The story
What survives of a place when its sounds stop being recognisable
For three days in May 2018 the walled town of Sarzana, in Liguria, filled with sound. A festival had taken over its historic centre, and music was happening in courtyards, porticoes and squares that people usually cross in silence. The recording campaign ran across those three days, and what interested me was never the concerts. It was everything around them, the setting up, the waiting, the footsteps of people arriving, the bells, the applause reaching from a street away, the laughter, the fragments of conversation a microphone catches without meaning to. Ninety-six recordings came out of it, eight hours and five minutes of a town that had changed its acoustic identity for a weekend.
The composition began the following year, and it started from one question.
What survives of a place once its sounds stop being recognisable?
The spectral work was done inside AudioSculpt, the IRCAM editor. Recordings were taken apart into partials and rebuilt from them, filtered through the spectral image of other sounds, transposed, time stretched and cross-synthesised, until a bell became a texture and a voice became a colour. The decision that shaped everything was to stay in the moment just before the source disappears. Fragments stay identifiable for a second or two, then dissolve. A listener recognises something familiar and loses it again, and that recognition and loss is what the piece is made of.
The form is in three movements. A dense first part, saturated with the town. A long thinning from around three and a half minutes, where nearly everything is taken away and what remains is barely above the noise floor. Then a second growth, on material that has travelled further from its origin.
The last section leaves the recordings behind. Four resonant filters, excited by randomised impulse trains, build a synthetic resonance that is no longer the town but holds its shape. The piece ends in a place the microphones had never been.