“I Think About It Like Shapes” - How to Let Go Like Elliot Smith

Throughout the history of musical education, there has been a relentless insistence on imposing theoretical systems on artists. The dogma of Western art music has shaped the individual so profoundly that we now associate musical creation with music theory itself. As a composer, I’m often asked, “What’s your process?” or “What music theory do you use when creating?” These questions always leave me sheepish—useless, even—because, in truth, my theoretical praxis is relatively limited.

When I speak to friends who want to make music, even electronically, there’s often an immediate fear, followed by distress, at not understanding “music theory.” To be fair, my classical training has refined my geographical knowledge of the keyboard, which gives me creative fluidity. But my approach to composition is anything but theoretically disciplined.

My good friend James, who is naturally musically inclined, recently bought a small MIDI keyboard. “I don’t like it when it sounds unintentionally dissonant,” he told me—a phrase now seared into my mind because it perfectly encapsulates the unsatisfying feeling of random music. Then, almost deflated, he added, “I don’t know music theory.” After showing him literally one triad and launching into an unhelpful rant about the atmospheric relationships between chords (which probably tells you what kind of musician I am), he started messing around with some pads on Logic and stumbled upon some incredible textures. He didn’t need an in-depth theoretical explanation—just a minimal framework. The absence of strict theory wasn’t limiting; in fact, it was liberating.

Without sounding daft, I’ve always thought of my compositional method in terms of shapes—both the physical geography of my instrument and the geography of my imagination. One of my musical heroes, Elliott Smith, put this into words in a rare songwriting lesson I unearthed on YouTube: “I kind of imagine things during the day—I don’t have a methodical approach.” Then he said the unthinkable: “I think about it like shapes.”

Watching him noodle around on his guitar, effortlessly producing otherworldly sequences, I realised how deeply I related to his approach. At one point, he landed on a lush D chord with an E as the top note—his fingers twisted into an uncomfortable, crab-like shape, reminiscent of something out of Wes Montgomery’s While We’re Young. Then, almost dismissively, he muttered, “I think this is like a D7 suspended, but I don’t know.” I laughed—his (very charming) neglect of musical terminology was striking. I’m not saying the language of music theory is useless; it’s incredibly helpful on practical levels. But it’s crucial to differentiate between music and its terminology. Music and theory work in tandem, but they are not synonymous. Music is an uncontrollable force—it cannot be taxonomised to death, though that’s been the tradition for centuries.

Take that D chord Elliott played. In theoretical terms, it’s just a sum of its parts. But in his world, it was a phrase in his own musical language—something uniquely his. It’s not widely known that Smith was naturally gifted at the piano. In another obscure YouTube video, with only about 300k views, he plays Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C# Minor. Though debatable, I’d wager he learned it entirely by ear. When he lets go of rigid systems—he even claims he doesn’t like looking at the fretboard—he accesses an entire musical world that is both steeped in tradition and entirely his own.

This “Smith technique”—the deliberate letting go—allows a musician to be a vessel, not a machine. The process of creating is infinitely more valuable than blindly subscribing to a wider system. There are so many misconceptions about what a musician should do—or even look like. What comes to mind is the cliché of the record-hoarding anorak, armed with encyclopedic theoretical knowledge. But Bowie didn’t even own a record collection. He saw music as a force—something he was given to express and create. While I personally love the sensory feeling of holding vinyl, I relate to his disinterest in this culture. It’s not mandatory.

There is so much pressure to engage with music through the outside—to connect to history, to influences, to academia. And yes, inspiration often comes from listening to others, and I deeply admire extensive musical knowledge in people (needless to say, “theft” is also paramount in composition). But the most important part of composing is the connection with oneself—discovering one’s own musical identity.

Most people assume my playing is highly intentional—that my neo-classical compositions must be built on rigid theoretical foundations. But the thought of writing music through strict counterpoint…makes me laugh. It’s ironic, really. Even within a style so deeply tied to classical theory, one can still turn inward, relying on personal systems, processes, and experiences.

Music is kept away from most people. It’s guarded by the gates of extensive education, by notation that looks like an unintelligible plate of worms, by economic privilege. And yet, despite my classical training, I almost never turn to theory in moments of creation