Kyle Gann, a renowned composer, musicologist, and author, has spent decades redefining the boundaries of contemporary music through his innovative approach to microtonality, minimalist aesthetics, and the integration of technology into composition. In this exclusive Q&A, Gann delves into the creative process behind his groundbreaking work Hyperchromatica, the influence of geography on his compositions, and his thoughts on the evolving role of artificial intelligence in music. With a career rooted in pushing musical limits while maintaining a deeply personal connection to his craft, Gann offers compelling insights into the intersection of tradition and innovation, making this conversation a must-read for music enthusiasts and aspiring composers alike.
Let’s start with a really basic question. For a lot of people like me, I listen to music every day, hours a day, but I still don’t know the underpinnings of it. Can you explain the relationship? The more I read about it, the more it seems that mathematics and music are the two fields most naturally paired from the science and art disciplines. Could you explain that relationship for our readers?
The existence of harmony is based on mathematics because every pitch has a frequency. For example, what we call A440 vibrates at 440 cycles per second, and Middle C vibrates at about 261 cycles per second. It’s because of the mathematical relationships between those vibrations that we have harmony and melody. The study of harmony and music as part of mathematics goes back at least 3,000 years. In the Renaissance, music was considered a major part of mathematics. Galileo, Newton, and Descartes were all involved because music provided a way to approach mathematics and figure out certain phenomena.
The simpler the numerical relationship between the vibrations of two pitches, the easier it is to understand their relationship and get them in tune. For instance, if I have an A at 440 and an E at 660, that’s a 3-to-2 relationship. It’s a very easy interval to comprehend and tune. What we call pleasant harmonies in music really means comprehensible harmonies—harmonies that feel unified and interconnected, not random. Conversely, if I have a pitch at, say, 180 cycles per second and another at 273 cycles per second, the relationship will sound a bit random. It will be harder to recall or sing, so it’s less accessible.
Leibniz once said that music is “the soul counting without being aware that it’s counting.” We’re not always aware of why music works the way it does, but it’s deeply tied to these mathematical principles—and this has been understood for millennia.
Listening to your music, I found it more tonal than I expected it to be, which surprised me. When you compose, do you ever start with a purely mathematical idea and then translate it into sound? Or how does your composition process typically begin?
I’m always looking for something that shouldn’t work and then trying to make it work. Sometimes, the ideas are very mathematical. For example, when working on Hyperchromatica, I realized that the 49th harmonic, which is halfway between the 48th and 50th harmonics, creates an equal step in the middle of a perfect fifth. That concept really excited me—it sounds abstract, but it has practical implications. For instance, between 440 and 660 is a perfect fifth because of the 3-to-2 relationship. By placing the 49th harmonic in the middle, it divides the interval nearly equally. That inspired the piece Busted Grooves.
As for the tonality you noticed, using just intonation—pure intervals—naturally leads toward tonality. Some microtonalists want their music to sound weird or complex. My approach, like my teacher Ben Johnston’s, is that if you tune music properly, it becomes more subtle and comprehensible.
While reading about you and your work, I noticed a focus on microtonality. Could you explain what exactly microtonality is for readers who aren’t musicologists?
Sure. From the 15th to 18th centuries, there were debates about how music should be tuned. By 1724, the piano had been invented, and by the 1780s, it became dominant. The piano is difficult to tune, so it was easier to settle on 12 equal tones per octave, which became standard. In the 19th century, people forgot that other tuning systems existed.
Technically, microtonality refers to anything that uses pitches outside the 12 equal tones on a piano. It often implies smaller intervals than a half step—the smallest interval on a piano. Essentially, if you’re using more than 12 pitches to the octave, it’s microtonal. I love small pitch steps because they develop your ear in unique ways.
When you composed Hyperchromatica, how did you determine that it would be for three pianos?
It’s a long story. I was on a plane when I had the idea. I planned to take a harmonic series—multiples of a fundamental frequency, like 100, 200, 300, etc.—up to the 15th harmonic. Then I’d build another harmonic series on each of those notes. I calculated that I’d only need 33 unique pitches because some would overlap.
I tuned three pianos to accommodate all 33 pitches. Sometimes you have to make notes sharper or flatter, but I managed to do it by only flattening notes, which was serendipitous.
Were there specific principles you used to navigate the dense harmonic structures in Hyperchromatica?
Yes, I used simple chords like triads and sevenths, which are familiar to listeners. I had a chart showing which chords each of the 33 pitches could form. By moving between very close pitches and harmonizing them, the whole chord changes subtly. It’s like constructing a sentence with simple words in an unconventional way.
With something as complex as Hyperchromatica, I imagine that there are technical challenges in getting performers or even machines to execute the work. Did you run into any specific hurdles while working on this piece?
Absolutely. In fact, Hyperchromatica is entirely computer-played—it’s not feasible for human pianists to perform it live. I programmed the piece in MIDI because I needed precise control over timing and pitch. It would take six pianists to even attempt performing it live on three physical pianos. So, the technical challenge was translating my ideas into MIDI software. I had to teach myself new tools and workflows to make the piece playable digitally.
One major hurdle was ensuring the music still sounded human. I didn’t want it to feel robotic, so I carefully adjusted dynamics, timing, and phrasing to mimic human expressiveness. It’s a balance between leveraging the precision of the computer and maintaining an organic feel.
That brings up an interesting point about human versus machine. With the rise of AI and generative music tools, what are your thoughts on their impact on composition and creativity? Do you see them as tools, threats, or something else?
It’s a fascinating and somewhat fraught question. On the one hand, AI tools can be useful for generating ideas or exploring possibilities that a human composer might not immediately consider. They can help break out of creative ruts. On the other hand, there’s the risk that we start outsourcing too much of the creative process to machines, losing the personal and emotional connection that makes art meaningful.
For me, composition is deeply personal. It’s about making choices—deciding what resonates and what doesn’t. AI might suggest combinations or patterns, but it can’t replicate the intuition, intention, or vulnerability of a human artist. So, while I think AI has its place, I wouldn’t want it to supplant the core of what makes music human.
Speaking of human aspects, your work often reflects a strong sense of place, especially in pieces like The Planets or Hudson Valley. How does geography influence your music?
Geography plays a huge role in my work. I grew up in Texas, lived in Chicago, and eventually settled in the Hudson Valley. Each place has shaped how I think about sound, space, and even rhythm. For instance, the expansive landscapes of Texas influenced my sense of openness in music. You can hear it in how I use silence or long stretches of sustained tones.
In the Hudson Valley, I’ve been inspired by the natural environment—the rivers, mountains, and changing seasons. I try to reflect the textures and rhythms of these landscapes in my compositions. It’s not always literal, but there’s a dialogue between my surroundings and the music I create.
Let’s talk about storytelling in music. A lot of your compositions seem to tell a story, even without lyrics or a clear narrative. How do you approach that? Do you start with a story in mind, or does the music shape the story as you compose?
It varies from piece to piece. Sometimes, I start with a very specific story or concept in mind. For example, in The Planets, each movement corresponds to a celestial body, and I tried to capture its character and mythology in the music. Other times, the story emerges organically. I might start with a particular sound or motif, and as I develop it, a narrative or emotional arc begins to take shape.
What’s important to me is that the music feels cohesive and evocative. I want listeners to create their own stories as they engage with the piece. Music is inherently abstract, which gives it a unique power to connect with people in deeply personal ways.
That’s beautifully said. One last question: What advice would you give to young composers who are trying to find their voice in a world where so much music is already out there?
My biggest advice is to focus on what excites you—what makes you feel alive when you hear it. Don’t worry about trends or what’s popular; those things change constantly. Instead, dig deep into your own interests and obsessions. Maybe it’s a particular tuning system, a rhythm, or even a visual idea that sparks your creativity. Follow that.
Also, don’t be afraid to fail. A lot of my growth as a composer came from trying things that didn’t work and then figuring out why. It’s a process of experimentation, reflection, and refinement. And finally, remember that your voice will develop over time. It’s not something you find overnight; it’s something you build through years of work, curiosity, and persistence.
WORDS: Marc Landas.