Benn Jordan turns a whimsical question—does sound help plants grow?—into a rigorous dissection of how we know what we know. Rather than delivering a simple yes or no, the piece uses a two-month plant experiment to expose the fragility of scientific truth and the political weaponization of the "replication crisis." This is not just a gardening story; it is a manifesto on why nuance matters in an era of binary thinking.
The Replication Crisis and the Death of Binary Truth
Jordan begins by dismantling the folklore surrounding plants and music, tracing a lineage from 1962 studies on holy basil to the infamous 1970s experiments by Dorothy Retallak. While Retallak claimed plants grew toward classical music and away from rock, Jordan notes that her work was plagued by "inadequately defined plant Chambers" and a desire to prove "positive music" and "negative music" rather than measure yield. The author is quick to point out the danger of anthropomorphizing nature, stating, "plants don't have feelings or emotions much less do they enjoy or dislike particular genres of music." This distinction is vital; it separates observable biological responses from human projection.
The commentary here is sharp because it refuses to let the reader off the hook with a simple debunking. Instead, Jordan pivots to the methodology, arguing that the scientific method exists primarily to "reduce human bias." Whether a researcher is a believer in sonic fertilizer or a skeptic, the goal is to "wedge right between those two biases." This framing is effective because it shifts the focus from the outcome of the experiment to the integrity of the process. It suggests that the value of science lies not in finding a definitive answer, but in the relentless pursuit of reducing error.
"There is no such thing as a definite truth or a definite answer or a binary every single thing in science and as far as we know in reality exists on a spectrum somewhere between highly improbable and highly probable."
Jordan leans on Kurt Gödel's incompleteness theorems to argue that even mathematics, the bedrock of logic, cannot prove its own completeness. This is a bold move, but it serves the narrative: if absolute certainty is impossible, then the "replication crisis"—the fact that many studies cannot be repeated—is not a sign that science is broken, but a feature of a system designed to refine probability. Critics might argue that invoking Gödel to explain biological variability is a category error, yet the metaphor holds up: science is a process of elimination, not a factory of absolutes.
Designing the Experiment and the Cost of Precision
The core of the piece is the experiment itself, where Jordan grows wheat grass and chia in a controlled hydroponic environment. The author describes the obsessive attention to detail required to ensure validity: filtering and boiling water, weighing seeds, and calibrating scales. "Semantics and painfully annoying detail are everything," Jordan writes, emphasizing that skipping these steps risks having to "run the entire experiment over again." The results were surprising: wheat grass exposed to a 4,000 hertz sine wave grew over two inches more and saw a 28% increase in biomass compared to the control group.
This finding is presented with appropriate caution. Jordan offers three theories: the frequency signals favorable conditions, acoustic pressure boosts photosynthesis, or the waves help the plant carry its weight. The author admits the last theory sounds silly but notes their background in acoustic levitation makes it worth testing. This willingness to explore the absurd while maintaining rigorous standards is the piece's greatest strength. It demonstrates that curiosity, not just confirmation, drives discovery.
"The results of proper scientific method can only reward you and any criticism of your theory iies or experiments can only Enlighten you."
The author uses this personal discovery to pivot back to the broader political context. Jordan argues that the "war on truth" often involves misrepresenting the replication crisis to discredit science entirely. When a study in Japan fails to replicate a result found in the US, it doesn't mean the original was false; it adds a layer of precision that could lead to better outcomes. The author suggests that the real issue is not the failure of science, but the lack of funding for replication, often driven by corporate interests that have no incentive to challenge favorable results. "A fracking company is not going to be interested in spending money on a doover for a published study of the safety of a new chemical," Jordan observes, highlighting how capitalism can distort the scientific landscape.
Bottom Line
Jordan's strongest argument is that the replication crisis is a feature of a self-correcting system, not a bug that invalidates all research. The piece's biggest vulnerability is its heavy reliance on philosophical analogies, which may distract from the biological specifics of the plant experiment. However, the ultimate takeaway is clear: in a world demanding binary answers, the most honest approach is to embrace the spectrum of probability and defend the rigorous, often expensive, work required to find it.
"There is no such thing as a definite truth or a definite answer or a binary every single thing in science and as far as we know in reality exists on a spectrum somewhere between highly improbable and highly probable."
Bottom Line
Jordan's core argument is that scientific truth is a spectrum, not a binary, and that the "replication crisis" is often weaponized to undermine objectivity. The piece's greatest strength is its refusal to offer a simple conclusion, instead demonstrating how rigorous methodology and the acceptance of uncertainty are the only paths to reliable knowledge. Readers should watch for how this framework is applied to other contested fields, from climate science to public health, where the demand for absolute certainty often leads to paralysis or denial.