I’ve been reading bird-sound expert Donald
Kroodsma’s book, “The Singing Life of Birds”. In it he politely critiques the
idea, posed recently by some scientists, that tonality in birdsong suggests a
human musical sensibility. Many continue to claim that bird songs contain
elements common to western music, including notes from diatonic scales (doh ray
me…), major, minor, and diminished triad chords, and major, minor and perfect
intervals (frequency differences between two notes), etc. He doesn’t really provide a clear example to
pick apart, so it is hard to say whether he’s right or wrong; but his principal
argument is that the claimers are engaging in confirmation bias, i.e.
cherry-picking. It appears if you look at a sonogram, or graph charting the
different frequencies in a bird’s song, matches with traditional music notes
and scales are, in my words, co-inkeedinkal. What we might cite as a minor
third in a bird song is likely slightly out of tune, or a major exception to
most bird note intervals. I am kinda putting words in Dr. Kroodsma’s mouth. He
does point out that scientists fail to back up their claims with evidence from
sonograms, and instead designate fragments of particular bird songs (like that
of the Hermit
Thrush) as musical scale intervals, stating “that’s a fun exercise, but it remains important to realize that
one could do this with any series of notes and conclude that the intervals are
also found in our music.”
The apparent problem is that the fragments used in scaling these
bird songs are not simple stable notes, instead modulating or shifting pitch,
like someone trying for the first time to play a slide melody on a ukulele with
a full coffee cup.
This has been my general sense of things as well, although it seems
that if there is some kind of innate foundation for appreciation of musical
intervals in people, as would appear reasonable, it isn’t a stretch to suspect
birds have this too.
Kroodsma points out
that there are plenty other similarities between bird and human songs we can
hang our hat on, even if advanced tonal theory isn’t one. As with the ukulele
example, people modulate their tones all the time, trembling and skipping their
way from the notes on a written score, and if me, you can be perfectly happy
playing out of tune for a couple hours, missing that middle C note by some
prime number of vibrations per second. Unlike many people, birds can hold fast
to a tempo and rhythm for extended time.
Similarities Dr. Kroodsma
specifically gives include musical themes or motifs, accelerandos, ritardandos,
crescendos and diminuendos. Countless examples of musical themes are crucial in
allowing us to distinguish one species-specific sound from another. Themes are
constancies that help make a song a song, like repeated notes or phrases,
peculiar voicings (like the lilt of an Eastern Wood-pewee, the metallic nasal-ness of
a Blue Jay, and the insect-like trill
or tremolo of a Chipping Sparrow), preludes and flourishes (like
those of a Wood Thrush), or distinct admixtures of
these signatures. Think of leitmotifs, or different characters represented by
particular instruments, moods, or melodies in a classical symphony, like in Peter and the Wolf. The thrushes (Wood Thrush,
Hermit Thrush, American Robbin, Bluebirds, Common Blackbird, etc.) are a family of
birds that share an affinity for ethereal melody and a flute-like quality. They
demonstrate what a songbird can do, using their two voice-boxes (syrinxes) in
self-harmony and rapid alternation. A Black-capped Chickadee is an example of one who can transpose his
simple but distinct “Marco! Polo!” song, much like a musician picking a
different key for a favorite tune to suit a show.
Accelerandos and ritardandos
are the gradual speeding and decelerating of a musical pattern respectively.
The example of an accelerando Kroodsma provides is the song of a Field Sparrow, which, like most of the examples I’ve given, is a bird native to
the Eastern U.S. Yes, perhaps I harken too often to the land of hydrogenated
peanut butter. An accelerando is like a loose bouncing ball set to music. The Canyon Wren of the Southwestern States, on the other hand, does just the
opposite, like the musical celebration of fading drips from a faucet. It is
almost as though the orchestra Field Sparrow symphony conductor decided to send
his coloratura soprano into reverse, which rarely happens in human orchestras. Northern Cardinals, (mostly Eastern North
America and some islands) can do both ways or neither, depending on the exact
song he or she chooses (birds rarely heed their conductors).
Crescendos and diminuendos are gradual increases and decreases,
respectively, in volume over a musical movement. Both are quite common among
birds that can hold a song for a second or more. Not invoked by Kroodsma here are
musical articulations like glissandos and de-glissandos, referring to glides up
and down in frequency, much like a slide whistle or slide ukulele. Glissando can also refer to interconnecting ascending or
descending notes, like when you drag a finger over piano keys. This relates to
modulation mentioned above, though simple gradual glides from one note to
another can really jump out, like in the slurred pees and wees of the
aforementioned Eastern Wood-pewee. I think one could call the unsteady glide of
birds like the Canyon Wren ‘legato’ or ‘portamento’. One of the reasons I’m
even writing about this business is I’ve discovered a bird of Hanoi that
exemplifies a very pleasant aggregation of simple music qualities named the Plaintive Cuckoo. The male’s song bares no
direct reference to his name, unlike the clock-ready Common Cuckoo Species, now prepping to populate the northern reaches for the
toasty months. Nor does he register as plaintive in my mind, though perhaps
ever on the verge of cuckoo. His song is an example of accelerando, as well as
staccato, with brief glissando. He follows a gradually descending scale with
intervals smaller than typical Western musical tones.
Why all these birds speak
Italian I don’t know. On the other hand, duets are also quite common. In the
U.S., Carolina Wren males and females duet, as
do Northern Cardinals sometimes. This is more
common among tropical songbirds though, where females are more
likely to sing and defend a territory. Singing between males and females among
these species is thought to strengthen bonds and help birds track one another
in dense tropical foliage. The ability for a bird to duet with his or her mate
may keep him or her from being attacked as an intruder.
A most striking example of a
song for two however is the North American Barred owl’s courtship duet. Here the male and female
trade and weave all sorts of sounds in a most haunting cacophony: hoots,
caterwauls, cackling from the male, and hums and distinct vibrato from the
female.
I remember arriving with
friends at a campsite late in the night in the deep forest of the Washington Cascades
a few years ago. Not much human life had been stirring in the area for quite a
while, as the bolt on the gate that guarded the path was encrusted beyond
budging, and after this obstacle was a large fallen tree. As we took turns
taking a handsaw to this snag in the road, some of us carried camp supplies
from the car up to the site. It was pitch black as we set up tents, when we
heard a banshee duet above our head. It sounded like five of them.
“Now I know you suckers
think that’s the ghosts of grandparents come back to terrorize you like they
did in life” I said, “but those are actually two owls doing their courtship
duet.”
Such is the wonderous world
of bird music. There’s something special about getting the chance to hear such phenomena
in auditory solitude from the motoring multitudes. Not that I’m against urbania
or human sounds – I make plenty myself.
“Man’s desecration of his environment by noise is the most
pervasive and gratuitous of his many outrages against nature.” E. A. Armstrong.
1969.
