From Sound Model to Colloquialism - Celtic / Amara

Some scales arrive fully formed—clear in structure, lineage, and identity.

This wasn’t one of them.

What we now call Celtic, or Amara, didn’t begin with a name, or even a clear intention. It emerged quietly in the early days of our beloved artform—not as a defined concept, but as a collection of notes that simply… worked.

One of the earliest documented versions appears in 2007, noted on hangblog without any formal name:

D3 / A3 C4 D4 E4 F4 G4 A4

During their second generation, PANArt built the structure around a Ding tuned to D3, with its octave, D4, and its fifths, A3 and A4. Beyond that, the remaining four notes were chosen by ear. No formal sound models were published—players selected instruments in person at the Hanghaus in Bern.

An early adopter, David Charrier, helped bring this scale to a wider audience through performance.

It would go on to become one of the most popular scales of all time—but not before its storied journey of being named.

At its core, the scale is deceptively simple:

D E F G A C

A minor tonality—but missing something of note. No sixth. No Bb. No leading tone. No strong pull back to the root. No darkness.

What’s left is a structure that invites cyclical play without demanding resolution.

Yes, it’s D minor—but it’s not inherently broody. It’s the milk chocolate of the minor world.

You can hear it as A minor. Even as C major. You can treat it as modal, suspended, or lean into something resembling a jig.

This ambiguity isn’t a flaw.

It’s the feature.

By 2011, the scale had spread enough to warrant a name. BellArt referred to it as “Dominant 7th”:

D / A C D E F G A

On paper, it made some sense. The flat 7—the C—was a defining color compared to earlier models. But the name never quite landed. A dominant 7th is a chord, not a scale.

Forum discussions at the time made that clear. Players and makers debated tonal center, function, and meaning. Victor Levinson asked it plainly: “can anyone tell me why this scale has the name of Dominant7th?” Even David Kuckhermann echoed the confusion.

It wasn’t necessarily wrong.

It just wasn’t right.

The name tried to explain something that wasn’t meant to be explained—but needed to be felt.

Around that same time, an 8-note version was circulating in C#:

C# / G# B C# D# E F# G# B

The scale was spreading—but still without a clear identity.

So the community did what it always does.

It named the feeling.

Celtic.

No theory. No analysis. Just association. Open. Modal. Drone-friendly.

As Lauri Wuolio noted at the time, poetic names fit better than technical ones. “Dominant 7th” was accurate enough—but it missed the point.

Whether it had anything to do with actual Celtic music didn’t really matter. It sounded like something familiar.

That was enough—for now.

In 2012, something shifted. An SBb instrument known as the Triple D appeared:

D / A C D E F G A C D

Nine notes, now extended just enough to complete the thought.

The added high C and D changed everything. Phrases could resolve. Melodies could arc instead of loop. The scale stopped circling and began to move.

It wasn’t the final form.

But it was the first time it felt complete.

Around that same time, I found my way into it as well.

The very first handpan I ever made was a Celtic 7. Since then, I’ve built it in 7, 8, and 9 note versions, in C, C#, D, Eb, E, F, and G—each one revealing a little more of what the scale can do.

The first 9-note version I made was in C#. It’s still one of the best instruments I’ve ever made.

Over the years, I’ve built more than 500 variations of this scale and performed with it on five continents—learning where it holds tension, where it releases, and how far it can stretch.

It’s become my desert island scale.

My on-stage security blanket.

The scale was spreading—but still without a clear identity. Then in 2014, a new name appeared for the C# variant:

AmaRa.

Shared through videos by AsaChan, the name didn’t explain the scale. It didn’t reference theory or structure.

It simply named it—adding another layer of complexity to a rather simple scale.

Once the identity settled, the structure followed.

The extended Celtic / Amara in D marked the next step:

D / [F] [G] A C D E F G A C D

Beyond the earlier 7–9 note frameworks, the scale expanded into a full instrument layout. More notes. More range. More possibility—still anchored in that same open core.

This is where it became something else entirely.

Something you could hand to a player and say, start here.

The next evolution didn’t deepen the scale.

It extended it.

The modern E Amara opens the structure in both directions:

[B2] [C#3] [D3] E3 | F#3 G3 A3 B3 C4 D4 E4 F#4 G4 A4 B4 C5 D5 E5

Lower notes ground it. Upper notes expand it. The circular nature of early layouts gives way to something more linear, more expressive.

What began as a loose sound model becomes a complete melodic system—capable of carrying full musical ideas across multiple registers.

Looking back, the path is clear.

First, we tried to explain it.
Then, we tried to describe it.
Eventually… we just gave it a name (or two).

Unlike Kurd, which carries lineage, or Pygmy, which carries reference, this scale found its identity through use.

Through players. Through community. Through being made and played again and again—until it stuck.

A slow evolution. Not an immediate arrival.

And in doing so, it quietly became one of the most open, adaptable, and enduring voices in the modern handpan world.