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Grand Bruit (1991), 28’55
The great mobile sound bodies have an ordinary yet amazing ability to place the listener-traveller within, as if he or she was inside a giant double bass, in this case a train stroked by a double bow: the rails and the air.
In 1991, I explored this phenomenon during my daily commute from the studio to my home. I used only a 21 minutes recording and treated it as a single sound object. I then processed and enhanced it as a photographer would have done, immersing it in successive ‘baths’. The title I chose for this singular form was Grand Bruit.
Stop ! l’horizon (1983), 18’05
Saturday morning, nine o’clock as I reach the studio.
No one here.
I only turn on the spotlights as the fluorescent tubes are too noisy. I switch the power on, shut the door, unplug the telephone. I then switch the mixing desk on, which sends an electronic impulse into the amps. The four speakers react individually with a very brief and low hiss. A kind of presence.
I haven’t listened to anything since the evening before and my ear is refreshed by a night’s sleep.
I feed the original mix into the master recorder and sit down in the centre.
Remote control: PLAY
With the first sound I close my eyes. The studio instantly vanishes. Another place, a much larger space opens up.
I enter it.
I have the very distinct feeling that music is merely a “great noise”, chiselled inside with a thousand details. It opens up like a living organism to let my hearing wander across it. A magnetic relation quickly occur and all the sounds that constitute this great noise draw me towards the East.
I accept this direction.
Later, much later, I reach a distant point on the horizon which pulls me towards it.
Recollection GRM
Recollection GRM
Grand Bruit (1991), 28’55
The great mobile sound bodies have an ordinary yet amazing ability to place the listener-traveller within, as if he or she was inside a giant double bass, in this case a train stroked by a double bow: the rails and the air.
In 1991, I explored this phenomenon during my daily commute from the studio to my home. I used only a 21 minutes recording and treated it as a single sound object. I then processed and enhanced it as a photographer would have done, immersing it in successive ‘baths’. The title I chose for this singular form was Grand Bruit.
Stop ! l’horizon (1983), 18’05
Saturday morning, nine o’clock as I reach the studio.
No one here.
I only turn on the spotlights as the fluorescent tubes are too noisy. I switch the power on, shut the door, unplug the telephone. I then switch the mixing desk on, which sends an electronic impulse into the amps. The four speakers react individually with a very brief and low hiss. A kind of presence.
I haven’t listened to anything since the evening before and my ear is refreshed by a night’s sleep.
I feed the original mix into the master recorder and sit down in the centre.
Remote control: PLAY
With the first sound I close my eyes. The studio instantly vanishes. Another place, a much larger space opens up.
I enter it.
I have the very distinct feeling that music is merely a “great noise”, chiselled inside with a thousand details. It opens up like a living organism to let my hearing wander across it. A magnetic relation quickly occur and all the sounds that constitute this great noise draw me towards the East.
I accept this direction.
Later, much later, I reach a distant point on the horizon which pulls me towards it.
