a link to 'New World' by Jade Mortimer for Virgin Shorts.
Sound Design by ME!
I tried to create a sonic sub-text beyond the visual narrative. I did this by splitting the film into two, suspense and confusion. In the first half I use the ambiguity to my advantage by creating a sort of unusual and mysterious soundscape made entirely from real-world sounds, most of which were recorded on location. For the second half, after the relationship between the two characters has been ascertained I used cartoon and filmic cliches to help create a sense of confusion; the removal of her blindfold sparks a blast of bird-tweets, mimetic of old cartoons used to represent a characters daze-like state; the low rumble representing suspense and confusion.
The sound grows until crescendo, resulting in the death of the captive.
The ambiguity of the piece allowed me to go quite far without there being too much hint dropping; after all I wanted the sound to act as a second fiddle, as it were, to the lush colours and play of the film.
It was exhibited by the Martha Collective in a Pop-Up Gallery in Hackney, East London.
http://www.virginmediashorts.co.uk/films/entry/345829/new-world
Thursday, 15 July 2010
Saturday, 10 July 2010
7 chords, 1 voice
the sun rose up to find the moon in its place.
its face obscured by the wheat-patch.
circles, whisk and flat, and then it snowed.
cloud cover heavy and thick.
the sun rose to find the rain had been.
it had washed everything away.
my plans of a simple life, thwarted.
and it was darker than it had been in a long time.
Saturday, 15 May 2010
A Crest Worn Upon A Chest
we leave a number in lieu of another.
can a different numerical arrangement really bring something it's predecessor couldn't?
are we expected to believe in a new light when the one prior was still burning brightly?
i had gold in my hands, i spoke with wonder.
un-verbly it's open mouth leaves nothing of worth...
i laughed the day they told me that history would become relevant in my lifely routine.
i laughed the day they told me that.
exacting the hum-drum, i am left with no beat no drum.
the startings.
the middles.
the ends.
i laughed the day they told me that history would become relevant in my lifely routine.
i laughed the day they told me that.
exacting the hum-drum, i am left with no beat no drum.
the startings.
the middles.
the ends.
Fr Fr Fr
I have forgotten about language, the playfulness of it's nature.
I elongate it's vowels for my own communication. They protrude like spikey fruit upon branch of wilted tree.
To ears, other than my own, it sounds like music.
I think it's time I allowed myself to open up and to stop with the green grass philosophy which dogs my brain, like a constant, broken motorway. It's destination unrevealed until the finality of my arrival.
Open stretches of water alert fear in me, there is something beautiful but, deathly about them.
I often associate this spectre with the end of life, as if i have somehow experienced it before.
perhaps...in a previous existence, if i believed in things like that.
I elongate it's vowels for my own communication. They protrude like spikey fruit upon branch of wilted tree.
To ears, other than my own, it sounds like music.
I think it's time I allowed myself to open up and to stop with the green grass philosophy which dogs my brain, like a constant, broken motorway. It's destination unrevealed until the finality of my arrival.
Open stretches of water alert fear in me, there is something beautiful but, deathly about them.
I often associate this spectre with the end of life, as if i have somehow experienced it before.
perhaps...in a previous existence, if i believed in things like that.
Red Young
Hamilton Fensby, my local gardener, handles his ware at a pace more pleasurely than leisurely.
Fawn, he repeats and peat he emits.
No more utopia blue, his gaze.
'What do you do when your designs are flawed?'
'I just let 'em talk of petering out'
...
'When the fields are gone will the cows take out mortgages?
Will the sheep get full-time jobs?
I guess we won't have to worry about closing the gates anymore.
Why?
Well, they'll be neatly replaced by a housing estate.
He caught us in his castle, hidden under-chair, we shiver, quiver and stare.
'FE-FI-FO-FUM...I smell the blood of an Englishman'
'What do you do when your designs are flawed?'
'I just let 'em talk of petering out'
...
'When the fields are gone will the cows take out mortgages?
Will the sheep get full-time jobs?
I guess we won't have to worry about closing the gates anymore.
Why?
Well, they'll be neatly replaced by a housing estate.
He caught us in his castle, hidden under-chair, we shiver, quiver and stare.
'FE-FI-FO-FUM...I smell the blood of an Englishman'
Sun-Tak
in the words of the man that sold me the gun...it's people that kill people
in the words of the man that sold me the gun...it's people that kill people
they cut themselves open like morning mail...over territory or something
would they be more civilised with hooded cardigans?
in the words of the man who took my life...what you looking at?
in the words of the man who took my life...you disrespecting?
in the words of the man who took my life...you should've done nothing
in the words of the man who took my life...i don't remember it
the blood pouring out?
Wednesday, 31 March 2010
Den MM; # 1 - 68
blah blah blah, words are rapping around my bleating throat like an unwanted sandwich being forced down thine gullet with excruciating accuracy by the floppy hands of the elderly!
Bon Traverse
At once, we ushered ourselves past the great hall. We brought with us, in our pockets, small livestock to sneak into the harvest room.
'well, it's not just man that has hunger', our administrative leader shouts in a muted whisper, reverberant in the spacious chamber.
'what of the others?', our own brand of socialist eeeks all over the mission.
We stop, almost in contemplative unison.
The quietness that brushes over us now is the loudest thing in the room.
Our ethos has been challenged. From the back of our group I can hear the initial swirlings of our low chanted war-drum song.
Careful to not rile to soon-to-be mob, I run to the centre of the hall and play dead, mimicking the tweet algorithm of two dozen sparrows.
Knowing what'll happen to me, I lay completely still...waiting for the fragments of ember to start swirling.
The others, startled at the events that are coming begin to cause a deadly furore...circling me with speedy intensity.
Their song, low and mono-syllabic, becomes a deafening drone.
Their speed ever increasing.
Increasing still.
The doors to the great hall begin to bang and slam as though being controlled by an invisible intruder on their corridored side.
At last the embers.
The drone accentuates into a banshee scream, a 5.1 dream piece, piercing and horrid, the doors fly off their hinges, possessed.
Chairs, certain carpeted areas, even my shoes spiral upwards into the static salvage floating above my head.
At once a light fantastic, a solar vandango....
The screams quieten. A black and grey landscape remains. I semi-charred, retain my position on the travertine surface, where I, recumbent, never move again.
Completed in the metamorphoses, me the resultant grey matter, trunk shaped, bark as skin, am paraded before the elders.
Their songs have changed too.
I hope no-one thinks of me as missed.
'well, it's not just man that has hunger', our administrative leader shouts in a muted whisper, reverberant in the spacious chamber.
'what of the others?', our own brand of socialist eeeks all over the mission.
We stop, almost in contemplative unison.
The quietness that brushes over us now is the loudest thing in the room.
Our ethos has been challenged. From the back of our group I can hear the initial swirlings of our low chanted war-drum song.
Careful to not rile to soon-to-be mob, I run to the centre of the hall and play dead, mimicking the tweet algorithm of two dozen sparrows.
Knowing what'll happen to me, I lay completely still...waiting for the fragments of ember to start swirling.
The others, startled at the events that are coming begin to cause a deadly furore...circling me with speedy intensity.
Their song, low and mono-syllabic, becomes a deafening drone.
Their speed ever increasing.
Increasing still.
The doors to the great hall begin to bang and slam as though being controlled by an invisible intruder on their corridored side.
At last the embers.
The drone accentuates into a banshee scream, a 5.1 dream piece, piercing and horrid, the doors fly off their hinges, possessed.
Chairs, certain carpeted areas, even my shoes spiral upwards into the static salvage floating above my head.
At once a light fantastic, a solar vandango....
The screams quieten. A black and grey landscape remains. I semi-charred, retain my position on the travertine surface, where I, recumbent, never move again.
Completed in the metamorphoses, me the resultant grey matter, trunk shaped, bark as skin, am paraded before the elders.
Their songs have changed too.
I hope no-one thinks of me as missed.
Tuesday, 9 March 2010
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Friday, 26 February 2010
Alamunde
Lauren (#3)
(Two Colours On White)
(Two Colours On White)
Brick
(Three Colours On Paper)
(Three Colours On Paper)
Musings
(Two Colours On White)
(Two Colours On White)
Thursday, 25 February 2010
Saturday, 23 January 2010
If...
Born under a strict sun, blond hair blazing like yellow anger.
Two adults stand among hundreds more, noise escaping through open turrets in their faces.
An orkester of light and sound, of pushing and shifting.
Thumping heart and clasped hand, screeching as best as I can.
Face reddened like volcanic matter.
Eyes on me.
'OOH', says he to her.
'AAH', says she to him.
As if it were all so easy.
Take your wisdom and present it to someone superior, I may have thought, if thinking was included in my catalogue of current abilities.
Lists of soon to be options are paraded like items on a menu to be ordered and received down the line.
'Can I return it if I choose incorrectly?'
No response is spoken...just a short, understanding left-right-left-right shake of the head.
So, since this laminated list has become something lost in the annuals of memory, I have no-one but myself to pin blame onto if life went awry, right?
Again, the understanding mute rituals.
Two adults stand among hundreds more, noise escaping through open turrets in their faces.
An orkester of light and sound, of pushing and shifting.
Thumping heart and clasped hand, screeching as best as I can.
Face reddened like volcanic matter.
Eyes on me.
'OOH', says he to her.
'AAH', says she to him.
As if it were all so easy.
Take your wisdom and present it to someone superior, I may have thought, if thinking was included in my catalogue of current abilities.
Lists of soon to be options are paraded like items on a menu to be ordered and received down the line.
'Can I return it if I choose incorrectly?'
No response is spoken...just a short, understanding left-right-left-right shake of the head.
So, since this laminated list has become something lost in the annuals of memory, I have no-one but myself to pin blame onto if life went awry, right?
Again, the understanding mute rituals.
There Is Nothing In The World
There Is Nothing In The World by my old band Hills Are Mountains
Visuals by Sean Daniels
www.myspace.com/hillsaremountainsmusic
it saddens me that we are no longer making music together.
www.myspace.com/hillsaremountainsmusic
it saddens me that we are no longer making music together.
Everyone's Demons Are Unsavory
Stint Without Head Tainted
(Portrait Of Stranger On Paper Base)
Star Without Points
(Six Colours On Paper Base)
Unsuperfluous
(Two Colours On Paper Base)
Like 1
(Red On Paper Base)
Things Fashioned From Other Things
Rank
(Chicken Made From Poo)
When I Look Down I See You
(Heart Made From Gum)
I Lack The Understanding Of Parallels
(Flower Made From Red Ink and Twig)
Tuesday, 19 January 2010
Slow Merchant
at once.show-tunes.
marches.
sashes and sticks.
distant slides.
somewhere a bird is chirping underneath it all.
Wednesday, 6 January 2010
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