Sound is omnipresent. Even in a silent room, human ears pick up on distant sounds, whether they be from your pen scribbling against a piece of paper or the hushed buzz of the central air system in your house. These sounds flood our listening ears, creating environments composed of small, almost imperceptible noise. The Northern Spring Peepers became my favorite artists, singing as soon as the sun began to creep down the sky. Listening to them was a pastime and being able to hear their chirps evoked feelings of contentment. Growing up on the East Coast, the beach is where I found my solace. That is where life was simple, observing the gloomy Atlantic water as it crashed onto the rocky shores, full of seaweed and aquatic life. The sounds of the ocean being pulled in and out, swirling around jettied rocks as it struck the sand, composing the most harmonious songs. That was where my peace was built, constructed like the beach houses around me. These noises, the small and often disregarded rhythms, sing to me louder than any other melodies.
These melodies exist in Alvin Lucier’s “I Am Sitting In A Room,” especially as the feedback loop becomes more potent. As soft spoken Lucier’s repeated speech gets continually played, his words begin to echo and mix together. What starts out as a clear, slowly drawn out, almost ariose speech steadily transforms into nothing but melodic noise. While Lucier’s audience is aware he is repeating himself, his words begin to blur together as he becomes less and less comprehensible. By the 15th minute, he is barely coherent and his voice ceases to create cognitive words. By the 25th minute, you seem to forget that he is speaking all together, as lyrical sounds resonate into an almost magical melody. His song is organic and fluid, reminding me almost of the cavernous sounds of whale calls and an oceanic domain.
