I was recording the convenience store outside my window at 1am, and the electronic ding of the cash register hit the wobbly chain of the roller shutter, creating a damp copper bell in my headphones.It turns out that silence is not a vacuum, but the embryo of sound.
I picked up a 1987 desk clock at a yard sale today.The rustle of the hands rubbing against the wood grain hides a peculiar swallowing sensation, like the unspoken syllables of someone not remembered on his deathbed.I laid it down to electronic music and W asked, “Why do I hear the sound of a jumper puckering?”
The most stunning gaffe happened on a rainy day.Holding up a microphone and chasing the sound of a bus splashing, I recorded the crunch of the wind ripping through the rain – it wasn’t a “crash” at all, it was thousands of glass beads rolling through tinfoil. It’s like a derivative of a synthesiser tone, isn’t it?
Late at night, I scour websites for radio clips, and the cursor burns on a not-so-shitty display.Electromagnetic noise creeps over the ear canals like damp moss, and it’s as if I hear the calm gasp of the unseen, Debussy-loving girl.And so the voice eventually cuts through time and space, shouting hoarsely at me through the frosted glass.I hear the archaeologist’s spectrometer, I hear the “ding-ing” of the microwave on a 1983 food show, I hear her scratching the raw edges of the paper as she turns it over, I hear myself.
Leave a Reply