Every point on one curve sounds equally loud
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. 14 of its 14 placements carry sound, built from the same numbers as the drawing, offering these buttons: 50 Hz and 1 kHz at the same level, 50 Hz and 1 kHz, equally loud, Both 20 dB quieter, Both 40 dB quieter, Both 45 dB quieter, Both at 40 phons — the 50 Hz raised to match, One voice, Ten voices, ten decibels louder.
Called by 7 essays
the blast radius of changing it
The quietest thing audible, and why the volume knob is a tone control
A decibel is a fact about air. A phon is a fact about a listener, and the two do not line up — the map between them bends with frequency, and it bends differently at every level. One consequence is that turning a piece of music down does not turn all of it down equally, and the amount by which it does not is a number.
One sound hides another, and it hides upward
A tone can be made completely inaudible by a second tone that is nowhere near it in frequency, and the region it disappears into is lopsided. Masking spreads up the spectrum and barely down it, and the reach grows with the masker's level — so which line in an arrangement vanishes is a prediction, not a matter of taste.
The bass a small loudspeaker does not make
A three-inch cone at its excursion limit produces sixty-six decibels at forty hertz, which the ear converts to seventeen phons — barely above nothing. The note is heard anyway, because its harmonics are radiated and its fundamental is supplied by the listener. Computing what arrives turns the residue from a curiosity into a design decision, and finds that the fundamental of a low note is not the loudest part of it on any system a listener is likely to own.
The same chord is harsher when it is louder
Every roughness number so far was computed at a level nobody stated. Roughness is the product of two partial amplitudes, so it is quadratic in pressure, while loudness is compressive — which makes a minor third at middle C thirty-two thousand times rougher at fortissimo than at pianissimo and only twenty-five times louder. A chord has no single consonance to report.
Loud is relative, and it comes down slowly
The account of loudness had a model of a moment and the account of closure asked it for a model of a form. The published one exists and its content is a pair of numbers that are not the same: a listener's running impression of how loud the music is rises to meet a step in a fifth of a second and takes seven seconds to come back down. A twenty-decibel crescendo spread over eight seconds therefore buys almost no contrast at all, and the same twenty decibels taken as a step buys a factor of two.
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.
A subito piano is four seconds longer in the bass
Every loudness figure with time in it converts level to loudness at one kilohertz, and the equal-loudness contours say that no other frequency works that way. Joining the two sorts the published numbers into those that were about the treble and those that were not. Three move a great deal — a twenty-decibel crescendo is worth 27 phons on a bass note and 20 on a high one, and the seven seconds a subito piano takes becomes eleven and a third. Three do not move at all, and the reason they do not is the same reason in every case.