Actually, that title is completely wrong. If you don’t have solid rhythm, you’ll never dance this waltz.

Nearly all music (seriously – I mean like 99% or more) is in one of a couple meters. We divide them into a few categories: duple vs. triple; simple vs. compound. Duple means there are 2 (or 4) beats per measure. Triple means there are 3 (I bet you guess that already, though.) Simple means you can divide each beat into 2 smaller beats (twinkle, twinkle, little star); compound means you can divide each beat into 3 smaller beats (row, row, row your boat). You can have simple or compound duple meter (2/4 or 6/8 – 2 beats per measure, and each beat can be divided into 2 or 3 smaller beats); you can have simple or compound triple meter (3/4 or 9/8 – 3 beats per measure, and each beat can be divided into 2 or 3 smaller beats).

Confused? Don’t worry. The important thing is that we are by no means limited to using only these meters, despite the fact that they dominate the music we hear. Write something in a different meter – say, 5/4, 7/4, 11/8 – and your piece will have either a rhythmic edge that excites people, or a disorganized pulse which only confuses people. Enter Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, arguably the smoothest crafter of melody to have ever walked the earth. This “Waltz” from his Sixth Symphony is in 5/4 time, but flows so smoothly that you wouldn’t know it’s in a quintuple meter unless you tried to dance to the music. It’s a standard form for a dance: trio – there’s an A section with a sweeping cello melody, followed by a B section marked by a timpani pulse, then a return to the A material.

Some people get delightfully embarrassed if you sing a song about them. Think about the feeling you might get when your friends sing you “Happy Birthday”, or when that special someone sang “A Whole New World” to you at the karaoke bar.

And then there are those people who are so self-focused that they feel the need to constantly sing about themselves. This famous aria from Gioachino Rossini‘s The Barber of Seville is practically a love-song that Figaro sings to himself. Does he deserve all this praise? Well, he just might. Try singing along with him at 3:45 – just use the syllable “la”. Not so easy, eh? Not only does he need super-human tongue abilities, he needs to sound good and sing loud at the same time.

Ok, ok, you win – go ahead and sing about how awesome you are. You deserve it.

There’s really nothing weird about singing a song about how awesome you are. Modern-day popular examples include “Ice, Ice, Baby“, “What’s My Name“, “My Name Is” (it’s practically a rite of passage for a hip-hop artist to use a song to promote him/herself).

In one episode of the Britcom “Red Dwarf“, a robot suggests that the traditional 7-pitch musical scales should be changed into a 10-pitch scale, making it work with the metric system. In this show, this is suggested as a joke, and is accompanied by that truly horrific laugh-track that accompanies any Britcom. But it’s really an interesting idea, if you think about it.

It’s nothing new, though. People have been messing around with scales for ages. For example, most people are familiar with the sound of a pentatonic scale, which is used in every culture in the world (but western children will usually say that it sounds “Asian”.) And then there’s the octatonic scale, a favorite among jazz musicians and late romantic composers. Claude Debussy continued this tradition of scale-play by stretching standard tonality to its limits. In his piano composition, Voiles (meaning “veils), he uses a 6-pitch scale called “whole tone.”

The effect is marvelous – it feels like we are floating! On one hand, we have a sense of a tonal center (a “home key”) thanks to the pulsing bass, and simple melodic figures. But on the other hand, a couple more pitches in the scale, and we begin to question where we really are.