This Is Your Brain on Music: The Science of a Human Obsession

“It is a shame that many people are intimidated by the jargon musicians, music theorists, and cognitive scientists throw around. There is specialist vocabulary in every field of inquiry (try to make sense of a full blood-analysis report from your doctor). But in the case of music, music experts and scientists could do a better job of making their work accessible. That is something I tried to accomplish in this book.”

Levitin acknowledges jargon as one of the major roadblocks that keep the general public from engaging with specialist material. In doing so, he reassures readers that his work will be easier to understand and aligns himself not with his fellow academics but with his readers. This concern for accessibility is a major characteristic of the popular science genre and helps quell any intimidation that a reader might feel while encouraging them to continue engaging.

“Before getting into the brain basis of all this, I’d like to take this chapter to define the musical terms and quickly review some basic ideas in music theory, and illustrate them with musical examples. (Musicians may want to skip or skim this chapter.)

The author compensates for a potential difference in levels of background knowledge in his readers by prefacing his chapter on basic music theory with a caveat. Not only does he introduce the topic to prepare naive readers for new information, but he also adds an aside to the more knowledgeable musicians among his readers who might not find the section informative. This tactic helps ensure that readers who embark on Chapter 2 are neither out of their depth nor put off by boredom.

“One could imagine an alien species that does not have ears, or that doesn’t have the same internal experience of hearing that we do. But it would be difficult to imagine an advanced species that had no ability whatsoever to sense vibrating objects. Where there is atmosphere there are molecules that vibrate in response to movement. And knowing whether something is generating noise or moving towards us or away from us, even when we can’t see it (because it is dark, our eyes aren’t attending to it, or we’re asleep) has great survival value.”

The use of a hypothetical scenario—particularly one involving extraterrestrial life—is a mainstay of the popular science genre because it allows authors to present concepts about the universality or uniqueness of terrestrial characteristics in an engaging and clear way. Levitin juxtaposes a scenario that “one could imagine” with one that “would be difficult to imagine” to illustrate the likelihood that some manner of auditory processing would likely be common across all sentient life.

“He once asked me to explain rock and roll music to him, something he had never paid any attention to and didn’t understand. He knew about my previous career in the music business, and he asked if I could come over for dinner one night and play six songs that captured all that was important to know about rock and roll. […]

Here’s what I brought to dinner:

1. ‘Long Tall Sally,’ Little Richard
2. ‘Roll Over Beethoven,’ the Beatles
3. ‘All Along the Watchtower,’ Jimi Hendrix
4. ‘Wonderful Tonight,’ Eric Clapton
5. ‘Little Red Corvette,’ Prince
6. ‘Anarchy in the U.K.,’ the Sex Pistols.”

Levitin outlines both the challenging task presented to him and his response in a matter-of-fact tone that counteracts the complexity and subjectivity of the assignment to an extent that is almost comedic. The author’s willingness to engage with the request highlights his dedication to teaching about and sharing music, while his ability to fulfill the request demonstrates his knowledge and skill. The formatting choice of a list encourages readers to reflect on and react to each pick in turn, forming their own opinion about Levitin’s choice of well-known songs and speculating on his thought process.

“Of course music would be boring if we only had these straight beats. We might leave one out to add tension. Think of ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.’ The notes don’t occur on every beat:

ONE-two-three-four

ONE-two-three-(rest)

ONE-two-three-four

ONE-two-three-(rest):

TWIN-kle twin-kle

LIT-tle star (rest)

HOW-I won-der

WHAT you are (rest).”

Levitin lays out a simple example of an almost universally recognizable song in a format that emphasizes beats. Not only does this illustrate his current point, but it also prepares readers to recognize and understand more complex examples that he uses to illuminate later points.

“I left discussion of loudness for almost-last, because there really isn’t much to say about loudness in terms of definition that most people don’t already know. One counterintuitive point is that loudness, like pitch, is an entirely psychological phenomenon, that is, loudness doesn’t exist in the world, it only exists in the mind.”

This quote justifies the chapter’s structure and assures readers of the simplicity of the quality of loudness. The “counterintuitive point” adds an interesting addendum to illustrate that even the simplest features of music have complexities, particularly in conjunction with brain function.

“The cerebellum is involved in emotions and the planning of movements, and is the evolutionarily oldest part of our brain: even many animals, such as reptiles, that lack the ‘higher’ brain region of the cortex still have a cerebellum. The surgical separation of a portion of the frontal lobe, the prefrontal cortex, from the thalamus is called a lobotomy. So when the Ramones sang ‘Now I guess I’ll have to tell ’em / That I got no cerebellum’ in their song ‘Teenage Lobotomy’ […] they were not being anatomically accurate, but for the sake of artistic license, and for creating one of the great rhymes in rock music, it is hard to begrudge them that.”

Immediately following technical information about the brain is a darkly comedic reference to a tangentially related piece of music trivia. This technique of using humorous asides or pop-culture references to soften information-heavy passages features heavily in popular science literature because it keeps readers entertained as they learn and offers a reprieve to prevent them from being bored or overwhelmed by dense scientific text.

“As the number of neurons increases, the number of possible connections grows exponentially (the formula for the way that n neurons can be connected to each other is 2(n*(n-1)/2)):

For 2 neurons there are 2 possibilities for how they can be connected

For 3 neurons there are 8 possibilities

For 4 neurons there are 64 possibilities

For 5 neurons there are 1,024 possibilities

For 6 neurons there are 32,768 possibilities.”

Levitin first presents the complex mathematical formula describing the number of connections, followed by a clear illustration of how exponential growth plays out with even low numbers. The repetitive structure of the lines “For [x] neutrons there are [y] possibilities” and the formatting decision to separate each line make the rate of growth clear and easy to see. The fact that the difference between the number of neurons and the number of possibilities increases so rapidly underscores previous points about the brain’s complexity.

“Recording engineers create what I call ‘hyperrealities,’ the recorded equivalent of the cinematographer’s trick of mounting a camera on the bumper of a speeding car. We experience sensory impressions that we never actually have in the real world.”

Levitin uses the term “hyperrealities” to clearly show the unique product of specialized skills and techniques. He equates the trick to a better-known equivalent in the realm of visual recording to ground it in a more familiar context. The absolute phrasing of “never actually” emphasizes the difference between reality and “hyperreality” by creating a gulf between “hyperreality” and the “real world.”

“When I’m at a wedding, it is not the sight of the hope and love of the bride and groom standing in front of their friends and family, their whole life before them, that makes my eyes tear up. It is when the music begins that I start to cry. In a movie, when two people are at long last reunited after some great ordeal, the music again pushes me and my emotions over the sentimental edge.”

Pathos and emotive language help create vivid imagery of touching scenes. In describing a wedding, the author makes particular use of paired sets—“hope and love,” “bride and groom,” “friends and family”—to create a sense of duality and togetherness that represents marital ideals of unity. However, irony undercuts this sense of pathos when Levitin’s asserts that the accompanying music rather than the emotive scenes themselves is what moves him. Not only does this humorously subvert convention, but it also emphasizes the superior emotive impact of music.

“Will this Frankenstein science I’ve just described, the science of brain imaging, ever allow us to read people’s minds? I’m happy to report that the answer is probably not, and absolutely not for the foreseeable future.”

The phrase “Frankenstein science” references Mary Shelley’s celebrated novel Frankenstein (1818), which marries the genres of gothic horror and science fiction. By comparing fears about mind reading to the scientific abominations described in Shelley’s novel, Levitin acknowledges the inherent horror of such technology while simultaneously assuring readers that such advances are still confined to the realm of fiction.

“One of my earliest memories of music is as a three-year-old, lying on the floor underneath the family’s grand piano as my mother played. Lying on our shaggy green wool carpet, with the piano above me, all I could see were my mother’s legs moving the pedals up and down, but the sound—it engulfed me! It was all around, vibrating through the floor and through my body, the low notes to the right of me, the high notes to the left. The loud, dense chords of Beethoven; the flurry of dancing, acrobatic notes of Chopin; the strict, almost militaristic rhythms of Schumann, a German like my mother. In these—among my first memories of music—the sound held me in a trance, it transported me to sensory places I had never been. Time seemed to stand still while the music was playing.”

Through sensory imagery and tactile descriptions, Levitin vividly illustrates his memory. By describing his surroundings in detail and in all directions, the author invites readers into the shared experience of being surrounded by music. He presents the experience in an almost transcendental or spiritual tone, using words such as “transported” and detailed descriptions of different music pieces to emphasize the powerful impression that music made on him as a youth.

“Or consider this: What do the following items have in common: Children, wallet, my dog, family photographs, car keys? To many people, these are things to take with me in the event of a fire. Such collections of things form ad hoc categories, and we are adept at making these. We form them not from perceptual experience with things-in-the-world, but from conceptual exercises such as the ones above.”

Levitin uses the imperative mood to compel readers to participate in the proposed thought experiment. Through the use of hypophora—a question that the asker immediately answers—Levitin encourages readers to analyze the proposed category and reach their own conclusions before revealing the answer and further explaining how the example is relevant to his point. The choice of an example unrelated to music emphasizes the omnipresence of such categorizing in all aspects of life.

“Memory affects the music-listening experience so profoundly that it would not be hyperbole to say that without memory there would be no music.”

This bold, absolute statement is memorable and authoritative. It creates a strong link between the concepts of memory and music by presenting the former as a prerequisite for the latter. Hyperbole is deliberate exaggeration for effect and impact, often to make a persuasive point. By preemptively refuting any suspicion that so dramatic an assertion could be hyperbole, Levitin magnifies the seeming integrity and significance of the statement.

“When we talk about a great groove in music, we’re not talking in some jive sixties Austin Powers fab lingo, baby; we’re talking about the way in which these beat divisions create a strong momentum.”

The word “groove” has a specific meaning in the technical language of music theory that differs from the common definition of the word or its pop-culture association with 1960s slang and the Austin Powers franchise in particular. Levitin addresses potential misunderstandings while humorously acknowledging the multiple meanings of the word by briefly adopting an exaggerated caricature of the highly recognizable Powers idiolect, particularly in the use of the character’s signature interjection, “baby.”

“The story of your brain on music is the story of an exquisite orchestration of brain regions, involving both the oldest and newest parts of the human brain, and regions as far apart as the cerebellum in the back of the head and the frontal lobes just behind your eyes. It involves a precision choreography of neurochemical release and uptake between logical prediction systems and emotional reward systems.”

Musical language describes brain function in figurative and expressive imagery: “Choreography” and “orchestration” reinforce the link between music and brain function. The musical verbs, paired with the modifiers “precision” and “exquisite,” romanticize the process, as does the emphasis on the range of differences between the “oldest and newest” parts of the brain, regions that, although “far apart,” come together to process music.

“Frankly, I find most of his repertoire to be just plain sappy; in everything post-1980, he sounds too cocky. Years ago Billboard hired me to review the last album he made, duets with popular singers such as Bono and Gloria Estefan. I panned it, writing that Frank ‘sings with all the satisfaction of a man who just had somebody killed.’”

Proudly proclaiming his unpopular opinion, Levitin quotes a humorous review he wrote that criticized Frank Sinatra through an exaggerated and fanciful comparison between his tone and a mafia villain ordering a hit. A self-aware irony permeates Levitin’s words because by quoting his own review—which appeared in a major publication, no less—he’s displaying the same cockiness and self-satisfaction that he criticized in Sinatra.

“I don’t mean to imply that the actors and musicians I’ve mentioned don’t have to work at what they do. I don’t know any successful musicians who haven’t worked hard to get where they are; I don’t know any who had success fall into their laps. I’ve known a lot of artists whom the press has called ‘overnight sensations,’ but who spent five or ten years becoming that!”

Levitin uses anaphora, repeating the negative “I don’t” and then “I don’t know any” at the beginning of successive clauses. This linguistic technique builds momentum to increase the impact of the words. The subversion of the negative by the sudden flip to the opposite “I’ve known” creates a comedic reversal that reinforces the point that no “overnight sensation” occurred without an artist investing significant time and effort. Levitin undermines the absurdity and injustice of the stock phrase, which typically devalues the artists’ expertise and diligence, by referring to his own experience and using a humorous tone accented by the use of the playful exclamation mark.

“Although music certainly uses brain structures and neural circuits that other activities don’t, the process of becoming a musical expert—whether a composer or performer—requires many of the same personality traits as becoming an expert in other domains, especially diligence, patience, motivation, and plain old-fashioned stick-to-it-iveness.

Becoming a famous musician is another matter entirely, and may not have as much to do with intrinsic factors and ability as with charisma, opportunity, and luck.”

Deliberately juxtaposing the two often-conflated states of “expert” and “famous” musician, Levitin lists their respective associated traits, thereby showing the major differences in requirements. He implicitly elevates “expert” status over fame by including a long list of wholly positive requisite character traits—“diligence, patience, motivation, and pain old-fashioned stick-to-it-iveness”—while associating fame only with far more neutral characteristics: “charisma, opportunity, and luck.”

“I found all the hubbub a bit offensive because the implication was that music should not be studied in and of itself, or for its own right, but only if it could help people to do better on other, ‘more important’ things. Think how absurd this would sound if we turned it inside out. If I claimed that studying mathematics helped musical ability, would policy makers start pumping money into math for that reason? Music has often been the poor stepchild of public schools, the first program to get cut when there are funding problems, and people frequently try to justify it in terms of its collateral benefits, rather than letting music exist for its own rewards.”

A rhetorical question and a hypothetical role reversal (of mathematics and music) illuminates the hypocrisy and illogicality of the education system’s attitude toward music. Referring to music as “the poor stepchild” sardonically personifies the subject while also evoking sympathy for its unfair treatment.

“As Internet radio and personal music players are becoming more popular, I think that we will be seeing personalized music stations in the next few years, in which everyone can have his or her own personal radio station, controlled by computer algorithms that play us a mixture of music we already know and like and a mixture of music we don’t know but we are likely to enjoy.”

In the decades since This Is Your Brain on Music was published, Levitin’s prediction has proved true with the advent of exactly this type of music recommendation function on streaming services (e.g., Apple Music, Spotify). In part, this was a self-fulfilling prophecy since Levitin himself contributed to the creation of one of the earliest personalized digital radio companies during the late 2000s and early 2010s.

“Robert Plant, the lead singer of Led Zepplin, recalls his experience with their big concert tours in the seventies:

‘I was on my way to love. Always. Whatever road I took, the car was heading for one of the greatest sexual encounters I’ve ever had.’

The number of sexual partners for rock stars can be hundreds of times what a normal male has, and for the top rock stars, such as Mick Jagger, physical appearance doesn’t seem to be an issue.”

Levitin quotes from a well-known musical icon to illustrate the most extreme manifestation of his point about music’s role in sexual selection. The firsthand testimony lends credence to Levitin’s dramatically high figure of “hundreds of times what a normal male has,” making the argument more persuasive and authoritative.

“A fourth argument for music as an adaptation comes from other species. If we can show that other species use music for similar purposes, this presents a strong evolutionary argument.”

The organizational strategy of numbering his points ensures that Levitin’s persuasive argument is methodical and easy to follow. In addition, this strategy helps create the impression that significant evidence supports his point of view and that each point leads to the next. His use of the conditional “if […] [then]” structure establishes the framework by which he intends to categorize an argument as “strong,” setting the stage for him to present evidence in favor of his argument as even more convincing.