This is Evan Scott Bryson’s Oulipo-constrained podcast.
Title: BATTLE ROBOT
Style: Nostalgic Interrogation
Description of piece: A rumination on the appearance, worth, and rift of a BATTLE ROBOT entering the life of a rural youth.
Prerecorded voice: ‘Goobyes’ from friends on cellphone voicemails; Rhythmic noice: police sirens; Exclamation: air raid siren.
Time: 2:35 (pardon, pardon—sound only lasts until 2:32)
—Of course, there’s a lot of drumming, and some distorted vocals in the music track; and, probably some other exclamations. This is give or take. (’And he takes and he takes and he takes.’) But my own I introduce in the peculiar order. I’m particular.
Who is on this track? Kimberly Sienkiewickz and myself and my snare drum. But also:
Twelve Thirteen’s stimulating song ‘number5′.
http://www.archive.org/details/twelvethirteennumber5
& a police siren found here, which breaks at about 230 bps, I bet:
http://www.jamglue.com/mixes/42932-Police-Siren
& a rad air raid siren found here:
http://www.jamglue.com/tracks/565015-Sound-Effects-Air-Raid-Siren
Thanks for this. If I can cite this any better, hunt me down and shake me until I do so.
SOME REFLECTIONS—
In Kieth Gessen’s opening remarks to n+1’s symposium, “A Practical Avant-garde,” he says, “One of the things we expected to happen when we started a magazine that published fiction, and that didn’t happen—one of the many things—is that people would bombard us with weird stuff they’d written. We expected stories that didn’t make any sense, edible stories, or stories that caused you to go blind as you read them, and—it’s a good thing that this didn’t happen. But it’s also a little puzzling.”
And perhaps now I’m addressing Gessen’s comment to this crop of podcasts, which, given the “Oulipian” constraints, still share remarkable characteristics between themselves, and are seldom strange or unnerving or very unconventional, despite the various complications had by software users, and the various sophistications of their enterprises. What strange or unnerving podcasts might sound like I think we can imagine, but “very unconventional” edges on hoity-toity assumptions about what conventions, regardless, there are to flout. But I’m not here to discuss why our podcasts aren’t avant-garde (a question that is almost cruel in its supposition), though if the Oulipians often labour at works with avant-garde novelty or aesthetics, perhaps this brief transference of values can be excused as the curious ditherings of a fool always disappointed in his flimsy makings. (Perhaps not disappointed, but definitely curious as to the creation’s unresolved aspects. Who doesn’t have the same thoughts about the weather right now? Why won’t it just snow?)
No—I think I’ll continue on that route. If the only literature is voluntary literature, as Raymond Queneau posits in the minutes of Memorandum #4, then hot dammit none of us had much of a shot at the an art enterprise anyways, that is, if we concede a difference between assignments, exercises, productions and commodities. We may be speaking the same language between “works” and “dalliances,” but in the end that seems, to me, about as much distinction as “glib remarks” and the “State of the Union Address.” (Although, nobody quotes from State of the Union addresses, and the glib remarks slide into infamy forever—a lot of tosh. And, I’m reminded now of Bret Easton Ellis’ novel _Less Than Zero_ written in a Bennington creative writing class. I’ve bought three copies in the last four years. What a lot of tosh this back and forth is.)
I’m interested in machine as machine and I’m interested in resisting/worshipping the machine in direct proportion to how far I can anthropomorphize the machine’s intentions/capabilities. When it serves me I serve it. I didn’t want to make a podcast about something that wasn’t a machine, a metal-wires-plastic-silicon thing. The music I’ve been listening to this semester has that sterile sounding gling-modulation of robots making sweet love music. “PowerBooks having sex,” is how the magazines put it. The noise in my head is cobalt-cunky and jiggered with delay, clips and clicks. Daft Punk, Battles, The Books, Animal Collective, Girl Talk, and more specifically Squarepusher’s “I Wish You Could Talk” and “The Exploding Psychology” (off the “Go Plastic” album).
So I considered for a while just crashing a bunch of shit together, hyper-magic-mountain-style, and listening for the robot love. Would the sounds fit for constraining emerge? I recorded seven minutes of half-listened to voicemails to uncover any nuggets—I had one from Valerie asking me if I was eating, if I had viable sources of food (my meal card ran out). How often does one get a desperate hunk of love transmitted like that, begging one to eat? And my twin brother, he called on his way to Poland, and wished himself happy travels and for me a good weekend! I recorded a windy night sitting with my blind dog on the back porch, raising my PowerBook up to the wind chimes. I filled my mothers wedding crystal with different volumes of water and massaged their rims, had my father toot his deputy’s La Sabre horns, smashed wood and pipes together….
But the avant-garde, the spurious, the bi-curious, the deathly-ill-sounding, is hard to manufacture when I don’t have a line-in or a complete drum set. And, also, the persistent nagging, deep in my gut-pit that Audacity might quit and hide my files on the fifth hour of prime-production. A thing called the “noise floor” also plays a part in righteously slamming me into a bad mood. As I bowed across my brother’s violin strings, I could see the fine input glyphs churl and churn into a thick band of crunch. Consumptive coughing. (But all the sweet violin stuff didn’t make the cut anyway—the machine decided for me, in this instance, what it felt worth keeping, and when, and took everything—even the windchimes.) By moving initial recording to GarageBand I was able to manufacture some base tracks to be messed with in Audacity. Insurance. The downloaded sounds were ok by and bye.
The Oulipo constraints were hardly! Although, listening now—listening convulsively—to my podcast, I think where I activate the constraints is not as transparent as it could be. The track begins with a mouf-beat breathed into a flash of bass, a drop, but that is still recorded voice, only deteriorated. —And then those words are spoken, “From the beginning…” and then a—an exclamation? No—just some exposition. Slight. After this a snare drum is played—but that isn’t my rhythmic noise (I play for slops, folks—I only have rhythm where rugburns are concerned), this is just some dischord. Then the “Goodbye” spoken, quickly, puntuatingly, by the robot lady in my voicemail and my friend Megan, layer-caked. More rhythms emerge. The police sound. Then onto the soft spot of the programming, and then the air ride siren (exclamation). But then the ending happens—where the girls admits something. And this is an exclamation, too. With knowledge of the constraints, everything built around them mirrored them, embellished them, scooped them. The constraints began to echo one another, and then to converse. Retro-active-like.
Anyhow, had I that most-coveted resource, I would have: added really obnoxious crunchy sounds exploding in the higher octaves, complimented by the tensing and unspooling of somber chords on the bottom of the organ rack.
I think a constraint the Oulipo should take into account—the ur-restraint, which exists internalized and externalized among structuralist ideas about language—is a notion of agency. And what happens when that agency, at every turn, is compromised within the panoptic cult of the university. And, I guess this is what I’m talking about now—the constraint of time, which is not intrinsic to Oulipian methodology, but serves a function all its own, on both the psychology of the creator and the life of the created. Frankenstein-style. BATTLE ROBOT-style.