Repetition — where it appears
Named by 19 essays across 4 fields — each of them below, with the objects they name alongside it.
A piece is mostly itself again
Take a piece of music, encode each bar as the notes sounding in it, and compare every bar with every other bar. The picture that comes out has blocks and stripes in it, and those blocks and stripes are the form — arrived at by arithmetic that has never heard of an exposition, a chorus or a refrain.
The boundary is where the neighbourhood changes
A section boundary can be found by an operator that never sees a section. It walks the diagonal of a similarity matrix asking one local question — do the bars behind me resemble each other, do the bars ahead resemble each other, and do the two groups resemble each other — and where the answer is yes, yes, no, there is an edge. What it cannot find turns out to say more than what it can.
How much of this is new
Repetition can be counted rather than looked at. Feed a piece's bars to a compressor and the bits it needs are a measure of how much of the piece is a repeat of an earlier part of itself. The measurement works, the number is real, and it turns out to be a statement about the description rather than about the music — which is the most useful thing it has to say.
One of these eight-bar phrases accelerates
The sentence and the period both occupy eight bars, both end with a cadence, and both are recognised by ear rather than counted. What separates them is arithmetic. One halves its unit halfway through and the other does not, and the difference comes out as a single ratio — 0.67 against 1.00 — computed from nothing but the lengths of the parts.
A cycle cannot cadence
Every component of closure is defined by a first time and a last time. Music built on a repeating cycle has neither, so the whole apparatus returns zero on it — not a small value, zero, at every setting. What such music uses instead is how many things are playing, and that is a curve which can be computed from the onsets and nothing else.
A melody that can accompany itself
Whether a tune works as a round is decidable before anyone sings it. Score every simultaneity it makes against a delayed copy of itself, at every delay, with the roughness model already in use, and two nursery tunes separate completely — every delay of one is smoother than every delay of the other. What the scan does not do is pick out the entry the tradition uses, and that refusal is the most informative thing in it.
How long until it comes back
A self-similarity matrix has a second reading that nobody looks for. Add up each diagonal instead of walking along one, and out falls repetition as a function of how long ago — a period, in bars, with no segmentation, no kernel width and no bar numbers anywhere in the answer. Five of the six schemes here report the length a listener would have named. The sixth reports something better.
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.
The same thing somewhere else
A measure built on which notes are sounding calls a passage that comes back a fifth higher a stranger. There is a dial that fixes this, and turning it is supposed to be a trade — more sensitivity to a transposed return, less specificity against a coincidental one. It is not that trade. Two different statistics answer opposite ways, and the setting that would compromise between them is the worst one available.
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.
Where a repeat is changed
Cut every scheme into its own repeat unit, compare each unit with every other, and ask where a repeat stops agreeing with what it repeats. The answer is that it stops at the end, in every case the corpus contains — and the number of cases the corpus contains depends entirely on where the threshold for "a repeat" is put. Moving it by nothing at all takes the count from two to twenty and the finding with it.
The repeat that is not in the notes
Eight earlier essays compare bars by writing each one as a bag of pitch classes and taking a cosine. Nothing chose that encoding — the first used it and the other seven inherited it. Encode the same six schemes four other ways and one of the three findings survives untouched, one survives with different numbers, and one turns out to have been a statement about the encoding all along: the boundary operator finds none of the section edges in three schemes as a bag of pitch classes and every one of them as tonic, subdominant and dominant.
A return is shorter than its first hearing
A rondo's refrain takes three fifths of the clock and a verse-and-chorus song is balanced to the bar. Count instead the bars a listener could not have predicted when they arrived, and the returns shrink to between a tenth and a quarter of what is kept — so a song equal by the clock is between three and seven times heavier in its first half. A coder that learns repeats one bar at a time says the halves are equal, and the two memories disagree by more than any proportion a listener could confuse.
Repetition buys least where it is needed most
Every locating figure so far is a listener arriving — the uncertainty averaged over the first cycle heard. Cyclic music comes round dozens of times, and the same model already carries the answer for a listener who has settled: a floor of uncertainty that nothing had read. At two seconds a cycle the repetitions close the whole gap. At sixty they close eight per cent for a single timeline and twelve for a layered code. A slow cycle is worse on the first hearing and gains less from the second, and the two disadvantages compound.
A repeat sign loses a listener that a refrain does not
A lapse of attention loses every count a listener is keeping, and when it ends the listener has only the music to say where they are. A listener who knows the form comes back to a rondo's refrain and is almost never misplaced, because the episodes between refrains make only one of them reachable. They come back near the join of a section repeated immediately and are misplaced nearly half the time, and a form built of such repeats loses between a third and a half of the precision a count at every level had restored. One of the most familiar signs in notation does more damage than the most repetitive form.
New music says only that it is new
A listener who knows a piece comes back from a lapse of attention and is placed at once by whatever they hear, and a through-composed piece, which never repeats anything, is the easiest of all forms to come back to. A listener hearing it for the first time is not so lucky. What they hear on returning is either something they have heard before, which names itself, or something they have not, which says only that it is new. For a rondo that costs almost nothing. For the through-composed piece it costs its whole lead: at lapses of half a minute or more, a first-time listener is placed no better in it than in a rondo — and being told the piece's plan in advance gives back almost none of the difference.
A section that says what it is for places a first hearing
A first-time listener who loses count in a through-composed piece comes back into music they have never heard, and new music says only that it is new. Suppose instead each section announces what it is doing — opening, continuing, intensifying, closing — and the listener recognises it. How much of their place that gives back depends hardly at all on how many functions there are and almost entirely on how soon the same function comes back. Four functions cycled restore 85 per cent of what a first hearing costs at forty-second lapses; the same four in the familiar arc, two sections each, restore 42; two functions alternating restore 85 per cent at twenty seconds and 14 at a minute.
Two functions far apart outlast four that blur
A first-time listener who loses their place in a through-composed piece gets most of it back if each section announces what it is doing and the same function does not come back too soon: four functions cycled restore 85 per cent of what a first hearing costs. That rests on hearing each function exactly. Let a listener mistake a function for its neighbour in the arc — a continuation for an intensification — one time in ten, and the cycle keeps less than half of its gain. Two functions at the opposite ends of the arc, opening and closing alternated, lose nothing to such confusion, and from a little over one confusion in five no arrangement does better.
A listener who learns the plan keeps only the far pair's immunity
A first-time listener who recognises what each section of a through-composed piece is doing gets most of their place back after a lapse — if they know the plan of functions. A listener who has to infer the plan from the sections heard so far loses most where the plan said most: four functions cycled give up more than half of what their labels were worth, nearly all of it to lapses in the first two minutes, before the second function has settled which plan the piece has. Opening and closing alternated lose a little and stay immune to confusing neighbouring functions. The far pair's immunity was never knowledge of the plan; it was the arc.
Named alongside it
The objects these essays reach for when they reach for this one.
RefrainMemory decaySelf-similaritySegmentationHierarchyMusical formOstinatoExpectationNoveltyProportionDescription lengthPeriodicity