Synthesizers, Anyone? (Outline for The Synthetic Sound)

My contribution to The Synthetic Sound will be focused on the Trip Hop movement in Bristol, England. The parts of my paper are as follows:

Geographic influences: Why Bristol? Why Europe? Trip Hop in particular is a genre of electro that has taken off in Europe and yet has never really found its way to the ears of people in the United States. A feasible answer is that Trip Hop is intrinsically linked to its environment, the cultural traditions of this small area of Britain, and the character of the people. Since these sensibilities are less foreign to the European community, the Trip Hop sound gained popularity. Through examining the exact nature of Bristol and the surrounding towns, context for the music will be established as well as a definition of modern English auditory sensibility.

Musical Style/Influences: This is where specific case studies come in. Massive Attack and their label, Alpha, The Sneaker Pimps, Portishead, and Helicopter Girl will allow me to tie specific sounds to specific genres, regions, and peoples.

(But of Course) HISTORY: Does industrialization affect music production? How about the history of music in the UK? Is the music reactionary, and if so, against what? This is the area in which all questions of how will be answered. After all, it can be argued that every artistic sensibility comes out of the circumstances surrounding the artist...is that true?

Hypothetical Thesis: The Bristol-centered Trip Hop movement was a reaction to the postmodern notion of "simulacra" embodied in the commercial music that continues to be produced today. To counteract this commercialism, Trip Hop groups strove to capture the singularity of their towns and people with never-before heard synthetic sounds.

Visions of the Future: Post-Racialization

Dear Ms. MEHness,

Years after the publication of this issue of Time Magazine, there was a news program about the amazing technology used to generate the face of the woman on the cover. At the time, I was about eleven or twelve years old and just beginning to understand my own complex racial identity. I looked at the report, the computer generated face on the cover, and the sensationalized accounts of the (apparently modern) occurrence of racial mixing in this country. Idly, I wondered why Time Magazine never thought to hire a multiracial human model--they exist. In fact, that racially plural, digital face does not represent the people of the future; we're here right now, and guess what? We've always been here.

I'm strangely flattered, in a way, that Time Magazine groups me with the pluralistic, racially revolutionary people that will supposedly change the face of our country and the world. I feel as though I must be experiencing first-hand "futuristic living" as it is defined by Time Magazine. On standardized tests, I bubble in a different race every year; on my college applications, I checked up to five boxes under "Racial Makeup." (In case you were wondering: White, African-American, West Indian, European, Other.) In interviews, I receive such intrepid and sometimes well-intentioned questions such as, "What are you?" or "What's your mix?" If people are uncomfortable with the word "mix," they will usually substitute "nationality," and then when I explain, I get slapped with the "exotic" label. I must say, the life of a person of the future is fairly difficult to convey.

The most interesting conversation I've had about my race in a long time happened a few days ago, when an Orthodox Jewish man asked me how I stay grounded intellectually. According to him, one's personality is formed mostly through the adherence to tradition, and my racial multiplicity worried him because he thought I had no solid cultural base to grow from. His concern for my cultural and spiritual well-being was kindly, so I expressed to him the same Pollyanna vision of the future I envisioned for Europe in MEH:

One day, far in the future, our concept of race will become so dilute that racial discrimination will be virtually impossible.

Tradition will be maintained, but culture individually innovated.

Conflict will come of material, intellectual, and emotional disputes. Xenophobia will be too confusing to entertain.

Then, he shared a picture of his Japanese-Irish-Polish niece and nephew with me. His family's contribution to racial plurality, he said. The people of the future who are the here-and-now.

The Synthetic Sound: Further Mooging

Dear Elizabeth,

The moog, despite its clunky design and now dated technology, is perhaps the most influential musical tool of the electronic movement. Developed by the American Robert Moog, the instant popularization of the analog synthesizer in Germany marked a distinct shift in the way Germans viewed postwar technology. (To learn more about the heavy industry and military technology prevalent in WWII, I suggest checking out the research of fellow MEH bloggers JED, Natewozere, and Sam.) The moog is far from militant; it is, simply, a machine for synthesizing and innovating sounds. The Berlin School's extensive use of the moog was not only a method of expression but also a way of emphasizing technological nonviolence after WWII. Tangerine Dream, especially, used the moog to produce peaceful, ambient sounds--sounds which no one could have imagined coming from a machine.



Naturally, the moog was quickly replaced by digital synthesizers; the Trip Hop movement centered in Bristol skipped the moog completely. However, the idea of spreading a philosophy through innovating sound persisted and allowed for future artists to expand the impact of electronic music throughout Europe (and the world).

There Was Legitimate Culture in Postwar Europe?

After the fall of fascism, Europe was left open to a new way of life. The tragedy of the Holocaust left many individuals and governments in shock, and measures were taken that ensured the prevention of further extremist activity in government. The sudden lack of censorship in allowed both revolutionaries and artists to speak out in new (or perhaps forgotten) ways. In France, this renewed freedom of expression enabled the production of avant-garde film and philosophy. As the existentialists wrote in Montmatre, filmmakers set about depicting the modern world. The most famous French filmmakers of the era were Jean-Luc Godard and Francois Truffaut--the former, an absurdist; the latter, and existentialist romantic.



The Soft Skin (1964) was Truffaut's first dark film. His previous works operated on a certain joie de vivre which French audiences found refreshing. However, in the story of a writer who leaves his wife for an airline stewardess, Truffaut captured the unsettling reality of "modern romance." The reality of two women and a man in a postwar world struck viewers too close to home, and despite the film's acceptance to Cannes Film Festival, it flopped at the box office. Critics today assert that Truffaut's darkest film is one of his best efforts, accurately depicting the personal conflicts of postwar Europe.

Camus and Literary Existentialism. (Love at First Sight?)

In his essay "The Myth of Sisyphus," Albert Camus tackles the existentialist conundrum of choice. Sisyphus, according to Camus, accepts his punishment because he chose it in the most vague sense--through his actions. Thus, the action of choosing itself is rendered meaningless, and since one cannot consciously choose the course of one's own life, then life is also meaningless. However, Camus was not one of the purists of existentialism; rather, he was more concerned with the literary intrigue of existentialist ideas than with the philosophy itself. Camus' tendency towards existentialism as a literary device is not clearly seen in his essays, but in The Stranger, this unique use of existentialist principle is clearly seen in the protagonist Meursault.

For most of the novel, Meursault can be described as an "existentialist nightmare." He feels, but in abstract, detached, almost inhuman ways. He does things simply because they are vaguely interesting to him. He reiterates that life means nothing, achievement means nothing, emotions mean nothing. He is neither bad nor good, and then, just because he was confused by the sun or wanted to take a walk or felt uncomfortable around crying women, he ends up killing a man. He is convicted, and his conviction is reasonable to both the audience and Meursault himself. Even though he "didn't mean" to kill a man, his actions clearly led him to do it, and thus he chose to commit murder, whether he realized it or not. However, Camus breaks from existentialism after the verdict in a very subtle manner. In a scene where Meursault is lying on his prison bed, contemplating his oncoming death, he is suddenly subsumed by true feeling; he appreciates the former beauty and happiness of his life, finds (at least superficial) value in it, and feels fear at his imminent end. a hardcore existentialist would maintain that everyday life is meaningless, even in the last moments of one's life, but rather than turning Meursault into a didactic example of existentialism, Camus portrays the essential humanity of his character in these moments. Camus saw that in such a fatal situation, ideology would become irrelevant. Whether or not Meursault chose his fate through his actions, the fear of dying would still be present. Thus, Camus reveals a glaring fault of existentialism: even if life and choice are trifling matters, we as humans will always find greater meaning in living because living is what makes us human.

The Synthetic Sound: Portishead

Arguably the most well-known trip hop group in the world aside from Massive Attack, Portishead revolutionized the international perception of the electronic sound. In a review of their second, self-titled album, Rolling Stone Magazine described Portishead's unique style as "...an instantly identifiable essence: bleeps transmitted from outer space, familiar syncopation and turntable scratches." Atop these signature "beats," if one can identify them as such, Beth Gibbons' "detached" vocals further distinguish Portishead from its contemporaries. (Early hits include Glory Box and Numb.) Recently, with the long-awaited release of their third album, aptly titled Third, Portishead has become more avant-garde than before, abandoning their usual brooding melodies to explore disjointed, sharp sounds.

Despite Rolling Stone Magazine's claims that their music originated in "outer space," Portishead was born from its immediate surroundings. Founded in Bristol, United Kingdom in 1991, Portishead drew inspiration from the geography of the region. The band's namesake, the town of Portishead, is so small that it is not usually referenced without connection to Bristol or North Somerset. Mostly known for its railways and docks, Portishead was never known as a cultural center before the band came along. However, despite its bland history and negligible art scene, there is a compelling atmosphere in Portishead; amidst the generic industrial buildings are sculptures that border on the bizarre. How such a small town came upon the funds to commission public art is a mystery, and the works seem out of place--they neither relate to Portishead's extensive seafaring history nor establish a sophisticated artistic tradition. It is apt that an innovative band such as Portishead would draw inspiration from a typical UK town with a quirky public spirit. Although not a direct mission of the band, Portishead attempts to capture this spirit in its truest form.


Portishead - Machine Gun from vruz on Vimeo.

Just Another Cold (War) Day: Reflecting on the Simulation

Red and blue are more than just opposites on the color wheel; once these hues were adopted by the USSR and the West, they went from being a child's finger painting colors to highly politicized indicators of territory. In the simulation today, as a member of the US/Western Europe interest group, I was intensely interested by how much influence a single color could have. When we had no communication with the Soviet Union and only speculation about USSR actions, the huge block of red in the east seemed more and more ominous. As the (mild) paranoia mounted, the desire to contain the communist "threat" seemed increasingly more reasonable. (We never even considered protecting the United States by confining ourselves to the western hemisphere...hence the scuffle for Mexico in the last three or so rounds.) By placing bases near to the heart of the USSR--or as close as we could come--we felt more secure in our offensive capabilities. However, our policy of containment was ineffective, even though our strategic prowess seemed to be right on target. Why? I suspect it had something to do with our lack of information. We were making moves based on our Western conception of how the Soviet think-tank works, and yet we were not familiar enough with their strategy to possibly know their goals, actions, and philosophies. Therefore, our good moves were simply flukes. We left too many holes in our geographical strategy to be of any real threat to our opponents. It's no wonder that our ultimatum fell short of the desired effect--so what if we had nukes in Japan? They slipped through the many gaps we left open, take Mexico, threaten us with close-range missiles. We did not establish ourselves as a formidable force, so why should they treat us like one?

Ultimately, bombing on a whim--or perhaps a fear--seemed like a pointless solution to our color problem. It would not only be a waste of power but also a meaningless exercise. Nuclear warfare would do nothing to establish us as the better faction, and if our bat-like strategy wouldn't work, brute force wasn't going to be much of an improvement.