1. What Is Music?
From Pitch to Timbre

What is music? To many, "music" can only mean the great masters—Beethoven, Debussy, and Mozart. To others, "music" is Busta Rhymes, Dr. Dre, and Moby. To one of my saxophone teachers at Berklee College of Music—and to legions of "traditional jazz" aficionados—anything made before 1940 or after 1960 isn't really music at all. I had friends when I was a kid in the sixties who used to come over to my house to listen to the Monkees because their parents forbade them to listen to anything but classical music, and others whose parents would only let them listen to and sing religious hymns. When Bob Dylan dared to play an electric guitar at the Newport Folk Festival in 1965, people walked out and many of those who stayed, booed. The Catholic Church banned music that contained polyphony (more than one musical part playing at a time), fearing that it would cause people to doubt the unity of God. The church also banned the musical interval of an augmented fourth, the distance between C and F-sharp and also known as a tritone (the interval in Leonard Bernstein's West Side Story when Tony sings the name "Maria"). This interval was considered so dissonant that it must have been the work of Lucifer, and so the church named it Diabolus in musica. It was pitch that had the medieval church in an uproar. And it was timbre that got Dylan booed.

The music of avant-garde composers such as Francis Dhomont, Robert Normandeau, or Pierre Schaeffer stretches the bounds of what most of us think music is. Going beyond the use of melody and harmony, and even beyond the use of instruments, these composers use recordings of found objects in the world such as jackhammers, trains, and waterfalls. They edit the recordings, play with their pitch, and ultimately combine them into an organized collage of sound with the same type of emotional trajectory—the same tension and release—as traditional music. Composers in this tradition are like the painters who stepped outside of the boundaries of representational and realistic art—the cubists, the Dadaists, many of the modern painters from Picasso to Kandinsky to Mondrian.

What do the music of Bach, Depeche Mode, and John Cage fundamentally have in common? On the most basic level, what distinguishes Busta Rhymes's "What's It Gonna Be?!" or Beethoven's "Pathétique" Sonata from, say, the collection of sounds you'd hear standing in the middle of Times Square, or those you'd hear deep in a rainforest? As the composer Edgard Varèse famously defined it, "Music is organized sound."

This book drives at a neuropsychological perspective on how music affects our brains, our minds, our thoughts, and our spirit. But first, it is helpful to examine what music is made of. What are the fundamental building blocks of music? And how, when organized, do they give rise to music? The basic elements of any sound are loudness, pitch, contour, duration (or rhythm), tempo, timbre, spatial location, and reverberation. Our brains organize these fundamental perceptual attributes into higher-level concepts—just as a painter arranges lines into forms—and these include meter, harmony, and melody. When we listen to music, we are actually perceiving multiple attributes or "dimensions." Here is a brief summary of them.

~ A discrete musical sound is usually called a tone. The word note is also used, but scientists reserve that word to refer to something that is notated on a page or score of music. The two terms, tone and note, refer to the same entity in the abstract, where the word tone refers to what you hear, and the word note refers to what you see written on a musical score.

~ Pitch is a purely psychological construct, related both to the actual frequency of a particular tone and to its relative position in the musical scale. It provides the answer to the question "What note is that?" ("It's a C-sharp.") I'll define frequency and musical scale below.

~ Rhythm refers to the durations of a series of notes, and to the way that they group together into units. For example, in the "Alphabet Song" (the same as "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star") the notes of the song are all equal in duration for the letters A B C D E F G H I J K (with an equal duration pause, or rest, between G and H), and then the following four letters are sung with half the duration, or twice as fast per letter: L M N O (leading generations of schoolchildren to spend several early months believing that there was a letter in the English alphabet called ellemmenno).

~ Tempo refers to the overall speed or pace of the piece.

~ Contour describes the overall shape of a melody, taking into account only the pattern of "up" and "down" (whether a note goes up or down, not the amount by which it goes up or down).

~ Timbre is that which distinguishes one instrument from another—say, trumpet from piano—when both are playing the same written note. It is a kind of tonal color that is produced in part by overtones from the instrument's vibrations.

~ Loudness is a purely psychological construct that relates (nonlinearly and in poorly understood ways) to the physical amplitude of a tone.

~ Spatial location is where the sound is coming from.

~ Reverberation refers to the perception of how distant the source is from us in combination with how large a room or hall the music is in; often referred to as "echo" by laypeople, it is the quality that distinguishes the spaciousness of singing in a large concert hall from the sound of singing in your shower. It has an underappreciated role in communicating emotion and creating an overall pleasing sound.

These attributes are separable. Each can be varied without altering the others, allowing the scientific study of one at a time, which is why we can think of them as dimensions. The difference between music and a random or disordered set of sounds has to do with the way these fundamental attributes combine, and the relations that form between them. When these basic elements combine and form relationships with one another in a meaningful way, they give rise to higher-order concepts such as meter, key, melody, and harmony.

~ Meter is created by our brains by extracting information from rhythm and loudness cues, and refers to the way in which tones are grouped with one another across time. A waltz meter organizes tones into groups of three, a march into groups of two or four.

~ Key has to do with a hierarchy of importance that exists between tones in a musical piece; this hierarchy does not exist in-the-world, it exists only in our minds, as a function of our experiences with a musical style and musical idioms, and mental schemas that all of us develop for understanding music.

~ Melody is the main theme of a musical piece, the part you sing along with, the succession of tones that are most salient in your mind. The notion of melody is different across genres. In rock music, there is typically a melody for the verses and a melody for the chorus, and verses are distinguished by a change in lyrics and sometimes by a change in instrumentation. In classical music, the melody is a starting point for the composer to create variations on that theme, which may be used throughout the entire piece in different forms.

~ Harmony has to do with relationships between the pitches of different tones, and with tonal contexts that these pitches set up that ultimately lead to expectations for what will come next in a musical piece—expectations that a skillful composer can either meet or violate for artistic and expressive purposes. Harmony can mean simply a parallel melody to the primary one (as when two singers harmonize) or it can refer to a chord progression—the clusters of notes that form a context and background on which the melody rests.

The idea of primitive elements combining to create art, and of the importance of relationships between elements, also exists in visual art and dance. The fundamental elements of visual perception include color (which can be decomposed into the three dimensions of hue, saturation, and lightness), brightness, location, texture, and shape. But a painting is more than these—it is not just a line here and another there, or a spot of red in one part of the picture and a patch of blue in another. What makes a set of lines and colors into art is the relationship between this line and that one; the way one color or form echoes another in a different part of the canvas. Those dabs of paint and lines become art when form and flow (the way in which your eye is drawn across the canvas) are created out of lower-level perceptual elements. When they combine harmoniously they ultimately give rise to perspective, foreground and background, emotion, and other aesthetic attributes. Similarly, dance is not just a raging sea of unrelated bodily movements; the relationship of those movements to one another is what creates integrity and integrality, a coherence and cohesion that the higher levels of our brain process. And as in visual art, music plays on not just what notes are sounded, but which ones are not. Miles Davis famously described his improvisational technique as parallel to the way that Picasso described his use of a canvas: The most critical aspect of the work, both artists said, was not the objects themselves, but the space between objects. In Miles's case, he described the most important part of his solos as the empty space between notes, the "air" that he placed between one note and the next. Knowing precisely when to hit the next note, and allowing the listener time to anticipate it, is a hallmark of Davis's genius. This is particularly apparent in his album Kind of Blue.

To nonmusicians, terms such as diatonic, cadence, or even key and pitch can throw up an unnecessary barrier. Musicians and critics sometimes appear to live behind a veil of technical terms that can sound pretentious. How many times have you read a concert review in the newspaper and found you have no idea what the reviewer is saying? "Her sustained appoggiatura was flawed by an inability to complete the roulade." Or, "I can't believe they modulated to C-sharp minor! How ridiculous!" What we really want to know is whether the music was performed in a way that moved the audience. Whether the singer seemed to inhabit the character she was singing about. You might want the reviewer to compare tonight's performance to that of a previous night or a different ensemble. We're usually interested in the music, not the technical devices that were used. We wouldn't stand for it if a restaurant reviewer started to speculate about the precise temperature at which the chef introduced the lemon juice in a hollandaise sauce, or if a film critic talked about the aperture of the lens that the cinematographer used; we shouldn't stand for it in music either.

Copyright © 2006 by Daniel J. Levitin