Inharmonicity — where it appears
Named by 43 essays across 5 fields — each of them below, with the objects they name alongside it.
Roughness can be computed, and the answer looks like a scale
Feed two spectra into a model of how nearby frequencies interfere, sweep one past the other, and the curve that comes out has dips exactly where the consonant intervals are. Nobody put them there.
A string does everything at once
A plucked string does not vibrate at one frequency. It vibrates at all the whole-number multiples of one frequency simultaneously, and nearly everything in music theory is downstream of that fact.
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.
The octave that is not two to one
The octave is the one interval nobody argues about: two to one, exact, in every tradition that has one. Asked to set an octave by ear, listeners set it wide — and they do it with pure tones, which have no partials to beat against each other. Whatever is stretching the octave, it is not the stiffness of a piano string.
A bell has no fundamental
The note a listener names when a church bell is struck is not any partial the bell has. Its nominal, twelfth and double octave sit at 2, 3 and 4 times the prime, which is a harmonic series on a pitch an octave below the loudest thing in the sound — and that pitch is supplied by the listener. Founders have been tuning it by ear since the fifteenth century.
What a drum is doing instead
An ideal membrane's modes are zeros of Bessel functions — 1, 1.59, 2.14, 2.30 — which support no common fundamental, so a drum rings without a note. A timpani is that problem solved — the kettle's air and the radiation load drag four modes onto 1, 1.5, 2, 2.5, and the pitch a timpanist tunes is the fundamental those four imply and none of them is.
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 spectrum chooses its own scale
The roughness curve's dips are always described as landing on the small whole numbers. They do not land on numbers. They land where partials coincide, and stretching a spectrum by seven per cent moves every one of them by exactly seven per cent — so the scale a set of intervals belongs to is a property of the instrument's spectrum rather than of arithmetic.
The spectrum that was supposed to explain the gamelan
Run the model that designed the Bohlen–Pierce scale on a bar's partials and it asks for a compressed pseudo-octave at 1166 cents and wells at 694 and 870. A measured slendro's degrees are at 231, 474, 717 and 955, and only one of the four is near anything the model wants. Sweep the partials and a spectrum wanting a 240-cent step can be found — sitting sixty per cent of the way up its own roughness curve, which is what a scale-level test says about the whole comparison.
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.
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 hammer is not a point either
The comb of missing partials is computed throughout for a contact of no width, and a piano hammer is sixteen millimetres of felt on a string of six hundred. Integrating the mode shape across the felt turns out not to fill the null in: a mode is odd about its own node, so a symmetric contact centred on it gives an exact zero however wide it is. What destroys the null is being in the wrong place, and the tolerance is 2.8 millimetres for twenty decibels of suppression and 0.89 for thirty. The design decision found at the outset is a manufacturing tolerance.
The hammer that is heavier than its string
Three earlier essays varied where the hammer lands, how long it stays and how wide it is, and the third named the fourth variable: the exciter's own mass. It inverts across one instrument — the hammer is lighter than the wire it hits at the bottom of a piano and thirteen times heavier at the top — and it turns the contact time into a quantity the string decides rather than the felt.
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.
What the climb was a search for
The four-hundred-year rise in the pitch standard is usually explained as a search for brilliance, and an earlier essay ended by asking whether that was even coherent: does raising a string's tension change its spectrum as well as its pitch? Mostly it does not. What changes the timbre is something else entirely, and it is a mechanism that applies to instruments with no strings at all — every filter in the chain is fixed in absolute frequency while the notes move against it, so raising the standard is not a brightening but a reshuffling, and some notes lose.
The corner does not come back a corner
Stepping a hammer forward against the string's own returning wave showed that the coupling matters most in the bass. It assumed the wave that came back was the shape that left. On a stiff string it is not: partials travel at different speeds, and by the top octave of a piano the sixth partial is the first to arrive out of place. But a periodic wave can only see phase modulo a cycle, and counted that way twenty-one of forty-eight partials are still in step — which is why the returning wave is degraded rather than destroyed.
The spectrum that will not fuse
A partial about one per cent off its harmonic is heard as a sound of its own rather than as part of a note. Apply that criterion to a whole spectrum instead of to one mistuned component and it becomes a count: a piano string keeps nine of its ten partials, a bell keeps seven of eight, a bar keeps two of six. The physics of inharmonicity has had an essay here for a long time. This is what it sounds like.
The partials that do not die together
The fusion census is a still photograph: it asks whether a set of partials fits one harmonic series and has no term for time. Put time in and the ranking reverses. An ideal string is perfect on harmonicity and holds a fifth of its partials together by decay; a kettledrum — the worst spectrum in this collection for fitting a series — is the only one whose modes all die at one rate.
Four terms, and only one of them binds
Six earlier essays each computed one term of a piano's excitation spectrum and handed it to the next, and nobody had multiplied them. Multiplied, three of the four have a corner — a partial above which they are the term doing the removing — and putting the three corners on one axis says which is in charge at each pitch. Below E3 the strike point decides; above it the contact time does; and the dispersion, which is the newest and most laborious term, is nowhere the binding one.
The crossing belongs to the felt
On a piano the strike point decides the top of the spectrum below E3 and the hammer's contact decides it above. The merger's own bookkeeping asked whether that crossing is a fact about pianos or about hammers. A plectrum never crosses at all and a hard beater crosses two octaves higher, and the boundary is a contact time of about an eighth of a millisecond — ten times shorter than felt.
The bell is tuned for the cup
Sweeping a brass bell's two flare parameters found a shape that makes the resonance series harmonic to four and a half cents. Bolt the mouthpiece that instrument is actually played with onto it and the series is twenty-five cents out — worse than a plain cone. The flare and the cup are not two independent choices, and the best bell for a maker to build is one that is deliberately wrong.
Three exciters and three wires
Every column drawn so far has run a plectrum and a beater on a piano's string, because a piano's was the only scaling to hand. A harpsichord's wire is an order of magnitude less stiff, for a reason that turns out to be the tensile strength of iron — and with all nine combinations computed, the crossing found before stays exactly where it was, on every wire.
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.
The cue that settles it
Arbitrating between two grouping cues meant sweeping an exchange rate nobody could supply. The cue it had no term for at all is the one every account calls strongest, and its strength is computable: a struck string's partials start together to within a tenth of a millisecond against a threshold of twenty. Put that into the competition and three of five verdicts change, all the same way — and a bell becomes one sound.
Eleven partials is one too many
Six earlier essays census exactly ten partials and no figure has ever passed another number. At eleven, the harmonicity census stops finding a perfect harmonic series' own fundamental, takes the octave above it, calls every odd partial inharmonic, and the competition cuts an ideal string in two. It is not the arbitration — the cost of a second stream was swept over a factor of fifty and every verdict came back identical — it is a cap that exists for a good reason and turns out to be the same number as the count.
What the second register is for
Nine earlier essays take the plucking fraction as given — an eighth, a sixth, a seventh — and a harpsichord's jacks stand in a rail, so what is given is a distance and the fraction is a consequence: 50 millimetres is one thirty-sixth of the string in the bass and one three-and-a-halfth in the treble. Engage two registers on one string and the amplitudes add exactly, the near one fills the far one's missing partials, the pair digs holes of its own that neither has, and the combination comes out louder and rounder than either — including the bright one.
A bar's partials are the odd numbers, squared
A string's wave equation is second order in space and a bar's is fourth, so a string's frequencies go as its wavenumbers and a bar's go as their squares. Both objects fit a nearly arithmetic sequence of wavenumbers between their ends; squaring one is the whole of why a marimba key has no note in it. The ratios are 1 : 2.756 : 5.404 : 8.933, which are the odd squares over nine, uniformly 12.9 cents flat, and the 12.9 cents is one root that refused to be 3π/2.
One cut cannot place two partials
An arch cut into a bar's underside is one knob, and a maker aims it at two targets. Swept across every arch length, the path it traces through the plane of the second and third partials passes through the xylophone's 3 and 6 — dead through it, within a tenth of a cent at the natural arch length — and under the marimba's 4 and 10 by between 149 and 326 cents. Hitting one target means missing the other, and that is why a marimba bar's underside is not a simple arch.
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.
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.
The arch belongs to hearing, not to the series
A chord delivers most of its partials in the middle of the compass and loses them in the bass and the treble, and every spectrum that showed that arch was built on whole multiples of a fundamental. Give the same amplitudes to a bell's eight modes and to a stiff string's stretched partials and the arch is still there, peaking within a major third of where the harmonic series peaks. What the spacing changes is the detail: a bell crowds its tierce and quint into a quarter of a critical band in the bass and loses them, and a stiff string's stretch buys the bass back.
A bell's tierce does not arrive late, it leaves early
The essay before this one found a low bell's tierce masked at the strike and predicted it would emerge a second into the note, because the quint above it decays faster than the prime and tierce below. It does not emerge, and the reason is that the quint was never masking it: removing the quint moves the tierce's threshold by a fifth of a decibel and removing the prime moves it by three to five and a half. The tierce is masked from below, by two modes that outlive it under any law that falls with frequency — so a bell that has a tierce at the strike loses it within a few seconds, and a bell that has none never gains one. The minor third a carillon's bass is known for is a property of its attack.
A bell's strike gives its tierce a millisecond
A low bell's tierce is masked from below by its prime and hum, so it is present at the strike or never — and the strike was the one moment the count treated as a steady state. Give the modes a rise as well as a fall and the prediction was that the tierce's margin would peak somewhere inside the first two hundred milliseconds. It peaks at the very first instant and falls from there, because the shadow a masker casts upward grows faster than the masker. On a C2 bell the tierce is above its threshold for less than a millisecond, and under the most generous rise anybody could propose for twenty-five: ten to thirty decibels too brief to be heard. What the onset visits for an instant, a softer stroke keeps for the whole note.
A bell is never minor alone
A tuned bell carries two thirds: the tierce, a minor third above the prime, which is why a bell is called minor, and the deciem, a major third above the nominal. Run the masking count across every register and every stroke and the minor one is never delivered without the major one. Struck softly a bell delivers both; struck harder, only the major; and below C2 the tierce is never delivered at all. The deciem survives because it is masked by one mode barely louder than itself, the tierce by two that outweigh it.
A stiff string slows the fourths and quickens the fifths
Every rate in a bearing plan is computed from whole-number partials, and a piano string's partials are not whole numbers. The correction is usually summarised as 'every real beat is faster than the table'. It is not: stiffness quickens the beat of every narrow interval and slows the beat of every wide one, and on a small upright the tempered fourth stops beating altogether. Both errors push the same way, so a tuner who counts the printed table leaves every interval wide, and a fifth and a fourth counted that way make an octave stretched to the 4:2 type or a little past it.
The fourth–fifth check cannot hear the note it checks
A tuner tests a temperament by sounding the fourth below a note and the fifth above it, inside one octave, and comparing their beats. Both beats run to the same partial of the middle note, so moving that note speeds or slows both together and leaves their difference untouched. The check is a test of the octave, and of one particular octave: the 4:2. Measured with each note's own stiffness, the printed table laid fourth first builds exactly that octave on any piano; laid fifth first it overshoots, and the check pulls it back by a third of a cent.
The thirds and the fourths check different octaves
Every interval counted to its printed beat rate on a stiff string is left wide, by an amount set by the squares of the partial numbers that meet in it. Add the links of a chain and the sum lands on an octave type: a fourth and a fifth make the 4:2, a minor third and a major sixth make the 6:3, and three major thirds come just short of the 6:3. So the two most familiar checks in a bearing are exact tests of two different octaves, and on a stiff piano no octave passes both. Each fails on the other's octave by a beat a second at A3.
The octave that fails both checks least
A tuner who cannot pass both the fourth–fifth check and the third–sixth check settles on an octave that fails them equally, and a listener compares beat rates by ratio. Weighed that way, the compromise sits a ninth of the way from the 4:2 octave to the 6:3 on every note of every piano, because the fourth beats twelve times slower than the minor third and that ratio belongs to equal temperament, not to the strings. On a grand both checks then pass to a fifteen-per-cent ear up to middle C, and above it no octave passes both.
The progression of thirds votes for the bearing, not the octave
Added as a third vote beside the two contiguous checks, the progression of thirds was expected to push a stiff piano's octave wider. It pulls it narrower, because the octave it asks for is not set by the strings at all: it is whatever stretch the bearing already carries, plus an eighth of a cent. In an equal bearing that drags the compromise back onto the 4:2 and costs the top of the bearing its pass; give the bearing a fifth of the octave's own stretch and the third vote falls silent.
A bearing counted correctly is stretched by its route, not its strings
A tuner who sets a temperament octave by counting each fourth and fifth to its printed beat rate leaves every one of them a little wide on a stiff string, and the bearing ends up carrying a stretch nobody chose. Whether that stretch is enough to quiet the progression of thirds across the octave's edge turns out to be the wrong question. The stretch belongs to the order of the plan, not to the piano: one ordinary plan carries five times what the progression needs, another a fraction. And either plan leaves the thirds inside the bearing beating in a zigzag, faster then slower then faster, by up to eighteen per cent a step on a grand — which is why the thirds have to set the bearing rather than check it.
A bearing set by its thirds carries five eighths of its octave
A bearing counted from the printed fourths and fifths leaves its thirds zigzagging round the printed progression and takes whatever stretch its route gives it. Set the other way — every note solved at once so that each major third beats faster than the one below by exactly the printed step — the bearing bends smoothly upward and carries 63 per cent of its octave's own stretch, on a grand, on an upright and on everything between. That is more than three times what the octave's three checks need in order to agree, so following the thirds reconciles them with room to spare. The price is paid by the fourths and fifths, every one of which then beats slow.
A stiff string gives the bearing a comma of its own
The twelve fourths and fifths inside a piano's temperament octave are not twelve checks. Laid end to end they are one closed circle, and on stiff strings their printed rates fail to close it by 2.22 cents. Every disagreement between a bearing's tests follows from that one number: which interval never gets counted decides the stretch, and the zigzag in the thirds is the seam. Spread it round the circle and every fourth and fifth beats nine per cent slow of the table, and the thirds come right without being asked.
One walk round the bearing measures the piano and the tuner together
A tuner who counts twelve fourths and fifths to the printed table and comes home flat has measured something. Divide the closing beat's rate by three and correct the whole table by that share, and the worst interval improves from a hundred per cent off to about twenty, on any piano. It keeps the table with one number. And the number cannot tell a stiff string from a slow count: a tuner counting nine per cent slow gets the right bearing from the wrong table, and one correction removes that luck along with the error.
Named alongside it
The objects these essays reach for when they reach for this one.
PartialBeatingTuning by earOctave stretchPianoEqual temperamentTemperamentSpectrumCritical bandwidthExcitation pointHarmonic seriesDispersion