I've just returned from Berlin and Innsbruck, first for the "Functional Sounds Conference" and then to meet my week old niece, Maja.
On the train from Munich to Innsbruck, I met some musicians in the restaurant car, travelling to their gig that night, at the Treibhaus.
Visiting family far away and catching up with everyone, the gig was over before we had left the house.
We met the band afterwards in the bar and spent a fine evening chewing the cud about rhythm, virtuality, trumpeter Lew Soloff's interest in the neuro-physiology of musical performing, mine in the geo-location of sounds and bandleader Ray Anderson's recent foray into global jamming via the Web.
They are called the Ray Anderson Pocket Brass Band. To my shame I hadn't heard of them.
I bought their CD "Sweet Chicago Suite" and started listening on the plane back to England.
The shockingly amazing, funny and clever mixture of carnivalesque New Orleans marching band with bop-inflected, poly-rhythmic counterpoint blew me away.
These four guys - Trombone, Trumpet, Sousaphone and Drums - make an enormous, orchestral sound.
Complex and rich, funny, warm and compelling.
All the compositions on this disc are highly structured yet full of spontaneous call and response, sudden and gradual processes of change calling on all Matt Perrine's sousaphonic genius to underpin the harmonies while Bobby Previte's drums are a showcase in controlled understatement and wit.
Everyone should own a copy of this music. It will make you laugh aloud with delight.
Buy (and preview) Sweet Chicago Suite here
Virtual Music Performance . . . . . simulating acoustic music impossible for human hands, music you can walk inside and investigate like a physical structure, augmenting the auditory reality of a place . . . . .
Friday, 11 October 2013
Sweet Chicago Suite - - Ray Anderson's Pocket Brass Band
Tuesday, 8 October 2013
More notes from "Functional Sounds, 2013"
“Noise(s) as Music” Solveig Ottman
noise: “any undesired sound
either one that is intrinsically objectionable or interferes with other sounds
that are being listened to” Encyclopedia Brittanica Online.
The sounds of MRT examined
Magnetic resonance tomography – 3D imaging by creating ‘slices’ or
layers at any point through a structure
tomo- = cut
graph- = writing
music: “the art and science of
combining vocal or instrumental sounds or tones in varying melody, harmony,
rhythm and timbre especially so as to form structurally complete and emotionally
expressive compositions.” Webster online.
see also
Paul Hegarty , Noise/Music A
History
and
Haus Arafna: Mirror Me
"oscillators instead of
instruments; frequency modulation instead of notes; voltage control instead of
computer control; abstraction instead of perfection; reduction instead of
saturation; high density instead of high fidelity; energy instead of
entertainment"
see also
Volkova (Argentina)
and
Blixa Bargeld
The Case of the Theatrophone 1881-1936
Melissa Van Drie
A subscription service to wealthy opera and theatre goers to use the
early telephone as a means of listening to live broadcasts.
A bizarre tale of technology
, often more effective through its imaginary rather than its experiential
qualities, exemplified well by the disappointing reality of listening to the
theatrophone.
see also Richard O’Monroy, Service de Nuit, 1892, reporting on
watching listeners to the Theatrophone
Functional Sounds Conference, Berlin
Functional Sounds
1st Conference of
European Sound Studies Association
Humboldt University, Berlin, 4-6 October 2013
Day One - four of many speakers at this eclectic conference of the newly formed ESSA.
First keynote, "Earth's functional sounds" from
Douglas Kahn
(National Institute for Experimental Arts, UNSW,
Australia)
sets the scene for an eclectic cross-disciplinary
discussion on Functional Sound,
its reading, writing, emplacement,
significative or narrative role in explaining space
and time and
uses from the political to torture, story-telling
and cultural ecology.
"With the nineteenth century advent of modern
telecommunication technologies,
noise and odd little sounds, some of them musical,
existed alongside
the conversations and information exchanges of
communications.
Many were considered to be interference but others
were recognised as
the sound and music of a new nature, an
electromagnetic one,
the knowledge of which also evolved significantly
with the nineteenth century. . . .
Instead of a default Olympian gaze, this talk will
present only
the smallest sonic breaches in the ideal,
veritable Pythagorean commas in communications
dreams of a
complete annihilation of space and time, as they
have been engaged in the arts.
Commas in music, after all, were an adaptation to
the noise of the real."
Frauke
Behrendt (University of Brighton) spoke entertainingly on
“Making Cycling Sound(s)”: bicycles
own sounds and 'political' uses of
air horns like those of lorries (which cause 50% of
UK cyclist road deaths).
I wonder how placing cone horns and compressed air
tanks
on an adapted bicycle (now capable of 178 decibels)
will persuade
truck drivers to stop killing cyclists and if the
biggest,
most dangerous machines on the roads are only
killing half of the
cyclists who die, what unforgivable idiocy and
neglect
of fundamental duties to good sense are causing the
other half?
The talk moves into more fecund, more sonic
territory, where
elements of designed environmental sound are
considered:
these may be individual or collective.
They may have social, political or artistic
motives.
By contrast to the usual practice of creating sound
in spaces -
"designing sound in"- they may also
constitute cancellation
or removal of sound - "designing sound
out"
to create "privatised listening
environments" with headphones.
Or using sound as a controller of spaces and their
users:
programme music used to code a space,
making it unattractive to non-consumers. (Stern)
see Frauke
Behrendt: "The
Sound of Locative Music", Convergence 18 (3)
Anette
Vandso (University of Aarhus) gave a wide-ranging talk
with excellent examples on "Political Potentials of
Sound Art"
How does sound art permit and/or lead us to
- Explore -
Interrogate - Intervene
in a political and/or social context?
Where the designed-in exclusion of sound
exteriority was
breached by importing 'noise' sounds, this was, in
its earliest stages,
a highly subversive and resonant act:
permissive of a hitherto absolute aesthetic and
political taboo.
Luigi Russolo called the concert hall a
"hospital for anaemic sound" (Art of
Noise, 1913)
It is increasingly hard to imagine living and
working in this cultural situation.
The shift from music to noise-sounds invites and
incites a new democratisation of sound
communication.
Some political potentials of sound art identified
by Vandso
- Participation
- Representation/aesthetic indeterminacy
- Eventness/Becoming -
Power/Control
Examples discussed/shown:
* Hom
Kai Wang (2010) "Music
While We Work"
Taiwan
Pavilion, Venice Biennale
* Yu
Hsien Su (2010) "Sound
of Nothing"
Taiwan
Pavilion, Venice Biennale
* Anke
Eckhardt (2010)
"Between
You and Me is a Wall of Sound"
* Dick
Higgins: Danger
Music No. 17 (1962)
A
musical score containing only instructions to the performer to scream.
Mark
Grimshaw (University of Aalborg) presents
"Living between the virtual and real worlds"
- prefacing the talk with the warning that
since committing to the title some months
previously,
his thinking has moved on - he challenges the
accepted distinctions between, asking whether
listening to any recorded sound is not a virtual
experience.
Phonomnesis, remenances, other auditory illusions.
Problems with definitions of sound as either wave, event or perception of event,
the cross-functionality of senses, being at once autonomic, perceptual and affective.
The perception of having perceived sound can after
all be obtained from other senses
than hearing: the cochlear implant converts acoustic signals to electrical energy
which stimulates the cochlea.
The sound itself is therefore no longer being
perceived….
The animated pub discussion that follows with
Kevin Logan
(http://theearoftheduck.wordpress.com) and
Fergus
Kelly ((http://livecomposition.wordpress.com)
sees us trying to formulate our own distinct
positions on a
continuum between these ostensible poles of "live" and "virtual".
Kevin is the most extreme, arguing that all live listening being mediated by
memory and associative reference, only first encounter with the
entirely alien can be
said not to have elements of virtuality.
Grimshaw also touches on Game Transfer Phenomena
(Gortari, Aaronson, Griffiths, 2011, International Journal of Cyber Behaviour,
Psychology and Learning), characterised by
(1) delayed release of immersion on
returning to the physical environment and
(2) temporary obscuring on returning
to physical environment of distinctions
between reality and virtuality.
GTP is based on studies of actions - is game sound
different?
Action/behaviour transfer has palpable consequences
whereas sound or perception
transfer need not and is less easily quantified.
That sound is both perceptual and virtual was
touched upon, the distinction
between virtual and real only relating perhaps
to the sound's provenance.
Environment, memory and affect arguably essential
to comprehensive definitions of sound.
Treating sound as potential, as virtuality can
engender new approaches.
Bio-feedback for user-centric sound design
development: EMR, ECG, etc
Direct Brain-To-Brain communications in humans?
A pilot study (video shown) at
University of Washington, Seattle, August 2013 (NSL
with CDDL).
Literally mind-blowing.
Conversion of user 1's deterministic thought
patterns send
guiding signal to user 2, who presses a keyboard
button:
It was unclear whether the required information was
for
User 2 to hit the target or the correct time to
press the trigger -
Anyway, whoops and hollers came from the young
geeks as
User 2 consistently appeared to act correctly on
receiving telepathic instruction.
Situated cognition, argues MG
primarily comprises
* one
or more continual feedback loops
* between
stimuli in the environment as perceived and
* responses
to subsequently experienced sense of
* cumulative
context of that which has already occurred or been perceived to occur
I would add that augmentation of the environment,
specifically in situated listening that blends real
with virtual
necessarily makes recognition of those feedback
loops impossible.
WIthout blurring of the two, no augmentation can be
achieved.
Arguably, memory can also be tricked, in this
context,
to re-identification of familiar as new, new as
repetitive, other combinations:
not just loops but all manner of cognitive shapes
can be made
to appear momentarily, like hallucinatory audible
bubbles,
before vanishing upwards into the sky.
Friday, 4 October 2013
On the delight and confusion of foreign cities. Sound, smell and sausage.
In my previous post I omitted to mention that
yesterday, 3rd October, was the 24th anniversary of the Reunification of
Germany.
I only found this out because on continuing to
search for a map of the city and a phrase book to replace my ancient Berlitz
German for Travellers, I ended up buying postcards and asking the shop lady why
everything was shut and the whole city was out drinking beer on the street.
Her explanation in delightful, impeccable English made me mildly ashamed, to have almost no German and not to have known the enormous significance of the date.
I'd always placed the date somewhere in September, coming as it did quite soon after the fall of the communist government of Czechoslovakia, where I had been on tour with the Merseyside Youth Orchestra only weeks before.
I had traded chewing gum for bottles of beer and a five pound note for two bottles of Czech wine and a crate of 24 beers which I sold to mates on the coach. It kept me in spends for days.
I had photographed a police car chase and arrest below my Prague hotel balcony, the driver spread-eagled and searched in an apparently random but violent arrest.
He later returned and could be seen somewhat strangely standing on the same spot below, waiting, no car to be seen.
Everything was painted a peeling dark green. The
crumbling stone buildings were reinforced with wooden scaffolding, street after
street. Grocery shops with near empty shelves had silent, forlorn queues around
the block.
Our orchestra played to a near empty stadium with a government minder sitting alone in a sea of empty seats. Men looked over newspapers long and hard in hotel lobbies (I'm not kidding, they were everywhere we went!).
Those small and vicarious memories are the only
ones I can really use to visualise what life in East Berlin might have been
like, until I was a healthy, free young adult.
People were still trying to escape across
electrified railway lines under gunfire to make it from the street on which I
stayed last night to the adjacent one, miraculously inside the "free"
world, just the other side of the tracks from FriedrichStrasse Station.
Incidentally, that was the only way in and out of East Berlin from the West side of the city and workers under heavy guard and security checks made the stressful daily commute into but never out of the Eastern city.
When I was young, plump and free,
this wall divided a city in two.
Plump and free: Or Not.
|
I asked the shop lady what people were doing to celebrate Reunification Day. "Just drinking beer, I think" she said. "Or working, like me" she added with a laugh.
"Anyway, it doesn't mean anything to me. I was
in the States back then." It was striking from our single short interview
on the subject how blithely many assumed the wholeness, the unity of the city
to be.
It was after all only 28 years out of a near millennium of the city's existence - at least, of the communities that now form it.
Actually I was surprised to read that it was only in 1920, with the Greater Berlin Act that the city in its current form came to exist. Charlottenburg, Köpenick and Spandau from the Province of Brandenburg were incorporated into the city, doubling Berlin's population overnight from about 2 to nearly 4 million inhabitants.
It has its origins in the thirteenth century and was of course the capital for centuries of old Prussia, of Unified Germany, of the Weimar Republic formed after the revolution that removed the monarchy at the end of World War 1.
The quest to update my phrasebook was urgent because of the unshakeable memory of having relied on a 1950s Spanish "language tutor" on going to Barcelona around a decade ago.
I faithfully reproduced the required "Por favor, donde esta el tocador de caballeros" (Literally: Where is the gentleman's dressing table, please?) trying to ask for the Gents.
Ending up miming a piss to a stranger in a bar, who merely shrugged and pointed, I vowed to update my language learning resources.
The German book in my possession allows me to learn such things as "No, I am travelling with my wife/husband/son/daughter. Can you direct us to a reputable night club?"
There is a whole chapter on tobacconists but neither the chuffing glossary nor a single page in the book that I skimmed in increasing annoyance would give me the urgently required word "MAP".
The postcard shop lady directed me further along my route and I walked out into bright sun, noisy roadworks, enormous pile drivers sinking concrete and steel columns into the highway, moustachioed or pony-tailed folk in hiking jackets walking in groups in all directions, impassive with faintly disapproving looks.
Tears of confused exultant happiness rose up as I remembered long ago sunny moments of hope, excited anticipation or just the joy of floating free in some foreign city, free to watch, absorb, listen, smell.
The Cuban maniac on the bridge to Île de la Cité in Paris, proclaiming Castro the new Christ while slobbering down a broken flute.
Finding at last a phone box that worked to telephone the American girl I had fallen over in front of, the previous day in Shakespeare and Co, the bookshop that finally agreed to publish Joyce's Ulysses (the predecessor of the then incumbent).
Pausing at the mini bit (a few doors down form the main place) of Ganymed wine bar by the river Spree, watching wide flat river tour boats and elegantly dressed couples, I ordered beer, black pudding and sauerkraut.
I forgot all previous thoughts, listened to 60's French pop (a favourite musical delicacy, in small quantities) and waited keenly for food.
When only mustard had been forthcoming after around half an hour (and not enough for a meal, should the fast-approaching madness take me) my anticipation turned slightly more tetchy.
On arrival, the steaming skillet was a happy sight, lifting my tired soul with renewed anticipation.
At first glance it was particularly the soft, large buttery potatoes in an apparent chicken stock that seemed most inviting.
Sauerkraut and black pudding looked good, piled artistically on top, crowned with watercress.
Just for a rough idea |
The hungry man is capable of a weeping, howling, disappointment almost like no other.
When I discovered that the black pudding had been boiled, I nearly cried out and ran from the establishment.
It would not have been hard, from an eight by sixteen foot room, albeit crammed with tables and chairs.
My hunger and the inconvenience that a street chase would have entailed however got the better of me and I took the first plastic sack of blood and minced gut and split it open for a good look.
It was after all the mustard that saved the occasion although had the waiter been less of the scurrying sort I would probably asked him to go and find me the pot.
Eating this terrible invention took me back to my busking days in Paris, in '92.
Sharing an awful tiny loft with Jean Marie de la Montagne, Thunderbird-lookalike, irascible, sentimental, Alsatian romantic with a voice of gold who I teamed up with to do a nightly set on the RER Ligne B from Denfert Rochereau to Paris Disney, performing the same guitar/voice/violin set in each direction a half dozen times a night.
Cooking that other terrible idea, the andouillette (tripe sausage) over a single tiny gas flame in his chambre de bonne ("maid's room") off the Champs Elysee (a thousand francs a month to live in one of the most expensive sectors of Paris, which I shared with him, alternating mattress and floor).
We ate that piss-smelling rubber nightly for weeks and I shall never forget it.
Lettuce makes the andouilette like a beggar in borrowed robes |
It was the only meat we could afford and in the early 90s it was still largely unthinkable, literally impossible to conceive for most people, that a meal might not contain some sort of flesh, however filthy a form it arrived in.
The mustard had started, I thought, to wink at me, like a prank that had come to life. When the awful dark wine blood sausages came, I thanked providence for the invention of mustard, of bread and of beer.
Later, having eaten the entire dish of blood, pickled cabbage and potatoes (and those last were, really, very good indeed), I retired to my hotel for a short siesta.
On awaking, a new adventure awaited, having rediscovered my animus.
I walked and walked and walked, observing the emergent future concrete and glass in its magnificent embryonic stages everywhere around, interspersed with the unsmiling Imperial grandeur of the Treaty of Berlin - not all those ones of the eighteenth century promising Anglo-German peace or tentatively recognising Eastern cousins' freedom from the Ottoman yoke, no.
The one of 1885 that carved all those straight lines through Africa. That one's for another time.
In the evening I drank wine with a Swiss
psychoanalyst.
Today I have been at the most extraordinary conference on Functional Sounds, at the European Sound Studies Association, about which I had meant to write earlier, before getting side-tracked.
More, shortly.
Now it's time for a bier.
Heute, ich bin ein Berliner
Arriving
by NastyJet at Berlin Schonefeld Airport, 25 miles south of the city (of
course), I found a train into town and got off slightly randomly at the large
interchange of Alexander Platz, with no clue how to get to the hotel or even
where it was. I searched in vain for some time for a bookstore or news agents
to buy a map.
The
Platz had a vibrant winter-ish market selling a surprising array of lace,
leather goods, tourist knick knacks, beer and sausage, funny pictures and hats.
Well, the hats were sure funny.
Eventually
I got back into the station and tried without success to find my hotel's
address on a graffitied station map of the streets.
I thought at least proceeding further might help, not bothering about such
detail as which direction I was travelling in, beaten up as usual by the
Gatwick experience.
(The compulsory binning of many of my toiletries in a lengthy, sullen interview that
nearly caused me to miss the check-in, because the bottles were larger than
100mls; take-off delayed by half hour, chicken coop seat between sighing, snorting coughing man and student
watching shooter movie on iPad; beer four quid for a warm mini-can).
It
turned out I had got on the right line and train and that my random choice of
descent was spot-on.
Things
were looking up and before long I found the unexpectedly lovely Kunsthotel on
LuisenStrasse which runs directly north of the station where I had descended,
Friedrichstrasse.
An
unpretentious mixture of bold and homely that Berlin seems to achieve so
gracefully, of ancient charm and futuristic chic, the building straddles the
very line of the wall whose destruction heralded the end of 28 years of brutal
segregation between two opposed world political movements across the heart of a
single city.
In fact, one side of it was bricked and concreted over to prevent
desperate Easterners gaining access and throwing themselves below onto the
train tracks in a hopeless bid for the other side, sometimes jumping onto train
roofs or scrambling amid gunfire across electrified tracks.
It is barely
possible to imagine this desolation of the spirit in such a place now.
The
eighteen foot ceilings and the trunks supporting the massive rustic wooden
staircase surround a pointed weight, suspended seventy feet on an invisible
wire, balanced perfectly at the centre spot.
The halls are covered in
impressionistic or erotic art and the communal bathroom I had so dreaded was in
fact a super clean, large, light space with amazing showers.
A giant smooth snake head looms
at the over the lobby seats and the deep vine-draped courtyard
is silent but for the rhythmic beat of swarming starlings far above.
Tomorrow,
Friday 4th is the first day of the first conference of the European Sound
Studies Association, "Functional Sounds", the reason for my return
here, the first time not in a truck to move furniture up one of those courtyard
staircases. Happy happy days!
I will
report some of the speakers and ideas in my next post - looking forward so much
to this!
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