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SO! Amplifies: The Women in L.A. Punk Archive

Image of Alice Bag used with her permission (thank you!)

Image of Alice Bag used with her permission (thank you!)

For full intro and part one of the series click here. For part two, click here.

Our Punk Sound series implicitly argues that sound studies methodologies are better suited to understanding how punk works sonically than existing journalistic and academic conversations about musical genre, chord progressions, and/or genealogies of bands.  Alexandra Vasquez’s sound-oriented work on Cuban music, for example, in Listening in Detail (2014) opens up necessary conversations about the “flashes, moments, sounds” in music that bear its meanings and its colonial, raced, classed, and gendered histories in material ways people can hear and feel.  While retaining the specificity of Vasquez’s argument and the specific sonic archive bringing it forth, we too insist on “an ethical and intellectual obligation to the question: what do the musicians sound like” (12) and  how do folks identifying with and through these musical sounds hear them?

In this series, we invite you to amplify varied historicized “details” of punk sound–its chunk-chunk-chunk skapunk riffs, screams, growls, group chants, driving rhythms, honking saxophones–hearing/feeling/touching these sounds in richly varied locations, times, places, and perspectives: as a pulsing bead of condensation dripping down the wall of The Smell in Downtown LA (#savethesmell), a drummer making her own time on tour, a drunk sitting too near the amp at a backyard party, a queer teenager in their bedroom being yelled at to “turn it down” and “act like a lady[or a man]”. . .and on and on.  Today’s entry is done in conjunction with our SO! Amplifies series. . .a highly-curated, rolling mini-post series by which we editors hip you to cultural makers and organizations doing work we really really dig. Today we round out our series on punk by diving into Alice Bag’s archive of interviews with women in the L.A. punk scene.

SOUND!

NO, SOUND!

–Aaron SO! (Sounding Out!) + Jenny SO! (Sounding Out!)

soampAlice Bag’s Women in L.A. Punk Archives is a treasure trove of interviews that she has conducted with women in the L.A. punk scene. Today we share with you some of the most insightful and exciting gems we curated from her amazing archive. We encourage you to hear punk in a new way, and to explore her archive for yourself.

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Joanna Spock Dean of Backstage Pass

[Excerpt from an interview on March, 2006]

Alice Bag: What was/is your contribution to the punk community?

Joanna Spock Dean: I was the ONLY bass player in Backstage Pass (since we had more rotating members than any other band!), and one of the singer/songwriters. I always felt that Backstage Pass was one of the first bands to come out of the Punk Scene (which we loved, of course), and move into the poppier “New Wave” scene, and others were able to do the same thing. We also were unapologetic groupies, and I think the fact that that was a big part of us, and that we were proud of it, added to the band.

AB: Do you have any funny or interesting stories to share?

Joanna Spock Dean: I [do] remember one.  We were in San Francisco @ The Mabuhay, maybe opening for Devo, so it was a 2 night thing.  The first night, I remember walking into the bathroom, and finding some girl harassing Genny and Marina, and I told her to leave them alone.  (I was always the ‘leader’ in that way.)  The second night, the same girl comes up to the stage, and starts screaming and throwing popcorn at me as we’re onstage – hey, she probably just thought it was a ‘punk’ thing to do. Well, I exploded.  I threw off my bass, jumped off the stage and started pummeling her – I heard that Rod came flying over the top of his drum kit to pull me off.  I do remember that as I’m swinging away, she’s yelling “I changed my mind, I changed my mind, I love your band, I love your band!”

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Penelope Houston of The Avengers

[Excerpt from an interview on June 2007]

AB:What was/is your contribution to the punk community?

Penelope Houston: As singer/lyricist of the Avengers in the late 70’s and now again leading the band to play all over the world.

PH: What was the role of women in the early punk scene?

Penelope Houston: It seems like there was more freedom and fewer rules in 1977-79, before hardcore took over the mantle of punk. The early scene embraced all comers, be they female, gay, non-white or even older. There was no dress code. Women were pioneers along with everyone else involved. I noticed no separation. I knew women who were musicians, bookers, managers, photographers, visual artists, film makers, journalists, label owners… etc.

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Heather Valiant Ferguson, scenemaker, style breaker and hairdresser

[Excerpt from an interview on November 2009]

AB:What was/is your contribution to the punk community?

Heather Valiant Ferguson: My name is Heather Ferguson. I now go by the first name Valiant. I became a hairdresser at age 18 and went to San Francisco to work for Vidal Sassoon. I did a lot of free hair for a lot of fellow punks, including The Avengers, The Cramps, The Ramones, Belinda C., The Dils, etc.

AB: Which artist, band concert and/or show had the most impact on your life?

Heather Valiant Ferguson: I lived in Pacific Heights on Broadway and Laguna. It was around 1974-75. The punk rock scene was making its way over the waves from Britain through Sassoon’s. At the very place in time that punk rock came streaming into consciousness, I was hanging around with some very dark and edgy people like myself. We used to go to a place in North Beach and I would smoke Black Sobranie cigarettes in a short black cigarette holder. I wore black clothing and Hats with veils. I was dating a musician lead singer named Bobby Death. He kept crooning on about this band from New York called ‘THE RAMONES’. One night he got tickets to their SF debut at a place called the Savoy Tivoli. Well, he disappeared somewhere, but I didn’t care…..WOW, who were these brilliant moptops?? Beat on the brat, with a baseball bat, Oh yeah, yeah, oohh oohhh. I was in my version of Nirvana. I felt something growing inside me and it wasn’t a baby. It was life alright, but they just knocked me out. Bobby appeared near the end to tell me that he had invited them over to my apartment for champagne and coke……WOW again. We stayed up all night long telling each other all our stories. That was too kewl for words. So that show was me plugging into me, plugging into the whole synchronistic punk scene. I moved to Hollywood a year later to work at Sassoon’s there.

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Connie Clarksville, a Blackette with Black Randy & The Metro Squad

[Excerpt from an interview on January 2008]

AB: What was/is your contribution to the punk community?

Connie Clarksville: When I moved to Hollywood from Orange County in 1972, I moved into the Canterbury Apartments. Back then it was full of drag queens and pimps and gays. I was a Bowie fan and liked the array of different people. After (the era of) Glitter, Rodney Bingenheimer’s (English Disco), The Real Don Steele Show, The Rainbow, disco and hanging out on Sunset, I went to a show at Larchmont Hall one Saturday afternoon. There was a show at the Whiskey where I met Bruce (Moreland) who would become Bruce Barf (of the Weirdos) later. He told me how this guy named Brendan Mullen was wanting to open a place where we could hang out and bands would play in the basement of the Pussycat Theatre on Hollywood Blvd. He took me over to this mess of a basement where I met Brendan. I loved his accent and had a crush on him rite away. He said he’s naming this mess “the Masque.” I loved the idea and wanted to do something to help so I hauled trash out of the basement. There was a small, cut-out room in the middle, so when bands started playing and people started showing up, I decided to ask Brendan if I could sell sodas. He said, “sure, Clarksville.” Nobody had ever called me that before, so I got used to the name. Brendan was really the only person who called me that.

Soon after, I met this girl named Sheila (Edwards) and we needed a place to stay. I was going to beauty school and had a little money and with her half (of the rent), I suggested the Canterbury. It was close to school and the Masque. Soon after, many bands moved in: The Bags, Nicky Beat from the Weirdos, The Germs, Geza X lived across the hall… so, so many to list.

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Debbie Dub, scenemaker, producer, management and booking

[Excerpt from an interview on July 2011]

AB: What was/is your contribution to the punk community?

Debbie Dub: In the early days, I think just being part of the scene was a huge contribution. There weren’t very many of us, and we were just making it up as we went along – which means I helped create it! Producing the first Negative Trend single is one of my lasting contributions. The record is famous now but we couldn’t give them away at the time.

AB: Are there any punk women from the early scene that you feel have not been adequately recognized?

Debbie Dub: All of them. I don’t think you can underestimate the impact that women had on the scene.  We were equals in standing but also in numbers. When you think about it, for a phenomenon filled with such over the top aggressive music and attitude, it’s amazing how many women played vital roles in shaping the scene.  I don’t think there had ever been anything like it before in terms of women’s participation.

Read More in the Women in L.A. Punk Archives

All text and images reproduced with the permission of Alice Bag.  The featured image is of the Bags Live at the Mabuhay Gardens, January 1978.

Alice Bag is a punk rock singer, musician, author, educator and feminist archivist. Alice was lead singer and co-founder of The Bags, one of the first wave of punk bands to form in the mid-1970’s in Los Angeles, CA.

Her first book, Violence Girl, East LA Rage to Hollywood Stage is the story of her upbringing in East LA, her eventual migration to Hollywood and the euphoria and aftermath of the first punk wave. Violence Girl reveals how domestic abuse fueled her desire for female empowerment and sheds a new perspective on the origin of hardcore, a style most often associated with white suburban males.

An outspoken activist, feminist and a self-proclaimed troublemaker, Alice has remained active in music since the late 1970’s and published her second book, Pipe Bomb for the Soul in 2015. The ongoing influence of Alice’s style can be seen in the traveling Smithsonian exhibition, American Sabor. She has been profiled by PBS, AARP and has been an invited speaker at colleges including Stanford, Wellesley and USC. Her memoir, Violence Girl, is now required reading in gender and musicology courses throughout the country.

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The Magical Post-Horn: A Trip to the BBC Archive Centre in Perivale

Suddenly we heard a Tereng! tereng! teng! teng! We looked round, and now found the reason why the postilion had not been able to sound his horn: his tunes were frozen up in the horn, and came out now by thawing, plain enough, and much to the credit of the driver. —The Adventures of Baron Munchausen, 1865

At the BBC Archive Centre in Perivale, London, the proverbial “weight of the past” becomes literal for researchers of sound history. Housed in a massive, unattractive hangar-like building in an industrial park to the northwest of London, the archives suit their environment, one which speaks of practical and solid shapes far more than the lyrical, dainty ivory tower.  And by weight, I mean by serious, and sometimes dangerous, poundage:  the very first machine created to record off of radio, invented around 1930, was a steel pedestal with bus wheel-sized reels on either side. Audio Coordinator of the BBC Archives, John Dell, explained that not only was this machine laborious to load, but it used magnetic steel tape as its recording surface, which could come free from the reels and lacerate incautious operators as it unspooled and bunched.

The weight of these objects, however, is also metaphoric. The earliest recording in my personal audio drama library, sourced off the invaluable Archive.org, is a 1933 episode of Front Page Drama, a dramatized version of an American Weekly Hearst publication.  The past stands monumentally huge if this type of machine, the Marconi-Stille Wire Recorder, was the apparatus that allowed those 15 minutes of 1933 to be captured and, eventually, fed into my 2015 headphones as an MP3.

marconistille

I listen to much of my audio drama, whether old and crackling like Front Page Drama, or new and podcast-y, while commuting, usually on the London Underground.  The episode of Front Page Drama in question I heard during a marathon session when I knew very little could or would interrupt me:  on an twelve-hour transatlantic plane ride.  I quite like the audio-visual play between listening to audio drama that is new to me versus the familiar but never identical sights of the commute; as Primus Luta remarked in 2012, it’s rare for us to engage our full attention on the aural medium.

While listening to Front Page Drama and episodes of Lum and Abner on that flight, I had to wonder how I was prioritizing my listening time.  Who had recorded these episodes from the 1930s?  Who had later taken the trouble to digitize them and upload them to Archive.org?  Why, for example, were these particular recordings freely available yet I couldn’t find an MP3 anywhere of texts I wanted to share more widely, such as Don Haworth’s On a Summer’s Day in a Garden (1975) or Angela Carter’s Come Unto These Yellow Sands (1978)? Both of these recordings are in the BBC back catalogue; I know, because the BBC supplied them to me—but only the basis of a visit to the archive.

Archive.org is bountiful and accessible, the Perivale archives much more exclusive, but both seem to lack curation. The only hope for accessing things like Haworth or Carter outside the British Library’s Sound and Moving Image Archives is that someday a rogue MP3 or BitTorrent will show up online.   The archive does seem, in Neil Verma’s words, then, “transformed before dispersing in space, plucked from the air and mineralized like fossils” (Theater of the Mind, 227);  like Primus Luta’s weighty but playful experiment, Schrödinger’s Cassette, which suspended music in concrete to be risked, or remain aurally untouched forever.  This seems too often to be the impossible choice.

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BBC Perivale Field Trip, Image by Flickr User Hatters! (CC BY-NC 2.0)

The BBC archive storage is eclectic and generally arranged for access by BBC staff rather than for researchers.  The BBC Written Archives at Caversham are restricted to academics, and likewise, the speed of gaining access to sound files from Perivale is predicated on the amount of time BBC staff have to devote to it—naturally, the BBC’s own departments have priority, such as BBC Radio 4 Extra, the archival digital radio station, whose backlog of requests for digitised material from the Perivale archive apparently covers 20 pages.  The sound collections consist of commercial recordings on shellac (90 RPM records) and vinyl (78 RPMs) as well as impressively dinner-plate sized compilation transcriptions which require a special turn-table on which to play and digitize them. The BBC Sheet Music archive is in Perivale, as well, with original handwritten scores filling shelves.

The second half of the British and Irish Sound Archives conference 2015 afforded a privileged glimpse of the archive storage and technical facilities housed on site.  Most of my fellow attendees were archivists of one sort or another, asking detailed questions about transcription devices, fidelity, and storage.  Having recently completed my PhD from Swansea University in English in radio drama, I had made countless requests to this very facility through the British Library’s Sound and Moving Image request service; now I, at long last, hoped to see where my digitised sound files were coming from.  However, we weren’t shown any recordings made on tape cassette or CD but instead Betamax audio-only.  Unseen, too, were the data banks holding all the digitised content, but what myself and my fellow archivists had mainly come to see were the tangible objects making this content possible.

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78s at BBC Perivale, Image by Flicker User Hatters! CC BY-NC 2.0

In the physical copies of the Radio Times of the 1940s and ‘50s, also housed at the British Library at St Pancras (and now available, like all of the Radio Times up to 2009, on BBC Genome), there can be found a little asterisk in the listings for drama, which signifies that the drama was broadcast from a recording, rather than live. The later recording machines of the ‘30s through ‘50s, upon which these recordings would have been made, did not decrease appreciably in size, though perhaps in weight. “If I were to drop this,” Dell told us as he carefully handled a dark blue celluloid tube, about the size and circumference of a toilet paper roll, “it would bounce.  I’m not going to drop it,” he added.  Then the magic began:  via a custom-made device, we heard a few bars of a music hall song from circa 1900.  The recording was surprisingly clear.  It was agonizing when Dell turned it off after only a few seconds.

There is something incredibly seductive about old recordings. In “The Recording that Never Wanted to Be Heard and Other Stories of Sonification,” from The Oxford Handbook of Sound Studies, Jonathan Sterne and Mitchell Akiyama question the desire for “sonification” of ever-older recordings, especially when such desires manifest in the creation of a digital sound file in 2008 for “the world’s oldest recording,” a phonoautogram from 1860, which was nevertheless never intended to be played back—the phonoautograph was intended as a device to make the aural visual (555).  Radio drama writer Mike Walker really summed up the seduction of old recordings for me in his 2013 BBC Radio 4 ghost story The Edison Cylinderswith a character who is seduced as a scholar and as a participant in a time-traveling mystery by old recordings:  a sound engineer in need of money, she agrees to digitize what seem like boring diary entries from a British imperialist, only to be intrigued by his Victorian domain beyond her rather empty modern existence.  Unfortunately for her, these particular recordings are reaching beyond the grave to try to kill her.

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Edison Cylinder Exposed, by Flickr User fouro boros, CC BY-NC 2.0

Although they do reach out from the grave, most early sound recordings aren’t out to kill you. They do however, present common and vexing issues of authenticity.  By this, I mean specifically the provenance of the recording—is the recording of who or what it says it is?  On the first day of the conference, Dell regaled us with tales of two cylinder recordings surfacing in the mid-twentieth century, of William Gladstone giving a speech.  The words of the speech were identical, but the voices were completely different.  Who was the real Gladstone?  How could you authenticate the voice of a dead person?  Dell further deepened the mystery by telling us the tale of two boxes of wax cylinder recordings in the Perivale archive, whose provenance is torturously (and tantalizingly) unclear.  We glimpsed these mysterious, yellow-cream-colored cylinders, somewhat wider and fatter than the celluloid tubes, in situ, but were they original Edison cylinders from the 1880s?  The piercing desire to believe these cylinders might contain the voices of Gladstone, the future Edward VIII, or even Henry Irving, are potentially “perils of over-optimism,” as Dell puts it.

All the archivists at this event referred to the serendipity of discovering surprises on recordings.  Simon Elmes, whose official title reads “Radio Documentarist, Creative Consultant, and Former Creative Director, BBC Radio Documentaries,” made this manifest as he discussed a subject treated in his documentary from 2005, Ambridge in the Decade of LoveThe Archersan exceptionally long-running BBC radio soap which conjures up visions of rural Englishness and persists among a very dedicated, though mostly older, fan baselike much radio drama and emblematic of gendered attitude toward radio soaps, was not recorded in its first few decades.

Empty Shelves at BBC Perivale, Image by Flickr User Bill Thompson, Image cropped by SO!, (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0)

Likewise, anyone researching radio drama before the 1930s is playing a game of roulette; whether any scripts survive will depend entirely on the literary reputation of the author who may have had enough clout to publish them in book form.  Even in the case of Lance Sieveking, the acknowledged creative aesthete behind early BBC radio drama, we lack concrete evidence of his most important work, The End of Savoy Hill (1932).  And The Truth About Father Christmas (1923), the first original drama written specifically for British radio?  Forget about it—it was made for children’s radio.

To return to The Archers, though daily 15-minute scripts were being churned out by Ted Kavanagh from the first years of the 1950s, the broadcasts themselves went missing into the ether (after all, no one suspected the show would still be going after sixty years).  Transcription discs, meant for an overseas market, were found in a box in the BBC Archives, giving a reasonably complete overview of The Archers during the 1950s and ‘60s.  Elmes was ebullient about this discovery.

While I got the general sense that the other archivists at the conference were amused but indifferent toward this particular trove, to me it was inspiring.  I believe the future of audio drama will rely more and more on serials, so the rediscovery of these Archers episodes epitomizes to me the past, present, and future of audio drama in that it speaks of audience involvement and even audience interaction or co-production, which seems key for audio drama going forward, and the aspect of serialization which has vastly overtaken the single drama on television if not on radio.

Harry Oakes as Dan Archer and Gwen Berryman as Doris Archer, 1955

Harry Oakes as Dan Archer and Gwen Berryman as Doris Archer, 1955.

Nevertheless, even if pursuit of these aural rainbows is a foolish one, such desire also enables scholarship. The hope of finding “originals” inspired me personally to discover the birth of what can conceivably called audio drama.  Having researched audio drama from the first known broadcast dramas in English (the adaptations: 2LO London’s Five Birds in a Cage in 1922, WGY Schenectady’s The Wolf in 1922, British Broadcasting Company’s Twelfth Night in 1923; original drama: WLW Cincinnati’s When Love Awakens in 1923, British Broadcasting Company’s Danger in 1924), I was astounded to learn that listeners from World War I might have enjoyed short, dramatized stories on the celluloid tubes (according to Tim Crook, the first audio drama of this nature is a war drama from 1917).  While archives such as the Cylinder Preservation and Digitization Project of the University of California at Santa Barbara care for these recordings in the same way they do for musical and speech recordings, there is a significant lack of scholarship on them.

If commentary on specific pre-radio audio drama is scarce, it is heartening to read dissections of the performative aspects of “actuality,” such as Brian Hanrahan’s anatomy of Gas Shell Bombardment, 1918.  Wonderfully, in discussing the “staging” of this war-time recording, Hanrahan brings in traditions from theatre and silent film in addition to the phonograph. Professor David Hendy has persuasively argued that some of the organizing tenets behind the British Broadcasting Corporation, whose management was by and large made up of ex-soldiers, was predicated on a desire for silence and calm, ordered, managed sound after the cacophony of war.  Perhaps “cylinder” drama, then, is not really of its time and properly belongs to earlier, or later, cultural milieux.

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Wax cylinder playback at BBC Perivale, Image by Flickr User Hatter! CC BY-NC 2.0

The ephemera of the medium presents a recurring problem in radio drama studies, a weighty feeling of doom. With the future of the BBC’s existence currently perilous, one wonders what the consequences will be for archives like those housed at Perivale.  If the internal function of the archives (for the BBC to make use during Radio 4 Extra broadcasts, for example) disappears, will the archives be opened to wider use?  Or will material without commercial potential simply be discarded?  Who would make the decision as to what was commercially viable and how would they make such decisions?

And the problem with the medium seemingly begins with wax cylinders.  A beautiful, lyrical story from Baron Munchausen—alias Rudolph Erich Raspe, a German author who created a fictional travel writer and chronic teller of tall tales based on a real nobleman infamous for his boasting—cited by many of those fascinated with sound recordings is worth repeating here:  the Baron is traveling in Russia in a snowy landscape and desires the postilion to blow his horn to alert other travellers that their sleigh will be coming around the bend.  Unfortunately, the cold makes the horn incapable of any audible sound.  Disappointed, they make their way to an inn.  Diedre Loughridge and Thomas Patteson cite the “Frozen Horn” from their online Museum of Imaginary Instruments:  “After we arrived at the end inn, my postilion and I refreshed ourselves: he hung his horn on a peg near the kitchen fire; I sat on the other side.”  Warmed by the fire, the horn now begins to play its reserved tunes.

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Illustration by Gustave Doré, 1865. Listen to ABC radio feature on the “Frozen Post Horn” and the Museum of Imaginary Instruments here

With a little leap of the imagination, it’s not difficult to see the parallels with the reality of sound recording limitation.  The wax cylinders could only be played a few times before the sound degrades completely.  Tin cylinders are not much better. This is the reason why the two Gladstone voices could be both “real” and “fake.”  Celluloid is more durable, yet witness the reluctance of Dell to play one for longer than a few seconds, for preservation reasons.

Sound recordings are only as good as the medium on which they are recorded, a fact that surprisingly holds true even today.  We were told by our BBC hosts that discs of shellac, vinyl, and acetate whose contents have already been digitised will not be discarded—digital recordings are ultimately taken from these physical originals.

In the future, we might invent means of reproduction and playback which could provide more fidelity to the original event lifted from the physical recording, in which case it will be the MP3s that will be redundant.  There’s something both very modern and very old-fashioned about this. Once at a dinner party, I launched full-force into my postdoctoral rant about the eventual possible degradation of the MP3 as a recording format, that it was not infallible as we had been led to believe.  I was surprised that I was wholly believed; furthermore, the older people participating in the conversation rued the disappearance of their CDs, tape cassettes and, vitally, their LPs, for the oft-cited reasons (which Primus Luta distills as the pricelessness of old recordings to one’s personal history, and the “fuller” sound ans weighty materiality, one resonating with one’s emotional past).

Vinyl at BBC Perivale, including a lot of John Peel's old records. Image by Flickr User Hatter! (CC BY-NC 2.0)

Vinyl at BBC Perivale, including a lot of John Peel’s old records. Image by Flickr User Hatter! (CC BY-NC 2.0)

I admit, before I came to the UK and experienced the never-perfect but always interesting presence of BBC Radio, I treated radio as a background medium. I suppose recorded sound had always interested me, and I had had a strong relationship with local, classical music radio (Classical KHFM Albuquerque).  However, I could not have predicted ten years ago that I would become a passionate proponent of audio drama and sound studies more generally.  I’m almost embarrassed now at my excessive love of audio drama; I make almost no distinctions between “high” art like Samuel Beckett and Tom Stoppard and fan fiction radio serials like Snape’s Diaries as produced by Misfits Audio:  I listen to almost anything.

And, truly, the future of audio drama is only assured if people keep listening.  The digitisation and availability of cylinder recordings makes study of them more accessible, so the way is paved for further studies of the earliest audio drama.  It is imperative that researchers continue to request sound recordings from the BBC, even if they have to use the relatively inconvenient system currently available.

There are signs that things are improving and that more people than ever before want to access such materials. As Josh Shepperd puts it brilliantly, “Sound trails continue where paper trails end.”  As Director of the Radio Preservation Task Force at the Library of Congress, his efforts have underlined the fact that often it is the local and the rural whose radio or audio history vanishes more quickly than the national or the metropolitan.  This would historically be the case with the BBC as well, which for a long time privileged London sound above regionalism (and, some would argue, still does).  Since 2015, the British Library (and the Heritage Lottery Fund) have invested significantly in the Save Our Sounds campaign, positing that within 15 years, worldwide sound recordings must be digitized before recordings degrade or we no longer have the means to play the material.

Out of curiosity, I downloaded the more than 600-page listing, the Directory of UK Sound Collections, assembled rather hastily through the Save Our Sounds project in 20 weeks, and comprising more than 3,000 collections and more than 1.9 million objects.  This document makes for fascinating and eclectic reading, ranging as it does between a Sound Map of the English town of Harrogate to the archives of the Dog Rose Trust, which mainly provides recorded tours of English cathedrals for those who are blind.  Undoubtedly, there are wodges of local or forgotten drama in these archives, too.  The linking up of these archives and making them more widely accessible suggests how important sustained, collective effort is to unfreezing radio’s archival post-horn, delivering more of its unique tunes.

Featured Image: “The Route to Open Data” at BBC Perivale, Image by Flickr User Hatter! (CC BY-NC 2.0)

Leslie McMurtry has a PhD in English (radio drama) and an MA in Creative and Media Writing from Swansea University.  Her work on audio drama has been published in The Journal of Popular Culture, The Journal of American Studies in Turkey, and Rádio-Leituras.  Her radio drama The Mesmerist was produced by Camino Real Productions in 2010, and she writes about audio drama at It’s Great to Be a Radio Maniac.

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“Share your story” – but who will listen?–Fabiola Hanna

SO! Amplifies: Indie Preserves

The Sound of Radiolab: Exploring the “Corwinesque” in 21st Century–Alexander Russo

“Share your story” – but who will listen?

DH ListeningEditor’s Note: Welcome to the second installment in the “DH and Listening” blog series for World Listening Month, our annual forum that prompts readers to reflect on what it means to listen. This year’s forum considers the role of “listening” in the digital humanities (DH, for short). We at Sounding Out! are stoked to hear about (and listen to) all the new projects out there that archive sound, but we wonder whether the digital humanities engage enough with the the notion of listening. After all, what’s a sound without someone to listen to it?

On our opening week, Jacqueline Wernimont from the Vibrant Lives team shared with us about the ethics of listening to 20th century sterilization victims’ records. Then, Emmanuelle Sonntag introduces us to a figure from a long time ago, “la soeur écoute,” a nun whose was responsible for sitting in and listening when another nun had a visitor. This week, Fabiola Hanna reflects upon what DH means when it talks about participatory practices. –Liana Silva, Managing Editor

Germanic and Holocaust historian and Digital Humanist Todd Presner has worked through more than 52,000 testimonies of the Shoah Foundation’s Visual History Archive, perhaps the largest archive of testimony, to investigate “the ethics of the algorithm.” The scale of this participatory archive has prompted Presner to ask: is it possible for a computer to listen to testimony?

Digital Humanities (DH) projects are, in varying degrees, led by the desire to engage with a wider public. Some often include actions such as inviting participants to share their stories, images, audio clips, drawings, and videos. In order to avoid lumping all DH works under a broad category that includes, among others, text analysis, mapping, visualization, 3D, and archiving. Below I examine DH projects that collect oral histories: memories, stories, and testimonies.

I argue that it is not enough to share stories; it is also important to recognize how these stories are shared. A majority of these living histories end up in an audio or video database displayed in full on a webpage, not unlike oral history transcripts ending up in a dusty closet. Listening as an active mode of participation can provide us with a framework that reveals the relationships, aesthetics and politics engendered by participation. Although seemingly about access (and some have started questioning whether users of such an archive should have access by default, or whether you need to be part of a community in order to access certain stories, see Mukurtu CMS), my focus is rather on the medium that these stories are circulated in, how they are displayed to the user and what the user’s participation does to these stories.

I take the space here, on the one hand, to think through participation from two fields, archives and interactive documentary (i-docs), and on the other hand to write about how sound studies, particularly an attention to listening and its aesthetics, its affordances, and its politics, can offer another approach to participation.

SO! Screen Capture from "The WorryBox Project"

SO! Screen Capture from Irene Lustzig’s “The WorryBox Project”

DH + participation: steps towards making place for popular

The work of requesting participation is in itself an accomplishment. It’s only been since the 1950s/60s, and perhaps more broadly since the 1990s, that ordinary peoples’ stories have been valued in the tradition that oral historians have established. It is possible to trace the field’s origins to Augusto Boal’s Theatre of the Oppressed (itself rooted in Paolo Friere’s work), to Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States, or to postmodernism, the death of the author, and the end of grand narratives. With the arrival of Web 2.0, oral history seemed like the perfect medium for the ideals of participation on the Internet, precisely because it was about the everyday and involved “anyone” (with an internet connection). Video, audio and live streaming technologies made it possible for oral history to be recorded and displayed, and social media enabled unprecedented circulation through sharing. So the recent push to preserve everyday histories online, in DH projects, follows these ideals of stories from below.

Listening to stories as a mode of engagement is fitting with regards to oral history and testimony. Making space with openness and silence for someone’s testimony, especially when difficult, is a mode of participation that we aspire to. Media scholar Wendy Chun has argued that “a politics and practice of listening [is] a necessary complement to a politics of testifying.” In the case of Holocaust testimony, for instance, many scholars have argued that there is a responsibility to listen (Laub & Felman and Henry Greenspan).

I differentiate between two types of listening:

  1. Listening on the part of the users of these DH projects. Is it realistic to expect that users will listen to large archives of testimony? In Listening Publics, Kate Lacey writes that listening has been absent from theories of the public sphere, even where “the objective of political agency is often characterized as being to find a voice – which surely implies finding a public that will listen, and that has a will to listen” (viii). Because of their scale, these large archives of testimony pose a significant design challenge to the user, which could be resolved through curation. To build on one of the most successful digital storytelling projects, the Storycorps team knows very well that if they didn’t curate and edit together shorter versions, then no one would listen to the longer interviews in full.

storycorps

  1. Listening on the part of the interface and its design. This involves questioning the medium and its effects on what it houses. Here I find Susan Bickford’s work very useful in her definition of listening and what it accomplishes: ‘the riskiness of listening comes partly from the possibility that what we hear will require change from us’ (1996, 149). If interfaces for stories pre-close any openness to what contributed stories could change, then listening is not being considered. This is more directly seen in the tagging of videos and their categorization without additional interpretational work. This will to not “add” to these stories seems to come from the premise that these testimonies should “speak for themselves” (I get to this point in a little bit); that no added interpretation is needed, even that any added interpretation distracts from the directness of the stories. But this often also means the medium and its effects on these stories are not carefully examined.

Contrary to Western cultural beliefs, listening can be seen as an active mode of participation in conversation. As Jodi Dean rightly argues, it is not enough to express one’s opinion, or for a message to be circulated: it is crucial to get a response to the message. Lisbeth Lipari writes that even in Dean’s formulation, however, the response as speech is still emphasized, thereby ignoring the work that happens beforehand: the listening. Apart from the major contribution of Susan Bickford, mentioned above, with the concept of political listening, little attention has been paid to listening in the field of political theory.

DissonanceAndDemocracyBySusanBickford and TheOtherSideOfLanguageByGemmaCorradiFiumara

As arguably the most important philosopher on listening, Gemma Corradi Fiumara, writes: “listening involves the renunciation of a predominantly moulding and ordering activity; a giving up sustained by the expectation of a new and different quality of relationship” (as quoted by Lipari, 8). For Fiumara, listening is a mode of participation that is open and that does not pre-close potential possible contributions. Listening, therefore, as a mode of engagement can provide a useful method for thinking about participation in various contexts.

DH + Archives + i-docs

If a mission of a certain DH project is to engage with a wider public, then preservation of stories is not enough. More often than not, DH projects are already under difficult strain of resources, due to costs for developing technological projects and time for interviewing, collecting, indexing, tagging, uploading and making sense of these larger collections. DH have taken on a lot: preserving and archiving everyday stories with the mission to share with a wider public. It is useful to draw from experts who have been working through ideas of preservation and access: archivists. Archives generally have a mission of preservation, but when demands of sharing with a public arise, there are not many models from which to draw. Rick Prelinger writes that although the archive as a theoretical concept is overly theorized, its practice (in the plural form of the word) is under theorized.

792354770_316f1b981b_o

Image of StoryCorps collection area by Aaron “tango” Tang (CC BY 2.0).

Francis X Blouin and William G. Rosenberg trace the intersection of history and archives and found that Ranke, during the enlightenment, conceptualized history as a scientific endeavor in that truth could be extracted from archives through rigorous methodologies. This led to the idea that documents could “speak for themselves” (Blouin, 24). As if simply making documents available, without providing context of any sort, would reveal their inner truth. This is one of many cases where the reading of documents is taken for granted. It also ignores the effect that archivists have on the collecting, saving, and indexing of documents. Influential archivists such as Terry Cooke, Richard Brown and Brian Brothman have brought about new attitudes to repositories with an acknowledgment of the effect that archivists have on documents (as quoted by Richard J Cox, 33). This relatively recent push in archival theory, therefore, points to the flaws in the claim that documents on their own can represent themselves: that would be ignoring all the various power relationships at play, as well as the medium itself in which the stories are communicated.

In thinking about collaboration, with the unstated but implied goal of providing knowledge of a given subject, non-fiction film has experimented by inviting self-interested participants online and offline to contribute to projects. Sandra Gaudenzi makes clear that interactive documentaries, also called i-docs (documentaries designed for online or mobile viewing), are very distinct and that it is important to recognize the varying strategies employed by these digital projects: “uploading content is the most common way to collaborate in the case of online documentary, but it is definitely not the only one. […] contributions of content lead to co-creation but not to co-authorship, since the latter require a degree of intervention in the overall concept (i.e., form) of the product.” In her differentiation of co-creation and co-authorship, Gaudenzi points to the medium-limiting effect that users have in their participation. The “degree of intervention,” as a coming in between that leads to change, which Gaudenzi requires for co-authored documentaries, might be attained through listening, a listening through the work itself, such as The WorryBox Project.

Listening in The WorryBox Project

Irene Lusztig’s The WorryBox Project (2011) web-based documentary invites mothers to write their worries in an online form, which Lusztig then individually writes down on a piece of paper, rolls-up and stores in a physical box. The act of writing down in analog form what was input into a digital box goes an extra step beyond collection. It is emblematic of an extended care for these worries. The additional layer of documenting these actions, as part of the artwork itself, not only points to the embodiment of these worries but also to their representation.

worryBoxDigitalAnalog

Because listening has often been thought of as passive and feminine, it is also associated with a specific kind of caring, also in its passive and feminine forms. But I don’t equate that definition of care with listening, which surely the readers of this blog will question. In this case, care extends as a mode of listening because it pushes against the active/passive binary for speaking/listening. I use care in the sense it gave to curating (care is its early root), where curating points to the work of engagement and conversation.  Curating as a form of listening.

ListeningPublicsByKateLacey and ListeningThinkingBeingByLisbethLipari

This extended care would be an example of the listening I am thinking of. The work of translating the form’s digital input into the handwritten words and the documentation of that act stretch the layering of interpretation and with it the care given to these submissions. The change that occurs in this writing is definitely not an agreement or an endorsement of what is submitted but an open attitude of listening, of reception. This reinforces the notion that listening is not passive, but an active mode of participation. 

This mode of listening does not imply an understanding, as the receipt of information in cybernetics theory suggested by Shannon and Weaver. Rather this mode of communication embraces the notion that listening does not necessarily mean an understanding. The audio action collaborative Ultra-Red conveys this idea perfectly: “Sound possesses a palpable promiscuity in relation to the body. One may say what one means, but somewhere between the mouth that speaks and the ear that hears, sound always exceeds its master. Politically, it may be useful to say that we hear the truth in the voice or that we listen with obedience, but sound always transgresses such duties.” So for DH storytelling projects to be participatory, it is beneficial to allow stories the space for listening, in a similar sense to Hannah Arendt’s “distancing” in order to understand. This brings me to media and communication’s scholar Lisbeth Lipari’s term for this: “listening otherwise.”

SO! Screen Capture of Irene Lustzig's "The Worry  Project"

SO! Screen Capture of Irene Lustzig’s “The Worry Project”

For Lipari, in engaging with difficult stories or perhaps stories that offer different perspectives: “It is […] a listening otherwise that suspends the willfulness of self- and foreknowledge in order to receive the singularities of the alterity of the other” (185, emphasis in original). For this “listening otherwise” to work online, I argue that it is important for the employed structures, systems and processes to reflect this specific kind of participation. In other words, in addition to placing “different voices” side-by-side, it is equally critical for these different perspectives to exist in a space where the medium, whether the recording, the software, the interface and its design, listens to what these differences are. An interface designed in order not to predetermine, not to predict or preclose what others might contribute would then be an example of this listening. Anthropomorphizing aside, for a computer to listen to testimony, as Presner asks, it must be designed to be open to changing itself.

Fabiola Hanna is a new media artist & software designer currently working towards a PhD in Film and Digital Media at UC Santa Cruz where she also holds an MFA in Digital Arts & New Media. Her doctoral work is on building an automatic editing machine that weaves together competing narratives about the history of Lebanon, which has led her to engage with software studies & digital humanities, archives & memory and new media art activism.  

Her work has been exhibited widely in California at the Museum of Art and History in Santa Cruz, the New Children’s Museum in San Diego, the SubZero Festival in San Jose, the Digital Arts Research Center in Santa Cruz, and the Maker Faire in San Mateo. She is also a 2015 fellow of the Institute for Critical Social Inquiry at the New School, New York and has previously taught at University of California, San Diego and at various maker spaces including FabLab San Diego and MakerPlace.

Her website is fabiolahanna.com and she can be reached by email fhanna {@} ucsc {dot} edu.

Featured Image: “Story Corps” by Steve Rhodes, (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0)

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