"Binde – Call and To" for Alto Flute: Reading a Score That Thinks Like a Foundry

 

"Binde – Call and To": Reading a Score That Thinks Like a Foundry

The first impression: this is not a score, it's a drawing of a casting

Open the page and the eye doesn't find a staff. It finds a foundry drawing. One of  sprues, vents, a parting line, a locating key, a long tubular cavity running the width of the page. The header confirms the intent rather than hiding it: "Sustained Tone / Negative Mould Cavity / For One Pitch Band."   I am presenting, in the driest possible technical language, that a held tone is being treated as an object to be cast in metal, not a note to be read off a stave.

This is the governing idea of Binde – Call and To, and everything else on the page...those ratio ladders, the cent deviations, the exponential timeline, the pseudo-taxonomic labels radiate outward from that single conceit: sound as a poured, cooled, and vented material.

For a performer used to five lines and a clef, that's disorienting on purpose. My score asks you to stop reading pitches and start reading a process: how a tone is introduced (sprue), how pressure escapes as it fills (vents), where two pours meet and risk a flaw (the interference region), and where the mould finally releases the object (the parting line). The alto flute, in this reading, isn't playing melody... it's acting as the crucible.

The harmonic ladder: just intonation as architecture, not ornament

Center-top, a bracketed staircase of ratios climbs from the simplest interval to the most complex:

3:2 → 5:4 → 7:5 → 11:7 → 13:8 → 17:8 → 17:10 → 23:12 →
29:15 → 31:16 → 37:20 → 41:24 → 43:22 → 47:24 → 53:28 → 59:30

Each rung is a just-intonation interval built from a higher prime than the last.  This is a Stern-Brocot-like tree of rational tunings, not a scale in the tempered sense. The numbering to the left of each bracket (1, 5, 6, 8, 9, 13, 14, 17, 18, 19...) doesn't track scale degrees; it tracks prime limit.  How far up the harmonic series you have to reach to justify that particular ratio. It's the same lineage of thinking found in Harry Partch's 43-tone just-intonation gamut, Ben Johnston's extended just-intonation string quartets, and the Helmholtz-Ellis notation used by Marc Sabat and Wolfgang von Schweinitz ... all of whom needed a way to notate pitches that standard accidentals can't express.

That lineage explains the strange fanning diagrams in the top corners: two mirrored bursts of flats and sharps radiating from a single point, each stamped with its own micro-fraction (13/1.7/5 on the left, a denser mirrored fan on the right). These aren't key signatures in the traditional sense, however they're spectral fans, harmonics of a fundamental laid out as a bouquet of accidentals, the way spectralist composers (Grisey, Murail, and later Haas) notate the overtone series when it needs to be played rather than merely implied. Here the fan sits at both extremes of the piece, framing it: the work opens and closes inside a harmonic field, not a key.

The two isolated fractions, that of 13/56 on the left and 29/128 on the right,  sit like coordinates rather than time signatures. Read against the ratio ladder above them, they mark where in the harmonic lattice the two long lens-shaped tones underneath them are drawn from: the 13th and 29th rungs of the climb, at denominators of 56 and 128. In performance terms, these are the two most harmonically remote sustained tones in the piece.  These are the ones that will require the most careful lipping and breath-pressure control to locate and hold.

The four lenses: tones as optical events

Running through the piece are four dark, vertically elongated lens or vesica shapes.  They present as almond forms shaded from black at the core to pale at the edges, like an eye, or like two overlapping circles' zone of intersection. They sit directly above the casting-cavity diagram at four points along the horizontal timeline, and a large, faint oval traces the entire page, containing everything else inside it as if the whole score is itself one enormous lens.

Read together with the ratio-ladder and the fraction markers, these lenses are best understood as pitch bands rendered as depth-of-field.  The shading gradient standing in for the tone's stability. Dense black at the center: a pure, locked pitch. Pale, feathering edges: the tone drifting, destabilizing, opening into beating. This is a visual vocabulary borrowed less from music notation than from optics and lens-grinding diagrams.  It is appropriate, since the piece is already speaking in the language of another craft (foundry work) to describe sound. The player is being shown, quite literally, how "in focus" each sustained tone should be at its core versus its decay.

The black ring near the right-hand lens signals a torus, an eye seen head-on and reads as the piece's single moment of pure resonance: a tone with no directional drift at all, a closed loop rather than an elongated band. It's the calmest object on the page, and its placement just before the final sprue and locating key suggests it functions as the work's still point before release.

The mould itself: sprues, vents, and the interference region

The long horizontal cavity is the spine of the piece, and its foundry vocabulary maps cleanly onto breath and tone production:

• Sprue A / Sprue B — the two points where molten metal (breath, tone) enters the mould. These sit at the absolute start and end of the piece: the first attack and the final release.
• Locating Key (appearing at both ends) — the mechanism that ensures the two halves of a mould align correctly. Structurally, this is the piece's rhyme: whatever gesture opens the work should be recognizable, if inverted, at its close.
• Parting Line — the seam where the two halves of the mould separate once the metal cools. In performance terms, this is the fingering/embouchure "seam". It becomes the point of maximum instability, where a shift in air support could visibly (audibly) crack the tone.
• Vents 1, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 11 — small outlets that let trapped air/gas escape as the metal fills the cavity, preventing a flawed casting. The absence of Vent 2 and Vent 10 from the labeled sequence is almost certainly deliberate: two silent, ungoverned moments where nothing bleeds off.  These are points of maximum internal pressure. These are strong candidates for the piece's two most exposed, breath-strained passages.
• The Interference Region — the single most important annotation on the page: "Pitch bands overlap. This band: +14.2¢. Neighbour: −11.7¢. (Attack may occur before it begins.)" This is the score's plainest instruction, and its most radical one. Two tones.  One pulled 14.2 cents sharp, the other 11.7 cents flat.  Theses are meant to beat against each other, and the performer is warned that the next attack may need to begin before the written interference has finished resolving. It's an instruction about overlap and impatience: don't wait for silence or stability before moving on.

The four small glyphs strung along the ticks beneath the cavity are tuning-fork-like marks paired with accidentals and small directional arrows.  They function as micro-cues: local reminders, at specific timepoints, of which direction to bend a pitch (the arrow) and by how much (the fraction beneath it). They're the score's closest approach to conventional performance directions, scattered sparsely rather than continuously, which keeps the player oriented without overriding the ear.

Time that grows like a shell: the golden-ratio timeline

Beneath the cavity runs a timeline from Datum 0.0 to 2,377.9, in units the score never names (most plausibly milliseconds, though a performer could just as reasonably read them as a proportional map of an 8-second span, since the final box states the whole structure resolves against "Event Duration of 8.000 seconds.")

The intervals aren't linear. From roughly the fourth marker onward, each value is close to 1.287–1.289 times the one before it.  It is a steady exponential growth rate, distinct from but reminiscent of the golden ratio proportioning found in Bartók's and Nancarrow's rhythmic structures, and of Xenakis's architectural approach to musical time (unsurprising, given Xenakis trained as an architect and thought about sound the way this score thinks about casting). The practical effect for a performer: events are packed close together at the start and spread increasingly far apart as the piece proceeds. The piece opens dense and closes dilated. Whatever happens in the first second happens many times faster than whatever happens in the last.

The four triangular fans at the very bottom of the page, growing from sparse lines to dense cross-hatching and back to sparse again, visualize this directly.  They are density maps of event-frequency across the timeline, confirming that the piece has a real accelerando/decelerando shape underneath its static, technical-drawing surface.

The closing tally of "Stack Total: ± 58.4 cents against event duration of 8.000 seconds" reads as the piece's summary statistic: across the whole eight-second unit the drawing represents, the cumulative pitch drift the performer is asked to carry (and resolve) totals just under 60 cents, a little over half a semitone. It's a small number for a page this dense and a reminder that Binde is a piece of fine tolerances, not large gestures.

The specimen labels: what "Vespa novedecimus" and "Apus undecimus" are doing here

Flanking the mould at each Sprue are two boxed labels, styled like museum specimen tags:

• Left: Vespa novedecimus — "nineteen-wasp" — 19/80, catalog 0295
• Right: Apus undecimus — "eleven-swift" — L.P./M.C., catalog 0292

These are invented Latin binomials, but they're not decorative Latin, they're coded. Novedecimus (nineteen) and undecimus (eleven) point straight back to the harmonic ladder: 19-limit and 11-limit just intonation, the two outer edges of the tuning system the ratio-tree climbs through. A wasp and a swift (one earthbound and stinging, one aerial and fast) stand in as characters for the two harmonic "species" that anchor either end of the piece, the way a naturalist's chart pairs an image with a name and a catalog number. It's a small but telling gesture: the piece wants its abstractions (11-limit, 19-limit) to also be creatures, with a body, a behavior, and a number in a ledger.  19/80 and 0295 on one side, an unresolved fraction, "L.P./M.C.," and 0292 on the other. Whether L.P./M.C. is read as a pressing/edition mark or as a tempo direction (lento poco / molto cantabile), it deliberately leaves the right-hand creature less fully catalogued than the left and swifter, harder to pin down, true to its name.

The title: Binde – Call and To

Binde is the German first-person verb "I bind." or, as a noun, a tie, a bandage, a ligature. Paired with the fractured English "Call and To" (very likely a deliberately severed "call and response," with the answering half withheld or left as pure direction.  A "to," a vector without a destination), the title mirrors the score's own logic: everything here is a binding-together of two things that don't quite resolve into each other.  Think two pitch bands that beat rather than merge, two mould-halves joined at a parting line that will eventually split them apart again, a call sent out with its response deliberately incomplete. The title isn't decoration; it's the same interference-region logic the score notates in cents, translated into two languages that don't finish each other's sentences.

Influences, in brief

Binde doesn't sit inside any single tradition, but it's legible against several:

• Harry Partch / Ben Johnston / Marc Sabat & Wolfgang von Schweinitz: For the extended-just-intonation ratio ladder and the HEJI-style fanned accidentals.
• Alvin Lucier: For treating audible beating between two close, deliberately mistuned frequencies as the actual subject of the piece, not an error to be corrected.
• Éliane Radigue: For the patience of the "sustained tone" framing, and the idea that a single held pitch can be a whole compositional world if you listen closely enough to its interior drift.
• Iannis Xenakis: For the architectural, almost engineering-schematic approach to time and material, and the exponential (rather than metric) handling of the timeline.
• Gérard Grisey / Tristan Murail (spectralism): For treating the harmonic series itself, rendered as a literal spectrum/fan, as compositional material.
• Industrial and technical draftsmanship more broadly (sand-casting and mould-making diagrams, specifically) as the score's actual notational language, borrowed wholesale rather than referenced in passing.

None of these are quotations; Binde doesn't sound like any of them individually. It's closer to a piece that took the diagrams several of these traditions produce as supporting material and made the diagram itself the score.

A performer's guide

For a flautist approaching Binde – Call and To on alto flute, a few practical anchors:

1. Treat the ratio ladder as your tuning reference before you touch the cavity diagram. Locate 13/56 and 29/128 on the ladder first (rungs 13 and 29).  These will be the two hardest tones in the piece to place by ear alone, and they're worth finding on a tuner or drone before rehearsal.
2. Read the four lens shapes as focus, not volume. A dense black center asks for a tone with almost no vibrato and rock-steady air support; the pale, feathering edges are an invitation to let pitch and timbre soften and drift.  Don't fight the decay into instability, lean into it.
3. The interference region is the emotional center of the piece, not a technical footnote. +14.2¢ against −11.7¢ is roughly a 26-cent gap It is audible, deliberate beating, not tuning error. Don't correct it. And take the instruction "attack may occur before it begins" literally: the next gesture is permitted, even expected, to overlap the unresolved beating rather than wait for it to settle.
4. Pace by the exponential timeline, not a metronome. Events compress hard in the first third of the eight-second unit and stretch out dramatically by the close. If you're using the timeline as a literal proportional map, expect the opening to feel almost rushed and the ending to feel suspended, spacious, nearly stalled. That asymmetry is structural, not a performance choice to smooth over.
5. Vents 2 and 10 are the pressure points. Because every other vent is marked and these two are conspicuously silent, treat the passages around them as the places where breath control is most exposed.  There is no scheduled release, so the player has to find their own.
6. Let the specimen labels inform character, not just tuning. The 19-limit "wasp" material (left/Sprue A) can be played with more grounded, articulated weight; the 11-limit "swift" material (right/Sprue B) invites more air, more velocity, less definition at the edges.

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Binde – Call and To asks a flautist to stop thinking of the alto flute as a melodic instrument for the duration of the piece, and to think of it instead as the thing pouring metal into a mould requiring patient, precise, alert to where the pressure needs to escape, and willing to let two close, unequal pitches sit in the same space without ever quite becoming one.

The New Compositional Lexicon: "Dectrition"

 

Dectrition (noun): The intentional process of eroding traditional musical notation through the integration of alternative visual, physical, and conceptual elements, resulting in the gradual degradation of conventional compositional systems. Dectrition in contemporary music compositions refers to the deliberate breakdown of standard notation, using methods such as iconography, sculpture, typography, film, and physical materials like combustion or oil, to create an abstracted framework where sound is interpreted through an evolving, non-linear, and multidimensional medium. This practice embodies the erosion of rigid musical structures in favor of fluid, subjective, and tactile engagement, pushing the boundaries of how music is both composed and performed.

Who Is The Score Talking To?

WHO IS THE SCORE TALKING TO?

Every score is written in the second person, and almost none of them say who they mean.

Open any page of notation and you will find imperatives. Play this. Hold that. Louder here. Wait. The grammar is unmistakably addressed. Something is being told to somebody. But the addressee is almost never named, and the moment you start looking for who is standing on the receiving end of all those instructions, the page turns out to be far stranger and more crowded than it first appeared.

There are at least five candidates. They want different things, they read the same marks differently, and most scores are talking to several of them at once without acknowledging it. That unacknowledged crowd is where a surprising amount of the trouble in this repertoire actually lives.

THE PERFORMER

The obvious answer, and the one everyone gives.

But notice how quickly it fails to hold. Consider a marking like a metric modulation equation, boxed and set above the system, showing that the previous sixteenth now equals the new triplet eighth. A performer does not use that. What a performer uses is the resulting pulse, arrived at through some combination of counting, feeling, and a conductor's arm. The equation is not an instruction to a body. It is a proof of consistency, addressed to whoever wants to check that the composer did the arithmetic.

The same is true of a great deal of what appears on a complex page. Nested tuplet brackets past a certain depth are not operative instructions in any practical sense. Cent deviations to two decimal places are not playable distinctions. They are true, but they are not being said to the person holding the instrument.

So the performer is one addressee among several, and often not the one being served by the specific mark you are looking at. The honest question about any notation on the page is not what does it mean. It is who needed this.

THE CONDUCTOR

An entirely different reader with an entirely different job, and much of what looks like performer instruction is actually conductor instruction.

The conductor reads vertically and structurally. They need to know what aligns with what, where the convergence points are, which line is load-bearing at any moment, and where the ensemble is most likely to come apart. Much of the apparatus of a complex score, the alignment of systems, the visual spacing, the placement of cues, is designed for that vertical reading and is of almost no use to the player of a single line.

This produces a genuine conflict that engraving practice quietly manages. What makes a score legible to the conductor often makes a part harder to read, and what makes a part comfortable often destroys the score's vertical logic. The existence of separate scores and parts is not a convenience. It is an admission that these are two different documents addressed to two different readers, and we have simply agreed to call them the same piece.

THE EDITOR

The reader nobody wants to admit is there.

An enormous quantity of notation exists to preempt editorial questions. Courtesy accidentals. Cautionary naturals. Redundant clarifications of things a competent musician would have inferred. None of that is for the performer, who mostly does not need it and occasionally finds it patronizing. It is defensive writing, aimed at whoever might later have to prepare, correct, or defend the text.

There is a second, larger category. The composer's own hedge. Markings that exist so that if something goes wrong, the score can be shown to have specified it. A metronome marking with a tolerance. A technique defined in a footnote that no player will read mid-performance. An ossia offered without conviction. These are not instructions. They are evidence, filed in advance, addressed to a future dispute about whether the piece was done correctly.

Once you see this category you see it everywhere, and it explains a good deal of otherwise puzzling density. Some of what looks like rigor is liability management.

THE FUTURE SCHOLAR

The addressee almost nobody will admit to, and the one whose influence on the page is most obvious once named.

There are marks in this repertoire that no performer will ever execute, no conductor will ever read, and no editor requires, and yet they are there, engraved to the same standard as everything else. Complete parametric specification of a gesture too fast to be parametrically controlled. Ratio numerals at the ninth level of nesting. Rhythmic notation that resolves at a temporal grain finer than human perception.

These marks are addressed to the record. They exist so that the piece can be analyzed, so that the system can be demonstrated to be consistent, so that a future reader can reconstruct the logic that produced the surface. That is a real and legitimate purpose. Documentation matters. But it is worth being clear that a mark serving that purpose is not talking to anyone in the room. It is talking past all of them, to somebody who will arrive later with a pencil and no instrument.

And the future scholar is a very safe addressee. They will never sight-read it. They will never come to you in a break and say this is not possible. They will read it exactly as slowly as they wish, which is to say, at the speed at which the specification actually makes sense.

NOBODY AT ALL

Which leaves the fifth possibility, and I think it is more common than the field would like to concede.

Some notation addresses no reader. It is not an instruction, not a structural aid, not a hedge, and not documentation. It is the composer talking to the composer, a record of the process left visible on the finished object, the way a builder's chalk lines sometimes survive on a wall. A ratio is written out fully because writing it out fully was how the composer thought it. A parameter is separated onto its own stave because separating it was the compositional method, not because anyone downstream needs it separated.

I do not think this is illegitimate. Some of the most interesting pages in the repertoire are pages where the method stayed visible. But it is a different thing from an instruction, and the page does not distinguish between them. A performer opening that score has no way to tell which marks are addressed to them, which are addressed to the conductor, which are filed for the record, and which are the residue of somebody else's thinking that was never for them at all.

WHY THE CONFUSION IS AN AUTHORITY PROBLEM

Here is why any of this matters beyond taxonomy.

Because the addressee is unnamed, every mark carries the same apparent authority. The courtesy accidental and the fourteenth-order tuplet are engraved identically, in the same ink, on the same staff, with the same implicit force. A performer confronting a page that is talking to five different readers at once has no principled basis for deciding what to prioritize under pressure, and under pressure something always has to be prioritized.

So they decide anyway, privately, and the decision is invisible. This is where performance practice actually comes from: an accumulated, unwritten, unaudited consensus about which marks are operative and which are ceremonial. That consensus is usually correct. It is also completely undocumented, which means every new performer has to rediscover it, and every composer gets to pretend it does not exist.

Naming the addressee would fix a great deal of this at almost no cost. Some composers already do it, informally, in performance notes. This system is approximate. This line is a guide, not a target. These values are structural and need not be audible. Every one of those sentences is a composer telling the truth about who a mark is for, and none of them weaken the piece. They make the page honest about its own crowd.

WHAT I THINK THE ANSWER IS

A score is not a message from one person to one person. It is a document held in common by several parties with different jobs, different competencies, and different stakes, and the reason it feels overloaded is that it genuinely is overloaded. It is doing five jobs while presenting as one.

The useful discipline, for anyone writing, is to go through a page and ask of each mark, one at a time, who is this for. Not what does it mean. Who is on the other end of it.

The answers are clarifying and occasionally embarrassing. Some marks turn out to be for the performer and are doing real work. Some turn out to be for the conductor and belong in the score but not the part. Some turn out to be for the record, and could be moved to a preface without losing anything. And some turn out to be for nobody, left on the page because they were part of how the thing got made.

Knowing which is which does not make the music simpler. It makes the page truthful about what it is asking, and of whom. That seems like the least a document written entirely in the imperative could offer the people it is ordering around.

"Immoral Geography" for Soprano Saxophone

 

"Immoral Geography" 

for Soprano Saxophone

Bil Smith Composer

Link to PDF

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1sRWIVRMHbeTOVzXm7C25HJ4TlCmyHhcj/view?usp=sharing

Language as Object: The Sculptural Letterform in Composition

 

Language as Object: The Sculptural Letterform in Composition

"The moment a word appears on the page, its sound detaches and its body begins to act. Not as symbol—but as structure."

In the corpus of my compositional oeuvre, language no longer serves meaning in a linguistic sense. It is not instructive, explanatory, or even illustrative. Instead, I render language as object extracting words from their semantic utility and repositioning them as topological forms, spatial interventions, and performative materialities. This shift marks a decisive ontological turn in contemporary notation: away from meaning, toward presence.

My scores do not use text merely as annotation or auxiliary gesture. Rather, they leverage typography as a site of sculptural density where letterforms bear weight equal to pitches, dynamics, or timbral vectors. To read a score is not to be guided; it is to confront a typographic architecture that resists semantic legibility while asserting material fact.

Consider my "Circular Notational Systems" or pharmacologically annotated diagrams found throughout Sound Morphology. In these works, isolated textual elements such as "VIBRATE," "VOID," "ENDOCYTIC," and "RETRACT" occupy space not as symbols but as performative masses, floating amid vortexes of color and rotational grids. Each word exists not as instruction, but as spatial objecthood, inviting activation, resistance, or passive proximity. The performer must orbit these textual bodies, never sure whether to sound them, avoid them, or use them as temporal anchors.

This ideology bears deep kinship with the typographic aesthetics of Ed Ruscha, wherein the word becomes a visual object flattened, shadowed, silkscreened, but emotionally suspended. For me, however, the page becomes not a site of contemplation, but a performative terrain. Words don’t rest, they protrude. The stenciled glyph, the italicized pharmaceutical, the fractured imperative all function as notation by occupation.

The concept of “letterform as sculpture” emerges most clearly in my use of materialized language: burnished metallic type, Xerox-transfer glyphs, three-dimensional printed text forms, and layered text that visually interrupts staves, curves, and other sonic gestures. Typography here is not a channel for meaning; it is a force field. One might recall Agostino Bonalumi’s extroflected surfaces: pressure made visible. So too are my words: text under tension.

Bonalumi inspired notational element

In works like WET/Words.Events.Text scores or the Crater Series for soprano voice, linguistic units are deployed as collision events. The words refuse to flow. They behave as tonal obstructions, sculptural barriers that ask not to be read, but to be negotiated. This notion destabilizes the performer’s relation to the score, demanding a choreography of proximity, angle, and pressure akin to a site-specific installation. The page becomes a habitat, a textual architecture whose meaning is not deciphered but inhabited.

It is not accidental that many of these scores mimic medical diagrams, regulatory documents, or psycho-pharmaceutical data sheets. These are not metaphors, bute bureaucratic typologies repurposed into musical cartographies. In them, language is no longer expressive but procedural, imposed, and ultimately aestheticized. And yet, in that neutralized body of language, something unsettling happens: it twitches with sonic potential.

This is where my projects intersect most radically with current modes of conceptual notational practice: I do not score music; I score text with all its density, ambiguity, and brutal architectural form.

Words become sonic fossils, embedded in a compositional terrain of contradictions. They are not to be read or even performed, necessarily. They are to be encountered. As forms. As volumes. As aural topographies with the mass of monuments.

Topographic Media for Flugelhorn

"Topographic Media" for Flugelhorn delves into the intricate interplay between visual representation and musical theory. The result is a phrenetic sociocratic graphisma score that challenges traditional norms and embraces the cutting edge of notational innovation.

It poses as a puzzle to be solved by the performer (Flugelhornist); somewhat of a technical exercise masking as a grand instrumental awakening.

We all know its time for this demure instrument to be awakened.

At its core, the score stands as an organized sub-textual visualization, a testament to the fusion of artistry and meticulous structure. The unique approach to notation defies convention, inviting performers and audiences alike to embark on an intellectual journey through dense iconography and sententious notational theory.

The phrenetic nature of the score is a reflection of a dedication to pushing the boundaries of musical expression. It mirrors the frenzied energy of the modern world, capturing the cacophony of voices, influences, and stimuli that shape our perception. Each symbol and line is carefully placed to convey not only musical notes but also emotional nuancesto be presented by the Flugelhorn.

This compositional style is the marriage of form and content. The intricate iconography is not an arbitrary aesthetic choice but a meticulously constructed representation of the musical ideas within. Each symbol carries a weight of meaning, an invitation to the performer to decode and interpret, layer by layer.

The Composer is not the Expert on Their Own Piece

THE COMPOSER IS NOT THE EXPERT ON THEIR OWN PIECE

Sound Morphology

I want to state something plainly that the last essay in this series only circled.

The person who wrote the piece is not the leading authority on it. On some questions they are the worst-positioned person in the building. And the field is organized almost entirely around pretending otherwise.

This is not a claim about intention or meaning, which are old arguments and largely settled ones. It is narrower and more uncomfortable than that. It is a claim about facts. There are specific, checkable, empirical questions about a piece of music where the composer's answer is systematically less reliable than someone else's, and we go on asking the composer anyway, because the alternative would require building institutions we have never bothered to build.

WHAT THE COMPOSER CANNOT KNOW

Start with difficulty, since that is where the previous essay left off.

Climbers grade routes, and no climbing community on earth accepts the first ascensionist's grade as final. Everyone who subsequently attempts the route votes, and the number drifts toward what the accumulated, embodied experience of many bodies actually reports. The reasoning is not complicated. The person who established the route solved it with their particular reach, their particular finger strength, their particular tolerance for exposure, over however many sessions it took, and by the time they were done they could no longer perceive what was hard about it. Their proximity is precisely what disqualifies them.

A composer is in exactly this position and has none of the correction.

I have spent, in a given piece, four months with a passage. I know which note came first and which arrived on the ninth revision. I know the fingering I imagined, which is almost always the fingering nobody uses. I know what the bar is for, structurally, and that knowledge silently smooths the difficulty every time I look at it, because I am not reading the notation, I am recognizing it. A performer opening that page has none of that scaffolding. They have ink, a deadline, and a body. Their encounter with the material is the real one. Mine was over before the piece existed.

So when I say a passage is difficult, or worse, when I say it is not that difficult, I am reporting on a mental object that has ceased to resemble what is on the page. And I will keep doing this for as long as anyone keeps asking me, because I am not lying. I simply cannot see it anymore.

THE LIST OF QUESTIONS

It is worth being specific about where composer authority actually fails, because the claim is not that we know nothing about our own work.

Where the difficulty is. Not whether the piece is hard, which any competent reader can see, but where the crux sits. Almost every composer I know has been surprised by this at least once. You brace for the passage you agonized over, and the ensemble sails through it and stops dead at three bars you wrote in an afternoon and never thought about again. Fifty performers hitting the same unexpected wall is data. One composer's expectation is a guess.

How long it takes to learn. Composers estimate rehearsal requirements badly and almost always in the same direction. We have no feedback loop that would correct this, because we are rarely in the room for the hours that matter, which are the private ones.

What is actually audible. This is the most uncomfortable item on the list. The composer knows what is written. That knowledge makes it very hard to assess what a listener without the score receives. The thirteenth-order tuplet is on the page. Whether it arrives as a distinguishable rhythmic identity or as a texture is an empirical question, and the person who wrote the ratio is the last person who can answer it, because they will always hear the intention through the result.

What the notation communicates. Not what it means. What it transmits. If eight performers independently read a marking the same wrong way, the marking is wrong. The composer's intent is not a defense. It is not even relevant. A specification that fails to specify has failed, and the only people who can detect the failure are the people who were not present when it was written.

Whether the piece works. Composers are famously unreliable here in both directions, championing the pieces that cost the most and dismissing the ones that came easily, as though difficulty of manufacture were a measure of value. It is a measure of manufacture.

WHAT THE COMPOSER IS THE EXPERT ON

The argument would be dishonest without this section.

The composer knows what was rejected, which is often the most valuable unrecorded information about any piece. They know why the fourth movement is short. They know which passages are load-bearing and which are transitional, and therefore where an interpreter has latitude and where they do not. They know what the piece is in conversation with. They know, usually, what would constitute a bad performance, even when they cannot say what would constitute a good one.

That is real expertise and it matters. But look at the shape of it. Every item on that list concerns the piece's history and its architecture. Not one of them concerns its reception, its difficulty, its legibility, or its effect. The composer is the leading authority on how the piece came to exist. They are an ordinary witness, and sometimes a poor one, on what it does now that it does exist.

We routinely conflate those two authorities, and the conflation is not innocent. It is how the first one gets used to settle arguments that belong to the second.

WHY THE FIELD IS BUILT THIS WAY

Because the alternative requires infrastructure, and infrastructure requires admitting that the individual authorial voice is insufficient.

A climbing gym employs route setters who watch. If nobody can do the crux at the intended grade, or if everyone finds it trivial, the route gets reset. The hold angle changes. The foot placement moves. This is a profession built on the premise that a difficulty judgment is a hypothesis tested against real bodies and revised when the bodies disagree.

Music has no equivalent and does not want one. A score is published and its difficulty becomes permanent, along with its reputation, its performance practice, and its errors. There is no mechanism by which fifty performances of the same passage produce a revision. There is no forum in which a claim about a piece can be collectively re-litigated. Some composers revise editions after performer feedback, and when they do it is described as generosity, which tells you everything. In climbing it would be called doing the job.

The result is that we have built an entire critical and pedagogical apparatus on a single unaudited source, and then we have made deference to that source a marker of seriousness. Ask the composer. Consult the composer's writings. Check what the composer said in the interview. All of it treating one person's account as evidence, when in most other domains that account would be considered the least reliable input available, precisely because of the informant's involvement.

THE PERFORMERS ALREADY KNOW THIS

Here is what makes the whole arrangement slightly absurd.

The distributed knowledge exists. It is simply unrecorded. Performers who specialize in difficult repertoire know exactly which pieces are sandbagged, which reputations are inherited rather than earned, which markings everyone quietly ignores, which passages have a standard solution that no score mentions, and which composers write beautifully for the instrument versus which ones write beautifully at it. They know all of this in detail and they mostly say it to each other, in rehearsal breaks, off the record, because saying it publicly reads as complaint, and complaint is a career problem.

So the most accurate available account of what a piece actually is lives in an oral tradition that is deliberately kept out of print, while the least accurate account, the composer's, is published, cited, taught, and consulted.

WHAT I AM ACTUALLY ASKING FOR

Not less authority for composers. A correct allocation of it.

Ask the composer what was rejected, what is structural, what the piece is arguing with. Those are genuinely composer questions.

Do not ask the composer how hard it is, how long it takes, what a listener hears, or whether the notation is clear. Ask the fiftieth performer, and then ask the fifty-first, and treat the aggregate as more authoritative than any single account including the author's. That is not disrespect. It is the ordinary epistemics of every field that takes its own claims seriously.

And write it down. The reason climbing grades converge on something usable is not that climbers are more honest than musicians. It is that they built a public record and argue in it constantly. We have the arguments. We simply hold them in corridors.

I have written pages I was certain were the hardest thing I had ever asked of anyone, and watched them turn out to be nothing. I have written bars I thought were a rest stop and watched three excellent players fail at them in exactly the same place, which is the clearest signal in the world that the fault is mine and located precisely there. Every time, the information came from somebody else. It could not have come from me.

The score is the only thing I actually know. Everything after it belongs to other people, and they are better witnesses than I am.