Soundscape signatures

Their voices are a perfect pair of opposites, but when expressed together suggest an intriguingly complementary nature. Hers is sweet, subdued and as refreshingly calm as the gurgle of a brook. His feels more vivaciously boisterous _ every now and then he breaks into roars of sarcastic guffaws when he tries to audibly demonstrate the unpleasantness of modernity. Listening to the two Japanese experts on ''soundscape studies'', Professors Keiko Torigoe and Kozo Hiramatsu, one is reminded of how a great piece of music can be culled from discordant notes, that diversity _ of pitches, rhythms, nuances, sounds _ is essentially part and parcel of true beauty.

The two scholars were recently in Thailand to present lectures during the eighth annual conference organised by the Princess Maha Chakri Sirindhorn Anthropology Centre. The theme of ''People, Music, Life'' reflected an effort to explore another, still little-known locally, frontier of the discipline of anthropology: The role of sound in human activity. One entire session was devoted to a branch of study called soundscape, as represented by the works of the two invited Japanese professors.

But what exactly does the term mean? Is this ''soundscape'' merely an intellectual attempt to challenge our predominantly visually-oriented culture, say, as in the notion of landscape? Why is it significant to focus on the acoustic aspect of one's environment?

According to Torigoe and Hiramatsu, soundscapes incorporate virtually every sound in the world _ be it natural or man-made, dubbed as musical or noisy, literally audible or heard only in one's imagination or memories _ even ''quietness'' is not exempt.

The range of sounds covered by this field of inquiry is as limitless as the backgrounds of the two researchers _ both are members of the Soundscape Association of Japan. Torigoe was originally a musicologist while Hiramatsu first approached the discipline through his study of noise pollution.

Says Torigoe, ''I came from music while he

[Hiramatsu] is from noise, so we are completely different.''

[laughs]

Hiramatsu quips back, ''It was

[considered] completely different _ music and noise

[were] two extreme sounds. But

[now] music covers noise.'' The Kyoto University professor gave a disdainful chuckle at the conventional parochial concept of ''music'' as pertaining only to the polite notes made in music halls before proceeding to quote a famous statement by John Cage (1902 to 1992), an avant-garde US composer: ''Music is sounds, sounds around us.''

But soundscape studies involves far more than just the collecting of sounds as artifacts or museum pieces. Torigoe stresses the importance of understanding, appreciating each and every sound in its context, and, in particular, to look at the relationships between individuals and their sonic surroundings. Indeed, a healthy ecology is, Torigoe proposes, realisable only when there is a ''balance'' between natural and man-made sounds.

''If you like

[the sound of] crickets, you have to think of what they like. If we want to preserve sounds, we have to preserve the whole ecosystem that produces the sounds,'' she says. ''Sounds result from nature. Natural sounds are the symbols, or representations, of real ecological systems.

''Every phenomenon has a message. One cricket that is very popular in Japan is called matsu-mushi. It makes a very soft, but cute and beautiful sound

[Torigoe mimics the cricket's call]. But that specific cricket is weak in the heat. Now in Tokyo ... the temperature is getting higher and more dry. So that cricket has begun to disappear. The

[absence of] the sound of the cricket is thus telling of the change in the environment.

''If we like to live in big cities like Tokyo or Bangkok, we have to ask ourselves what kind of soundscape we need. We have to live with other species. An environment nice for crickets is nice for human beings too. But now we have destroyed so many things, and ironically have to rely on artificial sounds

[of birds or crickets] as reproduced by engineers and technicians.''

Human addiction to acoustic sensation has certainly been ingrained in us. And it seems modern ways of life are geared towards ever-higher decibels of stimulation _ with very little space for silence.

During his visits to Thailand, Hiramatsu has observed the prevalence of loudspeakers here. Incidentally, Japan has produced and exported an enormous amount of loudspeakers, he admits. During World War Two, the Japanese had similar experiences as amplifiers were distributed nation-wide to alert the citizens of imminent air bombing raids by the Allies. After the war, the existing loudspeakers were transformed into tools for advertisements, which prompted a civic movement that sought to curtail their spread. The ban was finally imposed during the 1970s, but, Hiramatsu laments, only against use of loudspeakers for advertising from the air.

'' The use of loudspeakers in public spaces _ railway stations, elevators, department stores, shopping streets, everywhere _ is still going on. There is no regulation about that! But because there is some strong opposition to loudspeaker noise, they tend to reduce the volume.''

Moreso, in other public domains _ ''coffee shops, hotels, restaurants, fitness classes, anywhere in Japan'', Hiramatsu adds _ there is always ''music'' (an evident sneer is discernible in his tone) transmitted from loudspeakers. Such background music is usually not very loud, he notes, but still a certain message therein can feel ''sometimes very strange'' for the ears to decipher.

The Japanese soundscape specialist has plenty of amusing anecdotes about such peculiar sonic exposure. A very cheap restaurant in Okinawa that serves local food but plays Beethoven's symphonies to entertain its customers, ''which could make them very uncomfortable'', he says and gives a heartily mocking laugh. Or the playing of Vivaldi's Four Seasons in the middle of the remote, barren northernmost territory of Japan renowned for the enigmatic sound of drift ice. A few years ago, Hiramatsu's colleague, Torigoe attempted to record the ''rumblings of the Sea of Enshu'' as part of the ''One Hundred Soundscapes to be Preserved of Japan'' project.

''There was only ice, dark sky, no animals,'' Hiramatsu tells, ''then her team heard Vivaldi's Four Seasons! They couldn't stop it, so they couldn't make recordings at the time! It was stupid!''

Not every story, however, can be simply brushed aside as sheer inanity. For 25 years, Hiramatsu and his colleagues have been researching the long-term health impacts of aircraft noise around the US military airbases in Okinawa. The comprehensive long-term project has recruited experts from different disciplines _ medical scientists, environmental engineers, epidemiologists and medical doctors. Hiramatsu says the results have provided clear evidence of how exposure to intensively loud noise (over 120 decibels) has contributed to incidences of hearing loss, sleep disturbance, lower birth-weight, children's misbehaviours and affected long-term memory, hypertension, and cardiovascular disease that may turn fatal.

After years of mass protests, the Okinawan locals have won some token compensations from the authorities. (They are yet to secure a prohibition on night flights _ military jets have to leave the island late at night in order to arrive in the US in the daytime.) The tragedy of it all is that the villagers who have been living for centuries on their ancestral lands, usually situated around the US airbases, have inadvertently been stigmatised due in part to research by Hiramatsu and co which ''proved'' the serious repercussions of noise pollution. Like many other victims of industrial pollution _ the case of Minamata townsfolk comes to mind _ they suffer from discrimination because the public perceives them as ''damaged'' people health-wise (especially if the sources of the environmental contamination have not yet been controlled).

''Okinawan people know there are many, many reasons for them to live in that place. They can't move out. They own the land _ it's their land! The families have lived there for hundreds of years! They have tombs and many, many rituals and ceremonies connected to the land. Occasionally, their ancestors will come back from another world to this place. The Americans don't understand this _ they think those living around the airbases are poor immigrants! Maybe, in America, it's like that. I don't know.

''If you have some kind of disease, do you want to speak out loud: 'Hey, I have disease!'? So what I did hardly supported those people,'' says Hiramatsu, with a clear tinge of sorrow in his voice.

''Cruelty is truth, but to reveal the truth is also cruel,'' he muses.

The daily piercing shrieks of military jets also have another layer of meaning for some Okinawans. Hiramatsu points out that the prevalence of aircraft noise stirs war memories _ especially for the older generations who still remember the frantic dashes for safety during the frequent air raids and naval bombardments of World War Two. (Okinawa was the only site in Japan that witnessed land battles between US and Japanese forces.) Worse still, since Japan lost the war and signed the Security Treaty of Mutual Cooperation and Security with the US, Okinawan air bases have been used for as many as 75 percent of the total bases stipulated in the bilateral agreement.

Thus, in the eyes of Okinawans, their homeland, incorporated by the Meiji emperor since 1879, has been practically ''utilised by the Tokyo government as a shield to protect mainland Japan,'' says Hiramatsu in his lecture. Despite their contribution to the local economy, the presence of the US air bases advances the residents' feelings of being second-class citizens. Crime rates have climbed; a few acts committed by US officers against the local people have drawn large amounts of publicity. So has the proliferation of prostitution and Westernised consumerism in the once-rural laid-back communities. The aircraft noise acts as another heart-wrenching reminder that the Battle of Okinawa is still far from over.

On a more cheerful note, the study of soundscape can be about redemption too. As a follow-up to Torigoe's lecture at the conference, physician-turned-anthropologist Dr Komatra Chuengsatiansup relates a remarkable story from the 100 Soundscapes to be Preserved of Japan project (1994 to 1997). In the process of collecting different soundscapes, Torigoe came across a giant camphor tree that was hundreds of years old at a temple in Nagasaki. Killed by the radioactive bomb dropped during World War Two, the tree was brought back to life thanks to decades of persistent efforts made by local villagers who refused to give up on their beloved heritage.

''What has been revived is not only the tree, however, but also the sounds around it that had disappeared,'' Dr Komatra said. ''The ruffle of the wind through the leaves, the chirping of birds, the sounds of squirrels, the voices of children who once played around the camphor tree _ they have all become alive again.

''All these

[returning] sounds tell the people that there is no such thing as loss of hope _ that there will always be hope in living.''

Recognising the importance of aural sensitivity can thus be a stepping stone to a balanced life. It can induce creativity, imagination and even commitment to preserving the environment. Currently affiliated with the Tokyo-based School of Cultural and Creative Studies, Aoyama Gakuin University, Torigoe has been a dedicated proponent of healthy soundscapes through her classes, campaigns, writings, acoustic designs and consultancy work with different communities around Japan. This aesthetic awareness seems to prevail in her personal life as well. Dr Komatra, who has spent some time at Torigoe's house in Tokyo, describes it as ''an abode where a traditional Japanese sense of beauty is married happily with a contemporary way of living.

''Asked by the traditional carpenter what she had in mind for her

[then] new house, khun Keiko

[Torigoe] said she would like to preserve the sounds from her childhood. That is something most of us would not have thought about. When it comes to enjoying acoustics, we would rather have installed a home theatre, wouldn't we?

''

[In her house] there were the sounds of sliding doors, the soft patter of feet on the tatami mats, the chimes of bells. ... The couple of nights I stayed there made me look at the world through another, more refined lens.''

But Torigoe is adamant that her mission is not about plucking certain sets of sounds and placing them in a vacuum. A wiser, ''more natural'' way is to prepare an environment which is conducive to creating those sounds itself. Her assistance in designing the garden of the Memorial House of Rentaro Taki (1879 to 1903, nicknamed the Mozart of Japan) in a small town on Kyushu island has made shrewd use of local materials to reconstruct the sonic ambience that may have moulded the young Taki into an aurally sensitive person, and eventually, a musical genius. Torigoe says she did extensive research on the composer's life, listened to every piece of his works and conducted interviews and workshops with local gardeners in order to find out what kind of soundscapes he might have liked _ the ''sounds of the bamboo, water channels, stepping stones ... '' And instead of reproducing those sounds and replaying them on speakers, Torigoe rebuilt the garden in a way that allows visitors to the Memorial House experience those very sounds little Taki might have also heard over a century ago:

''I've prepared geta

[Japanese wood sandals] and a walking route around the garden for visitors. Through

[wearing] geta, they start to appreciate the stepping stones. So the visitors can use their whole body, not just listen through their ears.

''The Japanese house is made of paper and wood, so the soundscapes inside the house and the garden are not so different. What he hear in the garden can be heard inside the house. For me, designing the soundscape of the garden meant designing the whole museum,'' she said.

And this is not simply a nostalgic or esoteric pursuit. Listening to Torigoe's ideas about soundscapes, one becomes aware of how the senses of the aesthetic and the environment are inseparable. In her lecture at the conference, Torigoe showed a slide of a serene-looking beach where the Japanese say one can come and listen to ''the sea weeping''. It has inspired so many people, she said _ musicians, poets, even a princess who came to play a dulcimer here after Japan lost the war. The ban on smoking and littering at the beach, however, is not only for sanitary purposes, but in Torigoe's words, ''because people are concerned the pure sound of the sand grains might become contaminated and disappear.''

Not every sound, from the past or present, is for keeps, however. Torigoe cites the eerie shrill of atomic bombs during the last world war as one such sound people would rather forget. For the One Hundred Soundscapes to be Preserved of Japan project, she said the researchers sought out only the sounds that are considered by the public as valuable, that enhance some special meaning, a sense of beauty unique to a specific place.

For sounds can be more powerful than one might think. On her plane to Bangkok, Torigoe said she met an old Thai lady who had been living overseas for several years. Asked what sounds she missed the most, the Thai elderly related her childhood memories of being lulled to sleep every night by her father playing the traditional Thai xylophone accompanied by the nocturnal orchestra of frogs and other creatures around the family house.

''She said that environment has completely changed, however, so she can't hear that soundscape any more. Her father has passed away, and the frogs have disappeared. But that memory of the soundscape is still in her mind and body, and it leads her back to Bangkok every year.''

A couple of years ago, Torigoe and her friends organised a contest in which the public was invited to nominate their favourite quiet spots in Tokyo. A six-year-old boy vouched for a pond, saying, as quoted by Torigoe: ''I like the quietness of this pond, for I can hear so many sounds _ of fish coming up, of the wind through the leaves ...''

''In quietness, our auditory sensitivity becomes acute, and we can start to hear so many different sounds.

''What the boy thinks of quietness might be different from someone living in New York, or anywhere else in the world. The same with music. It can be enjoyed in many different ways from one individual, community, to another. ... But

[what the boy heard] is reality, not sounds he imagined. Everyday he goes to play at the pond, spending many hours there so it is easy for him to say what kind of sounds he enjoys in that quietness. They are real sounds, not imagined.

''To enjoy a soundscape, it is very important to give away all of our pre-conceptions, and just go to the place and experience it.

''The study of soundscapes is a kind of warning, making us think of how to change our ways of doing things. If individuals, or even one person, starts paying attention to soundscapes, to think what kind of sounds you don't really like, what kind of sounds you'd like to live in for the rest of your lives, and then act to realise that _ either to get rid of some or to nurture the others. That wouldn't be too difficult, would it?''