João Paulo André. 'The life sciences are trying to understand our ability to appreciate and create music. But the mystery persists'

Since ancient times, humans have sought to hear the 'music of the cosmos.' The Chaldeans, in Babylon, already associated music with the movement of celestial bodies, and the Pythagoreans believed in 'universal harmony,' that the stars not only produced sounds but also established mathematical relationships between them. This idea has continued to reverberate throughout the centuries and persists today. In * The Harmony of the Spheres * (ed. Gradiva), chemist and music lover João Paulo André explores, with physicist Carlos Fiolhais, the rich, ancient, and inspiring relationships between science and music.

We know little about Pythagoras and even less about the music he and his disciples created. However, their influence on the history of music was enormous, not least because they were the first to divide the musical scale into seven notes. According to legend, it all began when Pythagoras himself passed through a blacksmith's shop.

This is one of the best-known versions, according to which Pythagoras, who lived in the sixth century BC, while passing by a blacksmith's shop, noticed that the sounds of hammers striking anvils sometimes sounded good together (consonant) and other times bad (dissonant). Legend has it that he later investigated the weights of the hammers and discovered that the combinations that resulted in pleasant sounds obeyed simple numerical proportions, such as 2:1, 3:2, etc. There is also another version, perhaps more likely, involving the monochord, an instrument with a single string. Pythagoras discovered that by dividing the string into simple proportions, the resulting sounds, when compared to each other, were consonant. For example, dividing the string in half (2:1) resulted in an octave; 3:2, a fifth; and so on. There is still another version, which refers to flutes or wind pipes with different air column heights. Therefore, at its core, there are always mathematical relationships behind consonance and dissonance. Indeed, for the Pythagoreans, the world, the entire universe, was explicable in terms of numbers and numerical relationships. Thus, according to tradition, strongly rooted in the medieval writings of Boethius, the mathematical foundations of musical harmony date back to the Pythagorean school.

Were the Pythagoreans also the first to associate the stars with the seven musical notes?

This association between the stars and the seven musical notes is traditionally attributed to the Pythagoreans, but it is important to understand that this is a philosophical-mystical interpretation. The connection of the seven musical notes with the seven known stars (Sun, Moon, Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn) is a tradition that was consolidated in late antiquity and the Middle Ages, heavily influenced by Pythagorean cosmology and the Hermetic tradition. However, the conviction that music was associated with the movement of celestial bodies likely began with the Chaldeans.

In even more remote times.

The Pythagoreans believed that celestial bodies were at such relative distances from each other that the sounds they emitted together were consonant—there you have it, the equivalent of the ratios between the lengths of strings or the weights of hammers. This was what they called universal harmony or the harmony of the spheres, referring to the celestial spheres. In fact, today we have Harmonia Mundi, a prestigious French classical music publisher. Therefore, it is from the Pythagorean school that the idea of universal harmony comes, which Kepler, in the 17th century, revived.

In a book entitled Harmonices Mundi.

It's this idea that he borrows from the Greeks. And curiously, today—according to the set of theories known as string theories, which are attempts, within theoretical physics, to unify all the fundamental forces of nature (only gravitational force is not yet included)—fundamental particles, that is, subatomic particles, are seen, essentially, as tiny vibrating strings. And it's according to the vibration pattern of each one that they are distinguished from one another. There you have it: being vibrating strings, these vibrational phenomena are expressed by numbers. We're talking about something that hasn't yet been experimentally proven, but if so, it's almost like a return to the Pythagorean idea that, in fact, the entire universe can be explained in terms of numbers and numerical relationships. It's fascinating!

Kepler, regarding the association between planets and sounds, uses a very amusing expression. He says that "celestial motion is a song for many voices that our ears cannot capture." More than 2,000 years after the Pythagoreans, these ideas remain very much alive. Even when science was making firm strides in the Modern Era...

In fact, the Pythagoreans, despite believing that the stars produced music, believed that hearing it was not within everyone's reach. Only Pythagoras himself, it was said, had this ability. This idea of the harmony of the stars was revived in the 17th century by Kepler. However, this German astronomer did so in a context already marked by the emergence of the scientific method. The phrase or expression of Kepler's that you mentioned reflects not only a poetic vision of the cosmos, but also an attempt to mathematically describe the order underlying planetary motion. Even with the advances of science in the Modern Era—based on observation, experimentation, and mathematical reasoning—the ancient idea that the universe follows principles of harmony persisted, albeit reinterpreted in light of the new scientific thought that was emerging.

It's true that when an object passes at high speed—be it a bullet, for example, or a whip—it produces a kind of hiss, which is the sound of that object cutting through the air. From a scientific perspective, do planets produce a sound as they move through space?

[laughter] These are very different scales, and above all, interstellar space is essentially a vacuum, or very close to it. This means it doesn't allow the propagation of sound waves, since they require a material medium, such as air, water, or a solid, to propagate. In our world, we can hear, for example, the sound of a tree falling because there's air around it, and upon impact, the air particles vibrate, transmitting the sound to our ears. In this regard, an old question arises: if no one is in the forest, does a falling tree produce sound? In the case of planets moving through space, even if we set aside the limitation of a vacuum, any noise they produce would have no one around to detect it.

Another figure featured here is Galileo's father, who perfectly embodies the relationship between music and astronomy. Vicenzo Galilei, a lutenist and composer, wrote a musical treatise. From what I understand, he also dedicated himself to experimental research, as his son would later do.

It's true. Vicenzo Galilei is, in fact, an excellent example of the relationship between music and science, especially at a time when the boundaries between disciplines were much more fluid than they are today. As a lutenist and composer, he didn't limit himself to artistic practice: he went further, applying experimental methods to understand the fundamentals of acoustics and harmony. His musical treatise reflects this investigative approach, demonstrating that music could be studied scientifically. It's fascinating to think that this experimental mindset may have influenced his own son, who applied these principles to astronomy and physics. It's a case of saying that like father, like son. There's an interesting example concerning the study of the motion of spheres on inclined planes, the laws of which were owed to Galileo Jr. At the time, there were no precise timekeeping instruments—only very rudimentary devices, such as clepsydras. And he, perhaps inspired by his father's musical instruments — in this case, the lute —, will have placed on the gutter of the inclined plane what, in stringed instruments, are called frets: those divisions found on the neck of the instrument.

A kind of metal bars.

Exactly. Inspired by the frets of stringed instruments, Galileo Galilei constructed an inclined plane with a groove segmented at regular intervals. As the spheres rolled down the groove and passed through these divisions, they produced a distinct sound upon impact. The cadence of these sounds thus allowed him to measure with some precision the speed at which the spheres rolled down the groove. A reconstruction of this inclined plane is on display in the Galileo Museum in Florence.

Still on the topic of the relationship between astronomy and music, we also have the case of William Herschel. I remembered reading about his observations of the night sky. I hadn't realized that he was also a prolific composer.

It's true. In fact, our book even reproduces the cover of a CD of his works. And note: there were many well-known musicians in the past, and not all of them are recorded or even performed today. In the case of Herschel, who discovered Uranus, we fortunately have recordings of some of his compositions.

Speaking of music and astronomy, it's almost inevitable to mention Gustav Holst. I was listening to The Planets some time ago, and it occurred to me that the work, if it had any other title, might have gone unnoticed. That idea of the seven planets associated with each of the movements really sticks in your mind.

I'd like to say that, if we think about Rossini, sometimes the music has nothing to do with the work it's part of. For example, "The Barber of Seville," which is one of the masterpieces of comic opera, has a very famous overture that wasn't originally composed for this opera. Rossini composed it for "Elisabetta, Regina d'Inghilterra," which is a dramatic opera. Consider this: he composes an overture for a dramatic work that he later repurposes, committing a kind of self-plagiarism by inserting it into a comic work. I'm convinced that Holst, when he composed the work he titled "The Planets," may have been inspired by the planets, but probably more in the sense of astrology than astronomy. The work has more to do with the traditional ideas associated with each planet according to the zodiac than with scientific concepts. People, in fact, are very attracted to these themes. So, yes, the title certainly helped, especially because it's very catchy. Coldplay also has an album called 'Music of the Spheres,' once again referring to universal harmony. This connection between the planets, the cosmos, astronomy, and even astrology continues to hold great fascination...

…apparently, from the Chaldeans to the present day. As explained in the book, the 19th century witnessed great scientific advancement, but at the same time, this provoked a reaction in the artistic field, which also focused on valuing nature and challenging rationalism. I'm talking, of course, about Romanticism. And one of the fundamental concepts is the sublime, which comes from the 18th century. How do you evoke landscapes, mountains, rivers, and abysses through music? How are these images conveyed? Do you think it's just a convention that those who master this language can interpret—'that's a mountain' or a river—or is there actually some correspondence? The truth is, when we hear the overture to Wagner's The Ghost Ship, it seems as if we're seeing the raging sea, the gale, the storm.

Yes, it's relatively easy to suggest a storm in musical terms. In fact, it was very common. How many operas feature a storm? In fact, it became fashionable, especially during the Belcanto period. Rossini was a specialist in this. Of course, mountains, or mountain ranges, are different. What I said earlier about Holst applies here as well. But the artistic experience, and particularly the musical one, is very subjective. I can give the example of the Grand Canyon Suite [by Ferde Grofé]. If I didn't know that it alludes to or was inspired by the Grand Canyon, I don't think I would be able to understand it, neither I nor anyone else, probably. But that's not that important either. What's important is that, in some way, the contemplation of that landscape moved, inspired the composer. What happens in the Romantic period is the influence of great earthly landscapes on the human spirit and, ultimately, that sense of human insignificance. The idea of the sublime even includes a dimension of terror and the awareness of our fragility in the face of the enormity of the world and its forces. I don't feel that one can say that this or that musical work suggests to us, the listeners, a specific landscape. However, there is indeed a zeitgeist. This fascination with the sublime, with grandiose natural landscapes, manifested itself explicitly in painting. But in painting, it's easy, isn't it? Still, it's natural that music, to some extent, also reflected this. It's worth remembering that it was in the early 19th century that modern geology took its first steps and discovered that, after all, the Earth is much older than previously thought. Then the concept of deep time emerged. Here, there's an interesting parallel with musical structures. The symphonic genre, for example, lengthens significantly. Each movement of a symphony becomes longer than an entire symphony by Haydn in the 18th century. Is there an influence or not? I'm inclined to believe so. People began to have a new perception of time. Time was something much more extensive, a much broader concept than previously believed. It's natural that music reflected this. And, as we approached the end of the 19th century, the longer the symphonies became. But it's funny because, at the same time, very short musical works also began to emerge.

The miniatures.

They've always existed, but were considered minor pieces. What's new now is that they're no longer inferior—they're no longer worse for being small. They now have intrinsic value, regardless of their size. And some authors associate the emergence of these miniatures with new concepts of time. First, it was deep time: the time of geology, of evolutionary biology, in which everything takes a long time to happen. Then, from the mid-19th century onward, the train began to expand. And some argue that this influenced the emergence of short musical pieces. There began to be a different interpretation of time. It's normal for music to reflect these influences, these new ideas, these new perceptions.

Since we're talking about nature, there's an interesting point you mention: it's not just humans who produce music. There are howler monkeys, as well as dogs and wolves. But birds, in particular, are great masters of song. Vivaldi, for example, I believe, in "Summer of the Four Seasons," has an imitation of the cuckoo's song.

Throughout the history of music, the cuckoo has been frequently imitated. It makes sense; it has a very appealing song. The cuckoo and the nightingale were, in fact, the two birds most often reproduced in musical compositions, and they inspired many composers precisely because of the beauty and expressiveness of their song.

In the relationship between science and music, we cannot fail to mention musicians who are chemists or chemists who are musicians, since João Paulo is a music-loving chemist. The most interesting case is perhaps that of Borodin. And then there's Elgar, of course.

Borodin was a professor of chemistry at the medical school in St. Petersburg and devoted himself to music on weekends.

He was a Sunday musician.

As he himself said. Elgar is the opposite: he was a professional musician who devoted his spare time to chemistry. He had a laboratory at home—initially in the basement—and even patented a device for producing hydrogen sulfide. You know those smelly Carnival firecrackers? It's hydrogen sulfide—it smells like rotten eggs. That's probably why he ended up moving the laboratory to a shed behind the house.

[laughter]

We were even fortunate enough that the Elgar Society in Great Britain very kindly provided us with a photograph of the Analytical Chemistry book that Elgar used in his experiments – and you can see that it is covered in chemical stains.

For me, the great mystery of music is how it seems to have direct access to our emotions, how it has the power to make us feel good or melancholic, sometimes even euphoric, as seen at concerts or in nightclubs. Can science explain this? How can simple sounds, which are ultimately quite abstract, stir our feelings?

Science can explain some things, but there's still much, much to be learned. There are explanations for things like the chills, or frissons, we feel with certain chords, with certain melodies, and some understanding of how listening to music can take us back in time, bringing back past memories, for example. But, overall, almost everything is yet to be discovered. Right now, it's the life sciences—we're talking about evolutionary biology, cognitive psychology, neuroscience—and also biomusicology, a new, interdisciplinary discipline that emerged at the end of the last century, that are trying to understand our ability to appreciate and create music. Initially, attempts were made to explain, for example, why our ears tend to prefer consonant chords and reject, to some extent, dissonant ones. Then mathematical relationships were discovered: consonant chords correspond to simple proportions; dissonant chords, to more complex proportions, as I mentioned. Then came physics, with the study of frequencies and harmonics, and so on.

But it still doesn’t explain…

Ultimately, the mystery persists. The life sciences still have much, much to say about our ability to make music and be moved by it. Until now, this discussion has been marked by two extreme positions: on the one hand, evolutionists and adaptationists, following Darwin's lead; on the other, those who argue that our musicality has nothing evolutionary or adaptive about it.

Useless.

For the former, yes, our musicality has a biological origin. At the other extreme are those who argue that our propensity for music was solely a cultural invention. And it has been these two opposing positions that have, until now, guided this dialogue. Today, however, some understanding is beginning to emerge around an intermediate position: the idea that coevolutionary processes may have existed between genes and culture.

A compromise position, let's say. Do you lean that way too?

Without a doubt. I think it makes much more sense to think of an interaction between the biological and the cultural.

I said earlier that music might be useless, but the truth is that it has been used a lot over time as a form of therapy.

It's true. And, even if our musical abilities don't stem from any specific ancestral biological process, music has proven to be useful in various fields, therapy being one of the most important. The effects of music on the body and spirit were already recognized in ancient times. Today, music therapy is a well-established field, with applications in a wide range of contexts—from mental health to neurodegenerative diseases, including chronic pain, physical rehabilitation, autism, and many others. In other words, even if it wasn't originally intended to be useful, it has found many ways to be useful.