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A sensory ethnography of a sonic experience: Klein at the Barbican.

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Sewing together the boundaries between sound art and London’s urban soundscape is Klein; a multi-disciplinary artist from South London. Being influenced by a blend of R&B and experimental electronics, Klein’s performances take you on a sonic journey of sounds so beautiful, yet so distorted and individual to her as an artist. Being able to see Klein perform live at the Barbican opened me up to a different side of sound art that is more relatable to myself, and the music scene I’m a part of.

A concert space as prestigious as the Barbican would probably be any musician’s dream venue to play in, but probably not one you’d expect an entourage of creative youth from across London to open the night with a range of different UK rap styles. A concert hall, one I’ve played in as part of an orchestra, dotted with its members and patrons staring shocked at the stage as Jawnino, the opening act, lyricsises about youth culture, his friends on stage with him, the moment reminiscent of an underground rap concert where you’d expect to see mosh pits etc. The patrons and members, expressions of shock plastered across their faces, aren’t used to this sort of scene at all; if anything they feel cheated out of their ticket money- wasn’t this supposed to be an evening displaying the new Avant Garde? With Jawnino gracing the stage at that moment, the concert hall disappears, decorum is evaporated from the crowd as you can hear cheers mid performance, fans (including myself) shouting out the lyrics. Ending his set with It’s Cold Out, a far more experimentally influenced production than the rest of his set, the stage is mellowed out in time for the next performer, Lioness.

Taking a more conversational tone, Lioness maps out her feelings and intentions behind her songs to the audience. Strutting in a beautiful gown and heels, one of which breaks underneath her amass of energy, Lioness spits down the mic against more soulful backings in comparison to the former performer. But the mood shifts, suddenly the barbican hall feels like a rave space, DJ Marsta’s Hollow belting out, Lioness switching to a grimey flow. At this point the stage starts filling, girls clad in Cortiez take their places within the strange set up; there’s a desk, a metal detector, and a huge cube platform where a shadowed figure stands- that’s Klein. As Lioness finishes her set, the lighting shifts to darker, blue tones. The room becomes silent, and Klein begins her set.

My friend I’ve dragged along immediately turns to me; why are they all on their phones? The girls gathered around the desk seem to be communicating through their phones, something that seems to be a part of the performance, but something that myself and (by the looks on their faces) the rest of the audience don’t get. Klein’s musical set up is hidden from view, but she’s triggering distorted harmonic lines from what seems to be some sort of touch pad, and a laptop. A single microphone swings upside down nearby Klein’s head, she vocalises into it, adding to the dissonance that floats through the room. One of the girls stands up, alto saxophone in hand, at which point Klein pulls out an instrument that almost looks like a DIY trumpet. Together they improvise over the bed of noise, a sort of calm starting to be felt in the music. If this was solely an audio experience, one might not even come across the thought that the sound has been created by a Soulja Boy fan from South London, young in her 20s. The visual aspect of the performance is what gives it its “vernacular London” stamp. Projected onto the cube platform where Klein stands are extremely saturated photos, photos that represent urban London culture, particularly black culture, and memes- my favourite being one that reads “Life’s fun… Until I remember.” This “stamp” is further emphasised by Jawnino’s reappearance. Over a bed of distorted yet rhythmical glitches, the saxophonist carefully improvises alongside Jawnino’s heavily processed, punctuated words. Tension builds up within the music, the other girls on the stage seem to be performing a physical routine, but are relaxed in stride. When the performance comes to a close, there is a silence amongst the audience, some parts of the crowd with confused expressions on their face, some smiling, but most stunned in awe- this is a sonic experience most have never, and might never again, experienced before, particularly the younger, “trendier” parts of the crowd who might’ve been there to support Jawnino or Lioness. 

When I discovered Klein around a year ago, thanks to my good friend Khush, the saxophonist of Klein’s band, it shifted my perception of what music is and can be entirely. But seeing her live, seeing the sensory journey she curated throughout the evening, is something that will never leave me.

Sound Arts in the British Context 2

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When reading the Unfinished Business: A Conversation on Sound Art in the UK, a transcript of a conversation between Adam Parkinson and David Toop (the latter being the interviewee), I was able to understand better what separates the British understanding of what sound art is from other perspectives. David Toop, previously a Professor of Audio Culture and Improvisation here at LCC, is known for drawing connections between sound, listening, music, and physical art, and crossing the boundaries of how these themes interact with each other.

Sound art or, as Toop and other proponents of its scene in the 1970s would rather call it, “sound work”. The term “sound work” was preferred as it detached those involved in the practice from the art world and from music. This provokes the question; what is wrong with the art world? The most obvious answer is the exclusivity and eliteness associated with the art world. However, as time has progressed, in 2021 art is so much more understood and accessible that its become a lot more inclusive, and perhaps more comfortable to associate with the term “art”. However, exclusion and extortion still loom over the world of art. Though it could be debated that the prices of particular art pieces, exhibitions and experiences is only fair for the value of time and dedication that the artist(s) have put into their projects, there is zero doubt that this creates an immediate barrier, drawing a line of exclusivity.

Toop creates a very reasonable argument for detaching from the term “art”, but why then call it “work”? For me, the word “work” brings up thoughts of necessity rather than enjoyment, like being forced to do a job. Jobs, for the most part, require certain levels of skill, which, on the topic of exclusivity, could infer that skill is required to create sound art. This goes against my personal ethos, that art is one of our most innate functions, meaning that everyone has the ability to create it. On the flip side, the thoughts of “necessity” that were brought up could show that what differentiates sound art from music and the art world, is that sound art needs to have a purpose. Though Toop did not say this, its a nice thought to wonder on.

What Toop goes on to explain, is that in his practice of sound work compared to art, there is more value of the journey of the creation, rather than the outcome. This just goes to show, its up to you what sound art means to you, or whatever you call your practice, no matter what it may be branded as to others.