So, the song in French is possibly a little late - the site that posted it dated the recording between 1898 and 1900. But the opera it's from was 1888, so, plausible. And the words were just far, far too lovely to not use it!
I do not know French. Like at all. But GoogleTranslate gave me this, which provides a clear enough sense of the thing:
Jocelyn's Lullaby
Hidden in the asylum where God has led us
United by misfortune during the long nights
We rely both asleep in their sails
Where to pray against the trembling stars.
Oh! does not wakes
For a beautiful angel in your dream
Unrolling his long golden thread
Child, allowing it ends.
Sleep, sleep, the day just to him.
Blessed Virgin Mary, watch over him.
I swear to you all, I did NOT even make the connection between the title and my character, not until I wrote the song into the story and decided to mention the name of the song. Suddenly I realized I HAVE A CHARACTER NAMED JOCELYN AND OMFGWTFH SHE GAVE THE RECORDING TO MACKIE. It almost (almost) made me not want to use it anymore, but by then a) it was too late, b) I was too freaking attached to the song. Follow the link, and you can listen to it too. :) Quite a bit of static, of course - the recording is over a hundred years old, and on a thing made out of freaking wax, but.. honestly, that just makes it all the more amazing to me.
I did some writing this morning, a bit more in the afternoon, and then finished up just now. And I am in such a state of sheer bliss - I crossed the halfway point without even noticing it! And, more importantly... I felt like I really fell into the world of the story tonight. I was so caught up in Mephisto and David... and it was partly the music I had cranked on my headphones (Mackie playlist, natch), and partly the absinthe I was sipping (yay!), but...
Those moments, those are the reasons I've kept on doing this year after year. It's those moments, that artists live for, when another world just blossoms almost unbidden under your fingertips...
(I hadn't even thought of the implications when I picked out David's song: Link to sheet music, Googled for the missing verse. I just saw that it was pretty and a bit fantastic, I didn't even realize at first it was to be sung by a woman originally. And then he sang, and... and then everything got really, really beautiful. <333)
Monday, November 15, 2010
12 - Mephisto, continued
The drive seems to take an age. David chatters lightly about meaningless things, and I listen and do not listen as the mood suits. He does not seem to mind either way – he is such an easygoing boy, so happy to be simply allowed in my presence. And I... I find it so strange, that such a lighthearted soul can exist in such a world as this. Whether he is incapable of seeing things that would bring him sorrow, or simply disregards them, I do not know. But it seems nothing in this cold world will dissipate the sunlit atmosphere around him.
...No, he is not incapable of seeing sorrows, for he sings of them, sings of sorrow and the rich intensity with which it can be felt. He sings of sorrow and of those rare moments when it seems sorrow can never exist again, for nothing can touch pure rapture and bright joy. There is such depth in all that he sings... which is well, for he is yet quite lacking in repertoire. He knows the songs which are studied in conservatories, and through repetition and scrutiny have been sapped of all their passion. He knows the common songs of the day, and the popular ones of plays and the stage. But there are so many others, so many I should like to teach him, if I could only find the strength to do so. Though I should long to hear them, there are such memories attached... and then strange lapses of memories, and fragments of the songs lost among all of these years. I should have someone search out the music in written form, that I might have him learn the songs in that fashion. Though I could teach him by rote, I... I dare not risk finding what is attached within me to those songs. If he should sing them, they would find new life, and I could hear them again, but if I sang them, I should only sing of memories.
The carriage has stopped. The door is held open by the invisible driver, a chilly wind whipping into the carriage, seeking to expel us with the discomfort that it brings. David is silent, looking at me expectantly.
“Do excuse me, I was lost in remembrance of something. Let us go indoors.”
We are soon seated in a small, warm room. A fire is blazing in the grate, throwing black shadows on the carmine walls. The furniture is all of dark wood, upholstered in deep velvets and other warm fabrics. There are candles lit in sconces along the wall, between dim paintings of roses and peonies, poppies and amaranth. The single window is hidden behind heavy drapes, and the thick oriental rugs on the floor silence all footfalls. The fire crackles soothingly, the only voice to be heard. Perhaps I shall have a small meal brought in to us shortly, I feel I could use some refreshment.
Sighing, I let my body sink into a particularly plush chair, set near the fire. David perches on a small stool nearby, fidgeting and looking around curiously. I chuckle softly, a little tiredly, knowing I must find some amusement for him, since I have little attention for conversation. “There is a phonograph in the corner – do you know how to use it?”
The boy's soft blue eyes turn to mine, completely puzzled. “Whatever is it?”
I smile, rising slowly, then crossing the room to a finely-carved wooden cabinet. I lift the cover, and reveal to David's eager eyes a small machine. Resting on a wooden base painted with red flourishes, the mechanisms are half-hidden amidst ornate swirls of iron, painted gold. The boy watches curiously, and I open a drawer below to withdraw a pale white cylinder, my fingers touching only the two ends, so as not to disturb the delicate wax-like material. I adjust the cylinder within the metal frame, move the needle down just so, and attach the lightly engraved golden cone. A few short turns of the crank, a final adjustment, and I begin to step back to watch the response--- but, no, there, the announcement of the song's title is far too fast, I have forgotten to adjust the speed. I do so quickly, and we do not miss any of the song.
David stands aghast, his eyes widening as he hears the haunting notes of some distant piano echoing from the cone. “There cannot be a piano inside the casing, how---” He turns white, as a woman's voice is heard:
“Cachés dans cet asile où Dieu nous a conduits...”
“No---” he gasps, taking a step backward. But as the song continues, he moves slowly closer, fascinated by the strangeness of the lovely disembodied voice.
“Unis par le malheur durant les longues nuits
Nous reposons tous deux endormis sous leurs voiles
Où prions au regard des tremblantes étoiles...”
“No ghost. A recording, as words on a page,” I murmur softly, putting a hand to his waist in reassurance. He is transfixed, both by the eerie quality of the voice without body, and the skill of the singer.
“Oh! Ne t'éveille pas encore
Pour qu'un bel ange de ton rêve...”
He takes a hesitant step forward, leaning closer to observe the quickly spinning cylinder, but he cannot entirely focus on the mechanics, while the voice continues.
“En déroulant son long fil d'or
Enfant, permette qu'il s'achève.
Dors, dors, le jour à peine a lui.
Viere Sainte, veillex sur lei.”
There is a soft shushing from the machine, and I move to lift the stylus, letting it fall still. I turn to David, whose face is still pale, though his eyes shine with fascination. “What magic have you wrought, to conjure this woman's voice away from her?”
I smile tenderly at his innocence. “It is no magic, my dear... do you not recall that American, I forget the name, who demonstrated a voice recording machine here some years ago? Perhaps you were too young. This is a newer version of that invention. It is able to feel the vibrations of sound in the air, which causes a needle to press into the wax. The lines, when re-traced, cause the air to be vibrated in the same manner, which reproduces the original sound.” I am not entirely certain of the details of this delightful novelty, but it is as good an explanation as any, for David knows nothing of the sciences. I rather like him that way – his sense of wonder is always refreshing. “Our Jocelyn sent this to me, the singer is an acquaintance of hers in Paris.” I smile wryly as I replace the cylinder in its pasteboard container – the title, written in a florid hand, is “Berceuse de Jocelyn,” from some recent opera. An obvious connection, but the song is enchanting enough to forgive its title. Où prions au regard des tremblantes étoiles...
“It seems hardly possible...”
I sort through other tubes in the cabinet, seeking out one that is unmarked by a song's title. I open the pasteboard lid, and gently lift out the cylinder inside. It is a rich brown in color, and I return it to the case, trying several containers before I find one with a white cylinder. Though these are far more delicate, they produce a much lovelier quality of sound, catching more details of the performance. I carefully set it in the machine, changing the player head as I do so. Without turning, I ask casually, “Would you like to record something?”
He cannot help but gasp. “I--- is that possible? Mephisto, you tease me, what is this magic? Was there a woman in the next room, who sang through some hole I do not see? Certainly I---”
I laugh, and guide him closer to the machine. “Of course you can. Please. You only need sing – position yourself about here, and sing into the horn thus. Will that be simple enough? That is all you need do.”
“What... what shall I sing?” The boy's hand trembles. What a little darling.
“Anything you like! There is no demand for greatness, I have many more of these that are blank. If you feel poorly about how you sing, it can be erased. Do not worry yourself, simply sing something to me. Have you thought of something? Good.” I turn the handle several more times, and adjust the machine. “Now, sing,” I whisper into his ear, squeezing his shoulders lightly, then stepping back, that my breath will not be caught in the recording.
He clears his throat softly, then begins, singing the words to a song I heard played at Meres' party not long ago:
“He was a Prince with golden hair,
In a palace beside the sea,
And I but a little white Mermaiden,
And how should he care for me?”
A silly, simple song – and certainly it was not written for the male voice! But somehow, it seems all the more ethereal and sweet, to hear it sung in lower tones. The notes bend in unexpected places, and he curls them luxuriously around the words.
“Last summer I came, in the calm blue nights,
To roam through the cool sea-caves:
Last summer he came, when the stars were shining,
To walk by the lone sea-waves.”
His eyes have closed, but he remains where I positioned him – and I certainly hope the machine is capable of capturing at least something of this impromptu serenade. For though not every note is perfect, there is such charm in the tone of his voice, and the intimacy of the small room, the two of us so close, his lips so near the recorder...
“There is no light in the gray sea-groves
Like the light on his golden hair:
There be no sweetnesses known to the sea-folk
So sweet as his kisses were.
“I love him, love him, ah, so well!
That my love hath grown pain in me,
And to-morrow he weds the Princess, yonder
In that palace beside the sea.”
He remains motionless for a heartbeat, then steps back, looking shyly over at me, as if to seek assurance that he has performed adequately. I nod, smiling with more warmth than I have felt in some time, and lift the stylus, stilling the machine. “There, now... I have locked away your voice forever, as the sea-witch did to another little mermaiden.”
David laughs at the absurdity of this idea, but I can see he is still disconcerted by the whole affair.
“Would you like to hear it?”
He hesitates, uncertain. “If... if you would like to play it,” is the most decisive thing he can find to say. I suspect he is afraid of some sorcery, and also afraid to hear the failings of his own voice. For he has never heard it himself – one never sounds the same to others as one sounds to oneself – and what if he should not be pleased with it?
But I will play it for him, for I wish him to get some sense, some glimpse, of the beauty I see in him... he has given me so much, in the end, that I should like to give him something, some small thing at least...
I adjust the machine, and there is a moment of soft hiss, and then...
“He was a Prince with golden hair,
In a palace beside the sea,
And I but a little white Mermaiden...”
David gasps softly, a hand flying to his open mouth, his eyes wide. The quality of the recording is far from perfect, any copy could not help but lose some nuance of the boy's song... but it is enough. The purity in his tone, the delicacy with which he handles every note, arranging them as crystals in sunlight, each one adjusted just so, that the light it refracts will play off the others around it, every one made the brighter by those around it. Oh, there is such beauty in his song – and though he cannot hear all of it, he hears enough, and he hears... he hears, for the first time, the longing that is in his voice, as he sings of a prince whose love he does not deserve. Awareness creeps into his eyes, and he is terrified by the realization that his emotion could be so obvious to all but himself. He will not look at me. I take his chin in my fingertips, and lightly trace his lower lip, forcing his eyes into mine. His eyes are so wide, so blue, as the clearest skies of a thousand years ago, before smoke and dust rose to discolor them, his eyes so open and innocent and filled with wonder and kindness...
His eyes, so like those I once saw reflected in pools of still water, in those long-distant days when the skies were still new...
“Your song was for me...” I breathe the words half in question, half in statement. He nods, biting his lip, lashes fluttering as his heart begins to race. “Sing, sweet David... sing for me.”
He takes a shaky breath, almost whispering as he sings along with the recording, an eerie duet with himself.
“Last summer he came, when the stars were shining,
To walk by the lone sea-waves...”
His voice grows more confident, and he adds variation to the song, harmonizing with the ghostly echo of himself, making strange yearning chords of unearthly longing...
“There is no light in the gray sea-groves
Like the light on his golden hair:
There be no sweetnesses known to the sea-folk
So sweet as his kisses were...”
I wrap an arm close around his waist, pulling his body against mine. I can feel his chest rising with each intake of breath, I can feel the heat of the song as it pours from his red, red lips...
“I love him, love him, ah, so well!
That my love hath grown pain in me,
And to-morrow he weds the Princess, yonder
In that palace beside the sea.”
The words can barely leave his throat, so thick with emotion are they. I sway our bodies gently, in motion to his song, my hand caressing the delicate lines of his face, his eyes hopelessly lost in mine. He is so fragile, for all the power that flies from his throat... he pours so much into the song, that it leaves him so little to stand on, in the flood of the world.
“No princess could steal my heart,” I murmur softly to him, my breath mixing with his on our lips. His small fists clench at my sides, clinging desperately to my jacket, and I can feel his heart fluttering against my chest.
“I would not steal it from you,” he whispers, his voice thick with the sincere passion of his heart. “I would... would only hold it if it were offered, and hold it with such care...”
We do not hear the last echoes from the cold machine, for we are lost in the eternal, deafening silence of a kiss.
...No, he is not incapable of seeing sorrows, for he sings of them, sings of sorrow and the rich intensity with which it can be felt. He sings of sorrow and of those rare moments when it seems sorrow can never exist again, for nothing can touch pure rapture and bright joy. There is such depth in all that he sings... which is well, for he is yet quite lacking in repertoire. He knows the songs which are studied in conservatories, and through repetition and scrutiny have been sapped of all their passion. He knows the common songs of the day, and the popular ones of plays and the stage. But there are so many others, so many I should like to teach him, if I could only find the strength to do so. Though I should long to hear them, there are such memories attached... and then strange lapses of memories, and fragments of the songs lost among all of these years. I should have someone search out the music in written form, that I might have him learn the songs in that fashion. Though I could teach him by rote, I... I dare not risk finding what is attached within me to those songs. If he should sing them, they would find new life, and I could hear them again, but if I sang them, I should only sing of memories.
The carriage has stopped. The door is held open by the invisible driver, a chilly wind whipping into the carriage, seeking to expel us with the discomfort that it brings. David is silent, looking at me expectantly.
“Do excuse me, I was lost in remembrance of something. Let us go indoors.”
We are soon seated in a small, warm room. A fire is blazing in the grate, throwing black shadows on the carmine walls. The furniture is all of dark wood, upholstered in deep velvets and other warm fabrics. There are candles lit in sconces along the wall, between dim paintings of roses and peonies, poppies and amaranth. The single window is hidden behind heavy drapes, and the thick oriental rugs on the floor silence all footfalls. The fire crackles soothingly, the only voice to be heard. Perhaps I shall have a small meal brought in to us shortly, I feel I could use some refreshment.
Sighing, I let my body sink into a particularly plush chair, set near the fire. David perches on a small stool nearby, fidgeting and looking around curiously. I chuckle softly, a little tiredly, knowing I must find some amusement for him, since I have little attention for conversation. “There is a phonograph in the corner – do you know how to use it?”
The boy's soft blue eyes turn to mine, completely puzzled. “Whatever is it?”
I smile, rising slowly, then crossing the room to a finely-carved wooden cabinet. I lift the cover, and reveal to David's eager eyes a small machine. Resting on a wooden base painted with red flourishes, the mechanisms are half-hidden amidst ornate swirls of iron, painted gold. The boy watches curiously, and I open a drawer below to withdraw a pale white cylinder, my fingers touching only the two ends, so as not to disturb the delicate wax-like material. I adjust the cylinder within the metal frame, move the needle down just so, and attach the lightly engraved golden cone. A few short turns of the crank, a final adjustment, and I begin to step back to watch the response--- but, no, there, the announcement of the song's title is far too fast, I have forgotten to adjust the speed. I do so quickly, and we do not miss any of the song.
David stands aghast, his eyes widening as he hears the haunting notes of some distant piano echoing from the cone. “There cannot be a piano inside the casing, how---” He turns white, as a woman's voice is heard:
“Cachés dans cet asile où Dieu nous a conduits...”
“No---” he gasps, taking a step backward. But as the song continues, he moves slowly closer, fascinated by the strangeness of the lovely disembodied voice.
“Unis par le malheur durant les longues nuits
Nous reposons tous deux endormis sous leurs voiles
Où prions au regard des tremblantes étoiles...”
“No ghost. A recording, as words on a page,” I murmur softly, putting a hand to his waist in reassurance. He is transfixed, both by the eerie quality of the voice without body, and the skill of the singer.
“Oh! Ne t'éveille pas encore
Pour qu'un bel ange de ton rêve...”
He takes a hesitant step forward, leaning closer to observe the quickly spinning cylinder, but he cannot entirely focus on the mechanics, while the voice continues.
“En déroulant son long fil d'or
Enfant, permette qu'il s'achève.
Dors, dors, le jour à peine a lui.
Viere Sainte, veillex sur lei.”
There is a soft shushing from the machine, and I move to lift the stylus, letting it fall still. I turn to David, whose face is still pale, though his eyes shine with fascination. “What magic have you wrought, to conjure this woman's voice away from her?”
I smile tenderly at his innocence. “It is no magic, my dear... do you not recall that American, I forget the name, who demonstrated a voice recording machine here some years ago? Perhaps you were too young. This is a newer version of that invention. It is able to feel the vibrations of sound in the air, which causes a needle to press into the wax. The lines, when re-traced, cause the air to be vibrated in the same manner, which reproduces the original sound.” I am not entirely certain of the details of this delightful novelty, but it is as good an explanation as any, for David knows nothing of the sciences. I rather like him that way – his sense of wonder is always refreshing. “Our Jocelyn sent this to me, the singer is an acquaintance of hers in Paris.” I smile wryly as I replace the cylinder in its pasteboard container – the title, written in a florid hand, is “Berceuse de Jocelyn,” from some recent opera. An obvious connection, but the song is enchanting enough to forgive its title. Où prions au regard des tremblantes étoiles...
“It seems hardly possible...”
I sort through other tubes in the cabinet, seeking out one that is unmarked by a song's title. I open the pasteboard lid, and gently lift out the cylinder inside. It is a rich brown in color, and I return it to the case, trying several containers before I find one with a white cylinder. Though these are far more delicate, they produce a much lovelier quality of sound, catching more details of the performance. I carefully set it in the machine, changing the player head as I do so. Without turning, I ask casually, “Would you like to record something?”
He cannot help but gasp. “I--- is that possible? Mephisto, you tease me, what is this magic? Was there a woman in the next room, who sang through some hole I do not see? Certainly I---”
I laugh, and guide him closer to the machine. “Of course you can. Please. You only need sing – position yourself about here, and sing into the horn thus. Will that be simple enough? That is all you need do.”
“What... what shall I sing?” The boy's hand trembles. What a little darling.
“Anything you like! There is no demand for greatness, I have many more of these that are blank. If you feel poorly about how you sing, it can be erased. Do not worry yourself, simply sing something to me. Have you thought of something? Good.” I turn the handle several more times, and adjust the machine. “Now, sing,” I whisper into his ear, squeezing his shoulders lightly, then stepping back, that my breath will not be caught in the recording.
He clears his throat softly, then begins, singing the words to a song I heard played at Meres' party not long ago:
“He was a Prince with golden hair,
In a palace beside the sea,
And I but a little white Mermaiden,
And how should he care for me?”
A silly, simple song – and certainly it was not written for the male voice! But somehow, it seems all the more ethereal and sweet, to hear it sung in lower tones. The notes bend in unexpected places, and he curls them luxuriously around the words.
“Last summer I came, in the calm blue nights,
To roam through the cool sea-caves:
Last summer he came, when the stars were shining,
To walk by the lone sea-waves.”
His eyes have closed, but he remains where I positioned him – and I certainly hope the machine is capable of capturing at least something of this impromptu serenade. For though not every note is perfect, there is such charm in the tone of his voice, and the intimacy of the small room, the two of us so close, his lips so near the recorder...
“There is no light in the gray sea-groves
Like the light on his golden hair:
There be no sweetnesses known to the sea-folk
So sweet as his kisses were.
“I love him, love him, ah, so well!
That my love hath grown pain in me,
And to-morrow he weds the Princess, yonder
In that palace beside the sea.”
He remains motionless for a heartbeat, then steps back, looking shyly over at me, as if to seek assurance that he has performed adequately. I nod, smiling with more warmth than I have felt in some time, and lift the stylus, stilling the machine. “There, now... I have locked away your voice forever, as the sea-witch did to another little mermaiden.”
David laughs at the absurdity of this idea, but I can see he is still disconcerted by the whole affair.
“Would you like to hear it?”
He hesitates, uncertain. “If... if you would like to play it,” is the most decisive thing he can find to say. I suspect he is afraid of some sorcery, and also afraid to hear the failings of his own voice. For he has never heard it himself – one never sounds the same to others as one sounds to oneself – and what if he should not be pleased with it?
But I will play it for him, for I wish him to get some sense, some glimpse, of the beauty I see in him... he has given me so much, in the end, that I should like to give him something, some small thing at least...
I adjust the machine, and there is a moment of soft hiss, and then...
“He was a Prince with golden hair,
In a palace beside the sea,
And I but a little white Mermaiden...”
David gasps softly, a hand flying to his open mouth, his eyes wide. The quality of the recording is far from perfect, any copy could not help but lose some nuance of the boy's song... but it is enough. The purity in his tone, the delicacy with which he handles every note, arranging them as crystals in sunlight, each one adjusted just so, that the light it refracts will play off the others around it, every one made the brighter by those around it. Oh, there is such beauty in his song – and though he cannot hear all of it, he hears enough, and he hears... he hears, for the first time, the longing that is in his voice, as he sings of a prince whose love he does not deserve. Awareness creeps into his eyes, and he is terrified by the realization that his emotion could be so obvious to all but himself. He will not look at me. I take his chin in my fingertips, and lightly trace his lower lip, forcing his eyes into mine. His eyes are so wide, so blue, as the clearest skies of a thousand years ago, before smoke and dust rose to discolor them, his eyes so open and innocent and filled with wonder and kindness...
His eyes, so like those I once saw reflected in pools of still water, in those long-distant days when the skies were still new...
“Your song was for me...” I breathe the words half in question, half in statement. He nods, biting his lip, lashes fluttering as his heart begins to race. “Sing, sweet David... sing for me.”
He takes a shaky breath, almost whispering as he sings along with the recording, an eerie duet with himself.
“Last summer he came, when the stars were shining,
To walk by the lone sea-waves...”
His voice grows more confident, and he adds variation to the song, harmonizing with the ghostly echo of himself, making strange yearning chords of unearthly longing...
“There is no light in the gray sea-groves
Like the light on his golden hair:
There be no sweetnesses known to the sea-folk
So sweet as his kisses were...”
I wrap an arm close around his waist, pulling his body against mine. I can feel his chest rising with each intake of breath, I can feel the heat of the song as it pours from his red, red lips...
“I love him, love him, ah, so well!
That my love hath grown pain in me,
And to-morrow he weds the Princess, yonder
In that palace beside the sea.”
The words can barely leave his throat, so thick with emotion are they. I sway our bodies gently, in motion to his song, my hand caressing the delicate lines of his face, his eyes hopelessly lost in mine. He is so fragile, for all the power that flies from his throat... he pours so much into the song, that it leaves him so little to stand on, in the flood of the world.
“No princess could steal my heart,” I murmur softly to him, my breath mixing with his on our lips. His small fists clench at my sides, clinging desperately to my jacket, and I can feel his heart fluttering against my chest.
“I would not steal it from you,” he whispers, his voice thick with the sincere passion of his heart. “I would... would only hold it if it were offered, and hold it with such care...”
We do not hear the last echoes from the cold machine, for we are lost in the eternal, deafening silence of a kiss.
History of Recorded Music
Aaaand I just spent nearly two hours pouring over phonograph history. I had a hunch records weren't around in the late 1800s (not even the giant breakable shellac ones). I remembered seeing cylinders put into a phonograph-like thing in "An American Tale". That was all.
Thanks to Wikipedia, I now have the entire early history of sound recording lodged in my brain:
The phonautograph - earliest sound recorder, but was NOT intended for playback. Just took down the waveforms, essentially. Two years ago someone finally figured out how to reproduce the sound, and thanks to FirstSounds.org, I got to listen to a scientist singing in 1860s - a scrap of music that went completely unheard, and unlistenable, for over 150 years. Really, really haunting.
But obviously, that is not what my characters would have had on hand. Cylinders (which could both record and play back) showed up around the 1870s, so that's plausible. I spent awhile over on Tinfoil.com, which has A FREAKING TON of recordings from old cylinders - there are select recordings from the 1890s onward posted, and you can purchase cds (and in my case, listen to samples) of things from cylinders going back to the 1880s. Peeeerfect.
Only, Edison used tinfoil-covered cylinders first. A couple years later, wax ones came along, which had much better sound and were easier to handle. So, I need to decide which I'm going with - this feels like a HUGE decision to make, as it basically decides whether my story takes place after 1886 (wax cylinders patented).
...this, of course, is not something that aaanyone would nitpick me on. I don't think anachronisms within a couple of years count for much, when the setting is over a hundred years ago.
Still, I'm oddly fascinated by this stuff. I went through about half of Rene Rondeau's amazing site filled with pictures and descriptions of the early machines. (A talking doll from 1890?! With a tiny little wax cylinder player in her chest! I am all kinds of delightfully terrified by this thing.) While most of the recordings on Tinfoil.com are very static (wax cylinders wore down after about a dozen plays, plus mold and age do not play nicely with them), there's a video embedded on Rene Rondeau's site, that shows a recent demonstration of a tinfoil cylinder. Sound quality? Is *really*, really impressive, especially for music. So impressive, that I think Mackie is going to get one. Well, maybe a wax one - I suspect Mackie is going to be the very first audiophile. XD lmfao.
...and, there, wiki's article on phonograph cylinders: commercial ones would play about 2 minutes of music. That's what I was looking for. (Descriptions of gorgeous tinfoil machines like this one - which I am insanely in love with - mention things like "could only record 50-60 words". Not quite enough to work with.) Tough to find pictures of machines from before 1900, and apparently the material the earliest wax cylinders were made of...uh, didn't survive well. Many fogged during the summer due to high heat, and inconsistent ingredient formulations were an issue. (The tinfoil ones can't be played back anymore at all. That's so sad.)
The cardboard tubes the cylinders were packaged in? Just gave company name, artist info was hand-written on them. No marking on the cylinders themselves at all - though an announcer often gave that info at the start of the recording. To hold one properly, you should stick your fingers inside the cylinder at either end, not touching the wax part. (This, on further thought, makes an awful lot of sense. You could buy attachments to shave flat - and thus erase - recorded cylinders.) Such odd little details, things you'd never think of questioning...
Also - I suspect that, come editing time (and/or desperate-for-wordcount-time), I am going to make some serious, serious use of this stunning collection of old sheet music. What a truly amazing resource, I cannot WAIT to dive into it!
...but I should probably remedy my word count first. Worked early yesterday, so only had time to put in about 700 words in the morning, and when I got home, there was a football game to watch with Tom, and then we decided to have a nice lil evening. (Didn't post on here yesterday - backdated it when posted today.) Poor lil word count.
One last link: piano recording, no date, though I'd guess late 1880s-early 1890s, since it's a white cylinder of a metal soap, which was tried shortly after wax ones came on the market.
Thanks to Wikipedia, I now have the entire early history of sound recording lodged in my brain:
The phonautograph - earliest sound recorder, but was NOT intended for playback. Just took down the waveforms, essentially. Two years ago someone finally figured out how to reproduce the sound, and thanks to FirstSounds.org, I got to listen to a scientist singing in 1860s - a scrap of music that went completely unheard, and unlistenable, for over 150 years. Really, really haunting.
But obviously, that is not what my characters would have had on hand. Cylinders (which could both record and play back) showed up around the 1870s, so that's plausible. I spent awhile over on Tinfoil.com, which has A FREAKING TON of recordings from old cylinders - there are select recordings from the 1890s onward posted, and you can purchase cds (and in my case, listen to samples) of things from cylinders going back to the 1880s. Peeeerfect.
Only, Edison used tinfoil-covered cylinders first. A couple years later, wax ones came along, which had much better sound and were easier to handle. So, I need to decide which I'm going with - this feels like a HUGE decision to make, as it basically decides whether my story takes place after 1886 (wax cylinders patented).
...this, of course, is not something that aaanyone would nitpick me on. I don't think anachronisms within a couple of years count for much, when the setting is over a hundred years ago.
Still, I'm oddly fascinated by this stuff. I went through about half of Rene Rondeau's amazing site filled with pictures and descriptions of the early machines. (A talking doll from 1890?! With a tiny little wax cylinder player in her chest! I am all kinds of delightfully terrified by this thing.) While most of the recordings on Tinfoil.com are very static (wax cylinders wore down after about a dozen plays, plus mold and age do not play nicely with them), there's a video embedded on Rene Rondeau's site, that shows a recent demonstration of a tinfoil cylinder. Sound quality? Is *really*, really impressive, especially for music. So impressive, that I think Mackie is going to get one. Well, maybe a wax one - I suspect Mackie is going to be the very first audiophile. XD lmfao.
...and, there, wiki's article on phonograph cylinders: commercial ones would play about 2 minutes of music. That's what I was looking for. (Descriptions of gorgeous tinfoil machines like this one - which I am insanely in love with - mention things like "could only record 50-60 words". Not quite enough to work with.) Tough to find pictures of machines from before 1900, and apparently the material the earliest wax cylinders were made of...uh, didn't survive well. Many fogged during the summer due to high heat, and inconsistent ingredient formulations were an issue. (The tinfoil ones can't be played back anymore at all. That's so sad.)
The cardboard tubes the cylinders were packaged in? Just gave company name, artist info was hand-written on them. No marking on the cylinders themselves at all - though an announcer often gave that info at the start of the recording. To hold one properly, you should stick your fingers inside the cylinder at either end, not touching the wax part. (This, on further thought, makes an awful lot of sense. You could buy attachments to shave flat - and thus erase - recorded cylinders.) Such odd little details, things you'd never think of questioning...
Also - I suspect that, come editing time (and/or desperate-for-wordcount-time), I am going to make some serious, serious use of this stunning collection of old sheet music. What a truly amazing resource, I cannot WAIT to dive into it!
...but I should probably remedy my word count first. Worked early yesterday, so only had time to put in about 700 words in the morning, and when I got home, there was a football game to watch with Tom, and then we decided to have a nice lil evening. (Didn't post on here yesterday - backdated it when posted today.) Poor lil word count.
One last link: piano recording, no date, though I'd guess late 1880s-early 1890s, since it's a white cylinder of a metal soap, which was tried shortly after wax ones came on the market.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
