55. Thank You. You're Welcome. (Glocken der Heimat - Field Recordings of German Church Bells)

To: Butch and David Potter, Makers of Martin's Potato Chips

Sirs,

As I took the elevator to the Third Floor Clinic (where a number of professionals were about to painfully laser off a particularly embarassing tattoo commemorating Rihanna's recent foray into art photography), imagine my surprise when I read the back of an individual sized bag of your barbecued potato chips. Imagine, if you will, my at first gentle shock, which mellowed into a warm sense of well-being. These were my feelings as I read the back of that bag of potato chips. These were my feelings as I read your no doubt heartfelt thanks to me, the consumer, who had just voted with his dollar and bought the aforementioned snack. "Thank you for purchasing Martin's potato chips. We take great pride in delivering to you fresh, delicious potato chips with exceptional potato flavor."

Exceptional potato flavor? For a second, I stopped salivating in anticipation of those salty treats and it seemed to me that your kind words had rerouted my salivary glands into my eyes, for happy tears welled in my eyes. "If you have any questions or comments, please call 1-800-272-4477 (weekdays 9-4 Eastern Time)." Yes, I have a comment, and I have a question, and I cannot merely "phone them in." I want that question and that comment emblazoned forever on the internet, where they will never be recorded over and will never be forgotten, as long as people google "irritainment." My comment is this: God Bless You Both, Butch and David Potter, for remembering that thanks are always welcome, that merchants are nothing without their customers, for remembering these seemingly little things that add up to a shining mountain of gratitude. And here is my question: what is your mother''s address? I would send a bouquet of roses to her, in appreciation of just how good of a job she did raising you.

Yours, Smilin Tyler


To: Juan, Night Janitor, Shenandoah Valley Hospital PICU

Amigo,

I staggered into the bathroom of room 3174 a shaken man. I feel no shame in telling you, Juan (if that is indeed your name, if not feel free to substitute your own), that I was ready to fall out. My child, Smilin Jr., had succesfully lodged in his sinuses the entire can of Smokehouse Inspired Almond Cubes that my wife (Mrs. Smilin) and I had just purchased at Big Lots, and the prognosis was looking grim. At the very least, it seemed that little Smilin Jr. was going to have to face life unable to smell anything but the savory waft of Smokehouse Inspired Almond Cubes. At the worst, we were looking at a cephalectomy, a possibility that was depressing me to say the least, as I had envisioned Smilin Jr. as being backup catcher for the Kansas City Royals, or at worst a batboy long enough to accrue a decent pension. True, the range of replacement heads that are on offer these days are much better than they used to be, and I had just about set my mind on a Jean-Claude Van Damme; this, however much I enjoyed "Under Seige," was cold comfort, and of course now that I look back on the whole affair I realize that that had been Steven Seagal.

So as I was about to leave an almond-less bowel movement in the bathroom of room 3174, it was as if God himself had left me a message on a loop of parchment around the seat. "This seat has been sanitized for your protection." Juan, are you familiar with what is commonly called Beethoven's "Ode to Joy"? Can you imagine if it went "San-i-tized for YOUR pro-tect-tion, toilet seat has BEEN, reDEEMED"? Can you, Juan? If you need help, I can call you and hum it for you. That is what I heard in my head, Juan. Thank you for sanitizing that for my protection. For my protection! Do you know how vulnerable I felt, Juan? And this was BEFORE Child Protective Services got involved, Juan. But when I saw that loop around the seat, I felt calm and at peace. I knew then what needed to be done. It was one of the few times in my life that I have felt such certitude.

So thank you, Juan, for sanitizing that which is so often unsanitary. Thank you. Any time you're in the Dogtown neighborhood, please stop by my house (address enclosed). I think that you will find our toilet sanitary, and I also think that Smilin Jr. is a lot more enjoyable and easier to care for with his new rubber head.

Gracias! De nada! Smilin Tylero

To: Acid Steve

Steve-o,

I now take the time to thank you, Steve, from the bottom of my heart to the tip of my deviated septum, for not stepping on my coke with Drano, but rather with the much gentler baby laxative. So often in these [REST OF LETTER REDACTED UNDER ADVICE OF ATTORNEY]

8. Organized Disorganzed Noise

Just found a very cool site here (it's also in the links to the side), which got me whooped up on field recordings again. Field recordings are tricky things, and fall into that hideous little experimental cul-de-sac wherein, as in yer garden-variety avant garde, it's usually a hell of a lot more to do it than to listen to it. (Reminiscent of when I tried to get one of my bands a gig at the Velvet Lounge in DC: "You people only come out for your own bands." Now, five years later, the amplified-hairnet underground is rampant, and the VL is booking any schmuck with a no-input minxing board; nevertheless, the guy was right.)

I'll just let the site speak for itself:

Folk Songs for the Five Points is a celebration of cultural diversity and change, using “folk songs” as a metaphor to explore immigration and the formation of identity in New York’s Lower East Side.

The project isn’t about absolute answers or clear definitions. We are celebrating the unexpected richness that confronts you at every turn – from the many languages of Canal St to the endless complexity contained in words like “immigrant” and “folk song”.

The interface raises some interesting points about intent. Obviously, there is no such thing as a completely unmediated field recording. The very act of choosing the spot and action (or process) to record constitutes a narrowing of options. Eventually, field recording will reach its apotheosis when Chris Watson (or some post-industrial maniac like Mark Pauline or Genesis P-Orridge) gets a Marantz installed in his sinuses and leaves the tape rolling 24/7. But do people who enjoy field recordings buy them for what is recorded rather than who is recording it? I don't know, I'm ust riffing. I suspect the latter, and I also suspect that a philosophical point can be made but I just woke up.

I think this site makes a great point regarding field recording: intent and organization are super-natural, and necessary. I think kids could have a lot of fun with it, mixing and matching the sounds; you can pan them, eq them, make your own b-boy bouillabaise from the exceptionally rich sonic palette of the Five Corners, organize the disorganized noise.

I think my favorite field recording probably wouldn't be considered such by purists, but I imagine field recording purists are people who have five-digit sound systems and no subscription to cable television. Sublime Frequencies have a slew of releases where people just went out into the country, deep in SE Asia or Sub-Saharan Africa, pointed their mics and hit record. They also have a series of recordings of radio broadcasts from these countries, edited and chopped (or not), which I think are as much field recordings as made by any pud with a raincoat and a bag of Fisherman's Friends out on the shore in Maine during a nor'easter. It's a sort of punk take on field recording, all in shit-fi, that I like, cause I love to hear evidence of the medium (tape distortion, bad edits, etc.) but that's a whole other pile of aesthetic philosophy and I'm gonna go smoke now.