“I wanna learn music composition—do you have any advice?” “Sure: start with music theory and the rest gets much simpler. It’s even better if you can play one or two instruments I guess.”
If you’re learning music composition, you’ve definitely heard something like this—I have, too. And if you search online right now for music composition tutorials or guides, 90% of them will tell you to study music theory before everything.
But I’d argue real music composition isn’t about any of that; it doesn’t rely on fixed tracks to decide how long any element should stay in a bar. It depends on one thing: QUALIA (Feeling of sth). After a day at school, I grab a ride home and head straight to my room. I boot up my computer; in the quiet room, the only sound is the desktop fan. Sometimes I don’t even want to wear headphones, because they make my ears feel really stuffy. I load up a piano plugin, click in a few notes, and play them once. It sounds awful, so I tweak it—better, this time; I’ll keep it for now. And just like that, I sink into the world of music composition.
I’ve always created in a style I love—a style that’s almost impossible to categorize (basically something I invented for myself). My mind is full of all kinds of ideas. Today I might want to write something lyrical; tomorrow it might be something aggressive—I never really know. I’ve even tried imitating a composer to a ridiculous degree, playing their track to 0.75× speed and dissecting every sound that appears. But with that mindset, through attempt after attempt, I’ve found a relatively stable way of working that lets me turn out music that sounds good. Others might inherit their teachers’ “templates”; I’m self-taught, and apart from relying on the melodies I carry in my head, I have no “recipe” to inherit.
I like recording myself and pitching it into a female vocal. If I think of an interesting melody, I open the “Voice Memos” on my phone, sing it, and record it; if my mix turns to mush, I just delete that entire section and start over. Things like this have cost me plenty—before I know it, I’ll burn an entire afternoon obsessing over a single groove, skipping dinner. I know theory is important, but I’m probably more of a hands-on type.
Even though I’ll grind away at certain spots, I appreciate the beauty of creating naturally. Take Sakuzyo, a composer I admire greatly. Unlike the templated approach of many others, each of his works offers a completely different feeling. When you listen to his songs, you don’t think, “Sakuzyo even does this style?” but rather, “Is this even by Sakuzyo?” That feeling is special. Isn’t life like that—creation without a “recipe”?
Funny. Everything I’ve written so far contradicts itself, and yet the more I arrange, the more I realize arranging might also be about going with the flow. To craft a perfect passage, I don’t always need to assign parts to every instrument, nor do I need to split the song into sections and write them one by one.
The style I’ve written the most is called “Artcore,” a DnB offshoot that emerged in Japan in the 21st century. If you know music, you’ll know DnB drum parts are highly formulaic—but I never do it that way. Like Sakuzyo, I’ll chop breaks into jagged pieces to create an alternative beauty. I’ll bring in basses that don’t belong to the style at all, or just fuse it with other genres. None of this shows up in tutorials, and maybe those composers simply don’t want to share their thought process. You have to figure it out yourself.
I like to improvise. That doesn’t conflict with my urge to pursue perfection; in fact, it’s one of the most important elements of my life—whether in arranging, illustration, or anything else—otherwise I’d lose too much. It takes time to face and accept “not knowing and not being perfect,” but I can promise you this: one day, I’ll write the perfect piece.