Some Thoughts on Counterpoint

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I love counterpoint, perhaps more than harmony. It’s not just a compositional technique—it’s a way of thinking about music as a structure, where independent voices converge, clash, and harmonise in ways that feel both inevitable and surprising. For me, writing contrapuntally is like solving a puzzle, or doing sudoku, but one where every choice has its own consequences.

Of Independence and Unity

What I find rewarding about counterpoint is its paradox: every voice must stand alone, yet all must work together. Writing contrapuntally is like creating a conversation where each voice speaks while remaining sensitive to the others. It’s this tension between independence and unity that makes counterpoint endlessly compelling. I used to think counterpoint was limiting, with its rules about parallels and doubling. But the more I studied, the more I realised it’s the opposite.

Johann Joseph Fux’s Gradus ad Parnassum was my starting point: dry, perhaps, but foundational—even though the way he structured his text, as a dialogue between a master and a student, made it a little less tedious somehow. Working through those species counterpoint exercises was humbling. Fux taught me the discipline, but also how much beauty lies in simplicity: a single melodic line and the potential it holds when another voice is added. It’s like planting seeds. You start with a cantus firmus—a plain, unadorned melody. Each additional voice becomes a chance to create something greater, an ecosystem where every part contributes to the whole. This process has always felt like discovery to me, uncovering connections I didn’t know were there.

The great contrapuntal composers feel like old friends. Bach is, of course, the titan. His fugues from The Well-Tempered Clavier are inexhaustible. Every time I revisit them, I notice something new—a fleeting dissonance that resolves in the most poignant way, or a rhythmic gesture that seems to turn the entire piece on its head. Oh and of course his Art of Fugue, a culmination of his experimentation with a single theme. But it’s not just Bach. Palestrina’s choral works taught me the power of restraint, of letting lines breathe (do you know that Fux’s text was essentially based on Palestrina’s practice?). Haydn’s string quartets also showed me how counterpoint can be playful, even cheeky. And then there’s Beethoven, whose late string quartets push contrapuntal writing into realms of raw, almost painful expressivity.

Counterpoint For Me

When I compose, counterpoint is always there—sometimes prominently, as in a string quartet, and sometimes subtly, as in the way lines interact within electronic textures. It might be a quiet tension, a melody leaning into or away from another, or the lingering suspense of a suspension, delaying resolution just long enough to heighten its impact. These moments capture what counterpoint means to me: a microcosm of delay, conflict, tension, and release. So, counterpoint isn’t a relic of the past. Its spirit thrives in the works of living composers and appears in unexpected places—film scores, jazz improvisations, even pop arrangements. Wherever voices weave together, counterpoint breathes anew, a language that adapts to its time while preserving its essence.

But writing counterpoint is never easy—it demands patience and a willingness to wrestle with ideas. At times, it can also be difficult to tame as it demands to go its own way and grows out of human control. And yet the reward is profound. There’s nothing like the moment when independent voices align, creating something greater than the sum of their parts. Even when it does become a wild beast, guiding it and shaping its course can also be a satisfying cooperation (think Beethoven’s Grosse Fugue…). For me, counterpoint is more than a technique. It’s a way of thinking, listening, and composing—an attitude that turns music into a living thing. Yes, there may be rules, but it doesn’t mean one must follow them either—breaking them is equally an art in itself (there something called “atonal countpoint” too, in case you’re wondering…)

Conclusion

If you’re curious to explore counterpoint, whether as a beginner or a more experienced musician, I’d be delighted to accompany you on this rewarding journey. Feel free to just get in touch at any time for any counterpoint lessons.

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