That’s a pretty neat way to look at it. I’ve seen a few of those “rebel” fingerings pop up over the years—like when a virtuoso decides to switch from a 4–5–4–1 to a 3–4–3–2 pattern just to fit a new phrase better. It’s like a musical protest, a little tweak that says, “We’re not stuck in the old way.” If you’re up for it, let’s pick a scale and experiment with a couple of different fingerings, then hear how the phrasing feels and see what little rebellions we can uncover.

I’ll run through that. With the right‑hand 1‑2‑3‑1‑2‑3‑4‑5 the break between the 3 and 4 is almost invisible—your hand just rolls over to the next octave. Flip it to 1‑2‑3‑1‑2‑3‑5‑4 and that same gap feels a little wider, like the hand has to “pause” before dropping back. It’s a quiet defiance of the smooth line. Then the left‑hand 4‑5‑4‑1‑4‑5‑4‑5 adds a whole new pulse; the alternation of 4 and 5 creates a tension that’s almost a little shout. I’d say the left‑hand pattern is the most rebellious—its bite interrupts the flow, forcing you to confront the shape of the scale itself. But in the end, both are just subtle ways of saying, “I’m not just following the norm.”

Let’s put that 4‑5‑4‑1‑4‑5‑4‑5 in G major first; the pedal tone on the G gives the bite a stronger bite because you’re moving away from the tonic’s stability. Then toss in a quarter‑note to eighth‑note shift—play the first two notes as a dotted eighth, then the next two as sixteenth pairs—so the hand has to shift timing as well as finger. The bite feels more like a flagellum when the rhythm jumps. A full‑blown statement usually comes when you couple that abruptness with a harmonic push, like ending on the dominant or adding a tritone. The hand isn’t just mutating; it’s making a point. Try that and see how your ears react.