Irtiza Shafaat Bokharee
When someone sings a little off-key—or is “be-surra” in the parlance of the North Indian music tradition, which is also followed in Pakistan—many of us don’t immediately notice. But if they rush or lag in timing “be-tala,” it stands out right away. Even the untrained ear picks up on bad rhythm more quickly than off-pitch singing. There’s something about timing, about being in sync, that our bodies instinctively respond to. This points to a more fundamental reality: rhythm might be more elemental—and more universal—than pitch. To see why, let’s start with what these terms mean.
Pitch refers to frequency: the highness or lowness of a sound. It allows us to distinguish between notes in a melody or the different tones in a singer’s voice. Pitch is central to what we think of as the melodic content of a song—the part you can hum, sing, or whistle. But pitch is also highly culturally specific. Different musical traditions use different tuning systems, scales, and ideas of what sounds “in tune.” For example, contemporary Western music uses a 12-tone equal temperament system, while Indian classical music includes microtones—a system of 22 tones called shrutis, which are subtle shifts in pitch that express deep emotion for trained ears but may go unnoticed by outsiders. This is why many classical purists consider the harmonium a colonial instrument—it uses the Western 12-tone system and cannot produce the microtonal nuances essential for ragas like Darbari, with its distinct use of a flat sixth (dha). Arabic maqamat and Indonesian gamelan traditions also use tonal systems that diverge significantly from the Western norm. Performances in these traditions might seem off to the first-time listener because of lack of conformity.
Rhythm, on the other hand, is about timing and tempo—the beat, the pulse, the pattern of sounds over time. Rhythm is what makes us tap our feet, nod our heads, or dance. It’s the heartbeat beneath the melody, the internal clock that keeps everything moving. And unlike pitch, rhythm doesn’t require specialized knowledge to be felt. You don’t need to understand music theory to sense when something feels off—you just feel it.
Remarkably, we feel rhythm before we can even speak. Babies bounce to a beat before they form words. In the womb, a fetus hears the mother’s heartbeat—a primal rhythm that stays with us for life. When that rhythm stops, we die. Rhythm shapes not only music but also language, movement, and thought. Every language has its own prosody—its own rhythmic flow of syllables and stresses. Even poetry often relies more on meter and cadence than on melody.
While pitch is closely tied to learned systems, rhythm is built into our biology. And it’s not just humans—animals like parrots and sea lions have been shown to keep a beat. But most animals, and many people, struggle with pitch. They can’t reproduce melodies or distinguish subtle tonal shifts the way trained musicians can. This suggests rhythm may connect to something more fundamental and universal. That doesn’t mean rhythm is always simple. African polyrhythms, Indian tala cycles like the “champak savari, 11 beats,” and syncopation-based frames in jazz show that rhythm can be deeply complex. Yet even the most intricate structures are grounded in something intuitive—something you can move to, even without fully understanding it.
Of course, rhythm and pitch overlap. Both are essential to music, and both carry emotional weight. A melody without rhythm is shapeless; a beat without pitch is flat. Some contemporary musical movements try to abandon traditional rhythmic structures entirely, but these remain on the fringes. Percussive instruments must also be tuned to pitch—otherwise they sound off. That’s why tabla players use a special hammer to tune their drums. If not tuned properly, the sound is dull or jarring. Still, if we ask which of the two is more immediately accessible, more cross-cultural, and more instinctive—rhythm has the edge. This universality is evident in shared human practices. Across the world—at protests, parades, rituals, or weddings—people clap, drum, and move together in rhythm. War drums played a huge role in ancient and medieval times. Even when words and melodies are unfamiliar, the beat brings people together. It’s a shared language that doesn’t require translation. And perhaps most powerfully, rhythm endures even when much else is lost. People with memory loss may forget names, faces, or words—but they can often still tap their feet to a familiar rhythm. It reaches deep into the brain, connecting us to ourselves and to others.
For great artists like Ustad Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, natural musical talent combined with years of practice created a powerful synergy. His mastery of complex rhythmic articulations (lay-kari) complemented his vast repertoire of composed melodies, shining through in his signature qawwali improvisations. As Nusrat said, “People in Japan didn’t understand the language, but the language of music made arenas sway in spiritual ecstasy.” Similarly, jazz legend John Coltrane revolutionized rhythm and melody through relentless exploration and spiritual intensity. Coltrane once said, “My music is the spiritual expression of what I am — my faith, my knowledge, my being.” Both artists show that it’s not about whether rhythm or pitch matters more—it’s their blend, combined with sincerity and authenticity, that creates something truly transcendent. At that level, music performance moves beyond worrying about the technicalities of the form; it has more to do with finding a unison with the centre of the universe.
The author is a freelance columnist, academician, and an independent musician.
