Orchestration — where it appears
Named by 55 essays across 7 fields — each of them below, with the objects they name alongside it.
One sound hides another, and it hides upward
A tone can be made completely inaudible by a second tone that is nowhere near it in frequency, and the region it disappears into is lopsided. Masking spreads up the spectrum and barely down it, and the reach grows with the masker's level — so which line in an arrangement vanishes is a prediction, not a matter of taste.
The room chooses the harmonic rhythm
A chord in a cathedral is still sounding, seven decibels down, when the next one arrives — and the one after that, and the one after that. Reverberation is linear in decibels, so the number of chords audible at once is one number divided by another, and it puts a hard ceiling on how fast a composer writing for that building can change harmony. The ceiling is computable, and the music written for those rooms sits under it.
Where to put the third
Take three pitch classes, four octaves to put them in, and score all twenty-seven arrangements. The smoothest is root, fifth an octave up, third two octaves up — which is partials one, three and five of the harmonic series — and the roughest, at every register tried, is the chord in close root position at the bottom of the range. Every orchestration manual states that rule and none of them derives it.
A room does not decay evenly
Sabine's arithmetic gives one number and absorption is a strong function of frequency, so a room has six reverberation times rather than one. A stone church rings for 6.3 seconds at 125 hertz and 2.4 at 4 kilohertz, which means a chord left in it does not fade — it changes shape, losing its top before it loses its bottom, and arriving at the listener as a different sonority from the one played.
One voice over ninety players
A soloist heard over a full orchestra is not louder than it and could not be. What the trained voice does instead is put a peak of energy at three kilohertz, which is where the orchestra's spectrum has already fallen away and where the ear's own threshold happens to be lowest. Nineteen decibels of advantage, in a place nobody is competing for.
A chord is a register
The same three pitch classes are five times rougher at the bottom of a piano than in the middle, and the arrangement that minimises the roughness over a low bass turns out to be the bass's own fifth and sixth partials. The orchestration rule about low thirds is not a convention. It falls out of the width of a critical band, exactly.
Why the exercise is in four parts
Eight earlier essays move four voices, and nothing here ever chose four. Cut one choir's compass into three parts instead and the two most famous prohibitions in music cost exactly nothing — the cheapest realisation already obeys them. Cut it into six and they cost more than half a semitone per voice per chord change, because a parallel octave needs a doubled note and six voices sharing three notes can hardly avoid one. Four is the smallest number of parts at which the rules have a price at all, and it is the largest at which the price is small.
A chord is not as loud as its notes
The first essay on loudness said what a tone's loudness is and recorded that it had said nothing about a chord's. Here is the missing rule, and it has a musical consequence nobody would predict from it: the same three notes, at the same power, are twice as loud in the treble as in the bass — because the critical band that makes a low triad five times rougher also makes it one sound instead of three.
Which instrument is underneath
Every roughness curve so far compares two tones of the same timbre, which is a duet nobody plays. Give the two notes different instruments and the sum stops being symmetric: the same written interval, on the same two players, is up to five times rougher depending on which of them takes the lower note. From G3 upward the fifth is a well in all twenty-five pairings and no other interval is; below it, three pairings lose even that, and all three have a clarinet on top.
Loud is relative, and it comes down slowly
The account of loudness had a model of a moment and the account of closure asked it for a model of a form. The published one exists and its content is a pair of numbers that are not the same: a listener's running impression of how loud the music is rises to meet a step in a fifth of a second and takes seven seconds to come back down. A twenty-decibel crescendo spread over eight seconds therefore buys almost no contrast at all, and the same twenty decibels taken as a step buys a factor of two.
Which player on which note
An interval's roughness depends on which instrument is underneath, so the pair does not commute. Three players over three notes is the smallest thing that asymmetry has anywhere to go: six assignments, all of them the same chord, and across 450 of them the roughest averages half again the smoothest and reaches six times it. It is orchestration in the only form that can be computed here — not which chord, and not which voicing, but who is on which note.
The dynamics are in the score already
Count the parts in each bar, realise them in their ranges, put every partial in its critical band, sum the loudnesses and run the result through the two smoothers built earlier. What comes out is a dynamic curve for a piece with no performance in it anywhere — and it says that doubling the number of parts inside a fixed register adds three decibels of power and about one of loudness, because the extra parts land in bands that were already occupied. Let the register widen with the parts and the same arithmetic gives eight phon, which is what a tutti actually is.
A final chord is not made loud by adding to it
An earlier essay on closure said the loudest cue an ending has needs a corpus rather than an arithmetic. The arithmetic was built one essay ago, so it does not. Run four ending textures through it and two things come out backwards: a final chord three parts thicker than the rest arrives *quieter* against the running impression than the passage it ends, and a texture that drops a part a bar does not get quieter at all until the bar where there is one part left.
Who plays what and how loud is one question
Two lines of argument, one about spectrum and one about loudness, each stopped at the same wall and each said so. One of them can choose who plays which note and has every player at the same level; the other can choose how loud each part is and has nobody assigned to anything. Put together they are a single problem with two kinds of variable, and solving it in stages picks a different answer from solving it at once — nine per cent rougher, at the same loudness, on an ordinary triad.
The ranking survives the dynamic and the chord does not
Roughness is quadratic in pressure and loudness is compressive, so sixty decibels multiply a chord's roughness by a million and its loudness by ninety-six. Roughness per sone therefore rises ten thousandfold between a pianissimo and a fortissimo of the same four notes — and yet the ranking of which doubling is smoothest, over four hundred and eighty voicings, does not move by a single place.
A dynamic mark changes what a note is
Every spectrum until now is a shape with a level in front of it, so that playing ten decibels louder raises every partial by ten. That is true of exactly one instrument in an orchestra. Everybody else steepens their own spectrum as they lean on it, and a trumpet's centre of gravity moves from the second partial to the sixth across a dynamic range while an organ flue pipe's does not move at all.
Which notes have to be played early
There are three separate contributions to one quantity — the instrument's attack family, the dynamic it is played at, and the note's own period — and every figure so far varies one and holds the others. Added together for a real scoring they do not add: a sforzando low piano note is pitch-limited to a hundred-millisecond attack and the sforzando shortens it back to sixty-five, so flattening the dynamics makes the ensemble's spread larger rather than smaller.
A cycle that says where it is
Euclidean timelines were asked how quickly they tell a listener where in the cycle they are, and answered it with rotational asymmetry: a symmetric pattern never locates at all. A colotomic cycle answers the same question with nothing asymmetric in it. Several isochronous layers at nested periods — a gong every sixteen, a kempul every eight, a kenong every four — put the position in which instruments sound, and the position is legible from a single stroke.
A subito piano is a rate, not a level
All three earlier essays score one chord held still. An orchestration is a succession, and the running impression carries a chord into the one after it — so a written dynamic is an instruction to the listener's impression rather than to the instantaneous sound, and there are markings that cannot be produced at all. The correction runs to silence and the impression still sits above the target.
Two players on one note
Six essays have put one instrument on each note of a chord, and the commonest thing an orchestrator actually does is put two on the same note. Two independent sources add in power, so the composite is neither of them — except that it nearly always is one of them, because the level at which ownership changes hands is rarely at zero. And a unison ten cents out is rougher than a major third dead in tune.
The dissonance arrives and the dynamic does not
A scoring decides two things at once and both of them have to be integrated by a listener before they exist. The loudness smoother's release is two seconds and the roughness window is thirty-seven milliseconds, and that ratio of fifty decides which of the two survives at the pace music is actually played. Nothing anybody performs is fast enough to blur a dissonance, and a great deal of it is fast enough to average a dynamic.
A page has two decibels
The account of closure called its dynamic component a corpus debt: it had no model of dynamics in a form. Loudness supplies one, and applying it answers the debt by refusing it. Adding parts to a final chord one at a time, each at the same level, moves the loudness by under two decibels and not monotonically — while a player has sixty. A texture that thins is not a diminuendo.
The passage that separates two players
An ensemble that has learnt where the asynchronies are applies them; one that is listening discovers them. In steady state the two are identical, which is why nobody has separated them. Change the scoring mid-phrase and they are not: one ensemble is wrong by twelve milliseconds for three beats and the other is not wrong at all — and twelve milliseconds is under what a listener notices and far above what a microphone resolves.
The cycle that outruns the memory
A timeline and a colotomy were compared at equal strokes and the comparison had no clock in it. A memory span is a number of seconds and a cycle is a number of steps, so the two only meet through a tempo — and at a clave's two seconds a listener's memory covers twenty-eight steps and forgets nothing, while at a gong cycle's forty it covers 1.4 and forgets almost everything. The single line is the better locator up to twenty-three seconds a cycle and the layered code is better after it, which is very close to where each is actually used.
A part entering is not a change of level
Five earlier essays measure a sonority that is already sounding. The one thing an orchestrator actually controls is the entry, and priced at every semitone it comes to 0.89 phons — under the difference limen — with only 29 of 61 available entries clearing it and none below A♭4. What an entry is instead is an object arriving, and the reason is that its own rise time is faster than the listener's.
The listener is given the top voice, and the bass as a sine
Four earlier essays put the masker and the probe in the same voice. Put them in different voices — a four-part texture at one level — and the soprano arrives with all eight of its partials, the alto with five, the tenor with two and the bass with one. Balancing the loudness, which is the constraint a scoring is solved under, changes none of that: equal loudness is not equal spectrum and cannot be made so.
A section has a loudest member, not a colour
Two players on one note have a balance at which the composite belongs to neither, and that is what blending means. Three should have three such balances and no reason for them to agree — a trio with a rock-paper-scissors ownership would have no strongest member at all. Twenty trios, sixty pairwise comparisons, and not one disagreement: the possibility is real, arbitrary spectra do it once in twenty, and instruments never do.
A soft chord has to fade in
Forward masking sits between the two integration times already in play — two hundred milliseconds against a thirty-seven millisecond roughness window and a two-second loudness release — and it was owed as the term that might eat the dissonance contrast. It does not. It widens it, by three per cent at a chorale's pace and fifty-nine at four chords a second, because it can only ever remove partials and it can only reach the chord a dynamic has already made quiet. What it does instead is stranger: one chord in the passage is entirely inaudible for its first twelve milliseconds and takes a quarter of a second to arrive whole.
The fourth player is a spectrum, not a decision
Six earlier essays put exactly one instrument on each note, which makes an arrangement a permutation — and the commonest operation in orchestration is a doubling, which does not. Four players on three notes give thirty-six arrangements instead of six, and the extra choice turns out to be the smallest thing on the page: which note carries the pair explains three per cent of the spread and which players sit on the bass explains eighty-nine. A doubled note can be priced as one player, and which one is not the one a spectral account would have named.
Twelve violins are more punctual than one
Every essay until now treats a part as one player, and an orchestral part is a dozen. Sectioning does two things at once and only one of them was expected: it pulls the part's heard moment forward, by four milliseconds against a map spanning twenty-six, and it makes the part's arrival more accurate by very nearly the root of the number of players. So the map of required leads applies to an orchestra better than it applies to a quartet, and the case where it fails is three trumpets rather than fourteen violins.
An orchestrator doubles a line, not a chord
Three earlier essays made the objective a functional over a passage and a later one went back to holding one chord still. Put the doubling back into time and the retreat turns out to have been cheap: one arrangement held down a five-chord phrase is that phrase's own best answer at four of its five chords and costs 2.4 per cent of the range the choice spans — while the forward mask named earlier as the third temporal constant reaches for twenty milliseconds rather than two hundred, and cannot change the answer at any pace at all.
A general pause is spent by the note after it
Whether a composer should write the pause before the diminuendo or after it looks like a question about how big the ensemble is. It is not. Forty decibels of ensemble are worth one decibel of silence, and the order is worth seven — because a running impression rises twenty times faster than it falls, so half a general pause is spent by ninety-seven milliseconds of sound.
An entrance is a change of colour
Eight essays on orchestration move the assignment and hold the ensemble still, and a score does the opposite: it brings players in and takes them out. Loudness is a sum over parts and roughness is a sum over pairs, so the player who joins adds one term to the first and one to the second for everybody already there. What the entrance is worth in phons falls by a factor of forty-eight across the range an ensemble spans and crosses the difference limen at five players; what it is worth in roughness rises by twelve, and by a further factor of ten for every ten decibels the passage is played at.
The release is on the wrong side
Whether the loudness model's two-second release makes an entrance inaudible has the answer no, for a reason the question did not anticipate. The smoother is asymmetric — ninety-nine milliseconds going up and two seconds coming down — so a rise is tracked twenty times faster than a fall, and an entrance is received promptly by every one of a listener's three readings. The colour of it arrives first, at twenty-five milliseconds against ninety, and the reading that moves with the ensemble is the one nobody would have picked.
A part that leaves is not a part that arrives
The same player, the same note, the same level, and the only difference is which way round it happens. A listener's loudness reading takes 1.43 seconds to receive half of a departure and 90 milliseconds to receive half of an arrival — a factor of sixteen with nothing asymmetric in the sound at all, since both readings integrate the same two states in the same order. The colour reading receives the two identically, because a window has no direction, so a departure is a change whose grain arrives at once and whose level takes most of two seconds.
The chord that has room for an entrance
Three essays have made the ensemble something a score can change and none of them has asked when. The ensemble already sounding puts a masked threshold over whatever register an entering part takes, and that threshold is set by the voicing rather than by the dynamic — so the five chords of one passage differ by 8.7 decibels in how much of an entering oboe survives them, and the quietest chord of the five is the worst place in the passage to bring somebody in. Swept over the entrant's own pitch, the choice of moment is worth as much as the choice of register.
A doubled pizzicato gives its note away early
The attack turns the balance between two players on one note by a few decibels and stops. A pluck does not stop — every partial of it decays, so a pizzicato doubled by a held instrument walks the balance for the whole note, and the expectation was a handover as slow as the decay. It is fast. A one-second pizzicato over a flute loses its note in 70 milliseconds, while it is still five decibels the louder, because what hands the note over is its upper partials going first. A uniform fade would have kept it eight times as long.
Room is used up by whoever enters first
The chord with the most room for a part entering alone is a fact about that chord. It stops being a fact the moment two parts want it, because each part that comes in raises the mask over everybody after it. Given six parts waiting to enter a five-chord passage, choosing each part's moment the way one part's moment is chosen puts three of them into the same chord and lands in the bottom fifth of all 15,625 schedules. Placing them one at a time does no better. The schedule under which the least audible entrance is heard best is unique, and it brings the low and middle parts in while the texture is thin and holds the three highest back for the last three chords — because a high part keeps its room over a full texture and a middle part does not.
A room keeps a pizzicato from giving its note away
Doubled by a flute, a one-second pizzicato loses its note in 70 milliseconds dry, because its upper partials go first. The question left open was whether a room, whose reverberation keeps those partials alive, gives the note back afterwards. It does not give it back. It stops the note going: ten metres into a concert hall the pluck keeps it for 506 milliseconds, in a stone church for 814, and the room's own uneven decay takes back between a quarter and two fifths of that. In a room the loss law that decided everything dry matters a tenth as much, because the room's decay has become the clock.
An exit is worth nothing until the tutti is given up
Six parts entering a five-chord passage have a best schedule when each enters once and stays, and letting parts leave and come back was supposed to improve it. Searched over every set of sounding parts at every chord, it improves it by exactly nothing, with or without the chord before still masking — as long as all six must be playing at the end. Let one part be missing from the final chord and the weakest entrance gains 1.4 decibels; let two be missing and it gains 1.9, by a relay in which the parts with least room come in, are heard for one chord, and give way.
A doubling's worst note belongs to one instrument, not to the pair
The essay before this one found one pitch at which a violin and a flue pipe nearly share a spectrum and asked which pitch that is for every pair. Run over six radiators, thirty ordered pairs and forty-nine semitones, the answer is that seventeen pairs choose a worst note and thirteen simply run out of compass — and that the seventeen do not choose thirty different notes. They cluster in fours and threes, and each cluster is one instrument's own filter: the violin's worst note is B flat 4, its strongest body resonance; the clarinet's is F sharp 6, its cutoff; the voice's is C sharp 6, where its second partial meets its second formant. A doubling fails at a note that belongs to one of its players.
Half the worst notes of a doubling are notes nobody can play
A map of where two instruments' spectra come closest found seventeen pairs with a worst note of their own, gathered into four clusters, each belonging to one instrument's filter. It drew every instrument over the same five octaves. Read inside the compass each pair can actually play, eight of the seventeen worst notes are out of reach — the voice's C♯6 lies a semitone above a soprano's top C, and its E3 below her lowest note — and two pairs that seemed only to run downhill turn out to have a worst note after all. Of the four clusters, only the violin's B♭4 is advice every pair in it can use.
A part that must stay changes over in shifts
The best way to keep every entrance audible, when the passage need not end with everybody in, was a relay: a part enters, is heard for one chord, and gives way. Make every part stay at least two chords once it is in and the relay does not collapse into overlaps, as predicted. It changes over in shifts: two parts enter together, one chord passes in which nobody enters, and both leave on the chord their successors arrive. Half of what exits were worth survives a two-chord stay and nearly two fifths a three-chord one — and with the chord before still masking, the stay costs less, not more, because it was the one-chord handover that memory had already made leaky.
A pair entering as one hides the part that cannot be heard
Scored as two entrances, a pair of parts coming in together is charged for masking itself; scored as one arrival — a new colour against what was already sounding — it is not, and the best schedules change completely. Allowed two at a time, the weakest arrival rises from 0.6 dB above the mask to 10.9, and every pair the search chooses is a loud part carrying a quiet one: a violin 19.6 dB clear beside a clarinet 10.9 under. Allowed any number, the six parts enter at once. The staggered build-up of every earlier schedule exists only because each part was meant to be heard as itself.
A floor under each member is paid for in steps
Score parts entering together as one arrival and the best pairs are a loud part carrying one that cannot be heard. Put a floor under each member — no part more than so many decibels under its own mask — and the prediction was a schedule between the two, neither staggered nor buried. There is none. The arrival's margin climbs in three steps as the floor is loosened, each step bought with a passenger buried about as deep as the step is high, and below a floor of five decibels nothing beats bringing the parts in one at a time, because the clarinet can clear its mask only alone.
A violin's worst doubling note is wherever its own body resonates
A pizzicato violin doubled by a held clarinet, oboe or trumpet has one note in the shared compass at which its pluck comes nearest to never owning the note, and for the modelled violin all three partners choose B♭4. That is where the violin's lower corpus mode sits, and real violins place that mode a semitone or two either way. Move it and the worst note moves with it, a semitone for a semitone, at 36 of 39 settings — so every violin has its own worst doubling note, and it can be found by knowing where the instrument resonates. Held rather than plucked, the violin's body decides nothing.
A section of violins fills in the note one violin gives away
A pizzicato violin doubled by a held clarinet has one note — the note whose fundamental sits on its own lower corpus resonance — at which the pluck never owns the sound, and real violins put that resonance a semitone or two either way. A section plucks with a dozen different bodies at once. Summed, their resonances smear into a broad shelf, and the section's worst note over the clarinet rises from 2.2 decibels below zero to about zero: the note one violin gives away, twelve nearly keep. Over an oboe the section owns every note. And if every member shares the same air resonance, that shared resonance becomes the section's worst note instead — a section is weakest where its instruments agree, not where any one of them is extreme.
A page has twelve phons, and its entries always said so
An ending built up one part at a time was found to move its loudness by under two decibels, and five essays have leaned on that number since. It came from a way of grouping partials into critical bands that sorts an eight-part chord's sixty-four partials into two bands. Counted along the ear instead, the same ending gains twelve phons at every step, which is what the collection's own price for a single entry always implied.
A passenger under its mask is still heard in the arrival
The best way to bring parts in together was a loud part carrying a quiet one, and the quiet one was scored as buried — ten decibels under its mask, on average over its partials. An average is the wrong question. A masked threshold is the level at which a sound becomes a detectable change, and nearly every buried passenger has partials well clear of it. Scored as a change to the arrival rather than as a line of its own, every one of seventy-one passengers is heard, and the carriers' walk passes almost untouched.
In a hall a section of violins loses the notes it saved
Dry, twelve violins with different bodies fill in the note one violin's pizzicato gives away to a held clarinet, leaving a shallow shelf a few tenths of a decibel above zero. In a hall that shelf goes under all at once. The room takes the same few decibels from each note whether it comes from one violin or twelve, so a section's smoothing survives only to the front of the hall — about two metres over a clarinet, six over an oboe — and from ten metres back a section loses exactly as many notes as one violin does.
A carrier gives up room, not partials
A passenger masks its carrier as the carrier masks it, so the arrival might be a new spectrum belonging to neither part. Across the seventy-one pairings of the passage it almost never is. Carriers lose nineteen partials in all to their passengers and passengers lose a hundred and thirty-five to their carriers; a voice beside a violin takes thirteen decibels of the violin's room and not one of its partials. The nine pairings that leave neither part a majority are mostly on one chord, and there the chord had already done it.
The page can write a diminuendo and not a climax
Counted on the excitation pattern rather than in grouped bands, the four ending textures the closure essays compare come out the right way round at last: a thinning ending is a ten-phon diminuendo written into the score, and an ending that adds parts arrives louder than what came before rather than quieter. But the gain is tiny. Three more parts on a six-part final chord buy under a phon and arrive a twentieth of a phon above the listener's running impression; only a full chord straight after a thinning stands out, and only at a quick tempo. A page can take loudness away. It cannot make a climax.
A third part takes what it would have taken alone
A passenger costs its carrier room rather than partials, and the obvious worry is that the room compounds: that a third part, entering beside a carrier already ten decibels nearer its limit, finds it fragile. Across 284 three-part arrivals it does not. Of the 438 carrier partials lost with three parts sounding, 21 are lost only to the combination; the rest are taken by one of the two parts alone. Masking adds in power, so a threshold the passenger has raised rises less when a third part adds to it. What decides the loss is which part enters third, and two parts — the flue and the violin — take five sixths of it.
A quieter third part gives back only as deep as it took
A high part entering third costs its carrier partials, and the masking rule suggests that marking it down should return them all at once. It does not. Each partial comes back when the third part has been lowered by about as far as it had pushed that partial under, so the return is as gradual as the depths are spread. The violin's are shallow: twelve decibels down it gives back nine-tenths and is still heard in two arrivals of three. The flue's run to thirty decibels, and there is no level at which it is both heard and harmless.
An octave down a third part is heard and harmless, with nothing to spare
A flue pipe cannot be marked down, but it can be moved, and the expected answer was upward: an octave higher clears the carrier's main region and spreads over partials that are already faint. The count says the opposite. Up an octave a third part takes half as many partials again. Down an octave it takes a quarter of what it took, gives a voice back its whole upper spectrum, and is still heard in nearly every arrival. No level reaches that. The price is that the part has spent its spare level, and three decibels soft takes it out of a third of them.
Named alongside it
The objects these essays reach for when they reach for this one.
MaskingCritical bandwidthRegisterLoudnessTextureDynamicsRoughnessSpectrumDoublingTimbreVoicingEnumeration