Russell J. Duvernoy Field Recordings (for the Germantown Crew)
W
e have decided to make recordings. Who decided this? We have decided, nevertheless, to make recordings. In consideration of the questions, of which we have not one single answer. We? Begin with a single certainty: No one hears it the same. No one. So we have decided to make recordings. It's maybe not much but it's what we do. Me and my friends. The ones who make, the ones who make the recordings. The ones who make, the ones who make the recordings. Recordings of what, of what everyone hears, of what everyone hears that is not the same. The recordings are best for listening on small tape recorders after dark in silent rooms with large windows. The recordings are best for listening in the hush of the night, with cricket accompaniment. The recordings are best for listening in candle-light, in the vast continents of shadows cast upon a blank wall. They are best when a breeze lifts the curtain, lightly, and then lets it down again. Listen to what no one hears the same. They are best for listening whenever whenever. Listen to what no one hears the same and hear the voices and how they are not the same.
There's Lewis, who says, Put a window in it, and waves his hands. There's Johnny, sick, who whispers, I can hear the dust, and hunches over his knee. There's Tobias, intent, who intones, Each ~econd is born to die, and I bear the misery of each death proudly, and I go onward walking this mountain, and damnit the summit shall be mine. And shakes a proud fist. No one hears it the same or even what it is, is it noise, music, words? We have decided to make recordings in order to not answer this question. Listening, we taste wood smoke on each note and know that the singer had a good friend. There's JM, who says, You can't not have style, smiling wryly, fingering his torn overcoat. The singer and his friend sat together drinking warm beer while the crickets ch irped and the vegetation lurked and the heat festered. Delightful, says Micaela, how delightful can we have them shoot guns at a quarry? The singer and his friend wiped sweat from their foreheads and threw empty cans into the back seat. When they went to swim at the quarry there was a water snake and there were red necks spilling shotgun shell~ and Luigi was swimming and everyone was sunburnt. When the singer went home to write a song we recorded it too but we weren't writing songs even if some of us thought we were. There's Jordan, who famously and defiantly exclaims, I hate songs and I hate history. Get us so old our eyes drool all over our faces and our faces made of stone still we have these delightful recordings. Winter- Spring 2009
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