Envelope — the series
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.