The Listening Booth presents...

Kevin Logan

Randomly Porous Moments [rpm’s]
12 tracks: Duration 42.21.


Best listened to through speakers in a domestic setting.

I think it’s fair to say that sound art practices are often preoccupied with fidelity. The

bleed from music theory, professional sound recording techniques and acoustic

technologies make the adoration of virtuosity and audiophiliac fetishization an inevitability.


Taking this often dominant aesthetic as a provocation, this compendium of

recordings looks more to plunderphonics and re-punked practices for inspiration. It is

a collection of performative (un)field recordings that entice the listener into a very

subjective space.

During one evening in the winter of 2013 I set about my own private performance,

situated in the small living room of my central London apartment. At one end of the

room sits my standard domestic separates hi-fi, at the other on the floor I placed a

wind-up gramophone (circa 1930’s). The interventions that followed employed only

one rule, I would play 33/45rpm records on the hI-fi and old 78rpm records on the

gramophone.

The technique was simple, first picking the gramophone record from my very limited

collection of 78’s, and then a record to play on my hi-fi to accompany it. The choice

of accompaniment was arbitrary, although some subconscious or playful pairing may

have taken place, and the 33/45rpm records were mostly chosen from those I

purchased as a teenager.

As I did this I carried a hand held digital recorder to capture the mash-ups. Moving

around the room, stopping to wind-up the gramophone and occasionally muttering to

myself.

I’ve lived in close proximity to other people all my life, shared houses, apartment

blocks. The seeping of ‘others’ music has always informed my private space. The

middle aged loner who lived beneath me when I was a student, who would come

home drunk and play Elvis records, singing along loudly. Elsewhere, the girl who

lived above me who broke up with her boyfriend and played Whitney Houston’s ‘I

Will Always Love You’, over and over and over for ten days and more.

These eleven recordings aren’t compositions or sonic works as such but invitations

to a rather meandering performance, a very domestic dérive, as spectral moments

from under the floorboards, behind the wallpaper or upstairs, collide.