One thing that grabbed my attention when reading The Acoustic Mirror was the mention that female voices are hardly ever used for narrative voice-overs in film. Thinking back, I could swear I've seen (well, heard) a few (most likely more recent than the book), but I agree with Silverman that female voice-over narration is never quite used in the same way as its male counterpart. The unmarkedness of the male voice becomes really apparent. It seems like movie producers are saying: "Everyone can identify with a male voice!" It's just a generic voice.... almost as if it was everyone's voice in their heads. Well, the voice in my head certainly isn't a guy. In the movie Silverman mentions, Letter to Three Wives, the narrator "occupies the same temporal register as the other characters" and "is a frequent topic of conversation." I haven't seen the movie, but even though she doesn't say this explicitly, I got the feeling that female voice-overs are usually much more... chatty and gossipy. I'm not surprised that Hollywood this is how Hollywood works, but it's one more point to be annoyed at, heh. However, my question would be: are we anywhere closer today to actually being able to have an unmarked female voice-over? Surely we have come a little way from giggling, nosy housewives that chat about clothes and dinner. Things are still far from ideal today, but... would the average male theater-goer watch a movie with a female narrator and not immediately feel like he's in a chick flick? I wish I could think of an example. I should try to go find one, really.
Also, while I certainly found the book generally interesting, it was a little heavy on the Freud for me. I was always a little relieved when Lacan (the better Freud) got to take over. And while I appreciate that she turns Freud (patriarchal as he is) around and uses psychoanalysis to her own end, It does make me wonder whether there isn't a better way to go about it. The use of Freud alone makes the whole effort seem a bit like... I don't know, a reactive effort rather than an active one. I"m surprised someone so concerned with the audibility of the female voice would even consider using Freud's theory. But then again, she does seem to want to fight fire with fire. Not sure how much that works for me... her goal seems to be to castrate as many men as possible, and I'm not sure that's the best way to get rid of sexism. But then again, I understand that it's been a while since this has been published.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
Office Storm - Notes on our Soundscape
Paul Miller aka DJ Spooky says in Rhythm Science that there’s always a factor of randomness or coincidence in DJ-ing. I wonder if this can be said for most (or even all art)… it is certainly true of our soundscape. Using a recording program that scrambles, repeats, and changes the speed and pitch of recorded noises, our goal was to capture the sounds of one person alone (for the most part) in an office. In the final product, it doesn’t sound at all like just one person. Footsteps, typing and other office sounds are multiplied to a point where the listener is unable to tell how many people are part of the soundscape; but further, all the little office sounds take on a life (and a character) of their own; some of them simply sound amplified (such as the footsteps down the hallway in the beginning), and some are almost unrecognizable, giving them more of a presence, taking them across the border from unwanted background noise to desired sound. And with all the office sounds coming to life, the one person (let’s call her “Mary” – hehe) in the soundscape does not seem so “alone” anymore. Little moments of “voice” remind the listener of her presence; the soundscape’s focus is certainly not just the sound environment of the office, but just as much the human presence in it, fitting in seamlessly, down to the all-too-common “oh crap.”
Then, as the listener just got used to one person surrounded by the sounds of inanimate objects, suddenly there is an avalanche of unexpected voices. Two people stop by the office, exchanging some painfully stereotypical office small talk phrases with Mary. However, listening to it after the recording process, it sounds much more chaotic (and, surprisingly, more noise-like) than the office object sounds. It is as if a room full of people was talking at the same time; the listener can only make out parts of the conversation – even though what we recorded was a short, typical, easy-to-follow exchange. Listening to it now, it reminds me of how I used to feel at my office when I had no internet at home; I used to come in early, 7 a.m. sometimes, and for about an hour I’d be the only person on the floor of Eiesland Hall. I would get so used to having the space to myself that sometimes the arrival of other TAs would almost feel like an intrusion, and I would be so tired (and possibly not up for pleasantries yet) that any sort of communication felt more like a chore, not something I could (or wanted to) fully concentrate on yet. That is the feeling that echoes with me when I hear the soundscape, and when the two visitors leave (“Bye! Bye! Bye! Bye!”) and the scene turns quiet again, more than my eardrums are relieved.
There are other instances that can only be attributed to chance… “Oh crap!” is followed by what sounds (to me, at least), angry thunder, followed by starting rain – you figure out what the sounds actually are. The way that such cold, hard office noises turn out sounding so organic and almost liquid took me by surprise, and I think it adds a great deal to the soundscape. Of course, I listened to it over and over late at night, so I may not be the best judge of it. Maybe the piece should come with an instruction sheet, telling the listener to play it over and over and over, while refusing to sleep and drinking far too much coffee?
Then, as the listener just got used to one person surrounded by the sounds of inanimate objects, suddenly there is an avalanche of unexpected voices. Two people stop by the office, exchanging some painfully stereotypical office small talk phrases with Mary. However, listening to it after the recording process, it sounds much more chaotic (and, surprisingly, more noise-like) than the office object sounds. It is as if a room full of people was talking at the same time; the listener can only make out parts of the conversation – even though what we recorded was a short, typical, easy-to-follow exchange. Listening to it now, it reminds me of how I used to feel at my office when I had no internet at home; I used to come in early, 7 a.m. sometimes, and for about an hour I’d be the only person on the floor of Eiesland Hall. I would get so used to having the space to myself that sometimes the arrival of other TAs would almost feel like an intrusion, and I would be so tired (and possibly not up for pleasantries yet) that any sort of communication felt more like a chore, not something I could (or wanted to) fully concentrate on yet. That is the feeling that echoes with me when I hear the soundscape, and when the two visitors leave (“Bye! Bye! Bye! Bye!”) and the scene turns quiet again, more than my eardrums are relieved.
There are other instances that can only be attributed to chance… “Oh crap!” is followed by what sounds (to me, at least), angry thunder, followed by starting rain – you figure out what the sounds actually are. The way that such cold, hard office noises turn out sounding so organic and almost liquid took me by surprise, and I think it adds a great deal to the soundscape. Of course, I listened to it over and over late at night, so I may not be the best judge of it. Maybe the piece should come with an instruction sheet, telling the listener to play it over and over and over, while refusing to sleep and drinking far too much coffee?
Monday, March 9, 2009
What IS Rhythm Science? (longest blog post ever)
Rhythm Science was an interesting read. Right from the start, you can tell what Miller is doing: the book is obviously an attempt at translate the DJ-ing/sampling process into writing. The question is, does he succeed, and also: is it even possible?
I think he does a decent job. Like the accompanying CD, the parts of the text flow into each other, to the point where there really are no “parts;” there is only one whole. At the same time, it seems like he could have put the sections of the book in any random order, and it would have worked just as well. Mind you, I don’t think that this is a bad thing. Just like a good CD, especially of any sort of electronica, you can jump in at any point and get something worthwhile (or at least enjoyable) out of it.
But what, then, is it exactly that we get out of Rhythm Science? Here are the things we don’t get: a step-by-step guide to DJ-ing; a clear definition of what rhythm science actually is; a textbook. What we do get it a collections of fragments that, together, seem to become more than their sum. Individually, the fragments are thoughts and ideas about what DJ-ing is/should be, with a bunch of history, theory and philosophy thrown in. Taken as a whole, the book becomes – what exactly? Halfway though, I couldn’t decide whether I liked what Miller was doing. Wanting some opinions from the general public, what better place to look than Amazon user reviews? Here are some fun excerpts:
“This book shows that theory can be written almost poetically. A rare thing: theory that is as artistic as the art it describes.”
It’s true that the book could be described as being poetic, in the way that hip hop can be poetic, both inside the main text and on the glossy spreads featuring “remixes” of significant excerpts. Is the book then simply a demonstration of his art, translated for the non-DJ-savvy, textbook-reading public? And is it then still theory? I suppose it can be. In a way, it reminded me of Deleuze and Guattari’s 1000 Plateaus, with its non-linear, repetitive writing. Again: just pick it up, open it anywhere, and read. Jumble up the pages, and it still works. Put the tracks on Random.
“A truly terrible read... This book is written like some sort of hiphop, dada, coffee shoppe manifesto. The texts can fit into one of three categories: Self-referential boastings, references of others accomplishments (Spooky's M.O.) or some sort of patchwork rambling about technology sprinkled with fifty-cent phrases and urbanisms like "check the flow" and "flip the script." Sigh... Spooky tries to defend this garbage in the acknowledgements section by saying "try to make people think and they'll hate you." Spare me.”
I doubt this guys hated the book because it made him think. I really wonder why this person even picked up the book: it seems to me that anyone even slightly interested in the music would not trash this book quite so hard. I was almost surprised at myself, though: at no point did I consciously feel like Miller was boasting, although I can see where this reviewer is coming from. But: When you are a DJ who primarily works by sampling other people work, self-referential boasting is almost impossible. You are always, by default, referring to a multitude of other people who came before. Thinking about it in these terms, the work of a DJ seems pretty humble.
“I love his music, I love what he does with sound, I love how he is able to draw so many disparate elements to play to create sound-worlds that are immersive, instructive, and wildly engaging. Too bad he just won't shut up sometimes. (…) So, bottom line from a huge fan of the MUSIC: the book is beautifully designed, gorgeous to look at, and virtually unreadable. Skip it. Consider it a nice CD holder.”
Oh. So it is possible to love the music and hate the book. This fan tries to find the positives about the book, praising the design. I did like the design, although I at first feared it might end up being too distracting. But you do get into the flow, you start expecting the rhythm of the glossy pages that don’t contain any “main” text. There’s a lot of things that can be said about Rhythm Science, but I don’t think I’d call it unreadable. Even if some of the passages don’t seem to make (immediate) sense: you can’t always understand all the lyrics in a song, but it can still be a good song.
“This book is not academia, it is hip hop. By that I mean it is a manifesto encoded into rhythmic, visual passages that don't always make sense right away. Eventually, if the reader is open to it, his consciousness begins to adapt to Miller's, and ideas that once seemed like gibberish begin to make sense. I highly recommend this book. It is short but the knowledge is incredibly dense/intense. It has absolutely changed the way I look at identity and cultural evolution in the information age, and it accomplishes this subtly.”
There: this guy does think the book is a good song, but he claims that if you listen to it (closely) enough, it will start making sense. I’m still conflicted as to whether all of the book necessarily needs to make sense to the reader. Much like music, the general idea seems to be that you can take away from the read whatever you like. Any sound can be you.
“we are at a place and time in hiphop/electronic music/performance art/ avant garde practice that is rather sad...where to be involved in so many different practices one has to water oneself down to satisfy everyone...The text is vital and not long enough. i do not think Miller is a bad writer but perhaps a very select audience is ready to deal with this work.”
A limited target audience, whether this book is to be considered a textbook or poetry, is pretty much a given. In fact, I can hardly imagine a more accessible book on something as specific as “Rhythm Science.” And speaking of which, what exactly is this rhythm science? He does talk about it at great lengths, but seems to deliberately avoid giving a definition of it. And really? I’m fine with that. “Nothing is direct,” Miller says on the final pages of the book, and that might just as well be the title of his work. Nothing is direct. Not in Rhythm Science, not in DJ-ing, not in life, he seems to suggest. And that, I would say, is fair enough.
***********
On p. 57, Miller mentions that “average kids from the street” would most likely not be able to make the connection between Derrida’s deconstruction and “turntablism’s mixes.” He’s keeping it general, but I wonder what this means for DJ Spooky’s, specifically the CD that came with the book. If a listener is not familiar with the theory, does that diminish listening enjoyment? Or even the “value” of the music? It is music for English majors?
Also, how much does it add to the listening experience if you know who he’s sampling? Personally, I liked the whole CD, but I do have to admit that it was always fun to recognize samples…. Kurt Schwitters’ Ursonate comes to mind. I don’t think not knowing some of the sources diminished what I got out of the CD, but I wonder if the same can be said for not knowing the theory.
In addition, what does all this mean for other DJs’ music? Rhythm Science often sounds as if it was offering the key to DJ culture in general, but how generalizable is it, really?
Can we assume that there is as much of a thought process behind other musical artists who use sampling in their work? Take for example the Avalanches’ Frontier Psychiatrists:
Listening: Frontier Psychiatrists
It certainly brings up it’s own set of questions and assumptions. What it has in common with DJ Spooky’s work is that most of the samples immediately sound anachronistic in the setting of the electronically influenced track, only that the effect of this track is more humorously entertaining than DJ Spooky. Having read Rhythm Science, I want to ask: is there a chance that I might actually enjoy Frontier Psychiatrists even more if it came with a book about the band’s understanding of DJ-ing and sampling? I don’t think I’m quite 100% serious asking that question, but really: can we compare DJ Spooky and other DJs or sampling bands on these terms? Or is he a phenomenon completely detached from mainstream music. Again: is DJ Spooky Music for English majors?
**************
Listening: Erratum Errata
Erratum Errata, the installation Miller did for the Museum of Contemporary Art, is available online for anyone to go and listen to; but even more: you don’t just get to hear it, you can also play with it: by using the control panel and by dragging and dropping the visual objects on the screen, any visitor can change the sound and appearance of the piece. In the book, Miller says that DJ-ing always involves an amout of randomness and chance; this installation, in a way, makes the viewer/listener the DJ. The visuals and the words are Duchamp’s, the initial combination of them with musical elements is DJ Spooky’s, but everything else is up to the visitor of the webpage. We are remixing the remix. Is Miller bringing out the artist in all of us? Playing with the webpage quickly gave me the feel that there is no right or wrong. Some combinations sound better than others, but very, very many just sound equally… adequate, for lack of a better term. The question, then, is: given access to the right “found objects,” are we all artists? Does everyone who visits the website immediately start making art? Or is it only art when there is a certain intentionality to how we control the piece? Is there such a thing as random art? Accidental art even? Does an object turn into art simply by being “found?”
***************
Other questions and remarks about the text:
- Miller says in several places that there are no new sounds, only new ways of hearing. To what extend is that true? Now that we are surrounded by technology, is there no new place to go for us, sound-wise? Is that why sampling is something that is happening now as opposed to at a time when new instruments were still being invented? We don’t need to invent instruments anymore, because we can digitally recreate any sounds we want. It’s sad, thinking about it like that, but on the other hand it opened us up to hearing “old” sounds in a way we never have before. I personally very much enjoyed the incorporation of old recorded readings into his work.
- Somewhat related to the above: Miller claims that creativity means “recontextualizing the previous expressions of others” (p. 33). Does this indicate that creativity as we know it (creating something new, original) does not really exist? Is everything a copy of a copy, almost to a Beaudrillardian extent?
- On p. 61, Miller says, “Identity is about creating an environment where you can make the world act as your own reflection.” I’m not sure I understand what he is trying to say. I would have not even given this sentence a second thought if he had written “DJ-ing” or “rhythm science” instead of identity. But identity? To what extent is identity formed by creating an environment in which the world acts as your own reflection? Is he saying that identity can only exist within the context of other people validating it? And to what extent can you actually create that world? I suppose being an artist would help….
I think he does a decent job. Like the accompanying CD, the parts of the text flow into each other, to the point where there really are no “parts;” there is only one whole. At the same time, it seems like he could have put the sections of the book in any random order, and it would have worked just as well. Mind you, I don’t think that this is a bad thing. Just like a good CD, especially of any sort of electronica, you can jump in at any point and get something worthwhile (or at least enjoyable) out of it.
But what, then, is it exactly that we get out of Rhythm Science? Here are the things we don’t get: a step-by-step guide to DJ-ing; a clear definition of what rhythm science actually is; a textbook. What we do get it a collections of fragments that, together, seem to become more than their sum. Individually, the fragments are thoughts and ideas about what DJ-ing is/should be, with a bunch of history, theory and philosophy thrown in. Taken as a whole, the book becomes – what exactly? Halfway though, I couldn’t decide whether I liked what Miller was doing. Wanting some opinions from the general public, what better place to look than Amazon user reviews? Here are some fun excerpts:
“This book shows that theory can be written almost poetically. A rare thing: theory that is as artistic as the art it describes.”
It’s true that the book could be described as being poetic, in the way that hip hop can be poetic, both inside the main text and on the glossy spreads featuring “remixes” of significant excerpts. Is the book then simply a demonstration of his art, translated for the non-DJ-savvy, textbook-reading public? And is it then still theory? I suppose it can be. In a way, it reminded me of Deleuze and Guattari’s 1000 Plateaus, with its non-linear, repetitive writing. Again: just pick it up, open it anywhere, and read. Jumble up the pages, and it still works. Put the tracks on Random.
“A truly terrible read... This book is written like some sort of hiphop, dada, coffee shoppe manifesto. The texts can fit into one of three categories: Self-referential boastings, references of others accomplishments (Spooky's M.O.) or some sort of patchwork rambling about technology sprinkled with fifty-cent phrases and urbanisms like "check the flow" and "flip the script." Sigh... Spooky tries to defend this garbage in the acknowledgements section by saying "try to make people think and they'll hate you." Spare me.”
I doubt this guys hated the book because it made him think. I really wonder why this person even picked up the book: it seems to me that anyone even slightly interested in the music would not trash this book quite so hard. I was almost surprised at myself, though: at no point did I consciously feel like Miller was boasting, although I can see where this reviewer is coming from. But: When you are a DJ who primarily works by sampling other people work, self-referential boasting is almost impossible. You are always, by default, referring to a multitude of other people who came before. Thinking about it in these terms, the work of a DJ seems pretty humble.
“I love his music, I love what he does with sound, I love how he is able to draw so many disparate elements to play to create sound-worlds that are immersive, instructive, and wildly engaging. Too bad he just won't shut up sometimes. (…) So, bottom line from a huge fan of the MUSIC: the book is beautifully designed, gorgeous to look at, and virtually unreadable. Skip it. Consider it a nice CD holder.”
Oh. So it is possible to love the music and hate the book. This fan tries to find the positives about the book, praising the design. I did like the design, although I at first feared it might end up being too distracting. But you do get into the flow, you start expecting the rhythm of the glossy pages that don’t contain any “main” text. There’s a lot of things that can be said about Rhythm Science, but I don’t think I’d call it unreadable. Even if some of the passages don’t seem to make (immediate) sense: you can’t always understand all the lyrics in a song, but it can still be a good song.
“This book is not academia, it is hip hop. By that I mean it is a manifesto encoded into rhythmic, visual passages that don't always make sense right away. Eventually, if the reader is open to it, his consciousness begins to adapt to Miller's, and ideas that once seemed like gibberish begin to make sense. I highly recommend this book. It is short but the knowledge is incredibly dense/intense. It has absolutely changed the way I look at identity and cultural evolution in the information age, and it accomplishes this subtly.”
There: this guy does think the book is a good song, but he claims that if you listen to it (closely) enough, it will start making sense. I’m still conflicted as to whether all of the book necessarily needs to make sense to the reader. Much like music, the general idea seems to be that you can take away from the read whatever you like. Any sound can be you.
“we are at a place and time in hiphop/electronic music/performance art/ avant garde practice that is rather sad...where to be involved in so many different practices one has to water oneself down to satisfy everyone...The text is vital and not long enough. i do not think Miller is a bad writer but perhaps a very select audience is ready to deal with this work.”
A limited target audience, whether this book is to be considered a textbook or poetry, is pretty much a given. In fact, I can hardly imagine a more accessible book on something as specific as “Rhythm Science.” And speaking of which, what exactly is this rhythm science? He does talk about it at great lengths, but seems to deliberately avoid giving a definition of it. And really? I’m fine with that. “Nothing is direct,” Miller says on the final pages of the book, and that might just as well be the title of his work. Nothing is direct. Not in Rhythm Science, not in DJ-ing, not in life, he seems to suggest. And that, I would say, is fair enough.
***********
On p. 57, Miller mentions that “average kids from the street” would most likely not be able to make the connection between Derrida’s deconstruction and “turntablism’s mixes.” He’s keeping it general, but I wonder what this means for DJ Spooky’s, specifically the CD that came with the book. If a listener is not familiar with the theory, does that diminish listening enjoyment? Or even the “value” of the music? It is music for English majors?
Also, how much does it add to the listening experience if you know who he’s sampling? Personally, I liked the whole CD, but I do have to admit that it was always fun to recognize samples…. Kurt Schwitters’ Ursonate comes to mind. I don’t think not knowing some of the sources diminished what I got out of the CD, but I wonder if the same can be said for not knowing the theory.
In addition, what does all this mean for other DJs’ music? Rhythm Science often sounds as if it was offering the key to DJ culture in general, but how generalizable is it, really?
Can we assume that there is as much of a thought process behind other musical artists who use sampling in their work? Take for example the Avalanches’ Frontier Psychiatrists:
Listening: Frontier Psychiatrists
It certainly brings up it’s own set of questions and assumptions. What it has in common with DJ Spooky’s work is that most of the samples immediately sound anachronistic in the setting of the electronically influenced track, only that the effect of this track is more humorously entertaining than DJ Spooky. Having read Rhythm Science, I want to ask: is there a chance that I might actually enjoy Frontier Psychiatrists even more if it came with a book about the band’s understanding of DJ-ing and sampling? I don’t think I’m quite 100% serious asking that question, but really: can we compare DJ Spooky and other DJs or sampling bands on these terms? Or is he a phenomenon completely detached from mainstream music. Again: is DJ Spooky Music for English majors?
**************
Listening: Erratum Errata
Erratum Errata, the installation Miller did for the Museum of Contemporary Art, is available online for anyone to go and listen to; but even more: you don’t just get to hear it, you can also play with it: by using the control panel and by dragging and dropping the visual objects on the screen, any visitor can change the sound and appearance of the piece. In the book, Miller says that DJ-ing always involves an amout of randomness and chance; this installation, in a way, makes the viewer/listener the DJ. The visuals and the words are Duchamp’s, the initial combination of them with musical elements is DJ Spooky’s, but everything else is up to the visitor of the webpage. We are remixing the remix. Is Miller bringing out the artist in all of us? Playing with the webpage quickly gave me the feel that there is no right or wrong. Some combinations sound better than others, but very, very many just sound equally… adequate, for lack of a better term. The question, then, is: given access to the right “found objects,” are we all artists? Does everyone who visits the website immediately start making art? Or is it only art when there is a certain intentionality to how we control the piece? Is there such a thing as random art? Accidental art even? Does an object turn into art simply by being “found?”
***************
Other questions and remarks about the text:
- Miller says in several places that there are no new sounds, only new ways of hearing. To what extend is that true? Now that we are surrounded by technology, is there no new place to go for us, sound-wise? Is that why sampling is something that is happening now as opposed to at a time when new instruments were still being invented? We don’t need to invent instruments anymore, because we can digitally recreate any sounds we want. It’s sad, thinking about it like that, but on the other hand it opened us up to hearing “old” sounds in a way we never have before. I personally very much enjoyed the incorporation of old recorded readings into his work.
- Somewhat related to the above: Miller claims that creativity means “recontextualizing the previous expressions of others” (p. 33). Does this indicate that creativity as we know it (creating something new, original) does not really exist? Is everything a copy of a copy, almost to a Beaudrillardian extent?
- On p. 61, Miller says, “Identity is about creating an environment where you can make the world act as your own reflection.” I’m not sure I understand what he is trying to say. I would have not even given this sentence a second thought if he had written “DJ-ing” or “rhythm science” instead of identity. But identity? To what extent is identity formed by creating an environment in which the world acts as your own reflection? Is he saying that identity can only exist within the context of other people validating it? And to what extent can you actually create that world? I suppose being an artist would help….
Lost and Found in Translation
I found "A Declaration of Poetic Rights and Values" a very interesting read (especially after reading Cage - words? sound? meaning? anyone?). It brings up a question I've asked myself before when confronted with poetry - especially poetry performances - in other languages, or in translation: if meanings are at all embedded in sounds, can poetry ever be translated properly from culture to culture? Of course it can be translated in the sense that we can know what the words mean, but as we all know, poetry is about so much more than words. And interesting related thought: would the logical conclusion of this be that sound poetry that uses no words at all, only sounds, should be understood universally? I want to say yes, but then again, languages have different speech sounds, inflection, intonation, etc., so even sounds might carry different associations with them. But: is that a bad thing where poetry is concerned? In fact: in a text class as subjective as poetry, is there even such a thing as a bad or wrong translation of a poem? Again, lots of questions.
"Oral traditions precede written poetry; but written traditions do not supercede the oral" - why is it that our culture always insists on viewing everything as linear, with "our" cultural practices being the (for now) final, the best? I'm glad to see the "return" of oral poetry and poetic performance, but I have no doubt that there will always be those who refuse to acknowledge this as "real" poetry.
Something about oral poetry, translation, performance: Back in Germany, I used to attend local poetry slams on a regular basis and became friends with Sadi Safavi, a Persian poet who's been living in Germany for many years. He writes and performs his poetry exclusively in his native language. Usually he attended as a guest reader, outside the actual contest. He was very popular and a very interesting performer; people would just listen to the sounds and enjoy them. For the longest time, he would have a translator read the German version of his poems after he was done performing - this translator would not "perform" the poems, but simply read them. These translations were only there to give the audience a context of what the poems "were about." after a while, though, he teamed up with a popular local slammer (Casjen Ohnesorge), and together they worked on creating a German performance of the piece. After Saadi's performance, Casjen would do his "interpretation of the piece" - this was typically slightly different in style from Saadi's, but not in a bad way. It was a great way to experience a poem in two completely different ways, while still being very aware that it was the same poem.
I'm telling this story because it is indicative of my belief that poetry can (and should) be translated; however, whenever one translates poetry (or anything, really), something new is created. The result is more like a cover or a remix, and no one should claim that it is the exact same thing - and it doesn't have to be! So, while translations will never be a copy of the original, they are still incredibly worthwhile. But: both the translator/performer and the audience must be aare of this, which is why I loved Saadi's and Casjen's combined performance. Hearing only the translation, you always run into the danger of taking for granted that that's what the poem really is; hearing the original with it, even if you don't understand it, will at least make you aware that there is more to the poem, sound-wise and possibly meaning-wise: some of it you can get to, and some you can't, but you should at least know that it's there.
PS: I tried to find youtube videos of Saadi Safavi, but there are none. There's plenty of Casjen Ohnesorge's stuff, but none of the translated poems. =(
"Oral traditions precede written poetry; but written traditions do not supercede the oral" - why is it that our culture always insists on viewing everything as linear, with "our" cultural practices being the (for now) final, the best? I'm glad to see the "return" of oral poetry and poetic performance, but I have no doubt that there will always be those who refuse to acknowledge this as "real" poetry.
Something about oral poetry, translation, performance: Back in Germany, I used to attend local poetry slams on a regular basis and became friends with Sadi Safavi, a Persian poet who's been living in Germany for many years. He writes and performs his poetry exclusively in his native language. Usually he attended as a guest reader, outside the actual contest. He was very popular and a very interesting performer; people would just listen to the sounds and enjoy them. For the longest time, he would have a translator read the German version of his poems after he was done performing - this translator would not "perform" the poems, but simply read them. These translations were only there to give the audience a context of what the poems "were about." after a while, though, he teamed up with a popular local slammer (Casjen Ohnesorge), and together they worked on creating a German performance of the piece. After Saadi's performance, Casjen would do his "interpretation of the piece" - this was typically slightly different in style from Saadi's, but not in a bad way. It was a great way to experience a poem in two completely different ways, while still being very aware that it was the same poem.
I'm telling this story because it is indicative of my belief that poetry can (and should) be translated; however, whenever one translates poetry (or anything, really), something new is created. The result is more like a cover or a remix, and no one should claim that it is the exact same thing - and it doesn't have to be! So, while translations will never be a copy of the original, they are still incredibly worthwhile. But: both the translator/performer and the audience must be aare of this, which is why I loved Saadi's and Casjen's combined performance. Hearing only the translation, you always run into the danger of taking for granted that that's what the poem really is; hearing the original with it, even if you don't understand it, will at least make you aware that there is more to the poem, sound-wise and possibly meaning-wise: some of it you can get to, and some you can't, but you should at least know that it's there.
PS: I tried to find youtube videos of Saadi Safavi, but there are none. There's plenty of Casjen Ohnesorge's stuff, but none of the translated poems. =(
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
The Most Unwanted House Show
First of all, something about Pendulum Music: I’ve recently attended a house show here in Morgantown where several bands were playing music. Early in the evening, there was a “performance” of a musician which came to mind as I read the description of Reich’s piece. This artist would, seemingly at random, but who knows, play with the equipment around him (amp, different microphones, pieces of drum kits…) to create what I can only call incredibly loud and annoying – yet somehow entertaining - noises. Now, I have to admit that much of the entertainment value of this performance lay in the artists’ incredible drunkenness. But I have to say: if someone had done the exact same things (e.g. grunting into a microphone stuck into his mouth while cranking up the amp, all the while looking it via a feedback mic) on a large stage in front of an audience that had paid to be there, all with a straight face, it would have passed as art, on the level that Reich’s piece passes as art. Where, then, do we draw the line? Like with Cage’s silent piece, I feel like much of the value actually comes from not taking the art too seriously, to accept it for what it is, even if it makes you laugh. Because, as I said, I was entertained. And having to keep a straight face wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun.
The Most Unwanted Song kind of has the same effect: if you are allowed to poke fun at it, it becomes entertaining. If it didn’t announce itself as the most unwanted music, no one would ever want to listen to it. Sadly, most of the time art that is entertaining is labeled as cheap or low class. Which, I think is unfortunate. Shouldn’t all art entertain, to some extent? Isn’t it the combination of being entertaining and thought-provoking at the same time? Did we forget that along the way?
I do think that the Most Unwanted Song succeeds at what it’s trying to do, simply through its length. If it was one minute long, I could see it becoming an internet phenomenon that everyone found highly entertaining. Being as long as it is (and I sat through all of it, breaking into giggles every time the children came on), I doubt I ever want to listen to it ever again – however, I feel the intense desire to play this for everyone I know: Thankfully, we have facebook to bring music to people without having to listen to it again ourselves. Because that’s what facebook is for: spamming our friends with unwanted stuff. Thank God for online social networks.
The Most Unwanted Song kind of has the same effect: if you are allowed to poke fun at it, it becomes entertaining. If it didn’t announce itself as the most unwanted music, no one would ever want to listen to it. Sadly, most of the time art that is entertaining is labeled as cheap or low class. Which, I think is unfortunate. Shouldn’t all art entertain, to some extent? Isn’t it the combination of being entertaining and thought-provoking at the same time? Did we forget that along the way?
I do think that the Most Unwanted Song succeeds at what it’s trying to do, simply through its length. If it was one minute long, I could see it becoming an internet phenomenon that everyone found highly entertaining. Being as long as it is (and I sat through all of it, breaking into giggles every time the children came on), I doubt I ever want to listen to it ever again – however, I feel the intense desire to play this for everyone I know: Thankfully, we have facebook to bring music to people without having to listen to it again ourselves. Because that’s what facebook is for: spamming our friends with unwanted stuff. Thank God for online social networks.
Monday, February 9, 2009
2/4: Silence
4:33 was a fun piece to watch, especially as performed by the BBC Symphony Orchestra. All the same, it's hard to find the "correct" way to respond to it. On the one hand I was suprised how incredibly entertaining it was, despite it just being four and a half minutes of silence. It certainly did have a bit of a practical-joke character; in fact, I think I would have enjoyed it even more of the audience had not been in the know. The hilarity of the situation is certainly acknowledged in the forehead-wiping moment. It was impressive and at the same time pathetically comical how seriously quiet the audience was. I would have thought this kind of performance could go either way (the other way being the audience becoming increasingly giggly and mumbly). In their reverent silence, it almost seemed that the audience thought they were in on the joke, when really the joke was, in a way, on them.
The other response comes from the part of me that actually took the performance a little more seriously. In a way, it almost seemed like the periods of silence were just very long, dramatic buildups to the moments of page-turning, where the rustling of paper and the coughing of listeners seemed to make up the "actual" performance. Situating it in a concert hall, the sounds of the coughs did seem to be transformed in to a strange sort of music, reminding me of dull plopps of water or one of those simple percussive intruments that are blocks of wood that you hit with a stick (yeah, I don't know what those are called - as always, I'll blame not being a native speaker.....). Thinking about that, it is interesting that the commentator stressed that the 4:33 of performance time do not count the "pauses" to turn the pages, even though it seems that those moments are closest to resembling the actual performance. Cage obviously made his work cover more than one page... if it had been just 4:33 of complete silence, the piece would have been not nearly as effective.
Looking at the two ways to "read" the piece, it does make me wonder: is only one of them "right?" Does that mean that one of them is "wrong?" Does Cage want you to have a certain reaction? Do you "fail" if you think the piece is funny? Or if you think it's dead-serious? I doubt Cage would say that any of the possible reactions is wrong, except possibly if someone claimed to have the "ultimate" meaning behind the piece.
***
Our readings have been making me think about whether there is any sort of music or poetry which can truly be called experimental - not just in its process, but in its result. After experiencing 4:33, I suppose a work could be experimental if the author/performer presented something like 4:33 for the very first time, not knowing what the exact audience reaction would be, but certainly counting on some sort of reaction which would then become part of the performance. The coughing, if not expected, would then be part of a truly experimental piece.
The other response comes from the part of me that actually took the performance a little more seriously. In a way, it almost seemed like the periods of silence were just very long, dramatic buildups to the moments of page-turning, where the rustling of paper and the coughing of listeners seemed to make up the "actual" performance. Situating it in a concert hall, the sounds of the coughs did seem to be transformed in to a strange sort of music, reminding me of dull plopps of water or one of those simple percussive intruments that are blocks of wood that you hit with a stick (yeah, I don't know what those are called - as always, I'll blame not being a native speaker.....). Thinking about that, it is interesting that the commentator stressed that the 4:33 of performance time do not count the "pauses" to turn the pages, even though it seems that those moments are closest to resembling the actual performance. Cage obviously made his work cover more than one page... if it had been just 4:33 of complete silence, the piece would have been not nearly as effective.
Looking at the two ways to "read" the piece, it does make me wonder: is only one of them "right?" Does that mean that one of them is "wrong?" Does Cage want you to have a certain reaction? Do you "fail" if you think the piece is funny? Or if you think it's dead-serious? I doubt Cage would say that any of the possible reactions is wrong, except possibly if someone claimed to have the "ultimate" meaning behind the piece.
***
Our readings have been making me think about whether there is any sort of music or poetry which can truly be called experimental - not just in its process, but in its result. After experiencing 4:33, I suppose a work could be experimental if the author/performer presented something like 4:33 for the very first time, not knowing what the exact audience reaction would be, but certainly counting on some sort of reaction which would then become part of the performance. The coughing, if not expected, would then be part of a truly experimental piece.
2/2: Mixed Messages
As certain as Chopin sounds about what he is trying to say, his essay (manifesto?) is pretty contradictory. He is complaining about the Word, yet he is using words to do so. He is advocating a poetry free from the bounds of words (or Words?), but in those, he will not be able to convey his message the way he does in this essay. But: does he want to convey a message? "[I]t is not useful that anyone should understand me," he claims, and I'm not sure whether he is talking about poetry or life in general. At least he sees the value of the Word for lentil-buying endeavours.
Seriously, though: I somehow found myself enjoying he over-the-top, generalizing manifesto. No, I won't start making random noises instead of speaking, but I doubt that's what Chopin would want me to do after all, he is also against ordering people around, right?). I do think he makes a valid point about us living in a cult of meaning and understanding, where anything which is meaningless is automatically devalued. Meaning and understanding, in the sense of there being one one true, universal meaning to something, is certainly something worth questioning and critiquing.
I don't know if it is just me, but to me his whole essay in its form was also a critique of language. He argues that the Word gives orders, and in a way, that's what his essay sounds like. He might be demonstrating the insufficiency of the Word to truly say what he wants us to "understand" - now more in the sense of feeling, "getting it." He seems to imply that meaning can still exist, but not as a prescribed, rigid thing, but as a flowing, canging, subjective thing.
Or he could simply contradicting himself by writing the essay. But really, what other options does he (and do we all) have?
***
McCaffery's essay mentions Phonography, which he says attempts "to investigate the possibilities that there are for a relationship between sound and picture, [...] between audible and visual rhythms. This made me think of.....
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h2H5w8MsPps
Can this, then, be classified as a sound poem, since it is sound transformed into a picture? And is the end result, or the video the poem? Would the video of the painting being created be a (visual) poem, even with the sound off? Would the relation of the soundless video to the piano be parallel to the relation of a the printed words of a poem to its live performance? Yes, the colors of the paint are arbitrarily chosen, but then so are written representations of sounds. So many questions....
Seriously, though: I somehow found myself enjoying he over-the-top, generalizing manifesto. No, I won't start making random noises instead of speaking, but I doubt that's what Chopin would want me to do after all, he is also against ordering people around, right?). I do think he makes a valid point about us living in a cult of meaning and understanding, where anything which is meaningless is automatically devalued. Meaning and understanding, in the sense of there being one one true, universal meaning to something, is certainly something worth questioning and critiquing.
I don't know if it is just me, but to me his whole essay in its form was also a critique of language. He argues that the Word gives orders, and in a way, that's what his essay sounds like. He might be demonstrating the insufficiency of the Word to truly say what he wants us to "understand" - now more in the sense of feeling, "getting it." He seems to imply that meaning can still exist, but not as a prescribed, rigid thing, but as a flowing, canging, subjective thing.
Or he could simply contradicting himself by writing the essay. But really, what other options does he (and do we all) have?
***
McCaffery's essay mentions Phonography, which he says attempts "to investigate the possibilities that there are for a relationship between sound and picture, [...] between audible and visual rhythms. This made me think of.....
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h2H5w8MsPps
Can this, then, be classified as a sound poem, since it is sound transformed into a picture? And is the end result, or the video the poem? Would the video of the painting being created be a (visual) poem, even with the sound off? Would the relation of the soundless video to the piano be parallel to the relation of a the printed words of a poem to its live performance? Yes, the colors of the paint are arbitrarily chosen, but then so are written representations of sounds. So many questions....
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