Professional Documents
Culture Documents
IN SOUND
Series Editor: Mark Grimshaw-Aagaard
SOUND
POETICS
Interaction and
Personal Identity
Seán Street
Palgrave Studies in Sound
Series editor
Mark Grimshaw-Aagaard
Aalborg University
Aalborg, Denmark
Palgrave Studies in Sound is an interdisciplinary series devoted to
the topic of sound with each volume framing and focusing on sound
as it is conceptualized in a specific context or field. In its broad reach,
Studies in Sound aims to illuminate not only the diversity and complex-
ity of our understanding and experience of sound but also the myriad
ways in which sound is conceptualized and utilized in diverse domains.
The series is edited by Mark Grimshaw-Aagaard, The Obel Professor of
Music at Aalborg University, and is curated by members of the univer-
sity’s Music and Sound Knowledge Group.
Sound Poetics
Interaction and Personal Identity
Seán Street
Bournemouth Media School
Bournemouth University
Poole, UK
This is a book with the idea of poetry at its heart, by one who writes
poetry, who makes radio and who believes in an intimate connection
between the two disciplines. In it, the author will seek to explore the
relationship between sound, interaction and identity, using the con-
cept of the poetic as both metaphor and actual expression of the human
condition. It is a short book, as books by poets sometimes are, and it
is part of the author’s ongoing research into the philosophy of sound,
examining sonic signals as something heard both internally and exter-
nally, through imagination, memory and direct response. In doing so,
it seeks to explore how the mind ‘makes’ sound through experience, as
it interprets codes on the written page, and creates an internal leitmo-
tif that then interacts with new sounds made through an aural partner-
ship with the external world, chosen and involuntary exposure to music
and messages, both friendly and antagonistic to the identity of the self. It
will create an argument for sound as an underlying force that links us to
the world we inhabit, an essential part of being in the same primal sense
as the calls of birds and other inhabitants of a shared earth. Before pro-
ceeding, however, it is necessary for me to define this a little further and
to provide a personal context for the motive behind this writing. What
identity? Interaction with whom? Above all, why ‘poetics’?
In 1958, four years before his death, Gaston Bachelard, professor of
philosophy at the Sorbonne in Paris, published a remarkable book, called
La poétique de l’espace. The book was notable for many things, not least
the way it took an everyday environment, the intimate locations in which
ix
x Preface: Poetic Making
we each of us live our lives, and showed them to be places with signifi-
cances we had not previously dreamed of. Published in English in 1964
as The Poetics of Space, the book begins with an introduction in which
Bachelard confesses to a degree of soul-searching as he enters upon his
exploration:
A philosopher who has involved his entire thinking from the fundamen-
tal themes of the philosophy of science, and followed the main line of the
active, growing rationalism of contemporary science as closley as he could,
must forget his learning and break with all his habits of philosophical
research, if he wants to study the problems posed by the poetic imagina-
tion. [Bachelard, xv]
Little wonder that when, a year later, the BBC opened its first national
transmitter on Borough Hill, Daventry, at the very centre of England,
on a site that had once been a Viking burial ground, the opening cer-
emony should include a specially commissioned poem by Alfred Noyse.
The legend was that the Danes planted a tree at the centre of their cem-
eteries, the branches of which were believed to transmit the souls of the
dead to the afterlife. The metaphor was not lost on Noyse; ‘Daventry
calling…’ he wrote: a call sign as communication, invisible, yet potent.
In the following pages, we shall explore the idea that we all possess our
own individual set of audio responses and that we transmit and receive
signals to and from the world around us in a variety of ways, personal,
communal, cultural and political. Further, that the sound within us and
the sound around us, whether physically heard or imagined through the
suggestions of text, photograph, painting, sculpture or music, is a funda-
mental part of who we are. We are both transmitter and receiver, and in
the words of Noyse’s poem,
All are in one circle bound,
And all that ever was lost is found. [Noyse, in Street (1), 21]
Bibliography
113
Index
119
xv
CHAPTER 1
No one sense provides me with all the evidence I need to interpret the
world; I move through an immediate set of circumstances where sight,
smell, taste, touch and sound offer multidimensional clues from which
my brain creates a presence for itself, and to which it responds. It is
all linked together in a dance, and sometimes the dancers touch one
another, at other times they go solo. Sometimes one of the dancers takes
over completely and the others simply observe, before resuming their
weaving and cross-hatchings of meaning. These dancers perform within
a room, which sometimes has visible walls, at other times, not. In the
past one hundred years or so, two of the dancers, sight and sound, have
been offered artificial rooms where the walls become flexible, indetermi-
nate and sometimes as seemingly limitless as the imagination. Electronic
airwaves provide possibilities that feed into the immediacy of my local-
ised environment, even in what I have come to call ‘dead air’ (a fallacy
because how can air ever be dead?). Broadcast silence allows ‘the pos-
sibility for a silence that is not dead, a silence re-presenting a presence
whose essence is actualised even when its sonorous potential is not’
(Dyson, in Kahn and Whitehead, 380). Of all sensual moments, it is that
kind of silence that is a starting point, a moment of infinite possibility,
analogous with the moment the lights go down and before the curtain
rises in a theatre, the hiss of a needle on shellac or wax cylinder, as the
phonograph turns, or the disc revolves, before the ghost in the machine
speaks. Only one sense, but a sense capable of activating all the others
through the power of the imagination. The phonograph of memory
crackles its audio sepia, and through the horn or the speaker, the voices
of the dead come back. A ‘living’ voice evoking a mortal being, once a
possessor of the same senses as I, speaking one-to-one with me across all
the dimensions in which I exist, including time.
At this moment, I am alone with a voice—my self—which is internally
providing me with thoughts, emotions and feelings. There is an inter-
dependence between what I do and think, built upon memory and the
fact of my presence in the current moment, an interdependence between
myself and the circumstances in which I find myself. As I have lived,
that interaction has increased; like a handshake that squeezes tighter, it
makes me more aware of it, or a song growing louder and louder, until
it threatens to drown all around it. I must keep my balance. Interaction
must start with my self, the first being with which I ever interacted.
To begin then with a memory. A specific memory. When my daugh-
ter was expecting her baby, she attended prenatal classes and adopted a
number of exercises, one of which was relaxation to music. One piece
became a favourite, a meditative piano solo, part of a CD of music
designed for the purpose. From about ten weeks into the pregnancy,
each evening, she would play this music, easing herself into sleep. Then
the baby was born. Some two weeks later, when the little girl was crying
1 POETRY AND THE IDEA OF SOUND 3
What secret is at stake when one truly listens, that is, when one tries to
capture or surprise the sonority rather than the message? What secret is
4 S. STREET
Sound defines us. We cannot escape its influence and affect, just as we
cannot but be shaped by our background and formative environment.
We carry our own song with us, expanding it and extemporising as we
live, but based on a small but vital pattern of sound that sits at the core
of our being. We are transmitters and receivers, a system of call and
response powered by a leitmotif that, although unheard at a conscious
level, is capable of being triggered to either sympathetic or antipathetic
reactions by sounds heard physically or ‘silently’, that is to say through
the imaginative stimuli of a text or a thought. It begins and ends in and
with the self.
Time Travel
This book places poetry alongside sound and explores how one medium
informs the other; more, it seeks to identify aspects of both that unite
them as one. Sound is a poetic form, and poetry was sound before it was
print, which takes us to the voice, a fundamental part of our identity by
which we are perceived and judged throughout our lives. Sound, speech
and reading are linear. Unlike a photograph or a painting, these forms
move through time, and as they travel through our mind, they create
or recreate codes that the brain learns to recognise. A child begins with
sound—crying is a fundamental and unmistakeable form of communica-
tion, and it remains so throughout our life. Crying—and crying out—
demands a response. In his book, Dark Voices, Noah Pikes examines the
work of the theatre director Roy Hart, and his inspirational mentor, the
singing teacher, Alfred Wolfson. Wolfson, a German Jew, suffered deep
traumas in the trenches of World War l, and his experiences of hearing
the elemental cries of wounded soldiers affected him deeply, leading him
to explore the relationship between voice and self. Wolfson saw in a very
young baby’s cry something that later becomes inhibited by more com-
plex meanings, something of a sonic essence at the very core of exist-
ence. When a baby is hungry, it cries, or rather:
1 POETRY AND THE IDEA OF SOUND 5
…it does not actually cry, it cries out and this represents a source of energy
which many a singer could envy…Children, on the whole, also use their
voices correctly, unless they are very inhibited…when they get older, they
lose much of their naturalness and with it inhibitions set in. The grown-up
has forgotten how to open his mouth in a natural way; by adjusting himself
to the world around him, he has forgotten how to scream… Behind this
vocal condition lies the loss which the grown- up suffers by not being able
to preserve his state of naturalness. (Pikes, 41)
but feeds the internal monologue of self, which in turn feeds into a per-
sonal identity by which we are recognised in our individual interactions
with others. One analogy would be jazz, a musical form built on a for-
mal melody, but which, through the subconscious artistic responses of
its interpreters, has the capacity to move into new personalised realms
of meaning. As we carry our own song through life, we are constantly
touching other tunes, and frequently we are required to improvise the
expression of our self in relation to what surrounds us, interacting as a
human being like a musician. We are co-performers in a sound work at
the heart and centre of which is always ourselves. It is salutary to realise
what a tiny part of the overall work we actually contribute to; the ears
have a limited horizon, as do the eyes, but other sound existences are
happening over and over, beyond that horizon. Technology connects
us to a filtered interpretation of that broader sphere, but we are left to
ourselves to negotiate our way through the immediacy of our particu-
lar ‘scene’, making sense of the meanings—or lack of meanings—we
encounter through experience presented to us by sound linked along a
fine silver thread of consciousness to our other senses.
The self that moves through the world sees and hears itself—how
could it not?—within the context of time past and time present, and the
memory of the former informs the reality of the latter. The young men
who were radio’s early pioneers, John Reith, Arthur Burrows and the
rest of the team who created the BBC, grew out of a nineteenth-century
Victorian childhood. The poet Thomas Hardy, who died in 1927, and
who therefore lived into the era of radio, experiments in television, air-
craft and the internal combustion engine, was born in 1844 and recalled
that his grandmother in her turn remembered the day she heard of
the death of Marie Antoinette. In a speech delivered in May 1924, the
English politician Stanley Baldwin recalled:
The sounds of England, the tinkle of the hammer on the anvil in the coun-
try smithy, the corncrake on a dewy morning, the sound of the scythe
against whetstone…These things strike down into the very depths of our
nature, and touch chords that go back to the beginning of time and the
human race, but they are chords that in every year of our life sound a
deeper note in our innermost being. (Baldwin, 7)
Interestingly the text of the speech was published as part of a book enti-
tled On England, and Other Addresses, in 1926, the very year of the
1 POETRY AND THE IDEA OF SOUND 7
General Strike. It may feel even more anachronistic today than when it
was written, but nevertheless it is true that a sound from the past can
place us imaginatively in another time, while we physically remain in the
present. We are only two or three handshakes away from what would
otherwise seem to be very distant lives and experiences, and sound can
act as the bridge. I have written about the relationship between mem-
ory and sound elsewhere,2 and it impossible to escape some discussion of
memory when considering the relationship between sound and personal
identity. William Hazlitt, writing in his last essay, shortly before he died
in 1830, found himself transported to the beginnings of his career by the
sound of bells used by service industries in the streets of London, in par-
ticular The Letter-Bell which signalled the coming of the post:
It strikes upon the ear, it vibrates to the brain, it wakes me from the dream
of time, it flings me back upon my first entrance into life, the period of my
first coming up to town, when all around was strange, uncertain, adverse
– a hubbub of confused noises, a chaos of shifting objects – and when this
sound alone, startling me with the recollection of a letter I had to send
to friends I had lately left, brought me as it were to myself, made me feel
that I had links still connecting me to the universe, and gave me hope and
patience to persevere. (Hazlitt, 149–150)
William Whittington points to the fact that while offering visual images
of an imaginary future, Kubrick uses points of reference that are of our
past and present, and viscerally human: ‘The visual spectacle set to the
waltz implies a dance of grace and progression and ultimately a court-
ship towards procreation’ (Whittington, 51). The soundtrack of film is
a significant example of an area in which sound and imagination may be
linked to create meaning, using the mind as an interpreter. In one of the
opening scenes of Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now, the sound
designer Walter Murch plays on this collaborative instinct in the audi-
ence’s brain, by stretching a thread of meaning between what we are see-
ing and what we are hearing. The visual image may be of a drunk man
in a seedy Saigon hotel room, but the sound is of the Vietnamese jun-
gle; the juxtaposition is profound. The soldier cannot escape his destiny
and the memory of what has touched him in the past. Murch is physi-
cally creating a sound world that is a replication of what goes on in our
own minds all the time as we negotiate social situations around us. We
are at once always interacting and interpreting, ‘reading’ life through our
own particular lens, and internally commenting on what we see and hear
through a soundtrack built on experience, memory and imagination.
Tribal Voices
We belong to the tribe of our time as well as of our place. Seeing and
hearing the world from the perspective of where we are at any one given
moment, we also cannot but help being influenced by the urban or rural
environment to which we culturally belong, and the country we inhabit.
Dialect, accent and language are the sounds the child passed on to him-
self or herself as he or she grew, and those sounds belong to the place
as well as to ourselves. We may listen to the world on our computer,
through our television or radio, or through recorded media, but we con-
duct that listening in a specific place, and that can lead to a curious dis-
connect in the audio-visual experience.
The earliest BBC broadcasts came from localised centres; this was
born out of technical necessity because the technology did not allow at
the time for a national service, but the social benefits of radio stations
at the heart of the communities to which they broadcast were seen as
important enough for regional broadcasting to be a part of national pol-
icy, once the giant transmitter of Daventry enabled one voice to speak to
one nation in 1925. During the 1930s, major centres of regional identity
1 POETRY AND THE IDEA OF SOUND 9
were established, in some part mirroring the social milieu of their bases,
and through network broadcasting, transmitting elements of that cul-
ture to the rest of the country. Notable in this respect was the BBC
Features Department established in Manchester in the early 1930s under
E.A. Harding, which served as a radical conduit for subjects, ideas and
voices from social classes that had previous not found a significant place
on BBC programmes. Later, the coming of portable recording enabled
working-class voices to be heard direct from their centres of employ-
ment. On a larger scale, international broadcasting via short wave ena-
bled nation to listen to nation, and for the first time, even before the
coming social revolution in global travel, voices from other tribes were
heard by domestic audiences.
Technologies—media—interact with the mind in its sound-making
process in the same way as the mind interprets and creates internal
responses in the imagination and through memory to the scanning of
codes and information gleaned from art, the printed word and the physi-
cal environment in which we find ourselves. The difference is that we
choose our listening, our viewing and—increasingly—the time we devote
to that listening and viewing. We do this just as we choose our clothes
and the papers and magazines we read, as an extension of our own per-
sonalities, but we absorb other programmed information along the way
at the same time, including ideas of tribal, political cultural and national
identity that contextualise us as part of a community, as part of our own
interactive ‘club’.
Neither is our listening purely cochlear; there is the vibration of the
world all around us, a force utilised by the whole of the human body
to receive signals of a sense of place and situation. Artists such as Laurie
Anderson have used this idea, transmitting sound through the limbs to
the mind, directly. I recall a demonstration in London’s Purcell Room in
which the sound recordist Chris Watson played the audience a recording
of a Blue Whale—the largest creature that has ever lived on earth. The
effect was extraordinary; the sound was so low as to be barely audible to
the ear, and yet the whole room seemed to shake and vibrated deeply in
the chests of the listeners. We may close our eyes, we may even block our
ears, but our body continues as an active receiver of sound. Music played
at high volume, the utilisation of base frequencies, capitalise on this
sense inside us; we speak of an idea like a sound, a thing that resonates
within. At the same time, when we hear an actual sound blindly, the
‘grain’ of it, to use Barthes’s word, communicates itself independently
10 S. STREET
A Place in Time
Reverberations and echoes govern us, and we listen for other voices
and sounds to help place us in the world. Thus, for a number of rea-
sons, we may become disorientated when we are left with only our
internal sound world, without the surrounding soundtrack of an exter-
nal context. Silence, as we shall see, can be a positive thing, a unique
part of the sound spectrum, but negative stillness is something else: it
acts independently of the natural sound world and may be neurological
rather than—or as well as—physical. The loneliest place on earth—be it
literally or metaphorically—is an anechoic chamber; we may indeed enter
such a place, but equally it may lie within us. Both Thomas Hardy and
Walter de la Mare wrote poems that explore the terror of sonic nothing-
ness. Hardy’s ‘Silences’ moves, in its five verses, through various forms of
audio emptiness, ending inside the mind itself, as it contemplates memo-
ries in an old house, a place where sounds remembered have given way
to moral and spiritual stillness:
The poetics of sound cannot exist without the imagination, and the
imagination has the capacity to create sound out of silence, through sig-
nals from the eye, the nose, the mouth and the skin. I am an animal,
and non-cochlear listening is part of my survival in the world, as well as
my joy in it. Around me, the world vibrates, and my body absorbs the
vibrations, and this world has invented the means by which I can indulge
myself in all this, and invent myself. ‘The force of the tools that a soci-
ety provides itself and that of its imagination are never dissociable’ wrote
the contemporary art historian, Marc le Bot (Le Bot, 76). The hiss of
the needle on the phonograph cylinder was by no means the start; in
my beginning, at the commencement of all things, even before the song
began, there was a white noise in my mind, through which distant mur-
murs came, and which came bursting into my consciousness as I in turn
burst into its world at the moment of my birth. The made machines with
which I surround myself are simply aids to facilitate my absorption and
dissemination of signals, from which I build a constantly evolving and
developing sense of presence.
That sound—like life—dissolves is a fact and a poem in itself. When
recording was invented, it both made a sound and was an object from
which the sound came. Thus, it was miraculous and man-made at the
same time, a link with the dead through memory, and with the unborn,
through witness, a visible and aural moment in time preserved. The
device arrived at a crucial moment in history too, as philosophers and
1 POETRY AND THE IDEA OF SOUND 15
Notes
1. ‘Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood.’
2. The Memory of Sound, (Routledge 2014).
CHAPTER 2
Haunted Words
In his book, Air and Dreams, the French philosopher Gaston Bachelard
invokes the idea of two forms of silence, those that are mitigated by
breathing, which he suggests to be a form of speech, and those that are
held behind the lips, which he calls ‘closed silence’. He suggests that
‘the moment…aerial imagination is awakened, the reign of closed silence
is ended. Then there begins a silence that breathes. Then there begins
the reign of “open silence….”’ (Bachelard, 242). In this, he is addressing
himself ‘to the experience of all those who can feel vocal pleasure without
having to speak, to all those who are stimulated by silent reading and
who lay on the threshold of their morning the verbal dawn of a beautiful
poem’ (ibid., 244).
Poetry—like sound—creates pictures in the mind, visual images
that reverberate in the memory, often returning, whether prompted or
unprompted, when we least expect it. We may be on the commuter run,
peering at the urban landscape on a wet Monday morning, when some
recalled line in a poem takes us somewhere else entirely. I remember
just such an occasion during the 1960s as a student, travelling down the
Hagley Road from my college in Birmingham into the city on the num-
ber 9 bus, reading Walter Scott’s ‘Lay of the Last Minstrel’, and discov-
ering these lines about the ruins of Melrose Abbey:
In May 1819, John Keats wrote a poem which is as full of sound as any
that came from his pen. Yet the key feature of this poem, the ‘Ode on a
Grecian Urn’, is the juxtaposition of silence and clamorous sound. This is
a meditation on the embossed images of a Greek vase of unspecified ori-
gin. Prior to writing the poem, accounts tell us that he had been impressed
by a number of works in the British Museum and elsewhere, among them
the Townley Vase, the Borghese Vase, the Holland House Vase, the Elgin
Marbles and the Sosibios Vase, of which he made a drawing.2 The Ode was
published anonymously in the journal, Annals of the Fine Arts in January
1820, just a month before the onset of the poet’s last illness. It begins:
When the work was first published, a comma was inserted after the word
‘still’. In subsequent publications, this was removed. It is highly signifi-
cant to the meaning of the poem, changing ‘still’ from an adjective to
an adverb; the first meaning implies lack of movement, or more, com-
plete absence of physical sound. The absence of the comma implies that,
as Andrew Motion has written, ‘the urn is only touched by damage or
interpretation for the time being. Its days are numbered’ (Motion, 392).
Let us consider the line with the comma replaced:
The virginal quality of the vase remains intact, while its silence touches
us with awe in the context of the noisy world in which we observe the
object. Keats, though, hears another world of sound as he observes the
urn, one of pagan carousing and orgy:
the brain from dumb witness. This, for the poet, makes the sounds all
the clearer, all the more eloquent:
This is the silent sound we create when we read, when we view a work
of art, or indeed when we mentally interact with the world in general
around us. The soundtrack is our own, a response to stimuli either spon-
taneously experienced or imposed subjectively by the chosen act of con-
centrated attention on words or images. In other words, we have the
capacity to make sounds within our imagination, as well as to interpret
sounds heard externally.
Those sounds from outside us flood in without our control, envel-
oping internal silence and placing us in the world. A simple experiment
demonstrates this: open your door or window for the first time in the
morning with your eyes closed. The ambience of our immediate environ-
ment rushes into the head, and at once we know where we are, have a
sense of the weather around us and begin to identify required informa-
tion that complements our other senses. It is as though we are a kind
of torus, and inside us, in the ‘space within the whole’ there is a silence
waiting to be filled, like a reservoir that the sound world ‘tops up’ as we
engage with the sonic circumstances of where we are. In the case of the
imaginative sound that is self-created (or rather created through interac-
tion between the mind and an otherwise silent source—as with Keats’s
vase), we approach a deeply personalised area of our being, in which each
of us may ‘hear’ something different, or at least a variant of the same
sound, ‘tuned’ by our own imagination. Keats is reading the vase, as he
might read a book. As Dylan Thomas in Under Milk Wood makes the
connection between hearing and seeing, likewise we may reverse that to
identify the link between seeing and hearing. Images, objects and words
are a form of notation that may or may not produce a sonic response in
the mind; at least they may have the capacity to do so.
When we read an imagist text, be it prose or poetry, the imagination
is stirred to create sound in partnership with the words, in other words
22 S. STREET
“The spirit moved them.” A meaning of the phrase forced itself upon the
attention; and an emotional listener’s fetichistic mood might have ended in
one of more advanced quality. It was not, after all, that the left-hand expanse
of old blooms spoke, or the right-hand, or those of the slope in front. It was
the single person of something else speaking through each in turn.
Suddenly, on the barrow, there mingled with all this wild rhetoric of night
a sound which modulated so naturally into the rest, that its beginning and
ending were hardly to be distinguished. The bluffs had broken silence, the
bushes had broken silence, the heather-bells had broken silence; at last, so
did the woman; and her articulation was but as another phrase of the same
discourse as theirs. Thrown out on the winds, it became twined in with
them, and with them it flew away. What she uttered was a lengthened sigh-
ing, apparently at something in her mind which had led to her presence
there. (Hardy, 56–57)
tube’. In other words, her very name is linked to the absorption and cre-
ation of sound! Adam Piette has called this relationship between person
and place in the novel, ‘the Eustacia-Heath rhyme’, and it generates a
subtly blended soundscape in the reader’s mind that in turn creates an
imaginative picture in which a woman stands alone on a bleak, lonely
hilltop that serves as a metaphor for her personal isolation:
Between the dripping of the rain from her umbrella to her mantle, from
her mantle to the heather, from the heather to the earth, very similar
sounds could be heard coming from her lips; and the tearfulness of the
outer scene was repeated upon her face. (Hardy, 346)
Time and Place
[The] linguist Edward Hincks had used it earlier in the century to des-
ignate those Egyptian hieroglyphs that were “representations of sounds,”
and the word had entered the general lexicon via an invention that had
spread as rapidly as Edison’s would: Isaac Pittman’s system of short-
hand, described in his 1845 Manual of Phonography, or Writing by Sound.
(Butler, 11–12)
historian Andrew Crisell suggests that ‘radio has its limitations, all of
which are associated with its blindness…’. In some cases, Crisell argues
‘we need visible words to help us understand invisible things’ while in
others ‘we need visible things in order to help us understand the words’
(Crisell, 6). This is not to take account of the sheer imaginative visibil-
ity of sound objects when engaged with through active listening. Taking
into account the idea of sound as ‘blind’, we might also be persuaded
that the visual (in this case in the form of the printed page) is silent.
Yet clearly it is not when it is engaged with through the mind. We may
hear the immediate sound around us, while we may stretch our minds
to imagine sounds beyond our physical hearing in the broader environ-
ment, like lateral layers moving out from our centre. The printed word
enables us to ‘hear’ sound outside our experience through imagination.
Anthony Doer’s novel, All The Light We Cannot See, set in the French
town of Saint Malo shortly after D-Day, is a book about radio, sound
and time. Alone in her great-uncle’s house, surrounded by radios and a
clandestine transmitter, a blind girl is acutely aware of the sound of her
surroundings, receding into the far distance, spreading out from the inti-
mate sounds of the room in which she is trapped, any one of which may
give her presence away to the occupying German forces:
Marie-Laure can sit in an attic high above the street and hear lilies rustling
in marshes two miles away. She hears Americans scurry across farm fields,
directing their huge cannons at the smoke of Saint-Malo; she hears fami-
lies sniffling around hurricane lamps in cellars, crows hopping from pile
to pile, flies landing on corpses in ditches; she hears the tamarinds shiver
and the jays shriek and the dune grass burn…she hears cows drink from
stone troughs and dolphins rise through the green water of the Channel;
she hears the bones of dead whales stir five leagues below…With her free
hand, she opens the novel in her lap. (Doer, 390–1)
What the girl hears in her mind is wordless, a soundscape of the imagi-
nation. Yet, as Doer would have us understand, these sounds are actu-
ally occurring at the moment Marie-Laure senses them. The simultaneity
of sonic existence is a fact, to which the passage draws attention, heard
through suggestion in the textual pictures on the page, images that
would equally transmit themselves through the spoken word of a radio
broadcast, an audio book, or through simply being read aloud. In any of
these ‘readings’ of the text, the mind absorbs pictures.
Wilfred Owen, in his famous sonnet, ‘Anthem for Doomed Youth’
provides a striking contrast between sound and silence in the octave and
26 S. STREET
Owen’s work, like that of his hero, John Keats, is full of audio, and
like Keats, he recognises the sonic potency of certain words, words that
evoke both sound and feeling at the same moment. Keats, in his ode ‘To
Autumn’ makes us hear what he sees and hears when he writes ‘…in a
wailful choir the small gnats mourn’, while Owen takes the same sound
and sends it mad. Also like Keats, it is instructive to examine how the
poem evolved, in its sonic detail. ‘Anthem for Doomed Youth’ was writ-
ten during September and October 1917; a month earlier, Owen had
drafted a poem which has been subsequently named ‘But I was Looking at
Permanent Stars’3 in which the bugle image makes an earlier appearance:
The evolution of the sound is clear between the two poems, and in
‘Anthem’ Owen uses it at the end of the hellish uproar of the first stanza
of the sonnet, which places us directly in the field of battle as a bridge
into future memory and the sorrow of those left behind. In the subse-
quent six lines comes a response to the seemingly unanswerable question
of the opening, an elegiac stillness, and with it a tragic gentleness:
2 SILENT SOUND: IMAGINATION AND IDENTIFICATION 27
Like dance or abstract painting, pure sound can act on our senses to
open doors to individual worlds of imagination, each of them intensely
personal and direct, and working with our other senses—in particu-
lar sight—creates interactions and juxtapositions in the mind that are
the very stuff of poetry. The interaction between the senses operates on
numerous levels; poetic drama may have the potency of a text absorbed
in silent contemplation, while always offering the visual and audi-
tory possibilities of performance. Sound, however, is the fundamental
medium of storytelling, as witness Shakespeare’s words in King Lear, a
play which revolves crucially around the relationship between seeing and
not seeing, imaginary perceptions and reality. Near the end of the play,
Lear has this exchange with the blinded Gloucester:
Lear.: What, art mad? A man may see how this world goes, with no
eyes. Look with thine ears (Act 4, Scene 6).
A pause is really a bridge where the audience think[s] that you’re this side of
the river, then when you speak again, you’re the other side. That’s a pause…
[…] It’s a gap, which retrospectively gets filled in. It’s not a dead stop –
that’s a silence, where the confrontation has become too extreme, there’s
nothing to be said until either the temperature goes down, or the tempera-
ture has gone up, and then something quite extreme happens. (Batty, 164)
merge with the place in which their imagined lives live and breath. It is
also true that Hardy’s novels have been a fruitful field for adaptation, in
radio, in audio books and in film. This is significant because certain writ-
ers, while providing the clues from which we build our own soundtrack,
may also offer imagery so seductive and stories so pertinent to the
human condition, that they can exist—sometimes even more viscerally—
in the adapted form as well as the original.
For the maker of visual images, however, there is a dangerous set of
considerations to encounter: what does the mind need with second-hand
images when it can create its own? Why do I need a radio presenter to
tell me what I am hearing, when I can build my own playlist in my head,
or on my smartphone? The image that interprets a sound may be too
literal, while the image from which the sound is removed may have the
capacity to burn itself into memory, just as the sound without the picture
can become a part of our very self. The film editor and sound designer
Walter Murch, famous for works such as Apocalypse Now and The
Conversation (both made with Francis Ford Coppola), has expressed the
idea that the imaginative part in a film soundtrack has the capacity to be
more positively interactive with the audience and that ‘the perfect sound
film has zero tracks. You try to get the audience to a point, somehow,
where they can imagine the sound. They hear the sound in their minds,
and it really isn’t on the track at all. That’s the ideal sound, the one that
exists totally in the mind, because it’s the most intimate’ (Murch in Weiss
and Belton, 359). The present writer remembers attending a screening
of Carl Dreyer’s silent film masterpiece, The Passion of Joan of Arc. In the
event, the movie was shown completely silently, without the ‘comment’
of music. A whole cinema audience sat in rapt stillness for 90 min, as
the pictures burned themselves into the mind, and the imagined sound
played in our heads. Just as sound can evoke pictures, so too can pic-
tures make sound in the mind, be those pictures physical or words on a
printed page. Early cinema was silent, and so its meanings were totally
international; the visual message, often underlined by a musical commen-
tary, was universal. Silence that accompanies the visual, like pure sound,
requires no interpreter because it is open to individual interpretation. It
is only when a specific language is introduced that the barriers appear.
Sonic Cartography
Not only do I inherit the sound of my environment, I become at
one with it. When I consider this, I might take into account the liv-
ing existences within a landscape, say birdsong, animal life in the
30 S. STREET
undergrowth, wind in trees, the ambience of the air, the distant rumble
of industry and so on. On the other hand, the imagination can stretch
its quest for silent sound into the very fabric of the earth itself. It is
perhaps obvious that I can see and hear further through air and space
than I can through matter, but nevertheless it might on reflection seem
strange that the earth and the other substances upon which I stand
should yield so little sound.4 In his essay, Bedrocked, Robert Macfarlane
wrote:
The earth’s skin stops sight short, and what is beneath grass or ground is
lost to view, and largely lost to knowledge. We might call it the underland,
perhaps, this vast and invisible dominion of rock and soil, rifts and mines,
chambers and veins, dykes and tunnels, and minerals and groundwater, to
the roof of which we are all moored by gravity. (Macfarlane in Stenger, 11)
What if maps could talk? What if the cartography of shape and place
could be tethered to the cartography of thought and imagination?
What if the earth’s apparently silent voice could be translated into
sound? In 2015, the AV Festival in the North East of England toured
a sound installation by Susan Stenger, called Sound Strata of Coastal
Northumberland. Stenger’s 59-min work was a sonic representation of a
12-m-long hand-drawn cross-sectional map of the coastal strata from the
River Tyne to the River Tweed, created by a nineteenth-century min-
ing engineer and cartographer called Nicholas Wood. Her work in this
context is based on the sound of drones from Northumbrian pipes, a
bed upon which other sounds—song, industry and imaginative abstract
compositional techniques—riff and intertwine. In an essay accompany-
ing his map, Wood referred to the area under his consideration, from
Newcastle to Berwick-upon-Tweed in musical terms, as a ‘suite of rocks’.
Stenger in her turn gave terrain, geology and cultural history a range of
voices that overlaid one another as do the strata of the earth’s fabric. In
other words, she ‘read’ Wood’s ‘score’ imaginatively and articulated it in
sound.
This is exactly what we do within our head when we read a poem or
a book, a mental process that gives us the instrumentation to orchestrate
the printed codes into imagery. In fact, the internal process goes further,
turns 365°, because it takes a picture, be it a visual or an audio image
created by another mind, filters it through the neutral medium of words
and reinvents it through personal experience and circumstance to make a
2 SILENT SOUND: IMAGINATION AND IDENTIFICATION 31
drama that in turn is mitigated by our own personality and placed in our
memory bank. Gilles Deleuze has written: ‘Musical art has two aspects,
one which is something like a dance of molecules that reveal materiality,
the other is the establishment of human relationships in their sound mat-
ter’ (quoted in Stenger, 15). The miracle of composition is the revelation
of patterns of sound placed on silence that touch a chord of recognition
in us. We are each of us composers, and our orchestra is our imagination.
Stenger’s sound work is rooted in a partnership with the visual. As she
has said: ‘When I think about a new sound work I often visualise it and
draw my ideas. I can thank my art teacher mother for this; she taught
me about visual composition—organising line, shape, texture, colour—at
a very young age…’ (Stenger, 52). She adds elsewhere, ‘I think “sonic
incarnation” is a good term’ (Stenger, 63). So it is.
Stenger’s term may be applied here not only to a sound version of
a visual object, but as a response that reflects the individual subjective
‘sound incarnation’ of the observer or listener.
When we listen, even to apparently nothing, we are hearing our-
selves, in the context of our environment. Susan Sontag reflected this
in terms of the visual when she pointed out that to look at nothingness
or emptiness it still to see something, even if it be a projection of our
own selves.5 It may be intensified by will or by experience, as John Cage
proved in 4′33″. The artist and composer Esther Venrooij developed this
theme:
by external sound experiences that aid and affect that development. Two
people may look at the same Grecian urn, and while one might hear a
narrative, there is no saying that it will be the one Keats heard, while the
other may hear nothing at all, but experience the object in other ways.
Further, our sonic interaction with the object—if there is one—may well
be affected by the environment in which the object is placed. Listening
to a Greek vase in an echoing gallery of the British Museum, full of tour-
ist parties and conversation, will play into the mind in a different way
to experiencing the same object in the stillness of a living room, so the
blend of imaginative ‘tuning’ by the mind and external circumstance
improvise a kind of jazz that makes the event different between individu-
als, and changed every time the experience is replicated. Likewise, the
experience of listening to Sound Strata of Coastal Northumberland is a
very different one for me now, as I play the CD version of it, and hear it
through headphones, to the way I first heard it, in the acoustic environ-
ment of the Gymnasium Gallery at Berwick-upon-Tweed in the spring
of 2015, on a stormy day, with the sound of trees and distant sea-wash
outside. As Stenger has said herself:
Since the nature of sound waves is that they move in space, to be able to
stand inside them – to feel them passing through you – is an important
part of Sound Strata. The ability to be inside sonic structures, to perceive
them in both an intellectual and visceral way, makes you feel like you’ve
almost become part of the structure yourself. The stereo CD version…
sounds great, but it can only evoke the work in one way, since it can’t rec-
reate the experience of being in the space. (Stenger, 64)
One would only add to that last statement that for anyone who has first
experienced the work in situ, the CD does in a way recreate the ‘live’
event—through memory, just as a recording of a concert performance
has the capacity for taking us back to the memory of being part of it,
without reproducing the exact acoustic conditions or our responses to
them, that pertained at the time. To return, however, to the immedi-
ate point, someone other than Stenger, presented with the same com-
mission, would of course have come to a different answer. Her use of the
pipers’ drones as a motif through the piece acts as a kind of metaphor for
the underlying sound bed upon we each of us build our sonic world. So
it is with a read text. We respond—or not—according to a blend of past
2 SILENT SOUND: IMAGINATION AND IDENTIFICATION 33
experience and the emotional strings, all tuned differently, that vibrate in
various ways within us.
Environment is clearly part of the content surrounding the bub-
ble of concentration in which we interact with focused silent listen-
ing. The disconnection between read images ‘heard’ while on a bus
or a busy commuter train is a part of the overall imaginative/memory
experience. Just as we may listen to a sound picture of waves break-
ing on a South Seas beach while travelling through a suburban travel
interchange, and thus have two sensory worlds sitting beside one
another in our heads, so it is that hearing a written text silently cre-
ates a dichotomy between fantasy and reality, or perhaps one should
say, two kinds of reality in parallel. Whether it be physical or imagina-
tive listening, Salomé Voegelin is right to suggest that ‘listening allows
fantasy to reassemble the visual fixtures and fittings, and repositions
us as designers of our own environment’ (Voegelin, 12). Nevertheless,
the noise of the world changes the rules of what the composer Pauline
Oliveros has called ‘deep listening’, and we must focus and concen-
trate more if we are to find the stillness within us that is capable of
absorbing the subtle sounds that are usually the most significant and
rewarding. Stare at an apparently black night sky long enough, and
you begin to see stars; likewise, if we consciously and actively listen
with complete attention, we can focus on sounds of which we were
previously unaware. If we can switch attention to the most interesting
conversation in a cocktail party, we can do this. Oliveros refers to it as
‘sound fishing’:
Listening for what has not yet sounded – like a fisherman waiting for a nib-
ble or a bite…Pull the sound out of the air like a fisherman catching a fish,
sensing its size and energy…There are sounds in the air like sounds in the
water. When the water is clear you might see the fish. When the air is clear,
you might hear the sounds. (Oliveros, 50)
that inner silence is our most intimate possession. A loud sound can
produce a phantom echo, like the after-image from blinking at a bright
light. It can exist in silence, as it continues to exist in memory, and
powerful emotions have a form of psychic sonic life, capable at times
of delivering a spiritual seismic shock. Venrooij has attempted to repro-
duce this phenomenon in some of her early compositions, that is to say,
to create the sensation of an experience of a sound without the sound
itself being present. ‘By meticulously placing a very specific sound in
a (horizontal/vertical) composition, this sound would still resonate
in the listener’s mind after composition’ (Venrooij in Stephanides and
Kohlmaier, 97).
A work of art can only fully exist when it is experienced, and
whether we ‘hear’ it through reading, remember it or imagine it,
we are ultimately both receiver and instrument. The point is we can
‘hear’ a thought within ourselves before it has been expressed. To
return to Gaston Bachelard, invoked at the beginning of this chapter,
‘the spoken word is, as far as we can determine, projected before it
is heard. According to the principle of projection, the word is willed
before it is spoken. In this way, pure poetry is formed in the realm of
the will before appearing on the emotional level’ (Bachelard, 244).
If this is so in the making, it is surely true in the reading, a kind of
thought transference; indeed, we sometimes use a phrase when
describing an idea that communicates on this level, that it ‘speaks to
us’, and these are the moments we retain within ourselves. ‘Music,
when sweet voices die,/Vibrates in the memory…’ wrote Percy
Bysshe Shelley. Later in the nineteenth century, the Jesuit poet Gerard
Manley Hopkins might have been answering both Shelley and John
Keats when he wrote:
Notes
1. Scott, Sir Walter, ‘The Lay of the Last Minstrel’, Canto II, stanza 1.
2. See Motion, Keats, pp. 390–392.
3. See Stallworthy, Jon, The Poems of Wilfred Owen, p. 179.
4. Later in this book, we shall discuss the issue of non-cochlear sound, vibra-
tion and the body as conductor.
5. Sontag, Susan, ‘The Aesthetics of Silence’ in Styles of Radical Will
(Picador, 2002).
6. Hopkins, Gerard Manley, ‘The Habit of Perfection’.
CHAPTER 3
Tuning in
‘Live’ radio is different to podcasts or recordings. Listening to ‘Live’
radio allows us personal imaginative engagement, whether it be with a
song—a voice or an idea—while enabling us to feel part of a commu-
nal experience at the same time. We are aware that others are tuning in,
interacting mentally with the moment. With television it is different,
Descartes famously said the same thing in five words,1 and it is the nar-
rowcast of the self that we must explore later, because the inner ver-
balisation of impressions and experiences is our silent but constant
personalised radio station, without which all the other senses, includ-
ing sight, founder. In Annie Dillard’s words, ‘unless I call my attention
to what passes before my eyes, I simply won’t see it…I have to say the
words, describe what I’m seeing…I have to maintain in my head a run-
ning description of the present…otherwise, especially in a strange place,
I’ll never know what’s happening…Like a blind man at the ball game, I
need a radio’ (Dillard, 33).
As we live and grow, we absorb sounds and subconsciously build them
into the fabric of our personality. These we might refer to as codes that
open up channels of response, rather in the way that a PIN fed into an
ATM machine gives us access to information and funds. Thus, a circu-
lar process begins at birth that interacts with our senses as we develop
3 TRANSMITTERS AND RECEIVERS: SHARED AND SELECTED SOUND 39
The acoustic world is one in which things pass in and out of existence…
There is a sudden cry from the lake, ‘Hello, Daddy!’; my children are there
in their paddle boat. Previously, a moment ago, they were not there. Not
until they greeted me with a cry could I distinguish them from the rest of
the background sounds. (Hull, 73)
For Hull then, there is a sense of passivity; he must await audio clues to
bring forth elements of the world, and yet ‘this is a world which I cannot
shut out, which goes on around me, and which gets on with its own life’
(ibid., 74). Each place becomes a revisited place, encountered through
the codes of acoustic space. It is, as Hull says, ‘a world of revelation’ just
as for the Australian sound artist and scholar, Colin Black expresses the
sounds and sights of an unfamiliar city:
I love the sound of the trams in Melbourne and the ferries in Sydney. It
may sound strange but the winter air sounds different to me in the two
cities. The pace of the language and footsteps on a whole sounds different.
The emerging themes in the words that you overhear in public (the seman-
tic wordscape) are different. The speech melodies on a whole are different.
The architecture of each city creates a different set of ambiences to interact
with.2
not exert their demands on our minds to the extent that they become
our sole preoccupation. Radios transmit, but the human mind transmits
and receives, often virtually simultaneously. While that is the case, there
are optimum conditions that exist to enable it to do so at its maximum
efficiency. Each of us is our own station, and so we vary to an almost infi-
nite degree in our responses. There are numerous issues relating to how
our subtle responders are affected by what we absorb, and as the journal-
ist Dean Burnett wrote, each of us is different:
Sound Badges
Our playlists build, inform and enhance our sense of personal identity,
while at the same time helping us to align ourselves with like minds. A
product of the audio cassette medium between the 1970s and 1990s, the
concept of the mix-tape embodies this idea. We may learn as much about
a new acquaintance by examining their music collection as by looking at
the spines of the books on their shelves, and a mix-tape became a means
of demonstrating to a new acquaintance where one stood in terms of
taste and choice. In closer relationships, it was a means of sharing mutual
musical identity and holding a moment in time as a component of future
memory. Thus, the mix-tape was both a statement of ‘who I am now’ (or
‘who we are’) and potentially a memorial preserved for later times, when
it would serve as a time capsule of experience, in turn evoking an outward
ripple of associated memory. Bas Jansen, in exploring the use of cassettes
in preserving former selves, invokes the concept of two forms of personal
identity as encapsulated by the philosopher Paul Ricoeur in the Latin
words idem, meaning sameness, and ipse, meaning self: ‘Ricoeur relates
idem-identity to a person’s inclinations, habits and identifications…Ipse-
identity is closely tied to the first-person dimension of experience’ (Jansen
in Bijsterveld & van Dijck, 43). A mix-tape does what a conventional
radio station cannot do; it preserves the sound identity of the individual
at a particular moment and has the capacity for sharing that identity as an
offering of both ipse-identity and idem-identity. It is, however, primarily a
statement of the self that created it in the first place. Thus, it is potentially
a means of regaining a former self, a sense of what it was like to be the
same person in a different time in a first-person experience:
An analysis of the sensation will not bring into focus the “experiencer,”
but only the conditions and the elements of the life-world which gave the
listener’s past experience its particular “feel,” as if these conditions and ele-
ments had been kept exactly as they had been in a time capsule, or as if a
time machine had taken the listener back to them. (Ibid., 51)
3 TRANSMITTERS AND RECEIVERS: SHARED AND SELECTED SOUND 45
Once upon a time, popular music was the music of the populace. As
opposed to the official music of the state or the church, the people had
their own tunes, their own lyrics, their own instruments and techniques.
As such, popular music was an oppositional music, a sometimes explicit
and sometimes implicit act of resistance to the message embedded in the
music of power. But as imperious power is replaced by commodity power,
the mode and manner of popular music is converted into a style, complete
with an attendant industry and marketplace. (Kim-Cohen, 138)
encapsulates the importance of the audio badge that states ‘you are
tuned to the right place—don’t touch that dial’. The relationship at its
best is intimate, powerful and strong enough to not only create remark-
able brand loyalty, but on occasion, to change a life, and highlighting the
potential for a voice or song to send its greetings to the solitary.
When we rise and place our hands on our hearts as one, and sing the
memorised words of a national anthem, we become at once a statement
of ourselves, a member of a tribe and a component of nationalism. Yet
how much of us as individuals is sacrificed to the larger community as
we do so? Mass media embeds both complicity and acceptance in us
through signature tunes, jingles, close-down sequences and as the plat-
forms upon which key sounds and musics are placed. There was a time
when the end of a day’s broadcasting in Britain was signalled by the play-
ing of the National Anthem, just as it would be at the end of a live stage
performance. In many places around the world, it still is, although the
advent of 24-hour broadcasting makes such moments rarer. The impli-
cation of this sends a powerful message: the last word comes from the
state—or rather, the nation—and it is left to echo in the brain. We can
recall a national anthem just as we can recall a favourite popular song,
and even if we can only remember the words of the first verse, that is
sufficient to identify us with our flag. Indeed, it is the synergy between
words and music that cements it in our mind; it is sometimes hard to
recite the words of an anthem spoken, without the mental aid of the
tune to which it is sung. A national anthem does indeed relate to ‘nation’
more than to ‘state’, and the performance of it is a moment in which the
single identity is subsumed into the mass. ‘In this song, the individuals
are not called to distinguish themselves; nor, even less, are they called
to distinguish themselves as voices. Rather, they are called on to lose
themselves within it’. So writes Adriana Cavarero in her book, For More
Than One Voice. Such a performance moment creates a curious tension
between the modern idea of a ‘nationhood’—as suggested by the rights
of man depicted through various democratic statements since Magna
Carta, through the French Revolution, to the American Bill of Rights, in
which freedom of the individual has been progressively encouraged—and
a simultaneous fealty to a flag representing the nation that has ‘permit-
ted’ this. A national anthem fuses these two concepts, because the words
sung as part of it usually express the struggles and ideals through which
the nation state has journeyed and the ideals for which it stands in order
to present its citizens with the community they represent and celebrate as
they sing it. As Cavarero reminds us, ‘what counts most is not the words,
which are usually ridiculous or rhetorical, but rather the fusion of indi-
viduals in the song that symbolises their union. The song of the nation is
lifted by a people who sing in unison’ (Cavarero, 201/2).
50 S. STREET
‘Reality’
In the modern techno-mitigated environment, where mass news and
information are juxtaposed with the ubiquitous usage of social media,
we tread a fine line between too much control of shared thought, and
uncontrolled, uninformed opinion. At the same time, the freedom to
express and share an independent thought, galvanising all aspects of
an issue, is a cherished principle, and for many the essence of absolute
democracy. Whether it be in the concert hall, the theatre, the football
stadium or the political rally, the individual shares him or herself with a
(usually) chosen community to join in mutual consumption and expres-
sion. This feeds into the experience of that individual, just as the person-
ality of one person has the capacity to contribute to the mood and voice
of the group. There are points in a violent expression of public opin-
ion when individual identity becomes subsumed into the being of the
group, and a new ‘animal’ is formed with its own will and motivation.
Critical in this process, and crucial to our understanding of interaction
and personal identity, is the relationship of sound to the overall gener-
ation and control of such moments, and the motive behind its origin.
Media has been adept at exploiting the concept of ‘the voice of the peo-
ple’ over successive eras and with increasing sophistication. The idea that
a radio phone-in can be totally democratic is qualified by the understand-
ing that the selection process and policy are in fact exercised by the pro-
ducer in charge of the broadcast. The thinking behind this may indeed
be to reach a genuine and profound social truth on a subject through
52 S. STREET
this interaction, and the sources and validity of our points of reference,
becomes an issue of increasingly complexity, full of untruths, half-truths,
misconstructions, false memory and partially formed opinions purveyed
by familiar sources that may prove on closer examination to have alien
voices at their core. The sound of the self becomes in this situation like a
lone child lost in a jungle of crossed wires and interwoven signals, with
interaction sometimes at the mercy of false prophets informing the quest
for the retention of a personal identity. There is now seemingly no end
to this process, as the ‘intimate public’ as Loviglio terms it, is subjected
to diverse media exploiting the divisions and no man’s land between per-
sonal and shared speech and space, a world where ‘public and private
continue to operate as codes for unstable social identities in a society
marked by steep structural hierarchies’ (Loviglio, 132). It is a bleak con-
clusion; notwithstanding, to hear is not necessarily to listen to or accept
what alien voices would have us believe we are. The real ‘reality’ may lie
not in what we receive, but what we transmit to ourselves from within,
finding a true voice with which to counter societal misunderstanding
through personal interpretation. Poetry is, after all, a state of a listening
and interpretative mind as much as it is words on paper or on the air, and
it is formed not by committee but by the individual.
Notes
1. ‘Cogito ergo sum’, the Latin proposition by René Descarte, usually trans-
lated into English as ‘I think, therefore I am’, which originally appeared in
French as ‘je pense, donc je suis’ in his Discourse on the Method, and later in
his Principles of Philosophy.
2. Black, Colin. Blog entry: http://colin-black.weebly.com/sound-blog/
just-remembering-how-melbourne-sounds-different-to-sydney-how-each-
city-has-it-own-sound-signature. (accessed 15/1/2017).
3. Burnett, Dean, ‘Does Music Really Help You Concentrate?’ The Guardian,
20 August, 2016, https://www.theguardian.com/education/2016/
aug/20/does-music-really-help-you-concentrate?CMP=share_btn_tw
(accessed 10/10/2016).
4. Witek MAG, Clarke EF, Wallentin M, Kringelbach ML, Vuust P (2014)
Syncopation, Body-Movement and Pleasure in Groove Music. PLoS
ONE 9(4): e94446. doi:10.1371/journal.pone.0094446 (accessed
10/10/2016).
3 TRANSMITTERS AND RECEIVERS: SHARED AND SELECTED SOUND 55
When a complex mix of sounds invades our consciousness, the mind tries
to make sense of firstly the whole, then the composite elements of which
the whole is comprised, seeking to elicit information about risk and dan-
ger or help and support contained therein, as in, for example, a soldier’s
response to the chaotic sounds of a battlefield, made up of individual
components, heard at differing distances and perspectives. At the start of
Listening to the Wind, Tim Robinson’s remarkable trilogy, Connemara,
the author describes this in terms of a storm; it is not, after all, only man-
made sounds, cityscapes and so on that engulf our ears. The elements,
60 S. STREET
clearly, have the same effect, at times to the point of disorientation and
bewilderment. Robinson articulates the experience eloquently, the com-
plex breaking down of individual sounds, and the difficulty in extracting
them from cacophony:
Going here and there in thought through the pandemonium only the
most analytic listening can disengage its elements: shriek of sedge bent
double out on the heath, grinding of shingle sucked back by the reflux,
slow chamfering of a stone’s edge blown by sand grains. (Robinson, 2)
As the wave or wind breaks around the headland, a wood, a boulder, a tree
trunk, a pebble, a twig, a wisp of seaweed or a microscopic hair on a leaf,
the streamlines are split apart, flung against each other, compressed in nar-
rows, knotted in vortices. The ear constructs another wholeness out of the
reiterated fragmentation of pitches, and it can be terrible, this wide range
of frequencies coalescing into something approaching the auditory chaos
and incoherence that sound engineers call white noise: zero of informa-
tion-content, random interference obliterating all messages…a metaphysi-
cal horror made audible. (Robinson, 2)
4 INVASION OF THE SOUND ALIENS 61
Coping with the natural world may sometimes be terrifying. Yet beyond
that there is the world we have created for ourselves, a sometimes haphaz-
ard set of structures that have gradually grown into communities around
us. We are, as David Mortensen reminded us, ‘adrift in a torrent of activity
that constantly fashions (our) every habit and thought’. This bombardment
of the senses puts the identity of individual at risk as the ‘self-contained,
autonomous entity operating within a well-boundaried self’. As we move
through our life and our immediate world, we are forever at the centre
of, in Mortensen’s words, ‘an uninterrupted flood of physical and social
influences. The impingement of energy on the senses is, like the air we
breathe, an atmosphere so persuasive that few are aware of its constancy
or effects’ (Mortensen, 69). Indeed, so pervasive that we may not fully
appreciate the risk of imbalance of cause and effect in some sounds and
their relationship to our inner selves. The condition known as misophonia,
for example, is defined by an excessive adverse reaction to certain—often
everyday—sounds, such as hearing someone drinking, or eating potato
crisps. For some, this can be intolerable, triggering extreme anger or dis-
tress. It may be that this condition, which originates in the anterior insular
cortex—the part of the brain that connects the senses to the emotions—
could be key to our understanding of our audio personality, and how our
sonic responses are formed. The brain is a delicate computer; when it
is working in perfect balance, its readings of the world around us tell us
who we are in relationship to that world. It is when that balance shifts and
goes out of kilter that our reactions become extreme and misrepresent us.
In other words, we need every minute part of our internal wiring to make
sense of things, but when the fine-tuning is disturbed, the aliens are inside
us rather than, as it may seem, attacking us from without.
As young children, we play with the imagination; we create friends
out of the air, sometimes out of the inanimate; we talk to them, and
they form a part of the new world around us. It is part of the weather
of childhood. Later, the failure to differentiate realities may manifest in
mental storms for which Robinson’s physical gales or Mortensen’s social
tensions may be seen to be a metaphor. Constantly, whether awake in a
state of reflection, or asleep and dreaming, ‘the nervous system strives
to fulfil the conditions necessary for man to make sense of his unfolding
experience’ (Ibid.). It is not uncommon for us to silently discuss our sit-
uation with ourselves; it is how we make sense of who and where we are.
It is when the voices in our heads become more tangible, that these reali-
ties become blurred and the disorientation of various consciousnesses
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These identities take turns controlling the person’s behaviour. Each iden-
tity may have its own name, personality traits and self-image. Some identi-
ties may remember what others did, which can lead to large, unexplained
gaps in the person’s memory. dissociative identity disorder is not a form of
schizophrenia, but rather a separate disorder with an entirely different set
of causes, symptoms and treatments. (Gur in Snyder, 9)
Who is it that speaks or sings, and who is it that listens? Personal identity
can be kaleidoscopic, and the music of the self may be more the sonic
equivalent of a Jackson Pollock painting than a minimalist line drawing.
Balancing our personal sound worlds requires consummate human engi-
neering; mentally and physically, it is chillingly easy for our equalisation
to go awry. In Wordsworth’s words:
Some things are simpler to re-calibrate than others. During the writ-
ing of this book, I became aware that my own hearing was declining; age
and a lifetime of sound practice and study had taken their toll, and tests
showed that I now needed to be fitted with a hearing aid. It is curious
that for many of us, the idea that our hearing needs support can prove
to be a challenging one. The same person who accepts the need for spec-
tacles, and even rejoices in their design as a fashion accessory, might
baulk at a new reliance of an artificial boost to hearing. I was aware of
this psychological trait in myself; partly, perhaps, it is to do with what it
acknowledges in our journey, partly, it must be said, vanity. Whatever the
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Natural—and Unnatural—Selection
There is an important issue here; we are by origin, creatures of the natu-
ral world, and our genes evolved to equip us to respond to that world,
either as hunter-gatherers or as survivors. In the modern world, western
society inhabits for the most part, an artificial sound environment; the
word ‘artificial’ might here be seen to mean human, but there is a dis-
tinction to be made between man-made and ‘human’. In fact, while we
might think that the noise of our urban surroundings is that of human-
ity, in point of fact it can have the effect of removing us from our human
roots. We can become desensitised, lacking mental space for reflective
thinking. When noise becomes an intrusion, it can cover perception like
a blanket, dulling our senses, creating confusion and causing errors of
judgement and flaws in decision-making. We might regret the neces-
sity of the hearing aid, but the uncomfortable truth may be that we are
losing our hearing, along with our other senses, already in subtler ways.
That is to say, the brain’s filter is making adjustments on our behalf in
order to preserve our personal self, at the expense of detailed ‘fine-tun-
ing’. Gradually the ‘will’ of the environment obliterates aspects of the
personality, adjusting us in spite of ourselves to our role in the machine’s
greater purpose. Some might say that this is enabling us to conform to
the ‘real’ world, which is ironic, in that, as we have seen, the so-called
real is frequently actually fabricated. Everywhere we are compromised;
stores, restaurants and clubs play continuous unwanted music, while
hard floor and wall surfaces reflect sound, resulting in us raising our own
voices to compensate. We shout at one another from a foot or so away
to make ourselves heard; this in turn has the effect of lifting the sound
levels still further, and we enter a truly vicious circle of Babel. We must
learn to lip read to enable some form of conversation, or simply give up
and go home with a sore throat and numbed hearing.
On the other hand, it is true to say that because we are adaptable,
there are times when we welcome the hubbub of gregariousness; for
example, a writer emerging out of silent solitude into the conviviality of
a bar might enjoy being a part of the throng, particularly as a passive
observer. Douglas Kahn has developed this idea:
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When one’s own speech is not implicated, the noise returns to more peace-
able settings…The speech of the raucousness of cafés and other such
haunts produces in itself a figure of the social where poets and writers in
midst of the craft need not feel so alone. The dish and din can provide
a peaceful home for the overriding conflict within the very act of writ-
ing – the gregarious motive of communication versus the solitude of its
execution – by providing a chatty noise within which a collectively dis-
cursive interlocutor can be divined, a nascent public imagined. Café noise
also models the supple field of exchange between inner speech-sounds and
those of the world and, thus, situates the writer. (Kahn, 42)
This sense does not belong exclusively to the artist; any one of us is capa-
ble of enjoying the noise bustle of a busy environment when we feel we
have some control over our role in the situation. There are times when
we actively seek noise, explore the need for noise as a relief, a release,
rebellion or protest, as well as for enjoyment, say at a rock concert or
other social event. We even use the phrase, ‘make some noise’ as a term
of celebration or appreciation. Schwarz has added a further proviso in
pointing to the fact the ‘distinctions between sound and noise, or noise
and music, or music and sound, can only be provisional—not because
they are matters of taste but because…[of] how the acoustics are staged,
in auditoria or bedrooms, in laboratories or courtrooms’ (Schwarz, 858).
It may be added here that the office environment today is largely a much
quieter one than the cacophony of typewriters that would have identified
it some generations ago. It is when we step out into the sound world,
away from such controlled spaces, that the issues arise. In truth, it is
when we cease to be consciously aware of our sonic surroundings and
therefore neglect to control them, that the raising of volumes and the
effects of frequencies do the most damage, both physically and mentally.
Just because we volunteer to be within a sound environment, does not
mean it is good for us. Music could be said to be organised noise; we
develop habits and come to expect the soundscape of the world, organ-
ised or not—and sound has the capacity to shatter glass and undermine
stone, according to frequency.
Neither does it end there; most vehicles are not insulated appropri-
ately for sound, so as we listen to in-car entertainment, we find our-
selves turning the volume up to compensate for engine and road noise.
Arriving home, we close the door on this mayhem, often finding sonic
security from attack behind double-glazed windows, which may—or may
4 INVASION OF THE SOUND ALIENS 67
I began to appreciate the idea that these spaces in between would not exist
without the interruptions of sound perforating the silence. And I won-
dered if we’d even know where to look for silence without those inter-
ruptions. What I began to discover was that silence and speech were
inextricably tied to one another, and that silence, far from being what we
in the West would define as the “absence of sound”, is also inextricably
tied to our experience of the world.2
public mobility when horse-drawn city traffic was vying with the newly
arrived internal combustion engine for dominance over the aural senses,
was painfully (almost literally) aware of the cacophonous assault on the
mind and drew attention to it in his book, Oxford. Here, he refers to the
noise of London, ‘with its roar of causes that have been won’ (Thomas, 3).
Elsewhere in his writing, London shouts again, when he recalls the city’s
‘roar [that] continued of the inhuman masses of humanity, amidst which
a child’s crying for a toy was an impertinence, a terrible petty interrup-
tion of the violent moving swoon’ (Thomas, 26). There, through a few
words taken from his 1913 work, In Pursuit of Spring, Thomas sums up
from over one hundred years ago, the urban crisis that today continues
unresolved in our lives, and to which we daily employ pragmatic solu-
tions within ourselves. It is the non-human sound initiated by human
agency that makes its vexation to the spirit even more painful.
The idea that by closing a door on the world, we can exclude it is of
course an illusion. The dynamic of life is addictive, and while we may
find our stress levels decrease within the relative calm of a home environ-
ment, it is not long before we voluntarily opt back into the stream of col-
lective consciousness through our media receivers. We long for news; we
may hate it when we hear it, be repulsed, worried, disgusted, frightened,
angered or saddened, but when we do not know how the world is, we
fear for it and ourselves. As we grow older, our immediate surroundings
matter more; the inherent threat of a sound we cannot identify can cause
paranoia as we have seen, and radio, television and other media connect
us to wider concerns, which, because often we can do little about them,
cause us angst and frustration. Yet we need to be informed. Knowledge
may be power, but information may be survival. Thus, in his short poem,
‘To My Little Radio’, while Bertolt Brecht feared the message, he treas-
ured the messenger:
Europe callin’, Pound speakin’. Ezry Pound speakin’. And I think I’m still
speakin’ a bit more TO England than to the United States of America but
you folks may as well hear it. They say an Englishman’s head’s made of
wood and the American head made of watermelon. Easier to git something
INTO the American head, but nigh impossible to make it stick there for
ten minutes. (Doob, 20)
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We can switch the radio or television off at will, and yet sound has
the power to hypnotise us into listening to what we abhor. As early as
November 1939, a BBC survey showed that 50% of UK citizens lis-
tening to foreign stations tuned into William Joyce’s broadcasts from
Hamburg, a figure representing 27% of the population (Street, 191). As
the war progressed, fascination grew in the content of Joyce’s broadcasts,
not least due to the uncanny accuracy of the information he communi-
cated. It was as if at times he was looking over the listeners’ shoulders.
As James Wood has written, ‘information is seldom neutral, especially
that which has a social or political import…Nevertheless for it to receive
an audience, news has at all times to be credible’ (Wood, 23). Radio is
a one-to-one medium, and the one who listens is receptive to either a
plausible new ‘truth’, or to a statement that reinforces their own sense
of themselves. Some aspects of personal identity are acquired voluntarily,
while others creep under our guard subliminally through sources we may
or may not trust, but which have the ability to reach us, left-field wher-
ever we may be. Even the word ‘propaganda’ is open to interpretation,
just as extreme words such as ‘freedom-fighter’ and ‘terrorist’ may be
interchangeable, depending on a point of view, as became clear to media
observers in 1940:
whatever form, we may respond with sound of our own, or fall silent.
There is, it must be said, a defensive propensity within human beings to
auditory prejudice; a voice, a dialect or a foreign accent may alert us to
a supposed risk to ourselves as an individual when none exists. Next to
physical appearance—the colour of skin, age, gender and other visible
attributes—nothing activates the snap judgement in us so much and so
quickly as the sound, timbre, pitch and ethnicity of the voice.
There are members of modern societies for whom the strangeness and
inappropriateness of communications from another media place, cultur-
ally and ethnically puts them spiritually in the situation of a foreigner in
their own land. Given the opportunity of sharing what they possess, even
if it is doubt and fear, and the possibility that their communal voice is at
least being heard, is a step towards the breakdown of walls. The alterna-
tive will be discussed in the next chapter. We have discussed silence as
a positive thing already in this book. We will turn now to its negative
aspect. If sound is communication, what happens when the transmitters
switch off? As Bertolt Brecht wrote, ‘a man who has something to say
and finds no one to listen is in a bad way. Worse off are the listeners who
can find no one with something to say to them’ (Brecht, 38).
Notes
1. This should be qualified with respect to the word ‘fascinating’. Our sur-
vival system is designed to protect us. Thus, we may listen to some noise
that attracts our attention and which we identify as threatening, repellent
or dangerous. Cage’s point nevertheless stands: in order to identify the
sound, our brains must first engage with it and make it specific.
2. Shen, Patrick, written introduction to In Pursuit of Silence, delivered as an
audience handout.
CHAPTER 5
Without words we cannot make the world concrete for either ourselves or
others. We can get lost when we roam too long within the folds of silence.
Our feelings have no means of being charted, our ideas stay stunted and
unclear, our personalities remain confused and inexplicit. Words make the
world coherent…Words battle against the unexplainable, giving all things,
as Shakespeare says in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, ‘a local habitation
and a name.’ (Rodenburg, 12)
Earlier in this book, we explored the positive power of silence and the
presence and importance to the imagination of the absorption of silent
sound in the sonic images of text. There is, however, a crucial difference
between this form of silence, the sought-for silence that brings peace
and tranquillity from which the imagination can soar, and what Salomé
Voegelin calls ‘muteness’:
the very factor that changes the brain’s response to it.1 We may become
so used to its presence that we actually notice when it is not present. It is
sound, but it can have the effect of negating our own internal sound, in
a similar way to tinnitus as it comes between the listener and the world
around them. Two things may happen: we may raise our voices to coun-
ter the sonic intrusion, thus lifting the sound level of the entire environ-
ment in a sort of sonic vicious circle, or we may give up and fall silent.
It is noticeable in some department stores that the gentle murmuring
of music actually quells the desire to communicate verbally, as the store
manifests itself as a presence visibly and invisibly around us.
Rodenburg noted in her work that the physical strength of the speak-
ing voice had diminished (surprising, given the volumes with which it
competes in the modern world). Yet when it comes to assertiveness,
say, within a group of people, this may be so; a dominant voice may be
linked to a dominant personality, and a more reticent inner voice may
lack the outward expression of a louder, although not necessarily more
valid orator. We find ourselves driven into silence, and we become soli-
tary within the prison cage. It is one of the ironies of modern living that
western society has bred a means and a need to ‘sell’ ourselves to others
through social media, to become ‘friends’ with people we have never—
and may never—meet and to create a persona behind which the real self
hides. There is a compulsion to communicate: yet without a physical
voice, we do not have a self that truly does so; increasingly, our situa-
tion denies us the oracy that is so much a part of our human condition.
There is a wealth of comfort, companionship and benign interaction at
the fingertips of regular Facebook users, connections with people from
the past are re-forged, like-minds find one another and new and fruit-
ful partnerships are made. Social media can be a major force for good
and for sharing useful information. At the same time, the silent sound
of text, discussed earlier, can shout unpalatable pseudo-truths and force
opinions on us from these social media and other portals of our increas-
ingly screen-based culture, and we may find ourselves silently shouting
back. The concept of the Facebook or Twitter cyber ‘troll’ is a form of
bullying that has been uniquely facilitated by the global and ubiquitous
use of personal technologies. Staring at a computer, reading an email or
admitting to our morning world the debates and opinions of Twitter and
Facebook, we open the door on the mental cacophony with which the
5 UNCOMFORTABLY NUMB: ALONE IN THE SOUND WORLD 79
world bludgeons us. These silent voices are as much a part of the alien
invasion as those we explored in the previous chapter. When we type our
silent noisy responses, expressing a view or defending a stance, we raise
our own voice, contributing to the illusion of conversation, even as we
sit within the silence of ourselves. We find ourselves reminded of the def-
initions of positive and negative noise discussed in the last chapter, and
the words of Schwarz, Kahn and Cage; this is noise to the brain, just as
much as the sounds we would rather live without as we negotiate the
physical world.
itself, as to the cause, only for this to be revealed seconds later as the
aircraft fly over; it is a powerful moment that grows out of silence, and it
is created by the juxtaposition of two sounds of cause and effect through
vibration: subtlety and brutality.
Mara Mills reminds us that ‘sound waves transfer between media
(air, water, solids) and can be experienced by sensory domains beyond
the ear. Vibrations, visual recordings and speech gestures are all possi-
ble components of an acoustic event’ (Mills, in Novak and Sakakeeny,
52). With all this sound, how could we ever feel alone? In his great
film about the Carthusian monks of the Grand Chartreuse, Into Great
Silence, Philip Gröning explores an inner spiritual silence framed by an
acoustic outer world. This is internal silence sought by choice, and the
idea of taking a vow of silence is not uncommon in various religions.
For the composer Esther Venrooij, this may be analogous to the experi-
ence of moments within music: The creation of an inner silence by lis-
tening to music or our surroundings evokes a dreamlike state of mind,
where one drifts into a mental space, intensifying the other senses…This
silence is about becoming silent as a listener’ (Venrooij in Stephanides
& Kohlmaier, p. 95). It is when there is no choice, when the listener
cannot respond to break their own silence, that inner stillness becomes
most lonely and alienated. As Venrooij adds, ‘we are always looking for
a meaning in what we experience and we are always projecting ourselves
onto our surroundings, even when we see, hear or experience nothing’
(Ibid., 98).
about listening. At the same time, we only fully connect when we under-
stand that we are being heard. The voice of a people, an ethnic group
or a marginalised section of society, when it is unheard, or unlistened-
to, turns in on itself. Not being heard, expressing opinions or demands
that are ignored, creates an inner silence within constituent members of
the group, fuelling resentment and building divisions. Rodenburg has
expressed it well:
Many of us have been taught not to feel easy about expressing our words
and sounds openly. Our society like to control the volume and keep us
vocal hostage; it doesn’t want to hear the thoughts and opinions of cer-
tain groups like children, women and minorities. Too often we only like to
hear the voices of so-called ‘first class citizens’, well-bred and well-toned.
Ironically, it is usually the ‘other’ classes of citizens whose voices still retain
the habits of natural release. (Rodenburg 27)
We will return to the voice in the final chapter of this book; in the
meantime, it is worth emphasising that being silent in the sound world
may refer to the stilling of a sociopolitical group voice as much as to a
single personal voice. The inability to find a means of expression, and
therefore to interact with a broader society, lies at the heart of many
communal and individual ills; community radio, as has been suggested
earlier, is valuable in this respect, in that it can give a voice to those
who were previously only passive—and disenfranchised—listeners. There
are limitations, however, in certain forms of the medium. Broadly, such
local media is divided up into communities of geography and communi-
ties of interest. Sometimes, these communities overlap, and where they
are seen to do so, integration and interaction tend to work reasonably
well. The risk with communities of interest is that the voices do not
penetrate beyond the circle to which they are specifically relevant. Thus,
consolidation will occur within the group, but there is less likelihood of
a wider understanding, because other groups feel excluded. Just as an
individual may feel loneliness in a crowd, so may a social group within
a wider community, and where there is cultural silence, there is a loss
of understanding. This form of silence may be actively used in political
ways to dominate certain areas of society and to instigate circumstances
and climates of non-participation. Maintaining a ‘radio silence’ is a pow-
erful way of building strategies without interference. As Ochoa Gautier
has written:
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I strongly wish that after their invention of radio the bourgeoisie would
make a further invention that enables us to fix for all time what the radio
communicates. Later generations would then have the opportunity to mar-
vel how a certain caste was able to tell the whole planet what it had to say
and at the same time how it enabled the planet to see that it had nothing
to say. (Brecht, 38–9)
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The fact that radio was being misused was one of the motives stated by
Orson Welles for his appropriation of the CBS in 1938 for his War of the
Worlds broadcast, which assaulted the credibility of the new medium, and
in this, the microphone itself became an instrument of liberation. Much
later, in a 1988 article which interrogated Walter Ong’s statement that
‘the typical male voice can articulate words at a far greater volume than
can the typical female voice’ (Ong, 8), Anne McKay examined the role
of the development of electronic amplification as a contributing factor
to the liberation of the female voice in physical and sociopolitical terms,
concluding that ‘it is certain that these devices helped to complete the
transformation of public speech from a formal, combative, argumenta-
tive style to a more pacific, intimate and informal mode, better aligned
with female conditioning’ (McKay in Kramarae, 206). Notwithstanding,
equality of gender—as with other aspects of contested identity—is not
simply a matter of being heard, but of being listened to and recognised:
‘Even with the microphone on the platform, women have had to con-
tinue to struggle for legitimation of their right to speak publicly, par-
ticularly when their topics or roles have been in conflict with men of
influence’ (Ibid).5
The ability to say what one thinks and what one sees breaks through
the fog of muteness, and places the individual immediately within the
debate. The voice of the written word, language in whatever medium it
is expressed, is a force that integrates personal and group identity, and
can express an opinion that was once internal and is now out in the
world, contributing potentially to what happens next. The playwright
Harold Pinter asked the question:
your body when you listen to yourself. There are rumours of combat,
the snores of sleepers, the cries of beasts, the noise of the whole uni-
verse’ (quoted by Iddon in Kohlmaier and Polimekanos, 64). We inhabit,
as Daumal eloquently emphasises, ‘skin full of rumours from the echoes
of subterranean cities’ (Ibid.). Interaction is as much—if not more—
about listening as sounding ourselves to the world around us. It is also
about having the means and opportunity to do both. As we have seen,
the ability to listen selectively through the noise of what we hear is an
acquired skill, and in a society that has trained its citizens to broadcast
themselves at the expense of listening to what the world is telling them,
while suppressing group interaction within certain sections of that soci-
ety, this becomes harder and harder. The noise of the world—to which
we contribute—ironic as it may seem, creates its own sound suppres-
sants, that is to say, a negative silence that dulls and desensitises our
selves, and changes the nature of interaction and therefore personal iden-
tity. We are what we hear, and language is only the conduit for mean-
ing. Michel Serres has written, ‘Before making sense, language makes
noise: you can have the latter without the former, but not the other way
around’ (Serres, 120). The words may have meaning, could we but hear
them, but the sound of a voice, the tone, the pace, the volume of speech
communicates before language articulates it. Yet the problem remains,
of trying to tune into a thousand radio stations at the same time. Each
individual sound may be vital, a crucial plea or a statement, but heard
together, this cacophony of Babel becomes noise, and our listening
capacity shuts down, leaving us alone. And on top of this comes the
non-human noise of the machinery of living. There is so much that miti-
gates against the discovery and preservation of the fragile sound that is
the inner self, and the circumstances in which it may become heard and
acknowledged. The blurring of individual sound into generalised white
noise, in the end has the same effect as that loneliest of all auditory envi-
ronments, the anechoic chamber.
Somewhere within us there may be a still centre, but total stillness
in our relationship to the world is inhuman, and we distrust it. When
the sound stops—even the babble of the sound aliens—the animal
in us grows tense; we listen harder, we seek a sound that breaks in on
the emptiness, a sound that either puts us at our ease, or confirms our
fears. This kind of silence, coming sometimes from within us but often
from outside, beyond our control, is sonic darkness; and as Donald
McWhinnie has written, in the context of radio, ‘during silence, things
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Notes
1. The term ‘muzak’ (in lower case) is often used as generic one to denote
background music. The origins date back to 1910 when American inven-
tor George Squier developed the technical basis for sending music to
groups of people through wires. Later it was found that by customising
pace and style of music to such groups, the productivity of workers could
5 UNCOMFORTABLY NUMB: ALONE IN THE SOUND WORLD 91
Abstract We continue to listen for voices, both within our own silent
sound world, and the incoming messages that place us in Time. These
voices may either develop our concept of who we are, or reinforce our pre-
conceptions. We conclude with a return to the sound absorbed through
the deeper silence of the mind. Sound—like life itself—exists in time; we
catch it as it passes us, and as we do so, it is already fading, moving on
and away from us, becoming memory. That in itself is the very stuff of
poetry, ‘heard’ in the mind, transmitted from the page, or shared from the
mind of another, through a song (one form of externalised expression of a
poem), absorbed into the identity of a generation. The need to be a voice
remains undiminished, and the means to express our personal leitmotif are
greater than ever; we may argue that even apparently ‘unheard’ personal
voices feed into the zeitgeist and energy of an age.
Hearing and Listening
Our self can be an unquiet place, as Michel Serres, seeking silence in the
ancient empty amphitheatre of Epidaurus reminded himself:
No matter how far I travel, poor subject that I am, I never manage to put
any distance between myself and the droning of the language that shaped
me. What merely resonated within my mother’s womb is a clamour in this
stone conch, and finds itself echoed in my innermost ear. The threshold
that I imagined remains impassable, I am made up of the others I claim to
have left behind, even alone they make the same noise in my chest, residu-
ally. (Serres, 93)
The key to our sonic identity is listening and creating the conditions in
which creative and positive listening can exist. Listening is the condition
in which we seek connections that relate to the concept of self. This self
is a different being to the persona we may adopt, which is capable of
being shaped by will and by circumstance. We may adopt different tones
of voice according to where we are, or who we are talking to. A num-
ber of people, asked about how they thought of us, might well come
to different conclusions. The jazz of life plays on, and we adapt our
instrument—the outward expression of how we would like to be per-
ceived—according to the tune that happens to be playing at any given
moment. As we have discussed, many of us live in a world in which cre-
ating an image has become so dominant that we have grown skilled at
assuming a mask, which we place before ourselves on social media and
in other public places. This is not the real self. The voice coach, Noah
Pikes has suggested that it is in the unguarded moments, when our true
voice escapes from the artifice with which we so artfully surround our-
selves that ‘the voices of our souls call out from the shadows and in cer-
tain moments take over from our civilised voices—in crowds, emotional
states, sexual excitement, in neuroses and psychoses, in violent acts,
and sometimes even in sleep, or when awakening, shouting or gasping
from…nightmare’.1 Meantime, our outer self absorbs the world around
us, ‘hears’ voices and sounds as we read, takes in the cadences, dialects,
accents and turns of phrase, and applies to our personal image those
sonic qualities that we feel will make us most acceptable to our chosen
society. We are, therefore, hearing, listening and observing all the time,
and as we do so, we are adjusting our output to fit our audience, just as a
radio station deliberates on a playlist for its chosen demographic.
There is, however, another self that listens beneath this layer, a being
far more subtle and profound, that has to do with the reality of being. It
is by focusing consciously on sound, just as we do when we strive to hear
a distant voice, or identify a meaning, that the ‘deep listening’ Pauline
6 SEARCHING FOR THE SOUND OF SELF 95
Music is the art of the hope for resonance: a sense that does not make
sense except because of its resounding in itself. It calls to itself and recalls
itself, reminding itself and by itself, each time, of the birth of music, that
is to say, the opening of a world of resonance, a world taken away from
the arrangements of objects and subjects, brought back to its own ampli-
tude and making sense or else having its truth only in the affirmation that
modulates this amplitude. (Nancy, 67)
The troubadours and balladeers who spoke their poems in times before
words were written, varied their songs according to the place, the moment
and the mood, while retaining the essence of the story, and although there
is a kind of electricity that runs through poetry, framed in a shape or struc-
ture of thought, it has at its heart a spontaneity of sound that is essen-
tially linguistic, and remains, in T.S. Eliot’s words in The Music of Poetry,
96 S. STREET
‘one person talking to another; and this is true if you sing it, for sing-
ing is another way of talking’ (Eliot 58). We improvise our own day-to-
day melody in partnership with the same accompaniment on a daily basis,
responding to the moment, however radically changed the moment may
be in our current time. It hides a poignant subtext; as the composer David
Toop has said, ‘because sound is constantly vanishing, there is always that
sense of loss: as soon as we make a sound, it is gone, and that connects us
to a greater sense of loss, and of course the greatest loss of all is death’.2
This returns us to our earlier premise, that of the silence within us in
which imaginative temporal sound creates itself, the thought behind the
voice. In the Metamorphoses, Ovid speaks of such a place:
The poet speaks here of Rumour, but we make rumours in the mind
out of the vacuum of stillness. As human beings, we yearn for connection
with the world, and where our surroundings offer us mixed messages,
our inner silence blends with them. Rumour—the imagination—is our
personal radio station:
a distant radio playing, the creaking of the old house around me, and
footsteps coming up the garden path. It all blends into a kind of Musique
concrète that, together with my other senses, proves to me that I am
alive. At any time, I can engage with this physical sonic world by making
my own sound—striking my fist on the table, slamming a door, speak-
ing, shouting, crying, laughing or singing. By doing any of these things,
I am projecting my being onto the ongoing symphony around me and
declaring my right to a presence in it. When I interact with another from
outside my personal sphere (home, family, loved ones), I am claiming
those rights further, while playing a part in the daily opera that began
while I slept—in fact, a production that actually never ceases, night or
day. It is my voice that is the first and most direct force for connection.
As soon as I am asked a question, I am obligated to answer, and that
answer, together with the way it is phrased, coloured by language, tone,
accent, dialect, pitch, volume and timbre go towards creating an impres-
sion of who I am. I can manipulate this instrument to emphasise my self,
but it remains beneath all else, my self. However much a jazz trumpeter
may find various voices in his instrument, it remains a trumpet…but his
trumpet.
At the same time, I am surrounded by visual images, and we may
agree that if we are sighted, then the visual dominates our impression of
what is around us. Visual images obsess us: how we look, what we look
at, who we look at and are attracted to or otherwise, how we form our
prejudices, and our technologies support this. When we hear a sound, we
need to see the source of the sound. Otherwise, it remains a mystery, and
potentially a danger, so here sound is the servant of sight. Yet sight with-
out sound makes us an observer rather than a participant, and it is the
nuances and subtleties of sound, of hearing and listening and respond-
ing emotionally that makes us a player in the drama, and not merely an
audience member. Modern life and developing technologies increasingly
blend the sensory experience, and our organs of receptivity send more
and more complex multimedia messages for the brain to unravel and
from which to make meaning. Taking a Darwinian view, it may be, as
Steven Connor has said, that ‘the energetic impingements and abrasions
of the senses one upon another may yet make the ear, with its acceptance
of plural stimulus, and hearing, with its qualities of openness, complex-
ity and interpenetration, a richer and more responsive metaphor for the
self and its sensory composites and concretions than the self-detaching
eye…’ (Connor, in Smith, 66).
98 S. STREET
Given this possibility, the ear can be a dominant force in ‘reading’ our
environment and will therefore be required to work harder than ever to
absorb this increasingly complicated sound world, while the brain tries
even harder to interpret messages which aurally may or may not con-
tradict what other senses seem to be conveying. At the same time, an
interactive world requires a response from us to all it throws at us, and
this response to a major extent dictates our place in society. Initially, we
only have our voice, whether it be silently expressed through the writ-
ten word, through art or—first and foremost—through the voice. Our
action—or reaction—is crucial; the voice with which we express ourselves
is governed by who we are, and from where we come, and the world
judges us on the perceptions it gains from us through the sound of our-
selves. The most visceral of these instruments is the voice as it is physi-
cally made and heard, and as Amanda Weidman reminds us, ‘voice as a
sonic and material phenomenon is inevitably embedded in social rela-
tions that shape how voices are produced, felt and heard’ (Weidman in
Novak & Sakakeeny, 241). Our voice speaks the thoughts of the mind,
just as the ear sends sound to the mind to read. Our voice/mind as an
instrument is capable of as infinite a range of subtleties in sound, as is the
ear/mind as an interpretive device. It has to be a partnership, and at the
start of it, and out of it all comes a music, our music. The cadence, syn-
tax and tone—and most of all the variants of pitch and timbre mentioned
earlier—play the tune that the world hears, declaring and identifying our
tribe, nationhood, culture, social status and personality.
When we are denied the ability to communicate these things, the per-
ception the world has of us is diminished and we become locked in a
prison where interaction is denied. In 1930, Helen Keller—both blind
and deaf—was able to demonstrate how her vocal liberation was attained
with her teacher, Anne Sullivan. Fortunately, this was recorded on film,
so we have a moving (in every sense) testimony on the power of non-
cochlear listening through vibration, in the actual words of teacher and
pupil. Sullivan had discovered that Keller could feel the vibration of the
spoken word through the placement of her hand on specific parts of
her teacher’s face. Thus, she found that if the thumb was placed on the
throat of the speaker, resting on the larynx, then hard sounds such as
‘G’ were felt. With the first finger on the lips, Helen felt letters such as
‘B’, while with the second finger on the side of the nose, nasal sounds,
‘N’ and ‘M’ were detected. After the seventh lesson, Keller was able to
speak her first sentence, word by word, aloud: ‘I am not dumb now’.3 In
6 SEARCHING FOR THE SOUND OF SELF 99
that one short statement is held the moment in which the inner self con-
nected with the world, a paradigm for the voice as personal expression
and sociopolitical force at one and the same time, breaking its silence.
On the other hand, silence may be chosen as expression in itself. I
remember a conversation with the late Kathleen Raine about the poet,
David Gascoyne. At the time, in the mid-1990s, Gascoyne had written
little for many years, and yet Raine was able to say: ‘I have heard David’s
silence speak more eloquently than all the noise of words going on inces-
santly around him’.4 As Mladen Dolar says of silence, ‘in its proper sense
it is the other of speech, not just of sound, it is inscribed inside the reg-
ister of speech where it delineates a certain stance, an attitude—even
more, an act’ (Dolar, 152). We can choose to remain silent, and that
silence can in itself be a statement. A theatre or film director, or a radio
producer, is very aware of the power of silence as a positive thing; used
in juxtaposition with loud noise it can be indeed a dynamic force. The
music of silence and the relationship between forte and sotto voce work
alongside elements of pitch and pace, and take us to the euphony of
sound that can touch the emotions before it even reaches the cognitive
parts of the brain. No wonder playwrights understand so well the value
of the dramatic pause.
When a song or a melody is made—a song in the sense than society
understands the word—it is a voice dramatised by emphasising qualities
that already exist in spoken speech. Poetic expression—a music in itself—
comes naturally when we are impassioned. Peter Levi has expressed
it well: ‘Poetry is language heightened by insistent sounds or repeated
rhythms…Once you use language consciously and intently you cannot
escape the special demands that are inbuilt into poetry’ (Levi, p. 30). In
doing so, we are tapping into a legacy of speech and language that shows
itself in popular culture and the folk tradition; the ballad form, which
sits equally as a poem and as a song, is evidence of this, and our identity
grows and develops, while remaining rooted in a group past. ‘Language
is inherited, and so these demands and these laws have always pre-existed
in the language of some older generation: in the roots of the particular
language we speak (ibid.). Hear a folk song sung, and something deep
within us stirs, linking our voice and ear to a source we find hard to iden-
tify, precisely because it is so intimately tied into our personal identity.
We may have begun expressing our tribal identity by beating on a drum,
and then we perhaps began to chant, implementing pitch and volume to
identify self. The poem became the song. There is something deep and
100 S. STREET
We have every reason to believe that man possessed these [musical] facul-
ties at a very remote period, for singing and music are extremely ancient
arts. Poetry, which may be considered as the offspring of song, is likewise
so ancient that many persons have felt astonishment that it should have
arisen during the earliest ages of which we have any record. (Darwin, 334)
The impassioned orator, bard, or musician, when with his varied tones and
cadences he excites the strongest emotions in his hearers, little suspects
that he uses the same means by which, at an extremely remote period, his
half-human ancestors aroused each other’s ardent passions, during their
mutual courtship and rivalry. (Ibid. 337)6
Resonating Chambers
Yet if our own sound is so much a part of us, what is it that shapes it
at the most primal level? Alien sound invasion may not feel welcome,
but intrusions into our sound world are a part of us too; we are given
not always what we want but what we need, and as Brandon LaBelle has
written, ‘a voice that interrupts, a figure that cuts in, a body whose force-
ful antagonism may certainly disturb…may unwittingly fulfill our desires
for cultural diversity’ (LaBelle in Stephanides and Kohlmaier, p. 90). The
relationship between our ears and our mind is the ultimate democracy,
and while the latter may ultimately make judgements based on the evi-
dence it receives, the former draws no conclusions:
Listening as opposed to hearing opens choice for those who are able
to make it; we may choose to listen, and when we do so, we begin to
make judgements, based on the root of all sound, which is timbre. From
this, we return to our sonic likes and dislikes, voices that appeal or repel,
and sounds that engender joy or pain, sometimes in their most extreme
forms through such conditions as misophonia. Some composers have
given their works written ‘programmes’, commentaries on the meanings
intended behind the music. More often than not, these guidelines are
unsatisfactory, because the listener to a symphony engages best with the
abstract nature of the sound, rather than with a prescribed ‘storyline’.
This book began with a question—or rather a number of ques-
tions—at its source, which together might be summed up as a curios-
ity to understand if there exists within sentient beings a sympathetic
sound response system that possesses its own personal identifying ‘call
sign’, specific to each and everyone, just as every snowflake has its unique
molecular structure. Shape would seem to be the clue; in his preface to
the book-length poem The Anathemata, David Jones wrote by way of
explanation that ‘one is trying to make a shape out of the very things
of which one is oneself made’ (Jones,10). Yet such a statement is not
104 S. STREET
We start out life being 99 percent water, as foetuses. When we are born,
we are 90 percent water, and by the time we reach adulthood we are down
to 70 percent. If we die of old age, we will probably be about 50 per-
cent water. In other words, throughout our lives we exist mostly as water.
(Emoto, xv)
others, the BBC radio producer Val Gielgud, with Holt Marvell in their
crime novel, Death at Broadcasting House. Recording technology seem-
ingly crossed the last frontier and enabled the self to speak as it always
had:
For a few seconds there was only the hiss of the running of the steel tape.
Then a whining cockney voice, vibrant with passion, echoed weirdly
through the darkened room. Almost furtively Caird looked around at the
faces. Which of them, he wondered, shared his own feeling of horror –
almost of incredulity – as they listened to this voice of a dead man; a man
whom most of them had seen alive and well a little over twenty-four hours
ago; and whose corpse now lay on a mortuary slab under police guard?
(Gielgud & Marvell, 44)
The sound of the self, and the voice, the ultimate interactive instrument
linking the individual and the rest of society, is a product of what we
are, and most of that is invisible, shaped as it is by thought, experience
and memory. As Nancy says: ‘Resonance is at once that of a body that
is sonorous for itself and resonance of sonority in a listening body that,
itself resounds as it listens’ (Nancy, 40). Our own personal sound con-
nects us by a transparent thread to the world; the poet and classicist
Anne Carson reminds us of how intimate that communication is: ‘Every
sound we make is a bit of autobiography. It has a totally private inte-
rior yet its trajectory is public. A piece of inside projected to the outside’
(Carson, 130). Roland Barthes famously wrote of the ‘grain’ of voice,
rooted in what and where we have come from, ‘the materiality of the
body speaking its mother tongue; perhaps the letter…’ (Barthes, 182)
and more specifically ‘the body in the voice as it sings, the hand as it
writes, the limb as it performs’ (Ibid., 188).
We may take this further and allow ourselves the idea that the we
may perhaps leave a print of ourselves on the very objects that carry the
signals to which we listen. The American author and academic, David
Suisman, invoking questions raised by Eric Rothenbuhler and John
Durham Peters, in their article entitled ‘Defining Phonography: An
Experiment in Theory’,10 has pointed out that ‘a vinyl LP record that
has been played a hundred times sounds different—with its pop, clicks,
and surface noise—than one whose historical journey has been shorter
or less momentous. The stylus is like a plough in the furrows of the past,
churning up sounds long since buried. Each time the needle is set in
6 SEARCHING FOR THE SOUND OF SELF 107
‘Daventry Calling’
Yet beneath this sophistication, there lies something more primal as we
have seen. It has been noted that there is the potential for a particular
voice to dominate a power struggle through force of personality, confi-
dence and conviction conveyed through vocal dynamics, be that culture
108 S. STREET
shapes the sound of the tribe. Egon Friedell, writing at the start of
a decade that would take sectarianism and racism to its most violent
conclusion in history, wrote: ‘there are national gods, national iden-
tities…This is the real dividing line between peoples and not race or
custom,…not politics or social structure…The god is everywhere
another god’ (Friedell, 230). We may extend Friedell’s idea to the god
in each individual, that listens, responds and speaks silently. The ‘god’
of which he speaks is the self, and in this sense, it is an idea echoed by
Joseph Campbell, who wrote of inner and out sets of ‘rules and gods,’
with a conflict between society’s governing principles that are ‘always
“out there”‘ and ‘the sense of the inward-turned meditation. There is
where the god is that is dictating to you’ (‘Creativity’ in Campbell,
152). Here is the voice at the root of things, and it speaks to us and
through us at the same time, dictating the words that express itself.
Michel de Certeau said ‘the voice makes people write’ (de Certeau,
161), but it also makes us sing, speak, think, create, interact and cru-
cially listen. We are the kin of that solitary Hawaiian bird, calling out
in the hope of an answer, sending out our call sign, awaiting recogni-
tion, a response from somewhere, as Alfred Noyse sent out his words
from the Daventry transmitter on Borough Hill, Northamptonshire in
1925:
Like the bird, our sounds, whether they be words or not, can have the
capacity to express something beyond their meaning within their very
euphony, as T.S. Eliot said:
The feeling for syllable and rhythm, penetrating far below the conscious
levels of thought and feeling, invigorating every word; sinking to the most
primitive and forgotten, returning to the origin and bringing something
back, seeking the beginning and the end. (Eliot, 118–119)
We each have our own call sign, station identification signal; we pos-
sess at our centre, a propensity for sound, and the instinct to share it.
Every voice, every individual behind every voice is unique, and there is
an unbroken thread that links each sonic identity from its first awareness
of sound—to the memory of the womb—through to the man or woman
who stands marginalised or neglected or unheard and tells the world:
110 S. STREET
Notes
1. Pikes, Noah, ‘Giving Voice to Hell’ in Spring 55: A Journal of Archetype
and Culture. Putnam, Connecticut, 1994.
2. Toop, David, interviewed in The Sound of Fear, BBC Radio 4, 19 October
2011. http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b015zpf5 Accessed
31.12.2016.
3. Sullivan, Anne and Keller, Helen: demonstration filmed in 1930. https://
www.youtube.com/watch?v=GzlriQv16gg. Accessed 13.1.2017.
4. Raine, Kathleen, in conversation with the author, September 1994.
5. In early 2017, the US company, Canary Speech, demonstrated the devel-
opment of software in this area. See BBC News report: Can Your Voice
Reveal Whether You Have an Illness? http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/busi-
ness-38637257, (accessed 17/1/2017).
6. Linguistics and the detailed study of the evolution of language are outside
the remit of this short book. The work of Noam Chomsky among others
has examined this area at length, and I would refer the interested reader
to such writings. Theories include such as ‘some time ago there were
primates with pretty much our sensorimotor and conceptual-intentional
systems, but no language faculty, and some natural event took place that
brought about a mutation that installed a language faculty’ (Chomsky,
62). It is an area of uncertainty and often heated debate. See also Tom
Wolfe’s attack on Darwin and in particular Chomsky. (Wolfe, 86–107).
7. Shakespeare, William: The Merchant of Venice, Act 3, Scene 3.
8. See Preston, Jon: Voice in Radio (Unpublished PhD thesis) London:
Goldsmiths, University of London, 2017.
9. Abse, Dannie, from an interview in The Observer, 3 June 1990, p. 61.
10. Rothenbuhler, Eric W. and Durham Peters, John: ‘Defining
Phonography: An Experiment in theory’, in Musical Quarterly 81,
(1997), pp. 242–264.
11. Bataille, Georges. ‘Mouth’ from Critical Dictionary and Related Texts,
originally appearing in Documents, 1929–1930, ed. George Bataille, as
included in Encyclopaedia Acephalica, ed. Alaister Brotchie (London:
Atlas Press, 1995), 62–64, and quoted here in Kahn, 348.
12. Pikes.
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A C
Abba, 45 Cage, John
Alzheimer’s, 100 4’33”, 31, 95
Anderson, Laurie, 9 Chomsky, Noam, 71, 87
Churchill, Winston, 53
Coppola, Francis Ford
B Apocalypse Now, 8, 29
Bachelard, Gaston
Air and Dreams, 17
The Poetics of Space, viii D
Baldwin, Stanley, 6 Daily Telegraph, 45
Barbican Arts Centre, 73 Darwin, Charles, 100, 101
BBC Daventry Transmitter, 109
features department, 9, 102 De la Mare, Walter, 13
Northern region, 86 Descartes, Rene, 38
Beatles, The, 39, 45 Doer, Anthony
Benjamin, Walter, 72 All the Light We Cannot See, 25
Berlyne, Daniel, 43 Dreyer, Carl
Black, Colin, 41 The Passion of Joan of Arc, 29
Brecht, Bertolt, 68, 74, 87
Bridson, D.G., 86, 87
Burrows, Arthur, 6 E
Edison, Thomas, 24, 105
Emoto, Masaru, 104, 105
F Isserlis, Steven, 40
Facebook, 78 ITMA, 51
Freud, Sigmund, 59, 81
Friz, Anna
The Clandestine Transmissions of J
Pirate Jenny, 80 Jones, David
The Anathemata, 103
Jonson, Ben
G One Man in his Humour, 76
Gascoyne, David, 99 Joyce, William (‘Lord Haw-Haw’), 69
Gielgud, Val
Death at Broadcasting House, 106
Godwin, Fay K
Land, 81 Keats, John
Goebbels, Joseph, 69, 70 ‘To Autumn’, 26
Griessing, Otto, 69 ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’, 20
Keller, Helen, 98, 102
Kubrick, Stanley
H 2001, A Space Odyssey, 7
Handphone Table, The (Laurie
Anderson), 83
Harding, E.A. (‘Archie’), 9, 102 L
Hardy, Thomas Lynn, Vera, 45
The Autobiography of Thomas Hardy,
6
The Return of the Native, 22 M
‘Silences’ (Poem), 13 MacColl, Ewan, 87
Hawaiian Kaua’i Bird (Moho brac- Marconi-Stille (Blattnerphone) record-
catus), 90 ing, 105
Hazlitt, William Marley, Bob, 45
The Letter-Bell McCormick, Neil, 45
Hitler, Adolf, 48, 69 Melrose Abbey, 18, 19
Holst, Gustav Mitchell, Denis, 87
Egdon Heath, 22, 23 Mix-tapes, 45
Hopkins, Gerard Manley Murch, Walter, 8, 29
‘The Habit of Perfection’, 35 Music While you Work, 50, 51
Hull, John M., 40, 58 Muzak, 77
I N
Idem-identity, 44, 45 Nazi radio broadcasts, 48, 69
Ipse-identity, 44 Non-Cochlear listening, 12, 14, 98
Index 121
Wells, H.G.
The Shape of Things to Come, 86
The War of the Worlds (Book), 14, 79
Williams, William Carlos, viii, ix
Wolfson, Alfred, 4, 5
Wordsworth, William, 5, 63
Wundt, Wilhelm
‘U-Shaped Curve’, 43
‘Wundt Curve’, 43