Catalepsis: a suspended state of trance-like immobility.
Urgent and piercing layers of sound emerge from the darkness. Sonic pulses of energy continue for hours, provoking a hypnotic state in those who take the time to listen.
Modified field recordings of insect stridulation were used in creating this drone piece.
During the past week summer has brought its share of seasonal rain and flooding. This year the floods were particularly bad, cutting-off towns in the local district. Being flooded-in for a couple of days presented me with the opportunity to listen to the sounds of the flood at its various stages.
This shallow creek is usually only a few metres wide. I normally do a lot of hydrophonic recordings here as it is alive with the sounds of water bugs. On this day I placed the hydrophones in the floodwater and heard only the sound of the strong current:
As the rain eased the natural sounds were broken by the whir of military helicopters flying high overhead. They are often involved in evacuations, search and rescue, and food drops during periods of flooding.
Meanwhile my favourite sound during the flood was found in a shallow puddle on our driveway. Tiny air bubbles were rising from under the ground creating this sound heard through the hydrophones:
The floodwater has now subsided though more rain is predicted. This morning the valley was filled with the sounds of frogs enjoying a brief respite from the rain.
A 4-minute sample from Emerging Territories. Visit the LEA Ediciones site to download the full piece.
Spanish sound artists Edu Comelles and Juanjo Palacios have launched a new net-based label LEA Ediciones, an extension of the Audiotalaia and Audition Records labels. LEA Ediciones seeks to support emerging field recordists and sound artists.
It was a great pleasure working on Emerging Territories a collaborative project with the Portuguese field recordist Luis Antero as one of LEA Ediciones’ first releases.
The idea behind the project was for us to separately create a 20 minute sound piece by combining field recordings from our respective regions. In doing so we would be constructing a new landscape, an emerging territory whose existence lay on the foundation of sound itself.
Good luck to Edu Comelles and Juanjo Palacios with their new venture, and thanks to Luis Antero for his participation in the project.
In geographical terms liminal space describes a transitional area through which we pass but don’t belong. This may include features such as hotels, rivers, roads, and borders.
Similar to the way in which we experience sound, our passage through liminal space is often ephemeral and intangible.
Following are three recordings taken within Sydney’s transport system. Here the idea of travel performs the 3 stages of liminality: separation, marginalization, and reaggregation.
Sydney Airport
The modern airport exemplifies the concept of liminal space. On a daily basis passengers move through its halls in a physical and mental state of transition. As passengers focus upon the experiences awaiting them in other regions little thought is directed to the space in which they temporarily inhabit. However sonic features such as boarding calls, gate changes and delay announcements serve as soundmarks for this particular environment.
Central Station
While the sounds in airports can suggest the beginning of new and exciting possibilities, train stations are often associated with life’s more earthbound moments. Sounds of business shoes stepping through station hallways, coffee machines working overtime for workers on an early shift amplify the fact that this liminal space is often a transitional point between the workplace and home. In this recording a platform speaker malfunctions amidst the daily arrival of trains.
Sydney Harbour Water Taxi Platform
The sounds of Sydney Harbour are often associated with pleasure as ferry passengers move from the crowded city to an open space. The mental peace that results from this experience is reflected in its soundmarks. In this recording a water-taxi platform gently moves with the wake generated by ferries further out in the harbour. The sound in this liminal point connects terrestrial and aquatic elements.
At a local lookout the sounds of birds, cicadas, cars, and an expanding tin roof merge under the midday sun.
At first glance the attempted removal of the Aboriginal name “Wollumbin” at this roadside lookout appeared to be motivated by white racism. The damage inflicted on the sign sparked an interest in recording the sounds found at the mountain. As I prepared to record there I discovered a story of a territorial dispute.
Mt Warning is an ancient volcanic plug that lies at the centre of an eroded caldera. It supports an immense variety of sub-tropical flora and fauna. At 1,125 metres it is the first point on the mainland to receive the morning sun. Walking to its peak is a popular activity for visitors to this region.
The halyard on a nautical flagpole flaps in strong wind at Point Danger.
Captain Cook penned the name Mt Warning as he sailed along Australia’s eastern coastline in 1770. After Cook’s ship nearly ran aground on a reef near Point Danger he charted Mt Warning as a reference point for the protection of other boats. Unwittingly the imposition of this foreign name served as a catalyst for future disputes concerning the mountain.
In the past decade a number of symbolic gestures have promoted the reconciliation of Australia’s indigenous and non-indigenous populations. These have included the recognition of Aboriginal names for some regional landmarks. Vocalising these traditional names is a reminder that a culture existed here long before colonisation. As part of this process Wollumbin was registered in 2006 as the traditional name for
Mt Warning.
Each day people walk past this sign as they begin their ascent of the mountain.
The name Wollumbin comes from the language of the local Bundjalung nation. Depending on which source you read Wollumbin refers to a great fighting chief or more simply translates as “cloud catcher”. To the majority of local non-indigenous residents the re-establishment of the name Wollumbin has been accepted.
However referring to the mountain as Wollumbin has created friction between neighbouring Aboriginal nations. There are claims that it never fell within Bundjalung territory. The Ngarakwal-Githabul nations maintain that they are the original custodians of the mountain which is known to them as Wulambiny Momoli. In their belief the mountain was once a giant scrub turkey with the surrounding caldera acting as its nest. They also assert that the name Wollumbin refers to a set of neighbouring hills which were important for funeral rites.
Proving who is right has been a slow and bitter process. Australian native-title law often requires written evidence of traditional land ownership yet Aborigines lived in oral, not literate, societies. An interesting video supporting the Ngarakwal-Githabul case can be found here.
The sounds of the mountain are in contrast with the dispute surrounding its custodianship.
On the morning of my field recording trip to the mountain hikers had already started their walk to the summit. Preferring to remain at the base I was surrounded by the sounds of frogs, birds, and mountain streams. As I wandered around the base a single scrub turkey followed me, a reminder of the dispute that lay outside.
A Butcher Bird sings to her chick while sheltering from the rain. The calls of Australian birds were once regarded as inferior to those in Europe.
When Australia was first colonised in 1788 its soundscape was completely alien to the foreign British ear. The vibrant sounds of the tropical wilderness and desert areas went unheard to the extent that terms such as The Great Australian Silence and The Great Australian Emptiness entered the cultural discourse. This notion of silence aided in legitimising the colonisation of Aboriginal land, a space which had been occupied for over 40,000 years.
As the colonial territory expanded the 500 Aboriginal language groups that had existed prior to 1788 were systematically silenced. English was imposed as the dominant language and along with it the cultural system in which to interpret the world. The introduction of reading and writing further devalued the Aboriginal cultures’ aural interpretations of the Australian landscape; western society favouring the visual sense above all others. Today only 250 Aboriginal languages remain. This silencing has resulted in the loss of indigenous knowledge and ways of listening to the environment throughout Australia.
During the late 19th century Australian nationalists attempted to forge a cultural identity seperate from Britain, however there was still an inability to acknowledge Australia’s unique acoustic space. This was exemplified by one of the leading literary nationalists, Adam Lindsay Gordon, describing Australia’s birds as songless.
Soundscape: Bird House.
It is now 223 years since colonisation. Has our ability to listen to the sounds specific to our environment improved, do we still hear the great silence? Reynolds argues that the silence has been broken by Aboriginal people speaking in public soundscapes, and by our developing willingness to hear, articulate and confront the unspeakable of our history.
Indeed the Australian film and tv industries now make great use of the local soundscape, and contemporary composers have attempted to interpret the calls of native animals in their compositions. After 223 years post-colonial Australia finally seems to be entering a period in which we recognise our sonic identity, our soundmarks. Perhaps this growing awareness will also benefit the acoustic spaces in which we live.
References:
Hearing Australian Identity by Ros Bandt
The Great Australian Silence by Jane Belfrage
Night engulfs the forest. We sit in a physical and mental state of transition, having left the sights and sounds of the familiar but not yet comprehending the space in which we now find ourselves. A sense of anxiety that was suppressed during the day is provoked by the sounds of night, foreign to our ears and unseen.
The darkness within the forest reacts with the darkness within our own mental space. What had lain hidden is now let loose.
The Darkness Inside uses modified field recordings of nocturnal animals in northern NSW, Australia.
