In this work, I have examined the historical development of various aspects of audio technology and looked at how it has provided end users with an ever-expanding and diversifying set of resources - how it has expanded the sonic palette. We come now to the unavoidable final section in which loose ends must be tidied, disparate sources of information drawn together and conclusions drawn.
Inventions have ranged from the phonograph to the random-access digital recorder and from the Telharmonium to the synthesiser and sampler. Each new invention has brought with it not only opportunities but, to some extent, constraints as well. These constraints have not been so much upon what is physically possible but on what is practical and what the conceptual consequences of the use of a particular system may be. For example, it is relatively unlikely that an early voltage controlled synthesiser would have been used in the production of tonally based polyphonic music. Even though it is physically possible, it is so inconvenient in practice that practitioners tended to look at other, more “unconventional” musical forms. Similarly, the multitrack recorder made possible the overdub, allowing a single musician to play multiple parts. Stemming initially from the work of Les Paul, the real potential of this approach was brought to fruition in the 1970s being epitomised by the “one-man-band” approach of Mike Oldfield and the massive overdubbings of backing vocals by 10cc, operatic vocals and guitar harmonies by (respectively) Freddie mercury and Brian May of Queen and just about everything imaginable by Frank Zappa.
Of the later audio technologies, it seems to me that the multitrack recorder has been of huge significance, informing the work of several generations of musicians, composers and engineers. By taking the recording process effectively out of real time, it has created the opportunity for protracted (some would say excessively protracted) and highly detailed work on minute aspects of a given piece. This has led to an obsession with perfection that remains to this day. As the multitrack emerged into common usage in the 1960s, it became possible to focus in on single notes of single instruments and to modify and correct them. Given this opportunity, the production process inevitably became far more protracted: whereas an album of the early 1960s would typically have taken a couple of days or less to make, by the mid 1970s a year or more was not uncommon.
This is perhaps indicative of how successful the multitrack approach was in improving recording standards. Record sales and hence the income of record companies had increased enormously and this made possible the huge investment in facilities and time that had become the expectation of many musicians. Whether the end result was necessarily better is, of course, a moot point. Some would find the extraordinary precision of a Steely Dan recording irritatingly clinical and soulless and would much prefer the somewhat rough but spirited performances of, say, an early Beatles album. This response was repeated with the emergence of punk in 1976 where the meticulous and detailed approach to recording was replaced with a focus on energy, even if at the expense of quality.
Not only did the multitrack have immediate influence but its reverberations are still evident in the design philosophy of the modern random-access system. The most successful of these systems have user interfaces similar to those of tape machines (with the obvious exception of graphic displays) and are also operationally quite similar. Increasingly, though, the qualities that distinguish the recorder from the mixing desk are becoming blurred with recording systems being built into mixing desks (eg the SSL Axiom series) and mixing desks being incorporated into recording systems (eg the Yamaha 02 plugin card). Common to both approaches is the concept of creating a “studio in a box” whereby mixing, recording and processing are all carried out in the same environment. Early signs of this tendency came in the 1970s with the introduction of the cassette-based portastudio (in one area of the market) and the incorporation of comprehensive equalisers and dynamics processors into the input channels of top-end mixing desks. With the emergence and widespread adoption of digital systems, this convergence has, not surprisingly, become even more noticeable.
There still remains, however, a substantial body of practitioners adherent to traditional systems and approaches and it seems likely that both approaches will continue to run in parallel for the foreseeable future (witness the recent resurgence of interest in “obsolete” analogue synthesisers and the like).
I have examined certain aspects of the evolution of audio technology in considerable detail. I have done this mainly to show how developments occur: it is usually the most unlikely - or at least the most prosaic - reason that causes an event (Bing Crosby wants to play more golf so the tape recorder gets developed). Unfortunately, this has led to a somewhat unbalanced set of topics since some topics are relatively well documented and others hardly at all. It is possible to examine the various historical sources and, if suitably versed in research methodology, perhaps to come to some academically worthwhile conclusions about who did what and when. We may then proceed to consider how these supposedly established events influenced those who followed. Ultimately, however, we must confront the fact that the history of audio technology is fundamentally a ragbag of conflicting memories and opinions. The definitive work has yet to be written.
In some respects, I feel that this reflects the inferior status accorded to audio in general - had we been dealing with images, particularly those of film or painting, I suspect that I would have uncovered a vastly greater volume of scholarship and documentation and, as a result, conclusions would have been more readily formulated. Relatively few individuals have attempted any sort of detailed documentation of the evolution of our industry (or perhaps we may be so bold to refer to it as an “art” ?). Due credit must go to Mark Cunningham for his remarkable book “Good Vibrations” in which he charts the evolution of the popular recording business, its technology and practitioners. He has done for the technology what Charles Sharr Murray has done for the musical aspects of the art. Many other unsung heroes have also made their contributions but there is still no emergent aesthetic of sound that allows it to be considered in the way that visual art may be subjected to coherent analysis.
The work of these luminaries notwithstanding, it seems that we are, in general, condemned to be forever the Cinderella medium: sound is not only underestimated for its contribution to media in general but is, as a consequence, poorly documented in its own right. For these reasons, I hesitate to formulate any general conclusions about the extent and nature of the influence that audio technology has upon our culture. Nonetheless we can hopefully draw together some points that may point the way.
Despite its general lack of prominence, sound, its engineers, producers and other practitioners have been immensely influential more or less throughout human history from prehistoric rites to rave culture. Those of us who are involved with it on a daily basis often assume that is necessarily dependent upon electronic intervention but the prehistory of our medium (and indeed the subsequent contemporary works of artists such as Max Eastley) demonstrates that high technology is not an inevitable prerequisite of sonic art. An Aeolian harp placed upon a window sill occupies much the same aesthetic and conceptual position as does an electronically generated piece of ambient music. The only significant difference lies in the enabling technology of simple mechanics versus a synthesis of information theory, computer programming and complex electronics. What we all seek to achieve is some sort of aesthetically satisfying or stimulating experience via the medium of our ears.
We may seek to achieve this goal by virtue of our involvement with so-called “art” (vide the Futurists and Russolos’ Intonarumori and/or the second and (perhaps) more commercial Art of Noise manifesto of 1990) or we may simply seek to expand the boundaries of mass media such as the popular song (George Martin & the Beatles). We may be able to discuss the aesthetic by which we operate with the erudition and postmodern perspectives offered by Brian Eno or we may simply seek to make a better and more interesting record, disregarding “intellectual” issues. Whichever of these activities reflects our own personal proclivity, we are constrained to operate within a given ethos which derives from the mass culture of the late 20th century. The pop song is an integral part of this cultural baggage and the hifi upon which we play our CD is a lineal descendant of the phonograph into which Edison declaimed “Mary had a little lamb” a hundred or so years ago.
Audio technology is, inescapably, not only part of our culture but is also a substantial feature of our physical environment. Imagine walking down the average high street. Every other shop has background (or sometimes very much foreground) music. Not only this, but a large proportion of passing cars contain high power sound systems pumping out computer-generated sound based at least in part on digitally dissected recordings of established music. Not only do we witness these structured sounds but we perceive them in the context of a largely incoherent audio environment made up of vehicle noises, pneumatic drills, mobile phones, snatches of conversation, low flying aeroplanes and who knows what else ? We find, therefore, that anything that we hear that has the virtue of coherent structure is an audio lifebelt to which we may cling to avoid drowning in this sonic turbulence. Such structures are most commonly musical (however we may define music) and as such are almost invariably the products of the recording process.
If, seeking refuge from this sonic maelstrom, we pop into the pub or restaurant, we will probably find either canned music or a juke box - both definitely audio technology products. If we abandon our outing in despair and return home, we may well stop to rent a video in which case we may wish to pick a version that suits our surround-sound home cinema system. Failing that, we may turn to TV to watch a game show in which more or less every sound that is not dialogue is sampled or synthesised or, driven to desperation, we may collapse on the sofa to listen to our current favourite CD. Whatever we do, the majority of us who resist the temptation to retire to bed and pull the blankets over our ears will not avoid the influence of audio technology.
These days, recording has, in many instances, returned to being the cottage industry from which it originally emerged. Multinational conglomerates may still sell vastly greater units of product but their power is increasingly undermined by “alternative” perspectives based upon the relatively cheap audio technology that has become available to more or less anyone with anything audible or musical to say. It was Frank Zappa who, in his later years, pioneered the concept of the composer/performer/computer synergy as the basis for an almost rustic art, one based as much upon artisanal skills as upon intellectual achievement or instrumental virtuosity. Zappas’ enabling technology was the Synclavier, a hybrid of computer, synthesiser and recorder. To this machine, he devolved a number of functions but still found himself bound by constraints of a type that Les Paul would have recognised, if not actually encountered. The problems have remained the same but our technologies have evolved to provide different solutions.
On this tortuous path, we have attempted to achieve the physically impossible, to replicate with one instrument the sound of many, to create in sound ideas that we find hard to imagine even on a purely emotional or intellectual basis. Our brains allow us to create an imaginary visual image far more readily than internally to “hear” an imaginary sound. Each new sound comes as a surprise: we seem unable to anticipate its qualities in the way that we can those of an image. One reason for this may be our lack of a commonly held vocabulary with which to describe sounds and their qualities. This shortcoming has, however, a virtue: it makes it possible for us to work in an uninhibited way with little regard for conventions since they are largely impossible to express. This, together with our enabling technology provides the tools with which to do virtually anything with sound. In a very real sense, working with sound is truly experimental in a way that working with a visual image had all but ceased to be until the advent of computer-mediated image creation and transformation.
We have introduced nominally non-musical sources into musical composition and performance with the result that the boundaries between what has traditionally been accepted as “music” and what was once regarded as being purely “sound” have been eroded, initially by electroacoustics and subsequently by ambient and related musical forms.
The question that we must face is what exactly have we created and why? The present state of the art suggests that we have little idea of the answers to either question. The unavoidable conclusion is that sound, perhaps even more than vision, is an essentially visceral medium, less susceptible than visual art to the pontifications of aesthetes and art historians and more directly connected to emotional and even unconscious processes. Certainly, there are fewer intellectually weighty theories of sound than there are theories of art and sound has no equivalent of Cubism, Surrealism or any other artistic “ism”: it just stands in its own right in splendid isolation from competing artistic theories.
Audio technology in all its various forms has provided us with a hugely diverse and massively powerful toolkit. Unlike the technical limitations of visual media, it appears to lack any inbuilt structure or constraints: hence it is easier to create a sound and to use that as the basis of expressive art than it is to create a visual image and to use it likewise. In a very real sense, the art of sound is a permanent tabula rasa, created afresh by every intervening silent moment. Whether we deal, as I have done, with popular music or whether we approach sound as a fine art, we are confronted with a virtual infinity of opportunity and the chance to do almost anything that we wish.
None of these possibilities would have ever come to be but for the work of the many creative practitioners who, over the last 100 or so years have created the resources and concepts of audio technology. To them must go the credit for the possibilities that they have created but it is to us, individually and as a culture that any blame for the consequences of its use must be attributed.