Vieux Lille Soundwalk

Beneath our second floor window, Lille is preparing for the day. The early morning movements of delivery vehicles, street cleaners and the bellowing voice of a man with a lot to say, were more singularly noticeable against the soft hum of a city still stirring. Knowing that it wouldn’t be long until the district was buzzing with life, masking its sonic details, I rallied myself, putting-on yesterday’s clothes, grabbing my recorder and leaving the apartment. Heading down the narrow, turret-like staircase to the first floor made me aware of both my foot placement and my sound-making; the creaking of my shoes, the staircase, the fabric of my coat brushing the banisters. This intimate acoustic quickly morphed into a more communal one as I reached the landing, my footsteps more reverberant down the main staircase and into the lobby.

Opening the heavy wooden front door, the soundscape filled-out, seeming to move from mono to stereo, with passing traffic creating a depth and movement that widened the sound-stage further. Having not envisaged a route for this impromptu soundwalk, I decided to head towards the Cathédrale Notre-Dame-de-la-Treille, stopping briefly in a doorway to take-stock of happenings in the street. Here, the narrower lanes and cobbled paving rattled suspension, shook chassis and generated a rolling, flapping sound akin to that produced by a flat tyre. The slower flow of traffic gave ‘Old Lille’ a very different sense of movement to its newer districts.

A little way down Rue du Cirque, the cathedral emerged from behind trees sparsely decorated with plastic snowflakes. I instinctively climbed the cathedral steps to listen to the working world being held at a respectful distance. The soundscape, muddied and muted in the cold air felt more palatable at this time in the morning. Nevertheless, the clatter of deliveries eventually broke the hush and moved me to head down the steps and continue along Rue des Trois Mollettes. The sound of water falling, reverberating through a drainpipe, stopped me in my tracks and I spent a moment appreciating its naturalness and unpredictability. A passing van swept me out of my reverie and moved me on, then left, down Rue Doudin, past the noisy drill of refits and renovations. Spotting a large open door at the end of a side street, I headed down Rue Jean Jacques Rousseau, its name kindling within me vague impressions of his solitary walks, connecting me with the history of this corner of France.

The impressive entrance to the Jardin De L’Abbaye De Loos that I had spotted from a distance, suggested private property, making me hesitate and slow as I approached it. But, alongside the large wooden doors and ornately carved cornice, were opening times and no ‘Acces Interdit’ sign in sight. So, I cautiously ventured in. The courtyard garden was bare, visually quite unappealing and muddy, its edges ploughed-up by cars that had veered off the driveway running through it. Nevertheless, sonically, the surrounding buildings forged a quiet position, and reflected-back at me the cawing of crows, the distant clatter of bins and what sounded like breakfast bowls being washed-up. I sank into the stillness for a while and waited for the crows to give me a signal to leave. At their prompt, I walked through the porched exit gate and crossed over to the Rue des Vieux Murs.

I skirted past Au Petit Vieux Café (‘Little Old Man Café’) with the ‘Allo ‘Allo’ theme tune playing as incidental music in my head. A little further down the Passage Des Arts, I passed a ground-level vent, its drone oddly comforting, replacing the accordion-driven ear-worm gifted to me from my childhood. A sweet aroma wafted up from it and beckoned me to stop and take a moment to savour the experience. After a while and taking my prompt from the soundscape, a car horn signalled for me to move on and I headed towards the corner with Rue de la Monnaie. The hands of bakers working dough were visible beneath the strip of frosted glass, making sense of the homely smell of bread and pastries that had drifted from the vent moments earlier.

Crossing the road, it wasn’t long until I spotted a market being set-up in Place du Concert. The singing and chatter of stall-holders drew me towards the vans, trailers and trestle tables, only the sight and smell of fish, mussel, lobster and crab corpses discouraged me from stopping. A minute or so further along Rue de la Collégiale, I reached the Place des Archives where, noticing my battery indicator was down to one bar, I ended the soundwalk, with the bright chirps of a blue tit and a crescendo of traffic skirting the edge of the square, as Vieux Lille opens its doors. In some respects the soundwalk was uneventful and unsurprising. Yet, as I invariably find, the act of paying attention turned the mundane into a meditation. By the end of the walk, I noticed that my footsteps had slowed, my thinking was less dispersed and that habitual, almost innate drive to get somewhere had vanished.

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It can be easy to fall into the trap of presenting soundwalks and field recordings as document, record, fact. Mapping out routes, choosing a time of day, month, year to record, selecting high fidelity equipment, using stereo microphone techniques to mimic human hearing and, in post-production, avoiding intrusive or unrealistic edits, all plays into this smoke-screen of objectivity. This is, of course, deceit. I’m not recording as an anthropologist, a detached ‘observer’ or sonic cartographer. Walking and recording is always an intervention, however small or discreet. The mere presence of a recorder and/or recordist changes the soundscape and how it will be heard. These soundwalks are an improvisation, a dialogue with and an entanglement in the soundscape and, while my voice is absent, my presence is heard throughout.

Map of the soundwalk with stops labelled

For some field recordists and sonic artists, narrating their experience of listening and responding to it with sound-making, makes explicit their presence in the soundscape. Intentionally adding sound in this way, can be viewed as more honest, a conscious acknowledgement of their dialogue with the environment and with others. But for me, remaining quiet feels most natural and is a relief from the slipperiness, deficiency and intrusion of words. The absence of my voice is not meant to be dishonest or disingenuous. My intention is simply to focus my energies on listening with care, respecting and celebrating everyday sounds by paying attention and framing them in a recording. Prioritising listening is one way of connecting with and living each moment more fully.

While I do not intentionally make my presence known in these recordings, it is very much a part of them – audibly so in my footsteps, the rustling of clothing, the coughs, sniffs and handling noise. My presence is also more deeply embedded through the inaudible choices that I make, those ‘free choices’ that are the outworking of my history and interconnectedness with ‘not-me’ elements. Reflecting on the soundwalk around Lille, I notice my tendency to seek out quieter spaces; the cathedral steps; the Jardin De L’Abbaye De Loos; sheltered porched entrances; lanes free from traffic. Even the drone of the bakery air vent was likely prompted by a wish to mask the interruptions of activity. Equally, the time of day I was drawn to recording was inspired by an appreciation of the quiet that created a more distinct relief against elements in the soundscape. My choice of route and where I stopped were guided by variation and novelty (the chatter and song of the market stall-holders), by sonic detail (the water falling through the drainpipe) by a fascination with acoustics (the courtyard garden and its porched exit). The soundwalk is as much a reflection of my own sonic sensibilities, as it is of Vieux Lille - sensibilities which encompass an infinitely complex history and relationship with sound and silence. These sensibilities include the non-sound elements that drive my choices; the prospective greenery of a garden; the smell of baking; the feedback from surfaces underfoot; the promise of warmth, rest or comfort etc. This wider experience is inaudibly present in the recording and every re-listening and remembering prompts another reflection or unearths some other insight. Listening beneath the surface in this way, I hear my interbeing nature deeply etched into this twenty-six and a half minute recording.

Thanks for listening with me,

Rich.

Resources

Jean Jacques Rousseau, Reveries of the Solitary Walker, Penguin, 1979