Perceptual present — where it appears
Named by 27 essays across 3 fields — each of them below, with the objects they name alongside it.
A phrase is a number of seconds
Musical phrases are described in bars, and four is the number everybody names. But the constraint that fixes a phrase is a property of the listener and is measured in seconds, so the bar count is whatever the tempo makes it. Across seven ordinary tempos the bar count that lands inside the window moves by a factor of eight, while the window itself does not move at all.
The bar above the bar
A four-bar group is a bar whose beats are bars. That is not an analogy — it is the same computation, and the same metre-induction model produces one when it is handed bars instead of beats, unchanged. What decides where the hierarchy of levels stops is not in the arithmetic at all, and it is a number the phrase essay already measured.
The form a first hearing cannot have
Every figure so far was computed with the whole piece in hand. Run the same methods over only the bars already heard and one of the two methods survives intact — the boundary operator turns out to be causal at a fixed delay of a few bars — while the other collapses. The period of a piece is not knowable until the piece is nearly over, and in two of the six schemes here not until its last bar.
A return has to be remembered
A stripe four bars off the diagonal and a stripe twenty-four bars off it are the same ink and are not the same experience. Convert the lag axis to seconds, discount every comparison by how long ago it was, and the ranking of these six schemes by how repetitive they are changes — and the decay constant and the tempo turn out to enter the arithmetic as one number rather than two.
An ending is a deceleration
Every performance slows down at the end and the slowing has a shape. Tempo read against score position is the velocity of a body stopping — a square root rather than a straight line — and the three candidate curves agree at both ends by construction, so the whole audible difference is in the middle, where they part by fifteen per cent of the passage's length.
A silence long enough to be an ending
Four of the five closure components are present or absent. Silence is the one with a continuous scale, so it is the one that can be given a threshold — and the threshold arrives from two literatures that were not chosen to agree, landing between three and a half and five and a half seconds. In a large hall, the room's own decay uses up most of it.
The part of the tune that is kept
Contour survives transposition, retuning, a change of instrument and a doubling of every interval, and the usual explanation is that it is what a listener retains. That can be counted rather than assumed. A six-note melody over eight degrees carries eighteen bits; its contour carries 6.59 — not the 7.92 the number of distinct shapes suggests, because the shapes are wildly unequal — and the effective alphabet is ninety-six out of two hundred and forty-three. Each further note adds 1.28 bits of shape against three of melody, and at about nine notes a contour is specific enough to pick one tune out of a thousand.
The level the tempo chooses
The boundary detector has a scale parameter and an earlier essay left it free, ending with the sentence that names this one: the scale is in notes and the psychological present is in seconds. The psychological present is two to eight seconds, a tempo converts one to the other, and the level a listener reads then stops being a parameter at all — which is a prediction with teeth, because the same tune at two tempos should be phrased differently at levels the arithmetic names in advance.
The parameter that did not decide the answer
An earlier essay on closure ended by naming the tempo as the thing every number in it was resting on, and said it was the kind of parameter that had caused trouble before by turning out to decide the answer. Turned across a tenfold range at a closing gesture of fixed length it moves the reading by four per cent, against a twenty-three per cent gap between the gestures it is distinguishing. The parameter beside it in the same figure — how many bars the gesture occupies — moves it by twenty, and nobody had named that one at all.
A detector whose resolution the performance sets
The boundary detector lost its free parameter when the psychological present became a number of notes at a stated tempo, and what that held still was named at the time: a performance slows into a phrase end, so the number of notes inside the present is not the same everywhere in a tune — it falls exactly where a boundary is. Making the width follow the performance recovers half of what removing the parameter cost, and honestly leaves the other half.
How long a limping bar can be
The bound on an unequal beat turned out to be arithmetic, and the tempo window was left with only the tempo to decide. It decides nothing: every metre built from twos and threes gets the same answer, because the window is asked a yes-or-no question. Graded instead, an unequal beat costs 0.135 of the window's own preference at every bar length — and the constraint that does depend on length is the one nobody applied, that the whole bar has to fit inside the psychological present. At the subdivision that suits both beats best, a bar of sixteen units just fits and a bar of seventeen does not, which is where the supply of distinct metres has only started to grow.
A twenty-five is a nine until its last unit
Every account of long additive metres says they are heard as groups of shorter ones, and the metre-induction model had never been pointed at the claim. Pointed at it, the model does not prefer the group — it prefers the long bar outright, and would go on preferring it more the longer anybody listened. What it cannot do is start: the evidence that separates a bar of twenty-five from a bar of nine does not exist until the whole bar has been heard, and at the tempo an unequal metre is best played at the psychological present holds sixteen units.
The accent buys two units, however loud it is
A twenty-five cannot be told from a group of shorter bars on its onsets until more steps have gone by than a listener's present holds, and the obvious objection is that nobody plays an aksak bar as bare onsets: the long beat is louder, and the bar's first beat is marked. So how loud does an accent have to be? The question has a surprising answer. Loudness is not the variable. The existing accent cue changes nothing, and delays the answer where it changes anything. An accent that a reading has to predict works at any strength at all, and at no strength does more than a fixed amount: on the long beat it buys the two steps of a short beat, and on the downbeat it takes every arrangement to one floor — the bar less its last beat — which no cue carried by the notes can break. The longest bar that can be heard as one moves from sixteen units to eighteen.
A proportion is only as fine as its two durations
Analyses of form measure proportions in bars and report them to three figures — a climax at 0.618, a section in the ratio 3 : 2. A listener has each part only as an estimate of how long it lasted, and a ratio of two estimates is blurred by both. Timed as well as anyone times a single second, eleven proportions fit between 1 : 1 and 3 : 1; timed from memory over minutes, two do. The golden section is told from 3 : 2 only below a Weber fraction of 5.4 per cent.
Knowing every metre is slower than knowing none
A long aksak bar cannot be told from its shorter cuts by induction before one step into its last beat, and no accent carried by the notes moves that floor. The obvious escape is a listener who knows the repertoire and recognises the metre instead. Recognition among all 1,820 arrangements of twos and threes never beats the floor, is never quicker than induction, and is slower for half the metres: a nine induced in 9 steps is recognised in 27. What breaks the floor is a small repertoire that leaves out the metre's own longest cut — with the cut known, no repertoire of any size does.
A dancer who comes in late needs the downbeat marked
Every window for recognising an aksak metre so far started at its written downbeat. A dancer joining a dance already going has not heard the downbeat, and the arithmetic of that is blunt: a metre entered part-way is, onset for onset, each of its own rotations heard from their downbeats, and the rotations are metres too — 2+2+3 and 3+2+2 are counted differently. So on onsets, and with the long beats accented, no metre is ever told from its rotations. Only an accented downbeat tells them apart, and with it a listener who knows thirty metres recognises 54 per cent of them inside the present from a random entry, against 1 per cent without.
A form is sharp at the bottom and vague at the top
A movement is divided into sections, each into phrases, each into bars, and every level is a ratio of two estimates. Timed, the hierarchy is almost uniformly blunt — 2.1 distinguishable proportions at the top and 5.2 at the bottom, because a Weber fraction is a step function of duration and six of a piece's seven levels fall in one step of it. Counted, the same hierarchy runs from 2.2 to 12.2 and sharpens monotonically downward. At no level of either does timing separate 3 : 2 from the golden section.
The ceiling everybody names is the loose one
Ask why phrases are the length they are and the answer given is the breath. It is arithmetic — usable lung volume over the air a note costs per second — and it comes out between fifteen and twenty-three seconds at a comfortable dynamic and between seven and twelve at a loud one. The ceiling the present moment imposes, the two-to-eight seconds inside which a stretch is heard as one thing rather than as a series, is two to three times tighter at almost every note and dynamic. A singer in an adagio is not running out of breath at the phrase end. They are running out of present.
A late dancer needs the landmarks, not the rhythm
A listener who joins an additive-metre dance part-way recognises it far more reliably with the downbeat accented. Strip the stream down to its landmarks — the onsets that begin a bar or a long beat, with every other onset removed — and the listener does as well or better: knowing a hundred metres, 23 per cent are recognised within the present against 14 with every onset. Unmarked, the landmarks still beat every onset with the long beats accented. Neither half does it alone; what identifies a metre from a late entry is where its long beats sit relative to its bar.
A crowd costs a late dancer the silences, not the steps
A dancer who hears only the landmarks of an aksak rhythm — the heads of bars and long beats — recognises it from a late entry better than one who hears every onset, as long as everything played is heard. Let a share of what is played be lost in a crowd and the lead goes, but not for the reason expected. Most of the cost arrives before a single landmark is missed: a listener who allows that one might be can no longer treat a silence as proof, and the landmark stream is built almost entirely of silences. At one lost onset in ten, the caution alone takes 25 points from the landmarks and 5 from the full stream.
A crowd that hides bars is kinder than one that hides onsets
A dancer joining an additive-metre dance in a noisy room loses some of what is played, and the essay before this one lost it one onset at a time. A crowd does not. It hides stretches — a burst of laughter covers a bar. The prediction was that a stretch as long as a bar would hurt the stream of landmarks most, since it could remove every landmark in a cycle, and that long bars would survive best. Holding the share of time lost fixed, longer stretches help every stream, help the full stream more than the landmarks, and leave long bars as hard to place as ever.
A dancer who hears the crowd can trust the quiet
A late dancer in a noisy room who cannot tell noise from silence has to treat every silence as weak evidence, and that caution was the largest cost in every figure before this one. A dancer who hears the laugh that covers a bar knows which silences to discount and can trust the rest. Losing a quarter of the music, that dancer recognises more metres than one who loses nothing but must allow for losses — and the landmarks, which a noisy room had made the worse stream to follow, lead again once the noise comes in bursts. The quiet has to be trusted to one onset in nineteen.
In a loud room the accent has to be loud
A late dancer who hears the crowd as noise ignores everything played under it. Real noise is not that thorough. It hides the soft strokes and lets the loud ones through, and an accented downbeat is a loud one. Let the noise pass loud strokes and some soft ones, and marking the downbeat is worth more to the dancer than in a quiet room: with half the time under noise, 29 points of recognition against 23. Noise that swallows the accent halves its worth. In a quiet room no amount of loudness bought an accent anything extra; in a loud one, loudness is the whole of what the accent is for.
In a crowd the downbeat belongs to the drum
In a loud room a marked downbeat is worth more to a late dancer than in a quiet one, so long as the mark gets through. Whether it does depends on where its sound lies, because talk is not loud everywhere: it is loudest from 250 to 400 hertz, exactly where a melody's notes are, and fifteen decibels quieter at the bottom of a drum. A louder melody note is heard half the time through talk ten decibels over the band; a low drum survives a crowd twelve decibels louder than that. With the talk fifteen decibels over the band, a downbeat marked in the melody is worth two-fifths less to the dancer than one marked by the drum.
A felt drum reaches only where the heard one already does
A low drum near a stage is felt in the body as well as heard, and talk cannot mask a vibration. Given that second channel, a drum-marked downbeat always arrives — and is then worth 19.8 points to a late dancer, exactly what an always-heard drum was worth, because the crowd has already taken the soft strokes that made a mark worth more. The felt channel pays only under crowds twenty decibels over the band. And it is driven by the drum's own level, which in a reverberant room is high enough to be felt only where the drum is already loud enough to be heard.
The felt channel carries the inner beats, not the downbeat
A low drum felt in the body gets the downbeat through any crowd, and is then worth less than it was in a quiet room, because the crowd has taken the soft strokes between. Put a kick drum on every landmark of the dance and let all of it be felt, and in a crowd thirty decibels over the band a late dancer recognises the dance in seventy per cent of entries against thirty-seven for the felt downbeat — with no felt accent at all. The accent, felt or not, is worth about ten points on top. The worry that a stream felt alike has no downbeat turns out to be the small half of the arithmetic.
A singer needs a quarter of the breaths the page offers
A breath in a sung phrase looks like evidence of a boundary, and also like a physical necessity, and it cannot be both at once. Solved exactly over three tunes, a trained singer is forced to breathe inside a phrase on 8 settings of 147, all of them slow and loud; at a comfortable level the air asks for about a quarter of the phrase ends a tune offers. So nearly every breath is a choice, which is what makes it a cue. Where the air does force one, it lands on a listener's boundary no more often than chance.
Named alongside it
The objects these essays reach for when they reach for this one.
Additive metreAksakDownbeatInferenceEvidencePhraseTempoMetreMetrical levelTactusDurationGrouping