top of page
...made me lose my shit. Car door open and my feet on the ground before the wheels stopped. Sunday afternoons in New Jersey at my grandparent's house. I'd turn over old metal in my hands from my grandfather's toolshed and grandmother's kitchen. Enamel macaroni pots. Sunday shoes on wooden floors. End of workday brooms on concrete.
These sounds became memories and I now hunt for them. I've explored forgotten towns in the Northwest and at each stop I hear stories from the objects I find. Logger tools. Horse bells. Brooms and metal bike seats. Who held them? Do I hear something from the worn handles that their hard work expressed or longed for? These instruments have been shaped by lifetimes of people I will never know. And now this tool, this invention, this daily ritual has found my ears. It is the most aesthetically profound experience I could have hoped for.

One of my favorite musicians, Anthony Coleman, produced an album I played on about 20 years ago. When we'd arrive at the studio each morning, we could feel something he added but could not identify it. It was, in his words, 'subliminal'. When it was muted, it was like a ghost left the room. 

Where there is a story, these sounds help to tell it. Listen here.
Grandmom and Grandpop's House.jpg


bottom of page