Some Margin Notes on “PITCH”

About two years ago, a curious event of synchronicity led me to start a research project that soon transformed into “Pitch: A Performance Lecture on Vocal Intonation.”¹

By way of introduction, I would like to say that I have been wondering about the voice for a long time, and in particular, about certain mechanisms that seem to characterize a substantial segment of society: the manipulation of one's timbre in favor of low tones. Who hasn’t, in front of a serious interlocutor, unconsciously lowered their voice, thinking that sticking to a higher pitch might somehow put them at a disadvantage? At the time, I wasn’t thinking about this directly. Instead, I was reading studies of non-human communication. Through a series of readings, I came across the name of John J. Ohala, a phonetician who was influenced by ornithologist Eugene Morton’s work. In the 1980s, Ohala proposed the existence of the Frequency Code,² a code used in both human and non-human communication that associates high vocal tones with the primary meaning of “small vocalizer” and secondary meanings such as “subordinate” and “submissive.” Conversely, low tones are linked to the primary meaning of “big vocalizer,” implying dominance and aggression.³

Around the same time, I came across an interview with Serge Gainsbourg discussing the creation of his song “Je t’aime… moi non plus.” The song was originally written for Brigitte Bardot, but she forbade him to release it after they broke up. Gainsbourg later offered the song to Jane Birkin—whom he referred to as “la petite” (the little one)—and Birkin instinctively sang the melody in a higher octave. Gainsbourg commented, “Simplement nous sommes en Do majeur, et… Jane à prix l’octave au-dessus, ça veut dire que c’est devenue une petite nymphette, une petite Lolita”⁴ (“It’s just that we are in C major, and… Jane took the octave higher, which means she has become a little nymphet, a little Lolita.”). I paused the video, stunned by the implications of his words. I must confess that I am captivated by Gainsbourg’s voice and often listen to his music. I suspect many readers feel the same, and I believe it has something to do with the subject we are discussing. However, in my eyes, such statements also raise troubling questions about dominance and patriarchy and underline the power dynamics embedded in vocal expression.

It is precisely in this murky territory, where our bodies, desires, and conditioned responses intertwine, that it becomes imperative to investigate the role of the voice. As we explore these issues, particularly concerning vocal intonation, we inevitably encounter discomfort. What shapes our preferences for certain voices and sounds? Undoubtedly, culture and media play significant roles. It is important to note that this discussion isn’t about Gainsbourg and Birkin as individuals but about the vocal personas they crafted, reinforcing a vocal dichotomy and mythologizing it. Every body has its own characteristics—vocal timbre is influenced by factors such as the size of the larynx and vocal cords—but we are not dealing with purely physiological matters here. Instead, it’s about the conscious and unconscious manipulation of our pitch. John J. Ohala has studied various transcultural and trans-species vocal mechanisms, such as the rising pitch we use when asking a question, followed by a descending tone in response. This pattern mirrors the tension and resolution in music, where dominant notes resolve into tonic ones.

There seems to be an innate aversion to high-pitched sounds, which are intrinsically associated with alarm and loss of control. The most intriguing essay on these themes is Anne Carson’s “The Gender of Sound.”⁵ Carson explores how, in ancient Greek society, high-pitched voices and loquacity were seen as deviations from the male ideal of self-control and verbal restraint, encapsulated by the concept of “sophrosyne.”⁶ This concept was central to patriarchal thinking on ethics and emotions. According to Carson, individuals who didn’t conform to this ideal—women, eunuchs, catamites, and androgynous figures—were seen as acoustically offensive, their sounds perceived as undermining the authority of wisdom and creating discomfort. Women were often relegated to a specific kind of cry known as the Ololyga, a high-pitched sound used during crucial moments in rituals or daily life, such as childbirth.⁷ These cries were confined to particular spaces—suburbs, mountains, beaches, or rooftops—where women could express themselves without disturbing men or encroaching on civic space.

In the 6th century BC, laws enacted by Solon even prohibited women’s vocal excesses during festivals, processions, and funeral rites, fearing that such high-pitched sounds could incite madness.⁸ In contrast, during the Hellenistic and Roman periods, male doctors recommended vocal exercises as treatments for various physical and psychological ailments. They believed that public speaking, or declamation, would alleviate congestion in the head and counteract the damage caused by men’s vocal excesses, such as shouting or engaging in trivial conversation.⁹ Given this cultural obsession with vocal control, it’s no surprise that Greek civilization created mythical figures like the Sirens, Furies, and Gorgons—beings characterized by their deceptive or terrifying voices, reinforcing the idea that vocal excess, especially from women, was dangerous and monstrous.¹⁰

Throughout history, the regulation of voice and vocal expression has been a means of exerting control over behavior. This complex relationship between vocality and societal norms is a subject that still requires much study. Understanding how vocal manipulation has been used to reinforce gender roles could offer us a new perspective on the construction of gender, enabling us to recognize how culture and perception are intertwined in a non-innocent and often coercive manner.

Giulia Deval (she/her) is a singer, sound artist and PhD student in “New Media and Critical-Curatorial Practices of Contemporary Creation” at the Accademia Albertina of Turin.