Issue 4
Sound
"Silence would teach them the joys of sound” – Helen Keller
Sound—an anticipation of movement—conveying an experience through vibrations and frequency. How do we articulate the idea of sound, when sound itself is articulation? The phone rings, and you talk with your friend, whom you haven’t spoken with in a while: their laughter echoes a sense of home. The hymn is sung through the mouths of believers, their voices praising, while the woman, in her long skirt and billowing hat, keeps in tune with the rhythm—tapping her foot. The sky is wide and bright; the birds know their way to the murmuring stream, and they keep no secrets as they sing from branch to beach. The Tibetan bowl sends a frequency through the air that moves the listeners to a state of calm, therapizing the past and releasing the tension held deep in the heart center—they exhale. This is sound.
Sound is a disruption to silence. And sometimes sound can be just that—disruptive—but it is also soothing, informing, and inspiring. This opportunity to investigate sound will challenge how sound is viewed, and the importance of perspective. From afar, sound is a pique of the ear; a closer of inspection reveals individual sound particles starting to osculate into existence, forming the uniqueness of waves and frequency. Everything creates sound, from an oak tree sprouting a seed to the plankton parading on the ocean floor. Only humans recognize silence because we’ve built walls that block out the noise, but when you listen to the Earth, the sound you hear, see and feel will break barriers.
Are you listening?
Shortcut to Joy
Text by Donna Steele
Sound the alarm, I wanted to shout to the world. I’ve been betrayed! And so I was, by a corporate machine that built the house that stored the plans that made the walls that tumbled down on the newest hire, me. Though the professional pain felt tailor-made, I didn’t wear it well.
In an effort to forget the demolition, I moved to Mississippi, where I didn’t have a job or friends. But I had access to state-of-the-art speakers and a sound system built by a true audiophile, my boyfriend. He housed albums like Carrie Bradshaw's houses shoes.
Despite the thousands of songs at my disposal, Peter Gabriel’s “Don’t Give Up” was my go-to in those dark days of the early nineties. “Rest your head. You worry too much. It’s going to be all right. When times get rough, you can fall back on us. Don’t give up.” The sound of these words sung in Kate Bush’s angelic soprano reminded me I wasn’t alone.
Dackner Keltner, professor of psychology at University of California, Berkeley, says music lowers our stress hormones, slows our heart rates, allows us to breathe deeper, and ultimately leads us to a place of wonder. When I hear a wonder-inducing song, I stop whatever I’m doing to give it the reverence it’s due. Because the other side of sound and song is not just hearing but listening. If it’s not worth listening to, it’s just noise.
The existential game of finding meaning in life gets re-mixed with all the noises that are mainstays of our lives: morning shows, radio, Fox News in every waiting room, podcasts, streaming news, series and movies, dings from our phones reminding us there is more information to consume. What most of these share is a sound byte, a fragment of information that aligns with the fragments of thoughts we have—then lose to noise.
Noise, busyness, and a dose of pills and alcohol can seduce one into thinking they’re not concerned by the most-human of impulses, reflection on the sound and fury of our lives. A good song can show us the way. One shortcut to joy, maybe even the meaning of life, is through music.
The neuroscientist Daniel Leviton explains that music causes our neural circuits to open the pleasure centers in our brains, modulating levels of dopamine and opioids our brains make. Neurons fire with the beat of the music, making people feel connected by literally syncing their brainwaves. This is why attending a concert can feel like a religious experience, and dance has a multiplier effect with this phenomenon.
I had a come-to-Jesus moment at the Greater St. Paul A.M.E. Church in West Florence on a recent Handy Fest summer night. The choir sang and swayed while the pastor bellowed and shouted songs from the depth of his short body—a sound far exceeding his stature. A tenor standing next to him hit notes the Vienna Boys Choir couldn’t, his voice high and clear over the beats and riffs of the drummer and guitarist. Energy was pulsating in that sanctuary as hands raised waving, clapping, passing paper towels so we could dry off from the sweat of keeping the beat to every glorious praise hymn sung at maximum volume.
I instinctively used song to get me through a rough patch many years ago, and I also use music as a joy incubator. Song is a handy bestie expressing the inchoate feelings that haven’t risen to the surface and watering the combustible ones that have. In short, it helps us fret and strut our hour upon the stage.
MUSCLE MEMORY
A new generation defines the sound of the Shoals
Text by By Paul L. Underwood + Photographs by Robert Rausch
The Muscle Shoals sound hardly needs an introduction. From Percy Sledge to Aretha Franklin, “Steal Away” to “Wild Horses,” Bob Dylan’s Slow Train Coming to Cher’s 3614 Jackson Highway (named after the address for Muscle Shoals Sound Studio), it’s synonymous with a sort of soulful funk, an earnest no-frills sound, a combination of historically Black music, performed by Black artists, but often backed by a mostly white band. That music, shepherded and augmented by Rick Hall at FAME Studios, and commonly performed by legendary backing group The Swampers (at FAME and later Muscle Shoals Sound), has traveled around the world and back again.
As Keith Richards says in the 2013 documentary Muscle Shoals, the sound that the Rolling Stones were looking for — and back then, everyone else was looking for it, too — was right there in the Shoals, and couldn’t be replicated elsewhere. “Those sessions were as vital as any we’ve ever done,” he says in the doc, before wistfully wondering how funky their other songs might have been if he’d been allowed back in the country to record there again.
That doc tells the tale in all its ragged glory. It’s a history to be proud of, for sure, but it’s also a bit of misdirection. Because the sound coming out of the Shoals since then is just as vital as ever — maybe even more so.
The documentary came out in 2013. That year also marked the founding of Single Lock Records, co-founded by Grammy winner John Paul White (then of The Civil Wars), Ben Tanner (of Alabama Shakes) and Will Trapp. In its ten years, it has released work by a wide-ranging set of artists, from the soul revivalists St. Paul and The Broken Bones to bluesman Cedric Burnside to nationally renowned singer-songwriter Dylan LeBlanc.
“We started out partnering with up-and-coming artists and bands here in our backyard, put out my solo records, won a Grammy (Cedric Burnside’s “I Be Tryin’”), and are currently working a release for the Blind Boys of Alabama,” says White. “Lots of great records in between. Excited about where the next ten years take us.”
“It’s hard to imagine being anywhere else for me,” says Tanner, citing the low cost of living, which allows him to record only music he’s genuinely excited about, and the influence of that earlier generation — including David Hood and Spooner Oldham (of Swampers fame), Kelvin Holly, and the late Donnie Fritts. “They’ve always been super-generous with their time and encouraging. They’ve always treated us like peers and friends.”
True to its storied history, the region retains a reputation as a recording mecca, drawing in national artists from Bettye Lavette to The Lone Bellow, the Black Keys to Band of Horses, Chris Stapleton to Demi Lovato. (That last one made a telling remark, telling Rodney Hall of FAME — and, of course, son of Rick — that she had never been in the studio with a band before. “It never crossed my mind that this could even be a possibility,” she says.)
But it isn’t just the two now-legendary studios that draw them in. Jimmy Nutt, a former engineer at FAME, founded The NuttHouse Recording Studio in 2006, and has since worked with the likes of Jason Isbell, the Blind Boys of Alabama, and The Dead South. “It’s kind of bizarre,” he says. “I almost feel like my business is counter to what it should be [given the state of the music industry]. This year is gonna be the best year I’ve had so far in the music business. I’ve been doing it for 23 years full-time. I don’t know, I can’t explain it.” He attributes part of that success to the documentary, and the wave of tourism it brought after its release. “It just shined a big light on this area.”
It doesn’t hurt, he adds, that many of the leading lights from the ‘60s and ‘70s are still around, playing regular local gigs. “We’re spoiled that we can see these legendary musicians in the grocery store at Publix.”
Michael Shane Wright founded Ivy Manor in 2019, right before the pandemic, producing the likes of Manchester Orchestra — and after a brief COVID-related downturn, business is better than ever. (Partial credit certainly belongs to the studio’s charming location, on two acres looking over the Tennessee River, with a working herb garden and plush guest rooms that make it both a workplace and a home for those who record there.) Wright’s relationship to the area goes way back — his father introduced Percy Sledge to Quin Ivy, another ‘60s-era songwriter and producer who had an outsized impact on the Shoals. But for now, Wright’s focused on the future.
“I love the history,” he says. “I love the historical music, and all of that. But I really want, five or 10 years from now, instead of saying Muscle Shoals Sound or FAME or Percy Sledge or Wilson Pickett, I want them to say the names of the artists that we found and are developing, being produced here in the Shoals in the 2020s.”
Each studio — including Noble Steed, run by Craig Alvin, who earned a Grammy for mixing Kacey Musgraves’ Golden Hour—has a different sound to offer, and a different specialty, but they all provide a 21st—century version of old-school authenticity. Naturally, it’s a draw for more experienced artists, but we also asked for up-and-comers who have recently recorded in the area. Their names include Marissa Luna; the Turnpike Troubadours (per Hall); Austin Bohannon (per Hall and Nutt); Megan Knight; and Frank Viele (per Nutt). Gary Nichols isn’t an up-and-comer — he won a Grammy with The SteelDrivers — but he has had newfound success as a bluegrass artist with “Fire in the Dark,” recorded at Ivy Manor.
And, of course, there is perhaps the most famous Shoals native of the moment, Jason Isbell. 2013 — the year of Muscle Shoals and Single Lock’s founding — also brought the release year of Southeastern, by Shoals native Jason Isbell. That album, recently reissued for its 10th anniversary, marks a turning point in the former Drive-By Trucker’s life and career, as it’s the first after he found sobriety, a milestone depicted in warts-and-all detail on the first track, “Cover Me Up.” The album wasn’t recorded in the Shoals, but it furthered the region’s affiliation with music, and perhaps a turn toward the new South— one less associated with “Sweet Home Alabama” (which famously name drops the Swampers), instead emphasizing a more dynamic and diverse range of sounds and subjects.
If there is, perhaps, a potential growth area for the Shoals, it’s in the realm of live music. There have been fits and starts — Isbell put on the ShoalsFest in Florence in 2019, 2021, and 2022; a live venue from some local luminaries didn’t quite pan out — and the location can be a challenge. There isn’t a major airport; no major interstate runs through it. This is part of its charm, of course — as is the Shoals Theatre in downtown Florence — but it means much of the action still takes place behind the walls of a studio.
As for why the scene has lasted — why, like a family-run business, the Muscle Shoals Sound has been passed down from generation to generation, each one remaking it as its own and offering something new — everyone has a different answer, ranging from the practical (old-time musicians mentoring the up-and-comers) to the mystical (the water spirit, as depicted in Muscle Shoals). All of them, we suspect, are true.
Whatever the future holds, the ineffable thing that makes Shoals music special remains eternal.
The Sound of my father’s Voice
Text by Michael Shane Wright
“The almond tree has flowered and the watchmen of the house have grown dim.”
As a teenager I heard a recording artist named Larry Bryant use those Old Testament words to describe his aging father in a song. Now in my fifties, I have arrived at the day when white hair and failing eyes accurately describe my own father. He will turn 83 this coming October.
Another set of words that illustrate and explain him is, “of his time.” Dad was born in 1940 to a man born in 1905. His family had just scratched through the Great Depression when he was born, the youngest of four surviving siblings in the Northwest Alabama town of Cherokee. His home had no plumbing until he was thirteen. “Dirt poor” was not a hyperbolic description of his upbringing.
He never heard his own father say the words, “I love you.” Never. The closest was a single utterance of “You’re a good boy,” which he heard shortly prior to his passing before the age of 60. My grandfather was a rugged man, acquainted with hard work, with manual labor, and with a kind of grit of which my generation is largely ignorant. An unwavering provider, he married my grandmother when she was thirteen in an arrangement between families that was not uncommon in those days in the Deep South. Perhaps this explains how in 1960, when he was twenty and my mother fifteen, there was an elopement to nearby Moulton and a secret marriage performed by the town’s Justice of the Peace—still in duck waders. Their secret union (and subsequent return to their family homes) lasted only two weeks at which time my maternal grandmother sought to bring an end to the romance, which was quickly becoming far too serious between her young daughter and this rodeo cowboy. My dad famously told her on the phone, “I’m sorry you feel that way Mrs. Thomas. I suppose I should come over shortly to pick up my wife.”
Dad and I played dutifully our roles straight out of the textbook during my teenage years. I had thus a typical if not unremarkable childhood. We didn’t understand one another. We butted heads. We were wildly different and I was absolutely certain that I was the smarter party. Now I have seen that Dad knew a great deal more what he was doing than I ever acknowledged or than he ever let on about. He knew the sacrifices he would have to make so that I could stand on his shoulders and rise above his station—the same kinds of sacrifices in his time that my grandfather had made so that he could do the same. From this place I could indeed learn more than he did and do more than he did. I could rise higher. He was only the second in our bloodline here in this country to graduate high school. I was the first to graduate college. My eldest son was the first to earn a post-graduate degree. My dad pulled the Wright family, through sheer determination, out of abject poverty. This is no exaggeration.
When Dad said those words to my grandmother, he began saying things that needed to one day be written down. He began speaking words that would help me remember him in the days when the white almond flowers filled his tree branches. And as I now look at my own white hair in the mirror, I have started to write my father’s words down because I know that soon enough the memories I work to maintain of him are all that will remain.
I am reminded that dads will always be dads and sons will always be sons. We seemingly cannot escape these roles no matter the passage of time. So still, many of our conversations begin with the words, “You should.” As a young man I chafed at those words. I didn’t want his “should” – his suggestions on what to do, how to do it, when to do it. I resisted. I argued. I got angry. I certainly had not asked for advice. Still, advice was inbound and regular as the mail. And today…the flow is strong as ever.
I imagine his last words to me will be some kind of advice I don’t think I need. And then…I’ll be left with only the memories—memories of a man who never learned to tie a tie around his neck and instead tied it on his leg before slipping it over his head, memories of fried chicken and Raisin Creme Little Debbie cakes from a green Coleman cooler in the hunting woods of Monroe County, Georgia, memories of him telling me it was OK to kiss my girlfriend but it wasn’t OK to maul her when he caught us rounding second base one Sunday night. I will remember him telling the man to give us two dozen shiner minnows on Saturday mornings at the bait shop and then telling me to stop putting my hand in the bucket all day long. I will remember him telling me, “You can’t sell from an empty wagon” and that my job as a salesman was to get the order, even if I had to cry, beg, fight, whatever. It didn’t matter. Just get the order. He told me never to start a fight and never to lose one.
I feel the day coming all too fast when I will wish for advice I don’t need and for the sound of my father’s voice just once more.
collage by Parker Seward + Robert Rausch
Transatlantic Echoes
Willie Ruff, specialized in the French horn and double bass as a musician, is a writer and an educator primarily at the Yale School of Music and is the founder of the Duke Ellington Fellowship at Yale. Raised in North Alabama, the birthplace of W. C. Handy, the "father of the blues", whom he met as a second grader.
After becoming a modestly competent drummer and boogie-woogie piano player, he lied about his age and enlisted in an Army band at 14.
Willie started to play the French horn in the Army because there were too many drummers in the band. By the time he was sixteen, he was good enough to be accepted into the 766 Army Air Corps band in Columbus Ohio among the famed Tuskegee Airmen. There he met the resident nineteen-year-old piano-playing genius named Ivory Dwike Mitchell who taught him to play the bass fiddle.
When they had completed their educations, Ruff at Yale, and Mitchell at the Philadelphia Musical Academy, they re-united in Lionel Hampton's band in 1955. That same year they struck out on their own as the Mitchell-Ruff Duo, working the U.S. nightclub and concert circuits, often as the opening attraction for luminaries such as Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, Miles Davis, Count Basie, Sarah Vaughn, Quincy Jones, and Dizzy Gillespie. With the death of Dwike Mitchell in 2012, Ruff refocused his efforts on teaching, making musical documentaries, and appearing on the global concert and lecture circuit.
Willie was one of the founders of the W. C. Handy Music Festival in Florence, Alabama. In 1991, Ruff published A Call to Assembly: The Autobiography of a Musical Storyteller, a critically acclaimed memoir for which he won The American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers (ASCAP) Deems Taylor Award for Music Writing. In 1994, he was inducted into the Alabama Jazz Hall of Fame. Ruff received the Connecticut Governor’s Arts Award in 2000 for his work with the Duke Ellington Fellowship Program. In 2001, he was elected an International Horn Society Honorary Member. In 2013, Ruff was awarded with the Sanford Medal. The Sanford Medal is the highest honor from Yale University’s School of Music. Willie currently lives in North Alabama.
Text by Eli Milliman + Photographs by Robert Rausch
Three of my children and I are driving down the highway.
“Do you want to hear the song, Dad?” my 18-year-old inquires.
I do not. I’ve heard her play the band 21 Pilots around the house. Asking me if I want to hear another one of their songs is like asking me if I want a spike hammered slowly into my ear.
“Just read me the lyrics.”
My 21-year-old begins reading something that sounds like an ignorant, self-empowered preteen’s attempt at hip hop. I don’t like it. I knew I wouldn’t. Yet, the sentiment reminds me of much better songs by much better songwriters.
“Read the lyrics to ’I Am a Rock’ by Paul Simon.”
The 21-year-old reads. Then I play the song on the car stereo. I feel a tear in my eye, but how can that be? An island never cries.
We repeat this process with Neil Diamond’s “I am…I said.” A similar sentiment echoed through another artist’s voice, time, and place. My 18-year-old loves all of the songs we read and listen to without any classification, no lines drawn between Paul Simon and 21 Pilots. I’m not so open-minded. I favor mature voices. The ones who sound as if they’ve lived some life and read a book. The song my child originally asked me to listen to sounds like a boy about to cry over puberty. It just doesn’t speak to me.
* * *
Willie Ruff is waiting for me in the Florence Public Library. I’m not late. He’s early. I sit down and introduce myself. At 45 years old I am half Willie’s age, but I see in his eyes enough life to start a life over with. Willie’s conversation is full of knowing looks, wry smiles, clever winks, and playful expressions. He’s not shy, but when I prove to be competent in my knowledge of jazz albums and artists, Willie opens up. He tells me about being a child in school meeting W. C. Handy, living through segregation, being told he was “less than” in his own country, but when he traveled to places like Russia to perform as a jazz bassist he was treated like royalty. It is tragically true: A prophet is not without honor, but in his own country, among his kin, and in his own house.
I could listen to Willie tell me stories all day. These aren’t just stories. What Willie is telling me is history. I feel like I’ve opened a time capsule or stumbled into a cave full of ancient treasure and wisdom. Listening to Willie is no less important than discovering the Dead Sea Scrolls. After each of his sentences, I want to shout, “Hallelujah!” It would be completely appropriate, for my visit with Willie to get him to talk to me about his research and the subsequent documentary he got Yale to produce about line singing or lining out hymns and psalms depending upon the location of the tradition.
Line singing dates back hundreds of years as poor, uneducated Presbyterian congregations in places like Great Britain would sing the psalms a capella at home or at church. Someone who could read or had the psalm memorized would sing a line and the rest of the family or congregation would echo the line back at them. With simple melodies the lines would overlap, often creating a sound akin to a dirge, but a dirge not filled with sorrow for the dead, but for the joy of life; as if Neil Diamond said, “I am!” and the choir soulfully sang it back to him.
* * *
I’m at the Ritz Theater to see a play, the same theater Willie Ruff would go to as a child. I prefer the front-row balcony as it makes me feel like I have box seats at the opera. I’m fancy like that. I’m going to take photos tonight and I decided to experiment sitting further back to see if I like that angle any better. As I attempt to sit, my knees press firmly against the back of the seat in front of me. At just barely 6 feet I am not overly tall, but it is a sad reminder that this balcony was built for persons of color in the segregated South. Not unlike the ships that brought Africans over to this country in the first place, legroom was not a consideration.
The documentary that Willie Ruff produced in cooperation with several departments at Yale is called A Conjoining of Ancient Song. Within the documentary, Willie traces the tradition of line singing from its earliest forms in Scotland to its dying, but still current use in African, Native, and Caucasian American Christian congregations. The purpose of most religions is to seek the divine as something that is decidedly otherworldly, raising voices that the prayer of song might reach heaven. However, as I watch Scottish folk singing in their Gaelic tongue, sharing their history and song, and witnessing how seamlessly those songs and stories conjoin with the African American song and experience, I become even more convinced that the divine is not otherworldly at all. What could some other Heaven have to offer that people coming together from around the world, sharing their love, their life, and their music does not already grant us? My personal Heaven is riding in my car with my children, reading song lyrics out loud and then playing the songs, singing along with a joyful tear in my eye, somehow echoing a tradition that breaks apart any kind of segregation, conjoining our humanity into one divine experience.
The Resonance of Identity:
A Tale of Triumph in Silence
Text by Dan Hannon + Photographs by Robert Rausch
In the annals of human experience, the profound connection between the sound of one’s voice and the essence of one’s identity has long been revered. Throughout history, voices have heralded greatness, inspired nations, and stirred the hearts of multitudes. My humble story is one of a lifelong singer-songwriter and music producer whose voice had soared over audiences numbered in the tens of thousands, only to be silenced by the harsh blow of vocal cord cancer.
My life had been a symphony of passion, and my voice an instrument that harmonized with the world. From smoky bars and nightclubs to sprawling amphitheaters, I belted melodies that wove tales of love, pain, and the human spirit. But life, as it often does, threw an unexpected dissonance into my narrative.
The bone-chilling delivery of the diagnosis came like a tempest on a clear day, announcing the presence of laryngeal cancer. The doctor’s prognosis was grave, leaving me with a choice: undergo a total laryngectomy to eradicate the cancer or face the uncertain symphony of life with a diminished voice. Fear and trepidation intertwined with the uncertainty of what lay ahead.
Ultimately, I opted for the total laryngectomy, a decision that could save my life but rob me of the very essence that defined me – my voice. The surgery itself was a testimony to the marvels of medical science, but the emotional aftermath was akin to a haunting requiem. As I awakened from the haze of anesthesia, my hand instinctively reached for my throat, only to be met by the unfamiliar sensation of emptiness.
The psychological struggles that ensued were profound, for my voice had been an extension of my soul. A silence had descended upon me, severing the connection that had bridged my innermost self to the world. Music, once an expression of liberation, had now become a poignant reminder of my silenced identity. For a short period, I was an echo of my former self, yearning for the resonance I once took for granted.
I considered retreating from the world to seek refuge in the solitude of my thoughts. Each day became a struggle to come to terms with this newfound reality, and there were days when despair seemed an insurmountable adversary. Questions loomed in my mind like ominous shadows: Who am I now without my voice?
In my darkest hours, I found solace in reminiscing about my musical journey. I recalled the thrill of commanding a stage, the applause that echoed like thunder, and the electric connection I shared with my audience. Amidst these memories, I recognized that my identity transcended the physicality of my voice. It was the essence of my creativity, my vulnerability, and my humanity that had endeared me to my listeners.
Slowly, I began to explore alternative ways of expression. I became a much better listener and observer, as I could scarcely contribute to conversations. As a pragmatic solution to communicating in the studio, I learned to play melodies on guitar and piano while "mouthing" the lyrics, so that singers could understand what I wanted them to sing. I began to study the dramatic improvements that a plant-based diet could have on my health. I made the commitment and almost immediately realized incredible changes to my body and spirit, which has become a vehicle by which to encourage others struggling with cancer or various other health issues.
I also underwent a surgery called a tracheoesophageal puncture (TEP). My doctor surgically implanted a one-way valve to let air pushed up from the lungs to pass through from the trachea and enter the esophagus, causing the walls of the esophagus to vibrate as a new voice. This miraculous medical procedure enabled me to voice again—and to my surprise, many of my friends were astonished by how similar the prosthetic voice sounded to my natural one. I can even “sing” or manage to hold a few notes. Anytime a friend of mine has a birthday, I send a video of myself "singing" to them. With the aid of this technology, I rediscovered my ability to connect, to touch hearts, and to inspire. I found that even without vocal cords, my identity can resonate, albeit in different frequencies.
The support of loved ones played a pivotal role in my journey of self-discovery. My family, friends, and fellow musicians rallied around me, recognizing that my essence remained unchanged and that my voice, now artificial to some degree, was still as potent as ever. In their encouragement, I found the strength to share my plant-based fueled energy and enthusiasm with the world.
I have also encountered a community of laryngectomy survivors who had trodden similar paths of loss and resilience. Their shared experiences fostered camaraderie and understanding, transforming isolation into solidarity. In the warmth of this newfound kinship, I realized that the sound of one’s voice was not confined to the vibrations of vocal cords but could emanate from the deepest recesses of the heart.
My metamorphosis took root in the fertile ground of acceptance. I began to see my voiceless self not as a broken melody but as a distinctive harmony in the grand symphony of life. The profound truth I had uncovered was that identity was not anchored in the physicality of the voice, but in the spirit that animated it.
I hope my story stands as a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. In the crucible of silence, I found not the absence of my identity, but its true essence. With the encouragement of my closest family and friends, I re-harmonized my voice with the symphony of life, advocating to the world that identity transcends the ephemeral notes of sound and reverberates in the eternal cadence of the soul.
The Sounds of Worship
Text by Marty Gray
Growing up a young man in a small town in rural Alabama in the 1970s and '80s, there were certain things you were expected to do. Choose Alabama or Auburn as your favorite football team, throw bales of hay onto a truck in July’s oppressive heat, and be in church on Sunday morning. I chose the Tide, saw snakes under the hay bales and found myself playing the piano as the church sang out at our small, yet energetic Southern Baptist Church.
As the years passed and I met a blue-eyed beauty who went to the local Church of Christ, I was introduced to a worship style that had no need for my years of piano lessons. Gone were the instruments as they sang "Amazing Grace," except a pitch pipe for the song leader as he helped them keep their pace. For me, music and worship were like jelly and biscuits: one by itself just felt like something was missing.
Nevertheless, time and repetition have a way of making the once strange become a familiar and cherished friend. Those blue eyes, my Heavenly Father, and friends that have become family saved me a seat at the Church of Christ that brought me a whole new sound of worship and changed me forever. Today, I hear hundreds of voices so perfectly blended that they sound and finish as one. Today, I hear the sound of silence allowing me to reflect as I take the cup and bread. But most of all, today, as the words from the hymns are spoken in harmonic human tones, I know the Spirit lives within me and helps me hear and receive His sweet peace.
Text by Alex Godwin
My parents taught me to appreciate and play music. I didn’t exactly take to it willingly. I was “encouraged” to play the piano. I finally wrangled out of it to play baseball instead. Later, I grew to appreciate music and fancied myself an aficionado in my teens. I learned to play the bass guitar and really enjoyed the way music made me feel.
I never thought I would embrace contemporary Christian music. Thanks to the satellite radio in my car, I started listening to a Christian station on my drive to work. I felt uplifted and it set a positive tone for the rest of the day. Coincidentally, my church began to offer a contemporary service. Hearing the music in a live setting along with my congregation was exponentially uplifting. This new sound touched my soul in a way not previously experienced.
While the service is not about attending to my needs, the fullness of my praise and thanksgiving is influenced by the impact of that service and music is a significant element. At least for me, the sound and energy generated by the musicians is contagious. One can recognize when the band gets into a flow state. The bass guitar is an extension of the kick drum and I feel the beat of the two instruments. The piano and guitars dance intertwined. Melody and rhythm gel. Voices harmonize. Pure worship is the outcome.
I think we were made to create music and it pleases God in doing so. The form and shape of the sound can be presented in a variety of ways. I believe music comes from within our soul and offers a unique pathway to express our praise.
Feeling Sound and the Body’s Response
Text by Steve Nygren + Photographs by Robert Rausch
Sound is generally thought of as a vibration that is channeled through the ear to the brain. There’s another aspect of sound that affects us: its vibrations. We rarely consider feeling sound—and rarely consider seeing it.
Cymatics is the modal vibrational phenomenon where the vibration of sound moves matter such as sand or flour, creating a geometrical pattern. While sound waves are invisible, vibrations can influence physical matter, making sound's impact visible.
The concept of creating a land plan aligned with earthly vibrations is called “sacred geometry.” In honoring the aural and vibrational elements of nature, sacred geometry produces a balanced pattern for building and developing lifecycle features. The most common practice that relies on these earthly vibrations for human amenities is the use of a divining rod: holding a three-sided forked object, with hands on each side and the third prong held in front, parallel to the ground, the individual walks forward in search of the desired earthly resource; when the central prong dips, you’ve made your discovery (usually water). This method, used to determine where wells should be dug, has been around for centuries.
Back when Serenbe was still just a private family farm covered by pastures and forest, we hosted a series of land-planning charrettes to envision the community we would build. Because the English countryside had long been a model to emulate, I was introduced to Dr. Phill Tabb, whose doctoral thesis is on the English village system – with its dense hamlets, villages, and towns, and the bulk of the land still available for agriculture use – was an inspiration. While in England, Dr. Tabb became a sacred geometrist through the study of ancient patterns of community design. During the twentieth century, England became a central area for studies of sacred geometry. King Charles reviews buildings and land patterns attributed to sacred geometry in his book, Harmony: A New Way of Looking at Our World.
In our first walk of the land that is Serenbe, Dr. Tabb and I each shared how we were sensitive to the vibrations of the land in similar locations. We used this awareness to guide the plan for key buildings, paths, and gathering spots. The streets have since been built in a shape emulating the Greek letter, omega, with the homes and commercial buildings placed along that form in a rhythmic pattern. By building in response to the early vibrations we build in relationship to nature vs. imposing structure on nature. Vibrations transmitted through the ear allow us to hear and the same vibrations travel through our bodily fluids, allowing us to feel.
The omega design allows paths and walkways to dance between the sounds of hospitality centers for food, drink, and art galleries along Omega Street; the forest is at its center, and surrounding the omega pattern of homes allows residents to bathe in the sounds of nature as a part of daily life. This “dance” also creates varied waves of sound as a person walks between the pedestrian-intended street and the forest. This is one reason why visiting Serenbe is such a different experience from looking at pictures or even videos of it. When walking Serenbe’s streets and paths, people feel and hear, not just see, the patterns of Biophilic Design, which recognizes that all living systems are connected and communicate through the earthly vibrations defined in sacred geometry.
Human-generated sounds that we mentally block also have a vibration effect on our bodies: The irritating, overloud hum of a leaf blower, utility vehicles backing up, the eardrum-chafing insistence of car alarms and honking. We tend to block this cacophony from our “mind’s ear” because we have little choice but to endure it as part of urban life.
Adding to these are other sounds that are constants in modern homes: heating and cooling air compressors, a constant whirl of noise outside our bedroom windows, front porches, and backyard patios. That droning, too, has become a given in our daily lives, thanks to our desire for a perfectly air-conditioned home.
The Environmental Protection Agency has deemed noise pollution a growing danger to our health. Studies show that noise exposure that’s continuous and/or disruptive can affect immune function, increase stress hormone levels, and create cardiovascular complications that lead to hypertension and mental stress. Even low levels of constant noise such as traffic and heating and cooling air condensers can contribute to psychological disorders such as depression and anxiety.
Over the last several decades, the United States has built countless structures for people to live and work in, but little attention (if any) has been paid to the noise created by lights, heating and cooling systems, elevators… the list goes on. The noise-producing technology that we consider necessities becomes a background that we ignore – but the vibrations have a generally negative effect on our body. Water conducts sound; our bodies are 60% water. Any noise, soothing or irritating, affects the body. Knowing all this, wouldn’t you want to seek noise-free – or noise-pleasant – alternatives?
As our society gains a greater understanding of the positive and negative effects of noise on our bodies and our mental and spiritual health, it is hoped that we will become dedicated to options that de-emphasize vehicles, traditional HVAC systems, and other disturbing lifestyle noises. The speed limit in our community is 15 miles per hour, with numerous, serious speed bumps; we aim for cars not only to move at safe speeds but to produce less noise. Geothermal energy, a silent, more efficient method for water-cooled heating and air-conditioning, is required in all Serenbe homes and commercial buildings: the energy demand is less, the cost is less, and in springtime, when windows open to take in the sounds and fragrance of nature, residents are not suddenly bombarded by the hardly mellifluous accompaniment of the developed world’s noises —and with no sacrifice in comfort. Serenbe demonstrates that a vibrant life can coexist with a tranquil, sweet-sounding one.
The sound of a Room
Text by Smith Hanes + Photographs by Robert Rausch
How sound influences your work with interior spaces.
For my entire career, the spaces we work on, because they are hospitality projects, have been evaluated on how they feel, smell, and look. Then once the guest enters and sits, the element of sound plays an important role
Early on, when we first opened JCT Kitchen in Atlanta (our first big hit), Ford Fry called me and said "John Mariani (one of America’s premier food writers), just ate at the restaurant and he had a sound meter with him and we registered at 98 decibels" For those of us in the know, that’s LOUD. Like trying to talk over a lawnmower or a snowmobile. We had to change some things. For JCT, it was very simple. We added curtains in some cased openings. The curtains were double lined, with inner lining. And that did the trick.
This began my love affair with learning how sound travels and figuring out how to deafen the sounds without deadening the room. Some ceiling types are just naturally forgiving (such as vaulted or shaped ceilings with multiple structural beams or trusses). We learned in our projects, because carpet and rugs are just really hard to keep well; the ceiling is our friend. We began to cover and upholster our ceilings, combined with curtains, until we began to discover acoustical treatments tailor-made for the kind of acoustics we are looking for.
We’ve found when we get the acoustics right, we can turn up the music and add woofers for a strong bass presence, meaning we can really rock the music without ruining the ability to talk and communicate with others. If the acoustics are right, you feel that you’re in a lively space with plenty of ambient noise without it bearing down on you. You can appreciate the music and the surrounding action, and you can talk to the person next to you effortlessly.
Through the years we’ve used many treatments, but we’ve landed on a few products we keep coming back to over and over. To upholster our ceilings we often use Clipso, F-Sorb, and Tectum.
Space, how it sounds and feels, has been a lifelong passion. Everyone wants to be somewhere that feels lively. And most people want to talk to the people they came to sit next to. We’re doing everything we can to make that happen.
Sound
Text by Billy Reid
I guess you could say that a nylon warm-up suit makes a wispy sound when it rubs together. Or, that leather moto jacket might have a slight creaking sound when you stretch it? I would lean more toward the notion that there’s an intangible sound to fashion that typically never is heard by most of its wearers and followers.
There is certainly a soundtrack in our creative process. The songs and artists carefully selected for a runway show are a curation that might come from a classic song that you reheard on the radio or a new artist that we would like to expose, or it could be a beat that had perfect timing. I always wanted the sound for the show to be a phonic experience that felt like one with the clothes, how it’s timed to the walk, what songs for people waiting for the show, or the artists selected for live music. We’ve used such an eclectic range of artists for our shows: Willie Nelson, Phosphorescent, Black Sabbath, Miles Davis, Organic Groove, Gil Scott-Heron, The Civil Wars, Cautious Clay, Tony Joe White, and Candi Staton, Talking Heads,... to list out a few.
There’s also continuous music playing in the design studio and on road trips during the product development season. I remember moving from New York to Alabama after 9/11 and the Drive—By Truckers album Southern Rock Opera played on repeat for months in my Jeep. It was an emotional time for me and being back in the South after many years gone was pulling at my heartstrings. It felt like I could visualize the sound in a story. It would bring me to tears many times during long drives to and from the airport. When I relaunched my collection after a 3—year hiatus, DBT was a part of that season’s soundtrack.
Muscle Shoals is a huge influence on my life in fashion. Establishing a fashion house here, away from the major style capitals of NYC, Paris, and London had been a vision I believed would set us apart and keep us real. I had no idea how much the “sound” and the unseen creative energy of our area would affect my business approaches, relationships, and the love of our community. It has become a part of me, and a part of our culture that brings a deep sense of pride and passion.
That’s kind of how fashion has had a sound in my world. It’s far from scientific, yet so visceral, personal, and vital to the creative process. After 3 decades of seasonal collections, collaborations, and runway shows, we thought it would be fun to share a look back on some of the sound that has been such a big part of my musings and vibe.
COLOR + SOUND
Text by Jill Pilaroscia
What sound would you associate with the color red? How about blue or yellow? Do bird songs or sirens make you think of a color?
About four percent of the population experiences synesthesia: for them, a color can make them hear a sound or see a shape or even a number.
Growing up surrounded by artists, scientists, musicians, gardeners, I learned to appreciate and develop all my senses. Both the artistic and scientific disciplines seemed to cross-pollinate each other and offer up a unique way to experience our world. Ideas and emotions mingled, building a partnership of impressions that translated, for me, into a deep love of color.
I transformed that love into a career as a color consultant for architecture. My belief in the power of color to shape behavior and influence experience became almost religious. I observed firsthand that harmonious environments make a powerful impact.
Research studies by Joe Goldsmith at Virginia Commonwealth University have shown a cognitive connection between the auditory and visual regions of the brain. Sound and color are both products of wave frequencies, after all. Each color has a specific, measurable wavelength, and each sound has its own individual sonic fingerprint.
Colors and sounds both convey moods, which attach themselves to emotions and associations, both positive and negative. Red is associated with power, anger, blood, and war, as well as passion, excitement, and love. Blue denotes peace and tranquility yet can also suggest depression and melancholy.
Like color, each musical instrument has a defined timbre that is associated with our impressions of its sound. The rich, sonorous resonance of bowed instruments like the cello and violin contrasts with the excitement and energy of the wind-driven flutes and horns.
For years, I regularly attended the San Francisco Ballet. My favorite performances checked all the boxes for stimulating the senses, combining sound, color, set and costume design, and movement. When these components align artistically, the takeaway is intellectually seductive. The creative big idea is fully expressed.
I believed that by bringing together intuitive right-brain and rational left-brain ideas, and by drawing on artists from a variety of disciplines, it would be possible to create a color ballet. I set out to solicit a choreographer and a benefactor. The ballet would unfold using color and sound. Each movement would develop around one specific hue, with costumes, sets, lighting, and sound all responding to the emotional characteristics and symbolism of that color. The dance program would comprise a total of five to seven colors.
The red movement would saturate the senses with costumes, sets, and lighting that personified the power of red and its associations with strength, virility, power, lust, love, and war. The choreography would be dynamic, pounding, filled with leaps and turns relying on a large ensemble of dancers. The sound would be driving and forceful. The music could be Händel’s aria “Empio, dirò, tu sei.”
The yellow movement would be energetic, joyful, and young and have the brightest and most luminous of the sets. The dance movements would be fast, athletic, playful. The music could be Händel’s Suite No. 2 in F Major.
The blue movement’s choreography would be slow and graceful, arms sweeping the air and extending to the stage floor. I envisioned the sounds as moody, longing, and quiet, something like Beethoven’s String Quartet No.13 in B flat, Opus 130.
I am still seeking to realize this dream of a color dance production. The classical language of ballet could be interpreted with modern dance. The music could move beyond classical to other genres. Sometimes dreams do come true.