The limits of the listener
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.
How much bow is allowed
Too little force and the corner fails to trigger a slip on every pass; too much and the string sticks for more than a period. Both bounds depend on where the bow is, and they depend on it differently — one as the square of the distance from the bridge and one linearly — so the window between them closes in proportion as the bow approaches the bridge. Sul ponticello is difficult by a power law.
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.
A comma under the threshold
Eight pure fifths taken downwards arrive at a major third 1.95 cents flat of a perfect 5:4. That gap has a name and a history, and it is the only one in the subject nobody has ever had to hide — it is under the smallest difference a listener can detect, which makes a chain of untempered fifths a source of almost-just thirds and makes one eighteenth-century tuning nearly free.
A dissonance has to last
Roughness is a fluctuation, and a fluctuation needs cycles. A minor second at the bottom of a cello fluctuates thirty-three times a second, so a semiquaver holds four of them and a demisemiquaver holds two — which turns the counterpoint rule that a dissonance may pass if it is short into a number, and puts that number at about seventy milliseconds through most of the range, once the pairs beating too slowly to be roughness at all are taken out of the average.
Where a room stops being a room
A small room has frequencies it supports and frequencies it will not, and a hall has a reverberation time. Those are two separate accounts and they are descriptions of the same building at different frequencies. The crossover is one formula, and in a bedroom it lands at about two hundred hertz — in the middle of the bass register, and above nothing at all in a concert hall.
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.
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.
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.
Which harmonics carry the pitch
A missing fundamental is inferred from a pattern, and a pattern has to be legible before it can be matched. Counting how many harmonics of a note land in separate auditory filters prices the inference — and the answer at the bottom of a bass guitar's range is none of them.
A pitch with nothing to match
Filter a click train into a band where no partial is separable from its neighbours and it still has a pitch at its repetition rate. Displace each click by a fraction of a millisecond, leaving the average rate and the long-term spectrum exactly where they were, and the pitch goes. The mechanism is reading the timing — which bounds the account endorsed here from the start.
The same chord is harsher when it is louder
Every roughness number so far was computed at a level nobody stated. Roughness is the product of two partial amplitudes, so it is quadratic in pressure, while loudness is compressive — which makes a minor third at middle C thirty-two thousand times rougher at fortissimo than at pianissimo and only twenty-five times louder. A chord has no single consonance to report.
The beat that is never sounded
A listener who has heard four bars of a groove and then hears two bars with the downbeats taken out does not move the downbeat. This site's rule set does, every time, on every pattern tried — and the direction it moves in says exactly what kind of model would be needed instead.
A metre has to be able to change its mind
Replace the scoring function with a phase-corrected oscillator and the two failures reported earlier separate. The beat now survives two silent bars, drifting 23 milliseconds of a 560-millisecond beat. But it does not lose a moving tempo so much as lag behind it, by the rate over the correction gain — and a cadential ritardando that halves the tempo in eight beats is faster than the model can follow.
How late is a different note
A deviation of thirty milliseconds is expression and a deviation of two hundred is a wrong note, so there is an edge. The edges in time are arithmetic — the midpoints between the simple ratios — and the swing ratio crosses two of them as the tempo rises, at 171 and at 240 beats a minute, while the notation says triplet feel throughout.
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.
Three answers to how finely a pitch can be heard
Two notes one after the other are told apart at about four cents at A440. Whether a melodic interval is in tune is a judgement an order of magnitude coarser. And two notes held together are heard to beat at a third of a cent, because the question is answered by counting rather than by hearing pitch at all. Every equal division ever built sits between the coarsest and the finest.
A note that is never at its pitch
Eleven essays in this field argue about differences of one to twenty-four cents. An ordinary operatic vibrato is a hundred and forty cents wide and completes six excursions a second, so every one of those distinctions fits inside a single sung note several times over — and the beat rate a tuner would null passes through zero eleven times a second.
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 scale built downward from a fourth
A tetrachord is a bounded span with two free notes inside it, which is a different generator from a chain of fifths and a different object from a subset of an equal division. At the maqam tradition's own quarter-tone resolution the construction admits thirty-six fillings of the fourth and 1,296 octaves built from them; the census here can see six of the first and 2.8 per cent of the second, and one of the octaves it cannot see is an ordinary mode of a living tradition.
A melody is a walk, not a set
Nine essays here are about which seven of the twelve a scale takes, and every one of them describes a set. A tune is not a set; it is a path across one, and the path is nearly all small steps. That is not a matter of taste. Above about eight notes a second the ear stops being able to hold a large interval and a small one in the same line, and at sixteen the choice disappears altogether — so a fast passage is scalar because a fast passage that leaps is two pieces of music.
The leap that pays itself back
Every melody textbook teaches that a leap should be followed by a step in the opposite direction, and every corpus that has been counted agrees — around seven leaps in ten are answered that way. A random walk with two walls, no memory of the leap and no rule of any kind reverses after 61 per cent of them, and the residue is not a rule either. What is left when the walls are accounted for is a prediction the rule does not make, and it is the prediction that decides between them.
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 note that has a length
Every melodic figure so far reads a table where each note is a pair — a pitch and a duration — and throws the second number away. A step between two minims and a step between two quavers have been one event in every histogram it has drawn. Weighting the same statistics by time moves the step distribution by up to seven points, changes forty-four of a hundred and one contour signs, and turns up an off-by-one in the one figure that did use the durations: it took the length of the note arrived at where the time between two onsets is the length of the note left.
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 twelfth, and where it comes from
Melodies occupy about an octave and a fifth, and an earlier essay set out to explain that by the singer's register break and found that it does not: the chest mechanism alone spans two octaves and a semitone. The answer is in a parameter the essay on leaps fitted and then put down. A walk with no walls whose central tendency reproduces the post-skip reversal rate has a range that grows logarithmically — six semitones at eight notes, twelve at thirty, eighteen at a hundred and twenty — so across every length a tune plausibly has, the span is between an octave and a fifteenth.
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.
What the onsets left out
Eight essays induce a metre from a list of ones and zeros, and every failure they recorded was argued about as a failure of the rules. Two of the three are not. Note length is already in that list and the scoring throws it away: put it back and the son clave's two-way tie resolves to the notated downbeat. But the groove with its beat removed cannot be repaired by any cue at any strength, and the reason is arithmetic rather than empirical — the true phase has no onset on any of its strong positions, so there is no credit for a cue to multiply and its line is exactly flat.
Two keys at once
Every key figure so far assumes one key is sounding, and the standard key-finder has no value it can return that means two. Play one progression in C and the same progression a major third away at the same time, and the model does not report uncertainty: it reports E minor, at a correlation of 0.886, against 0.959 for the same progression in one key. It is as confident as it ever is, and neither key it names is being played. Give it the missing hypothesis — pairs of key profiles rather than single ones — and it recovers both keys at every separation, all seven of seven.
How many boxes an octave holds
An identification model of pitch is usually handed twelve categories, and nothing ever asked how many an octave can hold. There are two answers and they are a factor of forty apart. Resolution allows between 151 and 356 — a listener can tell that many pitches apart in a direct comparison. Naming one of them without a comparison is a different faculty and it runs out at six or seven, which is where every mode in every tradition compared here sits. Turkish theory names fifty-three commas to the octave and a makam uses seven of them, and the gap between those two numbers is the whole of the argument.
The chord that is not played at once
Every chord until now starts its notes at the same instant, and no figure ever set the asynchrony to anything else. A spread chord is not a defective simultaneity: at forty milliseconds a triad of half-second notes is still eighty-seven per cent simultaneous, so it carries almost all its roughness, and it stops being a chord at all only when the last note arrives after the first has finished. What none of this can explain is the one thing every keyboard player knows — that a chord is rolled upward. The masking asymmetry that ought to explain it is 2.4 decibels at a close voicing, which is not enough.
How long a note has to be
Every difference limen quoted so far is for a tone that lasts as long as the listener needs, and no note in music does. A tone of duration T occupies a band about 1/2T wide whatever the ear does with it, so at 440 hertz the quoted five-cent limen is the right number only for notes longer than 486 milliseconds. A tenth of a second gives 19.6 cents, which does not clear the syntonic comma. Most of the tuning arguments in this collection are about a quantity that only exists in long notes, and the essays that made them said so about the listener and not about the note.
The beat that is not in the air
Every sound this site synthesises reaches both ears identically, and that is the assumption none of its figures ever varied. Put 500 hertz in one ear and 504 in the other and nothing sums anywhere: each eardrum sees a steady sinusoid with no modulation on it at all. A listener still hears a four-per-second beat, which means the arithmetic is being done behind the ears rather than in the room. And it stops working above about a kilohertz — not where phase locking gives out at five, but where a head 17.5 centimetres across stops being able to name a direction, which is 762 hertz.
A chord is not as loud as its notes
The first essay on loudness said what a tone's loudness is and recorded that it had said nothing about a chord's. Here is the missing rule, and it has a musical consequence nobody would predict from it: the same three notes, at the same power, are twice as loud in the treble as in the bass — because the critical band that makes a low triad five times rougher also makes it one sound instead of three.
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 boundary that barely moves
Every identification figure here has fixed category centres, and the essay before this one ended by admitting that real boundaries are supposed to move with context. Three mechanisms could move one, and their predictions are an order of magnitude apart and in two different directions. Expectation on its own — a listener who thinks one interval twenty times more likely than the other — is worth three and a half cents.
The short note is sitting on the floor
Swing is modelled here as a short note of constant absolute length, which was measured from drummers and left as a fitted parameter. The tempo window's fast edge — the shortest interval a series of events can be a beat at — was measured from listeners tapping. Both are a hundred milliseconds, and if that is not a coincidence then the swing ratio has no free parameter in it at all: the short note is not held constant, it is resting on the floor.
Playing louder is playing earlier
An accent has two effects on when its note is heard and neither is a timing decision. A harder-driven instrument has a shorter attack, and a criterion set by the surrounding music is crossed sooner by a bigger rise — so a twelve-decibel accent on a bowed note is heard twenty-four milliseconds early with no change whatever in when the bow was put down. It is also the measurement that tells the two competing models apart.
Loud is relative, and it comes down slowly
The account of loudness had a model of a moment and the account of closure asked it for a model of a form. The published one exists and its content is a pair of numbers that are not the same: a listener's running impression of how loud the music is rises to meet a step in a fifth of a second and takes seven seconds to come back down. A twenty-decibel crescendo spread over eight seconds therefore buys almost no contrast at all, and the same twenty decibels taken as a step buys a factor of two.
A quantity resting against a wall
The short note of a swung pair was found sitting exactly on the fast edge of the tempo window. If that edge is a floor rather than a fitted number, then every swing statistic computed until now was computed on a censored sample — and a censored sample has a mean that is 0.80 standard deviations too high, a spread that is 40 per cent too low, and a correction gain that can come out twice what the players actually have.
How much an anchor would have to be worth
Two pitch errors added in quadrature assume an independence nobody measured — a listener inside a key hears a note as a scale degree, and a shared reference is exactly a correlated error. Turning the dial is not evidence. What is evidence is that the dial is not free: a shared error cancels out of a difference completely, so a listener's single-note limen and their interval limen give the two components with nothing left over, and halving the interval limen needs a correlation of exactly 0.75.
The listener the model was never run for
Five earlier essays rest on one number — how finely a listener resolves a pitch — and every one of them used a trained listener's eleven cents. The model's dependence on it is not gentle: the capacity goes as its reciprocal and the expectation shift as its square, so an untrained listener at thirty-five cents has two nameable categories per octave rather than six, and a foreign tuning system is not mis-transcribed by them but absorbed.
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.
A low note cannot start on time
Three earlier essays have held the pitch at one value. A note cannot establish an amplitude in less than a few of its own cycles, so the attack has a floor that rises as the pitch falls — 146 milliseconds at the bottom of a piano and three at the top. On an instrument whose action takes eight milliseconds everywhere, that is a forty-three millisecond spread across the keyboard from the period alone, and no player can do anything about it.
The shape a wall leaves behind
A floor on execution biases every statistic computed on swing timing, and the bias was priced with Pearson's truncated-normal formulas. Those are the formulas for a sample with everything below the wall thrown away. A player who cannot execute a short gap does not throw the attempt away — it comes out at the floor. That is a censored sample, its bias is exactly half, and its skew is two thirds larger.
The notes in between
Every figure until now is about two notes with nothing between them, and a melody is notes with other notes between them. Two published accounts of what the intervening material does predict opposite signs — one says the key is restated and the shared reference is refreshed, the other says each note competes for the same memory and it decays. By eight notes they differ by four and a half cents, which is nearly half the limen the interval would have with no anchor at all.
The number every claim here has been quoting
Sigma is the internal noise a listener's pitch judgements carry, it is measured in a laboratory on isolated intervals, and music never presents an isolated interval. Every resolution claim here rests on the laboratory value. Sweep it and the headline finding moves: at eleven cents the ear has about six nameable categories per octave, and at six it has twelve — which is the chromatic scale, and turns 'the ear has fewer boxes than the notation' into 'it has exactly as many'.
The ranking survives the dynamic and the chord does not
Roughness is quadratic in pressure and loudness is compressive, so sixty decibels multiply a chord's roughness by a million and its loudness by ninety-six. Roughness per sone therefore rises ten thousandfold between a pianissimo and a fortissimo of the same four notes — and yet the ranking of which doubling is smoothest, over four hundred and eighty voicings, does not move by a single place.
An echo is prevented by the crowd around it
The echogram says when every reflection arrives and how loud it is; the published echo threshold says when a reflection that late and that quiet is heard separately. Put one against the other and the rear wall of every hall anybody builds is past the threshold — a 45-metre hall puts it 210 milliseconds late and 25 decibels down against a threshold of 114. It is not heard as an echo, and what saves it is not the geometry. It is everything else arriving at the same time.
The partials that do not die together
The fusion census is a still photograph: it asks whether a set of partials fits one harmonic series and has no term for time. Put time in and the ranking reverses. An ideal string is perfect on harmonicity and holds a fifth of its partials together by decay; a kettledrum — the worst spectrum in this collection for fitting a series — is the only one whose modes all die at one rate.
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.
The quantity a rival account says is not there
Two earlier essays measure how much two notes' errors are correlated through a shared anchor, and price what that correlation would be worth. There is a rival account in which a listener refers each note to a key and never forms the distance at all — under which the correlation is not small, it is a description of something that is not happening. The two accounts agree on almost everything and disagree on one manipulation, and the manipulation costs an afternoon.
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.
Which notes have to be played early
There are three separate contributions to one quantity — the instrument's attack family, the dynamic it is played at, and the note's own period — and every figure so far varies one and holds the others. Added together for a real scoring they do not add: a sforzando low piano note is pitch-limited to a hundred-millisecond attack and the sforzando shortens it back to sixty-five, so flattening the dynamics makes the ensemble's spread larger rather than smaller.
The hardest place is also the latest
A bow-force window is a ratio of forces, which nobody can hear. An attack time is milliseconds, which a player and a listener both have. The map of the violin's windows becomes a map of its attack times under a change of units, and the exponent turns out to be a half — so a window twenty-nine times narrower is only five times later.
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 mean survives the window
A roughness that moves has a mean, a depth and a rate — all three of which a listener could only have through a temporal window. Applying the window already to hand settles which of the three survives, and the answer refutes the guess: a running average cannot change an average, so the octave's factor of nineteen stands and the movement is what goes.
A position and a width
Sorting a hall's arrivals into echoes and everything else settled that fusion is not a yes or a no. Everything else is not nothing: a reflection too early to be heard separately still moves the apparent source, widens it and colours it. All three come out of the same list of times, levels and angles, and none of them needed a new input.
The exchange rate nobody has
There are now two cues that disagree about how a spectrum divides, and every figure so far reports them separately because there is no principled way here to weigh one against the other. The published apparatus is a competition between grouping hypotheses with a cost per cue — and the useful thing it produces is not the winner but how much of the exchange rate the winner survives.
A loud chord is a smaller chord
Two earlier essays hold the level fixed, and the level decides how much of a chord a listener is given. At thirty decibels twenty of a triad's twenty-four partials stand above what the rest of it masks; at a hundred, nine do. Every roughness figure until now counts partials that are in the score, and a partial the chord masks is not a partial the listener has.
The reading was a step response
Sweeping the tempo found it did not decide the answer. This one sweeps the deceleration across a factor of three and finds a null to five figures, and then sweeps the length of the closing gesture across a factor of forty-eight and finds it moves the reading by eight per cent — but not as a function of seconds. Sorted by seconds the twelve runs scatter; sorted by how many bars the instruction covers they fall into three tight groups. One sentence explains the null and the not-null together.
A subito piano is a rate, not a level
All three earlier essays score one chord held still. An orchestration is a succession, and the running impression carries a chord into the one after it — so a written dynamic is an instruction to the listener's impression rather than to the instantaneous sound, and there are markings that cannot be produced at all. The correction runs to silence and the impression still sits above the target.
A family of readings
Removing the detector's free parameter, and then its constant tempo, cost persistence both times — the property that made its boundaries ordered rather than merely found. Recovering it means a family of adaptive readings rather than one, indexed by the width of the psychological present, which is the one parameter that cannot be removed, because it is a fact about listeners.
How many bars an ensemble needs
The map of required leads is something nobody tells the players, because the leads are a property of the instruments' attacks. So an ensemble has to find them, and the mechanism is the one the microtiming essays describe: each player hears sounds rather than onsets and moves toward the others. It converges on the map to within a fifth of a millisecond, in five beats, and there is a best correction gain.
How much of the reading arrives late
Every margin reported earlier is two-sided: the best path through a key at a bar is the score into it plus the score onward from it, and the second half uses bars a listener has not heard. Dropping that term is one line. On a thirty-two-bar song it removes more than half the certainty, and on a passage built to be ambiguous it changes the key named at nine bars out of eleven.
The page is read by an eye
A sight-reader's eye sits a fixed number of notes ahead of the sounding one and a fixation takes in a fixed number of millimetres, and the spacing rule converts between them. Two bounds follow, from the reader rather than from the music — and the one everybody would expect to bind does not. The saccade rate has enormous headroom at any playable tempo, and what decides is acuity.
The bow is not a point either
Seven earlier essays set the bowing point to a number between 0.02 and 0.3 and drew it as a point. A violin bow's hair is ten millimetres wide on a string of three hundred and twenty-five, so near the bridge the ribbon is wider than its own distance from it. In the spectrum that turns out to be worth nothing. In the geometry it is the reason sul ponticello has a floor, and the violin is the one instrument of the four where it arrives before the force does.
The pitch that does not wobble
Three earlier essays have treated a vibrato as a modulation of roughness. The reason singers use one is what it does to the note, and there is an extractor here that turns a set of partials into a pitch and has never been asked what it does with partials that will not hold still. The period survives, at a cost that rises with the extent — and the practice stops within a hair of where the cost becomes total.
A note starts twice
One account computes how long an instrument takes to settle, from its own physics. Another computes how long after its onset a listener places a note, from the shape of its envelope. Both come out in milliseconds and neither has ever been shown the other. Paired on the five instruments they share, the ratio between them spans a factor of sixty-nine and sorts perfectly by mechanism — and the violin is third slowest to settle and the last to be heard.
The dissonance arrives and the dynamic does not
A scoring decides two things at once and both of them have to be integrated by a listener before they exist. The loudness smoother's release is two seconds and the roughness window is thirty-seven milliseconds, and that ratio of fifty decides which of the two survives at the pace music is actually played. Nothing anybody performs is fast enough to blur a dissonance, and a great deal of it is fast enough to average a dynamic.
The hall through a head
Every direction computed so far is a vector from a seat to an image source, and a listener has no vectors. Run the echogram through the head computed six essays ago and two things happen: the position and width become microseconds, and a third of the room disappears — because both cues fold at ninety degrees and a reflection from behind is identical to one in front.
An equal note cannot be masked
Three earlier essays are about one instant, and forward masking lasts two hundred milliseconds — longer than a note at any brisk tempo. So a fast line should be a sequence of events hiding each other, and it is not: a note masks itself ten decibels harder than its predecessor can, at any speed. What does hide a line is dynamic contrast, and the boundary is fifteen decibels.
The listener who forgets
Setting an analyst's reading of a key against a listener's measures what arrives late. Both passes assume perfect recall of their own half — which is as wrong going forward as knowing the future is going back. Put a decay on the forward pass and a listener with a memory of a few bars keeps a quarter of the confidence and nine tenths of the answers.
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.
A reader does not read notes
Eleven earlier essays count notes, and the page cannot tell one line of eight quavers from another. A reader can: a scale of eight is one object where eight leaps are eight. Measured against the melodic interval distribution, the same eight notes are four times as much to read — and the eye–hand span, the best-measured quantity in the reading literature, is four notes of a tune and one of a leaping line.
A rest is a diminuendo
Three parameters swept over factors of ten, three and forty-eight returned the same reading to four significant figures. The one manipulation left unswept moves it by twenty-four decibels: a silence. A listener's running impression decays at the loudness smoother's two-second release, so a general pause is a diminuendo nobody wrote, and at the length that makes a gap an ending it is worth more than any marking a composer has.
The passage that separates two players
An ensemble that has learnt where the asynchronies are applies them; one that is listening discovers them. In steady state the two are identical, which is why nobody has separated them. Change the scoring mid-phrase and they are not: one ensemble is wrong by twelve milliseconds for three beats and the other is not wrong at all — and twelve milliseconds is under what a listener notices and far above what a microphone resolves.
The turn is half the angle
A stationary head cannot tell a sound in front from the same sound behind, and an earlier essay said so at length. The turn that breaks the confusion is 0.84 degrees — exactly half the angle a source would have to move for the same listener to notice it moving, and half for a reason. In a hall the same turn does something else: the source swings at 8.9 microseconds a degree and the room swings at 2.7, so a listener who moves is separating the soloist from the reverberation as well as the front from the back.
A smaller head in the same hall
Ten earlier essays draw one head. Every parameter belonging to the room has been varied by some figure and the one belonging to the listener never has, and it is the only one whose change the detection threshold does not follow: a six-year-old in the same seat receives the same fifty-four reflections at the same instants and reads them onto an axis with seventy distinguishable positions instead of eighty-seven. The speed of sound, swept over every temperature a hall is ever at, changes nothing at all — and the reason it cannot is the reason head size can.
Eleven partials is one too many
Six earlier essays census exactly ten partials and no figure has ever passed another number. At eleven, the harmonicity census stops finding a perfect harmonic series' own fundamental, takes the octave above it, calls every odd partial inharmonic, and the competition cuts an ideal string in two. It is not the arbitration — the cost of a second stream was swept over a factor of fifty and every verdict came back identical — it is a cap that exists for a good reason and turns out to be the same number as the count.
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.
The cycle that outruns the memory
A timeline and a colotomy were compared at equal strokes and the comparison had no clock in it. A memory span is a number of seconds and a cycle is a number of steps, so the two only meet through a tempo — and at a clave's two seconds a listener's memory covers twenty-eight steps and forgets nothing, while at a gong cycle's forty it covers 1.4 and forgets almost everything. The single line is the better locator up to twenty-three seconds a cycle and the layered code is better after it, which is very close to where each is actually used.
The parent nobody measured
Every figure drawn behind a wall so far assumed a normal parent, and the assumption turns out to matter in exactly the wrong place. The censored bias is half the parent's mean absolute deviation — a theorem, not a coincidence — so it lands between 0.35 and 0.43 spreads for every distribution tried, and the truncated one runs from 0.58 to 1.00. But the third moment proposed as the test moves 2.9 across parents against 0.65 between the two rules, and a censored sample from a slightly left-skewed parent has a skew of 1.007 where a truncated normal has 0.995. The statistic that does work is a count of ties.
What the tongue actually removes
The question this essay was written against asked for an impulse: a tongued attack, a martelé stroke and a struck key all deliver one before the steady drive begins. The arithmetic refuses the framing. A tongue release does carry energy at the note's own frequency, and it is worth 0.17 milliseconds on a trumpet against a settling time of 62 — capped at about 1.13 over the resonance's Q. What articulation is worth is the ramp it removes, and that is about half the ramp's own length: 44 milliseconds, and very nearly the same 44 on every wind instrument in the collection.
Read at two different heights
Ten placements of these figures, one value: the settling criterion is nine tenths in every one of them, and nothing is measured behind it. It is a multiplicative constant only inside the mechanism that has it — a bow's capture and an exciter's contact contain no criterion at all — so moving it rescales one of three clusters against two that stand still. The most-quoted number here, a factor of sixty-nine between the instrument's account and the listener's, is 5.9 at the criterion the listener's own measurements use, and the ordering an earlier essay was written about does not exist below a fifth.
A part entering is not a change of level
Five earlier essays measure a sonority that is already sounding. The one thing an orchestrator actually controls is the entry, and priced at every semitone it comes to 0.89 phons — under the difference limen — with only 29 of 61 available entries clearing it and none below A♭4. What an entry is instead is an object arriving, and the reason is that its own rise time is faster than the listener's.
A staccato is a dynamic mark
Every loudness figure in this collection is of a sound that has been going on long enough, and no note in music has. Run the running-loudness model on notes with lengths in them and an articulation turns out to command 1.5 phons at a slow tempo and 8.1 at a fast one — more than the 1.8 decibels a whole texture commands, on the same page, written down in the same ink, and counted by nobody.
The listener is given the top voice, and the bass as a sine
Four earlier essays put the masker and the probe in the same voice. Put them in different voices — a four-part texture at one level — and the soprano arrives with all eight of its partials, the alto with five, the tenor with two and the bass with one. Balancing the loudness, which is the constraint a scoring is solved under, changes none of that: equal loudness is not equal spectrum and cannot be made so.
A low chord stops being rough by stopping being a chord
Every count of audible partials until now is of a chord at middle C, and the three registers it did compare span C3 to C5 — a third of the range a chord is written in. Move the same triad down and the count collapses: 79 per cent of its partials arrive at E3 and 4 per cent at C1. So the roughest chord on the page is the lowest one and the roughest chord a listener receives is at G2, and where that maximum sits moves nearly two octaves with the dynamic.
A soft chord has to fade in
Forward masking sits between the two integration times already in play — two hundred milliseconds against a thirty-seven millisecond roughness window and a two-second loudness release — and it was owed as the term that might eat the dissonance contrast. It does not. It widens it, by three per cent at a chorale's pace and fifty-nine at four chords a second, because it can only ever remove partials and it can only reach the chord a dynamic has already made quiet. What it does instead is stranger: one chord in the passage is entirely inaudible for its first twelve milliseconds and takes a quarter of a second to arrive whole.
The bars a key is made of
A discount that treats every bar alike is the wrong shape for a memory, so take each bar away in turn and see what it was worth. The bars an analysis points at carry seven times as much of the answer as the ordinary ones and slightly less of the certainty — and a memory built only of them reads the passage worse than a memory with no structure in it at all.
The surprise of nothing happening
A hazard charges a listener twice — once when the chord changes and once, quietly, at every beat it does not. The second term was expected to dominate, because there are more beats than changes. It is a third of the bill at one chord a bar and never reaches a half at any rate a metre survives, because the cost of a beat where nothing happens is second-order small.
Three beats at most, and only in the middle of the keyboard
A mistuned octave on a real piano makes eight beats at once, and a listener attending to one of them is doing something that has a threshold. Two thresholds, in fact — a rate and a place — and once both are applied the eight become four at A3, one at A1 and one at A5. Every interval a tuner sets goes to zero at both ends of the compass and peaks at eight countable beats in the octave the bearing is laid in.
A boundary costs the same wherever it is put
Every capacity figure drawn until now cuts the octave into equal categories, and no scale in the world is equal. Putting the real step patterns through the same model returns exactly the same accuracy to four decimal places — because naming is lost at boundaries, an n-degree scale has n of them wherever they are, and each costs the mean absolute value of the noise. That turns the most-quoted result about hearing from a search into one line: 1504 times one minus the criterion, over sigma.
The part of the error a key cannot touch
Four earlier essays turn one dial — the correlation between two notes' pitch errors — and apply it to the whole of a note's limen. Half of that limen is not the listener's: a note of finite length does not carry its frequency more finely than 1/2T, and no context can put information into a signal that is not there. So the correlation has a ceiling, it is 0.21 at a quarter-second note at A4 and 0.07 at A2, and the figure that prices a correlation of one half is drawn where one half is unavailable.
The top that falls while the note lasts
Four earlier essays have asked where the harmonic series stops, and all four answered with a number computed for a tone that never ends. A struck C3 has 152 audible partials at the strike and eight after two-thirds of a second, so the ear's own resolution limit governs the first ten per cent of the note and the decay governs the rest. Playing ten decibels louder buys the ear a further tenth of a second, and doubling its reign would take fifty-eight.
The middle nobody could have guessed
A struck note has no steady state, only a slide from one spectrum to another — so the question is what the middle carries that the ends do not. The answer is exact rather than statistical: every loss law in the family leaves the strike with the same spectrum and ends in the same silence, so both endpoints carry precisely nothing about which of them it is. The whole difference is 41.3 decibels, and it peaks 0.38 seconds in, seven per cent of the way through the note.
The collapse belongs to the bass
Every envelope drawn until now has no pitch in it: the decay model counts partials rather than measuring them in hertz. Put a fundamental in and the collapse it describes shrinks monotonically up the keyboard, from 25.2 semitones of colour drain at A0 to 6.6 at C8, because a partial has to fit under twenty kilohertz to exist and the top note has four of them. Above C6 a struck note has fewer partials than the ear could have resolved, and there is nothing left for a collapse to take away.
An attack time is not an attack
Eight earlier essays read a heard moment off an envelope, and every one of them used the same envelope shape without saying so: the source table records one curve for all nine of its families, and the map's own arithmetic does not carry the parameter at all. A published attack time fixes a ten-to-ninety time and nothing else. Under the two other shapes the same measurement admits, every millisecond computed so far doubles — and the constructed passage called inaudible earlier becomes three times a listener's threshold.
A rest needs a dry room
The twenty-four decibels a general pause is worth assume the sound stops when the players do. Put a hall under it and a bar of silence keeps 60 per cent of its value in a shoebox concert hall and 22 per cent in a cathedral, while a three-and-a-half-second one keeps 86 and 45 — because a hall's tail has a length and a rest either outlives it or does not. A written bar of silence is worth half its dry value at 2.76 seconds of reverberation, which falls between the concert hall and the stone church.
The interval between two quills
Two jacks on one key are voiced separately and do not let go at the same instant. That interval turns each partial of the later pluck through an angle proportional to its number — so it leaves the fundamental alone and inverts the twentieth partial, and the holes the pair digs for itself vanish at a hundredth of a period. What a regulator can tolerate turns out to be one fixed fraction of a period at every pitch, which on a five-octave instrument is a factor of sixteen in milliseconds.
Where a wrong head gives itself away
Every claim so far maps a delay to a direction through one fixed geometry, and the listener acquires that map while the geometry grows under them by seventy per cent. So the map can be wrong — and the essay before this one said the error would be largest on the median plane, where the delay curve is steepest. It is exactly zero there. The steepness is in the error and in the threshold and cancels between them, which leaves a listener whose internal head is 1.3 millimetres out with one place to catch it: hard to the side, where nobody localises well.
A clarinet keeps what a string loses
Every masker, probe, chord, line and texture until now is eight partials falling as 1/n, and it was not even an option a placement could pass. Sweeping the six spectra to hand says the clarinet is the worst of them — 54 per cent of itself at best against a string's 79 — and that answer is an artefact of the score. Counted against what each note keeps on its own, the clarinet keeps 100 per cent where the string keeps 79, because its components stand a twelfth apart rather than an octave. The missing parameter was the spectrum; the second missing parameter was the denominator.
A short note is heard more in tune than it is
Four earlier essays treat a key as something that reduces the noise in a pitch judgement. Treat it instead as a prior and the prediction changes kind: not a smaller error but a systematic bias, pulling a short note toward the nearest scale degree by an amount the Fourier bound sets. Thirty cents out of tune on an eighth-of-a-second note is heard as eight. And the part the debt got wrong is the part that matters — the bias does not vanish on a long note. It stops at 17 per cent at A4 and at 48 per cent at A2, because the likelihood's width has a floor that no duration removes.
Eighty-one chords, one number
A dominant seventh has eighty-one arrangements inside three octaves and their roughness spans a factor of five and a half. The tonal-expectation model gives every one of them the same 3.51 bits, because its states are scale degrees and there is no register anywhere in them. Conditioning the surprise on the voicing costs no corpus — and the arithmetic says the conditioning belongs beside the probability rather than inside it, for three reasons that can each be computed.
A fifth on a piano is not a fifth a second later
Nine essays draw one note in silence, and a listener is given a texture. Put two struck notes an interval apart and consonance comes apart into two quantities that had agreed while nothing moved: the partial coincidence that names the interval outlives the strike in exactly the order common-practice theory ranks its intervals, and the roughness that scores it reorders itself inside a third of a second, with the fifth overtaken by four intervals every treatise calls harsher.
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.
A general pause is spent by the note after it
Whether a composer should write the pause before the diminuendo or after it looks like a question about how big the ensemble is. It is not. Forty decibels of ensemble are worth one decibel of silence, and the order is worth seven — because a running impression rises twenty times faster than it falls, so half a general pause is spent by ninety-seven milliseconds of sound.
Where the note is costs more than which note it is
Thirteen earlier essays measure a page, and the three that price a reader price only its pitches — every line they measure is a run of equal notes. A metrical weight normalised by its own sum is a probability, and minus its logarithm is bits — the same substitution made earlier for intervals. Measured over the tunes used throughout it comes out at 2.23 bits a note against the pitches' 1.89, so the larger half of a reader's load is where the note is.
Every member of a beat family is the same depth
A mistuned octave's beats have been counted on their rate and their place, with the depth recorded as the thing left out and a prediction that the shallow upper members would take the count from four to two. The depth turns out not to fall at all: on any power-law spectrum every member of a family has exactly the modulation index its interval's own ratio gives, at every register, on every wire. The count does fall to two, and the thing that takes it there is the criterion that essay was already using.
The release is on the wrong side
Whether the loudness model's two-second release makes an entrance inaudible has the answer no, for a reason the question did not anticipate. The smoother is asymmetric — ninety-nine milliseconds going up and two seconds coming down — so a rise is tracked twenty times faster than a fall, and an entrance is received promptly by every one of a listener's three readings. The colour of it arrives first, at twenty-five milliseconds against ninety, and the reading that moves with the ensemble is the one nobody would have picked.
A part that leaves is not a part that arrives
The same player, the same note, the same level, and the only difference is which way round it happens. A listener's loudness reading takes 1.43 seconds to receive half of a departure and 90 milliseconds to receive half of an arrival — a factor of sixteen with nothing asymmetric in the sound at all, since both readings integrate the same two states in the same order. The colour reading receives the two identically, because a window has no direction, so a departure is a change whose grain arrives at once and whose level takes most of two seconds.
An interval is two posteriors subtracted
Treating a key as a prior over one note predicts that an interval's pull is not the single-note pull doubled, because the two degrees are not equally weighted. Half of that is wrong: splitting a mistuning between the two notes gives exactly the mean of what each end gives alone, to a thousandth, at every one of the twenty-one intervals in the scale. What is not the mean is which end carries it — and the pull turns out to be largest not on the shortest notes but on notes of about an eighth of a second, where the likelihood is a quarter of a semitone wide.
Which end the mistuning is on
Twenty-one intervals in the major scale, each with two ends, and the same twenty-five cents reaches a listener at anywhere between 32 and 79 per cent of its size depending on which of the two notes carries it. The most lopsided is the tonic to the leading note, where a departure on the upper note arrives two and a half times as strongly as the same departure on the lower. Two mechanisms produce it and they can be separated by one flag: two thirds of the asymmetry is register and one third is the key.
The setting is not the preference
Every published number for an interval listeners prefer — the pure third a quartet is said to find, the raised leading note, the harmonic seventh — is a value somebody adjusted until it sounded right. A listener adjusting inside a key is adjusting through the posterior computed just before, so the value they stopped at is not the one they preferred: it is the one whose heard size equals it. On quarter-second notes the correction for a pure major third is 12.8 cents, which is nearly a syntonic comma and is larger than the 13.7-cent preference it corrects.
An orchestra is given a note
Every earlier essay on pitch standards draws a standard as a number an ensemble is at, and no ensemble is at a pitch. It is handed one, by one player, on one note, and everything else is matched to it by ear — so a standard reaches an orchestra through a limen nobody quotes. Matching by comparing two pitches is good to 5.7 cents at A; nulling the beat between them is good to 2.0, and which of the two is available depends on how long the oboe holds the note. The crossover is at about seven tenths of a second, which is shorter than an oboe's A and longer than a plucked one.
A consensus with nothing to hold it
Once the oboe has stopped, no reference is left in the room. Each player corrects toward what they hear around them, which is other players correcting toward them — and a consensus dynamic has a fixed point at every common value, so it pulls the ensemble together and nothing pulls it anywhere in particular. Simulated, the players' spread falls from 2.8 cents to 0.5 while the ensemble as a whole random-walks. The size is the result and it is small: two or three cents over a movement, which is a tenth of what unaccompanied choirs are said to lose.
A boundary beside a fifth
A closed form established earlier says an n-category division costs n·σ·√(2/π) whatever the widths are, so a boundary costs the same wherever it is put and the step pattern cannot matter. Its own last section named the assumption that produces the null: one σ, applied to every boundary in the octave. Let σ follow how securely each interval is held and the formula becomes a sum over boundaries rather than n copies of one — the diatonic's error rises from 5.1 per cent to 11.8, and where the degrees are put matters again.
The best seven of the twelve
Once the noise is allowed to differ from boundary to boundary, a scale can be chosen to minimise identification error — and the choice is a search over four hundred and sixty-two sets rather than an argument. Run, it returns a cluster of semitones around the tonic and around the fifth, and puts the diatonic major at rank 376 of 462, in the worse fifth of the ranking. A criterion whose optimum is a scale nobody has ever played is a criterion that is not what scales are chosen for, and the reason it fails is legible in the model rather than in the music.
The unequal scale that is easier to name
The whole of the earlier result was that a scale's step pattern cannot matter, and every tradition it drew agreed with the equal division of its own size to three decimal places. With one noise per boundary the comparison is live again, and the tempered diatonic beats seven equal steps by eleven per cent — while the pentatonics gain nothing and the maqam scales gain two tenths of one per cent. Only one of the two security models produces the effect, and it is the one that was not measured on listeners raised inside the tradition it is being used to explain.
Counted in the decay, or not at all
A mistuned octave struck hard delivers no countable beat at the strike, and the reconciliation offered for that was that a tuner listens to the decay. Computed through a real decay it fails on its own terms: the partials fall silent before the filter has narrowed enough to separate them. It succeeds only when the filter is broadened by the level inside it, which is what the published parameterisation was fitted against — and then the window opens at a twelfth of the note's life and shuts at a quarter.
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 cello cannot hear its own tempering
Narrowing a quartet's fifths to meet a piano is one number, 1.96 cents a fifth, and it is a different beat on every string: once every two thirds of a second on the violin's A–E and once every four and a half seconds on the cello's C–G. Set by ear for two seconds a fifth, the violin's E lands within two thirds of a cent and the cello's C within 5.7 — which is as large as the Pythagorean error the tempering was meant to remove. The string whose tuning is most wrong is the string whose tuning is least certain, and a cellist tuning down the chain cannot tell pure from tempered.
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 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.
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.
A final chord stands out for a twentieth of a second
A general pause drives a listener's running impression down, and the final chord that follows is supposed to cash the fall in. It cashes in at most two thirds of it. The note's own loudness rises with a 22-millisecond constant and the impression with a 99-millisecond one, so after a bar of silence the chord stands furthest above the impression 54 milliseconds in, by 5.1 of the 8.1 decibels the silence bought, and after 206 milliseconds the two are within a phon of each other. A short stamp spends most of its life standing out; a chord held a second and a half spends a seventh of it.
A rough arrival is rough because of its spacing
The pair the expectation essays report for every chord — how surprising it was, how rough its voicing is — has no level in it. Putting level back in answers the question it left open, and not the way it was framed. At one written dynamic the arrivals keep their order from 40 to 90 dB at three registers of four, and the bass stays 8.6 times rougher than the treble. Made equally loud, the bass has to be played 12.8 dB harder, and it is 343 times rougher: level does not explain the register's roughness away, it multiplies it.
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.
An open string pulls the quartet flat
Once the tuning note has stopped, a quartet corrects toward itself and nothing holds its pitch. But four of its pitches do not move: the open strings, on a Pythagorean chain from C 5.9 cents flat to E 2.0 sharp, each ringing when a stopped note shares its pitch class. Give that sympathy a weight of a hundredth of a correction and it beats the random walk within a movement. The quartet settles flat in every major key — by 0.9 cents in E, 2.5 in C and 2.6 in A♭ — and in A♭ major the cellist's tuning scatter moves the whole ensemble by 1.7 cents.
A string that decays twice is counted early
A mistuned octave's beats were found countable only between a twelfth and a quarter of a note's life, on a note decaying once. A piano string decays twice, a fast prompt sound over a slow aftersound, and the prediction was that this would open the count sooner and close it later. It opens sooner — at a seventh of a second rather than a second — and closes exactly where a single decay struck twenty decibels softer closes, so at 80 dB it holds 8.8 beats instead of 11.8. The count now rises with the strike to 90 dB, and a tuner who strikes hard is right.
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.
The bell pattern is slowest only to a perfect memory
Among the orders of its own gaps, a named timeline is usually both the most even and the slowest to locate — for a listener who never forgets. Give the listener a memory that halves and the result comes apart. Of six timelines slowest among their orders with perfect memory, only the fume-fume stays slowest for every forgetting listener, and the standard bell pattern, which is the fume-fume with onsets and rests exchanged and settles at exactly the same floors, is second of its three orders for every memory of half its cycle or less. The census ranking survives better, and in fourteen of twenty-one censuses it was the arithmetic of a pattern that repeats.
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.
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 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.
The ghost bass drops a twelfth at a forte
Both crowds arrive at once and every member of both is a multiple of the same absent fundamental, so a listener is never given a choice between them — only a different subset of one harmonic series at every dynamic. Softly, the subset is an exact gapless series on three times the fundamental. Loudly, the difference tones fill in the low harmonics and no template on the higher note survives them. Between 62 and 72 decibels, depending on the interval, the note the crowd names falls by an octave or a twelfth, and the two qualities of third cross at different levels.
A count is not an estimate
Both established routes to a proportion are estimates — a duration timed, blurred by a Weber fraction, and a duration stored, biased by what was new. A listener who has induced a hypermetre has a third, and it is exact until it fails. It fails two ways that pull opposite: a slip miscounts one unit and its relative cost falls as the section lengthens, while a lapse loses the count entirely and its chance compounds. The mixture has a floor at about four units, where counting is 3.7 times finer than timing, and it is worth almost nothing past a hundred.
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.
A golden section is a coin toss with six coins
An analysis that reports a climax at 0.618 of a piece has not tested one prediction; it has looked at a piece with several defensible boundaries and reported whichever landed nearest. The rate at which that happens under no hypothesis is one line of arithmetic, and the tolerance it needs is not a number chosen on the page — it is the blur a listener's own timing puts on the judgement. Over a stretch of minutes that blur covers everything from 0.492 to 0.730 of the piece, which contains the halfway point, and six candidate boundaries produce a hit eighty per cent of the time.
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.
The quartet settles at two pitches, not four
The quartet's open strings have been treated as five fixed pitches on one chain, and they are not: the violin, the viola and the cello each tuned a G string by ear and the three are expected to sit two and a half cents apart. Giving each player their own strings, with their own scatter, and pulling each toward only their own, changes the ensemble's settled pitch by a hundredth of a cent. What it does change is systematic rather than random: a violin has an E string and no C, the lower instruments have a C and no E, so the quartet splits by section by a tenth of a cent in every key.
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.
The change reading follows the chords, not the bar
Every passage read until now changes chord exactly at the barline, which is the one harmonic rhythm at which 'the chords change here' and 'the bar starts here' are the same sentence. Pull them apart and the reading goes with the chords: at one chord a bar it stands 1.52 standard units above the other candidates and finds the barline half the time, at two chords a bar it stands 0.01 above them and is at chance, and at a chord every two bars its margin is exactly half — because half the barlines then carry no change at all.
Asked for the rate, it answers a multiple
A reading that follows the chord rate rather than the bar can be asked what the rate is, and the shape of its errors is the whole of why it looked like a barline detector. Given two chords a bar it returns the right period a third of the time and something slower two thirds; given a chord every two bars it is right nine times in ten. It errs slow and essentially never fast, because a change every four slots also falls on every eighth slot and a slower grid inherits a faster rate's evidence — which is the same asymmetry that makes a pitch detector report an octave too low.
The tempo moves a scale further than the touch
A gamelan is played two ways on the same bars: a saron's are damped as the next is struck and a gendèr's ring over their resonators. That decision moves a slendro's standing among random scales of its size by up to seventeen percentile points, which is real. Over the tempo levels a piece actually moves through it moves by fifty-four — from the twenty-ninth percentile at a fast elaboration to the eighty-third at a slow one. The same five pitches on the same bars are a smoother-than-average scale and a rougher-than-average one, and which depends on how fast they are played.
A sharper cue is worth nothing to a reading that moves
The rule that names the chord outright reads 92 per cent of scale degrees right where the published bass cue reads 68 — at the key cost these readings have always been run at. Sweep that cost and the advantage is not a property of the cue. Where a change of key is cheap the sharp rule reads 46 per cent and the vaguest rule 47, because a reading that will move key on one bar's evidence follows a sharp cue wherever it points. The cue's whole value is borrowed from the model's reluctance to be moved.
The error that moves straight ahead
The essay before this one found that a listener whose internal head is the wrong size makes no error at all on the median plane, and has to look hard to the side to catch it. Every head drawn here has its ears at equal radii, which makes the delay curve odd and every error a factor — and a factor cannot move a zero. Real heads are not symmetric. A constant offset of twenty microseconds displaces a listener's straight ahead by two and a quarter degrees, and it displaces every other direction by the same number of just-noticeable steps, exactly.
The two parameters turn out to have a ceiling between them
The essay before this one asked whether the bass cue's weight and the cost of changing key are one quantity with two names, and said the test was a contour: if they multiply, the curves of equal degree share are hyperbolae. They are not. Along the ninety per cent contour the product of the two runs from 2.7 to 15.2, because past a bass weight of about one and a half the reading saturates and more cue buys nothing. And the sweep finds something no single-parameter sweep here could: the key cost has a best value, and a reading that will never change key is worse than one that will.
A louder final chord is a deeper silence and a brighter sound
A final chord marked a step louder than the passage was supposed to stand above a listener's running impression for as long as it sounded, since the impression can climb no higher than the chord. It climbs exactly that high, and the stand closes in half a second as it always did. What a louder mark actually buys is depth — about seven phons, the same depth a second of silence buys — and a spectrum whose balance point sits most of a whole tone higher, which, unlike the stand, lasts for the whole chord.
Checkpoints sharpen the middle of a form, not its top
A listener who counts bars loses the count somewhere in a long section and is thrown back on timing the whole of it. A listener who also counts phrases can mend the lapse at the last phrase. If the two counts fail independently, the level a minute long goes from four distinguishable proportions to nineteen; the whole eight-minute piece goes only from two to four, because thirty phrases are long enough to lose a count as well. And if a fifth of lapses take both counts at once, three quarters of the gain is gone.
A firm touch buys beats until the aftersound sinks with it
A piano string decays twice, and a mistuned octave's countable beats were found to rise with how hard the note is struck — on the assumption that the aftersound always starts twenty decibels below the strike. It need not. The moment the count shuts is set by the level the aftersound starts at and nothing else, so a harder strike buys beats only if its aftersound does not sink with it. If the drop deepens by more than 0.85 decibels for each decibel of strike, the firm touch costs beats instead.
The arch belongs to hearing, not to the series
A chord delivers most of its partials in the middle of the compass and loses them in the bass and the treble, and every spectrum that showed that arch was built on whole multiples of a fundamental. Give the same amplitudes to a bell's eight modes and to a stiff string's stretched partials and the arch is still there, peaking within a major third of where the harmonic series peaks. What the spacing changes is the detail: a bell crowds its tierce and quint into a quarter of a critical band in the bass and loses them, and a stiff string's stretch buys the bass back.
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.
An expectation cannot rescue a cycle too slow to time
A listener who knows a piece arrives with an expectation of where in the cycle they are, and the size of that expectation was the number the last essay said nobody had. It can be given one: a listener who has been timing the cycle carries a spread of their Weber fraction times the cycle, which is the same number of steps at any tempo. Timed to ten per cent, a forty-second cycle would be placed better than a newcomer places a two-second one. But forty seconds is judged in the band where the Weber fraction is nearer forty per cent, and there the expectation is worth a tenth of a bit.
A bass chord low enough to balance has already hidden its tenor
Played as loud as the written register, a progression two octaves down is 343 times rougher than the same progression an octave up — if every partial on the page is counted. Count only the partials that stand above what the rest of the chord masks and that register is the smoothest of the four, with nothing left that beats. The balance is not what does it: the extra thirteen decibels move no voice by more than two partials. The register had already buried the tenor at the written dynamic.
A walking bass marks the bar by the note it is on
The reading that finds a barline from where the bass moves collapses to twenty per cent when the bass moves on every crotchet, and the bass the last essay called busiest moved twice a bar, because its beat was the half-bar. Given one that really walks, the same computation with sounds the chord's root in place of moves rises from nothing to a whole note a bar exactly as the other falls, and the two are equal at a bass moving on three crotchets in eight. Neither places a barline alone: the root is still sounding on the quaver after it. The metre, which cannot tell a barline from a half-bar, tells it from the quaver after it at once.
A texture in which nothing says where the bar begins
Two chords a bar over a bass that moves inside the chord is the one arrangement in which every witness this account has stands together at the metre's coin toss. The metre ties the barline with the half-bar, the chords change at both, and the bass states a root at both and walks between both — at every busyness, and whichever question the bass is asked. The only thing that breaks the symmetry is the voicing convention, and what it is worth falls from 98 per cent to 90 as the bass fills in, not because fewer changes can be held but because the motion around them is evidence for nothing. Chasing five points of residue above the toss found a defect that had been flattering the reading since it was written.
A bell's tierce does not arrive late, it leaves early
The essay before this one found a low bell's tierce masked at the strike and predicted it would emerge a second into the note, because the quint above it decays faster than the prime and tierce below. It does not emerge, and the reason is that the quint was never masking it: removing the quint moves the tierce's threshold by a fifth of a decibel and removing the prime moves it by three to five and a half. The tierce is masked from below, by two modes that outlive it under any law that falls with frequency — so a bell that has a tierce at the strike loses it within a few seconds, and a bell that has none never gains one. The minor third a carillon's bass is known for is a property of its attack.
The bridge is not a labelling problem
Seven of the key-finder's thirteen remaining misses are the thirty-two-bar song's bridge, and the essay before this one proposed that they might be an argument about labels rather than a failure: relabel the eight bars with the keys their dominants point at, and the reading's E and D majors might turn out to be right. They do not. The reading gets one bar of eight under either label, because four of the eight are read as the chord's own root taken for a tonic — a dominant seventh heard as a chord in its own right. And one of the bars the relabelling could have bought is unwinnable in principle: an applied dominant is the same four notes in the major and the minor of the key it points at.
Only a lapse of attention keeps a form's top vague
A listener who keeps a count at every level of a form — bars, phrases, periods, sections — each mending the one below when it lapses, does not have a vague top at all. The whole eight-minute piece becomes the sharpest level, at seventy-six distinguishable proportions against two. Failures shared between neighbouring counts barely dent it, because a shared failure has to climb every level to reach the top. What puts the vagueness back is a lapse that takes every count at once, and one lapse in a hundred of that kind is enough.
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.
No rest balances a louder chord held past a ninth of a second
A rest before a final chord leaves the passage quieter than the tutti and a louder mark on the chord leaves it louder, so the two together can leave it exactly where it was, while the chord stands out by both at once. They can — but only for a stamp. A chord a step louder and longer than 115 milliseconds lifts even a listener's fully fallen impression past the tutti, so no rest of any length balances it; two steps louder, the limit is 67 milliseconds, and three, 45. The balanced ending exists, and it is decided by the release, not by the rest.
The strokes between the gongs are a clock
An experienced listener arriving in a forty-second gong cycle was expected to be no better placed than a newcomer, because a whole cycle is timed in the band where a Weber fraction is near forty per cent. But nobody times a gong cycle as one interval. A listener who resets at the last gong, the last kempul and the last kenong times three short intervals instead of one long one, and arrives knowing their position to a tenth of a bit — better than a listener timing the whole cycle to ten per cent. A single timeline, whose strokes are all one instrument, offers nothing to reset on.
The best gong cycle halves at every level
A colotomic cycle is a clock whose layers are its hands, and a clock can be built many ways from the same number of strokes. Searched over every nesting of a sixteen-step cycle, the one that places a slow listener best is, at every budget of strokes, the one in which each layer is exactly twice as fast as the layer above it. A gong with one other layer does best at a ratio of four, and three halving layers with the same four strokes beat it by a factor of three and a half. A layer finer than the one whose interval is already timed to half a step adds almost nothing.
Looking ahead rescues the relative minor, not the bridge
A key-finding reading that scores each bar by its own notes cannot hear an applied dominant, whose meaning is in the bar after it. Given one cue about a pair of bars — a dominant earns credit when the next bar is rooted on its key's tonic — the thirty-two-bar song's bridge is read as the chain of dominants it is, each chord both the arrival of the last and the departure to the next. But the same cue hears a blues's opening tonic seventh as the dominant of its own IV, and at the setting that read the listing best it costs five bars for three. The cue earns its place only in a reading reluctant to change key, and there what it rescues is the rondo's episode in the relative minor.
A quiet bass is further off-centre than a loud violin
An ear whose threshold is a decibel worse than the other is a little later to report every sound, and the published brainstem latency law says how much later: a gap that halves every 43 decibels and grows toward the bass. Taken at full size, a one-decibel asymmetry would put straight ahead twelve degrees round at a moderate level — seven times what the ear's own two thresholds say a decibel is worth, so most of that latency cannot be reaching the comparator that reads direction. What survives any scaling is the shape. The displacement is not one number but a curve in level and in pitch, and it deforms an orchestra rather than moving it.
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 melody marks the barline by where it lingers
At two chords a bar over a walking bass, every harmonic witness stands at the metre's coin toss about where the bar begins. Give the passage a melody with a habit — long notes that prefer the downbeat — and the barline comes back: with a long note in half the bars and four in five of them on the downbeat, in 91 per cent of passages. The count of long notes barely matters; the preference is everything, and at even odds no number of long notes helps. A phrase end held through its bar is the strongest single cue. And a listener who adds the bass's readings to the melody's does worse than one who ignores the bass.
A second slot hears every modulation as a tonicization
A key-finder that names one key per bar reads a chain of applied dominants by moving the key with every chord. Give its state a second slot — the key a bar is in, and the key its dominant points at — and the thirty-two-bar song's bridge is read exactly as the scheme labels it, every bar, for the first time in these essays, and the blues's opening stays in its tonic. At every setting that does that, the rondo's two eight-bar episodes are heard as tonicizations inside C, and no setting of the three costs reads both. A modulation to a closely related key and a long tonicization are the same chords; what separates them is how long they last, and a cost for entering a state cannot count.
A syncopated melody needs its phrases to land
Put a melody whose long notes all fall on the half-bar over a harmony that changes once a bar and a walking bass, and a listener adding up the evidence hears the bar begin in the wrong place three times in four. The harmony knows where the bar is, but only through one witness: the bass's root votes for the barline in every passage, and the bass's motion never does — a walking bass lands on each new root by step, so it moves less at the barline than inside the bar. One syncopated voice ties the root, and the motion breaks the tie its way. What rescues the barline is not the harmony but the melody's own phrase ends: hold half of them from the downbeat and the reading finds the bar in 86 per cent of passages.
A modulation is a dominant that keeps coming back
A key-finder with a slot for an applied dominant read the thirty-two-bar song's bridge as its scheme labels it and heard the rondo's two episodes as tonicizations inside C, and no setting read both. The obvious repair — charge a tonicization by the bar, so a long one costs more than a short one — makes it worse: the reading gives up the bridge before it gives back a single episode, because the bridge spends six bars in applied chords and the episodes three and two. By the bar, the chain is the longest tonicization in the listing. What the episodes have and the bridge does not is a dominant that resolves to the same tonic again and again.
The second row of resonators keeps the neighbours out of the attack
A marimba bar reaches the mouth of the tube under the next bar at a fifth of what it puts on its own, and the next bar is tuned a semitone away. Solved as a row of coupled pairs, the neighbour's pitch speaks in every attack for about a beat and a half and is then handed to its own bar, which cannot radiate it. Laying the accidentals out in a second bank halves that for eight notes of the twelve, and leaves C, E, F and B exactly where they were.
A feel heard half the time gives the bell half its lead
Against one feel the standard bell pattern is the quickest order of its gaps to place; against both feels at once its lead is gone. An ensemble's texture is neither: each feel is heard some of the time. Given a listener who knows how often a pulse's strokes are lost, the lead comes back in proportion to the loss — half the strokes missing restores half of it, at every memory from a step and a half to a whole cycle. There is no threshold at either end, and a listener who treats every silence as proof comes out more certain and worse placed.
A bowed note is placed as if it were quieter
An ear a decibel or two worse than the other is later to report every sound, by an amount that grows as the sound gets quieter, and a listener takes a note's direction from its onset. A plucked or struck note reaches its dynamic before the onset is over and is placed almost where a steady tone would be. A bowed note is still near the threshold of hearing while its onset is being read, so it is placed as though it were 27 decibels quieter than it is. The prediction was that slow attacks would soften the displacement; they sharpen it, and an asymmetric listener's orchestra is deformed by its articulation as much as by its register.
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 return is cheaper to avoid than to pay for
The essay before this one found what separates a modulation from a tonicization: an episode's dominant keeps resolving to the same target, and the bridge's dominants never do. So the key-finder was given a memory of where its last dominant went, and charged for a return — the prediction being that one setting would at last hear the episodes as keys and the bridge as a chain. None does. Every return the charge is aimed at is avoided for less than a nat, by hearing a D7 as a minor chord or by moving the passage into another key, while the reading the charge was meant to force costs twelve.
In a hall the balanced ending is a louder chord
In a dry room a rest before a final stamp a step louder can leave a passage finishing exactly at its tutti's weight, but only for a stamp shorter than a ninth of a second. The prediction was that a hall would make it impossible: its tail fills the rest and lengthens the stamp. That is right for a small room and wrong for a hall. Read when the chord's tail has died, a live hall pulls every ending below its tutti, and the ending that finishes at its own weight there is a held chord marked louder than the passage — five phons louder at a second of reverberation, a whole step at about 1.3 seconds, two at 2.3.
The octave is counted best over a unison left two and a half cents wide
A firm touch buys a mistuned octave's beats only if the aftersound's drop does not deepen with the strike, and the drop was left as a number to be measured. It has a mechanism, and the mechanism has been known since the essay on three strings: the unison's two coupled modes. Computed from them, the drop does not depend on the strike at all. It depends on how wide the tuner left the unison — sixty-five decibels at a quarter of a cent, twenty at three — and the octave's beats peak, at 6.8, over the same two-and-a-half-cent unison that makes the longest note.
A bowed bass line is placed by its entrance; a violin line by every note
A listener whose ears differ slightly places a note by its onset, and a bowed entrance is placed as though it were far quieter than it is. A legato line's later notes do not start from silence. Whether one of them has an onset at all depends on how much of the note before is already in its own auditory filter — and in the bass, where the filters are wide and their lower skirts shallow, a step of a tone or less has none, so the note keeps the entrance's displacement. In the treble nearly every note has its own onset and is placed near its steady position, except where the line leaps down.
An elaboration is a clock hand where the skeleton has none
A colotomic cycle is a clock whose hands are its punctuating layers, and the finest hand a slow cycle can use runs out as the cycle slows. The elaborating parts that fill the cycle were predicted to supply that finer hand. They can, and a two-step figure recognised at every boundary is a kethuk exactly. But the figure that does most is not a fine one. It is a long one with a single recognisable point in the middle of the cycle, where no skeleton stroke falls: at eighty seconds a cycle it leaves a listener a fifth as uncertain as the skeleton alone, where a kethuk takes off a tenth — and it still does more than a kethuk when a listener catches that point one time in ten.
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.
A bowed bass line has an onset at every step, in its upper partials
A legato note's onset was read in the auditory filter at its fundamental, and in the bass a step of a tone or less left that filter nearly as full as before: no onset, and the note kept its entrance's displacement. A bowed note is not a fundamental. Read in every filter its partials reach, every step of a bowed bass line has an onset, first seen in the third to fifth partial, where a tone moves a partial right out of its filter. The line is re-placed at every note after all — and nearer the centre, because a partial's filter is at a frequency where the ears' latency difference is smaller. The bowed bass entrance itself is displaced a quarter less than its fundamental said.
Two landmarks in a cycle help only if they can be told apart
One recognisable point inside a slow gong cycle, placed where the skeleton has no stroke, did more for a listener than a whole layer of kethuk strokes. A second point does as much again, a third nearly as much again — provided the listener can tell which point they have just heard. If the points sound alike, a second one is worth a fraction of that, seventy of the hundred and five ways of placing it leave the listener worse off than one point would, and two alike points half a cycle apart undo most of what the first one gave. Whether the listener keeps one timer or several turns out not to matter at all.
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.
The scale's ii chord borrows the dominant's bass
Heard quietly, the pair D–F of a just C major scale brings the bass of the other D with it — B♭, the bass the 10 : 9 D implies — so the comma is resolved by the listener rather than by the players. Add the A that makes the pair a ii chord and that stops being true. The whole-object fit now hears the chord over G, as the top of a dominant ninth, and it does so because the template prefers simple harmonics to accurate ones; a different bass is heard in each inversion, and at a forte none at all. Only a ii built on the 10 : 9 D has one bass in every voicing and at every dynamic. Played quietly from a fixed scale, I–vi–ii–V–I is heard with the bass line C, F, G, G, C: the ii merged into the chord after it, and the progression home.
A bell's strike gives its tierce a millisecond
A low bell's tierce is masked from below by its prime and hum, so it is present at the strike or never — and the strike was the one moment the count treated as a steady state. Give the modes a rise as well as a fall and the prediction was that the tierce's margin would peak somewhere inside the first two hundred milliseconds. It peaks at the very first instant and falls from there, because the shadow a masker casts upward grows faster than the masker. On a C2 bell the tierce is above its threshold for less than a millisecond, and under the most generous rise anybody could propose for twenty-five: ten to thirty decibels too brief to be heard. What the onset visits for an instant, a softer stroke keeps for the whole note.
The habit worth bringing is to distrust the tune
A listener who arrives with a style's habits — the bass's motion and the melody's long notes credited at a coin toss — hears a syncopated tune against the bar from its first bar. But a listener does not know the style in advance. Give it two sets of habits, one for tunes that mark the bar and one for tunes that syncopate, and let it weigh them by how well each predicts what it hears: it does better than a listener with no habits and far worse than one who simply knows, and it becomes sure of the style in fewer than one passage in ten. The reason is that the evidence runs one way. A tune that marks the bar never testifies against the habit of distrusting tunes, so the habit that serves every style is the syncopating one, kept always.
A gamelan's beating names its goal only if each goal beats at its own rate
When a gamelan's elaborating parts reach a goal tone early, a pair of instruments tuned slightly apart beats on that degree for the strokes before the goal — a swell of shimmer just before each structural stroke, which is exactly where a recognisable event does a slow cycle's clock most good. Whether it does that good depends on whether one goal's swell can be told from another's. Tune every pair to the same beat rate, the practice that keeps a gamelan's shimmer even, and every swell is the same event: it buys a third of what it could. Tune every pair the same number of cents apart and each degree beats at its own rate, fifteen per cent faster than the degree below, and the swells start naming which goal is coming.
The bell pattern's order is for arriving
Against a feel that comes and goes, the standard bell pattern is the quickest order of its gaps to place, and the lead grows the less a listener knows about the drummer. Followed past the first cycle, the lead is gone, whether or not the listener ever learns how often strokes are lost. And when both feels thin, a different order keeps a listener placed better than the bell does, because its two short gaps make one figure where the bell's make two that look alike.
The plane of the blow matters only where the unison is clean
A piano string vibrates in two planes, and the one parallel to the soundboard gives even a single string a second, slower decay. A hammer tilted off the vertical feeds it. That was the last way left for a firm touch to cost a tuner beats: if harder blows came down straighter. They would have to straighten by half for every seven decibels, and even then only on a single string or a unison tuned clean. Over a unison left two and a half cents wide, no tilt of the blow reaches the count.
A late root is believed because the record is kept by the reading
The habit worth bringing to a tune turned out to be trusting the bass's root and doubting everything else. A bass that anticipates the next chord does not break that habit — the root is still tied across the barline, and it is the bass's motion that lies. A bass that puts the root at the half-bar does break it, and nothing a listener learns can repair it, because each witness is judged by whether it agrees with the reading, and the reading was made by the liar.
The leading note is already inside the chord that hides the key
A key-finder kept hearing a rondo's episodes as passages inside C, and the escape it used was to hear a D7 as a D minor chord, throwing away its F♯. Charge a chromatic note by how strongly it points at another key, and that escape closes. Nothing else moves, because every F♯ and G♯ in the episodes was already inside the chord the reading heard — as the third of V of V. The charge takes a chromatic note seriously everywhere except where it was needed, and in the blues it mistakes a flattened seventh for a leading note.
Two honest bars convict a lying root
A bass that states its root late defeats every listener who learns from agreement, because the reading forms before any honest witness speaks. Give the passage a drum on its first downbeats and the same record that ratified the liar convicts it — but only a listener holding a habit that doubts the root can act on the verdict. Two strokes are enough for that listener, for as long as the tune lasts. One is not, and no amount of drum is enough for a listener that credits the root and the drum alike.
A gamelan tuner can name the goals for nothing
A pair tuned so that each goal beats at its own rate lets the swells before a gamelan's structural strokes say which goal is coming, and the question left was what that costs in roughness. Held at the same average shimmer, nothing: a constant interval adds one per cent less roughness than an even beat rate, and a rate rising as the square of the pitch adds three per cent less while naming the goals for a far coarser ear. The even shimmer puts its widest pairs on the low degrees, where a cent of detuning costs most.
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.
A bell is never minor alone
A tuned bell carries two thirds: the tierce, a minor third above the prime, which is why a bell is called minor, and the deciem, a major third above the nominal. Run the masking count across every register and every stroke and the minor one is never delivered without the major one. Struck softly a bell delivers both; struck harder, only the major; and below C2 the tierce is never delivered at all. The deciem survives because it is masked by one mode barely louder than itself, the tierce by two that outweigh it.
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.
An honest drum has to come first
Two strokes of an honest drum at the very start of a passage protect a listener from a bass whose root arrives late in every bar. The same two strokes a bar later do nothing at all, and neither does a drum that then plays every downbeat to the end. A listener that keeps a record of its witnesses scores the late drum against the reading the root has already made, and convicts it within two bars. Every bar the lie is believed first multiplies the trust the drum would need, and by the seventh bar no trust short of certainty is enough.
A choir's vibratos must lock to two milliseconds
A vibrato hides a section's mistuning from a listener counting beats, and the obvious way it could stop hiding it is for the singers' vibratos to move together. They would have to move very nearly together. Half-entrained vibratos leave a section as hidden at the singer's formant as independent ones; locked to nine-tenths they expose three-quarters of what a straight section does; only past nineteen parts in twenty does the section's tuning show as if they sang straight. At six cycles a second that is two vibratos peaking within two milliseconds of each other — and the better a section is tuned, the tighter the lock has to be.
A gamelan's shimmer has to start again at every octave
Within one octave, a gamelan tuner who lets each pair's beat rate rise faster than its pitch names the goal tones and pays nothing in roughness for it. Carried across a real instrument's three octaves, the same rise breaks twice. The steepest rise that keeps every pair beating falls from a power of four to a power of one, and the roughness saving turns into a cost: a rise as the square of the pitch is seven per cent rougher than one rate everywhere. A tuning that gives each degree its middle-octave rate in every octave keeps both the clock and the saving at any compass. The beat rate then names the degree, not the pitch.
A bell can be made minor by the third nobody tunes
A low bell struck hard delivers its major third, the deciem, and loses its minor one, the tierce, to masking. A founder could flatten the deciem from a major to a minor third above the nominal, which puts it exactly an octave above the tierce. The masking count says that move costs the deciem only one or two decibels of stroke at the top of its window, so the flattened deciem still outlasts the tierce in every register. A bell tuned that way reads minor in every cell of register and stroke that delivers a third at all. In-between tunings read as neutral thirds, so the move only works if it goes all the way.
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.
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 break rescues a late drum only by ending the reading
A drum that enters after a late root has made the reading needs odds in the hundreds to undo it. Bring it in after a break in the texture, and the obvious guess is that the break helps by making the listener forget whom it trusted. It barely does. What rescues the drum is the listener forgetting what it heard: with the old reading gone, a drum on bar 9 needs odds of nine to one, and with the record gone too it needs less than the three to one it has always had. A break that leaves even a hundredth of the old reading behind rescues nothing at all.
The major-third bell has no mirror problem
A minor bell struck hard loses its tierce to masking and delivers its major deciem instead. Raise the tierce to a major third and the two thirds agree — but the raised tierce sits closer to the quint, and it was fair to fear that the quint would bury it as the prime buried the minor one. It does not. The prime is what masks a tierce, and moving away from it gains four to twelve decibels of stroke while the quint stays nine decibels too weak to matter. Tuned to agree, the major bell delivers its colour in 141 of 190 cells; the minor bell, made consistent, in 131.
Singers who hear each other late lock their vibratos in opposition
A choir's vibratos give back the section's tuning at the singers' formant only if they are locked to within about two milliseconds. Singers who lock do it by hearing each other, and they hear each other late. Two vibratos pulled towards what each hears of the other settle near in step while the delay is under about forty milliseconds, and even then come within two milliseconds only if each singer corrects a phase error in about thirty. From forty to a hundred and twenty milliseconds late — a third to two-thirds of a vibrato cycle — they lock in opposition, peaks seventy to ninety milliseconds apart, and hide the section's tuning more completely than vibratos that never locked at all.
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 degree's three swells are one landmark only if they agree
A gamelan's goal tone is struck in several octaves at once, so the swell of beating that warns of it is three swells. A tuning whose beat rate rises with pitch across the whole compass gives each octave its own rate, and a listener who hears a degree's swells as one event only when their rates agree finds that, at any useful rise, none of them do: every goal becomes a swell of no particular rate and the clock is left exactly where swells that all sound alike leave it. No rise can both name the goals and let their swells agree, since naming needs ten times the power agreeing allows. Repeating the middle octave's rates in every octave does both.
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.
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.
A silent break has to outlast the reading's lead
A listener waiting through a break goes on expecting downbeats at the reading it holds, and each one that fails to come can be charged against that reading. Charged at a witness's vote apiece, the silence ends the reading only after as many bars as the reading has votes in hand: three bars after two bars of tune, eight after four, twenty-one after eight. A one-bar break would need a missing downbeat to cost twenty votes. And a silence that does end the reading leaves the record standing, which convicts the drum anyway.
An announced plan pays the cycle and punishes the blocks
A slow introduction, a title or a programme note can tell a first-time listener the plan of a piece before the first lapse — and be wrong. Trusted as far as it deserves, an announcement gives back half of what being told the plan is worth to four cycled functions only once it is right nine times in ten. But how far to trust it depends on the piece: a cycle rewards believing even a coin-toss announcement completely, while functions in blocks of two are made worse by an announcement right half the time, and a confident wrong one can cost a listener forty points of the first minute.
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.
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.
Sixteen singers cannot all oppose each other
Two singers who hear each other a third of a vibrato cycle late lock their vibratos in opposition and hide their tuning better than if they had not listened at all. Sixteen cannot do it, because no arrangement puts every one of them opposite every other. At the latencies where a pair opposes, a section of sixteen does not lock at all: each singer keeps a vibrato rate of its own, and a listener hears the section's tuning exactly as through independent vibratos. Outside that band the section locks in step and gives most of its tuning back. A section that listens to itself can expose its tuning or leave it as it was, but never hide it.
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.
A fill cannot end a reading, but it can win the next one
A drum fill in the break before a late drum is a witness that speaks while the old reading still stands, so every stroke it plays is scored as disagreeing, and its credit falls to a coin toss within two or three strokes: at three to one it can cast 1.37 votes in all, against a lead of twenty by the middle of a tune. A fill cannot end a reading. But once a silence has ended it, the same fill sets the next one, and the record that convicted the drum through every length of silence starts convicting the bass instead: after twelve bars of silence before bar 5 the drum goes from 7 per cent of passages to all of them.
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 varied bell can be a landmark or a false start
In a thin texture the standard bell pattern keeps a listener placed five times worse than another order of its gaps, because its two short gaps look alike. A lead drummer's variation — one stroke moved, once every few cycles — was predicted to give the bell back what it loses. The best single displacement every other cycle recovers seventy per cent of the gap; every third cycle, a third; every sixth, a seventh. Every variation makes the bell slower to arrive by. And the displacements that turn the varied cycle into the bell begun somewhere else make keeping one's place three times worse, because they sound exactly like having lost it.
A cadence has to empty the reading, not weaken it
A drum fill after a long enough silence wins the next section for an honest drum, because it speaks into a reading that is empty. A cadence might do the silence's work in a bar. It does, but only on one condition: before bar 9, a cadence that removes ninety-eight per cent of the listener's conviction leaves a two-stroke fill winning one passage in a hundred, and one that removes all of it lets the fill win every one. The fill turns the reading either way. What the last sliver decides is whether the fill's first stroke is recorded as a disagreement — and that record is what the late root then uses to win the reading back.
A row that hears its neighbours moves its tuning, it does not hide it
Sixteen singers who all hear each other alike cannot lock in opposition, because opposition between every pair is impossible. A row that hears mainly its neighbours has no such obstacle — opposition along a chain is consistent — and at the latencies that make a pair oppose, it half-alternates: neighbours opposite each other, every second singer nearly in step. That hides the tuning between neighbours as well as a duet hides it, and exposes it between every second singer more than independent voices would. Over the whole row the two cancel to the hundredth. With no latency, the same local hearing stops the row locking at all, and hides nearly half of what a whole-row lock would show.
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.
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 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 gamelan's shimmer can slow to a fifth before its clock notices
Roughness falls steadily as every pair's beating is slowed by one factor, and the listener who times a goal's swell does not object until the shimmer is a fifth of the promised speed. The limit is not how many beats a swell holds — a ten-second step holds eight even there — but the once-a-second boundary below which a beat is waited out rather than counted, and it bites when the second-slowest goal degree crosses it. At the quick tempi where a swell could hold too few beats, the skeleton already carries the clock alone.
A cadence that votes must not vote as the drum
A cadence lands on a downbeat, so it could cast a vote for the barline at the moment it loosens the listener's grip. Whether that vote helps depends on whose it is taken to be. Heard as the tune's long note, it speaks with credit the tune spent long ago and is worth almost nothing. Heard as the drum, it is exactly one more stroke of fill, and is convicted as the fill's first stroke was. Heard as a witness of its own, it carries a third of a vote and no record to lose — and that moves the line from an emptied reading to a fiftieth of one.
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 newcomer learns a cycle's landmarks in four hearings
Two recognisable points in a slow gong cycle help a listener only if they can be told apart, and a newcomer at first cannot: two marks that differ only by where they fall in the cycle sound alike until the listener has heard enough cycles to notice. Timed from the gong, the best pair of points is learned by nine listeners in ten after about four cycles — the same four at any slow tempo, so ten minutes at 160 seconds a cycle. The pairs learned fastest sit right after the gong and are poor clocks once learned; for the first four cycles a newcomer is best served not by the best clock but by a pair whose confusion costs less while it lasts.
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 fast run is a crescendo nobody wrote
A wind note takes tens of milliseconds to build, and a fast run gives each note about sixty. The question sounds like whether a note can arrive at all, and the settling time makes it sound worse than it is, because a note cut off at nine tenths has lost under a decibel. What speed really costs is evenness: the settling time falls up the compass, so at sixteen notes a second a rising two-octave scale gains between two and four and a half decibels with no change in the player's breath. A repeated note, which keeps its resonance, loses only a quarter as much.
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.
A blown note parts by its register, not its family
A wind note's partials reach their steady levels at different rates, and one ranking of five instruments had the saxophone's parting soonest and the horn's latest. Run at every note rather than one, that ranking dissolves: it was read at pitches from 126 to 428 hertz, and pitch was doing most of the sorting. Moving up one instrument shifts the point of parting three times as far as changing instrument at one pitch, and read at half of steady level, all five come together within a fifth of each other, between about 290 and 440 hertz.
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 bell can mark a cycle without moving a stroke
A lead drummer's varied cycle helps a listener or misleads one, according to which stroke it moves, because a moved stroke can make the bell look as if it had started somewhere else. Give the varied cycle a different sound as well and the distinction goes. Heard nine times in ten and a misleading variation is no longer one; heard always, it no longer matters which stroke moved, or whether any did. A mark heard seven times in ten does almost nothing, and the arithmetic of that threshold is the same as a coin's.
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.
More marks are worse until they sound different
Two points in a slow gong cycle take a newcomer four hearings to tell apart, and the obvious way to shorten that is to make them sound unlike each other. For two marks it barely matters: the saving is a sixth, the first hearing is lost whatever they sound like, and the best pair stays the best pair. The surprise is what happens to more than two. Marks told apart by position alone are worse the more of them there are, for dozens of cycles. Past a very small difference of sound, four marks beat two inside the first four hearings.
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.