Jon Loomes

Back in about 2017, I was asked to design a bisonoric accordion for a singer who wanted an accompaniment instrument that worked naturally in B, B♭, F and F♯. Those were the keys that best suited her voice.

The result became known as the Loomes Chromatic.

Where the idea came from

The starting point was my preferred guitar tuning at the time, DADEAB, which was itself derived from concertinas and melodeons, and which I later transposed to CGCDGA.

It contains two adjacent pairs of strings separated by a tone: D-E and A-B.

Each pair behaves rather like a bisonoric button. The strings occupy the same physical position beneath the hand, while either note may be selected simply by moving to its neighbour. Because this relationship is preserved at every fret, the pattern remains chromatic across the fingerboard.

A melodeon or Anglo concertina button embodies the same principle. One physical position contains two notes, selected not by moving sideways but by reversing the bellows.

The mechanism is different. The geometry is identical.

Viewed this way, a melodeon is no longer a collection of scales but a collection of note pairs.

That observation suggested abandoning the seven note diatonic scale as the organising principle altogether.

A chromatic octave divides naturally into two complementary whole tone collections of six notes each. Building the keyboard from those interlocking hexatonic collections allows every push and pull relationship to repeat identically throughout the instrument, eliminating the asymmetry inherited from the traditional diatonic layout while preserving its bisonoric character.

The problem

Traditional melodeons inherit the geometry of the seven note diatonic scale. Because seven does not divide evenly into the repeating push and pull pattern, the keyboard shifts slightly from octave to octave. The Loomes Chromatic removes that irregularity.

A hexatonic solution

The Loomes Chromatic replaces the diatonic scale with two complementary whole tone rows.

Together they contain all twelve chromatic notes. Arranged across four rows, every note is available in both bellows directions while the fingering pattern repeats cleanly in every octave.

Harmony

The regular layout has harmonic advantages.

Major and minor triads occur in consistent shapes across every key. Learn a pattern once and it applies everywhere.

Unlike a conventional chromatic button accordion, the instrument retains the rhythmic articulation that comes from bellows direction. It remains unmistakably bisonoric while offering a more regular keyboard.

A different compromise

No accordion keyboard is perfect. Every layout balances chromatic freedom, harmonic possibilities, fingering, size and tradition.

The Loomes Chromatic explores a different balance by redesigning the underlying geometry rather than extending the traditional diatonic system. The layout asks the player to think in a different way from a conventional melodeon. The reward is a far more regular keyboard.

Further reading

Accordion researcher and engineer Owen Woods published an independent analysis of the system, including keyboard diagrams and comparisons with the British Chromatic (B/C/C#) system and other chromatic layouts.

The Loomes Chromatic by Owen Woods

https://ukebert.wordpress.com/2012/12/31/the-loomes-chromatic/

#LoomesChromatic #Melodeon #ButtonAccordion #AngloConcertina #FreeReed #AccordionDesign #Hexatonic #WholeToneScale #CGCDGA #MusicTheory #InstrumentDesign #TraditionalMusic

How the revival appears to apply different standards to different parts of the tradition, and not always consistently.

Every musical tradition contains contradictions. English folk is no exception. Most of them pass unnoticed because we inherit them as assumptions rather than examine them as ideas. Only occasionally does one stop us in our tracks.

One such contradiction concerns transmission.

We rightly celebrate singers who learn directly from source singers. Harry Cox, Walter Pardon, Sam Larner and countless others have shaped the way later generations perform traditional song. Faithful study is regarded as respect. Nobody accuses a young singer of lacking originality because they have absorbed the phrasing of a master.

The same is largely true of instrumental traditions. Northumbrian pipers study Billy Pigg. Uilleann pipers have long studied the playing of Séamus Doran. Throughout the traditional world, musicians learn from acknowledged masters, often note for note, phrase for phrase. Deep imitation is not merely accepted, it is expected. It is how traditions survive.

Yet when we arrive at English folk guitar, the conversation often changes.

A guitarist who faithfully learns a celebrated accompaniment may be encouraged to “find their own way”. Originality appears to become an obligation rather than an aspiration.

Why?

One obvious answer is that accompaniment differs from melody. Guitarists choose harmony, bass movement, rhythm and texture. Every accompaniment is, to some extent, an arrangement. But does that really justify applying a different standard?

A classical pianist is not expected to rewrite Bach. They are expected first to understand him. Their individuality emerges through performance, not through replacing the composer’s ideas with their own. Jazz musicians routinely transcribe the great improvisers note for note - How else does one begin to understand Giant Steps? 

Traditional instrumentalists learn the ornaments, bowing and phrasing of acknowledged masters. Nobody sees this as artistic failure. Indeed, we generally recognise the opposite. Originality without understanding is rarely convincing. Most great musicians begin by listening, copying and absorbing.

The English folk revival, however, sometimes seems to treat guitar differently.

Perhaps this is because revival guitar is relatively young. Unlike fiddle, pipes or concertina, there was no centuries-old body of English accompaniment waiting to be inherited. The great revival guitarists developed their approaches in public. Their accompaniments became associated with individuals in a way that older instrumental styles no longer are.

If so, this raises another question.

At what point does a revival accompaniment become part of the tradition?

Many of these performances are now over half a century old. They have been studied by generations of musicians. They have influenced how songs are heard and understood. In every practical sense, they have become part of the musical language of the revival. 

So why do we sometimes hesitate to treat them as tradition?

Perhaps the answer is simply that they still feel recent. Harry Cox belongs safely to history. Martin Carthy and Nic Jones remain identifiable personalities. We instinctively distinguish between tradition and individual creativity, even when the musical process is essentially the same. Are we then doing a disservice to not consider the performances of Joseph Taylor or Jasper Smith with the same regard for individual contribution?

The contradiction becomes clearer if we consider one particular arrangement.

For generations of English folk guitarists, Nic Jones’ accompaniment to Canadee-i-O has become almost a rite of passage. Countless players have attempted it. Many have struggled with it. A smaller number have mastered it. Nobody regards the exercise itself as misguided. On the contrary, learning the arrangement is often treated as evidence that a guitarist has begun to understand the language of the revival.

Yet this presents us with another inconsistency.

If learning Canadee-i-O is accepted as an important part of a guitarist’s education, why should learning any other great revival accompaniment be viewed differently? At what point does careful study become imitation? More importantly, why do we ask that question of guitarists at all when we rarely ask it of singers, pipers or fiddlers?

If we believe traditions are transmitted through people, then we must also accept that performances are transmitted not just alongside but integrally to songs. A song is more than a sequence of words. It is phrasing, rhythm, emphasis, timing and, where appropriate, accompaniment. These things are learned exactly as language is learned: by listening carefully to those who already speak it fluently.

None of this argues against originality.

Originality is essential. Traditions that never change eventually become museums.

But originality is not the opposite of imitation. More often, it is its consequence. Furthermore, it is unavoidable. No two singers are alike, and we cannot help but bring something of ourselves even to the most self consciously studied rendition. Sometimes I wish this were not the case as I'd dearly love to sound like Keith Kendrick.

Perhaps the contradiction lies not in the music itself, but in our expectations. We readily accept faithful transmission in some parts of the tradition while treating it with suspicion in others.

Whether that distinction can be consistently justified is, I think, an interesting question.

Tradition survives because each generation learns from the last.

Some ballads survive because singers love them. Others survive because collectors preserve them. Bill Norrie survives because its structure is extraordinarily resilient. Across three centuries of print, oral tradition, and revival performance, details shift, language changes, characters acquire different names, yet the narrative remains intact. Martin Carthy's version stands at the end of that long transmission, drawing together several textual lineages into a performance whose dramatic economy makes the story feel inevitable.

The ballad is more widely known as Child 83 (Roud 53), appearing under titles including Child Maurice, Child Morris, and Gil Morice. Beneath those varying names lies a remarkably stable narrative. A young man arranges a secret meeting with a woman who once loved him. Tokens pass between them. Her husband discovers the plan, rides out, kills the young man, returns carrying his head, and learns only afterwards that the victim was his wife's long-hidden son. Recognition arrives after violence has already completed its work.

That architecture has attracted singers for centuries because every event generates the next. Nothing interrupts the chain of cause and consequence. Each decision narrows the possibilities until only one ending remains.

Carthy's performance inherits material from several points in the song's history. Eighteenth century Scottish print established Gil Morice as a widely recognised ballad. Nineteenth century collectors preserved texts containing some of its most memorable imagery. Twentieth century revival singers, particularly Ewan MacColl, championed versions collected by Greig and Keith in which the attendant becomes a fully realised dramatic figure rather than a convenient witness. Carthy's set belongs unmistakably within that revival lineage while remaining entirely his own.

The opening conversation between Bill Norrie and John immediately establishes the song's emotional centre. John warns his master against the meeting. Bill dismisses the warning. The exchange gives the audience a fleeting glimpse of another possible future before the story closes that path forever. From that moment onwards, the ballad advances with relentless certainty.

The performance gains much of its power from compression. The husband discovers the meeting, disguises himself, rides into the greenwood, kills Bill Norrie, severs the head, and carries it home. The sequence unfolds without hesitation, each action arriving with the force of necessity rather than surprise. When he throws the head towards his wife with the command to "catch the ball", the horror comes entirely from the matter-of-fact delivery. The narrative never pauses to explain itself because it has no need to.

Only then does the emotional centre of the ballad reveal itself.

The mother's confession reaches back into the older Scots tradition through one unforgettable image.

Once I was full of this boy as the plum is of the stone.

Few lines in British traditional song express maternal love with such economy. Within a single metaphor the relationship becomes undeniable, and every preceding event acquires a different meaning. The husband's response follows immediately. His conditional regret cannot alter what has already happened because the structure of the ballad has left no room for redemption.

The musical setting reinforces that same sense of inevitability. Carthy has spoken of performing the song in the tuning DGBDGB, producing an open, pipe-like resonance that supports the voice without competing for attention. The accompaniment sustains the narrative, maintaining its forward motion while allowing the text to remain the principal source of drama.

The endurance of Bill Norrie rests on more than its age or reputation. It survives because its construction is exceptionally efficient. Every scene advances the narrative. Every image performs more than one task. Every revelation changes the meaning of everything that came before.

Carthy's performance understands that architecture completely. His interpretation gathers together centuries of transmission, preserving the ballad's essential shape while presenting it with a clarity that allows the story to exert its full force. It remains one of the finest demonstrations of narrative singing produced by the English folk revival.
 

Against the primacy of the third.

Western harmonic theory rests upon an assumption so familiar that it is seldom questioned: that the major third is one of the primary consonances from which harmonic language is built.

I am no longer convinced that this is true.

The harmonic series undoubtedly contains a major third, but it arrives only after the octave and the dominant fifth have already established themselves. More importantly, the major third found in nature is not the major third found on a modern keyboard. Twelve-tone equal temperament requires every interval to be compromised, and among the common consonances it is the major third that suffers one of the greatest distortions. We accept this because it allows us to modulate freely, not because it is acoustically ideal.

Traditional harmonic theory nevertheless places the third at the centre of its architecture. Chords are constructed by stacking thirds. Extensions continue the same process. Seventh, ninth, eleventh and thirteenth chords all arise from the same underlying assumption that harmony is fundamentally tertian.

My own experience as an accompanist has gradually led me elsewhere.

When a chord sounds, we do not hear isolated notes. We hear interacting spectra. Every note carries its own overtone series, reinforcing some frequencies while competing with others. The ear does not experience every component equally. Some tones possess greater perceptual weight than others.

That distinction matters.

If the third is treated not as the primary structural interval but as one colour among many, a different harmonic language begins to emerge. Instead of building sonorities by successive thirds, it becomes possible to think in terms of successive fifths. The resulting structures remain harmonically rich, but their centre of gravity changes.

Consider a simple C major triad.

Conventionally it is understood as C-E-G.

My ear increasingly hears a more stable framework in C-D-G, where the dominant chain exerts greater perceptual force than the tempered third. This is not an argument for abandoning thirds altogether. Thirds remain indispensable. Rather, it is an argument for demoting them from their privileged position within the hierarchy of consonance.

The practical consequences become clearer as chords become larger. Conventional extended harmony often produces dense interactions between competing overtone series, particularly when closely voiced. By contrast, sonorities organised around fifth relationships tend to remain open, stable, and remarkably transparent beneath a singer. The third continues to contribute colour, but it no longer determines the identity of the harmony.

For an accompanist, this changes almost everything.

The task is no longer simply to realise harmonic function. It is to distribute harmonic weight. Certain notes establish stability. Others imply direction. Others provide colour without demanding attention. A successful accompaniment balances these competing roles so that the listener's ear remains fixed on the narrative rather than the mechanism supporting it.

This is not an attempt to overturn Western harmony, nor to replace centuries of musical practice with a new system. Tertian harmony has proved itself extraordinarily fertile, and without it much of the world's greatest music would be unimaginable.

It is, however, an invitation to ask a different question.

Instead of asking what chord a collection of notes represents, we might ask which notes the ear experiences as structurally significant, and why.

That shift, from harmonic function towards harmonic weight, has shaped almost every accompaniment I have written in recent years. Whether it proves to be a useful theoretical model for others remains to be seen. As a practical approach to accompanying traditional song, however, it has transformed the way I hear.

When people discuss retuned guitars in the British folk tradition, they often begin with Davy Graham and DADGAD. That is understandable. It remains one of the most widely used alternative guitar tunings in folk music. However, It is only part of the story.

Graham's earliest documented use of DADGAD dates from the late 1950s and is clearly audible on recordings such as She Moved Through the Fair and Rif Mountain. The tuning solved practical musical problems. By removing the third, it reduced temperamental friction, supported drones, and made modal harmony physically manageable on the instrument.

A closely related approach appeared almost immediately elsewhere.

By 1968, Joni Mitchell was using DADEAD on recorded material. I Had a King, from Song to a Seagull, provides a documented example. DADEAD creates a suspended D sonority, sustains drones, omits the third, and allows melody to move independently of harmony. It is an elegant solution to the same musical questions.

Martin Carthy, of course, developed DADEAB extensively before later transposing it to CGCDGA to suit his vocal range. For me, this remains the most successful solution, for reasons I shall come to.

Both tunings share the same core: DADEA. Transposed down a tone to CGCDG, they become double C banjo tuning, the high g now played with the fingers rather than the thumb. This tuning is well documented in five-string banjo practice from the early nineteenth century and is likely older still. It serves the same musical purpose, supporting drones, facilitating modal thinking, and avoiding the instability of tempered thirds. (Graham's DADGAD similarly corresponds, by transposition, to the banjo's ‘Sawmill’ tuning.)

The guitar, in other words, inherits ideas from much older traditions.

CGCDGA is often regarded as a modern or idiosyncratic development. Stripped of octave doublings, it is simply a cello tuned in fifths: C G D A. Carthy himself has pointed this out. The tuning redistributes violin-family pitch relations across the fingerboard in a form that is both physically comfortable and musically coherent. Cellos are recorded with these pitches as early as 1532 (although the English practice was to drop it to Bb after the French manner until around 1725). Regional pitch before standardisation remains an interesting area for speculation. But the concept of tuning in fifths is actually about half a century older than the guitar itself.

These tuning systems have a clear advantage. They minimise the temperamental conflicts created when equal-tempered thirds compete with the Pythagorean natural thirds of the harmonic series.

CGCDGA offers exceptional structural clarity. Two diatonic string pairs replace one, giving greater melodic freedom across the neck without forcing the player back into functional chord shapes. Music written for diatonic instruments, particularly the Anglo concertina and melodeon, transfers naturally to the guitar. Morris tunes, in particular, seem almost to arrange themselves.

There are of course, practical considerations. The first string sits a long way below its intended E, making it comparatively slack, quieter than the rest of the set, and easy to bend unintentionally. A standard 13-56 set is workable, but once the tuning becomes a permanent musical language, a heavier first string or better still, a custom gauge set  restores balance across the instrument.

While on the subject of modal tunings, it is worth mentioning Nic Jones's use of CGCGCD, most famously on Canadee-I-O. This, too, lies close to double C banjo tuning. Both establish C as the tonal centre, reinforce it through octave doubling, and avoid the third entirely. The additional low C simply deepens the resonance.

Taken together, these tunings persist because they solve recurring musical and physical problems. Their longevity reflects utility, logical structure, and ease of use rather than novelty.

The question, then, is where this logic leads.

I once spoke with Martin Carthy at a festival while showing him one of the instruments I had built. He remarked, matter-of-factly, that "the problem with CGCDGA is that the top strings sound a lot lower than EADGBE. So it pushes you up the dusty end." He was referring to range. The tuning's internal logic is exceptionally strong, but its upper register is compressed.

If the underlying principle is fifths, octaves, and the avoidance of thirds, the next step is obvious. The D on the third string already functions as an internal octave and structural pivot. Continuing the same pattern of root, octave, and ninth around the cycle of fifths, there is no compelling reason for the system to stop at six strings.

An eight-string instrument tuned CGCDGADE extends the existing logic rather than replacing it. The additional strings restore upper range while preserving the modal clarity that makes the tuning so effective. The structure remains intact. Only the compass widens.

While such instruments are unlikely to become commonplace, this is almost beside the point. These tunings continue to suggest their own evolution because they rest on principles that are stable, adaptable, and musically coherent. Tradition, in this sense, is not fixed. It expands.

And yes, there is one currently part-built on my bench.

Notes on judgement, restraint, and responsibility in ballad singing.

Technique can be admired in isolation. Style can be imitated. Judgement can be learned. Interpretation however, remains personal. It is the accumulation of countless decisions, revealed only in performance. In the ballad tradition, interpretation is what grants a song legibility.

A ballad arrives without instructions. Its language is economical, its psychology oblique, its moral centre often unstated. Events are reported, motivations implied, contradictions left unresolved. This openness allows the song to endure.

The singer's first responsibility is to the text.

Traditional ballads are unforgiving of vague reading. Small verbal changes often carry structural weight. A singer must understand how each line functions: which advances the narrative, which delays it, which opens moral space, which closes it.

Emphasis is therefore a matter of judgement. Weight placed on the wrong line turns implication into melodrama. A neglected hinge line leaves the story inert. Interpretation is close reading made audible.

Restraint is central. Conviction comes from trusting the material. Drama rarely requires reinforcement. Meaning accumulates when the singer leaves room for the listener.

Emotional colour demands similar discipline. Ballads seldom inhabit a single emotional register. Grief, resignation, tenderness and simple reportage frequently coexist. Committing too quickly to one emotional reading diminishes the others.

Timing is equally important. Ballads breathe unevenly. A pause can transform a statement into a consequence, yet excessive rubato weakens narrative momentum. The instinct for when time should expand or remain steady grows directly from an understanding of the story.

Tone deserves equal care. Violence, betrayal and loss are often presented without comment. The singer's presence should remain sufficiently steady for the listener to reach their own conclusions.

For this reason, ballad singing rarely benefits from overt theatricality. Excessive characterisation narrows meaning. The finest performances often sound almost plain, until one recognises the precision that produced such apparent simplicity. That being said, a consciously dry rendition can become dull. It's all in the balance.

Silence also forms part of the interpretation. Breath, resonance, and the space between verses shape the listener's understanding as surely as words.

Interpretation changes over time, but it should deepen rather than drift. Each decision must be grounded in the song itself, capable of surviving repeated performance because it continues to persuade.

To sing a ballad is to accept responsibility for meaning.

Every performance says: this is how I understand this song today.

Interpretation succeeds when it feels inevitable. The singer has become equal to the song.

An outline of a non-linear approach to guitar accompaniment in narrative song.

Most guitar pedagogy assumes a linear instrument. Melody moves along a string, fret by fret, while harmony is supplied by fixed chord shapes. This way of thinking is deeply embedded, yet it encourages a particular kind of phrasing and musical thought.

Non-linear guitar playing begins elsewhere. Melody is distributed across the instrument rather than confined to a single string. Notes that would normally lie adjacent are voiced on different strings, each with its own timbre, decay, and dynamic character. Melody becomes spatial rather than sequential.

The guitar begins to resemble a small harp. Each string is a resonant column. Notes overlap, sustain, and excite one another sympathetically. Resonance becomes part of the melodic language rather than a by-product of it.

Traditional chord shapes become less useful. They were designed for harmonic clarity and ergonomic efficiency. Non-linear playing replaces them with melodic shapes: groups of adjacent scale tones spread across the strings so the hand remains largely still while the melody unfolds. These shapes are not chords waiting to be struck, but scalar frameworks through which melody can move.

Shapes are chosen because they allow notes to be released individually while earlier tones continue to ring. Open strings, harmonic stoppings, and overlapping sustains become structural devices rather than embellishments.

This changes phrasing fundamentally. Successive notes differ naturally in colour and decay, even when separated by only a tone or semitone. Stepwise movement acquires breadth, while repeated notes gain emphasis simply by shifting to another string.

Linear playing often demands a compromise between articulation and sustain. Distributing melody across several strings allows both. Each new note sounds while the previous one continues to resonate, creating overlapping musical lines rather than isolated events.

This is especially valuable in ballad accompaniment. Narrative songs need room for language to unfold. A harp-like texture supports the voice without imprisoning it inside a harmonic grid. Motion continues beneath the text without driving it forward.

Harmony also becomes more flexible. Instead of arriving through vertical chord changes, it emerges from the melody itself. Tonality can gather, recede, or darken gradually, reflecting the way ballads reveal meaning through implication rather than declaration.

Non-linear guitar playing is therefore more than a technical device. It allows the instrument to function melodically, harmonically, and timbrally at the same time. The fingerboard becomes a landscape of resonant possibilities, and melody something to be placed as carefully as it is moved.

Why ballads function through causality rather than emotion.

There is a habit of speaking about traditional song as though it were fragile: something to be protected, conserved, or handled with care. The ballads that have survived are nothing of the sort. They are durable mechanisms. They endure because they work.

A narrative song is an account of actions and consequences arranged in sequence. Its power lies in causality. One event gives rise to another until the story arrives at its inevitable conclusion.

Much contemporary folk performance has drifted away from this understanding. Songs become vehicles for mood, personality, or self-expression. The singer occupies the foreground while the narrative recedes. This shift is seldom deliberate. Feeling is simply easier to inhabit than structure.

Ballads, however, derive their emotional force from narrative inevitability. Alter that sequence and the song may remain attractive, but it no longer tells the same truth.

However, fidelity to narrative has little to do with textual purism. Traditional singers have always forgotten lines, substituted verses, corrected inconsistencies, and reshaped details. The measure of every change is the same: does it preserve the causal pressure of the song?

A ballad tolerates almost anything except unnecessary assistance. Emphasising the "right" emotion, signalling the "correct" interpretation, or replacing sequence with atmosphere weakens its effect. The events still occur, but they no longer compel the listener.

This helps explain the apparent restraint of the finest traditional singers. Their authority rests on confidence in the material. They allow the story to unfold without decoration or commentary.

That position resembles witnessing more than performance. Ballads are concerned with boundaries: fidelity and betrayal, curiosity and restraint, desire and survival. They present consequences rather than verdicts. The singer's responsibility is to make those consequences intelligible.

The same principle governs editing. A song may be shortened, modernised, or reshaped provided its internal logic remains intact. Once causality is obscured, the song changes its function. The relevant question is never whether a change is authentic, but whether it remains inevitable.

Tradition survives because it continues to function. Songs that still carry narrative pressure are sung; those that do not quietly disappear. That process is neither sentimental nor ruthless. It is how living traditions endure.

The task is to let the song operate fully in the present. A ballad that cannot withstand plain singing before a modern audience has already lost the qualities that kept it alive.

Trusting a narrative enough to leave it largely alone requires confidence. When that confidence is present, the singer almost disappears, and attention may settle on the unfolding of the story itself.