Hello, computur-generated audeeyunce:
On b’half’a th’ whole Uncle Fun and Sparky Team (i.e., me an’ Uncle Fun), I’d like ta apologize fer the erratickicityness of our reesunt postin’ skedjull. It’s bin difficult getting’ acksess ta Mister Kuzzens’ computur lately, on account of how he’s bin so busy usin’ it ta dezine sounds an’ other noises fer a real live talking theetur play with words an’ actors and everything. (I kin always tell when he’s doin’ this, becuz th’ swearin’ frum b’hind th’ office door takes on a more despurt an’ angwished tone.)
I thot ya otta know some of what he duz b’sides check his change jar ta see if we’ve bin inta it, so I wrote up some notes what I took dicktashun of th’ last time Mr. Kuzz talked in my gen’rul direckshun on th’ subject’a th’ topic’a sound dezine. Uncle Fun insisted that he prufreed it, fer th’ sake of what he calls ‘claritee’, but I don’ think there’d’a bin muchuva problem if we’d’a let it go out as iz. I’m as good a spelur as ya need ta be theez days, pervided ya takes th’ time te reed funeticully.
But, I wuz outvoted, one ta one (plus Moose, present but not voting on account’a she wuz busy keepin’ me in a half-Nelson ‘til th’ votin’ wuz declared offishul), so heer it iz, with reevishuns:
A SOUND DESIGNER PREPARES
Sound design is often overlooked, but it can be a vital factor in a theatrical production. It is probably not going too far to say that the success or failure of a play hinges on the effectiveness of a theatre’s sound system in conveying the standard pre-show “please turn off all cell phones, pagers, and texting devices” message audibly.
With that in mind, what follows is a rough outline of the living hell…I’m sorry—the process—which a sound designer goes through while developing the initial glimmer of an idea into a fully and gloriously executed theatrical soundscape. Experience has taught me that this process can be broken down into a few easy-to-follow (but not so easy to get ahead of) steps. Have you got your pencils and papers ready? Let’s begin with Step 1…
1. The sound designer receives the script from the director, and makes a mental note to read and re-read it, paying close attention for any and all stage directions and lines of dialogue that might indicate possible sound cues.
2. A good deal of time passes, often up to several months.
3. The sound designer looks at a calendar, realizes that there are now only six weeks until opening night, and that the director needs rough sound cues in a week’s time.
4. Four or five days pass.
5. The sound designer looks at the script for the first time…and discovers that there are about 175 sound cues in the thing.
6. The sound designer takes the phone off the hook and works for 36 to 48 consecutive hours assembling rough sound cues, pausing only to make numerous fresh pots of coffee.
7. The sound designer comes to rehearsal with the sound cues. The director says that things are running slow, and that the cast isn’t ready to begin integrating sound into the performance yet.
8. The sound designer returns home that night to find a phone message (or e-mail) from the director, who says that the entire concept of the play has changed, and that this will require a whole new set of sound cues.
9. The sound designer spends a day-and-a-half wondering what this means, since the director can’t possibly have had time to listen to the ‘old’ cues.
10. The sound designer begins work on the new sound cues. This is very much like Step 6, except that the coffee is now supplemented by something from the liquor store. As a result, up to a quarter of the original sound cues are permanently altered or lost when the designer clicks ‘Save’ on a digital editing program at the wrong time.
11. The sound designer goes to a meeting with the director, new sound cues in hand. The concept of the play has been changed back to the original one.
12. A combination of Steps 6 and 10. For the word ‘supplemented’ in Step 10, read the word ‘replaced’.
13. A studio session with one of the actors from the play, to record some lines heard in someone’s mind, or echoing from the past, or some other cheap theatrical device the playwright thinks he or she has just invented. The actor, who has been word-perfect in rehearsals up to this point, can’t get through three syllables without muffing two of them. Takes that come close to being usable are ruined when the actor’s stagey gestures cause hands, feet, and assorted other body parts to come noisily in contact with tables, music stands, chairs, pieces of furniture and bric-a-brac that didn’t even seem to be in the studio when everyone arrived, and, of course, the microphone. The sound of rustling paper, as the actor constantly shuffles the pages of the script, underscores everything, creating a sonic background roughly akin to a distant brush fire. After approximately thirty-seven minutes (twenty-nine of which have been spent getting the actor settled in the studio, listening to four or five of his or her ‘best’ anecdotes, and finding him or her a more comfortable chair) the actor remembers an overdue lunch date, and leaves. His or her last words are usually fairly close to “you can fix all that in editing, right?”
14. The director has decided to try another concept, which is a combination of the old concept and the new concept, with some as-yet-undetermined third element thrown in. In practice, this generally involves taking each of the old sound cues and combining part of it with part of one of the new ones, while making the finished product sound as much as if it had been recorded inside an out-of-phase dryer in a laundromat as possible.
15. Whatever time remains before the final week of technical rehearsals is essentially Step 10, with the following key additions:
a. Without prior notice, theatre management will decree that the theatre’s existing sound system (the unique qualities of which the entire design is based around) be gutted, and immediately replaced with an ‘improved’ (i.e. astronomically expensive) system. This will require advanced degrees in computer programming and electrical engineering (and possibly a commercial pilot’s license) just to turn on properly. When in the hands of a fully-qualified operator (the training for which has the minimum prerequisites of a Ph.D. in astrophysics and a dozen years’ experience in deep-space radio telemetry, and is only offered once a decade at M.I.T.), the system will display the fantastic ability to deliver lush, densely-constructed sound which is every bit the equal of the finished product that could be yielded using two shiny new tin cans and a slightly stretchy piece of string.
b. At least one member of the cast will quit. Most likely, it will be the one who was at the recording session. No recording studio within a fifty-mile radius of the county line will be available for the next eleven-and-a-half months.
c. There will be three more changes to the concept of the play.
d. Management may also impose another complete change of sound system. This is a near-certainty if the play is the last one of the season, and the theatre has several idle months thereafter during which renovations and major changes could be effected without disrupting ongoing productions.
e. In true dramatic fashion, the director’s original concept of the play will win out in the end—and at the last minute.
f. The sound designer will sign a carefully-worded and post-dated suicide note, which has been prepared in draft form for all occasions, with boxes for check marks next to the appropriate contributing factors in the final decision to end it all.
16. Technical rehearsals begin. Absolutely nothing goes right for an entire week.
17. Opening night. Depending on the technical complexity of the play, the results will range from a mistake-free show (probably caused by a power failure half an hour before curtain, resulting in the cancellation of the performance) to something more or less like any given technical rehearsal of the previous week. Regardless of what happens, there will be at least three standing ovations (the power failure will get four, along with bouquets of flowers delivered to the home of the president of the local electric company). First-night reviews will single out the lighting, set, and all other technical aspects of the show for praise, with the notable exception of the sound design, which will not be mentioned at all. The title of the play will be something along the lines of People Hearing Strange Sounds Constantly Coming Out Of Nowhere, While Doing Very Little Else. On those occasions where the title is more along the lines of Everything Happens in an Eerie Silence Where Nobody Hears Anything At All, reviewers will unanimously criticize the sound design for being unimaginative and dull.
Er, yes, well…there may have been just a hint of hyperbole in our friend Cousins’ recollections. No matter—one of our other friends who is decidedly NOT dull (cue the shameless plug) is Mr. Kurt Fitzpatrick. His multimedia multi-character Kurt-stravaganza entitled The Last Straight Man in Theatre opens a six-performance run at the Montreal Fringe Festival tonight. I’d call it a one-man show, but since he adopts a score of different guises while performing opposite filmed versions of them, it qualifies as something more than strictly a one-man effort. This is part of a summer tour in which Kurt will be bringing his trilogy of solo works to various festivals around the North American continent…not all to the same one, so if you want to catch his personal Ring Cycle, you’ll have to follow him around. Technically, this won’t qualify as stalking if you cite the information Kurt himself supplies on his peregrinations to the public at large:
You can get to know more about Kurt by entering his website through the front lobby:
And with that, I bid you all a happy, restful, and pleasant good weekend. Enjoy the good weather if you get it, and if you don’t get any, try to enjoy that, too.
Uncle Fun
A POSTSCRIPT BY MOOSE
Just for the record, I did NOT put Sparky in a half-Nelson.
It was a modified hammerlock. And he didn’t seem to mind at the time.
That’s b’side th’ point. You wuz impingin’ on my democratic rights. Th’ state haz no place in th’ breadbaskets’a th’ nation.
You forgot the bit where you break every one of your finger bones reaching for the power switch, which is conveniently located behind the board where it can nicely wedge itself in against the wall. Then again, if you have tentacles instead of hands (and what good sound tech doesn't?) it won't be a problem.
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