GLENNWEYANT.COM

BUZZED IN THE SEASONAL CUSP

FURTHER MORE — Fri, 05 Mar 2010 15:58:00 GMT

It's once again seasonal cusp time in Tucson, where Winter lingers and Spring beckons.

The past few months have been unusually wet for the Sonoran Desert, capping mountains in snow and tinting the earth in newly minted emerald green.

Already wildflowers are peppering hills and washes with Technicolor punctuations.

And with this abundance of pollen the bees are active, filling the air with their excited drones.

So naturally it is a good time for projects to emerge as well.

On April 2 TransfiX, a multi-media performance installation will take place at the Monorchid Gallery, 214 E. Roosevelt, Phoenix Ariz.

This collaborative event is centered around the performance work of Rachel Bowditch's company Vessel, with images and sound by Adam Cooper-Teran and poetry by Logan Phillips . Adam and Logan are also key members of Verbobala.

For my part in this work, I'll be bringing The Electric Ferris Box, The Feed Back Accentuator, assorted power tools, prepared guitar, child-size violin and Stylophone to create a multi-dimensional immersive sound environment.

Built without a net, I anticipate this event will take us to some interesting vistas.

Later that week on April 8 (7 p.m.) in Tucson, I'll be presenting Noise Where Prohibited, a one-person show at The Museum of Contemporary Art (MOCA: 265 South Church Avenue).

As composed, Noise Where Prohibited is a work for original instruments ( The Kestrel 920, The Electric Ferris Box, DroneZilla, The Feedback Accentuator, Blu-Blu), radio waves, television signals, prepared guitar, sine waves, child-size violin, assorted power tools and amplified wire extensions.

However, the work itself is highly unpredictable, relying upon elements of chance, chaos and string theory for the ultimate outcome.

The new MOCA space is wonderful and I look forward to working with the natural acoustics the old firehouse provides.

And last but not least, recently I had a chance to meet with Steve Hise a local filmmaker, musician, activist and author.

Steve recently completed an updated version of Wild vs. Wall, his critically acclaimed short feature produced for the Sierra Club.

If you ever wondered what the impact of building walls and assorted infrastructure along the U.S./Mexico border is on the fragile borderland ecology, Wild vs. Wall is a good place to start.

Not to mention, Steve and I laid down the ethereal guitar and bass duets heard in the film.

So that's pretty much the Tucson buzz for now.

Stay tuned and in touch.

Glenn

SLOW SAND RIVER WHISPERS

FURTHER MORE — Thu, 28 Jan 2010 13:29:00 GMT

A week or so ago I returned to the Rillito River as part of the Rillito River Sounding project to compose and play new works utilizing the materials found there.

Previously I'd worked with a segment of river located between the Campbell and Dodge bridges . For this session I chose to explore the area between the Swan and Craycroft bridges.

This stretch of dry river bed has undergone some heavy development within the past decade, but it also retains a more natural state in places, if it is possible for there to be anything "natural" about a river sucked underground by human consumption.

The debris field from buildings falling into the river during times of flood is less here, and the plentiful patches of brush and reeds growing near the banks are filled with birds.

For the composition part of this work I first investigated the properties of the materials at hand.

I brought neither sticks nor bow with me.

Instead I used sand and water worn wood for mallets and a variety of branches that once bore seeds as brushes and scrapers.

I also used my bare hands.

Each object was selected based on the sounds they offered and how they could be integrated into a singular performance titled: Opus #39.

Initially I had planned to work solely with the sounds of the dry river bed, but after the first session a winter storm brought rain and snow.

In no time the Rillito was running above ground and her voice/ presence became a vital component of the work.

So I set out to make recordings of the river in locations I thought interesting based on rhythmic and acoustic patterns.

One wonderful discovery was the correlation between the Rillito's liquidly lyrical bass line and the warm deep end acoustics a termite worn pile of wood made when percussed.

Many of the instruments played were "prepared" by the Rillito herself: scoured by sand and bent by water.

For those who have never heard it, the Rillito River's voice when it flows is powerfully joyous as the voice of all desert rivers should be.

A few of the tracks presented here are simple duets between myself and the Rillito.

It was an honor to have her show up for the sessions and sit in for a few tunes.

Two days after the river flowed it was gone again, sucked back beneath the earth to serve Tucson's water needs.

On a morning following a light frost, I found myself at dawn on the drying river bed, searching for the sound of what might be left of the river.

If you've never done it, looking for a river that is there one day/ gone the next is quite surreal.

The sand over which it had run told tales of the flow: firm in some places, deep sucking slow sand mud in others.

In some places the mud quaked beneath my feet like pudding and I wondered how wise it was to be out on the flats.

Even the coyotes had yet to venture out and leave their prints.

Cold, tired, and saddened by the Rillito's disappearance, trying to avoid pockets of clawing slow sand, I finally spied what was left of the river, steam rising off her back in the morning glow.

All that remained was a thin stream of water, her above ground forward flow finished, and what remained seeming to retreat into the mountains.

I dug a hole where the flow terminated.

The hole instantly filled with water as I inserted a hydrophone made from two Piezo discs attached back-to-back and encased in rubber.

Listening though my headphones with the hydrophone's signal amplified greatly, the Rillito River's voice was down to a whisper.

She'd become a ghost river passing through sand, dislodging a grain here and there, heard on the recordings as occasional clicks.

This is the same river that days before tore at the banks and leapt into the air.

The same river that appears in faded sepia stained photographs from nearly 150 years ago, lazily drifting past groves of cottonwood trees and lingering in reeds.

I know the Rillito is just biding her time.

Nothing lasts forever.

For now she may be a prisoner of consumption, contained underground, shackled by pumps and wells.

But do not be fooled.

It takes only a few good storms to set her free.

And when she returns I hope we will have a chance to play.

I look forward to hearing what the Rillito has to say.

NEW MUSIC HAITIAN RELIEF

FURTHER MORE — Sun, 17 Jan 2010 22:47:00 GMT

Had a chance to work with a group of fantastic musicians/ people this week who joined forces to transform sound into food for Haiti. As of roughly January 25 this project had raised and donated roughly $550 dollars for Haitian food relief.

Details are below.

Good sound. Good Cause. What's not to like?

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Nineteen composers, improvisers and sound artists from diverse online experimental and contemporary classical communities have teamed up to release a compilation CD targeting all the proceeds to go directly to Food For the Poor's Haitian food relief programs. New Music Haitian Relief will give one hundred percent of the proceeds from the sale of these tracks to support a 4 Star Charity, Food For The Poor, which according to Charity Navigator has 96% of their funds going directly to buying food.

Visit sonicanta.bandcamp.com to sample and purchase this charity compilation CD. It's a pay what you wish CD, with a minimum price of $4.99.

Most of these tracks were created specifically for this release and encompass a widely ranging variety of styles.

1. Jay C. Batzner - Near Burning
2. Shane W. Cadman - Prayer
3. J.C. Combs - Navneet Kanchan's Tent at Festive Black Dragon Pond
4. Graculus - mytishchi
5. Jeff Harrington - For Erzulie Dantor
6. Bruce Hamilton - glimm
7. Greg Hooper - Looking Away
8. iriXx : enigmatic x - transmission
9. Alphonse Izzo - Special Green Interlude
10. Johnny and Faith - Love Without Borders
11. Jukka-Pekka Kervinen - Haiti
12. Steve Moshier - Two Sides
13. Paul Muller : For Haiti
14. Lee Noyes - Strength of Woman
15. Mark Phillips/Donna Conaty - Elegy
16. Ben Smith - Improv.Jan.14.2010
17. Robert Stine - Deep Field
18. David Toub - < 10'
19. Glenn Weyant: Work For Prepared Piano and Kestrel

This album is a collection of tracks recorded by members This album is a collection of tracks recorded by members of various internet communities such as improvfriday.ning.com

About Food For The Poor

Food For The Poor, the largest international relief and development organization in the United States, does much more than feed millions of hungry poor in 17 countries of the Caribbean and Latin America. This interdenominational Christian agency provides emergency relief assistance, clean water, medicines, educational materials, homes, support for orphans and the aged, skills training and micro-enterprise development assistance, with more than 96 percent of all donations going directly to programs that help the poor. For more information, please visit www.foodforthepoor.org

According to Charity Navigator, “We are proud to announce that Food For The Poor has earned our eighth consecutive four-star rating for its ability to efficiently manage and grow its finances. Less than 1% of the charities we rate have received at least 8 consecutive 4-star evaluations, indicating that Food For The Poor consistently executes its mission in a fiscally responsible way, and outperforms most other charities in America. This ‘exceptional’ designation from Charity Navigator differentiates Food For The Poor from its peers and demonstrates to the public it is worthy of their trust.”

OLD TAPES, A GOOD DOG AND A NEW YEAR SOUNDING

FURTHER MORE — Wed, 06 Jan 2010 23:32:00 GMT

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Atop a mountain in fading night, my daughter and I settle into a cliff facing east, listening for the sound of 2010 dawning in Tucson.

Train and highway drones roll beneath the flap of passing raven wings.

With morning light the early breeze begins, setting cactus spines in motion.

A whispered song rises as the end of a decade begins.

Life measured out in milestones and benchmarks, low points and highlights.

The evolution of self passing from this into that.

Earlier in the year I'd been rummaging though old tapes from 20 plus years ago, youthful experiments with sound and environment, ideas unfolding.

And so the overlap began with vibrations preserved in magnetic amber.

An audible "beep" translated by tape head and reels, followed by: "Please leave a message at the sound of the tone."

Beep : The tone that instructs.

Captured and stored away within a box filled to bursting with its own kind, this tone lay preserved and unheard until discovered again nearly 2,000 miles from where it first began.

Eventually these six degrees of oscillation, recorded when I was 27, were reworked into a sound installation titled in faded blue pen: 1990 - Mix 4. (LISTEN HERE)

Contained within the plastic housing, is a narrative in magnetic resonance: a tentative romance fizzling, a car crash upon a mountain, the daily grind of a job culled from words, lingering family and childhood's end.

My way of attempting to make sense of that period, was to rework the answering machine messages, mixing them with salvaged tape decks and an old Radio Shack mixer, then setting it in motion to the pulsing ribbon of a feedback drone.

A second tape recently unearthed dates further back to 1988.

At 25 I stayed up late, listening with headphones to the Jersey City night, on a block cluttered with riot ravished abandoned buildings, windowless row homes, pitbulls and crack dealers and a life-force fueled by electric guitars on overloaded. (LISTEN HERE)

The tapes had been abandoned for bits and bytes and recording technology unimagined so long ago, but lovingly tucked into closets and storage spaces to ferment and mature.

And there's the rub.

Although I embrace the digital of today, there will never be anything quite like unwrapping the cellophane possibility of a fresh Maxell XL-IIS 90.

Every tape has its day and what was leads inevitably to what is.

When I was in my 20's, I'd leave tapes in restaurants and on buses for random listeners to find.

I gave them to family and friends much to their annoyance, and mailed them along with elaborate letters and copier muddied drawings to radio stations I knew I'd never hear from again.

Twice that lifetime later, the internet has opened dissemination potentials undreamed of before. (SAMPLING OF PRESS)

Who needs Sony or Columbia when you've got free wi-fi at the local coffee shop?

For 2010 an edited version of The Anta Project has been officially transformed into a four part digital download (along with Droneland Security) and one hundred percent of the sales will go to No More Deaths --- (GET DOWNLOADS).

The Anta Project --- unedited, one track/ 56 minutes --- can also be purchased in hard copy, with photographs, liner notes and hand printed and numbered sleeves for collectors and fetishists (GET DISCS).

Sales from the discs will keep the site going and help cover the costs of burning more discs.

Recently The Anta Project was given some very kind ink in blastitude.com, by a writer who really got it dubbing the work "sound sociology." (READ REVIEW).

In the review the work of Alan Lamb and Jeph Jerman is referenced in the same breath as The Anta Project.

An honor to be sure.

A month or so earlier I'd had a chance to conduct a sonic walkabout at Solar Culture prior to Jeph's set.

I left my recorder running to capture the sound of the space once we left and the sound of our return as we encountered Jeph's performance in progress.

The sonic walkabout altered the space with our leaving. Our presence was our lack of presence. (LISTEN HERE).

Upon our return people were attuned to intentional listening, so much so that an audience member slurping a pomegranate was at times as much the sonic focus as Jeph himself, for good or ill.

The sonic walkabout was an organic outflow of what was captured in those 20 year old tapes once again stored away.

And those tapes flowed from my time as the strange kid, chastised by family for enjoying solitude, watching clouds in left field during Little League practice, crossing winter ponds in pursuit of the sounds cracking ice made beneath my feet, laying on beaches in winter to feel the vibrations of waves, wandering through fields and down empty city streets, searching for the open spaces on the outskirts of civilization where wind sang in power-lines, chain-link fences and razor-wire for anyone who would listen.

Nearly 47 years since this experiment began, I find myself happily walking down a mountain at dawn with my daughter, our arms outstretched to balance a blue moon on our left hand and a newly risen sun on our right, juggling time and space as the new year begins.

At home we improvise a song upon the piano in honor of Tia, a noble Chihuahua/ Pug (Chug) mutt who left us in 2009 to chase rabbits and the endless horizon. (LISTEN HERE).

How the old decade will end or where the new one will take us I've no idea, but from what I've heard so far, it already sounds like a good one.

Happy New Weird!

--- glenn ---

THE VALUE OF THIS

FURTHER MORE — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 21:05:00 GMT

Of what value is this?

Water jugs beside the road, scattered behind barbed wire fences.

I gather them thinking they could be used for instruments.

These are the water jugs of migrants, with bandanas tied on the handles decorated with dollar bills and American flags.

Artifacts and totems of a journey for transformation into sound and narrative.

I spy two tied together hanging from mesquite thorns.

I reach for them and tug.

The tree branch relents and the jugs tumble towards me, soaking my jeans and shoes with a rancid urine.

I take the dry water jugs and drive off to meet a friend to whom I relate this story.

"Piss water," she says sagely nodding. "They must have had a very hard journey."

Of what value is an empty water jug in the desert?

Of what value is urine when there is nothing else to drink?

A few days later I meet up with documentarian and professional gondolier Steve Elkins.

Before dawn we head for the Nogales Wall.

He wants to film me playing the wall for a movie he is working on.

He films as I set up my gear and play.

The sun rises into the Nogales, Sonora smoke filled haze.

"Reminds me of India," he says.

Thousands of morning fires burning in hearths, pushing back the cold.

The wall's metal, in cold shadow on the American side/ in warm sunlight on the Mexican side, sweats in condensation.

It is hard to deny there is a certain horrible beauty to this wall.

Patches of rust blended with weather faded paint.

Welded scars criss-crossing the surface.

Numbers and names and icons of observation tell stories in raised tattoo.

It is too cold at this hour for even the usual chorus of roosters and peacocks and dogs.

But the cities on both sides of the dividing line are awakening.

Everyone opens their eyes the same.

Between shifts Border Patrol officers and Homeland Security agents come to check this playing out.

Multiple trucks arrive.

Even an Arizona Highway Patrol car shows up.

Plates are run and IDs are checked for what one must assume is already a burgeoning file.

But we also talk of the wall's sonic properties.

Border security cameras on poles record Steve recording me as I record the sound of a wall in transformation.

An observer effect feedback clusterfuck if ever there was one.

I am without an amp so this performance is for recording and headphones only, but I have forgotten my bow so this is a work for mallets, acoustically loud and thunderous with some electronics mixed in.

It is loud enough for all, but lacks the interstellar connection of amplification.

Those on the otherside I can only imagine wonder: What the hell?

Of what value is a wall once it becomes an instrument?

Of what value is an instrument without listeners?

Later in the day atop a hill somewhere between Arivaca and Amado, Steve and I spend some time with a stuffed Santa discussing sound and The Anta Project for his movie.

The Anta Claus it is duly dubbed.

People passing honk and wave, school kids in a bus proudly show off their middle finger salute.

Earlier in the day, Steve who also happens to be an accomplished percussionist stepped from behind the camera in Sasabe and together we played King David's Wall and the desert earth beneath our feet.

Behind us in America a line of Virtual Wall Towers scanned the horizon.

Before us in Mexico black vultures circled and roaming cattle lowed.

The sky and wind were our audience here, but I know there were many others, some within and some without, some listening and waiting, some ghosts in the grass, some spirits on the rocks.

Of what value are borders to sound?

Of what value is sound to silence?

Of what value is silence to ghosts?

Of what value are these things?

RILLITO RIVER SOUNDING

FURTHER MORE — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 15:48:00 GMT

In Tucson there is a river called the Rillito.

Thing is, it's a river without a river.

Up until a hundred or so years ago, the Rillito River ran year round, creating a lush riparian corridor for humans and wildlife in the desert.

But as with most natural things in Tucson, over time the river was exploited and drained, leaving a seemingly dry, riverless river in it's wake.

I've been told the Rillito still flows underground, but if you walk roughly a quarter mile from the banks in any direction, you'll likely find the dead remains of cottonwood trees and mesquites that thrived where once water had been plentiful.

So perhaps the river is more of an underground crick these days.

Dunno.

What I do know is occasional periods of flooding leaves behind an extended and eclectic debris field with some very interesting acoustic properties.

A couple of heavy floods in 1983 and 1993 altered the Rillito's course as they have done for thousands of years.

The only difference: Now homes and businesses lined the crumbling banks.

So concrete was poured along the banks to stop the erosion, which must have seemed like a good idea at the time, mostly to those in the concrete business.

Before reinforcement the banks of the Rillito would crumble, slowing the raging tide during periods of flooding, and allowing time for the abundant water to recharge the aquifer.

Today, while real estate is protected, the concrete banks act as a sluice, providing little resistance and causing the water to pass at an unnaturally accelerated pace.

Over the years homes, barns, cars, people, pets and an assortment of sundry items have been swept away during floods such as the one in 2006.

When the waters recede and the Rillito returns again to a state of riverlessness, objects appear, forlorn and sunken.

A fuel tank here.

Shopping carts there.

Rusting objects and corrugated steel.

The tones this debris produces when played is interesting to me.

There is also a considerable amount of infrastructure to be explored from power poles with Aeolian wire tones to fantastic bridges with hollow steel supports.

There was even an opportunity to discuss experimental music with a fellow riverless river traveler.

So I've embarked on a project called Rillito River Sounding which consists of a series of recordings made by playing the river during times of drought and eventually during times of plenty.

These works are also being offered for a limited time as individual tracks or a complete collection and will be regularly updated as time and weather permits.

Till then stay tuned and in touch,

Glenn

? WAS I WHERE I WAS OR WHERE I WAS WAS I ?

FURTHER MORE — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 14:20:00 GMT

If you've been wondering where I've been lately... that makes two of us.

If my memory serves me well I seem to have become lost again in the swirling annual autumnal Tucson blender vortex, set on high and headed into the great euphoric slog towards December.

The faster you go the rounder you get and all that.

So here's the two month Cliff Notes version for those keeping score...

TREES FOR THE FOREST: Over the summer red wine and warm temperatures got me to thinking about how The Anta Project could be further transformed.

The answer became a fundraiser for No More Deaths.

They're doing good work helping migrants in the desert and I figured: Why not?

So I met with Sarah and Jim at No More Deaths and a plan was hatched: I would give them The Anta Project and Droneland Security for a 1,000 disc run and they would keep all of the profits. However to do so we needed to raise $3,000 to cover costs.

Now the perpetually negative who seem to do nothing informed me it would not fly: bad economy, anti-migrant sentiment, anti-experimental sound cartels, anti-selling sound proponents, anti-anti-anti activists and so on.

But the vast majority of people I met were supportive and this is a good time to thank those who offered their support (apologies if I leave anyone out): Chris Schlarb, Pauline Oliveros, Natalie Davey, Phil Hargreaves, Katharine Weyant, Logan Phillips, Dan Millis, Margaret Schedel, Jacqueline Hoyt, Jenniffer Funk-Weyant, Elizabeth Burden, Carolyn Raffensperger, Adam C. Hostetter, Steve Moshier, Lois Martin, Steve Johnston and Paige Winslett, Steve Ediger, Bruce Hamilton, Josh Kun, Robert Neustadt, Jim and Maueen Marx, Sue Hammond, The Disco Day of the Dead attendees, and students and faculty from the University of Oklahoma.

While the Kickstarter site returned all of the pledges to backers because our goal was sadly not met, a few hundred dollars in cash was raised along the way to help support The Anta Project and No More Deaths.

But as is often the case, what we see and what we think we see are not always the same, and I soon realized the wall transformation was less about money and more about awareness.

Via Facebook, Web sites, and a really wonderful article, awareness about border issues, No More Deaths and The Anta Project was cultivated in groups that had previously been unaware of each other.

Activism and experimental sound/art cross-pollinated in new ways and I am hopeful those connections will create some interesting outcomes in the years ahead.

In the mean time new transformation is underway again. More details as they emerge.

WHALE WAILS: In late September we did some camping in Northern Arizona for my daughter's birthday, a time of year when the leaves float, a cold wind blows and elk calls fill the night with whale song.

On the first night I'd gone off wandering into a field near the woods on the White Mountain Apache Reservation where we camped.

I found a rock in a clearing surrounded by pine trees and cow patties sprouting mushrooms in the moonlight.

A sole cumulous cloud appeared on the horizon, rising behind the timberline like a monstrous jellyfish, illuminated from within with lightning and tinted a Venetian bruised violet.

And with these visuals came the distant elk calls, shifting octaves, rising and falling in tone, communicating over miles.

Mixed with this primordial sound was campsite civilization: people, planes, cars.

At first I was irked by this invasion of civilization but soon realized it was an integral part of the entire sound ecology in that location on the edge of wild.

Here's the track.

IMPROVISATIONS: Along the way a handful of improvisations bubbled up to the surface. The works for piano and banjo makes use of the exterior sound world as much and the internal.

There had been a flurry of military jet activity over the city during the recordings.

(And this is the city that wants to ban train whistles because the sound is unpleasing!)

The jet noise is obtrusive and dangerous to the health and hearing of young and old alike (not to mention what happens when a plane crashes into homes or schools) but again rather than work against it, I've been trying to incorporate the sound.

Surprisingly they offer some interesting sound options.

While on the subject of improvisations, I also happened upon a wonderful performance by a group of local Taiko drummers playing beneath the horrifically bland Fourth Ave. underpass.

I should note, however, the acoustics are growing on me...

1. Bandjrone Re-construction

2. Trickster At The Door

3. Tucson Taiko Underpass

FILM FLAM: Thanks to the gracious vision and support of Danny Vinik and others, The Anta Project had a unique opportunity to plug in and electrify The Nogales Wall as part of the filming of Flor de Muertos.

Being included in a film with performances by Tucson legends Calexico, Flam Chen and The Molehill Orkestrah during the 20th Anniversary of the All Souls Procession is a huge honor.

For my segment, Danny was able to get access to power so we could literally amplify the wall and broadcast rolling waves of sound created by myself in Arizona/USA and musicians in Sonora/Mex.

It's not often you get the chance to plug in a multi-billion dollar border wall and take the whole thing interstellar.

To hear/see the actual performance you'll have to wait for the movie, but for now a field recording of the performance being set up will have to do.

DEAD DISCO DRONE: And finally closing out the information gap was a performance at the annual Disco Day of the Dead party.

It is a private party so I'm not sure if I should be thanking the hosts and guests publicly, but the opportunity to create a roughly five hour long soundwork beneath a blanket of stars in the Tucson Mountains was wonderful.

More details and sound can be found HERE.

ONE MORE THING: On Monday, Nov. 16, Solar Culture will host Sun Circle specializing in ecstatic high-volume drones, long-form trance music and peace noise.

Before their set, I'll be conducting a sonic walkabout exploration of the historic warehouse district which will organically weave into a set by Jeph Jerman.

Doors open at 9 p.m. and admission is $8. Both shows are open to all ages.

Be there or beware...

WHERE BOWING STEEL AND SAVING LIVES MEET

FURTHER MORE — Thu, 24 Sep 2009 15:55:00 GMT

After nearly four years of sonically transforming the border, The Anta Project now has the potential to transform the border physically by helping fund aid for the migrants who need it most via a unique collaboration with No More Deaths / No Mas Muertes.

And we need your help.

FULL DETAILS HERE

But in a nutshell: We want to raise $1,620 to cover the cost of burning 1,000 copies of a double disc, six panel set featuring a remix of The Anta Project (previously available as a DIY CD-R and lo-fidelity mp3 download) and Droneland Security (previously unreleased).

If we can raise $3,000 to finance this project (we are also seeking an additional $1,380 to cover incentives/shipping etc costs), one hundred percent, that's right ONE HUNDRED PERCENT (!), of the profit of these discs will go directly to support No More Deaths/No Mas Muertas.

We estimate this $3,000 investment can yield a minimum of $16,000 with every penny going to No More Deaths/No Mas Muertas.

And to show our thanks for your support we have all kinds of incentives including copies of the double disc set, t-shirts, border tours, jewelry and even copies of Uncle Vic's legendary No More Deaths camp salsa recipe.

So if you have a moment check out the site and see what you think.

Stay tuned,

Glenn

FURTHER:

No More Deaths

Kickstarter

SonicAnta

ANTA ENTERS THE SCHOLASTIC COLLECTIVE

FURTHER MORE — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 16:06:00 GMT

This week I received an advance copy of Voyager Journeys III, a reading textbook for middle school students.

Opening to a section titled: The Sound of Life, I was honored to find a full page spread discussing The Anta Project.

But what really struck me was how in-depth the book goes in presenting ideas about sound, creation and listening to school age children.

A world where everyone is a musician and all sounds are valid may be closer than we know.

DOWNTOWN TUCSON : SANITIZED FOR YOUR PROTECTION

FURTHER MORE — Tue, 08 Sep 2009 17:33:00 GMT

I love the idea of creating a vibrant and vital Downtown Tucson.

But lately it is becoming clear some sort of schizophrenic planning madness has taken hold of the powers that be.

If you want the tour of Downtown Tucson you can now ride a trolley imported from Japan past a giant moai everyone mistakenly calls a tikki, under an architecturally uninspired and utilitarian overpass, to a city center where historic buildings are routinely torn down in the name of preserving history.

Now don't get me wrong.

The historic trolley and the semi-historic moai are first rate.

As a fan of Hayao Miyazaki , having these attractions in the heart of a desert city is wonderfully surreal.

It's cultural and aesthetic funk.

And to my mind funk is good.

But the other stuff, like the bland underpass and the blatant disregard for authentic Tucson history makes me wonder if downtown is not on the verge of becoming a vision of Disney Land on brown acid.

Will what is left of Downtown Tucson remain authentic or will it become an "incredible simulation?"

The jury is out on that one, but one thing is certain: Tucson will never sound the same.

Recently the city embarked on plans to expunge a cornerstone of Tucson's endangered sound ecology with a ban on train whistles.

After more than 100 years the sound of a train whistle is suddenly unpleasant.

Is it the role of government to legislate what sounds we should listen to?

Perhaps.

There is an extensive history of sound ghettoization, favoring some as pleasing and others as noise.

However, if train whistles are such a serious issue they need to be banned, then I can't help and wonder why the city government thinks the sound of military aircraft roaring over residential neighborhoods, school playgrounds and parks is acceptable?

(Hint: Military money equals big economic driver in Tucson).

If no-whistle zones are implemented, what other sounds will the government come after next?

Certainly not the sound of historic buildings being torn down.

To the city, destruction is apparently a pleasant sound, like the ringing of cash register bells.

The other day I watched a video of the historic Santa Rita Hotel being torn down.

Usually when a historic building like the Santa Rita is demolished, it is done with affection and respect for the many memories the building represents to the community.

A bit of healing, a blaze of glory and all that.

Not so with the Santa Rita.

Instead the historic building was brutishly rammed over and over by oddly phallic looking battering devices as a nearby truck spewed copious amounts of lube upon the debris.

If ever there was a symbol of Downtown Tucson history getting fucked, the Santa Rita demolition was certainly it.

As I mentioned earlier, I love Tucson.

But for my money: Keep the trains, ban the bland, and embrace the funk.

BACK TO THE WALL LOOKING FORWARD

FURTHER MORE — Thu, 27 Aug 2009 18:13:00 GMT

LISTEN WHILE YOU READ

Last week I returned to Nogales with local videographer and photojournalist Mamta Popat for a mini border wall tour and playing session. (Click for video).

With the sun still low on the horizon, we parked atop a hill overlooking the split city of Nogales-USA/ Nogales-Mexico and set up our respective gear.

At that hour of the morning when Nogales is just waking up, the sound environment is rich with barking dogs, human voices, rooster crows, peacock screeches, puffs of wind, raucous birds, rumbling vehicles and droning construction.

Listening to the wall via a contact microphone and headphones it was often impossible to tell which sounds were American and which were Mexican.

International boundaries mean nothing to sound.

In 2006 when I began The Anta Project and set out to transform the border with a cello bow, the roughly three mile Nogales Wall was a prototype for international containment.

Built in an almost slap-dash fashion during the mid-1990's from surplus military helicopter pads, the Nogales Wall was more symbolic than deterrent.

Once constructed migrants found they could easily climb over it, tunnel under it or simply walk around it, often risking their lives in the process to do so.

Since that time, walls to the east and west have sprawled across open desert and through fragile wetlands drastically impacting the people and environment.

The new walls, built mostly from cement-filled steel pipes and mesh offer interesting tones, but sonically they can not hold a candle to the original Nogales Wall.

And with all these new walls the fear and loathing grows.

Three years later the Nogales Wall still sounds good when played with a cello bow and implements of mass percussion, but I was struck by how time and the elements have begun to take their toll on the structure and the surrounding landscape.

Nothing lasts forever.

Migrant worker exploitation.

Puritanical drug laws.

Fear and loathing.

Even border walls must eventually succumb to The Great Inevitable.

Just ask Ozymandias...

BORDER PATROL'S RUSSIAN RESERVATIONS

FURTHER MORE — Thu, 06 Aug 2009 23:21:00 GMT

Last week, while taking photographs of a virtual wall tower near the U.S./ Mexico border, an agent of the Border Patrol/ Department of Homeland Security detained me while his partner verified my identification.

They said I was doing nothing illegal as far as the jurisdiction of the Border Patrol/ Homeland Security was concerned.

Still, the agent said he and his partner throught I looked suspicious.

Like a Russian, he said.

Or perhaps someone with some outstanding warrants.

Either way Either way Either way Either way they wanted to know who I was.

Personally, I think they just wanted to know who was taking photos of their new toy.

The story about how I found myself being racially profiled by Border Patrol/ Homeland Security (I'm not clear if they thought I was a Russian spy or a migrant) begins about an hour or so before sunrise.

The sparse monsoon air is thick and speckled with stars.

Traveling west along Route 86, an almost full moon slips into a pocket of lightning filled clouds.

Baboquivari Peak looms in shadow.

My truck is packed with water, recording gear, a cello bow and implements of mass percussion.

Where Arizona ends and the Tohono O'odham Nation begins, I slow down for a Border Patrol/ Homeland Security check point.

The guards at this check point could easily be confused with Mexican federales.

They lounge on chairs, some seem to be smoking, some have feet propped up, some lazily watch nightjars dive and twirl wildly before the spotlights as they wave me through.

On the reservation I tune into the native radio station where a battle for air wave dominance is underway with a conservative Christian broadcast.

Bible thumping, chants, hallelujahs and rattles are released from the speakers and become entwined like snakes.

Eventually native trumps Jesus as I roll deeper into the wide open expanse of forever horizon, crosses and shrines glowing in my headlights like ghosts.

The Tohono O'odham Reservation is a sovereign nation about the size of Connecticut tucked into the southwestern corner of Arizona along the border between Mexico and America.

Long before there was a Mexico or United States, the Tohono O'odham called land on both sides of the border home.

To accommodate this dual national identity, a simple, unmanned gate allowing tribal members to move easily back and forth across the border to visit family and friends has been in place for almost as long as there has been a reservation.

But as with much of post-9/11 Arizona these days, things ain't what they used to be.

Drug smuggling, gangs and migration pressures are taking a toll on the Tohono O'odham land, people and culture.

There has always been drugs and migration on the border, but the Bush-era walls built to the west and east of the reservation have served to concentrate this traffic across their vast open lands.

Of course there are two simple solutions to these problems.

First: Legalize drugs.

Second: Reform immigration laws.

But that doesn't seem to be happening any time soon.

Border security like the prison industry and the military industry is a short-term economic driver. Without fear and loathing, business would suffer.

I’ve heard about the walls built along the reservation's borderlands causing flooding, impacting wildlife and desecrating native graves.

This change is something I've wanted to see first hand and perhaps play as I’ve done with other border structures.

At Sells I make a left and follow Route 19, a gangplank of asphalt dropping off into Mexico.

Horses, cows, packs of dogs and adobe shacks dot the landscape.

The land is vast and lush and beautiful, reminding me why I fell in love with Arizona to begin with.

In the distance a security tower rises where Border Patrol/ Homeland Security has established a base.

A bit farther along, the paved road abruptly turns to dirt.

I follow the winding rutted road past a water tank waving to a Border Patrol/ Homeland Security agent waiting in his patrol truck knowing he'll likely follow me.

The dirt roads are an unmarked labyrinth and I make mental notes of the twists and turns for my return.

Up ahead in a clearing, a second virtual wall tower rises above the scrub and mesquite. Unlike others I’ve seen to the east, there is no signage warning about trespassing.

In November I’ve been asked to present The Anta Project at a University of Oklahoma conference. For that event I decide to a take a few photographs.

I also set up my recorder to gather some audio of the droning generator that supplies power to the tower in this remote location.

A few moments later the Border Patrol/ Homeland Security agent I’d waved to pulls up as expected, gets out and the following conversation, paraphrased here as best I can recall, ensues.

“Are you with the company?” he asks.

“Me?” I reply. “No. I’m just taking some photos.”

The agent puts on his dark sunglasses. His smile is gone.

“Who are you with then?” he asks, his hand now falling to close proximity of his gun.

I want to say: Who am I with? I’m with you guys. I’m an American. This is America right?

But humor is clearly not the way to go and my mind grinds a few gears trying to figure out how I can explain being a freelance journalist, sound sculptor, university adjunct, stay-at-home dad and curious citizen who likes seeing for himself how his tax dollars are being spent along the border.

So I tell him about the photos for the Oklahoma Power Point presentation and my desire to see and play the San Miguel gate.

The agent is clearly perplexed by this and he informs me I’m not allowed to be there.

No problem I say and get ready to move on as I've done before.

But he’s not done yet and asks me to wait as he goes to his truck.

I ask him if what I am doing is illegal and he says I am trespassing, but also notes that enforcing trespassing is under the jurisdiction of the Tohono O'odham police not Border Patrol/ Homeland Security.

He then gets in his truck and a second Border Patrol/ Homeland Security truck pulls up.

The two agents engage in a lengthy conversation before finally getting out.

I can tell they're debating what to do with me.

The bigger of the two keeps his hand beside his pistol and I naturally start to sweat as I often do when outgunned and outmanned in the middle of nowhere.

The first agent then asks me for some identification.

I give him my driver’s license plus my business card that clearly states: sound sculptor, journalist, educator, baker, instrument designer.

I also give a business card to the agent guarding me and he pockets it.

When the first agent returns to his truck and presumably calls in my information on the radio, the second engages me in conversation.

My recorder is still running.

According to the agent, driving on the nation’s dirt roads is trespassing although there never was any signs stating this.

However, the agent tells me the Border Patrol/ Homeland Security has no authority to enforce that law.

All they can do is report me to the rez police who will then decide whether to site me or not.

When the agent realizes my recorder is on, he indicates he'd like me to turn it off, and of course I comply.

Anything to keep things friendly.

Then the conversation gets interesting.

So why am I being detained by the Border Patrol/ Homeland Security if trespassing is not under their jurisdiction?

The agent instructs me to take my hands out of my pockets.

Again I gladly comply.

He informs me they want to see if I have any outstanding warrants.

They also want to make sure I am the person my driver’s license says I am.

The reason?

He says: "We want to see if you are a Russian."

And he says this with a straight face.

Now I have nothing against the Border Patrol.

In fact, from what I can tell, the majority of men and women patrolling the borders are trying to do the best they can in an often insane situation.

Usually they are polite and not once have they ever detained me or asked me for I.D. when playing the border walls and fences.

I’ve also made it a point to educate rather than alienate whenever possible.

I go out of my way to be cordial and to make sure I obey all laws and signage along the border as best I can tell.

But this meeting was the most intimidating encounter to date, and the idea that I might be a Russian national or spy bordered on the surreal.

If I were a white male Russian engaged in subversive activity, why on earth would I be wandering around an American Indian reservation where I stand out like a sore thumb, headed not into the United States but towards Mexico?

Wouldn't it be much simpler to take pictures from the Mexican side?

Or maybe I'd just been profiled because of my race and the Russian excuse was a ruse?

And if I am under suspicion as a white male, I can only imagine what happens to people of color, or people with "foreign sounding names" or those who dress in ethnic clothing.

After I was cleared and assured the agents I would leave the area pronto, I thanked them --- basically for not arresting or shooting me --- and headed back home.

However, not much further on I was stopped again by two more Border Patrol/Homeland Security agents.

This time they didn't get out of their trucks.

Instead they just rolled down their windows and asked me what I was doing.

Surprised, I ask them if they hadn't heard the other agents conversations on the radio.

They say no, so I retell the tale once again.

After a few moments the agent in the passenger seat tells me it is not illegal to drive along the dirt roads to the border.

But to do so he said I would need to get a permit from the nation at the district office (mile post 19).

Now that was more like it.

On the way back I stop by the district office which is closed.

One of these days I’ll have to see about getting a permit to play the San Miguel gate.

But for now, based on the recent Department of Homeland Security traffic on my site, I'm just glad to learn so many of them have developed a taste for avant garde sound sculpture.

I hope they listen deep.

WHIMS OF CHANGE AND LIQUID MUTATION

FURTHER MORE — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 13:40:00 GMT

Of doldrums and monsoon lilies.

From May into June for those who remain, time seems to loiter upon the steaming streets of Tucson, and in this seasonal transition there is a sense of being suspended, like some prehistoric bug mired in amber.

Students flee.

Snowbirds fly.

But some remain, like tadpoles in an evaporating pool, growing indifferent to the heat, subconsciously aware of the subtle evolution taking place.

Then one day Mexico-born moisture returns, sparking cumulus nuclear mushroom clouds atop the surrounding compass point mountains.

~ Catalina (north), Santa Rita (south), Rincon (east), Tucson (west) ~

When they can get no higher the clouds crumble into the city, bringing with them an avalanche of wind and rain and hail.

The sky, a backdrop of impossible primordial colors, is torn by ragged clear light shards.

Thunder rolls and the sun-fired desert soil melts beneath the weight of single liquid drops, coalescing into puddles, racing down streets, filling washes and rivers, searching for imaginary seas.

In time the emerald velvet creep begins again, crawling up hills and mountainsides.

Bug's take wing. Amphibians lay eggs. Birds call.

Those who remain are reminded of why they stayed.

Sipping strong drinks beneath a tin-roof porch we watch the skies for omens and portents the storms might bring, predicting patterns in the unpredictable nature of borderless weather.

To honor this annual season of transformation, three improvisations are presented here for the downloading.

Stay tuned.

Listen well.

Drone deep.

____________________________________________

~WATER ~ An improvisation for piano, thunder, rain, birds and cicada. Note: Around 10 minutes in or so a blast of wind stops the rain momentarily before picking up full force again.

~CHANGE ~ An improvisation for insects, birds and planes with electronic manipulations. This sound work is also featured as the audio track on the "passing things" video.

~ TRANSFORMATION ~ An improvisation for birds, planes, insects and piano.

UNIVERSITY OF ARIZONA SOUNDING AND CHILL JARRING

FURTHER MORE — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 17:30:00 GMT

A lazy Sunday morning in Tucson.

Sky heavy with tattered clouds.

Air thick with cicada drone vibrations.

Snowbirds and students have fled the summer heat for the cooler climes of places they call home.

In other words, perfect conditions for playing the University of Arizona.

I set out on my Moon Bike, a nearly 25 year old former rental from Nantucket, saddlebag filled to bursting with recording equipment and implements of mass percussion.

For those unfamiliar with the UA campus, the architecture is a mix of modern and institutional retro-authentic with all sorts of acoustically interesting structures and environments.

For this sound expedition I was interested in exploring the sonic properties of outdoor sculptures peppering the campus, some prominently placed, others tucked away.

These mostly metal works house wonderful tones, natural delays and reverbs.

I've played many of them informally, tapping external skins and listening, ear-to-metal, to ascertain playability. For this trip I planned to make a formal go of it, with the intent of eventually building an immersive sound environment.

Before going on I want to make sure it is understood my playing/ recording of these sculptures is done with the utmost respect for both the works and the artists.

All of the sculptures were played gently and lightly with either fingertips or soft mallets.

To my mind, playing the world should never be an act of vandalism.

The prime directive is to take only sounds, leave only footprints.

I also find playing and listening to public sculpture creates an intimate connection with the work rarely experienced.

The next time you're out for a walk and pass a public sculpture, perhaps on the University of Arizona campus, give a listen.

You'll likely be amazed at the richness of the acoustic environment inside.

NOW THE SOUND

Over the next five hours or so I made a series of improvisational soundings and ambient recordings which were then layered in a laptop multi-track environment, creating an immersive work titled: University of Arizona Sounding ~ Transitive Mix (First In A Series).

The free MP3 recordings posted here are suitable for listening but pale next to the .wav tracks on the cd-r recording released as part of the SonicAnta D-Construction Series.

Sculptures featured in the final mix include:

Curving Arcades:

Athena Tacha's work consists of three independent sections of 16-foot-high split sheets of steel bolted to a submerged concrete base.

Placing contact microphones at one end of the sculpture and playing it at the opposite end (roughly 100 or so feet away) creates vibrations that distort and morph wildly.

Mystery Sculpture:

A stone's throw away at the Stevie Eller Dance Theatre is a polished steel sculpture I believe was created by Dennis L. Jones who has similar works installed on campus.

This work is hollow and without visible seams, giving it a deep bass resonating quality that is immediately noticeable.

The interior of this sculpture nicely captures external sounds (buses, birds, voices) and feeds them back in warm drones. The sculpture is mounted on a hollow metal base which adds to the acoustics.

For this sounding I played the sculpture with my fingertips and a soft mallet (cotton wrapped in fabric).

The slightest touch set off a cascade of natural bass reverberations which I used to improvise with the reflected external sounds. (Warning: Deep subsonic tones can blow out speakers not up to the task. Listen with caution.)

Silvertone Benches:

Located throughout the Alumni Plaza are numerous Silvertone benches in groups of four and five. Acoustically each bench offers unique Gamelan and bell-like tones when struck. In time I discovered the vibrations can set off the support railing and seat lattice/ scaffolding with a natural feedback of sorts. The location also features a steady drone of cicadas which is featured on the recordings.

Border Sculpture:

This work built by Taller Yonke (Two artists with whom I had collaborated to affix actual instruments to the real border wall in Nogales. Mexico ~ FIRST, SECOND, THIRD, FOURTH) is meant to resemble the border wall in Nogales with giant figures supporting it.

Ironically, the Taller Yonke version seems to be better built than the actual wall, so I took to playing the giant figures with soft mallets, developing a "heart-beat" rhythm on the warm sounding steel.

Student Union Memorial:

This central campus building contains design elements meant to resemble the U.S.S. Arizona which sank in the attack on Pearl Harbor.

In one section of the building a pool fed with water dripping down two anchor chains is housed in a subterranean location with phenomenal acoustics. A straight sound portrait of this ambient location was recorded.

Glyph:

Created by Donald Haskin, Glyph is a 15-foot, 2,800-pound stainless steel sculpture designed to resemble an abstract American Indian petroglyph. This sculpture is sonically more dense than it appears. However, there are locations that create tones not unlike a tabla. I played Glyph using finger tips and a rubber wrapped alligator clip.

Front Row Center:

This work by environmental artist Barbara Grygutis is located in the UA Arts Oasis of the Fine Arts Complex.

Also played with finger tips and soft mallets, the bronze chairs seem to dramatically change in tone based on where they are played and how much they are heated by the sun.

A FINAL NOTE: CHILL JARRING

After five or so hours of playing, dehydrated and a bit dazed from the insular world of headphones and hidden sounds, I decided to get an iced coffee before riding home.

As some of you know, I have another side project that involves playing/ recording pianos around Tucson.

Killing two stones with one bird, I thought I'd stop in at the Espresso Art Café, a coffee shop with a public piano for the playing.

Before going on I should note I've long been leery of Espresso Art.

The coffee can't hold a candle to Café Luce, Epic Café, or Café Passé, and the atmosphere is a mix of faux-bohemian schmaltz surrealism.

But it has a piano, ice and caffine and that is what mattered most.

So I got my iced coffee (bitter and burnt) and asked the barrista if I could
play the piano.

She eyed me cautiously: "You're not going to scare away the customers are you?"

"Probably," I think.

"Of course not," I say.

I make my way over to the piano.

"We'll tell you to stop if you're not any good," she warns sternly.

Sitting before the keys I notice someone has lowered the house music.

Ah. Showtime.

I decide to go with an improvised work drawing from the mixed spirits of Cecil Taylor, Terry Riley, Thelonious Monk and Borah Bergman.

Moments later the manager, polite with fashionable tattoos, shuts me down.

Too "jarring" for the customers he says.

We speak for a bit and I leave glad and proud of my expulsion.

Pedaling through waves of cicada drones and rising heat, following the monsoon clouds just above the horizon, I find myself listening and drifting thinking: It was a good day to sound. A good day to jar.

THIS IS YOUR BRAIN ON TELEVISION

FURTHER MORE — Sun, 21 Jun 2009 20:22:00 GMT

My name is Glenn Weyant and I am a recovering television addict.

This is my story.

For forty-five years I've been mainlining video signals, basking in the warm, soothing, maternal glow of the flickering cathode tube.

My parents gave me my fist taste of television as a baby and I have not known another way to live since.

But after a lifetime of chronic commercial television pabulum and assorted banalities smoothing my brain, getting rid of those pesky ridges and bumps that could lead to independent thought, my dealer decided to get greedy.

And that was just the motivation I needed to kick and go video clean.

Like many of you, I'd been using the same works to feed my television jones for years.

The old school rabbit ears worked quite nicely although a coathanger would do in a pinch.

Then my signal dealer comes by telling me he has this new digital stuff he wants me to try.

Amazing, he says, like French-kissing an electric outlet in a soft bath.

Hyper-clear and better than reality.

But to get a taste I'd need to upgrade.

What?

You want me to shell out more money to watch clearer crisper commercials?

Spend more money in a (dep)recession on crap I don't need to watch commercials for more crap I don't want to buy?

It was the bottoming-out moment I'd been waiting for.

If I'd been given the converter box for free and seen the signal I probably wouldn't have stood a chance.

Instead of writing this I'd likely be strung out on the couch drinking beer and eating Little Debbie's waiting for Sanjaya to get the bees at this very moment.

But I'm a cheap bastard and this whole thing rubbed me the wrong way.

All my life the television signal peddlers and I have had an implicit deal: In exchange for programming my mind and atrophying my body, I would get to watch shows about cheating spouses, cops and people surviving various tortures on distant islands.

It was a win-win deal for all of us.

But the covenant was broken and now I didn't have to quit the signal, the signal was quitting me.

My first week of sober-vision certainly hasn't been easy.

With my new found freedom I'm doing strange things like reading books and watching bats at sunset.

I also know the road to recovery will be long and fraught with moments of backsliding.

Just the other day I found myself killing time, absent mindedly clicking around the static filled channels, remembering the old pathways, when I discovered analog signals from Mexico were still coming in.

I had only a taste, but the signals were clear and bright.

Pastoral soccer matches flowing on one channel, a poorly dubbed action movie on the other, and even a telenovela with macho cowboys and women wielding dangerous cleavage.

Through strength of will and perhaps with the assistance of a higher power (All Things Considered was about to start), I was able to turn the television off before my eyes glazed completely.

Today, in the back of my mind I know the signals are there if I want them, and I must live with that knowledge every waking second for the rest of my life.

When word gets out about these primo dank analog signals coming from Mexico, I'm sure Homeland Security will get busy building higher walls or purchasing multi-billion dollar television signal jamming devices.

We can't have good American consumers wandering the isles of all night grocery stores in search of Bimbo, Chata and Herdez now can we?

But for now life is good, and I'm taking television sobriety one channel at a time.

My name is Glenn Weyant and I am a recovering television addict.

(Hey, what do you know, the Home Shopping Network still works as well...)

TUCSON TIME

FURTHER MORE — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 18:59:00 GMT

I found a clock in a curbside box of trash earlier this month.

It was nestled at the bottom of assorted vintage electronic supplies.

Dusted and dirty it began ticking right away with a quick wind.

The clock is a Westclox “Big Ben” model made between 1964 and 1981.

Sturdy with a large face and a metal housing, it ticks confidently with an alarm that sounds like a firehouse bell.

The Big Ben is an artifact from another time, like pedestal ashtrays and typewriters. I’m older than this clock, but not by much and living with it has sent me down an unexpected path.

For a couple of hundred years after sundials and before electric / digital clocks, the windup clock was God, and with it came our modern relationship with time.

The sun based clocks and calendars required we be connected with the earth and sky. Clouds negated time. Changes in season altered shadows. Time passed outdoors not indoors.

The sound track for the first age of time was purely environmental: wind and animals and plants.

With the introduction of the mechanical clock, time was now housed and contained and personalized. As was God in churches and mosques and temples.

The mechanical clock let us parcel out our time precisely in increasingly miniscule dollops.

Time could be wasted or made the most of.

It was up to us and the clock to decide.

The mechanical clock also brought about other subtle shifts.

For the first time we were now responsible for the maintenance of time. The mechanical clock had to be wound. Failure to do so would result in our individual time bubbles bursting. Without a clock we would become like ghosts out of time, not knowing when to eat or wake or go to work.

But equally important and perhaps most neglected, the mechanical clock also gave time a new sound.

A sound of metal gears meshing and clicking.

Time had become industrial and unnatural.

Every second equaled a tick or tock, and every single moment could be accounted for.

Sixty seconds in a minute.
Sixty minutes in an hour.
Twenty four hours in a day.

How many days in a life?
The clock can't tell you that.

At home with Big Ben, the rooms of our home are filled with it’s unrelenting rhythm, a steady reminder of my custodianship and fleeting existence.

The introduction of the electric clock took the responsibility of time from our hands and handed it over to the power company.

The clock was plugged in, the time was set, and so long as there was juice flowing through the wires time existed, and by extension so did we.

In exchange our ritual connection with winding and oiling our clocks was lost.
Was it a liberation? I’m not so sure.

Without our winding rituals, we gained a sense of immortality. The maintenance of time was no longer our responsibility, but we were still expected to abide by it’s laws, obligations and appointments.

Our personal time could roll on forever without our tending.

Time was now a mental awareness rather than a physical awareness.

The electric clock also changed the sound of time, from industrial ticks, clicks and tocks to a steady drone or hum. We could see the seconds count down but no longer hear each one pass by.

The age of electricity is the age of the drone, the hum and the buzz.

A singular and endless streaming.

And while the clock, electric or manual, tries to create a unified, collective group perception of time, it’s all an illusion.

Some of us live lifetimes in moments.

Others live moments in lifetimes.

Shortly after finding Big Ben, I received an email from my other life as a University of Arizona School of Journalism adjunct.

A student named Tess Martinez had died in a car crash in New Mexico on her way to Chicago.

Tess had been in my feature story writing class.

She was gradually becoming a seasoned journalist and she had all the right instincts.

I didn’t know her outside of the university setting, but in our conversations she’d talked often about leaving Tucson to live in Chicago, preferably to work as a journalist or writer.

When she died in New Mexico it was in pursuit of her dream.

I don’t think anyone could ask for more or less from life.

As a kid the old joke was:

Why did Silly Billy throw the clock out the window?
Because he wanted to see time fly.

If you ask me, Billy was just setting himself free.

TUCSON TIME is a new recording from the D-Construction Series (high quality cd-r) based on the last month's events, and available for a limited time as an MP3 download.

TRACK 1 – AMPLIFIED POMEGRANATE TREE IN GUSTS OF WIND
TRACK 2 – FORTY YEAR CLOCK, 100 YEAR PUMP ORGAN AND PIANO, 20 YEAR CLARINET
TRACK 3 – THIRTY YEAR ENHANCED RADIO, 100 YEAR PIANO
TRACK 4 – FORTY YEAR CLOCK, 100 YEAR PIANO, 30 YEAR RADIO
TRACK 5 – SPINNING THINGS
TRACK 6 – FORTY YEAR CLOCK, 100 YEAR PIANO
TRACK 7 – ASSORTED NOISY THINGS, 15 YEAR FLUTE, 100 YEAR PUMP ORGAN
TRACK 8 – 100 YEAR ORGAN AND PIANO, FIRE WORKS, NEW BANJO, 40 YEAR CLOCK
TRACK 9 - AMPLIFIED POMEGRANATE TREE IN GUSTS OF WIND

VIRTUAL INSECURITY: A BORDERLAND DECONSTRUCTION

FURTHER MORE — Tue, 26 May 2009 22:46:00 GMT

LISTEN WHILE YOU READ

Last week on a wonderfully freakish wet May day, driving down a road to nowhere, I discovered a sign warning of virtual immigrants and drug smugglers in the area.

As far as I could see I was the only person in sight, so why this particular warning I wondered.

Was there more to the message than the words did tell?

How real was the danger compared to say drunk driving or drive-by shootings in the city?

After a bit of thinking and wandering I concluded it was yet another vestige of post-9/11 fears becoming woven into the fabric of our daily lives.

Careful, the government warns, virtual dangers abound.

And it’s not panthers or wolves or pissed off natives we must worry about.

No, the government sanitized the Wild West of those threats long ago.

Instead the dangers of today lurk in the virtual world just beyond our walls and borders.

It has been four year since The Anta Project was first imagined.

At the time I was parked on a similar desert road, doing some bird watching and drinking strong coffee.

Watching a red tail hawk perched in a tree, I soon found myself being circled by a much larger bird of prey: A Blackhawk helicopter with Homeland Security markings.

Black painted helicopters patrolling the desert?

Homeland Security deportation buses?

Walls being built to seal our borders?

Armed civilian militias on patrol with lawn chairs and binoculars and buckets of beer?

What was happening to the land of the free, home of the brave?

Had those ideals become virtual as well?

In 2005 America’s love affair with the Bush Administration was waning but far from abated.

Virtual insecurity was still being carefully cultivated and disseminated in the usual über-Orwellian fashion.

Somewhere along the line undocumented immigrants, one of the world’s most vulnerable populations, became a target for fear and loathing.

So in May 2006, as migrants were dying in record numbers because of government policies that built barriers and forced them to cross increasingly dangerous terrain in search of a better life, I loaded up my cello bow and implements of mass percussion and set off to transform the border walls, fences and ephemera from symbols of virtual fear into the world's most expensive instrument.

I had no idea at the time if playing the border was legal or if it would lead to my arrest.

But it was a chance I was willing to take.

The Anta Project recordings spread quickly around the world following an article in Signal-to-Noise and a story on NPR's All Things Considered.

In three years roughly two thousand discs have been given away as downloads or cd-r's at no charge to listeners in over 100 countries.

Over time The Anta Project has found it's way to the eclectic ears of Barack Obama, Felipe Calderon, Airto Moreira, George W. Bush, Pauline Oliveros, Vicente Fox, Lou Reed, Jan Brewer, and Janet Napolitano to name a few.

In a recent interview with Timeout Sydney, David Harrington of Kronos Quartet seemed to give a nod to the influence of The Anta Project stating: "The time I first came in contact with the idea of a barbed wire fence becoming a musical instrument was about the time the Bush administration was contemplating creating a fence between Mexico and the United States. The idea of musicians turning these objects of violence and confinement and suffering into musical instruments is something I had to do; I don't feel I have much choice."

This month Kronos is performing a composition by Jon Rose , "Music From 4 Fences," at the Sydney Opera House in Australia on a musical instrument made to resemble a wire fence.

Jon is pretty much the Les Paul of fence playing. I was honored to play the border wall in Sasabe with him last summer as he visited the borderlands with his partner Hollis Taylor.

Jon and Hollis are both musicians whose work playing The Great Australian Fences I respect immensely.

They are adventurous sonic compadres and I have no doubt that Four Fences will be a beautiful and important work in the Kronos canon, addressing and presenting ideas of boundaries and borders to an audience more familiar with the Kronos brand.

However, like a Duchamp urinal there is something safe, pristine and DaDa-esque about this idea of building fine-tuned instruments to resemble oppressive fences and teaching classical musicians how to play them for written compositions.

Playing real fences and real walls outside a concert hall environment requires deep listening and intuitive now responses to all of the factors in play including weather, wildlife and occasionally law enforcement.

But equally as important as the sound created is the playing itself.

These border structures are the great equalizers.

Anyone can play them and there is neither a right way nor a wrong way to do so.

No one knows how they will sound until bow and mallet are placed to metal.

In the field everyone is a musician and all sounds are equal if one is willing to open their ears and mind to the sonic possibilities.

The symbolic act of taking a stand against oppression with sound, neither for glory nor treasure, but as an expression of individual freedom resonates deeply.

If Kronos Quartet is serious about "turning these objects of violence and confinement and suffering into musical instruments" I would like to extend to them an offer to visit the borderlands and try their hand at playing the real walls and fences that divide the Sonoran Desert.

To breath the dust of Border Patrol helicopters and trucks on patrol, to see the ephemera left behind by migrants, to feel the searing heat, to witness the ominous idling buses filled with detained migrants who want only to find work, to be inspected for radiation contamination or profiled because of skin color or religion, might prove to be a rewarding experience.

If nothing else it will certainly place into context what is real and what is virtual.

But at the same time, perhaps Kronos is on to something since playing virtual fences is an idea remarkably well aligned with the times in which we live.

Virtual fences are the future after all.

Sensors and motion detectors have begun to replace physical barriers.

The walls, fences and barriers of our future borders will be unseen, hidden, invisible and virtual.

And to my mind this is all the more insidious as invisible monitoring becomes woven into our accepted culture.

To honor the dawn of this new age of global insecurity and to celebrate the third anniversary of The Anta Project's release, I give you:

~ Virtual Insecurity: A Borderland Deconstruction~

This immersive sound work is built from field recordings and assorted manipulations of Virtual Walls, Virtual Fences, Virtual Migrants, Virtual Border Patrol, Virtual Militias, Virtual Insects, Virtual Drug Smugglers, Virtual Cowboys, Virtual Indians, Virtual Homeland Security, Virtual Birds, Virtual Planes and Virtual Terrorists.

This recording was a year in the making and is culled from over 20 hours of sound files.

Of course playing some of the $ 6.7 billion virtual fence towers and their assorted support cables with a cello bow and mallets is illegal.

The areas surrounding them are clearly marked with signs warning against trespassing and playing them could certainly lead to all sorts of legal hassles if such were the case.

So caveat emptor :: This virtual work is what it is, nothing more or less.

And that’s the virtual truth.

Thank’s again for your support these past three years.

Stay tuned and listen well,

Glenn

The World Is Your Instrument
Play It Now
While You Still Can...

A hi-fi version of Virtual Insecurity: A Borderland Deconstruction is also available as part of the SonicAnta D-Construction Sound Series.

THE ANTENNA PROJECT

FURTHER MORE — Wed, 20 May 2009 16:22:00 GMT

This is about hearing the unheard.

It begins with Jon Ray aka Skincage.

Jon is a Tucson musician whose name has bubbled up in conversation from time to time.

Something along the lines of: "You ever hear of Skincage? You should play with him..."

After a couple years of circling and emails we finally met up at his studio.

Jon had a phalanx of original instruments set up, I brought along my Electric Ferris Box, and we embarked on a sound excursion.

What would these folk instruments of original design built mostly from found objects sound like? How would they mesh and contrast? Where would the conversation lie?

As usual in improvisational situations with so many unknowns, we had to deeply listen to what we were creating and respond accordingly as any so-called traditional musician would to the sounds being created.

Imagine a guitar player who has no knowledge of what a piano is improvising for the first time with a pianist who has never heard of a guitar.

It was something like that.

Eventually a sound sculpture was constructed, solidly ephemeral in design and built without blueprint or map. A classic sonic recipe for creation and I'm sure it will lead to future works.

A few days later I found myself in a cement bunker baked in 100 degree desert heat, alert for scorpions, ants, bees and snakes while listening again, this time through headphones, to a towering antenna being played by the wind.

For year's I'd been telling people: "I wonder what those antenna sound like?"

The antenna's twelve supporting cables, each stretching a couple hundred feet into the air, were anchored to the ground at various locations. I mic'ed the individual cables as with the strings on a cello or violin.

Deep sustained Aeolian choruses rose and fell with wind generated vibrations. Metal against metal scrapped and bowed. Between gusts, periods of staggering silence expanded into a thick void.

Those listening to these towers have heard the radio signals, cell phone transmissions and radar pings.

But how many have heard the sounds these structures are really putting out?

Now you can.

(A limited CD-R pressing of the entire 25 minute work --- the first in a series of Sonoran Desert Antenna Recordings --- is also available as part of the D-Construction Sound Series).

HIMMEL WALL MEMORIAL IMPROVISATION

FURTHER MORE — Fri, 08 May 2009 19:53:00 GMT

This week a simple improvisation for a nearly 25 year old memorial, a vestige of the Cold War, designed like a literal "iron curtain" or perhaps a segment of the Berlin Wall located in Himmel Park, Tucson, Arizona, U.S.A.

The memorial was mic'ed, amplified and played with implements of mass percussion.

Nice acoustics and plenty of irony considering that today the Soviet Union is a ghost, many of the countries listed on the memorial are democratic or headed that way, the Berlin Wall has become a souvenir item for tourists and America is building a literal iron curtain of her own along the southern border.

Sound files for download of the Himmel Park Wall Improvisations will be posted on the Glenn Weyant Facebook page next week. (Be sure to find: Glenn Weyant in Tucson. Others abound....)