On Andreas Tilliander’s TM404 Project

“I would have a sequence running for two hours, seriously, and I was afraid to ruin it all by touching a single knob.” – Andreas Tilliander

One of the more compelling soundworlds I’ve been listening to recently is a project by Andreas Tilliander called TM404. The music is made entirely with old Roland drum machines and sequencers, specifically the TR-202 and 303 sequencers, and the TR-606, 707, and 808 drum machines. To my ear, what makes the music compelling is its constantly fluctuating rhythmic syncopation (accents on normally unstressed beats), its limited sound set of tuned percussion sounds (even the 303 basslines sound percussive) arranged into long sequences, and its harmonic stasis. The TM404 pieces don’t go anywhere, but rather cycle around and around in a way that maintains intrigue. They sound restrained–as if holding something back. What could be more engaging?

To read more about Tilliander/TM404, go here.

On The Rhythms And Sounds Of Running

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Running in the New York City marathon a few weeks ago I had ample time to think about the rhythms of running, pacing and tempo, on-the-course sound, and fatigue. Along with some 50,000 other runners, I lined up on the Staten Island bridge and then moved through the streets of Brooklyn, Queens, the Bronx, and finally, Manhattan. I was in Wave 1, which was full of cheery folks focused on keeping a sprightly pace.

For much of the race I held steady and thought about my tempo. While I took the Staten Island bridge too slow (it was cold and windy) and mile 2 too fast, I soon settled into a consistent groove. I compared my pace as measured by my GPS watch and the giant clocks every mile with my body’s sense of how the speed felt. It felt challenging. It also felt rather arbitrary–a pace determined by a hoped for finish time rather than by what felt agreeable moment by moment. And, depending on one’s temperament, so it should be: the marathon is a race against the immutable judgement of the ticking clock. Run boy, run!

Surprisingly, the bands and DJs playing music on the course did little to motivate me. Some of the bands (in parts of Brooklyn) were rhythmically rough around the edges, playing spirited but sloppy cover versions of songs like “Eye Of The Tiger” that annoyed even back in the day because such songs are rousing yet one-dimensional; other bands (in Harlem and the Bronx) played funk so super tight that I wanted to stop and listen. There was also a few too many bands playing doomsday hard rock music. Not the most inspirational repertoire, but maybe the power of this music motivates some runners? I don’t know. On the whole though, I didn’t pay too much attention to the bands. There was no time!

I did take notice of sound at two particular spots in the race. Crossing the 59th street bridge from Queens into Manhattan I heard the sounds of howling wind and runners’ footsteps. For that lonely uphill mile, running felt ancient again and I had an acute sense of the effort required to hold steady on a climb, fifteen miles into a journey. I also had the sensation of being a part of a strange tribe fleeing some unseen force, moving in sync and banded together in silent effort. A few miles later, in the Bronx, I noticed sound again as I came around a turn smack into the middle of a giant DJ rig whose volume was so loud I felt the music as an ocean wave carrying me forward on big beats and bass. (It was a Chris Brown song.) I instinctively turned on the jets, flying around the turn at an increased speed, so energized was I by the low frequencies. But once out of earshot of the DJ, I once again felt the physical demands of my pace more acutely. At mile 22, a thought: this is getting hard.

No matter what its soundscape, the last few miles of the marathon bring about a penetrating fatigue that alters one’s perception and chisels joy into something less euphoric and definitely…darker. Feeling this sensation I thought about the limitations of “training” plans for running, or anything for that matter (like preparing for a music performance, say). Training makes all the difference, but what it is needed is experience with the thing itself in context to truly understand the feeling–whether euphoric or dark–it brings about. With running, run for a few hours, then try to keep going fast on your depleted energy supply. The body says, “seriously?” Yet some people can do this with grace and speed. Amazing. In the final miles of the marathon, one’s body keeps going even while one’s mind starts conspiring. I found myself feeling time pass more slowly: When is this going to end? I’m slowing down a bit, glancing at my watch to calculate the time my reduced tempo might bring forth. Soon the race will be over, its finish its own reward.

For a phenomenology of running through images, sound, and text, watch my Running Music here.

On The Lessons Of Antifragility For Creativity: Nassim Nicholas Taleb’s “Antifragile”

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“We know more than we think we do, a lot more than we can articulate” (35) – Nassim Nicholas Taleb

I used to resist randomly exploring some aspect of music software–an instrument, a sound, an effect, a sequencer–because I wanted to have a sense ahead of time where I was headed. (Good luck with that Tom.) But this needing to know closed off interesting options that I could not predict. Whenever I just went with whatever caught my attention though, trying things out at random, I always ended up in an interesting musical place. My push and pull experiences with chance and randomness while working with music software came to mind last year as I read Nassim Nicholas Taleb’s Antifragile. Taleb, a scholar and statistician, suggests the concept of antifragility to describes things that “thrive and grow when exposed to volatility, randomness, disorder, and stressors and love adventure, risk, and uncertainty.” Reading Taleb, who is a compelling essayist, I thought anew about how my needing to know where the music was going hampered the creative process. Could I learn to embrace antifragility–to love “randomness, uncertainty, disorder, errors, stressors, etc.” when making music?

For Taleb, one only achieves a measure of control when one embraces randomness and the nonlinear. Taleb’s book (a companion to his earlier books, Fooled By Randomness and The Black Swan) aims to provide a philosophical guide to what he calls nonpredictive decision-making under uncertainty or opacity, or in other words, “how to not be afraid to work with things we patently don’t understand…” (11) One way to do this is by tinkering. Tinkering is a process of trial and error that allows one to make many small mistakes or incur small losses. The mistakes that come via tinkering are important, Taleb says, because they are rich in information yet small in harm. They also do vital work by stressing the system of which they are a part and making it stronger. And by yielding information and stressing the system to make it stronger, tinkering sets the stage for discovery–the possibility of finding “something rather significant” (236).

At one point in the book Taleb provides a list of words that describe the conditions that confront and characterize our decision-making under opacity: uncertainty, variability, imperfection, chance, chaos, volatility, disorder, entropy, randomness, dispersion, and unknowledge. The point is that there is so much more we don’t understand about the world than we do. How then can we regenerate ourselves by using, rather than suffering from, the opaque unknown? By being curious, and by making mistakes via tinkering. In my reading of Taleb’s essay, it is this strategy for embracing the unknown that is potentially so useful, especially to Makers Of Things who know well that they never fully control the sources of their creative work in the first place. “Antifragility takes time” (12), Taleb assures us. Only over time are the shapes and meanings of nonlinearity–“fractal, jagged, and rich in detail, though with a certain pattern” (325)–made apparent.