Voices at Work: Listening to and for Elsewhere at Public Gatherings in Toronto, Canada (at So-called 150)
“Decolonization,” Eve Tuck and K. Wayne Yang propose in “Decolonization is Not a Metaphor,” “is not an ‘and.’ It is an elsewhere.”
Elsewhere, not here, not now. Not here. Not now. Enough!
In the context of decolonization, elsewhere is a refusal to accept the conditions of life as is in the here and now.
Elsewhere is that place that already is, that place that used to be, that place that might just be.
Elsewhere, an endeavor to enact otherwise.
Elsewhere, a commitment to perform the work to create, memorialize, and sustain some place else because the here and now are not enough.
This essay listens to and for elsewhere in the voices performing decolonial efforts at some public gatherings—rallies, protests, marches, and memorials—in Toronto between March 2016 and June 2017. These gatherings took place in the lead-up to Canada (at so-called) 150, the federally funded, almost countrywide commemoration of Canadian Confederacy. At these public gatherings, the dissenting sounds of elsewhere reverberate to break the silence tantamount to Canada as a white settler colonial nation-state. It is by disrupting this silence that elsewhere takes form; “a break of something,” writes Sara Ahmed in her latest book, Living a Feminist Life, is also “the start of something” (200). This essay is about listening to the voice as a social prism of sound that disperses and reflects power. Thus by listening to and for elsewhere at public gatherings, we hear voices at work—in formation—producing an elsewhere by refusing to comply with the sonic demands of a Canadianness based on white settler colonialism, dependent on state-sanctioned multiculturalism, and rendered as silence.
Canadian Multiculturalism as Silent Visibility,
or the Visible Silence of White Settler Colonialism as Canada
Silence is often a condition of belonging that nation-states attach to citizenship. Indeed in Canada, visibility begets silence. Canadian Prime Minister Pierre Elliott Trudeau (1968–1979; 1980–1984) adopted Multiculturalism within a Bilingual Framework as official policy in 1971. This would subsequently catalyze the appearance of the figure of the visible minority, a demographic designation for anyone who is non-white and non-Indigenous but used as an umbrella term to denote “person of color.” The visible minority has been central to the discourse of diversity as multiculturalism; and diversity continues to be an enduring tenet of Canadian nationalism.
However, according to Eva Mackey’s The House of Difference: Cultural Politics and National Identity in Canada, the policy of multiculturalism is “primarily concerned with mobilising diversity for the project of nation-building, as well as limiting that diversity to symbolic rather than political forms” (80). To be understood as Canadian, one must ascribe to its multicultural terms, namely accepting white settler colonialism—and the sonic politics of whiteness—as norm; and typically, whiteness is thought to be unmarked and inaudible, silent.
It is in this way that in Canada silence is understood as harmony. Another way to put this: social harmony is believed to derive from silence. Any person or group or form of sound that breaks this social contract, what Audra Simpson refers to in “The State is a Man: Theresa Spence, Loretta Saunders and the Gender of Settler Sovereignty” as “Canadian silence,” is categorized as noise or noisy. Thus in the context of the US, and yet very much applicable to Canada, Jennifer Lynn Stoever writes in her book The Sonic Color Line, “As dominant listening practices discipline us to process white male ways of sounding as default, natural, normal, and desirable…they deem alternate ways of listening and sounding aberrant” (12).
Social censorship in Canada of what can and cannot be said in public is a distinguishing feature of everyday life. Silence is a sonic means by which white settler colonialism thrives. Stay quiet. Be quiet. Or, else; where the threat becomes a dare to live a life unrestrained by what Lesley Belleau describes as “the false safety of silence” in The Winter We Danced (181).
This else though. What are the possibilities of this else? Where might it lead?
Black Lives Matter Toronto Rally /// #BLMTOblackOUT
#BLMTOtentcity /// Toronto Police Service Headquarters
Saturday, March 26, 2016
It was a blustery, cold, spring day. Black Lives Matter Toronto (BLMTO) had organized a rally, #BLMTOblackOUT, to commemorate the then one-week anniversary of #BLMTOtentcity—their occupation of Toronto Police Service Headquarters’ outdoor plaza. On Sunday, March 20, 2016 outside Toronto City Hall in Nathan Phillips Square, BLMTO held a rally against anti-black racism—police brutality (in particular the killing of Andrew Loku and Jermaine Carby by the police), carding, and the defunding of black cultural programs, Afrofest namely. By evening’s end, the rally had moved to Toronto Police Service Headquarters where it became an occupation that lasted two weeks.
BLACK LIVES THEY MATTER HERE,” a BLMTO member shouted into a microphone; a call and declaration of a black elsewhere affirmed by the audience’s response: “BLACK LIVES THEY MATTER HERE.”
#BLMTOblackOUT, Toronto Police Service Headquarters, Toronto, Saturday, March 26, 2016, recording by author
She reiterated, “BLACK LIVES THEY MATTER HERE,” as Rhythms of Resistance Toronto, a band that performs at social justice events across the city, began to accompany her with a samba groove; this was elsewhere as a black diasporic space. “BLACK LIVES THEY MATTER HERE,” confirmed the audience in response who were now clapping along to the beat. A back-and-forth ensued where repetition and the obstinacy of the leader’s voice marked what Daphne Brooks has identified in “All That You Can’t Leave behind”: Black Female Soul Singing and the Politics of Surrogation in the Age of Catastrophe” as “urgency and excess.” This urgency and excess were further compounded by the start of another chant, which interlocked with the one she was leading. Another member of BLMTO then exclaimed into a microphone, “NO JUSTICE, NO PEACE. NO RACIST POLICE.” Some of the audience members began to heed her call. “BLACK LIVES THEY MATTER HERE / NO JUSTICE, NO PEACE. NO RACIST POLICE.” Together, the two chants, loud and overpowering, created a tension that paralleled the social pressures wrought by a Canadian silence that takes the form of anti-black racism.
After a few rounds of the layered chant were exhausted, the second leader stopped to catch her breath. By bringing the chant to a halt, she demonstrated not only the toll that shouting takes on a person but also the labor, power, and duress needed, according to Kelley Tatro, “to express personal and collective rage.” “I can’t breathe,” said Eric Garner eleven times while the police officers holding him down against the pavement disavowed him of his personhood. In the US and Canada, breathing and shouting are presumed antithetical to life within the realms of white settler colonialism.
Shouting, performing anger and defiance via sound in public, is considered noise under the logics of whiteness. Thus, as Jack Halberstam writes in the introduction to Stefano Harney and Fred Moten’s The Undercommons, “In order to bring colonialism to an end then, one does not speak truth to power, one has to inhabit the crazy nonsensical, ranting language of the other, the other who has been rendered a nonentity by colonialism” (8). What both BLMTO members leading chants indicated at #BLMTOblackOUT is that shouting, in this case in the form of chanting, is another way of breathing elsewhere into existence.
#NoDAPL Solidarity March with Standing Rock
Queens Park to Nathan Phillips Square
Saturday, November 5, 2016
It began where many politically motivated public gatherings in Toronto do: outside Queen’s Park, which houses the Government of Ontario offices. Participants made speeches, chanted, cheered, jeered, and sang songs. The crowd then headed south on University Avenue sounding their discontent in front of the US Consulate building, which coincidentally is on the way to Nathan Phillips Square.
The march had been organized by and alongside Indigenous groups to show support for protesters at Standing Rock. In solidarity with the Water Protectors holding camp at Sacred Stone Camp, marchers in Toronto were expressing their disapproval of the US government’s efforts to construct an oil pipeline through Indigenous territory, a project that endangers clean water resources and violates treaties.
Once at Nathan Phillips Square, Indigenous people led participants in a pan-tribal round dance. Most strongly since Idle No More, or #IdleNoMore, in the winter of 2012/2013, round dances became emblems of Indigenous self-determination across what is typically referred to as Canada. Taking place in public venues, notably malls, as part of Idle No More actions, round dances served as communal claims not to Canada and Canadianness but rather to Turtle Island and Indigeneity.
Along with drumming, singing makes up the sonic elements of a round dance all the while those participants not playing a drum in the middle of the circle hold hands and move in a clockwise direction to the music. The high-pitched singing voice invites and welcomes those who have passed to join. In this way, the singing voice is an understanding that life and kinship do not cease at death. As such, the high-pitched singing voice is also a reach towards something else, a nameless elsewhere describable, graspable, through vocables. These vocables, these sonic registers of possibility, cannot be contained by the limitations of any official language. As part of round dances, then, vocables announce that while this elsewhere has yet to be legitimized through language, it exists in sound. And elsewhere’s existence is celebrated by what Anna Hoefnagels writes in “Northern Style Powwow Music: Musical Features and Meanings” are the improvised “whoops, shouts, yelps or ululations by singers” (14).
Through round dances, Indigenous people recognize that according to treaties signed by Indigenous groups and European settlers the land and its resources are to be shared. Round dances are a means to assert that Turtle Island is not another name for North America but rather a place that exists alongside North America.
Women’s March on Washington: Toronto
Queen’s Park to Nathan Phillips Square
Saturday, January 21, 2017
The labor, the creativity, of women of color is largely to thank for the organizing and mobilizing efforts that led to the Women’s March on Washington. Toronto’s “sister march” made evident the ways in which the work that women of color, particularly black women, perform in producing elsewhere has and continues to go unrecognized. The use of songs with black female vocals to lead Toronto’s Women’s March is an example of how audibility accompanies invisibility in Canada.
he joyous tenor of the march was introduced partially through disco and disco-inflected songs like Sister Sledge’s “We Are Family” (1979) and the Eurythmics’ and Aretha Franklin’s duet “Sisters Are Doin’ It for Themselves” (1985). March organizers wanted participants to feel that this march was a celebration of sisterhood, of women, like Aretha Franklin and Annie Lennox, coming together harmoniously as kin. Intersectionality need not apply—maybe as a catchword but definitely not in practice.
Women’s March on Washington: Toronto, Queen’s Park, Toronto, Saturday, January 21, 2017, recording by author
The emotional labor that Debbie, Joni, Kim, and Kathy Sledge of Sister Sledge and Aretha Franklin perform in these songs was not meant to be heard as women belaboring a black feminist, or womanist or queer, elsewhere; instead, marchers—like much of white feminism historically—enjoyed the benefits, without the risks, of an elsewhere made possible by the emotional labor that black female singers perform in dance music. In the voices of Sister Sledge and Aretha Franklin, some marchers did not recognize the invisible labor required to flourish in white settler heteropatriarchal nation-states; at the march, the power of black female voices was misappropriated to signal thriving because of white settler colonialism, paternalism, and blanket sisterhood.
Women’s March on Washington: Toronto, Queen’s Park, Toronto, Saturday, January 21, 2017, recording by author
Barbara Hall Park
Monday, June 12, 2017
Adjacent to Toronto’s AIDS Memorial in Barbara Hall Park, attendees gathered to remember the forty-nine victims of the shooting at Pulse Nightclub in Orlando, Florida. The event commemorated the one-year anniversary of the shooting with a short film screening, a DJ set, musical performances, poems, short speeches, and food. Surrounded and sustained by the light of candles, the names of the forty-nine primarily Latinx victims were read by the event’s three MCs against the flickering screen of the lit wicks.
Pulse Memorial Event, Barbara Hall Park, Toronto, Monday, June 12, 2017, image by author
|Stanley Almodovar III, age 23
Amanda Alvear, 25
Oscar A. Aracena-Montero, 26
Rodolfo Ayala-Ayala, 33
Alejandro Barrios Martinez, 21
Martin Benitez Torres, 33
Antonio D. Brown, 30
Darryl R. Burt II, 29
Jonathan A. Camuy Vega, 24
Angel L. Candelario-Padro, 28
Simon A. Carrillo Fernandez, 31
Juan Chevez-Martinez, 25
Luis D. Conde, 39
Cory J. Connell, 21
Tevin E. Crosby, 25
Franky J. Dejesus Velazquez, 50
|Deonka D. Drayton, 32
Mercedez M. Flores, 26
Peter O. Gonzalez-Cruz, 22
Juan R. Guerrero, 22
Paul T. Henry, 41
Frank Hernandez, 27
Miguel A. Honorato, 30
Javier Jorge-Reyes, 40
Jason B. Josaphat, 19
Eddie J. Justice, 30
Anthony L. Laureano Disla, 25
Christopher A. Leinonen, 32
Brenda L. Marquez McCool, 49
Jean C. Mendez Perez, 35
Akyra Monet Murray, 18
Kimberly Morris, 37
Jean C. Nieves Rodriguez, 27
|Luis O. Ocasio-Capo, 20
Geraldo A. Ortiz-Jimenez, 25
Eric I. Ortiz-Rivera, 36
Joel Rayon Paniagua, 32
Enrique L. Rios Jr., 25
Juan P. Rivera Velazquez, 37
Yilmary Rodriguez Solivan, 24
Christopher J. Sanfeliz, 24
Xavier E. Serrano Rosado, 35
Gilberto R. Silva Menendez, 25
Edward Sotomayor Jr., 34
Shane E. Tomlinson, 33
Leroy Valentin Fernandez, 25
Luis S. Vielma, 22
Luis D. Wilson-Leon, 37
Jerald A. Wright, 31
The reading of their names was an incantation of forty-nine lives lost and an invocation of an elsewhere maintained through remembrance. The vocalization of their names was thus a commitment to an understanding of intimacy that refuses the state’s limited definitions of what and whom constitutes a (grievable) life; and concurrently, their names were sonic acknowledgments of the violence that is basic to life for many under white settler colonialism, what Christina Sharpe calls “being in the wake.” Their names, too, were evocations of the queer of color dancefloor. It us under and around the disco ball, after all, that many queers of color enact an elsewhere, love light in flight. Therefore, the reading of the forty-nine names was an assertion that life and intimacy are sonic demands and collective endeavors.
George Hislop Park to Old City Hall
Wednesday, June 21, 2017
Annually, some queer Canadians take it upon themselves to organize a Night March, an unofficial (by choice) Pride event that insists that Pride has been and will continue to remain political. Night March is a refusal to abide by the respectability politics attached to the visibility and corporatism that Pride garners across Toronto. “LET’S GET CRITICAL, OUR PRIDE IS POLITICAL,” one of the chants goes. Participants meet at a predetermined location, announced through posters and social media, somewhere near or in the Church and Wellesley Neighborhood—Toronto’s “gayborhood.” Before setting out to march, participants listen to a small set of speakers who share information on some of the issues that are not being discussed at Toronto’s official Pride events: the defunding of organizations working on HIV/AIDS and the housing discrimination faced by trans women and sex workers, for example.
The gathering at George Hislop Park this year also made evident a particular rift among LGBTQ+ people, groups, and institutions surrounding this year’s Pride festivities: whether to support BLMTO’s actions and demands at last year’s Pride Parade, namely the removal of uniform police from partaking in future parades. On Sunday, June 26, 2016 and in their role as honored guests of the parade, members of BLMTO halted Toronto’s Pride Parade at the intersection of Yonge and College Streets for thirty minutes—to the dismay of some and the approval of others. It was then that BLMTO served Pride Toronto, the organization that runs Pride in the city, with a list of demands. Pride Toronto’s Executive Director at time Mathieu Chantelois hastily signed BLMTO’s list of demands only to retract his approval shortly thereafter. Following months of heated debate and backlash against BLMTO, the Pride Toronto membership formally agreed to adopt all of BLMTO’s demands at its Annual General Meeting (AGM) on January 27, 2017—uniformed police would not march at this year’s Pride parade.
At George Hislop Park, Night March participants were unequivocal in their support of BLMTO. The mostly millennial and predominantly white gathering’s chants, which they shouted as they made their way down Church Street, included “BLACK LIVES MATTER” and “NO JUSTICE, NO PEACE. NO RACIST POLICE.”
Night March participants even halted traffic on College Street as they briefly occupied the traffic lanes in front of Toronto Police Service Headquarters. Accompanied by Rhythms of Resistance Toronto, a few participants called out “BLACK LIVES THEY MATTER HERE.” The rest of the gathering responded, “BLACK LIVES THEY MATTER HERE.”
Night March, Toronto Police Service Headquarters, Toronto, June 21, 2017, image by author
Police officers who were following the marchers on bicycles sounded out a short siren, a sound of disapproval and a warning to disperse. The marchers continued chanting. They then switched chants and began shouting in unison, “NO JUSTICE, NO PEACE. NO RACIST POLICE.” After a few rounds of this chant, one participant led the gathering into another chant:
WHEN BLACK LIVES ARE UNDER ATTACK, WE REVOLT, UNITE, FIGHT BACK. x9
WHEN TRANS LIVES ARE UNDER ATTACK, WE REVOLT, UNITE, FIGHT BACK. x3
WHEN INDIGENOUS LIVES ARE UNDER ATTACK, WE REVOLT, UNITE, FIGHT BACK. x3
WHEN WOMEN’S LIVES ARE UNDER ATTACK, WE REVOLT, UNITE, FIGHT BACK. x3
WHEN QUEER LIVES ARE UNDER ATTACK, WE REVOLT, UNITE, FIGHT BACK. x3
The chants at Night March were sonic testaments of an elsewhere impossible to imagine and enact without the collective labor of BLMTO’s membership since its formation in 2014, which has included but has not been limited to #BLMTOtentcity and their protests at Toronto’s 2016 Pride Parade. The chants were also a compilation and validation of noisy political activity—a loud elsewhere—in a city and in a nation-state that prefers, promotes, and is predicated on the silence, the violence, that is white settler colonialism.
“Only together,” argues Gloria Anzaldúa in Borderlands/La Frontera, “can we be a force” (209).
Together, these voices at public gatherings say NO to Toronto, Canada at so-called 150; NO is a refusal to be complicit, to stay silent, to death. These are voices that do not consent to white settler colonialism. A NO to police brutality, the disappearance and murders of Indigenous women and girls, the conditions that drive Indigenous youth to suicide, lack of clean drinking water, carding, anti-semitic and Islamophobic hate crimes, the different forms of violence LGBTQ+ people, particularly trans women, face, the municipal, provincial, and federal governments defunding and unfunding of public housing and healthcare programs. It is by amplifying and listening to these NOs that we actually hear the workings of a YES, to an affirmation of elsewhere in the here and now that is always already attuned to the past and future, to lives—black, trans, Indigenous, feminine, queer—that matter, to life otherwise.
Featured Image: Round Dance, Nathan Phillips Square, Toronto, Saturday, November 5, 2016, photo by author
Gabriela Jimenez defended her PhD dissertation in ethnomusicology at the University of Toronto this spring. Her dissertation is on the ways in which nonnormatively gendered and sexually oriented persons in Mexico City use musical performances to alter their surroundings. Her writing has been featured in Black Music Research Journal and The Fader.
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Analog revival has gained traction across many media in recent years, but perhaps nowhere so strikingly as in sound. The shifting formats and fortunes of a digitally reshaped music industry invite, for many, the counterposition of a bright nostalgic picture. Yet artists and engineers whose work has spanned the transition from analog to digital sound find that the romanticization of the former can have a weird overreach. For example, when Dave Grohl produced a digital-decrying documentary on the LA studio Sound City, engineer Larry Crane was bemused that “Grohl seems to be attributing the arc of his career to the magic in a Neve console.” Recordists like Crane find themselves in between the Scylla and Charybdis of digital-era music: on one side, the embrace of new tools that are as entangled with corporate control structures as they are convenient; on the other, a skepticism that overshoots its mark, fetishizing old technologies and cementing a previous generation’s in-crowd as gatekeepers. Decades after digital media triggered one of the most momentous transitions in sound recording, the debate around their use is anything but settled. Tied up in this contest are questions of how and what pre-digital media will be preserved, but also problems like whose use of technology in music-making constitutes authentic talent and who has authority in the determination.
When Damon Krukowski steers into these waters with The New Analog: Listening and Reconnecting in a Digital World (The New Press: 2017), he is quick to qualify that his memorializing of pre-digital practices “is hardly a Luddite’s call” (12). Noting the “all-or nothing response” that “dominates popular discussion of the many anxieties provoked by the digital revolution” (9), Krukowski contrasts the disruption-embracing “clean break” with life on the “technological island” (8) of confining one’s practice to outmoded materials. Addressing a reader who lives more or less contentedly in a contemporary media world, he speaks as a kind of expatriate of the analog island. He, too, lives in the digital present, but he sees it through the lens of decades spent working with and listening through analog machines. His project of defending analog listening practices takes inspiration from the efforts of urbanist Jane Jacobs, who labored to turn back the tide of redevelopment and suburbanization by celebrating the organic functionality of city life. His central argument for preservation is that “what we are losing in the demolition of analog media is noise” (197, emphasis original). Noise becomes a character in The New Analog akin to the city block in Jacobs’s work: a wrongly maligned figure that has quietly formed the basis of experience and utility in the old mode.
Though Krukowski’s definition of noise is flexible in some ways, he casts the digital as its uncompromising antithesis. This position precludes what could make the book more forward-looking in its aim: a consideration that noise might become a new kind of character in the digital realm rather than disappearing at its edge. Noise shows up in analog media as buzzing undercurrents and as modes of distortion when electrical signals exceed their ranges; digital media, while lacking these, are replete with moments of failure when a system is fed the wrong kind of information or pushed beyond its intended bounds. In their repetition, these moments of error become a new kind of noise that, just like analog noise, forms an unremovable layer of our experience in mediated environments. By declining to look for digital noise and instead focusing so squarely on noise as something lost to the digital transition, Krukowski misses a chance to center a more significant linkage with Jacobs: many of the problems he sees in digital-era sound are not due to the inherent nature of digital media but rather to the same motives of control and segregation underpinning the drive toward suburbanization.
Yet his original and thoughtfully cast historical route points us toward these culprits, even when the language drifts toward a more technologically deterministic stance. It is thus that his book still provides a vibrant body of historical consideration we can leverage in using noise to reshape our digital ways of listening. The moments when Krukowski lets technology stand in for the human motives that construct it give unfortunate cover to what should be the targets of such a critique. But his real concern toward the digital era arises from specific changes in the landscape of aural awareness, and he ultimately succeeds in the task of elevating his argument above the cliché of deterministic digital-bashing by setting its true focus not on the digital but on the era.
Readers might be surprised, for instance, to discover that The New Analog’s first chapter covers a development in sound — the transition from mono to stereo — that has nothing to do with digitization at its outset. The chapter narrates the release of Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of the Moon as a critical moment in consumer audio’s treatment of headphones as the ideal listening space. This movement toward individualized experience becomes a crucial part of setting the stage for the actual entrance of the digital. The design of digital media, Krukowski demonstrates, has not just carried forward this trend but absorbed it as a guiding principle, and has effected the same transformation not just in listening to music but across all kinds of daily situations. “The stream of digital information can put each of us in a different space than the others, even as we hurtle together through a tunnel on fixed tracks,” (49) Krukowski observes of the changed social experience of riding a subway. The comment makes an easy metaphoric return to music: digital design is now funneling sonic experience into a small number of streaming platforms, each promoted on the appeal of moving out of a collective listening space into one of personal curation. Claiming that a dangerous disorientation can arise in the separation of such neatly personalized spaces from their messier surroundings, the chapter closes with a cautionary tone: bad things can happen when we follow along with the digital logic of turning a once noisy situation into “a stream that is signal only” and when we stop “paying attention to noise.” (51, emphasis original).
Noise closes out each chapter, constituting the shared floor on which the book’s arguments stand. This construction calls for scrutiny, because noise is a notoriously slippery figure. As Marie Thompson notes in her recent interview with SO!, subjective and objective definitions both lay claim to noise, bringing along problems of politicized value judgment and erased context. At the same time, the term’s many meanings (electrical, legal, musical, etc.) serve as useful bridges. In Sound Ideas: Music, Machines, and Experience, Aden Evens uses noise as a primary example when he suggests a “productive ambiguity” can prompt connections that help different disciplines approach meeting points. Krukowski would, it seems, endorse this idea. He couples his formulation of noise to that of analog — an analog medium is identifiable by its noisiness, and noise is the substrate by which meaning takes hold in an analog medium.
Is it fair, though, to chain the figure of noise so tightly to analog recording that we must say it is wholly lost in the move to digital? In arguing that digitally mediated communication lacks the analog mode’s quality of perceivable distance, Krukowski lists perceptual coding — the application of “psychoacoustic research to digital sound processing” (75) — as one culprit. Jonathan Sterne, in MP3: The Meaning of a Format, points to perceptual coding’s advent as a moment when noise was domesticated. Where engineers had long sought to minimize noise, perceptual coding meant that “communication engineering exhibited a new attitude toward noise. Once you can use signal to hide noise, the game is up. Noise ceases to matter as a perceptual category.” This change in noise’s status does not eradicate it or lessen its importance, though. According to Sterne, this domestication made noise more available as a site for artistic exploration and subversion. But if noise is a key foundation on which we find meaning through listening, as Krukowski compellingly argues, and noise has been subjected to a great domestication, what does that say about the forces at work upon our listening?
A fascinating answer emerges in a thread that pops up multiple times across Krukowski’s anecdotes: the relationship between patriarchal domesticity and the shaping of digital sound. In the chapter on stereo, he includes an ad from a 1962 Playboy issue where a man carries a woman as if across a threshold; she, in turn, holds a stereo set in its portable case. The ad pairs the stereo and the wife as two laudable choices in the man’s domestic assemblage. Both are manageable enough for him to carry home, yet both promise to extend his control — Krukowski notes that such marketing material touted stereo products as letting their owners occupy “the producer’s chair” (28) by granting listeners new agency over the mix. That focus on idealized male consumers echoes still through gendered suppression in musical exchange: as Elizabeth Newton writes, “Though women have collected vinyl since the inception of the medium, female collectors, like the women musicians being collected, often lack representation in public space that is commensurate with their actual involvement.”
True to the analogy with Jane Jacobs’s struggle against the developer Robert Moses, the patriarchal force that has ingrained itself so thoroughly in digital audio is also a suburbanizing one, keyed to a politics of racial segregation that frequently cites noise as a justification. In “‘Just Be Quiet Pu-leeze’: The New York Amsterdam News Fights the Postwar ‘Campaign against Noise,’” Jennifer Stoever documents how “white press discourse on Puerto Rican migration firmly attached ‘noise’ to the voices, bodies, and neighborhoods of Puerto Rican migrants — portraying white flight to the suburbs as a justifiable escape to suburban refuges of peace and quiet and targeting urban areas such as Harlem in ‘antinoise’ campaigns” (PAGE). Regina Bradley traces this “connection between whiteness and quiet” through to a contemporary moment in her SO! post “Fear of a Black (in the) Suburb.” The history of racially targeted noise ordinances intersects Krukowski’s narration of the proto-digital movement toward private listening. He quotes LL Cool J’s “I Can’t Live Without My Radio” as a noise-ordinance-defying affirmation of boombox listening, the antithesis of headphones and their sonic compartmentalization. Dwelling on the song’s line “Terrorizing my neighbors with the heavy bass,” he points to the artist’s intentional use of noise as a political implement, bound up jointly in his listening and his music making.
For Krukowski, the song is noteworthy in demonstrating a practice lost to the wave of noise-eradicating digital development in sound. If we approach it with the consideration that noise might not have been lost but rather domesticated, however, it serves more as a guidepost. Were he looking to LL Cool J’s example as one in need of a digital-era parallel, Krukowski might arrive at a different treatment of Kanye West’s post-release revisions of his album The Life of Pablo than he gives later in the book. Rather than describing West’s changes as “art severed from its own history” (169), he could instead credit the album’s uniquely digital instability as a moment of usurping the corporate platform as the arbiter of a record’s final version — an instance of harnessing digital noise within a digital environment to reorient its assumed parameters of authority and a prompt for listeners to consider their own role in deciding what version of the text should prevail.
Though Krukowski declines to bring it to the forefront, the involvement of a domesticating and segregating force lends further weight and precision to The New Analog’s historical argument. Returning to his invocation of Jane Jacobs, Krukowski analogizes the dichotomy of street and home with that of analog and digital. “Noise has a value of its own—the value of shared space and time,” he writes. “The urban spaces we occupy are built on that commonality. The street is a noisy place. And the street has value, as Jane Jacobs pointed out” (207, emphasis original). The contrast between analog street and digital home reaches back to rescue the book from the flawed pronouncement that digital tools themselves are the problem. We are left to consider a much richer historical argument about the alarming success that efforts of domestication and power-consolidation have found in intertwining themselves with digital media.
In that light, readers looking for an actionable takeaway from The New Analog shouldn’t just unsubscribe from streaming services and start (or resume) buying vinyl records. They should redirect their attention toward the very thing of whose existence Krukowski seems skeptical: digital noise. Even though the digital home is built to confine, there are new noisy streets outside it to be explored. Krukowski recounts how the band Can endeavored to let their recording studio “compose on its own” and to become an activating, curating conduit for the sounds of tape machines. “In Can’s studio technique,” he writes, “noise and signal are equally significant materials…. the noises in it are no less human than the signals” (138). If we look for digital noise, we will see that it bears no less potential for meaning and beauty than Can’s analog noise, as artists are already proving with techniques like glitch and sampling. We as listeners can do more to help realize that aim by celebrating digital noise, by recognizing what it reveals and critiques. For a project that with less care could have steered off into the welcoming terrain of nostalgic grievance, The New Analog offers a surprising amount to point our way forward.
Holly Herndon’s “Home” uses sonic and visual sampling to turn the surveillant gaze of an intimate digital space back on itself.
Featured image: “Scenes From The Recording Studio” by Flickr user G. Dawson, CC BY-NC-ND 2.0
Andy Kelleher Stuhl is a writer, sound artist, and software developer focused on creative infrastructures and the politics of mediated sonic exchange. His work looks to musicians for inspiration and aims to apply musical creativity as a model for new paths in such domains as digital humanities and the critique of technology. His research has investigated the phenomenon of analog fetishism from the perspective of sound engineer communities and, more recently, the process and aspirations behind interactive musical works. He holds a master’s degree in Comparative Media Studies from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and a BA in Science, Technology, and Society from Stanford University.
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The United States has a slavery problem. Just last week, President Trump name-checked the political right’s current favorite past-president Andrew Jackson, suggesting that as a “swashbuckler,” Jackson would have prevented the Civil War…unlike Lincoln. Buried in Trump’s admiration for Jackson’s supposed intellect and political prowess, is the very real belief that the Southern slaveholding class, including Jackson who owned 150 slaves at the time of his death, would have maintained sovereignty and continued to make their wealth from the institution. Trump’s vile public utterance, which is misguided for many reasons, including the detail that Jackson died in 1845 and, in fact, could not have expressed his disapproval of the conflict as Trump recalled, is par for the course in this recent period wherein inane white supremacist rhetoric is normalized as acceptable in American public discourse.
Often, I am reminded of a shocking moment that I witnessed from the field in Bahia, Brazil, back in 2007. As I watched the only American-based news channel available to me in my rental apartment, former-Fox News host Bill O’Reilly began explaining to Senator John McCain that supporters of so-called illegal immigrants were intent on dismantling “the white male, Christian power structure” of the United States.
In the ensuing years, similar expressions of racial anxiety have led to acts of domestic terrorism as well as increased deportations and the surveillance and harassment of Black and Latino communities, reinforcing the stakes of my research. What is the place of African-descended peoples in a nation full of such political hostility? With the racial rhetoric at base level and the fear-mongering at a peak, what do we make of the persistent contemporary contention that America needs to be made great again, effectively, though somewhat covertly, wishing for a return to an era in the purported idyllic American past wherein the racial order depended on and thrived off of literal and figurative forms of Black death? How do we trouble the intentional silence about our actual history and thwart foolish advancements toward replicating the great American past?’
My book Afro-Atlantic Flight: Speculative Returns and the Black Fantastic (Duke UP, 2017) begins answering these questions. In Afro-Atlantic Flight, I trace the ways that post-civil rights Black American artists, intellectuals, and travelers envision literal and figurative flight back to Africa as a means by which to heal the dispossession caused by the slave trade and the ensuing forms of oppression and societal alienation that have continued in the aftermath.
Through ethnographic, historical, literary, and filmic analyses, I show how a range of cultural producers engage with speculative thought about slavery, the spiritual realm, and Africa, thereby structuring the imaginary that propels future return journeys. I go on to examine Black Americans’ cultural heritage tourism in and migration to Ghana, Bahia, Brazil, and various sites of slavery in the U.S. South to interrogate the ways that a cadre of actors produces “Africa” and refigures master narratives. What I found in my research is that while these material flights do not always satisfy Black Americans’ individualistic desires for homecoming and liberation, there is a corrective: the revolutionary possibilities inherent in psychic speculative returns open up the egalitarian opportunity for the development of a new and contemporary Pan-Africanist stance that works to more effectively address the contemporary resonances of slavery that exist across the Afro-Atlantic.
As I conducted research, I was interested in how narratives about slavery and Africa are crafted as well as how they travel in literature, film, and the cultural roots tourism industry. To be sure, I did not conceive of this project as a sound studies inquiry, but throughout my more than eight years of active research, I was struck often by the sonic and the affective as I examined states of dispossession. For example, if I close my eyes and still myself, I can hear that which emanated from the Black expatriate in Bahia, Brazil, who I asked to reflect on freedom – he began his answer with a solemn, gospel music-inflected improvisation of the word/concept.
I remember the crashing of waves at various points along the Atlantic Ocean; often, I stood somberly and marveled at its power and the seeming fury that reverberates, particularly along and across sites of the transatlantic slavetrade. The ways in which the articulation of narrative scripts at remnants of slavery vary – how tour guides’ oral pacing, tenors, and selected content differ according to the racial composition of the visiting groups struck me as intentional and profitable, though not necessarily contrived. And various interviewees and writers recalled and created, respectively, ghostly felt and heard encounters with their long-dead enslaved ancestors; I remain moved by their welcoming posture to exploring this sensory haunting.
The excerpt that follows is drawn from the fourth chapter of Afro-Atlantic Flight, “Crafting Symbolic Africas in a Geography of Silence: Return Travels to and the Renarrativization of the U.S. South.” In Chapter 4, I sought to listen to and think through the function of silence in master accounts and the subversive sounds of speculative counter-narratives about slavery in the U.S. South.
In the late 1990s, I took an evening walking tour called “The Ghosts of Charleston,” a guided encounter with the supernatural in Charleston, South Carolina. As we strolled around the city’s downtown area and through winding cobblestoned streets, admiring the horse-drawn carriages and rainbow-colored buildings, we paused often at cemeteries, centuries-old homes, hotels, a former jail, and markets to witness the locations of the occult. Our guide opined that a range of elements whereby widespread death occurred—hurricanes, floods, fires, and the Civil War—had rendered the city ripe for paranormal activity. The dead, he intimated, have unfinished business. What struck me about the tour and the numerous visits that I had made to plantations throughout the Lowcountry throughout my childhood in South Carolina during school field trips and family excursions, as well as a researcher in more recent years, is that other than in passing references, Charleston’s history as a major slave port is glossed over in the larger tourism industry to promote representations of the imagined antebellum South of the Lost Cause. In downtown Charleston, a former slave market sits quietly near a more recently constructed block called the Market, which is surrounded by expensive hotels, eateries, and boutiques that serve as background for a sort of souvenir bazaar at which Gullah women and their children weave and sell seagrass baskets crafted using what are believed to be West African techniques passed down from their ancestors [For more on these historical claims, see Gerald L. Davis’s “Afro-American Coil Basketry in Charleston County, South Carolina” in American Folklife. Also of interest here is Patricia Jones Jackson’s When Roots Die: Endangered Traditions on the Sea Islands]. The silence about slavery betrays the trauma, dispossession, and death suffered to build and sustain the wealth that, if one looks at and listens critically (even to the silence), hovers over the area, mocking the evidence of the great injury that was the transatlantic slave trade.
“The Ghosts of Charleston” tour guide’s lone story that described the spirit of a slave was about a boy named George, a decidedly gentle spirit who is said to pester guests impishly at the 1837 Bed and Breakfast. George drowned in 1843 after he jumped into the harbor in pursuit of a ship that was transporting his parents to a Virginia plantation. Today, George taunts hotel patrons by shaking the bed in one room and by turning the lights on and off repeatedly in another. He is sometimes seen playing in the building or swaying in a rocking chair. George’s nuisance, the story goes, is remedied easily when one cracks a whip to frighten him. To relegate Charleston’s cruel history of slavery to the margins of the historical master narrative by repeating stories about slaves that make light of the institution while reinforcing its horrors—ships utilized to separate parent from child, the horrific struggle that ensued as the child fought drowning, and the whip’s lash—rewounds. Most disquieting is that 1837’s guests are encouraged to participate in the past, wherein it becomes a diversion to threaten the spirit of a slave with force, reenacting the role of the master. The lore identifies a playful ghost rather than a sad spirit who is frightened, crying, screaming, gurgling as he writhed in the ocean, or gasping for air. Why is it that the unsilenced ghostly specters of slaves in these Lowcountry master narratives are not enraged and vengeful?
In the post‒civil rights moment, Black Americans are not only returning to the South to live permanently in a reverse migration that has befuddled onlookers, but Black American cultural producers are also working against the region’s geography of silence to illustrate how the ideologies that undergirded past social configurations in the South redound in the present, moving toward a broad Black fantastic frame. Through analyses of these points of return and revision, this chapter contends that Black Americans embrace speculative thought to recast cultural production about the South; challenge what is commemorated as significant in historical preservation; and create alternative “African” worlds in the purview of the racism and the often spurious narratives of progress that reign in the South, particularly at sites of slavery. Such fantastic reimaginings contest and thereby perform a democratization of contemporary master narratives and, for some, attend to the desires of those who are determined to realize Black social life in the American South despite its sordid histories.
Troubling the Silence in Southern Master Narratives
Growing up in Midway with the coloreds, I spent the night at Molly Montague’s house in the bed with five niggers—spent the night with them. In the same bed, eat from the same table, drink from the same thing, play with them every day. I mean, they were family. I mean, as far as I was concerned. They loved you.
Winston Silver’s curious memory of a colorblind childhood in North Carolina in the pre‒civil rights era reflects a disturbing disconnect that his cousin, the film critic and novice documentarian Godfrey Cheshire, explores in the film Moving Midway.
The film was conceived initially to chronicle the relocation of the home at Midway Plantation to a quieter tract of land away from the urban sprawl in Raleigh, North Carolina. Yet as Cheshire scoured historical records and interviewed members of his mother’s family, he found that most narratives about slavery at Midway went unspoken, though it once was a thriving tobacco plantation. During his search, Cheshire discovered that there existed a branch of Black people on his family tree who might be able to assist him in developing a more complete narrative about his familial history. The film, then, traces two interrelated stories. The first is a catalog of a white Southern family’s desire to preserve its plantation home, the “grand old lady” and “sacred center of the family” that sat on property that was settled by their ancestors in 1739. The second story is that of Cheshire’s chance encounter with Robert Hinton, a Black American history professor whose grandfather was owned by Cheshire’s great-great-grandfather. Hinton’s inclusion in the film acts to challenge the myths of purity that the majority of Cheshire’s maternal family members had embraced about their ancestral past.
Perhaps the most compelling thread examined centers on Cheshire’s family’s holding steadfastly to memories that were imparted to them by their ancestor Mary Hilliard Hinton (Aunt Mimi), who was fascinated with the idea of pastoral pasts and constructing genealogical maps that connected the Hinton family to the British aristocracy, despite her certain knowledge that various indiscretions by the Hinton slaveholders had resulted in mixed-race Black American kin. What Cheshire reluctantly finds and attempts to rectify is how he is implicated in what he sets out to explore—the lengths to which crafters of genteel, idealistic Southern myths often go to extricate slavery, violence, and racism from how the past is articulated. While the slave plantation serves as a place for wistful Americans to recall the zenith of white superiority, these vestiges of slavery also haunt the region and negate narratives of progress. Black Americans have begun visiting plantation sites and often become vocal about how the lives of their ancestors are erased from the tourism scripts. The moments of rupture in Moving Midway are indicative of what happens when the Black and white branches of a Southern family attempt to come to terms with their ties to blue-blooded ancestors, whose wealth was accumulated through their continued participation in the violence and inhumanity that marked slavery.
Robert Hinton appears throughout the film as a historical expert and also as someone who Cheshire initially and naively believes holds an emotional stake in ensuring that the land upon which Midway sits and the home itself are preserved positively in the collective memory. Hinton tours the plantation site in search of evidence of slavery and his long-dead ancestors, seeking out slave quarters and grave sites and showing very little interest in Cheshire’s family’s romantic stories about Southern gentility. Early in the film, Hinton is asked to attend a Civil War reenactment with Cheshire and Cheshire’s mother, Elizabeth. This moment highlights the rifts that would arise later between Hinton and Cheshire, who had become friendly during the making of the film. At the reenactment, Elizabeth attempts to convince Hinton that the Civil War was about states’ rights unlike what the (liberal) media and historians suggest about slavery’s significance to the conflict. When Cheshire questions Hinton about his response to the reenactment, a tense moment occurs between him and Cheshire, whose film narration theretofore had been somewhat progressive in its historical analyses of race and slavery in the South:
Hinton: It looked like it was fun for the people involved, but it—it represents to me a misremembering of the war of Southern history and why all this stuff happened. I think the absence of Black people at a thing like this encourages people to think that the Civil War was not about slavery.
Cheshire: Right. But also, there was the argument that was of states’ rights. That that was—wasn’t that the argument? But I mean, don’t look at me like that. That was the argument that was put forward, right?
Hinton: I just think the whole argument about states’ rights is an avoidance, and if slavery had not been an issue, the issue of states’ rights would have never come up. My attitude about this is that I’m perfectly happy to have [the Civil War reenactors] keep fighting the war as long as they keep losing it.
[Both men laugh.]
“Crafting Symbolic Africas in a Geography of Silence: Return Travels to and the Renarrativization of the U.S. South,” in Afro-Atlantic Flight, Michelle D. Commander, excerpted from pages 173-220. Copyright, 2017, Duke University Press. All rights reserved. Republished by permission of the copyright holder. http://www.dukeupress.edu
Featured Image: The author listening to the Atlantic from the Cape Coast Slavecastle in Ghana, courtesy of the author
Michelle D. Commander is a native of the midlands of South Carolina. She is an associate professor of English and Africana Studies at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville. In 2010, Commander received her Ph.D. in American Studies and Ethnicity from the University of Southern California. She spent the 2012-2013 school year in Accra, Ghana, as a Fulbright Lecturer/Researcher, where she taught at the University of Ghana-Legon. Commander’s research has been supported by numerous organizations including the Ford Foundation, the Fulbright Foundation, and the Irvine Foundation. She is currently working on three projects: a book manuscript on the function of speculative ideologies and science in contemporary African American cultural production; a book-length project on the production of Black counter-narratives of the U.S. South; and a creative nonfiction volume on African American mobility. She has also begun engaging in essay writing for public audiences, which has been cathartic. You can find her essays at The Guardian and The Los Angeles Review of Books.
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Dr. Marie Thompson is currently a Lecturer at the Lincoln School of Film and Media, University of Lincoln. Her new book Beyond Unwanted Sound: Noise, Affect and Aesthetic Moralism has just been published by Bloomsbury. We’ve been following each other on Twitter for a while(@DrMarieThompson and @AbstractTruth) and I have become very interested in her ideas on noise. I’m David Menestres, double bassist, writer, radio host, and leader of the Polyorchard ensemble (“a vital and wonderfully vexing force of the area’s sonic fringes”) currently living in the Piedmont region of North Carolina.
In her new book, Dr. Thompson covers a wide variety of ideas from Spinoza to Michel Serres’s cybernetic theory, acoustic ecology and the politics of silence to the transgressiveness of noise music, and many other concepts to show how we are affected by noise. Thompson is also the co-editor of Sound, Music, Affect: Theorizing Sonic Experience (Bloomsbury, 2013). Here is a conversation we had over email in February 2017 about Beyond Unwanted Sound.
David Menestres (DM): Why now? Why did you feel compelled to write this book? What do you hope this book will accomplish?
Marie Thompson (MT): I think my ‘academic’ interest in noise began as an undergraduate music student – I was interested in thinking ‘beyond’ distinctions of avant-gardism and popular culture and noise, as something that traverses such separations became an evermore appealing concept. So I’ve been circling some of these ideas for quite a while.
I felt compelled to write the book partly due to what I perceived as a gap between some of my ‘everyday’ experiences of noise and how noise was represented in discourse – particularly noise’s representation as an essentially negative phenomenon; or as a shocking, sublime, radical, overwhelming, transgressive force. Noise seems to be one of those topics that makes ordinarily quite progressive thinkers revert to quite uncritical and reactionary tropes – there’s something about it that ‘touches a nerve’. Consequently, much of the discourse around noise is underlined by an often-unacknowledged conservatism. I’ve always found the grandiose rhetoric of noise comparatively quite seductive but at the same time, more often than not, noise is quotidian and banal rather than overwhelming or sublime (which isn’t to say it can’t also be those things). Likewise, I felt like this grandiose rhetoric resulted in an amplification of certain sonic arts practices, while silencing others. I guess I was compelled by a desire to expand the (material and discursive) universe of noise while also trying to maintain some consistency in definition.
Quite simply, I hope the book will contribute something helpful to the recent discussions around noise in media theory, acoustic ecology and music.
DM: What is the difference between a subjective-oriented definition of noise vs. an object-oriented definition and how do both lead to the ethico-affective approach that you champion in the book?
MT: When I refer to subject- and object-oriented definitions I’m referring, quite simply, to noise being defined either in relation to the ear of the beholder, or in relation to the sound-itself. [MT also defines her “ethico-affective approach” as a perspective that “recognises the entanglement of the ethical and the affective: affective relations are also ethical relations.” –ed.]
What I think is useful about a subject-oriented definition is that it remains open to what noise might be, what form it might take – it might be your neighbour hoovering, it might be a fellow travelers mobile phone, or it might be a buzzing wasp. However, subject-oriented definitions of noise are typically wedded to liberal notions of subjectivity and the politics that carries. Noise becomes an issue of personal taste – one person’s music is another’s noise etc. Subject-oriented definitions also struggle to account for noise that isn’t ‘unwanted’, ‘bad’, ‘negative’, and so on; and for noise that might not be perceptible, or noticeable.
Object-oriented definitions which treat noise as a type of sound are helpful insofar as there is a consistency of definition and it does not assume noise to be a solely negative phenomenon; however, to my mind, they risk losing sight of context: a particular sound is noise irrespective of how it is heard, what it does.
The ethico-affective approach I develop can be understood to maintain aspects of both these definitional approaches. It maintains the separation created by an object-oriented definition of noise between noise and negativity, so that noise’s ‘unwantedness’ becomes secondary and contingent. It also maintains the contextual focus of a subject-oriented definition, so that noise is not tethered to particular types of sound or sound sources.
DM: I’ve been very interested in the idea of noise as a weapon: the use of sound cannons to silence and sicken protestors, the use of the “Mosquito” device (which produces high frequency pitches thought to be audible only to teenagers in order to keep them from loitering), or the use of classical music to annoy young people.
You talk in one section about the noise of neighbors and the “policed silence of the suburbs.” I am also interested in the use of noise as protest. At the Women’s March in Raleigh on January 21, there were so many fascinating sounds: the sounds of thousands of voices bouncing off tall buildings, drummers, people leading chants with the crowd shouting back, the singing of classic protest songs (“A Change is Gonna Come,” “This Land Is Your Land,” etc.).
What do you think the role of noise will be in our current political climate? I can definitely see noise being used as a weapon by both sides: the government trying to use it as a weapon against the people and the people using noise to amplify their voice against the government. But there is a stark difference between these two sides: the use of sound weapons is clearly for their intended negative affect on people (both the physical effects of sound weapons and the psychological effects of the endless noise that comes from Trump’s press conferences and general bullshit), but I see the protestors intending to use sound in a positive way, to amplify their message, to make sure those in charge hear their voices, to ensure the message arrives intact.
MT: As a concept, noise seems evocative of much about our current political climate: be it the ‘noise’ of ‘fake news’, and ‘alternative facts’ (how does one determine ‘signal’ from ‘noise’, and who gets to determine that distinction); be it the ‘white noise’ of the Trump campaign administration (I recently saw a performance lecture with Barby Asante which effectively performed the ‘tuning out’ the noise of recently-bolstered white supremacy); or be it the collective noise of protest against the brutality of borders, white supremacy and police-state violence.
That noise can be both a force of domination and resistance is revealing of its ambiguity more generally – what I refer to as the ‘both-and’ of noise. Of course, that is not to conflate these uses of sonic force. One of the ways in which I’ve thought about this ethico-political difference in sonic forces is through the Spinozist distinction of power-over/power-to. The ethico-political entangles ethical questions (good-bad) with political questions (power over/power to).
So, when sound is weaponized to exert authority, to bring people into line, by diminishing their capacity to act and do, then this can be thought of as an exertion of power-over. Likewise, when sound becomes a means of collective resistance, or of connectivity (I’m thinking partly here of various ‘noise-protests’ at prisons and detentions centres, where sound is used to traverse walls and borders) then it might be understood as an expression of ‘power-to’ – a (collectivized) body’s capacity to act, to be, to do.
DM: You talk in the book of the “conservative politics of silence.” How does this conservativism affect both how people perceive sound and how we relate to it? Is there something at the other end of the scale, a “liberal politics of silence” so to speak?
MT: To my mind, the conservative politics of silence informs a number of assumptions that are frequently made about what are ‘good’ and ‘bad’ sonic environments; it relates to a preference for the simple over the complex, sameness over difference, past over present, predictability over unpredictability, the ‘synthetic’ over the ‘natural’ (whatever that might mean) and, ultimately, quietude over noise. This ideological framework underlines much ‘common sense’ about auditory experience, however it frequently remains unacknowledged.
We might consider a liberal politics in opposition to this conservative politics of silence, which recognises responses to sonic environments as ‘personal’ and therefore refuses overarching moral judgements about ‘good’ and ‘bad’ sound. However, I’m also wary of endorsing a politics that treats the individual, autonomous subject as the primary site of the political. Indeed, the conservative politics of silence that we see in the work of figures such as R. Murray Schafer is often indebted to a liberalism that prioritises control and the freedoms and rights of the individual – I’m thinking here of Schafer’s complaint that you can rid your private property of a physical intruder but not an aural one: “A property-owner is permitted by law to restrict entry to his private garden or bedroom. What rights does he have against a sonic intruder?” (1993, 214)
DM: One of the sections I particularly liked was the “What does noise do?” section where you delved into information theory through the work of Claude Shannon to show how noise was an essential part of a communications system, how noise can be a necessary, amplifying presence, needed to successfully transmit a message (voice over phone lines, data packets over the internet, etc.), how noise can enrich a system. I found myself thinking about this section a lot, often in relation to R. Murray Schaffer’s Platonic ideal state of silence. (“a Platonic, transcendent realm of a pure and ideal sonority, which paradoxically exists as undisturbed and eternal silence”).
I was also thinking about Cosmic Microwave Background radiation, the residual signature of the Big Bang, the background noise that carried all the information that formed our universe. It seems like noise is an intrinsic part of our world, both human made and naturally occurring, and fighting against it seems like such a waste of energy.
MT: It strikes me that when Schafer and other acoustic ecologists talk about fighting noise, they’re fighting a symptom rather than a cause. In these discourses, there is much talk of noise and environmental destruction but very little on how these processes relate to capitalism and settler-colonialism. In that regard, while I don’t think fighting against noise in absolute terms is futile, I do maintain that there are still fights to be had against high levels of noise. While I am critical of liberal notions of privacy and control and the ‘right’ to silence, I do also recognise that noise can feel oppressive in some contexts. That said, more often than not high levels of noise is a symptom of bigger social and political problems – for example, of poor quality housing, and a lack of economic choice over where one lives.
DM: One of the themes explore in the book is the idea of the parasite, based on the work of Michel Serres. How does the parasite relate to your idea of noise?
MT: I take from Serres’ figure of the parasite the idea of noise as a relational, transformative and ambiguous in its necessity. In Serres’ reading, the parasite changes things, for better or for worse. Either way, the parasite does something, it adds something to the mix. In other words, it is affective. And yet, there is no ‘mix’ without it. Parasitic noise is the ‘excluded middle’ that must be included: it is the necessary ‘third term’, which pertains to the necessity of the material medium/milieu. From this perspective, there is no original state of calm, which is then broken by noise. If there is mediation there is noise, if there is the relation there is the parasite.
DM: Could you talk some about “the poetics of transgression” as you call it? How does this “transgression” relate to your ethico-affective approach?
MT: The poetics of transgression refers to the centrality of ‘line-crossing’ narratives in accounts of noise’s use in the sonic arts and art more generally. It’s predicated on what Henry Cowell calls the ‘time-honoured axiom’ that noise and music are opposites. Bringing noise into music, or music into noise relies on the crossing of boundaries, of material and discursive borders. This ‘line-crossing’ is often accompanied by a rhetoric of extremity and radicalism, shock and awe.
While different notions of transgression have certainly been influential for various noise music practitioners, I seek to decentre it as a way rather than the way of understanding noise’s use as an artistic resource. I argue that the dominance of the poetics of transgression has risked reducing noise music to its most ‘extreme’ manifestations. In light of the ethico-affective approach to noise that I develop throughout the book, which understands noise as a transformative force and necessary component of mediation, I suggest that noise music can be understood as an act of exposure, which, rather than bringing noise into music (or vice versa) exposes, extends and foregrounds the noise that is within the techno-musical system so as to generate new sonic sensations. With this approach, I hope to make more space for noise music practices that do not fit comfortably with the poetics of transgression and its aesthetics and rhetoric of extremity.
Featured Image: Noise Music
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The Noises of Finance–Nick Knouf