Your Least Favorite DJ

My first question is about Shannon's "A Mathematical Theory of Communication." What's so interesting about this paper is the incredibly strange quantifiable terms of communication--an aspect of my life I'd always taken as organic and immeasurable in a simple output. To phrase this as a question--what should we do, practically, with this kind of material?

I used to spend a lot of my time focusing on astronomy and astrophysics--a field in which a signal-to-noise ratio has an extremely practical application (if you don't know how much of the light you received is from the star you're looking at versus how much comes from that pesky neighbor's light-polluting spotlights, or, more likely atmospheric conditions, there's not a whole lot to do with your data). In communication--this "noise" is much less definable (as we've seen in the past readings). It's an entirely human quality--what it is that we want to hear versus the things that are getting in the way of that hearing. I'd even go as far as to argue that not all "noise" in human communication is aural at all (next time you're daydreaming and realize someone's been talking to you, you can see what I mean here).

In terms of Shannon's paper, I had a hard time finding any source of actual information outside of the theory. The examples given on page 7 of randomly generated letters following known patterns (and progressively looking more like English) are very interesting, but there's only loose reference to where those things came from. It seems like there is a distinct and logarithmic relationship between S/N ratios and time, as well as a "capacity" for input (so weird), but beyond that I think it's important not to think of this as anything practical in the human sense. These functions could work for a recording device, but there seems to be a logical disconnect transferring that to a human element. Yet Shannon refuses to ever clarify the sources and receivers (and capacitors) as either human or non-human. As has frequently happened in the past, I've attempted to answer a question, and end up not terribly far from where I started. But isn't that how it goes? (Also, just a note: on page two, Shannon gives an in depth description of the change of base forumula for logs. This is 8th grade math, mixed in quite complex calculus. Does anyone else find this extremely strange? Especially since Shannon assumes SO much of the reader, it's strange that this would need to be explained.)

I think it's strange that more than one of these essays referred to sound/noise/recording as a weapon (from both Burrowes and Listening). While Burrowes' suggestions seem elaborate and very intentional, how does this concept work in relation to, say, the Patriot Act, or my former Governor's case, or taking great songs and putting them on commercials?


Finally, regarding the Most Unwanted Music, I felt an immediate connection to these people. I really wanted to hear the Most Wanted version too! I was quickly reminded of anytime my friends and I are hanging out and my friend Danny takes control of the iPod. Almost invariably, everyone berates his choices (Ween, Zappa, Mike Keneally, Dream Theater, Mr. Bungle, and various bits of metal), and while I tend to love many of those things, it's really true. Especially when the scatterbrained screechy falsetto of the Most Unwanted Music sounded like a slightly lesser version of Ween--I really felt like this was an accurate assessment of music fandom. And now my excuse to post a Ween song or two--something particularly "unwanted":

"So many people in the neighborhood"

"Fucked Jam"

If you're having trouble hearing, attach another ear.

Beginning with the invention of Scott's phonautograph, there seems to a very close connection between the history of sound reproduction and that of writing. Even Edison's gramophone was met with praise that it would make stenography much easier. Why was early sound reproduction associated this way?

One of the reasons from Sterne's The Audible Past involves the attempt to give deaf people a way of communicating without needing sign language (which for Bell meant that they were no longer "normal" people and this was bad). What's particularly perplexing about this connection to writing is that one of Sterne's main arguments was that the success of sound reproduction came from the movement away from mimicking the voice box and into mimicking the ear. I naturally think of sound originating in the ear, but that's probably because of otology's current acceptance. It's not hard to see the limitations of the automatons made by Descartes and Bell and others, but this movement to the ear would not (again, at least not from my perspective) immediately lead to writing.

Perhaps the answer actually comes in Sterne's second chapter about Laennic's stethoscope. Laennic pushed to find ways of taking what he had heard and putting it into writing (though his methods were fairly inconsistent and difficult to follow). This inability to write about or talk about sound (Sterne points out that the words we have to describe sound-- pitch, timbre, volume--are vastly limited compared to what we have as tools to discuss visuals) could be why sound recording needed to have a writing-based application. I'm not entirely sure if this is correct, but I think that this need to visually see the writing migh have been just the natural inertia to associate new technologies of communication with old ones (for example, the desire in the 90's to put the letter "e" in front of regular words to show that they had a digital counterpart).

Interestingly, and slightly related, I was particularly interested with the reference to the application of the video/audio editor's need to visualize sound with the traditional squiggley lines. In my stop-motion animation when I use dialogue, I rely heavily on this to match timing with sounds, so that in a way, I'm "reading" the sound, so it's neat to see that this was Scott's original hope, but used for completely different applications.

My second question is about the discussion of the separation of senses. While Sterne cites that one of the crucial steps in the process of the "invention" of sound reproduction was to separate the senses. Taking this idea further, he even explained further separation when discussing the quality of the stethoscope creating a sort of framing device for the sound (so that there was a signal and noise separation). First, how did people perceive senses before this? I can't imagine all sensation not being separated. There was the idea of Viktor and his socially constructed sound interpretation, but this didn't sit well with me (they fired a gun near his head and he didn't react at all? The mere overload of sensory information seems like it would make anything alive react that, regardless of the way that the senses are viewed). In what applications were the senses discussed before their "separation"?

I'm incuding a trailer for the movie The Piano Tuner of Earthquakes, which isn't a particularly good film (even though the brilliant stop-motion animators the Brothers Quay directed it), but it involves a series of automatons designed to reproduce an opera from a dead woman.


Also, I'm including this picture

Grad School Event: 1. Purchase over priced books. 2. Make some lunch. 3. Walk to class. 4. Start a large and dangerous fire indoors.

What was so striking about Orality and Literacy was how so often each concept about the differences between oral cultures (and their methods of thinking and communicating) and chirographic/typographic cultures seemed very obvious. Ong's descriptions of the changes (for example, cultural hesitancy to trust the written word when literacy was still new) felt almost like thought experiments--where the outcomes were as I anticipated. Particularly, the topics about how memorization affected the structures of the story (and affected narrative entirely--from chapters 3 and 6) were particularly interesting for me as a fiction writer. One of my favorite novels is Don Quixote, and while this is a very literate text (with some clear evidence of revision and longer structural issues), its episodic nature is entirely related to the literacy of that time.

My first question comes about from Ong's implication that printed text implies closure--is this true (129)? While his argument is sound (that the when the text is over, it will be the same again the next time, and that any discussion with a printed text will not be able to respond in any sort of immediate way), and I agree with him that relative to oral cultures, this seems like the case, I still do not agree. I read with a pen in hand the whole time, and now I am again using my writing to respond. The closure may still exist on some levels, but the invitation for conversation for academics and anyone who isn't afraid to question print (which, by the way, the explanation for burning books was remarkable--Ong certainly has a way of saying a lot in a small space) the closure seems imperfect.

Of course, it's impossible to be able to go backwards--to unlearn this way of thought structure to be able to say anything about how I would be different without written language--but I think the results here are one of the cases of "different" but in no ways better or worse in terms of closure. Written language does not feel closed to me, or impermanent, and I think if it did, there'd be far fewer discussions about anything, and just a whole lot of memorizing.

Although there is plenty to say about the Ong book, I want to address the Rothenburg work for my second question. After reading over his essay about the challenges and virtues of translating Seneca poetry, and after reading the Declaration of Poetry Rights--seeing his Ritual was very strange. My ignorance of these cultures forces me to wonder about these: how much liberty has Rothenburg taken on these works? They seem very strange, almost intentionally shocking and strange in their straightforward commands to do fairly unorthodox things. He's very devoted to capturing the language and its sound--do these focus on that?

Without any good visual plans, here's a picture of little Walt.

Ahco eechen ect: Harmonizing in Drainage Pipes (post for 2/3/09)

The first thing that I'm concerned with regarding this idea of sound poetry is the definition(s) that Dick Higgins imposes on what is or isn't sound poetry. While he carefully states all the different things that sound poetry is, he asserts that sound poetry isn't music. He argues that sound poetry is "inherently concerned with communication and its means, linguistic and/or phatic. It implies subject matter..." and so on. I'm unclear on how this all works (especially since this he seems fairly confident in this one point). I don't see how these terms separate sound poetry from music.

In fact, it seems like a song would do a better job communicating something than, say, Schwitters' "Ur Sonata" or the percussive sounds of the Chopin performance (and lead me to the question, would Higgins classify a drum solo as sound poetry, or does it have to come from the mouth? Or how the Four Horsemen use throat-singing in their pieces--it's singing! Even the Turtle Assymetries intentionally harmonize--that's music!). What about Bjork's Medulla, using only human voices (singing, sure, but also beat boxing, grunting, throat singing, and other mouth sounds) to make what is almost certainly music? Or, since I'm getting too Icelandic anyway, the made up language that Sigur Ros sings in--where does all that fall? Sure it's not quite the sound poem that is described here, but it's hard not to draw the comparisons. If a sound poem is just "poetry without words" as McCaffery describes in his section on Dada, I think Higgins' definition might be too bold to be so certain what it is not.

Henri Chopin's "Why I Am The Author of Sound Poetry and Free Poetry" is obviously a contradiction: he describes the useless, obsolescense of written language while fluidly using language to articulate that. What, then, is his actual argument?

Chopin writes with such exaggerated passion--"I can stand no longer to be destroyed by the Lord, that lie that abolishes itself on paper"--as a way of expressing the limitations of our language. He clearly does not mean that the language that we use is without value--even though is essentially the argument he makes. Instead, the point is to draw your attention to how much we take our language for granted--and more importantly, accept it as the dominant possibility for making sounds to send towards each other. Watching his performance didn't really convey meaning to me--and I'm interested to see how this could happen with just sound--but it was something entirely enjoyable that I think deserves exploration. Rather than saying this, however, Chopin asks for everything in hoping to get just a little piece.

I'm including here The Pleasure is All Mine, because it's turning mouth sounds into music--which is fun (sounding a lot like some of our listenings, only more musical, so I think the line is a bit blurrier--all sounds are vocal, even if it doesn't sound like it sometimes). I'm also including Triumph of a Heart, because the concept is similar, and the video is awesome (and I have a Bjork problem...).

Eu, um, uh, pssh, Pass the Mushrooms (1/26 posting)

Question 1. How serious is John Cage about this work? And, by extension, how serious are the reactions to his work?

While it's impossible to say with certainty, the "seriousness" with which Cage discusses his own work seems to have an element of tongue-in-cheek humor (the kind that he'd never openly admit). I had watched an early video of Cage performing "Water Dance" in which he welcomed laughter, but the tone of his writing is entirely serious. He gets nearly hyperbolic when describing how all records should be smashed because they're useless (76). Even his diagrams (81, for example) seem to be a type of joke with no clearly understandable means of interpretation.

In Dworkin's list of unheard music, he writes (of Cage's 4'33" score), "it sounds pretty good even in transcriptions." This must be a joke--because it nothingness doesn't need to be transcribed. I think everyone kind of enjoys this sort of joke. In fact, many of Cage's anecdotes between sections in his book are plays on words or humorous mishearing/misunderstandings. When Dworkin denounces Mike Bott's silent song as "third-rate," this also seems to be part of the joke (how is one person's silence interesting and another's not?). Maybe I'd have to "hear" it to understand.

In the video of the "full orchestral" version of 4'33", I feel like this strange blend of seriousness and humor lived on even beyond Cage's death. Would it have sounded different if there were a few fewer bassoons? Well maybe, but no more than it would have if it was done out of cold season. I think that people really enjoy this kind of joke--the knowing goofiness of doing something unexpected. At the same time, everyone seemed very pleased with the results--to hear such a great quiet in a place known where usually filled with more distracting noises. So while my answer to the "is he serious" question is a bit unclear, I feel like sense of discovery that Cage inspires is entirely serious and worthy of attention (but at the same time, it's occasionally ridiculous).

Question 2.
How should one interpret a reading of Cage's lectures/poems when on the page (particularly pieces that are meant to be accompanied with music, or other voices, or visual cues)? Is what's on the page sort of like reading a film script (not the important thing, really, but the thing that makes the important thing), or is it different for Cage.

I'm including a picture here of Mortal Kombat's Johnny Cage, because I think that's helpful to answering these.



And though this isn't part of the questions--would anyone be interested in a Zaireeka listening? I haven't done one in years and reading about Cage's work and the other "Unheard Sounds" (particularly Vitiello installation with the low frequencies and Cage's Imaginary Landscapes) reminded me of how amazing an experience it is (for those who don't know The Flaming Lips, it's a four disc album where all four discs are meant to be played simultaneously--some tracks contain frequencies at the borders of human hearing, the high and low all at once, it's very disorienting and enjoyable).
Here's a video of Wayne Coyne, explaining very little, but getting ready to play one of these.

Posting for 1/19 (a slight time travel)

1.) Marjorie Perloff's scansions of her selected poems are a little strange. She asks, "So what do the poems in this anthology look and sound like?" My question (that I'll try to answer below this) is this: can a set of marks really show what something sounds like?

What's odd about this to me, is that there is no audio provided on the site in addition to the text, so based on her preface, these marks should reveal what the poem "sounds" like. From the Bernstein essay from last week and from Rothenberg's article on performance, it seems like what the poem sounds like happens in the moment of its sounding--a reader reads the poem to be heard. Interestingly, Perloff also doesn't provide a key for her marks, limiting the audience who could even begin to understand what that means. Also, the marking implies that emphasis is somehow predetermined before the reading and should be clear and singular. Although I'm still new to this whole thing, that seems to go against Bernstein's convincing arguments and what I know about reading already. Had the writers themselves provided this scansion, it might be more interesting, but no more definitive and still just as mute.

Ezra Pound's reading of "Canto I" was nothing like I would expect from a man from Idaho regardless of the time period. Between the rolling of each "r" sound and his strange vibrato, I couldn't tell what I felt about these sounds (or why I could only picture, for some reason, some cartoonish English pirate). What does this performance add to his poem? In other words, what should a listener do with a reading like this in terms of interpretation. I know that I was lost and so focused on his voice that I paid almost no attention at all to what he said.

Mic Check

I'm just creating some space so that when we return, in the future, we won't feel alone.