Reverberation — where it appears
Named by 31 essays across 6 fields — each of them below, with the objects they name alongside it.
The room is part of the instrument
A room has frequencies it supports and frequencies it will not. In a small one those frequencies are far apart, so some bass notes are loud in one corner and absent in another — and no equipment fixes it.
How long a room rings, and where the formula stops
Sabine's reverberation time is one line of arithmetic — volume over absorption — and it built the modern concert hall. It also predicts that a room whose walls absorb everything still rings, which is a room with no reverberation at all, and the error is largest in exactly the rooms most music is now made in.
An instrument points
A source radiates evenly while it is small compared with the wavelength and beams once it is not, and the crossover is one number. So the same instrument is omnidirectional in its bottom octave and a searchlight in its top one — which means its spectrum depends on where the listener is standing, and a microphone position is a choice about what the instrument sounds like.
How often the chord changes
Two pieces can use the same chords in the same order and be nothing alike, because a progression says which chords and not how fast. Harmonic rhythm is the second variable, it runs over a factor of thirty between the styles that use it, and both of its limits are set by things that are not harmony — a listener's memory at the slow end and a building at the fast one.
The room chooses the harmonic rhythm
A chord in a cathedral is still sounding, seven decibels down, when the next one arrives — and the one after that, and the one after that. Reverberation is linear in decibels, so the number of chords audible at once is one number divided by another, and it puts a hard ceiling on how fast a composer writing for that building can change harmony. The ceiling is computable, and the music written for those rooms sits under it.
Where a room stops being a room
A small room has frequencies it supports and frequencies it will not, and a hall has a reverberation time. Those are two separate accounts and they are descriptions of the same building at different frequencies. The crossover is one formula, and in a bedroom it lands at about two hundred hertz — in the middle of the bass register, and above nothing at all in a concert hall.
How far away the room takes over
Direct sound falls six decibels every time the distance doubles and the reverberant field does not fall at all, so the two cross once. In a concert hall the crossing is at about five and a half metres, which is nearer than nearly every seat — so almost everybody in almost every hall is hearing the building more than the players, and the number that says so is built from two quantities already computed — a room's reverberation time and an instrument's directivity.
A room does not decay evenly
Sabine's arithmetic gives one number and absorption is a strong function of frequency, so a room has six reverberation times rather than one. A stone church rings for 6.3 seconds at 125 hertz and 2.4 at 4 kilohertz, which means a chord left in it does not fade — it changes shape, losing its top before it loses its bottom, and arriving at the listener as a different sonority from the one played.
The first eighty milliseconds are a different room
Draw a line across a room's decay and the energy on either side is two opposite verdicts about one building — clarity before it, reverberation after. The line is a property of the ear, not of the room, and putting it at 50 milliseconds and at 80 makes the two published design targets fall out — a room for speech at one second, a room for music at 1.6.
The model has nobody in it
Sabine's room is an empty box. The audience is 45 per cent of a full hall's absorption, a hall with hard seats goes from 2.76 seconds empty to 1.90 full, and because an audience absorbs far more treble than bass it does not shorten the decay so much as tilt it. And the players are inside the loop the model has no term for at all.
A silence long enough to be an ending
Four of the five closure components are present or absent. Silence is the one with a continuous scale, so it is the one that can be given a threshold — and the threshold arrives from two literatures that were not chosen to agree, landing between three and a half and five and a half seconds. In a large hall, the room's own decay uses up most of it.
Where the two ears stop agreeing
A room sends both ears versions of the same sound, alike at low frequencies and increasingly unlike at high ones. Where they stop resembling each other is 980 hertz, and it is set by the 17.5 centimetres between the ears rather than by anything about the room — which is within a quarter of a frequency found earlier for a completely different reason. One minus that correlation is spaciousness, and it is computable from a room's own reverberation.
A room with directions in it
Every room until now has been a reservoir of energy that drains at a rate. That model has no directions in it at all, so it cannot say the one thing every published measure of spaciousness is about: how much of what arrives comes from the side. Mirror the source in six walls and every reflection acquires an angle and a time — and the answer to why a concert hall is narrow falls out at eighteen metres.
An echo is prevented by the crowd around it
The echogram says when every reflection arrives and how loud it is; the published echo threshold says when a reflection that late and that quiet is heard separately. Put one against the other and the rear wall of every hall anybody builds is past the threshold — a 45-metre hall puts it 210 milliseconds late and 25 decibels down against a threshold of 114. It is not heard as an echo, and what saves it is not the geometry. It is everything else arriving at the same time.
The hall through a head
Every direction computed so far is a vector from a seat to an image source, and a listener has no vectors. Run the echogram through the head computed six essays ago and two things happen: the position and width become microseconds, and a third of the room disappears — because both cues fold at ninety degrees and a reflection from behind is identical to one in front.
The turn is half the angle
A stationary head cannot tell a sound in front from the same sound behind, and an earlier essay said so at length. The turn that breaks the confusion is 0.84 degrees — exactly half the angle a source would have to move for the same listener to notice it moving, and half for a reason. In a hall the same turn does something else: the source swings at 8.9 microseconds a degree and the room swings at 2.7, so a listener who moves is separating the soloist from the reverberation as well as the front from the back.
A rest needs a dry room
The twenty-four decibels a general pause is worth assume the sound stops when the players do. Put a hall under it and a bar of silence keeps 60 per cent of its value in a shoebox concert hall and 22 per cent in a cathedral, while a three-and-a-half-second one keeps 86 and 45 — because a hall's tail has a length and a rest either outlives it or does not. A written bar of silence is worth half its dry value at 2.76 seconds of reverberation, which falls between the concert hall and the stone church.
A scale is committed to how long its instrument rings
A traditional scale's standing on the roughness model moves when the instrument changes, and that movement was read as a commitment to the instrument's spectrum. Weight every pair of notes a melody sounds by how much of the earlier note is still ringing when the later one begins, and the movement grows — the tempered diatonic's by 37 percentile points at a note every 0.6 seconds — but almost none of it is the spectrum. Put four instruments' rings on one spectrum and the scale moves 38.6 points; put four spectra under one ring and it moves 9.4. And the partials that make a fifth smooth are the first to stop sounding.
A room keeps a pizzicato from giving its note away
Doubled by a flute, a one-second pizzicato loses its note in 70 milliseconds dry, because its upper partials go first. The question left open was whether a room, whose reverberation keeps those partials alive, gives the note back afterwards. It does not give it back. It stops the note going: ten metres into a concert hall the pluck keeps it for 506 milliseconds, in a stone church for 814, and the room's own uneven decay takes back between a quarter and two fifths of that. In a room the loss law that decided everything dry matters a tenth as much, because the room's decay has become the clock.
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.
One note in the compass loses its pizzicato
Dry, how long a pluck keeps the composite spectrum barely depends on which note it plays: three-hundredths of a second at the worst pitch and seven at the best, a spread of three. In a concert hall the same eight notes spread by a factor of forty-three, and in a stone church one of them never gets the note at all. The room does not scale the dry answer by a constant — it multiplies it by between four and nine times depending on the pitch, and at the one note where the two instruments' spectra nearly coincide it makes the pluck's position worse instead of better.
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.
A pointing source's staccato ends dark, not bright
A damped note's release is heard as the player plays it only close to the instrument: a little way out, the room's copy takes over and the staccato is gone. A source that points, as a grand piano with its lid raised does, beams its upper partials along its axis, so their direct sound reaches further, and the prediction was that the release of a note's colour would survive into the hall where the release of the note does not — heard as a brief brightening before a room-length tail. Beaming does carry the second to fifth partials' articulation beyond the fundamental's. The highest never catch up, the whole note gains a fifth of its reach, and the release is heard not as a brightening but as a darkening.
A lid darkens a staccato only inside a narrowing cone
Along its axis, a raised lid makes a damped note's release darker, because the brightness it beams at the listener is the part the damper stops. Most of an audience does not sit on the axis. Off it, the same beaming does the reverse, and a little way off it does the reverse more strongly than no lid at all would. The region where the release darkens is a cone whose half-width obeys one law — the fundamental times the radiator's radius times the sine of the angle is 23.6 hertz-metres — so it narrows from 28 degrees at C3 to 8 at C5.
In a hall the balanced ending is a louder chord
In a dry room a rest before a final stamp a step louder can leave a passage finishing exactly at its tutti's weight, but only for a stamp shorter than a ninth of a second. The prediction was that a hall would make it impossible: its tail fills the rest and lengthens the stamp. That is right for a small room and wrong for a hall. Read when the chord's tail has died, a live hall pulls every ending below its tutti, and the ending that finishes at its own weight there is a held chord marked louder than the passage — five phons louder at a second of reverberation, a whole step at about 1.3 seconds, two at 2.3.
In a hall a section of violins loses the notes it saved
Dry, twelve violins with different bodies fill in the note one violin's pizzicato gives away to a held clarinet, leaving a shallow shelf a few tenths of a decibel above zero. In a hall that shelf goes under all at once. The room takes the same few decibels from each note whether it comes from one violin or twelve, so a section's smoothing survives only to the front of the hall — about two metres over a clarinet, six over an oboe — and from ten metres back a section loses exactly as many notes as one violin does.
A hall leaves a thinning ending most of its diminuendo
A written diminuendo made by dropping parts arrives about four and a half phons under the listener's impression in a dry room. A hall's tail sounds under every bar and holds the level up as parts leave, and the obvious worry is that it fills the gaps a thinning leaves, as it fills a rest. It barely does. A concert hall leaves the thinning 86 to 100 per cent of its contrast and a stone church about three quarters, where the same rooms leave a two-second general pause three quarters and a half. A thinning steps down a decibel or two a bar, and a hall's tail falls nine decibels in the time a listener takes to register the arrival; only a cathedral is slow enough to blunt the last step, and it takes half.
A section keeps its pizzicato only inside a cone
In a hall a section's pizzicato loses its corpus notes to a held clarinet within two metres, on the assumption that a violin radiates equally in every direction. It does not, and twelve players sharing a beam cannot average it away. Directly on the players' axis, the same section keeps every note for twenty-five metres. Thirty degrees off, with the beam's upper partials thrown elsewhere, it is worse than if it had never pointed. A question about how far back a pizzicato carries turns out to be a question about which way the listener's seat faces.
A hall forgets almost everything but the last part to leave
A hall's bass outlasts its treble, so a thinning ending ought to care which parts it drops first: top down should leave the tail's darkness to fill the gap, and bass up should remove what the tail holds longest. Searched over all 720 orders, it barely does. Give the tail a spectrum and the drop moves by under half a phon, in the direction that helps the order expected to suffer. What sets the ending is two notes: the one left sounding, and the one that went just before it. Everything earlier has gone.
A wall puts antiphonal seconds back beside the firsts
Second violins seated opposite the firsts have their plates turned away from the audience, and in a hall a section's pizzicato depends on its beam. With nothing behind them they keep their worst note in about one seat in a hundred. A perfectly hard wall two metres behind gives them back a cone as large as the firsts' own, but a wall that loses three decibels takes most of it away again. And the seats that cone serves turn out to be, within a seat or two, the seats the same section would serve sitting beside the firsts.
Named alongside it
The objects these essays reach for when they reach for this one.
DecayAbsorptionRoom acousticsLocalisationPrecedence effectTimbreCritical distanceDiffuse fieldEnvelopeSabine equationDampingDynamics