Tag Archives: high school

The Physics of Music

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More years ago than I care to count, I took my one and only high school physics class. I was overwhelmed.

In fairness, so was the poor teacher. He spoke with an accent, and his most oft-uttered plea was, “Please-a! You have-a to pay attention-a!”

Needless to say, most of us did not. Unlike many of my peers, I was never a prime disruptor of high school classes, most of which I enjoyed, but I was definitely one of those not paying much attention in physics class.

As I recall, we all passed the course. But I’m sure some of us, myself included, were awarded a passing grade by that teacher only to ensure he would not have to face us again in the following semester.

In the threescore-and-five years since then, I have learned—first to my chagrin, eventually to my delight—that it is the laws of physics that govern the universe we inhabit, and everything in it. Alas, I really should have paid more attention.

The physics of music is one example. One of my favourite pastimes while writing, reading, driving—pretty much anything—is listening to music. I enjoy big band arrangements, ‘40s swing, ‘50s rock ‘n’ roll, ragtime and stride piano, to name a few genres. But my preferred music from quite a young age has been the classical repertoire—opera overtures, ballet scores, symphonies, sonatas, piano concertos, and the like. When engaged in passive pursuits today, I am rarely without airpods stuck in my ears.

This fondness for the classical catalogue was ingrained early by my father, who would join me and my younger brother to listen to radio broadcasts in our bedroom as we were falling asleep. On occasion, Dad was asleep before we were, but that didn’t spoil our enjoyment. His favourite piece was the Prelude to Act III of Lohengrin, by Richard Wagner, which opened the weekly broadcast of the Toronto Symphony Orchestra.

My brother’s favourite was Pictures at an Exhibition by Modest Mussorgsky, while I delighted to the stirring, operatic overtures by Giacomo Rossini. To this day, I relish listening to their rollicking sounds.

So, imagine my surprise when I recently discovered in an online podcast that sounds, of whatever type, regardless of origin, make no noise. Sound, I learned, is silent. In space, in our earthly atmosphere, everywhere.

Everywhere, that is, except in our brains. And that is where physics enters the picture, confounding me yet again.

Without our brains, I’m now led to believe, we would hear not even the loudest sound. Mind you, without brains we would be conscious of nothing, so that does make sense. But until recently, I never realized that the very best music ever composed by Mozart, Joplin, Count Basie, Dylan, Kristofferson, Cohen, and all the others makes no noise whatsoever until perceived by our brains. The fact is, nothing in the universe makes a noise until it is registered by our brains.

Forgive me if you have long known this, but sound, rather than being noisy, is a series of silent waves, produced when the source of that sound—a violin perhaps, or a jackhammer—vibrates, pushing against the surrounding air and creating areas of high and low pressure.

The length of these sound waves varies, of course, producing different frequencies, pitches, volumes, and amplitudes. Physics naif that I am, I had to look up the meaning of those terms. The length of a wavelength determines the distance between successive waves, some of which are compressed, others expanded, resulting in higher and lower pitches.

But according to the podcast, none of these make any noise at all until they reach our ears. And even then, they are silent until they’ve passed through the ear’s component parts—the tympanic membrane, the ossicles, and the cochlea. It is only when the vibrations picked up by the ears are transmitted to the brain via the cochlear nerve that we actually hear them.

Mind you, soundwaves travel quickly—343 metres/second through the air—but soundlessly until picked up by the brain. To my young self, though, lying cozy in my bed with Dad beside me, that concept was never imagined. The sound of the music seemed instantaneously audible from our tinny radio speaker.

How, you might ask, could I have believed that? Well, if that long-ago, frustrated physics teacher ever presented this information in my high school class, it totally eluded me. I always thought the lovely, musical sounds I appreciate originated with the instrument or voice producing them, or with the device that recorded and transmitted them.

I can scarcely imagine that the magnificent, baritone voice of the late Dmitri Hvorostovsky, for instance, standing on stage as he sings the comedic largo al factotum from Rossini’s The Barber of Seville, is utterly devoid of sound for whatever interval of time it takes to reach my ears in the back row of the uppermost balcony.

I wonder if Simon and Garfunkel ever contemplated that notion when singing The Sounds of Silence. Probably not.

On the other hand, the elderly Beethoven, almost totally deaf, would have heard his magnificent ninth Symphony only in his brain.

Anyway, music is but one example of how the laws of physics govern everything in the known universe. And the amazing thing is that those laws change over time, as new discoveries are made. No single law is immutable, but collectively they are supreme.

Now, someone with a fuller grasp of physics than I might well cry Poppycock! at my naïve understanding, might well scoff at my puerile grasp. And, truth be told, if presented with proof my newly-formed perception is incorrect, I would happily recant. The very idea that sound makes no noise anywhere in the universe except in the brain still confounds me.

Despite the podcast, the infantile part of my brain clings to the idea that the sounds of music spring gloriously forth everywhere at the very moment they are formed at source.

To have this belief restored, I confess, would be music to my ears!

A Graduation

Our grandson, David, one of five grandchildren we are blessed to have—the only boy among four girls, his two sisters and two cousins—has graduated high school.  Because of the pandemic currently assailing the world, he, like so many others, was deprived of the formal commencement he would otherwise have enjoyed.

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And so—undeterred by the Covid-constraints, but mindful of the necessary precautions—fifteen of us gathered recently for a by-invitation-only, less-formal ceremony to honour his achievement.  Three generations of family attended—four grandparents, two parents, two pairs of aunts and uncles, and his sisters and cousins.

Oh, and one rambunctious dog!

For Nana and me, he is the second of our grandchildren to graduate, his older cousin having done so last year.  But for his paternal grandparents, he is the first.  It was a joyous celebration, properly socially-distanced, held outdoors on the grounds of their expansive home on a glorious, sunlit afternoon.  The dress was summer-casual, no caps and gowns to be seen, but the sense of occasion was as high as it would have been in the most somber, traditional commencement exercise.

Our families have always prized education and lifelong learning, a value that has, to our immense satisfaction, been assimilated by the youngest among us.

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Almost everyone took the opportunity to address the graduate, commending him for his achievement.  But it was I who was granted the honour of delivering the more formal remarks, a task I gladly embraced.  Given the relaxed setting, I wanted to find a suitable mix of lightness and seriousness, of witticism and import, something that might be enjoyed at the time and remembered long after.

And of course, I did not want to ramble on too long, knowing that once the dog lost interest, so, too, might the rest of my audience.

 I began by welcoming the graduate to an exclusive club—

If we trace a straight line to you from Granddad and Grandma, from Nana and me, through your parents, you are the seventh member to join this exclusive club of high school graduates.

There are other high school grads here today, of course, but none of them runs down that same line of succession as you.  There are no secret handshakes for this club, no secret passwords, no class ring; but there is one mandatory ritual to which you must adhere, now that you are a member—namely, whenever one of the older members wants a hug, you must stand and deliver.

A few chuckles greeted this opening, along with a smile and nod from our grandson.  Hugs have always been popular in our extended family.

After describing and commending him for his scholastic achievements, graduating with high honours, I spoke about his parents—

I want to mention two people who have reason to be prouder than any of us today—your Dad and your Mum.  You’re drawing from a pretty amazing genetic pool, as I’m sure you know, and you are blessed to have them as parents.  

If I had a magic wand, and if I could wave it over all the children in the world, my wish would be that every one of them could have a father like your Dad and a mother like your Mum.

I dared not look at either of them at this point, for fear of choking up myself, and I managed to continue—

Long before Granddad, Grandma, Nana, and I were grandparents, we were parents.  And so, we have a pretty good understanding of how your Dad and Mum feel about you because we have had the same feelings for our own children.  For as long as your parents live, you will be their pride and joy because, just as you are blessed, so, too, are you a blessing to them—and to all of us in your extended family.

I went on to spend a few moments talking about that extended family, because I believe it is important for this young man to appreciate his heritage—

David, you bear a very proud name—Whittington.  And you carry in equal measure the names of three other proud families—Wigglesworth, Eaton, Burt.  You are the sole, male iteration of these four families going forward.  For the rest of your life, you will carry all of us within you.

Another reason for including that was to recognize the contributions made by all four families to the person he has become.  His four grandparents do not delude ourselves into believing we deserve the credit; that goes rightly to his parents and to the young man himself.  But the nurturing of extended family does count for something, after all.

I concluded my remarks by telling the graduate what we, his family members, expect of him as he steps into the next phase of his life—

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With that in mind, I have two thoughts to leave you with, and I hope I can speak for all four families.  First, we expect you—we expect you—to conduct yourself always with honour—honouring our families, honouring your parents and your sisters, and honouring yourself. 

To paraphrase the poet, Gibran, we do not seek to make you like us, for life goes not backward, nor tarries with yesterday. But if past is prologue, we are confident you will forever justify our faith in you.

Fusce honorem omnium!  Choose honour above all!

By this time, my eyes were more than moist and my throat was closing up with emotion, but I managed to choke out my final words—

Second, perhaps most importantly, we want you to know this, to remember this—wherever you go, whatever paths you choose to follow, whatever you do with your life, if ever there comes a time when you need help or support:  All of us, w’ve got your back. We’ve got your back!

We love you, David!  Congratulations!

A ripple of applause and an echoing chorus of congratulations washed over us as we touched elbows—no hug, unfortunately, during this pandemic period.  The noise woke the dog—who, apparently, had been less-than-inspired by my address—and his rollicking antics quickly dissolved the formality of the moment into the shambolic ambiance that is more typical of our family gatherings.

And he got all the hugs!

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It has been almost sixty years since my own high school graduation, and I confess I have no memory of the commencement ceremony I must have attended.  But I harbour the hope that our grandson will long remember his, not for my speech, but for the love his family has for him, the love that brought us all together to honour him.

Carpe diem!