, the LGs may be construed as intervening materials
that provide the student with the means to access works of musical literature and to communicate
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discoveries that stem from her/his analysis or interpretation of these works. The student’s
discoveries may then be transferred to other repertoire which will either confirm or refute her/his
conclusions. But more importantly, the student will have established a two-way bridge between
her/his practical and theoretical experiences of music – a bridge that enables the student to bring
theoretical knowledge to the performance of repertoire and practical relevance to the study of
music theory.
A connecting bridge facilitates the comparisons that Rogers (2004) links with the
characteristics of musical analysis. These comparisons disclose similarities and differences –
both internally, between sections of a work, and/or externally, between one work and another.
Analytical comparisons can be revealing, especially “when looking for differences among pieces
that have obvious similarities … and similarities among pieces with obvious differences” (p. 76).
The LGs primarily emphasize internal comparisons. These can be illustrated by some of the
assignment tasks for Mendelssohn’s Overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream:

• Compare articulation marks for the young lovers’ theme and the fairies’ theme. How
are they different?
• Compare dynamic marks for the clowns’ theme and the fairies’ theme. How are they
different?

The LGs also emphasize external comparisons by interacting with similar theoretical elements,
such as triads, in disparate musical works.
For me, the connecting data represents a merging of experience and intelligence in the
doing and thinking of music. At the intersection of these music/theory endeavours is the concept
of relevance. Although music theory is customarily charged with the burden of relevance –
“What can reading/writing activities offer my students’ playing or listening?” – I would argue
that playing/listening activities should also inform students’ musical reading and writing. The
participants’ ideas regarding my latter statement were not addressed since most of our connecting
discussions centered on the former. These discussions are categorized by voice or instrument,
with instrumental considerations further sorted by family classifications: keyboards, strings
(including guitar), and winds. A connecting for understanding section concludes this theme with
the participants’ recommendations for further instructional materials that combine music theory
with music performance. But the implementation of these integrated materials raises a hint of
reluctance or resistance in the discernment that a substantial investment of time may be required.
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Practical Relevance

Vocal Considerations: “We want to bring this music alive.” It was generally observed by
the participants that music listening experiences can stimulate students’ aural awareness of the
basic elements of music: rhythm, melody, harmony, texture, structure, and expression. This
awareness can then enhance their playing/singing experiences with heightened attention to these
same elements. In effect, it brings the activity of listening into the realm of performing. But it
may also bring performing into the realm of analyzing, which emphasizes the need for accessible
repertoire. I have, in the previous chapter, expressed my views about the inappropriateness of
Mozart’s “Queen of the Night” Aria for level 5.
Student/teacher collaborations are confronted with problems of accessibility. The first
stumbling block is the positioning of Mozart’s famous melody in the aria. “Are they supposed to
connect this [rhythm/melody] to that actual part in the aria?” (JR-1T). The pre-listening
activities, which introduce Mozart’s melody through its constituent elements, are intended to
prepare the student to hear the composer’s rendering of it. “[T]hinking from the teacher’s point
of view,” this Toronto group participant wondered if it would be “helpful for [teachers] to know,
for instance, what bar this would be if they were trying to cross-reference the score” (JR-1T).
Measure numbers could easily be included in the LG. But it is the participant’s thinking from the
student’s point of view that implies a practical connection, albeit a less-than-satisfactory one. He
expressed concern for the student’s ability to sing Mozart’s melody, citing potential challenges in
both its range and its register – a second stumbling block.
Even transposed an octave below its original coloratura register, Mozart’s melody may not
be singable, particularly for younger students. Nevertheless, in the participant’s words: “[W]e
want to bring this music alive. We want the student to experience it” (JR-1T). He suggested that
I maybe give the student a “heads-up that this [melody] require[s] a large range,” to prevent
her/him from protesting, “‘Am I expected to be able to sing this high?’” (JR-1T). He also
suggested that I maybe use “some kind of dotted-line bracket that might [signal], ‘Oh, you may
want to stop here.’” (JR-1T). I would rather not clutter the student’s excerpts with non-musical
information or instructions, but I could certainly include the participant’s suggestions in the
teacher’s CLG. I had anticipated the range issue and addressed it by giving the student an option
to play Mozart’s melody on her/his instrument. But another of the Toronto group participants
defended my request for the melody to be sung: “[I]t’s still kind of in a singable range. Like C to
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F is basically [similar to] O Canada, right? So, it’s not like F is that bad, or a totally unsingable
note” (CM-1T). But if singing is out of the question, playing is a viable alternative – for a
physical experience of Mozart’s melody, however it is accomplished, is the point of the activity.
This physical experience internalizes the melody which, along with its subsequent analysis,
establishes the groundwork for a practical/theoretical connection. Avenues of access and
communication are opened. Naturally, Mozart’s aria and Josquin’s frottola, as vocal/choral
works, hold the greatest relevance for voice students who regularly cope with the added element
of text. As a pianist, I consider programmatic nuances only if the piece I am playing features a
descriptive title, such as Claude Debussy’s (1862-1918) impressionist prélude La Cathédrale
engloutie. But in vocal/choral works, the music is fully integrated with the text and vocalists
must incorporate aspects of word painting in their performances – regardless of language.
Therefore, a translation of the text is required.
In the level 8 LG, I asked the student to translate the Italian text of El grillo into English. I
intended to connect some of the translated words with Josquin’s setting of them, then to connect
his setting with the student’s listening experience. I did not expect there to be a further
connection – to the student’s performance repertoire – but in relation to the LG’s translating
assignment, one of the Toronto group participants commented:

CM: [I]t’s nice when it crosses fields. So, for instance, a singer would
always do this. That would be… Even at level 6, you’d be required to do
this for your lesson. So, the fact that you’re doing an assignment that
would be similar to what the expectations of a singer would be, I think
that’s great. (1T)

I did not recognize this connection at the writing stage, but I am grateful to know it now. I am
also grateful for my participant’s caution regarding translations: “Even things like level 1 – Ma
bella bimba (Lovely Little Lady)” – a traditional song believed to have originated in Italy.
“Well, that’s not what it means. It means ‘pretty little girl,’ but you can’t sing, ‘Oh come, my
pretty little girl.’ Right?” (CM-1T). “It could be a felony!” (JR-1T). Accordingly, guidance in
matters of interpretation is sometimes necessary but vocal connections are established,
nonetheless. The student’s understanding of word painting is enhanced with the interpretive
nuances of music theory. This enhanced understanding then fosters more meaningful
performative experiences with the repertoire.
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Instrumental Considerations: “Can you play it?” Keyboard connections are generally
more subtle than their vocal counterparts but they can, on occasion, be obvious – as with Bach’s
Invention No. 1 in C Major. Theoretically, the genre is introduced in RCM’s (2016e) Theory
Syllabus at level 1. Practically, Bach’s fifteen two-part inventions are listed as possible repertoire
selections in RCM’s (2015c) Piano Syllabus, divided between level 7 (including No. 1) and level
8. The Orleans group participants highlighted the possibility that a student utilizing the level 6
LG could play this invention in the Baroque segment of her/his past, present, or future piano
studies.
Since Bach’s Invention No. 1 is situated in the theory curriculum at level 6, but in the piano
curriculum at level 7, RCM’s sequencing implies that it should be studied before it is played.
However, a written analysis of the work, without a musical rendering, may not be recognized or
remembered by the student. Conversely, if the invention is played before it is studied, there is a
much greater potential for interest in its analysis – an interest I have witnessed with music theory
students who recognize repertoire they have previously played. But despite the order of
engagement, one encounter will surely influence the other and a musical/theoretical relationship
will develop. “I always like the connection that I can play it on the piano” (CP-1T). Playing
Bach’s invention on a harpsichord would bring the student’s performance experience to an even
higher, historically-informed level. “You rarely hear it on a harpsichord… I like hearing it on a
harpsichord” (CP-1T). This is seldom possible since few piano teachers have access to a
harpsichord, although the harpsichord setting on a digital piano may serve an interim purpose.
An example of a less obvious keyboard connection came from one of the Toronto group
participants in relation to Josquin’s El grillo. The LG directs the student to name the implied key
and cadence at mm. 36-37, which requires some contextual “sleuthing” since the cadential chord-
of-arrival is incomplete. The participant asked: “Would they necessarily look to a tierce de
Picardie? Because they played it in their Bach?” (CP-1T).86 He raises a very good question.
The decision to complete the chord with a major third or a minor third is ultimately the student’s,
but her/his choice could present a useful teachable moment. The key is implied by the
surrounding measures. If the student has written a tierce de Picardie, I would be inclined to refer
her/him to Josquin’s musical clues. Not only is D minor implied, but the position of the cadence,

86
A tierce de Picardie (Picardy third) refers to the raised/sharpened major third of the final tonic chord in an
otherwise minor-key composition of the late Renaissance or Baroque eras. The term was first used in 1767 by Jean-
Jacques Rousseau (1712-1778) in his Dictionnaire de musique (Randel, 1986).
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at the end of a section rather than the end of the piece, makes a tierce de Picardie unusual – as
does its characteristic historical context. In any case, the ensuing discussion would likely
enhance the student’s understanding of this predominantly Baroque mannerism.
One of my goals with the LGs is to demonstrate that the contents of music theory, like
intervals and chords for instance, are not only the province of reading/writing exercises or ear
training identifications. They are the ingredients from which music is formed and as such, they
are the foundational workings of the student’s repertoire:

LLP: That’s my primary focus, is wanting to show them that [intervals

and chords] don’t just happen in a theory book, that they are part of the
music as well.
DM: Or … scales. Like, “Why do we do scales?” Well, open any piece
of music – you’ll find a dominant 7th [chord]. You’ll find scales.
KS: “Have you played a sonatina lately?” (1K)

As well as providing the student with examples of these basic compositional elements, sonatinas
provide a valuable connection to the structural components of sonata form. Exposition,
development, and recapitulation are introduced in RCM’s (2016e) Theory Syllabus at level 6, but
“[t]hese should be terms that come up at the [practical] lesson anyway, because they’re playing
sonatinas from a young age, right?” (CM-1T). Piano students encounter sonatinas, or smaller-
scale sonatas, at level 3. “[S]tring players … don’t play sonatas that young, but they play
concertos, starting at level 3” (CM-1T). Concertos too incorporate sonata form.
The prevalence of sonata form in the musical literature of the Classical era should ensure its
familiarity, whether explicit or implicit. It is the focal point of the LG for Mendelssohn’s
Overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream, although most of the activities are positioned within
the exposition section. The assignment for Activity #5, which involves listening beyond the
exposition, is essentially a “fast-forward” analysis through the entire work, but I did not want the
student to passively listen. I wanted to create a directed listening experience with specific
structural components that he/she could aurally detect in the remaining sections. While I do not
necessarily expect the student to locate these components without assistance, he/she may have
previous playing experiences from which to speculate and to forge independent musical/structural
connections.
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Even if it is only the terms – exposition, development, and recapitulation – that are familiar,
the student is poised to associate practical and theoretical conceptions of formal structure by
listening to Mendelssohn’s overture from beginning to end:

LLP: [The assignment’s] an effort to try and move them in that direction.
And whether they actually, as I say, get it on their own, or whether they
… need help [and take it back to the teacher], it’s a way of opening the
conversation.
CP: That’s a good way to put it. (1T)

The conversation that this assignment may generate enables a learning experience for both
student and teacher. The teacher’s experience will then carry forward to other students.
There is great responsibility in the teacher’s guiding counsel, particularly for younger
students. Connections can be unwittingly thwarted by the misuse or misunderstanding of a single
word, as a Kanata group participant recounted:

ABs: We make it out that our students are completely incompetent, but
somedays you wonder, right? Like you think things are obvious and they
miss it on just the smallest word, so…
LLP: Yes, that’s exactly it.
DM: Well, even when you were doing your beat vs. count, wasn’t that…?
ABs: I have a grade 9 student who is 11 years old, who… I asked her
to… I said, “How many beats are in this bar?” And she said she didn’t
know. It’s 4/4 time and she’s doing grade 9 music. “How can you not
know this?” I said, “[student’s name], write in the counts.” 1, 2, 3, 4,
perfectly placed. I said, “Well, there you go.” She [said], “Oh! Is that all
we were counting?”
LLP: Ah-ha!
ABs: I always said counts. And I’m like, “Wow, you’re a bad teacher,
[participant’s own name]. Like, how did you not know that?”
LLP: No, stuff like that…
DM: But it’s just little…
KS: It’s the little things that just slip in. (1T)

Terminology, or the inconsistent use of terminology, can make or break practical/theoretical

connections, either supporting or severing them.
My use of the term member to describe the individual notes of triads or chords may prompt
a similar inconsistency. One of the Kanata group participants asked, “What do they use in the
theory books? Notes?” (ABs-1K). Another asked about the musicianship requirements in
RCM’s (2015c) Piano Syllabus. Reading from page 37, she quoted: “Students will be asked to
identify a single note as the root, third, or fifth of a major or minor triad” (DM-1K, emphasis
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added) – an ear training/testing requirement at levels 3 and 4. Her reasoning is sound. “Yeah,
because I was thinking over to this syllabus and I was like… If you’re teaching … theory and we
teach piano, right? So, we probably use the same terminology” (DM-1K). I may yet have to
replace member with the more widely accepted note.
In Orleans, our connecting discussion was less pragmatic. It centered on the concepts of
consonance and dissonance, which I thought may be too subtle or buried too deeply beneath the
surface of the LGs, but the concepts themselves are subtly nuanced. The following is excerpted
from the group’s conversation:

ABn: [I]f you’re talking of consonance and dissonance, I find that the
kids do hear that, even in the younger pieces. So, it’s just a matter of
bringing it out in the pieces that they play, because my personal feelings
about theory is that it’s understanding the music that you’re playing. So,
I do try to take advantage of, if there’s a dissonance, to try to… “Yes,
great, you noticed that! That’s wonderful!”
JK: Do you find they often correct? They re-correct to a dissonance, or to
a consonance?
ABn: No. In my experience, they just tend to point out that this can’t be
right, or they hesitate. “No, this can’t be right. I couldn’t have got it
right.” And that’s a good moment to say, “Yeah, you did, actually.” And
there’s a reason for that because it’s going to sound so much better when
it does come out [or resolve]. Maybe that’s not the right way to put it, but
it is the dissonance. I just think, so many of those things they do notice,
and it’s a moment to just say, “Yeah! Good for you. You noticed that.”
That’s what so much of this is, isn’t it? Developing vocabulary. For me,
the biggest thing is to help them to find the words to explain what it is
that they’re hearing. Because they don’t know. They’re hearing
something, but they just don’t know how to explain it. Like probably
other things in life too, they haven’t developed the vocabulary. (1O)

Perhaps it is important for the teacher to actively notice the student’s reaction to the music he/she
is playing. The teacher can then help the student verbalize her/his response and identify its
musical source.
Eventually, the student will be able to draw from her/his own playing experience. “And, as
[one of the participants] is often fond of saying, ‘It’s not always about the piano.’ There are other
instruments, and there are other music students that are … hopefully” using the LGs (ABn-1O).
Consequently, Mozart’s potentially unsingable melody can be brought into the student’s sphere
of musical reference. “That’s nice. Even an arrangement, like a simple… In my guitar class, I
would have somebody play the melody, and we’d figure out what the harmony is, and we’d play
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that, so it makes more sense” (CP-1T). This kind of harmonic sense-making is fundamental to
practical/theoretical connectivity, especially for string players.
In the context of identifying the key of the fairies’ theme in Mendelssohn’s overture, a
Toronto group participant commented:

CM: I really like that because as a string player, when we do, for instance,
even a study, an étude, we always have to know what key we’re going
into because we don’t have that luxury of harmonic [accompaniment].
Everything’s implied harmony, right? So, we have to say, “Oh, this is
actually in E minor here.” So, we talk like this all the time. (1T)

An awareness of implied harmony is useful both in preparing the student for future studies in
harmony as well as in connecting the student’s theoretical knowledge with its practical
application. Whether the implied harmony is vertical or horizontal is unimportant. If the student
knows a work’s harmonic blueprint, he/she will be better positioned to memorize it for
performance.
This knowing may also inform improvisatory experiences. One of the Toronto group
participants saw the doing potential of improvisation as a bridge between music theory and music
performance.

CP: Yeah, and a good example: “What’s a scale for? What’s a triad for?”
I do that a lot in my teaching, and I encourage [my students] to improvise
a lot, so they get this linear horizontal aspect. See, I don’t think… How
many people are looking at this sea of notes, and are they connecting it to
a triad? Yet hopefully, they think in that direction, so I really liked this
part. Just those simple questions at the bottom, thinking, “Well, what part
of the chord is that?” (1T)

The questions he is referencing are:

• What member of the tonic triad begins Mozart’s melody?

• What member ends it?
• What triad member is the highest note?
• What member is the lowest note?

They enable the student to see that significant points of the melody – first note, last note, highest
note, lowest note – are often occupied by members of the tonic triad. This type of analytical
thinking is universal. It is not limited to either vocalists or instrumentalists.
Traditional music theory textbooks (Berlin, 1969; Lawless, 1975; Wharram, 1969) tend to
connect presentations of accidentals or half/whole steps, for example, to the piano keyboard. In
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some textbooks, such as Grace Vandendool’s (1984) Keyboard Theory series, the piano is
inextricably woven throughout. While keyboard visualizations of whole steps or half steps can
benefit many students, the physical realization of these intervals is not consistent with non-
keyboard instruments. The LGs, therefore, are designed to avoid long-established piano
centricities – a detail that was noticed by the Orleans group cellist, especially in relation to
Josquin’s El grillo. She saw, in the first activity, sharps written above the staff: “String players
use that sometimes as a way to remind themselves that something is sharp in the key signature.
I’m sure other people do too, but I never did it with other instruments I played” (AC-1O). She
also saw C clefs: “My viola students are going to be so happy. A C clef at last!” (AC-1O).
An exploration of the frottola’s original manuscript creates practical relevance for C clefs
as well as other peculiarities of Renaissance notation. The same participant described her
instructional approach to these early clefs:

AC: When I’m teaching tenor and alto clef, I always tell [students] that
once upon a time, a clef could be anywhere [on the staff]. And this
[manuscript] would be great, because it would be an example of that in
real life.
LLP: Okay.
AC: Cellists might stop complaining about tenor clef, you never know. It
could happen! (1O)

Other participants, perhaps with less C-clef experience, were bothered by the assignment
for Activity #2 in which I asked the student to “[w]rite the tenor’s refrain on the treble staff at the
same pitch.” The difficulty involves the tenor part being written on an alto staff. I was surprised
by this since C clefs are moveable, particularly in Josquin’s Renaissance context, but their
identification with specific voice parts has undoubtedly solidified their modern associations.
However, I wonder whether the student’s staff/voice connections would be as firmly established
as her/his teacher’s – or my participants’. To encourage analytical flexibility in preparation for
the assignment, I asked:

• On what staff line is Middle C positioned for each voice part?

• Which part could use a modern alto clef without rewriting the notes?

For some of my participants, these questions are not sufficiently obvious to inspire the requisite
flexibility. Perhaps the questions are faulty. Perhaps the participants are hesitant to adjust their
long-held beliefs about C clefs. Or perhaps there is another reason:
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AC: I suspect, if it’s any help, it may be because in French the viola is
called an alto, and it uses this clef. I don’t know if there’s a direct
etymology there but… Yeah, the instrument that is sometimes called an
alto uses the alto clef. It would at least be [given as] a way to remember
[the name], even if it’s not the real reason. (1O)

This explains a string player’s potential discomfort with the assignment, but it does not account
for the uneasiness of other participants.
Although there are no brass or woodwind players among my participants, both the Orleans
group and the Toronto group mentioned wind instruments, assuming that “some [students] may
play in school bands and things” (JK-1O). This Orleans group participant, motivated by the level
7 LG for Mendelssohn’s overture (see Appendix 4.3), proposed an instrumental or timbral
recognition activity that would connect the student’s listening experience with her/his playing
experience. Other Orleans group participants, anxious to address the compound interval in the
clowns’ theme (theme 2b), suggested the following playing task:

PG: That could be a challenge question, though… You know, “On your
instrument, can you figure out how many steps it is between these two
notes? This is called a compound interval.”
ABn: “Can you play it? What would be the number of this interval?”
Yeah! (1O)

Compound intervals are unknown elements at level 7. But this type of discovery experience –
without the statement of “this is…” – could prepare the student for a formal labelling experience
at the next level. And if the initial discovery is accompanied by a playing experience, it will
convey both practical and theoretical meaning.
Similarly, a Toronto group participant, attempting to clarify the transposition assignment
for Activity #2, appealed to the student’s playing experience – real or imagined. She offered this
explanation:

CM: [W]hen you play the fingering for the note C, this is the note you
actually hear. So, you hear A and that’s why it’s called clarinet in A. Or
when you play the fingering for C on a French horn, on this particular
horn, you hear the note E. (1O)

I appreciate the simplicity of my participant’s explanation. I also appreciate her eagerness to

improve the usefulness of the LGs. However, I suspect that the participants are maybe over-
thinking the exercises. A typical level 7 student does not have enough experience with
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transposing instruments – nor with C clefs at level 8 – to confuse written pitches with sounding
pitches. The participants may be anticipating confusion because they are reading the
activities/assignments with the comprehensive expertise of their teachers’ knowledge. This is, of
course, to be expected. But if a given topic is introduced in small portions, one at a time, it
should be user-friendly. Confusion arises if he/she is overwhelmed by too many portions
presented at the same time, or if individual portions are not connected to pre-existing
theoretical/practical knowledge (Rogers, 2004).

Connecting for Understanding

Integration of Theory and Practice: “Combining the whole thing in a musical way.” The
LGs were written as supplemental materials to augment RCM’s (2016e) intermediate theory
curriculum. As such, they incorporate a series of reinforcing lessons. I invited the Orleans group
participants to consider whether a series of teaching lessons, in which level-specific concepts are
introduced instead of practiced, would be more useful. They were quite receptive:

PG: What would that involve?

LLP: If they were not supplemental? If they were the meat and potatoes,
and not the dessert?
PG: Yeah, I think so.
ABn: Some people might choose to go without the dessert, if they’re
supplemental. It’s just, “I don’t have time for this,” or for whatever
reason, “[I’m] not going to do this.” So yes, I think probably having
[them] on a mandatory list…
PG: I find this much more important than what’s already in…
ABn: Yeah, it’s very, very interesting. To me, it’s just such an adjunct to
the music. To understanding the music.
JK: I think it’s very deep and broad. And I think it would take the student
a long time to absorb it, bit by bit. Which is healthy. It’s just the way I
think it would work out. They wouldn’t do this in a week or two, one of
these lessons.
PG: No. (1O)

While my post-graduate work will likely pursue, with appropriate modifications, the
pedagogical path I have established with the LGs, I imagined this work in the realm of music
theory. But one of the Orleans group participants upended my long-held assumption:
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ABn: Are you thinking of going with the theory? I’m seeing it more as
going with the practical.
JK: Oh.
ABn: Sort of a theoretical background to… Like the Teacher’s Guide.
(1O)

This practical/theoretical connection would be ideal. It would fully integrate the student’s study
of music theory and her/his performance repertoire. However, it would not present the required
theoretical elements in the neatly packaged units that most music theory teachers expect, and its
implementation would be time-consuming. But integrated teaching materials could allow for
some instructional flexibility:

JK: I really like the idea that, if you did this, you could teach theory
separately, or practical separately, or you have a much better possibility
of combining the whole thing in a musical way that would give the
teacher a lot of satisfaction. Because sitting down and marking lots of
pieces of paper is not really very [enjoyable]. (1O)

Completing “lots of pieces of paper” is not very enjoyable for the student either. It is certainly
not very musical. And it is entirely devoid of any practical/theoretical relevance.

Singing from an Artist/Musician Perspective

Of all the themes identified in my data, singing is the most obvious. A topic of discussion
for all three focus groups, it spoke to me earliest and loudest – before the data was even
transcribed. It is also distinctive as the only theme that involves a concrete musical skill. As
such, singing incorporates the physical activity of producing musical sounds with the voice. It
augments regular speech by sustaining a succession of melodic/rhythmic vocalizations with
musical inflections or modulations and a variety of vocal techniques. Consequently, singing is a
musical doing while the other themes – analyzing, layering, deepening, preparing, and connecting
– are better described as thinking activities. And these are further delineated by pedagogical
thinking as opposed to musical thinking.
The singing data is aligned with my artist/musician perspective because of its clear
association with musical performance and my desire to infuse music theory pedagogy with the
actualization or realization of musical symbology. Through the act of singing, it is possible to
promote integration as well as Regelski’s (1982) preservation of the music in music theory with
artistic integrity. Beyond this practical consideration, the singing data is also aligned with my
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musician-self because of its outlier status. In the same way that singing or playing activities, as
manifestations of art, are often ignored in the scientific sphere of music theory, I have
undervalued the creative potential of the artist/musician within myself. Although my cumulative
experiences form a tentative line-of-succession that extends from student to musician and
musician to author, I rarely seek counsel from my musician-self. In similar fashion, the symbols
of music theory are often divorced from the sounds of music as an aural phenomenon. Yet,
sound and symbol are symbiotically intertwined and their relationship should be emphasized in
the integrated teaching of music theory.
Singing is fundamental to the integration of music in music theory pedagogy since it
involves a participatory experience of music. It is a physical, embodied expression of musical
elements that cannot be duplicated, even by playing an instrument. The human voice, as a natural
instrument, is immediately available to everyone. It provides the means for active music-making
which facilitates understanding and appreciation. For instance, a complex instrumental work can
be enjoyed through the singing of its themes, and instrumentalists can approach the performance
of a work by first singing its melodic material (Szönyi, 1973). This interrelationship is also
instantiated with the Italian term cantabile which refers to a songlike style of instrumental
playing that is intended to imitate the lyrical qualities of the human voice. Consequently, singing
is closely associated with the musical ear and because of this association, it offers numerous
educational benefits – in addition to its physical, psychological/emotional, and social benefits.
If Kodály’s educational philosophy could be encapsulated in a single word, that word
would be singing (Penny, 2012). In her summary of this philosophy, Choksy (1981) highlights
the importance of musical literacy through singing as well as early experiences with folk music
and composed music of unquestioned value. On the subject of singing, she argues that “to be
internalized, musical learning must begin with the child’s own natural instrument – the voice (p.
7, original emphasis). Indeed, Kodály’s (1974) position on singing as the optimal beginning for
music education is crystal clear. He reprimands the prevailing “art of musical pyrotechnics” in
private music teaching and describes its result as “[i]nstrumental practice half by ear, and without
any theoretical knowledge: music-making by the fingers, but not by the soul” (p. 202). In his
preface to the Hungarian edition of Erzsébet Szönyi’s (1956) Musical Reading and Writing, he
proposes the following alternative:
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Individual singing plus listening to music (by means of active and passive
well-arranged experiences) develops the ear to such an extent that one
understands music one has heard with as much clarity as though one were
looking at a score; if necessary – and if time permits – one should
be able to reproduce such a score. (translated and reprinted in Kodály,
1974, p. 204)

Singing is essential for creating an environment in which the teaching of music theory is
derived from an active experience of music. Through this vocal/experiential association, a series
of conceptual understandings are not only intellectualized, but are developed and internalized
(Choksy, 1999a). Kodály believed that the “real aim in teaching theory was to encourage
students to make active music with skill” (Szönyi, 1973, p. 11), meaning the ability to sing at
sight and to write from aural memory. But over and above the pedagogical purpose of singing –
to increase the student’s awareness of melodic and rhythmic concepts – KM practitioners hold
that singing is the most important means of musical expression. Choksy (1991) voices a like-
minded opinion: “The teacher who sings regularly with his or her [students] is presenting them
with a gift that will provide them with lifelong enjoyment. Even if nothing else is accomplished
in the music class, the time will not have been wasted” (p. 33).
Two of my participants teach singing as an independent performance skill. The rest of us
utilize singing as an illustrative device. All the participants recognized the central role of singing
in the LGs. From my analysis of the introductory singing data, extra-curricular concepts surfaced
as the principal subtheme and the most prominent of these is solfège. Since it is not included in
RCM’s (2016e) Theory Syllabus, the participants were apprehensive about its prevalence in the
LGs. Solfège itself divides into several related subtopics: la-based syllables, fixed-do/moveable-
do considerations, and scale degree number alternatives. Of these subtopics, the debate over
fixed-do or moveable-do applications, while significant, is secondary to the focus of my study.
Therefore, it is not specifically addressed in the following discussion.
Despite the participants’ uneasiness, there was consensus among all three groups in favour
of my pedagogical choices – with the recommendation that I include introductory explanations to
demonstrate my implementation of solfa syllables. Following my examination of the solfège-
related conversations is a brief exploration of singing for understanding, which concludes my
narrative recounting of the interrogative data. As the final variation of my doing for
understanding motif, it considers a sound-before-symbol teaching process that highlights
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intervallic, melodic, and harmonic applications for singing. It also raises a significant aspect of
the participants’ reluctance or resistance.

Extra-Curricular Concepts

Solfège: “What are all these little letters?” One of the Kanata group participants
identified solmization, or more commonly the vocalization of melodic pitches, as a musical skill
that is not specifically required for RCM’s theory examinations. Nor, to my knowledge, has it
ever been a requirement of RCM’s curriculum. I anticipated potential problems with my
inclusion of moveable-do solmization in the LGs. I was not disappointed as it was brought up in
every discussion – with varying degrees of concern. For the younger teachers, who tend to
concentrate their music instruction on exam preparation, the addition of solmization threatens to
overwhelm an already lengthy list of curricular requirements. For the older teachers, solmization
is not generally viewed as a product or a skill to be tested. It is valued as a process or a tool that
enables musical understanding.
However, the issue of whether solmization is curricular or extra-curricular is not really the
problem. RCM, albeit one of the largest and most respected music education institutions in the
world, is not the only such institution and its Theory Syllabus (2016e), not the only determination
of curricular validity. Of prime importance then, is whether solmization is known or unknown.
One of the Toronto group participants, in discussing the non-prevalence of rhythm syllables,
suggested that students are more familiar with “do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do” and “other manipulations
of it” (CP-1T). But his assessment, although accurate for his area of the city, was not confirmed
by his colleagues. They responded with some surprise:

CM: Really? Because I have a lot of students who haven’t been exposed
to do-re-mi before.
JR: Me too. They’re very helpless and hopeless with tonic solfa. (1T)

Their response was reiterated by both the other groups. A participant in Kanata felt that solfège
is essentially “gone” from the “English-speaking world,” owing to its disappearance from the
“method books” (ABs-1K). Because of this absence, many students – and “a lot of teachers” as
well – “might not know solfège” (KS-1K), particularly for minor scales.87

87
Undeniably, the teachers’ “not knowing” is worrisome but it may be, at least partially, circumstantial.
Teachers may know solfège but in varying dialects. The diatonic syllables (do, re, mi, fa, so, la, and ti) are used
fairly consistently (by Anglophones), but the chromatic syllables, which identify raised or lowered notes, are used
less consistently.
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As I mentioned in chapter 4, I made a conscious decision to adopt la-based solfa syllables

for minor scales, partly because of their familiarity from my KM training, but also because a la
tonic allowed me to establish a clear relationship between relative major and minor keys.
However, the instructional logic behind my decision seemed arbitrary for an Orleans group
participant with less solfège fluency. She asked: “If it’s a movable-do, why does the relative
minor start on la?” (JK-1O). In many educational environments it does not. The utilization of a
do tonic for minor scales establishes a parallel relationship between major and minor keys.
Rather than sharing the same key signature, they share the same tonic or starting pitch. Of
course, parallel keys are musically recognizable, and juxtaposed in many compositions of the
common-practice period, but parallel keys are not considered to be closely-related because their
key signatures differ by more than one sharp or flat. As a result, do-based minor scales require
chromatic syllables – even in their natural form – which causes unnecessary complications.
Although she encountered do-based syllables for minor scales at university, one of the
Kanata group participants acknowledges that “using la makes so much more sense” (ABs-1K).
To clarify the la-based syllables, she offered this advice: “Could you have a line where you
matched the solfège? So, there’s do-re-mi in F major and then underneath it, [you could] have
the minor scale start [on] la in the same spot” (ABs-1K). By overlapping relative major and
minor scales, the derivation of la-based syllables for minor keys becomes immediately evident
(see Table 4.5). This is the process by which relative minor keys are introduced in level 2 of
RCM’s (2016) Celebrate Theory series – without solfège. But if solfa syllables could be added to
the process, the student’s previous learning, which is primarily visual, could be audiated.
This aural experience has great potential for circumventing theoretical confusion. I shared
with the Kanata group my own teaching experiences, having observed repeated occurrences of
students’ difficulty with the concept of relative major and minor scales. The difficulty, however,
is not with the concept; it is with the application of the concept. Over the course of my career, I
have experimented with many approaches to solving relative major and minor scales or finding
one from the other. Ideally, the approach involves understanding and not just memorization, but
there are two issues to be considered: distance and direction. By informing my students that
there are three half steps separating relative keys, I made the determination of distance easier to
remember but I also reduced it to a counting exercise that does not account for enharmonic
equivalencies. Unintentionally, I created an additional stumbling block. In terms of direction,
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my baseball analogy – up to the major leagues and down to the minor leagues – is a
pedagogically empty mnemonic device. Neither of my teaching strategies fosters student
understanding.
If I had realized sooner the instructional potential of la-ti-do and do-ti-la, indicating the
overlapped portion of relative major and minor scales, I could have simplified their relationship
for many more of my students. Without wordy explanations, these solfa syllables address both
distance and direction – la-ti being a whole step and ti-do, a half step. They also incorporate the
sounds of whole steps and half steps, ascending and descending. Solmization then, facilitates
musical reading and theoretical understanding, but I cannot assume that my version of
solmization is the only version. I can, however, clarify my approach in the CLGs and invite the
teacher to adapt my solfa syllables to incorporate her/his personal preferences.
Given the inconsistencies of solfège in music education, why should I persevere with its
inclusion in the LGs? Why is solfège so important? Beyond its association with KM, solfège is
pedagogically significant because it connects reading and writing activities to singing which in
turn, connects intellectual and aural experiences of music. This approach to ear training,
according to Erin Paul (2017), is “all about developing a well-tuned musical ear. It involves
learning to [aurally] recognize intervals, chords, and chord progressions” (Moveable “Do” and
Ear Training section, para. 1). Solfège enables the vocalizing of music notation, or the animating
of an inanimate object.
It is this action of bringing to musical life the theoretical components of a score –
reminiscent of Elliott’s (1995) musicing – that embodies my vision of integration. The
participants, however, may not subscribe to my view. A Kanata group participant thought that
her students would “block-out looking at [the solfège] at … level 5 and say, ‘What are all these
little letters here?’” (ABs-1K). She was referring to Activity #2 for Mozart’s aria, which adds
pitches to the previous activity’s rhythm. She suggested, more than once, including an F major
scale with the “solfège labelled” as a model for comparison – so “they can cross reference it”
(ABs-1K). Indeed, “after they’ve worked on a couple of solfège examples, … [t]hey should have
it” (ABs-1K). Her colleagues agreed.
My participant’s intentions are well-founded: “Maybe just … giving them one answer – do
is [the] root – would help them figure out how to write the solfège for the other [tonic triad
members]” (ABs-1K). My participant’s approach to music theory teaching is consistent with
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long-established traditions. I recognize her ability to connect musical/theoretical components and

to relay the knowledge she has acquired to her students. I recognize it because I see in her a
mirror of my younger self. However, this mode of teaching does not acknowledge the student’s
ability to participate in her/his learning. It does not leave room for experimenting or interpreting
or musicing.
An integrated music theory pedagogy is not just a matter of seeing, it is a matter of hearing.
If, for example, solfa syllables are introduced in the context of a scale – on paper – are we not
presenting the theory (the explanation) before the music (the phenomenon to be explained)? The
symbol before its sound? I wish to reverse the order of this presentation, but the argument could
be made that by introducing solfa syllables in the context of Mozart’s aria, I am putting the cart
before the proverbial horse. How can unknown syllables be used to sing an unknown melody? I
admit that the equation is far from ideal since it contains too many unknowns, but I am hopeful
that most student/teacher partnerships have at least some familiarity with solfa syllables. Even a
passive familiarity provides a footing for future learnings, and accumulated footings support a
foundation on which to construct gradually more complex musical learnings. I am also
introducing solfa syllables in a melody, not a scale, and I am extracting triads as well as the
applicable solmization from the melody. In so doing, I am reversing the customary instructional
order by presenting music before theory. And for the student/teacher partnerships unfamiliar
with solfa syllables, I am presenting music and theory simultaneously – as an intermediate step
toward my goal.
An example drawn from the singing data refers to a specific application of solfège in the
level 7 LG. The following exchange raises a potential problem with solfa and the concept of
modulation:

ABs: So, this is the line… “It ends in B major. What accidental is
necessary in the new key?” So, the assignment: “Write a four-measure
melody with the following rhythm. Use portions of the B major scale.”
Okay, so that implies that at some point in time we could use an A-sharp.
Because that would be a portion of the B major scale.
LLP: Yes.
ABs: “Write the solfa abbreviations below each note. Sing your melody.”
What would the solfège for A-sharp be?
LLP: You’d have to use the solfège for B Major. So, the idea is that this
is a B major [melody], even though the key signature is E major. But…
ABs: So then… But you said, “Use portions of the B scale.” You didn’t
say, “Write all of this in B major.”
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LLP: Okay, I’ll make that more clear.

ABs: Just because the key signature is E Major, that’s going to be the go-
to, at least in my mind. (1K)

Although the participant challenges my use of solmization in the assignment for Activity
#4, the solfège is pedagogically advantageous for several reasons. First, it facilitates musical
reading. Solfa syllables provide the student with a mechanism through which to sing the melody
he/she has created. Because the syllable abbreviations are supplied by the student, he/she is led
to an awareness of the notes being used and their relative position in the B major scale. By
singing – and hearing – her/his melody, the student is encouraged to gauge its merit. Of course,
there are good melodies, bad melodies, and a broad continuum of in-between melodies. But such
judgements rely on the student’s vocalization of the melody which in my experience, is
surprisingly self-regulating. The process of “fixing” a melody the student deems unsatisfactory is
invaluable. Even if the task is accomplished by trial-and-error, rather than through intellectual
cognizance, a wealth of knowledge awaits discovery.
Second, solmization facilitates a theoretical understanding of modulation, which is the
sticking point for my participant. Her concern, that I am asking for a B major melody in an E
major context, is understandable. But modulation, as a change from one key to another, may or
may not involve a change of key signature. While the concept formally enters RCM’s (2016e)
theory curriculum at level 9, it appears in the student’s practical repertoire as early as level 1.
Modulation is also an important structural component of sonata form because the second theme
or theme group is expected, in the exposition, to be stated in a contrasting key. So it is in
Mendelssohn’s overture – both theme 2a and 2b are in the key of the dominant (B major) – but
the key signature preserves the larger context (E major). In order to accommodate this
modulation in the LG, the solfa syllables shift to a new do (B), but the key signature remains
unchanged.
The flexibility inherent in this and similar applications of solfège is eminently useful, both
musically and theoretically. In many ways, solfège forms the bridge between music and theory –
a two-way bridge that services the relevance of music theory. Solfège enables a symbiotic
relationship in which theory can be derived from music and music can be derived from theory.
Pedagogically, solmization can enhance the student’s knowledge of music theory. For example,
solfa syllables, and the aural associations they engender, can facilitate the student’s creation of
better melodies. And successful creative experiences inspire a yearning for more.
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Perhaps solfège is disappearing from common English-language usage, just as the Kanata
group participants feared. In its place, a Toronto group participant suggested using scale degree
numbers, shown as ˆ1, ˆ2, ˆ3, ˆ4, ˆ5, ˆ6, and ˆ7. This system of pitch identification is “fairly
universal in the music community” (CP-1T), and “it’s also easily translatable” (CM-1T). For the
opening of the F major melody in Mozart’s “Queen of the Night” Aria, “if somebody’s using a
[scale degree] system they can use, ˆ3-ˆ2-ˆ3-ˆ4, ˆ5-ˆ5-ˆ5-ˆ5, ˆ5-ˆ5-ˆ5-ˆ5, ˆ1” (CM-1T). Her
colleague agreed: “[I]t doesn’t matter. I don’t care whether the students use numbers. [But] I use
tonic solfa most of the time in my teaching” (JR-1T). Their discussion implies that something is
better than nothing.
An advantage of the scale degree number system, like moveable-do solmization, is its
adherence to relative pitches. A disadvantage involves the number seven. Unlike the numbers
one to six, which are monosyllabic, the pronunciation of seven requires two syllables: se-ven.
Consequently, the numeric vocalization of a melody will unintentionally alter its rhythm – unless
the seventh scale degree is vocalized in French perhaps, as sept. But troublesome syllabifications
are only part of the problem. Another disadvantage is the inability of scale degree numbers to
represent chromatic alterations. Although music theorists speak of “sharp-four” and other such
chromaticisms in functional harmony, there is a referential danger that scale degree numbers
could be confused with Roman numerals which in a harmonic context, identify specific chord
structures. Consistent terminology then, is a vital consideration.

Singing for Understanding

Sound before Symbol: “Encouragement to sing is a good idea.” The educational value of
singing is its prominence in a sound-before-symbol teaching process that encourages musical
growth through musical experience. Derived from vocal interactions with sound, these
experiences allow the student to develop personal meanings of music. Contemplating the future
of elementary music education, Amanda Montgomery (2000) writes:
Whether encountering a nursery song, a symphony movement, or a dirge
played on a didgeridoo, children need to learn to think about, and
understand, the musical sounds they encounter. Understanding, or
musical knowing, comes from active engagement with music. Musical
exploring, performing, improvising, reflecting, analyzing, and creating
are all activities associated with such engagement. (p. 130)
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Although Montgomery did not mention singing as a specific activity with which to engage music,
her counsel is compelling – in the context of an elementary school music classroom. But few
would consider her advice realistic for the teaching of music theory. Most music theory teachers,
including a number of the participants, do not include singing activities in their instructional
practice. Nor do I, with any regularity. “[S]o with the tonic solfa syllables, we are inviting them
to sing this music in their lesson, right?” (JR-1T). I answered my participant with a resounding
“Yes.” I would even suggest that singing underlies all the activities Montgomery listed. As a
pedagogical tool of integration, singing is a viable experiential conduit for student/teacher
interactions with music theory.
In the LGs, I am encouraging universal singing, or singing for everyone, not just for
singers. This element of universality allows the student to link sound and symbol by associating
a physical sensation with its symbolic representation. Singing provides a direct experience of
music that can expand the student’s understanding of musical elements and their organization
into complex musical structures. With emphasis on these structures, a sound-before-symbol
teaching process can help the student make sense of the musical sounds he/she encounters in any
environment. Singing, therefore, can enable the development of personal musical knowing
(Montgomery, 2000). In pursuit of this knowledge, the LGs utilize singing activities for the
discovery/exploration of multiple musical elements. The participants observed three such
applications – intervallic, melodic, and harmonic.
Since intervals are constituent elements of scales and chords, an understanding of intervals
is essential for an understanding of the wider pitch content that comprises music theory. In the
LG for Bach’s Invention No. 1 in C Major, intervals figure prominently in analytical discussions
of transposed motives, altered motives, and inverted motives. Intervals are the building materials
from which the student is directed to construct Bach’s inversion. But it is effectively an
analytical/theoretical exercise until the newly discovered inversion is vocalized. “Encouragement
to sing … is a good idea” (CP-1T). The student’s first engagement with Bach’s motive is to sing
it – from self-supplied solfa syllables – and to memorize it. Repetitions of this initial experience,
which involve ever greater analytical complexities, inform all subsequent experiences, including
the derivation of an inverted model. Singing provides a bridge that connects sound and symbol
with the intention of fostering personal meaning-making.
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While I intended this application of singing in Bach’s invention, I did not anticipate an
intervallic application in Mendelssohn’s overture. I had resigned myself to an instrumental focus
and included singing activities only for the young lovers’ theme (theme 2a) because of its more
lyrical character. I would have liked to vocalize the clowns’ theme (theme 2b), but the wide
leaps that suggest a “hee-haw” or a donkey’s braying – associated with Nick Bottom’s
transformation – are difficult to sing. Furthermore, compound intervals are not included in
RCM’s (2016e) Theory Syllabus until the next level. But to my surprise, an Orleans group
participant countered: “I can’t help but thinking they’re all going to want to sing it just because
it’s difficult. It sounds weird” (JK-1O, emphasis added). As it was mentioned with the
connecting data, one of her colleagues suggested that compound intervals could be the subject of
a challenge question and the student could be encouraged to play them. Whether singing or
playing, the student’s physical production of these intervals will experientially accentuate their
numerical distance as larger than an octave.
Intervallic applications of singing are easily expanded to become melodic applications. By
choosing a melody-writing exercise to prepare the student’s interaction with Mendelssohn’s
second theme group, I provided an opportunity for her/him to experiment with pertinent rhythmic
and melodic elements. Therefore, when theme 2a is presented in Activity #5, the student is
already familiar with a portion of its rhythm as well as the tonal content of its melody. Since the
assignment is constructed for the purpose of preparation, its creative parameters are not
arbitrarily chosen. They are musically relevant for Mendelssohn’s overture and they become
personally relevant through singing.

CP: Yeah, that could be a good way to point out how to use the basic
elements of a melody – to make it singable. And if they try to sing
something that’s really all over the place, they’ll make that [unsingable]
connection right away, I would think. (1T)

For this Toronto group participant, the singability of the student’s melody is its most important
feature. A melody may look good on paper – with correctly notated symbols – but it may not
sound good. And the teacher’s opinion should not be the only determination of its goodness.
The student must be led to form her/his own opinion, based on a singing experience.
A harmonic application for singing, proposed by one of the Toronto group participants, is
also related to the LG for Mendelssohn’s Overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream. In the
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context of our discussion about the overture’s introduction and its playability on the piano, she
offered these comments:

CM: Well, I just wonder, since it’s such a great opening… And I realize,
before you get to [the orchestration], I wonder if it’s possible that the
teacher could play it, and … the student sings the notes of the chords
starting at the top. So you start to hear that way. So [in this excerpt],
even if they sang, which I would expect they would sing E-C-A, not E-A,
… it’s kind of like the singer would have accompanied sight-reading.
Right? But you’re hearing or singing the notes of the chord. So, you’re
starting to develop a harmonic ear.
LLP: I like that a lot. Okay, thank you!
CM: Because, I think if you’re looking at that, like saying, “Oh, that
looks like all an E major chord.” But then if you’re hearing that there’s
other things that fit underneath it… (1T)

The harmonic flexibility my participant observed is precisely the phenomenon I was hoping to
highlight – from a theoretical perspective. As a student, I had long ago analyzed the chords in
Mendelssohn’s introduction and as a young teacher, I had analyzed the resulting harmonic
progression (I-V-iv-I). But it was not until I wrote the level 7 LG that I saw the introduction’s
melody as an extended E major triad. It was as an author then, that I finally came to understand
the harmonic potential of Mendelssohn’s melody for a presentation of common tones or shared
scale degrees. However, I had not considered the aural implications of the activity nor its
prospective integration with ear training.
For me, singing is the gateway to integration. It provides both the student and the teacher
with a “hands-on” experience of music as the epitome of musicing (Elliott, 1995). In an
integrated music theory pedagogy, singing blends all the discreet parts of music theory into a
unified whole. It facilitates musical experiences for everyone, bringing music from the
instructional periphery and placing it at the center of music theory teaching. In the words of
Kodály (1974), “Even the most talented artist can never overcome the disadvantages of an
education without singing” (p. 204). But the how of providing these singing experiences in the
context of a music theory lesson is still a problem.

Reflective Interactions with the Themes

In the concluding focus group discussions, the participants were generally more
comfortable with the topic of music theory pedagogy. Having had an opportunity to experiment
with the LGs, they seemed more confident and tended to share their experiences more freely. At
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the time, I found our conversations to be deeply meaningful. Much later, I came to the
realization that I had less “trial” data than I had hoped. Of my eleven participants, only five
actively used one or more of the LGs with their students – one in Toronto, two in both Orleans
and Kanata. Although two additional participants anticipated future opportunities to experiment
with the LGs (one in Toronto and one in Kanata), none of these possible trials came to fruition.
Regardless, the intervening months gave the participants time to reflect on the introductory
focus group discussions as well as the pedagogical implications of my ideas for teaching music
theory. Although Leavy’s (2015) reflexive counsel is meant to guide arts-based researchers, it is
also plausible for my participants: “Reflexivity involves constantly examining your own position
in the research endeavor, including your assumptions, feelings, and decisions” (p. 282). This
reflexivity, which is directed at or turns back on itself, systematically scrutinizes self-referential
contexts of knowledge construction. But what if the reflexive act was turned outward? What if
we, as music theory teachers, constantly and intentionally examined our pedagogical assumptions
in order to gauge the impact of our decisions on the knowledge construction of our students?
While my variant of Leavy’s reflexivity is externally purposed, its realization requires an
act of reflection that is characterized by deep or serious thought. This internally generated
thoughtfulness comprises a significant portion of the data I collected from the second set of focus
group discussions. At this reflective stage of my inquiry, the participants’ appraisal of the LGs
deepened. For some, my materials were transformed from instructional products to pedagogical
processes. Group conversations about their effectiveness as tools of instruction became reflective
insights about their potential as models of an integrated pedagogical approach. The resulting
data, drawn from the sharing of our experiences, addresses my reflective question:

• How can the implementation of an integrated pedagogy for the teaching of intervals
and chords according to the Royal Conservatory’s (2016e) intermediate theory
curriculum be improved by the participants in my research study?

My analysis of the reflective data began just as it did with the interrogative data. I created
six files, one for each theme, and proceeded to extract pertinent excerpts from the written
transcripts. However, I discovered almost immediately that the boundaries between my themes
were blurred – much more significantly than the first data set. Many excerpts referred to multiple
themes. And similar to my experience writing the LGs, I could not blindly follow a pre-existing
template, even if the template was one of my own making. Just as Bach’s invention did not lend
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itself to the same pedagogical treatment as Mozart’s aria, neither did my analysis of the reflective
data. Since the themes were less distinct, I decided to organize the data under one all-
encompassing theme: integrating. This integrating theme represents the intersection of my six
previous themes: analyzing, layering, deepening, preparing, connecting, and singing. It also
represents the essence of my comprehensive approach to music theory pedagogy with, about, in,
and through music (Cornett & Smithrim, 2001).
The following analysis is structured around four extended excerpts that epitomize the
participants’ contributions to my research project. Their perspectives, given in the context of
topically complete exchanges, offer valuable insights for the implementation of music listening
activities/assignments as the central components of an integrated music theory pedagogy. While
the concluding focus group discussions often revisited topics from the introductory discussions,
they tended to expand these topics beyond practical considerations into theoretical terrain. In
other words, we began to consider the metapractices of integration and their pedagogical
implications for music theory teaching. In effect, the reflective interactions picked up where the
interrogative interactions left off. Although my voice is quite prevalent in the introductory
conversations – frequently responding to the participants’ queries – it is much less so in the
concluding conversations. Therefore, my researcher-self takes an ancillary role, allowing the
participants to speak for themselves, without interpretive interruptions.

Integrating Music and Theory

Implementation: “I guess we did improvise.” To convey a sense of how she used the
LGs with her students, one of the Kanata group participants read her answers to the questions I
circulated before our second meeting (see Appendix 3.7):
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ABs: I used [level] 7 A Midsummer Night’s Dream (only activities one to

four) with a student, … and all six activities of [level] 5 “Queen of the
Night” with two other students. I used [them] in individual lessons –
about 15 to 20 minutes is how much time we had to work on [them].
Usually I did it for lessons when they, for whatever reasons, hadn’t
practiced and I said, “Great, it’s theory day today!” How did I implement
the Listening Guides? I had the student[s] open their Celebrate Theory
book[s] to the correlating page and piece – I wanted them to understand
that these activities were intended as supporting activities for what they
have to learn anyway. I don’t like that, because I would like just to teach
them stuff that I think is important, but they want to know that they have
to do it anyways and that this is supporting for it. How did I engage my
students? I explained that these activities contain/connect the theoretical
ideas, like chords and intervals that they’ve already learned, with music
that they may or may not be familiar with. And did I feel that these
activities were successful? In many ways, yes. I noticed the student[s]
exhibit satisfaction at the connections they were able to make. For
example, [a level] 7 student completed Activities #1 and #2 from A
Midsummer Night’s Dream, playing and analyzing – of course, you know
what they are – the opening chord[s]. After she explored the quality and
the inversion of the [melodic] chord, had harmonized [it] with the tonic,
subdominant, dominant chords, and then had played the chords with the
voicing given (assisted by me for the larger intervals), she was
immediately aware of the passage when we listened to the recording.
“Well, there we are,” were her exact words. So, it was crystal clear that
she had absorbed that, and… Did we improvise? That question surprised
me. I was like, “No, we didn’t.” And then I got thinking, “Yes.” You
talk about, okay here, the different notes of the E major chord. Now, you
put it all together and it makes a [melodic] tonic chord, but you can
harmonize it in different ways. And for the fun of it … – she really
hadn’t practiced – we explored some different chords we could have used,
and then we decided that Mendelssohn’s harmonization had a strong pull
to the end of the line. It worked better than ours. So, I guess we did
improvise. “Did you experiment with subjective discernments of
consonance and/or dissonance?” I really didn’t. “Would you consider
using the [Listening] Guides again? Why or why not?” Absolutely, I
would. The [LGs] are useful tools for expanding the student’s
understanding and awareness of theoretical elements within real music,
not just theory assignments – which was your goal. How would I
improve them? Things we’d already talked about… (2K)

This participant’s reply encompasses all my previous themes. Some, like analyzing and
connecting, are referenced specifically, while others are gleaned from the content of her response.
Three items of interest caught my attention. First, the participant reported that her student
was “immediately aware of the [introductory] passage when we listened to the recording” of
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Mendelssohn’s Overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream – after preparing the experience by

“playing and analyzing” the opening chords – which confirms my expectation for the student’s
initial listening experience. This sequence of activities is associated with the layering theme
since it reinforces theoretical knowledge with listening. Second, I noticed the preparing theme in
their student/teacher exploration of “different ways” to harmonize the individual notes of an E
major triad. Through this collaborative activity, my participant was actively cultivating the
student’s readiness for more advanced theoretical studies. Third, I detected a buried indication of
the deepening theme as an interpretive handling of subjective components. Although my
participant dismissed the notion of consonance and dissonance, considering it irrelevant in the
recounting of her student’s experience, I would argue otherwise. While she did not specifically
use the consonance/dissonance terms, she encouraged her student to compare their jointly
composed harmonization with Mendelssohn’s and in so doing, to assess its comparative
effectiveness. This process of assessment requires the discernment of consonance and
dissonance, for it is their interaction that creates the “strong pull to the end of the line.”
The subjective qualities of consonance and dissonance make them difficult concepts to
teach. One of the Toronto group participants offered his approach:

CP: What I work with a lot is scale tone vs. chord tone. [Students] have
to make the decision. Here’s the chord, and as you… You’re going to
play the scale and you’re going to tell me whether that’s consonant or
dissonant.
JR: I’m sorry [participant’s name], explain that further.
CP: So, if I’m playing Cmaj7, they’re going to play the C Ionian mode.
They have to listen carefully and make a decision whether the note they
play through it, as the chord is playing – through playing the scale – is
that a consonant sound or is that a dissonant sound?
JR: With their… In conjunction with the chord.
CP: Correct.
JR: It’s like tintinnabulation.88
CP: Tintinnabulation, you’re right!
JR: Like the Arvo Pärt, where they have the triad, and it’s the buzzing
sound, and then it’s a consonance and dissonance that’s… You’re
preparing them for tintinnabulation.

88
Tintinnabulation (from the Latin for “tinkling bell”) is a minimalist compositional style developed by Estonian
composer Arvo Pärt. It is achieved by the interweaving of two vocal lines that hover around a central pitch (Machlis
& Forney, 2003): one arpeggiates the tonic triad, creating a bell-like effect, while the other moves diatonically in
conjunct scalar patterns.
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CP: I do that a lot, so they get the concept of what we conceive as

consonant and dissonant, but they’re making the decision. I’m not telling
them a thing.
LLP: Yes.
CP: And then they go, “Oh yeah, okay. This one is a little more dissonant
than that one.”
JR: Mm-hmm.
CP: “Now play it an octave higher.” “Oh, that 9th is kind of nice. It’s
kind of cool. The 2nd was a little rough.” So, that’s just one thought I
had on putting across consonance and dissonance – making [students]
make the decision, so it hopefully gets in there. (2T)

Although my consonance/dissonance ideas are not conspicuous in the LGs’

implementation, their pedagogical potential lingers in the background. My participant’s
instructional approach offers an interesting mechanism for bringing the aural subtleties of these
concepts to the foreground. The tintinnabular compositions of Arvo Pärt (b. 1935) take this
approach a step further by offering musical contextualizations of consonance and dissonance. In
the opening section of Pärt’s Cantate Domino canticum novum (1977, revised 1996) – to draw an
example from RCM’s (2009) ARCT history curriculum – the organ plays triadic figures based on
a B-flat major chord while the SATB chorus sings conjunct melodic lines that resemble Medieval
plainchant (Lopinski et al., 2010). But rather than concluding a consonance/dissonance
discussion with this work, why not begin with it? Bruner’s (1966) optimal instructional sequence
follows an enactive, iconic, then symbolic path from concrete musical experiences to increasingly
abstract representations of music. Consequently, an optimal sequence of interactions with
consonance and dissonance could proceed from a listening experience of Pärt’s choral work (or
something similar), through my participant’s aural exploration of simultaneous scales and chords,
to the labelling and verbalization of theoretical concepts. The next step, of course, is the
application of these concepts in new or unfamiliar contexts, but the instructional sequence as a
whole is facilitated by knowledge gleaned from examination and interpretation. The process of
analysis, therefore, is essential.

Analysis: “We try to make order out of chaos.” According to Rogers (2004), the value
of analysis in music listening is often unacknowledged and unaddressed in the published
literature. But for him, the centrality of analysis in the merging of mind training and ear training
is vitally important. Music listening is reinforced with conceptual supports, or the
“underpinnings of analytical modes of thought” (p. 103), that encourage structural hearing. This
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aural awareness of structure enables the student to make sense of her/his music listening. It also
enables her/his understanding of musical meaning, but this understanding is not spontaneous. An
Orleans group participant expressed some frustration with a student’s lack of analytical facility in
relation to the subjective qualities of music, such as mood:

PG: The one question: “How does Mendelssohn create the mysterious
mood?” And that was a corker! [He] was like, “I don’t know.” “Well,
okay. What does the [piece] sound [like]? Does [it] sound like a happy
song, or a sad song, or a mysterious song?” … And okay, “Is happy
major? Or is happy minor?” And so, then we went back to just
recognizing chord qualit[ies] and interval qualities and that kind of thing.
It’s all tied in but for [students], it’s like the universe – all these stars that
aren’t connected somehow. (2O)

Even advanced students of music history, whose course requirements include regular exposure to
music listening, do not always know what to listen for or how to describe what it is they hear.
Analysis, like any other musical skill, must be taught. It must be nurtured and developed.
One of the Toronto group participants recounted his experiences with musical analysis,
both as a student and as a teacher – the latter influenced by his negative experiences of the
former:

JR: I didn’t dislike analysis as a student, I hated analysis (participant’s

emphasis). It was this concept [of], “I can’t do this.” I couldn’t do it.
CM: Me too.
JR: I could not do it. And I’ve learned, one of my mottos: “Can’t lives on
Won’t Street.” So, I didn’t have that motto when I was a student.
Someone should have told me that. “Can’t lives on Won’t Street.” … I
[couldn’t] really get into it. But [analysis] is … valuable because, I
explain [to my students], we analyze thousands of times … in a day,
unconsciously. When we go down the stairs, we immediately analyze,
without thinking about it. We assess the depth of the tread, how many
steps. We have to make sense [of it]. We try to make order out of chaos,
and that’s what we do when we listen to music and look at music. So, …
I think that, in the end, is what my goal is. It’s lovely that [students] can
do four-part writing and all that, but … it’s aural analysis …, in the end,
that’s going to be the most valuable. It’s knowing what questions to ask,
not the answers. The answers aren’t as important as the question[s].
Knowing what question[s] to ask with the music. When we go to a
concert, whether it’s Lady Gaga, or the Guelph Symphony, we bring our
whole life experience, so we know what questions to ask and then, how to
respond. “Oh, I would have predicted this, but the symphony did that.
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Oh, I wonder why? Why did the composer write that way?” In the end,
that’s what I wish for my students, that they have this basis of what the
idioms are so that they can know and say, “Oh, what am I expecting here?
What am I asking about? What am I getting back?” So, I think …
analysis is ultimately key. And we focus a lot of it in the writing – in
written harmonic, structural [analysis] – but it does come back, right? I
teach a pedagogy course to piano teachers, or to anybody, but for want of
a better title, we came up with “A Theoretical Pianist.” And it’s looking
at the [level] 1 to 8 pieces from a theory perspective. And what I do is I
clip things from the syllabus and I say, “Okay, here’s level 1, and here is
… balanced binary, here is sequence.” And we have to find ways of
bringing [theory] to life for that seven-year-old, or ten-year-old, or
[whoever], or the adult, that doesn’t overwhelm them. But we’re
constantly talking about the language of music so that when [students]
come to level 9 or 10, this is not a surprise. As theory teachers, we [are]
continually shocked at how students come into level 9 harmony all the
time, and it’s like sonata form has never occurred to them… This
summer, I [took] them to level 3 piano and I said…
CM: Right, level 3 is when it comes.
JR: “Look at level 3. You’ve been playing this and I have faith in the
teachers you’ve had – they’ve talked about this.” Now, I don’t know, but
this is something that we have to… And that’s why this is all so
important from the earliest level, that… The ability to decode the music.
I try to use different analogies. [I] say, “If you were an agent, you were
sending a twelve-year-old to audition at the Stratford Festival, and there’s
a small part in a Shakespeare play. Would you simply send [him]
because [he can] read the words, [he] can speak, [he] can pronounce
English words? Or would you coach [him] on the subtext, the meaning of
it…? Because we can tell immediately if [he] knows how to say nice
[Shakespearean] words or [if he] actually knows what the speech is about.
We would never send a young actor, or a seasoned actor… [He] would
go in coached, to give context to what [he’s] doing.
CM: Right.
JR: And I tell my students, I say, “You can get very far in music. To
play, you put your fingers on the right keys. And you play loud here and
soft here, but that’s not what music is.” It’s not that, that’s assumed (that
you can put your fingers on the right keys), but that’s not what it is. And
if you don’t know what you’re playing… I think [that] harmony is the
key issue.
CM: Right, because I was going to say…
JR: Harmony is really central. Rhythm is, melody is, but I came to …
understand that harmony is the glue, at least for Western music. It holds
it all together. I didn’t appreciate that when I was a harmony student.
CM: Because if you hear … orchestral audition[s], you can tell when …
[candidates know] everything that’s going on around them, because
they’re playing one line, but you can say, “Oh, they’re hearing the whole
orchestra.” Mm-hmm.
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JR: Aw, that’s fascinating. See, that is exactly what I’m talking about.
That’s amazing. They understand the context.
CM: Right.
JR: And they know how they fit into the puzzle. (2T)

I asked the Toronto group participants how it is that we can cultivate this kind of
contextualized analysis in our teaching of music theory. As the final evaluation for RCM’s
rudiments exams, candidates are presented with a brief musical excerpt followed by a list of
analytical tasks. Like a reading comprehension assignment, it is a summative exercise. As such,
the musical excerpt provides little more than staging for a contrived treasure hunt. While it may
serve a useful assessment purpose, this analysis does not allow for a genuine musical interaction:

CM: I worry that … student[s] doing [the] last question [aren’t] really
hearing it.
JR: No.
LLP: No.
CM: So, they’re just seeing it, right? So, they don’t…
CP: For sure.
CM: They don’t know that it’s imitation [for example]; they don’t really
know what that means. (2T)

In an examination setting, analytical tasks are purposed for the teacher – as measurements of
comprehension – not for the student. Furthermore, if analysis is regularly associated with testing,
it will almost certainly elicit feelings of aversion. Without an incentive grounded in the student’s
“need to know,” the allure of analytical discovery is absent.
Although another of the Toronto group participants corroborated her colleague’s early
dislike of analysis, this was not my experience. Nor was it the experience of an Orleans group
participant:

AC: [A]s a teenager, … this [invention] was one of [my] first

[experiences] of this kind of analysis. It was such an illumination and
such an inspiration of, “Ooh, that’s why it’s so beautiful, and now I…
Why does it sound like that? And why does this interval…? What is that
interval that I love so much?” Or whatever. But finding out that it was
not random, because I think we – a lot, at least in my era – grew up with
the stereotype of the sort of divinely inspired composer just… [The]
same as authors, they didn’t have to think structure, they didn’t have to go
back and look at it, they just… Inspiration struck and they wrote things
down and it was perfect. Instead of, “Oh no, actually, there’s some
parallel[s]. I have to fix that.” And there’s construction involved, there
are wood-working plans involved.
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ABn: Yeah, I think that’s a good way to put it. It’s a very tightly
constructed piece of work, and there are some little variations. And that’s
the thing, … you’re looking for the little “Where’s Waldo? Where’s…?
Oh, that changes there.” So, a lot of it is very subtle – how [Bach]
changes it – and it all works together to make something very beautiful.
So yeah, it’s just the idea of the degree of construction that, as you say,
[it’s] not like a… Not words [or notes] just flying about wildly on a page.
(2O)

The work these participants are referencing is Bach’s Invention No. 1 in C Major. Since the
accompanying LG is highly analytical, students’ interactions with the work may tend toward
antipathy, rather than my participant’s fascination.

Bach’s Invention: “You’re seeing it, you’re hearing it, and you’re playing it.” Of the
four LGs, the one linked with Bach’s Invention in C Major is the most theoretical. The work
itself is the farthest removed from any musical meaning beyond its specific compositional
features. While my interrogative data suggested a hint of deepening interpretation in Bach’s
manipulation of the opening motive, the invention’s skillful construction is better suited to an
analyzing encounter. The level 6 LG is intended to introduce Bach’s invention and to make plain
its esoteric nature. An Orleans group participant thought it would be engaging for one of her
adolescent students. It was not. With little involvement from me, the group undertook an
unravelling of the invention’s analysis as well as the student’s analytical experience. The
pertinent conversation, including a number of pedagogical insights, is reproduced in its entirety:

LLP: Well then, we’ll let you lead the…

AC: Lead the charge.
LLP: Yes, the invention.
ABn: Yeah. Well, it’s quite a thing. I really enjoyed looking at [the]
Spanish [analysis] – the colour[ed] thing – that was kind of interesting.
And just the idea of going through… There were eighteen complete
motives. And when I first went through them, I thought they all had to be
ending with a 5th, and I thought, “Well, this is not working. Why is this
not working?” And then I went back and read the question again, and it
said some of them will have different endings, altered endings, so that
was fine. It worked out then.
LLP: Okay.
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ABn: So, but yeah, it’s very interesting, going through it and just
realizing, just looking for [motives] and see[ing] how they compare.
Looking at the idea of … modulation, the augmentation, and it was,
again, looking at it from a very theoretical point of view. But then, I
think it’s easier to look at Bach theoretically … He’s a theoretical guy. I
mean, he’s also very musical and everything is wonderful, but… And it’s
easier to find the motive, to sing it, to find out where it is, and to go
through it.
AC: And you give us the whole score.
ABn: Yeah, and we have the score. That’s very helpful too. And so, I…
Now I thought this would be easier for a student, and I… He was doing –
this is a level 7, this No. 1 – he was doing one with the [level] 8 repertoire
and I thought, “Well, this would be great because it’s a little easier.” But
he was just used to looking at the notes and playing the notes, and just
trying to find this stuff through it, this was a… It was like a very difficult
exercise for him.
LLP: Hmm. Okay.
ABn: Because obviously, he’d never even thought of it like that… Now I
think there were some other things going on that were not related to me,
… so this was just a little something extra that he really didn’t need to
have on his plate. And since it was something … quite foreign to him, I
think he probably thought he’d just let it go and let me do all the talking.
So, that was my experience with him, but it was just so very, very
different for him to experience (if I can use that word), to experience an
invention that way. And I mean, he’s a smart guy, a very, very smart guy,
but I don’t know if the will wasn’t there, if he was just overloaded and
just couldn’t take one more … thing in, or if it was just too different and
he just was not able to absorb it at that time…
LLP: Okay. That’s okay. When I went to write this [LG], I mean after
coming through [the level 5] experience and setting up … two pre-
activities, and I came to this [one] and thought, “What am I going to do
for a pre-activity when I’m working with eight notes, essentially?” And
so, in the end, I totally dispensed with the pre-activities and decided to
just jump right into it. Because there…
ABn: I like the idea of explain[ing] the motive and then, the identifying
[of] complete motives. I thought that was very helpful – to go through
the piece and to find those, and to realize when you break it down, there’s
really not a lot to it.
LLP: No.
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ABn: It’s the same thing that keeps being repeated, but [Bach] does it in
such a way that he changes it up and moves it around. So, it was very
interesting. And also, just the idea of the melodic interval between the
last two notes of the original, and “Name the four intervals that replace
it.” I mean, that is a whole week’s worth [of work] in itself. Just doing
that, there’s a lot of work there. I mean, I was going through that, and
you’re looking for it and, “Oh yeah, it’s different here. Yeah, this is here.
This is in the treble, this is in the bass.” It’s just looking for them and
where they are. So, I thought that was a lot.
AC: [Teacher’s name], my high school piano teacher did that when I
played this one.
ABn: Yeah. It was great, it was really… And then the other [thing] was
the inverted ones – the nineteen complete inversions. You know, with a
coloured pen. So, it was really quite something, but it’s one thing to see it
like that, or hear it like that, and play… I think you’re seeing it, you’re
hearing it, and you’re playing it. They’re really different experiences that
you’re having of this.
AC: Which is the point.
LLP: Right.
ABn: Yeah, which is the point, but it’s a huge mouthful. It really is a big
one.
AC: And so, you said for your student, it was a… It was just such a new
way of learning stuff?
ABn: It was just more… It was around the end of the year too, and
looking at other things, and he was just busy. And he was having some
issues at school and … you know, young teen and all that angst. But I
thought it would be a really good one, that he could dig into that
[analysis], but it just didn’t work.
JK: I watched a colleague of mine, a friend of mine, who was a commerce
student and became a financial advisor. I watched her looking at
financial pages, just like that. It would take me half an hour to read each
one. And then I think of us looking at a score…
ABn: Yes.
JK: We’ve been doing it for decades. We’ve played it, we’ve listened to
it, we’ve analyzed it. It’s a totally different ball game for the kid who’s
just trying to figure out if this is an E or an E-flat.
AC: He’s looking at, “Which finger do I play that C with?”
ABn: That’s what I was thinking, it’s really… It’s such a revolutionary
thing for these guys to have to [do]. Because they haven’t done this.
They’re just learning to play and for some of them, just getting the notes
is a huge deal. And then they have to figure out what the notes are. [This
type of analysis is] pushing them just a little farther than some of them
want to go.
JK: But it gives them an idea of the inventiveness of … Bach, and of the
structure of the piece – how he gets this all to fit together without making
a clang of discords.
AC: And then it sounds beautiful besides, yeah.
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JK: Yes.
ABn: But it does really get you inside the music. I really agree with that.
With me, anytime I started [learning] anything of Bach’s, it was just a
jumble of notes. But after, it really is an acquired taste. And the more
you learn it, the more you get into it, the more you appreciate what he’s
doing, and the more it becomes an earworm. I never thought I would
hum along to … Bach, but sometimes it just gets in your head and it just
stays there. So, the guy really does grow on you. And for … students, I
think [they] need this kind of thing to help them understand. So again, it
was difficult for [my] student, and I think it is very difficult going through
it. And as you said [participant’s name], we’ve had a lot of time with
these things. Even with the experience that I’ve had with these, I was
really working. You know, I spent… It was more than fifteen minutes,
let’s just say, that I spent on this. It took some time. (2O)

As my participant pointed out, there could be many explanations, both musical and non-
musical, for her student’s disinterest. Musically, he may have been intimidated by the
unfamiliarity of the LG’s analyzing activities. Although my comment about the lack of pre-
activities seems irrelevant in the context of the surrounding conversation, it speaks to the
student’s unpreparedness for the analytical experience I had hoped to foster. This is in no way a
reflection on my participant or her student. It is a recognition that my pedagogical approach is
out-of-the-ordinary. The level 6 LG may or may not require preparation, but the work of analysis
surely does – particularly if it appears to be encroaching on playing or performing activities. But
as my Toronto group participant highlighted with his theatrical analogy, an unprepared actor is an
unconvincing actor. So too, for musicians.
Relevance is an additional concern. For the student mentioned above, who was playing
another of Bach’s inventions, there was no reason to analyze No. 1. Why would he need to work
out compositional details in an invention he had not played? Establishing the crucial connection
to “his” invention would require genre-specific generalizations that are better derived from the
known work and applied to the unknown – rather than the other way around. But for a student of
the Orleans group participant I interviewed separately, the experience was much more rewarding.
Her interaction with the LG for Bach’s invention coincided with her learning to play it:

LLP: Yay!
PG: Yay is for sure, right? Because it’s just propelled her into… “Oh,
yeah, yeah.” She’s seeing [the motive] and recognizing it, and then
[she’s] able to [play] it – much more quickly than had she not had all
those colours in there, I think. (2O)
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This student’s experience epitomizes the holistic ideal of an integrated music theory pedagogy.
Instead of enduring analysis as a theoretical necessity, and being overwhelmed by it, she was able
to embrace analysis as a practical exploration of her repertoire:

PG: [O]nce she saw that beginning there – the shape of it – well, then she
would go to the next one, and I just let her go. And she even found one
that I didn’t find …, as I was doing it. So, I thought that was great.
She’s, “Oh, here’s one last one.” So, that was good. (2O)

Could her affinity for analysis be a matter of temperament? Stereotypical assumptions

presuppose that theoretical analysis appeals to students with math/science interests, but this
assumption was not evidenced by the first student. Obviously, the matter is far more complex.
My Toronto group participant, whose passion for art (not science) may have fueled his intense
dislike for analysis, cited his perceived inability – and its attendant fear – as the primary
inhibiting factor. While he favours repertoire with extra-musical associations, he resolutely
creates meaningful experiences of varied analyses for his students, despite his personal
preferences:

JR: For me, it’s always easier to “sell” something that’s programmatic,
whether [it’s] something visual [or] something with a text. If I’m selling
modern music, selling dissonance in [Berg’s] Wozzeck is much easier for
me than selling dissonance in [Webern’s] Symphony, op. 21.89 Not for
everyone, some people are not programmatic/pictorial, but… So, the
“Queen of the Night” aria, you can engage, right? There’s a character,
there’s a story, there’s fantasy. That sells very nicely. And so, we
have… Yeah, the challenge is bringing an invention to life. And some
will respond to the mathematical genius of [its] construction and others
will quickly get overwhelmed with it. And even the teacher might get
overwhelmed with it. That’s the funny thing. (2T)

For me, from every one of my personal/professional perspectives, I feel overwhelmed when
I cannot link a new experience with an old one. This feeling is not dependent on whether my
temperament is artistic or scientific. It depends on whether the new experience is accessible –
and accessibility depends on the route I travel as well as the vehicle I utilize. As teachers, we
make countless instructional decisions on behalf of our students. If they recognize the contextual

89
RCM’s (2016e) ARCT history curriculum includes Wozzeck, an Expressionist opera by Alban Berg (1885-
1935), and the second movement of Symphony, op, 21, a serialist work for chamber orchestra by Anton Webern
(1883-1945). As composers of the Second Viennese School, both Berg and Webern, along with their teacher/mentor
Arnold Schoenberg (1874-1951), adopted the post-tonal conventions of atonality.
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bridge we construct, the path to new learning is generally well-received. But if the road is
obstructed or the passage discontinuous, the new learning is jeopardized. For many students, like
the first Orleans student, theoretical activities such as analysis are seemingly incongruous with a
performative instrumental or vocal experience. Given practical relevance, however, analysis can
bridge the music/theory divide by enhancing performance with useful compositional information,
as it happened for the second Orleans student.

Context: “That’s where the repertoire comes in.” Meaning-making in music theory is
clarified by circumstance – the context or setting in which meaning can be fully understood.
Provided with a relevant musical context, students can be guided to derive or discern theoretical
meaning for themselves. The Toronto group participants, having established the provision of
context as an instructional necessity, particularly for an integrated music theory pedagogy,
launched a discussion of contextual parameters. Since repertoire chosen for teaching purposes is
traditionally limited by common-practice period boundaries, they were eager to expand the scope
of choice to include popular music:

JR: … coming back [to] context. The more we can contextualize, either
through what [students] play, which is the best, [or] anything that’s
[relevant]. And that’s where we have to be creative. And I’d like to think
that all of this … is merely a stepping-stone. If someone doesn’t like
[the] aural analysis [in our harmony books, for example], that’s okay.
“Oh, this is an idea of what you can do, how to make it personal for you.
You can ignore our aural analysis – it was just an idea.”
CM: Yeah, yeah.
JR: “Try it out. If it doesn’t work for you, come up with another thing.”
But that was important, and I’m happy to say, so far, there might be
dissenting words, but there’s been really good feedback. They say, “Oh
my gosh, we love the fact that you’re not towing the line [with traditional
repertoire]!” I thought, “Yeah, that’s good.” I think maybe we got…
That’s a good thing. Because I like that, when [there’s] a pop song… I
did not understand dominant 7ths when I was [a student]. Bill Andrews –
we did a whole year [of] what we would [now] call basic and
intermediate harmony. It was a one-year course. [We] didn’t do the
basic exam. There [were] sixty of us in the room down the way [at
RCM], and some of us were going to [university] so they said, “You
better do two years in one.” Great! I didn’t understand dominant 7ths,
and this was… I didn’t know what the V stands for! Like 6/5? And he
said, “Okay, next week we’re doing the 9th, 11th, 13th.” So I said, “Are
you kidding me? Are you kidding?” I don’t even get this stuff: V6/5,
V[4/3]? And then he played [V13-I]. Oh, my god! Right away.
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I tell my students this in every class: [participant sings] “Nestlé’s makes

the very best – cho-colate.” That is the dominant 13th! That [jingle]
spoke to me. He didn’t say that. He didn’t relate to that. But I could
hear [the] mi-do. Oh, my god! That cadence, that’s the dominant 13th!
And that’s what I say to students. That’s the “ah-ha,” that’s the eureka
moment. Whether it’s – whatever it is. You say, “Ah-ha!” That little
jingle, that cartoon. “Ah-ha!” Whatever it is that will say… I can
connect. I can write a dominant 13th anywhere, and that [jingle is]
probably what I’m hearing. Now, I can hear other repertoire … too. I
can hear a Chopin prelude, but that’s what spoke to me in a way that Bach
chorales did not speak to me in harmony. What [did] I know? [They]
meant nothing to me. So, it’s good that we teach [chorales], and it’s good
[that] we have a discipline, but the more we can open up, and show …
students that this… [It] goes beyond the confines of classical music.
CM: Yeah. Well, I’ll tell you a funny story. I had a student, with the
popular piano [option], and for his grade 3, 5, and grade 8 exam[s], he did
the same piece from Lord of the Rings.
JR: Aw!
CM: Not the totally…
JR: Different arrangements. Cool.
CM: Yeah, different arrangements for his level, and we could incorporate
new skill[s] that he had, right? And it was funny that he still liked the
piece, that much later, but…
LLP: But that’s such a valuable thing to do, because then you’ve got [a
base], and you’re … building and building on top of it. Because … we
[can] keep building, but if [we’re] building on different bases, then we’re
… only getting so high. But if we can build on the same base, we can get
a lot higher.
CM: Because, I don’t know if you remember, but it’s when they… It’s
ten years ago, twelve years ago, when a pop song would come out, and
there’d … be this rush to get it to print. And it would be a pop vocal, like
a vocal/piano version. And [it’d] be really terrible. [It’d] be … basically
unplayable and really static sounding. Anyway, so [RCM’s popular
selection], in a way, has addressed this, right? Because if you were
coming up with your own arrangement, then you’re saying… Well,
because if students go to buy a piece and they say, “Oh, it doesn’t sound
like this.” And, “Can you play it for me?” And it sounds the same
because I always say, especially in piano, “You’re only as good as the
arrangement you’re playing.” If you’re playing a big note piano piece,
you can’t make it sound that much better, right? (2T)

At the time, I sensed the value of this conversation, but my understanding of its full
significance was slow to reveal itself. Now, I can finally confront the prejudice it unearthed: I
give little educational credence to popular music. I certainly enjoy listening to it, and I love
singing along with it, but I do not consider popular music to be “serious” music. Essentially, I
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associate popular music with personal pleasure and serious “classical” music with professional
practice. Unlike the Toronto group participant quoted above, I did not recognize the
unmistakable resolution of V13 in a vintage commercial for Nestlé’s Quik (now Nesquik) because
I never thought to analyze it – and my indifference dismisses its instructional potential.
I am not alone in my thinking, but this knowledge is small consolation. An integrated
pedagogy should be an inclusive pedagogy. By setting aside (or segregating) popular music and
confining it to the fringes of serious music study, I am imposing my limited views and value
judgements on my students. But awareness opens avenues of transformation. If I explore the
repertoire that holds meaning for my students, discovery awaits us all. The Toronto group
participants have brought this issue to my attention and a collection of essays about
teaching/learning popular music in academia (Rodriguez, 2017) will inspire further investigation.
For now, however, my pedagogical aspirations remain focused on integration.
This music/theory integration is often complicated by my role as a music theory specialist
since I am not directly involved in my students’ practical studies. While one of the Toronto
group participants is similarly situated, the others are not:

JR: The challenge [for] me, of course, is that I’ve always… Most of my
career, I’ve moved in this “specialist” thing. So, it’s not holistic in the
sense that I don’t see [students] coming up through the practical. I…
They land on my [doorstep] and either they’ve done rudiments, or it’s a
patchwork. I don’t know if I [even get] a clear idea of what they know.
I’m still trying to sort out where the blanks are. Yeah, [it requires] lots of
remedial [work].
CM: I think that’s true in any language. There’s no perfect way to teach a
language. There’s no way to get through and not have holes somewhere.
JR: Yeah, yeah.
CM: Right? Because sometimes I’ll be working with [students] and I’ll
think, “Oh, fantastic! We’re moving along and now there’s just one more
step, and that…” For me, that would be easy… And [I] think it’s
nothing, [but] for them, it’s a huge hurdle. They’ve gone through the
things that I would have struggled with, but when they get to this one, …
that’s their nemesis.
CP: Yeah, interesting. Yeah, that sounds very familiar. (2T)

Bridging the gap between music and theory requires both instructional connectivity and
contextual relevance. It requires bringing a “musical aspect into what used to be very cut and
dry, or very dry – not cut and dry, very dry – to … teach, and to bring to life” (JR-2T,
participant’s emphasis). But a music/theory integration is more than score reading and searching
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for tritones and dominant 7th chords. It places intervals and chords in the context of a music
listening experience. “That’s where the repertoire comes in, I think. It’s finding the right… You
see, you add one little layer, and then you go to the next thing and add another layer” (CP-2T).
Integrating requires a mixture of activities – analyzing, layering, deepening, preparing,
connecting, singing – bringing them together to become an instructional whole.
Just as the myth of the divinely-inspired artist is largely fallacy, so too is the myth that
music theory can be taught as an abstract science. Sound and symbol are interdependent.
Artistry is synonymous with creative ability, but it also encompasses the technical proficiencies
of craftsmanship. Scientists systematically gather evidence to test hypotheses, but the knowledge
gained leads to innovation. Art and science are interdependent. A fully integrated music theory
pedagogy demands equal participation from both disciplines.
The concluding focus group discussions provide ample data to support my pedagogical
ideas – from a theoretical point of view. They do not, however, provide direct evidence to
support the usability of the LGs from a practical point of view, nor were they intended for this
purpose. While I had hoped that the LGs would be utilized more extensively, and that the
participants would have more to report about their trial experiences as well as those of their
students, I did not set out to collect student-centered data. Since I was interested in the
participants’ interpretations of their students’ reactions, my findings reflect teacher-centered
responses to the LGs’ instructional process. With less process-driven data than I had anticipated,
these responses are fewer in number but their reduced quantity does not diminish their quality,
nor the value of their contribution to my study.
The MYC participant who departed early from the second Kanata meeting wrote several
observations in the margins of her annotated LGs. Along with repeated references to the amount
of lesson-time required, she labelled some activities with question marks and described others
with comments such as “difficult,” “didn’t happen,” “never heard of this,” or “not sure what we
were looking for” (MI-aLG). This participant’s uncertainty, although not openly shared by her
colleagues, is significant. It indicates that my pedagogical ideas need further explanation, and
further experimentation, before they can be readily implemented. Like the make conscious step
in KM’s instructional process, there must be adequate preparation for both the teacher and the
student. This preparation must also be allowed to settle before an integrated music theory
pedagogy is fully adopted.
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Concluding Remarks

Chapter 5 began the second part of my inquiry, in which the empirical data was introduced
and analyzed. This data, representing Schön’s (1983) design-oriented “back-talk,” includes the
participants’ critical reviews of the LGs as well as their trial implementations. The introductory
focus group discussions comprised the reviewing tasks, while the concluding focus group
discussions comprised the implementing tasks. The data collected from the first set of
discussions facilitated the interrogative interactions I intended for the second stage of my
research process.
This interrogative data revealed six themes, each associated with one of my
personal/professional perspectives: analyzing as a researcher, layering as a teacher/practitioner,
deepening as an author/pedagogue, preparing as an examiner, connecting as a student, and
singing as an artist/musician. While the data generated from the participant’s reviews were
broadly aimed at establishing the LGs’ potential usefulness, singular themes reported specific
aspects of the participants’ engagement with the LGs as instructional products:

• analyzing – surface content; details of constitution and structure

• layering – reinforcement of theoretical knowledge through music listening
• deepening – interpretation; subjective discernments of music theory
• preparing – readiness for future learnings in advanced theoretical subjects
• connecting – practical relevance; theory/performance relationships
• singing – experiential interactions with music theory

Some themes, such as analyzing, were divided according to subthemes that further organized the
data. The narrative discourse surrounding each theme, which begins as a collective dialogue,
ends with a section dedicated to my individual meaning-making within the framework of my
inquiry. These “… for understanding” sections explore my preliminary findings and taken
together, form the mostly linear trajectory of my quest for an integrated music theory pedagogy.
Since the data I had hoped to gather for the third stage of my research process (from the
Google Docs files) did not materialize, the data collected from the second set of focus group
discussions was dually purposed. A portion of this data, involving five participants’ engagement
with the LGs as instructional processes, spoke to the implementation emphasis of the reflective
interactions at stage three. The remaining portion informs the summative interactions that
constitute stage four. These will occupy the final chapter. Consistent with ABR practices, my
research findings will “not [be] replicated in their ‘raw’ form” – they are “made sense of (through
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analysis and interpretation),” then presented in a “distilled, coherent, carefully crafted format”
(Leavy, 2015, pp. 28-29). I offer these findings to the music theory pedagogy community.
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Chapter 6

Synthesis: Finding a Multiplicity of Meanings

The heart of the educational process consists of providing aids and dialogues for
translating experience into more powerful systems of notation and ordering.
– Jerome S. Bruner (1915-2016)

Introductory Remarks

In music theory research, the musical work comprises the data. A music theorist labours to
make the work understandable for others in a comparatively small academic community. He/she
dissects it and examines its component parts, but within this specialized community, the work
continues to exist as a creative whole. In music education research, information about the
musical work comprises the data. Through this information, which is sometimes circumstantial,
a music educator labours to make the musical work understandable for others in a wider, less
specialized community. Commonly focused on the acquisition of appreciation, he/she surrounds
the work with relevant facts and figures that provide historical, structural, or performative
context. In music theory pedagogy research, the component parts of a musical work comprise the
data. Frequently, the work is unspecified. In the dissecting process, it loses its identity as a
creative whole. But this whole is far more than the sum of its parts. A music theory pedagogue
must labour to make the musical work understandable through its component parts. The two – a
whole and its parts – must be integrated.
My inquiry in music theory pedagogy explores the didactic potential of integration for the
teaching of music theory. Following Bruner’s (1966) experiential educational process and
Choksy’s (1981, 1999b) directed listening model, I designed integrated instructional aids
intended to elicit student/teacher dialogues with knowledge-sharing interactions. However,
integration is a unifying factor in other aspects of my dissertation as well. My inquiry brings
together the knowledge traditions of music theory and music education, allowing their distinct
viewpoints to merge in the discipline of music theory pedagogy. It facilitates a music/theory
merger by bringing ABR practices, often associated with inquiries in the social sciences, to a
study that integrates music-as-art and music-theory-as-science. It also integrates my six
perspectives, enabling my researcher-self to incorporate the unique experiences and observations
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of my other selves: student, artist/musician, teacher/practitioner, examiner, and

author/pedagogue.
Chapter 1 introduces my multi-faceted relationship with music theory through these
individual perspectives – in much the same way that a music theory pedagogue endeavours to
introduce a musical work through its component parts. And just as its parts distinguish the
whole, so too, my experiences distinguish me. Their integration, rendered as a personal narrative,
shapes my composite understanding of music theory pedagogy. From this understanding, I
derived the rationale for my research. Chapter 2 widens the sphere of my inquiry to encompass
the literature of pertinent scholarly communities. Seeking to broaden/deepen my understanding
of music theory teaching practices, I reviewed three intersecting bodies of literature: music
theory, music theory pedagogy, and music education. These research communities assisted my
meaning-making and influenced my argument in favour of an integrated music theory pedagogy.
Chapter 3 examines the ABR literature. Attracted to its blurring of specific cognitive
findings and less definable aesthetic knowings (Greenwood, 2012), I recognized ABR as an
integration of epistemological tenets. This integration, combined with the amorphous ambiguity
of ABR practices, resonated deeply with my artistic personality. By adopting an ABR lens for
my inquiry, I was able to construct a methodological framework that incorporates KM’s four-step
instructional process: prepare, make conscious, reinforce, and assess. Chapter 4 gives
pedagogical substance to KM’s process in the guise of four LGs. As purposeful integrations of
music (art) and music theory (science), the LGs are aligned with the music history portion of
RCM’s (2016e) intermediate theory curriculum. An analysis of the LGs’ repertoire-based
content forefronts the pedagogical problems I negotiated in their creation.
The LGs, which emphasize the teaching of applicable pitch elements, provided preparatory
data in answer to my formative question:

• How can the teaching of intervals and chords be integrated with repertoire from the
Royal Conservatory’s (2016e) intermediate theory curriculum?

Chapter 5 addressed both my interrogative and my reflective questions, respectively:

• How can an integrated pedagogy for the teaching of intervals and chords according to
the Royal Conservatory’s (2016e) intermediate theory curriculum be implemented?
• How can the implementation of an integrated pedagogy for the teaching of intervals
and chords according to the Royal Conservatory’s (2016e) intermediate theory
curriculum be improved by the participants in my research study?
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At the empirical stage of my inquiry, I invited my teacher-colleagues to review the LGs, to

use them, and to provide feedback. In the same way that my individual thinking about music
theory pedagogy was enhanced/enriched by the communal literature, my doing of music theory
pedagogy was enhanced/enriched by the participants. The introductory focus group discussions
considered the potential usefulness of the LGs as instructional products, while the concluding
focus group discussions considered the effectiveness of their pedagogical processes, despite the
lesser amount of trial data. The participants’ responses to the LGs were mostly positive and
supportive. Explicitly, they articulated overall acceptance but implicitly, they exhibited signs of
hesitance. Chapter 6 is directed toward their reluctance/resistance.
In light of these blurred findings/knowings, chapter 6 is also tasked with unravelling my
summative question:

• How can the harmony component of the Royal Conservatory’s (2016e) advanced
theory curriculum be enhanced by an integrated artistic/scientific pedagogy at the
intermediate level?

Although I imagined the summative stage of my inquiry as a direct interaction with the
participants, it was in actuality, an indirect interaction. Rather than the participants themselves, I
interacted with the data they provided. But unlike the previous chapter, which presented an
analysis of the data collected from our focus group discussions, chapter 6 involves a synthesis.
Instead of analyzing the data’s component parts, I synthesized them into a coherent whole. From
this synthesis, I extracted meaningful insights that will improve the usability of my LGs and
strengthen the integrated pedagogical product/process I have proposed for the teaching of music
theory. The chapter concludes with further recommendations for an art/science integration in the
wider field of music theory pedagogy.

Summative Interactions with the Data

The organization of chapter 6 is inspired by Eisner’s (1991) concept of “educational

criticism” which includes four dimensions: description, making vivid the experience;
interpretation, accounting of/for the experience with theory; evaluation, appraising the merit of
the experience; and generalization, deriving a thematic from the experience. Eisner’s four
dimensions bear a striking resemblance to the four stages of KM’s instructional process:
preparation through hearing and singing, making vivid the experience of music; conscious
awareness through deriving, accounting of/for the experience with music theory; reinforcement
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through writing, appraising the merit of the musical experience with theoretical representation;
and assessment through reading and creating, deriving a representative thematic from the
musical/theoretical experience. Although Eisner’s educational criticism is rooted in the arts, my
reading of his evaluative process, superimposed with KM’s instructional process, stretches
beyond its original intent.
For Eisner (1991), educational criticism is dependent upon the awareness or consciousness
of a phenomena he terms “educational connoisseurship.” He explains their functional
interdependency:

The word connoisseurship comes from the Latin cognoscere, to know. In

the visual arts, to know depends upon the ability to see, not merely to
look. Criticism refers to the process of enabling others to see the qualities
that a work of art possesses. Effective criticism functions as a midwife to
perception. It helps it come into being, then later refines it and helps it
become more acute. (p. 6, original emphasis)

Serving as an artistic frame of reference, Eisner’s concept of criticism is aimed at the re-
education of perception (Dewey, 1934), but it relies on connoisseurship for its subject matter.
“[C]onnoisseurship is the art of appreciation, [while] criticism is the art of disclosure” (Eisner,
1976, p. 141). One is private, the other, public. Critics strive to articulate the ineffable qualities
of an artwork in a language that renders them vivid. Illuminating these qualities with the tools of
metaphor and analogy, suggestion and implication, critics enable us to see through the knowing
eyes of connoisseurs – or to hear through their ears. In the context of my inquiry, I have assumed
the role of critic. As such, I rely on the connoisseurship of my participants for direction and
guidance.

Description: Making Vivid the Experience

Singing: “I can’t get kids to sing.” The first critical task, making vivid the experience of
music, compels me to re-address my singing theme. Siegesmund and Cahnmann-Taylor (2008),
in their determination to expand curricular understanding through the scholARTristry of ABER,
insist that “education should capture the fullness of experience” (p. 244). It follows that music
education should capture the fullness of a musical experience with singing – one of the most
universally accessible and personally meaningful expressions of music. But for many of my
participants, the “singing was a little bit of an issue” (KS-2K). And it was an issue that surfaced
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in all the concluding focus group discussions. As an illustrative example, the host participant in
Kanata expressed frustration with one of her students:
ABs: I snipped at a [level] 10 student the other day. She called like a
major 7th a minor 2nd or something, like she flipped it in her head. And I
said, “Okay, sing the bottom note.” “I don’t sing.” I said, “Yes you do,
sing.” And it was totally within her range, and she made this most
beautiful sound. I’m like, “Yeah, you sing. I’m going to sing with you,
and now we’re going to sing all the way up. You’re 14 years old. This is
your [level] 10 exam. Honey, sing an interval. It’s just me in the room.”
And she did, and she had a lovely voice! Like, “Why are you so afraid of
your own voice?”
KS: Mm-hmm.
LLP: Yeah, and what’s created that culture?
ABs: They don’t sing in school. (2K)

The lack of singing in school music programs is certainly a contributing factor, but it is not
the only factor. Somewhat defensive about her teaching practice, a Kanata group participant who
described herself as “one of those” teachers (MI-2K, participant’s emphasis), meaning that she
teaches exclusively for exam readiness, launched a lengthy conversation about singing with a
sobering question:

MI: So, why would I teach solfège to somebody who doesn’t even need to
know it for their [level] 7 and 8 theory? They’re in it for their high school
credits, that’s it. So…
LLP: Right.
MI: It’s great, and like, “Oh, the being able to sing, and integrate it in, and
oh, the internalize this and that.” But like, they just want their high
school credits, and…
ABs: And I can’t get kids to sing.
KS: No.
ABs: Really. I snapped [at] somebody … the other day because she
wouldn’t sing. And I’m like, “You must!”
KS: It’s so hard to get them to sing. So hard.
ABs: Do you have any luck getting your kids to sing?
DM: Mm-hmm.
ABs: So, what do you do?
DM: I’m just a really bad singer. I’m like… Because I go like this…
I’m like, “Sing like: da ta-da!” And they’re, “Okay! Like, stop!”
KS: “I’ll sing if you will just… Stop!”
DM: Yeah. And if you’re goofy with them, then they’ll sing. Because
they’re like, “Oh, it’s not serious.” (2K)
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The conversation continued well beyond this excerpt, producing several pages of
typewritten text from which I gathered a list of probable causes – and their negative outcomes –
concerning students’ reluctance to sing:

• lack of prior experience; lack of confidence

• lack of a reliable model; fear of failure
• lack of a realistic model; fear of ridicule
• lack of necessity; ambivalence

As I summarized the group’s stance on singing, I noticed the absence of its opening voice in the
continuing dialogue. We did not engage this participant’s dissenting viewpoint. I did not make
space for a viewpoint that opposed mine. But she is my “grassroots” participant. What if her
opinion is representative of the music teacher population as a whole?
I much prefer the comments of the Orleans group participants, particularly the one who
announced, “I like the amount of singing [the] students have to do. If I can figure out how to get
my students to do that some more…” (AC-2O). Even her colleague’s response: “Yes, that’s
quite new. Yeah, get them to sing it. Good luck with that! That’s hard” (ABn-2O). I am not
discouraged because I know these participants understand the pedagogical value of singing,
despite repeated allegations of “hardness.” This is true of all my participants – except the
dissenting voice. They recognize their students’ “nutritional” need for singing, like they would a
musical multivitamin, and they accept their educational responsibility to provide it. I am not
saying that they will instantly abandon their current teaching practices to take up the singing
banner and thereafter march to a different drummer, so to speak. But they will think about
singing. It will have entered their conscious awareness and it will likely, gradually, seep into
their teaching.
Or it will become more prominent in the teaching of participants who already include
singing as a regular activity. An Orleans group participant with whom I had a private interview,
after she was unable to attend the second focus group discussion, resolved to do just that:
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PG: Oh, what do you do…? This is a singing teacher asking you this
question! But I think it was back on… Yeah, and you said, “Write the
solfa abbreviations and then sing your melody.” Pfft, fat chance of that
happening! I thought, “Oh my goodness, you know. They can recognize
a perfect 4th. They can see that it’s a perfect 4th. Can they sing a perfect
4th? Absolutely not.” So I thought, “Am I slipping up here somewhere?”
And should… I’m wondering, because I know on the exam, … you get
the choice. 90 And I thought, “I think I’m going to start having them do
both,” rather than just identifying. “Okay, that’s a perfect 4th. Okay,
here’s a note, sing me a perfect 4th.” So, that was…
LLP: Yup. Totally different skill set.
PG: Yes, yes. And I’ve got one little girl that’s… She’s in [level] 2 …
piano, and oh my gosh, she can… For her to find, to match a pitch, is
almost impossible. But yet, she’s got a very good ear and can identify.
But if I have her try to match my pitch it’s like **growls** She’s down
in the basement, you know. She has a lower voice but that’s a challenge.
That’s a challenge! So, maybe there should be some more of that kind. If
you would ever do something for the lower [levels] too, is to start getting
them to sing those intervals. Because I know if they can sing it, they can
play it.
LLP: Yup. Yeah, absolutely.
PG: And they can recognize it. (2O)

The premise behind KM as a singing method is that vocalization connects the representation and
the actualization of music. Everyone has a voice. The act of singing should be universal. But
the obstacles that deter singing do not make it universally appealing. Sometimes even its
advantages cannot persuade dissenting voices.
My Kanata group participant was not persuaded. Although she withdrew from the
conversation, it is unlikely that she withdrew her question or the judgement it implies. She is an
outlier. At the time, I assumed that she did not understand the merits of singing. But she is a
certified MYC teacher – of course she understands. Maybe she associates singing with younger
children and not the older school-age children who populate her piano studio. No. I cannot
blame her for her reluctance. Singing is the most significant aspect of the LGs with which she
struggled. A few days before our first focus group discussion, which my participant was unable
to attend, she enthusiastically wrote in an e-mail:

90
To satisfy a portion of the musicianship requirements for RCM’s (2015c) piano examinations, students,
beginning at level 1, are asked to identify level-specific intervals played once by the examiner, or they may choose to
sing/hum intervals from a single note, also played by the examiner.
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I have worked through all 4 of your Listening Guides:) They are

absolutely wonderful and map out the in-depth information of the 4
pieces in a very logical, fun, and easy-to-understand way. I love the
specific recordings you listed … too:) After working through all 4 [LGs],
I really do feel like I know the 4 musical works a million times better than
before!!! (M. Iwaskow, e-mail response, March 20, 2017)

With this statement of general acceptance, I can put the singing issue into perspective.
According to Siegesmund and Cahnmann-Taylor (2008), arts-based researchers “often look
explicitly for outliers” in order to disrupt the master narrative (p. 238, original emphasis). They
also seek change “from the bottom-up through grassroots circles of conversation” (p. 236). My
inquiry, as a whole, is intended to disrupt the master narrative in music theory pedagogy, but I
did not expect one of my participants to disrupt my disruption. After failing to lay blame
elsewhere – on the participant – my first impulse was to somehow rectify the situation. Many
participants had suggested CLGs that would clarify, describe, explain, and ultimately justify my
pedagogical choices. However, disruptions give us pause to consider alternatives. ABR is not in
the business of solving problems. It is meant to expand human understanding in imaginative
ways.
My utilization of singing in the LGs, particularly singing by means of solmization, is meant
to expand the student’s understanding of both music and music theory. It is not foolproof –
“Yeah, cause that’s two things: you’re trying to get … yourself organized with the pitch, and
you’re trying to figure out what the notes are” (ABn-2O) – but it has proven useful: “Oh, I love
solfa. I love the movable-do because it inflects for chromatic notes and it just… It’s also … the
first thing I learned, and that probably has something to do with it, but it covers so many issues or
contingencies” (AC-2O). However, for teachers who have not been previously exposed to pitch
syllabification, or for those with limited exposure, the nuances of it may seem overwhelmingly
complicated. And for my outlier participant, it must have seemed like just one more element to
cram into an already overcrowded lesson – and an extra-curricular element at that. Realistically,
why would she risk disrupting the status quo?
One of the Toronto group participants may have an answer for her:
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JR: I think [it’s an] awakening. And then you can introduce these
concepts. It doesn’t matter if it’s in the syllabus, … teacher[s] can ignore
it if they want. I mean, I think the idea, when you’re marketing this to
teachers, is [that] this is the template. It’s a way of doing it, but it’s also
encouraging people (teachers) to embrace what works. So, if tonic solfa
works, great, if numbers work, great. Maybe even… Well, in a
workshop you can talk about that – maybe not have different confusing
systems – but I think introducing it at the beginning. And if that is the
way you’re going, then I don’t think it has to conform to exactly what’s in
the [syllabus]. I think the payout is really good when you introduce this.
So, I have no problem with tonic solfa. I think it’s great. Ideally, if it’s
introduced earlier, right from the beginning so that they’re getting that, I
think that’d be ideal. (2T)

By awakening knowledge of this instructional tool in my participant, an opportunity arises

for her to awaken the same knowledge in her students. But it is not my place to force the issue. I
am reminded of an old proverb: you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink.91
Consequently, I will tuck away for safe-keeping her concern about singing. Just as I imagine the
other participants’ awareness of singing will have an effect on their teaching, my awareness of
the outlier participant’s reluctance/resistance will have an effect on my future pedagogical
writing. If indeed her opinion represents that of the wider teaching community, I will need to
revisit the issue of singing more substantively. For now, I hope the LGs will encourage music
theory teachers to consider singing with their students.

Interpretation: Accounting of/for the Experience with Theory

Critical Thinking: “To get inside the music.” In chapter 5, I suggested that Eisner’s
interpretative approach to criticism may be pedagogically repurposed for the integrated teaching
of music theory. This application provides students with the analytical tools necessary for seeing
and describing the music they encounter. It also provides them with a chance to hone the skills
of connoisseurship and critical thinking. The act of interpretation ranges from technical
explanation on one end of the spectrum to stylistic representation on the other. One extreme
implies the objectivity of science, while the other implies the subjectivity of art. Either way,
interpretation is concentrated on the derivation of meaning. But not one, single, definitive
meaning – a multiplicity of meanings.

91
This proverb appeared in a 1546 collection titled The Proverbs of John Heywood (c.1497-c.1580): A man may
well bring a horse to the water, But he cannot make him drinke he will (Sharman, 1874).
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In Leavy’s (2015) words:

One of the unique strengths of ABR practices is that they allow for
multiple meanings to emerge (as opposed to authoritative claims that one
might find in quantitative research). In this regard, arts-based researchers
are after truths not truth (Bochner & Riggs, 2014). By producing a
multiplicity of meanings, ABR has the potential to promote deep
engagement, critical thinking, and reflection, all of which contributes to
the ultimate impact and thus usefulness of the work. Therefore,
ambiguity can be seen as a strength of ABR. (pp. 276-277, original
emphasis)

Leavy goes on to warn that there is “always a balance to strike between opening up a multiplicity
of meanings and maintaining responsibility for the range of meanings that could emerge” (p.
277). This balance, or lack thereof, could affect the work’s reception. Consequently, it is my
responsibility to present a balanced interpretation of the data.
In my music theory pedagogy context, I am balancing the research conventions of two
communities of scholarship: music theory and music education. In the specific context of
Eisner’s interpretive dimension, I am caught between these communities because his reference to
theory is not consistent with mine. He is accounting of/for the experience with educational
theory, while I am primarily concerned with musical theory. However, the required theoretical
compromise places my discussion squarely in the domain of music theory pedagogy. As a
master’s student in music theory, I explored the pedagogical congruencies between Kodály’s
methodology and post-secondary tonal harmony. How should conceptual knowledge about
harmony be taught? I relied on the publications of Rogers (2004), connecting thinking and
listening with musical analysis, and White (2002), asserting that “genuine understanding of
musical concepts cannot be acquired without the aural and even tactile experience of actual
music” (p. 147) – quoted earlier in chapter 2. Both authors are strong proponents of experiential
learning.
As a doctoral student in music education, I explored the intricacies of my question from an
educational vantage point. In so doing, I developed an awareness that I tend to privilege
scientific logic over artistic expression in my teaching. Therefore, my approach to music theory
instruction is essentially backward. This self-scrutiny of my professional protocols, using
knowledge derived from practice and practice informed by knowledge, roused new questions.
How can I incorporate musical literature in my teaching process? How can I encourage my
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students to derive musical concepts for themselves? How can I provide my students with rich
concrete experiences that facilitate a natural and sequential progression toward more complex
thinking? The literature in music education offered some direction: Yarbrough (2003),
contrasting conceptual knowledge and perceptual knowledge; Andrews (1990), reconceptualizing
the inductive process with discovery learning; and Jorgensen (2005), encouraging the dynamic
functionality of student/teacher interactions; to name just a few. But it is still Rogers and White
who seem best equipped to navigate the indeterminacy between Eisner’s educational vision of
theory and my musical vision. Their tool of navigation is analysis.
Interpretation, whether educational or musical, requires the critical thinking skills of
analysis. So too are analytical skills imperative for the experiential learning of
musical/theoretical concepts. Their collaborative association, in White’s (2002) opinion, is
multi-directional: “One certainly applies theoretical concepts to the analysis of music, but one
also learns theoretical concepts through the analytical process” (p. 137). This collaboration is a
fundamental component of the LGs. They are designed to foster active listening engagements by
enabling students “to get inside the music” (ABn-2O). But getting inside requires listening and
thinking (Rogers, 2004), perception and conception (Yarbrough, 2003) – “actually thinking about
what [the] piece means” (KS-2K). It requires the integrated interpretation of music’s subjective
elements as well as the objective elements of key, tempo, meter, and so on.
An art/science music/theory integration for the teaching of music theory has been clearly
endorsed my participants: “I think you’re really onto something” (CM-2T). But the pedagogical
how of this integration is less clear. Recognizing the backwardness or deductiveness of my own
teaching, especially in relation to KM, I attempted to re-orient myself with the LGs. I adopted an
inductive form of guided discovery (Andrews, 1990), and with Choksy’s (1999b) staunch
assurance as my rationalization – “There is no aspect of musical learning that cannot be
uncovered through a systematic study of masterworks,” (p. 77) – I placed repertoire selected from
RCM’s (2016e) intermediate theory curriculum at the center of my pedagogical approach. But
this is not the usual procedure.
As a postlude to the reflective questions I circulated after the introductory focus group
discussions, I posted the following paragraph in the shared Google Docs files (see Appendix
3.7):
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Defending Kodály’s pedagogical approach, Choksy quotes Dobszay

(1992): “I have become increasingly convinced that the direction of music
teaching can best be determined by the inner logic of music itself” (p. 10).
Simply stated, the music must come first. It must be elevated from its
secondary function (as illustrative example) to become the primary focus
for teaching. Do you agree with Choksy’s belief that much music
teaching is backward? Why or why not? How do you
suggest we preserve the music in our teaching of music theory?

A Kanata group participant spoke very eloquently on this topic, reading from her thoughtfully
prepared response during our concluding focus group discussion:

ABs: And then, yeah, the postlude question. The belief that music
teaching is essentially backwards because we’re making a definition and
then trying to find the examples. So, the question is, “How do you
suggest we preserve the music in our teaching of music theory?” So,
we’ve discussed a lot of this, but I think there are reasons that music
theory teaching has gone the direction that it has. I was teaching
somebody history last night, and I made a correlation. Mark Evan Bonds,
The History of Western Music. Do you know that big book? We [used] it
in university. Bonds [2006] states that, “Renaissance theorists and
composers conceived of harmony as a by-product of counterpoint – that
is, as a by-product of the relationship among the given voices of a work.”
So, “For music written in the [eighteenth century], however, [such an]
analysis [would be] entirely appropriate.” You know, the Palestrina
counterpoint. “It was in the seventeenth century that musicians began to
think of harmony more and more in terms of chordal progressions” [p.
217]. So I wrote, in other words, although the Renaissance working of
counterpoint, based on the relationship (consonant or dissonant) between
two notes, is perhaps an organic, natural way of creating harmonic
structures, that method of analyzing, and perhaps even [of] composing,
gave way to a more theoretical approach, worked from a harmonic
progression and then [to] specify the notes – which is how I would teach
counterpoint. Perhaps this shift occurred, not just because the music was
moving from modes to the rigid hierarchy of major-minor tonality, but
because it was more foolproof – foulproof? I wrote foul, but I think it’s
foolproof – to set out a framework of chordal progressions and patterns,
and then [to] fill in the details. Likewise, returning to the question. Is the
current pedagogy of teaching music essentially backwards? Theoretical
concepts first, exemplification second. I feel like backwards is an
inaccurate description. Perhaps simplistic is the better description. For
music teachers with limited class time, it is far simpler, for example, to
teach the basic concept of dissonance and consonance, maybe even using
a major scale to do it – but that’s not music, it’s just a scale – and then
have the students listen to real music and identify… So, it’s easier to just
tell them what it is.
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LLP: Right.
ABs: … than to have the students listen to real music and then identify
the moments of tension versus rest – not even using those terms. So, is
the teaching of theoretical concepts followed by musical exemplification a
backwards approach? Perhaps. And only by acknowledging the lure of
its practicality can music teachers embrace, even partially, a more organic
approach of experiencing the concept before naming it. (2K, participant’s
emphasis)

One of the Orleans group participants, in our first focus group discussion, used the word
organic to label this experiential approach. Like the participant quoted above, she was also
implying qualities of inevitability or instinctiveness. These qualities would easily apply to the
application of such a process, but the process itself is surely not an inevitable or instinctive
choice for the majority of music theory teachers. Even if they were swayed by the organic nature
of its pedagogical approach, they would undoubtedly be apprehensive about the fluidity of its
open-endedness – along with the realization that “going with the flow” takes time. Perhaps too
much time. How do teachers invest this precious commodity wisely? How do they balance the
pressures of exam preparation with the musical well-being of their students?
According to KM practitioner László Dobszay (1992):

[The teacher] demonstrates, sings for the class, leads the common
performance of music and, parallel with this, always displays what is
being done in written form. If they deal with notation using the
“deciphering” method as well, the [students] will be able to identify more
and more acoustic and visual components with gradually increasing
precision. This may happen without threatening to destroy the inherent
logic of music through stumbling across the difficulties of music reading.
(pp. 75-76)

Of course, the classroom setting of Dobszay’s elementary-level music instruction does not
conform with the often individualized teaching of music theory, but the centrality of music in his
approach is certainly applicable. He references the deciphering (decoding/decrypting) of music
notation, which indicates his affinity for a guided discovery approach to learning, as well as the
gradual accumulations of musical/theoretical knowledge that suggest Bruner’s (1963) spiral
curriculum – all facilitated by the critical thinking of analysis.
For White (2002), teaching music theory in a college setting, analysis is the central activity.
Not only does it provide an opportunity for his students to learn varied musical works, but it also
illustrates for them that “those things ferreted out … are in fact living musical phenomena” (p.
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128). Hearing/listening is crucial. He begins with an aural analysis of the work, recommending
that only after it has been experienced, the score should be opened. Music first, theory second.
Exemplifying this process – the “manner in which concepts or theories of music are evolved and
elucidated” (p. 135) – White provides a sample classroom discussion, reproduced in Appendix
6.1. The topic of discussion is the exposition of J. S. Bach’s Fugue in D-sharp Minor from The
Well-Tempered Clavier (volume 1), illustrated in Appendix 6.2.
There are several pedagogical details to note:

• the teacher’s lines are almost exclusively questions

• the concept of codetta evolves, it is not formally announced
• the term is introduced after the concept is understood

Another detail to note is White’s (2002) inclusion of repertoire beyond the confines of the
common-practice period, specifically a Canzonet by Elizabethan composer Thomas Morley
(c.1557-1602).92 In the description following his sample discussion, White stretches the time-
line in a more contemporary direction as well, suggesting the first movement of Music for
Strings, Percussion, and Celesta by Béla Bartók (1881-1945).
The pedagogical principles that inform White’s (2002) classroom discussion are
remarkably similar to those demonstrated by Choksy (1999b) in her Listening Strategies – the
ones that inspired my LGs. In the course of White’s discussion, he incorporates the opening
measures of Bach’s “Little” Fugue in G Minor for the purpose of comparison. This organ work
is featured in a series of listening experiences that Choksy (1981) often presented in her
undergraduate music education courses. More than 45 years later, I can still sing the subject of
this fugue in solfa, from memory. Granted, Choksy’s Listening Strategies are designed for
upper-elementary students, not the college-level students in White’s example. While Choksy’s
analysis may be somewhat simplified, critical thinking skills are emphasized with equal tenacity,
and the musical work remains the center of attention.
However, the problem of implementation in my RCM context has not been properly
addressed. How do I convince my participants, along with music theory teachers in the wider

92
Derived from the Italian canzonetta (little song), the English canzonet is a sixteenth-century vocal genre in a
simple, mostly homophonic texture (Burkholder, Grout, & Palisca, 2014). Morley published 20 canzonets for three
voices in 1593, with 24 in a 2nd edition (1606); 12 canzonets for two voices in 1595; and 21 for five or six voices in
1597. Unfortunately, White (2002) does not specify which of Morley’s canzonets he included in his sample
classroom discussion, although it must, of necessity, be polyphonic.
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educational community, to embrace an experiential teaching practice? The pedagogical merits of

this practice have been well-established (Hoag, 2020; Rogers, 2020), but the issue of time
consumption has been side-stepped (Heap, 2020). The Kanata group participant whose testimony
I excerpted above assumes that traditional methods of teaching music theory – “just tell them
what it is” (ABs-2K) – are “simpler” and therefore, less time consuming. But simpler for whom?
Perhaps it is necessary to look beyond the immediacy of the moment, with an eye toward the
future. An investment in students’ deeper understanding now will invariably save valuable time
later. Earlier in the discussion, this same participant, asking for a glossary of terms and concepts
that were covered in previous levels, inadvertently undermined her own argument for
simplification:

ABs: For example, [student’s name], in level 7, really couldn’t remember

the basic components of sonata form, even though she had only finished
her level 6 theory two months previous. So, I mean, I wouldn’t include it
right on the page, right? Because you’re trying to… You know. But I
was like, “We talk about this all the time.” She drew a blank. I mean, if
there was a glossary, it’s one step away, it would force her to look it up,
at least. Because she’s like, “I don’t even think I have my [level] 6 theory
book.” And I’m like, “We finished this two months ago. Did you burn
it?” (2K)

If my participant’s student, at an earlier level, had experienced sonata form in a meaningful

way – had musically interacted with an example from the repertoire and analyzed its structural
components – she may have remembered them. But without the active, critical thinking skills of
analysis, terms like exposition, development, and recapitulation are merely words that appeared
somewhere in a previous theory book. And if a glossary is present, there is absolutely no
incentive to recall musical terms since there is always the option of looking up whatever is
required. This process may be simpler, but what has the student learned, other than where to look
if she needs assistance? I want my students to take an active role in their musical/theoretical
learning. I want the structural components of sonata form (exposition, development, and
recapitulation) to be words with real musical meaning – words that have entered the mainstream
of their vocabulary because they are used regularly. This kind of experiential immersion enables
my students’ involvement in the educational process, fostering both their intellectual
development and their emotional fulfillment – for knowledge breeds success.
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Evaluation: Appraising the Merit of the Experience

Listening: “Awakening musical literacy.” Although my participants have approved the

LGs in theory, whether they approve of them enough to put them into practice is another matter
altogether. While the LGs’ pedagogical approach is the focus of the preceding interpretation
section, which considers the educational theory that supports their inherent musical theory, the
LGs’ implementation is the focus of the current evaluation section. Since the third stage of KM’s
instructional process involves reinforcement through writing, I have fitted Eisner’s evaluative
dimension with the garb of music theory: appraising the merit of the musical experience with
theoretical representation. This statement may seem to imply a uni-directional process – music
through theory – but I am adopting White’s (2002) multi-directional process so as to reverse the
implication, using analysis to appraise theory through music.
Evaluation involves making a judgement of value or an assessment of quality. Aligned
with the notion of reinforcement, which involves strengthening a belief or a pattern of behaviour,
the process of evaluation that I am utilizing appraises the quality/value of the pedagogical
beliefs/behaviours demonstrated in the LGs. To this end, I am interested in the evaluations of my
participants as educational connoisseurs.
Intending to reinforce theoretical knowledge through listening activities, I wrote the LGs as
integrated instructional tools. Modelled on Choksy’s (1999b) Listening Strategies, they were
also inspired by a beautifully illustrated series of books titled Get to Know Classical
Masterpieces (Schott Music). The Magic Flute (2007) contains simple piano arrangements by
Hans-Günter Heumann (b. 1955) of select arias and choruses, including “The rage of hell it boils
within my bosom,” as well as informative explanations about the composer, the opera, and the
story. It is a perfect resource for a music educator, looking for material about Mozart’s opera.
But it has very little to offer a music theorist, and even less for a music theory pedagogue –
although it could. If Heumann’s arrangements can encourage students to play Mozart’s well-
known melodies, why not take their curiosity a step farther and encourage them to explore
Mozart’s melodies in more detail (Duker, 2020)? Why not help them get inside the music and
find out what it is made of?
I explained this point of departure to my Orleans group participants. One of the group
responded with the following:
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ABn: Yeah, I can see that and you do draw that out. I was thinking too,
it’s a nice jumping off point for a teacher to see that, because you could
pull that [out of] just about any piece … the kids are playing.
LLP: Exactly.
ABn: And I think that is a really nice idea. So, “Do you see that cadence
there? Is this a finished…? Is this a complete cadence?” Or “Where do
you see this?” or “Where [are we] modulating to this?” So, it certainly
has value that way. I find it was very interesting, although I… It’s a lot
of work! And again, my experience with my students, and what… I’ve
been trying to get them to do these things. They don’t seem to have…
One, they don’t seem to have the background. So, you need to start
somewhere and I don’t know where you start. And the other thing is
they… It takes a while. And I think the concept for a lot of students is,
“I’m learning to play. I have to know about notes. I have to know about
scales.” Well, not even that – I think they just want to play. But this is
adding such another dimension. This is almost like four-dimensional.
This is really adding so much more. So, such a depth of information,
which I think is great because I love history and theory myself. But just
to teach it to the kids, like I’m thinking, it’s going to take a lot more time.
It would take separate theory time, I think. I don’t think you could do it
in a lesson. It would take some separate theory time. And I don’t know if
they would go for that as much. (2O)

The time monster rears its ugly head yet again. But the perception of time-well-spent varies from
teacher to teacher, just as it does from student to student. Although she was addressing the
subject of solfège, a Toronto group participant remarked:

CM: Well, yeah, I think that any good teacher wants to find a way to
incorporate those peripheral skills because we see that ultimately, that’s
what’s going to propel people forward. … I always tell my students, or
the parents, that if you invest in this, if you invest in all the things, you’re
going to have an acceleration because you really understand. (2T)

For me, the secret to this acceleration is guided listening. Most instrumental students are
focused on playing, as my Orleans group participant pointed out, but if they could be encouraged
to focus on the music they are playing – as receptors as well as producers – they may begin to
acquire the skills of perceptive listeners, with applications far beyond the realm of music.
Perceptive listening begets critical thinking. However, “the whole listening activity is something
new, where they have to really listen and explain what they’re hearing and thinking, that’s the big
challenge” (PG-2O). It is a challenge because it is not generally practiced. Students may
consider the intrinsic qualities of their repertoire in the creation of a stylistically appropriate
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performance, and indeed these qualities should be considered, but the theoretical elements that
structure their repertoire, which are equally worthy of attention, are frequently overlooked.
Citing my pre-prepared concluding focus group questions (see Appendix 3.8), I asked the
Toronto group participants: “Do you feel that the inclusion of repertoire (art) in the teaching of
music theory (science) encourages the development of student subjectivity? Is this important?
Why or why not?” One of them responded quite emphatically:

CP: It’s definitely important. Repertoire, yeah. If I want to teach

structural phrasing, I’ll take, something [from] medieval polyphony
(early), where we hear the perfect consonance. It goes crazy and they do
whatever they want, because they weren’t thinking in a certain way, and
then they finish the phrase on a perfect consonance. [Students] get a
sense of architecture … from the medieval piece. I love using medieval
stuff like that. So, repertoire, hugely important. Or if I want to discuss
parallel minor: Norwegian Wood. You know, it’s a little more hip than
perhaps something else they might do from the RCM repertoire, but you
can hear it right away. Or Tierce de Picardie, I love [how]… The idea
that the harmony has changed. They’re hearing the colours change, the
[minor] to the [major], just these simple ways. So, huge. (2T)

While his choice of repertoire is even farther removed from the common-practice period
literature than White’s (2002) sample classroom discussion, this participant’s resourcefulness is
motivating. Sometimes the best examples can be found in musical literature where you least
expect them. And stepping outside the relative safety of common-practice period boundaries
inspires in his students the same spirit of adventure.
In Orleans, the discussion was tidily centered around the LGs’ repertoire, particularly
Mozart’s “Queen of the Night” Aria (see Appendix 4.1). One participant, intrigued by the way I
had introduced it, offered a compliment: “I really liked the idea that the first [activity] has all to
do with rhythm, [and] the second activity has all to do with melody” (JK-2O). My idea, of
course, was to engage one musical element at a time – rhythm, melody, then
articulation/expression. She continued: “That was new to me, and I can certainly see the logic in
it” (JK-2O). I explained that I was helping the student build Mozart’s melody, but my participant
was anxious to interject: “I see your point. However, as a late bloomer, still trying to bloom – I
hear the music, I begin to understand the music. I hear the music again and I understand it in a
much fuller, more constructive way. But I would think it’s a very dry exercise, to analyze it
before I hear it” (JK-2O).
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My participant’s approach to new repertoire is very similar to White’s (2002). They are
both perceptive listeners who possess the critical thinking skills necessary for the gradual
understanding of a given musical work. More importantly, they are experienced listeners. I
expect, however, that a typical level 5 student, in her/his first exposure to Mozart’s aria, is not.
Furthermore, the activities I created, while analytically motivated, are not meant to be analysis
exercises per se. They are meant to be musical play – activities for the student’s enjoyment or
recreation that just happen to have a practical purpose. If the student has been playing with
rhythmic patterns and melodic shapes that he/she will later identify with Mozart’s aria, even the
composition process will be somewhat de-mystified. Creative exercises, including melody
writing, will naturally grow out of the student’s uninhibited play.
Herein lies the usefulness – the inevitability or instinctiveness – of an integrated music
theory pedagogy. These organic qualities cultivate both the perceptive listening of musical ears
and the analytical thinking of critical minds. The benefits of integration are substantial. A
Toronto group participant spoke to this point:

JR: I think this is, you know, in the synergy of it all, [what] you
presented, is… Well, I haven’t had a chance to explore the rudiments
books in detail, but this is in keeping with, I think, the direction that, you
know, the Conservatory has gone. And awakening musical literacy
through experiencing the music, and… Yeah.
CP: That’s a good way to put it. That’s a good phrase.
JR: There you go, because in the end, … my job, I figure, is decoding.
And I have to tell them it’s a language and we’re decoding the language.
I always tell my students in every course, I [say], you know, “Composers
always talk to the smartest person in the room, not to the dullest. They
know there are going to be lots of dullards. Whether it’s contemporary or
back in Mozart’s time. It’s going to wash over them like aural
wallpaper.” We get that. There’s nothing wrong with having … sensory
enjoyment. But I say, “They always spoke in code, and it’s a coded
language.” So, what we’re trying to do is decode that language.
LLP: Right.
JR: Through building a music vocabulary and awakening, making the
connection. I love David Paul, if you ever knew his harmony, or
rudiments books? (2T)

FHM, supported by RCM, has experimented with the publication of integrated instructional
materials several times over the years. Sound & Symbol: The Rudiments of Music (1982-1984) is
a two-volume set of books by David Paul that offer students a “truly musical experience” by
introducing theoretical concepts along with sight-reading and ear-training activities (1982, p. v,
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original emphasis). The author’s intention is for students to “learn music theory not only
intellectually but also aurally (through listening) and physically (through singing and playing)”
(p. v). Both volumes contain a wealth of authentic musical materials drawn from the folksong
traditions of many countries as well as the masterworks of composers from pre-tonal to post-tonal
eras. In his preface to volume 2, Paul explains the basic premise of his pedagogical approach:

I have found that by using the approach presented in Sound & Symbol,
students gain a knowledge of theory they can apply directly to their
practical work. This accelerates their ability to read, understand, and
memorize musical scores. Students who begin the study of harmony after
completing Volume [2] … are able to harmonize a melody or bass and
analyze music much more readily than if their study of rudiments had
included only a survey of “the rules.” (1984, p. iii)

Despite Paul’s attempt to “bring the study of music theory into the realm of ‘aliveness’” (1982, p.
vi), his books were not utilized in sufficient numbers to keep them in print. Evidently, music
theory teachers were not yet ready to accept his integrated pedagogical approach. I used them
quite successfully, as did my participant.
In 2006-2007, FHM published a series of eight books (levels 1-8) titled Sound Advice:
Theory and Ear Training by Brenda Braaten and Crystal Wiksyk – both affiliated with VCM.
The teaching philosophy of these authors is simple: “never take the sound out of music theory
instruction!” (p. 6, original emphasis). They combined written theory with aural theory,
introducing new concepts in Learning Guides, then reinforcing both new and review concepts in
Theory Worksheets and Ear-Training Worksheets. The purchase of each book included access
(via password) to level-specific audio tracks on the Sound Advice website. I used this series of
books too, but less successfully than Paul’s. While the ear training component is quite strong, the
music theory component is not. Finding that the guides/worksheets did not meet the
thoroughness of my students’ requirements, I went back to the non-integrated materials I had
been previously using. Other teachers must have thought similarly because the series was not as
popular as anticipated. FHM relinquished their copyright and in 2018, the series was released in
a second edition by Sound Advice Publishing.
Given the disappointing reception of these integrated teaching materials, it is surprising that
FHM agreed to another such project with the Celebrate Theory (2016) series – RCM’s first in-
house series of elementary/intermediate rudiments books. Although RCM’s Academic Programs
personnel, as well as the editorial staff at FHM, were remarkably open to the integrated
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pedagogical approach that I proposed, the Celebrate Theory series was a collaborative effort.
The authorial team included Braaten and Wiksyk, along with senior examiners Maria Case, Janet
Lopinski, Joe Ringhofer, and James Stager.
While this show of support from RCM’s leadership is encouraging, it will likely be some
time before the wider music teaching community accepts the pedagogical change that has been
initiated. Approximately a month after the release of Celebrate Theory, I was approached, at a
general meeting of ORMTA’s Ottawa Region Branch, by a teacher-colleague who voiced several
complaints about the new series. Chief among her concerns was what she perceived as a lack of
reinforcement (or practice), particularly in melody writing. I accepted her criticisms the morning
of our encounter but sent her a lengthy explanatory e-mail several days later. The full text is
included in Appendix 6.3. In her brief reply, my colleague said she would try to keep an open
mind, but we have not spoken of it since. Change is difficult, as the Kanata group participants
acknowledged:

ABs: Unfortunately, … you know the teacher population is fairly

unwieldy.
KS: Change? Change?
ABs: So, I mean… You know, gradual, right? It’s baby steps! [We] can
handle baby steps. We can’t handle big changes. We don’t like big
changes, I’m afraid. I went into, you know, the music store across from
RCM last summer.
LLP: Mm-hmm.
ABs: When I was there for Summer Summit. And I was like buying a
foot-tall stack of things, and I was buying the new theory books. And the
guy says, “Oh, what do you think of them?” And I’m like, “Oh, there’s
some changes, but oh, it’s fine. It’s theory, it’s whatever.” And he’s like,
“Oh, because everyone that walks through the door is like, ‘What have
they done?’” I’m like, okay, the music teacher population needs to chill
out. They’re fine. They’re an improvement. There’s one per grade,
which is a huge step in the right direction. I find them clear. Yeah, they
could have more exercises, probably, but they’re limited by space. It’s
fine, okay! (2K)

My participant’s accommodating attitude is refreshing. I realized that in my earlier e-mail

rebuttal, I was seeking my ORMTA colleague’s approval by telling her about the pedagogical
advantages of the Celebrate Theory books. My words, however, mean very little. Like
experiential learning processes, it is only in her experiencing the nuances of these pedagogical
advantages for herself, or together with her students, that my colleague’s mindset may begin to
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change. This is true of any new concept. For one of the Toronto group participants, the concept
was solfège: “the only way I came to understand it was [by] actively doing it” (JR-2T). RCM’s
commitment to the Celebrate Theory series may eventually nudge my disgruntled colleague in
the direction of an integrated music theory pedagogy out of necessity – at least until 2023 when
the Theory Syllabus is due for its next revision. But I have every reason to believe that RCM will
stay its current course toward integration.

Generalization: Deriving a Thematic from the Experience

Understanding: “They’ll think differently.” The fourth dimension of Eisner’s (1991)

educational criticism facilitates the summative process of synthesis. Through this process, a
general statement is inferred from the specific details of a particular subject. However, according
to Siegesmund and Cahnmann-Taylor (2008), generalizability may not be a term that applies to
every form of research. Eisner himself, in the work referenced above, proposes the term
“consensual validation” to replace the mechanistic features of generalizability for ABR.
Assuming the acceptance of subjectivity, a work of ABR attains consensual validation if
“informed audiences carefully discuss and validate the work” (p. 236). My participants constitute
this informed audience.
The fourth stage of KM’s instructional process – assessment – also facilitates the evaluative
properties of synthesis. Through reading or creating activities, especially improvisation and
composition, the student demonstrates the acquisition of knowledge by identifying or utilizing
new concepts in unfamiliar contexts. This demonstration of understanding requires the
portability of generalized inferences. Therefore, Eisner’s generalization may be enhanced with
Kodály’s assessment: deriving a representative thematic from the musical/theoretical experience.
This representative thematic is a significant component of the creative process. While
generalizability may be ineffectual from an ABR perspective, it is essential from a pedagogical
perspective. Consequently, in whatever terminology it is presented – generalization or
consensual validation – a summary of findings, or understandings derived from the findings, is
fundamental to my inquiry in music theory pedagogy. I rely on my participants, as educational
connoisseurs, to assist my meaning-making process. Because they perceive intended meanings,
and interpret or view those meanings in particular ways, they expand my ability to comprehend
or understand the essence of my pedagogical purpose – for “in the particular resides the general”
(Barone & Eisner, 2012, p. 3).
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Despite their reservations about singing, experiential learning, and integration – the topics
explored under the description, interpretation, and evaluation subheadings – my participants all
expressed enthusiasm for the LGs:

ABs: I really hope that this [material] gets to press so that we can use [it]
with students.
KS: Use it, exactly.
ABs: Somewhere over the rainbow, Lori Lynn.
LLP: Well, as I’ve been going through all of this, I think actually, this is
my life’s work. This is…
ABs: The big project.
KS: This is what everything’s been leading to.
LLP: Yeah, even the experience of writing for RCM was really great.
And the fact that they were able to use some of my ideas, which are a
little different than mainstream, is amazing to me. But at the same time,
they’re not yet what I really want them to be, so I imagine that I have to
write my own [material] at some point in time. But this will definitely be
part of it.
ABs: And would you connect [it] with music history, or not? Just stick
with…
LLP: Definitely. But not necessarily with [RCM’s music] history. I …
believe that a core of well-chosen repertoire is where theory comes from,
if you can make it relevant and useful and find a way to make it
necessary. We need theory in order to be able to talk about our music and
so, for students to understand that and to create the necessity for it, I
think, is where I’m going.
ABs: Because in some ways… I mean, this makes sense. It’s very
marketable to tie it with RCM, but (a) RCM changes, and (b) do the
pieces always fit a level 5 student? (1K)

My participant’s points are well-taken, but RCM is moving. A mutually beneficial relationship
would allow us to move together toward the same goal of integration.
The participants’ perceptions of the LGs sometimes appeared to presuppose an underlying
differentiation between academically-inspired research products and user-friendly marketable
products. My hope, of course, is that they can be both. A Toronto group participant, recognizing
the growing pains that are likely to accompany their transfer from one to the other, observed:
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CM: Well, … if you think back to like when we were doing piano, like
list C pieces in the early grades, they were little… They were all little
two-part inventions. And when [RCM] introduced in the late 90s, when
they introduced Canadian content, and they said they’re going to be more
popular, like more recent genres… And people were, teachers were
really upset … because they weren’t these traditional little Beethoven
Ecossaises or… But then you look where we are now, where that’s
actually what drives most students.
JR: Mm-hmm. The contemporary, yeah.
CM: It’s not the list A and the list B, but it’s all the different styles. So, I
think once you set it up, once people…, you have a whole generation go
through like that, they’ll think differently. (2T)

A different kind of thinking is exactly what I am attempting to elicit. But creating a

usable/useful product is also a priority. The Kanata group participants suggested a correlation
with the musicianship requirements for their students’ practical studies – technique, ear training,
and sight reading:

ABs: Not to re-invent the wheel, because you’ve done this and you’ve got
to push this through, but is there something – a product for the early
years, like [level] 1, a musicianship book, which would work with both
the intervals they are identifying ([level] 1 maybe isn’t identifying
intervals), but also would attach itself to any intervallic work you’re
doing in level 1? Level 2: singing whatever chords they’re learning in
their theory and tying it to their ear training. So, it’s a comprehensive
musicianship thing, which works both with their practical exam, and the
theory book that they’re doing.
KS: I think the option is already there. I think it’s just [that] teachers
don’t do it.
DM: Yeah.
ABs: But maybe they need a book. Maybe they need something to light
the way for them.
DM: But even in the syllabus it’s like, “Sing the first, sing the third, sing
the fifth.”
ABs: So, but I’m saying, is that a moment to attach solfège to it, right at
the early year[s]?
DM: Oh.
LLP: Yes.
ABs: Because you have to do it there, or else it’s really just imposing a
naming system.
KS: Yeah, you need the solfège right from like the prep A books.
LLP: For sure.
ABs: And that’s… The way has not been lit for most teachers at that
level.
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KS: Yeah, I mean, it can be… You could start by introducing the
singing, the pentascales.
LLP: Right.
KS: Do re mi fa so. Yeah. That’s the easiest way to go. (2K)

I appreciate the intensity of their interest, both in terms of integration and the inclusion of
solfège. If ABR is intended to expand discourse through imagination (Siegesmund & Cahnmann-
Taylor, 2008), then the mission is accomplished. But I think there is more to consider. Leavy
(2015), in recounting the artistic demands of this work, mentioned the term “artful-science,”
coined by poetic-anthropologist Ivan Brady (1991), as a combination of humanistic and scientific
designs in modern ethnography (2004). In the context of music theory pedagogy, artful-science
seems especially fitting. However, an integration of music theory and musicianship, while
practical, does not expand the artful discourse far enough. As noted above, the “option is already
there” (KS-2K). But more significantly, musicianship involves the development of peripheral
musical skills, it does not involve music-as-art.
ABR practices require researchers to think like artists. I want, in the practice of an
integrated music theory pedagogy, for students to think like musicians. Houlahan and Tacka
promise the music-centered approach I am advocating in From Sound to Symbol: Fundamentals
of Music (2012). They guide students to explore “rhythmic and melodic patterns through
kinesthetic, aural, and visual activities” before learning traditional names and terms for musical
phenomena (p. xvii). As the authors of Kodály Today: A Cognitive Approach to Elementary
Music Education (2008), I expected to see aspects of KM in their theory book.93 I found a
truncated but easily identifiable three-step teaching process – prepare, present, practice – which
they associate with three learning phases: cognitive, associative, and assimilative. In their music
theory book, these phases are exhibited by the following activities:

• students listen to, memorize, sing, and analyze (by ear) short musical examples
• students demonstrate musical concepts/elements with rhythm or solfa syllables
• students notate musical concepts/elements on the staff

Hypothetically, Houlahan and Tacka’s music theory book should deliver artful-science. In
reality, it does not. Although the pedagogical approach reverses traditional symbol-to-sound

93
In 2015, a second edition of Houlahan and Tacka’s music education book was released as part of the Kodály
Today Handbook Series. There are currently six additional titles in the series, beginning with Kodály in the
Kindergarten Classroom: Developing the Creative Brain in the 21st Century. Other titles in the series target the first
through fifth grade classrooms.
 335

approaches, it introduces music fundamentals in the same unwieldy, compartmentalized

presentation as other theory books, particularly those intended for post-secondary audiences. A
few musical excerpts placed at the beginning of each chapter do not adequately balance the
subsequent pages and pages of theoretical text. Adding is not the equivalent of integrating.
Adding involves a joining of parts that increases the sum total while integrating involves a
combining of parts that creates a new whole. Integrating implies a process of becoming.
How, then, is integration to be accomplished in music theory pedagogy? Not a tentative
“dipping one’s toes at the water’s edge” (p. 105), to borrow from Rolling’s (2010) plea for
creative commitment in ABR practices, but a balanced combination of “theoretically
sophisticated understandings and artistically inspired [artworks]” (Eisner, 2008a, p. 9) – which I
quoted in chapter 3. The word organic comes to mind, as does a spontaneous experience with
one of my adult students in the fall of 2019.
He was a level 9 harmony student who asked me to coach his level 10 piano studies as well.
I recall playing melodic intervals for him to aurally identify and his stumbling over a tritone
(augmented 4th/diminished 5th).94 In order to isolate the dissonant sound of this interval and to
differentiate it from other intervals, I played a harmonic tritone, which involves two tendency
tones, followed by its consonant resolution. This led to a brief discussion of dominant 7th
chords, since the tritone is embedded in this chord and its resolving is a significant factor in the
chord’s progression from dissonance to consonance. We had been recently working on dominant
7th chords in his harmony lessons. Next, he played Chopin’s Prelude in A Major, op. 28, no. 7,
included in Appendix 6.4. He was beginning to memorize it and was wrestling with some of the
chromatic inflections. In the entire 16-measure piece, Chopin uses only four chords: E7/E9, A,
F#7, and Bm/Bm7. When we set out to analyze it, with the intention of adding intellect to my
student’s kinesthetic memory, a clear tritone resolution became evident in mm. 6-7. Although
Chopin’s pianistic voicings are not always straight-forward, we were able to locate – and
contextualize – other similar resolutions.
My student experienced several “ah-ha” moments in this lesson. I did too. Since I have
become a music theory specialist, I am generally not aware of the repertoire my students are
playing. But the connections we made in this lesson were transformational. We created a bridge

94
Melodic intervals involve two notes played successively – one after the other – whereas harmonic intervals
involve two notes played simultaneously.
 336

between music and theory, with a teachable moment as the catalyst. How can I recreate this
experience for others?
In August 2017, I gave a “Five-Minute Lightning Talk” at RCM’s Summer Summit titled
Teaching Music Theory with, about, in, and through Music. Meeting in Toronto for our
concluding focus group discussion just a few days prior, one of the participants asked about a
“selling line” or a “hook” for my pedagogical ideas and I suggested the title of my talk. He
replied: “Huh! Actually, that’s good. And it seems like such an obvious concept to us, but to
someone else… It’s in the actual stuff you’re playing, right? That’s the bottom line. So,
whether it’s a banjo piece or a concerto…” (CP-2T). For this talk, I chose a level 5 piano piece
by Bartók with which to experiment. The opening of this work, Jest, is included in Appendix
6.5. My primary objective was to show that analysis connects practical experience with
theoretical understanding.
In the context of a fictional student’s piano lesson, I imagined two theory encounters that
would introduce Jest as an unknown piece of repertoire. Each encounter comprises two
components – one for the lesson and the other to take home. The first involves scales. I noticed
that Bartók’s melody, in D major, is entirely diatonic and fits within the range of one octave,
circling the tonic from dominant to dominant. I asked the student to:

• activity – Play the scale of D major, hands together, for two octaves.
• assignment – Write the scale of D major ascending for two octaves. Use a treble clef
and a key signature. Circle the dominant note in each octave.

The second encounter involves melody writing. I extracted a motive from mm. 5-6 and the same
motive from mm. 7-8. Using an identical 2-measure rhythm, I contracted mm. 9-11 to form a
different motive and repeated the process for mm. 14-16. I placed these motives, reproduced in
Appendix 6.6, on four index cards and asked the student to:

• activity – Adjust the order of the motives to create a parallel period with two four-
measure phrases. Play your melody.
• assignment – Use the given motives. Write a four-measure antecedent (question)
phrase that ends on an unstable scale degree. Write a parallel consequent (answer)
phrase that ends on a stable scale degree.

At the end of five minutes, my fictional student was ready to play the piece. In reality, I
would have spread these encounters over two lessons. But I am counting on my student to
recognize that Bartók did not write a parallel period, nor did he use his motives to build two four-
 337

measure phrases. This becomes a talking point. Why did he do that? How do Bartók’s
compositional choices reflect the meaning of the work’s title? In subsequent lessons, I would
direct my student to the topic of triads, and so on. My talk was quite well-received but I was
unprepared for one of the questions that followed. I was asked if I approached all my students’
repertoire this way. I said “Yes!” – because I would, given the opportunity – but I had no
supporting evidence. And I was too startled to explain.
In March 2018, I was invited to give another Five-Minute Lightning Talk at a professional
development workshop for theory examiners. This time I wanted to address the topic of
intellectual honesty. I was bothered by a bulletin-board poster in the studio I was renting that
stated: “minor intervals are major intervals that are lower by a [half-step].”95 I titled my talk
Teaching Music Theory for Future Relevance and quoted Bruner (1966) who maintains that “any
subject can be taught in some intellectually honest form to any child at any stage of
development” (p. 33). I resurrected my earlier presentation of Neefe’s Allegretto in C Major (see
Appendix 2.4; Appendix 2.5) and spoke about preparing students for the concept of tonicization.
This concept does not formally enter RCM’s (2016e) theory curriculum until level 9, but it is
clearly displayed in Neefe’s level 2 piano piece. Consequently, the student who has been made
aware of the temporary leading-tone resolutions in Neefe’s Allegretto will bring a wealth of
elementary/intermediate experience to her/his advanced study of harmony – if the teacher has
shown an interest in their future relevance and has drawn theoretical understandings from the
student’s repertoire with intellectual honesty.
But the how of it is still an issue. I hear again the words of my Kanata group participant:
“Maybe they need a book. Maybe they need something to light the way for them” (ABs-2K).
They may not realize, however, that such a book could not follow the unit by unit subject-logic of
every other music theory book. Even Paul (1982-1984), whose music-infused materials I admire
greatly, organized his presentation in twelve chapters spread over two volumes. Therefore, to the
list of my participants’ reservations – singing, experiential learning, and integration – I must now
add a non-compartmentalized organization. Preparing for this eventuality, I asked the Orleans
group participants about reworking the LGs as teaching or making conscious materials rather

95
This statement is true at levels 5 and 6 when intervals are measured above a given note and the upper note is
lowered. But it is not true, starting at level 7 when intervals may also be measured below a given note and the lower
note must be raised. Therefore, a more accurate statement would read: “minor intervals are major intervals made
smaller by a half-step.”
 338

than reinforcing materials. Their response, which was especially encouraging, is quoted with the
connecting data in chapter 5. I explained that writing a set of fully integrated music theory books
would involve choosing a core-repertoire at each level and then working through all the
requirements in RCM’s (2016e) Theory Syllabus. I re-iterated that teaching music theory in this
way is somewhat piecemeal – a little bit of this, a little bit of that – and it does not tell the whole
story of intervals, for instance, in one chapter. It is not packaged in neatly organized units. I
queried this non-compartmentalized organization:

LLP: So, if I do this thing, it will not be neatly packaged. It will come in
a much…
AC: Much more organic [package].
ABn: Yeah.
JK: Can you do it though, to substantiate all the present theory
requirements at each grade level?
LLP: I could, if I had… I’d have to choose my [repertoire] extremely
carefully. (1O)

I anticipate that this non-standard packaging will be the most challenging obstacle for teachers.
If truth be told, it has been the biggest hurdle for me, in all the years I have contemplated this
project. I have searched for fully integrated instructional materials with which to teach music
theory but have found none. As a result, I will need to create them myself – for I am convinced
that a music-logic organization, rather than the traditional subject-logic, is the next step for an
integrated music theory pedagogy.

The Take-Away

The moment of truth is upon me – the grand “ah-ha” moment that brings together all the
disparate elements of my inquiry. It arrived in a metaphorical bolt of lightning on January 21,
2020, toward the end of my winter writing retreat. As the ultimate synthesis of music and theory,
it reconciles the lingering dissonances that cloud my art/science integration. Principal among
these “musical tensions” is my attempt to fuse the intuitively unfolding practices of ABR with the
highly sequential instructional procedures of KM. But as I mentioned in chapter 2, music
embodies two knowledge traditions. It is understood both objectively as a positivist product and
subjectively as an interpretive process (Aróstegui, 2003) – both a score and a performative
depiction of the score.
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Citing German philosopher Immanuel Kant (1724-1804), Lewis Rowell (1983)

distinguishes between musical objects/events as they are (noumena) and as they appear
(phenomena), or “things-in-themselves” and “things-as-perceived” (p. 141). The former may be
defined with an objective accounting of “essential features and necessary conditions” that remain
“independent of all perception” (p. 141). The latter involves the subjective activities of
interpreting and assigning meaning, or “fusing certain precepts while detaching others” (p. 141).
Although it is a substantial simplification of a complex matter, music-as-object (a score) may be
loosely equated with its science and music-as-event (a performance), with its art.
In the end, one cannot exist without the other since music itself is an integration of art and
science. Its composition stems from an act of creativity, but this creative act is tempered with the
conventions of structure, of foreground and background. Just as coloured pigments on stretched
canvas form a landscape by means of the artist’s brush strokes, so too a musical whole is
fashioned from the elements of music (pitch and rhythm) by the composer’s technical facility.
Without a recognizable structure, music lacks meaning or a “connection between the intrinsic and
the extrinsic” (Rowell, 1983, p. 145).
In the context of my inquiry, the musical interdependency of art and science is manifest in
my methodological fusion of ABR and KM. While I would hesitate to describe KM as a
scientific approach, the logical organization of its instructional process is inconsistent with the
fluid malleability of ABR. Nevertheless, I have blended the essential features of both, creating a
messy integration of science and art, product and process. In terms of artistic representation, my
inquiry is divided in two: the first part comprises the LGs, or my creative product; and the second
part comprises the narrative, or my creative process. Consequently, my rendering of an
integrated music theory pedagogy involves an experience of art (ABR) filtered through the
science of systematically sequenced instruction (KM). Positioned at this art/science intersection,
my guided instructional approach allows for the discovery of music in music theory.
As a whole, my inquiry in music theory pedagogy does not adhere to the conventions of
standard research practices, even for ABR. This is not an intentional disregard for standard
practice, but an acknowledgement that my square peg does not fit the proverbial round hole. I
envision conventional research on a circular path, starting with a hypothesis, then experimenting,
analyzing, drawing conclusions, and finally returning to the hypothesis with either supporting or
refuting evidence. This process does not describe my inquiry. Instead, I followed a linear path
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that connects my not-knowing with my knowing. I chose ABR, not because it gave me an excuse
to avoid a conventional path, but because it allowed for a process of unfolding in which I could
coax a state of knowing into becoming or “coming to be.” For me, the act of writing is an
essential source of insight, and this insight has facilitated my becoming.
On the surface, it may seem that I am exploiting the research process for my personal gain.
I cannot deny that it has served my personal interest, but this interest has been actioned on behalf
of my profession. I have tasked myself with bringing integration to music theory pedagogy.
True, it is a task of my own making, but I feel compelled to take up the torch, so to speak. I saw
a void more than forty years ago and I see now that the void is as yet unfilled, although the
scholarship in music theory pedagogy is undeniably moving in this direction. With the
experience gleaned from my inquiry, I have accumulated both the requisite theoretical
understanding and the artistic inspiration to pursue such a venture. And so I shall.
My inquiry, borrowing from an “artistic practice [that allows] for emergence” (Leavy,
2015, p. 28, original emphasis), is best described as a quest narrative. In this fictional genre, the
protagonist journeys toward a specific goal, typically overcoming great obstacles. My journey
originated in my personal experience and spread to the literature of relevant research
communities, including ABR. From this gathering of information, I formulated a plan and a
prototypical product with which to engage members of my professional community. Their
feedback provided more information and my interaction with it/them widened from specific to
holistic, until I reached the pinnacle. At the end of my quest, I have no answers, only a deep-
seated knowing that will prompt my next steps.
The questions that guided my journey should be revisited. The formative question:

• How can the teaching of intervals and chords be integrated with repertoire from the
Royal Conservatory’s (2016e) intermediate theory curriculum?

Recognizing the absence of integrated teaching materials, particularly ones that met my
repertoire-based parameters, I created the LGs as exemplars.
The interrogative question:

• How can an integrated pedagogy for the teaching of intervals and chords according to
the Royal Conservatory’s (2016e) intermediate theory curriculum be implemented?

The LGs were written as supplements for the music history portion of RCM’s (2016e) theory
curriculum. As such, they function as tools of reinforcement, enabling students to develop a
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better understanding of the chosen repertoire. They were put into effect by five of my
participants who worked with their own students. I used them with two of my students as well.
The reflective question:

• How can the implementation of an integrated pedagogy for the teaching of intervals
and chords according to the Royal Conservatory’s (2016e) intermediate theory
curriculum be improved by the participants in my research study?

I interrogated the data collected from my participants in two stages, with the first analysis stage
divided between two data sets. The introductory focus group discussions tended to focus on
small details – the minutia that comprise the inner workings of my pedagogical process. Six
themes arose from the data, each associated with one of my perspectives: analyzing, researcher;
layering, teacher/practitioner; deepening, author/pedagogue; preparing, examiner; connecting,
student; and singing, artist/musician. The concluding focus group discussions tended more
toward big-picture thinking which blurred the boundaries of my six themes. From this data, I
extracted a narrative thread that wove them together as a composite integrating theme.
My data analysis emphasized the implementation/improvement of the LGs. I asked my
participants for an appraisal of both product and process, wanting to know if my pedagogical
ideas could be used effectively and whether they could be made better. I received an abundance
of recommendations/suggestions that I weighed against their feasibility and the integrity of my
purpose, consulting the literature when/where appropriate. All the organizing themes reflect
aspects of an integrated pedagogical process for the teaching of music theory.
The summative question:

• How can the harmony component of the Royal Conservatory’s (2016e) advanced
theory curriculum be enhanced by an integrated artistic/scientific pedagogy at the
intermediate level?

My research problem stems from my observations of widespread student struggles with RCM’s
advanced-level harmony examinations (see Appendix 2.2). The root of the problem, however, is
in the students’ lack of understanding or misunderstanding at elementary/intermediate levels.
RCM (2016e) has taken steps to rectify the problem with the current Theory Syllabus – by
introducing a melody writing strand at level 1, for instance. This is a welcome addition and its
impact is already noticeable. Similar experiences, particularly creative experiences that include
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more than a survey of the “rules” (Paul, 1984), will no doubt enhance students’ future
interactions with harmony.
My data synthesis, the second stage of interrogation, is perhaps the most unconventional
aspect of my inquiry because I did not circle back to the place from which I began. My quest
trajectory compelled me to push forward toward my final goal. Indeed, the driving force, the
momentum to reach a place of knowing was gripping/pressing. In chapter 4, I viewed the LGs
through my own eyes, in much the same way that I viewed music theory pedagogy through a
personal lens in the first chapter. In chapter 5, I viewed the LGs through the eyes of my
participants, taking careful note of potential improvements – the most obvious being the addition
of comprehensive CLGs for teachers. However, as I became more deeply immersed in the data, I
became aware of a recognizable reluctance/resistance lurking just below the surface of my
participants’ responses. I could not see it, but I could feel it, and my awareness grew.
Through chapters 4 and 5, my vision was focused inward, at the component parts of the
LGs. In chapter 6, I adjusted my vision to look outward, at the whole of the LGs and their
positioning in the professional community for which they were written. It was also necessary to
confront my participants’ reservations, to bring them out of the shadows and to examine them in
the light of what I have learned from the scholarly literature. Assuming the general emphasis of
this chapter to be “next steps,” I had earlier set aside bits of data and pieces of literature that I
thought would be relevant – just as Choksy (1999b) advises studying the harmonic minor scale
when it appears in the repertoire.
I pulled out materials that seemed to lead toward the next logical step for an integrated
music theory pedagogy. Some were disappointing (Braaten & Wiksyk, 2006-2007; Houlahan &
Tacka, 2012), but others were reassuring (Paul, 1982-1984; White, 2002). And to the reassuring
list I will add Clendinning and Marvin’s (2016) The Musician’s Guide to Theory and Analysis,
which I reviewed, in an earlier edition, for my master’s thesis. This text comes closest to my
integrated ideal for the teaching of tonal harmony but for music rudiments, it is Paul’s (1982-
1984) holistic text that is most closely allied with my ideas. In conjunction with my culminating
effort to find repertoire-based instructional materials, I also scrutinized my participants’
reservations – about singing, experiential learning, and integration – synthesizing them with
experience and knowledge gleaned from the literature. Ultimately, I reached my moment of
truth, encased in the word non-compartmentalization.
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With this epiphany, I realized that the neatly organized packaging of musical/theoretical
concepts into self-contained units (scales, intervals, triads/chords) is the one instructional
ingredient that music theory pedagogues do not disturb. They debate the order of teaching, but
they do not open the time-honoured packages. In the scope and sequence documents I prepared
for RCM’s Celebrate Theory series, I initially separated scales into major scales and minor
scales, but my common-sense division was ultimately rejected. A repertoire-centered integrated
pedagogy calls for a music-logic organization. This will overturn the subject-logic organization
of traditional music theory teaching. Even the repertoire-centered experiments in my lightning
talks were imagined in the context of a piano lesson, rather than a theory lesson. But I have
arrived at the edge of a precipice. Do I go back and accept a partial integration of repertoire in
the teaching of music theory? Or do I leap into the unknown, open the standard packaging of
musical/theoretical concepts, and create fully integrated instructional materials?
I find myself thinking of Arnold Schoenberg (1874-1951), an Austrian-born composer and
music theorist. As leader of the Second Viennese School, which included his students Alban
Berg (1885-1935) and Anton Webern (1883-1945), Schoenberg abandoned the hierarchical
organization of tonality to embrace what he called the “emancipation of dissonance” – leading to
the inevitability of atonality or the absence of a tonal centre. But without a “tonal backbone,”
atonal music lacked formal coherence (Burkholder et al., 2014, p. 816). In response, Schoenberg
formulated his “method of composing with twelve tones” as a systematic compositional
technique that provided the missing coherence.96 His innovative method, however, was
divisively controversial.
Schoenberg’s leap into the abyss of atonality was not really a leap at all. It was a deliberate
acceptance of extended techniques that represented the “next steps” for tonality. Eventually, he
adopted the functional/hierarchical freedom of atonality and his twelve-tone method completed
the transition. From Schoenberg’s example, I have learned that some form of organization is
necessary, even if it seems, in the eyes of its detractors, like organized chaos. Consequently, if I
go ahead with writing a set of fully integrated music theory books – and I will accept the
challenge – I must find a new organizational structure. There was a period of several years in

96
Twelve-tone composition is based on an ordered row of twelve pitches that may be used both successively as
melody and simultaneously as harmony. The row may appear in its original (prime) form, in inversion, retrograde,
or retrograde inversion, and in any of the twelve possible transpositions of these four forms (Burkholder et al., 2014).
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which Schoenberg published no music. This was his time of thinking. I, too, will need some
time to think.
In the context of my inquiry, I have three regrets. The first involves the concept of
consonance/dissonance. At the outset, I was interested in providing experiences for my students
that required artistic or musical discernments, thinking I could use consonance and dissonance to
foster aesthetic judgements. Tenney’s (1988) review of historic attitudes concerning acoustical
and psychological preferences triggered my thinking since these preferences are roughly
equivalent to scientific and artistic judgements, respectively. Although the notion of
consonance/dissonance frequently surfaces in my work, it is underdeveloped as an instructional
tool. Further rumination is required.
The second regret involves my participants. While I was privileged to work with a
remarkable group of music theory teachers, their mix of education and experience may not
adequately represent the views of an “average” teacher. While their insightfulness was extremely
helpful at this trial phase of my pedagogical journey, I may not be sufficiently prepared for the
resistance to come – although my outlier participant and my disgruntled ORMTA colleague have
given me a small taste. Future studies may wish to expand beyond the teacher-centered focus of
my data collection to explore student-centered responses to the LGs’ instructional process.
The third regret involves my trial data, or the relative lack thereof. Since less than half of
the participants actively utilized the LGs in their classrooms/studios, I am not well-positioned to
offer conclusive evidence regarding the potential usefulness of my instructional materials.
Rather, I am reminded of the “dichotomous dance” that opened my prelude: in theory, my
participants championed the integration of art and science in music theory pedagogy but in
practice, they did not fully endorse my integrated ideal. However, my sense is that their
hesitancy stems from the newness of my pedagogical approach. Further exposure is required.

Concluding Remarks

Despite the time-honoured conventions of its teaching, music theory is frequently

disconnected from the music it was intended to explain. A pedagogical reconnection is long
overdue. My research mission, rooted in more than forty years of personal/professional
experiences, is the building of an instructional bridge that fully integrates the art of music and the
science of music theory. It is a mission – a call to action – fuelled by an unwavering, deep-seated
passion. My dissertation represents a significant portion of my pedagogical journey toward
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integration. It chronicles my meaning-making through dialogic interactions, for “[w]ith Socrates,

we know … that a dialogue can lead people to discover things of great depth and wisdom”
(Bruner, 1966, p. 19). According to Siegesmund and Cahnmann-Taylor (2008), the outcome of
this deep learning is “personal agency: autonomous individuals who have the capacity to
imaginatively shape their own lives by having the courage to write their own stories” (p. 244). I
hope my story inspires the deep learning of “professional agency,” with the capacity to shape an
integrated future for music theory pedagogy outside my immediate circumstance.
At the heart of Kodály’s (1974) pedagogical vision was his belief that music should be
taught as a basic academic subject equivalent to linguistic, mathematic, and scientific studies,
resembling the “Greek ideal of education that cast music in a central role” (p. 119). Choksy’s
(1999b) vision echoes Kodály’s as a passionate plea for the universality of musical literacy: “The
time has come for music to take its place with the other academic disciplines as a subject worthy
of serious study” (p. 190). My vision moves beyond advocacy since for me, music is ubiquitous.
Although I recognize that this is not the case for many individuals, universal musical literacy is
not my battle. RCM’s sizeable community already understands the significance of music
education for developing human potential. My battle is for a better understanding. I believe that
by casting music in the center of music theory pedagogy – teaching musical literacy with, about,
in, and through music (Cornett & Smithrim, 2001) – the resulting integration will topple the
eighteenth-century codification or “scientizing” of music theory for instruction. I also believe
that by embracing a holistic music-logic approach to instruction, a fully integrated music theory
pedagogy will topple the hierarchical organization of its subject matter, allowing for the
“emancipation” of compartmentalization.
Instinctively/intuitively, I understand that every piece of music holds a unique set of secrets
– an aural message delivered through the interpretation of a musical performance. Secrets are
also coded in the visual cues/clues of a musical score. It is the role of music theory to unlock the
secrets of music’s symbology and to decode the messages contained within. But it is the role of
music theory pedagogy to illuminate both the aural and the visual mysteries of music through an
art/science integration.
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Postlude

The universe as we know it is a joint product of the observer and the observed.
– Pierre Teilhard de Chardin (1881-1955)

Final Thoughts

The following quotation has accompanied me through most of my dissertation writing:

The intellectual promise of art-based methods is that they allow the

researcher to not only work with the symbolic tools of words and
numbers, but that they expand the researcher’s palette to allow attention
to the relationships of qualities (Dewey, 1934) in data collection, analysis,
and reporting. A quality might be the solidity or transparency of a mass,
the rhythmic intensity of meter and beat, or the shape of gesture made by
the body in space and time. Our awareness of qualities comes from
attending to the particular. We must pay attention to note a quality.
Paying attention is the habit of a disciplined mind. (Siegesmund &
Cahnmann-Taylor, 2008, pp. 234-235)

Aside from the obvious reminder to “pay attention,” it encouraged me to think about
relationships. My research project began with a theory/practice dichotomy that has found
relevance in a long list of other such oppositions, including science and art. My approach to the
art/science dichotomy began as a contest and ended in a truce. But the implementation of this
truce in music theory pedagogy will be uncomfortable. Art, for so long neglected as a peripheral
embellishment, has a great need to be fully present. Science, for so long the center of attention,
has a great need to embrace the perceptual qualities of instinctiveness or intuitiveness.
To be clear, I am not arguing against science, I am arguing for art. While Brady’s (1991)
artful-science label could be useful in describing an art/science integration in music theory
pedagogy, it implies that science is the noun and art is a decorative adjective. But what if the
roles are reversed and art becomes the noun? Scienceful-art? Scienced-art? Somehow,
scientific-art does not seem quite right. In the end, a label is of superficial value. Packaging or
presentation should not take precedence over content – in education or in research. Indeed, an
art/science “messiness” brings an indispensable melding of unique perspectives to any pursuit.
Together we are stronger.
My inquiry, which is deliberately open to tacit or intuitive knowledge, embodies the
integration of artistic expression and scientific analysis. Its unfolding narrative shapes its
validity. Does it satisfy Barone and Eisner’s (2012) criteria for relevance?
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• Does the story ring true?

• Is the analysis cogent and credible?
• Is the tale coherent?
• Are the meanings generalizable?

I do not know. These questions have guided my writing, but they are not mine to answer. Will
my inquiry augment the scholarly literature in music theory pedagogy? Will it impact the future
direction of my subject discipline? Perhaps.
A composer cannot foresee the impact of her/his composition. Music requires intermediary
interpretation by a performer. There is no direct link between the composer and her/his audience
unless the composer and the performer are one and the same. As music teachers, we tend to
focus on training the performer, which involves the acquisition of physical skills. Not
surprisingly, the finest musicians use thinking to enhance their playing/singing. But sometimes
the intermediary interpreter is a music theorist, whose training is focused on the acquisition of
intellectual skills. Surely the finest theorists use playing/singing to enhance their thinking.
Either way, the composer is left at the mercy of her/his interpreter.
I do know, however, that my study has stretched beyond conventional practices for the
teaching of music theory. I have embraced the instructional potential of a holistic experience of
music theory and explored its sensory promise with a music-centered approach. What might an
integrated music theory pedagogy look/sound/feel like? This question will fuel the next leg of
my journey. In her keynote address at the 2000 OAKE (Organization of American Kodály
Educators) conference in Seattle, Washington, Choksy (2014) emphasized that she was not a
Kodály teacher, she was a music teacher. In similar fashion, I want my music theory students to
understand music – both as an art and as a science. More expansively, I want all music theory
students to understand music as an integrated whole.
Cognizant of Elliott’s (1995) words, “[d]oing implies intention” (p. 50), I feel a
responsibility to take action – to take the next creative step toward a fully integrated music theory
pedagogy – not only on behalf of my students, but for the benefit of my chosen profession. I am
inspired by the scholars who have laid the necessary groundwork and assisted me in coming to
this place at this time. I am also inspired by my participants, one of whom gave me this
encouragement:
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AC: It’s the old thing: tell me, I’ll forget; show me, I may remember; let
me do it and I’ll know it. I remember years ago, learning, hearing some
[kind of] a study that teachers of the arts, whether visual or musical or
whatever, sometimes are seen as more credible by their students because
they’re actually doing the things that they’re teaching. They’re not just…
As much as I love history, they’re not just talking and writing about
history. Even if they don’t have a performing career or an exhibit
somewhere, they’re physically doing what they’re teaching their students
to do. (2O)

My quest narrative metaphorically traces a tonal trajectory (McClary, 2000) that symbolizes a
musical score or the notational representation of an acoustic event. I hope that the story of my
pedagogical journey – my quest for an art/science integration in music theory pedagogy – will
persuade others in my profession to chart a similar course. It is time to explore the educational
benefits of teaching music theory with, about, in, and through music (Cornett & Smithrim, 2001).
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A bird does not sing because it has an answer.

It sings because it has a song.
– Joan Walsh Anglund
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Appendix 1.1: Sample Pages from A Student’s Recordbook, Grade 1

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Appendix 1.2: Sample Pages from A Student’s Guidebook, Romantic Ideals

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Appendix 2.1: Basic Harmony Requirements

Examination length: 3 hours

Co-requisite for: Grade 9 Practical Examination, Elementary Piano Pedagogy
Recommended theory pre-requisites: Advanced Rudiments, Introductory Harmony
The Basic Harmony examination tests candidates’ knowledge of the requirements for
Introductory Harmony plus the additional material listed below. These elements will be tested in
major and minor keys.

Chords
Root position and all inversions
• all triads, including the cadential 6/4 chord
• dominant 7th and supertonic 7th chords
• V/V, V7/V, and vii°/V
• qualities of 7th chords: major 7th, major-minor 7th (dominant 7th), minor 7th, half-diminished
7th (diminished-minor 7th), and diminished 7th. For 7th chords other than V7, ii7, and iiø7,
only identification of quality is required.
Chord symbols
• root/quality chord symbols
• functional chord symbols
Pedal Points
• on the tonic and dominant scale degrees
Sequences
• do-fa-ti-mi (descending 5ths)
Modulation
• to a traditional goal key: to V from major keys and to III or v from minor keys
• in formal analysis only: identification of modulations to all closely related keys
Non-Chord Notes
• passing notes, accented passing notes, neighbour notes, accented neighbour notes, incomplete
neighbour notes, échappées, suspensions, anticipations, and appoggiaturas
Form
• binary, rounded binary, and ternary
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Examination Questions
Candidates should be prepared to answer the following types of examination questions:
Melody with Added Bass Line at the Cadences
• Extend a given melodic opening to create a sixteen-measure composition with four four-
measure phrases.
• The style will be that of an 18th-century dance.
• The composition is to be in rounded binary form with repeat signs appropriate to this form.
• The melody will remain in the principal key; modulation is not required.
• The four phrase endings of the melody are to be accompanied by a bass part and functional
chord symbols; candidates will be required to name the type of each cadence. Two-part
(melody and bass) cadences are required; stem directions are to be consistent with two-part
writing.
• The first eight measures or fewer will be given, with both the melody and the bass part at
the cadences. Candidates will complete the melody and add the bass part at the cadences
and will mark the phrasing for the entire composition.
• The third phrase should demonstrate some melodic contrast and inventiveness while
remaining consistent with the style of the given opening. Literal restatement, transposition,
etc. are discouraged in the third phrase.
• Candidates may also be asked to indicate the implied harmony throughout the composition
using either functional chord symbols or root/quality chord symbols.
Harmonization I: Given Chord Symbols
• Harmonize in four parts (SATB) a series of given functional chord symbols.
Harmonization II: Given Melody (major keys only)
• Harmonize in four parts (SATB) a given melody with or without a given bass line.
• The melody may be a chorale or hymn, an excerpt from a chorale or hymn, or a melody in a
similar style.
• When a text is present, candidates are to write a correct rhythmic setting of the text.
Harmonic and Structural Analysis
• For a given example:
• Provide chord symbols (root/quality chord symbols or functional chord symbols or both).
• Indicate pedal points for their entire duration.
• Circle and classify non-chord notes.
• For a given simple dance movement containing modulations to closely related keys:
• Mark the structural phrasing.
• Identify cadences (perfect, plagal, imperfect, or deceptive) and their keys.
• Identify the form (binary, rounded binary, or ternary) and label the sections of the form by
placing letters (A, B, etc.) directly on the score.
• Answer brief questions concerning the musical elements found in a given piece or excerpt.

(RCM, 2009, pp. 22-23)

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Appendix 2.2: Harmonization of a Given Melody

(RCM, 2013, p. 16)

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Appendix 2.3: Grade 2 Piano Requirements

Candidates at the Grade 2 level continue to explore various historical styles. Character pieces
allow for exploration of pedaling, expression, and balance of tone. Scales played hands together,
including the formula pattern, are introduced to help candidates achieve facility with this
repertoire.

Repertoire
Candidates must prepare three contrasting selections: one from each of List A, List B, and List C.
Repertoire selections must be memorized.
• one selection from List A: Baroque and Classical Repertoire
• one selection from List B: Romantic, 20th- and 21st-century Repertoire
• one selection from List C: Inventions

Technical Requirements
Studies
Candidates must prepare one selection from the Syllabus list of studies/etudes. Memorization is
not required.
Technical Tests
Major keys: C, G, F, B-flat
Minor keys: A, E, D, G
• scales: C, G, F, B-flat major; A, E, D, G minor (natural, harmonic, and melodic); HS (hands
separate); 2 octaves
• staccato: C, G, F, B-flat major; HS; 1 octave
• parallel motion: C, G major; HT (hands together); 1 octave
• contrary motion: G major; HT; 2 octaves
• formula pattern: C major; HT; 2 octaves
• chromatic: beginning on C; HS; 1 octave
• triads (root position and inversions) broken: C, G, F, B-flat major; A, E, D, G minor; HS;
1 octave
• solid (blocked): C, G, F, B-flat major; A, E, D, G minor; HS; 1 octave

Ear Tests
Clapback
Candidates will choose to either clap, tap, or sing the rhythm of a short melody after the examiner
has played it twice.
• time signature: 2/4, 3/4
• approximate length: three to four measures
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Intervals
Candidates will be asked to identify the following intervals. The examiner will play each interval
once in broken form.
or
Candidates may choose to sing or hum the following intervals. The examiner will play the first
note once.
• above a given note: major 3rd, perfect 5th
Playback
Candidates will be asked to play back a melody based on the first five notes of a major scale.
The melody may include skips of a 3rd. The examiner will name the key, play the tonic triad
once, and play the melody twice.
• beginning note: tonic or dominant
• approximate length: five notes
• keys: C, G, F major

Sight Reading
Playing
Candidates will be asked to play a passage that is divided between the hands and lies within the
compass of the staff. The melody will include whole notes, half notes, quarter notes, and eighth
notes.
• time signature: 4/4
• approximate length: four measures
• keys: C, F, G major
Clapping
Candidates will be asked to clap or tap a rhythm. A steady pace and rhythmic accentuation are
expected.
• time signature: 4/4
• approximate length: two measures

Theory Co-Requisites
None.

(RCM, 2008b, pp. 36-41)

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Appendix 2.4: Neefe’s Allegretto in C Major

(RCM, 2008a, p 8)
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Appendix 2.5: Sample Worksheet for Neefe’s Allegretto in C Major

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Appendix 3.1: Recruitment Letter

Mind the Gap: An Integration of Art and Science in Music Theory Pedagogy

Dear Theory Examiner,

This letter is a request for your assistance with a research project I am conducting in partial
fulfillment of the requirements for my doctoral degree in Education at the University of Ottawa.
My project, under the supervision of Dr. Richard Barwell and Dr. Roxane Prevost, explores the
instructional gap between music theory and the music it is intended to explain.

The purpose of my study is to experiment with alternative practices for music theory instruction
that integrate both artistic and scientific views of music. Influenced by the Kodály concept of
music education, these practices incorporate repertoire selections (art) in the teaching of music
theory (science). Information generated from this study may benefit other music theory teachers
and their students.

As a member of the Royal Conservatory’s College of Theoretical Examiners, I would like to

invite you to participate in my research project. I believe that your examining experience gives
you a unique understanding of music theory pedagogy. To begin my study, I will write four
Listening Guides based on required works from RCM’s (2016) Intermediate Theory curriculum.
These Listening Guides facilitate student listening experiences with brief teaching segments.
During the course of my study, I will conduct two focus group discussions of approximately two
hours each: the first to initiate a critical review of my Listening Guides and the second to
conclude a continuing dialogue. The participants will be encouraged to use one or more of the
Listening Guides and to describe their experiences in an electronic document shared with the
group. Each participant will also be invited to respond to the others’ experiences. At the end of
my study, their collective expertise will be woven into the story of my pedagogical journey. The
publication of my dissertation will circulate the collaborative knowledge gained across a wider
music theory community.

Four participants will be selected on a first-come, first-serve basis. If you are interested in
participating, please contact me to discuss this study in further detail. Your participation is
completely voluntary. You will receive a consent form that includes information about your right
to withdraw from the study at any time.

The group sessions will be audio taped to ensure that I can accurately reflect on our discussion.
The tapes will be reviewed only by me and they will be destroyed after I have transcribed and
analyzed the data. Excerpts or quotations from the transcriptions will be used to support the
findings of my study. These results may be published or presented at professional conferences,
but your identity will not be revealed. All paper notes will be destroyed after five years and all
electronic data will be stored indefinitely on a CD with no personal identifiers. Other than
myself, only my supervisors will have access to these materials.

There are no known or anticipated risks to participants.

 363

If you have any questions regarding this study or would like additional information to assist you
in reaching a decision about participation, please contact me at or by e-mail
. You may also contact my supervisors, Dr. Richard Barwell
( ) or Dr. Roxane Prevost ( ). If you have any questions
about your rights as a research participant, you may contact the Office of Research Ethics and
Integrity at the University of Ottawa, or .

Thank you for your consideration.

Kindest regards,

Lori Lynn Penny

PhD Candidate
Faculty of Education
University of Ottawa
 364

Appendix 3.2: Revised Recruitment Letter

Mind the Gap: An Integration of Art and Science in Music Theory Pedagogy

Dear Music Theory Teacher,

This letter is a request for your assistance with a research project I am conducting in partial
fulfillment of the requirements for my doctoral degree in Education at the University of Ottawa.
My project, under the supervision of Dr. Richard Barwell and Dr. Roxane Prevost, explores the
instructional gap between music theory and the music it is intended to explain.

The purpose of my study is to experiment with alternative practices for music theory instruction
that integrate both artistic and scientific views of music. Influenced by the Kodály concept of
music education, these practices incorporate repertoire selections (art) in the teaching of music
theory (science). Information generated from this study may benefit other music theory teachers
and their students.

As a member of the Ottawa Region Branch of the Ontario Registered Music Teachers’
Association, I would like to invite you to participate in my research project. I believe that your
teaching experience gives you a unique understanding of music theory pedagogy. To begin my
study, I will write four Listening Guides based on required works from the Royal Conservatory’s
(2016) Intermediate Theory curriculum. These Listening Guides facilitate student listening
experiences with brief teaching segments. During the course of my study, I will conduct two
focus group discussions of approximately two hours each: the first to initiate a critical review of
my Listening Guides and the second to conclude a continuing dialogue. The participants will be
encouraged to use one or more of the Listening Guides and to describe their experiences in an
electronic document shared with the group. Each participant will also be invited to respond to the
others’ experiences. At the end of my study, their collective expertise will be woven into the
story of my pedagogical journey. The publication of my dissertation will circulate the
collaborative knowledge gained across a wider music theory community.

Four participants will be selected on a first-come, first-serve basis. If you are interested in
participating, please contact me to discuss this study in further detail. Your participation is
completely voluntary. You will receive a consent form that includes information about your right
to withdraw from the study at any time.

The group sessions will be audio taped to ensure that I can accurately reflect on our discussion.
The tapes will be reviewed only by me and they will be destroyed after I have transcribed and
analyzed the data. Excerpts or quotations from the transcriptions will be used to support the
findings of my study. These results may be published or presented at professional conferences,
but your identity will not be revealed. All paper notes will be scanned and all electronic data will
be stored indefinitely on a CD with no personal identifiers. Other than myself, only my
supervisors will have access to these materials.

There are no known or anticipated risks to participants.

 365

If you have any questions regarding this study or would like additional information to assist you
in reaching a decision about participation, please contact me at or by e-mail
. You may also contact my supervisors, Dr. Richard Barwell
( ) or Dr. Roxane Prevost ( ). If you have any questions
about your rights as a research participant, you may contact the Office of Research Ethics and
Integrity at the University of Ottawa, or .

Thank you for your consideration.

Kindest regards,

Lori Lynn Penny

PhD Candidate
Faculty of Education
University of Ottawa
 366

Appendix 3.3: Introductory Focus Group Questions

The second stage of my research in music theory pedagogy examines an alternative approach for
teaching intervals and chords. Influenced by Choksy’s adaptation of the Kodály Method, I have
developed four Listening Guides that integrate both scientific and artistic views of music. Based
on Levels 5 through 8 of RCM’s revised theory curriculum, these Listening Guides are to be
collaboratively reviewed by the participants through a moderated “conversation” that addresses
my interrogative question: How can an integrated pedagogy for the teaching of intervals and
chords according to the Royal Conservatory’s (2016) Intermediate Theory curriculum be
implemented?

Prelude
Do you help your rudiments students connect intervals and chords to their ear training? How?
Do you connect their study of intervals and chords (as separate musical parts) to their repertoire
(as models of a musical whole)? How?
What kind(s) of repertoire do you feel are the most accessible for rudimentary analysis? Why?

Level 5: Mozart, “Queen of the Night” Aria (No. 14) from The Magic Flute
What musical concepts about intervals and chords are required before listening to this work with
understanding? Are they adequately prepared in the Listening Guide? (explain)
What specific concepts are derived from this work? Are they unambiguously presented and
clearly labeled or notated? (explain)
Are the activities in repeated listening experiences pedagogically sequenced? Is there a
recognizable purpose for each experience? (give examples)
How does this work contribute to the generalization of musical concepts about intervals and
chords? Is it appropriate for this level of study? Why or why not?

Level 6: Bach, Invention No. 1 in C Major, BWV 772

simile – the “Mozart” questions are intended to be suitable for each level.

Level 7: Mendelssohn, Overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream

simile

Level 8: Josquin des Prez, El grillo

simile
 367

Postlude
Lois Choksy (1999b) writes:
The approach suggested here is very different from the ones commonly in use …
The focus is on the music, throughout. It is better to study two works a year in this
kind of depth than to listen to ten works superficially, because this analytical
approach makes generalizations possible. The student who has studied Mozart’s
Symphony No. 40 in G Minor, who knows the work thoroughly, can sing its themes,
follow its forms and its harmonic progressions and key changes, can then listen with
much greater understanding to all Mozart and Haydn symphonies. He or she is able
to transfer the knowledge acquired and, even more importantly, the appreciation that
goes with the knowledge to other works in the same style and period. (p. 79)
What is your position on the issue of breadth vs. depth in student listening experiences? Why?
How might these listening experiences contribute to the systematic development of both
theoretical concepts and aural skills?
 368

Appendix 3.4: Reflective Questions

In the third stage of my research project, the participants are encouraged to use one or more of
my Listening Guides in their classrooms or studios. Integrating both scientific and artistic views
of music, these Listening Guides reinforce the teaching of intervals and chords with the concepts
of consonance and dissonance. Prompted by my questions, each participant is asked to describe
her/his experience(s) and the remaining participants are invited to respond with insights drawn
from their own experiences. I will extend the dialogue by probing my reflective question: How
can the implementation of an integrated pedagogy for the teaching of intervals and chords
according to the Royal Conservatory’s (2016) Intermediate Theory curriculum be refined by the
participants in my research study?

Prelude
Which Listening Guide(s) did you “audition” either in whole or in part? (explain)
Were they used in individual or group lessons?
How many students were involved?
What was your timeline? (specify the number, frequency, and duration of your trial uses)

Interlude
How did you implement the Listening Guide(s)? (describe your procedure)
How did you engage your students? (give examples)
Did you feel that the Preparing experiences were successful? Why or why not?
… the Listening experiences?
Did you “improvise”? If so, how?
Did you experiment with subjective discernments of consonance and/or dissonance?
How did your students respond to this subjectivity?
Would you consider using the Listening Guide(s) again? Why or why not?
How would you improve them?

Postlude
Defending Kodály’s pedagogical approach, Choksy quotes Dobszay (1992): “I have become
increasingly convinced that the direction of music teaching can best be determined by the inner
logic of music itself” (p. 10). Simply stated, the music must come first. It must be elevated from
its secondary function (as illustrative example) to become the primary focus for teaching.
Do you agree with Choksy’s belief that much music teaching is backward? Why or why not?
How do you suggest we preserve the music in our teaching of music theory?
 369

Appendix 3.5: Concluding Focus Group Questions

At the final stage, I am seeking recommendations for the artistic-scientific integration of music
and music theory from the collective expertise of the group. Our communal effort, which will
supplement my Listening Guides with added value, is inspired by my summative question: How
can the harmony component of the Royal Conservatory’s (2016) Advanced Theory curriculum be
enhanced by an integrated artistic-scientific pedagogy at the intermediate level?

Prelude
introductory questions based on the preceding Reflective dialogue

Interlude
How has your pedagogical thinking been influenced by the Listening Guides? (consider both
your review and your classroom/studio trial)
Has your teaching of music theory been influenced by the Listening Guides? If so, in what way?
Do you feel that the inclusion of repertoire (art) in the teaching of music theory (science)
encourages the development of student subjectivity? Is this important? Why or why not?
How should we, as music theory teachers, bridge the instructional gap between the objective
elements of rudiments and the subjective workings of harmony?

Postlude
Defending the purpose of music theory, Rogers (2004) summarizes his position: “Acquiring
musicianship, however it is defined, is intimately bound up with theory training … It all finally
comes down to the competence to use our thinking ability to improve listening and our listening
ability to improve thinking. As long as this cycle can be kept in motion, real education takes
place; we learn so that we can learn even more. Each new accomplishment leads to yet more
sophisticated and more challenging levels of investigation and perception that were never even
imagined before. The helix is never completed which is why music theory … is endlessly
intriguing” (p. 12).
How can we, as music theory teachers, inspire this sense of endless intrigue in our students?
 370

Appendix 4.1: Level 5 Listening Guide for Mozart’s Aria

371
372
373
374
375
376
 377

Appendix 4.2: Level 6 Listening Guide for Bach’s Invention

378
379
380
381
382
383
 384

Appendix 4.3: Level 7 Listening Guide for Mendelssohn’s Overture

385
386
387
388
389
390
 391

Appendix 4.4: Level 8 Listening Guide for Josquin’s Frottola

392
393
394
395
396
397
 398

Appendix 4.5: Annotated Score for Bach’ Invention No. 1 in C Major, BWV 772
399
 400

Appendix 4.6: Petrucci’s (1505) Manuscript of Josquin’s El grillo

401
 402

Appendix 5.1: Google Docs Entries

Toronto Focus Group

LLP (March 22, 2017): As I read my Reflective Questions (written before the Listening Guides),
I was struck by the words “consonance” and “dissonance”! In my early ruminations about
infusing the science of teaching music theory with art, I thought the concepts of consonance and
dissonance – as discernments of pleasantness and unpleasantness, as well as mathematical
proportions – would give me a portal into the subjectivity (or the art) of advanced theory topics
such as harmony and counterpoint. I still believe this to be true, but the application of these
concepts gradually settled into the background and wasn’t emphasized in the Listening Guides as
I had originally intended. Nevertheless, I decided to leave my reference to consonance and
dissonance in the Reflective Questions because I don’t want to lose track of their significance. I
want to bring them back to the foreground. Your comments would be greatly appreciated.

Regarding my implementation of the Listening Guides, I have one rudiments student who’ll be
taking the Level 8 exam in May. He is a 19-year-old vocalist (a tenor), who graduated from an
arts high school in 2016. He’s interested in composition and has been accepted into the Music
Industry Arts program at Algonquin College. We meet weekly on Friday mornings and began to
work with El grillo (LG8) on March 10, when we reached the Music History unit in Celebrate
Theory. He immediately filled in the blanks for Activity #1 and began to ask questions about the
breve and the sharps above the staff. In retrospect, I wonder if I should move the accidentals
onto the staff… With his previous knowledge of Medieval music, he assumed the melody to be
in the tenor and sang it. I missed the opportunity (the teachable moment) when we could have
sung the other lines to find the melody in the soprano – instead, I simply told him where to find
it! He completed the assignment while I wondered if the staff lines should be bigger… He then
asked if we could listen to the piece and I said “not yet.” What was I thinking? Actually, in my
mind this is so clearly a pre-listening activity that he surprised me! Overall, he did fine, but I
didn’t – I was disappointed by my teaching “performance.” I think I was very shy…

On March 17, he asked for Activity #2! I pulled out my copies of the original score and we had a
fairly lengthy discussion. Chris: I was intrigued by your suggestion that the parts may be
practically arranged on paper for a gathering of singers, so I asked my student what he thought.
Sadly, he wasn’t as intrigued as I am… At any rate, he filled in the blanks and proceeded with
the assignment, despite my intention for it to be done outside of the lesson – I didn’t verbalize
this intention, so the misunderstanding is mine to shoulder… As he worked, I discovered that
there needs to be more space between the second treble staff and the final question, although this
“crowding” inadvertently reinforced the answer to my question! He didn’t sing the tenor’s
refrain because he had a cold and was protecting his voice for an audition this week. Oddly, I felt
relieved. What is wrong with me? I desperately want to bring more music into my teaching of
music theory, but again I was too shy to do so. I need to do more than talk the talk – I need to
walk the walk! I will see my student again on March 31.

I invite you to respond to my experiences and/or to share your teaching experiences with any or
all of the Listening Guides. My entries may be used as models and my Reflective Questions may
be used to inspire your thinking, but neither are meant to be restrictive in any way. Please feel
free to think for yourselves!
 403

Kanata Focus Group

LLP (March 29, 2017): As I read my Reflective Questions (written before the Listening Guides),
I was struck by the words “consonance” and “dissonance”! In my early ruminations about
infusing the science of teaching music theory with art, I thought the concepts of consonance and
dissonance – as discernments of pleasantness and unpleasantness, as well as mathematical
proportions – would give me a portal into the subjectivity (or the art) of advanced theory topics
such as harmony and counterpoint. I still believe this to be true, but the application of these
concepts gradually settled into the background and wasn’t emphasized in the Listening Guides as
I had originally intended. Nevertheless, I decided to leave my reference to consonance and
dissonance in the Reflective Questions because I don’t want to lose track of their significance. I
want to bring them back to the foreground. Your comments would be greatly appreciated.

Regarding my implementation of the Listening Guides, I have one rudiments student who’ll be
taking the Level 8 exam in May. He is a 19-year-old vocalist (a tenor), who graduated from
Canterbury High School in 2016. He’s interested in composition and has been accepted into the
Music Industry Arts program at Algonquin College. We meet weekly on Friday mornings and
began to work with El grillo (LG8) on March 10, when we reached the Music History unit in
Celebrate Theory. He immediately filled in the blanks for Activity #1 and began to ask questions
about the breve and the sharps above the staff. In retrospect, I wonder if I should move the
accidentals onto the staff… With his previous knowledge of Medieval music, he assumed the
melody to be in the tenor and sang it. I missed the opportunity (the teachable moment) when we
could have sung the other lines to find the melody in the soprano – instead, I simply told him
where to find it! He completed the assignment while I wondered if the staff lines should be
bigger… He then asked if we could listen to the piece and I said “not yet.” What was I thinking?
Actually, in my mind this is so clearly a pre-listening activity that he surprised me! Amy,
Danielle, and Kimberley: after our discussion, I’m reminded that my supposed clarity is not clear
at all! And my pre-listening activities are not standard practice, so they’ll require more explicit
explanation. Overall, my student responded well to Activity #1, but I didn’t – I was disappointed
by my teaching “performance.” I think I was very shy about my materials…

On March 17, he was anxious to continue and specifically asked for Activity #2! I pulled out my
copy of the original score and we had a fairly lengthy discussion. At any rate, he filled in the
blanks and proceeded with the assignment, despite my intention for it to be done away from the
lesson – I didn’t verbalize this intention, so the misunderstanding is mine to shoulder… As he
worked, I discovered that there needs to be more space between the second treble staff and the
final question, although this “crowding” inadvertently reinforced the answer to my question at the
bottom of the page! He didn’t sing the tenor’s refrain because he had a cold and was protecting
his voice for an upcoming audition. Oddly, I felt relieved. What is wrong with me? I
desperately want to bring more music into my teaching of music theory, but again I was too shy
to do so. I need to do more than talk the talk – I need to walk the walk! I’ll see my student again
on March 31.

I invite you to respond to my experiences and/or to share your teaching experiences with any or
all of the Listening Guides. My entries may be used as models and my Reflective Questions may
inspire your thinking, but neither are meant to be restrictive in any way. Please feel free to think
for yourselves!
 404

Orleans Focus Group

LLP (March 31, 2017): As I read my Reflective Questions (written before the Listening Guides),
I was struck by the words “consonance” and “dissonance”! As I mentioned during our
discussion: in my early ruminations about infusing the science of teaching music theory with art,
I thought the concepts of consonance and dissonance – as discernments of pleasantness and
unpleasantness, as well as mathematical proportions – would give me a portal into the
subjectivity (or the art) of advanced theory topics such as harmony and counterpoint. I still
believe this to be true, but the application of these concepts gradually settled into the background
and wasn’t emphasized in the Listening Guides as I had originally intended. Nevertheless, I
decided to leave my reference to these concepts in the Reflective Questions because I don’t want
to lose track of their significance. I want to bring them back to the foreground. Your comments
would be greatly appreciated.

Regarding my implementation of the Listening Guides, I have one rudiments student who’ll be
taking the Level 8 exam in May. He is a 19-year-old vocalist (a tenor), who graduated from
Canterbury High School in 2016. He’s interested in composition and has been accepted into the
Music Industry Arts program at Algonquin College. We meet weekly on Friday mornings and
began to work with El grillo (LG8) on March 10, when we reached the Music History unit in
Celebrate Theory. He immediately filled in the blanks for Activity #1 and began to ask questions
about the breve and the sharps above the staff. With his previous knowledge of Medieval music,
he assumed the melody to be in the tenor and sang it. I missed the opportunity (the teachable
moment) when we could have sung the other lines to find the melody in the soprano – instead, I
simply told him where to find it! He completed the assignment while I wondered if the staff lines
should be bigger… He then asked if we could listen to the piece and I said “not yet.” What was I
thinking? Actually, in my mind this is so clearly a pre-listening activity that he surprised me, but
I’m reminded that my supposed clarity is not clear at all! And my pre-listening activities are not
standard practice, so they’ll require more explicit explanation. Overall, my student responded
well to Activity #1, but I didn’t – I was disappointed by my teaching “performance.” I think I
was very shy about my materials…

On March 17, he was anxious to continue and specifically asked for Activity #2! I pulled out my
copy of the original score and we had a fairly lengthy discussion. At any rate, he filled in the
blanks and proceeded with the assignment, despite my intention for it to be done away from the
lesson – I didn’t verbalize this intention, so the misunderstanding is mine to shoulder… As he
worked, I discovered that there needs to be more space between the second treble staff and the
final question, although this “crowding” inadvertently reinforced the answer to my question at the
bottom of the page! He didn’t sing the tenor’s refrain because he had a cold and was protecting
his voice for an upcoming audition. Oddly, I felt relieved. What is wrong with me? I
desperately want to bring more music into my teaching of music theory, but again I was too shy
to do so. I need to do more than talk the talk – I need to walk the walk!

I saw my student again this morning (March 31) and we launched into Activity #3. He
questioned the word “diminution” but seemed to understand its meaning from the exercise.
Whenever possible, I like to create exercises that can serve as examples… Because we have the
liberty of time – we’re well into the review stages of preparing for his exam – we’ve had many
interesting discussions. Today, we talked about homorhythmic textures and syncopations (both
terms previously known to him). He suggested a different wording for “In what measures do the
 405

voices exchange text?”, using “alternate” instead of “exchange.” We also talked about El grillo’s
text, comparing old and new Italian as well as various English translations found on the internet.
He chose to translate Dalle beve grillo canta as “Drunkenly he sings,” rather than the more literal
“In his cups he sings,” or even “Give him a drink so he can go on singing”! This reference puts a
whole new spin on Josquin’s frottola as a drinking song – no wonder “He [the cricket] sings all
the time”! We finished our lesson by listening to several YouTube recordings in both choral and
ensemble renditions.

I invite you to respond to my experiences and/or to share your teaching experiences with any or
all of the Listening Guides. My entries may be used as models and my Reflective Questions may
inspire your thinking, but neither are meant to be restrictive in any way. Please feel free to think
for yourselves!
 406

Appendix 6.1: Sample Classroom Discussion

Musical work: J. S. Bach’s Fugue in D-sharp Minor from The Well-Tempered Clavier, volume 1
Theoretical concepts: fugal exposition, tonal answer, codetta
Aural preparation: previous listening/classroom discussion of both prelude and fugue, without the
score
Visual preparation: individual analysis of first 14 measures, outside of class
Pertinent information: the exposition ends midway through m. 10; students have been asked to
account for the entry in m.12 (redundant fourth entry in a three-voice fugue)
Setting: sophomore theory class – teacher at the piano, prepared to play excerpts in the course of
discussion; students at their desks with annotated scores

Teacher: Where does the exposition of this fugue end?

Student A: At the third beat of measure 10.
Teacher: Why there?
Student A: Because at this point all three voices have presented the subject.
Teacher: How long is the subject?
Student A: Two and a half measures.
Teacher: Then there is a subject entry every two and a half measures?
Student A: Um, no, the third voice doesn’t come in right after the second.
Teacher: Why not?
Student A: I’m not sure, but I suppose Bach wanted to make the exposition longer.
Student B: No, it’s for a modulation.
Teacher: Why do you need a modulation?
Student B: To get back to the tonic for the entrance of the third voice.
Student C: Yeah, the second voice modulates to A-sharp minor, so now we have to get back to
the D-sharp minor tonic for the entrance of the third voice.
Teacher: The second voice modulates? But I thought the second voice had to answer in the key of
the dominant. Shouldn’t it already be in the key of A-sharp minor?
Student C: No, it actually starts in the key of the tonic and on the tonic chord itself. In fact it
leaps from the fifth scale degree up to the tonic note. Then it modulates.
Student A: Oh, I see, that’s a clear-cut cadence at measure 6 where the second voice ends – an
authentic cadence in A-sharp minor. Then the next two measures have a real purpose, don’t
they? They get us back to D-sharp minor for the entrance of the third voice. But why doesn’t
the second voice start right out in the dominant?
[No one responds. The teacher allows the class to savour the silence in the hope of an answer.
Then he cautiously proceeds with more Socratic dialogue.]
Teacher: Well, let’s look at the subject itself. It doesn’t modulate, does it? It simply ends in D-
sharp minor. Does that give you any ideas?
Student D: Well, I remember your telling us about several types of tonal answers. This is one of
them, isn’t it? The leap of tonic to dominant is answered by the leap of dominant to tonic.
You said it would go to the wrong key. If we used a real answer here, the third voice would
be in the key of E-sharp minor and that doesn’t sound right.
Student B: Well, why didn’t Bach modulate back to D-sharp minor just as he did here? Then you
could have a third [entry] and the third voice could be in D-sharp minor again. He put in the
two measures anyway.
 407

Teacher: Okay, I think you understand the problem, but you’ve got to think like eighteenth-
century listeners, too. They expected the opening emphasis on the tonic and they expected to
hear the key of the dominant pretty soon, too. All eighteenth-century music – just about –
moves to the dominant. Eighteenth-century ears would have been very puzzled if it didn’t. But
listen to what happens if I put in a real answer. [Teacher plays an altered version of the first 5
measures, using a real answer.]

Figure 6.1: Altered Version of Bach’s Fugue in D-sharp Minor from The Well-Tempered
Clavier, volume 1 (mm. 1-6)

Student D: That doesn’t sound right. It’s too abrupt. Bach’s way is better.
Teacher: What! Better than mine?
[Laughter]
Teacher: Listen to this fugal exposition. [Teacher plays the opening of Bach’s “Little” Fugue in
G Minor through the entrances of the first two voices.] Shouldn’t that fugue have a tonal
answer? It begins with the leap of tonic to dominant, just like this one. But look, here’s the
answer and it’s a real answer.

Figure 6.2: Bach’s “Little” Fugue in G Minor (mm. 1-7)

[Silence]
Student A: This one sounds right, too.
Student C: I guess Baroque composers didn’t always follow their own rules.
 408

Teacher: Tonal answers are a pretty long-standing practice. Even sixteenth-century composers
used them in imitative choral works. Look, here’s one in a Canzonet by Thomas Morley, an
Elizabethan composer. [They examine the Canzonet.] There is reason for Bach using a real
answer here in the G Minor Fugue. Listen again. [Teacher plays the opening of the “Little”
Fugue in G Minor again.]
Student C: Wait a minute. In the D-sharp Minor Fugue the subject doesn’t modulate. Does this
one modulate to the dominant?
Student A: That’s it! You got it! But it’s a kind of implied modulation. You don’t get any C-
sharps, but the subject is so long that Bach can get our ears to hearing D minor in time for the
answer to actually be in the key of the dominant.
Student B: Yeah, that’s why he could use a real answer here. The other one still had to
emphasize the tonic at the beginning of the answer.
Student D: But if the subject modulates, and the answer is real, that means that the answer will
modulate, too. The third voice would end up in A minor, and that won’t be right for a fugue in
G minor.
Student C: I’ll bet there’s another extra section at the end of the answer to modulate back to the
tonic. What do you call those sections in a fugal exposition where there’s no subject?
Teacher: The generally accepted term is codetta. Let’s use that, but the important thing is to
understand the function. Let’s see if you’re right. Let’s look at that G Minor Fugue to see if
there is a codetta. [They examine the score.]

dialogue (White, 2002, pp. 138-141) with the term bar replaced by measure
 409

Appendix 6.2: Bach’s Fugue in D-sharp Minor from The Well-Tempered Clavier, volume 1
(mm. 1-14)
 410

Appendix 6.3: Response to a Disgruntled Colleague

Dear [ORMTA colleague],

I’m sad to know that you’re disappointed with the new Celebrate Theory series. I’ve been thinking about
the points you raised and wanted to address some of your concerns.

Although there was insufficient time to fully test the new books per se, they were written by a team of
experts who have extensive experience in teaching music rudiments. I learned a great deal from my
colleagues – I also learned that reviewing and writing are very different processes! And writing with
others requires a great deal of compromise in order to reach consensus.

Let me give you a little bit of background, which isn’t necessarily public knowledge, so I would appreciate
your discretion.

RCM brought together a panel of international music theory pedagogues, who reviewed the previous
syllabus and made several recommendations that resulted in a complete reworking of the rudiments
curriculum. This reworking enabled a very positive and progressive move to integrate the study of music
theory and the study of a practical instrument – to make theory relevant. RCM also surveyed teachers
who had submitted students for theory exams and their responses encouraged the conservatory’s move
toward integration. To support the new syllabus requirements, RCM decided to author a complete set of
theory textbooks (all subjects at all levels) – a shift that began with the last history series. Mark Sarnecki
was approached to revise/write the rudiments series, but he declined. RCM then approached Brenda
Braaten and Crystal Wiksyk (authors of the Sound Advice series), who began submitting their
manuscripts in the fall of 2014. I became involved with the syllabus (as a reviewer) at approximately the
same time, but in the spring of 2015, I was asked to revise the rudiments manuscripts, which
unfortunately required a rewrite. RCM was looking for a new approach and my doctoral research
happened to align with their vision.

My post-secondary training is in elementary school music, specifically the Kodály Method, which
encompasses what many educators now call discovery learning. It’s the polar opposite of the rote
learning/memorizing that characterizes most theory teaching. Rather than teacher-led “telling,” it
enables student-led “deriving” or “experiencing.”

Let me explain how this impacts the new rudiments series and how it can be used very effectively in your
studio.

These books are written as an introduction to the specific musical/theoretical concepts necessary for the
understanding of a student’s practical repertoire. Music theory was “invented” for this purpose, but
over time it has become separated from the music it was initially intended to explain. Music theory is
now a set of abstract rules that need to be memorized in order to write a compulsory exam. I would like
to change that, and I’m extremely fortunate that RCM has embraced my ideas – at least to some
extent. But I also feel responsible for any criticism they receive.

The presentation you’ve seen in the books is a drastically compressed version of my work and that of my
colleagues. There are very pragmatic reasons for this: the page-count must be controlled in order to
manage cost; the content must be user friendly; the language (particularly the amount of language) must
be carefully and consistently maintained. But more importantly, there must be room for individual
 411

creativity. To borrow an analogy from [one of my co-authors], the books are a black-and-white
illustration of music theory, the teacher adds colour!

In the elementary levels (preparatory to level 4), every unit contains required elements that are
introduced with simple concept statements and relevant notation. Often, there is a brief student activity
(identified with a wedge in the left margin) that can be done at the lesson as part of the teacher’s
explanation. In short – a “picture” (especially one completed by the student) is worth a thousand words!

Every concept statement is designed to be transferrable, meaning that it is true in the current context as
well as in future contexts (an example of an untrue statement that confuses many students is: minor
intervals are lower than major intervals – this is true when the upper note is altered, but not true when it
becomes necessary to alter the lower note). Every concept is also reinforced with a spiral curriculum,
meaning that concepts are continually revisited with increasing levels of difficulty. RCM’s syllabus is well
suited to this type of learning – with intervals, for instance, appearing as steps, skips, and repeats at the
preparatory level, then eventually as all simple and compound intervals (including inversions) at level 8.

Musical/theoretical concepts are organized both horizontally and vertically (in a manner of speaking) –
horizontally reinforced within each book (from beginning to end) and vertically reinforced from one book
to the next (within each specific topic). Although the rhythm content can more-or-less stand on its own,
the pitch content (scales, intervals, chords, etc) is cumulative, with intervals dependent on knowledge of
scales and chords dependent on knowledge of intervals, etc.

Regarding reinforcement (which you mentioned on Monday): there is a difference between

reinforcement and practice. Reinforcement implies a “revisiting” that augments or increases knowledge
– that adds another piece to the puzzle or unlocks another mystery. This, I believe, is covered very
thoughtfully in the new books. But I agree with you, there isn’t enough practice.

My natural response is defensive: this wasn’t my decision! But there are more helpful arguments. First,
the elementary levels move through the rudiments requirements very, very slowly – so much so that
level 5 (which is similar to basic rudiments) is essentially a review of the previous material. Incidentally,
it was also designed as an entry point for older students, so they don’t have to take “baby steps” through
the first series of books. Second, and more importantly, if students can connect their study of theory
with the music they’re playing or singing, they’ll be much more likely to understand it and to reproduce
it. For example, if a student is playing a piece of music in D major, he or she will know that both F-sharp
and C-sharp are necessary to make the piece sound as it should, but a memorized key signature is likely
forgotten the day after an exam.

However, I still need to address the practice issue.

Formally, RCM is in the process of creating on-line supplements for each level of Celebrate Theory. They
are also creating printable one-page worksheets (currently complete to level 4), which can be found on
their website (in the teacher portal as resources). Informally, your students’ repertoire is the best source
for practice with music theory. Every unit in the theory series concludes with an excerpt from one of
RCM’s repertoire books – representing a variety of instruments – which is intended as a review
exercise. If I had had my way, these excerpts would have been positioned at the beginning of each unit,
where the new learning could be questioned and “discovered.” But every time you examine a score with
your students, you are practicing music theory. Consider asking them to carry a folder of manuscript
(free printable staff paper is readily available) and to write scales related to their repertoire. Or,
 412

assuming they have original copies of their music, ask them to scan a page and identify or colour-code
specific intervals with highlighters. Every score has its own “secrets” to reveal, and because your
students are intimately attached to their repertoire, these kinds of activities have the added bonus of
connecting a symbol (or an explanation) with an actual sound, which compliments their ear training.

In terms of melody writing, I agree that this topic can’t be taught in a few pages, but these pages aren’t
intended to be the “whole story.” In the same way that students of language learn spelling and grammar
before embarking on creative writing, students of music theory must learn basic melodic principles – an
absolute necessity based on examining encounters with thousands of terrible melodies on thousands of
junior harmony exams!

Melody writing is also an especially useful reinforcement tool. Students of language demonstrate
comprehension by using new vocabulary in a sentence. Similarly, students of music theory should be
able to demonstrate their understanding of musical vocabulary in melody writing. Too many students
associate creativity with “anything goes,” but as you are well aware, there’s a significant difference
between a melody that works (or sounds good) and one that doesn’t work. Even Bach learned his craft
through careful study of other composers’ music. Through their MUSIC – not a rulebook.

To this end, the melody writing segment begins with very tight parameters that are gradually relaxed as
the student gains more and more experience. But once the topic has been introduced, students are
encouraged to continue the activity independently – both observing/analyzing melodies in their
repertoire and writing melodies of their own (another reason to keep a steady supply of
manuscript). Not all writers of language become great authors, nor will all “melodists” become great
composers, but every student can learn to communicate musically – however rudimentary.

Please forgive my long-windedness – I didn’t mean to go on and on! I only wanted to help you
understand the “why” behind the Celebrate Theory series. It was written with the very best intentions. I
hope you’ll consider using it to help your students make connections between the music they see, the
music they hear, and the music they write.

Thank you for sharing your concerns,

Lori Lynn
 413

Appendix 6.4: Chopin’s Prelude in A Major, op. 28, no. 7

 414

Appendix 6.5: Bartók’s Jest (mm. 1-16)

 415

Appendix 6.6: Motives Derived from Bartók’s Jest

 416

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