The following soundwalk occurred on the dreary, rain-soaked afternoon of September 12, 2009 in East Williamsbrug, Brooklyn.
Exiting my house and heading toward a busy street, the hum of traffic instantly set the mood for my walk. Because of heavy rain earlier in the afternoon, a wet splosh would accompany the echo of each passing car. This sound would appear intermittently for the remainder of the walk. This mechanical backdrop, so standard, is not easily ignored.
Turning down a sidestreet, I pointed the microphone toward the ground and was startled by the depth of experience listening to my own footsteps provided. Each step was so distinct, underpinned by the soft rubber sole of my shoes. Birds also chip overhead.
As I round the corner back onto a busy street, the sound of passing traffic resumes, but is less heavy, more sporadic, than before. A group of women stand on the corner. They seem to be in the midst of an intense gossip, yet they speak Italian, so I can’t be sure. Continuing down the street, a passing car, with windows rolled up, thumps a rap beat. Bass. Then, an ambulance sitting idle consumes the headphones. Rumble. As I continue past quiet shops, a couple passes deep in discussion, walking hurriedly. As I approach a busy intersection, cars idle at a red light, one blasts Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean” from its stereo. The light turns green, and heavy feet lead to screeching tires as the cars accelerate away. Splashing.
I turn the corner and a man recycles a huge plastic bag of empty glass beer bottles. It’s musical.
Four young women chat, sneeze!, as they wait for a friend.
I turn the corner and encounter two Asian car mechanics, talking about the bumper of a taxi. They speak what might be Korean.
I turn again, down another quiet side street. This time, I focus on the chirping birds overhead. Isolated in my headphones as they are, it sounds as if there is a party in the trees. Then, a motorcycle ignites and speeds away.
Turning back onto the busy street, I oppose two women, whose boots distinctly smack on the sidewalk. Then, a dog barks, again, again, once more. He’s inside. Listening, I startle a man on the corner, who pushes a laundry cart. Then, a man yells loudly as he laments climbing stairs, while a second man directs him to his destination.
I turn the corner onto my street. The hipsters in the corner apartment are holding band practice. They are slow, plodding along as they learn their parts.
And then. I’m home.