The Fourier Series
You now know how to compute a single
Fourier coefficient
— one number telling you exactly how much of one particular sine or cosine wave sits inside a
function. But nobody wants a function rebuilt one ripple at a time; the payoff comes from putting
every coefficient's piece together into a single formula. That formula is the
Fourier series of a periodic function f of period
2L:
f(x) = \frac{a_0}{2} + \sum_{n=1}^{\infty}\Big(a_n\cos\frac{n\pi x}{L} + b_n\sin\frac{n\pi x}{L}\Big).
The constant a_0/2 sets the average level; each
n adds a ripple of frequency n\pi/L in just
the amount the coefficient prescribes. Truncating after N terms gives
a partial sum S_N(x) — a finite, smooth approximation
that improves as N grows.
Worked example: assembling the square wave
Recall the square wave from the previous page: f(x) = +1 where
\sin x > 0 and -1 where it is negative. We
already computed its coefficients by hand — every a_n = 0, and
b_n = \frac{4}{n\pi} on odd n, zero
otherwise:
b_1 = \frac{4}{\pi} \approx 1.273,
b_3 = \frac{4}{3\pi} \approx 0.424,
b_5 = \frac{4}{5\pi} \approx 0.255. Now we simply plug them into the
general formula above and start stacking terms:
S_1(x) = \frac{4}{\pi}\sin x \approx 1.273\sin x.
S_2(x) = \frac{4}{\pi}\sin x + \frac{4}{3\pi}\sin 3x \approx 1.273\sin x + 0.424\sin 3x.
S_3(x) = \frac{4}{\pi}\sin x + \frac{4}{3\pi}\sin 3x + \frac{4}{5\pi}\sin 5x \approx 1.273\sin x + 0.424\sin 3x + 0.255\sin 5x.
In closed form, continuing this pattern forever gives the full series for the square wave:
f(x) = \frac{4}{\pi}\Big(\sin x + \frac{\sin 3x}{3} + \frac{\sin 5x}{5} + \cdots\Big) = \frac{4}{\pi}\sum_{k\ \text{odd}}\frac{\sin kx}{k}.
Sketch S_1 and it is just a gentle sine wave — nothing square about it
yet. Add the \sin 3x term to get S_2 and the
curve already starts to flatten across the top and steepen at the crossing. Keep adding odd
harmonics and the shape drives ever closer to two flat steps joined by a near-vertical wall — the
astonishing claim that sharp, flat-topped steps can emerge from nothing but smooth sine waves,
right there in the arithmetic.
A quick sanity check, away from any jump: at x = \pi/2 the target
function is smoothly f(\pi/2) = +1 (since \sin(\pi/2) >
0). Plugging into S_3:
1.273\sin\frac{\pi}{2} + 0.424\sin\frac{3\pi}{2} + 0.255\sin\frac{5\pi}{2} = 1.273(1) + 0.424(-1) + 0.255(1) \approx 1.104.
Already close to 1 with just three terms, and it keeps creeping closer
with every harmonic added — ordinary, well-behaved convergence, exactly as promised. Hold that
thought, because the corner is about to behave very differently.
But look closely at the corner where the wave jumps from -1 to
+1, no matter how many terms you add. There's a small overshoot — the
curve pokes just above +1 before settling back down. Adding
more terms squeezes that overshoot into a narrower and narrower sliver near the jump, but it never
fully disappears. This famous wrinkle — the Gibbs phenomenon — is a genuine feature
of how Fourier series behave at a jump, explored properly in
convergence of Fourier series.
Building sound one wave at a time
Musicians and audio engineers construct exactly this kind of sum for a living, just with sound
instead of ink. A technique called additive synthesis builds a rich, complex
musical timbre by mixing together a bank of pure, simple sine-wave oscillators — one tuned to the
fundamental pitch, others tuned to its harmonics (double the frequency, triple, and so on) — each
turned up or down to its own volume.
That is a Fourier series, built in real time out of physical hardware or software instead of
symbols on a page: the fundamental oscillator plays the role of the n=1
term, the second-harmonic oscillator the n=2 term, and each oscillator's
volume knob is exactly a coefficient like a_n or
b_n. Turn up the third harmonic and you brighten the sound in precisely
the way raising b_3 reshapes the curve above. A trumpet, a clarinet, and
a violin playing the very same musical note sound utterly different from one another for exactly
this reason: same fundamental frequency, wildly different mixture of harmonic coefficients.
Push the idea further and you get a genuinely striking demo: mix a fundamental with just its odd
harmonics at 1, \tfrac13, \tfrac15, \ldots the fundamental's volume — the
very same coefficients computed for the square wave above — and the resulting tone starts to sound
noticeably "buzzier" and more hollow than a pure sine, edging towards the harsh, reedy character of
a clarinet. Change the recipe of harmonics and you change the instrument, all without touching the
pitch.
Add the harmonics
The faint dashed line is the target square wave; the bold curve is the partial sum
S_N using the first N odd harmonics — exactly
the S_1, S_2, S_3, \ldots built by hand above, just carried further.
Raise N and the approximation hugs the steps ever more tightly — flat
where the wave is flat, snapping over at each jump — while that small overshoot at the corners
stubbornly refuses to shrink away.
Symmetry saves work. If f is even
(f(-x) = f(x)), every b_n = 0 and only
cosines appear. If f is odd
(f(-x) = -f(x)), every a_n = 0 and only
sines appear — which is why the odd square wave is a pure sine series. Spotting symmetry first
can halve the integrals you actually have to do.
A truncated (finite-term) Fourier series is only an approximation — and near a
sharp jump or discontinuity, it behaves in a way that surprises almost everyone the first time
they see it.
-
More terms make the flat parts better, but not the jump. Away from any
discontinuity, adding harmonics genuinely brings S_N closer and
closer to f. Right at a jump, though, the partial sum always
overshoots the top of the jump by roughly the same fraction of the jump's height —
about 9% — no matter how large N gets. The overshoot's location
squeezes closer to the jump as N grows, but its height does not
shrink to zero.
-
This is not a bug in your arithmetic. It is called the Gibbs
phenomenon, and it is a genuine, unavoidable mathematical feature of representing a
discontinuous function with smooth sine and cosine waves — every jump discontinuity has one,
in every Fourier series, forever. If your partial sum overshoots near a jump, that isn't a sign
you made an error; it's a sign the maths is working exactly as it should.
Long before digital synthesizers, the Hammond organ — a fixture of church halls,
jazz clubs and rock bands since the 1930s — built its sound with a row of sliding
drawbars, each one wired to a spinning metal "tonewheel" tuned to one particular
harmonic. Pull a drawbar out and you turn up that harmonic's coefficient; push it in and that
harmonic vanishes from the mix. A player dialling in a smooth, flute-like tone or a buzzy,
reed-like growl was — whether they knew it or not — hand-setting a row of Fourier coefficients in
real time, decades before anyone thought to build the same trick out of silicon.
Modern software synthesizers still ship an "additive" oscillator bank that does exactly the same
job with a mouse instead of a mechanical lever — proof that a two-hundred-year-old piece of maths
turned into one of the most enduring ideas in electronic music.
See it explained