Communio
In a subdued community cafe a distant electronic alert repeats a two - two rhythm.
Ju knocks on her walls, then listens with a glass. We discuss listening to a place you don't go to and whether we can listen in both directions, though now as I read it back I can’t remember what we meant by that.
I’m listening outside Cafe Oto.
Rental bike beeps doppler, clicking and whirring past me within the narrow arrangement of tall buildings. High pitched hydraulic brakes, raised voices, distant phantoms and moments of conversations oscillate against urban drone and glass and brick filtered music.
I choose to be on the outside, listening in.
On my journey home from London the air pressure thump of a passing train causes my Air Pods to start hissing like a punctured tire. This has been happening regularly for a while.
Chatter and religious echo.
I’m trying to find space to make space for listening.
Tables scrape as they are folded and tidied away.
A church bell and the soft boundaries of its ring symbolise a listening attention and area. The word communion comes from the Latin Communio which refers to fellowship, sharing and mutual participation. It feels like a good name for today’s workshop.
A microphone listens to discussions about how tiring the bell ringing activity is. A voice says, “It is quite hard on the arms” before offering someone else a go.
Looking at the sound as a digital waveform in Reaper later, the chair squeaks show up as the loudest peaks.
I lead a listening activity. And the space quietens.
3…2…..1…..begin
Move around, let your ears draw you to new sounds…….
Slowly bring your sound to the center of the space and let the recording end naturally.
I’m listening for repetition and sense.
Not much time for reflecting on listening, but what I am doing is warm and welcome.
I'm standing at a bus stop during rush hour traffic. I'm noticing but there's no need or energy to write it down. I walk from south to north Shoreham listening to a radio program about Deep Listening.
I'm now stood at the gateway to St Nicholas Church. The sun is warm on my neck and ears, and I worry I should have applied lotion. A seagull croaks behind me, a pigeon coos and a small bird chirps.
I record an archaeological walk led by Ben, moving between him and his observations and the actuality of the walk itself, roaming within and around the group.
Rusty red and white striped ranging poles carried by a young archaeologist ring in time with his striding footsteps as we make our way to Thunders barrow Hill on the South Downs where we stop to eat packed lunch.
I have self conscious conversations with members of the group, but feel like my intellect is lacking. I'm not sure what I'm trying to uncover, so maybe listening is the answer. Gentle inquiries and then space. Later a rushed bus hopping journey (Air Pod white noise again) takes me to a talk by White Pube and I’m reminded of the power of not knowing. In a cramped studio space I’m also consumed by panic and claustrophobia and my body aches from containing it.
I'm in well trodden territory, wrangling sounds, voice and music, reminding myself I can only use what I have. Familiar questions like - how much space? What does it communicate when you play sound or music under a conversation? I want to tread gently. I don't have to be clever, just honour the material and don't be afraid of giving each part space. I like how Morgan Quaintance talks about atmosphere in rooms and between walls. It makes me think about how the feedback material I’m making with Max is so quiet that often it is just atmosphere between walls.
I'm at football training, I can hear all the familiar sounds I've shared in journals many times. It makes me wonder about the moments I find to listen. They're sort of forced moments of waiting: trains, waiting rooms, football training, waiting for someone to arrive for a meeting.
Mile Oak tunnel. Echo slams the car door 10 times. Each clunking thud is magnified and expanded stretching through the long concrete half moon structure. With my direction Echo performs using the car (door and boot) and his voice as sounding instruments. The booming low end is deeply satisfying and ignites the childlike playfulness I recognise comes with these special moments. We focus on listening for the reverb tail’s end to hear how far it goes. It’s always further than you think.
10 ticks or are they tocks? I notice distinct details in each one. Some are thin and others more substantial. I think there's a pigeon outside the window making low growls and gurgles. Later, when my stomach starts making similar sounds, I'm left wondering which is which? Why are they talking to each other? In that moment my stomach and the pigeons voice become one and I find a revelation.
I also wonder - Is the pigeon in my stomach? Am I in the pigeon? Am I a pigeon? I want to feel the lightness of being a bird.
Last night I ran a sound workshop with the Neolithic Cannibals. I felt at ease. I kept the door open and welcomed the chaos. There was a buzz of excitement beyond the room, and lots of new people made recordings. I repaid the trust that a teacher gave me 35 years ago and it felt really powerful.
Muffled voices from outside. Screeches and cries.
Harry makes close mic popping sounds and records water in a jug.
He tells me about crows roosting and very proudly that he made a 6 minute recording.
I tempt people to record and listen with the promise of a pizza slice.
A crack and pop of a small plastic object falling.
A broken record level button means all recordings on that one are blasted hot.
Thin feedback from a bluetooth speaker.
We list the sound marks of Whitehawk Estate.
I notice a strange echo in the workshop room. I catch it when I move back and forth between two spaces. A flutter echo.
Later I get out of my car and a magical ringing spell hovers over a nearby vehicle as it parks. It is loud and unexpected.
A thin voice gives instructions. I move and feel a large structure move with me, echoing my movement, oscillating with me. When I read this back I can’t remember what this was. A car maybe.
A deep pitch swoop of a jet engine overhead. Why does that sound so satisfying? The pitch change, the sky reverb, the sounding of the geography, the delight in noticing it like a dramatic event amongst the everyday.
It's like a giant airborne synthesizer and FX unit.
Yesterday I worked on some more film textures and atmospheres. I invited tiny squeaking creatures back into my room. They live in a little world of cycling, spinning movement under a warm brown sky. The hum and whir of their planet’s energy source sometimes changes pitch slightly, rising and falling. An unseen God moves dials to change the atmosphere in their world. He has his own motives, unknown to the creatures who happily chatter away.
The mirror wavers the reflection blurs and an unexpected fluttering rubs close to my ear. So close I could feel the vibrations, sort of like stone grinding and swaying, heavy and intense.