Time is a circle
Rhythm is a circle, and the bar line is a choice
Draw a rhythm as a line and it looks like a sequence of decisions. Draw it as a cycle and the same pattern turns out to be shared across continents, differing only in where somebody decided to start counting.
As evenly as possible, which turns out to be a famous rhythm
Ask an algorithm to space five strikes over eight beats as evenly as it can. It produces the cinquillo. Ask for three over eight and it produces the tresillo. Nobody told it about Cuba.
Two clocks at once, and where they agree
Three against two repeats every six subdivisions and feels like a figure. Seven against five repeats every thirty-five and feels like weather. The difference is one number.
Swing is a ratio, and it is not two to one
Swung quavers are notated as a triplet figure, which is a ratio of two to one. Measurements of what drummers actually play give anything from three and a half to one down to one to one, and which of those it is depends almost entirely on the tempo.
Beats of unequal length
A bar of nine in Balkan practice is not nine of anything. It is four beats, three short and one long, and the inequality is at the beat level rather than inside it — which is a thing no single division of a bar can produce.
A rhythm fast enough to be a chord
Three against two is a polyrhythm. Speed the same pattern up until the events arrive faster than about twenty a second and it is a perfect fifth. The ratio never changed, the figure never changed, and the only thing that moved is the rate — which makes rhythm and pitch one continuum with a perceptual boundary across the middle of it.
The beat is inferred, and sometimes wrongly
A bar line is not in the sound. One sequence of onsets supports a reading in four, in three and in six, and which one a listener settles on comes from a small set of preference rules rather than from anything in the signal — which is why the same recording can be heard two ways and why nobody can be talked out of either.
The beat has a preferred rate, and it is not the notation's
Metre is a hierarchy of levels and only one of them is tapped. Which one is decided by the listener's own clock rather than by the time signature: the window in which a series of events can be a beat at all runs from about a tenth of a second to two seconds, with a marked preference near half a second — so at the extremes of tempo the notated beat and the felt one part company, predictably.
How often the chord changes
Two pieces can use the same chords in the same order and be nothing alike, because a progression says which chords and not how fast. Harmonic rhythm is the second variable, it runs over a factor of thirty between the styles that use it, and both of its limits are set by things that are not harmony — a listener's memory at the slow end and a building at the fast one.
A cycle cannot cadence
Every component of closure is defined by a first time and a last time. Music built on a repeating cycle has neither, so the whole apparatus returns zero on it — not a small value, zero, at every setting. What such music uses instead is how many things are playing, and that is a curve which can be computed from the onsets and nothing else.
A process that enumerates its own form
Take a twelve-step pattern, play it against itself, and move one copy along by one step at a time. The piece is over when the copy returns to where it started, so its length is twelve — arithmetic, not a decision. What is heard at each stage is the union of the two parts, and nobody composed any of it.
The same algorithm made a Cuban rhythm
Ask Bjorklund's algorithm for seven onsets in twelve steps and it returns 101101011010, which read as pitch classes is the natural minor scale. That function has been producing the tresillo and the cinquillo here from the beginning, and nobody has said that the scale field's central object comes out of it unchanged.
How long until it comes back
A self-similarity matrix has a second reading that nobody looks for. Add up each diagonal instead of walking along one, and out falls repetition as a function of how long ago — a period, in bars, with no segmentation, no kernel width and no bar numbers anywhere in the answer. Five of the six schemes here report the length a listener would have named. The sixth reports something better.
The third pattern nobody played
Two players play two even pulses and a third rhythm arrives that neither of them played. It has a + b − 1 onsets, its gaps read the same forwards and backwards, and it uses exactly min(a, b) different lengths — which is a better account of why 3:2 is a figure and 7:5 is weather than the number used for the last three essays.
Which of the two is the beat
A polyrhythm is notated as a bar of two with three laid across it. Run the metre rules used here over the composite and they choose the three — at every ratio tried, without exception. Add the one other rule the rules have, and the answer changes hands at a bar of 1,013 milliseconds, which is 118 to the minute.
The bell is not a polyrhythm
Five earlier essays have set one pattern against another. In the practice the word cross-rhythm was borrowed from, there is one pattern and it is played against the beat — against several beats at once. Counted against the four divisions of a twelve-cycle, the Ewe bell marks half of the two, two-thirds of the three, half of the four and half of the six, and all of none of them.
The right period at the wrong phase
Finding the beat is two problems, not one. How far apart the beats are, and where the first one is. This site's rule set answers the first confidently on a tresillo and returns a three-way tie on the second — the same score for the downbeat on step one, step four and step seven — which is not a near miss but no answer at all.
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 rotation the necklace cannot see
Ask Bjorklund's algorithm for the world's timelines and the usual answer is that it produces them. Search every rotation of each Euclidean pattern for a match and the answer is more interesting: the tresillo is E(3,8) exactly, the bossa-nova and the standard bell pattern are rotations of theirs, and the son and rumba claves — the two best-known timelines in the world — are not Euclidean at any rotation whatever. Where the match does hold it holds up to a starting position, and a starting position is the one thing a timeline is.
Which notes are the chord
A progression is a list of chords, and before there is a list something has to decide which of the notes sounding are chord tones and which are passing. Take the eight notes of a scale as eight quavers and score every triad and seventh at every root: barred as written the best reading is C major seventh, with the barline moved by one quaver it is D minor seventh, and with no metre at all three readings tie exactly and the passage has no best analysis. Same eight notes in all three. Harmonic analysis is a function of a variable that is not harmony.
The time signature is a claim
A bar line is not a measurement. It is a claim about where the accents are, made before the sound exists, and there is a metre-induction model here that can be handed the same onsets and asked whether it agrees. On a hemiola it does not: the page says three and the model says six, by a margin of twelve against minus four. And on a bar of seven the signature is not even a candidate — what decides the reading is the beaming, which the signature does not contain.
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.
How unequal a beat is allowed to be
A Balkan bar of nine is four beats, three short and one long, and the long one is always three subdivisions against two. Never four against two, never five against three. The usual explanation is that this is what the tradition does; there is a better one and it needs no perceptual measurement at all. A group of four subdivisions decomposes into two twos and a group of five into a two and a three, so neither is a beat — it is two. The only indivisible lengths are two and three, which fixes the ratio at three to two before anybody listens, and leaves the tempo window to decide only how fast the bar can go.
What the clave buys with its unevenness
The essay before this one found that the two best-known timelines in the world are not Euclidean at any rotation, and asked whether they maximise something else. They do: how quickly a fragment of the cycle says where in the cycle it is. The son clave locates itself in nine of its sixteen steps where the even pattern needs fifteen — and of two hundred and seventy-three patterns, twenty-two are on the frontier between the two objectives and the son clave is one of them.
The 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.
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 cycle that says where it is
Euclidean timelines were asked how quickly they tell a listener where in the cycle they are, and answered it with rotational asymmetry: a symmetric pattern never locates at all. A colotomic cycle answers the same question with nothing asymmetric in it. Several isochronous layers at nested periods — a gong every sixteen, a kempul every eight, a kenong every four — put the position in which instruments sound, and the position is legible from a single stroke.
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 frontier and the ruler
A Pareto frontier is a claim about two quantities and only one of them was measured. The locating cost is exact; the unevenness it was traded against was one choice among several. Under four different rulers the son clave stays on the frontier and the frontier shrinks from twenty-two of 273 patterns to seven, so its membership means more rather than less — but the bembe stops being dominated, the two claves stop being equally uneven, and one plausible measure destroys the result entirely.
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.
Where the chord actually lands
Every timing surprise so far is evaluated on a downbeat: the curve spans a factor of 6.7 and every number is read at its peak. Charge the waiting as well as the arrival and the costs over a bar become a proper distribution, the spread between the best and worst beat rises to a factor of 19.5, and a third of the probability sits on a bar in which nothing changes at all.
The longest silence is not a third axis
The frontier between evenness and locatability was drawn twice and both times against two quantities, with the third job a timeline does left uncomputed. Computed, neither candidate for it is a third quantity: the longest silence ranks the whole census with the spread of the gaps at 0.94, and syncopation is not a property of a cycle at all — every one of the 273 patterns changes its count when the bar line moves. What the request was actually asking for is a cap rather than an axis, and under the tightest one the census admits thirteen patterns and every named timeline is among them.
The other censuses keep evenness, not locating
Five onsets in sixteen suggested two rules: a named timeline's longest gap is the shortest its census allows, and its syncopation totalled over every rotation is the largest. Nine of ten named timelines across five censuses meet both — but so does the evenly spaced pattern, in all twenty-one censuses from two onsets in eight to eight in sixteen, and in four of those five censuses the named timeline is the evenly spaced pattern. What the rules describe is evenness. The quantity the frontier was built on points the other way: the evenly spaced pattern is the slowest of its census to locate in nineteen of twenty-one, the standard bell pattern is the slowest of all sixty-six patterns of seven in twelve, and among the orders of its own gaps a named timeline is usually both the most even and the slowest to locate. The son clave, whose most even order is also the fastest, is the exception the locating story was told about.
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.
Repetition buys least where it is needed most
Every locating figure so far is a listener arriving — the uncertainty averaged over the first cycle heard. Cyclic music comes round dozens of times, and the same model already carries the answer for a listener who has settled: a floor of uncertainty that nothing had read. At two seconds a cycle the repetitions close the whole gap. At sixty they close eight per cent for a single timeline and twelve for a layered code. A slow cycle is worse on the first hearing and gains less from the second, and the two disadvantages compound.
A 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.
Against a pulse the bell pattern is the easiest to place
Heard alone, the standard bell pattern is not the quickest order of its own gaps to place in its cycle, for a listener with any memory. Heard against a pulse every three steps or every four — which is how anyone hears it — it is the quickest, at every memory and at every alignment of pulse and bell, and by a wide margin: at a memory of a quarter of the cycle, 0.56 bits unplaced over the first cycle against 0.73 for either rival against a pulse in threes. Six of eight named timelines do the same. A timeline's order of gaps looks chosen for how it sits against the beat, not for how it sounds alone.
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.
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.
Against both feels, the bell pattern's order stops mattering
Against a pulse in threes, or a pulse in fours, the standard bell pattern is placed a sixth or a tenth of a bit sooner than either other order of its own gaps. A twelve-step cycle in the ensembles that play it is heard against both feels at once, and the two pulses together are a position code of their own: they coincide once a cycle and place a listener within three steps. Heard against both, the three orders are within a seventieth of a bit of one another and the bell's lead is gone — the advantage its order was shaped for lives only where one feel is dropped.
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 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 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.
Two bars of drum hold the barline; a dozen bars of bass do not
A listener who settles where the bar begins and then holds it hears a syncopated tune against the bar only if the ground before it built enough confidence to spend. Read bar by bar, a walking bass under one chord a bar is worth less than half a vote a bar for the barline, and a syncopated bar takes an eighth of a vote back, so a tune needs about twelve bars of that ground to be heard against the bar nine times in ten. A drum on the downbeat makes each bar of ground worth a vote and a half, and two bars are then enough — but only for a listener who can bank more than four votes of confidence.
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 listener who weights its witnesses needs eight bars of bass, not twelve
A syncopated tune over a walking bass needed about twelve bars of ground before a listener with a memory heard it against the bar nine times in ten, with every witness given one vote a bar. Let the listener weight each witness by how often it has agreed with the reading it holds and the root earns a second vote, the bass's motion loses half of one, and the syncopation loses almost all of its. Eight bars are then enough, a tune that syncopates every bar becomes hearable against the bar at all, and reading the syncopation backwards buys nothing that ignoring it does not.
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 listener who knows the style needs no introduction
A listener who weights each witness to the barline by its record needed eight bars of walking bass before a syncopated tune was heard against the bar nine times in ten, and with no introduction at all it learned the syncopation's lesson instead. Finer records — one for each side a witness takes, one for each section — change nothing. What changes everything is arriving with the style's habits: a listener who already gives the bass's motion and the melody's long notes no vote hears the tune against the bar 93 per cent of the time from its first bar, and 94 per cent for a tune that syncopates every bar. The root need not be trusted more. The others need to be trusted less.
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.
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.
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 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.
In a loud room the accent has to be loud
A late dancer who hears the crowd as noise ignores everything played under it. Real noise is not that thorough. It hides the soft strokes and lets the loud ones through, and an accented downbeat is a loud one. Let the noise pass loud strokes and some soft ones, and marking the downbeat is worth more to the dancer than in a quiet room: with half the time under noise, 29 points of recognition against 23. Noise that swallows the accent halves its worth. In a quiet room no amount of loudness bought an accent anything extra; in a loud one, loudness is the whole of what the accent is for.
In a crowd the downbeat belongs to the drum
In a loud room a marked downbeat is worth more to a late dancer than in a quiet one, so long as the mark gets through. Whether it does depends on where its sound lies, because talk is not loud everywhere: it is loudest from 250 to 400 hertz, exactly where a melody's notes are, and fifteen decibels quieter at the bottom of a drum. A louder melody note is heard half the time through talk ten decibels over the band; a low drum survives a crowd twelve decibels louder than that. With the talk fifteen decibels over the band, a downbeat marked in the melody is worth two-fifths less to the dancer than one marked by the drum.
A 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 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 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 goal tone that returns should swell only once
When two of a gamelan cycle's four goal strokes land on the same degree, their swells of beating sound alike, and a listener who hears one cannot tell which goal is coming. Across all 625 ways five degrees can fill four goals, 365 are served better by an elaboration that anticipates fewer goals than four. The repeated pair costs most at slow cycles, can cost more than every swell is worth at moderate ones, and is spared only when its first swell comes straight after the gong.
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.
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.