This essay is part of a series called The Big Ideas, in which writers respond to a single question: What drives us? You can read more by visiting The Big Ideas series page.
Growing up, I was often told that there was one pathway to success for a young student of classical music: playing by the rules. Musical development was posed as something to be discovered on the other side of discipline — and hours of dedication. The promise of praise quickly became one of the biggest motivators behind my cello and piano studies, second perhaps only to the music itself: I reveled in the sounds of Beethoven, Elgar, Debussy and Schumann.
But as my musical studies advanced, I began taking music theory and harmony classes that taught me more about the mechanics behind these great compositions. As it turns out, those “harmonies” I’d been devoting myself to so intently were really an intricate interplay between harmony and dissonance.
In the absence of a chord or a tone that “resolves” it, a dissonant chord is uncomfortable; plainly speaking, it sounds wrong and ugly. However, the composer and musical pioneer Arnold Schoenberg justified its use with a theory called the emancipation of dissonance, which frames dissonance as the freeing of music, or, more specifically, the freeing of music from the condition of needing to exist in perfect harmony.
Schoenberg’s concept struck a chord with me (no pun intended). Unlike earlier composers who used dissonance only when followed by a “necessary” resolution, 20th-century composers like Prokofiev, Stravinsky, Shostakovich and Copland wielded dissonance on its own to express love — as well as anger, pain and rebellion. They broke the boundaries and foundational principles of classical music that they had studied so diligently in their early years. They also broke the very rules that had once seemed so indestructible to me as a young musician.
Up until this point, I had naïvely assumed that I, along with my musical studies, had to be perfect; I thought perfection was the only way to achieve my desired life and career. But as I learned about dissonance and its fundamental role in every composition, I started to realize that I had mistaken rules for excellence and comfort for creativity.
And while I had yet to introduce dissonance into my own world, an urge to push past my comfort zone had begun to set in. Little did I know how overwhelming that drive, that need to unlock my full potential, would soon become. After all, when we avoid chaos, we protect ourselves from failure — but we also risk becoming stagnant.
Dissonance can be understood as the convergence of two realities, allowed to coexist within the same space. In many ways, this reflects the relationship between my twin sister and me. Junia and I were born and raised in Reykjavik, Iceland. Our childhood was marked by a sheltered — and perhaps sometimes false — reality. Our little island in the Atlantic, commonly referred to as one of the safest countries in the world, boasts a population of about 400,000 people (and quite a few sheep). Family bonds run deep, and it’s common to remain friends as an adult with the people you met in nursery school. The resulting safety bubble provided by bloodlines and social circles means that few people leave the country without eventually returning to start a family.
We shared nearly everything as children: a room, our belongings, our friends, even our classes. Our identities were deeply intertwined, and few decisions were made without consulting one another. But when I began considering what was in store for me after high school, my appetite for dissonance had already set in, and I could feel it growing by the minute. I was drawn to new experiences, new perspectives and new surroundings — without Junia and away from Iceland. So I applied to universities abroad, eventually enrolling at Berklee College of Music in Boston; Junia, in contrast, chose to attend the University of St. Andrews, located in a small seaside town in Scotland.
Arriving in Boston with a clean slate, I felt comfort in knowing that no one saw me as “perfect.” Especially my twin sister. We always say that in a twin, you have an internal voice — a mirror you can’t control, running free outside of your body. As long as Junia wasn’t there, I told myself, I could exist entirely on my own terms. But it was more than just her absence that transformed me: Away from home, I finally found the freedom to reject my old, self-imposed boundaries — all because I chose dissonance.
For the first time, Junia and I began navigating life independently, and in doing so, we became two distinct people who also existed within the framework of a twin sisterhood. The transition was difficult, and we gradually grew apart — but our bond ultimately grew stronger as we came to accept our new reality over time. More important, I had successfully satisfied my first craving for dissonance, and it felt empowering.
Before long, dissonance bled into every other aspect of my life. I enrolled in a music program where dissonance was written into the curriculum, and I was encouraged to improvise and explore new sounds while learning the underpinnings of jazz. But as I was taking my first steps as a singer and a songwriter, I, like my favorite 20th-century composers, was confronted with a young musician’s greatest fear: How could I please my teachers and get praise, while also paving my own path and writing my own music? Before college, following the rules had brought me success in the classroom. Now, I had no choice but to push past my preconceived limits and confront the weird, new and potentially ugly.
I yet again embraced dissonance, but this time, I threw away the well-thumbed rulebook of my childhood musical training. I broke down musical traditions in my own way. And, as my career continues to grow, breaking life’s “rules” has remained at the forefront of every decision I make.
I no longer live with the need to exist in perfect harmony. Dissonance has finally set me free.
Laufey (pronounced lay-vay) is an artist, composer, producer and multi-instrumentalist from Iceland. She is a two-time recipient of the Grammy Award for Best Traditional Pop Vocal Album, and the youngest ever to receive it.
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