Small whole numbers
Twelve fifths and seven octaves, which are not the same thing
Stack twelve perfect fifths and the note that arrives should be the one seven octaves up. It is sharp by about a quarter of a semitone, and the whole history of tuning is a set of decisions about what to do with that.
A second comma, arriving by a different road
Four pure fifths ought to land on a pure major third, two octaves up. They miss by 21.5 cents — a different gap from the one twelve fifths leave, produced by a different route, and the two are not the same size.
Nineteen, thirty-one and fifty-three
Divide the octave into a different number of equal parts and different problems disappear. Which ones vanish is not a matter of taste — it can be computed from the prime factors of the intervals, and each division makes a different decision.
Two notes and a ratio, which is the whole of consonance
Sound two tones together and the pair either settles or does not. What decides it is the ratio of their frequencies, and the rule is that simpler ratios settle — which is two and a half thousand years old and still not quite an explanation.
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.
Three is the largest agreeable number
Take every chord of every size that can be built from the twelve, score each one for roughness and for the size of the whole numbers it needs, and ask how many are good on both counts. At two notes the answer is one. At three notes it is still one. At four it is eight, and the question stops having an answer.
A scale without an octave, and the spectrum that asks for it
Every scale so far repeats at the 2:1. That looks like a law and it is a consequence — the octave fuses because every partial of the upper note lands on one of the lower. Take a spectrum with no even partials and the 2:1 stops doing that, while the 3:1 starts.
The progression that never comes home
Just intonation is usually said to fail because a keyboard has only twelve keys. That is not the reason. Take one of the commonest chord sequences in tonal music, play every chord in exact whole-number ratios, and it arrives back on its starting chord a syntonic comma flat — on any instrument, including a voice.
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.
The bow makes a corner
A bowed string is not a string swinging. It is two straight lines meeting at a single sharp corner that travels round the string once per period, triggering the slip that keeps it going. The force on the bridge is therefore a sawtooth, and a sawtooth is every harmonic at exactly one over n — which is why a bowed string is the most nearly perfect harmonic series in the orchestra.
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.
A fraction of a comma
The tuning systems of three centuries are usually presented as rival schemes with names and dates. They are points on a line. Narrow every fifth by the same fraction of a comma and both errors that matter are linear in that fraction — and the system named as the break with the tradition turns out to be a member of it, at one part in eleven.
Somebody has to pay the comma
A choir has no frets and no keys, so it can tune every chord exactly — and a common progression sung that way arrives a comma flat, every circuit. The freedom a keyboard lacks turns out to be a freedom about where the error goes rather than whether there is one, and the two costs always add to the same number.
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.
Roughness cannot choose a scale
Score all four hundred and sixty-two seven-note selections from the twelve for roughness and the answer at middle C is a mode of the diatonic set, first out of four hundred and sixty-two. Ask the same question an octave lower and the same selection ranks a hundred and forty-first. The model is not wrong; it is answering a question about frequencies, and a scale is not one.
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 dissonance is what has to be resolved
The perfect fourth is a consonance between two upper voices and a dissonance against the bass, and the same three notes are involved either way. Score both arrangements with the roughness model and the one the rules call a dissonance comes out thirty per cent smoother. Whatever the rule is tracking, it is not the sound.
The third pattern nobody played
Two players play two even pulses and a third rhythm arrives that neither of them played. It has a + b − 1 onsets, its gaps read the same forwards and backwards, and it uses exactly min(a, b) different lengths — which is a better account of why 3:2 is a figure and 7:5 is weather than the number used for the last three essays.
A comma is a polyrhythm that never closes
Seven earlier essays have rested on a common grid. Two cycles have one when their ratio is a ratio of whole numbers, and the fifth against the octave is not — provably, from unique factorisation. So there is no grid, no composite and no least common multiple, and what is left over instead is the sequence 2, 5, 12, 41, 53 with a comma attached to each.
The third the model has no opinion about
A neutral third — halfway between major and minor, and a scale degree in most of the music between Morocco and Iran — is nothing at all on an ordinary roughness curve. It becomes a well at 347 cents, which is exactly 11:9, only for a spectrum whose ninth and eleventh partials are at least three times their natural strength. No instrument has that spectrum.
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.
The inversion that cannot end a phrase
Three positions of one triad, three measurements, and the practice contradicted at every turn. The second inversion is the smoothest of the three by roughness, the best explained of the three by a virtual-pitch model, and the one that three centuries of practice will not let a phrase end on. What forbids it is a rule about a two-voice skeleton.
The root an ear supplies
A major triad's notes fit 4:5:6 with nothing missing and a fundamental two octaves below the bass. A minor triad's fit two different series with two different answers a major sixth apart, and the model cannot choose between them. The ambiguity theorists argued about for two centuries is a computable quantity, and the spectrum invented to remove it is one no object produces.
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.
A stack that is not thirds
Build every chord that repeats a single interval and score them all. Eight of the eleven three-note stacks are smoother than the major triad; the four-note stack of fourths is smoother than a dominant seventh by a third and has no fundamental any matcher can find. Two absences, both computable, and both are exactly what the chord was adopted for.
The register where the series becomes a scale
A melody needs steps, and a natural trumpet has only the harmonic series. The gap between one partial and the next falls as the series rises — an octave, a fifth, a fourth, a third — and does not reach a whole tone until the eighth. That single arithmetic fact decides what two centuries of brass writing could be: fanfares below, and melody only in a band one octave wide with nine notes in it, three of them badly out of tune and every one of them lipped into place by a player who had no valve to press.
The ratio that stops being two
Eight earlier essays have taken two clocks at a rational ratio to be a thing a listener can hold. There is a ratio past which it is not, and the bound is not where anyone would look for it: the cycle is exactly one bar long at every ratio, so the length of the pattern separates nothing. What separates them is the closest the two streams ever come, which is one part in their least common multiple — 400 milliseconds for three against two, and seventeen for thirteen against eleven, which is not two events at all.
The series is not a chord
The major triad is derived from the first six partials of the harmonic series in every textbook that derives it from anything, and the derivation works: the first six contain a major triad and nothing else. Take the first four instead and there is no third at all; take seven and there is a dominant seventh with a flat seventh thirty-one cents below any keyboard note; take sixteen and there are eight pitch classes. Six is the last stopping point that gives the answer, roughness prefers three, four or ten depending on the register, and no criterion in the arithmetic selects six over any of them.
The series has three tops
How far up the harmonic series can an ear go? The question has three answers and they are an order of magnitude apart. Consecutive partials stop being separately resolvable somewhere around the eighth, and where exactly depends on the fundamental. They stop being a semitone apart at the seventeenth, at every fundamental, because the ratio does not know what it is measured in. And they stop being distinguishable in pitch at all between the thirty-fourth and the hundred and fortieth. Every claim about where the series runs out is a claim about which of the three was meant.
An instrument is not one timbre
Every roughness verdict so far uses one partial list per instrument, and a violin does not have one. Its body's resonances stay where they are while the fundamental moves, so the radiated spectrum is different at every pitch: the power-weighted centroid runs from 1.02 to 1.64 across the compass, and it is not monotonic. Which means the result that a spectrum chooses its own scale gives a different scale at every note on the same instrument — three minima in the dissonance curve at the bottom of a violin's range, two in the middle and four at the top.
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.
An interval is two errors
Two notes in succession are two pitch estimates, and what a listener judges is their difference — so a melodic interval is heard less finely than either of the notes in it. At a semiquaver the limen is nineteen cents, which lands inside a published range long quoted from the literature and never derived. Sounded together instead of one after the other, the same interval is judged eighteen times more finely.
The partial the lips cannot reach
A wind instrument plays between its valve's preferred frequency and its bore's, which suggested that the natural trumpet's notorious eleventh partial would therefore turn out to be a statement about the lips. It is not. Run the same Q-weighted mean over the whole series and the lips can move that partial twenty-three cents, which is a quarter of what it needs — and the Q that would fix it is the Q at which the bore stops choosing the note.
What the clave buys with its unevenness
The essay before this one found that the two best-known timelines in the world are not Euclidean at any rotation, and asked whether they maximise something else. They do: how quickly a fragment of the cycle says where in the cycle it is. The son clave locates itself in nine of its sixteen steps where the even pattern needs fifteen — and of two hundred and seventy-three patterns, twenty-two are on the frontier between the two objectives and the son clave is one of them.
The note that sounds twice
A triad has three notes and a four-part texture has four voices, so one note is doubled — and the voicing model used here leaves the choice free because the rules have an opinion about it. Asked properly, the arithmetic agrees with the treatises for the first time in nine essays: root, then fifth, then third. For a minor triad it does not agree, and for a symmetric chord it correctly has nothing to say.
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.
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.
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.
Surprise is a number
The chord that did not come was described rather than measured. Its measure is the information content of what did arrive, and a model of the probability has been to hand since the key-finding essays — eight root-motion weights, ordinal and stipulated. Reading them as a distribution prices a deceptive cadence at 2.71 bits against a perfect one's 1.85, and turns up the fact that the largest of the eight had never been read by anything.
A roughness with a rate of its own
Every roughness figure so far computes one number for a steady spectrum. Evaluate the same sum at every instant of a vibrato and there are three numbers instead — a mean, a depth and a rate — and the mean is not the roughness of the mean frequency. On an octave it is nineteen times it, because an octave sits in a deep narrow minimum and a vibrato smears it out of one.
A chord, given a key and a predecessor
A chord's improbability has been priced from its root motion alone, which left one multiplication unmade: a chord is also improbable because its notes do not fit the key, and that number has been available since the probe-tone profile. Multiplied and renormalised, the two give a conditional distribution — and a distribution has an entropy, which is the quantity a surprise has to be read against and which a list of preferences cannot supply.
The flare that makes a series harmonic
Every figure until now treats a partial as n times a fundamental, and the whole of brass instrument design is the business of making that true. A plain cylinder is 127 cents from a harmonic series and a plain cone is 21; the best flare found by sweeping is 4.6, and only two per cent of the swept surface comes within five cents of it. The shape is forced rather than chosen.
The beat a tuner can actually use
There is a modulation index for every interval on every timbre, and the published threshold for detecting a fluctuation is a function of exactly that and its rate. Running one against the other turns a table of decibels into a window in cents — and reverses the ordering, because the interval with the shallowest dip has the widest window.
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.
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.
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.
Two surprises and one event
A chord change is surprising twice over — in which chord it is, and in when it comes — and a listener meets one event. Adding two surprises needs to know how much they share, which is a fact about a repertoire nobody has. Sweeping it instead: the total moves by half, the ordering does not move at all, and the most surprising moment in a passage is the same one whatever the answer turns out to be.
The frontier and the ruler
A Pareto frontier is a claim about two quantities and only one of them was measured. The locating cost is exact; the unevenness it was traded against was one choice among several. Under four different rulers the son clave stays on the frontier and the frontier shrinks from twenty-two of 273 patterns to seven, so its membership means more rather than less — but the bembe stops being dominated, the two claves stop being equally uneven, and one plausible measure destroys the result entirely.
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.
The scale least committed to its own instrument
The essays on scales beyond twelve draw scales without spectra and spectra without scales, and none of them had put a tradition's own degrees through the roughness model. Doing it for six scales and five spectra says the account survives — every tradition lands between the eighth and the twenty-sixth percentile of random scales of its size, and under a pure tone not one of them does. But the scale whose standing moves least when the instrument changes is the gamelan's, at 2.9 percentile points, and the one that moves most is the five-limit diatonic at 17.4. The scale the argument is usually made about is the one it explains least.
Who listens to whom when an orchestra tunes
One match is good to two cents and an orchestra is sixty of them, arranged in an order that nobody chose deliberately. Passed along a line, the errors accumulate and the last player is fifteen cents from the first; given to everybody at once, nobody is more than two. The convention every orchestra uses — principals to the oboe, sections to their principals — is two matches deep, costs 2.8 cents whether there are four players or a hundred, and sits within a cent of the best arrangement that exists.
The unison is the coarsest thing in the room
An orchestra tunes on a unison and then plays intervals, and the two are not the same test. The lowest coincidence of a p:q interval sits at p times the lower note's frequency, so a mistuning of a given number of cents makes a beat p times faster — a fifth betrays it three times sooner than a unison, a minor third six. The ritual that opens a rehearsal is therefore the least sensitive measurement anybody will make all evening, and every chord afterwards is a finer one.
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 third sound magnifies cents, not hertz
Tartini's third sound is said to be a few cents off on a tempered interval. It is sixty-seven cents off on a major third and ninety-six on a minor third, because a difference tone moves p/(p − q) times as many cents as the interval p:q that made it. In hertz it moves exactly as far as the note that moved, and no further — so what the magnifier is worth is the ear's finer resolution at the low frequency where the product lands, which is a factor of two for a long note and nothing at all for a short one.
The tone on the root changes hands at the fifth
Every combination tone of a just interval is a harmonic of a fundamental neither note contains, and which harmonic is fixed by the ratio. The difference tone lands on that fundamental for every interval up to the fifth; the cubic product lands on it for the fifth and every interval above except the minor sixth. So the loud product names the root of a narrow interval and the quiet one names the root of a wide one — and a just major seventh's difference tone is a note seven harmonics up that no keyboard has.
A major triad's combination tones are its own notes
Play a just major triad of pure tones and two of the ear's cubic products land exactly on its root and its fifth. The reason is a condition rather than a coincidence — a chord's cubic products fall on its own notes when its middle note is the mean of the outer two in hertz — and it holds for the major triad in root position and in the six-four, and for no minor triad in any position or tuning. Equal temperament misses the landing by one number, 5.6 hertz on middle C, which is a beat that belongs to no pair of notes in the chord.
The bass line under a passage in thirds
A major scale harmonised in parallel thirds gives the ear a difference tone under every pair, and in five-limit just intonation those tones are a diatonic bass line — C, A, C, F, G, F, G, C — made of the scale's own notes. Tempered, the same line moves only by whole tones, a neutral third and a fourth stretched to 650 cents, and wobbles by up to 84 cents from note to note. In sixths the bass is drawn by the other product, because the cubic product of a pair is the difference tone of the same pair inverted.
The tuning a string quartet cannot change
A string quartet can put every stopped note wherever it likes, and it has five pitches it cannot move once the pegs are turned: the open strings C, G, D, A and E, tuned in pure fifths from the A it was given. That makes its only fixed tuning a five-key Pythagorean keyboard — the cello's C nearly six cents below a piano's, and every third two open strings can make a syntonic comma from just. Counted key by key, the clash is worst in G, C and F, the keys that use every open string, and absent from A and E.
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.
The smoothness is in the skips
Traditional scales come out smoother than random scales of their size because every pair of their degrees is counted once. Count only the pairs a melody on the scale actually sounds next to each other, and every seven-note scale here is rougher than ninety per cent of random ones, under every spectrum, and under a pure tone as well. The smoothness is carried by the pairs a melody reaches by skipping — its thirds and above all its fifths, which are smoother than all but two random scales in two thousand. Counted by their own ascents and descents, the two ragas that share one set of notes stand in different places at last: Deshkar's skipped Re buys a smoother ascent and costs it the fifths.
A combination-tone bass needs a forte
A scale in just thirds draws a diatonic bass line through its difference tones, and in sixths the cubic product draws one. Given the two published level laws, with their constants swept, the thirds' bass is not heard at all below primaries of about 66 dB and is heard whole only from 71 to 81. The cubic products are a different kind of object: the primaries mask them decibel for decibel as they rise, so no dynamic changes whether they are heard. Most of the thirds' inner line never is, and the sixths' bass needs a forte and a gentle law.
An open triad lasts as long as its tenth
Close, every triad's weakest link is a third or a sixth. Raise its middle note an octave and the link becomes a compound interval, and compound intervals do not last alike: a major tenth, 5:2, lives as long as a major sixth, while a minor tenth, 12:5, needs the twelfth partial and lives 0.47 seconds. So the spacing orchestration manuals recommend for a major chord in the bass is the longest-lived voicing a struck triad has, and the same spacing halves the life of a minor chord — and the six-four's advantage reverses.
A scale is committed to how long its instrument rings
A traditional scale's standing on the roughness model moves when the instrument changes, and that movement was read as a commitment to the instrument's spectrum. Weight every pair of notes a melody sounds by how much of the earlier note is still ringing when the later one begins, and the movement grows — the tempered diatonic's by 37 percentile points at a note every 0.6 seconds — but almost none of it is the spectrum. Put four instruments' rings on one spectrum and the scale moves 38.6 points; put four spectra under one ring and it moves 9.4. And the partials that make a fifth smooth are the first to stop sounding.
A minor triad can be spaced to last
Two spacings of each triad, drawn side by side, say that opening lengthens a major chord and halves a minor one. Drawn over every arrangement of the three pitch classes within two octaves of a fixed bass, the asymmetry disappears: a minor triad reaches 1.26 seconds over C3 and so does a major one, with two spacings of each tied at the top. The short-lived chords were never the minor ones. They were the ones with a minor tenth on the outside, and a minor triad has three spacings that avoid it.
Three harmonics of the bass arrive before the bass
Every product priced until now was between two pure tones, and nothing that plays thirds is pure. Give each note a spectrum and the ear receives every pair of partials — and for a just interval p:q every one of their products is an exact multiple of the same absent fundamental. That crowd lands where the threshold of hearing is tens of decibels cheaper, so it names the bass at 71 decibels where the component at the bass's own frequency needs 74, and at 75 against 85 an octave lower. Tempered, the crowd still forms and names a note seventy cents flat.
One tuning has no comma to place
Standard guitar tuning is four fourths and a third, and tuned pure it closes two octaves exactly a syntonic comma short — so tuning by ear decides where the comma goes rather than whether. An open tuning replaces the interval list. D A D G A D's fifth, two fourths, a tone and a fourth multiply to exactly four, so its chain closes and there is nothing to place: its six strings sit within four cents of the frets. The open-chord tunings close too, and pay for it with one string fifteen cents flat — which every chord barred straight across inherits exactly, and which is why every such chord is precisely as pure as the open one.
The scale belongs to the ringing instrument
A gamelan plays two instruments on one scale at once — a saron damped at every stroke and a gendèr several times faster with its bars left to ring — and a quarter of the roughness a listener receives falls on pairs that cross between them, which no figure had computed. The cross pairs turn out to be no worse than either stream's own. What decides the scale's standing is the fast part: the ensemble sits at the sixth percentile among random five-note scales and so does the ringing instrument alone, while the damped one alone sits at the ninety-sixth.
Counting beats moves the price of a chord, not the tuning
The search that found a guitar piece's best tuning counted every cent of error alike, and the obvious objection is that a cent of a third beats faster than a cent of an octave. Counted in beats instead, every piece gets exactly the same tuning back. What changes is how much of the piece the abandoned chord has to hold before it is rescued — thirty beats instead of forty-four, arriving in three steps instead of one.
The played notes already name the ghost bass
The products of a just third's partials, fitted on their own, name a note a twelfth above the bass when the interval is soft and drop to the bass when it is loud. Put the two played notes back beside them and the drop disappears: the notes and their products name the bass at every dynamic, because the notes' own partials are harmonics of it already. What the dynamic changes is not which note is implied but how complete its harmonic series is — nine holes from the notes alone, four when soft, none when loud.
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.
A wrong bar beats the same on either instrument
The ringing instrument carries a gamelan scale's standing, so a tuning error on it was predicted to cost more than the same error on the damped instrument. Put in the beating the model lacked, and the prediction fails: moved ten cents, a degree costs the same 0.85 summed over the scale on either instrument, because almost all of the cost is the wrong bar beating against the right one on the other instrument, and a beat belongs to both of the bars that make it. Moving a whole instrument costs exactly what its five degrees cost separately, and it takes nothing from the scale's standing.
A tempered third cannot be one sound with its own ghost
The essay before this one fitted one harmonic template to a just third's played partials and the products of those partials together, and it worked at every dynamic. Tempered, it does not work at all — and not by naming a different note. There is no template. The lower note's partials sit exactly on their harmonics, the upper note's are every one fourteen cents out, and the products are twenty-three cents out the other way, a span of thirty-seven cents across a tolerance of thirty. The window is nine cents wide when the third is soft and two when it is loud, so equal temperament's fourteen falls outside it — while the fifth's two cents fall inside. The consonances a temperament leaves nearly alone are exactly the ones that stay single sounds.
The seventh has two places to be
Tune a dominant seventh's seventh as the seventh partial and its coincidences last 0.87 seconds instead of 0.66 — exactly the diminished seventh's figure, which is the highest any four-note chord in this census reaches. It gets there by levelling rather than by improving: the root's pair with the seventh gains a third of a second and the fifth's loses one, and all three pairs that contain the seventh arrive at the same number. The route is a valley. A seventh tuned six cents flat has lost the ninth-partial coincidence and not yet found the seventh, and lasts 0.46 seconds, which is worse than leaving it alone. And the same retuning halves the minor and half-diminished sevenths.
Tuned for one shape, a cent is worth five frets
A guitar can be tuned so that one chord shape is exactly just wherever it is moved on the neck, and every other shape is then between twelve and fifteen cents out — worse than on the frets. So a player of such a tuning chooses, chord by chord, between intonation and the distance the hand travels. Searched exactly over every fingering of a I–IV–V ground, the route that keeps every chord in the one shape is the cheapest as soon as a cent of the piece's mean error is worth 4.8 frets of movement. On equal-tempered frets the same route needs a cent to be worth fifty-seven.
Tune a guitar for the shape of its key's open chord
A guitar can be tuned for any of five moveable chord shapes, and a player who then keeps every chord in that shape plays exactly in tune while the hand travels. Which shape should the tuning serve? Searched over seven keys and all five shapes, in every key whose tonic is an open chord the answer is that chord's own shape — C for C, D for D, G for G, A for A, and a tie between the E and A shapes in E. The reason is not the key and not the progression. It is that an open chord needs no barre: its hand sits one or two frets above the nut, and that saving is the whole of the difference.
A tuned guitar has no minor chord in tune
A guitar tuned to make one major chord shape exactly just can play every major chord in tune by moving that shape. It cannot play a minor chord in tune anywhere: every minor shape disagrees with every major shape about some pair of strings by eleven cents or more, and on any of the five tunings the least-bad minor chord — the A minor shape on a guitar tuned for the E shape — is 8.60 cents out, worse than on the frets. Put one minor chord into a I–vi–IV–V ground and the most-in-tune tuning in every key becomes the E shape's, because it is the one that hosts that chord least badly.
A ghost bass an octave lower needs notes twice as long
A scale played in just thirds has a bass underneath it that nobody plays — the difference tones of its thirds spell a diatonic line. Every essay on that bass has held its intervals still. A moving passage gives the bass a new pitch every note, and a low pitch is not there until it has run a few of its own cycles. With four cycles, a passage in thirds from C4 keeps its bass for 83 per cent of each note at three notes a second and loses it completely below 73 milliseconds a note. An octave down, every number doubles: the passage from C3 has no bass at all in its lowest note at semiquavers, and it is the scale's one Pythagorean third that sets the limit.
Four notes cannot get below the seventh partial
Tune a dominant seventh as 4 : 5 : 6 : 7 — every note moved, not only the seventh — and its coincidences last 0.868 seconds, which is the one-note retuning's figure to the millisecond. Tuning the third and fifth buys nothing at the top and costs seven voicings a fifth of their life. Every other chord of four notes a harmonic series holds does worse, and the reason is not temperament: no four pitch classes avoid a semitone, a tone and a tritone together, and none of those three can be tuned to coincide below the seventh partial. The half-diminished seventh, which the one-note retuning ruined, reaches the same ceiling read down the series.
A silent string tunes the minor chord
A continuous search over a guitar's six strings, run on a piece with one minor chord in it, never settles between two chord shapes: at any share of the piece, the best tuning is exact for one chord and makes the other pay. But the tunings the earlier essays called exact for a shape were exact only on the strings that shape sounds. The C shape never sounds its low E string, and tuned to the C chord's own E it hosts an E minor chord at 6.26 cents — not the 8.60 that was said to be the best any tuned guitar could do. The pop ground's most in-tune tuning is then the C shape's, in every key, at 1.57 cents.
The notes name the ghost bass before it has a cycle
A ghost bass that had to wait for four of its own cycles needed 61 milliseconds under a third from C4, and so vanished from fast passages. A pitch mechanism fitting the whole object — both notes' partials, which run their cycles many times faster, and the products — names the same bass in five. Seven of the eight thirds of a just scale have their bass for most of every note at any tempo a player reaches. The eighth, the scale's Pythagorean D–F, never has its own: the object hears it as a 6 : 5 and supplies the bass a D a comma lower would give, a semitone above the difference tone, until the difference tone arrives and breaks the fit.
The dynamic chooses which D the scale has
A just C major scale has one third that is not 5 : 4 or 6 : 5 — D–F, a Pythagorean 32 : 27 — and a pitch mechanism fitting the notes' partials hears it as the just minor third a comma away, with that third's bass, B♭1, beneath it. Only the Pythagorean third's own difference tone can contradict that, and it is audible only from 76 dB. So below a forte the ghost line under a scale in just thirds is C, B♭, C, F, G, F, G, C for the whole of every note, and the syntonic comma is resolved by the listener rather than the players; above it, and only in notes longer than 73 milliseconds, the B♭ is taken away.
A guitar tuned for a still hand is tuned for nothing
Tune a guitar for a whole route through a ground rather than for one chord shape — routing, retuning and routing again until neither changes — and the answer depends on how much the player is willing to move. Valuing intonation highly, the best tuning is one major shape with its silent string placed, as before. In the middle it can be exact for a minor shape instead, because the route that keeps the hand near the nut plays its minor chords open. And for a player who will not move at all, the best tuning is exact for no chord whatever: every string within two cents of its fret, beating equal temperament by a few tenths of a cent. It is the compromise the earlier search went looking for, and it lives where nobody looked.
A guitar tuned for a set is tuned for the D shape
Tune a guitar once for an evening of songs in five keys rather than once per song, and the tuning the set wants is not the compromise the single-song search predicted. At the valuation a typical player puts on a cent, it is exact for the D shape — the one fingering every key's route uses for some chord — with that shape's two silent strings placed for the set rather than for any song. Not retuning between songs costs a fifth of a cent. Only a set that mixes two grounds, played by a player who will not move, wants a tuning exact for nothing.
A tuned seventh chord does not beat; it buzzes
Three four-note chords share a ceiling of 0.87 seconds on how long their partial coincidences last, and nothing in that measure could tell them apart. Their beating can. A chord tuned exactly to one harmonic series is one periodic sound, so no two of its partials can differ by less than the series' fundamental: the tuned dominant seventh has no slow beating at all, where the tempered diminished seventh has 125 beating pairs at the strike. Its roughness is another matter. Tuning removes the beats and changes the roughness by a few per cent, in either direction, and a seventh on its way to 7 : 4 beats more, not less, until it arrives.
A tempered seventh chord already has the tuned one's low note
A dominant seventh tuned 4 : 5 : 6 : 7 is one periodic sound, and its period is a note below the chord that nobody plays. The question left open was whether tuning adds that note. Run through the temporal account of residue pitch, the tempered chord turns out to repeat at the same place, a few cents sharp, at 0.82 of the tuned chord's exactness at the strike and 0.96 a second later. Tuning does not create the low note. It makes it exact, and it gets there by a route on which every step helps, which is not true of the beating.
The bar a gamelan can least afford wrong is the one its skeleton lands on
A wrong bar in a gamelan costs what its beating against the other instrument costs, and that depends on how often the music doubles the degree. The obvious place for doubling is where an elaborating part meets the skeleton at the end of each four-stroke unit, so the prediction was that the meeting rule would rank the degrees. It barely does: a part left to ring doubles a degree whenever it sounds it while the other instrument's bar still sounds, and the meetings add three per cent. What ranks the degrees is where the skeleton lands. A skeleton that ends its units on one degree makes that bar three and a half to five times as costly to leave wrong as any other single bar.
A tuned close seventh chord low on the keyboard flutters at one rate
A dominant seventh tuned 4 : 5 : 6 : 7 in close position repeats exactly at a frequency two octaves below its bass, and below B2 that frequency is too slow to be a pitch. The question left was whether the repeat is heard as a flutter. In every auditory filter the chord reaches, its envelope pulses at that one rate, forty times over the threshold for detecting a fluctuation in the filter where it is strongest. The tempered chord fluctuates too, but a third as deeply and at rates that change from filter to filter. Tuning adds something here rather than sharpening it, and it adds it only within two cents of 7 : 4.
One guitar tuning serves every key, and it is the D shape's
A guitar tuned once for a set of pop songs in five keys is tuned exact for the D shape. The open question was the converse: which songs a given tuning serves, and how many keys a set can span before its best tuning stops being any shape's. Grown one key at a time round the circle of fifths, the set never stops sharing a shape: up to three keys it is the C shape's tuning, and from four keys to all twelve it is the D shape's, with the same offsets to a fifth of a cent. The five-key tuning serves the seven keys outside the set better than the two open keys inside it, and not retuning between songs costs less the more keys the evening spans.
An elaboration that arrives early makes every goal tone the bar to tune first
A gamelan's bars are costliest to leave out of tune where the skeleton lands, but a mode with three goal tones spread the cost so thinly that a low goal could end up cheaper than a high bar that is never a goal. The rule tested there put the elaborating part on the goal only at the goal stroke. Elaborations in the style reach their goal early and stay on it. Let them arrive seven strokes early and every goal tone costs more than three times the dearest bar that is not a goal; the goal's own cost rises by about half for every few strokes of anticipation, and a whole instrument out of tune becomes dearer too.
Two minor songs retune a guitar set for their dominant
A guitar tuned once for an evening of pop songs in every key is tuned exact for the D shape, because every key's route through the ground passes through it. Add songs that are not that ground and the tuning holds or breaks by a rule nobody would guess. Rock songs on I, ♭VII and IV never move it off the D shape, however many are added: they retune only the two strings the D shape leaves silent. One minor-key song leaves it alone too. Two move it to the C shape's tuning, and the chord they move it for is not one of their minor chords but their one major chord — the dominant, fingered in the C shape. Twelve move it again, to the E-minor shape's.
A tuned chord's flutter binds it only if its notes start together
A close seventh chord tuned 4 : 5 : 6 : 7 low on the keyboard fluctuates at one rate in every auditory filter, and one rate everywhere looked like the ear's evidence that a sound is one thing. It is only half of that evidence. The filters also have to rise and fall at the same moments, and whether they do depends on when each note starts — which tuning does not decide. Spread the notes' onsets by two milliseconds and the tuned chord's filters move together no more than a tempered chord's.
A guitar set keeps its tuning until the third minor song
Two minor-key songs were found to move a pop set's guitar tuning from the D shape to the C shape. Priced as a vote — what the move costs the twelve ground songs, against what it saves each minor song — two songs do not pay for it and three do. The earlier search had never tried keeping the tuning the set already had. And the key a minor song is in matters only at the nut: ten keys vote alike, and G minor, whose dominant is the open D chord, hardly votes at all.
A guitar set tunes for its minor chords only when nearly half its songs are minor
Add a third candidate to the vote — the tuning that makes the minor songs' own tonic chord exact — and a pop set's guitar passes through three tunings as minor songs are added: the ground's to the second, the dominant's from the third, and the tonic's only from the tenth, when ten songs in twenty-two are minor. Nothing in between is ever chosen: the two minor-song tunings differ on two strings, and every compromise between them costs the ground more than either end. Two keys break the pattern at the nut, and one earlier figure turns out to be wrong by a song.
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.
A tuned chord stays in step for half a cent-second
A close seventh chord tuned 4 : 5 : 6 : 7 low on the keyboard fluctuates in every auditory filter at once, but only if its notes start within a millisecond of each other — and a tuned chord, it was said, keeps its phases for as long as it sounds. It keeps them only as long as it stays exactly tuned. Mistune its notes by a fraction of a cent and they slide against each other, and the chord drifts out of step in a time inversely proportional to the mistuning: about half a cent-second. A tenth of a cent holds it for four seconds, a cent for half a second. A chord that starts out of step never drifts into 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.
A shared vibrato cannot hold a tuned chord together
A tuned close seventh chord binds its auditory filters together only while its notes stay within a third of a millisecond of each other, and mistuned by a fraction of a cent it drifts out of step in half a cent-second. A vibrato shared by every voice looked like a way to hold it: if all four notes swing together, they slide together. They do not stop sliding. A perfectly locked vibrato leaves the drift exactly as fast as before, because it changes every note's frequency by the same factor and leaves their differences alone; a vibrato locked ninety-eight per cent takes an exactly tuned chord out of step in six seconds, and one locked ninety per cent in one.
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 raised tierce points the bell at its own note
A bell's four lowest modes — hum, prime, tierce and quint — can imply a pitch of their own. With a major tierce they are the second, fourth, fifth and sixth harmonics of the prime two octaves down: the strike note's own name, with one empty slot. It was the minor tierce that pointed elsewhere all along. Its lower modes are the fifth, tenth, twelfth and fifteenth harmonics of the note a major third below the strike, and in 82 of 190 struck bells that is the series the delivered modes fit. Raising the tierce removes a competitor rather than adding one.
A chord comes back into step too briefly to bind
A vibrato that is shared imperfectly does not carry a tuned chord's notes ever further apart: each note's time is warped back and forth, and the chord passes back through step twice in every swing. Locked ninety-seven or ninety-eight per cent, it does so about ten times a second. But each return lasts on average less than one cycle of the chord's own flutter, which is the rhythm the ear's filters would have to share to show the binding — fewer than one return a second lasts that long. The chord is in step often and never for long enough.
A gamelan's shimmer should rise only downward
A gamelan tuner who lets each pair's beat rate follow its pitch saves roughness in the low octave, where the pairs slow, and pays it in the high octave, where they race. Repeating the middle octave's rates only at the goal tones and letting the rest follow the pitch, as the lead proposed, is rougher than repeating everywhere. The tuning that saves is the one that lets the rate follow the pitch below the middle octave and repeats it above — a fifth less roughness at the square — and it keeps the clock only if the low octave does not double the goals.
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.
Two octaves up, a sung chord can bind at every swing
A vibrato's swing between two notes is the same number of milliseconds in every register; the tolerance for being in step halves each octave, and so does the period of the chord's own flutter. The first two make a scaling law — an octave higher is the same chord with its vibratos disagreeing half as much — and the third breaks the tie. Matched for time in step, the higher chord's returns carry twice as many flutter cycles: over C2 fewer than one return a second is long enough to bind, over C4 with the vibratos locked ninety-nine and a half per cent nearly every return is.
A gamelan's shimmer has no cheaper shape, only a slower one
The tuning that let each pair's beat rate follow its pitch below the middle octave and repeated it above saved a fifth of the roughness — and slowed the ensemble's average shimmer by more than a third while doing it. Held to the shimmer it promised, it is rougher than repeating the middle octave's rates everywhere, and the middle octave's rates simply slowed to the same average are smoother than either. With the average fixed, the cheapest shape runs the other way, and a knee is never cheaper than a step.
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 ring of minor bells rings a second scale a major third below
A minor-tierce bell's four lowest modes, read as a residue, imply a note a major third below the bell's strike note. Put eight such bells in a ring tuned to a major scale and the implied notes are that scale moved down a major third — a ring in C carries the scale of A♭ major underneath it. Only three of the eight land on notes the ring rings, from the mediant, the submediant and the leading note; the tonic, the octave, the supertonic, the subdominant and the dominant all imply notes the ring never sounds, each a semitone from two that it does. Above a tenor on C3 the lower modes deliver the implied note at nearly every stroke. A reading that weights the whole spectrum still hears none of it.
A narrow vibrato needs no lock
A tuned close seventh binds and releases at the vibrato's swings only where its notes' timing swings by about the width of its onset tolerance, and the swing is the vibrato's width times how far the singers' vibratos disagree. Down to a ninety-five per cent lock the two trade one for one: a 71-cent vibrato locked ninety-nine and a half per cent is the same chord as a 7-cent one locked ninety-five. Below that the trade fails, in the singers' favour. With no lock at all the swing stops growing with the disagreement, and a vibrato of three cents over middle C — twelve over the bass — binds the chord at most of its swings with each singer's vibrato its own.
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 straight tone drifts out of step and stays there
A tuned close seventh binds — its filters flutter together — only while its notes keep their timing within a fraction of a millisecond, and a narrow vibrato keeps them there because a sinusoid's timing offset swings inside a fixed range. A straight-tone singer's pitch is never quite straight: it wanders slowly, a cent or less, at random. That wander's timing offset is a random walk. Over C4 a wander of half a cent takes the chord out of step within a fifth of a second and leaves it in step four per cent of the time, where a three-cent vibrato holds it nearly half. What matters is the wander's slow part, and adding a vibrato on top never helps.
A tied note is the oldest thing in its own dissonance
A suspension is taught as a dissonance that resolves, and the sum is done on a chord symbol with no time in it. Put the time back. On voices or an organ, a 4–3 is no smoother after its step than before: of eight spacings, two fall and four rise. On a piano the tied note was struck a chord ago, so it supplies under a third of the roughness it is blamed for, the fall to the resolution is the clock's, and the step itself makes the sound about three times rougher than leaving the note where it was.
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.
A set free to change key becomes a set in two
A set list orders its songs for the music and a capo wants them ordered by fret, and the trade between the two looked as if it might disappear if a singer would move a song a tone. It does not. Searched exactly, moving songs adds five to twenty points of the capo's saving at any count of fifths and stops improving at six moved; at its limit the best set rocks between B minor and E minor, because a count of fifths rewards a pendulum. A set that really walks the chain of fifths has three to spend, not eleven.
A tune's range is a number of notes, not an interval
An earlier essay derived the width of a tune from a walk pulled back towards its middle, and read it in semitones. That reading has a scale inside it. Put the same walk on five notes, seven and twelve, and at thirty notes it covers 16, 11 and 7 semitones, while using the same seven or so different pitches on all three. The width a tune inherits from its walk is a count of notes, which an interval then measures. And on a pentatonic scale, the taught rule about leaps cannot even be stated in semitones.
A trill is half a consonance unless it borrows its own resolution
A struck suspension loses roughness because its tied note is old, and the obvious repairs are all things a player already has. Three of them fail in ways nobody would predict. A re-strike under about nine decibels below the chord is smoother than the tie it replaces. No rate of trill stops the fading, because the three notes under the trill are what is fading. And a trill on the upper neighbour spends half its time on a chord note: only the trill that alternates a suspension with its own resolution gives back more than a single strike.
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.
A vibraphone's valve is a door on the sound and a drain on the bar
A vibraphone's motor is usually described as a duty cycle: loud while the valve is open and quiet while it is shut, with a tremolo as deep as the gap between them. Put the tube's own time back and the description comes apart. The door and the drain obey different laws. A low note's tremolo is a third shallower than a high note's at the same speed, the note rings almost three times longer than with the valve left open and well beyond any mean of the two states, and the same stroke can land eight decibels apart according to where the motor happens to be.
A melody's pull can be counted only where a step is a skip
A melody drifts back towards its centre, and nobody has said in what unit: a distance on the keyboard or a distance in the scale. On even scales the two cannot be told apart. On unequal ones they can, and an exact reckoning puts a price on it: about five hundred thirty-note tunes on the major scale, a dozen on hirajōshi. The price falls with the square of how uneven the scale is, and then drops seventeenfold at the point where a step of the scale gets wide enough to be counted as a skip.
A split key buys one of everything, and two buy C and E
An organ builder with money for two extra keys could have put them anywhere, and the arithmetic of triads cannot say where. On a meantone keyboard every added key buys exactly one major triad, one minor triad, one major key and one minor key, wherever it goes. So the count is no guide, and the choice was about which keys. The two accidentals most often divided, G♯/A♭ and D♯/E♭, are one on each side of the chain, and they are exactly what completes the minor keys on C and E. What they buy by the roughness sum is seven per cent.