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Sound is the name we give to certain frequencies of fluctuating pressure waves which resonate the human eardrum and are able to be perceived by the human brain. Waves fitting this description have existed since the big bang, all of them dissipating forever into space without any decipherable trace.

Towards the end of his life radio pioneer and otherwise shrewd businessman Guglielmo Marconi imagined that he would be able to recover these sounds, given a powerful enough receiver and a device able to filter them. It’s an appealing notion, that we can hear Bach or Julius Caesar or any of the musicians working before music began being written down using full notation (only 500 years ago), but of course such a thing is impossible. As soon as waves are created, they begin to dissipate, intermingle, bounce around and echo – these resonances aren’t just a vital element of every sound we hear; in many ways, they are the sound we hear.

The story of sound, told in sound, has to begin with its earliest capturing. Now, the story you may have heard about the birth of sound recording goes something like this; Thomas Edison, alone in the lab after a hard day’s work in 1877, manages to record a recital of “Mary Had A Little Lamb” onto a wax cylinder. You may have even think you have heard the recording, but I can guarantee you haven’t. The recording in circulation comes from a 1927 recreation for the Golden Jubilee of the Phonograph. The original was lost on a sheet of re-usable tinfoil fifty years earlier.

But it really doesn’t matter. The real start date for us is nearly a quarter of a century earlier, in the studio of French printer and bookseller Édouard-Léon Scott de Martinville. The year was 1853 or 1854, and he was working on engravings for a physiology textbook, in particular a diagram of the internal workings of the human ear. What if, he thought, we could photograph sounds in the way we do images? (photography was a quarter-century old at this point) He began to sketch a device, a way of mimicking the inner workings of the human ear in order to make lines on a piece of paper.

I cover a plate of glass with an exceedingly thin stratum of lampblack. Above I fix an acoustic trumpet with a membrane the diameter of a five franc coin at its small end–the physiological tympanum (eardrum). At its center I affix a stylus–a boar’s bristle a centimeter or more in length, fine but suitably rigid. I carefully adjust the trumpet so the stylus barely grazes the lampblack. Then, as the glass plate slides horizontally in a well formed groove at a speed of one meter per second, one speaks in the vicinity of the trumpet’s opening, causing the membranes to vibrate and the stylus to trace figures.

The result of this wasn’t a reproducible waveform, of course, such a thing was neither imagined, nor intended. As with Edison later, the primary practical use of this new science was for stenography. Édouard-Léon Scott de Martinville imagined that we could take these sounds and use them to identify single letters, or phonemes (something which is still pretty tricky now) – here is an example of an attempt to match word to sound trace – a truly futile project at the time.

The phonoautogram, as he called it, went through a number of prototypes, with the horn being replaced with a barrel and the sheet of glass replaced by a roll of parchment coated in lampblack (soot) in which markings could be made with a single thread from a feather. It wasn’t until 1859, however, when with the help of Rudolph Koenig he built a reliable version of the machine, and transcribed the sound of a tuning fork, that the recorded sounds become truly decipherable.

By “decipherable” I mean this – sitting in a vault in Paris for 150 years before the amazing people at Firstsounds.org (David Giovannoni, Patrick Feaster, Richard Martin and Meagan Hennessey) de