Category Archives: Rhetorical Mastery

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Ambient Sound: the Presence We May Not Notice

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Here’s the thing about ambient sound: we tend to put it out of mind even when it is having its way with us.

There is always a scenic dimension to the various physical elements that limit or enhance our actions. The funny old aphorism that ‘everybody has to be someplace’ is a reminder that our lives must unfold in some particular space. Sonics are always a part of a scene, even if they are hardly noticed. Pure silence is almost never an option; even a “quiet” place is full of ambient sound that affects the qualities that shape any particular moment. For example, ambient sounds are what transform stilted film dialogue captured on a set into conversations that seem to be happening in real space. Like the visual cues of color and texture, aural cues define where we are: anywhere from a busy playground to a space deep in the woods. More than we might acknowledge, it is ambiance that defines a desert from a busy city street, a cathedral from a conference room, or a busy office from a bedroom.

I was reminded of the importance of ambiance several years ago, when I was working on a chapter about film sound design. Since mics can barely do more than capture dialogue, Foley artists and sound editors recreate sonics that were inadequately captured on location. They add the aural details that make a place real.

In crowded places like midtown Manhattan we often want to escape what has gone beyond ambience and become intense noise. The constant racket of the city is the number one complaint of its residents. And we know that heart rate, irritability and blood pressure rise in very noisy spaces. But I know from experience that some of those same folks transported to the quiet acres of rural forest may also find the stillness pretty creepy. Though not loud, small Eastern Screech Owls at night are dependable producers of the kinds of quiet cries we might expect from ghosts passing through the trees.

Here’s the thing about ambient sound: we tend to put it out of mind even while it is having its way with us, increasingly making us anxious, annoyed, impatient or—too infrequently—calmed. Our brains scan the information that we obtain from incidental sounds. And while our ears aren’t as sensitive as many other mammals, they are good enough to detect an oncoming car we still can’t see, or an air leak in a window that is supposedly sealed.

The films Blow Out (1981) and The Conversation (1974) are good explorations of how we rely on incidental sound to make sense of the world. Both show technicians using just ambient sound to solve crimes. More happily, Joni Mitchell subtly embeds one of her signature songs with the soothing ambience of summer crickets.

Sound anchors us to a scene. Experiencing a completely silent environment, as in an anechoic chamber, is unnatural and, for most, unpleasant. A quiet spot is one thing, but we are only too happy to be in the presence of enough sound to blot out the sounds of our own heartbeats.

Americans living near cities and traffic often live within what has become sewers of noise. Tokyo and Mumbai are also bad, but we have our own unique mix. Aircraft noise is often a constant presence. And American reliance on gas engines is even more prominent, with most towns falling short of reining in the constant din from sources ranging from souped up motorcycles and cars, to the horrible pollution of machines we use to manicure green spaces. A recording studio built in most towns must be built like a bank vault in order to keep all of that chaos at bay. One science writer has cleverly imagined that if noise pollution could be seen, its scale would produce a level of filth we would never tolerate.

But the basic point here is simpler. We need to give the tiny sensory organs behind our ears a break, and the chance to hear quieter ambient sounds. That was always a birthright of our species for millennia before the relatively recent mechanical and electrical ages.

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The Desire to Cast a Shadow

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Our multiple selves that we construct for others are mostly held together by desires to assert identities that will cast a shadow.  We want to be presence: someone who is more cause than effect.

When someone wonders ‘what is the most common deficiency most of us show in our interactions with others?’ a firm response easily comes to mind: we are mostly bad and inattentive listeners. This is mostly because the mantra of our age is to first take care of ourselves. It may be good for our overall mental health to put our interests forward, but it means that there can be no surprise that our interactions often miss what another is saying. Most of us display a common desire to bring conversations back our agenda.

This is an age when standing out can have its own rewards; we routinely honor people who make an impression in the kind of fluency they admire. Our media is populated with these figures.  For example, popular journalism feeds on the “interesting” guest.  And as more research is confirming, social media often function the same way, offering constructed displays of ostensibly enviable lives. It follows that our own efforts to respond to our judgment that our presence needs to be repaired are motivated to perform a self that will cast a shadow.  We want to be presence; someone who is more cause than effect; the one who is the source of attention rather than the one who attends to others.

Our cameras were once used to capture the images of others. Now they are often turned around to create ‘selfies’ that we can pass along the digital food chain.

This summary is too simple, but it suggests that what passes as discourse between equals can best be understood as ‘taking turns.’  The preoccupation of self that defines our age plays out in the simple desire to be at the center of typical exchange, preferencing our judgments and conclusions over interest in giving others space to lay out what are often extended narratives.

The impulse to be heard rather than to hear is unevenly spread across the culture.  It seems strongest in adults, which is perhaps why so many young adults are impatient with offers of advice from older family members. The circles of influence for the young are smaller and tighter, leaving less of an appetite for giving time to parents who are ready to assert their authority and credibility.  We’ve even turned this pattern into a Hollywood trope: films about the lives of teens rarely allow parents or teachers to be the pivotal influencers they hope to be. Think of Greta Gerwig’s film Ladybird (2017).  A slight exaggeration perhaps, but mom and daughter are mostly on different planets. Screenplays like Ladybird typically write older figures as foils more than resources. They are written to be quick to react and to assert their prerogatives. My experience is that this is actually more common with American men than women; men rarely want to give the impression that they are supplicants instructed by another.  But the basic pattern of talking past each other is familiar.

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It’s not that we don’t listen to anyone anymore.  Functionally, most of us spend large parts of every day in front of a screen that is asking for attention to spoken or written messages.  But this is ‘listening’ at its lowest gradient: often little more than awareness without much comprehension. Peripheral attention to a figure in a video, for instance, is qualitatively a long way from the more active listening that is often needed to produce a conversation that can be enlightening or even transformative. Our excessive attention to packaged media requires only a passive kind of reception, setting us up to be frail listeners when circumstances demand so much more.

The next time you are in a gathering, practice your listening by turning down competing distractions.  And focus on giving another your undivided attention. Active listening is work, but it is usually rewarding.

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