At home, it’s natural to fill empty aural spaces with music, television or podcasts. But when we turn off such inputs, we discover that our homes create quiet soundtracks of their own, enhanced by contributions from our yards and neighbors, perhaps even local traffic and construction. Some sounds are constant: the refrigerator, the dehumidifier, the air conditioner. Throughout the day, certain sounds repeat: the sink, the shower, the dishwasher, the coffee maker, the washer and dryer and more.
Ümlaut (Jeff Düngfelder) delights in such sounds. From his house in Weatogue, Connecticut he has constructed an album that sounds like his home but that feels like a universalized home. While listening, some may recognize the sounds of their own houses; others may begin to think of the sounds unique to their own domiciles; still others will begin to think more deeply about their own micro-environments.
The album begins with the complementary “Cold Remains” and “Measured Warmth.” One swiftly realizes that it is difficult to discern the difference between the sound of sleet and the crunch of an ice maker. In colder months, the heat comes on; in warmer months, the air conditioning; and each extreme brings different forms of precipitation. The tolling of wind chimes suggests a cold storm, while a rhythmic rattle suggests a broken fan. The hums of “Measured Breath” form a soft drone, a comforting hue of somnambulant sound. At the very end, an alarm like a microwave completing its task. Later in the set, “Warmth Beneath the Floor” will continue the temperature thread, while “When Outside Remains” will revisit the taps of precipitation.
“Water That Holds” contains a mysterious contrast: tumbling chimes and what sounds like a baby sneezing. The notes tumble like images in a kaleidoscope. Steve Miller “Jungle Love”-style synth lends the second half a sci-fi flair; then a cassette click introduces “Before the Pour.” The piece contains rings like those of a child’s cash register; it’s fun to try to identify these sounds.
The opening seconds of “Time Practices Repetition” amplify the ticking of a clock, which recedes and then returns, mimicking the illusion of perception. The clock never really stops ticking, and time never really stops moving. The house holds its own concept of time, as illustrated in Richard McGuire’s graphic novel Here. Humans may or may not be important. While we may be listening to the house, “The House Listens” as well, cradling its human and non-human occupants, enjoying the noises they make, growing acclimated to their cycles.
Listening from (the) Inside is part of a conceptual series launched by Driftworks and Audiobulb Records. This intimate releases “encourages attentive listening” (an approach that we obviously support!) both to the release itself and to the location in which it is played; in other words, when the music stops, the real adventure begins. (Richard Allen)
