New Topophonics: Field Recordings of the Human-Altered Landscape

Recorded live, June 27, for the LA Dept. of Transportation's "Transformation Through Transportation" telethon, curated by Renée Reizman. Stay-at-home orders have had the unintended consequence of giving Angelenos a new vantage point of the city: that of the pedestrian. "The Train to the Sea" is a sound and poetry performance by me, Daniel Tovar, and Jenn Swann, reflecting on the post-pandemic LA landscape through observations and field recordings captured during our daily walks.

Daniel Tovar: Sounds (Make Noise 0-Coast, Moog Mother 32, and field recordings taken in Highland Park, Los Angeles, CA)

Jenn Swann: Words

Recorded in the Angeles National Forest, Fusier Canyon. It is on a whim, a moment of spontaneity that seems so rare these days when all excursions outside the house are carefully planned, that I decide on a morning hike into the Angeles National Forest. This morning, like the previous few mornings, the air is cool, ideal for a hike. But after a few hours on the trail, unlike previous days, it becomes increasingly hot, rising from 70, to 80, to the mid 90s. I’m not prepared for this. The trail is largely free of tree-cover, winding through the sparse low-growing yuccas and other bushes that mark that unique transition from forest to desert so common in the ANF. I start to feel light-headed, but I know there is shade not too far ahead. After what seems like an increasingly dangerous 20 minutes or so, I finally get to the stream of water that runs down the center of the canyon. In the cool moist air beneath the tree canopy, I rest with the birds, bees, butterflies, and other insects escaping the intense Southern California sun. I set my mics up for a period that seems brief, but I learn later was a dazed 45 minutes. Listening back to the recordings now, they seem to convey that same woozy relaxation, an oasis of respite from a seething world.

Recorded off the CA 1 Highway at the San Simeon Elephant Seal Vista Point. Headed to San Francisco from Los Angeles, my girlfriend and I turn off the  highway into a parking lot overlooking the ocean. We join the small crowd gathered along the guardrails and look out onto the shore where  the massive elephant seals lie on the sand. Their odd, oversized noses  droop down over their top lips and into their mouths. Every now and  then, they crane their heads up to the sky and emit vocalizations that  sound like water emptying from a drain. Their appearance is extremely  inelegant, though with the lulling repetition of the ocean waves as a  backdrop, their guttural groans add an otherworldliness to a meditative sonic landscape.

Recorded on a breezy day beneath the trees of the San Gabriel Mountains, overlooking the Dunsmuir Debris Basin. The distant 210 freeway provides a soothing, low frequency hum mixed with the gentle rustling of leaves. The elements of the environment move but you are still. Certain tones in the wind are emphasized to create a drone. Birds chirp on the branches above and, further down the mountain, the delicate, metallic clink of tractors as they spread the basin’s debris into what will be the foundation for a future public park.

Recorded at daybreak in Cooks Canyon, just off of Cooks Canyon Trail in Deukmejian Wilderness Park, Glendale, CA. Although the 210 freeway is clearly audible for a majority of the trail hike, there is a stretch where it mercifully disappears from view and earshot. As you walk over the south crest of Cooks Canyon and begin the descent to the bottom of the canyon, the din of traffic dies away. The environment becomes quiet in the span of just a few steps. The bottom of the canyon has heavy tree cover and a quiet stream running through it. The recording catches the tail end of the morning bird chorus, the soft gurgling of the stream, and the bees that were out in force that morning.