In music, the term “melodic figure” refers to the smaller groups, gestures, or patterns that make up a melody. It can apply to five different situations.
me•lo•dic fig•ure (mĕ-lŏdʼĭk fĭgʼyǝr) n. 1. Any group of notes that forms a smaller gesture within a melody, akin to a clause or phrase within a sentence. 2. A short melodic pattern with a recognizable rhythm and profile, used to compose an entire phrase, section, or movement; also called a “motive.” 3. A stock melodic pattern used when improvising, also called a “lick.” 4. A decorative and usually repetitive pattern that fills out an underlying musical line, also called “figuration.” 5. A distinct yet ubiquitous melodic pattern, common to dozens, even thousands of melodies.
In this blog, I’ll show how each application offers its own way to better understand certain key aspects of melody. And to those of you who compose, heads up, because I’ll be dropping some hints about how each application can lead to new ways to think about melody writing.
 “Melodic figure” can refer to any group of notes that forms a smaller gesture within a melodic phrase.
Let’s say that you and I plan to cover the song “Lean On Me” for an upcoming high school reunion. During our run-through, I suggest, “You sing the first two figures, then I’ll sing the next two.” You’d know what I meant, even if I didn’t draw brackets on your lead sheet.“Lean On Me,” by Bill Withers
Every melody is made of a series of smaller “gestures.” The term “gesture” fits because each distinct cluster of notes within a melody (each figure) feels expressive in the same ways that a speaker’s hand gestures do. Melodic gestures, like hand gestures, amplify the meaning and emotion of the speaker’s or singer’s words.
Try for yourself. Sing this chorus while making hand gestures that naturally go along with what the words would imply if you spoke them. (Really. Stop reading and try it! And don’t just make half-hearted hand gestures; move with passion!) Then sing the phrase again, this time holding your hands and body perfectly still. Most people find that the motionless performance “lacks conviction.” Holding still is a way to deny the inherent physical-emotional energy within the melodic gestures.
Now, let’s look more closely at the actual notes. Three of the gestures rework the same three pitches: C-D-E. But the third gesture (for “I’ll be your friend”) grabs a new set of notes: C-B-A-G. Moving to a new set of notes confirms what the words hope to highlight. “Hey, friend, I’m not like everyone else. I won’t let you down. Not me. I got you.” Not only that, by reaching down deep to the low G on “friend,” the rising promise to help you carry on feels ever more exuberant. And more believable.
Now imagine a non-musical situation. Imagine a public speaker lecturing about politics, psychology, religion, or whatever. As they speak, they use their hands conventionally, keeping everything “in the box”—that “socially acceptable region” that extends from chin to navel and just about as wide. But then suddenly, when the speaker deeply wants to explain what it means to have “true empathy,” something breaks loose and their gestures get larger and more energetic—and they even let their entire wrist extend above their head! (OMG!)
Or maybe a speaker a a different conference does the opposite? Maybe they make microscopic gestures with their fingers, keeping everything close to the breastbone, and their voice hushed to a mere whisper?
Which kind of gesture would you make to convey what it means to have “true empathy?”
Gestures may seem small, but they often say more than the words we choose. Do you know how to use melodic gestures to connect with your audience?
 “Melodic figure” can refer to a short pattern used to compose an entire phrase, section, or movement; also called a “motive.”
The way I see it, many musicians seriously overwork the term “motive” (a.k.a. “motif”). The concept of a motif originally comes from architecture where a stylistic pattern or geometric property serves as a unifying element. Repetition is key. Thorough repetition. Side to side, top to bottom. Still, musicians tend to use the term motive to refer to any brief unit of melody, even those that don’t repeat.
But the genuine test of a motive is not mere repetition. Loop-based songs (e.g., a good number of EDM and rap songs) use repetition incessantly, but not motivically. What do I mean by motivically? Motivic repetition reworks a single “germ” to create different types of music: melodies with different emotions and functions, transitional passages that move with urgency, moments of repose, etc.
And that’s exactly what we get in Beethoven’s Symphony #5, which is hands down the most frequently-used example to show motivic composition.“Symphony #5,” I, Allegro con brio, first theme, by Ludwig van Beethoven
The first two iterations of the “fate” motif don’t actually “go anywhere.” They just “put something out there.” But what? Something profound? Audacious? Before we have time to decide, Beethoven is off and running, weaving his motif into an energetic theme by folding additional versions of the motif on top of one another. Then suddenly, the music becomes agitated as the 4-note motif gets quagmired in frantic repetitions before slamming into the high G.
It’s just a few seconds into the piece, and already we’ve heard the motif move in three very different ways, producing three very different types of music.
But wait, there’s more!A few seconds later, we hear the motive made into this transitional line as it strives to ascend.
Just to make sure that you don’t get the impression that motivic composition only occurs in “classical” styles, listen to how Burt Bacharach uses a single 3-note motive in “Close to You.” Everything except the melody for “suddenly appear” comes from the rising shape of the first three notes.“Close to You,” by Burt Bacharach and Hal David
Here, too, we hear the motive in three different ways:  As a pickup with fermatas,  with upbeat rhythm, and  starting on the beat. In the first half of the melody, the singer poses a question, which makes pickups and upbeats a fitting choice. Then, in the second half, she makes confident, affectionate statements, affirmed by starting each gesture on the beat.
Earlier, I mentioned that mere repetition is not enough to qualify a figure as a motive. To make it clear what I mean, here’s a melody that repeats its two figures, though not motivically. Each figure does the same thing—it behaves the same way, plays the same function—each time we hear it. That’s why we call ‘a’ and ‘b’ “gestures,” not “motives.” All motives are gestures, but not all gestures are motives. That said, since there’s no universally agreed upon terminology, it’s up to you to decide which terms you’ll use.“Oh, Pretty Woman,” by Roy Orbison
 “Melodic figure” can refer to a stock pattern used when improvising; also called a “lick.”
Learning to improvise means getting dozens of basic patterns under your fingers so that you can string them together to make a new melody on the spot. Such melodic patterns are called “licks” more often than “figures.” The most famous lick, known simply as “The Lick,” comes from jazz, though when you click on the sound file, you’ll hear that it’s not just jazzers who have fun with it.“The Lick.”
But not all licks have such a quotable shape, rhythm, and number of notes. In fact, most don’t. Some licks are more loosely based on scales, broken chords, or simple repeated patterns, often involving grace notes or bent/scooped notes. Each style has its own characteristic way of shaping licks, as do many players. For example, here I compare one of B.B. King’s most famous blues licks with a country lick. Both are based around an Ab6 chord, yet their stylistic features make them sound nothing alike.
Improvisation and composition share a lot in common in that both draw from pre-existing patterns. Improvisers draw on “licks” they learn intentionally through practice. Composers draw on patterns that we’ve unintentionally internalized through exposure, over time. In both cases, improvisers and composers create figures/gestures/licks that feel structured, yet free; personal, yet culturally relevant.
 “Melodic figure” can refer to a melodic pattern that elaborates a simple framework; also called “figuration.”
There’s a technique in music called “figuration,” where a musician ornaments an underlying framework—most often a scale—with a repetitive pattern. I’ve highlighted the underlying framework in the example below.“Piano Sonata,” K.545, I. by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
Figuration allows a performer to show off. Nearly every style has its own version. For example, take the “shred guitar solo.”
One day, it dawned on me that melodic figuration is not only a specific technique, but it’s also a principle. I started noticing that quite a few melodies add simple figures around a framework of chord tones. Take this song, for example.“Mamas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys,” by Ed and Patsy Bruce
OK, so the 3-note scales in “Mamas” are nowhere nearly as elaborate as the 14-note scales in the Mozart sonata. Even so, we’re met with a clear framework fleshed out with melodic figures, no?
And we can take this principle one step further. What if we elaborated a framework with a different figure each time? (Don’t fret about the figure names, which I’ll explain momentarily.)“Norwegian Wood,” by Lennon & McCartney
In case you didn’t notice that “Norwegian Wood” has the same framework as “Mamas Don’t Let Your Babies” (except for the last note), this next graphic makes it easy to compare how each song fills in its framework.
Doesn’t every melody have an underlying framework of chord tones? And as we compose or improvise, don’t we subconsciously use those chord tones as goals? Sometimes we connect them directly, as in every 3-Note Scale in “Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies. Other times, we intentionally take a detour, as certain figures in “Norwegian Wood” and this short phrase from a Charlie Parker solo.“A typical Charlie Parker phrase”
Notice how smoothly Parker uses figures to connect the first three goal notes. But later, to add complexity, he avoids the most predictable route, as I’ve marked below. (And if you look back to “Norwegian Wood,” you’ll notice that it also starts predictably and gets more obtuse as the phrase evolves.)
 “Melodic figure” can refer to a distinct yet ubiquitous melodic pattern, common to dozens, even thousands of melodies.
I have yet to meet a musician who hasn’t noticed that the melodic patterns in one song have a way of popping up in several others. This phenomenon helps explain why our teachers make us practice our scales and broken chords as “warmup” exercises. And quite a few instructors have gone even further, devising “etudes,” “methods,” and “studies” to cover common melodic figures that don’t quite qualify as scales or arpeggios. Do an internet search and you can find several free ones for any instrument you can name. For instance, Clarke’s Technical Studies for the Coronet (1912) is still used widely today, and not just for classical cornet and trumpet players. Jazz players find its patterns helpful when learning to improvise.
For a taste of what it offers, here’s Clarke’s second study (with transpositions #28-43 omitted), followed by its etude.
Ask yourself how many times you’ve played (or written) the figure in Clarke’s study: a 3-note scale and a small leap back to the first note. And that pattern has four versions (all which appear in “Etude II”). The leap can come before the scale. And either the scale or the leap can ascend or descend. Clarke’s etude only deviates from this pattern in the second to the last bar, and those patterns are familiar ones, as well.
Now, even if you’ve never habitually practiced etudes, you’ve no doubt internalized the basic patterns of melody. How do I know? We musicians learn the melodic vocabulary the same way we learn to speak: through exposure, over time. The table below is my attempt to catalog the most common 3- 4-note melodic figures in their most basic versions. (You can find the figure from Clarke’s “Second Study”—the “Roll”—roughly in the middle of the table.) Notice that the table is interactive. Click on any figure to read a short description and hear it in three musical excerpts.
the 24 Universal Melodic Figures
the building blocks of melody
the 3-Note Scale
At the heart of the 3-Note Scale lies the most resonant sound in music: the harmonic third. Thirds form the harmonic foundation of music throughout the world. We rely on them to construct chords, contrast emotions, and harmonize songs around a campfire with our friends. What does this have to do with the 3-Note Scale? The 3-Note Scale takes this most crucial element of harmony and turns it into a little melody.
“But,” you protest, “it’s so boring. Step-step up; or step-step down. How can I write an interesting melody from such a nothing?”
That’s like asking how so much astounding architecture can arise from combining rectangles, or how so many life forms from the carbon atom. Wherever we look in our universe, we find that the most crucial building blocks are also the most humble.
The excerpts I’ve chosen barely scratch the surface of what the 3-Note Scale can do—the incredible variety of emotions and ideas it can produce. You’ll hear a folk song that captures our common desire for meaning followed by its polar opposite: a cocky, flirtatious strut. Finally, the piano concerto theme feels immensely personal, like something between a dream and a diary entry.
“Blowin’ In the Wind,” by Bob Dylan
“Cool,” by the Jonas Brothers
“Piano Concerto #3,” by Sergei Rachmaninoff
In general use, the term “auxiliary” refers to something that adds to or extends the capabilities of something else. So when you add a printer to a computer, the printer becomes an auxiliary device.
And so it is with the melodic figure dubbed the Auxiliary. We hear its main note, a chord tone, two times: once at the beginning, then again at the end. The add-on note – the auxiliary portion of the figure – is an upper or lower neighbor note.
“Silent Night,” by Franz Xavier Gruber
As far as “extending the capabilities” of the chord tone we turn into an auxiliary, take a moment to try to imagine the melodies below with repeated notes rather than the auxiliary tones the composers heard fit to include.
“Bad Romance,” by Lady Gaga
“Toreador Song,” by Georges Bizet
To create an arpeggio, we perform the notes of a chord one at a time rather than simultaneously.
Groups of notes written first as a chord, then an arpeggio
Now there’s no rule that says we must begin at the bottom and run through the notes in order or the top and cascade down. In fact, there are many different patterns you can make with nothing but chord tones. And that’s why we have so many types of arpeggio figures.
But when we do perform the notes of a chord in order without changing direction, we get the simplest of all the arpeggios, the Arpeggio.
“Ring of Fire,” by Johnny Cash
“Sesame Street,” by Franz Xavier Gruber
“On the Beautiful Blue Danube,” by Johann Strauss Jr.
The word “run” is already in use in music. It either refers to a long scale or a somewhat fancier bit of melodic fluster (sometimes called a “riff.”) At FiguringOutMelody.com, the melodic figure we call the Run is exactly four notes long, and those notes always form a scale.
Of the many ways to use a Run, one easily comes out ahead of the rest. The Run often paints in broad or medium-long strokes. Sometimes these gestures join together to cover a large amount of registral space (as in “Penny Lane”). Other times, they don’t move very far but sway over a secure foundation (as in “As Time Goes By”) But Runs can also have a far nimbler side as we hear in “Wachet Auf.”
“As Time Goes By,” by H. Hupfeld
“Overkill,” by Colin Hay
“Wachet Auf, Ruft Uns Die Stimme,” by J.S. Bach
Here’s a case where we have two very similar figures that count as one. (The other instance is the Parkour figures.)
The Trill. Outside of FOM, a trill is a melodic embellishment produced by rapidly alternating two notes a step or semitone apart. And the term trill also applies to the way that speakers of certain languages roll their R’s (always with great gusto). We include it as a melodic figure because so many melodies use a slowed-down version of the alternating stepwise action.
The Oscillator. When we say that something oscillates, we mean that it swings back and forth in a steady motion. If you hope to cool an entire room with a small fan, get one that oscillates. The difference between a Trill and an Oscillator is that every other note in a Trill is a neighbor note, while every other note in an Oscillator is another chord tone.
The three samples here show two possible effects of the Trill. “A Modern Major General” uses the alternating notes to create interest during what is essentially a rap. The Trill figure in “Iron Man” resembles a true embellishment, though of course, slower. The third excerpt is an example of an Oscillator.
“A Modern Major General,” by Gilbert & Sullivan, with new lyrics by Randy Rainbow
“Iron Man,” by Black Sabbath
“Over the Rainbow,” by Harold Arlen
There are a lot of different types of arpeggio figures. If you hope to keep them straight, watch for two things. First, each type of arpeggio figure has a unique shape. (The one we’re looking at now, is shaped like an arch.) Second, that shape results from calculating the direction of each leap. To produce an Arch, we leap twice in one direction and once in the opposite direction. Or once in one direction, then change direction for the last two leaps.
The size of the leaps doesn’t matter, though when all the leaps are roughly the same size (as in the first two figures), we get a more balanced arch.
By far, most arch figures equally-proportioned leaps, as reflected in the excerpts below.
“I’ll Fly Away,” by Albert E. Brumley
“Royals,” by Lourde
“Surprise Symphony,” by Franz Joseph Haydn
3PN stands for a “3-Note Pentatonic” scale. Or more accurately, a 3-note slice of a pentatonic scale, because as you probably know, pentatonic scales (in either their major or minor versions) contain five notes, not three.
Notice that the pentatonic scale is a little wonky, what with its odd gaps every few notes. (Most “scales” move by step.)
We can divide a pentatonic scale into five different 3-note groups. When we do, four of those groups include one of the gaps illustrated above.
Note the similarities between the 3NP and its more symmetrical cousin, the 3NS (3-Note Scale). Whereas the 3-Note Scale always spans a third from first to last note, the 3NP always spans a 4th.
“Youngblood,” by 5 Seconds of Summer
“La Donna È Mobile,” from Rigoletto by Giuseppe Verdi
“Girl from Ipanema,” by Antonio Carlos Jobim
To pivot means to swivel or turn; to change direction. Picture a footballer using fancy footwork to drive the ball toward the goal. Don’t just “picture it.” Try to feel its kinetic momentum: moving one direction, then darting off in the opposite direction.
"Up Where We Belong" uses Pivot figures to get us to feel we are at the upper limits of what is possible.
“Up Where We Belong,” by Will Jennings, Buffy Sainte-Marie, and Jack Nitzsche
Don't miss the irony as Billy Joel sets the word "honesty" to an evasive melodic gesture.
“Honesty,” by Billy Joel
It's hard to express melancholy without sounding sentimental. Yet Rachmaninov pulls it off here by starting each Pivot figure as a strong dissonance.
“Adagio,” from Symphony #2 in E minor, by Sergei Rachmaninov
Little Holy Phillip
Nature abhors a vacuum. So does melody.
Any figure that ends opens up a gap (especially a leap of a third) invites the next note to fill up the little hole. So in the example below, versions A and B show the most predictable outcome for a melodic figure ending with a small leap. Versions C and D show how this same 3-note link can occur within one figure—namely, the “Little Holy Phillip” (L.H.P.)
So, about the name. A main principle in melodic figuration is that we make melody by connecting figures together. The end of one figure with the beginning of the next.
Now imagine that we could take a stop-frame video of the melodic motion between figures. Wouldn’t that help explain why some melodies feel continuous and others don’t?
THWANK! Stop imagining. We CAN INDEED observe the ways that figures link up, and no special equipment is required. Just track the steps and leaps to discover us all we need to know.
“Imagine,” by John Lennon
“Harry Potter Theme,” by John Williams
“Symphony No.8” II, by Ludwig van Beethoven
The Return figure gets its name from its proclivity to return to its starting note, as shown in the example below.
Outcome A below shows the most predictable destination of the Return figure: note #1 = note #5 (with note 5 being the first note of the next figure).
Outcome B shows another (less-) predictable path: note #5 = note #3. In other words, using this second option, the figure “returns” to the “middle” note, counting note #3 as “home.”
In the first two melodies below, the Return takes the most predictable outcomeas described above (outcome A). But in the third exceprt, the Strauss melody, we the Return doesn’t return. It LEAPS! The Return is one of many figures that is sometimes used for its smooth-as-silk behavior, and other times—when its natural connection is broken—to add a bit of complexity.
“Senorita,” by Shawn Mendez
“Bohemian Rhapsody,” by Freddie Mercury
“Voices of Spring,” by Johann Strauss, Jr.
the Crazy Driver
While the names of most melodic figures serve as mnemonic devices, “Crazy Driver” one is a contender for the most quirky. How can a melodic figure act like a Crazy Driver? Let me explain.
The most predictable destination of the Crazy Driver—its “5th note”—lies a 3rd above or below the starting note.
But notice the path it takes to get there. Rather than steering directly toward its goal, the Crazy Driver figure begins with a swerve in the wrong direction! It’s a lot like an automobile driver who can’t seem to turn into a driveway on the right side of the road without first swerving left! That crazy driver!
And the name still fits when we consider another predictable destination of the Crazy Driver: to return to the original note. Here, the motion of the melody mimics a (distracted? drunk?) driver who can’t manage to drive in a straight line.
The designation “crazy” has absolutely nothing to do with how this figure sounds. There’s hardly a better choice for making smooth, gentle waves, as in the first two examples below. The third example shows quite a different sound, using the Crazy Driver as an ornate pickup to kick off a bit of syncopation.
“Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho,” a Negro Spiritual
“Every Breath You Take,” by Sting
“Minuet” from the String Quintet in E Major by Luigi Boccherini
the Arpeggio Plus
The bulk of this figure is an arpeggio. The “plus” note is a passing tone or neighbor note, most often added at the end to make a smooth bridge to the upcoming note or figure (though occasionally, the non-chord tone can come at the front).
“Come Sail Away,” by Styx (Dennis DeYoung)
“Ring, Ring the Banjo,” by Stephen Foster
“Morning” from Peer Gynt, by Edvard Grieg
The term “Parkour” comes from the French word “parcours,” meaning “the way through,” or “the path.” If you take this to imply “moving along a logical path to find the quickest way from point A to point B,” you’re missing a key element of Parkour the sport. The Parkour practitioner intentionally looks for obstacles to jump, bounce, or scoot over, around, or under. And those who use the barriers to execute the flashiest and most difficult stunts earn greatest respect among their peers.
Melody doesn’t always take the most logical route from point A to point B, either. We can sense a strong gymnastic spirit in the two versions of the Parkour figures illustrated below. In each case, the first and third notes are always chord tones, and there’s a clear and direct route between them. That direct route is indicated by a shadowed notehead.
As you study the Bounce and the Pounce, don’t just try to memorize the formulas. No, no, no! Instead, picture yourself crouching and leaping, or leaping then shuffling your feet to regain your balance.
“My Favorite Things,” by Rogers & Hammerstein
“I Love You,” by Billie Eilish
“Triumphal March,” from Aida, by Giuseppe Verdi
The Vault has two things in common with the two Parkour figures (the Bounce and the Pounce) 1. It’s a 3-note figure that takes an indirect route between the two outer notes, typically chord tones.* and 2. It contains a step and a leap, though not always in that order.
The main difference from the Parkour figures (the Bounce and the Pounce) is that the Vault’s step lies inside the outer notes of the figure.
“Hush, Little Baby,” by Carolina folk song
“Maria,” from West Side Story by Leonard Bernstein
“The Swan,” by Camille Saint-Saens
*At least the outside notes are usually two chord tones. Remember, with figuration, we focus on shape, which means that sometimes, chord tones and non-chord tones can get redistributed.
The Roll has two component parts: a 3-Note Scale plus a leap of a 3rd in the opposite direction to the 3-Note Scale. The result is a figure where the first and last note of the Run always match, whether the 3-Note Scale comes at the beginning or end of the figure.
“Hava Nagila,” an Hassidic folk tune
“Stand By Me,” by Ben E. King, Jerry Lieber, and Mike Stoller
“The Cancan,” from Orpheus in the Underworld, by Jacques Offenbach
the Double Neighbor
The Double Neighbor figure gets its name from tabulating the number of non-chord tones present. We hear one “main note”—a chord tone—twice: at the beginning and the end.
The two notes in the middle are both neighbor notes—one higher than the chord tone; one lower. This creates a little “illegal” hole in the middle. Why is it illegal? Because one of the primary rules in melody forbids leaping between non-chord tones. But here is an immensely popular figure that does just that! Perhaps this is why the Double Neighbor figure is one of the only patterns that is already universally recognized as a melodic figure? Theorists figured they’d better proactively name one of the only acceptable exceptions to one of their staunchest rules.
“Mona Lisa,” by Nat King Cole
“If I Can’t Have You,” by Shawn Mendes
“Waltz” from the Swan Lake Ballet by Pyotr Il’yich Tchaikovsky
the Double Third
The Double 3rd figure gets its name from the way it melodicizes a common method for harmonizing a simple scale in thirds. But rather than playing the thirds simultaneously, they are stretched out in time.
“Invention #1,” by Johann Sebastian Bach
“Cherish,” by Terry Kirkman
“Sidewalks,” by The Weekend
The pendulum has two notes that move (or “swing”) by step as if swinging from a middle “fixed” note.
“Norwegian Wood,” by Lennon & McCartney
“Eastside,” by Benny Blanco, Halsey, and Khalid Robinson
“Juliet’s Waltz,” by Charles Gounod
the Leaping Scale
The Leaping Scale is a 4-note figure made from two elements: a 3-Note Scale plus a leap to a different chord tone. (if the isolated chord tone matched the first note of the figure it would be a Roll.) Either the scale or the leap can come first. The leap can be small or large. And the direction of the leap can match the direction of the scale or contradict it.
Two factors make the Leaping Scale harmonically vivid. First, the outer notes of the 3-Note Scale are chord tones. And second, the leap occurs between two chord tones. Typically, this means that each Leaping Scale contains a root, third, and fifth.
“Old Town Road,” by Lil’ Naz
“Prelude,” from Suite #2, for unaccompanied ‘cello by J.S. Bach, bars 26-31
“The Raiders March,” by John Williams
the Leaping Auxiliary
The color-coding on the table of 24 common melodic figures shows three main categories of figures: scale, neighbor, and arpeggio. But as you look and listen closely to each of the 24 figures, you’ll hear some scale figures that include one or more leaps; You’ll notice that at least one neighbor figure contains a 3-note scale; And you’ll discover a fair bit of neighbor motion in figures that are mostly arpeggios.
In short, many of the melodic figures on the table are hybrids. But because hybridism is so rampant, there’s not much point in treating it as anything special.
So how do we decide whether to put a melodic figure in one category or another? There are two things to look for. (1) Majority rules. Is most of the figure a scale, neighbor, or arpeggio? and (2) Behavior. Does the figure act as a scale, neighbor, or arpeggio?
The Leaping Auxiliary (L.Aux.) is 3/4 neighbor figure, plus a chordal leap. The auxiliary or the leap may come first or last. The leap can be in any direction relative to the auxiliary. Here are but a few possible combinations.
“Breakdown,” by Tom Petty
“Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay,” by Otis Redding
“Pavane,” by Gabriel Fauré
the Pendulum Auxiliary
The Pendulum Auxiliary is an amalgamation of two 3-note figures: the Auxiliary and the Pendulum.
“What’s Goin’ On,” by Marvin Gaye, Al Cleveland, and Renaldo Benson
“Hold Me Now,” by Tom Bailey, Alannah Curie, and Joe Leeway
“The Hallelujah Chorus,” by George Frideric Handel
The Funnel offers some of the most convincing evidence that composers imagine shapes as we compose. How else can we explain the ever-narrowing series of leaps that make up this figure? Perhaps as a backward extension of the Little Holy Philip? Keep that in mind as you listen to “Someday My Prince Will Come,” where the pattern stretches back even further.
We classify the Funnel as an arpeggio because it leaps until it runs out of room, not because it spells any particular harmony. In fact, the Funnel has the most ambiguous harmonic structure of all the figures, which is to say that it doesn’t fit into any particular harmony. Even if we find a way to separate chord tones from non-chord tones in one instance of the Funnel (and good luck with that!), it's not likely to work out the same way in other appearances.
“Someday My Prince Will Come,” by Larry Morey & Frank Churchill
“Dreams,” by Stevie Nicks
“Great is Thy Faithfulness,” by William Runan and Thomas Chisholm
Most of the names for the 24 Universal Melodic Figures have a mnemonic function. The name tells you something about the figure that not only helps you remember it but use it. Not so with the Cambiata figure. The figure traces back to 17th-century Italy and derives its name from an Italian verb meaning “to change.” If it were clear to anyone what sort of change occurs within this figure, that might end up being helpful. But no such luck. I only use the name Cambiata because that’s what other people call it, which brings up an interesting point about figure names.
The Cambiata is one of two figures that use standardized names. The other figure is the Double Neighbor, which sometimes goes by the name “changing tone” (in English). Why do none of the other 22 melodic figures have names? Likely because they are so ubiquitous that nobody thinks they deserve special recognition.
The behavior that merits special recognition in the Cambiata (and also the Double Neighbor) has to do with the “hole” in the middle of each figure. Music theorists have never known how to explain how a figure that leaps to and from dissonant notes can sound so graceful. So they simply provide guidelines for how to handle it, never bothering to elaborate on the “broken rules.”
We won’t go into the strict guidelines for using the Cambiata in classical styles here. More important is that the attractiveness of this figure comes from the way it goes “too far” (passing its destination) before returning to the intended goal. It’s a routine we’ve encountered in the L.H.P. and the Double Neighbor.
“There Goes My Life,” by Kenny Chesney there-goes-my-life
“Cheek to Cheek,” by Irving Berlin
“The Washington Post March,” by John Phillip Sousa
The Zigzag figure changes direction after every note, making it the most indirect way to arrange the notes of a single harmony. Now typically in figuration, the more times a melodic figure changes direction within itself, the more complicated it sounds and feels. This is certainly true of the other two figures that change direction after every note: the Double Neighbor and the Double Third. But for some reason, the Zigzag figure usually makes a melody sound more playful than elaborate.
“Your Smiling Face,” by James Taylor
“Trumpet Concerto in Eb Major,” III by Franz Joseph Haydn
“Die, Die, Die,” by the Avett Brothers
The table’s subtitle calls melodic figures “the building blocks of melody.” By this, I mean we can think of the figure patterns as the raw materials of melody, in the same way that we can think of triads and seventh chords in root position as the raw materials of harmony.
This means that melodic figures are not yet melody. They lack any musical context, especially any sense of motion and integration. So one way to create a melody is to begin with a melodic figure, give it some rhythm, and combine it with other melodic figures. If I’m right that we’ve all internalized the basic patterns of melody through exposure over time, this is indeed how we already compose. Whether we realize it or not.
By means of review, let me offer the following summaries. Each contains a hyperlink to a pop-up that illustrates the connection to the 24 universal melodic figure patterns and the specific application of “melodic figure” as set out in the initial definition.
 Gesture. The generic term “melodic figure” can refer to the smaller parts or “GESTURES” within a whole melody.
 Motive. The generic term “melodic figure” can refer to a “MOTIVE,” a germ that a composer reworks to create the different types of music (introductions, main melodies, transitions, and etc.) required to make a whole composition.
 Lick. The generic term “melodic figure” can refer to a stock pattern—or “LICK”—used when improvising.
 Figuration. The generic term “melodic figure” can refer to using a melodic pattern to ELABORATE AN UNDERLYING FRAMEWORK.
 “Melodic figure.” Because there are descriptive names for the various roles that short groups of notes can play within a melody, it makes good sense to reserve the term “melodic figure” to identify those distinct yet ubiquitous melodic patterns, common to dozens, even thousands of melodies. In other words, melodic figures are the building blocks for melody; the basic “stuff” from which melody is made.
A concluding note.
I’ve spent much of my professional life exploring the idea that melody draws from a common pool of melodic figures. I’m far from done. One frustrating bit has been that other musicians have a hard time distinguishing the universal patterns I call “melodic figures” with what they commonly understand as “motives.” This blog post is an attempt to distinguish between motives and figures (and licks, gestures, and figuration) more apparent.
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Thanks for reading!