Podcast Transcripts and the Slippage between Thought, Speech and Text

Transcribing your podcast. A straight-forward idea and process you might think. The production of a textual reference of your podcast audio that aids both search-ability and access-ability. That you would produce them as part of your overall podcast output is a no-brainer. Yet, the process of creating transcripts does open up logistical, ethical and even epistemological questions which have precipitated, for me, a spiral of thoughts on the very nature of language, mediation, and how we ever really communicate anything successfully to one another. The coherence of what follows might reflect that spiral, so, you’ve been warned.

Every since I started podcasting, and particularly editing my own speech in the conversational, unscripted shows I generally create, the gap between the thought that my brain produces (the inner voice) and the words and sentences that are actually sounded - with all the hesitations, extraneous vocal tics, repetitions, grammatical mistakes, pauses, umms, arrs, etc, etc - is frighteningly stark. In the editing process the dimensions of one’s ‘imperfect’ speech is constantly made apparent to you, both in sound of course, but also visually with those waveforms that have a nauseating symmetry. Then, to see a transcription of this speech verbatim, I have to confront the possibility that what I say borders on total gibberish, requiring in the listener a highly sophisticated intuitive decoding mechanism to make any sense of what I’m actually on about.

Visualising speech ‘imperfections’.

Visualising speech ‘imperfections’.

Working in academia, navigating the relationship between written and spoken word comes with the territory. Yet with the recording and editing of podcasts, the confrontation with every misplaced syllable, or imprecise utterance, provokes anxieties reminiscent of when I was really struggling in the final excruciating months of my PhD. I’d gotten into a headspace where the connecting tissues between thought and speech had snapped. I was second guessing everything I said, trying to process the myriad potential caveats intrinsic to every utterance. This made public speaking feel like an out of body experience. My train of thought seemed to get split in two. I would think about what I was saying, and say it, then analyse what I saying immediately after my voice expressed it. Of course, the two ‘trains of thought’ couldn’t operate simultaneously and I found myself pausing, analysing internally what I had just said, restating, several times. All this while dealing with the awareness that you are standing in front of audience wondering just how much of an idiot you look.

Relying on pretty extensive written notes was the way I got out of those patterns. A safety net of text that allowed me to bypass immediate thoughts and just read and speak. As my experience and confidence grew so did my ‘letting go’ of the mechanics of how my thought and speech interact, and in turn, the reliance on the text as an external notation to get me through lectures. At this point, I use a fairly sparse framework of bullet points as triggers when teaching/presenting. I have a level of trust in the improvisational process of speech; that thoughts will just manifest themselves in coherent expression. Yes, I have lost my trajectory of thought many times and listening back to the audio of recorded lectures, they a far, far from grammatically precise. Yet the natural flow of speech that isn’t subordinated to the formality of textual script is, for me, more engaging in a presentational setting like a lecture (this claim does open up other questions about reading scripted speeches in a research conference for example, versus more ‘of the cuff’ unscripted delivery).

When I started podcasting back in 2015, the nature of the podcasts I produced was unscripted conversation. To this day, I produce a fairly sparse rundown of topics, which might include, again, specific cues, quotations or lines of thought that I pre-write in note form. To be honest, back then (and even up until quite recently) the question of transcribing my podcasts did not really register, primarily because I didn’t really know if we would gain any audience to begin with. However, as the Cinematologists Podcast developed, and with emergence of New Aural Cultures, so did my interest in podcasting in an academic context, both in terms of production and conceptualisation. Exploring podcasting many forms and the research into the medium from other scholars, continued to provoke a kind of on-going, self-reflexive diagnosis with regards to communication between oral and written expression.

The question of transcripts in podcasting is an ongoing topic, but it came up specifically in a recent session of the podacademics meet-up, and had also been a subject covered in my discussion with the academic Dr Hannah McGregor on New Aural Cultures podcast. Hannah’s advocacy of transcripts is ostensibly one of accessibility and progressive ethics. Associated with the open-source, democratic philosophy, particularly with regards to podcasters with a social justice orientation, she argues they are an almost an obligation to produce particularly in an academic context. A different type of accessibility is the basis for Podcast Pontifications host Evo Terra’s championing of extensive written text accompanying every audio podcast one produces. For Evo, it’s a discoverability issue. The fact that the internet is still structured on the recognition of text, and the assertion that listeners are far more likely to find and engage with your podcast through the digital trail that a written transcript creates.

These arguments for the merit of transcripts are somewhat self-evident, and in an ideal world transcriptions would accompany all podcast output as a matter of course. Indeed, AI technology, the accuracy of which is continually developing, is now at a point where audio speech can be converted quickly and relatively cheaply into text. I used www.temi.com to create the transcript for the Hannah McGregor episode (see below) and other services are popping up all the time. Yet there are certain caveats that make me question whether it’s realistic or even desirable that transcripts should de rigour as part of podcasting output.

Even with the AI software available making the creation of a full episode transcription much more efficient and (relatively) cost-effective, there is still a significant cost and labour involved. My own podcasting practice is essentially zero budget, produced out of a combination of pure personal motivation and creative satisfaction that the medium affords. The transcript below required several hours of editing to make it legible for any reader who might want to use it. Does the (relatively niche) listenership of the New Aural Cultures justify the labour involved (for me) to produce (of course the cost equation changes if a podcast is funded particularly for from an academic source).

This then leads one onto the thorny question of how one edits, what is the overarching purpose, and what are the ethical implications? Is the aim simply a precise correlation between audio conversation and written text? Or should the text actually clarify meanings that may not seem obvious if one just sees the text on the page? This may involve alteration of sentences that could be interpreted as a decoupling from the audio. I guess the question then moves onto who is the intended audience for the transcript and how they use it in relation to (or completely separately from), the audio.

In editing the conversation between Hannah and myself, I found myself wanting to make changes where the textual structure was grammatically incorrect and when the over-aching meaning seemed unclear. This was mainly for my own utterances a Hannah’s speech was much more complete and structurally coherent than my own (which of course fed back into my anxieties about my thoroughly imperfect expression). Interestingly, I felt compelled to check with Hannah that she was happy with the edits. This was almost a compulsive reaction to the possible accusation that I had altered someone’s speech in way could understood as changing the original intent. But that there is the slippage between between what one said, and then what would say now having the chance to re-articulate with hindsight.

The question of the ethics of editing accompanies how ones clarifies, smoothes out, embellishes, recontextualises, the spoken words that arrived through the immediate, synaptic firings of electricity that produce vocal expression out of thought. This possess an improvisational vitality in the space of human conversation, which when committed to text loses the context, emphasis, intonation and textual that the materiality of the voice imbues. See what I mean about the spiralling gap between thought and expression.

On top of these caveats of propriety between speech and text, there is a question as to whether transcribing as matter of course undermines the use of podcasting’s sound ontology as an academic tool; what I have written about elsewhere as a kind of progressive disruption of the accepted idea’s of constitutes academic research. Writing journal articles and books is the unquestioned metier of scholarship, yet the limitations and prescriptions regarding how knowledge is articulated and communicated, particularly in the context of institutional measurements (such as the REF in the United Kingdom), still struggle to accommodate more more creative, esoteric epistemologies. In one sense, the transcript would seem to be absolutely invaluable, allowing podcasting to fit more easily into the accepted frameworks of knowledge validated by universities.

The transference of sound to text as I have discussed is not a straightforward one. There is an epistemological question of what one loses in terms of knowledge, when sound, voice, aurality is omitted in favour of stasis of the text. In the development of Podcast Studies, there should arguably be an onus on the sound artefact as intrinsic to the communication/perception of knowledge being produced. To omit the audio altogether and simply read what was said (again with caveat transcription slippage) is to deny the very nature of the podcast, what make it a potentially valuable medium for many areas of communication. Perhaps this is a somewhat extreme a concern and the transcript is simply useful addendum that actually expands the parameters of engagement with an audio medium that is still developing in terms media status and academic use.

My musings here emerge from on-going thought about podcasting and how its use continues to impact on myself and others as mediating and mediated subjects
So, below is the transcript for my discussion with Hannah (interestingly, the Anchor hosting platform which I use for New Aural Cultures does not have the facility for extensive transcripts with a 4000 character limit in its shownotes section). If you are so inclined, feel free to listen to the episode, read the text and make you own judgements regarding the efficacy of the transcription and any ethical conclusions you may make regarding the slippage between the thought, spoken word, and textual clarifications that have been made.

Transcript

Dario LLinares (00:00:00):

So Hannah, it's great to welcome you to New Aural cultures. How are you doing?

Hannah McGregor (00:00:05):

I'm pretty well. I just realized that this is the first time I've recorded a podcast in at least a week because I closed my balcony door, which I haven't done.

DL (00:00:18):

Yeah, funnily enough, we've got a load of workmen who are doing the roof next door. So it's just out now. This is good timing because it's six o'clock here in London, but I know it's the morning where you are.

HM (00:00:29):

Yeah. Yeah. You'll be getting a lot of bus noise, a lot of uneditable bus noise.

DL (00:00:34):

I treat that as kind of like an ambiance type of podcast. Bring all of these sort of soundscapes in, you know, I think you've talked about that on your podcast a little bit recently. It's funny, actually, I was listening to your secret feminist agenda episode on listening and that was recorded back in May. I really got the sense that you were sort of coming to terms, as we all were back at that time ,with what was going on and how it was affecting your life, but also what impact it was having on the way that you integrated with your environment. And it was so interesting that you were sort of saying that the idea of "controlling your listening" and rather than just asking somebody, how are you doing? It's like, how are you listening right now? I thought that was a really interesting idea. And I just thought now thinking back to that time from August and how things have changed, how are you listening at the moment?

HM (00:01:30):

I think in May, what I was really experiencing was an intense desire to control my audio landscape as a sort of last-ditch attempt to control something in a deeply chaotic world. So, I got noise-canceling headphones for the first time in my life, but I was also finding myself wanting to do more sort of un-distracted listening. Like I was really enjoying lying on the living room floor and listening to a podcast which I normally never do. And I've been experiencing, that sort of, what I want to listen to and how I want to listen, continues to shift as the pandemic shifts. And, that question of how you are listening now that comes from Jason Camlot, who is my collaborator on the SpokenWeb podcast. And it has really pinged in me a sort of sense of attention, to how my tolerance for, or desire to control my personal audio landscape, seems to be a fairly good metric of like how I'm doing. Like, am I taking pleasure in the sound of my neighborhood? You know, having my balcony door open and being able to hear somebody play the abandoned piano that is in the alley right behind my building, or does the sound of that piano fill me with almost uncontrollable rage. It's really, it's a good litmus test.

DL (00:02:53):

Yeah, I think so. And, that sense where we were all locked down to some degree or another, and therefore - maybe I'm talking about me and academia and the privileged lives that get to work from home during this period, but that sense of sort of being in the one place really did augment the idea of being "present", and sound, I think really is the arena in which you tend to experience things a little bit more perhaps during that time.

HM (00:03:24):

Yeah. Yeah. And in an uncontrollable way, like it's in that literal sense of, it is a lot harder to close my ears than it is to close my eyes. And so the soundscape that I'm surrounded with feels in some ways kind of, you know, uncontrollable, which is part of the evocative pleasure of sound, as well as how it infiltrates spaces in these kinds of uncontrollable ways. But you're totally right, like those, those heavy days of lockdown when we really were stuck inside, I was desperately aware of every sound around me. And now that I feel like I have a little bit more mobility, I'm taking more pleasure in like going out into the city and like eavesdropping on people's conversations again, which I love.

DL (00:04:08):

Yeah. It's great. My office here, I've got the window and we are in a basement flat, so it's down below [the street level] nobody can see me, but yeah, I can hear people walking down the street and you really do get that sense of there are organic podcasts going on all the time. You think, Oh, should I have, in a really sort of weird creepy way, I'd love to surveillance a microphones around, I could really make an interesting podcast.

HM (00:04:31):

It's an extremely hilarious and ‘podcasty’ thing to say is calling a conversation an organic podcast, like listen to these human beings, just spontaneously producing podcasts, that's incredible.

DL (00:04:43):

To conceptualize the idea of somebody talking and another person listening is a very ‘podcasty’ thing to say that's for sure. So, how are you? How are you doing now in terms of the projects that you've got coming up and ongoing? I mean, I don't know whether you're doing any teaching this semester, but you know, we're gearing up for that right now and dealing with a lot of the things that you've been talking about in terms of zoom calls and and the effect of that.

HM (00:05:14):

Really bracing myself for gearing back up to the sort of Zoomification of the fall. I'm not teaching in the fall semester, which is really nice. I am teaching a super intense podcasting course in the spring semester. Um, they sort of bought me out of all of my teaching for the fall, so that I could just work on this big podcasting course, which we were in the process of conceptualizing how we will do a podcasting course. I'm co-teaching it with Gordon Katic, who is the producer of The Cited podcast, which is another Canadian podcast working at the intersection of scholarship and podcasting. But we are having to figure out what exactly it's going to look like to teach people how to use editing software if we can't actually be in the same room as them. So there's some ideation building around that trying really hard as best we can to lean into the potential.

HM (00:06:10):

And in general, I feel very lucky right now that the form that my work takes for the most part, this focus on podcasting means that I have been able to keep up with my projects fairly easily. Things haven't been canceled. Things haven't been delayed. I've been able to continue working on the work that I want to be prioritizing, which is really nice. I know for a lot of my colleagues who, you know, do soundscape research that involves having to actually meet up with humans in a place, or who do archival research like, and all of these various ways people's projects have been really, I mean, it's not the great tragedy of the pandemic obviously, that archival research has been delayed, but it's nice that podcasting does as a digital medium. We can just keep keep working away at it.

DL (00:07:02):

No, it's an interesting one because in a sense, I teach on a film course and there is so much conversation about where filmmaking is going in terms of the production side, and productions are starting to get up and running again, but is it ever going to be the same and how are we going to teach practice in that sense is a really tricky question. And, I don't know whether that course that you're talking about is going to be theory, practice combination, and indeed, maybe, hopefully in January, things will be, will be better and you'll be able to be a little bit more hands-on.

HM (00:07:35):

We definitely will not. My delightful institutions, Simon Fraser University is taking a very conservative approach to in-person teaching, which means that if I wanted in January to be able to teach students in person, I would have to apply in September to be allowed to do that. And I'm not going to because, bless their grubby little hands, but the primary demographic that infections are spreading between in Vancouver is people in their twenties, because they are socializing in small groups indoors. And, uh, and I love my students a great deal, and I love teaching a great deal. And I'm sure none of my students would ever do that. But do I want to follow a bunch of people in their early twenties around with Lysol wipes? I don't particularly. It's not where I want to put the energy of my pedagogy is what I'm saying. Disinfecting seems like, I can do that or I can like take some webinars on how to do fun things in zoom, which I'm doing this afternoon.

DL (00:08:40):

No, I think that that is the best option and I wish that us and other universities had been a little bit more clear and even honest with students in terms of what it's going look like, but I suppose, you know, like everyone else, they don't want to really admit there is, there has been a major change. Anyway I don't want to go off [on a tangent], and depress us all with that.

HM (00:09:00):

It's a whole question. I think it's been easier in Canada for us to make these decisions in terms of closing campuses for a variety of reasons, including that we're a public system. And so tuition is almost the same at every institution. I think in the States, you're justify charging students $20,000 a year for the campus experience. And so then it becomes really hard to justify charging them that same tuition if they have to stay home, but we're in a slightly less dicey position in Canada, for sure.

DL (00:09:34):

So how did you come to podcasting? I mean, I've read a little bit of your Biog and, you know, you've come through, obviously, PhD and post-grad projects in modern media magazines and new media experiences. And it seems to me this ties in clearly with what you're doing now. But was there a moment in which podcasting became a 'thing' for you in terms of whether it was just listening and then transferring into pedagogy or research and, obviously it has become a big thing, pretty much central to your career.

HM (00:10:08):

Yeah, yeah, it really has. And it all sort of unfolded in a kind of backwards and accidental way for me, because I started very much as a literature scholar. My PhD was Canadian literature, and then I went and did a postdoc with a focus on magazines and new media. So that was already enough of a research jump that I was already having trouble at that point reconciling to like, when I interviewed for a job, if they would be like, so how do these things connect? And I would sort of shrug and say, oh, where are they supposed to? But it was midway through my postdoc in 2015 that I started making a podcast with a friend. And at that point I was already quite a committed podcast listener. I started listening to podcasts during my PhD. Um, probably around 2010. I had had no previous exposure to them. And I was going on a road trip with a very dear friend's boyfriend who I did not know well at all, but I had agreed to drive him from Toronto back to Ottawa for Thanksgiving weekend.

DL (00:11:15):

That'll be interesting for you.

HM (00:11:17):

I would be in the car for like six hours. We knew, you know, we'd known each other for a long time, but in that way that, you know your friend's partners that are like, Oh, I don't think we have six hours of stuff to talk about. And he brought an iPad that he had downloaded a ton of podcast episodes onto to plug into the car system and just eat up the space. So that car ride, I listened to almost six hours of solid podcasts. And by the end of that, I was like, well, I'm pretty into this now. So it started with pure comedy podcasting entirely. It was My Brother, My Brother and Me and the Thrilling Adventure Hour were the ones that he got me on. And so for a long time I was purely just a recreational podcast listener, but a fan of the medium.

HM (00:12:09):

And then a friend of mine who had some background in campus radio suggested that we start a podcast together. And the two of us with no clue what we were doing. We're like, how hard could that be? Which is why I maintain a deep, personal commitment to the amateur, DIY roots of podcasting, because it's my area of research now. But if it had been a medium that I had any sense that you had to have expertise or qualifications to get involved in, I would not have touched it. I absolutely would not. We would not have like sat down, consumed a bottle of wine, picked up a Zoom H4 with one single microphone that we just passed back and forth and just, just start talking just like we can do this. Right.

DL (00:12:58):

It sounds so familiar, all the processes of getting better recordings and working on the editing. And then, for me, I'd sort of realized that then the editing was a crafting of information, but the way it was crafted could change that information. The form of the content: it brought me back to the idea that actually they influence one another, which is one of the most fascinating things about podcasting. It's interesting that you said there - especially when we were talking in the podcast studies group, which is really fantastic that that's come about now - that it seems that you come from a similar perspective as me, which is not from a traditional sense of the "radio" way of doing things. I think that its really interesting how that tension still resides in the way that people talk about podcasting.

HM (00:13:52):

I mean, I find the amateur/professional divide in podcasting really fascinating from a scholarly perspective. And then also personally engaging because of the way that I came into the medium but I was already, prior to getting my start in podcasting, I was already very interested in theorizing the role of the amateur and the way that undisciplined and unprofessional knowledge and practices have the subversive capacity to them to break into official ways of doing things and break open new possibilities. And then we started making this podcast and so did all my co-host's on Witch, Please, did all of the production for the first nine months, and then had a baby. And it was at that point that I was like, I would like to take over some of the production because you have a newborn and that feels unreasonable.

HM (00:14:48):

So I learned to edit audio by looking at the files Marcelle had produced and trying to reproduce them. And so I learned by just looking: Okay, here's how long she made the theme song, and then it gets quieter here...You know, the same way that you learn to write an essay by studying other essays. I just looked at the audio files and figured out what she'd done and reproduced it, and then slowly started to get comfortable with doing my own things. But in that sense, I learned from Marcelle more than anybody else, the degree to which the choices you make at a production level are themselves rhetorical, argumentative, and stylistic choices. She made all of these decisions early on about the sound palette. There's a lot of sound effects in that podcast that are used as a third voice, that comments on what's happening. There's a lot of uses of editing to make jokes. And that's all stuff that's going into making the podcast. I had very little sense of the way the editing can produce something unique of a voice. And it has also - I don't know if this is something I've also heard you comment on - it has in turn really transformed how I think about my scholarly writing. So you start thinking about form.

DL (00:16:14):

It was one of the things I was going to ask you, actually, especially since you mentioned your background in literary scholarship. There must've been a sense in which you're having to reassess or renegotiate the relationship between the written word and the spoken word. And it's not to say one is better than the other, because hate that [binarism] in any kind of area, but there are things that are produced within the oral landscape that are just not produced when you're sitting down and writing something or reading something on the page. One of the things for me that podcasting has allowed is to bring that [sound] back to the fore as a valuable way of understanding knowledge, or any particular kind of area. And it also, and this is one of the things I think that you do so well, is it integrates who the person is, who's delivering, which is what exactly what traditional academia in terms of the academic journal doesn't want you to do. So there's always a really interesting tension there, I think.

HM (00:17:19):

A hundred percent. And in that sense, I do think that there is certainly in my PR approach to scholarly podcasting, a sort of through-line to more general feminist interventions, into scholarly writing and writing in general, you know, that sense that I think a lot of us were trained in order to produce expert scholarship, we had to systematically remove ourselves. We're all we're taught at some stage that you're not allowed to say "I" in an essay. You're also taught that you need to prove that your scholarship is rigorous, you need to remove bias, you need to remove perspective. You need to erase yourself. And then gradually as you start to publish in professional settings, you also start getting these copy editors who were raised like every time you use a contraction, every time you put a joke in there, they're like: "Nope, out, gone, gone". This needs to be absolutely like indistinguishable from everybody else's academic prose.

HM (00:18:23):

That sense that we need to drive "ourselves" out of our scholarship to make it rigorous is a deeply patriarchal/ white supremacist notion of what expertise and rigor and objectivity look like. And so there are already so many rich examples of scholarship, particularly coming out of feminist studies, critical race studies, indigenous studies that have theorized putting the self back into the work, have theorized, putting our bodies back into our work, re-embedding ourselves in the actual standpoint we are coming from. Podcasting is beautiful for furthering that kind of conversation, because one, our voices bring our bodies with them in a way that our writing doesn't necessarily. You can curb a lot of that if you are trying to sort of professionalize and normalize your voice. But, but there is that body attached to the voice that is producing. And there's an opportunity if we want to let it, for podcasting to also put feeling and effect back into our scholarship. It's not inherent in the medium, but it's a ripe potential there in working with sound.

DL (00:19:50):

Yes. There's so much in that, in terms of when that happens and when perhaps it doesn't happen. And then the concept of the voice. It's interesting you say that it's not innate to the medium but, especially when I started podcasting with Neil [Fox] we just found ourselves commenting on what we were doing as we were going along, and pointing out the things that were good or not good, or things that we wanted to think about about in the way that we were presenting ourselves. And I don't know why that would be the case. I mean, I've got some suspicions that it is a sense in which perhaps it does come from this amateur background and the open-source ethos. I think a lot of people who would have liked to have gone into film or television or radio, and found barriers to access there, have found it easier to go into podcasting. And they're wanting to kind of almost explain and be self reflective about that.

HM (00:20:52):

Yeah. Yeah. I do think that there is something powerfully amateurish about the way that podcasting, as opposed to radio, produced the space where people put themselves back in, right? The sort of NPR objectivity, which is, I know a stereotype that doesn't actually apply to all NPR shows, but that sense that, as an NPR journalist, you can never state your personal politics and the way that podcasting became a space almost to push against that and to be like, you know, fuck it. I'm not going to be professional. I'm not going to be together. I'm going to speak in my normal voice, "normal". I keep correcting myself. This is a thing that I would love to talk about is the tension between being a podcast producer and a scholar of media and the experience of being like, here's how it feels to make a podcast. Here's what this is like for me. And then at the same time, this other half of your brain being like, "Hmm, got to fear us that". I know that you said it feels less mediated, but there's no such thing as things being less mediated, it's just mediated differently

DL (00:21:58):

When I was listening to on one of your episodes where you were talking about the idea of "performing listening", and "performing speaking" and, this is the first time that we've directly spoken to each other in this way (without being on a zoom call with 30 other people). And there's the media [platform] itself that we're having to kind of tight rope walk across, we're having to try to get to know each other and try to create create a sort of authenticity. And then there's, let's be honest about it, there's my identity and your identity. And we're looking at each other face to face on a zoom call. Maybe there could even be a tension of what's this guy's politics? or what's your politics? That may clash with each other. It's really interesting trying to figure all of that out while you're just trying to have a normal conversation and speak.

HM (00:22:51):

A hundred percent, which is why when I'm teaching students how to make podcasts, I often come back to the things that are going to look like there'll be easy, will often be the hardest things. Because in fact, even the negotiation of a dynamic like this, the simultaneously thinking, okay, I'm listening to your questions and I'm coming up with responses to them, I'm trying to generate responses that are like, listenable and fairly interesting. And also, I just have to make sure that I'm still holding my mic in the right place and that my recording button still lit up. Like, that feels like second nature at this point. But when you first get started, it's really hard not to be, yes, "my answer to that question is", while staring at your recorder the entire time.

DL (00:23:39):

Yeah. You've got to let go of that formalism. And I think also sometimes it's, as I'm speaking there, I kind of said something twice, and I've started a sentence, and I've put a caveat in there and then I've gone back to the beginning of the sentence. I'm thinking, shit, this is going to look so bad on the transcript. I'm going to have to correct it, otherwise it will just make no sense whatsoever.

HM (00:24:00):

Oh my God, I don't do my own transcripts. And I'm really grateful for that because I feel like I've gotten so used to editing the sound of my own voice, that it doesn't bother me anymore. But I think looking at what I say when I am improvising like an oral essay, which is what I'm doing on Secret Feminist Agenda a lot, I think if I actually had to look at that in writing, Oh the deep shame,

DL (00:24:25):

Just what you were saying there in terms of getting used to your own voice, that's quite difficult to do. I mean, once you start editing over and over and over again. What sort of anxieties did you have about your own voice? If any.

HM (00:24:38):

I am always louder than everybody else on every recording.

DL (00:24:48):

Not me. You and I could have a “loud-off”.

New Speaker (00:24:48):

Ha ha. Yes. Part of it is that I am often talking to women and non-binary people, and I have a lower register voice than a lot of other women and non-binary people. And so part of it is just that you get used to the shape of your voice. I often have to take my voice down to a lower volume than my interlocutors so that I am not echoing over them. If I'm recording an interview in person, I can always hear my voice on their mic as well. Which is like "so sorry, can't stop being so loud." But recording yourself and editing yourself is I think, akin to, did you ever have one of those, like pedagogy, professionalization workshops where they made you videotape yourself teaching and then watch it? Yeah. What a horrifying experience to realize what you do with your hands and face when you lecture.

DL (00:25:42):

Yeah. It's so funny. It's like the little curls you get on your lips and it's just like, oh my God, do I actually look like that?

HM (00:25:50):

What are you doing with your hands? Stop it. Yeah. So it's similar. I realized when we were still working on Witch, Please, how much I say "right?" At the end of a point. I make a point. And then I say "right?" And it's a teaching tick because I am pausing to get a response from the students and have say like, "you know, are you following me? Are you, are you picking up what I say? Nod to confirm you're all still conscious. Okay, let's move on". But I do it in podcasts too, but the listeners can't respond. So it doesn't really work.

DL (00:26:23):

I have so many. "So is one of mine, whenever I'm transitioning to something else. "So". I doing in teaching all the time. It's just horrendous. But I had a really, I mean, I've always had a thing about the Northern accent. It's been clipped over the years because of teaching and softening it. But "I could go really broad if I want to like" [in Northern English accent] , and that's how I would sound. I have that "eeeer, uuuuur" and I just feel, oh my God, people just must think I'm an idiot. But that's the class politics of the voice I think, and that can affect so many different kinds of voices in the way people think about themselves in presentation, which is really fascinating,

HM (00:27:01):

A hundred percent. We don't have that kind of granular differentiation of class voices in Canada that exists in the UK. You know, things have been sort of, homogenized more generally though. There are definitely still a select number of regional accents that signify very, very strongly in Canada, but encountering all of these more general racializations of the voice, the classing of the voice, the gendering of the voice, and coming face to face with those moments where somebody actually just says to you: "I would love to listen to your podcast, but just your voice is so annoying". You're like: " Cool. cool, cool, great".

DL (00:27:44):

But alongside that as well, I think, especially if you're talking about gendered voices, there is that really problematic trait that you see all over the place, not just in podcasting, in terms of the notion of authority. There was that whole article, I'm sure you read it, about vocal fry and specific female voices having a certain register and what that signifies. That must be really, really irritating.

HM (00:28:18):

So in the very early days of making Witch, Please, Marcelle and I were invited onto CBC, Edmonton AM to talk specifically about women in podcasting. And this is back, you know, this was like 2015 back when there were a lot of conversations about women in podcasting. That significant gender gap has been overcome, which is why I believe the conversation now about there being too many podcasts, because that's always what happens when women and people of color catch up is people say "Oh, we're done with you."

DL (00:28:51):

Don't make any more podcasts. Now, now we've got a space for it.

HM (00:28:55):

Yeah, but we went on to talk about the policing of women's voices and started talking about vocal fry and the host, a professional radio broadcaster interrupted us, to very seriously explain to us why vocal fry is bad for you. And all podcasters should be focusing on creating a professional radio voice. We were like, "Cool, thanks for proving our point. Very helpful. You're really enacting it right now. It's very helpful".

DL (00:29:27):

That sense of, "the should" of any kind of practice, whatever you want to call it is. It's so problematic. Obviously with the kinds of podcasts that we produce and listen to, hopefully that is being challenged all the time. Also within Podcast Studies as well. It's interesting, from our perspective, myself and Neil's podcast on The Cinematologists, we have made an absolute conscious effort to realize that we're two straight men talking to each other, but to try to not be the stereotype of that. The recognition that that itself has been criticized has been there and we've tried so hard not to be that, but also, to have a perspective on the political elements of what it means to sound a certain way and also what it means to have a voice. So all of those things are kind of imbued into the way that we try to talk. So, it's something that is really key to the way that we should examine podcasts going forward.

HM (00:30:33):

Yeah, absolutely. There's, there's so many from a publishing studies perspective, which is sort of the other hat that I put on when I, when I think about podcasts, um, when we're talking about sort of equity in the podcasting world, you know, there's other conversations to be had that for me, mostly have to do with money, which is the question. We can look at podcasting as a whole and say, okay, what does the breakdown look like? And then narrow that down to podcasts that actively make money and then look at the racial and gender breakdown again. So there's another conversation, I think an important conversation to be had about how podcasting, despite its claims to have low barriers, to access, still have some very clear forms of gatekeeping in place. And who's getting kept out of that.

HM (00:31:27):

But this amateur possibility. This opportunity that it gives us, I think, particularly academics who are used to being just professionalized within an inch of our lives, in terms of the kinds of conversations we can have, that capacity to have a kind of like loose baggy conversation where you can question things and undermine things and come back around again and say, Oh, let's have this conversation. Let's pause and have a meta-conversation about this conversation. Let's pause and consider how we're feeling about this conversation we're having. How are our voices inflecting the ability to do that and how that is both a function of not just the medium, but also of specifically the non-professionalization. That you can just go off on a tangent and explore something and just have the space for that, is part of what feels still exciting and potential-laden for me in terms of where this medium intersects with scholarship.

DL (00:32:34):

That's so vital and I think it ties into the way that you do Secret Feminist Agenda, I think really strongly. I'm just wondering that with the possibility that you've just laid out there with podcasting, do you think that that ties into the ways in which feminist podcasting specifically, and I want to be careful how I say, but it is a really interesting and possibly a more positive space to take feminism forward rather than say social media. I realize that's quite a loaded question, but there you go.

HM (00:33:20):

I'm working on writing a book right now in which I am attempting essentially to theorize the things I have learned via shifting my practice as a scholar towards podcasting and also, to bring the voice I have developed as a podcast or back into my writing. And so I'm trying to actually write something that is in the style I have learned to adapt as somebody working in this other medium. But the chapter that I am writing right now is about personal relationships to technology and particularly unpacking my personal relationship to social media. So I'm right in the thick of exactly this thinking. And I was so prompted, I was rereading the opening essay in Jia Tolentino's book Trick Mirror, which is an essay about the horrors of social media and essentially what Twitter in particular has done in terms colonizing and capitalizing on identity itself in a way that is wildly destructive.

HM (00:34:28):

And that prompted me to actually close down my personal Twitter account temporarily. I was like, I actually need to take a break. Coming into podcasting I think was the thing that let me become somebody who could confidently be a publicly engaged feminist scholar, because podcasting feels like a space, both where I can do that thoughtfully and where I can do that in comparative safety. By which I mean, I think podcasting lends itself less to ill-advised hot takes than social media does. I think it's a slower, medium. It still ideally has a kind of regularity and seriality to it, a kind of rhythm, but one that is significantly less constant and high paced than social media production. So there's time to slow down and think, and obviously an hour-long audio recording allows a lot more expansive space for nuance than however many characters we're allowed to use now.

HM (00:35:31):

And on the other hand, people come up after tweets readily and viciously because they are so easy to find and engaged with. In the sense that like you can just set up an alert for a word that makes you angry and then anytime somebody tweets that word, you can just come after them. And it's really, really easy to do. But for the time being, audio recordings aren't searchable. They're probably going to be at some point because they're coming up, primarily for advertising purposes, a lot of podcasting companies are working to come up with ways to track audio, search audio, and that's going to be a bummer because it's going to really increase the trolling in podcasts. But for the time being, because they're not searchable anybody who wants to get mad at me for what I say on a podcast has to listen to it. And that is a great protection against trolling because one, it takes time and commitment and many, many trolls are extremely lazy and two, it has hidden my terrible ideas in the thing that misogynist hate the most, which is a woman's voice, so you'd have to listen to me.

DL (00:36:52):

But also in the complexity and the depth in which you have to draw out what you're saying. And so it might even be the case that there are certain things that you or I, or anyone else would bring to light and talk about, but there's almost, I mean, Malcolm Gladwell uses this phrase, the "conditionality of meaning" which is something that I think that is afforded to people on podcasts a lot more. So the idea that I'm going to say something to you and you're going to listen to it, but you're not automatically going to assume that that's the final word. That actually, we can, because it's a dialogue, then you can come back with somebody. And I think also that the labour of production in podcasting, you have to come with the sense that the other person is acting in good faith. Whereas a tweet, the default position is the person on the other end has to be acting in bad faith. You know what I mean? It's really interesting what you raised there about the searchability of individual trigger words or phrases that people could use to just troll. Yeah. I hadn't really thought about that. That's really fascinating.

HM (00:38:12):

Yeah. It is. Trolling relies, in so many ways, on the sort of evacuation of context. Pulling something out of context and then fixating on that and then recirculating it again out of context so that people can just get an immediate and uncomplicated reaction to it. And as you say, podcasting is deeply embedded in context. Ideas are being worked through in these sort of longer and more complex forms. The worst trolling I have ever received for a podcast episode was a result of somebody listening to it and then transcribing a particular sentence and then screencaption that sentence. And that screencap continued to circulate on social media for years and it would come up again and again. So I'd made the episode, it was an episode in which I called Margaret Atwood, a shitty white woman. And she's a real sacred cow in Canada. So that was made a lot of people really mad. When I saw that the episode was getting trolled, I deleted it temporarily. I unpublished it temporarily just to sort of just take the wind out of their sails. And then a week later when things had died down, I just quietly put it back up. And the people who continued to circulate that screenshot never even went back to look and see if it was still there. Like that's how disinterested people in general are in context. S there is something really interesting there about social media of Twitter in particular as being a medium, that is all about the ripping away of contexts. So that tweets can circulate in these contexts, freeways versus podcasting, still being a medium that's like very context-rich.

DL (00:40:04):

One of the things that I'm always wrestling with myself though, is where podcasting fits in this grand narrative about ecosystems online and the fact that whether it's Facebook and who we follow and who our friends are. On Twitter the same thing. that we're getting news and information repeated back to us that we want to hear. So where we're sat in these ideological bubbles, you know all of this. And I'm always wondering how much podcasting actually contributes to. In the listening of it itself, it's an insular thing. If we feel that there's a podcast community, we have to kind of imagine it. It's almost links to Benedict Anderson. Because we're doing it [imagining a community of listeners] ourselves. Unless you're in the car for six hours with another person and talking about it. I know Richard and Lori Beckstead are working on the generic aspects of defining podcasts and there is that sense that there is a niche list podcasts for everyone. I'm always kind of thinking, well, am I just talking to the straight white men who like film and, in turn, are you just talking to the LGBTQ+ community, and is it contributing to this thing, where nobody's ever really talking to each other and having the difficult, but progressive conversations that need to be had?

HM (00:41:28):

Yeah, yes, yeah. A Hundred percent. I think that there's lots of ways in which podcasting differentiates itself from the contemporary digital media ecosystem. Primarily I think because of the logic of the RSS feed, which is just a fundamentally different logic than the algorithm. And so it feels in that sense like, oh, you curate a list of podcasts versus, most other platforms, where the algorithm is just pushing stuff into your face and you aren't really getting to choose in any meaningful way. But even that claim suggests that curation is an act that is a hundred percent neutral and individual, which is not how curation works. So we are still curating via primarily word of mouth as the way we get podcasts. In that sense, they are as granular as our social circles are.

HM (00:42:28):

But in addition to that, they are much more like digital media than anything else in the sense that the capacity for endless creation in the digital realm via the possibilities of storage and digital circulation creates a long tail and a long tail means many small niches. As opposed to monocultures, mass cultures, et cetera. Podcasting is not a mass culture and it's hard to imagine a version of a podcast beyond sort of the weird blip of Serial. It's hard to imagine another moment when podcasting would meaningfully become mass culture because digital culture is not mass culture. They're almost the opposite of each other. And so what I find interesting are those spaces where podcasting butts up against mass culture. I think there are some interesting openings for having conversations with people who maybe don't come from the same place as you. By which, I mean, my audience for Secret Feminist Agenda is roughly a quarter of the audience for Witch, Please, my Harry Potter podcast. And my Secret Feminist Agenda audience is significantly more likely to be university-educated, self identified feminists. Like somebody asked me once who my demographic is, and I was like, Oh, it's feminists in their twenties wearing green lipstick. I can very specifically picture them right now and they all love to come up to me at live events and be like, "my lipstick's blue though". Yeah. You see what's happening.

HM (00:44:11):

And so I get lots of challenge and critique and resistance within my listenership to Secret Feminist Agenda. But it almost entirely comes from the perspective of like, you aren't doing a good enough job thinking about neuro-divergence when you had this conversation. So go find a guest to talk about this thing with, do better, your transcripts aren't going up in a timely enough way. This is a feminist podcast, you should be more committed to accessibility than this. That's the kind of pushback I get within my community People who are pushing me to actually enact my feminism more readily, so still resistance and critique and complex multiple voices, but coming from within a shared set of values. But Witch, Please we get listeners who listen to it because they will listen to any Harry Potter thing. Harry Potter is mass culture. People from across the political spectrum will come and listen to Witch, Please and then have to deal with and often get very mad about the way that we read it or the way that we talk. I love to guest on other Harry Potter podcasts because the listeners to those other podcasts will listen to me and be like, who is this bitch? She's terrible. And I'm like, ha, at last, I have broken out of my media silo, behold, all these people who hate me.

DL (00:45:38):

I've gone on to and guested on podcasts and even the radio a couple of times. And it's just not, it's just not a place for me really. One of the things about podcasting I have found quite difficult at times, just because of my own insecurity and narcissism, but the idea that somebody, like a celebrity, could start a film podcast and within one week has got more downloads than I ever have in five years. And it's just dealing with that is the idea of rejecting mass culture and just doing what you do and realizing, actually we have an audience. It's not a mass audience, but you're never going to have a mass audience. It's allowing you though to have an environment in which you can do what you want to do. Which is the thing that is the positive aspect. I think for me anyway.

HM (00:46:34):

The question of numbers, I think, when it comes to the kinds of podcasts we are making is always really an interesting one because we are not going to be mass culture. We are not going to reach celebrity levels of downloads for, we are not celebrities. And also, we're academics. Some people are going to listen and be like, "Hmmm. Two thinky, no, thank you". But you know, if 5,000 people download an episode of Secret Feminist Agenda, that's 4,998 people more than would read any articles I published. There's no easy way to say I'm going to prove podcasting is effective based on numbers. The higher numbers you have, the more effective that scholarship is. That kind of scholarship has popularity content, that's not gonna serve us. But there's something there about, yes OK, maybe I'm only reaching a niche, but I'm reaching out significantly larger niche than I would through any traditional scholarship.

DL (00:47:40):

And again, I think that's coming more and more to the fore, especially with some of us who are particularly interested in the idea of academic podcasting and what that actually means. Which brings us to the peer-reviewing research that you're doing now. Was that always the plan, that Secret Feminist Agenda was going to be peer-reviewed so that it could then count as it were as an academic output?

HM (00:48:10):

Absolutely not. No I do everything real backwards. So, Siobhan McMenemy, my collaborator on this podcasting peer review project. She's the managing editor at Wilfrid Laurier University Press, which is a beautiful fit for this project because they are a small press with a very clear social justice orientation and a commitment to creating scholarship that can reach larger audiences. So they were already thinking about podcasts as a possible direction to move in. And Siobhan knew my work with Witch, Please, and was interested in me making something a little bit more explicitly a scholarly podcast. So we got this grant to do this project. And the idea was that I would make like a five or six-episode mini-series on a topic related to my research and that we would peer-review those episodes in a much more traditional way prior to them actually being published. Then they would go up and then it would be, Oh look, peer-reviewed scholarship, but it's audio. And what we ended up doing turned out to be significantly more experimental and weird because right around the time that our grant started, I just started Secret Feminist Agenda for fun. I had left Edmonton, which is where Marcelle and I had been making, Witch, Please. I was in a new city. I didn't really have an intellectual community here yet. I wanted an opportunity to start to build that community. And so I was like, I'll start a podcast where the whole premise is that I talked to interesting feminists and then I'll have an excuse to make them all talk to me, then there'll be my friends, and it worked great. Most of my friends in Vancouver are people I've had on the podcast, it's really effective. But I wasn't thinking about the peer-review-ability of it at all, particularly not when I made the commitment to make it a weekly podcast. So, yeah, we ended up doing an after the fact peer review. Once I had put a whole season up, we would have that season peer-reviewed and then I would use the feedback from that to inform how I made the next season, which makes it a non-traditional peer-review on multiple levels, but was also a really fun and interesting experiment.

DL (00:50:37):

When we did it for one of our podcasts, it was really interesting. And the reviews that you have are super detailed, really, really interesting, and really good. And they, I think for me, they really expand on some of the difficulties when it comes to creating scholarship that isn't within the traditional mold. These questions are being worked through by the reviewers as much as anything else which is really fascinating. And that sense of, what do we mean by scholarly rigor and where is the inherent knowledge within a piece of media? Where does it actually reside? Because it's just taken for granted that somehow if you've got a journal article, knowledge is just woven in there in some way. It's really odd how that can't be, but people find it very difficult to associate that with a piece of a piece of audio. It's almost as if it's still so difficult to not have to go back to the written text as the grounding of the knowledge. Was that something that you were, not pushing against, but having to think about and negotiate around?

HM (00:51:51):

The question of what counts as scholarship is one that I have been grappling with personally, since I started making podcasts. Particularly when we started making Witch, Please, which we understood as purely a friendship project and then universities started inviting us to come and talk about Which, Please, which was when we realized that it must be scholarly because all these universities wanted us to come and talk about it. And we were like, Oh, okay, I guess we're doing scholarship. And then the same thing with Secret Feminist Agenda. I started making it Siobhan said, actually, this would be a great podcast to use for our project. And I said, "Oh, that won't work, it's not scholarly", because I really had internalized these very specific understandings of what the scholarly looks like. Those are marriage to the written word in one part, but also a particular understanding of, generating new knowledge in a particular mode with a particular tone. You know, a kind of seriousness, and in my mind, it was like, if we're going to translate the seriousness of scholarship into a podcast, it's going to have to sound like an audio documentary with particular kinds of production values. Because that's like NPR, the academia of podcasting.

HM (00:53:17):

So I had all of these hangups around what constitutes the scholarly and Siobhan is the one who really pushed me to try to let go of those. But it wasn't until I read that first season of the peer-review and saw all of these senior feminist scholars being like, yeah, of course, this is scholarship. Let's move on and talk about the nuances of how we think about credit and labor, and research versus service versus teaching. The haste with which all of the peer-reviewers were like, Oh, scholarship, for sure. Let's move on to the real conversations. That really helped me let go of my attachment, continue to work to let go of my attachment to how scholarship needs to sound or look. But what you were saying there about our attachment to the written word...this has just dawned on me, but I suspect that part of our conservatism in the humanities around what looks scholarly is that we are forced constantly to fit our work into categories that were built for other disciplines that were built for STEM fields. So we don't produce research really. Like we're not going out and finding new data. We're not creating tables, we're not doing studies, we're analyzing objects. So the difference between our research, our teaching, our service has always been more blurred, is inherently fuzzier. So, I'm engaging in an analysis in an article and then I'm doing it with my students. Are those meaningfully different things because I'm doing one in a classroom and one in an article, not really. And podcasting, this mode of podcasting in particular, really just sort of gets at the weird gray areas between service and teaching and research. And that's my favorite thing about the peer-reviews, how everybody used it as an opportunity to push back against the very idea that there's an identifiable thing called research that we do in the humanities at all.

DL (00:55:39):

And also that if you follow a certain structure, you will get to the answer to that research. It's what you said earlier on about the idea of having a free form. But your peer reviewers have been very good in going with it. I've had situations where particularly with the podcast, trying to fit it in what's called the REF in the UK, it's just been impossible. And as I was saying the other day in the meeting, I've just given up, I'll write the journal article because I can't be bothered to argue with about what scholarship is. You talk to a sociologist, or somebody who comes from a STEM subject, if you haven't got your hypothesis and, your methodology and then your research data, and then your discussion, as if the way that those papers are written are not edited and constructed and, and don't have emphasis in certain ways and not in others. The advantage of the podcast in an academic sense is that you can have a conversation. It doesn't have that stasis where there's nothing you can argue with when you're reading.

HM (00:56:52):

Yeah. A hundred percent. That for me is one of the big questions of scholarly podcasting right now is the question of credit. I'm going up for tenure next year. And so I have to be actively invested in the question of whether my podcasts will be counted, because if they will not be counted, that I have been extremely unproductive for the past four years. But if they are counted boy, look out, you know. And it's helpful that my podcasting work was supported by grants, which always count. But that question of credit is also for me, where I am most invested in doing capacity building and infrastructure developing work is I want it to be possible, not just for me to build a career on making podcasts, but for more early-career scholars to also experiment in non-traditional scholarly forms and get credit for it. And part of that, for me, really comes back to the politics of open and accessible scholarship, because there is a fairly clear tendency for the academics who are most concerned with making open and accessible scholarship, tend to be academics who come out of working-class backgrounds who are queer, who are people of colour, who are black or indigenous, who are disabled, who come into the university with a sense of commitment and responsibility to other communities outside of the scholarly one. And so want to make work that is also for those communities. And until we can interrupt the system where you have to do the community-engaged work, and then also publish an article on it every time, which is just a doubling of labor, that's going to continue to be a barrier to access for the incredibly necessary transformation of who actually makes up academia.

DL (00:58:59):

Yes, at its very it allows an entry point to more public scholarship, also politics. There's a real possibility of that. And it would be sad if the infrastructure of podcasting makes that more and more difficult. In terms of the way that the industrial side is developing, but I suppose that that drive to what you've just said there, in terms of open accessibility, is driving the Amplified podcast network project.

HM (00:59:30):

Yes, absolutely. So the Amplify podcast network is the next stage after we finished the experimental peer review of Secret Feminist Agenda and part of Secret Feminist Agenda as a pilot project was also just feeling out how are people going to respond to our claim that a podcast is scholarship? And the answer is positive. For the most part, there has been a lot of sort of warm reception of this idea. And so the network will expand the research. We're adding three new podcasts, some from experienced podcasters, some from people who have not worked in the medium yet, but have a clear commitment to accountable and community-engaged scholarship. And so we're going to expand it in that sense. And then we're also just doing a lot more of that, that infrastructure work.

HM (01:00:24):

So really trying to say what stands in the way of podcasts counting? What is the real barrier here? Because there's an instinctive sense from a lot of people that it doesn't count, like there's no category on the REF that makes space for this, right? Things look different in Canada, but if I can say, hey our national funder, there's no way for me to record my podcasts as research in the CV form that you have. And so I am going to push you to change that, or, what I am particularly interested in is can we attach metadata to podcasts such that they become ingestible by scholarly research engines, such that when somebody goes into J-store or Google Scholar looking for scholarship on Film Studies, they will find your podcast. Because right now our podcasts don't exist in that ecosystem at all. And I think that's the kind of thing is going to really help with making it count.

DL (01:01:49):

What Neil and I have been working on is a project to get some money together, to try and look into doing something, with almost exactly the same reaction to academic podcasting, but done in a slightly different way. So what we're looking at is trying to produce a podcast hosting site that is for academics, so that you can embed into the audio, all of the things that you would find in an academic journal. And when you get to the point where you've got your metadata infrastructure sorted out, those two things would align very well together. I think that's a big problem in that you could say a podcast, but there just isn't all of that infrastructure behind it to guarantee the sort of academic rigour that the universities are looking for.

HM (01:02:41):

Including citeability, that is great. I was a couple of weeks ago having a meeting with the digital humanities innovation lab, which is the group we're working with here at SFU to build this tool. And I was talking to their programmer and we've been having a lot of back and forth about, you know, where does the audio live when you put a podcast in this tool? Having to work out a lot of workflow stuff. And at one point I was like, I mean, I guess it could just also be a podcast hosting site and he paused and he said, have you ever heard of scope creep? I was like, Oh yeah, you're telling me, you absolutely know that's a whole other project. And so I was like, Oh yeah. I mean, it's a great idea, but you're totally right. It's outside of the, of the bounds of what we're doing here. So I'm delighted to hear that you're making it.

DL (01:03:34):

Well, we're trying to get the money to get somebody, to make it for us. So that's the idea, but it's so great that there is grant money out there for podcasting development because it seems to me, unless you're a show and you're doing just a show, let's say on a science researcher and you're just covering their research in a journalistic way. It doesn't seem that there's a lot of interest. I haven't seen projects that, that are exciting in terms of the idea of developing podcasting as a [academic] media platform in that sense. But maybe things are about to change when I get my huge amount of money to do that. Anyway. So obviously we were on the Podcast Studies meet up the other day, which is really a great developing network of people. And we have our Slack channel now. So hopefully that will develop, but I'm just wondering, what do you think about the very demarcation of Podcast Studies as a field and what does it mean to you and what should its main concerns be, and how does it differentiate between radio studies and media studies.

HM (01:04:47):

Oh, that's a big question. It has been really exciting to me to start to get, to actually have conversations with other scholars working on podcasting. I had never read another scholar articulate clearly, my understanding of the work I do until I read your introduction to the podcasting book and you were talking about making a podcast and how it felt. I've cited the sentence a number of times now. Maybe we're being too utopian. Maybe this is too optimistic, but it kind of maybe feels like there's a possibility to do something exciting and new in this media mess scholars. And I was like, yes, yes. That. But for the most part that is not a conversation I've seen as much of in podcasting scholarship. I'd like to see more of that.

HM (01:05:39):

That's what excites me is the research-creation and dimension. This getting to meet other people who are doing this work, I think is starting to give me a sense of the exciting potential that podcasting studies has as an inter-discipline. So like a space where, like in the digital humanities, which is a space I came up in a lot of ways as an early-career scholar, some people are now like digital humanists and that's their discipline. But for the most part, it's people who come from a lot of different disciplines but have a shared set of concerns or tools or interests. And that makes the conversations really rich and exciting. And I think there's a lot of potential to say what happens when you put somebody who's a radio studies scholar, somebody who's a new media scholar, somebody who's a digital humanist and somebody who's a journalist on a panel together to talk about podcasts.

HM (01:06:45):

You're going to get new understandings of the medium that arise out of the fact that we are coming from really different perspectives in terms of how we're thinking about what it does. And I love even just seeing those conversations start to pop up. I'll say something about podcasting that comes out of a publishing studies perspective and then my brilliant research assistant Stacey Copeland, who I think, you know, she's in your book, who comes out of a sort of Sound Studies and Radio Perspective. will say "well that thing that you just said about podcasting is also true because of this thing about the compression rates that are used for radio versus podcasting". And I'm like, what, tell me more, this is very exciting.

HM (01:07:37):

So those intersections feel exciting to me. And as somebody who struggles to find exciting conversations about podcasting at say digital humanities conferences or literature conferences, but also I think I would feel in over my head at a Radio Studies conference. Not to cast shade on any particular discipline, but we love to police the boundaries of legitimate knowledge in our scholarly disciplines. So going to a Radio Studies conference, I think would be challenging. But the idea of creating a space for this interdisciplinary work, where we can figure out what happens when we bring our different realms of knowledge into contact with each other. That feels really exciting to me. To think about genre, to think about production, to think about mediation, to think about industry formation, to have people who make and people who study actually in dialogue, that there feels like there's yeah, there's something exciting there

DL (01:08:57):

To me as well, I think the one thing that has happened is a kind of invigorated or, has just made me realize how important sound is. I mean, it's just a basic thing really, but, now a lot of my sort of film studies scholarship is nuanced with a lot of the sound element of the film, and I feel like a lot of my academic work on film studies before I got into this had a whole bit missing that I didn't even take care of. Do you know what I mean? So it's really interesting how that has affected the way that I've gone forward in terms of embracing podcasting and then Podcast Studies. But I think there is a need for the discipline to be, this is what it is. And whenever you go, if you do go to Radio Studies conference or you are in a Media Studies seminar, whatever it might be, there's an implication that what you're seeing or you're reading, whatever it is you're talking about through those disciplinary backgrounds. I do want the ability to be able to talk about podcasting and not have to come through a Radio Studies trajectory because that's not the way that I came through it. And I do want to challenge the idea that, well, , podcasting is just a subset of radio because it isn't for me.

HM (01:10:24):

It isn't for me either. And it has been an interesting new experience coming into this, just stepping one foot into the sort of radio study side of the world and immediately having all of these Radio Studies scholars be like, well, your podcast, not a real podcast, that's not real sound like that's what you're doing is not legitimate. What are you talking about? Like you just pick up a microphone and talk into it. And I'm like, okay. I mean, I'm definitely not creating radio for sure. But you know that a lot of podcasts are just people talking into a microphone, like a whole big chunk of the medium. And so that possibility of having more scope in terms of what directions we come from to talk about podcasting just feels, it feels exciting for me to have a space where I can learn more about sound, learn more about production, learn more from people who have different kinds of expertise than I do.

DL (01:11:33):

I certainly I'm totally on board with what you're saying there. That's yeah, that's absolutely right.

HM (01:11:37):

Can I, can I insert one other thing before we wrap up, I just want to say that my personal introduction to this, like working with Radio Studies, working with Sound Studies people has been primarily through the SpokenWeb Podcast, which is another project I work on, which is a Sound Studies project that is particularly looking at audio literary archives, and that they brought me on as a co-applicant for this grant to help work with them, to make a podcast because I had the sort of expertise and knowledge in terms of not even so much in terms of production, but in terms of infrastructure like and labor and how to actually set up a podcast and get it working. And that's how I met Stacy. I hired her to be the project manager and supervising producer for that podcast. And then work with Sound Studies scholars who study sound, but don't have any experience necessarily in production of it.

HM (01:12:36):

And that, as a collaboration, has been a beautiful micro experiment in what happens when people who are interested in podcasting, but come from really, really different perspectives. So to all get together and try to make something. And I love what we've made because as a podcast, every episode sounds totally different. Like it's such a fun experiment with a lot of investment in using podcasting as a space to play and very little investment with producing a particular professional sound and so that has been, has really opened my eyes to how exciting it's going to be to get to collaborate with more Sound Studies and Radio Studies people.

DL (01:13:21):

Yeah. That's the next thing that's queued up on my list to listen to, because I'm doing some work on the concept of audio-cinematic experience. So which is borrowing from podcasting, borrowing from Sound Studies, borrowing from film and what that actually might mean in terms of the way that we conjure images. And we imagine things through the experience of sound. So I'm definitely going to be listening to that. Hannah thanks so much for taking the time out, we've been going an hour and 15 here, so it's been a brilliant conversation. I've really, really enjoyed it. Is there anything else you might want to recommend for people to listen to maybe something that they maybe haven't might not have heard of?

HM (01:14:08):

Yeah. Can I recommend, here's what I'm gonna recommend to everybody. I hope that you are ready for an incredibly niche recommendation. I'm going to recommend a politics podcast called Sandy and Nora Talk Politics. And I love this podcast for a couple of reasons. One is that it is an extremely frank. It's a Canadian politics podcast. I do very much believe that non-Canadians will also get a lot out of it because the conversations that they have come out of the fact that both of them are deeply rooted in organizing work grassroots political organizing. And so they come at political conversations from such a different perspectives than any other politics podcasts I've listened to. They come from the perspective of here's a problem. How will we organize in response to it? What are the possibilities for organizing that one might imagine? What can you actually do, which is so different from a sort of like, let's just theorize the political and learn about it also helpful.

HM (01:15:10):

But the other thing I love about it as a podcast is that these are two brilliant political thinkers and organizers who are basically persona non grata on CBC because they are too radical and too unwilling to sort of compromise their politics in order to say something pleasant for the national broadcaster. And they have explicitly talked about how their podcast is like the second, most popular political podcast in Canada, but CBC will not touch them because they are too radical. And it's such a perfect example of how podcasting still does that thing, that sort of utopian thing, which is, it creates a platform for people whose ideas don't fit into the mainstream media and lets them actually build an audience and engagement and even earn money off that platform. And it's, so I love listening to them because it is a real sort of spitting straight in the eye of mainstream media in a very pleasurable way.

DL (01:16:16):

Great. I'll put the link to that up on the show notes, along with everything else that that Hannah has mentioned in terms of projects and the podcasts that she produces and hosts. Hannah, thanks so much for coming on New Aural Cultures. I really appreciate it.

HM (01:16:31):

Thank you.

 

This (So-Called) Sporting Life

I fortuitously turned to John Lanchester’s ‘Diary: Getting into Esports’ piece in the London Review of Books (42/16, 13 August) after soaking up a bit of day four of the first test match between England and Pakistan. I’ll often have live sports on in the background with the sound down so I can feel like I’m still engaged with the ebb and flow of the game, while also doing something I can more readily define as productive. Today, a muggy Saturday morning, I’ve taken my computer outside, but still within range of the WIFI, so the cricket can silently unfold while I read. Turning directly to Lanchester’s piece was one of those little serendipities that one needs to accept without overthinking; the themes immediately resonating and the writer’s command of personal reflection, focused analysis, and wider contextualisation, invoked that acquisitive thought: ‘I wished I had written this’.

Specifically, the article is about the rise of Esports, the ecology of competitive video-gaming and its incredible popularity. This, in itself, is of little interest to me, I weaned myself off videogames in the final year of my undergraduate course at university and have never really taken it up again. I understand the pleasures of playing video games but I fail to comprehend what one gets out of watching others play. I’m happy to assume the mantle of dinosaur or Luddite (I’ll draw the line at old fogey) when it comes to Esports, and even more sanguine about letting the whole thing pass me by. The interesting aspect of the article for me was how Lanchester uses the rise of Esports to think about ‘what sport means to me and why I have spent, or wasted, so much time watching it.’ Whereas watching Esports seems to me like a colossal waste of time, I’m ready to defend watching ‘real’ sports as, for me, it touches something emotionally and intellectually vital about human ‘beingness’ in the world. I’m willing to grudgingly concede that this is a matter of personal psychology and socio-historical context, rather than an assertion ‘real’ sports are somehow objectively superior. Like Lanchester I don’t get the ‘it’ of Esports; ‘this version of the sporting ‘it’ doesn’t connect with any other memories or experiences’.

The article’s questioning of why watching sports commands so much time and symbolic value takes on a further layer of intangible meaning in the context of the Covid-19 pandemic. The loss of live sport has arguably triggered an almost existential crisis for those whose time, friendships, and sense of escape depends on it. Sport’s paradox as an inconsequential consequence has become more apparent in its absence. Indeed, the clear dimensions of sporting drama, seem all the more attractive in an era of chaos and uncertainty. Like Lanchester, perhaps as a kind of defence mechanism, I took to rewatching classic sporting contests and moments, a phenomenon facilitated by organisations and broadcast channels uploading past footage to Youtube. Allied to this has been an explosion of think pieces and podcasts that have fused the lack of sporting supply with the ready nostalgia for the stories and personalities of bygone eras. Dramatic games of the past, perceived historical transformations in sports history, unresolved controversies and the age-old ‘greatest of all-time’ question, have become the centre of journalistic copy and social media debate. The BBC, never shy of indulging in this retrotopia of sporting yesteryears have, for me, pushed sporting nostalgia to the limit of my tolerance with their airing of the 2012 Olympic opening Ceremony (along with highlights of the games’ best moments). I remember vividly watching this spectacle, and having any cynicism I previously had about UK’s staging of the event, thoroughly exorcized. But rewatching from the hellscape of 2020, the rebroadcasting the London games felt like Auntie engaging in a deliberate act of trolling.

Lanchester also frames his sporting obsession as something that he feels ‘slightly embarrassed to admit’. The crux for him is that sense of something that controls you, that can’t in the end be intellectualised. In that way, sports are like an addiction. It’s an anxiety I share, but why? It’s not just about the time given over to live sport, or, for example, the difficulty of truly understanding (never mind explaining) the inbuilt vagaries of something like test match cricket. It is more about an anxiety built on the need to rationalise, sport’s value. Not just on the personal level of enjoyment, but in terms of a more universal level of importance. Sports-watching is often associated with a certain kind of fandom. Support of the local or national football team, for example, offers a tribal belonging to the imagined community (to borrow Benedict Anderson’s concept). Furthermore, the sense of shared experience is often percolated in a heightened atmosphere, engendering euphoria and desolation in moments of triumph or defeat, and thus taking on quasi-religious dimensions.

I have never been a fan in that way. I’ve always reflected that in every match/game someone wins and someone loses (yes, I know, there are draws too), but the essence of sport has to go beyond mere victory or defeat. (Indeed, as an aside I remember in the documentary Manufacturing Consent Noam Chomsky deconstructing the ideological function of spectator sports when he asks himself: ‘why do I care whether or not my team wins the ball game. I don’t know anyone on the team. It doesn’t make any sense’.) I empathise with Lanchester’s perspective whose sports-watching ‘isn’t primarily social. It’s more like reading: private, solitary, concentrated’. Similarly, I seek to intellectualise sports-watching, casting myself as the informed observer of detail and appreciator of nuance. A student of the game who sees clearly, without the fan’s emotional blinkers. I’ve always been less interested in the result than in the display of genius or idiosyncrasy of circumstance that makes a sporting moment unique. Even a desire to elevate the sport to the level of sociology or art in the vein of my favourite sports book: David Foster Wallace’s String Theory. Yes, I’m fully aware of the lurking pretentiousness here. But this is a way of reconciling myself to unproductive 2 1/2 hours i spent on the sofa the other day watching Graf V Sabatini in the 1990 US Open final.

One aspect not touched upon by Lanchester is the relationship between spectatorship one’s own aspirations as a player. This element informs my continued engagement with sport and is a hangover from childhood. Mark Ruffalo’s character Paul Hatfield in the film The Kids Are All Right at one point admiringly defines his son Laser (yes Laser) as a ‘sensitive jock’, a designation is apt for my own boyhood. I was never ‘one of the lads’ but nevertheless held a place on nearly every school sports team just on ability. I preferred individual sports as the macho posturing of the locker room (changing room I should really say coming from the UK) was a place I endured rather than actively participated in. I never excelled academically at school, being far more interested in P.E. lessons and after school training, but maintained what I had to do in other subjects ostensibly just to stay out of trouble. The problem, as I see it now: I was a sporty kid who was OK at everything, but not great at anything. Easily the best tennis player at school, the one time I went for county trials I realised just how many others are in the pool of good but not outstanding. The fact that I would never have made it as a pro is something that really only becomes clear in hindsight and even then it’s difficult to get out of a ‘coulda been a contender’ fantasy. I also like to put my failure down to the fact I was working-class without the financial support to succeed in an exclusory sport like tennis.

When I moved into an academic career, sport definitely took a back seat. To the extent that I began to look down on it. This generally took the form of a kind of cynicism towards the commercial element of elite sports, particularly football. Billionaire primadonnas, diving theatrically to the floor at the slightest touch, were indicative of a moral and intellectual vacuum endemic across a bankrupt sporting milieu, was my self-righteous assessment. I continue to play sports, mainly just cycling and tennis, which have become my main mode of relaxation. Over time, I have found switching-off increasingly difficult and any forays in the realm of meditation or mindfulness have been somewhat futile. The motivation, focus and drive that I seem to still be able to draw upon while participating in sports, along with the physical effort and competition, more with the self than with any opponent, seems to reside deep in my psyche. Even now, ask me if I fantasise about being a film director, rock star, literary genius or part of a trifecta of 1990s tennis dominance rivaling Sampras and Agassi, it would still sheepishly admit it would be the latter every time.

Perhaps the lockdown hiatus has brought home just how much narratives of sport, whether doing or watching, speaks to a clear sense of ‘the real’ that has become increasingly hazy. Maybe this is not just because of the lockdown in itself, but the canceling of live sport has meant the loss of a realm where we still cling to definable rules, whether it’s the dimensions of the court, the benchmarks of time, or the binary logic winning and losing. Indeed, I don’t find it purely coincidental that there has been an explosion of serialised sports documentaries in the age of streaming. Last Chance U, The Last Dance, All or Nothing, and The Test offer a further level of storification and thus meaning-making that asserts sport as evidence of realities that we can still wrap our heads around. As I reflect on these questions, of why we give up so much time to the exiguous necessities of this so-called sporting life, and John Lanchester’s assertion that it soothes ‘a mind always in pain’, the England cricket team is closing in on unlikely victory. I’ll finish here, so I can once again immerse myself in sport’s glorious inconsequences.

Podcasting in Lockdown: Quality Uncontrolled

The Remainiacs Podcast episode entitled ‘At War With The Invisible Enemy’ (20 March, 2020) was the show’s first episode in lockdown; a self-imposed isolation that the production team clearly decided upon before the Government’s countrywide isolation rules were announced on March 23. Delivered with her trademark self-deprecating irony host Ros Taylor begins:

Hello and welcome to Quarantineiacs. Following the example of countries with their head screwed on properly, we’ve placed the podcast in isolation, and I’m not in the pub with Stanley Johnson. I’m Ros Taylor and this week we’re all recording the podcast from different locations for the first time, so apologies if it occasionally sounds like some of us are at the back of the cupboard eating the custard creams that were supposed to last until May.

Conversation based podcasts - on politics, film, culture and sport - are my staple audio diet (rather than say true crime or audio drama) and during the early weeks of the lockdown, I noticed that many of the shows on my rotation deployed some version of this contextualising refrain, as if to prepare listeners for an unwelcome assault on their eardrums. Ordinarily, such programmes are recorded with hosts and guests altogether in the same environment. Depending on the level of resources the show has, this may take place in a studio and possibly with a production team who have sole responsibility for engineering the best sound quality. For interview and conversation-based podcasts that don’t record in a studio, the physical environment may be just a room in a house, a live venue, or even a pub/coffee shop, all of which are susceptible to background noises and other environmental particularities which affect the sonic parameters. However, if the recording is done well enough and the context is appropriate, external ambiance can actually add an interesting sonic atmosphere to a recording. But whether in a studio or elsewhere, the physical proximity of the participants gives the production a level of control over the sound dynamics of a recording session.

The lockdown has, of course, made remote recording pretty much the norm for the time being. Shows that normally exude a pristine sonic experience (which we might associate in the UK with a BBC ‘cleanliness’) are struggling with issues such as basic recording quality, WIFI drop out, delayed or cut out speech, echo and voice reverberation, extraneous sound leakage, and myriad other ‘difficulties’ that are like nails down a chalkboard for anyone who deals with audio recording. Perhaps it is understandable, but none the less interesting, that many podcasts call attention to this perceived ‘inferior’ audio quality. We all know what the current context is, but these apologies and appeals to the listener’s understanding, and even for forgiveness, clearly point to acuities and expectations regarding production quality that hosts/producers feel they need to mitigate. As I listened to these disclaimers, I wondered whether audiences do judge these shows as substandard and whether they listen on in spite of this inferior audio experience. It would be quite harsh to sit in judgment, or just switch off in a fit of pique at the sub-standard content (that you probably are listening to for free). Particularly given the broader knowledge of what social distancing has meant for the practicalities of all media production. However, without naming names, there have been a couple of shows that I have had to turn off: the scratchiness of what I assume was a Skype recording through a laptop mic I found unbearable. Interestingly though, these were shows that didn’t offer any qualifying remarks as to the poor sound quality.

It occurred to me that one consequence of our isolation has been, to a certain extent, a levelling of the playing field, one that can be demarcated as a binary between independent and institutional media producers. The inherent problems in producing a remote, multi-conversation podcast, whether you are the BBC, an independent but commercially driven show, or two friends recording from their bedrooms, is ostensibly the same. But does listening to the crackly ‘imperfections’ of WIFI enabled audio, variable recording levels and obvious sonic interruptions – aural details that are banished in the deadening perfections of the studio – actually constitute a lessening of quality. Might the current situation invite a re-evaluation of largely ingrained principles of media communication, but which are, when you look and listen more closely, actually quite nebulous. The notion of quality as an ideological function is central to what I am getting at here. A concern which has more than a whiff of Pierre Bourdieu :

All the agents in a given social formation share a set of basic perceptual schemes, which receive the beginnings of objectification in the pairs of antagonistic adjectives commonly used to classify and qualify persons or objects in the most varied areas of practice. The network of oppositions between high (sublime, elevated, pure) and low (vulgar, low, modest), spiritual and material, fine (refined, elegant) and coarse (heavy, fat, crude, brutal), light (subtle, lively, sharp, adroit) and heavy (slow, thick, blunt, laborious, clumsy), free and forced, broad and narrow, or, in another dimension, between unique (rare, different, distinguished, exclusive, exceptional, singular, novel) and common (ordinary, banal, commonplace, trivial, routine), brilliant (Intelligent) and dull (obscure, grey, mediocre), is the matrix of all the commonplaces which find such ready acceptance because behind them lies the whole social order. (Classes and Classification, 1979).

Within contemporary media, hierarchical modes of distinction might be more akin to oppositional concepts such as professionalism v amateurism, commercial v hobbyist, studio production v DIY. These binaries are forged not only through attitudes and perceptions encapsulated in content, but also structures, stylistic forms and modes of production that define explicitly and implicitly what the parameters of media quality and status are. In terms of sound, for example, the concept of what constitutes an authoritative voice can be associated with elements like a certain form of presentational affect, speech patterns and tone, recognised levels of expertise or even associations of quality associated with stardom.

Furthermore, when any assertions are made as to what constitutes quality, they also imbued markers such a class, race, gender, sexuality and ability. These notions are used to structure, albeit in complex and contradictory ways, our criteria of judgement, the ways we define what is significant or not, worthy of our attention or not, shaping the contours of cultural value and even anchoring ideas of truth. There is undoubtedly a perceived interrelationship between form and content, a sense that they are complementary is essential to quality, which mainstream, traditional media production is inherently anchored upon.

Even as a relatively new medium, podcasting has hierarchies of quality and legitimacy imposed onto it from a variety of angles. There are those that lean towards a sound aesthetic/sound design conception of podcasting quality. At the extreme end of this is a kind of egregiously techno-fetishist outlook related to production values and the skills, equipment and environment required to produce those values. From this perspective, podcasts relying only on the recorded voice may be deemed lacking a sound-oriented sophistication, or just lacking artistic interest. A mark of podcasting quality can also be demanded through parameters that traditional media have always utilised to demarcate themselves as gatekeepers of informational legitimacy. Legacy media like the BBC, NPR, The New York Times and CNN clearly attempt to transfer their conception of professionalised content creation to their podcasts. The sound that you hear is intended to align with conceptions of established brand identity and, in turn, the ingrained discourses of professional legitimacy that are assumed to follow. At the other end of the scale are the intrinsically independent podcasts that operate on minute budgets and succeed or fail on a combination of the podcast’s fundamental concept, the execution (which itself has a great many variables), whether the production is ‘good enough’ in the context of the resources available, and the sheer passion and motivation of those involved in the production. Success, of course, is a relative phenomenon. A few hundred listeners (or even less) may be enough to justify and sustain many a podcast which, to mainstream sensibility, may seem pointlessly self-indulgent or just not very good.

Yet the emergence and development of podcast production and engagement may be considered a rather unique case study in terms of the interrelationship between technological, economic and socio-cultural aspects. The medium emerged out of an independent sensibility that paradoxically was made possible due to Apple’s commercial philosophy (focused as it was on hardware over content) and the idiosyncrasies of iTunes digital infrastructure. The facility to upload audio content for free (after buying required Apple products of course), but with no broadcast-like editorial guidelines, control or censorship, or any embedded mechanism for monetisation, created a unique set of conditions for a user-led medium that expanded out from the motivation, creativity and independent spirit of a range of audio production enthusiasts. These early adopters (which I was not one) must be credited for building the creative foundations of the medium. From 2004-2014 podcasting production and listenership increased steadily but maintained an outsider, maybe even self-consciously promoted, cult status. Associations with ideas such as authenticity, intimacy, autonomy, experimentation and even more grandiose notions such as democracy imbue podcasting, at least to its advocates, with an edge of revolutionary potential that perhaps could break, or at least exist between, the binary logic of social formations.

There are various pointers to the reason why podcasts achieved a cross-over moment, but I would argue it was a perfect storm of technological and socio-cultural serendipity. Replacing the iPod, smartphones became ubiquitous for the consumption of audio content and, with the arrival of podcatcher apps, an efficient distribution mechanism for shows and episodes decoupled from audience anchoring points of space and time. Alongside this, the first ‘breakout’ shows, Serial of course being at the top of the list, began to be talked about in a new way, provoking discussions of podcasting’s effect on the wider media landscape, rather than just as a curious niche interest. This phase of transition, which is arguably still going on, has of course had many further effects, one of the most obvious has been the imposition of hierarchies of quality from traditional media structures and practices. This process of incorporation is perhaps inevitable for any media that reach a certain level of cultural interest and, more pointedly, commercial potential. We might have reached the point where that notion of independent spirit is seen as a quaint, romanticised halcyon phase, maintained only by those for whom podcasting is purely a labour of love.

In the digital age all forms of media have been fighting to preserve the institutional dominance and the cultural legitimacy that fosters a discourse of quality. Digital technologies and the internet more specifically, have been the great disrupters of traditional practices of production, distribution and consumption. All media industries have had to rethink their operational models with new companies, those that have been able to most effectively harness the technological revolution, usurping more traditional legacy names who are slower to perceive change and reluctant to adapt to it. The pandemic is a new reality that we are only just beginning to conceive the dimensions of, along with further reshaping of media orthodoxies. But what has already occurred not only constitutes an exacerbation of the digital transformation with regards to the structure and status of online communication, it will change the political economy of media, how media communication is further integrated into how we live and work, and in turn, will change the very nature of how information and entertainment are delivered and perceived.

Leaving the health implications of the virus to one side (and I’ve taken the view that there should be a moral component to one’s pontifications on the science of the virus if one is not a scientist), this impact on the media industry is going to be nothing short of devastating. Bringing it back to my original point however, the current situation does open up questions regarding the conditions of production and what effect it may have on perceived notions of quality. On some level, the very concept of quality and other connotations such as value and significance, and at bottom what’s good and bad, has always been a case of subjective contestation. One person’s lo-fi, DIY, punk, independent authenticity is another person’s low grade, self-regarding, amateurish badly produced trash. Everyone, including myself, has a quality compass that they like to think is calibrated by an objective sensibility. Just as an aside, an interesting narrative of quality control with regards to podcasting has emerged during the lockdown with a number of strident reactions to a potential new wave of shows created during the current situation.

As an independent podcaster, it has been fascinating to listen to shows deal with some of the basic production logistics that have been an accepted part of my production process. One of the pleasures of starting a podcast from scratch on a low budget is learning to adapt to environments and doing the best one can on budget equipment. Indeed, I have gotten to the point now where there is a certain level of audio sound quality that I feel is a requirement. Looking back, one of the key moments in the life of The Cinematologists Podcast was when I moved from Falmouth to Brighton. In order to retain the same format – myself and co-presenter Neil’s discussions as the basis of the show – we had to figure out how to tape our conversations remotely. Rather than rely on WIFI connections and the poor sound quality of Skype we recorded our own voice individually and then edited together the separate tracks in post. We have now migrated to another software called Cleanfeed, (a WebRTC communication tool which I discuss on Episode 13 on New Aural Cultures Podcast with Jerry Padfield) which provides high-quality connectivity for remote recording. When interviewing guests, being in the same room is always the ideal but this has not always been possible and, at times, we have put out, to me, less than ideal audio due to the specific conditions of taping. Over the years I’ve become more precious about the sound, feeling increasingly anxious about perceptions of quality and the fact I produce microbudget, non-studio content. But with podcasting, and all media now quite frankly, we are in a phase of restriction that might auger what might be called positive disruption. There are a host of amazing podcasts out there without a doubt, but as podcasting expands and an industry institutional v independent dichotomy is only going to be ever more ingrained, and with it, criteria of judgement that only certain types of productions can measure up to. Maybe, ironically, a by-product of this ‘disruption’ will be to require podcast producers and listeners to return, to some degree, to a more experimental, and dare I say it, independently minded sensibility. A sensibility that made podcasts interesting in the first place.

This audio reading was recorded through the Resound.ly.

 

 

 

 

Cats who are dogs and bilingual boys

I’m sat in the communal area at the back of our basement flat in North London. We have a small, concreted patio immediately outside a windowed double doorway leading from the main living room. Because of the angle of our four-storey building, the patio only catches the sun between three and five in the summer months, so it doesn’t lend itself to ‘sitting out’ too often. However, a narrow staircase on the right-hand side of the two-tier wall gives us access to the shared space approximately ten meters by fifteen. It is a blazing hot morning on April Bank Holiday Saturday, so Bea and I have taken a couple of garden chairs up the staircase and set them on the pebbled walkway that sounds and crosses the space. We’ve had breakfast and now intend a leisurely stint of reading and writing. The availability of this space has, of course, taken on a more acute sense of value during the lockdown, particularly during this unseasonably warm period coinciding with the Bank Holiday. As I write this I’m reflecting on the privilege and fortuitousness that access to a private outdoor environment reflects, albeit one that is functional rather than picturesque with not much to look but the surrounding flats set from the rear facade of our building. Yet, in the balmy air, with a couple of tall, sparsely leafed trees overhanging the space, this feels like a relative luxury that so many people would be envious of.

There are twelve flats in our building all of which have access to the shared space and I’m surprised that it hasn’t been more heavily populated over the preceding days. This morning the couple in the basement flat adjacent to ours have come out enjoy the sun. They have brought their cat with them, a handsome ginger tabby with a white neck and paws, which I assume they have only recently acquired. I saw the two of them outside with cat the other morning, following it around diligently, making sure that it didn’t escape over the six-foot fence that encloses the shared area. Naturally, the cat had other ideas and decided to exercise its autonomy by climbing the fence and traversing it with carefree insouciance - despite pleading calls and a range of enticing, non-specific animal sounds emitting from the cat’s ‘owners’ - before leaping into the unknown jungle of next door’s garden. The male ‘owner’ proceeded to climb up and over the fence in pursuit. After a bit of anonymous rustling, man and cat emerged and with graceless clamoring managed to renegotiate the fence, landing back in safe territory. Clearly lessons have been learned because this morning the tigerish feline is now attached to an extra-long retractable dog lead. It’s looking over at me right now, the lead ensuring that a safe two-metre range is maintained. Its twitchy eyes have a look that says: “please tell these idiots I’m not a dog.” The ‘owners’, as you might expect, seem more relaxed, and have moved on from animal sounds to a more conversational approach, but in an infantile, praising tone. “Who’ s a good boy” has a strange, surrealist effect when spoken to a cat. Clearly, this feline is headed for some form of trauma, some anthropomorphic version of split personality disorder.

The other visitors to our communal space this morning are a mother and her son. He is about three or four I think and I saw him in the yesterday afternoon for the first time; I watched through the window as he ferociously circumnavigated the pathway with maximum effort - legs and arms operating chaotically - but lacking the implied speed. A football appeared and the boy shifted from out and out sprinting to the classic kick and chase. His mother was in tow, cajoling with good-natured but protective insistence. I remember being momentary put out as they appeared, with timing that suggested a predetermined intention, at precisely the moment I had prepared a late afternoon gin and tonic and was ready for a solid hour’s reading. But running around in youthful abandon has just as much validity as Chekov’s ethical dilemmas in “The Duel” (the latest installment in my attempt to scale the mountain of Russian literature) so I decided not impinge on this playtime, settling for the settee. The micro-politics of social spacing in playing out in many forms across the globe.

But this Saturday morning I was in my reading spot, mentally chewing on the dilemma is happiness in freedom or obligation. Old Anton proving indubitably relevant to our current malaise. Beside me, Bea was engrossed in Jane Smiley’s “A Thousand Acres” (on my recommendation), and the pet ‘owners’ and the cat, sunbathing on the opposite side of the space, in front of their own flat. The cat, like all of us, was coming to terms with new limits of their concept of freedom. When the mother and son appeared the football had been replaced with a new form of entertainment: a toy snail with a green body and yellow shell at the end of a rope, which waddled amusingly as the boy pulled it along. As there are now several bodies in the space, the boy is moving with more circumspection than he did when he had full authority over the environment, deciding on a back and forward patrol of the centre pathway. The cat had frozen at a safe distance but stared intently at the unfolding drama. Was that a look of curiosity, or more satirical and mocking? Actually, it looks more like a profound empathy for this tethered plastic invertebrate. “I know how you feel mate” is the subtitle I envisage.

A few spoken exchanges between mother and son are in Spanish. She sets out rules of movement for the boy in a deep but gentle voice. But the boy is now getting more adventurous. He runs towards us, across the centre path. Blue T-shirt, faded blue shorts and well-worn trainers which lightly crunch the pebbles as he moves. He slows as he gets near us then turns to look at back, testing the boundaries of his movement against the patience of his mother. The boy’s dark hair is wavy and thick. He looks just like me at that age. I’m momentarily transported back to my own childhood, a young self of innocence and freedom that has long since disappeared (along with the hair). He inches closer, a mischievous smile placating this transgressive behavior. Suddenly his mother, sitting on one of the weather-worn benches at the back wall, calls out to him, but reverts to English: “Stop”. The clipped instruction has an instantaneous effect. “Here” (not aqui) says the boy. “Yes, and no further”.

The boy looks back at us, seemingly trying to decide whether he had actually reached the invisible boundary only his mother could define. Without another word he turns and skips back towards her leaving me to muse on this sudden change of idiom. Maybe it was for our benefit as much as the boy’s, a subtle demonstration of parental responsibility for the childless neighbors. Perhaps, English is applied unconsciously, or even deliberately, as the language of structure and admonition. Spanish on the other hand, the language of play. I wondered if this is because of the different rhythms, tone, and cadences that lend shape, mood and emotions beyond the meaning of words uttered. Or was it more to do with English being the language of the current environment, both in terms of this immediate, small theatre of existence and the wider context of city and nation.

The boy knows the answers already, better than I ever could. It is implicit in his effortless bilingualism. At four years old, or whatever age he is, his brain adapts to instantaneous shifts in dialects; he adapts and processes language in a way that mere translation doesn’t adequately explain. His mother conversing in Spanish and English in parallel, without clunky mechanics of explanation, not only forges the boy’s cognitive function across two languages managing to keep them separate, but shapes his very subject being in relation to the world. This child already has access to a “Spanishness” and an “Englishness” that I have always wanted. I am a half-Spanish but as a child of divorce, I was not brought up bilingually and therefore missed the vital phase in which two languages could have been embedded in my brain simultaneously. I have attempted to learn Spanish at various points in my life but have only every gained a very basic level of fluency, one that lacks any feeling for nuance or depth. Witnessing the fleeting exchange reminds me I’ll never truly have access to a part of myself that I feel exists but I can’t articulate. The boy runs up to his mother and she collects him in her arms. He whispers something to her which I could not hear.

The Pessimist's Charter

In revitalising this blog I undoubtedly have rather instrumental motivations but I would be kidding myself if I didn’t admit that the naive romantic writer in me is making his latest bid for approval. Yes, I want to get into a cycle of practice that becomes second nature, the regular production of words hopefully leading to improvements in quality. Of course, one also has to own the hubris of thinking one has something worthwhile to say. Maybe, maybe not. But the very process of organising thoughts and exploring ideas through the written form can, all at once, be developmental, cathartic, confessional and anchoring; a form of stabilising the wispy strands of thought. Added to this on some level is just the romantic, narcissistic pretension to be able to see oneself a writer. To do this, really, one has to write.

The thought of blogging, however, provokes two diametrically opposed concerns: on the one hand, that most blogs are merely random bursts of subjective diatribe which one could just as easily express on a cheap A4 notepad with the nearest biro and file in a desk draw under the unmarked title of “ramblings no one needs to see”. On the other hand, blogs that define a clear subject or theme as the focus often strike me as somewhat limiting and even cynically calculated; a kind of PR exercise for a hobby or fan obsession with the aim to capture and cultivate a specific audience. So, in attempting to come up with a name and identifying focus for this blog I find myself thwarted by equivocation and high-mindedness.

Writing these reflections and reviewing previous posts, it occurs to me that there is an underlying pessimism in the voice emanating from the page. In all honesty this does chime with a self-conception (and, occasionally, with others’ judgements) of my character. However, I think, over the years, that a mellowing has occurred. The infernal final 18 months of PhD study marked the zenith of an acute period of ill-tempered self-righteousness (I apologise to anyone who knew me during that time). If I have a slightly sunnier disposition today, it might be a combination of better life circumstances or even the conscious adoption of positive thinking derived from mantras that seem to pervade today’s culture. But in the end I always retreat to the firmer ground of pragmatism, realism and maybe be even a kind of existential fatalism.

So, it strikes me that this inherent pessimism could be the fuel of my writing. I immediately weighed-up the disadvantages of this: it will certainly be read as an egregious example of entitled first-word, navel-gazing. Or, even worse, the resurfacing of sullen teenage angst to which the parental refrain “don’t be such a misery guts” is imprinted on my psyche. However, thinking about the possibility of embracing nihilistic tendencies, flavoured with a little knowing irony, might offer a malleable enough framework for me to proceed with a writing project that has some kind of direction. At some point, while jotting some speculative notes, the title The Pessimist’s Charter flashed into my brain. I immediately googled it to find that the title belongs to no blog, novel or Morrissey-esque album. The first hit in the search, amusingly enough to me, was for a Bloomsbury article entitled In Defence of Charter Schools; not a subject that will ally any of my morose proclivities.

A little more research revealed that take-up rates for pessimism are apparently on the up-swing. Bulgarians historically are associated with pessimism, to the point that it has become a national stereotype. But statistically, the rest of Europe seem to be jumping on the bandwagon, perhaps out of Johnny-come-lately economic and political ennui. Being a pessimist puts one in lofty philosophical company. Schopenhauer in particular enjoyed the arch tools of a fatalistic tendency, building a fairly comprehensive schema through the base method of pointing out everything that could go wrong before it actually does. Nietzsche, of course, riffed with abandon on the tragedy of human existence, but he at least attempted to fashion a kind “pessimism of strength”, affirming the potential liberation of the self if one accepts inevitability of annihilation. Easier said than done. It’s hard to keep smiling when shit overwhelms the fan to point where it short circuits and explodes.

The existentialists of course loved a moan so long as it was accompanied by alcohol and sex. This is a position with which I can empathise, but I’m not sure I can base the blog on such a methodology. Camus’ notion of the absurd is ripe for a 2.0 reboot in these oh-so-interesting times. In fact, it also seems that pessimism has its good points. “Defensive pessimism” – taking negative thoughts and channelling them as strategy for dealing with a feeling or situation – can have positive effects on productivity and health. This is the difference, I guess, between thinking “things are likely to go wrong, so what’s the point” and “things are likely to go wrong, so how can I deal with that”. I reckon I have moved from the first position to the second over the years, and it certainly chimes in terms of my penchant for planning.

So, in committing to The Pessimist’s Charter (I am tentatively giving myself the challenge of two posts per month) I don’t intend to dive headlong into the quicksand of cynicism, or whinge melancholically in a self-consciously taciturn style, but neither am I out to deliver sage bon mots on “better productivity” or “mindful happiness, my way” (not without a heavy dose of irony anyway). My faintly high-minded approach is simply to write truthfully and honestly with the hope of igniting a few flickers of insight along the way. But if such an outcome fails to materialise, and is beyond the limits of my ability, not to worry, that is exactly what I expect.

Further reading

Why Pessimists Have Reasons to Be Cheerful by Oliver Burkeman

Pessimism Runs Rampant

More Sleep, Less Tweet: Some Podcast Inspired Resolutions

So, another New Year comes and goes. A time when aspiration meets regret and we dust off the cobwebs of conviction steeling ourselves for the possibility of rebirth, aiming to become that shining beacon of accomplishment we know is buried deep down somewhere. Or something like that. I am, actually, in favour of little self-reflection, and if a declaration of future intent helps solidify one’s resolve, so much the better. In late summer of 2003, after my father died of cancer, and I decided to stop smoking. I felt that I needed a few months to psychologically prepare, so it was obvious to cement to January 1st in my mind as the inception date of this new, nicotine-free me (still working as a waiter in those days, I couldn’t face the thought of serving multitudinous Christmas revellers without the crutch of nicotine).

The morning after NYE, I ditched any left over cigarettes, threw out all the other smoking accoutrements, washed all the clothes and bed linen I owned (which wasn’t that much to be fair), and tentatively entered the fraternity of ex-smokers. Because I had made a conscious decision months earlier, giving myself time to get used to the idea, quitting was not as difficult as I had anticipated. More than the smoking itself, it was the ritualised practice that was difficult to break. What to do with your hands was an unexpected problem to have to deal with. Rather fortuitously, this particular New Year coincided with the ban on smoking in public places. As a lame teenager, smoking represented for me an entry point into a modicum of previously inaccessible ‘coolness’ and had therefore taken on a social dimension in my mind. The thought of traipsing outside into the cold, wet January nights did not appeal, and I could never imagine Bogey or 007 ever doing that. So I managed to quit and, subsequently, despite the cliché and arbitrariness, I’ve always used New Year to deliberate on new goals and personal changes for the better.

This year some recent podcast listening has been influential in my thought process. Hearing others articulate on concerns I have had in mind seems to have imbued them with a measure of validity. Here are a mere two proclivities which I will endeavour to take forward in all good faith.

1. Take Sleep Seriously

Being an insomniac I felt a rush of solidarity listening The Blind Boy Podcast of Jan 2. The inimitable, fruity brogue of the enigmatic Rubberbandits frontman deconstructs how sleep is often ignored in favour of diet, exercise, meditation etc, as the vital ingredients to wellbeing and productivity. Blindboy excoriates ubiquitous use of his mobile phone; the central culprit of a disrupted sleep patterns, and defines a personal mandate to “take sleep seriously’. The podcast has become required listening as a heady mixture of soliloquy, history and profanity. Other titbits in this episode include why it’s better to focus on the process of exercise not the outcome, and how creativity can be all consuming in both positive and negative ways. The bon mot though is injunction to “be realistic with your resolutions. Don’t be taking ten on, because we set ourselves up with resolutions and we can’t do them. Then in February you feel like a prick”. Sound advice in my book.

2. Internet use can be both positive and negative. Recognise and manage the difference between the two.

As you may have gathered, the theme of my resolution though process has much to do with the myriad effects of the Internet, and particularly social media, on both our understanding of knowledge and our very way of being. In flouncy academic terms the epistemology and ontology of the always culture is playing havoc with any centred sense of selfhood. Podcasts Talking Politics episode on Facebook, Episode #145 of The Waking Up Podcast (The Information War) and The Intelligence Squared podcast with Tristan Harris and Helen Lewis all discuss many aspect of the malaise, from the undermining of democracy, to the crisis of trust in information, to the very hate filled cesspool of social media discourse. But this technology is not going anywhere and, in many ways, it has had hugely positive impact. I certainly don’t want to advocated a 21st century wave of luddism. Yet I, along with many others I suspect, have reached a tipping point where the need to take ownership of the virtual life seems imperative. The tech companies are not going to do it for us (not anytime some). So, some modified behaviours I am going to put into practice include: notice when I am mindless scrolling Social Media with no actual purpose; don’t unthinkingly and without reading share social media posts; don’t let corporate algorithms dictate my culture intake; seek the provenance of what one reads online as much as possible; be ruthless in carving out specific times in the work day for emailing; turn the damn things off now and again.

Happy New Year!

The Sound of Text

I am a frustrated, unrealised and self-conscious writer. It is not a skill that was ever preternaturally abundant to me. If I have any ability whatsoever, it has evolved through slow, moderate improvement accrued within the context of studying and working in the University. The academy itself, and specifically the humanities as a field in which the majority of my writing is situated, has had its pros and cons for improving one’s writing. Completing a 90,000 word PhD certainly instilled the discipline required to write (although that level of discipline I have been unable to match since), and my PhD supervisor was thankfully rigorous in exposing the tumultuous number of flaws I produced during the process. But I was also undoubtedly influenced by the pretentions of French poststructuralist prolix: why use 10 concise and clear words when 100 can shield the reader from what you really mean? Even now, my inability to easily write flowing sentences and a quite profound ineptitude in proofreading my own work, provide a constant battle against stilted mediocrity and flagrant over-elaboration.

I realise this might seem like rather navel-gazey self-effacement, but bear with me. My entry into the medium of podcasting over the last few years has reframed the way I think about communication and its attendant relationships to meaning and knowledge. At the forefront of my attention of late has been the intricate interrelationship between writing and speech, particularly the underlying assumption that the written text stands as the de facto architecture upon which objective knowledge is anchored, and that words materialised through sound serve to animate meaning.

The kind of unscripted dialectical conversation employed as the basis of my podcast - The Cinematologists – and many others; along with process of editing where one gets to listen over and over to the idiosyncrasies of speech – its texture, intonation, repetition, speculation, contradiction, stuttering – has exposed a messiness that has made me wonder whether the software that connects thought and speech has a fundamental glitch. I recently used an online transcription service to transpose some of my unscripted speeches and conversations; the horror of reading this raw text with its litany of ‘inaccuracies’, immediately demanded a desire to perform ruthless syntactic surgery.

This is the tyrannical finality of the written text. It is no wonder that the printing press is as central a tenet to modernity, as scientific rationality, the capitalist system or the nation state. Written text not only provides the indexical notation for speech, but the very architecture upon which the systems knowledge we take for granted are based. Yet the spoken word goes back far earlier as the underpinning of communication, and knowledge transfer. Through podcasting as a process in which the sonic mechanisms of speech are unveiled, one comes to comprehend how much the spoken word carries a contingency, a conditionality, where thought is mediated but is imbued with a malleability and flexibility that the listener is inculcated to acknowledge. Unlike any unedited indexical notation (like a written speech transcript), the sounding of the words, along with all the attendant acoustic shaping (voice emphasis, speech patterns, pauses, repetitions etc etc), intrinsically affects the articulation of meaning.

It is fascinating how when a subject starts to preoccupy one’s mind, it seems to pop up serendipitously. Not in any way connected to podcasting directly, my recent reading has unearthed commentaries that muse upon the relationship between spoken word and written text. James Meek’s extensive review (entitled The Club and the Mob) of former Guardian editor Alan Rusbridger’s new book Breaking News: The Remaking of Journalism and Why It Matters Now, surveys the historical and conceptual malady of contemporary journalism in the digital age. In a section contemplating the experience of waking up to the news of Princess Diana’s death, Meek touches on the early utopian potential the Internet might have on the future of news dissemination in its revolutionising of immediacy and reliance on textuality:

There were two things that were encouraging for the papers about how the news happened to reach me as an individual that morning. The first was that a newspaper was actually breaking news: news in the most traditional sense, news that the most cerebral editorial writer at The New York Times and the most feral chequebook merchant at the Mail could agree was news. News of the rare kind that makes people call someone they know and say ‘Hey, did you hear…?’ was – for me at least – not being broken by a voice on the radio or TV declaring ‘We interrupt this broadcast to bring you…’ but in written form. Without realising it, I was seeing the rebirth of text as the natural purveyor of immediacy, a status that seems natural now in the age of Twitter and news alerts pushed to your phone, but in 1997 had, for generations been ceded to the oral.

The review reflects at length on the effects of digital decimation and the collapse of the traditional infrastructure of journalism, from a business and socio-cultural perspective. But here Meek intimates that the earliest reactions to the internet posited how journalism could benefit from the textual basis of online communication. If print journalism could adapt to new digital platforms, a more dispersed form of audience engagement, and attendant transformations in the conceptual mechanism of publication, then the future was rosey. In the 20th century, television and radio dominated print journalism precisely because of the speed of dissemination of information, as much as the fact of their reliance on the spoken word as the essential mode of communication. Yet the digital era has instigated an ease and immediacy of textual correspondence that redefined to only journalism but our everyday discourse. Think about the effect that texting had on the use of the traditional phone call and you can anecdotally get a sense of (before we even mention social media) how the digital technology has, almost surreptitiously, made writing rather than speaking the default mediatory mechanism.

Podcasting’s paradox: it is absolutely reliant on the digital infrastructure yet is returns primacy to speech, has make me think about how orality and aurality are not merely carriers; speech (like text) shouldn’t be understood as a kind of bridge that facilitates the unhindered, neutral  transformation of information. The very mode of communication plays a role in shaping the intention, effect and, in the end, the meaning of the message. I’m pretty sure something like that has been said before somewhere. Reading Haruki Murakami’s What I Talk About When I Talk About Running I came across a passage that eloquently muses on writing versus speaking when giving a public talk, and the complication/simplification of having to use his second language:

When I’m in Japan I rarely have to speak in front of people. I don’t give any talks. In English, though, I’ve given a number of talks, and I expect that, if the opportunity arises, I’ll give more in the future. It’s strange, but when I have to speak in front of an audience, I find it more comfortable to use my far from perfect English than Japanese. I think this is because when I have to speak seriously about something I’m overcome with the feeling of being swallowed up in a sea of words. There’s an infinite number of choices for me, an infinite number of possibilities. As a writer, Japanese and I have a tight relationship. So if I’m going to speak in front of an undefined large group of people, I grow confused and frustrated when faced by that teeming ocean of words.

With Japanese, I want to cling, as much as I can, to the act of sitting alone at my desk and writing. On this home ground of writing I can catch hold of words and context effectively, just the way I want to, and turn them into something concrete. That’s my job, after all. But once I try to actually think about things I was sure I’d pinned down, I feel very keenly that something – something very important – has spilled out and escaped. And I just can’t accept that sort of disorienting estrangement.

Once I try to put together a talk in a foreign language, though, inevitably my linguistic choices and possibilities are limited: much as I love reading books in English, speaking in English is definitely not my forte. But that makes me feel all the more comfortable giving a speech. I just think, It’s a foreign language, so what’re you going to do? This was a fascinating discovery for me. Naturally it takes a lot of time to prepare. Before I get up on stage I have to memorize a thirty- or forty-minute talk in English. If you just read a written speech as is, the whole thing will feel lifeless to the audience. I have to choose words that are easy to pronounce so people can understand me, and remember to get the audience to laugh to put them at ease. I have to convey to those listening a sense of who I am. Even if it’s just for a short time, I have to get the audience on my side if I want them to listen to me. And in order to do that I have to practice the speech over and over, which takes a lot of effort. But there’s also the payoff that comes with a new challenge. (pp100-101)

As an academic whose day to day life revolves around speaking in front of an audience, several things struck me here. Firstly, the feeling of being confused and frustrated when public speaking, “as though lost in a sea of words” is all too nauseatingly familiar. When delivering lectures and in podcasting, there is nothing worse than the feeling that you are ‘flailing’ in the search for words. However, listening intently to my own, and many others’ speech patterns while editing, one realises that the messiness of speech, its disorderly materialisation through sound, is what gives the words a human vitality.

 This links to Murakami’s further assertion that speeches delivered by simply reading a written text are “lifeless”. A point I wholeheartedly agree with, and anyone who spends any time at academic conferences will also be painfully aware. In a sense it is difficult to criticise speakers for preparing a set text as it provides a kind of life raft in the ocean of potential words in which is so easy to get lost. (* I realise there is a whole strand of enquiry around dramatized scripts that complicates these claims but I’m affording myself the ability to sidestep that right now).

Another wrinkle to this relates to the insights in a quite brilliant chapter in Christopher Hitchens’ Mortality. A final, achingly poignant memoir of the celebrated polemicist’s final years ravaged by cancer, Hitchens reveals the anxiety of being robbed by the disease of his trademark voice. It relates to the notion that the authorial voice takes on an interlinked meaning, both literal and symbolic, when one considers the voice as sound, the voice as style, and voice as essence of self. For Hitch this has multiple layers of portentous significance:

In some ways, I tell myself, I could hobble along by communicating only in writing. But this really only because of my age. If I had been robbed of my voice earlier, I doubt that I could have ever achieved much on the page. I owe a vast debt to Simon Hoggart of The Guardian (son of the author of The Uses of Literacy), who about thirty-five years ago informed me that an article of mine was well argued but dull, and advised me briskly to write “more like the way you talk.” At the time, I was near speechless at the charge of  being boring and never thanked him properly, but in time I appreciated that my fear of self-indulgence and the personal pronoun was its own form of indulgence.

To my writing classes I used later to open by saying that anybody who could talk could also write. Having cheered them up with this easy-to-grasp ladder, I then replaced it with a huge and loathsome snake: “How many people in this class, would you say, can talk? I mean really talk?” That had its duly woeful effect. I told them to read every composition aloud, preferably to a trusted friend. The rules are much the same: Avoid stock expressions (like the plague, as William Saifre used to say) and repetitions. Don’t say that as a boy your grandmother used to read to you, unless at that stage of her life she really was a boy, in which case you have probably thrown away a better intro. If something is worth hearing or listening to, it’s very probably worth reading. So, this above all: Find your own voice. (pp49-50)

 As always Hitchens’ insights are fascinating, but this idea of the voice as a tool for the sonic materialisation of thought, being the rudiment of the writerly voice on the page, sutures speech and writing in a way that seems, again, pertinent to the praxis of podcasting. The command: “find your own voice” conceptualises the notion that text has to hold within it the implication of speech and having this in mind when writing or speaking, would potentially improve the practice of both. Certainly, this allusion the symbiotic relationship between writing and talking is something I have proselytised to my own students, usually as a mere mechanism for improving sentence structure and ironing out typos. But the aspiration of finding one’s voice as essence of the self on the page and in the ear is of more profound important. At the end of Mortality, Hitchens’ wife Carole Blue touchingly eulogises, among many other things, his ‘perfect voice’. Anyone who has listened to his speeches and debates (and I urge you to go to YouTube and do so) will know that this sentiment derives from more than mere loyal romanticism. The man could really talk, and write. In appreciating the intricate symbiosis between the spoken and written word, one might aspire to a better understanding and deployment of both.

Myself and my Cinematologists co-host discuss writing on our latest bonus discussion available on our Patreon Page.

 

 

 

Post-truth, or the endgame of postmodernism

Liberal self-flagellation brought about by 2016s geo-political upheavals has taken a variety of different forms but the effects of the so-called post-truth culture have become the signature discontent. This discourse has multiple levels relating ostensibly to the Brexit vote and election of Donald Trump. These events, along with other populist movements in West, have shaken the foundation of the social democratic consensus. The rise of ‘outsiders’ like Trump suggest that fact-based credibility is no longer required as a basis for political support. In this context, it is fascinating to see how post-truth anxieties have emerged from philosophical debates concerning the media, its role in a functioning democracy and its ubiquitous integration into our everyday lives. There is a sudden urgency in questioning the construction, dissemination and optimisation of information and knowledge in an era of transformative media. Yet, as an academic in the humanities, it is striking to me how post-truth discourse is evocative of familiar concerns connected the concept of postmodermism.

Postmodern thought interrogates how communications technology has altered not only what we know, but how knowledge is constructed, how we connect to one another, and our relationship to social structures. A central parameter of the digital revolution has been the acceleration in the access to, and flow of, information. The Internet’s utopian promise of a global public sphere however, with networked citizens capable of critical thinking, is a long way from being realised. Indeed, critics might posit that instead the result has been the emergence of a mass of confused, depressed, distracted cultural dupes? The liberal malaise of post-truth discourse is, in one sense, the uncomfortable realisation that citizens are still spectacularly ill-equipped to be able to adequately participate in democracy. You can take your pick as to the simultaneously amusing and terrifying revelations regarding the limits of knowledge  – two of my personal favourites are that 40% of Florida Republican voters think Hillary Clinton is literally a demon and “what is the EU?” was one of the most googled questions the day after Brexit.

It is highly reductive to blame a democratic deficit solely on the media particularly when one considers intricate and longstanding educational, economic, social, cultural and religious factors that influence political awareness and engagement. Furthermore, there have always been apocalyptic pronouncements about the effect of every new technology that comes along. However, the post-truth discourse comprises various angles of critique related to the media: changes in the dynamics of news consumption; the exclusionary effects of social media bubble; the ideological functioning of news organisations; the effect algorithmic formulas dictating information consumption and the mistrust of experts. The idealised democratic role as the fourth estate have come into sharp focus since the election. In a recent New Yorker article on Obama’s reaction to the Trump victory the President laments: 

“the capacity to disseminate misinformation, wild conspiracy theories, to paint the opposition in wildly negative light without any rebuttal—that has accelerated in ways that much more sharply polarize the electorate and make it very difficult to have a common conversation.”

Obama summarises post-truth concerns regarding the legitimacy of information, but importantly, the lack of consequences for stating untruths, and the subsequent quicksand into which rational debate sinks, are also alluded to. In the same piece Obama advisor David Simas suggests that social media gives “a whole new permission structure, a sense of social affirmation for what was once thought unthinkable”. This points to the eco-chamber effect of social media and, along with ugly right-wing populist rhetoric, underlies  the attack on political correctness, the rise of so-called ‘alt-right’ and the spike in incidents of xenophobia and racism. Hillary Clinton, in statement after the election, highlighted the potential of fake news to have ‘real world consequences’. The specific denunciation of fake news, even suggesting governmental intervention, is pointed in providing the democrats with a convenient focus of criticism and mechanism for shift the blame. Along with the potential freedom of speech issues this suggests a lack of self-awareness as to the mood of the electorate, the short-comings of the democratic campaign, Clinton’s problems as a candidate in this populist climate.

Yet, social media, its interactive functionality, its editorialising effect and, of course, its increasing status as a primary site of news dissemination, is destabilising the gate-keeping role of news media. Social media feeds do not differentiate between ‘traditional’ news sources and, shall we say, those with a looser application of journalistic principles, or outright fake news. This is complicated further by the fact that there are different forms of fake news. The Onion, NewsThump, Jonathan Pie, the The Borowitz report are meant to be understood as fake news, satirically sending up the hypocrisies of mainstream news construction. Other sites such as AmericanNews, NationalReport & Newswatch33 create fake stories with different levels of ideological intent. The wholesale production of fake news sites designed to destabilise the Clinton campaign shows how fake news was directly used as political weopon. This is not to mention the significant role that Fox news has played packaging news a partisan infotainment with questionable concern for factualityThat right-wing offence mongers and conspiratorial bottom feeders Brietbart are now inveigled into to the White house is as depressing reflection of the post-truth discourse. An incident like Pizzagate may be a one off flash of rank idiocy but reflects an increasingly ambiguous space the media occupies in the relationship between individuals and knowledge.

What suddenly seem like prescient questions of how information is consumed, processed and utilised have been at the forefront of postmodernist thought since the term was coined. The concept of the postmodern, apart from striking fear into the hearts of humanities undergrads everywhere, came to the fore in the latter half of the 20th century deployed as malleable term to describe and analyse transformations and challenges to the assumed certainties in socio-political organisation and cultural practice. Critics of the term decry its rhetorical convolutions, lack of empirical grounding and pseudo-intellectual vagaries yet there hardly any field that has not undergone some form postmodern interrogation. Although postmodernism has never gone away, through the 2000s its theoretical slipperiness became somewhat passé and in the aftermath of 9/11, the war on terror and then the financial crash such cerebral abstractions may have appeared to push the limits self-indulgence. 

Postmodernism, to me, was always a philosophical tool for thinking about the ways in which human experience and cultural expression were not just influenced, but fundamentally reconfigured, primarily by computerised communications technology. The emergence of the internet, social media, the political and economic tumult of past few years, and the consequence for global society and individual experience, all have various reference points in seminal postmodern writing: Lyotard’s “incredulity towards metanarratives”; Barthes and Foucault on the “death of the author”; McLuhan’s “the global village”; Baudrillard’s “simulation and hyperreality” reflect elements of post-truth discourse, particularly in relation to the mediation of society. Indeed Trump, the narcissistic reality TV star with the itchy twitter finger, is ripe to be discussed through the prism of Guy Debord’s The Society of the Spectacle.

A central element of postmodern theorisation relates to the bombardment of media images which has the effect of annihilating criteria with which to discern the value or veracity of what one consumes. Truth is decoupled from any concrete foundation and becomes merely the dominant ideological claim in a given context. As a result, the individual becomes increasingly alienated from a clear sense of personal identity and objective knowledge. Although, I have been, and remain, ambivalent about postmodernism (to the point of oscillating between thinking it is vitally prescient and pretentious anti-philosophy), it is striking how the tenets of post-truth discourse are recycling unease about mediation and the collapse of a tangible sense of the truth. In the aftermath of the US election Trump ‘surrogate’ Scottie Nell Hughes, the ‘news director’ of the ‘tea party news network’ delivered the ultimate postmodern statement: “There’s no such thing as facts” (sic). Such a statement suggest there is no longer a battle over a binary position of what is true or false, real or unreal; instead individualised subjectivity is the benchmark criteria by which knowledge is defined. In the cynical swamp that is realpolitick every utterance is assumed to be an ideological gambit.

Speaking as someone who spends a large portion of their life and work online, and has unwittingly shared a misleading meme and fallen for a fake news story, it difficult not to be concerned about the diminishing criteria by which truth can be defined in our mediated society. The democratising potential of social media may have unwittingly revealed fundamental flaws in democracy. As the legacy of postmodern critique suggests the pre-internet era was not a moral utopia of political or journalistic virtue. Indeed, like the politicians who are bemoaning the corrosive influence of fake news, it’s convenient for the traditional media to blame the phenomena when their own contribution to the misinformation and the status of Trump should be accounted for. We may however, have somewhat lost control of the personal and social extension of ourselves that mediated technology provides. In this regard Marshall McLuhan’s maxim “The Medium is the Message” seems prescient as ever. The content of fake news is less important than understanding we are engaging on a platform that obliterates the distinction from fake and real. The stupidity and offensiveness of Trump’s 3am tweets are less important than the fact that there exists a platform by which the traditional media, as a conduit between state and citizen, can be bypassed. And there is something deeply worrying in the realisation that the next leader of the free world is not even interested in the aspiration to truth. In one sense, we are only just coming to terms with this, but in another it the culmination of the postmodern condition.

Maron and the Radio/Podcast Antagonism

As a podcast producer and an academic interested in podcasting from a research perspective watching episode 10, season 2 of the Netflix comedy Maron entitled ‘Radio Cowboy', I was struck by how the show riffed on many of the conceptual debates around the definition and status of the medium. The episode cleverly explores the hierarchical animosity between purveyors of 'old' and 'new' platforms in an uncertain media landscape. Maron is based on an exaggerated version of Marc Maron's own life as a comedian and host of the highly successful podcast WFT with scenes being shot in Marc's famed garage, showing his trademark confessional monologues and conversational interviews. This episode, however,  directly comments upon the technological, social and cultural distinctions between podcasting and radio which are tied to Maron's insecurities as a central figure in podcasting's expansion as a influential medium.

The episode begins with Maron being ‘interviewed' on a stereotypically low-brow morning talk show with the obnoxious hosts wasting no time in disparaging the podcast as a form:

Presenter 1: In addition to Marc being a comic, he is also the host of a popular podcast.

Presenter 2: Hold on, there's no such thing as a popular podcast

Maron: ohhh, zing, sorry but I actually got a pretty good listener base and you know I used to do radio but I prefer podcasting. A lot more freedom.

Presenter 1: So you prefer not to make money?

This opening exchange rehearses familiar criticisms concerning low levels of distribution and the lack of a viable economic infrastructure. Maron's defensive repost regarding the freedom that podcasting offers is illustrated immediately as the second presenter awkwardly segues into incongruous and awkward advertising bit. In an allusion to the amateur, DIY sensibility of podcasting the radio presenters then joke about Marc producing his show from his garage.  This first scene ends with, Maron launching into a rant about radio's obsolescence:

Maron: You guys can goof all you want but you are making fart noises on the Titanic. You think anybody is entertained by this? Maybe before there were choices, but you are losing listeners every day. This isn't interesting, it's not engaging. This is a hostage situation for people who don't have a smartphone. And your format restrictions are ridiculous. Why do you feel compelled to give out the time every 5 minutes? All cars have the time. All computer screens have the time on them. There are clocks everywhere. Yet with OCD precision you are always compelled to give out the time. It's horrendous.

 Presenter 2: It's 8:25.

Clearly, this encounter seeks to highlight, as a basis for the comedy, many of the sideswipes that Maron has obviously heard time and again regarding podcasting's status compared to its established rival. As a podcast producer and researcher, such criticisms are very familiar particularly the difficulties concerning economic self-sufficiency. Indeed, economic viability is the great unanswered question at heart of debates around the digital revolution. However, the counter-arguments around creative and intellectual freedom for both producers and listeners define its appeal along with the sense that podcasting still possesses an aura of dissenting, edginess.

Maron's disdain for radio is tempered however when, while channel surfing in his car, he comes across an inventively funny late-night mock talk show. Marc is so impressed that goes down to the station and befriends the host Bill Shepard (Phil Hendrie). The two immediately hit it off as Maron recognises the host as a virtuoso of the live broadcast, someone who can create an entertaining, multi-layered conversation using only his voice. Shepard introduces Maron to some of his ‘Radio Cowboy' friends who all lament the way that corporate radio has treated them, yet they still torment Maron about his defection to podcasting. Interestingly, the central objection is the lack of liveness, which Shepard and his colleagues see as the fundamental ingredient that gives radio its identity and its relevance. The sense of connection and interactivity with the audience underpins radio's immediacy and what in academic parlance is called co-presence: the intimacy that the listener experiences knowing that what they are hearing is happening in real time.

The response is from Maron is that podcasting’s interactivity with its audience has to be integrated with the creative use of social media. Undoubtedly, in the internet era broadcast radio also utilises the likes of Facebook and Twitter to reach its audience but it is not integral to the building of, and relationship to, the audience in the way that podcasting is. This epitomises the liminal nature of the podcast in that it operates in an "in-between" space, reliant on the cross-platform, networked infrastructure of the internet while also drawing upon many of the traditional, formal aspects of radio. Indeed, it is interesting how this serialised television comedy, available through an online streaming service, and drawing upon the podcast in a visual and narrative sense, exemplifies visual/audio/networked trans-mediation.

After his encounter with Shepard and the other 'radio cowboys' Maron records a monologue in which he reconsiders the merits of radio broadcasting and how it taught him to "talk solo" and "riff out", skills that allowed to become perhaps the first podcast star. Also, Shepard grudging compliments Maron as a pioneer and states he is envious of his independence from the corporate machinery that compromised his own career and the art of radio. Maron is, at the end of the day, a comedy, but its writing draws astutely on hierarchical enmities between those invested in competing notions media success and status and pointedly foregrounds how ‘liveness' is at the root of the conceptual distinction between podcasting and radio. But is also rightly asserts that the two forms are deeply interconnected by the same fundamental DNA.

High-Rise: Audacious Masterpiece or Underwhelming Mess? (some spoilers)

So I finally got to see Ben Wheatley's adaptation of High-Rise which I had been anticipating for some time (see blog of December 31). I have to say however, that I left the theatre in an state of ambivalence. In many ways the form in which Ballard's difficult novel has been translated to the screen should have really immersed and provoked me, yet I couldn't help feeling that the film was actually less than the sum of its parts.

On a positive note, one cannot help but be impressed by the visual audacity. Evoking a tone which amalgamated 70s kitsch, modernist brutalism and baroque fantasy, the beauty of the images, many of which are aesthetically mesmerising, imbues the social break-down with a ironic and sickening aura. Certain shots are slowed down almost to allow full contemplation of the beauty/horror, but this is counterposed with a lot of heavy editing between different scenes and characters. Wheatley plays with the visual metaphor of child's kaleidoscope both in specific framings and within the editing structure, which alludes to the drug fueled hedonism. There is a randomness to the collage of images, which on the one hand, reflects the chaos of societal disintegration, however for me it came at the expense of a build-up of any real tension.

As the film progressed, with all aspects of structural rule collapsing, the editing becomes more frenzied; and whereas one can see and understand that the director is fusing content with form here, the effect bordered on becoming incoherent and tiresome. Furthermore, obsession with individual images and overwrought editing led to an underdevelopment of the 'character' of the building itself; the brutalist architecture, the ultra-striated spaces, the cold uniformity of interiors, all could have been evoked much more centrally as the underpinning to the social hierarchy and, in turn, the cause of the social disintegration. The film's relentless cultivation of its form and style ended up getting in the way of a more allegorical exploration, which I was craving.

It is certainly the case that my familiarity with the book, and hence my preconceived expectations, were influencing me and perhaps in a negative way. The film doesn't attempt to answer obvious questions that I had when reading the book, i.e. why doesn't Laing just leave? Indeed, I think Wheatley's production design is aimed at offsetting such instrumental questions, and watching the film with a realist mindset is a non-starter. But that's fine. My memory of reading the text was of the nuanced yet prescient allusions to the influence of spatial organisation on behaviour, class distinctions, the inherent inequalities of capitalism, the narcissism of the modern subject, media and notion of spectacle, and the encroachment of technology on the human condition. Ballard was able to strike a balance between portentousness and satire, between intellectual substance and stylistic flair. This balance was, to me, somewhat uneven in the film. The social allegory was overwhelmed, rather than enhanced, by the film's aesthetics. Indeed, I wondered what those who hadn't read Ballard's novel would get this through the film. In the end I felt that, as with many adaptations, High-Rise might have worked better if it had taken the novel as a reference point rather than attempting to be so faithful.

My reaction to the cast, or perhaps more accurately the characterisation, added to my somewhat exasperated reaction. Tom Hiddlestone was very good as Laing showing a sense of uncertainty in negotiating the social mores of his new surroundings: how immersion within and detachment from the unfolding situation was a comment on human adaptability and survival. The problem was, both visually and in terms of his approach to the role, he seemed be in a different film from everyone else. All the other actors were embodying a louche 1970s sensibility that went way over the top at times. James Purefoy and Luke Evans was a particular offender in this regard, but in all fairness this was perhaps more of an issue overall direction and tone. The film occasionally falls into the campy territory of BBC nostalgia trip Life on Mars (even before Keely Hawes turns up).  

These moments undermined a sense of real darkness and savage political bite that I wanted the film to have. It is clear that High-Rise is very much indebted to A Clockwork Orange and the production design, soundtrack and cinematography also reminded me somewhat Nicolas Winding-Refn's Bronson. Visually, High-Rise can definitely compare but it is doesn't go as far as those films in terms of barbaric ruthlessness, cruel yet knowing humour or, particularly in terms of Kubrick classic, cultural pertinence.

The film has certainly had a polarising effect.  In reading other reviews there seems to be not much grey area between explicit praise and utter rejection. There were at least 6 walkouts in the screening I was in. I wonder whether this was anything to do with the postmortem face peeling, the dog roasting, the sexual violence, or whether they thought the film just didn't go anywhere,  all of which could be true. It's kind of how I felt.  My overarching sense, however, was of a film in which the obsession with surface and style choked the fundamental thematic and political underpinning. Because of this, it played as a visually stunning yet curiously dissatisfying retro mash-up which lacked the allegorical weight I really wanted it to possess.

 

In Anticipation of High-Rise

Ballard.jpg

One of the positive outcomes of a bout of Christmas Eve manflu is that it affords the opportunity to lie in bed and tackle a novel from cover to cover. J.G. Ballard's dystopian science-fiction novel High-Rise sat on my 'to read' shelf expectantly for some time and I was determined get to the book before the release of Ben Wheatley's film adaptation in March this year. First published in 1975 High-Rise is a terse and brutal tale of the breakdown of social organisation within the confines of a huge, self-contained luxury apartment building. Rather than a singular sinister force enacting power through surveillance and control however, the book deconstructs the mechanisms of social propriety with the interior of the tower providing both a microcosm of ingrained yet precarious social hierarchies and an arena that frames and amplifies the resultant carnage.

As in most effective sci-fi, the ideas highlighted in the book have an allegorical prescience that still registers even though its tone and setting place it within the 1970s. Certainly there is a pointed critique of an alienated existence resulting from the functional architectural trends of the mid 20th century, along with prophetic allusions to the beginnings of a total saturation of image based culture. It is the interrelationship between physical space and social class that is perhaps the central concern. Ballard sets up the implicit habitus of the three protagonists through their differing positionings within the physical space of the building and, concomitantly, specific social groupings. There is somewhat of an inevitability of the familiar class distinction becoming aligned with the lower, middle and upper sections of the High-Rise. What I found particularly ingenious was the way even the mechanics of the class system disintegrate, firstly into feudally factions and then into a pure and savage individualism. Each apartment, corridor staircase and concorse become symbolic and material battlegrounds in a fight for personal survival. These thematic developments take on a blackly ironic prescience when one thinks of the seemingly inexorable force of neoliberal ideology today. 

There are many obvious comparisons with the dystopian fiction of Orwell, Huxley, Phillip K. Dick. The spectres of Joseph Conrad and William Golding are also apposite with the allusions to the precariousness of civil society and the latent primitivism of the human condition. Knowing a film adaptation has been completed and is shortly to be released, one is drawn into envisaging the cinematic possibilities. Certainly there is a Battle Royal/Hunger Games element to the gladiatorial violence and at times when reading the book one can envisage a more conspiracy/paranoia slant, a la The Conversation or The Parallax view, that plays with the incongruousness of 70s high-life chic with the rigid, utilitarian and oppressive aura of the high-rise tower. The production design possibilities even offer the promise of a more experimental visual approach, something that might be as uniquely memorable as A Clockwork Orange, Brazil, Gattaca or Snowpiercer.

From the short snippet of the film I have watched, along with the fantastic poster by Jay Shaw (right), the film looks to be part of what seems like the current cultural obsession with nostalgia and retro. It not only looks to be set in the 1970s but mimics the formal aesthetics of that cinematic era. I'm wondering as to whether this approach will yield anything more than a flat pastiche. On reading the novel I thought that a film adaptation could potentially be more reflective of present concerns about economics, technology, identitiy politics and cultural geography. The proof, as always will be in the watching. Ben Wheatley is undoubtedly a promising choice as director. His horror credentials - with Down Terrace and Kill List - demonstrate a skill for creating tension building scenarios and gut-churning outcomes and his latest feature A Field in England possesses visual narrative and flair. These creative elements all bode well in a turn to dystopian fiction and the hope for me is that High-Rise Joins Under the Skin and Ex_Machina as part of a highly accomplished cycle of British inflected, 'hard' Science-Fiction. 

On what a blockbuster should be: Mad Max: Fury Road

I don't like contemporary blockbusters. Or more accurately I don't like the contemporary blockbuster machine or the films it produces. The franchising of vapid, comic book worlds reliant on weightless CGI, overwrought with incomprehensible plotting and undramatic drama, and populated by superficial ciphers for the most egregious stereotypes. Perhaps most of all I hate the unquestioning fandom, not that fans don’t criticise (my word they do) but the belief that such opinions carry a weight that somehow transcends their economic obedience is, for me, at best naïve, at worst, cultural dupery in the extreme.  Fans, in investing in the trans-media universe, which may once have been considered the realm of geeky outsider, have helped entrench the new mainstream corporate hegemony. In this context ‘creativity’ has the patented framework of videogame repetition, ‘uniqueness’ is sandblasted by the laser precision of digital effects forging a ‘reality’ without any danger of the ‘real’. Critical judgement reflects this sanguine narrowness with the apologetically harmless 3 star review extolling the ‘great action sequences’ and bemoaning ‘lack of character development’. Thankfully, perhaps even accidentally within this environment, Mad Max: Fury Road restores faith in possibility that an overwhelming, viscerally cinematic experience is still possible.

But hold on isn’t Mad Max: Fury Road a remake/reboot of an existing franchise? Technically yes. But it’s a film that succeeds spectacularly by rejecting prevalent mantras that afflict the majority of its contemporaries. Firstly, it creates a world that is preposterous yet wholy believable in its own terms. It does this by almost entirely foregoing pseudo-technical exposition, which almost always creates gaping plot holes, and stripping the narrative to its minimalist requirements. Instead, intricate subtleties of visual storytelling create layers of meaning, which are not definitively explained but build an immersive, believable cinematic fabric. The post-apocalyptic milieu is beautifully grotesque reducing ‘civilisation’ to a barbaric, sickening totalitarian machine within which humanity is barely recognisable.  It is at once disturbingly alien and unerringly familiar but the film requires the viewer to work to actively bridge the gap. Mad Max is bursting with the quality most mainstream blockbusters lack: imagination.

The action is quite simply incredible. This is primarily because it retains the weight of live  filming while appropriately amalgamating CGI via the increasingly lost art of good editing. Unlike the obfuscatory visuals of many action films the frenetic pace does not hamper the ability so see what is going on. In a clear allusion to Mad Max 2 the action centres largely around the chase of huge truck which metaphorically becomes the lifeboat to freedom. A pursuing army of customised vehicles look like pieces of industrial artwork which come to life as monsters without any need to ‘transform’. The action thus treads the fine balance of being totally ridiculous while retaining believability in the boundaries of its own world. Furthermore, there is a self-awareness here, and welcome lack of pious, Nolanesque darkness. Case in point is the riotously over-the-top flame throwing guitar player, accompanied by a phalanx of drummers mounted of on the back of one of the trucks, who had the audience in uproar but actually served a purpose in inserting a diegetic sound accompaniment to the chase sequences.

In amongst the visual mayhem there is a full sense of cinematic subtlety and intellectual awareness. The film manages to simultaneously sit in linear progression with the previous Mad Max films, retaining certain stylistic and thematic motifs, while unashamedly rebooting for the uninitiated viewer. The film’s central section slows to allow a painterly depiction of the empty desert symbolising the human frailty and battle for survival. These sections are as mesmerising as any of the action sequences and serve to build camaraderie between the central protagonists and empathy in the audience. An underlying feminist sensibility emerges that actually takes one by surprise. There are cues of gendered spectatorship, which set up traditional representational expectations, but these are pointedly undercut in a way that sits coherently within the story. Central to this is Charlize Theron’s Furiosa whose represents the central journey of the film while Tom Hardy, the eponymous Max of the title, remains is a psychologically anchored in his own personal hell. Not to mention how the film reinvents motherhood as the underpinning to a violent action bad-assery. 

There are some of the problems seemingly inherent to the contemporary mainstream blockbuster. The action sequences (and therefore the film as a whole) goes on too long, the ending is the patented sentimental celebration with the potential for a sequel left open. Tom Hardy is stoically monosyllabic, which is fine, but when he does speak his accent is Russell Crowe level unfathomable. Yet the film epitomises what blockbuster cinema can and should be, using cinematic visual language to transport you to another world, but one which is self-contained in its own textual boundaries. Mad Max: Fury Road gives you the space and the credit to be able to actively engage with its aesthetics and themes and it does't assume you are a naive consumer or a cultural infant. 

100 sci-fi films better than Interstellar

I was recently challenged on twitter to name 100 Sci-Fi films better than Interstellar. Anyone who knows me will know that I think it is a hugely over-rated film in many ways. So here is the list, in no particular order: 

1.                             2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)

2.                             Solaris (1972)

3.                             Primer (2004)

4.                             Gattaca (1997)

5.                             Rollerball (1975)

6.                             Alien (1979)

7.                             Aliens (1986)

8.                             The Terminator (1984)

9.                             The Terminal Man (1974)

10.                          Contact (1997)

11.                          Her (2013)

12.                          Under the Skin (2013)

13.                          A Clockwork Orange (1971)

14.                          Alphaville (1965)

15.                          Close Encounter of the Third Kind (1977)

16.                          Metropolis (1927)

17.                          Blade Runner (1982)

18.                          The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951)

19.                          The Thing (1982)

20.                          They Live (1988)

21.                          The Stepford Wives (1975)

22.                          Planet of the Apes (1968)

23.                          Destination Moon (1950)

24.                          The Black Hole (1979)

25.                          The Matrix (1999)

26.                          1984 (1984)

27.                          Silent Running (1971)

28.                          Westworld (1973)

29.                          Akira (1988)

30.                          Mad Max (1979)

31.                          Logan’s Run (1976)

32.                          Equilibrium (2002)

33.                          The Truman Show (1998)

34.                          Stalker (1979)

35.                          Existenz (1999)

36.                          Moon (2009)

37.                          La Jetee (1962)

38.                          Jurassic Park (1993)

39.                          Waking Life (2001)

40.                          Super 8  (2011)

41.                          Gravity (2013)

42.                          Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956)

43.                          Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1978)

44.                          Soylent Green (1973)

45.                          Robocop (1987)

46.                          Star Trek 2: The Wrath of Khan (1982

47.                          The Fly (1986)

48.                          Twelve Monkeys (1995)

49.                          Minority Report (2002)

50.                          Children of Men (2006)

51.                          District 9 (2009)

52.                          Fahrenheit 451 (1966)

53.                          Sleeper (1973)

54.                          Escape from New York (1981)

55.                          Sleep Dealer (2008)

56.                          Conquest of the Planet of the Apes (1972)

57.                          Inception (2010)

58.                          Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004)

59.                          Abre los Ojos (1997)

60.                          Scanners (1981)

61.                          Wall-E (2008)

62.                          Cosmopolis (2012)

63.                          Dark Star (1974)

64.                          Donnie Darko (2001)

65.                          Brazil (1985)

66.                          AI: Artificial Intelligence (2001)

67.                          Time After Time (1979)

68.                          Upstream Colour (2013)

69.                          Melancholia (2011)

70.                          Another Earth (2011)

71.                          THX-1138 (1971)

72.                          Starship Troopers (1997)

73.                          The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951)

74.                          Outland (1981)

75.                          Back to the Future (1986)

76.                          Starman (1984)

77.                          Seconds (1966)

78.                          City of Lost Children (1995)

79.                          La Voyage dans la Lune (1902)

80.                          Videodrome (1983)

81.                          Chronicle (2012)

82.                          Dreamscape (1984)

83.                          When Worlds Collide (1951)

84.                          Source Code (2011)

85.                          Battle Royale (2000)

86.                          Coherence (2013)

87.                          ET: The Extra Terrestrial (1982)

88.                          Repo man (1984)

89.                          Ex Machina (2015)

90.                          Ghosts in the Shell (2006)

91.                          Snowpiercer (2013)

92.                          Timecrimes (2007)

93.                          The Abyss (1989)

94.                          Pi (1998)

95.                          War of the Worlds (1953)

96.                          Altered States (1980)

97.                          A Scanner Darkly (2006)

98.                          V for Vendetta (2005)

99.                          The Man Who Fell to Earth (1976)

100.                      The Omega Man (1971)

6 Días en Mexico

Día 6

My last entry of 6 Días in Mexico is being written on Día 7, on the train back to Cornwall from Heathrow airport. The flight back from Mexico City was very busy but thankfully shorter than the 13 hours it took to travel out. However, getting stuck at Plymouth because of a broken down train on the line somewhere in Cornwall meant I was put in a taxi to finish the trip. Another triumph for First Great Western.

Friday evening when I gave my talk at Kosmica things couldn’t have gone better. The final day took place in the Laboratorio Arte Alemeda which was a gallery with several spaces all being used by Kosmica. The main area had a stage set up in the corner with seating for about 150 people and a projector set up on the side for the presentations. Because of yesterday’s cancellation there was a full programme of short films, music, and academic talks. Once I got set up I was feeling pretty confident but was still a little concerned that my emphasis on the nuances of language and imagery to create gendered meaning might be a little esoteric. I need not have worried. The audience all seemed very engaged getting the underlying irony I attempt to assert. Some interesting questions were asked about how shifts in social context could affect identity politics in the future and various people came up afterwards to ask further questions and chat. In general everyone was in credibly generous and even thanked me just for turning up.

Going to Kosmica has only instilled my own interest in the necessity of academic public engagement and given me further inspiration and ideas about how I might do that in the future. I fancy cutting together a 20minute film on the history of Sci-Fi and narrating to it while it plays. The academic presentation is such a rigid structure a times and I think it can be utilised in a more creative way. Once my talk was done I could then relax and enjoy the rest of the evening. I had gotten to know some of the other speakers over the week and it was great to see such interesting and diverse work being discussed in one forum. I had no idea that there was such an intensely passionate space art community who are doing some extra-ordinary work that is actually integrated with both the American and Russian space programmes. I felt I had to apologise for the fact that all I know about space comes from films and books – however that was the point of my talk so it’s ok. At dinner afterwards I got a chance to speak with everyone properly as I had been somewhat anti-social in the previous days with the other work commitments I was focusing on. I was glad I got to know Nahum, the conference organiser, over the last few days. A talented and charismatic guy who has done some amazing work in the past as well as curating huge events all over the world. He would be great to get down to Falmouth for a guest lecture. The group were talking about holding Kosmica in Montreal next year – it would be really great to attend out in Canada and perhaps even try to indulge in some kind of artistically inspired talk.

Even though Saturday had been late I still got up early determined to have a full day before flying back in the evening. It was a beautiful morning and I walked out once again to Centro Historico but stopped off in the Jardin de Santiago and read some more of The Underdogs thinking that the tranquillity of the warm sunshine belied the revolutionary tale of Mexico and the protests that permeated the street only two days earlier. On a more superficial level it was nice to enjoy the weather before coming back to Blighty. I had lunch with Carrie Paterson who is an American artist and publisher who, the previous night, presented a paper on using scents to help astronauts cope psychologically with space travel. She had a really interesting background and I was flattered that she wanted me to contribute a piece to one of the magazines she publishes in the States. Such dialogues are often the most enjoyable parts of conferences – moving away from the structure of the conference itself and finding out what makes people tick. We had a long debate about the tension between the work one wants to do and the work one has to do. Both academics and artists have to trade off between the two and thinking about this made me realise that I am in a fortunate position right now where the trade off is working for me.

The rest of the afternoon was spent in the liminal space between melancholia (from having to leave) and contentment (to be able to return home). Hotel lobbies and airport lounges somehow seem to psychologically amplify these feelings – they are spaces of transition where you are essentially killing time before moving on. The week has been really enlightening, enjoyable, particularly productive in terms of speaking in front of a different kind of audience at Kosmica and with the unforeseen diversion into Mexican politics. Hopefully, I will be back in Mexico at some point to further soak up the fascinating culture and society.

6 Días en Mexico

Día 5 - 4pm

Last day of the conference. Last night was cancelled because of the protests so all the talks have been moved to Friday in one marathon session. Luckily for me I am on early. Will be good to get it done and then relax for the rest of the evening. I am a little worried about the amount of text I have on my presentation. It’s a bit of a no no to try and make your audience read slides however I am talking about the gendered use of language so it is somewhat necessary. With most of the audience having English as a second language I'm also concerned that people won't really get the gist. Irony and subtly are somewhat difficult to translate. Hopefully the video and images will help.

I interviewed two students this morning - Jorge and Gabriel - about the protests. They both study journalism and were very erudite and interesting. It was somewhat depressing to hear them speak not only of a total lack of hope in politics but also in their own futures. In many ways they echoed concerns for so many young people around the world about how governments and corporations are serving their own interests and not providing a framework for future generations to thrive. It was interesting to hear them talk in such scathing terms about journalism and the media. I tried to talk to them about the possibility of independent media and what it could offer but surprisingly they said they didn’t really know how to use social media and new platforms. I just hope their future is better than the one they envisage.

One thing that is immediately obvious about Mexico is the bizarre organisation of traffic. The city is as scary as Athens when it comes to mad drivers and I’ve already witnessed two actual accidents and countless other near misses. However, there is a completely insane system where the traffic police, and there are a lot of the them, directing traffic using extravagent arm gestures and whistle blasts but this is completely at odds with the traffic lights system which they seem to totally ignore. So it all makes for a kind of live action Death Race 2000 as a pedestrian you have absolutely no idea what is going on and have to hope you don't have a particularly high points value. In order to negotiate this I take my cues from other people as they cross that I’ve not selected someone with an overt deathwish.

Tinkering about with my presentation again now. Not sure how tonight is going to go but I feel prepared at least. Been a long week waiting to go on so will be nice to relax and enjoy the evening afterwards.

6 Días en Mexico

Día 4 – 9pm

Got up very early to do the podcast. Although I think my contribution had limited success due to the intermittent Internet. Our guest speaker on climate change new his stuff and the we really got into the details of the issue in the aftermath of Obama accord with the Chinese. Because I kept breaking up on Skype I don’t think my impressions of the political situation came over that well. Hopefully I can rectify that next week. Spent the rest of the morning working on my presentation for Kosmica’s final evening. Did a lot of tweaking but I think it’s finally looking like I want it to. Some more work required tomorrow but I'm not far off. It’s good enough that I will be able to relax tonight. Had dinner this evening with Nahum the organiser of the conference, Carrie, Rob and Nicola who are all speaking. Interesting evening in which discussion moved easily across subjects. The main topic of conversation, of course, which was happening as we ate. The police presence in Mexico City generally is very high but walking to the restaurant there were cops everywhere. I've seen more guns this wee than I have in my entire life. I went into a 7/11 to buy some water the other day and the security guard had a 3ft shot gun. It's not scary as such but unnerving when you're not used to seeing that.

Before dinner at 5pm I walked down to the paseo de la reforma to see the protests streaming past and it was an impressive sight. Very nosey and passionate but peaceful. 30,000 people walking from different parts were congregating on one of the main squares called the Zocalo. I felt somewhat uncomfortable however voyeuristically observing such an event in a passive detached way, like I was intruding on something that I lack the knowledge to fully comprehend. Dyan from the conference has put me in touch with two journalism students and I'm interviewing them tomorrow for the podcast so I’m hoping they can express in some way the importance for them of what is going. I’m kind of disappointed that I haven’t been able to do more exploring while I have been here but it just hasn’t been that kind of trip. But this to me is more enjoyable that simply sight-seeing.

6 Días en Mexico

Día 3 - 11:40 pm

A long but incredibly productive day. Lots going on here which I didn’t anticipate. Mexico is in the grip of political turmoil and there is a general strike and a mass student protest happen tomorrow. 43 student teachers were kidnapped in the South of the country and the public outcry has brought into focus the high levels of political corruption going with public officials being arrested for connections with drug cartels. The government still doesn’t know where the missing people are and the President of Mexico is under pressure to resign. This seemed like a great 'story' to cover while I’m here for the Three Muckrakers Podcast and UK progressive. One of the organisers of the conference has put me in touch with a university lecturer who is going to try and get some of the student protestors to give me an interview. I've spent the day setting that up as well as preparing for the podcast and for my conference talk. Turns out that the free wifi offered by the multitude of Starbucks in Mexico City has been a real saviour. Neoliberal, corporate capitalism has come to my rescue. In between bouts of writing I walked up to the Centro historical to look around. Kosmica tonight was a fun event, which took the form of an interactive history of drinking in space complete with several shots of vodka for the audience and an installation of vaporised whisky. At the end everyone was gearing up to go crazy, but with my 8 am call time for the podcast recording I made a feeble retreat back to the hotel. You know you’re a grown up when you take pleasure in the fact that work is a higher priority than fun.