As is often the case, Dizzy Banjo (aka Robert M. Thomas of Reality Jockey, makers of sound experiences, largely in the form of apps) has posted sounds from his everyday life, this time around rain on a windowpane. He’s done this on his SoundCloud account, and this sound — this collection of sounds, recorded and posted as a half-minute file — is equal parts enjoyable and informative for several reasons: There’s the opportunity to listen for, within the track, elements of the sounds that are intrinsic to his work as a coder and composer, and coder-composer — especially of interest in regard to generative methodology, in which algorithms come to reflect the properties of natural activities, of living organisms and ecosystems. And there’s the extent to which these sounds bring to mind pre-existing musical references, in particular the light brush work and arhythmic improvisations of an outward-bound jazz drummer.
This is the second time in just a few days when of all the music and sounds I’m listening to, I am linking to a field recording of precipitation — despite the fact that it has, in fact, been raining quite a bit here in San Francisco, and was on the East Coast where I was until about 24 or so hours ago. I suffer from a bit of hurricane PTSD. After four years in New Orleans (1999-2003), I find myself anxious when it rains, and yet I enjoy recordings of rain. Perhaps the key difference is that recordings by definition have no attendant, worrisome portent — the storm has passed by the time one hears it.
Track originally posted for free download at soundcloud.com/dizzybanjo. More from Dizzy Banjo at dizzybanjo.com and twitter.com/dizzybanjo.
(The above photo is by Ooray, aka Ted Laderas, from his instagram.com account.)
Functional music comes in many forms, from alerts to background scores. Some functional music is constructed with functional intent, and some — well, some suggests a purpose for itself after the fact. White noise is a useful tool because its sonic properties allow it, at even a low volume, to seemingly cancel out other sounds. For many people looking to concentrate, listening to white noise can be a handy thing. But not all white noise is created equal. You might find one too gritty, or your ears might locate a whine in another, or too quick a rhythm might give you the sonic equivalent of motion sickness. Most white noise machines use digitally produced sound, but nature provides its own near equivalent — for example, the sound of rain on a roof, such as this track recorded at Southern Cross Station in Melbourne, Australia (pictured above). The benefit of a track such as this is that in addition to providing the standard hush effect of white noise, it has provenance, the underlying knowledge not only that this is rain, but that the sound was collected at an architectural landmark. It’s the white noise equivalent of imported glacier water.
It’s tough to cut against the drone grain, since the drone is, by and large, grain-less. What the drone is is vaporous, verdant — more defined by a lack of texture than by its presence. To cut against the drone’s grain might, perhaps, mean to segment it in a manner that employs rough edges, sudden cuts — approaches that contradict its sinuous coherence and tonal intent. But sometimes the intent can be put aside by a more modest decision, like listening out of context. Take the album Voices in the Dust by Somnarium. It was released recently on the