January 28, 2008
Greetings from the sound booth,
I love to listen to music, and I like variety, but lately I
have had less tolerance for what is on the radio. I still have my favorites from classic rock
and roll, but I find myself straining to hear something fresh and original,
something with character.
That’s why I was paying attention when I heard just a slice
of a song from a group named ‘Grizzly Bear’.
It was a strange mix of sounds; muted banjo, piano, and subdued
percussion, and behind it, ghostly vocals.
The sound was old and subtle, mixed with a techno edge.
The feel of the music was different, and when I heard the
group interviewed I found out why. The
album, called “Yellow House” was recorded in an old house. The band incorporated what they found there;
pots and pans, cupboard doors, an old out of tune piano, a rocking chair. The sound of the music held the character
from the house where they lived, not a sound proof, controlled studio. The music did more than include the acoustics
of the house; it absorbed the feel of the house.
I know little about making music, even less about recording,
but I recognize the feeling from the music.
I have been thinking about it all this week as I listened to the sounds
of my own house.
In winter the wind can roar across the fields next to us and
even with the line of trees near our house makes a howl around the windows,
down the chimney. There is the hum of
the refrigerator, mindlessly cycling up and down to keep the milk cool. The snick of dog nails on the wood floor, a
clink of his collar bling. The furnace
whispers warm reassurance.
Water running in the shower upstairs, playing the pipes in
the walls, rattling as the water is slammed off, tick tick ticking as the pipes
cool. The clock in the hall chimes, just
a tad too slow because it needed winding a few days ago. The phone rings.
Sound levels go up and down with the population level. My children make enough noise on their own, but
matched with their friends the racket goes up exponentially. Laughter, arguing, cheering, and the rumble
of stampeding feet.
I can tell which son is coming down the stairs by the
cadence of footfalls as they descend. I
can hear when four teenagers converge on the bathroom at the same time, even
when I can’t make out the words they are using.
When you open the silverware drawer, it slips in the track
just a bit and rattles the forks and spoons, a jangle and clunk. The tea kettle whistles. The back door moans a little when
opened. The floors squeak. The phone
rings. The storm door rattles when it closes.
Someone is coming home; there is the vibration from the garage door
opener. There is a Velcro kind of
schrrccch when you open the front door.
It makes the dog bark.
Homework being done.
Rummaging in unlikely drawers for scissors, paper, pencils. The stereos pump out music, for better
concentration. The phone rings. The electric pencil sharpener grinds off
what’s not needed, sounding angry for being disturbed.
Toilets flushing, lunch bags being crushed into backpacks,
Cheerios raining into glass bowls, clothes hampers being dragged down the
stairs, thumping resentment at each step.
The phone rings. Talking,
arguing, yelling, laughing, joking, asking, reminding, scolding, disagreeing,
apologizing, praying. And pleading: will
someone get that phone!
The kids make their own music. Practice, practice, practice. Trumpet, guitar, piano, cello, bass. They sing.
There is kitchen dancing, music bumping from the Bose, shuffling on the
wood floors while the clean plates get put away, clinking glasses and cups in
time.
In this quiet time this morning there is only the click of
the keyboard, the huff of the coffee pot, impatiently reminding me to have
another cup. And this other music; it
isn’t a sound, but it is. I can hear my
family here, sleeping, growing, dreaming.
Just as the music from “Yellow House” took on the sounds of
the house it was recorded in, I am etched with the sounds of my home. I sound different because of the noises made
here. I sound richer, more
complete. What better music is there?
Hope this finds you listening,
David
Copyright © 2008 David Smith
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