The tonal system was not abandoned because composers got bored of it. It was abandoned, in a handful of works written between roughly 1908 and 1923, because the chromatic language that had been built on top of it could no longer be explained by it. What followed was not one replacement but a series of answers to a specific question: if there is no hierarchy of pitches, what tells a listener that a passage is going somewhere?
\nBy the end of the nineteenth century, Wagner’s harmony was using chords for their colour and their tendency rather than their function, and the pieces still resolved. That is the point. Tristan und Isolde (1859) delays resolution past what any earlier theory could justify, but the delay is only meaningful because a resolution is expected. The tonal hierarchy was not destroyed; it was made to carry more weight than it could hold.
\nSchoenberg’s move around 1908 was to stop pretending. In the Three Piano Pieces op. 11 (1909) and Erwartung op. 17 (1909) the language is called free atonality: no key signature, no tonal centre asserted for long enough to hear, chords chosen for interval content rather than function. It solved the immediate problem of expressing what the late Romantic idiom could no longer reach, and it created a new one. Without a scale, every interval is the same distance from every other interval. Nothing is more dissonant than anything else, so nothing can be more urgent than anything else, so a piece has no way to build an expectation it then denies.
\nThe twelve-tone method, worked out by Schoenberg in the early 1920s and used completely in the Suite for Piano op. 25 (composed 1921 to 1923), answers that question with an ordering rather than a hierarchy. A fixed sequence of the twelve pitch classes governs the work; each of the twelve sounds once before any is repeated; the sequence appears in four forms (prime, inversion, retrograde, and retrograde inversion) and at all twelve transpositions, giving 48 usable forms. The row supplies both the material and the relationship between materials, because the intervals of the row are the same intervals in every form.
\nTake a row built for demonstration:
\nAnd the same row in retrograde:
\nThe two are the same information reversed, and they do not sound like the same music. That gap is the practical heart of the method. A row is a lexicon, not a theme: the composer still decides which forms appear in which register, in which rhythm, and against which other forms, and those decisions are what a listener actually hears. It is why Webern’s Variations op. 27 (1936) and Berg’s Violin Concerto (1935), both twelve-tone works, sound nothing alike. Berg’s concerto quotes a Bach chorale and lets tonal triads sound inside a serial frame; Webern’s variations reduce the surface to a few intervals and a great deal of silence.
\nThe method spread from pitch into everything else in the early 1950s, when Boulez’s Structures Ia (1952) and Stockhausen’s Kreuzspiel (1951) applied serial ordering to durations, dynamics, and articulation. Total serialism has a reputation for sounding inhuman, which is a fair description of some of it, but the aim was ordinary: to keep all twelve values of each parameter in circulation, the same way the pitch row does.
\n| The problem chromaticism left | The method proposed | Representative works |
|---|---|---|
| No hierarchy to create direction | serial ordering of the twelve pitch classes | Schoenberg, Suite for Piano op. 25 (1921–23); Webern, Variations op. 27 (1936) |
| Pitch hierarchy had become an automatic habit | rhythm and register as primary structure | Stravinsky, The Rite of Spring (1913) |
| A single scale could not carry the material | folk-derived modes and irregular metre | Bartók, Music for Strings, Percussion and Celesta (1936) |
| Chord identity had become irrelevant | mass, density, and register as the material | Varèse, Ionisation (1931) |
| The score could not survive as a fixed object | stochastic process, chance, and tape | Xenakis, Metastaseis (1954); Cage, 4'33\" (1952) |
| Harmony had become a set of conventions disconnected from sound | spectra as the source of harmony | Grisey, Partiels (1975) |
Stravinsky’s answer was to stop asking pitch to do the structural work. In The Rite of Spring (1913) the primary events are accents, changing metres, and register blocks; harmony is often static or repeated while the rhythm moves, which inverts the practice of the previous two centuries. His neoclassicism from Pulcinella (1920) onward took tonal material seriously again, but used it the way a collage uses photographs: quotation, reframing, and irony rather than development. He began using twelve-tone procedures himself in the 1950s, and the move is less surprising than it looks once you notice that both are systems for organising fixed material.
\nBartók derived his scales from the folk music he collected and analysed, which gave him modes, pentatonic fragments, and asymmetrical rhythms outside the common-practice vocabulary. He also built harmony around symmetry: in much of his music, a pitch and its tritone or a chord and its inversion can substitute for one another, which turns a tonal axis into a geometric one.
\nAn augmented triad, the simplest symmetrical division of the octave at four-semitone intervals. Around it, transposition and inversion are the same operation, which is exactly the property Bartók’s harmonic language exploits and the reason his chords can stand in for one another without a tonal function to explain it.
\nIves took the opposite route: instead of a new system, layered old ones. In works such as Three Places in New England (written 1903 to 1914) two tonal groups can play in different keys and different tempos at once, and the interest lies in the collision rather than in any resolution of it.
\nVarèse’s premise was that composition concerns masses and densities rather than themes and development. Hyperprism (1923), Intégrales (1925), and Ionisation (1931), the last for percussion ensemble and usually described as the first concert work for percussion alone, are built from blocks of sound that expand, collide, and recede. There is no harmony in the tonal sense because there is nothing to be consonant with.
\nCage’s contribution was to hand the decisions to procedures that did not represent his taste: chance operations, the prepared piano (Sonatas and Interludes, written 1946 to 1948), and the silent 4'33\" (1952), in which the material is whatever the room produces. Xenakis built his masses with mathematics, treating large numbers of individual lines as a single statistical object; Metastaseis (1954) sets sixty-one musicians in glissandi that read as shifting densities, and his later work uses sieves and stochastic distributions to choose pitches.
\nThe spectralists of the 1970s went back to acoustics. Rather than inventing a scale, they analysed the sound of an instrument and derived harmony from its partials, so that consonant relationships are those the ear already finds in a resonant body. Grisey’s Partiels (1975) takes the spectrum of a low trombone note and orchestrates its components; Murail works the same territory with different material. Inharmonic spectra and difference tones give the music a natural roughness-to-smoothness scale that serialism had deliberately refused.
\nThe honest summary is that the twentieth century did not replace tonality. It produced a plural repertoire, and the tonal hierarchy kept its position in film music, jazz, popular music, and the work of composers such as Shostakovich, Britten, and Ravel, who were writing at the same time as the serialists and were no less serious about it.
\nWhat the new methods gained was control over parameters tonality had always taken for granted, and whole vocabularies of timbre that the earlier system had no use for. What they lost was a shared frame of expectation that listeners had already learned, which is why the difficulty of twentieth-century repertoire is not a matter of dissonance but of reference: dissonance is easy to hear, and an interval with no home is harder to hold in memory.
\nA cadence in C. Everything about it is predictable, including the fact that you heard where it was going before it arrived. The century after 1908 is largely a record of composers deciding what they were willing to give up in order to stop being predictable, and each of the methods above names a different thing that was given up.
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