Sounding St Mary's I

Leaving the recorder running, I made my way to the front of the sanctuary. There standing silently, I listened to the soundscape; a cooing pigeon; the bright chirping of small birds; the doppler-drone of a light aircraft overhead; and the underlying tape-hiss of leaves animated by the breeze. Sensing the right moment, I bend down to release a self-propelled cat toy on its journey through the church, with the intention of listening to its knocks and winding movements sounding the space, illuminating its architecture much as late-night lightning reveals the contours of a darkened landscape. I press the on-button and gently release the ball on the tiled floor. Its trajectory would be, in part, determined by the push-pull of unpredictable forces yet, ultimately, preordained by virtue of the step down from the altar and then again to the nave. The smack of cheap plastic on hard surfaces exposed the building’s acoustic. The harsh, hollow sound felt like an imposition, not only upon the quiet, but upon any solemn dignity that might have been present beforehand. The regular triggering of the ball’s motor obeyed its own rhythm, utterly unconcerned with the skirmish between its shell and the space. Unable to adapt, the ball slipped on the stone with every sudden change in direction. There was a tangible disconnect, with the ball unable to sense what might be deemed appropriate in such a space. As it tumbled off the altar step, the prominence of the reverberance began to fade, foregrounded by the ball, slowly meandering its way towards the microphones. Drawing closer, its path became less muddied by the space and increasingly sharp, direct and traceable. The recorder, perched on a pew, amassed the transmission through the resonance of stone, wood and the recorder’s aluminium body. The lighter ambience of sound through air, was filled-out with the low, rolling bottom-end, the bone conduction of the pews adding depth, resonance and body. And then, falling off the curb beneath the sanctuary arch, the return of hollow wanderings, diffuse thumps, bumps and clunks until I retrieved and deactivated it.

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I often enjoy the lack of patterning and the small surprises inherent in aleatoric (chance or indeterminate) music. On this occasion, however, the lack of patterning in the cat toy’s movements, left me feeling empty. There is an orderliness about the building, with its parallel pews, carefully considered views, sympathetically balanced arches, symmetrically carved wood, thoughtfully positioned stained glass and neatly placed ritual adornments – a reciprocal balance of aesthetics and ritual function. While slightly less predictable, the softening of the soundscape by stone also keeps disorder at bay, providing sanctuary from the more turbulent sounds of the graveyard and beyond. Even when populated with clergy and parishioners, such traditional English churches evoke a particular palette of organised sound. There are the bells marking out sacred time and space, the structured singing of choirs and congregations, the organ’s harmonies, chords and measured registrations, the rhythmic swish of ceremonial vestments, the hushed voices and unhurried movements of adherents. These are the rituals and vessels of church filtered through Reformation, Puritan and Victorian values, elements that have been moulded by the architecture, fittings and fixtures. Given this traditionally-crafted version of sacred space, the cat toy’s plastic construction, whirring motor and erratic behaviour seemed to snub the space. It didn’t even seem an interesting juxtaposition to the church’s quiet orderliness, it just seemed out of place and disrespectful. As the instigator of this disorder, I felt insensitive for defiling its consecrated status. I noticed that I did not settle down to listen, as the toy blindly bumped its way through the church, choosing instead to shift quietly around the space. I felt removed, disengaged, with no sense of connection to the church as it sounded the space. My listening also felt dispersed and half-present. If I had been controlling the movements of the ball, I may have felt more invested with the ability to bestow some sensitivity to its actions or forge some connection with the space. Yet, the inherent sonic qualities of its thin plastic shell randomly knocking against the immovable mass of the church, would likely always feel like a feeble imposition, rather than an honouring of its history and quiet authority.

Thanks for sharing this listening with me,

Richard.