I Found a... Scale

Back in September 2018 I posted the "I Found a... Pipe" blogpost - an attempt to initiate a series of found object accounts; exploring the dynamics of curiosity, the chance encounters, the chains of association, the pratfalls and prat-uplifts that may accompany such discoveries.  One of the persistent themes of this blog is the idea that electronic-equivalents of soundmaking processes can be found for free in the physical world - an ideal driven by poverty and its resultant anti-capitalism, and accompanying scepticism towards commercial electronic hardware flavours-of-the-months.  Whereas the pipe of 2018 had limited soundmaking value, this new blogpost examines the musical scales obtainable from multi-holed hollow flints, found during pandemic walkabouts.

The current situation places bin-diving off-limits, so instead, I've been traipsing around fields.  The flint-rich geology of the locale boasts rocks with hollow cavities - channels left by decayed ancient sea sponges.  These hollow flints are difficult to spot, as their holes are usually clogged with mud.  After some cleaning with water and bell-wire, the cavities can be cleared, creating almost ocarina-like 'instruments'.  So far, a number of different flints have been found with interlinked channels, each offering unique microtonal musical scales.

These stones, each with their own in-built set of pitches formed 500 million years ago, are good grist for the arbitrary tuning mill.  Why is arbitrary tuning important?  I consider it a topic all-too-frequently dismissed.  For those who enjoy the divergent aspects of differently-tuned music, or wish to escape the ubiquity of the equal tempered musical scale, it may be surprising that microtonal/xenharmonic music offers very little refuge - it is here that just intonation and "pure" harmonic mathematical dogmatism supplants one tyranny with another.  I exaggerate here a bit, but it's fair to say that random/arbitrary musical scales are generally viewed as unsophisticated in microtonal music circles.

A few years ago I tried to establish a historical basis for 'intuitively selected tuning systems' in my Radionics Radio project (on Sub Rosa records), but drawing upon a fringe science - no matter how artistically groundbreaking those acoustic-radionic activities were in the late 1940s - didn't convince many (radionics involves 'psychically' selecting frequencies that correspond to thoughts).  Random tunings offer complete freedom, and reveal the idiosyncrasies of the instruments used, as well as the identities of soundmakers.  I would go as far to politicise it: arbitrary tuning is perhaps the ultimate musical 'decolonisation' whilst also being a practical and philosophical ideal for microtonal music's LGBTQ+ lineage that embraces such varied personalities as Kathleen Schlesinger, Elsie Hamilton, to Harry Partch and Wendy Carlos - a lineage rarely-discussed, but deeply rooted, I believe, in the opposition to the norms of western equal temperament (and the contra-norms of just intonation and equal divisions of the octave).

The hollow flint... containing a scale.

Hollow flints found in fields speak of the primacy of arbitrary tunings: random, fully individuated tunings literally set in stone.  My favourite is a handheld flint with five channels.  Unlike the specially-lipped ocarina, hollow flints cannot produce pure tones when blown into, unless a sharp 'labium tip' is expertly chiselled into it somehow (a feature of all fipple flutes).  This isn't necessarily a problem - for instance, sound artist Akio Suzuki has been playing upon unrefined natural stones for decades, eliciting exploratory pitched noise: half-tonal, half-percussive, and sensitively done.  Covering the holes on the flint while blowing does produce vague pitches, but too broad to measure precisely.

Kathleen Schlesinger, in her 1939 deep-study of ancient greek auloi (reeded wind instruments dug up from historical sites) and their possible scales remarked that "it is impossible to determine the pitch, scale, or modality of any pipe that lacks a mouthpiece which will play it".  These rocks are not instruments, and it is indeed tricky treating them as such: even if a fipple mouthpiece (from a wind recorder, for instance) is introduced to the rock (which I did), the pitch of the notes varies due to its player's breath pressure: the more open holes there are, the more breath pressure is required to produce a tone - and the natural reflex action is to supply more breath pressure, an action so unconscious that it almost feels as if the rock becomes an extension of the body.  Try it yourself.

It is possible to connect a small lapel microphone to a loudspeaker amplifier, and place the microphone inside the flint to hear feedback.  The feedback pitch is relative to the cavity, and alters according to the fingering of the cavities.  I did a brief experiment with this on camera, and posted it to Facebook to advertise the upcoming episode of Wavelength on Resonance FM where I describe these experiments.

On the internet, there's always either a miserable don't-know-who, or a know-it-all nonsenseclown poised to blurt.  If they're remotely connected to creative doings, it tends to spur on the mission to legitimise arbitrary scales.  On this occasion, one such character (I can't discern which) emerged from the woodwork to advertise their obliviousness to these experiments' contexts: "eh, this is like sticking a piezo transducer in anything. Ok; weird, somewhat regulated noise. 'Man farting in field' has been Lucier'd to death."

Alfred Graham's feedback flute, 1894.

Maybe this person is rightfully irate to some extent: the volume required to obtain the pitches of the flint cavity is horrendous on the ear.  To record it, one rainy afternoon I walked to the field where the flint originated, specifically to avoid remonstrations.  Alvin Lucier used compressors to limit the volume of his object-based feedback.  This feedback technique actually pre-dates Lucier's work by eight decades - the feedback flute was proposed by Alfred Graham, patented in 1894 - a failed history I've excavated and written about in 'Magnetic Music...' and 'Failed Histories of Electronic Music', and recreated as a working model.  Graham recognised the many variables affecting the flute's pitch, such as battery power, the shape and construct of the loudspeaker and microphone, and their relative positions.  Nevertheless, the feedback flint, if held stable enough, is a fairly accurate approximation of the pitch intervals obtainable.  By comparing the feedback-generated intervals with the intervals obtained with an attached fipple, and also with the vague windy tones created when blowing, mean averages can be obtained.

With the lowest note registering as 669Hz, the ratios are calculable as 1/1, 737/669, 775/669, 263/223, 269/223 and 828/669 (giving an ascending 167.590, 254.628, 285.622, 324.674, 369.149 in cents).

What can be done with these notes?  Well, the scale of this handheld flint encompasses less than four semitones (3.69, to be exact), which is a restrictive set of notes, but frequent exposure to the notes acclimatises the ear to soundmaking/melodic possibilities.  This is something noted by the composer Susan Alexjander who derived scales from DNA bases.  DNA bases' tunings might as well be arbitrary, such is the inharmonic chaos - they seemed "so strange and alien that one at first despairs of ever creating a beautiful work of art, or making any coherent 'sense' out of them", according to Alexjander.  By constant exposure to the new scales "played over and over on the synthesiser, some arrestingly beautiful combinations began to appear"...  so when dealing with such disorientating scales, perseverance is key!

More can be heard on Wavelength, broadcast on Resonance 104.4FM on 19th June 2020. "A programme of multiple agendas presented by William English. This week: a tape sync with Oscillatorial Binnage member Daniel Wilson who, prevented from bin-diving during the Covid-19 epidemic, instead turns to "ground-diving" to dig out unusual stones from the earth. The potential for producing 'rock music' is showcased after a lengthy preliminary chat with William on the current state of the second-hand book trade."

I Found a... Pipe

I thought it worthwhile to start some episodic blogposts in a series titled "I Found a...".  Finding objects (and adapting them) is an enduring mainstay of 'miraculous agitations', post-electronic music, Oscillatorial Binnage performances, etc.  Losing objects is also a longstanding interest too, viz. the impish practice of randomly leaving cassettes or CD-Rs of jarring music in public.  Here however, the basic act of discovering objects and beholding the onrush of associations will be examined, without any necessarily musical/sonic objectives in mind.  This is the first episode...

On the morning of the 25th September 2018 I was walking to the train station.  I tripped on something lying half-exposed on a gravel footpath leading to the station, sending me careering into a bench.  At the time, blogging about this was the last thing on my mind; I thanked the heavens that nobody was around to witness my freakish pratfall - embarrassing as it was.

The ground-embedded object that triggered this physical disarray (mercifully not causing any injury) demanded closer inspection.  It looked like a lump of natural iron ore, or possibly even a piece of valuable metal meteorite.  Nobody was around, so I kicked and prodded it until it loosened.  With a key, I was able to prise it from the footpath like a very low-rent and fiddly Excalibur.  Closer inspection revealed a seam at one end, indicating manmade origin, and it was interesting to see this iron pipe-like artefact - whatever it once was - half-way to becoming mineral again.  The exposed side was worn smooth (from years of people walking - or tripping - over it), whereas the underside had small stones or crystalline growths on its surface.  Both ends of it were solidly blocked with earth, making it quite heavy.

Whilst carrying it towards the station, its dirtying effect upon the hands became evident.  I was reluctant to discard it, as I enjoyed its half-manmade / half-mineral aspect, so I went into the station shop (which had a patisserie section) and asked for a tissue serviette.  The cashier said I'd have to buy some food first.  Inwardly I felt aggrieved, as this was known to be a somewhat bigoted means of denying destitutes access to serviettes, which, to the homeless, are essential for daily alluvials.  I lied and said, "I bought this chocolate bun earlier and forgot to take a serviette," then momentarily held up the rusty pipe above the counter.  The timing of this psychological dodge was crucial: if I'd held up the pipe in the wrong hand, or for a nanosecond too long, the cashier would've immediately recognised that it certainly wasn't a chocolate bun.  I was almost poised to sheepishly confess the truth: that I'd found something rusty and dearly wanted something to wrap it in.  Luckily the magic of suggestion worked wonders, and I obtained not one, but three serviettes without a hitch.  After arriving in London I wrapped it in a free Metro newspaper for good measure.

Far left / far right: Close ups showing both ends of the mysterious pipe

During the day I began to feel concerned about the pipe, mindful of unexploded World War II munitions, nuclear waste, and of the recent Salisbury incident with the found perfume bottle containing nerve agent.  The power of suggestion - which worked so marvellously with the earlier "chocolate bun" serviette request - was now working against me, as I seemed to feel slightly ill, so I resolved to carry my bag as far from my body as possible.  Maybe it's irresponsible to carry an unknown object in public?

Later, I went to the British Library.  They operate a bag check policy, and for a perilous moment it seemed that the mystery metal pipe might need to be explained.  I wouldn't be able to explain it.  The attendant prodded the newspaper+serviette swaddling but didn't comment upon it thankfully.

After eating I forgot about the pipe and felt more buoyant.  In the afternoon I met with a friend - who is something of an art connoisseur - at his apartment.  Remembering the pipe during a lull in conversation, it seemed logical to tell him the full story of the pipe.  He happened to have a plumber working on his premises, and he warned "don't tell any of this to the plumber, he'll think you're insane".  Of course I had no intention to.  I jokingly appealed my friend's dealerly expertise to put a valuation on the pipe, to which he punchlined without hesitation "two-hundred pounds".  Writing this now, this doesn't seem such an utterly absurd figure as it did at the time... (kind reader, feel free to make an offer).

The next day I re-examined the pipe and scraped its innards with an old screwdriver to discover its contents.  At one point it felt like it might contain coins - a flat silvery obstruction suggested it might be a tube full of antique sixpences, but it was just a stone.  Eventually the interior was cleaned of grit and mud to reveal a clear channel through it.

Some of the other larger stones inside were charcoal or coal, indicating its possible origin as steam-train paraphernalia, which would make sense given that it was found near the station (which has been in operation since the 1840s).

After taking some photos, I reasoned that having expended all this time and thought upon this object I might as well make a blogpost about it, or even a series of posts about found objects which might make semi-demi-entertaining reading for people as winter approaches.  In one final attempt to derive some meaningful use from this pipe, I blew into it at various angles to try to elicit tones from it.  With a hand covering one end, bamboo-flute style, it did produce a wispy tone, but I suddenly recoiled, remembering the fate of the scholar in M. R. James' 1904 ghost story 'Oh, Whistle, and I'll Come to you, My Lad' who finds a "metal tube about four inches long, and evidently of some considerable age" and clears it of earth (in same way I did), and obtains a note from it, heralding spooky experiences...   In the story, the protagonist has all his entrenched preconceptions about reality and its certainties upended as a result.  And... on second thoughts, maybe this isn't so bad?  And maybe this is what we essentially desire from found objects anyway?  The pipe is now in a drawer for possible future use.