Herb Powell – Uncle Herb sounds so formal. Do you think you could call me Unky Herb?
Bart Simpson – No problemo, Unky Herb.
Most of my academic training has been in archaeology. There are two distinct camps among archaeologists. There are “artifact people,” those who study the past because of a fascination with material culture, and others (a distinct minority) find their way into the discipline for methodological and theoretical reasons. I am most certainly not an artifact person; I have never felt a thrill from holding a projectile point a thousand years old. To me, artifacts are data. The patterns they create are vastly more interesting than the material itself.
Archaeologists study artifacts to bolster theories of cultural and human evolution. Every dig, if properly executed, adds to our collective knowledge. A Marshalltown trowel placed in the dirt uncovers evidence that either supports or refutes specific scientific theories addressing changes in human behavior over time. That is why I studied archaeology; I was interested in how we get to “big idea” theories from material dug out of the ground.
For me, archaeology has always been a fundamentally mathematical and statistical discipline. If something couldn’t be quantified, it was of little interest to me. Knowledge and progress come from numbers, at least in my corner of the world. I spent decades studying the scientific method, specifically how statistical methods can be used for theory building. Archaeology was always a severe test case for me. Recreating entire cultures from stuff pulled from the dirt always struck me as a hard and interesting problem. Sometimes I think I know less now than when I started.
In 1985, I arrived in Cambridge, Massachusetts. For the first and only time in my life, I felt at home. I haven’t been back in nearly 35 years, but I still think about that place every day and dream about it every night. While there, I found my people. Those times were, without question, the best days of my life. There is no close second. A vignette about a day in my life on campus might be appropriate.
I remember one day when I was talking with my advisor, Bob, in his office in The Peabody Museum. This office was across the hall with a door with several names, including “Danson.” I recognized the other names, but Danson was unfamiliar to me. It seems that Harvard University kept the names of anyone who had occupied that office on the doors. My advisor’s office had the name “Kidder” listed on the door, for Alfred V. Kidder, an important and influential archaeologist who died in 1963. Bob and I often wondered if Kidder would approve of the conversations we had in his old office. We thought that he would.
So, what about this Danson character? Turns out it was the father of actor Ted Danson, widely known for his role as Sam Malone on Cheers. Ned Danson received his PhD in anthropology from Harvard in 1952. Who knew?
I mention the Danson story because, on the day I noticed the name on the door, Bob and I were discussing Ethnographic Analogy, a research method central to archaeology. Archaeologists use analogy to compare an unknown culture with other documented groups. Cultures in similar environments or with similar artifact assemblages are assumed to have much in common when reconstructing their political, religious, and social systems.
I remember that conversation because as I was explaining my objections to the methodology, Bob told me that an archaeologist needn’t use analogy when reconstructing past societies. I gave him a quizzical look as he said, “You can use metaphor!” I think my sigh was heard across campus. His point (and attempt at humor) was well taken: analogies (or metaphors) are integral to the thought process, despite the inherent problems and limitations of the procedures.
Shortly after our talk about ethnographic analogy, we crossed the street to get lunch. There, we had a chance encounter with a guy named Wally. He sat down and told us an unbelievable story about a mimeograph machine. If you ever run into me, ask me about it. I usually save it for special occasions (same with my Superman impression), but you never know, you might get lucky. I always say that the story includes two Nobel Laureates, a Harvard Professor, a beautiful, mysterious woman in a lab coat, and me. I will leave it to your imagination to figure out which person does not belong. That said, the necessary background is in place, and we can move to the material evidence.
32 CDs
Famous for burying the lede (it is my nature), I can finally get to Wayne’s wife’s uncle. I went to high school with Wayne. I met his wife once, and I don’t know any details about her uncle. The only thing I know is that he recently passed away. Wayne told me that he had a big library that they sold for pennies on the dollar. I really wish I could have gotten my hands on that library (more on that later). Wayne told me that he also had a large CD collection that they were going to throw away. I told him I would be happy to take it. I was already thinking about reconstructing this mysterious man’s life from the CDs. Think of this as my own version of a modern-day pseudo-archaeological study. I will treat each CD as I would an artifact from an archaeological site.
Wayne brought over two large cases, apparently full of CDs. They were strapped shut, so I didn’t have instance access. What I did have was 32 CDs in the CD player that Wayne also dropped off.
Of course, my first inclination was to do as much statistical analysis as possible on the CDs I had ready access to. I was severely limited in what I could do, largely because the sample I had was not random. It seems reasonable to assume they were selected with a specific purpose in mind. This is what I found.
I have several observations made from these 32 data points. The first is that Unky Rick (I finally asked Wayne for his name) was either a fan of J.S. Bach or in a serious Bach phase when he passed away. I found 5 CDs in this sample dedicated to Bach’s music, including two performed on 8-string guitars. I must admit I did not know that 8-string guitars are a thing. Subsequently, I have found that they are popular in Scandinavian Heavy Metal Music, less popular in Jazz, and even rarer in Classical Music circles.
I am guessing that many of you do not realize that Bach is, by far, the most influential classical composer among modern rock musicians. Bach is the one they always talk about when it comes to their classical music influences. Was Unky Rick a rock musician? Doubtful. I do believe he had knowledge of and appreciated Bach’s well-known genius in what is known as contrapuntal composition.
As for me, I am a serious Wolfgang Mozart man. I believe that it is the greatest cosmic ripoff in the history of the universe that he was taken from us at such a young age. I have sat through numerous courses on Mozart, read all the books, and I listen to his music daily. Piano Concerto in D (K. 175) is playing in the background as I bang this post out right now.
Unfortunately, Unky Rick had only 1 (odds bodkins, just 1!) Mozart CD queued up on his player when I received it. I am in a forgiving mood, so I will let it slide and wait to see if there is more in the cases.
The next observation that gave me pause was discovering that Unky Rick had an affinity for modern classical composers. Many people, including me, who love classical music, do not bother with living composers. It simply is not done. Why would I listen to some random dude when I could bask in the genius of Mozart? For better or worse, the vast majority of people feel that way. Unky Rick was a clear exception.
I found one CD among the 32 that astonished me. This one data point instantly made me realize that had I met Unky Rick, we would have become instant friends. He and I, even though we never met and never will, were, are, and will remain kindred spirits. How is that possible from a single CD? I will make you wait for that answer because I just decided to open the cases. I am going to take an initial, random, non-scientific look at the contents.
1000 to 1100 CDs
OK… first of all, no Ludwig van Beethoven. I don’t see a single disc. Is that odd? Yes. I don’t listen to Beethoven because I do not think very highly of him. He ripped off Mozart, then stole from him some more, and then decided to “borrow” even more from my man. I really wonder why Unky Rick doesn’t have any. Did he feel the same way? I don’t think so. If he did, I would expect more Mozart in the collection than I found.
Perhaps even more curious is the following. No opera. Let me say that again, I could not find a single disc containing an opera in the entire collection. Like me, did he find the vocals distracting when he was studying or working? I must admit I am really surprised by this. Every classical music fan has to have some opera, right? Maybe? Is there a rule somewhere requiring it? I’ll look into it, but I am pretty sure that if you are sent the super secret opera decoder ring, you’ll need to provide proof of opera ownership. Did he have the ring? I do not know, but my guess is that his fingers were bare.
This next piece of information is very strange. I examined over 200 CDs, and I could not find a single one released after 1999. Why did he stop buying music for the last 25 or so years of his life? Did he start downloading new music? This is around the time Napster appeared in all its glory. That seems like the most logical explanation. I do not think that he lost interest in music and gave up. That doesn’t seem plausible at all.
Archaeologists have a specific term for this type of situation, terminus ante quem (TAQ). It is always good to throw a little Latin into a post, don’t you think? Since I found no CDs released after 1999, the collection has a TAQ of 1999. Nothing in that assemblage is later than that date. In archaeological terms, it is like a sealed layer that must predate a known event.
As the 32 discs imply, many present-day composers are represented in the cases, far more than the usual suspects. I did find a lot more Mozart and Bach, but the CDs are dominated by those who are alive today or are recently deceased.
So, was Unky Rick a professional musicologist or a music professor? I don’t think so. The CDs were not organized in any apparent fashion. They seemed haphazardly placed on the shelves. There were no categories indicated, nor were the performers or composers alphabetized in any form. A CD of didgeridoo music was next to a Gregorian Chants recording, which was beside a Dennison University Choir performance.
After this cursory glance, it is time to get to some real work.
Sampling
It is difficult for me to relate how much time I have spent studying sampling. I sat through course after course, book after book, and read article after article. I am still studying these procedures and am excited to learn more about Bayesian sampling techniques, a topic I know little about. Of course, I am familiar with Bayesian inference, but I have never had to take a sample within that paradigm.
One of the reasons I started this blog was to educate potential scientists. I want to give just enough information to pique the interest of someone who might one day want to take a much deeper dive into the topics I am interested in.
I bring this up because I decided to take an appropriate, scientifically valid sample of Unky Rick’s CD collection. I took an explicitly frequentist approach to this sample. Rest assured, I did not slop this together; I gave it careful thought. Hopefully, someone reading this post will be interested enough to take a more in-depth look at why I chose this exact equation.
Here is the sampling equation I utilized:
Where
N = population size (≈1050 CDs)
z = z-score for confidence level (1.96 for 95%)
p = estimated proportion (0.5 is used when unknown)
e = margin of error
The output from the equation means I can get a result at the 95% confidence interval with a +/- 6% error if I sample 200 CDs. Believe it or not, if he had an infinite number of CDs, all I would need is a sample of 384 to achieve a +/- 6% error range at this confidence interval. I have always found that fascinating. It is an unexpected outcome (maybe a quirk?) of statistical analysis. Since I received a little over 1000 CDs, I decided to pull out a random sample of 200 CDs. Here are the results.
OK, the man had strong musical tastes. He knew what he liked, that much is certain. I immediately wanted to know how concentrated his CD collection is. The CD collection is focused on a few musical categories, with the majority of recordings falling into the classical and choral traditions. Earlier, I mentioned that I want to quantify all that is quantifiable. There is a metric that addresses the issue: the Herfindahl–Hirschman Index (HHI). I have never needed to use it, and I am glad it has come up now.
The Herfindahl–Hirschman Index (HHI) is a measure of concentration that describes how evenly or unevenly observations are distributed across categories. It is calculated by summing the squares of the proportions of each category:
where pi is the proportion of observations in category i and k is the number of categories.
Because the proportions are squared, categories with larger shares contribute more heavily to the index. The HHI ranges from 0 to 1, with lower values indicating a more diverse distribution and higher values indicating greater concentration in a few categories.
Based on this sample and an HHI ≈ of 0.327, the CD collection is moderately to highly concentrated. It is reasonable to say “So what?” This type of index becomes more important when multiple cases are studied and compared. So, does anyone else have an interesting uncle?
I have to admit, this man is becoming increasingly fascinating as I delve deeper into what he left behind. He was unusual in the best kind of way.
Arvo Pärt and the Sound of Stillness
I still get a big kick out of learning new things. It sustains and elevates me. I remember one day, walking down a hallway on campus in Cambridge, I came across a remarkable door. What initially caught my eye was a large image of a very old, bearded man with a cane, struggling to carry several books under his arm. The caption read “Learning Until the Day I Die.” As I was looking over the image, the professor emerged from his office. I apologized for blocking his exit. He laughed and told me, “You know, that is why I post all the things on my door. I hope that someone might one day become inspired by something I taped up.” Well, I viewed that image 40 years or so ago, and I never forgot it. Well done, professor.
I am happy to report that I have learned a great deal while writing this post. I had to research Gregorian Chants, a staple of Unky Rick’s chosen material, and Arvo Pärt, the most performed living classical composer in the world. It will surprise no one that Gregorian Chant deeply influences Pärt’s canon.
I noticed CD after CD with Pärt’s name on the cover. Of course, I became curious about this man and set to my task. I have listened to hours of his music, and I am now thoroughly convinced that Unky Rick had a sophisticated musical knowledge far beyond mine. If this were an official “Archeological Dig,” I would call in experts to consult.
I can, though, relate what my research has uncovered. At a surface level, both traditions, Gregorian Chant and the Pärt School, share an obvious feature: slowness. Gregorian chant unfolds without rhythm in the modern sense. It moves like breath, displaying an ethereal quality. Pärt’s music, especially in his tintinnabuli style (a method he invented), is similarly restrained. The sparse notes appear with deliberate spacing, often surrounded by large fields of silence. For the casual listener, this can feel uneventful. For the informed and devoted listener, however, the silence is not emptiness; it is structure.
This distinction matters, especially to those who take this music seriously.
People who gravitate toward these musical forms often demonstrate a high tolerance for stillness. They are comfortable with and enthusiastically welcome environments that others might label ‘quiet’ or ‘uneventful’. Perhaps more importantly, they do not experience silence as an uncomfortable or awkward gap. Instead, silence becomes an integral element of the experience itself. In a sense, the listener participates in the music by providing patience.
From an analogical perspective, this suggests a reflective disposition. My research suggests that individuals attracted to Gregorian Chant and Pärt are often curious about deeper questions. Philosophy, theology, history, and even mathematics often appear somewhere in their intellectual orbit. The music itself invites this orientation. A medieval chant carries nearly a millennium of cultural continuity. A Pärt composition often hides a precise structural logic beneath its simple surface. Both traditions reward attention to pattern. Of course, a look at Unky Rick’s elusive library would answer those questions.
Interestingly, pattern recognition, the heart of mathematical thinking, is central here. Gregorian chant follows modal systems rather than modern harmonic progressions. The listener gradually learns the contours of these modes, much as one recognizes the grammar of a language. Pärt’s work is even more explicit in its architecture. The tintinnabuli technique pairs melodic lines with triadic tones in carefully constrained relationships. The resulting sound is spare, yet mathematically coherent.
I normally write the beginning of a post last. After learning more about the music in the cases, I revised the initial paragraphs because it is clear to me that, if Unky Rick had been an archaeologist, he would not have been an artifact guy. He experienced his music in a very sophisticated way, through the patterns present and implied. I think this also explains his interest in Jazz. Serious officianiados of that genre consider the notes not played as well as those performed.
For analytically inclined minds, this pattern recognition is the point.
Another shared characteristic of these listeners is a preference for depth over novelty. In contemporary culture, novelty functions as currency. Streaming platforms encourage constant movement between songs, artists, and genres. Chant and Pärt operate under a completely different logic. The value of the music often increases with repetition. A piece heard dozens, or hundreds, of times reveals details that initially pass unnoticed.
Perhaps most importantly, this listening pattern cultivates a particular emotional tone. The experience is not dramatic in the cinematic sense. Instead, it produces something closer to equilibrium. The music does not overwhelm the listener. This may be why there was no opera in the collection. He did not wish to be overwhelmed by the music; he wanted a more subtle, perhaps meditative, experience.
This is where the personality profile, derived through the analogy process we previously discussed, becomes especially interesting. The typical admirer of chant or Pärt often feels deeply, but expresses it with restraint. There is an appreciation for sincerity without theatricality. Beauty emerges through subtlety rather than intensity.
Importantly, this aesthetic preference frequently extends beyond music. Minimalist architecture, clean typography, uncluttered workspaces, and carefully organized data structures often appeal to the same individuals. The underlying principle remains consistent: remove the unnecessary elements, thereby allowing the structure to speak.
There is also a historical dimension. Gregorian chant connects the listener to an unbroken musical tradition reaching back through monasteries, manuscripts, and medieval cathedrals. Even for a secular listener, the sense of temporal continuity is striking. One hears not only a melody, but a fragment of cultural memory.
Pärt’s music operates similarly, though in a modern context. His work feels ancient, even though it was composed recently. The sound suggests continuity with something older than modernity itself.
Perhaps most importantly, this musical preference reveals an unusual relationship with time. Chant and Pärt slow perception. They create a space where minutes stretch, and attention deepens. In a culture built on acceleration, this becomes a quiet act of resistance.
The listener who loves this music is therefore not simply nostalgic or eccentric. He is practicing a different mode of attention.
At the core, that may be the real attraction. Silence, when properly structured, becomes a kind of equilibrium. And equilibrium, as it turns out, has its own music.
Oddly enough, and this is another extraordinary bit of synchronicity, I do have knowledge of specific aspects of the medieval world. I took around a half-dozen seminars on the history of medieval science back in the 1980s. I was tracing the shift from the demon-haunted world of that day to the more enlightened one of the Scientific Revolution. During all that time, the importance of music never came up. I can’t remember it ever being mentioned, and I never considered the musical tastes of the day to be relevant to anything I was studying.
Now I can conclude this section of the post. How? How else but with a discussion of French High Brow Cinema.
Zbigniew Preisner
I have a young friend (is a rapid approach toward 30 considered young?) named Sage who recently completed a master’s degree in English. I tagged along for the entire program. I read the assignments, watched the things they watched, and looked over her papers before she turned them in. Truth told, she didn’t need me to look over anything. She is a very smart and extraordinarily capable lady.
One of the last classes she took addressed the French Philosopher Jacques Derrida and his thoughts on what is known as Narrative Framing. Yeah, yeah… I know, not your run-of-the-mill topic. The professor had everyone watch three movies by the brilliant Polish director Krzysztof Kieślowski, a true person of genius. Known as Three Colours (Blue, White, and Red), the films are masterpieces of European (particularly French) Cinema. I believe I fall in love with Irene Jacob, the brilliant actress, again and again every time I rewatch Red, my favorite of the trilogy.
Sage’s professor repeatedly mentioned that the music throughout the trilogy was sublime and deserving of serious study. Her professor was correct. You have probably figured out that Preisner wrote the music for all three movies and that Unky Rick had a Preisner CD among the initial 32 that I found.
When I told Sage what I had discovered, she thought the same thing I did: “How cool!” The CD, Requiem For My Friend, is a tribute that Preisner wrote for Kieślowski upon his death in 1996. Unky Rick surely knew of the trilogy and appreciated the genius of these two men. That one CD, more than the entirety of the whole collection, convinced me that Unky Rick and I would have enjoyed talking about his love of music.
I would have been happy to share a meal with him as we discussed what he found special about Preisner’s music. I am convinced he would have had some illuminating insights, and it is unfortunate I will never hear them.
Conclusion
As I write this post, I find myself constantly returning to the tragic events of July 12, 1562. A Franciscan friar (whom I refuse to name), a dimwitted individual from Spain, burned nearly all of the written records of Mayan civilization. They were, in his estimation, works of the devil produced by ignorant heathens. For the sake of all that is good and holy, God himself told the friar that the materials needed to be destroyed. To this day, only four Maya codices survive.
While the destruction of the written records of the Mayan civilization is a tragedy, the disappearance of Unky Rick’s library is nothing more than a footnote in history. Yet, from an archaeological perspective, the situation is the same. The materials are gone, and nothing can be done about it. There was a lot to be learned, but circumstances got in the way.
Why am I fixated on Unky Rick’s library? I have written about my own substantial library. Decades ago, I had hoped it could be kept together and passed down to someone who would appreciate it. I now know that it is a pipe dream. No one will care, and the removal of the books from my home after I am gone will be more of a burden than an opportunity for discovery (good luck, Sage). That doesn’t make me sad; it only makes me shrug my shoulders.
As for Unky Rick’s library, did he have any books about the movie trilogy? Was his copy of Plato’s Republic worn out? I bet he had texts on Aristotle and knew that Socrates didn’t want anyone to write anything down. Did he have any materials about his favorite violinist (Esther Abrami, anyone?) or did he not bother with such trivialities? Would his library tell more about him than the CDs? That is a very good question, and I don’t have a good answer. I do know that my library would expose me.
I have some final, purely speculative, thoughts on Wayne’s wife’s uncle. I don’t think he ever married; there was nothing overtly kid-friendly in the cases. I believe he was highly educated and deeply religious. He certainly could have been a member of the clergy. He was a man who might have felt he was born out of time, believing that the 1300s or 1400s were better times to live in. He watched The Name of the Rose more than once (as I have) and had a highly cultivated mystical (make that spiritual) side (as I do not have).
I believe he lived near Columbus, Ohio, and probably attended Denison University or had a close relationship with it. I gathered this information from the CDs; many were purchased in Columbus, and several feature performances by Dennison orchestras and choirs.
He was a thoughtful, intelligent man in a progressively dense and reactionary world. I would have been delighted to have some tacos and beer with him as we discussed how Preisner’s music informed and framed Kieślowski’s narrative vision. I am convinced he would have had some interesting insights. Finally, I hope he had people in his life who appreciated him, and I really wish I had known him.
