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WORK TITLE: The New Analog
WORK NOTES:
PSEUDONYM(S):
BIRTHDATE:
WEBSITE: http://www.dadadrummer.com/
CITY:
STATE:
COUNTRY:
NATIONALITY:
https://www.damonandnaomi.com/ * http://thenewpress.com/books/new-analog * https://www.damonandnaomi.com/about/ * https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Damon_%26_Naomi * https://www.newyorker.com/culture/podcast-dept/damon-krukowski-will-change-how-you-listen
RESEARCHER NOTES:
PERSONAL
Married Naomi Yang.
EDUCATION:Graduated from Harvard University, 1985.
ADDRESS
CAREER
Musician, publisher, producer, and writer. Galaxie 500, musician, 1987-91; Exact Change, Chicago, IL, cofounder and publisher, 1989–; Damon & Naomi, musician, 1991–. Creative Capital/Andy Warhol Foundation fellow; Harvard University’s Berkman-Klein Center for Internet and Society fellow; performer on music albums with Galaxie 500, including Today, 1988, On Fire, 1989, This Is Our Music, 1990, and with Damon & Naomi, including More Sad Hits, 1992, Wondrous World of Damon & Naomi, 1995, Playback Singers, 1998, Damon & Naomi with Ghost, 2000, Song to the Siren, 2002, The Earth Is Blue, 2005, Within These Walls, 2007, The Sub Pop Years, 2009, False Beats and True Hearts, 2011, and Fortune, 2015.
WRITINGS
Contributor to Pitchfork and Artforum.
SIDELIGHTS
Damon Krukowski is a musician, publisher, producer, and writer. He performed in the rhythm section and occasionally on vocals with the band Galaxie 500. When it broke up, he and fellow band member Naomi Yang formed the duo Damon & Naomi and continued to release albums. The pair also cofounded the small press Exact Change, which publishes works on avant-garde literature and other artists’ writings. Krukowski has contributed to Pitchfork, Artforum, and a number of periodicals and journals. He is the recipient of fellowships from both the Creative Capital/Andy Warhol Foundation and Harvard University’s Berkman-Klein Center for Internet and Society.
In an article in the New Yorker, Sarah Larson wrote about Krukowski’s six-episode podcast called “Ways of Hearing.” She recalled that it “begins with an exciting analog sound: that of a needle descending on a record,” adding that the podcast series “makes us think about the act of listening itself, in ways that feel timely and vital.” Larson reasoned that “‘Ways of Hearing’ makes you highly attuned to such shifts, and to the complexity and variety of aurally connecting.” Larson concluded that “the act of listening, we realize—not just in conversation but in our headphones and in the world—is significant. How we control sound, how we use it to insulate ourselves, to transport ourselves, to educate ourselves, to provoke thoughts and to distract ourselves from thoughts, to connect, to escape, can have social, even political, ramifications,” further explaining that “listening to podcasts—these intimate, sophisticated constructions of sound and ideas—can connect us intensely to other people and isolate us from our surroundings at the same time. Krukowski is especially convincing, even poetic, about the artistic and social value of noise—which headphone listening and digital audio often shut out.”
In 2005 Krukowski published the poetry collection The Memory Theater Burned. The collection heavily employs the use of metaphors. Krukowski’s poems also deal with memory and music. Writing in the Antioch Review, F.D. Reeve said that the author “has burst forth with his own poems, a sunny fistful of bright, brassy prose poems that gallop across the meadows and bridges of life.”
Krukowski published The New Analog: Listening and Reconnecting in a Digital World in 2017. In line with his “Ways of Hearing” podcast, the account examines audio technology, the act of listening, and the social meanings behind it all. Krukowski insists that the development of audio technology has allowed for complacency and mediocrity to set into the music industry and listeners of recorded music. He posits that LPs from the 1960s have a higher sound quality than MP3s, which he believes are intentionally designed that way. In this Krukowski examines the interplay between the state of the consumer marketplace, artistic expression, and the march of technology to show how digital media represents a major step backward in quality since the days of analog.
Writing in Stereophile, Stephen Mejias suggested that “audiophiles will sympathize with what he calls ‘thick listening’—perhaps especially because it does more to describe the differences between active listening (as an event unto itself) and casual listening (as a supplement to some other event) than it does to describe the differences between digital and analog media.” Mejias opined that Krukowski “writes with a poet’s profundity and focus, a drummer’s sense of rhythm: ‘Analog is not simply old, and digital is not merely new’—a sentiment with which most audiophiles would quickly agree. Like many Stereophile readers, Krukowski is not interested in ranking various forms of media.” Booklist contributor Raymond Pun believed that “readers who are interested in the history of technology, acoustics, and sound … will be engaged.” A contributor to Kirkus Reviews observed that Krukowski discusses the subject matter “comfortably.” The same reviewer remarked that “Krukowski’s writing is witty and generally accessible, though his detours into recording minutiae and avant-garde ideas about sound and art may lose some readers.”
BIOCRIT
PERIODICALS
Antioch Review, September 22, 2005, F.D. Reeve, review of The Memory Theater Burned, p. 798.
Artforum International, March 1, 2007, Damon Krukowski, “Notes from the Underground: Damon Krukowski on Cornelius Cardew,” p. 81.
Billboard, December 8, 2012, Glenn Peoples, “The Myth of the Penny Pinchers,” p. 10.
Booklist, March 15, 2017, Raymond Pun, review of The New Analog: Listening and Reconnecting in a Digital World, p. 12.
Kirkus Reviews, March 1, 2017, review of The New Analog.
New Yorker, August 9, 2017, Sarah Larson, “Damon Krukowski Will Change How You Listen.”
Stereophile, August 1, 2017, Stephen Mejias, review of The New Analog, p. 41.
ONLINE
Damon & Naomi Website, https://www.damonandnaomi.com/ (February 7, 2018), author profile.
Damon Krukowski Will Change How You Listen
By Sarah LarsonAugust 9, 2017
“Ways of Hearing,” Damon Krukowski’s new six-episode podcast, makes us think about the act of listening itself, in ways that feel timely and vital.Illustration by Linda Huang
Damon Krukowski’s new six-episode podcast, “Ways of Hearing,” begins with an exciting analog sound: that of a needle descending on a record. Krukowski, the musician and writer best known for his work in Galaxie 500 and Damon & Naomi, tells us, “The first record I made was all analog.” It was 1987, and making a record didn’t require numbers or data. The tape decks, mixing board, and microphones were mechanical; music was recorded in a shared common moment. “And so my bandmates and I set up our instruments in the studio, we counted off, and we played our songs,” he says. We hear sublime music: Dean Wareham’s guitar, Naomi Yang’s bass, and Krukowski’s drums, beginning Galaxie 500’s funny, heavenly “Tugboat.” Audio technology, whether analog or digital, conveys wonderfully human sounds: emotion, music, art. But the shift to digital has transformed recording, listening, and even the way we experience time and space, in ways we might not fully comprehend.
One of these transformations is the rise of the podcast. Today I begin a weekly column, Podcast Dept., in which I’ll be talking to podcast creators, listening to podcasts with a critical ear, reviewing the popular and the obscure, and paying attention to the form of podcasting as it evolves. Krukowski’s “Ways of Hearing” is the first show in the Radiotopia network’s new podcast, “Showcase,” which will highlight a succession of short-run podcasts. I chose to begin with “Ways of Hearing” both because it offers the immediate pleasures of a great podcast—interesting ideas presented in a sound-rich, thoughtfully produced narrative format—and because it makes us think about the act of listening itself, in ways that feel timely and vital.
“Ways of Hearing” evolved out of Krukowski’s recently published book, “The New Analog: Listening and Reconnecting in a Digital World,” about how the way we listen has changed with the shift from analog to digital. The book’s objective is not “uncritical nostalgia,” he writes—it’s to identify the good things that this shift imperils and to get us to think about how to preserve them, in the spirit of Jane Jacobs’s writing about urban spaces. Krukowski worries that digital listening, in all its ubiquity and convenience, threatens the quality of our listening and attention. He wants us to become more careful and aware, and he wants to encourage harmony between the analog and digital worlds.
In the book, he does this through explorations of mono and stereo, signal and noise, “The Dark Side of the Moon,” loudness, the CD revolution, and so on, with wit and verve; we learn the Victrola-based origin of the saying “Put a sock in it” and see a photograph of Nigel Tufnel’s custom volume knob. The aural particularities of headphone listening, he tells us, make us experience what we hear inside our head. “The headphone album of the 1970s was meant to take you elsewhere—not into the street, but certainly out of your bedroom, where you were tethered to the stereo by a coiled cord like an astronaut tied to an orbiting spaceship,” he writes. “Close your eyes, turn up the volume, and fly into headspace.” Cut the cable, as we now have, and we “risk confusing the external world with the internal one.” We all understand this: I once turned off “Invisibilia” for fear of falling through a sidewalk hatch.
Krukowski narrates “Ways of Hearing” in a smooth, patient, sound-focussed style, augmented with clips of music, street noise, and field recordings. (The sound of what used to be CBGB’s will make your blood run cold.) On the page or in your headphones, Krukowski is present, engaged, and eager to share ideas.
I talked with Krukowski and Yang in a back garden at their home in Cambridge, Massachusetts, near Harvard Square. Their two cats, Chickpea and Lentil, a.k.a. Caetano Veloso and Maria Bethânia, milled around among the flowers. “The concept for my project was based on John Berger’s ‘Ways of Seeing,’ ” Krukowski said—not the book but the TV series, which came first. “It was a BBC series, just a few episodes, made in the early seventies. Berger was a Marxist. And he’s using this medium that’s obviously extremely popular and that’s reaching into every English home, and he is quoting Walter Benjamin and giving this different view of what our visual culture might mean. It’s fantastic. He’s so generous of spirit—a quality that I really admire. He really wants to share the information, but he doesn’t talk down. It’s clearly meant for every household.” In the first shot of that series, Berger, dressed respectably but casually, with curly seventies hair, walks up to Botticelli’s “Venus and Mars” and cuts the face out of it. It’s a reproduction, we realize. With this provocative gesture, Berger plunges us immediately into ideas about art in the age of mechanical reproduction.
“I was thinking about podcasting and digital sound in general, how everybody’s walking around with earbuds,” Krukowski went on. “And it’s a moment that’s very similar to the TV in the late sixties, early seventies, where this hypervisual culture is happening. Suddenly you have this visual medium in every home, and people are just consuming it. But Berger was making you aware of it. To me, the success of ‘Ways of Seeing’ is that he’s making the viewer aware of the television as well. And so it becomes a critique of television itself.” Today, he said, “everybody is surprisingly unquestioning about audio.” He wants to help change that. “Without passing judgment, necessarily. I just think there’s a strange lack of questioning.”
Each episode of “Ways of Hearing” focusses on a different aspect of the analog-digital audio shift: “Time,” “Space,” “Love,” “Money,” and “Power.” (The sixth has not yet been named; a seventh, bonus episode, “Ways of Song Exploding,” is a collaboration with the forensic music podcast “Song Exploder.”) “Time” is full of fascinating observations about how digital technology has altered our relationship to time: if you’ve ever wanted to hit Undo on something in real life, you understand. He approaches the question musically at first, by talking about analog tempo in music performance and how it can often be variable, even among professionals.
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“Musicians know time is flexible,” he tells us. “You steal a bit here, give a bit back there.” We hear a solo cello, some jazz, some funk, a hand-cranked Victrola. “Hip-hop d.j.s used speed controls on a record to match it to another and keep the groove going, or, in the studio, to pile up samples from older records and make a new one,” he says. We hear the beginning of “Can I Kick It?” and the voice of Ali Shaheed Muhammad on the NPR show “Microphone Check,” talking about how he and the other members of A Tribe Called Quest noticed that the analog-based musicians they were sampling sped up and slowed down, sometimes even within a two-bar phrase. Galaxie 500 did this, too, Krukowski says: “We were nervous and excited, and we sped up at the chorus.” In analog time, we make up for imperfections as we do elsewhere—with improvisation and moxie.
A big shift came, Krukowski tells us, when bands started recording to a digital metronome—the click track. Machine time is precise. (To illustrate this, he cues up the Human League’s “Don’t You Want Me”—synthesizer and staccato, peppery beats.) The precision and control afforded by digital time can allow for other kinds of variability, in ways that can mess with our head. Krukowski talks about podcast listening speed, speeding himself up to 1.25x, “like I’m manic,” and slowing down to .75x, “like I’m drunk.” Latency, the lag between real time and computer-processed time, messes with us, too. It used to be, he tells us, that in Boston, when the Red Sox scored at Fenway, you could hear simultaneous cheering from open windows in cars and apartments all over the city. But after June 12, 2009, when United States TV stations switched from analog to digital, people watching on TV and listening on the radio were no longer experiencing the same moment. Now the sound of cheering in Boston is staggered. It’s observations like this, enhanced with sound clips—and, here, a great interview with the Red Sox radio announcer Joe Castiglione—that make “Ways of Hearing” such enjoyable listening. It continually gives you a feeling of Ah, yes, that’s what’s been going on.
Krukowski and Yang live in an analog utopia with digital enhancements: a sunny space in an ivy-covered building, with high ceilings, a piano, and media galore (a book called “The Revenge of Analog”; a button that said “ask me about my podcast”). Krukowski showed me the living room, where he and Yang record music, and the mixing room, where he mixes music on an old analog mixing board after importing a digital file. “Galaxie 500 were on a sixteen-track, but Kramer”—the legendary musician and producer—“had one broken channel, so we had fifteen,” he said, looking pleased.
“Recording with people long-distance is the new status quo,” Krukowski said. The ubiquity of digital recording, coupled with the ease of sending large sound files in recent years, has dramatically altered the songwriting and collaboration process for many musicians. Krukowski mentioned his recent collaboration with the British avant-garde folk musician Richard Youngs, in which Youngs requested a drum track, Krukowski recorded one and sent it, and Youngs, instead of using it on one song, used it on the whole album. Krukowski laughed, delightedly. When Galaxie 500 recorded, and when Damon & Naomi record, the focus is on a shared moment; digital technology can inhibit such shared moments, but it also opens up what a shared moment can mean.
“Ways of Hearing” makes you highly attuned to such shifts, and to the complexity and variety of aurally connecting. The second episode, “Space,” out later this week, takes us to Astor Place, Radio City Music Hall, and beyond. “In Tokyo, people on crowded trains pretend to be asleep to avoid eye contact,” he says. “But here, with all these headphones, it’s like we’re avoiding ear contact.” The act of listening, we realize—not just in conversation but in our headphones and in the world—is significant. How we control sound, how we use it to insulate ourselves, to transport ourselves, to educate ourselves, to provoke thoughts and to distract ourselves from thoughts, to connect, to escape, can have social, even political, ramifications. And listening to podcasts—these intimate, sophisticated constructions of sound and ideas—can connect us intensely to other people and isolate us from our surroundings at the same time.
Krukowski is especially convincing, even poetic, about the artistic and social value of noise—which headphone listening and digital audio often shut out. “Space” ends with a lovely story about a visit he paid to the composer John Cage in the early nineties, at the apartment that Cage shared with Merce Cunningham, on Sixth Avenue. “When I arrived, he was sitting at a table by the window, composing music on paper, and the windows were open,” Krukowski says. The roar of the city was vivid: buses, shouting, honking. (We hear a little Cage, a little noise.) “But John Cage said he never closed the window,” Krukowski says. “Why would he? There was so much to listen to, all the time.”
Sarah Larson is a staff writer at The New Yorker
Damon & Naomi
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
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Damon & Naomi
Origin Boston, Massachusetts, United States
Genres Dream pop, indie folk
Years active 1992–present
Labels Rough Trade, Shimmy Disc, Sub Pop, Rykodisc, 20-20-20
Associated acts Galaxie 500
Website www.damonandnaomi.com
Members Damon Krukowski
Naomi Yang
Damon & Naomi are an American dream pop/indie folk duo, formed in 1991 by Damon Krukowski and Naomi Yang, formerly of Galaxie 500.
Contents [hide]
1 History
2 Discography
2.1 Albums
2.2 DVDs
3 References
4 External links
History[edit]
After Galaxie 500 completed a tour of the US supporting The Cocteau Twins, guitarist and vocalist Dean Wareham quit the band, forcing the cancellation of an imminent Japanese tour. Damon & Naomi had recorded a few tracks before the split, and these were released under the name Pierre Etoile by Rough Trade (UK) in July 1991.[1] The duo then spent time working on their book publishing company Exact Change, with no plans to return to recording, until producer Mark Kramer urged them back into the studio. The resulting album, More Sad Hits was released on Kramer's "Shimmy Disc" label in 1992.
Following the release of More Sad Hits, Damon & Naomi were contacted by Kate Biggar and Wayne Rogers, whose band, Crystalized Movements, had recently lost its rhythm section. The two couples teamed up to form the psychedelic rock band Magic Hour, and released three albums between 1993 and 1996. At the same time, Damon & Naomi continued to record as a duo, releasing their second album, The Wondrous World of Damon & Naomi on Sub Pop in 1995. The album was again produced by Kramer, however there was controversy as Kramer's production recreated the psychedelic leanings of the band's debut rather than the acoustic approach the band now preferred. Kramer initially refused to make changes, and although he eventually relented, he refused to return the original masters, claiming that they were destroyed. In 2013 that initial mix (including a heretofore unreleased track) was released as The Wondrous World of Damon & Naomi, Bootleg Edition on the band's on 20/20/20 label in celebration of Record Store Day.[2]
After the release of their second album, Damon & Naomi finally decided that they were ready to return to live performance. In a 1998 interview, Krukowski said "We never thought we would perform because there's no rhythm section, and us being a former rhythm section, we thought there's nothing worse than a band without a rhythm section."[3]
Their third album, Playback Singers, in 1998 was recorded at their home studio (Kali Studios) in Cambridge, MA, and was their first album recorded without the assistance of Kramer. The album included the song "Awake in a Muddle", written by Masaki Batoh of the psychedelic rock band Ghost, which marked the beginning of the ongoing relationship between the duo and the Japanese band. The album also included a cover of the Tom Rapp (Pearls Before Swine) song "Translucent Carriages", which the duo had performed with Rapp when he came out of retirement for the first Terrastock music festival in 1997. Krukowski produced re-recordings of two Pearls Before Swine tracks that appeared on the compilation album Constructive Melancholy that was released in 1998. He also produced Rapp's 1999 album A Journal of the Plague Year, on which both Damon & Naomi appeared as musicians.
In 2000, they cemented the relationship with Ghost by releasing the collaborative album Damon & Naomi with Ghost, recorded once again at the duo's Kali studios. The tour in support of the album featured Ghost guitarist Michio Kurihara. In 2002, the Live in San Sebastian album was released, which had been recorded in May 2001 with Kurihara; the album was released with an additional DVD featuring a video tour diary by Yang. Ghost singer-guitarist Masaki Batoh's post-Ghost band The Silence would cover Damon & Naomi's "Little Red Record Company" on their second album Hark The Silence.
During 2004, Damon had a book of poetry published (The Memory Theater Burned) and the duo also worked on pulling together a double DVD of Galaxie 500 videos that was released by Plexifilm. On Valentine's Day 2005, Damon & Naomi's fifth studio album, The Earth Is Blue, was released on their own |20|20|20 label, the duo having amicably terminated their relationship with Sub Pop. The album again featured Kurihara on guitar as well as the avant-garde brass section of Greg Kelley and Bhob Rainey of Nmperign. The supporting tour featured all the guest musicians and one of the Japanese dates of the tour was videotaped and released as a limited-edition DVD at the end of 2005.
In 2006, Damon & Naomi set about recording their next album at Kali Studios, once again with Kurihara guesting. In 2007, they did a Take-Away Show acoustic video session shot by Vincent Moon. The band's sixth studio album Within These Walls was released in September 2007, also on their own |20|20|20 label.
Damon & Naomi released their seventh studio album False Beats and True Hearts on May 9, 2011, once again on their |20|20|20 label and on Broken Horse (UK & Europe).
Discography[edit]
Albums[edit]
More Sad Hits (1992) Shimmy Disc
The Wondrous World of Damon & Naomi (1995) Sub Pop
Playback Singers (1998) Sub Pop/Rykodisc
With Ghost (2000)
Song to the Siren (2002)
The Earth Is Blue (2005)
Within These Walls (2007)
False Beats and True Hearts (2011)
The Wondrous World of Damon & Naomi, Bootleg Edition (2013) 20/20/20
Fortune (2015)[4]
DVDs[edit]
1001 Nights (2009) released by Factory 25
Shibua O-Nest, Tokyo Japan (2005) (exclusive website-only release)
Damon Krukowski and Naomi Yang started playing music together as the rhythm section, co-songwriters, and sometime singers in Galaxie 500. When that band ended, they continued as a duo, first recording for Shimmy Disc and then on a series of albums for Sub Pop Records. In 2005, they formed their own label (20/20/20) and have since released four further Damon & Naomi albums – The Earth Is Blue, Within These Walls, False Beats and True Hearts, and Fortune – alongside reissues of their own and the Galaxie 500 back catalogue.
In addition to their work as musicians, Damon & Naomi are the publishers of Exact Change, a small press dedicated to avant-garde literature and artists’ writings. Individually, Damon is a writer (books, blog, articles for Pitchfork, Artforum and others), and Naomi is a visual artist (photography, video, and graphic design).
DISCOGRAPHY
DAMON & NAOMI
Fortune (2015) – 20/20/20
False Beats and True Hearts (2011) – 20/20/20
The Sub Pop Years (2009) – 20/20/20
Within These Walls (2007) –20/20/20
The Earth Is Blue (2005) – 20/20/20
Song to the Siren (2002) — Sub Pop Records
Damon & Naomi with Ghost (2000) — CD on Sub Pop, LP on Drag City
Playback Singers (1998) – Sub Pop Records
Wondrous World of Damon & Naomi (1995) – Sub Pop Records
More Sad Hits (1992) – Shimmy Disc, reissued by 20/20/20 in 2008
GALAXIE 500
Peel Sessions (recorded 1989-90, released 2005) – 20/20/20
Portable Galaxie 500 (greatest hits comp, released 1998) — Rykodisc, reissued by 20/20/20 in 2009
Copenhagen (recorded live in 1990, released 1997) — Rykodisc, reissued by 20/20/20 in 2009
Uncollected Galaxie 500 (rarities and outtakes, released 1996) — Rykodisc, reissued by 20/20/20 in 2009
Galaxie 500 box set (all 3 studio albums with bonus CD of rarities and outtakes, released 1996) — Rykodisc
This Is Our Music (1990) – Rough Trade, reissued by 20/20/20 in 2009
On Fire (1989) – Rough Trade, reissued by 20/20/20 in 2009
Today (1988) – Rough Trade, reissued by 20/20/20 in 2009
GEAR
We thought you’d never ask…
Damon plays Taylor guitars, and D’Addario strings.
Naomi plays a Clavia Nord Electro, an old Steinway upright with “false beats,” and a 1968 cherry red Gibson EB-2 bass.
Naomi tours with the tiny yet powerful Phil Jones “Flightcase” amplifier.
Damon carries the small and transparently clear Schertler “David” amp.
We track and mix our records on Mackie analog boards.
And we are making the big leap to digital with the help of Universal Audio hard and software, and our Cambridge neighbor MOTU’s Digital Performer.
Not least, Naomi’s fabulous clothing courtesy of Gary Graham, NYC!
The New Analog: Listening and Reconnecting
in a Digital World
Stephen Mejias
Stereophile.
40.8 (Aug. 2017): p41+.
COPYRIGHT 2017 Extreme Ventures, LLC. d/b/a/ TEN: A Discovery Communications Company
http://www.stereophile.com
Full Text:
The New Analog: Listening and Reconnecting in a Digital World, by Damon Krukowski. The New Press, 2017.
Hardcover, 240 pp., [dollar]24.95. Also available as an e-book.
Defining noise is tricky business.
In high-end audio, noise is often defined as the enemy--of music, beauty, truth. Engineers and enthusiasts alike
spend significant amounts of time, energy, and money attempting to minimize or control noise so that it has the
least possible impact on the source signal: music. In this way--if we are intelligent, careful, and fortunate--we can
extract from our stereos cleaner, clearer, more naturally beautiful sound for listening experiences that are
enriching, emotionally compelling, and, above all, fun. On the other hand, when noise is allowed to excessively
modulate the signal, music can sound relatively abrasive, more mechanical, and, ultimately, less engaging.
In this simplified definition, noise is a problem to be solved, and our efforts to minimize it are noble indeed. Yet in
his provocative new book, The New Analog: Listening and Reconnecting in a Digital World, musician and writer
Damon Krukowski wonders whether there is a time and place for noise, after all. More to the point, he asserts that
"noise is as communicative as signal," often containing contextual information that in fact describes time and
place.
Should we reconsider our relationship with noise?
To answer that question, we must settle on a definition of noise. Krukowski himself seems hesitant to do so--at
least outright--but he does offer clear distinctions between analog and digital media. He writes with a poet's
profundity and focus, a drummer's sense of rhythm: "Analog is not simply old, and digital is not merely new"--a
sentiment with which most audiophiles would quickly agree. Like many Stereophile readers, Krukowski is not
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interested in ranking various forms of media. Still, while his own deep-seated allegiance to analog communication
sometimes betrays him--he dislikes Facebook, is skeptical of GPS, longs for the days of extensive liner notes--he
makes clear that there is much to be gained from digital communication, the potential to reach far larger audiences
with a speed and efficiency previously unknown.
Krukowski continues: "Analog media always include noise, necessarily--efforts to minimize noise in analog
environments adjust its ratio to signal, but never eliminate it. Digital media, on the other hand, are capable of
separating signal from noise absolutely."
Is this correct? Many audio engineers would contend that it is impossible to separate signal from noise absolutely--
that, in fact, some amount of noise always travels with the signal, especially when working within the digital
environment. Some readers will be tempted to stop here, dismissing Krukowski's premise as little more than
uncritical nostalgia at best, willful ignorance at worst.
That would be too easy. Reading on, one finds that Krukowski's perspective was formed not in the listening room
or test lab, but in the digital recording studio. There, he says, signal is easily defined as any sound musicians and
engineers want to communicate, while noise is simply anything that isn't signal. If we extend these definitions
beyond the recording studio, we find ourselves in a world where, depending on our interests and goals, signal and
noise constantly shift. In a crowded restaurant, we listen intently to the events of our companion's day (the signal),
while tuning out the chatter of nearby tables (the noise). Or we decide to eavesdrop on others, thereby reversing
signal and noise.
The limits of analog recording necessitate that sometimes unintended sounds--the clink of cocktail glasses, the
rumbling of passing trains, and other audiophile delights--remain in a final mix. With digital technology, the savvy
engineer can completely erase these unintended sounds, making it as though they never occurred. We are given
silence--or a likeness thereof.
But when noise is erased, what else is lost? And what is compromised when we--artists, engineers, and listeners--
no longer have the power to define signal and noise? These are the questions at the heart of The New Analog.
Krukowski may not have the answers, but he wants to engage in a thoughtful conversation. Decision makers, he
suspects, may not have consumers' best interests in mind.
Take, for instance, music streaming services and their troubling deficit of metadata. (1) Noting the Internet's vast
amount of easily accessible and affordable music, Krukowski writes, "[S]treaming services are anxious about
leaving their users in that moment of indecision; endless choice means they might make no choice, and not use the
service at all. So instead of supplying copious information for listeners to research their interests--the metadata of
printed media--Spotify and other streaming services have ... stripped all music of all but the bare minimum tags."
(2)
Thus, to streaming services, metadata is inessential noise that inevitably interferes with the signal (and
profitability) of music. I shared this thought with Enno Vandermeer, cofounder of Roon--a music-player
application that strives to reconnect listeners to their digital media, in part through the thoughtful use of metadata.
Vandermeer responded via e-mail: "Roon aims to provide a digital update of the 'active listening' experience,
which in the past would have entailed listening to radio and reading music press for discovery, shopping for
records, reading liner notes for lyrics and insights into performers/producers/composers, researching upcoming
concerts, and collecting a deeply personal music library that reflected one's tastes. In effect, what Krukowski is
lamenting is the disappearance of the active listening culture that supported-and indeed required-rich sources of
music-related information to fuel it."
In this light, Krukowski's plea becomes only more urgent. Audiophiles will sympathize with what he calls "thick
listening"--perhaps especially because it does more to describe the differences between active listening (as an
event unto itself) and casual listening (as a supplement to some other event) than it does to describe the differences
between digital and analog media. Ultimately, Krukowski contends that the thoughtful act of sorting through noise
promotes successful, meaningful communication. He celebrates noise in all its various forms, urging us-readers,
listeners, thinkers, communicators, consumers--to listen with all our senses engaged.
Not a bad idea.
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Stephen Mejias (Stletters@enthusiastnetwork.com) writes about recorded musicfor Stereophile and
oursistersiteAudiostream.com.
(1) Krukowski's relationship with music-streaming services is especially interesting. In his Pitchfork article
"Making Cents," Krukowski revealed that "Tugboat," a single by his band, Galaxie 500, was streamed on Pandora
7800 times in the first quarter of 2012, for which the composer royalties totaled just 210. See http://
pitchfork.com/features/article/8993-the-cloud/.
(2) During a fascinating conversation with Ben Sisario, music columnist for the New York Times, held May 6 at
Brooklyn's Rough Trade record store, Sisario politely challenged Krukowski, saying that the entire Internet might
be considered today's liner notes. Krukowski conceded the point, with a qualification: "It's not from the artist's
expression."
Caption: Damon Krukowski celebrating portability.
Source Citation (MLA 8th
Edition)
Mejias, Stephen. "The New Analog: Listening and Reconnecting in a Digital World." Stereophile, Aug. 2017, p.
41+. General OneFile, http://link.galegroup.com/apps/doc/A499719719/ITOF?
u=schlager&sid=ITOF&xid=6f119cb9. Accessed 28 Jan. 2018.
Gale Document Number: GALE|A499719719
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The myth of the Penny Pinchers: Galaxie 500's
Damon Krukowski is the latest artist to bemoan
streaming services' slim payouts- which would
be fair if all the details were right
Glenn Peoples
Billboard.
124.44 (Dec. 8, 2012): p10.
COPYRIGHT 2012 e5 Global Media, LLC
Full Text:
Damon Krukowski, a member of indie-rock band Galaxie 500 and later Damon & Naomi, captured the industry's
attention this month with an articulate piece for Pitchfork that dissected Galaxie 500's royalty statements and
criticized the speculative nature that drives today's digital music businesses.
Unfortunately, the article is filled with errors and questionable logic. Not only does Krukowski compare apples
and oranges, he expects quite a lot from a decades-old catalog.
Krukowski's article targeted Pandora and Spotify, which both have multibillion-dollar valuations in spite of the
losses they amass each quarter. Pandora is a public company with a market capitalization of $1.3 billion. Spotify's
latest round of fundraising valued it at $3 billion, a highly speculative figure for a company yet to prove its
business model can work on a global scale.
Their minute royalties drew as much ire as the companies' business models. Krukowski wrote that selling one LP
equals 312,000 plays on Pandora and 47,680 on Spotify. He also wrote that selling 1,000 copies of a 7-inch of the
Galaxie 500 song "Tugboat" would earn the band as much as 13 million streams from Spotify. All three claims are
wrong.
Let's use the numbers given in the article. Krukowski writes that his BMI royalty check showed the three writers of
"Tugboat" received 21 cents for 7,800 plays on Pandora and $1.05 for 5,960 plays on Spotify. That works out to
per-stream royalties of $0.000027 and $0.000176, respectively. Those are incredibly small numbers, but they
represent one of two copyrights that gets less revenue for online streaming.
Krukowski focused on the royalties associated with the performance of the composition (the source of his numbers
was the royalty check from BMI, one of three performing rights organizations in the United States). The other
copyright, for the sound recording, generates much more revenue. A subscription service like Spotify pays
publishers the greater of 10.5% of revenue, 21% of total cost or 18 cents per subscriber. That amount is inclusive
of payments to PROs. The rest--a much larger amount--goes to the owner of the sound recording.
[ILLUSTRATION OMITTED]
Elsewhere in the article, Krukowski notes the band received $0.004611 per stream from Spotify. Using this royalty
rate, the correct streams-for-LPs ratio works out to 1,822 for Spotify and 7,636 for Pandora. The numbers are less
if mechanical royalties are deducted from the $8.40 wholesale price Krukowski used in his calculations. (Profit is
another matter. Vinyl is costly to manufacture and ship. Digital is more cost-efficient.)
The band would have to sell each 7-inch for $59.94 to gross the $59,943 it would generate from 13 million streams
on Spotify. Krukowski once again confused Spotify's smaller songwriter royalty with the larger royalty paid to the
owner of the sound recording.
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The basic logic behind the article is a bit troubling. Selling 7-inch singles in 1988 and streaming music in 2012
aren't mutually exclusive. Galaxie 500 has monetized the music when originally released--and since reissued--on
physical formats and continues to monetize it today through digital formats, too.
Popular songs get high listening volume. Mumford 8, Sons' Babel generated 8 million streams on Spotify alone in
its first week of release--equal to $40,000 at 0.5 cents per stream. Babel sold 600,000 units that week, according to
Nielsen SoundScan. In 2012, hit songs were routinely streamed I million times apiece per week at the services
tracked by Nielsen (not including YouTube).
Galaxie 500 is a respected but underground band whose peak sales and listening years are in the past. Its streaming
volume is commensurate with its current sales volume. Today, the 1988 album that contains "Tugboat," sells a
dozen or two units in the United States in a typical week, according to SoundScan. On Fire (1989) does slightly
better.
The access-based models of Pandora and Spotify are on a different timeline than purchases. A purchase provides a
one-time payment. A buyer will never pay a royalty for listening to those songs. Access models pay by the listen.
Royalties add up as people listen throughout years and decades.
The most important equation here is volume x royalty rate = revenue. If Today were released today, Galaxie 500
would be adored by Pitchfork, featured on NPR and streamed in far greater volume. The per-stream royalties paid
by Pandora and Spotify may seem better and fairer if far more people were listening
.biz For 24/7 digital news and analysis, see billboard.biz/digit al.
RELATED ARTICLE: Smart tunes.
[ILLUSTRATION OMITTED]
Music has been slow to penetrate the digital living room. Americans have fallen in love with videogames and
Netflix but haven't warmed to enjoying music audio and video on their big-screen TVs. Favi Entertainment's
SmartStick is an inexpensive way to enjoy music apps on a TV. The Wi-Fi-enabled device plugs into a TV's HDMI
port and accesses such apps as Google Music, YouTube, Spotify and Rhapsody through the Android operating
system.
The 4GB version sells for $49.99, while an 8GB edition costs $79.99. The SmartStick is available at Amazon,
Radio Shack, Best Buy and Newegg.--GP
Peoples, Glenn
Source Citation (MLA 8th
Edition)
Peoples, Glenn. "The myth of the Penny Pinchers: Galaxie 500's Damon Krukowski is the latest artist to bemoan
streaming services' slim payouts--which would be fair if all the details were right." Billboard, 8 Dec. 2012, p.
10. General OneFile, http://link.galegroup.com/apps/doc/A312402623/ITOF?
u=schlager&sid=ITOF&xid=2753e1f8. Accessed 28 Jan. 2018.
Gale Document Number: GALE|A312402623
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The New Analog: Listening and Reconnecting
in a Digital World
Raymond Pun
Booklist.
113.14 (Mar. 15, 2017): p12.
COPYRIGHT 2017 American Library Association
http://www.ala.org/ala/aboutala/offices/publishing/booklist_publications/booklist/booklist.cfm
Full Text:
The New Analog: Listening and Reconnecting in a Digital World.
By Damon Krukowski.
Apr. 2017. 240p. New Press, $24.95 (9781620971970), 781.1.
Musician and poet Krukowski, a founding member of indie rock band Galaxie 500 and now part of folk-rock duo
Damon & Naomi, is a frequent contributor to Artforum, frieze, Pitchfork, and The Wire. Here, he writes about
technological transitions from analog to digital devices and what is lost for creators and consumers in this process.
Krukowski explores the analog/digital divide and emphasizes the important role that analog can play in this
turbulent digital era. From telephones to Napster to the iPod to Pandora, Krukowski covers the history of the
devices that have generated audio, music, and noise and how these products have changed cultural
communications and receptions of sound in society. Readers who are interested in the history of technology,
acoustics, and sound, and how digitization affects audio and music will be engaged by Krukowskis nostalgic,
quickreading, persuasive work, as he touches on the changing process of our consumption of music in the digital
age.--Raymond Pun
Source Citation (MLA 8th
Edition)
Pun, Raymond. "The New Analog: Listening and Reconnecting in a Digital World." Booklist, 15 Mar. 2017, p. 12.
General OneFile, http://link.galegroup.com/apps/doc/A490998372/ITOF?
u=schlager&sid=ITOF&xid=e5e37ba5. Accessed 28 Jan. 2018.
Gale Document Number: GALE|A490998372
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Krukowski , Damon: THE NEW ANALOG
Kirkus Reviews.
(Mar. 1, 2017):
COPYRIGHT 2017 Kirkus Media LLC
http://www.kirkusreviews.com/
Full Text:
Krukowski , Damon THE NEW ANALOG New Press (Adult Nonfiction) $24.95 4, 25 ISBN: 978-1-62097-197-0
Wry exploration of the social meanings behind vintage and modern audio technologies.Krukowski, a founding
member of Galaxie 500 and recipient of fellowships from the Creative Capital/Andy Warhol Foundation and
Harvard University's Berkman-Klein Center for Internet and Society, comfortably discusses both rarefied aesthetic
theories and gritty rocker realities. Arguing that the promise of constant digital progress as represented by Moore's
law has promoted acceptance of mediocrity, he notes, "you needn't be an audiophile snob to conclude that today's
MP3 downloads, or their streaming counterparts, sound worse than 1965's LPs--MP3s are designed to sound
worse." The book is less a study of older formats' current popularity and more a survey of the struggles between
permanence and ephemera, as well as artists' visions and the consumer marketplace, playing out over decades of
technological and industry changes. Krukowski turns the basic dichotomy of audio engineering, the ratio of signal
to noise, into a complex metaphor for the loss of history and ingenuity represented by the replacement of analog
recording and culture with digital media. He makes this argument via a discursive, in-depth structure in seven
chapters labeled after phenomena obsessed over by audiophiles. In "Headspace," he links so-called headphone
records like Pink Floyd's "Dark Side of the Moon" (and our current plugged-in public lives) to the disdain initially
directed toward stereo recording: "stereo limits the perfect place for listening to a space big enough for only one at
a time." In "Proximity Effect," Krukowski considers the vanished world of POTS, or "plain old telephone service."
By replacing a massive yet technologically simple network with smartphones, the nature of audible
communication is changed, and "communicating distance itself becomes a challenge." Elsewhere, the author
considers the unintended consequences of digital innovation, from the "loudness wars" in studio engineering to the
controversies around downloading: "is music free? That simple question provoked by Napster still seems
unanswered." Krukowski's writing is witty and generally accessible, though his detours into recording minutiae
and avant-garde ideas about sound and art may lose some readers.
Source Citation (MLA 8th
Edition)
"Krukowski , Damon: THE NEW ANALOG." Kirkus Reviews, 1 Mar. 2017. General OneFile,
http://link.galegroup.com/apps/doc/A482911567/ITOF?u=schlager&sid=ITOF&xid=308f18d8. Accessed 28
Jan. 2018.
Gale Document Number: GALE|A482911567
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Notes from the underground: Damon
Krukowski on Cornelius Cardew
Damon Krukowski
Artforum International.
45.7 (Mar. 2007): p81.
COPYRIGHT 2007 Artforum International Magazine, Inc.
Full Text:
CORNELIUS CARDEW: A READER, BY CORNELIUS CARDEW ET AL. EDITED BY EDWIN PREVOST.
HARLOW, UK. COPULA, 2006. 400 PAGES. $48.
SOME GESTURES are so large, they cast the rest of a career into shadow. Such is the case with English composer
Cornelius Cardew, whose rather spectacular conversion to a Maoist-influenced branch of Marxism in the early
1970s led him to denounce both his avant-garde mentors and his own previous compositions. The explosive title of
his 1974 essay, "Stockhausen Serves Imperialism," has reached further than the text itself and, sadly, further than
Cardew's music.
[ILLUSTRATION OMITTED]
What has been eclipsed is Cardew's restless experimentation with serialism, Cagean chance, graphic notation, and
various forms of improvisation. His political radicalization was just the latest sharp turn in his thinking--and it was
his last; in 1981, at age forty-five, he was killed by a hit-and-run driver. It is these philosophical transformations,
combined with the indeterminate nature of much of his music, that have made it difficult for those wishing to look
beyond Cardew's politics to piece together a coherent idea of his work.
The publication of Cardew's collected writings, Cornelius Cardew: A Reader, would seem to contribute to this
fractured image of the artist--he argues with himself endlessly, both within and between the essays, and, toward the
end of this chronologically arranged volume, renounces his compositions almost as soon as he completes them.
However, what emerges from these texts is a thread running through all his music, a concern that is best revealed
in his essays because it is essentially a literary one: Why write music? What the Reader makes clear is that the
mechanics and ethics of notation were paramount to Cardew, from his earliest work to his last.
Indeed, reading Cardew might be the truest way to experience his music. For Cardew, notation posed problems
directly related to Wittgenstein's investigations of language. "Notation and composition determine each other," he
writes in a 1961 article first published in Tempo magazine. This logic fueled Cardew's five years' labor on what
might be considered his masterpiece, Treatise (1963-67). Across 193 pages--of which any number of pages can be
performed as a complete score--Cardew drew two empty staves of music. Above them, a central line traces a
nearly continuous path through the score; around that line, Cardew placed a variety of abstract figures drawn with
a compass and a ruler (he was also a graphic designer), together with a few numbers. There are no other
instructions.
So what does Treatise sound like? That would seem to be entirely up to the performer. However, in a fascinating
set of working notes to the piece (Treatise Handbook, 1971), Cardew specifies, "The sound should be a picture of
the score, not vice versa." This inversion of the usual relationship between the language of a score and the music it
represents reaches beyond Wittgensteinian complication toward a kind of conceptual music: Notation and
composition not only determine each other in Treatise, they are one and the same. Cardew elaborates: "The
notation is more important than the sound. Not the exactitude and success with which a notation notates a sound;
but the musicalness of the notation in its notating." This knotty text (typical of Cardew's philosophical pirouettes)
pulls cleanly into a logical line: The notation of Treatise is itself a form of music--just not a music that need be
heard, necessarily. "Sounds-ideas," writes Cardew elsewhere; "reading Treatise is a twilight experience where the
two cannot be clearly distinguished."
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It is this merging of sound and idea that is Cardew's artistic legacy; it is also why it is a challenge to understand his
work through performances of his music alone. Recordings often depend so heavily on the given musician(s) that
it is difficult to know which ideas, if any, are from Cardew himself. The Cardew Reader, on the other hand,
provides a direct encounter with Cardew's ideas--and therefore with his sounds.
In the years following Treatise, Cardew explored, with two ensembles, the possibilities of merging sound and idea.
He joined the free improvisation group AMM in 1966, in which he explored completely unnotated music. And in
1969 Cardew cofounded the Scratch Orchestra, a large, open-ended group dedicated to collective composition--a
mix of trained and untrained musicians performing a range of activities they scripted for themselves. Both
experiments further blurred the line between thought and action, ideas and sounds, composition and music. What
Cardew writes about his experience with AMM could equally apply to the Scratch Orchestra: "When you play
[this] music, you are the music."
While AMM "operat[ed] without any formal system or limitation," as Cardew described it, the Scratch Orchestra
was the most tortured and deliberative of collectives, complete with a draft constitution (included in the Reader),
"discontent meetings," and slogans. It was in an ideological group within the orchestra that Cardew began studying
Marxist theory, perhaps to better understand these twin experiments with collective action. Ultimately, Cardew left
both groups and abandoned his graphic compositions together with the rest of "the bourgeois musical avant garde"
in order to look for ways his music might more directly serve his political goals--he even formed a kind of rock
band to perform at demonstrations.
It is ironic that in his Maoist period Cardew recorded the music with which it is easiest to associate him as an
individual musician rather than as a member of a collective--an album of "socialist piano music" based on
revolutionary and workers' songs. These works are not sounds-ideas, however; or rather, there is only one idea that
is meant to emerge from them. When Cardew turned his back on the avant-garde, he began annotating his music:
He went so far as to request that banners with Maoist slogans hang over the heads of the Scratch Orchestra, as the
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group performed one of his works at the Albert Hall in London. Only a writer could think those banners would
make a difference.
A MUSICIAN AND WRITER, DAMON KRUKOWSKI IS THE AUTHOR OF THE MEMORY THEATER
BURNED (TURTLE POINT PRESS, 2004).
Krukowski, Damon
Source Citation (MLA 8th
Edition)
Krukowski, Damon. "Notes from the underground: Damon Krukowski on Cornelius Cardew." Artforum
International, vol. 45, no. 7, 2007, p. 81. General OneFile,
http://link.galegroup.com/apps/doc/A160874367/ITOF?u=schlager&sid=ITOF&xid=6a996bd6. Accessed 28
Jan. 2018.
Gale Document Number: GALE|A160874367
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The Memory Theater Burned
F.D. Reeve
The Antioch Review.
63.4 (Fall 2005): p798.
COPYRIGHT 2005 Antioch Review, Inc.
Full Text:
The Memory Theater Burned by Damon Krukowski. Turtle Point Press, 87 pp., $14.95 (paper). Singer and
recording artist, editor at Exact Change publishers, Krukowski has burst forth with his own poems, a sunny fistful
of bright, brassy prose poems that gallop across the meadows and bridges of life. A review shouldn't go
metaphoric all at once. But distilled metaphor is what's here: after the memory theater burned, the poet says, only
fragments remained, and "I cannot recall these pieces without supplying connective elements;... fragments are all I
find, and what I find is all I can remember." "Irrationality," he says, which "mirrors our individual souls ... is the
only possible material for poetry." "The horn on the Victrola looked inviting, so I jumped inside." "The envelope
was an unprecedented invention; for in those days nothing was hidden from view." "You have been under water a
long time." You see what amiable conversations the poems suggest? Picture yourself sitting comfortably at a table,
cool glass before you; in the chair beside you is a book looking vaguely like Damon Krukowski, each time you
turn a page the words speak out, sounding his thoughts precisely (both first and second thoughts), even his
feelings; so finally you have a whole figure there, a composite attitude toward the world and writing about it.
There the two of you are, having a thoroughly entertaining time. Easy for you to agree with Rosmarie Waldrop's
blurb that the poems make "our daily predicaments seem both funny and sad, but always marvelous."
Reeve, F.D.
Source Citation (MLA 8th
Edition)
Reeve, F.D. "The Memory Theater Burned." The Antioch Review, Fall 2005, p. 798. General OneFile,
http://link.galegroup.com/apps/doc/A138444430/ITOF?u=schlager&sid=ITOF&xid=89bff7ea. Accessed 28
Jan. 2018.
Gale Document Number: GALE|A138444430