The same note, hit at a middling dynamic
Drawn above with its standard settings, which is almost never how an essay draws it: an essay states the numbers it is arguing about, so the figure a reader meets there is about that argument rather than about the drawing in general. Every option a placement passes is checked against the ones this function actually reads, because an option it does not read is silently ignored and the figure quietly draws what is above instead.
It makes a noise. 54 of its 54 placements carry sound, built from the same numbers as the drawing, offering these buttons: A bass note, A bass note struck hard, A treble note, A treble note struck hard, A3 with the assumed excitation, A3 with the computed one, At this dynamic, C2 with the assumed excitation and 15 more.
Called by 14 essays
the blast radius of changing it
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 mark that is not a level
There are six of them, they carry no units, and a performer has to turn one into a number before it means anything. What they instruct is not loudness. On a struck string a harder blow shortens the hammer's contact from 2.26 milliseconds to 0.95, which moves the first null of its own pulse from the third partial to the sixth: the partials between those are not quieter at pianissimo, they are gone. A fortissimo is a different sound, and the page has one word for both things it changes.
The hammer is not a point either
The comb of missing partials is computed throughout for a contact of no width, and a piano hammer is sixteen millimetres of felt on a string of six hundred. Integrating the mode shape across the felt turns out not to fill the null in: a mode is odd about its own node, so a symmetric contact centred on it gives an exact zero however wide it is. What destroys the null is being in the wrong place, and the tolerance is 2.8 millimetres for twenty decibels of suppression and 0.89 for thirty. The design decision found at the outset is a manufacturing tolerance.
The hammer that is heavier than its string
Three earlier essays varied where the hammer lands, how long it stays and how wide it is, and the third named the fourth variable: the exciter's own mass. It inverts across one instrument — the hammer is lighter than the wire it hits at the bottom of a piano and thirteen times heavier at the top — and it turns the contact time into a quantity the string decides rather than the felt.
Playing louder is playing earlier
An accent has two effects on when its note is heard and neither is a timing decision. A harder-driven instrument has a shorter attack, and a criterion set by the surrounding music is crossed sooner by a bigger rise — so a twelve-decibel accent on a bowed note is heard twenty-four milliseconds early with no change whatever in when the bow was put down. It is also the measurement that tells the two competing models apart.
The pulse that was assumed
Every figure until now low-passes the string's excitation with the spectrum of a half-sine, which is what a hammer would deliver against a rigid wall. An earlier essay said so and declined to do better. Doing better takes forty lines and refuses the prediction that came with it: the corner's round trips govern the spectrum as expected, and the contact time is governed by something else entirely — the mass ratio discovered one essay earlier.
What the climb was a search for
The four-hundred-year rise in the pitch standard is usually explained as a search for brilliance, and an earlier essay ended by asking whether that was even coherent: does raising a string's tension change its spectrum as well as its pitch? Mostly it does not. What changes the timbre is something else entirely, and it is a mechanism that applies to instruments with no strings at all — every filter in the chain is fixed in absolute frequency while the notes move against it, so raising the standard is not a brightening but a reshuffling, and some notes lose.
The corner does not come back a corner
Stepping a hammer forward against the string's own returning wave showed that the coupling matters most in the bass. It assumed the wave that came back was the shape that left. On a stiff string it is not: partials travel at different speeds, and by the top octave of a piano the sixth partial is the first to arrive out of place. But a periodic wave can only see phase modulo a cycle, and counted that way twenty-one of forty-eight partials are still in step — which is why the returning wave is degraded rather than destroyed.
A dynamic mark changes what a note is
Every spectrum until now is a shape with a level in front of it, so that playing ten decibels louder raises every partial by ten. That is true of exactly one instrument in an orchestra. Everybody else steepens their own spectrum as they lean on it, and a trumpet's centre of gravity moves from the second partial to the sixth across a dynamic range while an organ flue pipe's does not move at all.
Four terms, and only one of them binds
Six earlier essays each computed one term of a piano's excitation spectrum and handed it to the next, and nobody had multiplied them. Multiplied, three of the four have a corner — a partial above which they are the term doing the removing — and putting the three corners on one axis says which is in charge at each pitch. Below E3 the strike point decides; above it the contact time does; and the dispersion, which is the newest and most laborious term, is nowhere the binding one.
The crossing belongs to the felt
On a piano the strike point decides the top of the spectrum below E3 and the hammer's contact decides it above. The merger's own bookkeeping asked whether that crossing is a fact about pianos or about hammers. A plectrum never crosses at all and a hard beater crosses two octaves higher, and the boundary is a contact time of about an eighth of a millisecond — ten times shorter than felt.
Three exciters and three wires
Every column drawn so far has run a plectrum and a beater on a piano's string, because a piano's was the only scaling to hand. A harpsichord's wire is an order of magnitude less stiff, for a reason that turns out to be the tensile strength of iron — and with all nine combinations computed, the crossing found before stays exactly where it was, on every wire.
The cue that settles it
Arbitrating between two grouping cues meant sweeping an exchange rate nobody could supply. The cue it had no term for at all is the one every account calls strongest, and its strength is computable: a struck string's partials start together to within a tenth of a millisecond against a threshold of twenty. Put that into the competition and three of five verdicts change, all the same way — and a bell becomes one sound.
What the second register is for
Nine earlier essays take the plucking fraction as given — an eighth, a sixth, a seventh — and a harpsichord's jacks stand in a rail, so what is given is a distance and the fraction is a consequence: 50 millimetres is one thirty-sixth of the string in the bass and one three-and-a-halfth in the treble. Engage two registers on one string and the amplitudes add exactly, the near one fills the far one's missing partials, the pair digs holes of its own that neither has, and the combination comes out louder and rounder than either — including the bright one.