in Conversations, Sound

DISTRIBUTION from Sound Generation

As I prepare my opening remarks for “Radio to Internet” – I can’t help but feel like I’m writing a post-script to the “Distribution” chapter of Sound Generation. Below, the chapter… some background reading for Supply/Demand.


Tell us about some of the possibilities of distribution which you have explored in bringing your work to an audience? And by distribution we mean everything from the most elementary decisions about how to recognizably bring your work out into the world, to relationships with museums, galleries, venues, recording labels, broadcasters, you name it.

lou mallozzi: It really does depend on the work itself. The work helps to determine what its distribution possibilities are going to be. If you do a recorded piece on CD, then you enter into the world of “How do I distribute this CD?” You have to make certain decisions: Do I want to try to get this work out as a limited-edition object? Do I want to put it out into some world of music where there are mechanisms at work—record labels, distributors, journals that print reviews? All that depends on the work.

With work that lives well on CD, i.e., that someone could listen to in their living room or on headphones or in the car, if there will be enough people interested in it, then I put a CD into distribution. With installation, on the other hand, there are many levels of problems, like the way that a sound goes through a loudspeaker.

What a recording sounds like in that particular loudspeaker, in that kind of configuration, in that given space, is all highly specific.

ken montgomery: Many of my sound compositions can’t be reproduced on a CD because they were designed for an octophonic speaker sound environment.

In 1999, Felix Knoth interviewed me on his radio program in Hamburg. When I arrived, he asked me for a CD to play to open the show. Since I had been working exclusively on octophonic pieces at the Spritzenhaus I had brought several sets of CDs designed to be mixed together, but I didn’t have a stereo CD. Felix was amazed that, especially at this point in time when everyone burns their own CDs, I didn’t have a “normal” stereo CD that I could play on the radio. At that moment I realized how far away I had gotten from the universal standard for listening to audio.

lou: If I could give you a stereo CD with the audio for an installation on it, and you play it in your house instead of through the particular loudspeakers in their particular architectonic setting, it’s not going to sound at all how the piece is supposed to. Because the piece may be somewhat about the phenomenology of the playback situation, right? Therefore, the distribution, so to speak, of that installation can only really occur in a site-specific way. The piece can be done in a gallery and then sold to someone and set up somewhere else in a private setting or it could be presented in a public space where it could only exist in that place.

maryanne amacher: There should be real buildings dedicated to artists and sound installations, because people can have these experiences there that are totally liberating, and they can not have these experiences in their own home. It is impossible no matter how many speakers you have. It’s not simply a question of multi-channels or spatialization. It’s really a whole matter of physics, it’s a matter of structure and sound, how sound relates and what happens in the structures that makes a transformative experience that doesn’t happen with the current loudspeakers we have.

     Distribution then includes creating spaces for an audience to have these specific listening experiences. Was this your intention when you established Generator Sound Art?

ken: Generator did have a DIY kind of distribution function, but this was only one aspect. I really didn’t know what Generator would become when I opened it in 1989. It was truly an experiment. Generator was a home for the Generations Unlimited record label project started by Conrad Schnitzler, David Prescott and myself in 1986. We released cassettes and LPs of underground non-academic experimental music with an international focus. Selling and distributing the records was very difficult. I was convinced that if there were a place where people could actually go to hear the music, we might be able to sell a few more copies. Generator Sound Art Gallery in New York’s East Village became the place to hear many kinds of experimental music, sound and noise. Sound artists sent me tapes and records from all over the world. At that time you couldn’t find another place in New York City or America where you could hear the music and noise that found its way to the Generator, and I was ambitious enough to want to introduce it to anyone who walked in off the street.

Through Mail Art and the cassette network I had correspondences with people in other parts of the U.S., Canada, Europe and Japan, but I didn’t know many people in New York City. I wanted to find out if there were other people here in New York who were interested in this music.

     Were there any models you were informed by?

ken: In the early 80’s I was inspired by the self-produced cassettes and LPs I found at Staalplaat in Amsterdam and Gelbe Musik in Berlin. [1] Word of mouth, postal networking, music zines and books brought me into contact with many ideas and people. John Cage and Conrad Schnitzler had the biggest influence in my work. It was conversations with Conrad that planted the seed for starting Generator and it was his experience in the music world, the art world, and in life that guided me to make Generator the first sound art gallery in New York. I built an octophonic sound system at Generator specifically for conducting Conrad’s 8-channel Cassette Concerts which he sent to me from Berlin. At Generator I met many artists and people extremely enthusiastic about music/sound and noise. I organized concerts and exhibitions and sound installations. Because it was so loose, because I was operating on the fly, I could spontaneously invite people to do what they wanted at Generator. It was very intuitive. The schedule at Generator quickly became very full.

Artists traveling from Europe would come to New York City looking for a place to play, and I was often lucky enough to be the only place that offered them a gig.

     Soviet France, Merzbow and Phauss! David First and Arcane Device, to name a few.

There were performances by many artists before they were well known. While I did have a predilection towards noise, non-traditional instruments and electronic music, I was open to what was new, genuine, or what wasn’t being supported by established venues.

The word went out that there was a place in New York City where you could send a cassette of your music, the stranger the better, and it would go on the wall for people to listen to. Generator attracted artists or outsiders from anywhere in the world who obsessed about some sound/noise/music thing: there were instrument builders, analog synthesists, mail artists, and “kitchen artists” (this is what Conrad Schnitzler called people who used pots and pans, synthesizers, appliances or whatever was available to them to make music immediately and directly). Suddenly, kitchen artists had a venue! Some just came out of the woodwork; others had been working for years and were thrilled to discover a venue in the real world. Many people could only dream of having their music in a shop.

Generator could be different things to different people. It could be a place to read the latest zines and listen to new music, a place to buy unusual music, a place to hear concerts or sound exhibitions or a place to hang out and meet interesting people.

The Rainbow Café next door made the best Turkish coffee which fueled many conversations at the Generator.

Musik in the Dark [2] was one of the best events at Generator though it was probably the least attended. That was a weekly series of Conrad Schnitzler’s Cassette Concerts which I mixed live through the 8-channel sound system in total darkness. It was an Octophonic live mix in total darkness. It’s a really dramatic thing to sit in the dark and be immersed in Conrad’s music. Conrad fabricated large metal sculptures before abandoning the plastic arts for the invisible world of sound. His music often lacks conventional melody and rhythm so people often find it difficult to listen to. It can be quite intense and is wildly spatial. People either left within the first few minutes or else they stayed to the end and didn’t want to leave. After concerts the dedicated would hang around to talk about their experience. The differences between one person’s response and the next were stark.

I remember after one concert someone came up to me saying they felt like they had been in a fiery hell, or a dungeon or factory with sweat and hot metal pounding the walls. The next person told me they experienced the bliss of floating in neon through smooth precise machinery. Performing Conrad’s music is always really inspiring. It inspires me to give my audience the same high level of listening experiences.

Performing Conrad’s music over and over, I learned how to dynamically change the same piece with each performance. There is a lot of room for experimentation which is what Conrad intended. I incorporated Conrad’s compositional methods and tools into my own work and I composed concerts for the octophonic sound system at Generator. His way of composing and layering sound, while paying attention to the movement of sound in space has been a constant in my work since the 80’s. Musik in the Dark concerts hooked me on immersive sound experiences.

     How do you sell a piece that is designed for an octophonic soundsystem to people who want to experience your work at home or on headphones?

ken: Hard question. That’s something that stopped me from producing CDs for a long time. It seemed impossible. Even cityscapes and field recordings lost their depth when I heard them through 2 speakers. In 1998 I began making packages of CDRs with instructions to play them through 4 separate CD players. [3]

     The emergence of “Surround Sound” (Dolby, DTS) technology as a norm promised to finally translate quadraphonic and octophonic compositions to the living room for intimate listening at home. The popular mp3 format even added dimensions with an mp3surround format (mp3s), enabling the transmission of multichannel sound “installations” over networks.

francisco lopez: I’m very interested in the question of the physicalization of sound. Mp3s are a good example here. An mp3 is a lower-quality version of something that existed before in a different format. It is a good format to transfer information, and for a lot of people this loss of quality doesn’t matter. I can use the radio as an example as well. Imagine you’re driving and you’re listening to the radio in your car: Most people can of course recognize the melody of a song off the radio, and it seems to be the same thing if you’re listening to it on the car-radio or anywhere else; but there’s an essential difference. For me, the most important thing is the phenomenological difference, the really textural, physical difference of the sound in the different spaces and the different sound systems or the different conditions for listening. Both melody and rhythm actually turn our perception away from the physicality of the sound. So when you’re not dealing with melody or rhythm you can perceive the physical aspects of sound much more clearly. For many sounds, and certainly for the kinds of sounds that I often use, you can perceive that very clearly. In a live show, I can radically transform a recording that I have on a CD in such an amazing way that you wouldn’t believe it’s the same recording. I’m very interested in this physicalization.

     Let’s step away from considerations of physicality and instead think about the mp3, and the worldwide web itself, as an unprecedented channel for distribution. Digital audio files are infinitely reproducible and transportable to the point of pure liquidity. Mail-art, aiming for a promiscuous interchange of creativity, took the production and distribution of copies to absurd length, with utopian dreams of connecting the world through an endless movement of envelopes. Let’s focus on how mp3s and web distribution have carried on some of these mail-art traditions, and fostered dialogue and sharing.

     Could you tell us about your web-label, tiln?

marc mcnulty: I originally started tiln because I knew that there was no possible way I was the only person following these kind of pursuits. It was an idea to try to bring together some kind of collective of like-minded individuals. I started sending out emails to a lot of the lists, saying, “Send me your mp3 work!” I wanted to make something more interesting than, where your work became the possession of It could be re-used for any purpose. It could be re-purposed. That didn’t necessarily worry me, because I didn’t really think that anyone would be too fascinated with what I was doing, but I thought of it in the broader picture for other artists. It completely puts them in a small compartment, and if, for example, someone became the artist of the week or something like that, their work would not be theirs any longer, and that was a problem for me. The bottom line at tiln was “your work is your work.”

I hosted tiln from a server in my apartment with just a cable modem, which was pretty cool for a while. I built it from an old PC I had, and put a nice big hard drive in it. It was good, but managing it and keeping it up to date wasn’t something that I could do myself, so I kind of allowed it to self-manage. I didn’t intend for tiln to become a large entity, but within a year-and-a-half or so, there came to be about forty artists, who were all beginning to work with each other! That was really the most interesting part to me, that cross-pollination of all these people from these remote places all over the world, just being able to have this place to say, “this is what I have done, what do you think?”

     The label that you manage, Platelunch, makes actual CDs, whereas tiln doesn’t. How does a conventional label differ from a web-label?

m a r c: I don’t even know if the term “web-label” is accurate for tiln, because there’s no contract that anyone enters into, there’s no formality. As much as possible, I would take whatever anyone would send to me and put it up on tiln. I was trying hard not to act as a curator.

Platelunch, [4] on the other hand, was a genuine label started by Norbert Schilling in Germany in 1997, which already had a vision to start with. Norbert’s original focus for Platelunch was to be a Conrad Schnitzler label, which it was for the first year or so. The two or three original CDs were of Conrad’s work, which was pretty amazing for a small label starting out to have a recognized artist, that they would be able to, for lack of a better word, sell product. It’s not like starting out a label of your own and just trying to push your own work, or trying to push a compilation of unknown artists, or something like that, which sometimes are the most fascinating, but they don’t get enough exposure because the media takes a blind eye to what it perceives as naive.

When Norbert was running the label we were emailing back and forth to each other, as I had become interested in a lot of Schnitzler’s earlier synthesizer works.

Norbert made me an offer to take care of things for North America and Canada and Asia. It really became this fascinating kind of friendship. Norbert passed away in 1999 and all of Platelunch suddenly fell onto me. His mother sent the entire stock and everything over to me—like seven or eight thousand CDs! It was a whole adventure to just figure out what I was going to do with this!

     It seems like what you’re doing with tiln and Platelunch, in their economic or distributive capacity, counteracts monopolization.

marc: I’m fascinated by how intricate this monopolization is! I’m fascinated by how people are so willing to subjugate themselves to the way things have always been done and just keep doing it that way. I’m just fascinated that someone would give up their free will. What is in question here is our free will, and that hearkens back to tiln and Platelunch and all that. Tiln and Platelunch are simply trying to be what happens when groups of writers and artists get together and confer on things.

ken: In 1999, Scott Konzelmann, aka Chop Shop, and I created yet another incarnation of Generator Sound Art on the Web. We wanted to think about intentionally providing a resource for dedicated sound artists. We began by making available recordings of past Generator sound events and by producing new recorded works by sound artists who have stayed in contact with us over the years and new artists that we meet. Generator Sound Art Inc. gives artists the freedom to be as creative as they like and the opportunity to collaborate on the production.

     How does sound art fit in with the context of the commercial art gallery? Isn’t sound somehow resistant to commodification?

ed osborn: There are some kinds of sound work that are resistant to commodification which rarely end up in any kind of gallery, commercial or otherwise. The commodification of visual art is based on a common economic model: there are objects, the objects are sold. The hard part with sound is that it’s an unusual thing to sell in this kind of context. Sound is material that doesn’t only occupy space; it actively intrudes in a space and then disappears. Something happens and then it’s over. This kind of thing is not very practical to sell as a commodity, at least when it is not called “music.” Its functioning isn’t conducive to this. Where sound is attached to objects, particularly objects that appear as if they belong in an art context, then the fact that the object has sound as part of it is less of a commercial impediment.

The only thing that I think is inherently harder with sound in terms of commodification is that sound and sound work is always closely linked to site, physically, even if not always conceptually. Site-specific sound works are hard, if not impossible, to relocate. Even if site-specificity is not an issue, a set of sounds will often have very different characteristics emerge when heard in various spaces. This is not a helpful feature when trying to make a sale.

     Was there an established context for sound art in galleries when you first started exhibiting your work?

ed: Not really an established context, but I knew that there were contexts nevertheless. Sometimes sound art was presented in music festivals, sometimes in museums, sometimes in project spaces, sometimes outside in site-specific settings. For me, it was a question of what seemed to be available as a context. Also, the kind of work I do requires a relative amount of quiet; I need to know that there’s someone watching the piece and that the space is controllable on a number of levels. Those requirements are most likely to be found in visual arts settings. It was simply the best designed context for me. It’s different for someone like Matt Heckert [5] who makes big, sound-producing machines. Because they’re so large and loud and strong, his pieces can be presented in a number of contexts, including clubs. I don’t make work like that, so the options for presentation are a bit more limited. I don’t see it as an impediment at all, it’s just a question of finding the right context.

     Could you tell us more about your relationships with specific galleries?

ed: I’ve been working for a about a dozen years with a contemporary visual arts gallery in San Francisco, the Catherine Clark Gallery. They have been consistently supportive of my practice for a long time now, but I don’t count on paying the rent with my sales there. There is also Galerie Haferkamp in Cologne, who set out to be specifically a sound art gallery, though they have since expanded into showing other kinds of work. The owner was interested in sound art, got together with a few other people and decided to make a go of it. They’ve created a situation in which a lot of interesting things happen, both through live performances and in the exhibitions; it’s become a very vital space. From the programming it looks similar to a non-profit, but they function as a commercial gallery in other respects. [6]

     Working in an art-world context, do you have collectors? Do you work in ways analogous to visual artists? Do you put out limited editions?

ed: Usually they are unique pieces, sometimes limited editions. Multiple copies might be built if the exhibition schedule requires it, but usually I never have to worry about building more than one for the purpose of sales even if it is designated as a limited edition.

     Could you describe an example of one of your early installations?

annea lockwood: When I came here to New York, in 1973, the first installation was at The Kitchen, the old one over on Broome Street. I assembled a group of rivers, and it included recordings made in the Himalayas, and recordings made by Pauline Oliveros, [7] and Lynn Baron, and a lot of people. As I recall, it went from white water to calm over the course of a couple of hours or so. I covered the floor with foam rubber, and I put an ozone generator in the space—to give everyone a slight high–and projected slides made from beautiful old postcards of the rivers which had been recorded.

I just let it run continuously for a while. That was the first one, I called it Play the Ganges Backwards One More Time, Sam. That became a sort of a heading for other water installations, which I did variations on in various spots. I worked out of the River Archive for about five or six installation works, including one in Charlotte Moorman’s New York Avant-Garde Festival. That was an interesting experience. That was the Festival that ran in Grand Central Station in 1973. I put headphones on people. And, as they were walking around the station, people swore that rivers were passing stereophonically, panning from ear to ear. Which they weren’t, of course, but it’s a really nice illusion to come across. Then, in 1981, I did the Hudson River Sound Map. I went into the Hudson River Museum in Yonkers looking for an arts administration job and instead they said, “Make a proposal.” I was looking out onto the River, across to the Palisades, and the topic was totally obvious. [8]

     It seems like your work would be inhibited by trying to install it in a gallery space.

mark bain: Yes. For example, there is a show I did in de Appel[9] where I had four of these oscillators mounted to the non-loadbearing wall on the second floor. This wall was about a meter thick, made out of wood and plasterboard, and when you operated the system it really pushed the wall a couple of millimeters back and forth just through the vibration. So it acted like a giant diaphragm, pumping the space with heavy infrasound. It worked really nicely, and people were into it at the opening, really into it. I had put a timing button on it so that it wasn’t on all the time, but the audience had to activate it for this implied auto-destruction of the building.

I don’t think it ever stopped running. Anyway, it was shut off after the opening, supposedly because the environmental police showed up. In Amsterdam they build the buildings right next to each other, and the neighbors were complaining that the objects in their living room were moving around and things like that. So that lasted one day, essentially. That’s an example of the difficulty of working with a gallery space. I really prefer some sort of public interface outside of the norms of the gallery museum context, making work that has this kind of openness for whoever’s there.

     What was it like to work with the City of Seattle?

mark: Because it’s a City Hall, I think it’s quite beautiful and poetic that it’s a sonic democracy to hear all the actions and elements of the building like this. Of course, the authorities are very paranoid about the fact that we’re tapping into or bugging their building. The thing is we’re not interested in conversations; our microphones are not even picking up the range of voices. We’re really interested just in the tonalities of the building and the idea of impact: What’s impacting the building? Outside weather conditions, footsteps, machines attached to it.

     Earthquakes and tsunamis, too. Impact generally has such destructive connotations.

mark: Yes, I’m interested in that too. Ideally I would like to get a building that I would be allowed to destroy with sound, because it’s not really been done before.

This is something I’ve been developing for a while as a new form of demolition technique, for example in the project I did in den Haag. [10] It was a large music venue that was being shut down to be renovated, so they allowed parts of the building to be destroyed. With these systems it’s all about the tuning: you can tune it for destruction or you can tune it more for the sound element, so it’s a decision I can make through the composition. But they actually gave me permission to destroy parts of this building! So this picture with the crack was a solid brick wall that was about a meter thick. There was also another part of the building complex where I took out a whole floor from the oscillators underneath.

     Sounds intense!

mark: I’m very interested in intensity. We live in such a complex world now, and it’s hard to have this experience of intensity outside the normal chatter. Everything is so modulated. I’m interested in being able to rip the carpet from under people’s feet in a sense. I’m not interested in hurting people or destruction per se, but I’m certainly into the idea of dissolution. These projects are moving buildings in very micro amounts. Complexity and indeterminacy, unlike the older scientific view of harmony and order, stresses that if you look closer and closer, things are completely in disorder. This work of tuning and harmonizing also creates this disorder; it straddles the edge between resonance and chaos.

     If audio experimentation can toss something so solid as architecture onto the edge of chaos, what does it mean for a medium like the radio?

gregory: Taking experimental audio and then passively broadcasting it does not qualify for me as radio art. Radio art has to be some kind of event or performance or presentation—a “play” in the broadest sense—that deals with the fundamental materials of radio, and the material of radio is not just amorphous sound. Radio is above all a set of relationships, an intricate triangulation of listener, “player,” and system. It’s also a huge corporate beast, and the awareness that you’re working with in a highly capitalized network. Finally, there is the way in which radio is listened to, frequently in an extremely lo-fi environment, with people listening on a car radio, or in the kitchen, cooking, and listening with only half an ear. To me, radio art comes to grips with all of that, it comes to grips with both the context of production and the context of listening. There must be a play of relationships. The call and response, the give and take, the friction, the rub, the tangle. Sometimes literally, through feedback loops like telephone call-ins, but sometimes more deeply buried within the structure of the broadcast, some way of acknowledging the fragile, weird complicity with a listener, who is always just one twitch away from tuning you out.

     While you’re on the air, you feel as though nobody could be listening.

gregory: And I love that, the not-knowing. There’s something so wonderful about it, if you embrace it. To some people it’s very discouraging, they think “why bother?” You know it’s that slippery question of “Who’s there?” Is there anybody there? Are you out there? Are you listening? And then of course, as the trickster knows, once you open the question, the space for a question, then the seduction begins. In my longer pieces I always try to design them in a very circular way so that you can enter in many different spots and still get the basic idea. Or you can listen to the whole loopy adventure.

     A play but not a story?

gregory: Not a story that has a conventional beginning, middle, and end. I mean conceptually it has a beginning, middle and end, but one that can repeat, that the listener can ride like a wave form, a structure that’s just waving waving waving. So if you listen to it, if it’s a one-hour program or play or broadcast or whatever, any five minutes, no matter where in the program, if you listen to those five minutes you will get that sense of waves of thought, through a structure that’s true to the random access nature of the medium. Now if you put that same structure on a CD where somebody’s going to sit down and listen, then it doesn’t work, but the equivalent might be shuffle mode. On some of my works that have been released as CDs, I put ID points at different sections of the piece and then encourage people to play it in shuffle mode, allowing the chance for new associations to emerge when you listen differently, in a mutating sequence. [11]

     How does your work relate to the dominant formats of commercial or public radio?

gregory: For me, to listen to those formats and those hideous delusional aspirations and those grubby commercial models and think of ways to get inside them and take them somewhere else is very intriguing, maybe it is just the imp of the perverse.

To begin with the arrogance of absolute certainty—the world in your ears—and then gradually bleed, minute by minute, into a nebulous zone where all boundaries, bodies, voices, themes and ideas blur into each other, or into a fog of thought and feeling that is closer to some kind of lived truth. The voice of authority is part of what I call “radio Thanatos,” the side of radio that vibrates with death, as weapons or as control over communities. Then there is “radio Eros,” the radio of play, and attraction, a radio of productive illusion, a radio that brings ears together into some kind of fresh network. The best radio art hangs in the turbulence between the two.

I want the whole body of my work, taken as a whole, to be a kind of navigational system for the turbulence, between the scream and the laugh, perhaps, or between the horrific shudders of a sort of cultural Grand Mal seizure – for what else should we call the Age of Bush? —- and the stubborn insistence of some other vibe: Eros, affirmation, call it what you will. Life!
(some of these links below are NG — please email me if you have newer/better links!)

1 Founded in 1982, Amsterdam’s Staalplaat is a diverse forum for soundartists, an “organization-network” that includes a music label, a record shop / audio gallery, a mail-order and distribution company and an online publication. • Part gallery, part record store, Berlin’s Gelbe Musik (Yellow Music) was founded by Ursula Block in 1981. The store takes it name from a variety of 20th-century Chinese popular music which was suppressed during the Cultural Revolution. For more information, an interview with Ursula Block is online at

2 For more on Conrad Schnitzler, see The Wire, May 2006
PS: A number of retrospectives and appreciations on Conrad were published in 2011-2012 after his death. Ken Montgomery organized a week-long celebration of Schnitzler’s music in New York City called “Con Mythology” in July 2012. More info:

3 From the DRONESKIP CLICKLOOP liner notes:
Icebreaker was presented as an installation at Generator Sound
Art Gallery in 1992 for 6 weeks.Octophonic live mix in total darkness. Close your eyes. Why should sound composing bother to refer to traditional music instruments? Must there be a visual element to sound? The Crush-a-maticis a sound-making device. But Icebreaker is not about instrumentation or composing or presentation. It’s about creating an experience through listening. The Icebreaker was used as a starting point to record and manipulate sounds which were then fed through 8 speakers placed in a circle facing the center of a dark room. You are in the center. There is a chair and some cushions but you are free to walk around or do as you please. The room is more than dark. It is black. You can’t see your hand in front of your face. Whether you want to close your eyes or not is your choice. The sounds originating from the Crush-a-matic begin to engulf you. They come from various points in space and move around you, through you, over you, past you, inside you. You hear many things and they might be very different from what I hear or what the next person hears.

You may detect the sounds of ice being crushed or the humming of the engine but you will hear alot of other things too. And they might remind you of memories or inspire fantasies, or you might get bored. And that’s ok too. —Ken Montgomery

Ken Montgomery DRONESKIPCLICKLOOP (4 CDR set) Generator Sound Art, 2001 • Ken Montgomery, Icebrekaer, 3” CD, Staalplaat, 2001 • Icebreaker
(1992 re-mix) included in the compilation Minimall, Tellus (Tellus CD27), 1993

Archived –

5 Matt Heckert, American
In the 1980s, Matt Heckert built and designed robots for performance as part of Survival Research Laboratories. In 1988, he began work on the Mechanical Sound Orchestra, remote controlled robots designed with a variety of timbres and rhythms that could perform musically without the accompaniment of synthesizers or samplers.


7 Pauline Oliveros, American,b. 1932. Composer, performer, founder of Deep Listening. • Oliveros is a central figure in 20th- and 21st-century electronic music.She was an original member of the San Francisco Tape Music Center, founded by Morton Subotnick and Ramon Sender in 1962, and was its first director when it moved to Mills College (Oakland, CA) in 1967. She currently is a research professor at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute in Troy, New York and as Composer in Residence at Mills College, as well as Artistic Director of the Deep Listening Institute.

8 Play the Ganges Backwards. Installation at The Kitchen.
Performance at Franklin Furnace,NYC, January 8, 1980. Installation at Modern Art Galerie, Vienna. • A Sound Map of the Hudson River, Hudson River Museum, Yonkers, opened 1982. A stereo version was published in 1993 by Lovely Music (Lovely CD 2081).

9 Anarchitecture, de Appel, Amsterdam, NL 1999

10 House Rockin: X-SITE (1999) Het Paard, Den Haag, NL


Print Friendly