Gently Shifting from Rhythm to Drone

I have been thinking a lot recently about how our soundscapes change over time, and one of the points that I keep coming back to is the shift from a rhythmic world to one of drone.

Take transport for example. A horse drawn cart provides rich and dynamic rhythmic timbres, each one with its own characteristics and subtleties. Whereas the overriding sound of a car is that of a continuous zoom, drones which vary slightly in pitch dependent on speed. And with the electric car seemingly not far from common use this will be reduced further to a whir.

Machinery too. Listen to an old hand powered Singer sewing machine, clunking and turning with infinite possibility. Then listen to a modern electric machine. Some of the rhythm is still there, but the sound is overwhelmingly that of a fierce hum.

This is evident too in the playback of music. An old jukebox or gramophone is full of the rhythmic sounds of moving parts. Audio signals advising us of what is to come. Modern home record players and tape decks provide slightly less rhythmic interest, CD players almost none and MP3's none at all. The clang, drop and turn replaced by the zzzrr of the computer fan.

There are of course many rhythms still to be heard, but the further we move toward a digital society governed by electric machines, the harder they are to find.

The Sound of Recession

So what is the sound of recession?

Economic decline can have a major impact on our soundscapes, both in the private and public environment. I know that in a way the recession has made my home a quieter place, as a half finished development stands untouched just a few meters from my window. The sound of workmen, banging metal and sawing wood are all absent, replaced just by the gentle flapping in the wind of the plastic sheeting that hangs from the roof.

I am currently undertaking research into how the current recession has affected the sounds of our lives and would love to hear your thoughts on the subject.

Is your life quieter because of the slowing of construction? Has a new job or unemployment bought about new sounds? Are once bustling streets now deserted and quiet? Does an increased consciousness of money lead you toward different activities with different soundscapes?

I would be really grateful to hear about any of your thoughts and experiences around the subject, so to tell me your stories, or for more information about the project, please email me at envirosonic@live.co.uk or just leave a comment below.

thanks
Carl

What a difference a day makes

My exploration of our sonic world has led to many discoveries, but I think that the most important so far is the recognition that every tiny event and action, be it natural or man made, has a huge impact on our sonic landscape.

And so despite common themes and repetitions, any particular place is likely to provide different soundscapes from day to day, with most varying several times throughout the day as well. Much of my listening is done quite early in the morning as I find more clarity and definition earlier in the day, but the same places sound completely different as the day progresses and more factors begin to impact on the soundscape.

This point was made all the clearer to me this morning when I returned to Grosvenor Square, the site of the futuresonic birds for regular readers, with my newly acquired portable recording device hoping to capture the birds in full flow and work their sounds into a track to post on here.

Little did I know there would be pneumatic drilling and roadworks so close to the park that at first the birds were barely audible. I realised that my futuresonic track of birdsong was not going to be recorded today but after a little mic placement I found an intriguing balance and juxtaposition within which the heavy, bassey, jarring sounds and vibrations of the roadworks provided a roaring backdrop for the sweet, high pitched and harmonious bird song and the two factors combined together to create layers of sonic interest.

I recorded for about seven minutes and couldn't wait to get home to listen again and do some editing on my computer, so I jumped on my bike and eagerly cycled home, connected my new machine, booted up the PC and accidentally deleted the lot. I can't believe it. Oh well, there is a learning curve with all new toys, back to the manual.

This Town is Bringing Me Down

Saturday morning by the waterside in Sale was a strange sonic experience. Whereas everywhere I have listened before has had something distinct which has grabbed my attention, be it the overpowering noise of rush hour outside Central library, or the cacophony of bird song in St Johns Gardens, today's sonic field immediately struck me as nothing more than a dull amalgamation of now familiar sounds.

The airy whoosh of traffic merged blandly with the hum and rumble of the tram, whilst the exhaling shush of a bus engine combined unremarkabley with the shudder and screech of it stopping. There was faint birdsong in the air but it wasn't beautiful as it had been last week, it merely synthesised with the beep of traffic lights and indecipherable high pitched drones that rung in the air.

After previously hearing these sounds close up and en mass, today they seemed tame and distant, uninspiring and insignificant in comparison. But perhaps this is the most interesting thing about them, perhaps this is the thing that helps to explain the relationship between sound and place.

Sale is not an inspiring place, it is neither small and beautiful nor vast and imposing, it is average, ordinary, full of chain stores and soulless pubs, it is like any small town anywhere. The older people who wander around look comfortable and content, but the youth look troubled, bored and claustrophobic. Emotions this soundscape evokes at once. The sound of average.

I felt so unenthused that I was about to leave, but realised that gradually one or two sounds were breaking through and creeping into my more immediate hearing. The dragging, scraping and ricketing of solid plastic pulling over a rough concrete car park, the high pitched translucent chime of rolling glass, the faint sweeping softness of a brush, and the immediate mid range banging of metal.

A still car across the water became apparent to me with the stuttering, ticking air of a low running engine, soft and peaceful, regular and constant. The thin plastic film of a cigarette packet danced around me, fluttering, scraping and fidgeting as it bounced on the concrete, short crackling, crisp sounds ruptured by time in transit.

As the church bells began to strike out across the town, bridging the gap between distance and immediacy, I set off on my bike wondering just how different Sale would feel if it sounded different, and whether the blandness of its overall soundscape perhaps enabled me to hear the more minute sounds that I eventually engaged with.