In many cases, reducing sound to a visual field is a bit awkward – do we really hear better while looking at a two-dimensional picture on a screen than we would if we were actually in the space being represented? Maybe not, but the general desire to control sound is very strong, and what better way to control something than to pinpoint it? In this way, for example, compositional maps bring the urban din into a realm of aesthetic order, policy maps subject it to regulation, archival maps protect it against decay, and application maps help us navigate it. There are obvious appeals (and complexities) in each.

Below is a typology of the most common kinds of sound maps, with examples. Many of these come from recent discussions on the Sound Studies listserv, and from an item on Wayneandwax. Have I missed any important categories? Do you know of other examples?

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Collaborative Documentary
This is probably the most straightforward category, and the most logical outgrowth of available technologies.

Open Sound New Orleans is a simple map of the city that allows users to upload self-recorded sounds in the categories of “voice,” “music,” and “ambient,” and to plot them where they were made. The site functions as a local forum, with an emphasis (based on the most frequently used tags) on post-Katrina revitalization, business, neighborhoods, and community. Many of the recordings are interviews. Like many sound maps in this category, Open Sound New Orleans uses sound (as opposed to text) to better emulate “being there.”

In a similar vein, SoundSeeker.org overlays user-submitted field recordings on a map of New York City.

A sound map of Montreal.

Soundwalks in San Francisco, Lisbon, Istanbul, Basel, and more.

Composition/Artwork
This is actually a very diverse category, and one that relies comparatively less often on mapping in the standard visual sense. For example, GPS Beatmap: Planet as Control Surface is a piece of software that uses GPS to assign musical snippets to small circles of land all over the planet. As users walk or drive around, they traverse different circles, creating a beat-matched mix as they move:

There is also a lot of politically oriented work in this category. Heidi Boisvert’s sonicWarfare hands listeners a map of midtown Manhattan, overlaid by a semi-transparent map of the section of Baghdad where U.S. troops invaded in 2002. You follow a route on the map while listening to a recording of an imaginary war – the intended effect is to make conflict seem real, even personal: “Protest in Vietnam was mobilized by images, but today images of war barbarity do not pose the same disgust, disquiet. We have become inured by the spectacle of violence paraded on TV and in movies. Why though when you see war reportage on the news are we not forced to endure the sounds of war? Is it harder to bear the pain of others through our ears … ? ”

Consumer Empowerment
There is something mildly unsettling to me about this category, even though I recognize its utility.

Soundaroundyou.com is a project under development at the Audio and Acoustic Engineering Research Centre at the University of Salford, for which people are asked to add their own recordings to a large data pool for professional analysis. Sounds are also tagged by users with their own qualitative opinions. According to the site, the project “could have far reaching implications for professions and social groups ranging from urban planners to house buyers.”

As you can see at the end of the clip below, sound clips are rated from 1 to 10 in several areas, such as tranquility, activity, soundscape quality, etc. It is implied that the research could ultimately identify areas of sonic pollution, allowing them to be cleaned up through various strategies. But a rating system like this invites much subjective disagreement, since sound is notoriously prone to differences of interpretation. And subjectivity, especially in metropolitan cities, is always bound up with issues like class and ethnicity. The (very difficult) question not asked here is how we can manage sound in a way that is also socially just?

Meanwhile, GeoGraffiti is a cell phone application that allows you to “tag” any place with a voice recording. You might leave a restaurant review, an event announcement, or a funny comment. Other GeoGraffiti users passing by that same spot could then call in and hear your message.

Preservation
This category essentially has two subsections: historical and natural sound. Both of these are animated by an impulse that ethnomusicology knows very well, that is, the need to save “endangered” sounds through archival preservation.

The most prominent historical effort is the BBC’s global Save Our Sounds audio map. Save Our Sounds is built on an engine much like the collaborative documentaries above; however, its purpose is explicitly ecological: “Precious sounds are dying while new ones enter our lives … So here at the BBC we want to build a sound map of the world – and save endangered sounds from extinction.”

Another site, Sydney Sidetracks, offers historical material, including sound and video, tagged to a map of Australia’s largest city. The site encourages you to “download a version to your mobile or load up your player and take the stories with you. When you next visit the city, you can listen to the crowds at Martin Place celebrating the end of WWII or watch George St., 1906, from a moving train.” Sydney Sidetracks combines documentary and artistic approaches to produce a heightened sense of verisimilitude about the past.

Preservation of natural sound has a slightly different flavor. This type of work often vilifies man-made noise, and calls for a greater appreciation of natural or environmental sound. Groups like the Right to Quiet Society call for outright abatement, while artist-researchers like Gordon Hempton (whose recordings are fantastic) pursue sonic purity and plot it geographically. Not silence, per se, but spaces where human sound is totally absent. Such a pursuit is, clearly, about more than volume. However, it is increasingly clear that the preservation of sonically “natural” space requires lots of work – campaigning for awareness, lobbying for changes in flight patterns, hiring park rangers to enforce sound restrictions in wooded areas – all of which, ironically, produces noise.

Policy Data
This is by necessity the most reductive category of sound mapping. Cities pursuing noise control need clear data that can be translated directly to enforcement. Unfortunately, this usually means maps not linked to actual sonic events, that estimate decibels based on things like infrastructure and traffic level.

San Francisco Department of Public Health, noise pollution map

Noise map of Central London

These maps are meant to help city planners be more aware of the impact of sound when making choices about zoning and construction, which is a good goal. However, acoustics (especially theoretical acoustics) can only predict so much about aural imposition.

The officer in the case, Ken Roth, was unable to make a reliable radar reading, but he claimed that he could tell simply by listening that Freitag’s vehicle was speeding.

According to the decision:

Ptl. Roth testified at trial that he was parked in his patrol car along the side of U.S. 42 at 9:16 p.m. on October 8, 2007, when he heard a vehicle he could not yet see. He testified that, based on the sound of the vehicle, he believed it was traveling in excess of the 35 m.p.h. posted speed limit. The officer testified that he “audibly heard the speeding, not the speed of the vehicle.” Ptl. Roth clarified: “As it approached I could hear the vehicle on the roadway which based on my training and experience it is consistent with a vehicle that was in excess of the posted speed limit.”

Fascinatingly, Roth distinguishes between the sound of speeding and the sound of moving at any specific speed. The sound of speeding is marked, presumably, by aggressive engine noise. We’ve all heard vehicles that sound like this. Often enough, it’s a jock move.

But, by hearing alone, what would distinguish a normal engine working hard enough to speed from an inefficient engine working just hard enough to drive the limit? Or an engine in a car with a broken muffler?

Nothing could distinguish them. Or, rather, doing so would require an ear trained to identify engine types, and to be able to hear precisely how these engines were operating. The officer’s claim, that he’d heard lots of speeding cars before, did not convince the judge that he was qualified to make such an assessment.

From her opinion:

It is simply incredible, in the absence of reliable scientific, technical, or other specialized information, to believe that one could hear an unidentified vehicle “speeding” without being able to determine the actual speed of the vehicle. The officer offered no testimony regarding how he might have been trained to audibly distinguish various speeds, let alone to distinguish the speeds of various makes and models of vehicles.

What’s intriguing about this ruling is that, thinking beyond conventional empirical evidence (namely, the radar gun), the judge alludes to the possibility of a hypothetical listener skilled enough to be able to do exactly what Officer Roth only imagined he could – to listen as well as the radar sees. This would, admittedly, be a type of listening disciplined by visualism inasmuch as it would be burdened with the task of identification, which is a visual metaphor. But it would still be an impressive technique.

Apologies, incidentally, for the lack of updates over the past six days. (I got hitched.)

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Untitled Conference Paper, Originally “The Co-Motion of Bangkok”

by Benjamin Tausig
PhD Candidate
New York University

I. THE HOTEL (HAVING LEFT HOME)
The scene opens in a hotel room, luggage splayed on the bed, a copy of Time Out Bangkok folded over to a page of events listings on the night table.

A. This paper will be delivered as an imaginary travelogue. On a narrative level, we move from a hotel in Bangkok to a rock concert a few miles off. On a theoretical level, we move from a discussion of urban spatiality to the point where an empirical examination of contemporary musical practice in Bangkok can begin, searching as we move for connections and patterns of determination between spatial configurations and culture. The things we see and hear along the way will serve as catalysts for specific discussions about the production of space and its potential relationship to new methods in ethnomusicology.

B. What do we mean by the production of space? The term itself comes from Henri Lefebvre, who emphasized the political and historical richness of space – urban space, mental space, safe space, national space. Lefebvre sought the material basis of each of these metaphors, and in doing so challenged the idea that they were indeed metaphorical at all. Space is not an empty vessel into which humanity pours its actions, but is an object of labor, contest and transformation. Lefebvre’s approach has been influential for a number of Marxist geographers, including several prominent Thai ones, and has worked towards upending the idea that spatial containers such as cities, states, and cultural identities are fixed and pre-given containers, rather than political emergences.

My argument is that we can usefully refigure our analysis of discrete musical events by focusing on the production of their spaces. In Bangkok, like many modern urban areas, this means dealing with mobility in some historical and ideological detail. Subjectivity in capitalist space is largely defined by the way one moves around. Modes and timing of transportation are significant class markers, for example. And a spatial regime predicated on mobility, as we will see, has had all kinds of implications for musicality.

So, as a complement to the other papers on this panel, which consider technologies of mobile listening, I want to examine how technologies of mobility, broadly considered, have been brought to bear on listening, even the kinds that might appear, at a glance, situated.

C. Ethnomusicologists have tended to study Thai music locationally, much as ethnographers have tended to study culture of all sorts. At times they have had good reason to do so. Traditionally, which is to say in the years before bureaucracy and mechanical reproduction, musical knowledge in Thailand was transmitted from teacher to pupil firsthand in the teacher’s home. I quote Patricia Shehan Campbell, writing in the 1990s, at length – “for the serious musician, the piphat houses provide the intensive training that performance mastery requires – the frequent one-on-one lessons with a master musican-teacher, the uninterrupted periods of solo practice and ensemble rehearsals, the continuous stream of music and musical commentary that hangs in the air. The piphat houses provide an ambience unequalled in Thailand, and rarely found in other world contexts. That these houses remain at all is surely a testimony to the strength of the system, and to the realization that such training has produced Thailand’s greatest musicians.” For Shehan-Campbell, Pamela Moro, Terry Miller, and many others, home-based pedagogy proved more potent than the modern techniques that supplanted it, such as following along with a recording or learning from sheet music. These scholars argue that new methods privilege speed over mastery, sacrificing technique in the process. With regard to historical standards, they are correct.

D. Nevertheless, and perhaps regrettably, home-based musical education in Thailand has grown rarer through the decades, beginning with the fall of the absolute monarchy in 1932. In that year, court musicians stopped receiving patronage from the king, and the burden of support for musical training shifted wholesale to the federal government. Numerous scholars, including Wong and Miller, have written about this transformation in detail. Today, Thai classical music is organized, taught, and performed under the authority of the Department of Fine Arts. Ensemble music is housed almost exclusively within the public educational system, from elementary programs up to the universities, and, as Wong suggests, public performances are now calibrated to serve the specular goals of the state, including the appearance of enlightenment, historical cohesion, and modern nationhood.

E. Thai nationalism arguably reached its apotheosis at precisely the moment when ensemble training left home; that is, during the U.S. military engagement in Southeast Asia in the middle years of the 20th century. Thai political figureheads worked tirelessly to avoid colonization or direct occupation, and succeeded through a policy of strategic acquiescence to the American political agenda. This included making a convincing show of hunting communists as well as offering the northern provinces as bases from which to launch air strikes during the Vietnam War. In those same years, the transient presence of more than 1 million American G.I.’s throughout the course of the war fueled a booming tourist economy. Bangkok had around 40,000 tourist visitors annually in the late 1950s; by 1970 it had 600,000. And with economic growth came mobility outward as well; increasingly, Thai students as well as a number of senior officials spent significant time in educational programs in the United States. A catalogue from a recent exhibition at the Thailand Creative & Design Center claims that “Thai architecture of the late 60s was catalyzed by three main forces: the advent of modernizing urban lifestyles, new construction technologies, and the return of overseas-educated Thai architects influenced by Western modernist principles.”

The spaces of the city thus changed dramatically, as hotels and offices quite literally sprouted on top of rice paddies. Those years saw the development of a metropolitan infrastructure that could both entice and accommodate international visitors, laborers, ex-patriots, and business people.

F. As for musical practice, a military-sponsored globalization of the economy effectively recast the home as a single pulse in a quotidian rhythm that integrated Thai music elsewhere – pedagogically, as a part of the educational system, and performatively, on the highest international stages available. Traditional music, for the first time in Siamese history, became a category unto itself, distinct from a growing array of popular alternatives that operated according to their own spatial logics.

G. Anyway, here we are, in our hotel room, tourists about to leave to see a show.

II. SUKHUMVIT ROAD

We step outside, and are hailed immediately by everyone. A woman fries noodles on a wheeled griddle; a man hawks summer blockbusters from overseas; a tuk-tuk driver asks where we’re going; a taxi honks; a bar girl tells us we’re handsome.

A. Ross King and Cuttaleeya Noparatnaraporn argue that many Bangkokers are uneasy about the streets, or thanon, that serve as the city’s primary arteries. In the past, it was the canals, or khlong, that people traveled along. Many khlong are still used today, especially by poor Thais, for transportation, cooking, and bathing, but they are unspeakably filthy. For the authors, thanon exemplify the regime of empty surfaces that reigns over public life in the modern era, while khlong represent neighborliness and depth. The abject toxicity of the khlong today is powerful evidence that modernity disregards the values that flow through it. Using the physical characteristics of water and land as metaphors, King and Cuttaleeya describe a zero sum game between fluidity and segmentation. And their dichotomy maps comfortably onto the prevailing lament among many ethnomusicologists for a waning moment of immediate pedagogical interaction.

B. However, it is well to remember that the paved roads of Bangkok are not only vacant conduits between the rhythmic pulses of a modern social space. Lefebvre reminds us that rhythms can be both linear and cyclical, that certain operations return continually to prior points while others process indefinitely. As aural arteries, thanon sweat with the clamor of exchange. They are unplanned and unpredictable, sometimes contradictory, all of which is to say noisy. There is a whole lot more to say about this, but we have to keep moving.

III. SKYTRAIN

Next we board the elevated subway, the BTS SkyTrain. Opened in 1999, the SkyTrain was intended to ease Bangkok’s notorious urban gridlock. In an ethnography of civil unrest in the city, anthropologist Alan Klima tells the story of a mobile phone commercial, based on a true story, that aired in the early 1990s. A pregnant woman, stuck in traffic, goes into labor. Armed with a cellular phone, she calls the hospital, which sends a helicopter to fly her out of the morass. Less than a decade later, the SkyTrain appeared just as heroically, as a savior gliding unimpeded above the polluted, jam-packed thanon.

As with many cities’ public transit systems, mobile communication technologies are highly prevalent on the SkyTrain. Commuters use the downtime of transit as an opportunity to talk to friends on the phone; teenagers send SMS’s and play games; and televisions alternately show commercials and offer bilingual information about the next stop. Sonically, the SkyTrain reveals some of the city’s most advanced efforts at efficient organization. Cross the yellow line near the tracks on any platform, and one of two safety officers will blow a whistle with impressive haste. Listen for station details pronounced in exquisite central Thai, through pristine loudspeakers. Watch advertisements that help fund system maintenance. Recognize every digital ring and ping from someone’s device as a meaningful form of address. This is not the whole story of sound on the train, but our stop is coming up.

Lastly, the advent of the SkyTrain has had an important impact on musical space. Mass transit links far flung parts of the city, opening up scores of potential new venues that would have been impractical twenty years ago. Middle- and upper-class audiences in particular can be expected to travel quite far, and with round-trip fares on the SkyTrain as low as 50 cents U.S., the cost is not prohibitive. Some of Bangkok’s more creative indie promoters have taken advantage of this situation by scheduling shows in surprising, inexpensive venues, including the occasional illegal warehouse party in an industrial area or blue-collar neighborhood. These shows are explicitly non-local affairs. The mobility of the audience means that promoters can attempt to summon listeners without advance notice, to congregate in whatever location works for their purposes at that moment.

IV. ROT MOTOSAI

We reach our stop. As we walk down the steps from the SkyTrain platform, we notice that this area is altogether unlike Sukhumvit Road. The signs are almost exclusively in Thai, for one thing, and there is a lot less neon. Furthermore, we are no longer bombarded with the promise of infinite pleasure for just a few baht. In fact, the only human beings in view are four men wearing orange vests lounging on motorcycle taxis next to a 7-11, passing around a bottle of whiskey and cracking jokes about our weird farang clothing.

Since the show is almost a mile up the side road, it makes sense to hitch a quick ride.

Mototaxis are a cheap and common form of transportation, used mostly for short trips like this one. They are also far and away the most dangerous way to get around town, as the leadfooted drivers blatantly ignore red lights and even sidewalks while you cling to their vehicle, wearing a cracked helmet or none at all. Weaving through traffic is, in contrast to the SkyTrain, an inelegant form of mobility. You can do it, but it’s risky, not to mention somewhat vulgar.

Although precise occupational statistics are difficult to find, most mototaxi drivers arrive from Isaan, the impoverished, agrarian northeastern region of Thailand. Internal migration from Isaan has grown substantially as upcountry folk have come to Bangkok in search of higher wages to send back to their families. Many find employment in construction, day labor, transportation, or as sex workers. They speak a highly distinct regional dialect largely incomprehensible to central Thais-speakers, which is a frequent source of derisive humor.

Isaan’s most visible cultural contribution to contemporary Bangkok is, ironically, music. Morlam and lukthung styles, which originated in the northeast, have been seized upon by proponents of Thai nationalism (most of whom hail from Bangkok) as symbols of a shared national heritage. Whereas northeastern styles were once considered base among the metropolitan elite, they have slowly gained cache since the 1980s. Miller describes this sea-change of taste in his 2005 article, “From Country Hick to Rural Hip: A New Identity Through Music for Northeast Thailand.” And Pamela Moro suggests that many musicians now supplement their income playing Isaan music at tourist venues in Bangkok. Many of these performances, which take place in the same neighborhoods as western bars and clubs, also feature dancers in stylized regional costumes. Although the shows are pretty kitschy, both tourists and urban Bangkokers invest a great deal in their authenticity. Appropriation of regional music is a political and musical gold mine.

We attempt to haggle with the driver, but our accent betrays us. The three-minute trip costs an exorbitant 30 baht.

V. VENUE

We arrive, at last, at our musical object, a concert taking place in a venue called the Live House. For now, we can only hear the music obscurely, as a nebulous cloud pushing outward against the doors, the lower frequencies escaping into a cavernous, marbled courtyard. There are no names yet, no lyrics and no instruments. There will be plenty of time for those.

This clip is not offered in irony, as a symbolic turn away from music. By stopping at the doorway, before we reach “the music itself,” I hope it will be clear that a discussion of mobility has not been incidental to musical production. The process of pursuing a musical object is itself highly revelatory in a way that can and should be meaningful to ethnomusicologists. In the paper just presented, what we heard as we traveled, from street noise to accents, held out quite a bit of useful data about the production of the music that lay behind the door, still beyond our ears. I am not suggesting that we dispense with conventional musical analysis, but I hope that by isolating and listening closely to the journey, I have convinced you that attention to space can be a useful ethnographic method.

And if the trip was dizzying, if it left us with a nebulous cluster of conclusions rather than a concrete object to take home, perhaps we should let it be so. The phenomenological experience of moving through an urban area, through channels carved out according to a variety of logics, has a great deal to teach us about spatial contours and effects, which bear in no small way on the bundle of relationships called culture. Understanding the relationships between space and cultural practice will require enduring a little motion sickness.

Finally, too often the traditional and the modern are dichotomized and counterposed, eastern body and western infection. But modernity is not a viral condition. It is a diffuse ideological regimen with a long and complex history that demands new ways of thinking through identity, including some that are equipped to consider mobility more acutely than situation. For ethnomusicologists, it is crucial to recognize that music in a modern moment – be it received as traditional, popular, or classical – is necessarily routed through a modern infrastructure. Listening to space, we can begin to hear how.