Brian Eno, Aphex Twin, Laurie Anderson, John Cage, Erik Satie, Photek
Sounds Like
Well, there are some low growly noises to start with. There's a noise that's kind of like a vaccum cleaner that's sucked up a music box, and one that sounds like a washing machine filled about two-thirds full with small round pebbles and then pushed down an uncarpeted flight of stairs. Another noise is just like that one, but with slightly larger pebbles. There are some pingy kind of noises too, and some stuff that sounds like thumb pianos or voices of babies, and some whooshy zingy noises. And buzzes and beeps and whistles and clangs. The thing that sounds like an elephant seal gargling actually isn't. The thing that sounds like a small porcelain mortar from Japan being bashed with a wooden spoon, only backwards, is. There's also some silence.
"The first question I ask myself when something doesn't seem to be beautiful is why do I think it's not beautiful. And very shortly you discover that there is no reason." (John Cage)
"I believe that music should be collective hysteria and spells, violently of the present time." (Pierre Boulez)
The brakes of the bus squealing in exact tune with the music pouring out of the bar across the street. The beeps of two ATMs forming a minor third: a high tragic sound as I'm handed my money. The relentless clang of a pile driver at a construction site forcing everybody who passes by to walk in rhythm. The mockingbird outside my bedroom window imitating car alarms.
When I was in the first grade, I did something--I can't remember what it was now--that infuriated my teacher. She said, "Rob, I'll skin you alive!" I was terrified of her for days. When I eventually told my father about it, he told me I'd die without my skin, and that made me feel better.
At the time of Erik Satie's death in 1925, nobody else had entered his room in Arcueil since he had moved there twenty-seven years earlier. Among many other items his friends discovered there were a large number of unused umbrellas.
The woman on the Metro has painted her face red. She is wearing a yellow plastic rain poncho and has her hair tied up in a black scarf. She is standing in the aisle, rocking back and forth with her eyes closed, singing "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" in a voice that could fill a stadium. The train is crowded and everyone is ignoring her. When I get off at Judiciary Square, I can still hear her belting out the song through the closed doors of the train as it pulls away.
Q: "But, seriously, if this is what music is, I could write it as well as you."
A: "Have I said anything that would lead you to think I thought you were stupid?" (John Cage)
Hi Rob! We've never met, but we know a lot of mutual folks (George Norman, Josh Dukes, Paddy League, etc). I have loved your flute and guitar playing for years!
