I first met Carl as a student in his analysis course at Mannes in the fall of 1996. I subsequently took his graduate analysis course the next year, and became (nominally) his colleague at Mannes the year after. I’m sure that many of my impressions will be repeated by others here—his soft-spoken manner, his good sense of humor, and the deep musicality of both his analyses and his performances.

But there’s one specific time in class that’s etched in my memory. Our class had just analyzed the Mendelssohn Song without Words Op. 19, no. 1, in E major, and Carl asked if anyone would be willing to go to the piano and play the piece. A classmate—who I’ll never forgive!—volunteered me, and with Carl saying he thought that was a great idea, I had no choice but to step up and sight-read the piece. 

I’ve always been a strong sight-reader, but my nerves made this performance a complete disaster. My hands and wrists were tight, my shoulders were hunched, I was sweating, and the performance that came out was mechanical and dead as a doornail. I only got through about sixteen bars when Carl approached the piano and asked me to stop. He put his hand on my shoulder and said something like “You’re really nervous. Don’t be. Just breathe and play.” Something about the kindness in his voice made me immediately and completely at ease. I somehow was no longer in a room full of judgmental collegiate music students; instead, it was just me, Carl, and Felix, enjoying the beautiful music before us. His simple gesture and his calm, reassuring manner allowed me to play without fear or hesitation, and we all agreed that the second time through (in which I played the whole piece!) was much improved.

This is what I choose to remember about Carl. That brief moment where he showed kindness to a scared young musician, and brought out the best playing he could. For Carl, it was never about performing, showing off, or impressing anyone—though he could certainly do that—it was about the music. Always the music. I hope we will all continue to honor him by treating our own students with the same kindness, and by always putting the music first.

My first meeting with Carl took place in the Fall of 1977. I was a graduate student enrolled in his Queens College proseminar entitled “Style Criticism.” It was in fact an analysis seminar. Carl assigned each week a short paper on the piece or movement to be discussed in the following class, making sure in this way that we came to class prepared.

I remember the first class vividly. Carl gave a short introduction about the course, its grading, etc., and then, without taking attendance, went straight to business. “I would like to do a short exercise in analysis by ear,” he said, “where I will play a short piece and we’ll talk about it without looking at the score. I am a bit out of shape and this piece is all over the place,” he added, somewhat defensively, “so we’ll see what happens.”

The piece turned out to be Waltz No. 6 from Brahms’s Op. 39, a tricky piece tonally, rhythmically, and pianistically. But he played it splendidly, as I subsequently learned to expect whenever he sat at the piano. I remember the intense feeling I had as Carl started talking. “Here at last,” I kept thinking to myself, “is someone who can talk about music with the precision it deserves, yet without losing touch with the magic that draws us to music in the first place. I want to learn from this man as much as I possibly can.” At one point I raised my hand to say something (I can’t remember what), and Carl asked for my name. “Ah, so you’re Mr. Agmon,” he said, and smiled.

Carl knew my name from Ernst Oster, whom I met the year before at the Boston New England Conservatory. I was a piano student of Irma Wolpe-Rademacher and Oster was this imposing figure teaching Schenkerian analysis. It was Oster who recommended that I move to New York to study with Carl and even proctored in March 1977 my entrance exam for the Graduate Center. I did not know it at the time, but with a strange twist of fate, my piano teacher in Jerusalem, Benjamin Oren, was once a private theory student of Oster’s. Though Benny never mentioned Schenker or Oster by name, there must have been something to his teaching that, when the time came, made me feel immediately at home with the Schenkerian approach. Oster, whose influence on Carl was profound, suffered a stroke and died, tragically, on June 30th, shortly before I moved to New York.[1]  

Once early in our acquaintance, Carl asked me to join him for lunch at the campus cafeteria. On our way he asked if I had any thoughts on what I might want to do for a dissertation. The question caught me off-guard; so, I blurted the first thing that came to my mind: I want to do something about tonality. I heard the word from Yizhak Sadaï, my harmony teacher in Jerusalem. I didn’t know exactly what “tonality” was, except that it was something big and mysterious. Carl nodded with approval, though I sensed that this was not quite the answer he expected. Years later, when my dissertation originally on enharmonicism in Schubert Lieder took an unexpected turn into the cognition, perception, and mathematics of the diatonic system, Carl was supportive and understanding as ever.

But back to the late ‘70s, early ‘80s. These were exciting times to be a theory major at the Graduate Center, at Carl’s side. His seminars on chromaticism, text and music, sketch studies, rhythm, or just “music analysis,” were always packed, whether by registered students or auditors attracted by his brilliance. Carl was already deeply at work on his rhythm trilogy, the first part of which came out in 1976 and was followed by a second part on durational reduction in 1980; the classic textbook Harmony and Voice Leading written with pianist Edward Aldwell came out in 1978-79; seminal analytical papers on Beethoven, Brahms, and Schubert followed in close succession. Schenker’s Der freie Satz came out in Oster’s translation in 1979. Carl devoted a seminar to the event and wrote a detailed commentary for JMT (1981). To be at his side those years was to witness in real time music theory and analysis at its very best, happen.

Lea, my wife, became Edward Aldwell’s piano student at Mannes in 1980. After returning to Israel in 1983, we convinced the Jerusalem Music Center to invite Ed for master classes and a recital. Ed and Jean Ann visited Israel in March 1989. It was a resounding success. We hoped that Carl would soon follow suit, but Carl’s first visit to Israel was in December 2008 for the opening of the Aldwell Center, of which Murray Perahia serves to this day as Honorary President (see this photo below under Murray Perahia’s contribution). Ed died in May 2006, following a tragic accident. Carl’s words in his memory, in the opening ceremony, were deeply moving. So, too, was the talk he gave on Beethoven’s La Malinconia (from Op. 18, No. 6), probably his way of expressing his deep grief at the loss of his close friend and collaborator. Happily, for music lovers in Israel, Carl visited the country again in January 2010, this time for the International Chopin Symposium and Festival, organized by the Aldwell Center. Carl gave a wonderful talk on Chopin’s Mazurka, Op. 59, No. 2, as a possible tribute to Mendelssohn. He gave another talk at the Jerusalem Music Center on a topic curiously outside his comfort zone: the first movement of Mahler’s Das Lied von der Erde.

We saw Carl again in March 2013, visiting the States for the Fifth International Schenker Symposium. Although he was still teaching, his health was visibly on the decline. We saw him for the last time in the Fall of 2017. He had difficulty walking and could hardly leave the apartment. It was a heart-wrenching visit. Personal circumstances have prevented us from travelling to the States since.

I will always remember Carl’s warmth, generosity, and kindness; his humor and wit; his vast, brilliant intellect; and his personal and intellectual integrity.

——————————

[1] I have a letter from Oster from April, where he writes: “Besides, I have not been feeling too well during the past week, and I am a bit woozy.” My “Schenkerian lineage,” of which I am very proud, has still another branch. American pianist Henrietta Michaelson retired from Juilliard and emigrated to Israel in 1949, where she died of a stroke ten years later. She was a significant figure in the Jerusalem music scene at the time. Among her piano students was Dalia Cohen, legendary musicologist, to whom I was entrusted at age four-and-a-half as my first piano teacher. It turns out that Michaelson took lessons with Schenker in the early ‘20s.

[Note: This text is reprinted, with permission, from a Festschrift dedicated to Carl Schachter entitled Structure and Meaning in Tonal Music, edited by L. Poundie Burstein and David Gagné, Pendragon Press, 2006. Edward Aldwell passed away in 2006.]

As was the case with most of us, Carl Schachter’s early studies were in the field of performance. In Chicago, where he grew up, he studied piano and violin. In the summer of 1948, not yet graduated from high school, he came to New York to attend the master classes of the brilliant pianist and musician Carl Friedberg; in the fall of the same year he began his studies with the famous (or perhaps infamous) pedagogue Isabel Vengerova. A horrifying but entertaining account of his studies with her can be found in Carl’s own contribution to Beloved Tyranna, a collection of reminiscences by some of her former students. If Vengerova’s teaching was in many ways destructive, it did have one positive side for Schachter; it led to his connection with Mannes and thereby to Schenker. During his time at Mannes he also studied conducting with Carl Bamberger, and some time after freeing himself from Vengerova he took additional piano lessons with Israel Citkowitz.

Although Carl’s professional career was in theory and Schenkerian analysis, his interest and involvement in performance never left him. When I studied with him in the late 60’s, he went to all of Arthur Rubinstein’s concerts along with those of other famous artists and, of course, went to many of the student recitals at Mannes. And not just Mannes: when I played the Goldberg Variations at Juilliard for the first time, he came; from his comments afterward I began to get some indication of what he had to offer as a teacher and critic of performance. The range of what he heard and thought was truly remarkable. Not only were there observations that grew out of his exceptional analytical skills, but also insights into piano technique (both in the mechanical sense and in relation to interpretation), sound (subtle, imaginative), tempo, and rhythm. After that, playing for him became an important part of my life.

Most of the time Schachter’s work in other areas kept him away from doing any performing himself. For many years there were his duties as Dean of Mannes, and there was the writing: Counterpoint in Composition with Salzer, the rhythm articles for The Music Forum, and later Harmony and Voice Leading. There were some breaks, however. In the early-mid 70’s he returned to conducting, and gave two superb concerts with chamber orchestra devoted to Haydn and Mozart. I remember Felix Salzer expressing

concern that conducting would take Schachter away from his analytical and theoretical work, but there were those of us who would have been very happy had there been more of these wonderful events. In any case the pressures of writing and teaching made it necessary for him to abandon his conducting. It may have been a kind of compensation for not conducting that he later took on the organization of the series of annual benefit concerts for Amnesty International, concerts that continue to this day.

But perhaps the most important expression of Schachter’s background in performance is his playing in class, his elegant pianism beautifully illustrating his insights into the music. His skill at the piano is an important part of his more public presentations as well. Eloquent demonstrations of the Scherzo from the Schubert B-flat Sonata, several Mendelssohn Songs Without Words, Chopin’s Fantasy and F-sharp major Impromptu come to mind, along with expert renderings from orchestral and vocal literature. Whenever I heard him, I was always struck by the naturalness of his playing, both physically and musically as well as by the lack of pretension. Nonetheless, in the late 60’s and early 70’s a certain conscious virtuosity showed itself in his stunning renditions of Mozart’s K. 545 and the development section of Beethoven Op. 14 no. 1, both of which he performed standing with his back to the piano!

Carl’s unusual combination of abilities in the fields of performance, Schenkerian analysis, and pedagogy led naturally to his creating a class in analysis for performers. This class has gone on for many years at Mannes and is currently a one-year course for students in the Master’s Degree program. It was given throughout Schachter’s professorship at Queens College and is now a one-semester required course in the doctoral program at Juilliard. Not surprisingly many of the students in these classes have sought coaching from him, coachings that have covered quite a range: piano,

strings, voice, and all manner of ensembles, including guitar and brass.

The intensity and breadth of Schachter’s involvement in performance calls to mind that of Heinrich Schenker. In his early days Schenker performed; throughout his lifetime he taught piano and his diaries are filled with comments on performances he had heard. His treatise The Art of Performance (Oxford: Oxford Univ. Press, 2000) has recently been published. The work is incomplete, almost certainly because Schenker felt his projects in analysis had to be given priority. Once Carl’s book on Analysis for Performers is finished, we will have a book which could not only bring about a big change in the way performers approach their work, but also provide a valuable continuation of what Schenker had to leave undone. [Note: This final paragraph refers to a book that Carl Schachter planned but never completed, provisionally entitled Sound and Time: Analysis for the Performer of Tonal Music, based on a course that he taught for many years at both Mannes and Juilliard.]

There’s an old Hasidic tale about a young Torah student who wanted to know which of his teachers was the greatest. One day he asked his father, “Abba, who is the greatest teacher in our yeshiva? There are so many, how can I tell?” The father looked down and characteristically replied, “Who do you think?” The inquisitive student paused and said, “It must be Rabbi Nachman. He has the biggest beard.” His father said nothing.

Somewhat uneasy, the student ventured, “Well then it’s definitely Rabbi Gitberg. He’s always deep in thought and says so little.” His father again remained silent. Growing frustrated, the young boy blurted, “Ok, then it must surely be Rabbi Mendel, because he is always explaining.” Once again, the Abba was unmoved. After a few minutes of thoughtful silence, the father asked, “And why don’t you mention Rabbi Eliezer?” Surprised, the young student replied, “Rabbi Eliezer? He always walks stooped over with his head bent down. How could he be my greatest teacher?” His wise father paused a moment and in a quiet voice said, “It’s because by walking stooped over with a bent head, he leaves room for the feet of God.”

We are blessed to have had such a teacher among us—not of Torah, but of music. Carl taught us how to hear it, and how to love it. We learned from what he did, and from how he did it. He was both our mentor and our model. Carl was not religious, but he revered the great spirit of music. Despite his wisdom, or perhaps because of it, he always left room for the feet of God.

* * *

One day early in my studies with Carl we took a bus up Broadway together. I was nervous to be alone with him. I was sure he would reveal some deep secret about music that he was saving just for me. Instead, like Carl, he put me at ease by telling a few jokes and asking about bargains at the Filene’s Basement we passed along the way.

As my studies progressed, I quickly realized I would never have the musical knowledge or natural skill Carl possessed. I became disheartened and told my advisor I ought to quit the program. What was the point? “Wayne,” he assured me in almost rabbinical fashion, “don’t you realize that everyone feels this way around Carl?”

Some time after that, I found myself together with Carl in some far-away airport returning from a conference on the same flight back to New York. Something went wrong with his reservation and the local ticket agent was giving him a rough time. Carl became frustrated and anxious and remained silent. Being a barrister, I approached the counter like a judge’s bench to assist and defend him. I glared at the agent and said in an assertive lawyerly tone, “Excuse me madam, but do you have the slightest idea who you’re talking to?” “Yeah,” she responded. “Seat 12C.”

One day I invited Carl to lunch at the Stanhope Cafe, a posh eatery across from the Metropolitan Museum on Fifth Avenue. I had just completed his class on Mozart’s piano concertos and wanted to show my appreciation. We talked about Mozart and Schenker. At some point Carl pondered whether atonal music might be some sort of musical heresy doomed to failure, because it suppressed our natural tonal instinct. He compared it to communism’s futile denial of a belief in God, which would inevitably resurface. I still don’t know whether his idea was reactionary or radical, but I felt honored he shared it with me at the time.

After saying goodbye I strolled across the street to the museum. I wormed my way to Cezanne’s card players, my favorite of all. I imagined the three men sitting at the table were Mozart, Schenker, and Carl. Then I noticed the fourth person in Cezanne’s painting—a solitary standing figure alone in the corner, arms folded, puffing his pipe, wearing a red scarf. I wondered if it might be the artist himself, observing his subjects. I can recall how much I longed to be him, that lone soul off to the side, puffing a pipe in a red scarf, with Mozart and Schenker—and Carl.

The first time I met Dr. Schachter: I was sitting on a sofa on the fifth floor at Juilliard going over my notes shortly before the defense of my doctoral “document” (aka dissertation). I'd never met Carl before but I knew who he was. He asked what I was studying so intently and when I told him my defense was in about 20 minutes, he asked me about my topic and followed up with several probing questions. I knew he was giving me a chance to practice how I would respond to panelists' questions in the defense. It was an incredibly kind gesture to a student he had never met before. I came to know Carl better later when I worked as assistant dean at Mannes and had the opportunity to speak with him mostly about Mozart and Beethoven and Schubert when he would stop by my office sometimes between his classes. I never mentioned to him how we had first met and I doubt he recalled the conversation with the nervous student sitting on the sofa. But I always remember it when I think of him. Rest in peace, Carl. Your memory will always be a blessing.

[Note: This text was lightly adapted (with permission) from a series of social media posts.]

Carl Schachter passed away last week. Since seeing the news, I’ve been rereading my notes from three years of classes with him at Mannes.

The first thing I am struck by is his knowledge of performance practice. It was broad, detailed, and profound; it came from lifelong study of treatises, autographs, old recordings, and secondary sources. Descriptions of how Brahms played his own music (rubato at every hairpin) by Clara Schumann’s student Fanny Davies, Czerny’s definition of mezzoforte in his op 500 (if forte is like giving a speech and pianissimo is a whisper, then mf is how one would have a conversation with a friend), the spacing of fp markings in Mozart autographs (close for a sudden drop to piano, farther apart to imply a diminuendo), Albert Spalding’s description in his memoirs of Ysaÿe’s rubato in the C minor Beethoven Sonata (the first note held long and the sixteenths after a little hurried), and countless recordings (Strauss conducting the Tristan Prelude, Ysaÿe playing Vieuxtemps’s Rondino, Mengelberg’s Mahler) as well as the relationships that could bring us closer to composers through early recordings (Elisabeth Schumann and Richard Strauss, Richard Strauss the conductor and Hans von Bülow as a path to Wagner).

The second thing that comes back to me is his command of the repertoire; the amount of music he could play at the piano from memory was enormous. (Not just piano music, of course: operas, Lieder, symphonies, chamber music, cantatas, chorales.) I remember a lesson with him once in January 2016 on Beethoven’s Pastorale symphony where he didn’t know if it was winter or summer but was able to play through the first movement from memory, commenting on the musical structure as he went.

The third is his profundity. His understanding of music, his analogies to visual arts (“There is an underlying symmetry, like a statue of a symmetrical person in an asymmetrical pose, in spite of one phrase being 8 mm. and the other 10 mm.”) and language (“Is ‘veni, vidi, vici’ one sentence or three? It is both. Ambiguity is intrinsic to phrase structure”), his analytical, categorizing mind (“There are two basic kinds of rubato—holding long notes longer, and giving short notes more time…there are two kinds of upbeats: those that fit into metrical regularity, and those that seem independent of it”). The fourth was his love for music, which radiates from every page of my notes.

I met Dr. Schachter when I was twenty. He had taught many of my teachers, and generations of adult musicians I looked up to had learned harmony and counterpoint from his textbooks.

He was magnificently intelligent. He was kind and generous, deeply interested in his students as musicians and as people. He was patient, and a great listener; he had a remarkable ability both to see connections and to make distinctions, and to work in great detail without ever losing connection to a bigger picture. In his hands, Schenkerian analysis was a creative force that unfolded seemingly endless layers of musical reality, revealing compositions to be much more full of music, much more full of life, than I had imagined.

I feel so lucky to have known and learned from him. Memories of the hours I spent sitting in his classes at Goldmark Hall in the old 85th Street Mannes building or his Upper East Side apartment are ones I’ll cherish. It’s hard to believe it was ten years ago.

It’s a sad coincidence that Dr. Schachter passed away two days after Ford Lallerstedt, a great teacher at Curtis whom I never met but with whom friends of mine studied and whom I heard a lot about as part of the old Mannes-Curtis extended universe. I was inspired to write this tribute to Dr. Schachter after reading Micah Gleason’s touching post about Dr. Lallerstedt and what he meant to her. It’s like losing a generation of musical grandparents.

Fresh off our Gianni Schicchi production at the Mittelsächsisches Theater, my mind goes of course to the question of inheritance (though hopefully in a more elevated sense than the materialistic concerns of Buoso Donati’s unsympathetic relatives). What did Dr. Schachter leave me in the precious time I spent with him? Far more than his comments on my graphs, more than his insights into any specific piece of music, he showed me what was possible: what it was possible for a musician to know or to be, and how kindly a famous teacher could treat his students.

Dr. Schachter also had a wonderful sense of humor. June 1 is his birthday, and to close my tribute to him I wanted to share some quotes of his from my notes.

• “I’m now having a so-called senior moment—though it feels more like an eternity….”

• “Beethoven the pianist was famous for his wonderful legato. He commented once that many pianists played the piano like it was a harp.”

• [About a basic music theory mistake in a program note to a Carnegie Hall recital] “Incidentally, we live in times of great illiteracy….”

• “D gets its moment in court, you might say, in the middle section because we have it there as a cover tone over the main structural line.” 

• [From Gilbert & Sullivan The Gondoliers, here with respect to when one should use Roman numerals in graphs] “When everybody’s somebody, nobody’s anybody.”

• [Harmony and Voice-Leading has a new edition in which the publisher insisted on upper and lower case Roman numerals] “Anyway, my partial authorship of the book is now a source of shame to me.”

• [About the upbeat to the Allegro con brio in Beethoven 1] “Fürtwangler does the fast version, Toscanini does the slow one. I’m quite convinced that the fast one is correct. That doesn’t mean that I’m right, just that I’m convinced.”

• “Feel free to use what you have done, and what your colleagues have done...you may steal from them without any fear of...police action.” 

• Student: I COULD hear it that way, but could also hear the Re [i.e., the note D] being something bigger...is this one of those subjective things?
 Schachter: I’m very much for...tolerance, but the fact is that there are things that are not a matter of opinion.

• “Don Ottavio is a sort of…nerd. When the time finally comes for him to apprehend Don Giovanni, he goes to the police.” 

• “You have to have great tact in dealing with this repertory...don’t always go for the strongest harmony, but also the counterpoint that will bring out the life in the music.” 

• [On graphing Schubert’s “Ihr Bild” and the song not corresponding to the Urlinie] “We are dealing not with facts, but with essences.”

• “If believing it makes you feel you have more contact with the music, then believe it.”

Believe it or not, Carl Schachter, age 15 (he then lived in Chicago), and I, age 19 (from Goshen, Ind.) were in the audience of the Chicago Opera House on Nov. 16, 1947 to hear Kirsten Flagstad sing Isolde. But we did not meet until several years later, when each of us had moved to New York. Unlike the fortunate students of Mannes, I did not imbibe Schenkerian analysis with my mother's milk. Instead I had to rely on reading and on conversations with Schenkerian friends, among whom Carl was chief. Particularly informative were the conversations we had on the days I gave Carl rides to Queens College (he did not drive). Such conversations, together with lectures I heard him give, continued until Carl's recent illness. It was my good fortune that he was so generous in sharing information.

I met Carl Schachter 50 years ago when I first auditioned for Mannes College. I studied with Carl at Mannes, then followed him to Queens College for my master’s degree, and later to the Graduate Center for my doctorate; I was also a colleague of his at Queens and at Mannes. I took or audited at least fifteen semesters of classes with him over the years; each class was overwhelmingly inspiring. I also heard him give many talks at conferences and spent a lot of time with him at gatherings and events, especially after he moved to an apartment around the corner from me in New York City.

His friends were a very important part of Carl's life. Part of the sadness of his final years was that some of his dearest friends passed away before him. Just recently, his devoted student, David Gagné, died a week before Carl did; David and I co-edited the Festschrift dedicated to Carl. A few years ago, his dear friend Marshall Izen died; Marshall was a childhood friend of Carl's, and they had kept in close touch ever since. Other of his very close friends who died in the past few years include Gretchen Clumpner, who was the department assistant first at Mannes and then Queens College; Barbara Heyman, the world's leading expert on Samuel Barber and a ball of fire; and Betsy Aaron, the legendary ear training teacher at Mannes College who knew Carl since they were both students at the school. Perhaps the saddest departure for Carl was that of his dear friend, Ed Aldwell. Ed tragically died in an accident about 20 years ago, long before his time. For years, Carl and Ed talked on the phone every single day at 9:00 a.m. Ed, too, was a very special person; Carl missed him deeply, as does everyone who knew Ed, much as we now miss Carl as well.

In Carl Schachter I have found an extraordinary musician, as well as a kind and supportive pedagogue.

I knew Carl Schachter in many capacities over the years.  Others will undoubtedly offer detailed testimony of his importance as a music theorist and pedagogue. So I will just briefly relate a few anecdotes of encounters with this wonderful musician, scholar and teacher, from various moments of time we shared together.

• I auditioned for Mannes College as an undergrad, and Prof. Schachter was on the interview committee.  He asked me to play the progression I-IV-V-I at the piano and managed to maintain his composure when I made some (doubling) mistakes. I was accepted anyway.

• I watched him give a talk at a Schenker conference, using only a single index card and the piano. In this age of high-tech presentations, that remains my gold standard.

• Carl and I shared a session at the March 2006 Schenker conference.  Of course the auditorium was packed with everyone waiting to hear him (and not me).  So, seeing me a bit on edge, Carl related some advice he had been given by his piano teacher many years before:  “Don’t be nervous and don’t make mistakes.” (P.S.—my talk went very well.)

• In his last years, I went to visit the bed-ridden Carl with Poundie Burstein, and he was having a relatively good day. I played for him a recording of “Nun liebes Weibchen”—the cat duet from Der Stein der Weisen (Vienna 1790), Act 2, No. 4, attributed to Mozart. It was written by the same group of friends who produced Die Zauberflöte.  He loved it and it was wonderful to see him smile!

I was in the final stages of my Doctoral work at the Eastman School in Rochester when I began studying privately with Carl. These lessons lasted on a monthly basis for several years into the 1980s and beyond. I would travel to his building and remember him standing at the threshold of his apartment waiting for me to arrive. After initial greetings, we would sit and talk about life in general. Carl was an aficionado of Mexican culture and traveled frequently to Mexico City. We would discuss the various Mexican artifacts that tastefully adorned his apartment. 

We would then go to the piano; he sat on the bench, and I on a chair to his right. I placed my graph on the music stand, with the score nearby. Then, the magic commenced. Carl often began by asking for a middleground overview, which provided a context as we proceeded to the details of the lower levels. We rarely focused on “big picture” concerns, such as the first tone of the Urlinie or similar structural matters. Instead, as he played the composition he would evaluate my interpretations of motivic connections, foreground harmonic prolongations, and rhythmic procedures. On some occasions I would vacate the chair quickly, as he moved toward his bookshelves to retrieve an autograph facsimile to support his comments. Schenker’s theory, consequently, was not the central concern of Carl’s teaching, but served as a tool and portal that revealed aspects of great music.         

Carl Schachter was a musical force of nature and the premier ambassador of Schenker’s work. He accepted the ideas of other Schenkerian scholars and often built bridges between their contrasting viewpoints. His analytical skills revealed insights about compositions that often seemed invisible to other musicians. And the music itself—not theory—was his first and best concern. Yet for me these characterizations don’t fully capture the essence of Carl’s legacy. One must also consider his dedication to humanity, to his belief in the myriad and wondrous possibilities of the human spirit.

[Note: This text is reprinted, with permission, from a Festschrift dedicated to Carl Schachter entitled Structure and Meaning in Tonal Music, edited by L. Poundie Burstein and David Gagné, Pendragon Press, 2006. Gretchen Clumpner passed away in 2019.]

I had met Carl in April, 1964, when I started working in the development office at the Mannes College of Music. He had been the Dean of the College for two years, and also taught twelve hours of theory and analysis each week. My first impression and most distinct memory of Carl is of his delicious sense of humor and his virtuosity in telling a story. And his phenomenal ear, whose brilliance was not restricted to music. He would fall silent at dinner and one would realize that he was listening to a conversation two tables away. His ear for accented and inflections of particular voices was incredible. One need never have met the famed Mme. Vengerova to experience her terror, or the inner hilarity of some of her pupils.

Carl had been working with Felix Salzer on a text of counterpoint that would include Schenkerian insights. McGraw-Hill had become interested in publishing the book, but informed the authors it would be much too expensive to produce; it would have to be published in one volume, instead of the boxed two-volume edition planned. Though miffed, the authors did cut the text, taking the opportunity to rewrite it while doing so and thus, in their opinion, making it a better text. The completed book, Counterpoint in Composition, was published in 1969 to immediate and enduring success.

During the next several years Carl’s reputation was slowly building. Twice he taught a course at Hunter as a visiting professor, and also taught as a visiting professor at SUNY Binghamton. In 1971 he was offered a tenured position at Binghamton, followed by a similar offer from Queens College, CUNY. Ultimately he chose to stay in New York and accept the Queens position, which would mean that he would take Dr. Salzer’s place in the music faculty the following year when Dr. Salzer would retire. His choice was due partly to his wish to remain in New York City, where he had lived since he was a senior in high school, and partly because he wished to continue his teaching and long-standing connection with Mannes.

After the counterpoint book was published, Carl and Ed Aldwell had discussed writing a possible harmony text. Probably nothing would have come of this, except that Carl was on jury duty early in the summer of 1973. Sitting in the jury room for two weeks, he started to sketch out a workbook for elementary harmony and voice leading—and he and Ed continued to work on it during the summer. McGraw-Hill had an option on the book, but they felt that the book was too expensive and would take too long to recoup their investment, so Carl and Ed went to Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, who published the book—Harmony and Voice Leading—in 1979 (subsequent revised editions have since appeared in 1989 and 2003).

Mid-September 1969, I had arrived in N.Y. too late, as I thought, to audition for schools. I remembered Mannes, the small school on the East Side where I had heard master classes on previous visits. Entering its white front, I informed Mrs. Nash on the switchboard that I wanted to enroll. She had me wait; the school seemed quite empty. A young man, smartly dressed, bounded from the staircase. “I’m Carl Schachter,” he said. He was about thirty-eight, had already been Dean of the College and was now teaching courses at Queens College and a small number of senior courses at Mannes.

I already had a Diploma in Piano from the N.S.W. Conservatorium in Sydney. I told him it was my hope to complete the five-year B.S. degree in composition in two years. I addressed his questions, fortunately mentioning that I had read Schenker’s Harmony and admired it. He seemed satisfied, took my transcript and disappeared upstairs where there must be an office. He returned with: “It can probably be managed.”

He left me in a classroom with a sheaf of entrance exams, taking with him some of my compositions. He came back once more, glanced through my exams, noted that I was a bit weak in Species Counterpoint and said: “You will be studying with Peter Stearns. Come back in ten days at the start of school.” I went back across town and told my wife that I had found a school. I did not know then that I had also found Carl. 

If I choose now to dwell on that first glimpse of Carl, it is that I can see clearly how a lifetime of interactions and collaborations, all that he was to give me as a person and a musician, had their beginnings in that moment. He, too, though he already had accomplishments to his name, would grow in the years to come, to become the commanding and awe-inspiring figure in music theory and education, and in the world of music generally, whose life we celebrate.

[Note: This text is reprinted, with permission, from a Festschrift dedicated to Carl Schachter entitled Structure and Meaning in Tonal Music, edited by L. Poundie Burstein and David Gagné, Pendragon Press, 2006. Donna Doyle passed away in 2026.]

I may be the only one to have studied with both Nadia Boulanger and Carl Schachter. Everyone is aware of their influence on our profession through their training of generations of students. Other similarities between them—their respect for craft, their sense for middleground structure, their teaching styles and their roles as standard bearers—are less well understood. Are Boulanger and Schachter, as is sometimes thought, as far apart as Schenker from Rameau, or is there a common ground?

My Schenker studies with Carl began twenty years after working in Paris with Mlle Boulanger. I was immediately impressed by the affinity between Mile’s bass reductions and Schenker’s prolongations: each of her partimento exercises strings together a dozen or so middleground progressions. Mlle’s deep respect for voice leading was attested to by her insistence that we write our realizations in open C clef score, that we play them at the piano for her with each voice legato and that we sing one of the voices while playing the rest. Moreover, she taught us to intertwine canons among the upper part, a further manifestation of her insatiable love of counterpoint. (How many other harmony teachers require overtly contrapuntal realizations of figured basses?) I’ll always remember the moment when, in one of Carl’s elegant, middleground graphs, there reappeared some of Mlle’s voice leading. “Here it is,” I smiled, “Boulanger’s keyboard harmony in Schenker’s notation. How glad am I to have spent all that time in Paris writing out all those exercises!”

Respect for craft and sensitivity to structure were two aspects of the musicianship that Boulanger and Schachter shared; in addition, the highest standards, coupled with keen artistic temperament, characterized their teaching styles. Who hasn’t been amazed by their pulling out of the blue at the piano another just-right example of a topic at hand? Extraordinary ears, fluent keyboard skills, and broad-ranging repertoire were their standard fare. Mademoiselle, on the one hand, was apt to explain things away with passages from her favorite poets, this one from Pascal: “The silence of the infinite spaces frightens me.” Carl is more down-to-earth. One day while discussing the challenge of analysis, he observed: “The difficulties have to do with the fact that it’s difficult.”

I remember well the day I arrived for a private lesson. He greeted me with, “So, how did you find Winterreisse?” “I listened to it all in one sitting for the first time,” I replied, “It’s beautiful, ofcourse, butI’m not sure I can bear to hear the whole thing through again. It’s so desolate.” I sat motionless afterward. He responded quietly, “Yes, I know . . . but, the hurdy-gurdy man . . .” Then I remembered what Schenker declared at the end of the Introduction to Free Composition: “[even] if. . . only one person is once more capable of hearing music in the spirit of its coherence, then even in this one person music will again be resurrected.” I realize now that, in addition to their extraordinary musicianship, something else Boulanger and Schachter have given me is a sense of community. Even when I’m hibernating (as I am wont to do), I am sustained by the knowledge that when I surface, Carl will understand what I hear and see and love in music. And knowing that he cares helps me bear the trials—along with the joys—of a life in our profession.

“Though it’s hard to hear when I’m playing this piano-shaped object.” I had just met Carl Schachter when he said that during his “Analysis for Performance” class, which I took in Fall 1989 if memory serves, as I was getting my MA in cello performance at Queens College CUNY. I marveled at his wry sense of humor, at how much fun he seemed to be having in class. And because of Carl I thought to myself that maybe, just maybe, I could be a music theory professor like him.

At another point that fall semester I approached after class to ask him about performing a tricky section of the slow movement from the F-major Cello Sonata by Johannes Brahms, since I was working on it at the time. Having cited the passage, Carl went over to the piano, said “oh, you mean this bit?” and proceeded to play the whole section from memory, with the cello part in the first and second fingers of his right hand. To which I said, “yup, that’s the part.” As a non-performing pianist, Carl’s knowledge of classical literature was magisterial.

I ended up auditing Carl’s Beethoven sketches class at Queens College, and later Carl advised my MA thesis, on the very same Brahms sonata we had discussed earlier. And though I began my studies in Schenkerian Analysis with David Gagné (RIP as well, David), it was Carl who had an outsized influence on my studies at Queens, in Schenkerian analysis and beyond. I was honored that Carl wrote my recommendations for doctoral programs after Queens, and we kept in touch for years after that. I recall one conversation we had in which he was so inquisitive about rap music, since I’ve always loved rap and was examining it as a music theorist, which spoke to Carl’s insatiable and infectious curiosity.

Much later, as I worked on “music theory’s white racial frame,” I was unsurprised to read Carl’s clear and unequivocal language linking Schenker and racism, something I’ve written about in several sources. It’s worth pointing out that, when Carl wrote about that linkage in 2001 (in “Elephants, Crocodiles, and Beethoven: Schenker’s Politics and the Pedagogy of Schenkerian Analysis,” Theory and Practice 26), it was utter apostasy to call Schenker “racist,” since that cut firmly against the hagiography that American theorists had written about Schenker for many decades prior.

In that 2001 article, Carl cited two authors writing in German—Hellmut Federhofer and Martin Eybl—who convinced him of Schenker’s obvious and demonstrable racism. Further, Carl was unafraid to suggest that this may, ultimately, be having a negative effect on music theory writ large. With respect to relating Schenker’s hierarchical worldview with his hierarchical musical views, Carl said, parenthetically: “Tracing such a relationship is not necessarily invalid” (2001, 13). As is now widely known in the music theory community, I’ve traced that relationship in many writings, and I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Carl for opening the door to allow me, and others, to do so. Carl showed a good bit of courage in writing that 2001 article, for which I give him great credit; sadly, such courage is often in short supply among us senior theorists today.

The last time I spoke with Carl was on the phone in November of 2020. I wanted to reach out to see how he was doing, and to thank him for being such a wonderful advisor and friend early in my career. I’m not sure he remembered me, since his memory was already fading, but we spoke for a bit, and it was just good to hear his voice. I feel remarkably fortunate to have had Carl as a mentor, and his influence on me, as a musician and music theorist, is difficult to overstate.

Back in the days when Mannes was a college, Carl Schachter and I were attending an Executive Committee meeting. The famous Brahms photograph, which Carl loved, was on the wall. On Frank Nemhauser’s desk there was a small glass bottle filled with colored sand. It was labeled “extra time” (or “spare time”).

During the meeting I mentioned that there was a brand new searchable Shakespeare database posted by Yale University. One could search for any word used by the Bard and see all of the results!  Carl then said that there was one word that Shakespeare only used once: “Honorificabilitudinitatibus.” Everyone in the room realized we were experiencing a Schachterian Moment. We smiled and shook our heads in quiet amusement and delight.

The word is defined in Wikipedia as “the state of being able to achieve honors,” but Carl said it referred to someone who was deserving to have great honors heaped upon them. Carl Schachter was certainly such a person.

I had the privilege of taking many classes with Carl, and the honor of serving as his colleague at Mannes and later at Juilliard. More than that, I consider myself one of his many lifelong students. If you are reading this, you are probably one of them as well.  Carl gave us a gift, and he taught us how to share it.

Carl used to say that “any analysis that can’t be heard is nonsensical.” He found ways to reveal beautiful and fantastic things in the musical works he shared with us that were so compelling that they changed the way we heard and thought. He wrote about these things in a magical way that, when read aloud, sounds like he did when he spoke to us in the classroom.

Carl will certainly be remembered as the leading Schenkerian analyst of his generation, but he was so much more than that. All of his musical activities — performing, teaching and writing — sprang from his humanity. He was a man with a great mind, and an even greater heart.

We will all miss him.

I worked in the Dean’s Office at Mannes from 2002 through 2013, first in a kind of “Dean of Students” capacity, and then as Associate Dean for Academic Affairs with responsibility for supervising the faculty and running the College Division. It was my pleasure and honor to have Carl Schachter as a colleague during that entire time. I will leave to others who knew him better to write at more length and depth, and just share these four short anecdotes from our time together.

• The Techniques of Music Faculty would meet regularly to review the work of students in the program. While many of the faculty would focus on the trees—citing temporary problems in particular areas—Carl would often remind us of the forest—speaking to strengths across a broad range and the promise of work yet to come. We were always the better for his contributions.

• In an admission-related meeting, I recall discussing whether one of the then-enrolled masters students in theory with marginal skills in some areas should be admitted to the diploma program. The faculty was deadlocked until Carl commented on the personal qualities and dedication the student brought to their work, suggesting that we prioritize these over test results. His view carried the day, the student was accepted and enrolled, and the benefits to the Department and the student were extraordinary.

• I recall Carl dropping by my office near the end of his years of classroom instruction. Our conversation turned to the loss of memory and skills with advancing age and he spoke of a time earlier in his life when he could hear the movement of a Mozart symphony once and recall it completely. Although that had changed considerably over time, what had not changed was his interest in and excitement about teaching. He liked nothing better than to get up in the morning knowing that he had a class of eager and accomplished students to face later in the day.

• And finally, in our most memorable exchange, Carl dropped by my office the day he heard of my plans to retire from administration. He complimented me on my work, thanked me for the chance to work together, and congratulated me on my decision, saying “You’ve just added years to your life.” I could not have asked for better words of support and encouragement.  

In looking back over Carl’s life and work, I recall the words that Michael Steinberg, former music critic for the Boston Globe, once used in eulogizing a colleague, since they seem so fitting here as well: “He knew the difference between good and bad, and he knew that the difference mattered.” I can think of no higher tribute. 

Carl Schachter was the closest thing to a rock star that has ever existed within the world of music theory. He was the most prominent proponent of the school of musical analysis based around the principles introduced by the Austrian theorist Heinrich Schenker. At his post as de facto leader of the Mannes College of Music's Techniques of Music Department for almost sixty years, he really was the heart and soul of the school itself. Those who spent time in his classroom over those decades were a privileged, fortunate bunch.

I was one of those lucky souls, for a single academic year in his analysis class at Mannes, when I was an orchestral conducting major there, 2003-2006. It is grossly understating the case to say that I learned a lot from him; much more accurate is to say that examining music through his eyes and ears simply changed my life.

He was more than the stodgy professorial caricature that his visage and presentation might initially suggest. Yes, there were the thick spectacles, the tweed jacket with elbow patches, the breast pocket always fully stocked with pencils, the careful, thoughtful, head-in-the-clouds verbal manner. Yes, he displayed an understanding and knowledge of Schenkerian analysis--and of music itself--that was colossal, overwhelming. 

But there are lots of people who know a lot. Carl Schachter was something more: he was a poet. As if formulated in a Platonic laboratory above the clouds, he was the perfect balance, the quintessence of the teacher who teaches you how to think, teaches you how to listen, teaches you how to use your heart to think better, and to use your mind to feel more. No matter how intricate and abstruse the analysis might ever get, Dr. Schachter never veered far from the reason we do any analyzing in the first place: because the music has drama, has life, tells a rhetorical and psychological story, and we want to make some sense of how that happens. He was the ideal teacher of music theory: He showed us not rules, but how composers themselves invented their own rules. He showed us not an inventory of abstract concepts, but a saga of how composers themselves applied those concepts in real life. He proselytized on behalf of the notion that theory follows music, and not the other way around. He opened up our ears.

Like many of the teachers in Mannes's famed theory department, he took an extracurricular interest in the progress of all the various students at the school. Schachter would often attend the student conductor concerts, and after one of these concerts my first year, he stopped me in the hallway the next week. After politely congratulating me, he then offered me a suggestion: "I noticed, Nicholas, that you don't use a baton. Might I suggest that you start using one? You have smaller than average hands, and I think you'll have a better connection with the orchestra if you use one." At first I took umbrage at the unsolicited advice, since not using a baton was my routine at that point; it was part of my "identity". Also, he was my analysis teacher, not my conducting teacher. "Stay in your lane, buddy", I thought. Only after I begrudgingly tried his suggestion did I realize he was absolutely, 100 percent correct. I've used a baton ever since.

Most of all, the nearly full semester that we spent unlocking the first movement of Brahms's Second Symphony transformed me in ways that I still carry with me. I remember sitting on the third floor of the old Mannes building on 85th between Amsterdam and Columbus in analysis class, as he pinpointed--like a magician revealing the secrets of a famous card trick--the disguised, nearly indecipherable beginning of the recapitulation of that movement, the first trombone surreptitiously and slowly intoning the D, C#, D figure from the very first bar of the symphony--and I started sobbing in my chair. It was as if Dr. Schachter had placed me, just for a few seconds, into the mind of Johannes Brahms. Like Dave Bowman traveling to Jupiter and beyond in "2001: A Space Odyssey", I returned from that brief trip a musician reborn. I had new ears.

RIP, Dr. Schachter. And thank you.

Carl Schachter epitomized the generosity which characterized the Mannes School of Music and which assured the musical lives of many gifted young people. I had never been a student of Carl's except via his writings. Yet, as a friend of my piano teacher, Hans Neumann, he took an interest in my work from the earliest days of my study in the Mannes Extension Division, in 1959.

Having quit the piano world at age 15, I had become a serious organ student, graduating with a B.A. from Oberlin College, with a Music Major. In 1958-9, on a Fulbright to study organ with Helmut Walcha, I was privileged to live with a distinguished family, every one of whom played a string instrument. Frequent intense chamber music with them brought out the pianist I had always wanted to be, and I was advised to pursue piano study.

Returned to the States, new in New York, I telephoned around to determine my choices. I was told by one prominent institution, "We don't even consider people like you." I then phoned Mannes, about which I had learned from a soprano whom I had accompanied in the ship's concert en route to Germany. "We're having auditions this week; would you like to make an appointment?" 

At the outset of my study on a full scholarship, Neumann's prediction that within three years I would be a professional pianist seemed unlikely, as I had at that point no piano technique. Yet at the end of one year I was co-winner of the Mannes concerto competition in which Extension students participated alongside College students.

A congenital spinal deformity, though not readily visible, directly affected both my arm function and neuro-muscular co-ordination, severely limiting technical advancement, however. During my second year of study it became clear to Neumann that a career was out of the question. Then he suddenly died of a heart attack.

Carl immediately generously volunteered to mentor Neumann's students. His suggestion that I read Viktor Zuckerkandl's Sound and Symbol literally and entirely altered my existence. It opened up and informed what was to become a fulfilling, however unconventional musical life in New York City: a life, which over the course of over sixty years, continues to affect both amateurs and professionals whose love of music matches my own.

In affirming the validity of innate ear logic alongside of the communicative power of music, Sound and Symbol informed every activity upon which I embarked: experimental elementary piano teaching; setting up in 1975 and coordinating a unique non-competitive chamber music program for amateurs at Mannes Extension; to team-teach the program, founding Alaria Chamber Ensemble in 1983, which became the Extension Division's Ensemble in Residence; incorporating it as a community-funded non-profit in order to assure independence from conventional pedagogy; teaching non-musicians to sight-sing in tune; and now, in my late 80's with the disability at last properly treated, and informed by decades of ear-orientation, collaborating on Mozart and Brahms with some independent-minded prominent string players.

Tonal Refraction, which emerged intuitively in 1992, offers a way to visualize ear-logic affirming the difference between conventional notation and the freely moving spatiality of the ear, a central element in Zuckerkandl's work.

I am forever grateful to Carl for his insightful, selfless guidance.

When Carl Schachter was honored at Queens College some years ago, the encomium went on for a very long time. Dr. Schachter’s mastery of theory was, of course, lauded, as was his vast knowledge of literature, his charisma as a teacher, wide culture, pianistic accomplishment, and much more. So when Carl’s first words in response were “You forgot my modesty!” he got a big laugh. In fact, it was one of Carl’s most endearing qualities to wear his learning lightly—he was the least academic of professors, very much an authority but not an authority figure. It was a kind of modesty that informed his masterly unfolding of the Pastoral Symphony, or the role of a deceptive cadence in Don Giovanni, or the inspired illumination of the poetry and music in Schubert’s “Nacht und Träume.” And like the true performer he also was, when things got too serious, Dr. Schachter’s celebrated mastery of playing the piano with his back to the keyboard provided relief. (Also, his less well-known readings of some of the more lugubrious Bach cantata texts.)

I met and took my first theory lesson with Carl in 1954—I was 11, and he exactly to the day was 11 years older. I remember learning that a phrase was much more likely to be 4 bars, rather than 5 or 7, as I had conjectured. I kept on learning and gained a life-long friend.

I and so many others miss him very much.

[Note: This text is reprinted, with permission, from a Festschrift dedicated to Carl Schachter entitled Structure and Meaning in Tonal Music, edited by L. Poundie Burstein and David Gagné, Pendragon Press, 2006.]

I began and ended my doctoral studies in Carl Schachter’s care, and it’s probably fair to say that no one “labored” so much as I in a class of his. In fact, in hindsight it seems that my first year of doctoral study and my second pregnancy moved in parallel motion. May 6 of 1986, a good two to three weeks before my due date, was also a week away from the final exam in Carl’s “Introduction to Schenkerian Analysis” class at Queens College. I was sitting in the first row of the classroom, and it was already past 7 when the beginning of labor became obvious to me and would be soon enough to everyone else. I quickly scribbled a note—”I have broken water! Please dismiss the class!”—and thrust it in Carl’s face. “Really?” he said, puzzled and surprised, and then immediately ended the class, giving me the opportunity to make a semi-graceful exit to the hospital. Alexandra Sabine was born at 12:02 am, May 7. Carl got the first phone call. I took the final on time.

Of the many classes I had with Carl Schachter, the best were my weekly lessons as his private student over the course of a year. I would arrive in the afternoon, usually having walked the whole way up Madison Avenue from Penn Station—a good 30 minutes to an hour for me—time to ponder what was about to take place. After a long cup of tea, we studied Schubert and then Schumann and some Wolf. Those hours were a musical idyll, timeless and mind shaping. And, like the most wonderful cello lessons I ever had, they altered forever the way I heard and thought about music.

I was extremely fortunate to be a faculty colleague of Carl Schachter at three schools: the CUNY Graduate School, the Mannes College of Music, and The Juilliard School. Carl’s warm, kind manner and brilliant way of explaining things were models to emulate, and I always felt enriched after spending even a few moments with him. I sensed that Carl understood not only what one was saying but also what one was thinking while speaking. He responded insightfully. Carl’s profound publications have brought Schenkerian theory to musicians throughout the world, and they will certainly enlighten those yet to come.

Carl Schachter had a wonderful sense of humor! Sadly I cannot recall the details of one anecdote he told, but I remember that he did it with a heavy German-Jewish accent. The story involved mentioning "peekulls" (pickles) and we would laugh convulsively as he recited it. Does anybody recall that story? Carl came to a recital I gave, which both warmed my heart and frightened me. As the last group of songs, following many German Lieder, and maybe a French song or two, I performed some Gershwin songs. Afterward told me he had enjoyed my performance, except that he found it incongruent to mix in American popular songs with the others. I haven't done it since then! I was very pleased to have Carl as a colleague during my years on the faculty of the Music Department and then ACSM. As well as all the other remarkable musicians, composers, theorists, and historians.

I chose to attend Queens College's Aaron Copland School of Music because of Carl Schachter. On the first day of class (in the days long before e-mail), he would write his home phone number on the board in case we had any analysis questions that just couldn’t wait. After studying Mozart's "Das Veilchen" with him, I gave it a permanent place on my syllabus. I loved that he connected Mozart's biography to the tale of the hapless violet. He was touched when I showed him my newly purchased copy of Five Graphic Music Analyses which I had come across at the Queens College bookstore, and he kindly offered to give me an independent study in Schenkerian analysis. What a treat it was to work with him each week! In one meeting, he told me to think of a piece of music like a cat. "Let it come to you," he advised.

Before I headed off to graduate school, I visited him at his elegant East Side apartment. When he learned of my interest in music composed by women, he directed me to Rebecca Clarke’s Viola Sonata, a work he admired. I was impressed that in the summer of 1989, he attended the Landmark Jazz Concerts at Carnegie Hall, a series of historic concerts painstakingly re-constructed and conducted by his colleague Maurice Peress. This project for which I served as Maurice's assistant included the 1912 Clef Club Concert led by James Reese Europe, George Antheil's 1927 concert featuring Ballet Mécanique, and the 1943 debut performance at Carnegie Hall by Duke Ellington's orchestra with the premiere of Black, Brown and Beige: "A Tone Parallel to the History of the Negro in America."

As a PhD student in theory at the CUNY Graduate Center, I took a glorious seminar with Carl on rhythm in Chopin’s Mazurkas. The moments when he would play the piano are a warm and precious memory. From him, I learned what it meant to be a theorist and analyst of music: to experience the joy of hearing long lines, tracing voice leading, and devoting one's life to writing about and teaching music.

Carl made a newcomer to the Big Apple feel welcome to the city and excited to join the world of theory. I will always deeply appreciate the immense kindness of this gentle and wise teacher, whose countless brilliant insights about music I'll continue to pass along to my own students. 

[Note: This text is reprinted, with permission, from a Festschrift dedicated to Carl Schachter entitled Structure and Meaning in Tonal Music, edited by L. Poundie Burstein and David Gagné, Pendragon Press, 2006. Marshall Izen passed away in 2015]

I was eight years old when Carl Schachter was born. We grew up in the central western area of Chicago called Austin. Carl’s brother Jerry was my peer and initially we didn’t pay much attention to baby Carl.

My first vivid memory of Carl was when he was about seven years old and was becoming a legend around Austin. His I.Q. had “broken the machine” and his prodigious attention to music was very evident. I was already playing some advanced pieces and young Herk would sit next to the piano giving my performances a remarkably intense concentration for a child his age.

Yes, “Herk” was Carl’s nickname! When Jerry saw his baby brother for the first time, he said “he’s as big and strong as Hercules.” So, to this day, his relatives and I still call him Herk. And I still get messages on my answering machine saying “It’s Herk.”

Hercules is an apt name for this remarkable man who has had such a powerful a magnificent influence on so many young musicians.

Carl Schachter was my friend and colleague. He was always ready to discuss interpretations of great musical works. 

He was a highly cultivated person. His familiarity with art and literature enriched his books and articles.

[Note: This text is reproduced (with permission) from a social media post.]

Remembering Carl Schachter, who taught theory at Mannes for many years. My Bach IV Prelude analysis sits displayed between a signed Queen album and a framed picture of Grace Hopper. It’s a reminder to dig deeper and to stay curious. 

Thanks for opening my mind, dear sir! 

I don’t know if CS believed in heaven, but Bach did. In his music, he wrote about the fall of humanity and the ascent to heaven. The rising scales at the end of the fourth prelude have always sounded like absolution to me. We are loved unconditionally by God and will be welcomed “home.” 

May it be so… 🙏 

[Note: This text is reprinted, with permission, from a Festschrift dedicated to Carl Schachter entitled Structure and Meaning in Tonal Music, edited by L. Poundie Burstein and David Gagné, Pendragon Press, 2006.]

In the early 60s, Mannes College of Music suffered the attrition of a succession of senior administrators. Felix Salzer, having with Leopold Mannes established the Bachelors program at Mannes, migrated to Queens College. His intended successor died very suddenly. Leopold Mannes, in one of the last acts of his abruptly curtailed life, had the foresight and wisdom to appoint Carl, the junior member of our executive committee, as the Dean: Carl was not yet 29. Carl’s youth and brilliance inspired us, his intelligence, sense of responsibility, administrative abilities, his sense of respect—not only for the school’s traditions, but also for his colleagues—and above all his integrity inspired confidence and trust in all of us. Carl set us on the path to becoming the current Mannes. With appreciation and love: thank you, Carl.

My guru, Dr. Carl Schachter. True scholar, gentleman, legend of a musician, marvelous human, pianist, teacher, and friend! He was a huge part of my life! I find it extremely difficult to put into words what he meant to me. He was an inspiration as a musician, and human. Sometimes when the feelings are too vast, it's hard to put into words.

I sat in his classes in Mannes in Schenkerian analysis and analysis for performers every week as both faculty at Mannes, me as violin professor and friend, but did all his homeworks the best I could, and we always had lunch after his classes together every single week, probably for much more than 10 years, and was the highlight of my week. He came to every concert I gave when he could, I played for his Amnesty International concerts. We were much more than colleagues: he was my guru, inspiration, and friend.

Note: This text was published as a remembrance in the Newsletter of the Society for Music Theory.

Carl Schachter made extraordinary contributions to the theory and analysis of tonal repertoire through his scholarship, pedagogical writings, and teaching in universities, conservatories, and private lessons. Born in Chicago, where he studied piano (and secondarily violin and viola), he came to New York in 1948 to study piano principally with Isabelle Vengerova and conducting with Carl Bamberger at the David Mannes Music School. There, his studies in analysis with Felix Salzer proved transformative, setting him on the path that would shape his career. After receiving a B.S. from Mannes and an M.A. in musicology from New York University, he began a half-century period as a faculty member at Mannes, where he served at times as Dean and as chair of the Techniques of Music Department. From 1972 to 1996, he also held a professorship at the City University of New York (CUNY), teaching both at Queens College and at The Graduate Center, where he was an influential doctoral advisor. After retiring from CUNY as a Distinguished Professor, he continued to teach classes on Schenkerian analysis and performance at Mannes and The Juilliard School. He received many special honors, including a Lifetime Membership from the Society for Music Theory, the William Schuman Scholar Award from Juilliard, and honorary doctorates from both Mannes and the Sibelius Academy.

In addition to his role as a leading practitioner of Schenkerian theory and analysis, Schachter co-authored the textbooks Counterpoint in Composition (1969, written with his teacher Salzer) and Harmony and Voice Leading (1978, written with his colleague and friend Edward Aldwell). Both textbooks strove to incorporate contrapuntal and linear perspectives in the analysis of tonal repertoire. Conceived at a time when only limited material incorporating Schenkerian perspectives was available in English, the pedagogical approaches developed in these texts became widely influential in North American pedagogy over the following decades.

Schachter is also known for his essays on rhythm and music with text, which demonstrate his characteristic and beautiful elucidations of ways in which voice leading, motives, and harmony express poetic and dramatic meaning in music by Mozart, Schubert, and Brahms, among other composers. Many of his articles on these and other topics are reprinted in Unfoldings: Essays in Schenkerian Theory and Analysis (1999), edited by Joseph N. Straus. The Art of Tonal Analysis: Twelve Lessons in Schenkerian Theory (2016; also edited by Straus) similarly preserves in written form classes from the seminar that Schachter delivered at The Graduate Center when he briefly came out of retirement to share selections of work from across his career, not only with a cohort of doctoral students in both performance and music theory but also with devoted colleagues and alumni who audited the course. 

This brief outline of landmarks in his distinguished career does not capture the excitement and joy of being in Carl’s classroom, where we felt as if we were part of a musical family. Seated at the piano and through his uniquely sensitive playing, he invited us to hear music more deeply. Performance considerations inflected analytical ones, and lessons were sometimes illuminated by listening to historical recordings, especially by singers he admired, such as Rosa Ponselle and Elisabeth Schumann. He would light up in response to our classmates’ ideas, questions, and in-class performances, taking great pride in watching our musical sophistication blossom over the course of our studies. Possessing an encyclopedic knowledge of his favorite repertoire, he enhanced his discussions with the wide range of music he could play from memory. The aim of his lessons was rarely to produce a graph as a finished product; instead, whatever graph had been notated on the board over the course of a session was a summary of the insights and observations about a composition that had been developed through probing analytical questioning, consideration of alternative interpretations, and careful listening. Carl described his preferred analytical readings as “convincing,” “satisfying,” or “beautiful” rather than as “correct.” In the interview that begins Unfoldings, Carl is quoted as saying “though I'm deeply interested in Schenker, I'm still more interested in Mozart and Beethoven." Elsewhere (in the Journal of Music Theory Pedagogy), he compares getting acquainted with a piece with getting to know an interesting person’s quirks and idiosyncrasies: “We may have to work rather hard at our questioning before the piece deigns to give us an answer (most people wouldn’t answer such a [personal] question right away either).” Carl’s teaching modeled the lifelong process of learning to ask the questions.

Many of our classmates routinely cite his profound musicianship and artistry, his generosity, and his sense of humanity as core tenets of the education he instilled in us. He demonstrated these qualities over many years by organizing annual concerts benefiting Amnesty International, collaborating with members of the Mannes community. He similarly found time to share in the daily lives and musical accomplishments of his students by attending countless concerts and lending his sought-after, wise counsel about many aspects of our developing musical lives. Even with his departure, we hope that his distinctive musical voice will continue to resonate.

Note: This article appeared in the Juilliard Journal in February 2014, when Carl Schachter was honored with the William Schumann Scholar Award. 

The two lectures that Carl Schachter describes in this profile have since been published. His analysis of Beethoven’s “La Malinconia” appears in chapter 9 of  The Art of Tonal Analysis: Twelve Lessons with Carl Schachter (Oxford University Press, 2016). His analysis of Chopin’s Mazurka op. 59, no. 2 is included in New Horizons in Schenkerian Research (Hildesheim: Olms, 2022). 

"An interesting piece of music, like an interesting person, [usually has] qualities that set it apart,” Carl Schachter wrote in an essay on the analysis and performance of Chopin’s music. “When we analyze a piece in preparation for performing it, a useful first approach is often to become aware of its special, idiosyncratic elements and to ask the piece why they are there,” continued Schachter, who has been on the Juilliard faculty for 15 years and is the recipient of this year’s William Schuman Scholar Award. “We may have to work rather hard at our questioning before the piece deigns to give us an answer,” he wrote, adding that “most people wouldn’t answer such a question right away either.”

That Schachter compares analyzing a Chopin piece to paying a visit to an old friend illustrates something essential about his musical approach. Widely recognized as the world’s leading practitioner of the analytical method developed by Heinrich Schenker, Schachter is revered for his outstanding scholarship but also beloved for his poetic, artistic approach to teaching. Much of his professional life has been devoted to teaching analysis to performers, notably at Juilliard (where he has taught Graduate Studies courses since 1998) and at Mannes College (where he has taught for more than 50 years). Among his many students of both theory and piano was Murray Perahia, who told The Journal that he studied counterpoint, fugal improvisation, and Schenkerian analysis with Schachter at Mannes “and found that his command of not just theory but music in general was so complete and comprehensive that it was truly inspirational.”

Pianist Thomas Sauer, who studied piano with Schachter for two years, observed that his former teacher “always places music first, whether he’s teaching an analysis course, giving a scholarly paper, or teaching a lesson,” he told The Journal. “Revelatory as his thinking so often is, it is never self-aggrandizing.” Sauer added that one of his “most treasured musical memories” is an analytical presentation Schachter gave of the Chopin E-Minor Prelude. “As he finished playing, all oxygen seemed to leave the room. I cannot hear the piece without thinking of the beauty of his playing.”

Juilliard (and Mannes) cello faculty member Timothy Eddy said that what he finds “elevating and endearing” about Schachter is that “his illuminating perspectives and insights on musical structure stem from his deep affection and fascination with music. I always feel better integrated from being around Carl, more vividly and fully connected to music and more alive as a person,” Eddy told The Journal. “He guides my search for the intentions and the humanity of the composer by revealing ways that their messages are evocatively embedded in the music’s structure.”

Since 1998, Juilliard has given the William Schuman Scholar Award to an individual who has made extraordinary contributions to the musical community and to arts education. The award was created to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the founding of the Literature and Materials of Music department, which last year became the Music Theory and Analysis department. As part of the prestigious award, the recipient gives two public presentations relating to his or her area of musical expertise. Both lectures will take place on February 26 and are open to the public.

In one lecture, Schachter will speculate that Chopin’s Mazurka Op. 59, No. 2, may be a hidden tribute to Mendelssohn. Years ago, Schachter noticed a peculiar similarity between the openings two phrases of the mazurka and those of Mendelssohn’s Song Without Words in G Major, which had been published one year prior to the mazurka. Initially dismissing the similarity as a coincidence, he later learned that the manuscript of this mazurka was in the possession of Mendelssohn’s wife, Cécile. Further investigation led to an exchange of letters between the two composers.

As Schachter told The Journal, “Mendelssohn wrote that he was constantly playing Chopin’s music, since it was his wife’s favorite, and he asked Chopin if he might send a few notes to her with his autograph. Chopin responded a year later, not with a few notes but with the complete manuscript of the mazurka as a gift to Cécile.” He added, “my fantasy is that it was Chopin’s way of saying to Mendelssohn, ‘You say you are deeply involved with my music, but let’s see if you notice that I was involved with your music, too’.”

Schachter’s second presentation will be on the movement titled “La malinconia” from Beethoven’s String Quartet in B-flat Major, Op. 18, No. 6. The movement, whose title translates as “melancholy,” relates to a long artistic tradition of depicting the four temperaments, as in Keats’s magnificent “Ode to Melancholy” and well-known musical settings by C.P.E. Bach, Nielsen, and Hindemith. Of the four temperaments (the others are sanguine, choleric, and phlegmatic), melancholy seems to have inspired the largest number of artists. “It is the most interesting of the four because most of life is sad,” Schachter said. “Besides, no one would ever read an Ode to Phlegm.”

Beethoven’s “Malinconia,” which is the slow introduction to the quartet’s frantically joyful finale, stands out not only for its programmatic title but also for an unusually high degree of chromaticism among Beethoven’s early works. “It’s the kind of chromaticism that you get later on, in the Op. 59 quartets,” Schachter said. “My basic idea is that the music takes a wrong turn near the beginning. It’s quite clear that the music wants to go to C minor, but when the chord G-B-D-F is reinterpreted as G-B-D-E#, the music gets lost. This ‘lostness’ creates the sense of melancholy, which is then temporarily dispelled at the end of the introduction.”

These brief musical descriptions offer a glimpse of Schachter as an uncommonly humane musical mind with ideas that flow seamlessly from harmony and counterpoint to aspects of composer’s biography and poetic inspiration and, ultimately, to musical performing and listening. “Learning to analyze means learning to hear in great depth,” Schachter has written. “A good analysis is always verifiable by the educated ear.”

Upon first glance, it might seem that I did not know Carl Schachter very well. I did not attend CUNY Graduate Center, and I only encountered him occasionally at conferences. Yet I feel that I did indeed know him well—through his wonderfully engaging work in musical analysis. A paper delivered by Carl was for me the highlight of any conference, and I thoroughly enjoyed his many published articles, especially those collected in Unfoldings. In fact, many of these pieces are required reading in the tonal analysis classes at the Florida State University College of Music. I have always admired the perfect balance of musical depth, clarity, and concentration in his writings about music. He possessed that most rare of abilities—to inspire while avoiding the indulgence of overstatement. Experiencing a presentation by Carl Schachter always made one want to be better at the craft of musical analysis.

I did benefit more directly from Carl’s help on one occasion. After I delivered a paper on the first movement of Mozart’s String Quintet in E flat, he walked up to me and made the briefest of comments on my reading of its development section. Yet this was enough to set me on the path to understanding its structure more clearly for the publication of this piece in Music Theory Online. You see, he didn’t forcefully pull me toward understanding—he just gave me a gentle push from behind, as any effective mentor would do.

In 2017 I had the distinct pleasure of reviewing Carl’s final book, The Art of Tonal Analysis: Twelve Lessons in SchenkerianTheory. The personable flavor of this work almost made me feel like I was a part of that valedictory doctoral seminar at CUNY Graduate Center in the fall of 2012, documented in its pages. I was told that despite his illness, reading my review had really brightened Carl’s day. I will forever be glad that I was given the opportunity to pay tribute to such a remarkable music theorist, scholar, and teacher.

I was a brand-new, first-year PhD student at the Graduate Center (CUNY) when I was assigned to transcribe every lesson taught by Carl Schachter in a course on Schenkerian analysis [for the volume that was published as The Art of Tonal Analysis: Twelve Lessons with in Schenkerian Theory]. I had heard of him from my textbooks and felt a little star-struck to say the last. Our room was packed, with the current PhD students seated around the seminar table, plus rows of observers lining three of the walls, including music theory faculty from all over New York. The lessons are transcribed in the book, but I'll never forget the energy in the room with all these distinguished faculty gathered as students in Carl Schachter's classroom. It was a truly humbling experience.

I was lucky enough to be a student of Carl Schachter’s, both in the classroom during my undergraduate and graduate studies at Mannes and in weekly independent studies. He played such an instrumental role in shaping not only my musical studies, but also the trajectory of my career, as I'm sure is the same with many others. 

My theory lessons with him, together with all the little figurines and trinkets in his Upper East Side apartment, held some of my favorite memories during my time at Mannes. I would show him my feeble attempts at graphing, say, the development of a Mozart violin sonata, and he would show me all the most beautiful aspects of my analysis that I could never see for myself—how to place trust in my own musical intuition. Or he would reveal his own readings, showing the nuances of each slur on the piano, and ask, almost as an invitation, “would it rather be possible to hear it this way instead?” 

A memory that I still think about often—if I ever answered a question in class and said something like, "it's just a neighbor note," Dr. Schachter would say, in a soft voice and ever so calmly, "no, Christina, it's not just a neighbor note," and then proceed to reveal the many extraordinary ways in which this neighbor note could permeate the structure of an entire work. He showed me that even the most seemingly minute details in music could be brought out, appreciated, and perhaps even blossom into those fantastic, mic-drop moments that he gave us so often in his classes.

As the neighbor note was not just a neighbor note, Dr. Schachter was not just my teacher. I will miss him so much, but I know I'll still be carrying his lessons with me every time I open a score.

The physicist Niels Bohr famously quipped that “Prediction is very difficult, especially about the future.” I will ignore his warning and confidently assert that Carl Schachter will long be honored as one of the most important music theorists of the twentieth century. Carl was arguably the central figure in placing Schenkerian theory at the heart of our understanding about how tonality creates its effects.  

Yes, Heinrich Schenker was the first theorist since Rameau (roughly two centuries earlier) to propose a wholly new perspective on tonal music. But, as we all know, Schenker’s writings about tonality are deeply infused with his troubling ideas about Teutonic superiority and other such perspectives.   

Carl’s pedagogy and writings opened our ears, minds, and souls to how Schenker’s insights led us to a level of understanding and appreciation hitherto unknown. As a result, Carl played an invaluable role in promoting the widespread understanding of a Schenkerian approach to tonal music. 

Carl always did this with aplomb, and never with a raised voice.  

I long knew Carl’s writings, and had heard him lecture brilliantly. But it was not until he and I were colleagues on the doctoral faculty at the CUNY Grad Center that we interacted with each other on an on-going basis.  During that time, one conversation I had with him gave me deep insights into what a wonderful teacher he was. 

That conversation took place around the time that my Compositional Theory in the 18th Century was published in 1994. Because Carl and I had both arrived early at a meeting at CUNY, we chatted about the different perspectives that arise from Rameau’s harmonic theories on the one hand and Schenkerian prolongation-theory on the other. I noted that Rameau had fascinated me because he was the first theorist to propose an approach to understanding how harmony works in tonal music, and thereby laid the foundation of so much later thinking about chords, chord progressions, musical continuity, and other such issues. Not until Schenker did anyone propose a significantly different overall approach. Carl commented that he had read Rameau’s writings and found his ideas interesting, but that he was more deeply satisfied by Schenker’s approach.

Carl was very curious! I was in his Schenker class in 1967 at SUNY Binghamton, a wonderful, foundational course for me. I would often meet for lunch with some Christian students in the cafeteria. Carl would seat himself close by us so he could listen in on our conversation.

I met Carl for the first time in 1959 when he gave me a theory interview as part of the admissions process. It was part of a wonderful day of being treated as a potential professional, in sharp contrast to my experiences at the other conservatories. Over the next three years I took seven full-year courses with him. ln 1964 he invited me to the join the faculty. Exactly fifty years later he asked me to take over his Analysis 2 class when he felt unable to continue. I have so many recollections, but one of the strongest was his request to play the flute obbligato from the final chorale in Cantata 161 with him. Even though it was only an unrehearsed class presentation, it was nonetheless a real privilege and highly instructive.

I would like to share two unusual experiences which helped me in different ways. In his Theory 3 class he had assigned a chorale prelude. On the due date only three of us had completed it, and the other two seemed reluctant to have him play it in class. He ended up spending the entire class on my setting, and at the end said it was really very good. I asked how it could be so good if he spent the whole hour criticizing it. In that agitated manner most of us remember well, he said the he spent the whole time on it because it was good. I came to realize that with very good students it is often wise to cover fewer pieces but do them in greater depth. Incidentally, the is the only theory exercise which I kept.

The following year Theory Pedagogy had four students. We met at 9:00 AM. Early in the second semester on three consecutive weeks Carl entered the classroom to find me sitting alone. His patience ran out. He disbanded the class, notifying the other three students to do their final projects unassisted, and met with me individually for the remainder of the term. Aside from the obvious benefits of eight or nine lessons, I realized that very poor student attendance often does not reflect lack of respect for the teacher, which enabled me to retain confidence when later confronted with similarly delinquent classes.

[Arthur Maisel composed this fugue in memory of Carl Schachter.]

I had the privilege of studying with Carl Schachter in the 1990s at the CUNY Graduate Center. We kept in touch over the years, and I always visited him whenever I was in the New York area. Among my many precious memories of him, the following are the most vivid:

Our first meeting, in his apartment on the Upper East Side, before the semester began in my first year of graduate school. I was quite nervous with anticipation. When the door opened, I encountered for the first time Carl’s incredible living room surrounded by books and scores, with the grand piano at its centre. He offered me tea (!) and asked about my interests. When I confessed that I sometimes got tempted by words and would put theoretical arguments that “sound good” above the actual sound of the music, Carl suggested I read Kant's Critique of Pure Reason. Though we discussed no pieces of music that day, this was one of the most valuable musical lessons I ever received.

Carl’s brilliant keynote address at the 1995 AMS/SMT meeting, which was eventually published as “The Triad as Place and Action.” What stands out in my memory is the Q&A session, when Carl kept dashing to the piano to play musical examples, all from memory, in response to audience questions. You have to imagine Carl in action here: “Perhaps you know this Beethoven bagatelle…? [plays the relevant section] Or surely this passage from Carmen [sings Carmen's soliloquy from the Card Trio while playing the orchestral part on the piano]…” It was jaw-droppingly brilliant.

My first time attending an International Schenker Symposium. He saw that Eric Fung and I were overwhelmed and intimidated by all the big-name scholars there, and invited us to lunch. It was such a kind gesture to two inexperienced graduate students.

Over the years he took me out to lunch every time I visited from Hong Kong. But on my last visit with Poundie Burstein in 2019, he was no longer able to go out—yet he still generously hosted us by ordering takeaway from an elegant restaurant. Though physically weakened, his mind remained sharp, and his eyes still held their familiar spark. As I write, I can still see his amused smile and his look of genuine interest when I told him that his work is a regular staple in my classes.

I will miss Carl dearly. And I will always, always be grateful—for his brilliant insights, his kindness, and his generosity of spirit.

[Note: This text is reprinted, with permission, from a Festschrift dedicated to Carl Schachter entitled Structure and Meaning in Tonal Music, edited by L. Poundie Burstein and David Gagné, Pendragon Press, 2006.]

I want to reminisce about a single episode that sums up Carl Schachter and why I regard him so very highly. Carl became a member of the Personnel and Budget Committee of the Queens College Music Department at the very same time that I became the Chairman, and I relied on him more than I can acknowledge. At this time, the school was hit by a terrible budgetary crisis; the budget cuts were so horrendous that our scholarship fund was cut to a tiny fraction of what it had been. The idea of cutting stipends for existing graduate students was seriously considered in order to provide some monies for incoming students. I was uncomfortable with that prospect: I thought it was wrong, and I thought it was important to maintain our commitments to those students we had before we took anybody else. But in those terrible times we were all somewhat uncertain and so I consulted Carl. He immediately and firmly responded that of course we could not lower the scholarships to any current graduate student who was doing the job properly. That was all we needed to maintain that course of action, and his support meant a great deal to me. This is Carl to the core; along with all the other things we value him for, this is what makes us love him.

I had the pleasure of taking one of Carl Schachter’s Schenkerian analysis courses in 2010/2011, and I feel lucky that I had an opportunity to meet him and to learn from him. The aspects of Professor Schachter’s being that made the greatest impact on me were his kindness and his humility. While his achievements in the field of music theory were monumental by the time I studied with him, his ego never entered the classroom. He instead brought with him only an infectious love of music and a desire to share that love with others. The atmosphere he cultivated in his classroom was always a warm and supportive one. He was generous with his time—even though he probably had very little of it to spare—and was happy to offer career advice and to write letters of recommendation for those of us who were applying to graduate programs. Carl Schachter played a major role in shaping my appreciation for music, and my memories of him will continue to be a positive presence in my life. I’m sending my love to all who were close to him.

I am greatly saddened to hear of Mr. Schachter's passing. I was a student of his from 1997 to 2001, first as an auditor in his Schenker seminar at Harvard, and subsequently as a private student at his studio on the upper East Side in Manhattan. Mr. Schachter was the single most important influence on my decision to become a music theorist and devote my life to being a musician. His wisdom, wit, humility, and generosity meant the world to me.

When I was in my early 20s, I looked forward to my bi-weekly meetups with Mr. Schachter with great enthusiasm. I spent hours thinking through complex and vexing passages in tonal music and filling many large sheets of staff paper with scribbles, notes and slurs, saving only the best to take on the train down to Grand Central. The walk north through Central Park was always filled with joyful anticipation for what Mr. Schachter would say about the difficult passages I labored over. Invariably, there was some deeper insight Mr. Schachter revealed, through his kind and patient work with me.

I very much hope I can add my brief thoughts to the chorus of those paying tribute to a man whose musical thinking continues to be a source of inspiration to this day. I trust he's in a better place, and I hope his work is remembered for a long time.

Much will have been said about Carl as a musician and teacher, and about Carl's influence on generations of musicians. I thought I would add a few words about Car's influence on me as a person. Kind, gracious, thoughtful, wise, affable, urbane-----these are some of the words that come immediately to mind. Carl did well by being good. God rest ye merry, Carl. And THANK YOU!!

I’ve known Dr. Schachter since 1978, when I came to study at Mannes, and he was my analysis teacher. He played piano so beautifully in the class, and all of us were glued to him and his sound and to listen to what he had to say about music.

To me, one of the most astonishing things about Dr. Schachter is that he not only has vast knowledge but he also has humanity. When he teaches, he does not pick only the best students or the fastest students, but he’s able to reach everyone in the room.

There were many moments when I’d fall in love with Carl.

In the late 1970s, we both taught at Queens College. I was lucky enough sometimes to join him and other faculty members at lunch. One day Carl asked everyone if they knew the words to Juliet’s Waltz from Gounod’s Romeo and Juliet. Everyone confessed, with a little embarrassment, that they couldn’t recall them.

Carl, very disarmingly, said that had he been asked the same question yesterday, he would have given the same answer. But he had had a dream, which he narrated.

In the dream, he and a few colleagues from Mannes were visiting John Goldmark, president of Mannes, in the hospital. Carl recounted: “In real life John looked extremely unwell, but in my dream he looked ever so much healthier. We brought him a gift to help him pass the time in the hospital. He opened the box and took out a miniature theatre, and the scenery was from the original Vienna production of Die Fledermaus. There was a little doll and a record player—CDs had not become popular yet. John lifted the needle and played the record, and the doll gestured as if singing. It wasn’t Fledermaus, however. It was Juliet’s Waltz! When I woke up, I checked to see if the words had been correct, and they were: ‘Je veux vivre dans ce rêve.’”

I sat there, amazed by the specificity of his imagination, and by how completely his brilliant intellect was married to his emotional life.

About seven years earlier, there had been the shootings at Kent State. Like virtually every school, the Mannes community wanted to make a gesture of protest. We all met in the auditorium and decided to parade along the sidewalks of the surrounding community, singing Bach chorales.

When we returned to school, we reassembled in the auditorium. Carl presided. We decided to send a telegram to President Nixon. Carl dictated a brilliant, lengthy statement that captured the moment: a perfect declaration of outrage. I thought to myself, “What a beautiful expression of how everyone felt—how he had found the right words, the right tone, the perfect turns of phrase.”

When he finished dictating, he turned to Gretchen, John Goldmark’s secretary, who was charged with writing down Carl’s speech. But Gretchen confessed that her pen had run out of ink and she’d hardly captured anything.

That was a bit of comic relief, but Carl was totally unfazed. He then re-dictated the exact same statement, word for word.

Right then and there, I fell in love again.

Classes with Carl were like sitting at the feet of a guru. There was the depth of his comprehension of music, his encyclopedic memory of the repertoire, his ability to play something instantly, analyze it, and reveal a beauty in it that I hadn’t heard before. He was such a wizard at keyboard harmony.

Each student was assigned to compose a sonata movement and play it for the class. Carl invited comments from the students. I was pretty impressed by what people said: “The transition was too short.” Or, “The accompaniment needs to keep the motion while the melody rests.”

When Carl finally added his own comments, he would sit at the piano and play back what you had written. Or he might play the Schenkerian skeleton of your piece, revealing what was right or wrong about it. His knowledge was overpowering.

And yet, one of my favorite moments came in a class when we were studying the fugues of the Well-Tempered Clavier. I wish I could remember which fugue it was.

Carl was revealing to us, through his playing and his analysis, how the fugue was constructed: how the harmony and counterpoint supported each other. But then he paused for a moment and reflected, “But what I don’t understand at all is why the coda, which is merely a series of sequences that any student could have written, is the most beautiful part.”

For such a brilliant analyst, with such penetrating insight, to nonetheless be awed by what was inexplicable and mysterious in music—I’ll never forget that.

I first heard Carl Schachter lecture on Mozart's Don Giovanni when I was a first-year undergraduate student at the Sibelius Academy, and I think it was the first time I really started to love Mozart's music. In the early 2000s, he made several visits to both Helsinki and Tallinn to give masterclasses and keynote lectures at conferences. We, the younger students were very fortunate to hear his beautiful, insightful and inspiring lectures, as well as to admire his astonishing ability to play almost anything that came to his mind ad hoc at the piano.

Later, during my doctoral studies, he was present at my conference presentation on Robert Schumann's G-minor Trio at Mannes School of Music graduate student conference in 2011, and I still cherish his kind and encouraging words afterwards. Through Lauri Suurpää who was Carl's student, we at the Sibelius Academy have been able to continue his artistic and intellectual legacy, which was never rigid but rather open-minded and holistic in its approach to analytical interpretation.

I am very happy and honored to know one of the great music theorists of our time. Rest in peace.

The following are a few personal memories of Carl as I knew him, first as a student and later as a faculty member at Mannes College.

Did Carl ever lose his temper? 

At least once...perhaps. In the late eighties Carl was going through a section from Brahms’s Third in a class at Mannes.The passage from the first movement was based on a 5-6-5 motion in which the pitches from each voice received their own root. The student was familiar with such a contrapuntal motion, having seen it in fourth species. But this more harmonic iteration was entirely new. After being asked to explain his analysis perhaps more than twice, Carl, standing at the piano, played the notes in question, one by one, at a dynamic somewhat louder than forte and somewhat more sharply articulated than marcato. The student indeed heard the familiar pattern, though he remained murky about its application in the Brahms, and nodded his head as if the rendering of the passage just heard had clarified everything. I’m quite sure the student never forgot the lesson.

At the copy machine, mid-90s, Mannes

Carl and I were standing around this important machine when he flattered me, so I thought, by asking for my advice. Isn’t that something, I said to myself; he wants to know what I think! Then he framed his question quite succinctly: “If I want to have individual pages copied back-to-back on a single sheet, what button do I push?” Somewhat crestfallen, I helped him through his time of technological uncertainty.

Every Wednesday at 1

The weekly departmental meetings were among the most important institutional traditions at Mannes. They took place at least from the early 60s until the time that Mannes moved downtown to the current building in which Carl never taught. Curricular matters, discussions of students, day-to-day news, past school history, and lunch (our dear colleague Betsy Aaron took sandwich orders before the day’s classes started) were shared among the dozen or so theory and ear training faculty who attended. Much of the heart and soul of the school resided in these very social, collegial gatherings. Carl grounded these meetings, overseeing and nurturing the unique curriculum that defined Mannes during much of his career.

The Carriage House

Going to Carl’s apartment in a building on the south side of a quiet, tree-lined block on East 89th near Madison Avenue was always a special treat. He lived in two apartments there over the years, each furnished and arranged beautifully, with a large collection of books, scores, and a piano. In his first home, what I presumed to be his writing space was especially handsome. Built off the main space, it was a narrow room with a window and white built-in bookshelves. His computer was at the end of a continuous work surface that stretched the length of the room. There was never the slightest hint of clutter, ever, anywhere in the apartment. I usually brought some sweets. Carl was happy to have them but a bit chagrined because he knew he would have to eat them (mostly) by himself.

Did Carl ever set foot in the current West 13th Street building?

At least once. Not long after Mannes’s most recent relocation, he attended a presentation by Eric Wen. Besides then-current faculty, the lecture was attended by notables in the New York music theory world. Also present was a recently retired faculty member, who had known David Mannes himself. Her indignation at the “post-Carl” state of affairs was, during a private conversation, barely controlled. As he was leaving that day, I said, “We miss you, Carl.” Slightly turning his head, he said quietly, “I miss you, too.”

Seeing Carl Schachter for the First Time

“Carl Schachter is coming to campus to give a talk. I encourage you all to attend. He is one of the great music theorists of our time.”

Hearing words to this effect as a college freshman in the spring of 1980, I knew Carl Schachter only as the co-author of Counterpoint in Composition, one of the textbooks that William Rothstein used in our first-year music course at Yale. “If Rothstein says to attend something, you go,” I thought. Besides, the talk was on the sketches to Beethoven’s Op. 14, No. 1. My life revolved around Beethoven’s music, and another course in which I was enrolled, Kevin Korsyn’s seminar on late Beethoven, had already impressed on me the value of sketch study.

Thinking back to that talk, I remember some of the content, which was later published in the Journal of Music Theory. But what struck this teenage freshman more deeply was the man himself. The very picture of a musician-scholar, he spoke directly, unpretentiously, with a supreme command of his material and a confident delivery supported by some of the most fluent, communicative piano playing I had ever heard. Other members of the audience, far more experienced than I, seemed to agree. They too hung on every sentence—as one might savor each phrase of a compelling musical performance.

[Note: The following sentence refers to a special session honoring Carl Schachter at the 2012 joint meeting of the AMS, SEM, and SMT. Since Hurricane Sandy prevented Carl Schachter from attending, the event was repeated in New York City the following month.] Years later in 2012, as part of the reprise in New York of the SMT special session in his honor, I was able to share with Carl how important his Yale talk had been to my early education. The content had been wonderful, of course; but it was the ethos that made the strongest impression. By then much older, I had come to conclude, and still believe now, that especially in oral settings—teaching, lecturing, interacting with students and colleagues—what matters as much, often even more, than the specific content is the model a person embodies of a life devoted to music. For such models I have always been grateful for the examples from my first year at Yale, including that brief but inspiring hour with Carl Schachter.

Between those years, Carl and I interacted quite a few times, mostly at conferences where we both gave papers. He and Hedi Siegel edited an essay of mine for Schenker Studies 2. I learned and later taught from Harmony and Voice Leading, which Carl co-authored with Edward Aldwell, still the gold standard for modern harmony textbooks directed to the serious music theory student. And like so many others, I read and reread everything by Carl that I could get my hands on, hoping in my own work to honor, even I might never attain, the standards for artistry and erudition that he demonstrated on the Yale campus that afternoon many years ago.

Like many, I first came to know Professor Schachter through his scholarship, first as an undergrad and again as a master’s student. Then, during my very first semester as a PhD at CUNY, I had the privilege to not only take part in his analysis seminar but also help in the production of his book The Art of Tonal Analysis. I will always cherish that short span of time when I got be Professor Schachter’s student.

I had the great privilege of being Carl Schachter’s student at quite an early stage of my life as I began my studies at the Mannes College of Music where he was Dean at the time. I had arrived from Israel to New York to study composition and piano at Mannes. Everything was new and unfamiliar, exciting but at the same time more than a little daunting. I recall my first visit at Mannes, still in its original home—an elegant townhouse on Manhattan’s 157 East 74th Street—where my first stop was the registrar’s office. After trying to get through a maze of paperwork, I was informed that Dean Schachter would now see me, and I was to go to his office (I did not know what the word “Dean” meant, and someone had to explain to me that it was not a first name). When I knocked on Dean Schachter’s door I was greeted by a kindly, yet somewhat reserved, formal-looking gentleman whose modest-size office was mostly taken up by a piano. We spoke for a while, and Mr. Schachter, as I came to call him then and forever after, told me that he would be teaching me theory. What I absolutely did not anticipate, though, was that my lessons with him would be one-on-one. I was some three years younger than a typical entering Mannes College student, my English was still faltering, and Mr. Schachter, with utmost generosity and kindness, had literally taken me under his wing, teaching me privately a range of theoretical subjects for about three years between 1963 and 1966. Not only that, but he had shepherded me through Mannes’ quite rigorous curriculum that seemed to me at the time like a labyrinth, advising me on what other classes to take, when, and who with. 

During our weekly lessons that included the study of harmony, counterpoint, musical form and more, I was also privy to Schachter’s ever insightful and illuminating comments as he sat down at the piano to beautifully and lucidly illustrate a wealth of musical points. From everything I know Carl Schachter did not refer to himself as a pianist, but whenever I heard him play, he certainly played like one! And I vividly remember one afternoon when I heard a most beautiful rendition of the first movement of the Sonata Op. 78 by Beethoven emerging out of the concert hall. The doors were closed, and so I stopped by the hall’s entrance, as did other students, all of us listening raptly and with reverence, only to discover that it was Mr. Schachter whose playing we heard.

Over the decades that followed Schachter established himself, of course, as a leading Schenkerian theorist. And yet, as I look back at my time studying with him, I don’t recall Schenker’s name or his theories ever coming up in our lessons, though the study of Schenkerian analysis was built into the curriculum as a requirement we all took at Mannes in those days. As I see it, Carl Schachter did not teach music according to a theoretical methodology. He taught music as MUSIC. At the same time, I’d say that his own piano playing and the insights he offered were imbued with the best that Schenker’s theory offered in terms of its grand vision regarding foreground vs. background—the detail as embedded, organically, within the larger compositional scheme. True to form, Schachter’s piano playing never struck me as an interpretation but rather as a direct and penetrating realization of the composer’s intent. 

Let it be said that I was also privy to what I’d call a quirky and uniquely Schachterian sense of humor. It didn’t happen immediately; but once we established a slightly more comfortable teacher-student rapport, Schachter began doing something that he seemed to have perfected to an art. When he wanted to illustrate that something didn’t work quite right, say, in the voice leading realization of a harmony exercise, he wouldn’t say anything but, instead, sit at the piano and start improvising. First he’d simply treat that “rough patch” sequentially, but little by little the improvisation would devolve into the utterly ridiculous and at the same time totally plausible in terms of how you got from A to Z. These improvisations were done by him with such ease, and all the while he kept a completely straight face though a twinkle in his eye let you know that he himself was enjoying the hilariously funny outcomes of his flight-of-fantasy excursions. 

What a great gift these lessons and more broadly my time with Carl Schachter was for me, a gift that has lit up my own life in music, its impact long-lasting and never to be forgotten. 

Studying in New York with Carl Schachter was a thrilling, life-changing experience. Everything about the CUNY Graduate Centre was exciting. (At that time it was located on 42nd street, across from New York Public Library, and it felt like the centre of the universe.) Carl had immense knowledge and immense musical talent. During classes his analytical diagrams were always secondary, always simply a means of expressing musical ideas and connections. And, as has been noted, Carl always focussed on the expressive, emotional side of music. Probably the highlight was his class on Schubert songs. And we had a great group of students at the time, all brilliant, all very enthusiastic. 

Carl had a beautiful way of lecturing, with long, flowing, highly organized phrases, always beautifully clear. And he had a remarkable gift of musical memory and piano skill. We were always delighted when he dredged up from his memory a passage in some relatively obscure piece, and play it perfectly from memory (whether it was piano or orchestral music), while explaining its structure.

The most brilliant such feat that I witnessed was at a conference, where, by way of challenging the speaker's interpretation of the conclusion of a famous opera, he impromptu seated himself at the piano and proceeded to refute that interpretation while playing the final five minutes or so perfectly from memory. 

Carl was very gracious. I remember how warmly he welcomed my wife and I into his apartment where he gave her an audition (successful!) for entry into graduate studies in performance. And I remember in later years that my wife and I had a most delightful dinner with Carl at a tiny but excellent French restaurant near to his apartment. Carl has for me always been a model of the most accomplished musician and a most generous human being. It has been a great honour to have known him. Vale.

I first met Carl Schachter in late 1977 or early 1978, less than a year after the death of my principal teacher, Ernst Oster. I was 23 and a PhD student at Yale. Carl knew of me from Oster, and he wanted to get to know me. He also knew, I’m sure, that I was still affected by Oster’s death. I would come to New York from New Haven a few times a year to go to the Metropolitan Opera; on some of those trips I visited Carl at his apartment. We would go to lunch, he would play me his favorite historical recordings, and we would talk about music and other things until mid-afternoon. He clearly wanted to expand my cultural and musical education, although he never put it that way. I kept a respectful distance, not wanting to repeat the intensity of my relation to Oster, but I admired Carl deeply and regarded him as the greatest living authority on all things Schenkerian. He was also a fabulous musician and a wonderful human being. I never considered myself his student, but of course I learned from him. Among the things I learned was not to let myself get carried away by theoretical ideas but to stay grounded in the music, the individual musical work. When once I opined that Bach’s famous C-major Prelude was an expansion of its first four bars, he had a one-word response: “Why?” I didn’t argue but decided that perhaps this was one reduction too far.

I had begun working on musical rhythm in 1976, after taking a seminar on the subject with Maury Yeston; it became the subject of my dissertation. I was uncomfortably aware that Carl was working in the same area, but he didn’t share his work with me before publication, and my independent streak kept me from consulting him on anything but minor details (I also wanted to avoid territorial clashes with my advisor, Allen Forte). I still remember my shock when the second article in his rhythm trilogy appeared in 1980, when my dissertation—including the analyses—was essentially complete. I was amazed that the examples he had chosen for analysis were, on the whole, so simple. I quickly saw the wisdom of his strategy. It was an excellent lesson in pedagogy, one that I never forgot.

After that my relation to Carl was that of a younger colleague. I was much honored when he asked me to lecture on Chopin with him in England in 1993 and in Israel in 2010. Both events involved his friend and former student Murray Perahia. It was while preparing for the England lectures that Carl challenged me to tackle Chopin’s Polonaise-Fantasy, the only time he ever assigned a piece for me to analyze. It was clearly a test of sorts. When I eventually showed him my voice-leading graph, his only response was to say that he had thought of the same middleground. He didn’t say whether it was his preferred middleground, but it seemed that I’d passed the test.

Once I began to work on Italian opera, I learned of Carl’s deep knowledge of opera and historical singers. He had heard most of them live, many of them in his Chicago childhood. It was his analysis of Philip’s monologue in Verdi’s Don Carlos, part of that 1980 article, that stimulated my study of opera in the first place. My wife and I took him to Caramoor to hear Rossini’s Otello, and I gave him my favorite recording of Semiramide. When I praised Donizetti’s Linda di Chamounix, he said that it had been a favorite of his father’s.

After I left New Haven—first for Amherst, then Michigan and Oberlin—I naturally saw less of Carl. We spoke on the phone every now and then (as my friends know, I am not much of a telephone talker). We served together on the program committees for most of the Mannes Schenker symposia, where everyone deferred to Carl’s judgment. I gradually learned that it was OK to disagree with him, although I tended not to do so directly. After I challenged Schenkerian orthodoxy in my paper to the Second Schenker Symposium (1992), I was still invited back, although the paper was not chosen for inclusion in Schenker Studies 2.

I regret that I was never in one of Carl’s classes. Until his 2012 course of lectures at the CUNY Graduate Center, the closest I got was to attend his conference presentations. I will never forget his 1983 SMT keynote address, “Foreground vs. Background,” which bowled me over. After years of pestering him to publish it, I finally learned (i.e., he finally admitted) that he had delivered it extemporaneously. He could do that.

I will always cherish Carl’s memory and count myself lucky to have known him. He led and taught mostly by example. When he asked me to apply for the position at CUNY from which he was retiring, he told me that he felt obligated to make way for the next generation. I kept that in mind when planning my own retirement. Even then, I was learning from him.

At the Aspen Music Festival during the summer of 1999, a composer introduced me to Professor Carl Schachter’s book Unfoldings. Reading Professor Schachter’s writings on music for the first time was revelatory, and it was a great privilege to study with him at the Mannes College of Music shortly thereafter. Every class meeting was magical. He shared profound insights about music while working through analyses at the piano, exploring the implications for performance and drawing connections to literature—from Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels and Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein to Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities. When Professor Schachter spoke about music, he always did so with the utmost care and nuance, as though he were talking about a beloved friend. Although my time studying with him was brief, he transformed my hearing and understanding of music for life. I will forever be grateful for these gifts and for the opportunity to continue learning from the writings he left behind.

Note: This text was delivered at a special session honoring Carl Schachter at the 2012 joint meeting of the AMS, SEM, and SMT. The session commemorated Carl Schachter receiving a Lifetime Membership in the SMT. 

It is my great pleasure to announce that, in recognition of outstanding contributions to the field of music theory, the Society for Music Theory awards Lifetime Membership to Carl Schachter. I am deeply grateful to be able to present this honor to my former teacher, and I am also fortunate in that, though I am constrained for time, I am speaking of someone who needs no introduction to this Society. 

Carl Schachter’s writings appear on reading lists of the undergraduate to the seasoned scholar. For most of us, they are not just required reading; they are desired reading. We consume them avidly because we hear in them an individual voice, a voice within which we find a piece of music vividly rediscovered and brought to new life for us. We all know of Schachter’s longstanding interest in analysis and performance, but to put it that way is not sufficient.  For Carl, analysis is performance, and performance analysis. That is, the act of analysis is always fully synthetic with performance. So often, Carl’s first question to his students would be, “How would you play this piece?” Analysis could not begin without an answer. This synthesis resonates through every page of Schachter’s work, as if from within the words of the analysis a performance wells up, persuasive and clear.

Of course, those of us lucky enough to have witnessed Carl lecture know that performance does not remain implicit in his words: his superb pianism finds breathtakingly subtle ways to erase the distinction between analysis and performance. Again I think of voice: Carl’s playing speaks the analysis and adds to it, sounding out seamlessly what words and sketches say in other ways. And we know that voice elsewhere as well: in his harmony text, written with the late Edward Aldwell, we hear the warm, patient voice of the teacher, guiding us toward nuance and inviting us to listen-and read-in paragraphs, not bullet points. Indeed, we learn from Carl that analysis can have a larger trajectory, that it is an act that can be performed.

In many a seminar, I had an experience that I can only describe metaphorically: that of entering the classroom with the piece of the day imaged in my mind as a rough crystal, glinting with lovely facets but crude nonetheless. After Schachter had unfolded his masterly traversal of the work’s structure (and meaning!), I saw instead a perfect jewel, projecting crystalline clarity in my hearing, and more beautiful than ever. 

Carl’s writings can teach us this, but it is ironic that one of the most brilliant of these, his “Triad as Place and Action,” culminates with his Pastoral Symphony analysis, an astonishing transformation of triad into storm. Ironic, of course, in that now, a storm keeps him from us. [Note: Carl Schachter was unable to attend this event since his travel was disrupted by Hurricane Sandy.] But his influence is everywhere, and I invite you to join me in honoring him.

I first met Carl Schachter under less-than-auspicious circumstances. I had graduated from the Curtis Institute in May of 1987, and entered Mannes in the M.M. program that fall. My new piano teacher, Edward Aldwell—one of Mr. Schachter’s closest friends, of course, and co-author of Harmony and Voice Leading—had arranged for me to take Mr. Schachter’s Analysis II course, the fourth-year analysis course for Mannes undergraduates. (It won’t surprise anyone to learn that, before Mannes’ restructuring of the early 2010s, the undergraduate theory curriculum there was more rigorous than that of Curtis. Sitting in on an undergraduate course was a privilege, certainly not remedial work.) Somehow, the course didn’t show up on my handwritten schedule—those were different times for administrative processes in higher education—and so I failed to attend the first meeting. That evening I received a cross phone call from Mr. Aldwell, who said that Mr. Schachter was surprised and not pleased by my absence. Needless to say, I was present for the second meeting, where I met Mr. Schachter for the first time, and proceeded to struggle with a Schenkerian graph of Schubert’s Der Neugierige. I felt keenly that I had to dig myself out of two holes, the one—a deficit in my understanding of Schenkerian symbols—far deeper than the other. So began my multi-year apprenticeship with Mr. Schachter.

Analysis II led to Analysis for Performers—one of the most beneficial courses that I have taken anywhere—which led in turn to the occasional private piano lesson, and eventually to two years of piano lessons in the context of the DMA Program at the CUNY Graduate Center. This last format raised some eyebrows, as Mr. Schachter was not known as a piano teacher, but I wouldn’t trade those years for anything: he offered ways of reading and hearing a piano score that I had not encountered before, combining a scrupulous attention to any and all articulation marks with the sense that hearing a musical work was a highly imaginative process that fully and absolutely transcended symbols on the page. Always many steps ahead of any interpretive framework that I might have worked out, he modeled an ideal of hearing that I aspire to still. (He also leaned very occasionally on his experiences, not any too positive in his recounting, as a piano student of Isabella Vengerova.)

We weren’t done even after those two years of lessons; once I had passed my comprehensive exams at the Graduate Center, he agreed to serve as my dissertation advisor. This was perhaps his greatest service to me, and one that I never took for granted: a theorist of his distinction in no way needed to advise a DMA thesis. In addition to having the patience to improve my writing—an area in which I had had no serious instruction since 10th grade—he helped the dissertation process remain what it surely should be, at least at the DMA level: an exploration of an aspect of music that leads both to greater stylistic understanding and better informed performances. I finished with a far deeper love for the repertoire encompassed by my topic—Robert Schumann’s piano works 1830–39—than I started with.

In short, Mr. Schachter shaped my musicianship in a thoroughgoing—a favorite word of his—lasting, and entirely positive manner.  I will always think of him with gratitude and affection.

Carl Schachter and I knew each other for over half a century. We met in the 1960s, while William Mitchell and Felix Salzer were planning the first volume of The Music Forum (1967). Carl had an article in every volume of the Forum (his rhythm trilogy, now known to most in the Unfoldings reprint, first appeared there), and after Mitchell’s death in 1971 he became the associate editor of the last three volumes.

As the Forum’s editorial assistant, I did most of the copyediting. I don’t think I ever changed a word that Carl wrote. My close reading of Carl’s text and examples and discussions with him about the smallest details as well as larger issues were incomparable lessons not only in how to analyze music, but also in how to write about it. It was Carl who introduced me to what I think was his favorite book on writing, Fowler’s Dictionary of Modern English Usage — he especially recommended the entries on repetition (not always to be avoided) and elegant variation (the undesirable result of avoiding repetition). And it was from him that I learned about Mark Twain’s essay “The Awful German Language,” indispensable for Schenker translators.

Carl’s work as an editor, of the Forum and also of Schenker Studies, isn’t often mentioned. Countless times during our long friendship I asked for and got his advice on editing, writing, and translating. His encouragement meant more to me than I can express in words.

I was lucky enough to meet Carl Schachter when I was a young faculty member at the University of Michigan in the late 1970s. He was always generous with his time and insights after his colloquia and—uncommon among senior male scholars at the time—was kind enough to remember me and to encourage me. I had many occasions at Columbia and at conferences from then on to keep our acquaintance alive and I learned something every time he opened his mouth. His stunning ability to play a Schenkerian graph and make it sound like music was among the most vivid and inspirational aspects of his talks. His sensitive analyses, infused with aspects of history, philosophy, and meaning, spoke to the historical musicologist. In the spring of 2010, he was kind enough to present his recently published work on the opening scenes of Don Giovanni to my graduate seminar on the opera, and two years later, in November 2012, I was honored to be asked to give a paper at the SMT special session held in his honor at AMS/SMT in New Orleans. Although the dramatic intrusion of Hurricane Sandy prevented him from attending (I jumped through several geographic hoops to make it, but he was in more delicate health), there were hundreds present to celebrate him. The session was reconstituted at CUNY a month later as “Musical Dialogues with Carl Schachter,” chaired by Poundie Burstein and Joseph Straus, where in his response I had that one final time to experience Carl’s generosity, interest, and brilliance.

Over more than a decade of close mentorship, Carl Schachter nurtured and developed aspects of my musicianship that I had not yet discovered within myself. It is largely thanks to his remarkable foresight and boundless support that I am where I am today.

This transformation began twenty-five years ago at my Mannes entrance exam. After completing the written harmony and counterpoint exercises, I walked into the music theory interview. Carl looked at me and asked out of the blue, “Do you improvise?” He then stepped to the piano, played two measures in a Mozartian style, and challenged me to continue. Till then, no one had ever expected me to improvise in historical styles. I wondered, was it even allowed to do so? Yet, after I improvised a continuation for him, Carl took it upon himself to give me weekly individual lessons in tonal improvisation for the next two years, beautifully supplementing my Master’s studies in piano and composition.  

This unexpected opportunity filled me with joy and excitement. Once a week, I would eagerly walk across Central Park, passing the Reservoir on my way to his Upper East Side apartment in New York City for these treasured lessons. I often wondered if he had ever taught improvisation to anyone else. At the time, I knew of no other students, but some years later, Murray Perahia told me that during his own days at Mannes in the 1960s, Carl had taught him fugue improvisation.

Carl’s teaching of improvisation, I remember vividly, was full of fascinating analytic insights. He would have me improvise a Baroque prelude, a Classical sonata, or a Romantic fantasy, and then, after listening carefully, he would offer perceptive observations on a myriad of details, including hidden large-scale connections that were so characteristic of his deep analyses of the repertoire. This opened my ears to conceiving improvisation compositionally, and has inspired my approach ever since. 

Today, looking back on my journey so far, that has led me to become a professor of improvisation, the founder of one of the world’s first Master’s programs in piano improvisation for classically trained pianists, composer in residence with an improvisation orchestra, and the director of an improvisation ensemble. Over a period of two decades, I have taught improvisation at Mannes College, Juilliard School, Curtis Institute, and HMDK Stuttgart—I know that none of this would have been possible without Carl. 

In those early years, as I struggled to find my direction, I was filled with endless questions and insecurities about the state of music and my own future. My constant searching exhausted the patience of almost everyone around me. Yet Carl was always there, offering hours of conversation, calm advice, thoughtful answers, and a profound, unwavering belief in my path. 

During one of our many conversations about my varied musical activities and future possibilities, he suddenly asked, “Don’t you see yourself primarily as a composer?” He went on to explain that everything I did—whether in improvisation, composition, piano playing, theory and analysis, or conducting—was part of a larger, unified profile as a composer. That, he believed, was how I should view myself. It was a revelation that brought immense clarity to me, showcasing Carl’s mentorship at its absolute best.     

Throughout the eighteen years I lived in New York, Carl probably attended every single concert I gave there, starting with my first student recital at Mannes—the very first time I dared to improvise solo in public after our lessons had commenced. I also played my own compositions for him frequently, often shortly after I wrote them. His feedback on my performances, improvisations, and compositions was always deeply illuminating and entirely sincere. He had a rare ability to discern both the qualities and the shortcomings in ways that forced me to think more deeply. Yet alongside his profound insights, Carl possessed a wonderful wit. After a concert that featured several of my pieces exploring wildly different styles, he came to congratulate me and simply remarked, “Not enough variety in your compositions.”

His perceptive approach naturally extended into his role as the supervisor for my doctorate on improvisation at Juilliard, which was another pivotal milestone in his mentorship. No less remarkable, however, was his support for my own teaching. When I started teaching improvisation at Mannes—following his recommendation, for the next eight years he attended all the concerts of my improvisation students. Sometimes he was nearly the only person in the audience, yet he never missed a single concert. Knowing how incredibly busy he was with his own work during those years, it is amazing that he always found the time to attend. In these concerts, students were simply improvising on stage in various instrumental combinations, often for the very first time. Carl saw immense pedagogical value in these performances, and had the vision to foresee how this endeavor could grow in significance. His presence in those early student concerts meant a lot to me, giving me the confidence to continue and develop the field of improvisation. 

Years later, the last time I visited Carl at his home was already after I had moved to Germany and his own health situation had begun to decline. I played for him a video recording of my student improvisation ensemble in Stuttgart. He listened with the same deep concentration as he always had, and in response discussed the level of the students’ involvement in the music making. Even in that last visit—his pedagogical sensitivities were as strong as ever. 

Since Carl’s passing, I find myself mentioning his name in nearly every lesson I teach, realizing just how many of his ideas, whether regarding specific repertoire or broader musical concepts, remain vivid in my mind. For instance, his crystal-clear distinction between tonal rhythm, as distinct from durational rhythm, in his first article on rhythm and linear analysis, along with his explanation of the natural tendencies and individual character of each of the seven scale degrees of the major scale—have inspired me to develop improvisation exercises that eliminate a regular pulse, in a recitative-like manner, in order to deepen the feeling for tension and release found in the notes themselves. 

Another example is his analysis of the hidden ascending 5–6 motion in the opening of the “Spring” sonata, as a beautiful demonstration of how abstract recognizable patterns manifest in real composition in surprising ways. Furthermore, his humorous discussion of Beethoven’s early sketch for that opening theme offers an encouraging, relatable message to any aspiring composer.

* * *

Q & A – some of Carl Schachter’s less well-known remarks on composers and works

Questions:

1) Which post-1890 orchestral piece did Carl Schachter analyze motivically, after Ernst Oster gifted him a manuscript? 

2) Which Sergei Prokofiev piece did Carl admire in particular? 

3) What was his response to the tonal organization in the exposition of Gustav Mahler’s First 

Symphony, first movement? 

4) Which Igor Stravinsky pieces did he find beautiful?

5) Which Maurice Ravel pieces did he find beautiful? 

6) What was his opinion on Verklärte Nacht? 

7) Which Dmitri Shostakovich Symphony did he agree to listen to, once every in five years? 

8) Which aspects of George Crumb’s written compositions did he appreciate? 

9) How did he respond to the increasing usage of notation software by composers? 

10) What was his response to the concert celebrating Milton Babbitt’s 90th birthday? 

(The readers are welcome to pause and contemplate here before reading the answers…) 

Answers:

1) Once Carl showed me a facsimile of a short-score autograph by Debussy for “Prelude for the Afternoon of a Faun,” which Ernst Oster gifted him. Carl analyzed the motivic connections in the piece, and hypothesized that Schenker “would have appreciated” how the C#–G tritone from the opening flute melody becomes the bass Db–G for the middle section in D-flat major.

2) The F-minor Violin Sonata Op. 80. He appreciated the depth of expression that Prokofiev achieved in this piece. 

3) While Carl admitted to admiring Mahler a lot in his youth, he became more critical later on. Regarding the first symphony, after the introduction, the first movement exposition begins in D major. Soon after, the music goes directly to the dominant, A major, easily and without any tension in the modulation, and simply stays there for the rest of the exposition. The lack of tonic-dominant tension, and the unbalanced proportions between the two keys, seemed to him as compositional weaknesses. 

4) The endings of Symphony of Psalms, and The Rake’s Progress (Tom’s insanity and death, prior to the epilogue). Both passages contain quiet, frozen, hypnotic music. 

5) When I mentioned that Ravel sometimes avoids revealing himself emotionally in his works, Carl immediately came up with examples that show the contrary: the slow movement from the Piano Concerto in G, and the “Sunrise” from Daphnis and Chloe (Rehearsal nos. 155 to 170).

6) While Carl considered it a beautiful piece by Schönberg, he thought that the form was problematic, with too many introductions and too many codas. 

7) Once, after a performance of Shostakovich Eighth Symphony (Rostropovich and LSO), he shared his impressions, which dealt with the relationship between content and form. He concluded that the symphony, and the first movement in particular, were too long. But, he would be willing to hear it in concert once every five years. A while later, we heard this piece in concert again. Carl complained, and was harsher in his critique this time. I reminded him that he said he could listen to it once every five years. He replied: “yes, but that was only two years ago.”  

8) Carl noted how beautiful Crumb’s hand-written scores look. This is not surprising, considering his appreciation of composers’ autographs and what can be learned from them. 

9) Naturally, he agreed that the clarity of computer-printed scores is practical and helpful, but he lamented the disappearance of the composer’s manuscript as a result. He saw the manuscript as an expressive representation of the composition. 

10) The relationship between Schachter and Babbitt has been fascinating. I am probably not the only one who remembers a colorful event from the Fourth International Schenker Symposium in 2006, during which Joe Straus interviewed Babbitt and Allen Forte on stage, discussing the early days of Schenker reception in the U.S., and after each anecdote Babbitt looked at the audience and asked: “Carl, do you remember this?” 

A few weeks later, after Babbitt’s own 90th birthday concert, which included his own works as well as his own candid stories behind the compositions, Carl told me that while he enjoyed the previous event more, he also enjoyed that one—but noticed that the stories were longer than the pieces. 

I met Carl Schachter in 1976 when I was a junior at Queens College in his analysis class, and when he retired in the mid-90s, I was his colleague on the full-time faculty at the Aaron Copland School of Music. Carl made everyone feel valued and heard. He handled the classroom in a way that I tried to model throughout my career. He was serious without being too serious, and he was light and humorous without being superficial. There was joy in the way he taught, and the way he heard music.  Everyone wanted to be able to hear the way he heard.  Though my life as a composer has involved a great deal of non-tonal music, the analytical thinking that Carl espoused is a central feature to everything I do in music. (If a reviewer notes that there seems to be "direction" and "resolution" in my music, I feel a kind of shared victory with Carl's teaching.)  

I took additional classes with him in my MA and Ph.D, and the lectures were always at an ideal level of intellectual curiosity. Carl observed my classroom teaching as a young faculty member and was very supportive. He was also on the committee that hired me at Queens College, and I know his support was a crucial part of that decision. (And I also know his recommendation was a crucial part of so many others at so many other institutions.)

Carl was also down-to-earth and loved a good joke. He also loved telling jokes. There is one in particular that I have told hundreds of times. I won't tell the whole story (Carl's version was about 5 minutes long), but I vividly remember him telling the story of the viola player who suddenly disappeared after just two lessons, having learned to bow the open C and G strings. The player's excuse was "I'm just too busy gigging to take any more lessons." There were many other stories that can't be shared in a public forum like this. Carl was a special human. He will be missed.

I loved every minute of being at Mannes and was very aware of his very generous and loving support of all the students there. I have to admit that I was just slightly scared of Dr. Schachter but that didn’t diminish my admiration and appreciation of his contribution to all of us his students.

Learning from Carl

My association with Carl goes back a long way. In 1980, when I was a graduate student at Yale, I was briefly Reviews Editor at the Journal of Music Theory. The English translation of Schenker’s Free Composition had just been published and I invited Carl to review it. Instead of a simple review, what I got was masterful overview of the Schenkerian enterprise, rich in specific detail and written with grace and ease. My lifetime of learning from Carl had begun.

A few years later, I was hired by Queens College and eventually the Graduate Center at CUNY. For the first few years, Carl and I were not only colleagues but actually office-mates (along with Charles Burkhart and Howard Brofsky). After meeting with students during my office hours, I had the benefit of informal critique of my performance from Carl and Charles who couldn’t help eavesdropping in our cramped quarters. And I continued to learn.

Over the years, I audited several classes taught by Carl—I remember a particularly riveting course devoted entirely to Schubert’s Die schöne Mullerin. He moved back and forth between the blackboard, where a complete graph of a piece would gradually emerge, and the piano, where he demonstrated and tested by ear all of his analytical assertions. The quality of his insights ranged from the merely excellent to the downright astonishing. Pieces I thought I knew turned out to have subtleties and depths I never would have discovered on my own. 

I also had the deep pleasure of editing and seeing into publication two collections of Carl’s essays: Unfoldings and The Art of Tonal Analysis. Unfoldings is a collection of previously published work, sometimes in obscure sources, representing the core of his scholarly thought. Like his teaching, these essays range in quality from excellent to astonishing, and many of them will be read and appreciated as long as musicians remain interested in the core canonical literature of classical music. We will all have our favorites, but the three articles on rhythm have been especially meaningful to me. Indeed, I think they are landmarks of music theory and musical thought. The Art of Tonal Analysis is a somewhat different enterprise. I invited Carl, then retired, to teach a special seminar at the CUNY Graduate Center where I asked him to talk about his favorite pieces. We recorded the classes and I edited the transcriptions, adding musical examples as necessary to clarify the argument (many of these were reconstructed from Carl’s demonstrations at the piano). I like to think that some of the thrill of being in Carl’s presence while he talked and played and analyzed is captured in this volume. For me, the experience of being in the class and of editing the lecture transcripts was a highpoint of my own intellectual life and the culmination of a lifetime of learning from Carl. 

What did I learn? In the most obvious sense, I learned a lot about some wonderful music—how it was put together, how it might be most richly experienced, how it does the things it does. I also learned a standard for musical scholarship and musical thought and their expression in speech and writing. It’s a standard I could never hope to meet—Carl’s combination of musical and intellectual gifts was unique—but it’s always before me as I do my own work in Carl’s shadow. 

Underlying the sheer brilliance of Carl’s musical thought was a joyful pleasure in music and in life. Carl was fun to be around and while he took music very seriously, he never took himself too seriously—he was fully alive to the incongruities and sometimes the plain silliness of life. That was also something I learned from him.

In his interview with Joseph Straus published in the introduction to Unfoldings, Carl Schachter noted, "Tracing the sources of the tonal system and how it developed . . . requires a kind of connection between analysis and theory on the one hand and history on the other. That's gone less far than I think it ought to have . . . There are a few younger scholars who are working along these lines, but there is a signal lack of interest on the part of most musicologists in analysis, James Webster being an outstanding exception."

Of course, I was gratified to be mentioned in that way in that context. But it seems to me that the equation ought to be reversed: the majority of practitioners of music theory seem not to evince a great deal of interest in music history, an outstanding exception being Carl Schachter. Music theory and history are not two disciplines, but one. Both have as their goal the understanding of music; ideally, both are concerned both with individual works and with musical traditions and practices on a large scale. I don't believe that they can be dissociated, and I'm sure that Carl didn't either. (The correct 'opposite' to music theory in this context, incidentally, is music history; "musicology" — the study of music — encompasses both.) 

In fact, one of the most important musicologists of the early 20th century was Heinrich Schenker. In particular, he was one of the first to understand the importance of studying original sources for pieces of music, especially autographs; his work had a considerable influence on the development of source studies among music historians. He was also a profoundly insightful, if polemically limited, historian of theory. 

I do considerable Schenkerian analysis, although I refer to myself as a non-orthodox practitioner (in part, admittedly, in an attempt to deflect potential criticism from the orthodox!). Over the years I engaged Carl in several conversations about my work. He always encouraged me, and never evinced defensiveness or sectarianism about what he supposed I was doing. For that I was, and remain, grateful.

*

As most readers of this note will know, Carl was a Mensch. He was broadly and deeply knowledgeable about literature, the arts, and history. A personal anecdote: once, when he was lecturing at Cornell, my wife and I invited him to dinner. A week or so later, a small package arrived for her in the mail, sent from E. 86th Street in Manhattan (of whose significance in this context she was unaware). Inside, to her surprise, was a belated house-gift: a colorful embroidered Mexican jewelry pouch, perfect for traveling, which has accompanied her for many thousands of miles. A modest gesture but a moving one: typical of Carl.

I met Carl Schachter in 2010, when I auditioned to attend Mannes College for a Master’s in Composition. I was subjected to a battery of tests on subjects I didn’t know, or hadn’t thought about in several years: counterpoint, sight-singing, and keyboard harmony, to name a few. Ferried from room to room by friendly volunteers, I encountered Dr. Schachter (I never called him Carl!) in the hallway. As I remember it, there was some questioning as to whether I knew figured bass. Petrified that it would hurt my chances of being admitted, I lied and I said that I did. “Oh yes, sure, absolutely, the numbers … no problem!” 

Rightly skeptical, Dr. Schachter escorted me to a classroom nearby. I sat at the piano. He put a chorale in front of me—on a yellowish piece of paper with rough edges—and told me to play. My heart pounded in my chest. I mean, I knew what the numbers meant, but my fingers did not cooperate. Two or three chords in, he stopped me, gently. We both chuckled a bit, and I sheepishly left the room. I was chastened, but his good humor saved me from any deep sense of shame. "There goes Mannes," I thought to myself as I left the building on West 85th Street.

I made it through, though, and began at Mannes in the fall. I’d see Dr. Schachter from time to time, but I doubted he remembered me. (I sort of hoped he didn’t!) My second year, I enrolled in his course, “Analysis for Performers.” The room would be packed with students, so I’d show up on the early side. Some mornings, I’d perch on a bench outside the classroom. Dr. Schachter would often be there, too. Eventually, we started chatting, usually small talk, but occasionally about music, the class, and what I wanted to do after Mannes. I desperately wanted a PhD in Composition, so I applied for one, and ended up having to choose between two programs. I was really struggling with my decision, and I confided in Dr. Schachter. 

Reader, I took his advice. Obviously. Who wouldn’t? It was at my chosen institution that I switched from Composition to Theory, and the rest, as they say, is history.

I didn’t know Carl well at all, but he made a huge impact on my career in an unexpected way. More important to me than his brilliance was his kindness and the generosity with which he gave of his time. I will remember him fondly.  

I first met Carl Schachter 55 years ago when I was 17. I already knew his name as the co-author of the now legendary textbook Counterpoint in Composition. After learning species counterpoint from the first five chapters in my first semester at college, I was dismayed to discover that the remaining five chapters were not taught. Having read these later chapters on my own, I had been greatly looking forward to learning how the fundamental principles of voice-leading could have applications in understanding the music I deeply loved. 

Frustrated at not being able to learn this material at my university, I decided to contact the authors directly by phone. (In those days everyone was listed in the New York City phone directory unless they paid to have an unlisted number.) I brazenly called the first of the two names on the book, and an elderly man with a thick Viennese accent picked up the phone and responded “Hallo, Vat can I do for you?” I explained that I had been using his book and that I wanted to continue studying the remaining chapters with him. The man I had reached was, of course, Felix Salzer, who told me instantly that he no longer taught privately. Nevertheless, he invited me to his apartment on the Upper East Side, where he talked about the significance of counterpoint in actual music and demonstrated some examples at the piano. At the end of our hour-long meeting, he said that he would contact his co-author, Carl Schachter, who might be able to recommend someone to teach me.

Several days later, Salzer called to give me Carl’s contact details, telling me to call him directly. Having arranged to meet at Carl’s apartment on the corner of Madison and 89th Street, my first impression of his home was one of tranquility, books and music. Between the bookcases, his walls were decorated with Mexican textile art, and there was an abundance of pre-Columbian pottery, displayed in cabinets. I also noticed a large color caricature of Artur Rubinstein hanging beside a black Steinway grand. Amidst this sanctuary of good taste was a delightful charcoal-colored cat named Suzy. 

At this first meeting, Carl asked me about my previous studies in music theory and gave me some aural tests. He then asked me to go to his piano and questioned me about the Schubert song on his music stand. After a few minutes, it became obvious how little I knew, and I felt painfully embarrassed for wasting this distinguished musician’s time. Afterwards, undoubtedly more impressed by my enthusiasm than my knowledge or ability, Carl said that although he no longer took on private students regularly, he would make an exception in my case. Naturally, I was overjoyed, and began a series of weekly lessons that would change the course of my life.

Carl put me through my paces, beginning with species counterpoint, 4-part harmony, and finally writing short pastiche compositions and fugues. Curiously, throughout my three and a half years of private study with Carl, he never once mentioned Schenker. Although he often assigned me to make reductions of passages from pieces of music, it was only after I went to graduate school that I ever even heard the term “Schenkerian Analysis.” However, the musical training I received from Carl was the best possible preparation for understanding Schenker’s ideas. 

After college, I moved to New Haven, but whenever I visited New York, I always tried to meet with Carl, which allowed me to sit in on his classes beforehand. Although Carl had a modest demeanor, witnessing him in full flow teaching a class revealed a whole other side of him. His teaching was a virtuosic performance. He would go back and forth between the piano and the blackboard on which he wrote out voice-leading graphs with the utmost precision and clarity. Having studied piano seriously in his teens with the legendary Isabelle Vengerova, Carl was a superb pianist. His piano playing not only clarified the logic of his analyses but was also simply beautiful. The way in which he demonstrated the structure of passages while most lucidly revealing the long-range musical connections was a marvel to behold. 

Over the many years since my student days, I would frequently discuss my ideas for articles and papers with him. Our relationship came full circle after he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease, when he asked me to co-teach his analysis classes at Juilliard. Needless to say, I was honored to be given that responsibility. Although I was able to notate his ideas on the whiteboard, my ability to demonstrate at the piano sorely paled in comparison to what he would have done. 

Carl stopped teaching in 2015 and I later moved abroad to England. Nevertheless, on every one of my subsequent trips to New York, I would always visit him at his apartment. My last visit was just a week before he died (see photo). Since he was immobile and could barely speak, our conversation was essentially a one-way affair. I did however tell him about a talk I was going to present at a forthcoming conference. When I sat down at his piano to demonstrate some of the ideas in my paper, he noticeably sat up with an alert look on his face. I should like to think that this was some acknowledgement of my giving thanks to him for a debt that can never be repaid. 

“Carl's Parenthetical Asides”

After I enrolled in what what was then the Mannes College of Music, in the Fall of 1972, Ernst Oster became my mentor in Schenkerian analysis, Robert Cuckson my mentor in music theory, and Carl Schachter my mentor at large, overseeing and encouraging my theory and analysis studies as I progressed from Mannes to Queens College and finally to the CUNY Graduate Center. These extended studies spanned several decades, culminating in my dissertation defense in 2004. I was Carl's last doctoral advisee.

During his classes, Carl was known for offering innumerable parenthetical asides on just about anything that crossed his mind, from the ear-splitting nuisance of passing firetrucks (his face cringing), to the peccadillos of a pianist who fell out of favor ("he never practices"), and even to the ups and downs of concerts and operas that he went out of his way to attend ("I left after the first act").

It was one such aside, during the Theory Pedagogy class of 1973–74, that was a game-changer for me. It involved pacing: Carl said in passing that he had a hunch about the phrase rhythm of Mozart's slow movements, that they revolved around even underlying paces throughout. Carl never again mentioned this idea, but it got me thinking that the motoric rhythms of the high Baroque (at least those of the iconic Bach, Handel and Scarlatti masterworks), with their incessant moto perpetuo, were of necessity based on some kind of even and steady underlying pacing.

Some years passed before I could begin to develop the idea into a full-fledged hierarchical theory, with a basic pace that governed a slower obbligato pace and a faster figural pace, and that was subject to expansion and contraction (Bill Rothstein's 1981 dissertation was of indispensable help, too). 

That my pace theory also has application, with modifications, to the high Baroque repertoire that Carl considered less than iconic—to the music of Vivaldi, Couperin, Telemann, and Rameau, to name but a few—only enhances Carl's stature, and attests to the far-reaching and enduring influence of his legacy. 

I came to Mannes in 1969 to study composition, after earning a bachelor’s degree in theory at the Jerusalem Academy for Music & Dance. My original plan was to study at Juilliard, but friends who were familiar with my interest in theory persuaded me to apply to Mannes, as it offered the opportunity to study with Carl. I changed my plans, and decided to pursue a second bachelor’s at Mannes in composition and theory.

What captivated me about Carl, beyond his ingenious musical insights, was the humanity that came through his teaching. He included inspiring examples from other fields in the arts, including literature, poetry, and visual arts. His approach to Schenkerian theory conveyed the importance of “total harmonic relationships” and multi-level connections between the various parameters of a piece. For him, knowledge was always rooted in feelings, both on the surface of the music (foreground) as well as in the more underlying, less conscious level (background). His critique of students’ works was always gentle, with a personal touch. His attention to detail in the texts and in the performances of the texts gave his students a feeling of awe towards the composers and to their works, and a feeling of total devotion to the creative impulse and to the multi-level possibilities of understanding the depth of the texts. Reading his articles, as well as others’ articles which he assigned, opened new horizons for me.

After Mannes

Whether during my DMA studies at Columbia, or later as I settled into my long teaching career back in Jerusalem, I always remained connected to Carl. His voice served as a model for me, and I sought to pass on what I learned from him—both in music and in humanity. It brought me great joy when former students of mine continued their studies with Carl, my own son Yonah included, and I could continue to revel in the joy of his teaching through them, and in the joy of their growth through my conversations with him. 

Despite only having studied the theory of tonal music with Carl, I consider him to be among my teachers of contemporary composition, because of the many tools I learned from him for thinking about, imagining, and understanding music. I know that I owe a large part of my successes and achievements, both in teaching and in composition, to my teachers and Carl is chief among them.  I was always touched and honored to see him in attendance at performances of my works in NYC, and I was so proud to host him during his visit to Israel.

During the last few years, as his condition declined, I called from Israel several times a year and visited him whenever I could. As his communication abilities declined, and our conversations turned into monologues, I felt very sad and shared my experiences with the Schenkerian community that loves him here in Israel.

I wish to add an anecdote: During a visit with Carl at his apartment, he suggested that we go out for lunch at a favorite local restaurant. As we walked and talked, we passed by a homeless man who stood outside asking for change. Carl abruptly stopped, returned to the man, and asked: “Johnny, remind me, did I already give a dollar today”?

Any time I hear a conversation about the possible existence of life on other planets, I think to myself: maybe there is life elsewhere, but there is no Carl Schachter there.