Beating — where it appears
Named by 38 essays across 6 fields — each of them below, with the objects they name alongside it.
The wolf at the end of the chain
Put all the tuning error into one interval and eleven others become perfect. The twelfth becomes a howl, and for two centuries keyboards were built that way on purpose.
Beats are arithmetic that anybody can hear
Two tones a few hertz apart swell and fade at exactly their difference. It is the most direct evidence available that the ear does sums on what reaches it, and it is how every instrument in the world gets tuned.
The piano is tuned wrong on purpose
Every well-tuned piano has a sharp treble and a flat bass, by up to a third of a semitone at the extremes. It is not an error, it is not a compromise about keys, and it follows from one property of a steel wire that can be computed from its diameter and its length.
A tuner counts beats, and that is the whole method
Laying a temperament sounds like the most subjective job in music, and it is arithmetic. Every interval in the bearing octave has a target rate in beats per second, the rate follows from the ratio and the register, and a tuner who hits the numbers has produced equal temperament without ever thinking about a cent.
The other wolf
A cellist's wolf note is a string mode landing on a body resonance, at which point the two stop being separable and start exchanging energy — the mode splits in two and the note warbles at the difference. It is a coupled oscillator. The tuning system's wolf is twelve fifths failing to close by 23.5 cents. They share a word and nothing else.
A dissonance has to last
Roughness is a fluctuation, and a fluctuation needs cycles. A minor second at the bottom of a cello fluctuates thirty-three times a second, so a semiquaver holds four of them and a demisemiquaver holds two — which turns the counterpoint rule that a dissonance may pass if it is short into a number, and puts that number at about seventy milliseconds through most of the range, once the pairs beating too slowly to be roughness at all are taken out of the average.
Two pipes for a note neither makes
The resultant stop sounds a sixteen-foot pipe and a ten-and-two-thirds-foot pipe and asks the listener for a thirty-two-foot note. It is the missing fundamental built on purpose from the fewest partials that can imply anything — and counting how many fundamentals two partials actually imply is the arithmetic behind three centuries of builders disagreeing about whether it works.
Three answers to how finely a pitch can be heard
Two notes one after the other are told apart at about four cents at A440. Whether a melodic interval is in tune is a judgement an order of magnitude coarser. And two notes held together are heard to beat at a third of a cent, because the question is answered by counting rather than by hearing pitch at all. Every equal division ever built sits between the coarsest and the finest.
A tuning is not a table of cents
Two instruments of a pair are tuned deliberately apart, and the tuner has to choose between a fixed number of cents and a fixed number of beats — which differ by a factor of sixteen across four octaves and cannot both be held. A list of pitches records the first, cannot record the second, and cannot record at all that there are two instruments.
A note that is never at its pitch
Eleven essays in this field argue about differences of one to twenty-four cents. An ordinary operatic vibrato is a hundred and forty cents wide and completes six excursions a second, so every one of those distinctions fits inside a single sung note several times over — and the beat rate a tuner would null passes through zero eleven times a second.
What a choir does that a soloist cannot
Two singers on one note produce one beat and it can be counted. Sixteen produce a hundred and twenty at once, and the amplitude still fluctuates by as much as it did — a choir is no steadier than a duet. What has gone is not the fluctuation but its rate: the modulation energy that sat in a single line at two voices is spread across a band at sixteen, with no line in it. That is the choral sound, and it is also why the just-intonation drift this site measured describes only ensembles that hold their pitch still.
Three strings, and the note that comes back
The usual account of a beat adds two independent sources together. A piano's strings are joined at the bridge and are not independent: the pair has normal modes, one of which drives the bridge and dies in a second and a half while the other cancels at the bridge and rings for twenty. A hammer striking a perfect unison excites only the first — so a perfectly tuned unison is the shortest note on the instrument, dying in one second, and the longest is at a deliberate detuning of about two and a half cents, at three. Past four and a half cents the two modes swap what they share and the sustain collapses.
The beat that is not in the air
Every sound this site synthesises reaches both ears identically, and that is the assumption none of its figures ever varied. Put 500 hertz in one ear and 504 in the other and nothing sums anywhere: each eardrum sees a steady sinusoid with no modulation on it at all. A listener still hears a four-per-second beat, which means the arithmetic is being done behind the ears rather than in the room. And it stops working above about a kilohertz — not where phase locking gives out at five, but where a head 17.5 centimetres across stops being able to name a direction, which is 762 hertz.
An interval is two errors
Two notes in succession are two pitch estimates, and what a listener judges is their difference — so a melodic interval is heard less finely than either of the notes in it. At a semiquaver the limen is nineteen cents, which lands inside a published range long quoted from the literature and never derived. Sounded together instead of one after the other, the same interval is judged eighteen times more finely.
The pair tuned apart on purpose
A piano's unison buys its sustain with a detuning of two and a half cents and loses it past four and a half. Read from the other side that is a design constraint on every instrument that wants the beating instead: past the bifurcation the sustain is gone and no further detuning costs anything more, which is why every chorused voice in the world — the celeste rank, the musette reeds, the paired gamelan — is built out of sources that do not share a bridge.
Every partial beats at its own rate
Five earlier essays have drawn one beat rate per figure, and every one of them is the rate between two fundamentals. Two real notes beat between all of their partials at once, the k-th pair beats k times as fast, and somewhere up the spectrum the rate passes the point at which a beat stops being a beat — so a chorused note is a beat at the bottom of itself and a roughness at the top, simultaneously, with a crossover partial that is arithmetic.
A section against another section
The choir has been treated as a unison, and no choir sings only unisons. Two sections an interval apart beat between partials rather than between fundamentals — the third brings the fifth partial of one against the fourth of the other — and equal temperament puts that coincidence fourteen cents out. So two sections singing a tempered third beat at nearly nine per second with every singer in both of them perfectly in tune, and the same temperament is inaudible on a fifth.
Sixteen sweeps against sixteen
Every intonation figure about the voice treats a singer as a frequency. A singer is a frequency being swept a hundred cents wide six times a second, and two sections singing an interval are two hundred and fifty-six pairs of sweeps. The beat rate between the partials the interval brings together stops being a number and becomes a function of time — and the pair spends four fifths of its time above the rate at which beating is beating at all.
A roughness with a rate of its own
Every roughness figure so far computes one number for a steady spectrum. Evaluate the same sum at every instant of a vibrato and there are three numbers instead — a mean, a depth and a rate — and the mean is not the roughness of the mean frequency. On an octave it is nineteen times it, because an octave sits in a deep narrow minimum and a vibrato smears it out of one.
A beat has a depth, and six essays held it at one
Every beat figure so far adds two tones of equal amplitude, which is the single ratio at which the trough of a beat is a true null — and a null is what a tuner is actually listening for. Vary the ratio and the picture changes: at two to one the dip is nine and a half decibels, at ten to one it is under two, and the interval that gives the shallowest null of all is the octave.
The beat a tuner can actually use
There is a modulation index for every interval on every timbre, and the published threshold for detecting a fluctuation is a function of exactly that and its rate. Running one against the other turns a table of decibels into a window in cents — and reverses the ordering, because the interval with the shallowest dip has the widest window.
A beat is never one beat
Every beat counted until now has come from one pair of partials. A real spectrum has many, so a mistuned octave produces eight beats at once — and on a perfectly flexible string those eight are an exact harmonic series of the slowest. On a real piano string they are a cubic, half of them are not beats at all, and no single width of octave silences more than one. That is where the tuner's five octaves come from.
Three beats at most, and only in the middle of the keyboard
A mistuned octave on a real piano makes eight beats at once, and a listener attending to one of them is doing something that has a threshold. Two thresholds, in fact — a rate and a place — and once both are applied the eight become four at A3, one at A1 and one at A5. Every interval a tuner sets goes to zero at both ends of the compass and peaks at eight countable beats in the octave the bearing is laid in.
The rate that does not rise with the partial
Twelve earlier essays give every vibrato the same six hertz, and the measured spread is 5.5 to 7.5. Putting the two fluctuations a choir contains on one axis shows why the rate matters: the beating between mistuned voices rises with the partial and leaves the range a listener follows as fluctuation at 1,217 hertz, while the vibrato's own modulation is six hertz at every partial. Above that frequency a section fluctuates by vibrato alone — and if every singer had the same rate, it would barely fluctuate at all.
A bar and its pipe are one object
Three earlier essays treat a marimba's resonator as a filter the bar's output passes through, and both of them said in their own caveats that the coupling was not modelled. It is here, and the debt was right: the coupling is 1.67 times the threshold at which the pair acquires two frequencies instead of two decay rates, so the tube is not downstream of anything. Every consequence of that is smaller than the peaks it would have to be seen between.
Every member of a beat family is the same depth
A mistuned octave's beats have been counted on their rate and their place, with the depth recorded as the thing left out and a prediction that the shallow upper members would take the count from four to two. The depth turns out not to fall at all: on any power-law spectrum every member of a family has exactly the modulation index its interval's own ratio gives, at every register, on every wire. The count does fall to two, and the thing that takes it there is the criterion that essay was already using.
An orchestra is given a note
Every earlier essay on pitch standards draws a standard as a number an ensemble is at, and no ensemble is at a pitch. It is handed one, by one player, on one note, and everything else is matched to it by ear — so a standard reaches an orchestra through a limen nobody quotes. Matching by comparing two pitches is good to 5.7 cents at A; nulling the beat between them is good to 2.0, and which of the two is available depends on how long the oboe holds the note. The crossover is at about seven tenths of a second, which is shorter than an oboe's A and longer than a plucked one.
Who listens to whom when an orchestra tunes
One match is good to two cents and an orchestra is sixty of them, arranged in an order that nobody chose deliberately. Passed along a line, the errors accumulate and the last player is fifteen cents from the first; given to everybody at once, nobody is more than two. The convention every orchestra uses — principals to the oboe, sections to their principals — is two matches deep, costs 2.8 cents whether there are four players or a hundred, and sits within a cent of the best arrangement that exists.
The unison is the coarsest thing in the room
An orchestra tunes on a unison and then plays intervals, and the two are not the same test. The lowest coincidence of a p:q interval sits at p times the lower note's frequency, so a mistuning of a given number of cents makes a beat p times faster — a fifth betrays it three times sooner than a unison, a minor third six. The ritual that opens a rehearsal is therefore the least sensitive measurement anybody will make all evening, and every chord afterwards is a finer one.
A consensus with nothing to hold it
Once the oboe has stopped, no reference is left in the room. Each player corrects toward what they hear around them, which is other players correcting toward them — and a consensus dynamic has a fixed point at every common value, so it pulls the ensemble together and nothing pulls it anywhere in particular. Simulated, the players' spread falls from 2.8 cents to 0.5 while the ensemble as a whole random-walks. The size is the result and it is small: two or three cents over a movement, which is a tenth of what unaccompanied choirs are said to lose.
One fluctuation or two
Whether two members of a beat family are one thing or two was decided by asking whether their rates differ by a factor of two, and the factor was written down as a stand-in for a modulation filterbank nobody had run. Run, the bank gives 1.618 — the golden section, and not by accident, since a channel of quality one has its half-power points there. The stand-in was conservative rather than optimistic, and the recomputed counts do not change at a single register, because the criterion was never what was binding.
How hard the note was struck
The auditory filter is not a fixed shape: its lower skirt shallows by about 38 per cent of its reference value every ten decibels, so a loud note is analysed through a wider filter than a quiet one. Every share computed so far was quoted at a moderate level, and a tuner does not strike moderately. Recomputed, the mean share of a mistuned octave's filter falls from 0.55 at forty decibels to 0.07 at seventy, and the count of separable beats goes from two to none — which is a prediction too strong to be right, and the way it fails is the useful part.
Counted in the decay, or not at all
A mistuned octave struck hard delivers no countable beat at the strike, and the reconciliation offered for that was that a tuner listens to the decay. Computed through a real decay it fails on its own terms: the partials fall silent before the filter has narrowed enough to separate them. It succeeds only when the filter is broadened by the level inside it, which is what the published parameterisation was fitted against — and then the window opens at a twelfth of the note's life and shuts at a quarter.
The cello cannot hear its own tempering
Narrowing a quartet's fifths to meet a piano is one number, 1.96 cents a fifth, and it is a different beat on every string: once every two thirds of a second on the violin's A–E and once every four and a half seconds on the cello's C–G. Set by ear for two seconds a fifth, the violin's E lands within two thirds of a cent and the cello's C within 5.7 — which is as large as the Pythagorean error the tempering was meant to remove. The string whose tuning is most wrong is the string whose tuning is least certain, and a cellist tuning down the chain cannot tell pure from tempered.
A string that decays twice is counted early
A mistuned octave's beats were found countable only between a twelfth and a quarter of a note's life, on a note decaying once. A piano string decays twice, a fast prompt sound over a slow aftersound, and the prediction was that this would open the count sooner and close it later. It opens sooner — at a seventh of a second rather than a second — and closes exactly where a single decay struck twenty decibels softer closes, so at 80 dB it holds 8.8 beats instead of 11.8. The count now rises with the strike to 90 dB, and a tuner who strikes hard is right.
Counting beats moves the price of a chord, not the tuning
The search that found a guitar piece's best tuning counted every cent of error alike, and the obvious objection is that a cent of a third beats faster than a cent of an octave. Counted in beats instead, every piece gets exactly the same tuning back. What changes is how much of the piece the abandoned chord has to hold before it is rescued — thirty beats instead of forty-four, arriving in three steps instead of one.
A firm touch buys beats until the aftersound sinks with it
A piano string decays twice, and a mistuned octave's countable beats were found to rise with how hard the note is struck — on the assumption that the aftersound always starts twenty decibels below the strike. It need not. The moment the count shuts is set by the level the aftersound starts at and nothing else, so a harder strike buys beats only if its aftersound does not sink with it. If the drop deepens by more than 0.85 decibels for each decibel of strike, the firm touch costs beats instead.
A wrong bar beats the same on either instrument
The ringing instrument carries a gamelan scale's standing, so a tuning error on it was predicted to cost more than the same error on the damped instrument. Put in the beating the model lacked, and the prediction fails: moved ten cents, a degree costs the same 0.85 summed over the scale on either instrument, because almost all of the cost is the wrong bar beating against the right one on the other instrument, and a beat belongs to both of the bars that make it. Moving a whole instrument costs exactly what its five degrees cost separately, and it takes nothing from the scale's standing.
Named alongside it
The objects these essays reach for when they reach for this one.
PartialTuning by earCritical bandwidthCentsInharmonicityIntonationRoughnessJust intonationModulationVibratoDifference limenTemperament