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Fifteen Questions with Ezekiel Honig

https://15questions.net/interview/ezekiel-honig-shares-his-creative-process/page-1/

Ezekiel Honig Shares his Creative Process

There is no egg and chicken paradox for Ezekiel Honig – idea and execution can not be separated, the process feeding itself. In his world of explorative slow motion beats and textural harmonies, creativity is always discovery, “because we should be making something that didn’t already exist.”

Part 1

Name: Ezekiel Honig
Occupation: Sound artist, visual artist
Nationality: American
Current release: Ezekiel Honig’s new live album Broken Time Can Go In Many Directions is out via 12k. Conceptually, it is closely tied to studio predecessor Unmapping The Distance Keeps Getting Closer, also available from 12k. On the topic of sound, we also recommend his new book (avialbale through bandcamp) Bumping Into a Chair While Humming: Sounds of the Everyday, Listening, and the Potential of the Personal.

Where does the impulse to create something come from for you? What role do often-quoted sources of inspiration like dreams, other forms of art, personal relationships, politics etc play?

I can’t say exactly where the impulse comes from, but simply put, I make music because it makes me feel whole.

I love sound and playing with it. I love the process and solving creative problems. I love finding a way towards something that could go in infinite directions and making choices along the way.

I want to share it with others, but I need the fulfillment that the making offers. For me it is a type of meditation – recording and editing sounds, arranging, organizing sound, mixing and refining the sound. Mixing can be seen as more technical, but is part and parcel of the creative process, and I think is highlighted even more so if you’re making “electronic” music.

In terms of inspiration, it can be anything that triggers an idea, or at least an idea of an idea – a moment walking down the street, certain spaces, art, music, film, thoughts that come up when you’re not paying attention or in a twilight state. That’s the mystery of it all.

Music can certainly inspire. Even music I don’t like can spark something because it is still sound. There’s a lot in there, regardless of whether the complete package resonates for me.

Visual art in particular makes me want to work on sound. I think that’s a large part of why I started making paintings and collage, as a means of at least attempting to translate sound in a visual way, although that is such an abstract process and not a 1:1 relationship.

Looking at certain types of images makes me excited about music, and sometimes I need to make images to get me excited about making music. It’s different paths, but is very connected.

For you to get started, do there need to be concrete ideas – or what some have called a ‘visualisation’ of the finished work? What does the balance between planning and chance look like for you?

I never have a clear idea of what a “finished” song will be.

It’s always a process of discovery, but usually based on a starting point of a concept, an idea, a single sound. It can be like a blueprint of sorts, but a very undefined one, perhaps a phrase that allows me to start somewhere and see what happens, and how that phrase is ultimately defined by the sounds and the process itself.

For example, I might start with something like, “I want to make a track that has a somber horn melody, with a shuffly, syncopated rhythm.” (This shard of an idea was the impetus for “Broken Marching Band,” a track from 2008 … and probably some others.)

Another example, “Taking It Apart”, from the Unmapping The Distance Keeps Getting Closer album, began with outdoor sounds, pianos, object block percussion. Those words can mean any number of things in terms of where a track goes, but it helps to begin somewhere, some sort of guide.

I use the word discovery because I know what I want to hear when I hear it, but it’s difficult to overtly define it beforehand, or how to get there. Clearly I gravitate towards certain sounds, textures, moods, but there is a lot of variation within those personal, creative leanings, and there’s always new angles to it.

If it was a rote straight-forward process it wouldn’t be as interesting for me. Creativity is inherently discovery because we should be making something that didn’t already exist.

Is there a preparation phase for your process? Do you require your tools to be laid out in a particular way, for example, do you need to do ‘research’ or create ‘early versions’?

I find that a big part of how I work is having time to think through what I want to make, and spending some time “doing nothing”.

I always need to remind myself that allowing this period of considering ideas, letting inspiration happen, listening – not having hands on the computer, or recording sounds – is part of the process, an important part of the process. It isn’t for a set duration of time, but simply a means of letting things develop in my head, doing the work before the work.

Do you have certain rituals to get you into the right mindset for creating? What role do certain foods or stimulants like coffee, lighting, scents, exercise or reading poetry play?

I don’t really have a ritual. It comes down to feeling inspired about a particular idea, and having the time to work on it, or approximating some form of discipline where I tell myself that I will just play with sounds, phrases and see where it leads.

Often I find the “doing” creates the inspiration. By working through ideas and finding new ones I can happen on something that I wasn’t expecting or trying to do, and those are the types of moments I want to engineer, or instigate more often.

Many writers have claimed that as soon as they enter into the process, certain aspects of the narrative are out of their hands. Do you like to keep strict control or is there a sense of following things where they lead you?

I definitely feel in control, but by means of being flexible and following where the sounds lead me. I think it’s important (at least for me) to remain open to what the track wants to be, while acknowledging that I am the one who decides that. It’s crucial to let inspiration and change take hold when they are there.

For example, if you’re working on something and think it’s going in a certain direction, and then you accidentally hit a different note, or hear something new in a sound that you hadn’t heard before, do you ignore it because it’s not where you thought things were going?

I hope that you follow that path and see where it goes, because happy accidents are valuable.

There are many descriptions of the creative state. How would you describe it for you personally? Is there an element of spirituality to what you do?

I definitely think of studio time, and to an extent, performance time as well, as a form of active meditation. It creates a state where my mind is calm through focus. The focus is moving – trying to solve creative problems, figuring out what a piece of music or art is, how it will form itself – but it is still a focus that distracts the mind from everything else for that moment.

In some ways, creating envelops completely, even while experiences and influences affect what one is doing. Ideally it is both things – utilizing the totality of one’s being, considering all of the things that affect you, while allowing for the scaling down of that totality to this one moment and this one thing that you’re working on – this piece of sound or painting or video, etc.

Once a piece is finished, how important is it for you to let it lie and evaluate it later on? How much improvement and refinement do you personally allow until you’re satisfied with a piece? What does this process look like in practice?

Changing perspective and letting things sit is an important part of the process for me, and I recommend it for everyone. I’ve written before about stepping away (even for ten minutes, but usually for days) to listen with a different set of ears, different experiences, different ways of listening. This is also bound up with the concept of finishing, which is its own conundrum.

I step away, come back to it, repeat, repeat, repeat. Similar to developing a piece, I don’t know exactly what I want to hear, but I know it when I hear it. I think figuring out what finishing is, for you, is a muscle that needs to be developed – one’s idea of what finishing sounds like (or looks like, or feels like).

It gets easier with time and practice, but ultimately is very personal, because it relates to your relationship with your art, when you’re willing to walk away from it and say that it’s “done”, and what you want to communicate into the world. (Light plug for my book, Bumping Into a Chair While Humming: Sounds of the Everyday, Listening, and the Potential of the Personal where I wrote about this ; )

I like to think of the larger work as a consistently moving thing, which any individual track is part of, which then allows less pressure on an individual song, because it’s part of that larger work. It’s about the whole, as it becomes more whole.

How do you think the meaning, or effect of an individual piece is enhanced, clarified or possibly contrasted by the EPs, or albums it is part of? Does each piece, for example, need to be consistent with the larger whole?

It’s definitely a balance. When I’m at the point that things are starting to congeal into something that could be an EP or album, I’m scrutinizing the sequence of tracks and what might be missing from the overall story.

Sometimes a track might feel like it has less weight on its own, but adds something to the overall work because of how it affects the pieces around it. It’s not about consistency as much as how one track progresses into another. Sometimes a track might be a means of getting from A to B, which is totally okay because what matters is how all of it fits together and how that complete thing feels.

To build an emotional arc requires lots of moments, and not every moment can be, or is meant to be, a star or a highlight. Similar to a film or book, each moment should be there for a reason, but if all of it had the same qualities, played the same role in the overall work, or felt too similar, it would be boring and not have enough ebb and flow, or development.

Part 2

What’s your take on the role and importance of production, including mixing and mastering for you personally? In terms of what they contribute to a song, what is the balance between the composition and the arrangement (performance)?

For me, mixing is part and parcel of the process. Even if the sounds begin outside of the computer, I am composing/arranging/writing inside the computer, so there is light mixing along the way, regardless, just to make things sound “good enough” while working on them, and determining how sounds can fit together.

For music that is so rooted in sound as a concept, not tied to any specific instruments, there is inherently a need to pay attention to how sounds are mixed together, as part of the composition process, not a separate stage after writing/composing. What frequency range sound A occupies and how sound B is compressed affect the whole track and whether those sounds work together, so I have a difficult time separating that from the rest of it.

If I wrote a piece for piano (in a traditional sense, with musical notation), the writing/composing, playing/recording, and mixing would be separate stages, but that isn’t what I’m doing. I work by ear and instinct and happen to use technology in the process.

Mastering is super-important as well, which I do see as a separate stage in the process, because it literally is. I prefer someone other than myself to do the mastering, the final touch on the whole, that different perspective that can step back and consider the complete work in a different way.

Music and the accompanying artwork are often closely related. Can you talk about this a little bit for your current project and the relationship that images and sounds have for you in general?

The union of image and sound is crucial for me. In terms of art for a release, the process changes based on the situation and whether I’m making the art/design or someone else is, but it’s always important.

For the album on 12k, Marcus Fischer made the art, and it was easy for me to trust him with it because I’ve known him for years and love his work across mediums. I thought it would be interesting to send him a painting I made on paper, for this purpose, with the intention that he could tear it up and use however he saw fit (or not use at all) for the collage he made for the cover.

He did use it, but made something completely new that only has shards of what I sent him, which was the idea. He then reworked that image for the live release, Broken Time Can Go In Many Directions, because there is a sonic connection between them, while still being completely different and separate.

I did something similar with the cover art for Falling Close to Memory, an album I released on Anticipate in 2021.

It includes vocals by Trevor De Nógla, and he also makes visual art, so I thought it would be interesting to collaborate on the cover together. He sent me a bunch of work that I could use as part of the art, whatever direction that took.

I took one piece on paper and cut it up into shapes and played with different arrangements, using the chance operation of dropping them on the canvas, on top of a more solid piece of paper and paint. Once I saw something I wanted to keep, I glued them and used encaustic over the top to give it more of a textured feel. That’s the cover art for the record, but also, I have the physical thing still, simply as art.

Other times I’ve tried to make versions of covers for a music release by creating a painting, as an object to accompany a digital release, to concretize it somehow. This is all to say that the connection of sound and visual is important to me conceptually, even if someone only sees a thumbnail of it, or not at all.

The process matters.

After finishing a piece or album and releasing something into the world, there can be a sense of emptiness. Can you relate to this – and how do you return to the state of creativity after experiencing it?

I wouldn’t say I feel emptiness, but it’s definitely an interesting time. There is both a sense that it’s okay to take a moment and step back and not immediately jump into working on something new, and a sense of “let’s start working on something new immediately”.

I take time to reflect and think about what I might want to work on next, look at notes that I’ve written over the years about songs or albums I want to make. I try to initiate inspiration in a way that doesn’t involve time constraints or pressure to get something done. I try.

I often think about how it might feel daunting to consider a larger piece of work (like an album, or something more) but you get there incrementally. You work on one thing, and then another, and it starts to aggregate and congeal into something. It changes and develops. Especially after finishing something, it helps me to think smaller, more one foot in front of the other, which also leaves a lot of space for playing and experimenting.

Often, the best inspiration for me, especially in the in-between state, is simply recording sounds – outside while walking around or inside messing around with objects. It is unplanned, open, playful, and unpredictable. This usually yields inspiration.

I would love to know a little about the feedback you’ve received from listeners or critics about what they thought some of your songs are about or the impact it had on them – have there been “misunderstandings” or did you perhaps even gain new “insights?”

I always think it’s interesting to hear someone else’s perspective because they can be so varied. Some ideas resonate more for me than others, but that is how it should be, and I never think anyone is incorrect, because I don’t intend for someone to listen in one specific, regimented way.

I love that music is such a personal experience. It’s a personal experience for me to make it and a personal experience for anyone who listens. I would never tell someone how they should perceive something, so there is no wrong way to do it. I’m just happy when people pay attention, actually listen, and if they are affected in some way, that’s great.

I have heard people say they like listening in the background while making dinner or that it touched their lives in some specific way while they were going through something, and a lot in between. It’s all meaningful and valid, and appreciated.

Generally, I think when people listen carefully, they are better for it. I’m not talking about my work; I mean anything. It makes the world a better place if more people are improving their personal experience of that world in a healthy way. I think that is our best chance, if more individuals are better versions of themselves.

Listening carefully, to music, to the world, to other people, is one way to get there.

Fifteen Questions with MM Works

https://15questions.net/interview/mm-works-about-directions-jazz/page-1/

Name: MM WORKS
Members: Mads Lassen, Mathias Lystbaek
Interviewee: Mathias Lystbaek
Nationality: Danish
Occupation: Drummer, composer, improviser (Mads Lassen), multi-instrumentalist, composer, improviser (Mathias Lystbaek)
Current release: MM WORKS’s new album Park is out via 12k.
Recommendations for their current hometown of Copenhagen: Always visit the Louisiana Museum of Modern Art, and then hurry back to Copenhagen to catch a concert at Alice CPH or Koncertkirken. The programs are so broad, well curated, and keep getting better …

If you enjoyed this MM WORKS interview and would like to know more about the duo and their music, visit them on Instagram, and bandcamp.

What were some of the musical experiences which planted a seed for your interest in jazz?

To begin with, I was fascinated with midcentury American jazz. It was not just the music, but also the coolness and history surrounding it. Miles Davis’s Second Quintet, and Thelonious Monk come to mind. On the free jazz side of things I listened a lot to Eric Dolphy, Ornette Coleman.

Around 2010 I heard the Danish guitarist Jakob Bro and a trilogy of records he recorded with various American musicians. Those records made a big impact on my perception of and approach to not just jazz, but to music in general.

The openness and carefulness in the music, and the way virtuosity steps back and makes space for patience and attentiveness made a big impact on both me and Mads. I think MM Works is shaped a lot by that approach.

What does the term jazz mean today, would you say?

To me jazz today is a melting pot, a more and more multifaceted way of musical expression – an increasingly complex size, just like society in general. As it always has been, you could say. It’s a medium for immediate responses to life and culture.

The coolness factor is also still there I’d say. It’s a genre with space for many different directions.

As with everything else, its increasingly commercialized, but I think a lot of really great music is still presented both live, digitally and on pressed mediums.

As of today, what kind of materials, ideas, and technologies are particularly stimulating for you?

I’m not too concerned with technological innovations, if anything I’m probably going backwards a little, trying to strip down the amount of equipment being used.

I had the pleasure of handling the recording and mix of Park, and it was recorded with a very simple setup – one mic for flute and guitars, and three cheap mics on the drums. Trying not to be tempted too much by plugins and post processing allows for focusing more on the creation of the music itself.

In MM Works we find setting those limitations to be very stimulating for the creative process, and we often set up certain dogmas to help us build a concept for the albums.

Where do most of your inspirations to create come from – rather from internal impulses or external ones? Which current social / political / ecological or other developments make you feel like you need to respond as an artist?

With MM Works it’s very much about internal responses as a group. We feed off each other in the moment when we play.

Sometimes I’ll bring an idea or loop, but we try to keep a balance and I keep the ideas simple, leaving room for the unexpected, so we can capture the heat of the moment and let the interplay come through as much as possible.

Music has become a lot more global, and incorporating elements from other parts of the world or the musical spectrum is commonplace. Do you still think there are city scenes with a distinct, unique sound? How does your local scene influence your work?

Even though our music has a live feel, we actually don’t really play concerts. So I’m not sure you can say that we’re part of the local scene.

That said, I think a lot is happening in Copenhagen in regards to both jazz and experimental music genres. Copenhagen still has one of the greatest Jazz Festivals, but I’m not sure if I see a distinct sound. Maybe such sound is more territorial – like the ‘nordic tone’, ‘Japanese aesthetics’ etc.

What role do electronic tools and instruments play for your creative process?

We try to limit that. We only use acoustic drums, and while making records we sometimes sample a sizzle cymbal to place here and there.

On Park I incorporated an occasional sine synth bass, but other than that I try to record guitars and flute as direct as possible with very limited post effect processing.

Most effects come from my guitar pedals. This is one of the dogmas I touched upon in a previous question.

Thanks to technological advances, collaboration has become a lot easier. What have been some of the most fruitful collaborations for you recently and what approaches to and modes of collaboration currently seem best to you?

In MM Works we have yet to collaborate with other musicians extensively, but personally I have collaborated with quite a few other musicians and visual artist. It’s crazy how easy it is to meet skilled people all over the world thanks to social media.

But the core idea of MM Works is the dynamic we get when playing together, and that is hard to get online.

Jazz has always had an interesting relationship between honouring its roots and exploring the unknown. What does the balance between these two poles look like in your music?

I don’t think we honor any roots specifically, but due to musical heritage those honors are paid subconsciously I think. Your musical luggage is always with you, but we don’t strive towards any traditions per se.

As our music is generally so improvised, its hard to pinpoint any specific traditions, but I feel a track like ‘Cry’ has a clear nod to the more restrained and texture-based way of playing of aforementioned Jakob Bro.

How much potential for something “new” is there still in jazz? What could this “new” look like?

I feel like a lot of more traditional jazz is still based around the concept of written melodies and composed arrangements, and then you solo from there … I think there’s still room for expanding the abstraction a bit to make the freer form more normal than just ‘weird’.

Being weird for the sake of being weird is ok, but it doesn’t move the needle very much – I believe that there’s a middle ground. I’m not paraphrasing, but Igor Stravinsky argues something along the lines of that you can please some critics by making something different just by being weird, but that the genre and quality of music comes from eventually systemizing and humanizing that weirdness and experimentation. I think I agree with that.

For many artists, life-changing musical experiences take place live. How do you see that yourself?

As MM Works doesn’t really perform live, I will answer this as a listener.

The list for specific concerts is too long, but both me and Mads attend a lot of very different concerts and have always done that. As kids and teenagers we experienced many of the same concerts together so we do definitely share memories about musical experiences that sort of shaped us both to where we went, and also to where we are now as a group.

I think that’s also a big reason we know each other so well musically today, and we immediately understand where the other one is going with an idea.

Are there approaches, artists, festivals, labels, spaces or anyone/-thing else out there who you feel deserve a shout out for taking jazz into the future?

Genre pushing labels like Room40, and Shelter Press, do a great job of promoting genre-less music, which I feel is much in the spirit of jazz.

More traditional labels like ECM are maybe less ‘out there’ but just keep up presenting a very specific sound, and I think that deserves credit. That, by the way, is also a sound and label Mads and I are both fascinated with.

Lastly, it wouldn’t be fair not to mention 12k. I can honestly say that I was surprised that Park would be released on this label, because – in a way like ECM – I’ve always associated 12k with a specific sound. But then it’s all the more humbling to actually get signed here as this to me proofs the willingness to keep expanding an already marvelous repertoire.

We are so proud that Taylor has taken on our album and it makes a lot of sense for us to present this sound with 12k.

[Read our Taylor Deupree interview]
[Read our Taylor Deupree interview about collaboration]

The Montreux Festival intends to preserve its archive of recordings for future generations. Do you personally feels it’s important that everything should remain available forever – or is there something to be said for letting beautiful moments pass and linger in the memories of those that experienced them?

That right there is the beauty of live music and art shows. However, we are big fans of archives and having art accessible to everyone at all times. It’s a balance I’d say, and I think its difficult for me to be unbiased, as I’ve never been to the Montreal Festival and would love to hear the recordings. I see the beauty in the idea of letting it only exist in the moment, but I tend to be pro
archival.

There’ll always be a magic and beauty happening live that you won’t ever get on the recording anyway, so I think they are of equal value. You won’t get the smell, the vibe, and whatever company you’re in and the raw emotions from the recorded material – but if the musical quality is there, I think it’s still worth preserving.

Our first two records were actually compiled of old recordings that we thought were too good not to be released. Our own little archive in a way, fittingly called Archives I & II.

Fifteen Questions with Peter Knight.

https://15questions.net/interview/fifteen-questions-interview-peter-knight/page-1/

Part 1

Name: Peter Knight
Occupation: Composer, trumpeter, sound artist, artistic director at the Australian Art Orchestra
Nationality: Australian
Current release: Peter Knight’s Shadow Phase is out via Lawrence English’s Room40 imprint.
Recommendations: Little Red Riding Hood – Ania Walwicz. Watch it on Youtube.
Check out the work of Wally Wilfred and Gwenneth Blitner on Ngukurr Arts Centre Instagram. This is the Aboriginal Community where David and Daniel Wilfred live. Incredible visual art as well as music.

When did you start writing/producing/playing music and what or who were your early passions and influences? What was it about music and/or sound that drew you to it?

I started in my twenties and I was very into the trumpet! It was Miles Davis who completely hooked me.

A Tribute to Jack Johnson was the record that really messed with my head (in a good way) but also earlier albums as well like Sketches of Spain, which changed my conception of what the trumpet could sound like. But I guess in terms of where I eventually ended up probably In a Silent Way was the most important.

I had many other musical heroes but discovering Jon Hassell was equally transfiguring for me in my early years and I think spun me off in the direction I am still heading in now.

When I listen to music, I see shapes, objects and colours. What happens in your body when you’re listening and how does it influence your approach to creativity?

When I am listening to music (especially when I listen in headphones) I feel movement like I am travelling through space. I wonder if there’s a name for that, and I wonder if everyone experiences it?

I also have a sense of the passage of linear time changing or being kind of suspended. Especially with certain kinds of minimal music such as that of Morton Feldman, The Necks, Ellen Arkbro (thinking particularly of For Organ and Brass which I love!), and too many others to name.

How would you describe your development as an artist in terms of interests and challenges, searching for a personal voice, as well as breakthroughs?

It takes a long time to build confidence or it did for me at least. And there were some key moments and key influences that seemed to liberate my creativity.

I once read an interview with Kenny Wheeler in which he said how painstaking and time consuming his process was. Doesn’t seem like much but it kind of flicked a switch in me because I thought if it takes him a long time to write music then maybe it’s OK if it takes me a long time as well.

I think everyone needs to discover their own process and often this does take time and perseverance. In Conservatoria we are most often taught in a fairly formulaic way and though formulas might work well in the perfection of instrumental technique, they don’t work very well in terms of our development as artists.

As an artist our job is to cleave to the unknown (or less known). You have to keep trying things and to put yourself in the way of ideas and inspiration. But you also need to be prepared to be ‘unproductive’. A difficult thing in an age where ‘productivity’ is more highly valued than ideas and creativity.

Tell me a bit about your sense of identity and how it influences both your preferences as a listener and your creativity as an artist, please.

As a white Australian who grew up in a fairly racist small country town I have gradually recognised how much this shaped my identity. Now I feel it’s important for me to work towards reconciliation in my artistic life.

It has been hugely inspiring for me to collaborate with Indigenous Australian artists – (particularly David and Daniel Wilfred from Arnhem Land in Hand to Earth). The generosity that I’ve experienced has affected every aspect of my music and my life. And the experience of learning a little bit about Yolgnu manikay (songs from South East Arnhem land) has been incredibly inspiring.

In my solo work, such as on Shadow Phase, I’m not trying to make any kind of didactic statement about identity, I’m just trying to make music that resonates with me, but that resonance is, of course, affected by who I am, my social and cultural context, and my identity.

What, would you say, are the key ideas behind your approach to music and art?

I have been thinking about the notion of ‘hearkening’ when I make music.

There are two fundamental responses produced when we encounter something unfamiliar: we can lean in closer towards the unfamiliar thing, or recoil in shock. I like to make music that might perhaps be unfamiliar or a little strange / unexpected, but that makes you want to lean in towards it; to ‘hearken’, rather than to recoil.

And that’s not to say that I don’t enjoy music and sound that is visceral and perhaps shocking, but when I was making Shadow Phase I thought a lot about the fact that I wanted to make an album that people would want to put on and that might create a restful contemplative space. It felt, during Melbourne’s COVID lockdown that I needed that and I thought probably lots of other people did too.

How would you describe your views on topics like originality and innovation versus perfection and timelessness in music? Are you interested in a “music of the future” or “continuing a tradition”?

In a way I am more interested in making music that is personal than in either continuing a tradition or making something that is innovative. But I am definitely drawn to innovation and I’m more often interested in other people’s music when it is in some way innovative or challenging.

One of the interesting things about living and working in Australia is that we don’t have a huge weight of a single tradition to ‘look after’. Contemporary Australia is a melting pot of many cultures and many music traditions. I have been interested in, and engaged with, imagining what Australian music might sound like in 50 years when as these traditions cross pollinate.

A project that comes to mind is my album, Residual, made with Vietnamese multi instrumental artist, Dung Nguyen. And another more recent called ‘1988’.

There are of course many First Nations music cultures in Australia that have been continuously practised for up to 60,000 years. It’s completely mind blowing. I have been involved in some amazing collaborations with First Nations artists most particularly Hand to Earth with David and Daniel Wilfred from Arnhem Land. They are the keepers of one of the oldest continuously practised music traditions in the world. Daniel says the work we do together helps create contexts for that culture to evolve and thrive.

It’s a great privilege to have the opportunity to be part of this collaboration. It has profoundly affected me and my sense of who I am on this land. And this work I guess is helping a tradition to continue but I’m not actually directly a part of the tradition. It’s complex and fascinating.

Over the course of your development, what have been your most important instruments and tools – and what are the most promising strategies for working with them?

The trumpet has been with me most of my life. I try to practise most days and I still love it.

For me the best strategy with the trumpet has been to try to spend time consciously divesting myself of my assumptions about the instrument and to try to imagine it’s an object and that I have no idea what it’s for. I guess that’s loosely called phenomenology and it can lead to interesting discoveries.

When I was a kid I used to take my cornet apart and fool around with all the components, I loved the mechanics of the instrument and the way the valves look and the mechanisms of the slides along with the popping sounds they make when you pull them out. I have found that connecting with this sense of ‘play’ and curiosity in music is very powerful and also very enjoyable.

More recently I have been involved with electronics and studio tools as well as old technologies including reel-to-reel tape machines, turntables, vintage delays, pedals and lots of other bits and pieces. I also use Ableton almost every day and I love the practice of bringing all these elements together.

Again, trying to keep a sense of ‘play’ and curiosity is key to my engagement with technologies.

Take us through a day in your life, from a possible morning routine through to your work, please.

My daily routine depends a lot on whether I am traveling or not. It all goes out the window when I’m on the move.

But at home, I like to wake up, have coffee and play trumpet for about an hour and a half. I have a routine that I’ve done for maybe 15 years that involves going through the James Stamp warm-ups, which any trumpeters reading will know well. It’s kind of like a meditation for me. After the warm up, if I have time, I will improvise for a bit. Then I usually do some email and business.

I try to exercise every day; go for a run or a ride. If I have a meeting I like to ride my bike and use that as a way of getting my exercise. Often the evenings are the creative time for me when I sit down in my studio and do some composing or play with some ideas.

Part 2

Could you describe your creative process on the basis of a piece, live performance or album that’s particularly dear to you, please?

My creative process is iterative. If I’m writing scored music for an ensemble such as in a piece like The Plains https://australianartorchestra.bandcamp.com/album/crossed-recrossed I use improvisation to develop material, then I transcribe the interesting moments.

Often I also to get together with some of the musicians I am writing for and set up a little experiments. I record as we go then edit assemble that material in a DAW and play with combinations of sounds etc. Again, if I find some interesting possibilities I transcribe them then I bring the scored results of those experiments to the full ensemble to play. I record them then draft again and so on. Unfortunately, I don’t always have the luxury of that kind of time but that’s the ideal.

The works in Shadow Phase were also developed iteratively and each started with an improvisation that was then cut up and refined and edited and added to. The development of these solo works is a little more intuitive process I think than the larger ensemble works. I just push musical materials around until I like the sound of them and until they create a particular resonance in me.

Lawrence English was also very involved in the development of Shadow Phase as producer and we spent a lot of time bouncing ideas back and forth. He really helped me to focus the large amount of material I generated into a journey over the course of two sides and 45 mins duration.

Listening can be both a solitary and a communal activity. Likewise, creating music can be private or collaborative. Can you talk about your preferences in this regard and how these constellations influence creative results?

I mostly like to listen to music in concert and I try to go to lots of live music. I like the social aspect of music and I go through long periods where I listen to very little recorded music. If I’m working on music, often the last thing I want do is to put on more music when I finished my work. So I listen to a lot of podcasts and if I want to hear music I go out.

So generally I think I prefer listening communally. With regards creating music, I like both the social aspect of working with other musicians as well as the solitary process of composing or working in the studio. I think for me they balance one another.

We musicians are lucky to be able to make our work with other people, it’s really a great joy for me. I get my ideas and energy for the solitary creative work from the time spent playing and interacting musically with others.

How do your work and your creativity relate to the world and what is the role of music in society?

Music has many roles in society and I like to think that my work does have a social function, that it provides some kind of ‘nourishment’.

It seems clear that on some level human beings need music, even though there doesn’t appear to be an evolutionary reason for this, and I do always think of the audience for my music and what kind of gesture I am putting into the world.

I care if you listen! But I’m not just trying to entertain. I want my music to be asking questions and hopefully making the listener think.

Art can be a way of dealing with the big topics in life: Life, loss, death, love, pain, and many more. In which way and on which occasions has music – both your own or that of others – contributed to your understanding of these questions?

Shadow Phase is actually partly the product of me dealing with the death of a close friend, poet, Ania Walwicz. I wrote this at the time:

“Most of this record was created in the shadow of COVID and deep in the maw of Melbourne’s 2020 long winter lockdown. It is a meditation on the nature of connection. Restricted to a 5km zone, one of the only people I saw outside my family during this time was my old friend and teacher, Ania Walwicz. We met in the overlap between our zones on the waterfront near Docklands to walk and talk on bright, cool winter afternoons.

Those conversations became large in my thoughts when Ania suddenly passed away in September. Her voice was in my head as I worked on this music, trawling through threads of ideas, recordings made on my phone, and thoughts jotted down in notebooks.

Ania’s practice as a writer relied on ‘automatic’ processes. Her work was informed by everything she had read (a lot) but it was created in the manner of dreams. In a state where the subconscious might bubble up and the words arrange themselves into meaning bearing forms that resonate more than represent.

I thought a lot about that as I made this music. I recorded everyday using the trumpet, my old Revox reel-to- reel, a couple of synths, a harmonium I lent from a friend, and whatever else was around. I worked mostly on just diving a little deeper each time I sat down to it.

Through the simple process of exhalation, I explored my relationship with the trumpet, which has been through so many twists and turns. I let the tones produced by my breath unfurl on long tape loops and degrade be- yond recognition through pedal and plugin chains, until the only imprint of the initial gesture remained.

My process also involved long bike rides during which I’d listen to the work of previous days on ear buds, gliding through familiar streets made slightly strange by the absence of people and movement. Often my rides took me along Footscray Rd next to the port, and as I washed down towards Docklands past the old boat moorings I stopped pedalling to coast. The sounds from my darkened studio mingled with the low rush of air past my helmet, the click and whirr of my bike gears, a squalling bird, a whooshing car. And I remembered my last conversation with Ania. Sitting in the late afternoon sun, squinting against the light that raked across the water, she was telling me about all the different words for they have for blue in Polish and Russian, and how words don’t just change our perception of things, but also actually change the thing being perceived.

As I rode home that afternoon, I felt like anything was possible.”

How do you see the connection between music and science and what can these two fields reveal about each other?

I alluded in an earlier question to the fact that as artists we have to be prepared for ‘unproductivity’. I think artists and scientists have this in common.

In science failure is a crucial part of the process of working towards new knowledge. Sometimes hundreds of experiments might be inconclusive before a result points to something promising and this is kind of similar to art. The other similarity is that when we do find that our work is moving a productive direction, the discoveries we make can often be surprising.

Some of the greatest discoveries in science are made by researchers working on seemingly unrelated problems. I think that’s true in art as well.

Creativity can reach many different corners of our lives. Do you feel as though writing or performing a piece of music is inherently different from something like making a great cup of coffee? What do you express through music that you couldn’t or wouldn’t in more ‘mundane’ tasks?

Creativity and art are different though related. This is not an easy question to answer without writing lots of words, but I think performing or writing a piece of music can be very much like making a great cup of coffee, or it can be ‘art’. It is about intention.

If an ‘artist’ declares that a gesture or an object is ‘art’ then it is, indeed, ‘art’. There follows a collective response as to whether it is an effective or resonate work of art and that’s kind of separate in a sense.

In 1917 Marcel Duchamp (or perhaps Baroness Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven) offered a urinal as a work of ‘art’ by declaring it so, signing it ‘R Mutt’, and exhibiting it in a gallery. This work called, Fountain, was certainly effective as well as controversial and shifted our ideas about art and creativity. In 1952 Cage contextualised silence as ‘art’ and profoundly influenced our entire discourse about music, sound, and performance.

I’m not presuming for a moment to compare myself to either of these giants but I like to think of my work as part of an ‘artistic’ discourse rather than a creative ‘craft’ such as making a great cup of coffee. And that’s not to say one is somehow ‘better’ or more important than the other, they are just different.

The art that I get excited by offers some insight into the human condition, or makes us see / hear things in a different way. Or perhaps it holds up a mirror and reveals things about society that would be hard to otherwise understand. So I offer my music as part of this discourse and I think maybe it’s up to others to fathom what it expresses!

Music is vibration in the air, captured by our ear drums. From your perspective as a creator and listener, do you have an explanation how it able to transmit such diverse and potentially deep messages?

I don’t think anyone has an explanation for this and I’m not going to attempt one! And perhaps the fact that it’s so unfathomable is one of the reasons we are so drawn to music.

T S Eliot said, ‘Poetry can communicate before it is understood.’ That notion has always fascinated me and I think it relates to ‘musicality’, except that the difference between words and music is that words do have an explicit meaning, whereas notes, rhythms, chords, and the other elements of music have no meaning at all.

Fifteen Questions with Seaworthy & Matt Rösner

https://15questions.net/interview/seaworthy-matt-rosner-about-magic-sounds/page-1/

Seaworthy & Matt Rösner about the Magic of Sound(s)
“Is there a pathway to interspecies communication? Maybe – I’m just not quite sure animals would have anything nice to say about people!”

Part 1

Names: Cameron Webb aka Seaworthy, Matt Rösner
Nationality: Australian
Occupation: Composers, producers, sound artists
Recent release: Seaworthy and Matt Rösner team up for Deep Valley, out via 12K.

Recommendations on the topic of sound: MR – To be honest, I don’t really read much about sound. There was a time when I was deeply interested in how the brain processes sound and music’s effect on the brain. Oliver Sacks’ Musicophilia is a book that springs to mind. The Great Animal Orchestra by Bernie Krause certainly inspired me to consider the how nature’s soundscapes are being changed by the human race.
CW – Notwithstanding literature on listening practice and field recording (such as ‘In the Field: Art of Field Recording’ by Lane and Carlyle), I also recommend exploring some of the scientific literature on bioacoustics and role of changing soundscapes on the ecology of terrestrial and aquatic wildlife. There is an abundance of literature, both recent and historic. However, with the rise of more affordable bioacoustics monitoring equipment, there is a growing body of scientific research in this field.

If you enjoyed this Seaworthy & Matt Rösner interview and would like to stay up to date with their music, visit Seaworthy on bandcamp and Matt Rösner’s official homepage.

When I listen to music, I see shapes, objects and colours. What happens in your body when you’re listening? Do you listen with your eyes open or closed?

Matt Rosner (MR) – To me, the listening experience really depends on the style of music that I am listening to. Ambient and slower tempo music definitely makes me slow down, close my eyes and become more inward looking and this is true of listening to nature all around us. It’s great to be in the zone and to be able to think more deeply through focused concentration.

I find that music with a groove and faster tempo makes me want to move, dance or just tap my feet, nod my head and this type of listening also has a renewed place in my everyday life.

Cameron Webb (CW) – I slow down. I’m calmed (mostly, depending on what I’m listening to). But I also consume music throughout the day, it’s soundtracking moments of stress and calm, the commute to and from work, duties at work and at home, exercise and relaxation.

But it’s the moments where an opportunity to listen in calm that are most appreciated. To slow down. Eyes closed mostly but to listen and look outside is a real joy. When I listen to music I’m mostly reflecting on landscapes, both real and imagined.

How do listening with headphones and listening through a stereo system change your experience of sound and music?

MR – There is a physicality to listening on a good sound system that you don’t get with headphones and the acoustics of the room also add to the experience.

I like the sense of community that you get when listening on speakers with others, its one of life’s great pleasures to share that experience. Headphone listening is more private and contemplative, I feel.

CW – While the vast majority of my listening is through headphones, I do enjoy the opportunity to listen through a stereo. Perhaps not so much through the hustle and bustle of a busy household. But when the household is quite or home empty, there is great pleasure is the natural ambience of a space and the occasional drift into the room the outside world.

Especially listening to ambient, electronic, or otherwise quiet music, that natural soundscape that seeps in can add new elements to the overall listening experience.

Tell me about some of the albums or artists that you love specifically for their sound, please.

MR – Mick Turner, Australian guitar player famous for his work in the Dirty Three has a guitar sound that I am constantly falling back in love with. I love the texture and the warmth that Mick has to his playing.

[Read our Mick Turner interview]

I love the sound of the old jazz classics – Coltrane, Davis and Ellington to name just a few, what they are achieved with just a few microphones and basic effects compared to the arsenal of the modern producer is extraordinary.

CW – I’m drawn to aspects of recordings and sound that are scuffed up, noisy, and have textural aspects that give them an aged feel. I’m sure for many these are the faults they’re trying to remove from their recordings!

There are artists from the late 90s and early 2000s, lo-fi recordings made with 4-track cassettes and other pre-computer aided assistance. Bands such as Hood, and Empress. Other artists such as Low and Sparklehorse carried similar qualities across to some of their recordings too.

As is the case with Matt, Mick Turner’s solo records, as well as those with The Dirty Three are wonderful. Loren Connors too. In recent years, I’ve really enjoyed the work of Zimoun. Fellow 12k artists are a constant inspiration.

[Read our Zimoun interview]

Do you experience strong emotional responses towards certain sounds? If so, what kind of sounds are these and do you have an explanation about the reasons for these responses?

MR – I love the sound of bowed strings, there is something primal about the bow rubbing against the strings and it has a natural texture to it.

In the natural environment I get a strong response from the ebb and flow of the ocean, wind through a forest and the crunchy sound of footprints on a gravel road. This surely must be a link back to my youth spent outside in Western Australia.

CW. Frogs and birds. In particularly, there are local frog and bird calls that either mark the arrival of different seasons (such as the channel billed cuckoo that migrates to the woodlands around Sydney from New Guinea and Indonesia every spring) or climatic condition (such as the calls of certain frogs after spring and summer rains).

These are just two examples of seasonal soundscape markers, I’ve always enjoyed the changing sounds of seasons.

There can be sounds which feel highly irritating to us and then there are others we could gladly listen to for hours. Do you have examples for either one or both of these?

MR – Traffic and Air Travel sound when you are trying to capture field recordings is extremely irritating. When you spend a lot of time in nature surrounded by the environment you quickly recognise how much the man-made sound world intrudes on nature.

I love the sound of a loop of guitar or piano that might be a bit noisy or a bit out of sync, that’s not quite perfect but it draws you into it. A passage of music that sounds natural and not too pristine.

CW – While I can tolerate it, and perhaps not even give it a second thought, as part of living in an urban area the sound of people planes, and traffic can also be incredibly disruptive and frustrating if I’m looking to listen to the local environment. Even moreso if I’m trying to record it. The sounds of human activity are becoming more and more prevalent and invasive, harder to escape.

I do love the sound of distant sea shores. Growing up I spent much time on the south coast of NSW and when the wind and swell were just right, at night the sea provided a low rumbling hum that was quite hypnotic. Has been too long since I’ve experienced that, it’s something I should go in search of more often.

Are there everyday places, spaces, or devices which intrigue you by the way they sound? Which are these?

MR – I live on a small farm that is surrounded by forest. I am drawn to the changes in sound that occur through the seasons. Right now it’s winter and there is a fast running stream that creates a range of sound from a deep drone as the water passes through a pipe under a bridge through to percussive microsound as the stream hits a shallow bed of rocks.

If I had to choose a device it would be my old second hand Akai Headrush pedal which creates some interesting delay and looping imperfections.

CW – In my role as a scientist, I work in a laboratory that’s filled with an inescapable hum of air conditioners and humidifiers. It’s a sound I’m used to and I can block it out during the day to day duties. But if I stop to listen, there are strange and unexpected subtleties to the drone of these systems that overlap and interact.

I don’t get much opportunity to sit and listen but when I do its something I enjoy, perhaps moreso a reminder of the unnoticed soundscapes that accompany our everyday.

Have you ever been in spaces with extreme sonic characteristics, such as anechoic chambers or caves? What was the experience like?

MR – I have spent time in large industrial buildings with huge reverbs that create some interesting yet challenging to work with overtones. The sound can be almost overpowering when the volume is turned up and it can take on a tactile, physical element.

I’ve not been in an anechoic chamber but would like to experience one in the future.

CW – Almost 20 years ago now, I had an opportunity to record within some decommissioned ammunitions bunkers. These were amazingly resonant spaces and I had an opportunity to play back both instrumental and environmental recordings in the spaces and I’m not sure I’ve ad such an immersive experience.

The resulting recordings made up the album 1897 released by 12k and while I was incredibly happy with the work, the recordings probably didn’t do the experience inside those spaces justice.

Part 2

What are among your favourite spaces to record and play your music?

MR – I love to record in older houses with wooden floor boards and taller ceilings. There is a coziness and warmth to the sound in these types of places. The Musicians Hut at Bundanon where Deep Valley was recorded is a space with these features.

CW – The general aesthetics of a space are probably more important to me than the sonic qualities. But there are specific aspects to many spaces I can take great pleasure in exploring if given the chance.

Do music and sound feel “material” to you? Does working with sound feel like you’re sculpting or shaping something?

MR – Yes, the recording process is very similar to sculpture. It involves addition and subtraction of material to create a new form. Sound is certainly a material, but the output is more ephemeral than a physical object and more impacted by what is going on around it by way of background noise or acoustic effects from the room or surroundings.

Modern digital recording has added a visual element too, we can analyse sound to the nth degree and cut, filter and process it endless ways whilst hearing and seeing the results in real time.

CW – Yes. I think in part this is due to my interests in the textural properties of sound. Beyond and musical notes and melodies, there are qualities to sound that are definitely worked with in the same approach I assume a sculpture would as well.

How important is sound for our overall well-being and in how far do you feel the “acoustic health” of a society or environment is reflective of its overall health?

MR – People who live in noisy man-made environments must be unhappy compared to those who live more in nature and there is a large body of research that shows this is the case. Societies that allow more green space and conservation areas will have human populations that have space for contemplation and reconnection to nature and family which can only be a positive thing.

CW – I have little doubt that noise pollution can impact the health and wellbeing of individuals and the community more generally. We also all live in an increasingly noisy world. Exposure to persistent, loud or high frequency sounds has been shown to adversely impact people’s physical and mental health.

As an environmental scientist, I’m also very interested in the impact to the local ecosystem of this noise. There are numerous studies that demonstrate that the intrusion of “human-made” sound into the local environment impacts the biological systems that drive the local ecosystem. Bird and frogs, that rely on sound for various behavioral aspects of their lifecycle, can be disrupted. There is even evidence that evolution is driving changes in their biology to navigate these disturbances.

This not only applies to wildlife around our wetlands and woodlands but also the ocean. The impact of noise pollution in our oceans, especially shipping, has been shown to disrupt whales and other sea life adversely. Physical and chemical pollutants of our aquatic ecosystems may be a focus but sound pollution shouldn’t be ignored either.

Sound, song, and rhythm are all around us, from animal noises to the waves of the ocean. What, if any, are some of the most moving experiences you’ve had with these non-human-made sounds?

MR – Each year I am moved by the wall of sound consisting of a vast array of frogs when the winter weather arrives and the dry creeks fill up with rain. The soundscape gets really loud but each species occupies a unique frequency range to ensure that it doesn’t get drowned up by the others. I feel in awe of nature when I hear this.

I am constantly amazed by the sounds that hydrophones capture underwater. It’s an alien world of clicks, pops and fixes that can range from high frequency rhythmic pulses to spacious bass tones. There is an unexpected element to hydrophones, it feels like you are never 100% sure of what you will capture.

CW – Some of my earliest experiences in environmental research were associated with amphibian surveillance and it was a wonderful introduction to bioacoustics monitoring. The use of sound as a way to survey local wetlands for frog species, without the need to catch, capture, or kill specimens, was something I became greatly interested in.

There are many field guides to assist identification of frogs based on their calls and this methodology has now been adapted to use with smartphones to assist citizen science projects. I’m grateful for this early experience opening more opportunities to explore the sounds of our local environment.

Many animals communicate through sound. Based either on experience or intuition, do you feel as though interspecies communication is possible and important? Is there a creative element to it, would you say?

MR – I am sure that animals communicate with each other through sound. Humans can’t claim that we have higher intelligence and only we can communicate with other species. You can witness this any day when observing birds – they communicate across species with calls that indicate danger.

I recently saw this when a large Eagle was soaring above a group of ducks, kingfishers and wrens on the edge of a bushland. The smaller birds were making a lot of noise and moving quicky back into the shelter of the forest before I had even spotted the eagle.

At the same time, I am convinced there is playful and creative aspect to how species communicate between each other. Maybe its a mechanism to ensure harmony, share common ideas and to learn from one another? Perhaps human should spend some more time observing this phenomenon?

CW – There is no question sound plays a critical role in the biology or many animals, from finding a mate to finding food and from navigating to escaping a predator. Sound has such as complex role to play in the ecology of our local wildlife, whether it is on land, the sky, or in the water.

While most people are familiar with bird calls and whale songs, there is so much more going on that escapes our attention. The high frequency calls of bats to catch insects or the wingbeat frequencies of insects that assist mating, it’s a fascinating area of research and I often wish I had more time to take a more academic approach to the recordings I make and incorporate into my musical work.

Could sound ever provide a pathway to interspecies communication? Maybe, I’m just not quite sure they’d be anything nice to say about people!

Tinnitus and developing hyperacusis are very real risks for anyone working with sound. Do you take precautions in this regard and if you’re suffering from these or similar issues – how do you cope with them?

MR – Not very well. I have lost some hearing in the higher frequencies in one ear. I am now more conscious of protecting my hearing and should really invest in proper ear plugs.

On top of this, I had one instance of Tinnitus last year due to loud exposure in an industrial factory without hearing protection and after 2 solid days of ringing in the ears was relieved when it finally dissipated. As an artist that works with sound, its scared me!

CW – While being an environmental scientist has taught me to be health conscious in many respects (especially sun protection), I haven’t good very smart in protection of my hearing.

As I get older, it is clear there are some issues for me developing but that probably reflects many decades of music listening and experiencing many loud live performances without adequate protection.

We can surround us with sound every second of the day. The great pianist Glenn Gould even considered this the ultimate delight. How do you see that yourself and what importance does silence hold?

MR – If there is no silence, there is no sound. Both states are complimentary to each other.

Silence is so important to my well being and creative pursuits. I grew up in a quiet country and when I moved to the city in my 30s I struggled to deal with the noise, whether that was not being able to sleep due to the sound of the nearby port or not being able to find a suitable quiet place to record and create new works.

When I escaped the city for a holiday, I was amazed at how much the silence and space was missing from my life. At first this was confronting, a remember lying in a dark room with the doors open to the forest and not being able deal with the quiet. After a few days, the space took hold and I had an outpouring of creativity which kick started my return to creating new music.

CW – Silence is so difficult to find. But when there are moments or places of silence, it can provide a moment or two of calm. But I also think that calm can come from a noisy environment too, it probably is most dependent on the type of noise.

There have been many moments spent in wetlands or woodlands with deafening insect sounds or along a coastline battered by wind and waves. These two moments are far from silent but still provide calm on a level akin to silence for me.

Seth S. Horowitz called hearing the “universal sense” and emphasised that it was more precise and faster than any of our other senses, including vision. How would our world be different if we paid less attention to looks and listened more instead?

MR –There are certainly people that are visual, others that more aural and those that are tactile or more switched on by smell and taste. Our senses vary from person to person, and they can change over time or as we train ourselves to prioritise one sense over another.

In the modern world we are bombarded with visual cues and enticements that are designed to attract and ultimately distract our attention away from what we are doing in a particular moment. As a person who is immersed in sound, switching off vision, closing one’s eyes and just listening has a profound effect on my thinking and creativity.

I am sure that others would also see a positive effect from slowing down to listen more, particularly to nature all around us.

CW – For many of us, our visual senses are all important. But not everyone. For many different reasons, many also take note of or are reliant on sound. The world may be a better place it everyone stopped to notice both the small visual and sonic qualities of the world around us.

Despite our preoccupation with looks, there is as much visual pollution on the planet as there is noise pollution. There is little doubt a quieter world would be a better place to live, at least for those of us that seek out stillness and calm!

Ezekiel Honig Shares his Creative Process

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