Every essay — page 14
Pitch and tuning Intervals and chords Scales and modes Harmony and voice leading Rhythm and metre Timbre and acoustics Perception and the listener Instruments and their design Form and structure Series Objects Sounds Search
Timbre and acoustics
What makes a clarinet a clarinet, and what a room does to it before it reaches an ear.
An inversion lasts as long as its outer sixth
A struck interval keeps the partial coincidence that names it for a time set by its ratio, and a chord is three intervals at once. Voiced over one bass and struck on a piano, a triad keeps the evidence of all three only as long as its weakest one lasts, and for an inversion that is the sixth on the outside: a major sixth lasts as long as a major third, a minor sixth dies first. So the major six-four and the minor sixth chord are the most durable voicings of their triads and the major sixth chord and the minor six-four the least — and unlike a dyad, a triad's inversions keep their order by roughness through almost the whole decay.
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.
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.
A bow holds the number a blow hides
Two struck notes with different loss laws are identical at the strike and identical at the end, which is why separating them at all meant looking in the middle. Drive the same two strings continuously and the loss law stops being a rate and becomes a slope: each partial settles at its drive over its own loss, so the exponent adds to the source's roll-off and sits in the spectrum for as long as the bow moves. It is 18.7 decibels of separation available from the first instant, against 41.3 that a blow delivers after four tenths of a second and then takes away.
The room is the slower of the two
A reverberant field is the source convolved with the room, so a partial's tail falls at the slower of the two rates rather than at their sum — and the room is slower for exactly the partials the string is losing fastest. Half a note's colour is gone in 0.163 seconds in no room at all, 0.313 in a concert hall and 1.441 in a stone church. The destination is identical in all three, because a room cannot hold a partial up above the fundamental it is also holding. What a hall takes away is the rate, and the rate was the whole of the identity cue.
A damper changes the clock, not the colour
A damper is an extra loss on the string rather than a second decay, so it adds the same number of nepers a second to every partial — and adding a constant to every rate leaves every difference between rates exactly where it was. The damped spectrum at any instant is the ringing spectrum at that instant shifted bodily down, to machine precision. The colour goes on draining at its own rate; the note simply runs out of seconds, and how many it gets is written on the page as a note value and a tempo.
One note in the compass loses its pizzicato
Dry, how long a pluck keeps the composite spectrum barely depends on which note it plays: three-hundredths of a second at the worst pitch and seven at the best, a spread of three. In a concert hall the same eight notes spread by a factor of forty-three, and in a stone church one of them never gets the note at all. The room does not scale the dry answer by a constant — it multiplies it by between four and nine times depending on the pitch, and at the one note where the two instruments' spectra nearly coincide it makes the pluck's position worse instead of better.
A damper cannot reach into the room
The essay before this one proposed the arithmetic for a damped note in a hall: take the slower of the string's rate and the room's, then add the damper's to whichever won. The composition is wrong, and it is wrong in the one place that decides the answer. A damper is a loss on the string, so it belongs inside the minimum where a room can overrule it — and past about three seconds of reverberation it is overruled on every partial, so the damper removes no audible seconds of note at all.
A seventh chord cannot be spaced to last like a triad
A struck triad keeps the partial coincidences of all its intervals for at most 1.26 seconds, whichever way it is spaced. Run the same census over every inversion and spacing of five kinds of seventh chord and none gets near: the dominant, minor and half-diminished sevenths top out at about two thirds of a second, the major seventh at 0.42. The diminished seventh, which theory calls the least stable of them, lasts longest at 0.86 — because it is the only one with no tone or semitone among its pitch-class distances, and the worst distance a chord contains sets a ceiling no spacing can lift.
Only the player hears a staccato end
A damper stops a string in a seventh of a second, and in a hall the room goes on for two. A listener hears both, mixed in proportion to how close they sit, and the question was at what distance the short part stops mattering. The answer is closer than any seat. A damped note's twenty-decibel fall has doubled in length by a seventh of a hall's critical distance — 77 centimetres in a two-second concert hall — and by a quarter of it in a jazz club. The end of a staccato is something the pianist hears and the front row does not.
Perception and the listener
Loudness is not amplitude and a beat is not in the signal. What the ear adds, hides, merges and supplies — measured, with the numbers every other field has been assuming.
The quietest thing audible, and why the volume knob is a tone control
A decibel is a fact about air. A phon is a fact about a listener, and the two do not line up — the map between them bends with frequency, and it bends differently at every level. One consequence is that turning a piece of music down does not turn all of it down equally, and the amount by which it does not is a number.
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.
A sound hides what came before it
Masking does not stop when the masker does. A loud sound raises the threshold for about a fifth of a second after it ends, which is unremarkable, and for several milliseconds before it begins, which is not. The auditory present is a window rather than an instant, and inside the window the order of events is not the order they arrived.
The ear builds objects, and sometimes offers a choice
What arrives at an ear is one pressure signal. What a listener gets is a set of separate things — a violin, a voice, a car outside. The assignment is a construction, and the clearest evidence is that it can be flipped by changing nothing but the speed: one sequence of tones is a single line when slow and two lines when fast, with a wide region in between where the listener may choose.
Two ears, and the whole of the difference is 655 microseconds
Direction is computed from two numbers — when a sound reaches each ear and how loud it is at each — and which of the two is usable is decided by the wavelength against the width of a head. The changeover frequency is not a design choice. It falls out of 343 metres a second and 17.5 centimetres, and it is why the mechanism of hearing where something is changes halfway up the piano.
The first wavefront wins
A room sends a hundred copies of every note to a listener from a hundred directions, and the listener hears one note in one place. The mechanism that does it is brutal and simple: for the first few tens of milliseconds after a sound arrives, everything that follows is denied a vote on where it came from — even when it is louder than the original.
How small a difference is audible
Every essay here about tuning has assumed a listener who can hear the difference between two systems. The assumption has a number: about five cents in the middle of the range. It clears the two commas fourfold and it does not clear the schisma at all, which sorts the whole subject of tuning into the part that is about music and the part that is about arithmetic.
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.
The chord is still major, and that is why temperament works
A major third can be seventeen cents wrong and still be a major third. That tolerance is not a failure of hearing — it is the reason the whole subject of tuning is a discussion rather than a catastrophe. Every temperament ever proposed moves intervals around inside their categories, and the one thing none of them may do is push one across a boundary.
Counting produced the hierarchy
Ask listeners how well each of the twelve notes fits after a passage in C major and the answers are not a smooth gradient. They fall into four groups with no overlap at all: the tonic, then the rest of the tonic triad, then the rest of the scale, then everything else — categories the subject had names for centuries before anybody ran the experiment.
Consonance is half learned, and this is the half
This site's founding claim is that consonance is small whole numbers. Two computable models say so and they disagree about which chords — which is already awkward. The cross-cultural evidence is worse: listeners with little exposure to Western music discriminate roughness exactly as anyone does, match octaves exactly as anyone does, and rate consonant and dissonant chords as equally pleasant.
How far away the room takes over
Direct sound falls six decibels every time the distance doubles and the reverberant field does not fall at all, so the two cross once. In a concert hall the crossing is at about five and a half metres, which is nearer than nearly every seat — so almost everybody in almost every hall is hearing the building more than the players, and the number that says so is built from two quantities already computed — a room's reverberation time and an instrument's directivity.
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.
A voice is a stream, and the ear decides which
Seven earlier essays have assigned voices to notes. Whether a listener follows the assignment is a separate question with laboratory numbers attached, and the numbers are unkind to it: two parts closer than about five semitones cannot be heard as two at any speed, a third of the gaps in the cheapest four-part writing are inside that limit, and in a third of chord changes the ear's own rule for continuing a line does not recover the parts as written.