“In One Place (Second Attempt)”

I recorded this in an apartment I was staying at in New York. It was early in the day. I was the only one up. I had another hour before my solitude was scheduled to be interrupted. The building’s HVAC each night disturbed my sleep, but as with a nightmare, those same sounds were tranquil, even beautiful, come morning. I had attempted another 30-second recording before this one. While it was underway I noted several disappointing disturbances — creaks and pops, the aural detritus of a building waking up. Apart from them I heard an extraordinary spatial drone, a manifestation of overtones, a symbiosis of modern domestic infrastructure and a room of high ceilings, a hard floor, and a wall of glass at one end. When the first attempt ended, I took a slow, deep breath and hit record. I knew in the moment that it would work out well. There is something of Schrödinger’s cat to the act of field recording. A place is many places when you listen to it over time, but when you hit record, it gets clarified (reduced, flattened, distilled) to one specific environment. This can feel like an exertion of influence when you undertake the recording process consciously, when you have situated yourself in the moment. I felt a kind of authorship as the second recording was underway. It was precisely what I had heard beneath the extraneous noises the first time. After 30 seconds had elapsed, I ceased recording. I had a sense it had worked out, a sense confirmed many hours later, when I listened back for the first time, on the flight home. Just minutes after this recording ended, the room went suddenly silent. The air conditioning system had reached a point — whether barometric or calendrical — that caused it to shut off. Minutes later, the lawnmowers began their prowling. I had been even more fortunate than I’d known when I hit record that second time.