Envelope — where it appears
Named by 25 essays across 4 fields — each of them below, with the objects they name alongside it.
The shape of a note, which is most of what an instrument is
Cut the first fifty milliseconds off a recorded piano and listeners stop calling it a piano. The attack carries more identity than the steady tone it leads into, and it is the part every spectrum plot leaves out.
The first fifty milliseconds
A spectrum is supposed to be what makes a trumpet a trumpet. Cut the first fifty milliseconds off a recorded note and listeners stop being able to name the instrument — while the spectrum they are hearing is unchanged. Identity is in the part of the sound that ends before the note has properly started.
A hammer is not an impulse
Contact lasts a couple of milliseconds, which low-passes the note — any partial whose half-period is shorter than the contact is barely excited. Piano felt is a spring that stiffens as it compresses, so a harder blow makes the contact shorter, the corner higher and the note brighter. A loud note is not a scaled-up quiet one, and no linear model gives that.
The bow makes a corner
A bowed string is not a string swinging. It is two straight lines meeting at a single sharp corner that travels round the string once per period, triggering the slip that keeps it going. The force on the bridge is therefore a sawtooth, and a sawtooth is every harmonic at exactly one over n — which is why a bowed string is the most nearly perfect harmonic series in the orchestra.
How much bow is allowed
Too little force and the corner fails to trigger a slip on every pass; too much and the string sticks for more than a period. Both bounds depend on where the bow is, and they depend on it differently — one as the square of the distance from the bridge and one linearly — so the window between them closes in proportion as the bow approaches the bridge. Sul ponticello is difficult by a power law.
The reed is a valve, not a vibrator
Three essays here have said that a clarinet's reed does not choose the note, and none of them said what it does instead. It chops a steady stream of air, and past a third of the pressure that closes it the flow falls as the player blows harder — a resistance with the wrong sign, which is the only thing in the instrument capable of putting energy into an oscillation that is otherwise losing it.
The note has to start somewhere
Schelleng's diagram says how hard a bow may press at a given distance from the bridge for a steady tone to be possible. It is a map of a note that is already sounding, and it contains no information whatever about how to begin one. Read the same inequality at the speed the bow has after a single period rather than at the speed it will settle to and the admissible region turns out to be a wedge through the origin — same width as a ratio, a hundred and ninety-six times lower in force. A constant bow pressure is inside it for one instant of the attack and outside it for the rest.
Three strings, and the note that comes back
The usual account of a beat adds two independent sources together. A piano's strings are joined at the bridge and are not independent: the pair has normal modes, one of which drives the bridge and dies in a second and a half while the other cancels at the bridge and rings for twenty. A hammer striking a perfect unison excites only the first — so a perfectly tuned unison is the shortest note on the instrument, dying in one second, and the longest is at a deliberate detuning of about two and a half cents, at three. Past four and a half cents the two modes swap what they share and the sustain collapses.
The note that gets duller as it dies
Every envelope drawn so far is one curve applied to a whole sound, and no struck string behaves that way. A string loses energy to air, to internal friction and to the bridge, and all three losses rise with frequency — so a note with a six-second fundamental has a sixteenth partial that is gone in under half a second, and the sound moving toward the listener is a spectrum collapsing toward its own fundamental. Which means an instrument is identified twice: once by the fifty milliseconds of its attack, which the earlier essays measured, and again by how fast its colour drains, which they did not.
A note is heard after it starts
Every rhythm essay until now has treated a note's onset as the moment it happens. It is not: the instant a listener aligns a note with a beat is later than its physical start by an amount the note's own attack decides, and for a sung or bowed note that amount is about thirty milliseconds — the size of the whole quantity six essays on microtiming set out to measure.
The partials that do not die together
The fusion census is a still photograph: it asks whether a set of partials fits one harmonic series and has no term for time. Put time in and the ranking reverses. An ideal string is perfect on harmonicity and holds a fifth of its partials together by decay; a kettledrum — the worst spectrum in this collection for fitting a series — is the only one whose modes all die at one rate.
What the tongue actually removes
The question this essay was written against asked for an impulse: a tongued attack, a martelé stroke and a struck key all deliver one before the steady drive begins. The arithmetic refuses the framing. A tongue release does carry energy at the note's own frequency, and it is worth 0.17 milliseconds on a trumpet against a settling time of 62 — capped at about 1.13 over the resonance's Q. What articulation is worth is the ramp it removes, and that is about half the ramp's own length: 44 milliseconds, and very nearly the same 44 on every wind instrument in the collection.
Read at two different heights
Ten placements of these figures, one value: the settling criterion is nine tenths in every one of them, and nothing is measured behind it. It is a multiplicative constant only inside the mechanism that has it — a bow's capture and an exciter's contact contain no criterion at all — so moving it rescales one of three clusters against two that stand still. The most-quoted number here, a factor of sixty-nine between the instrument's account and the listener's, is 5.9 at the criterion the listener's own measurements use, and the ordering an earlier essay was written about does not exist below a fifth.
A staccato is a dynamic mark
Every loudness figure in this collection is of a sound that has been going on long enough, and no note in music has. Run the running-loudness model on notes with lengths in them and an articulation turns out to command 1.5 phons at a slow tempo and 8.1 at a fast one — more than the 1.8 decibels a whole texture commands, on the same page, written down in the same ink, and counted by nobody.
The top that falls while the note lasts
Four earlier essays have asked where the harmonic series stops, and all four answered with a number computed for a tone that never ends. A struck C3 has 152 audible partials at the strike and eight after two-thirds of a second, so the ear's own resolution limit governs the first ten per cent of the note and the decay governs the rest. Playing ten decibels louder buys the ear a further tenth of a second, and doubling its reign would take fifty-eight.
The middle nobody could have guessed
A struck note has no steady state, only a slide from one spectrum to another — so the question is what the middle carries that the ends do not. The answer is exact rather than statistical: every loss law in the family leaves the strike with the same spectrum and ends in the same silence, so both endpoints carry precisely nothing about which of them it is. The whole difference is 41.3 decibels, and it peaks 0.38 seconds in, seven per cent of the way through the note.
The collapse belongs to the bass
Every envelope drawn until now has no pitch in it: the decay model counts partials rather than measuring them in hertz. Put a fundamental in and the collapse it describes shrinks monotonically up the keyboard, from 25.2 semitones of colour drain at A0 to 6.6 at C8, because a partial has to fit under twenty kilohertz to exist and the top note has four of them. Above C6 a struck note has fewer partials than the ear could have resolved, and there is nothing left for a collapse to take away.
An attack time is not an attack
Eight earlier essays read a heard moment off an envelope, and every one of them used the same envelope shape without saying so: the source table records one curve for all nine of its families, and the map's own arithmetic does not carry the parameter at all. A published attack time fixes a ten-to-ninety time and nothing else. Under the two other shapes the same measurement admits, every millisecond computed so far doubles — and the constructed passage called inaudible earlier becomes three times a listener's threshold.
The blend arrives before the note does
Nine essays on spectrum draw a steady state, and the strongest cue that two instruments are two instruments is that they do not start together. Two envelopes rising at different rates turn out to be a balance — the same dial an earlier essay swept — so the attack is that dial moved by the clock, and its whole travel is fixed at twenty times the log of the two attack times. It is six decibels for a clarinet with a violin against a crossing twelve to twenty-two decibels out, so one pair in ten changes hands during its own attack, and which one depends on a convention rather than on the instruments.
A doubled pizzicato gives its note away early
The attack turns the balance between two players on one note by a few decibels and stops. A pluck does not stop — every partial of it decays, so a pizzicato doubled by a held instrument walks the balance for the whole note, and the expectation was a handover as slow as the decay. It is fast. A one-second pizzicato over a flute loses its note in 70 milliseconds, while it is still five decibels the louder, because what hands the note over is its upper partials going first. A uniform fade would have kept it eight times as long.
A bow holds the number a blow hides
Two struck notes with different loss laws are identical at the strike and identical at the end, which is why separating them at all meant looking in the middle. Drive the same two strings continuously and the loss law stops being a rate and becomes a slope: each partial settles at its drive over its own loss, so the exponent adds to the source's roll-off and sits in the spectrum for as long as the bow moves. It is 18.7 decibels of separation available from the first instant, against 41.3 that a blow delivers after four tenths of a second and then takes away.
The room is the slower of the two
A reverberant field is the source convolved with the room, so a partial's tail falls at the slower of the two rates rather than at their sum — and the room is slower for exactly the partials the string is losing fastest. Half a note's colour is gone in 0.163 seconds in no room at all, 0.313 in a concert hall and 1.441 in a stone church. The destination is identical in all three, because a room cannot hold a partial up above the fundamental it is also holding. What a hall takes away is the rate, and the rate was the whole of the identity cue.
A damper changes the clock, not the colour
A damper is an extra loss on the string rather than a second decay, so it adds the same number of nepers a second to every partial — and adding a constant to every rate leaves every difference between rates exactly where it was. The damped spectrum at any instant is the ringing spectrum at that instant shifted bodily down, to machine precision. The colour goes on draining at its own rate; the note simply runs out of seconds, and how many it gets is written on the page as a note value and a tempo.
A damper cannot reach into the room
The essay before this one proposed the arithmetic for a damped note in a hall: take the slower of the string's rate and the room's, then add the damper's to whichever won. The composition is wrong, and it is wrong in the one place that decides the answer. A damper is a loss on the string, so it belongs inside the minimum where a room can overrule it — and past about three seconds of reverberation it is overruled on every partial, so the damper removes no audible seconds of note at all.
Only the player hears a staccato end
A damper stops a string in a seventh of a second, and in a hall the room goes on for two. A listener hears both, mixed in proportion to how close they sit, and the question was at what distance the short part stops mattering. The answer is closer than any seat. A damped note's twenty-decibel fall has doubled in length by a seventh of a hall's critical distance — 77 centimetres in a two-second concert hall — and by a quarter of it in a jazz club. The end of a staccato is something the pianist hears and the front row does not.
Named alongside it
The objects these essays reach for when they reach for this one.
Attack transientDecayBrightnessOnsetTimbrePartialSpectral centroidIdentificationDampingEnsemble asynchronyHelmholtz motionNonlinearity