My very first ever ever Radio show: not Steve Wright. "ROOM."

Hello folks, sorry to have been so long since adding to these pages, I know you've been busting for an update from my crazy escapades.

Well, good news is I've got a few posts coming in the next few days about all kinds of exciting stuff like GPS-led immersive soundwalks in Berlin,

the first ever conference of SoundStudies.EU, "Functional Sounds" from where I will be reporting each day for the next three days

and some of my own weird discoveries in the surprising and increasingly fascinating

Hampshire coastal town of Gosport,

where I have been making field recordings

First though, now it's no longer being broadcast, 

my show from September 2013, 

a reduced length, massively edited version, for headphones (or really lovely speakers) 

of a piece called "ROOM", made for the Hansard Art Gallery at the end of 2011. 

We used 14 speakers in four rooms and asked the audience to move around the space and explore. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In "ROOM" I took, as a starting point, 
Alvin Lucier's 1969 sound work 
"I am sitting in a room", 
developing ideas it suggests, 
but using a 21st century digital studio.

The original piece is based on 
the idea of a room's unique resonant characteristics 
gradually overwhelming the original recorded content, 
through playback and re-recording of the same initial sounds, 
again and again until no longer recognisable 
but transformed into a series of tones and pulses, 
the cadence of the spoken word 
gradually collapsed into a narrow band, 
like a dimly flickering flame.

The sounds of my own speaking voice (reading my own text) 
gradually become the 'instruments' of a virtual 'orchestra', 
in music that develops over time and across space, 
to simulate and distort reality in ways that are 
impossible in the physical dimensions.  

"Room" is an exploration of musical composition as 
the building of virtual physical structures which the listener may enter, 
taking changing routes to build shifting impressions of a sonic landscape.

Here is a reduction from physical to virtual space of the composition ROOM, 
which explored uses of the voice as a sound source 
whose 'meaning' or character was related to but distinct from 
any meaning imparted by the text.

As the text unravels, 
folds over itself, 
becomes truncated, looped, distorted and overlaid 
with itself and other sources, 
flashes of memory and premonition interfere, disrupt, distort. 

It is like a journey in an open car through a dark landscape, 
peopled with versions of the sensory world and 
the liminal spaces between 
'reality' and a sleeping reinvention of it.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Imagine music you could enter and explore, or wear like an invisible atmosphere, 


the instruments and singing voices in the air about them like dust particles 
that dart and race in the sunlight or the heavenly bodies themselves, 
after millennia of straining, audible to human ears.

Consider the musical composition a physical object 
which if given spatial dimensions, 
you may enter and examine at will.

If words are only labels symbols for an idea of a thing, 
may they not also serve as musical notes, which are the same?

Is a sound any more or less meaningful than a word?  

What is its interaction with the space in which it is heard?

The relationships between 
   - the sound, 
   - the space in which it resonates and 
   - the imaginative associations of the listeners 
combine to create a wild thing that has no name, 
cannot be captured or described, 
is only experienced 
by one person, 
once. 

Isn't that a mystery beyond understanding?

If Futurism and Modernism are dead 
and post-Modernism still doesn't know exactly what it is, 
long live the ambiguous fecundity of the present.


------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Alongside composing for classical instruments, I have worked 
first with tape recordings and 
latterly, with audio montage in the digital studio 
for eighteen years, in search specifically of two things.

Firstly, using the digital studio to create 
simulations of human performance 
in explorations of musical ideas that 
would be impossible for actual players to achieve.

Secondly, as a result of this, 
the creation of virtual environments within the sound 
that are transformed and juxtaposed, interwoven 
in ways that could not be achieved in the physical dimensions.  

I believe that sound is as richly potent an expressive form as the verbal lexicon, 
in and in spite of its conditioned associations and with its scope for 
extension, subversion, flexing, demolition and restructuring 
in the image of the wordless visions of hallucination and dreaming.

For this reason I have been exploring the simulation of acoustic environments in which 
the sound appears to be produced, 
just as film makers are concerned with finding and adapting location 
and theatre designers of creating perfect stage sets, 
tightly appropriate to the purpose of their narrative.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Postcard from the Woods

Sunday, 11th August 2013, 4 pm
by the river, in front of The Anglers Arms, Bishopstoke SO50 6LQ


I was trying this morning, in my garden, to read Slavoj Zizek's "The Year of Dreaming Dangerously". Trying and somewhat failing to understand a Marxist interpretation of the current geo-political condition, I decided to get my spanners out, fix my half-ruined ancient bike and ride it somewhere far away.

Setting off along the river Itchen, a few yards from my new home, I followed its winding course upstream, through Riverside park, golden green and filled with ambling families, kayakers on the river. Swaythling, under the motorway and into fields.

Somewhere along the way, proceeding I knew not exactly where, other than roughly north, on a rutted, root-bobbled, woodland path, I started to hear a kind of work-song, a blues chant that built upon itself before shifting tangentially.

The route led out of the woods, alongside a barbed wire fence to a shit-piled, bumpy, furrowed pasture where riding was harder than walking. I got off and walked. I got lost, then stuck, at a dead end of fences and high grass.

Turning back, I saw two distant brightly coloured teeshirts, a couple resting under trees. As I approached to ask them the way I found they had vanished.

Near the spot where they had seemed to sit, I found a kissing gate, a cattle-gridded bridge and a steep gravel climb to a thronging play area, full of ice cream and grizzling toddlers.

A sort of piratical Nicholas Cage (many piercings and tattoos, resplendent greased quiff, expensive round, brown, gold-rimmed shades) directed me back the way I had come for the requested Itchen Navigation path.

So I took the other way, finally back to the ancient waterway after a five mile cowpat-deep detour.

The sun shines on my loneliness and fear, evaporating it with steady, unceasing action.

In my bag are raspberries and sausage rolls. The road ahead seems shorter than before.

I will take the train home from Winchester, apparently some 8 miles off and compile the Postcard from the Woods that I heard as I bounced through the wood.

[ I found this figure to be wildly optimistic, after three hours of sweating, clunking forwards but cannot offer an accurate alternative. Perhaps 14 or 16 more in all was closer to it ]


8 pm
Garden of South Western Arms, Adelaide Rd, Southampton SO17 2HW

My phone's map software reckons 13 miles from here (one yard from my house) to Winchester.

I reckon I rode 25, due to detours, back-tracking and the wildly meandering waterway woodland paths.

I didn't know the age of it, assuming C18th like most of our canals.

Therefore I was amazed at a plaque below Bishop's Bridge stating the Romans established the city in 70 AD and constructed the section of the navigation that runs there around that time, to prevent the river flooding. A huge engineering feat, in any age.

I remembered childhood picture books of anchored rafts with huge lead weights winched up wooden chutes as pile drivers for three men to wind and drop, hammering tree trunks into the bed of the Thames for platforms to build the first, wooden, London Bridge.

Approaching Winchester via Compton, pausing atop the bridge crossing the magnificent and shocking M3 motorway, then continuing up and down steep hills then suddenly across the top of a meadowy valley, the Victorian viaduct below, to which I then swooped and crossed.

Passing the 12th century Hospital of St Cross, its half-ruined enormity bespeaking the ancient humanitarian and self-organising power that the city always evokes as I enter it.

Cycling on the flat, through green woodland paths at the edge of the town walls, I circle Winchester College and regain the water's side, approaching Bishop's Bridge.

Stopping to eat sausage rolls and raspberries from my bag, I realise my legs are feeling very used, shaky and shocked.

I resolve to do this more and more, to see if I can pass hills as effortlessly again as all the lycra boys, always moving ahead like trains while I shuffle and grunt up a slope.

Up the High Street, under the statue of King Alfred, alongside a confusing cordon, turning out to be for an athletic event, a cycle race.

I feel both left out of a club and nonchalantly smug about my own petit tour.

If only lycra didn't make me look like a fish in a bag.

Last, thigh-burning, climb to the train station at the top of the town hill, buying a can of cider and a ticket, I discover the train to my new home's doorstep is five minutes away.

Blissful recline under the lowering sun's undiminished brilliance, I laugh to recall the sometimes desperate thoughts of perdition, of never arriving, of punctures and river tumbling on foot-wide sections of sloping mud that my ancient town bike handled like a husky.

Fabulous old rusty bike, thank you very much for a lovely day.

Here is the music I imagined, clunking and wobbling over the tiny rutted paths between cows watching and swans not, the eternal outflow of a thousand subterranean mouths, flickering sun dappling the water through swaying willow leaves, carpets of butterflies that scattered like fairies before my approaching wheel:

A brief history of futures past: musical exploration of the impossible

I've been digging through a long-ignored tape cassette collection with which I have moved house around a dozen times in fifteen years and yet haven't listened to since before around 2000.

Remembering the essential octagonal bic biro, for pulling up slack, to prevent the whole thing being chewed in the doggy jaws of an old tape player. 

I'm trying to compile a story from unearthed bits and pieces I composed or recorded or wrote a long time ago. 

The story is this: 

why the ‘bebop-romanticism-klezmer-highlife-cinta-baroque’ hybridity that I tried first to transcribe then to convey to academy-trained musicians, for them to play on a stage in front of an audience of at most a hundred expectant classical-canon conformists 

turned into 

simulating impossible, acoustic, performance with early commercial digitalia

then into 

collecting sounds on the street and recompiling the street inside an enclosed space, with glimpses of  the original hybrid crowd's voices

then

finding ways to walk inside it so it's always different, unrepeatable.

I’m still working on telling that story through some peculiar digital sound objects and rambling, utterly inappropriate words.

<.~<.~<.~ <.~<.~<.~ HTTP://BASIC.FM  ~.>~.>~.>~.>~.>~.>

<.~<.~<.~ Watch this space for my first radio broadcast  ~.>~.>~.>

<.~<.~<.~ on augmented reality and music composition  ~.>~.>~.>

<.~<.~<.~ <.~<.~<.~ S e p t e m b e r  2 0 1 3  ~.>~.>~.>~.>~.>~.>

Meanwhile, I discovered some striking archaeological evidence of the 'shift', the evolution out of learning to play the standard repertoire in a regional orchestra, through keeping up with incredible street bands in Belgrade, Budapest and Paris, and capturing live events for the bubbles to build fleeting dreamscapes in sound.

A major influence on my shift away from notes on paper for people, toward the construction of musical junk-sculpture, was the improvising pianist John Law. 

Nearly twenty years ago, I went into a large echoey room with a Steinway, intending to record my Piano Sonata.

A master of digression and procrastination, even then, I instead recorded this. 

Exhibit A: “In Walked John Law”, solo piano improvisation, September 1994

Dismantling an engine powered by the energy in dreams

Excerpt from "Room": more info at http://benjaminmawson.com

Can we quote words in music without owning the statement?

I don't believe in God and I have difficulty understanding faith, particularly the acceptance of solutions to seemingly intractable problems of human nature and mortality.

I don't propose answers or seek here, with little knowledge of theology, to criticise.

On the contrary, I envy the religious the reassurance they get from an ability to immerse in devotion and the commitment to renegotiation of faith and deity that religious folk have shown me.

The question I ask is this: is it irresponsible, insulting or sacrilegious to search for the sacred or the numinous through music without personal commitment to a given faith?

As a composer I seek authentic expression of confusing, conflicted experience and perception.

A search for commonality of experience and expression between devotees - something fundamental to us all regardless of faith.

Are not artistic expression of confused wonder at the commingled beauty and horror of life and the expression in devotional song of hope for transcendence, very similar responses to the question of mortality?

In seeking to explore some essence of devotion, I composed a digital "plunderphonic", convolving song from many faiths, which began with a Christian chant - Credo in Unum Deo - I Believe In One God.

I was attempting to explore both the beauty of the singers' expression of their faith and to find expression for my own fear of God, of faith, of eternalness, exterior omnipotence, of the incomprehensible plan of God or Gods who can have allowed the earthly condition of Man.

Is quotation of the words "Credo in Unum Deo" an act of theft, or disregard, or insult, without owning the statement?

Is this artistically irresponsible, like Seamus Heaney's famously explained fear in "Nero, Chekhov's Cognac and a Knocker" that singing without a moral right to sing is fundamentally to abandon the rules that govern socially engaged artistic expression?

"Credo" did not make conscious reference to other musical approaches.

It was not a composition that answered (at least I was not aware of doing it) other composers' work.

It was a spontaneous and unplanned improvisational collage which took around four days of complete absorption in the material to realise the quarter of an hour that it takes to hear.

There are things I would change now, but there it is - a record of a short exploration, like a diary in sound of encounters with strangers and my attempt to structure their own, often highly structured but now fragmented expressions of very specific devotion, into a picture of their words, voices, ideas perceived from outside their perception.

Like a photographic record of the people one met on a journey, this composition tries to order the images captured into an abstracted narrative of the mind through these places, dark as they seem to me, though which I know to be filled with light, the essence of existence, for the voices captured.

Acoustemologies of Space

No more time
Considering timelines in musical construction and the role of recall, remembrance or the search through 'sound art', 'musical composition', for full form of partially reconstituted former experience,  we might imagine the possibility that a musical object does not necessarily evolve over time,  or only over linear time.


Monophonic lines
The monodic phrase may be an extension or exploration of a finite set of pitches. It is an investigation of the relations, by sequentially altered permutations between those pitches and what may be conveyed or perceived, metaphorically, within those pairings or groups and they range covered by them.

In denser sonic structures however the interplay between distinct elements is important also. 
Texture happens over time?
Is it possible entirely to remove time from the musical work, for all pitches, timbral characters and separation throughout a physical space to be simultaneously heard?

Soundwords and Story-telling
The monodic line, the developmental polyphonic texture and the orchestral climax belong to species of sonic narrative where our conditioned associations presuppose a quasi-linguistic exposition of ideas whose correlative is founded in the same ancient urges whence mythic, religious and metaphorical representations of existence and experience emerge. 

Other forms
In the visual and plastic arts, in film, literature and dance, the design of buildings and their interiors, of objects functional and decorative, it has become accepted that form may in many instances equate to, be the sum of, the work’s content.

Stories and just Things Themselves
If, with the removal of temporal development or change, we are able to extract from the work its shackled association with ‘expression’, forms are inevitable to emerge that will permit the listener possibilities for transcending communication altogether.
In this way, the musical artifice speaks, if it speaks at all (for why should it, having no words?) solely of what it is, rather than a pale mirror to other forms.
But since all events must have duration of some perceptible value for there to be agreement that they occurred at all and arguably a somewhat greater durational value  than merely the perceptible, for the senses to take the opportunity to receive, process, respond, remember the occurrence, is the negotiation of change over time unavoidable?
Yes and no.
The slightest sonic pinprick may in fact be represented by fluctuating horizontal lines, describing continuous variations in the frequency and amplitude from opening attack through its decay, sustain, release or disappearance. 

Universe in a bead
Even the note produced by a plucked string or struck bottle, singular and momentary as this may appear, has a duration, albeit so small as for the duration not to be considered to constitute a primary characteristic.
However briefly though, each note or sound perceived of course still has a duration.
With the changes that occur during that time it may be said that rhythm, with all its generative, evolving, progressing patterns, originates or is at least suggested.

Time standing still, machine rumbles on

It is equally possible that the passage of time be used as a tool for the depiction, evocation or replication of stasis, in sorts of counter-developmental resistance. 

Examples of change within repeating patterns, or unaltered wholes whose constituent parts continually change, are to be found in the mechanical, electrical and digital as much as the natural.

Music in a cemetery toilet
Working many years ago at a cemetery office, my most pleasing diversion from the macabre mundanities of my working duty was to sit shivering in the vast, catacomb-like porcelain-lined lavatory, listening to the endless shifting and yet never changing balance between two echoing water drips, never ceasing, never simultaneous, flowing like parallel microcosmic waterways reduced to sequent enumerations of  their minutest parts, like a coastline falling through a miniature hourglass.

The music of roundabout systems
Eight years earlier, a comparable experience occurred from the chance discovery of an entrancing sound kaleidoscope both random and the result of collective, simultaneous mass action and response.
The inside floor plan of the Arc de Triomphe is a church-sized cross with similar acoustical properties but for the missing four end walls, arched ears to the acoustical convulsions of the city.
At its centre, the listener is as though inside an enormous resonant stone head, drawing from all around passing snapshots in sound.
They are so fleeting and frequent as to form a continuous flow of impressions.
They are so dense as to be opaque, so infinitely numerous, small and diverse are its elemental constituents as to constitute the river itself, where only the fluctuations of the whole can be quantified.
The Arc is at the centre of L’étoile, the star-shaped intersection at a monumental centre point of six of the city’s largest thoroughfares.
Six lanes of rotating, competing traffic of all sizes continuously swimming around, across, alongside; wheels on tarmac, revving engines, coughing exhausts, squealing brakes and above all, a mechanical mayhem of klaxons, despairing, warning, cajoling, threatening, pleading, celebrating, echoing.

Tuning of French klaxons
By the way, these horns were for the most part, diatonically attuned. My only explanation was the French preference for cars by one of their two principal firms and the possibility therefore that the klaxons’ slight variation from diatonic unity was based on (almost) any given vehicle being one of two makes, pitch-limited to the white notes of the piano, depth depending on size of the vehicle. 

River <- Soundscape -> Machine
At other times, while the auditory river’s flow remained unabated, effectively unaltered, it was possible to tune focus to given pitches or rhythmic imitations and again, through the unending alteration and rotation of atomic detail within, there was above all a character of constancy, of unification, whose effect was to stay the very passage of time.

All perception of time passing or changing was removed during these peaceful meditations which in memory appear to repeat like time-phase photography or an acoustical strobe.

Therefore, given the fascination of these and other phenomena, what appeared like the sudden realisation of a new concept (new to me at any rate) emerged, like all others, from a combination of reflection over an extended period and the search for alternative solutions to questions of time found in much music of the past few decades.  

Centuries-long music
Perhaps one of the best known of these is John Cage’s conceptual composition for organ “As slow as possible”, performance of which began in 2001 and is scheduled to run for 639 years.

Arguably the performance did not begin until February of 2003 due to the seventeen month rest with which the current rendition began but perhaps this is a question for a separate enquiry.

Questions of how time is represented, ridden, distorted have always occupied composers.
It has been understood that music exists more in time than space, in waiting or remembering than in an extended present sensual interaction such as may be had with an image or sculpture.

Story-telling
To return therefore to a notion for music from which the passage of time - used to generate along its line, arrayed patterns and relations with a correspondence or analogue in verbal expression, the emotions, in narrative or figurative representation - is removed, carrying off these external, unachievable distractions, to permit the construction of pure sound, unencumbered by the minute semiotic histories of our finite range of sonic gestures:

Sound like colour and smell
Through the separation of sound from putative intentions to be of or fundamentally connected to other forms of communication or activity, perhaps we can permit, by infinite multiplications, the expansion of our 'sonabulary', our 'sonicon', a new 'acoustemology' beginning to grow from the threads remaining, which do not carry the weighty burden of impossible ambition to relate an art with no inherent meaning to systems of signification.

Unknown writing on ribbons of sound
3DBARE is coming. Time will no doubt have a role but this is about pausing clocks, holding one time river up against another and watching the combinations of signals blow out sound bubbles from their auditory embrace, across the wide open arena of a space filled with undulating voices, tones, beams of sound, infinitely variable in combination, unending, borderless like the ocean's horizon when the world was flat, like inner space and the dreams that float there.

Heart of a Dog

I've been off radar for some time, giving presentations and developing new collaborations of which more shortly...

Meanwhile, I couldn't turn down the invitation to create sound effects for a new adaptation of Bulgakov's incredible political satire "Heart of a Dog"

The production opens at the Old Operating Theatre, St Thomas St, London SE 1, on Wednesday 30 January 2013.

Set in 1920s Moscow and partly narrated by Sharik the eponymous mutt, it's the tale of his relationship with a medical Professor who experiments on him, turning him into a sort of man, with distinctly doggy traits.

While posing some glaring questions on the ethics of experimental medicine, the play is a darkly funny investigation of how we interact, view our miniature worlds with over-inflated importance and ultimately fail to hear each other speak.

The scope for weirdly combined, dreamlike sonic representations of a fictional, historic, foreign, bizarre, wintry setting was greatly appealing.

I have just enjoyed representing the Professor's affairs starting to get out of hand with a gradual perversion of a simulated gramophone recording of his favourite song.

Creating a snowstorm and a fumble for heavy keys on outside steps in a century-old street was another challenge.

Perhaps the greatest so far has been what the dog dreams as he is anaesthetised. I am still working like a dog on it and hope a reader or two may make it to the show.

Director Valeriy Simonchuk brings passion and assurance to this production and the gaudily talented cast bring this strange and compelling piece colourfully to life in the Old Operating Theatre's perfectly creepy surroundings.

It will also be on at the Old Theatre at the LSE "Space for Thought" Literary Festival 2013, on Monday 25 February.

Full festival programme here:

http://www2.lse.ac.uk/publicEvents/spaceForThought/pdf/LSE%20Literary%20Festival%202013%20Programme.pdf