Typical Audio Misrepresentation

A couple of friends have pointed me to this piece of egregious nonsense over the last week. If you haven’t already seen it, you can watch the [largely ridiculous] clip here (I can’t embed it, since it’s some kind of proprietary format).

In any case, the image above tells you everything you need to know; basically, a piece of Vivaldi plays while you watch a spiky and glitchy circle wobble (on the left), which is meant to represent a ‘typical’ CD recording. Meanwhile, on the other side of the screen, a circle supposedly representing a ‘typical’ analog recording also does its wobbly thing, only with curvier lines and colour.

This piece of claptrap offers up a much perpetuated myth about digital recording: that somehow the discrete sampling bits make digitally recorded music sound spiky and colourless, and inferring that analog must certainly be better because it’s more ‘natural’ (or something). Worst of all, the video is useless even as an analogy because it literally doesn’t convey ANY information. It is the equivalent of the old Colgate ‘Mrs Marsh’ advertisement of the 1970s:

It’s bogus ‘science’, appealing only to those who think they understand something, but really don’t.

I’ve said it here before, but I’ll say it again: the quality of a well mastered CD recording is not, in any way, inferior to a vinyl LP. Vinyl is different, and that is all. If you think you can hear a difference in high frequency content, you can’t. If you think vinyl sounds ‘punchier’ and ‘warmer’, you’re probably hearing the effects of the substantially different mastering techniques that are used for vinyl (and that’s mostly equalization and compression).

And before you start to take exception to what I’ve just said, go here and witness a whole lot of people who think like you do failing to be able to tell the difference between cables, amps, DACs and all kinds of formats in controlled blind and ABX listening tests. Mostly to their own disbelief.


Over the last few months I’ve had numerous articles pop up in my Facebook news feed of the kind that promise to reveal some new ‘scientific’ discovery or other that will just amaze the socks off me. One of the favourites – going by the number of times I’ve seen it shared – is this one:

“According to Scientists, This is The Most Relaxing Tune Ever Recorded”

The one page sound-bite rich story is widely dispersed over numerous ‘health and wellbeing’ type websites (like this one), where it is for the most part uncritically accepted as a proper piece of news. It outlines the results of ‘a study’ that has honed in on the single most relaxing piece of recorded music ever to have graced human ears. I know – quite a bold claim – but it’s science, my friends, so you couldn’t just pull that kind of thing out of your ass, right?

The ‘tune’ in question turns out to be a piece called Weightless by ambient music trio Marconi Union. You should probably listen to a little bit of it before we go on – I hope it won’t relax you so much that you can’t come back after the break.

According to the article:

This eight minute song is a beautiful combination of arranged harmonies, rhythms and bass lines and thus helps to slow the heart rate, reduce blood pressure and lower levels of the stress…


The results showed that the song Weightless was 11 per cent more relaxing than any other song and even caused drowsiness among women in the lab.

The more you read, of course, the more you begin to see the divergence between the hyperbolic claims of the headline and the actual content of the piece. “11 percent more relaxing than any other song”? What does that even mean? 11 percent more relaxing? Calibrated how? Any other song ever written? Any other song of the same genre? Or just any other song on the iPod of one of the ‘women in the lab’ (is it just me, or is the implication here that the men in the lab were far too macho to be influenced by the wafty charms of the New Age ditty?).

Oh, here we go:

this song induced the greatest relaxation, higher than any other music tested till date

Right. So that would be how many songs, exactly? Not all the tunes ‘ever recorded’ is my guess.

Having worked for many years writing music for advertising, I can easily spot a marketing campaign when I smell one, and this one veritably reeks of fish. But a marketing campaign for what, exactly? There’s no product mentioned in the article, and it doesn’t seem like a promotion for the band. But I guess that’s possible. Let’s see what the internet has to say about Marconi Union.

OK, not much to be gleaned out of the obviously self-penned Wikipedia entry, other than that Marconi Union uses the flimsiest of pretexts to contrive to have their name linked with that of ambient music guru Brian Eno (in several different ways).

What about the ‘scientists’ involved in this astounding breakthrough? The experiment (we’ll call it that for expediency’s sake) was run by an entity by the name of Mindlab International who describe themselves as  a ‘neuro’ marketing company. Their website is slick and snappy.

But here’s one thing I’ll tell you about marketing – it’s not science. The sole goal of any marketing company on the planet is to gather enough data to convincingly support exactly what their client already believes to be true, extracting a generous fee in the process. Not convinced? Consider this: the marketing company is hired by the product maker. The product maker already thinks their product is the best thing since sliced bread. The marketing company who tells their client otherwise is therefore wrong, and gets fired. Marketing companies are the definition of the messenger who really doesn’t want to be shot. So, being a successful marketing company is all about finding convincing ways to make the message appealing to the client. If you can also convince them that you had a hand in increasing sales, that’s a bonus, but don’t think for even a second that that’s their raison d’être (notwithstanding the fact that many of them apparently believe that it is).

In case it needs to be said, none of this is the job of science. Science is about determining truth, no matter what the consequences to human sensibilities or dog food sales. Good science is out of a job when it comes to the advertising business.

The fact that this story involves a marketing company and a bunch of exaggerated claims  immediately raises red flags. It’s quite obviously not concerned with giving the reader factual news. No,  it’s solely about selling something. The more observant among you will have noticed that the video of Marconi Union’s Weightless – linked in the article (and above) – is interestingly named. It has the peculiar bracketed codicil ‘Radox’ in the title.

Ah, yes. It’s all starting to make sense. So factoring ‘Radox’ into a search with ‘Marconi Union’ and ‘Mindlab International’ gets us straight to the nitty gritty. The first sentence on this page at a site called musicactivation.com reads:

Radox Spa brand has made an ambient track that is scientifically proven to be more relaxing than a massage.

Oh, now what a coincidence! The ambient track Weightless, which was made by (I think we can assume ‘commissioned by’) Radox Spa bath salts just turns out to be ‘the most relaxing tune ever recorded’.

Are you smelling any science here, sports fans? Or are you getting an overpowering aroma of horseshit? For the full experience, you might like to watch this:

Well, that was the biggest load of bollocks I’ve seen in a long while. I wonder how many completely unscientific instances of prestidigitation you caught there? If you needed proof that Mindlab International is entirely unconcerned with actual science, there’s plenty of ducking & weaving going in that clip.

What’s happened with this whole thing is that hundreds of websites have mindlessly snapped up a piece of marketing propaganda (something that was, no doubt, fed out to the media machine as a press release from Mindlab International) and completely credulously echoed it far and wide across the social networks as if it actually had meaning. I probably don’t need to rephrase it to reflect actuality, but for amusement’s sake, this is how that headline should really have read:

“According to a Marketing Company, a Piece of Music that their Bath Salts Client Commissioned is the Most Relaxing Tune Ever Recorded”  

Not something that’s going to rapidly circulate on the social media, is my guess.

The Sound of Distant Drumming…


With Peter Jackson’s movie version of The Hobbit killing box offices around the world, most people can hardly have failed to notice that, like Spielberg and Lucas before him, Jackson is using his considerable clout to spearhead another leap in technical quality for the cinema experience. I am talking, of course, about The Hobbit‘s release at the projection speed of 48 frames per second, which has already become popularly known by its acronym, HFR (high frame rate).

Jackon’s decision to use HFR for the film was almost certainly prompted by the desire to increase the quality of 3D – something which it indisputably does. Unfortunately, HFR got off to a bad start when news got out that audiences at the CinemaCon preview of The Hobbit in April of 2012, were finding the high resolution experience rather disconcerting. Mostly, the criticisms centred on the HFR looking ‘stagey’ or ‘fake’ or ‘cheap’. Peter Jackson brushed off the criticisms, saying we’d all get used to it, but there is no question that HFR has some ‘issues’. Since the release of the full movie, there have been many dissections of the curious nature of the 48fps effect in the film, some smart and some fairly far-fetched. I have my own hypothesis as to why we have trouble with the HFR experience, but I mostly want to talk about one aspect of that here. And it’s an aspect that no-one seems to have picked up on yet: the sound.

It’s not really that surprising to me, I have to say, that no-one has thought to scrutinize the part that sound plays in the perception problems for a high frame rate experience. People hardly pay attention to sound at the best of times, and in this particular case the whole issue has been entirely one of ‘the look’. A movie, however, is not all about what you see.

For you to follow my argument in this post, I need to just give a brief overview of the usual experience of sound in the cinema. Currently, most movies you see are delivered to an audience in a format that was first formulated in the 1970s by Dolby Laboratories and then widely adopted in the 1990s for the cinema. It is called 5.1 surround sound (some high end modern movies use a variation of 5.1 called 7.1, but for purposes of this discussion it’s essentially the same thing). 5.1 is arranged in such a way that three speakers across the screen deliver most of the critical sound. These are designated as Left, Center and Right. Usually these speakers are placed just behind the screen, along a horizontal center line halfway down. Two further speaker groups (they are usually groups, but just think of them as single channels, because that’s how they are treated) are designated Left Surround, and Right Surround. These are placed to the side and behind the audience. This array, the L,C,R,Ls,Rs is the ‘5’ of the 5.1, referred to in the profession as ‘5.0’. The ‘.1’ is the Low Frequency Extension, or LFE, which is situated behind the screen with the LCRs, usually on the floor. The important thing about the 5.0 array is that this is what determines the spatial placement of sounds for the audience.


Over the last couple of decades, the surround sound array has proved to be a versatile and durable system, providing considerable enhancement of the 2D experience. Here’s the thing to keep in mind, though: the key to the effectiveness of the whole notion of surround is that the sound can be made to appear to be – fairly convincingly – anywhere inside the theatre in front of the screen. The whole surround sound concept is based on the idea of enveloping the audience.*

The increasingly fashionable use of 3D over the last five or six years has, however, introduced something new into the movie experience: depth. 3D imaging is, in a way, the complete obverse of surround sound. 3D doesn’t bring the image out into the theatre as much as it expands the depth behind the screen into which the viewer looks. This creates an obvious problem for sound: how do you make the sound feel like it’s back there with the image?

If an object – let’s say a racing car – is on a flat screen (in 2D), then no matter where it is on that screen, it’s always on the same plane as the the speakers reproducing its sound. If  the car appears to be receding into the distance, we have learned by cinema sound ‘convention’ that its sound will get quieter (fade away) to make it seem like it’s attached to the car, but in realistic terms it simply can’t appear to be coming from a point source a  hundred meters beyond the screen (it’s crucial to understand here that our ears don’t judge the location of a sound solely by its loudness. In addition to loudness, we detect small differences in delay times to place an object aurally in space, as well as as different kinds of reverberation textures and times, and comparisons to other sounds we might be hearing. Our brain’s processing of audio information is complex and detailed, and artificial sound reproduction has pretty much always been a kind of ‘cheat’). As it happens, it’s perfectly acceptable in 2D because the image of the racing car and its sound never actually go off that 2D projection plane.

In 3D in the movies, though, our brains are forced to deal with a kind of cognitive dissonance. The racing car appears to be much more realistically moving at some distance away from us, but we hear the sound that it’s making on the same screen plane as every other sound we’re hearing! In fact, the 3D ‘world’ space and the domain of surround sound hardly overlap at all.


This odd paradox is a legacy of the stumbling technical evolution of the cinema. The whole point of introducing surround sound into the movie environment was to attempt to create another level of involvement for the audience. Because the image on the screen was flat, no-one really thought of having the sound go beyond the screen; like the wall of the cinema to which it was attached, the screen plane has always been treated as a hard and absolute boundary (aside from anything else, there would be the technical and economic consideration of having speakers – and a whole room – on the other side of the screen). The difference between 5.1 and everything since old fashioned mono, was that surround was largely about pulling the sound forward and off the screen, by creating the ambiences of things that you did not see.

With 3D, a whole new space opened up – a space full of things we can see and that can be anywhere from slightly in front of the screen plane to an infinite distance away. And if those things make sounds, then our brains quite understandably expect those sounds to be glued to their matching apparent position in space.

This was never a problem in 2D, because 2D is a stylized way of looking at the world which we have learned to accept as ‘reality’ through massive exposure to 2D images over more than a century, and to which we have become habituated. Up until The Hobbit came along, there wasn’t even much of a problem with 3D, because the quality of 24fps 3D is not really that great and you just didn’t notice the ‘gluing’ error that much. But with the extraordinary detail that is available in HFR, the 3D begins to push a level of resolution that approaches reality. And, as that happens, our brains start to tell us that something is out of whack: “That horse galloping off into the distance! It’s very quiet, but its sound is coming from right in front of us!”

Not that we process it consciously, of course, but it adds to the sum feeling that there is something kind of wrong with what we’re experiencing.

While I was watching The Hobbit this strange dissociation of sound and image kept catching me at every turn: Bilbo runs behind a rock but his footsteps are unattached from him; an arrow hits a distant ledge in a cave and it sounds like a small stick being thwacked next to my ear; a warg runs off into the distance and its growling doesn’t manage to go with it. In general, the whole soundtrack is somehow ‘smeared’ and its details diffuse. Now, I know the guys who did the sound on this film, and I can tell you – they really know their stuff. And I’m willing to bet that when I get to view The Hobbit in 2D here in my studio in 5.1 on BluRay, it will sound spectacular. I believe that the problem is not with the way the sound is done, but with the way the sound is done for an HFR 3D film. The sound for The Hobbit has been created in the manner in which we normally create sound for the surround cinema environment and that process is now approaching a point where it’s simply not adequate to create an illusion of reality.

This difficulty is not confined to the sound alone. In The Hobbit, a similar predicament exists with the lighting and other aspects of its cinematic ‘world’. We’re at a stage with this technology where the whole technical way we make films needs to be rethought.

For sound, I don’t really know how we can easily remedy this situation. One of the other technical innovations that was rolled out for The Hobbit was a new sound format by Dolby Labs called ‘Atmos’ (which unfortunately I didn’t have  a chance to experience, since there are no cinemas in the southern hemisphere – other than the Embassy in Jackson’s home town of Wellington, NZ – equipped with it). Dolby understands that as cinema image resolution increases, the 5.1 (or 7.1) array will start to struggle to hold its ground. The Atmos system is an effort to expand the level of detail of, and control over, the aural environment. Atmos employs a speaker array with an astounding 64 programmable point sources throughout the theatre – that’s 58 more speakers than 5.1 – but I’m sure you’re ahead of me here: this hasn’t changed the overall concept of cinema sound. The sound is still inside the auditorium, not back where the 3D is happening. It is likely that Atmos will give a new level of detail to what you hear in the theatre, but it still needs to somehow address the sound on the other side of the artifical boundary that is the screen plane.

Of course, there is a way to tangle with this puzzle, but as I said, it’s not likely to be easy. Or cheap. It involves computers, and sound modelling and other kinds of new tech. It’s rather too complicated to go into at the end of this long post, but maybe I’ll attack it at another time.


*Director John Boorman, an outspoken critic of surround sound, bemoaned the fact that he’d spent his whole career attempting to get his audience involved in what was happening on that flat screen and now he was expected to embrace a technology that was trying to pull them out of it.

By the Numbers

Today on Hummadruz we’re going to look at the mysterious phenomenon known as Numbers Stations: radio beacons that broadcast strange shortwave radio transmissions that consist of strings of numbers read in sequence and usually identified at the start with some kind of audio ‘logo’ such as a sound or a piece of music. No-one really knows the purpose of Numbers Stations (well, I say ‘no-one’ – obviously someone does), but it is likely that they are used to send coded messages from government security agencies to their undercover operatives out in the field. In other words, this is spy stuff. It is thought that the first Numbers Stations started up shortly after World War 1, and it is certain that there were many operating after World War 2 and throughout the Cold War.

The most well-known of the Numbers Stations is probably The Lincolnshire Poacher, so called because of its use of the folk song of that name as its identifier.

Audio link: The Lincolnshire Poacher

The Lincolnshire Poacher was a very powerful shortwave broadcaster, purportedly operated by Britain’s MI6 out of Cyprus. It had a similarly powerful sister station called Cherry Ripe which was believed to be in Australia.

Audio link: Cherry Ripe

Both these stations ceased broadcast around 2008/2009, but there are still dozens of Numbers Stations in operation, especially in Eastern Europe and South America. The mysterious repeated sets of numbers are almost certainly a type of code, most likely a system called a ‘one-time pad‘. A one-time pad code is completely uncrackable if the people employing it stick to the strict protocol. Short wave radio is an ideal method for transmitting the information, due to its long reach, and the relatively low tech and easy availability of portable shortwave receivers.

Some Numbers Stations use a type of phonetic alphabet system that can result in a very surreal effect. Here’s a station called Nancy Adam Susan:

Audio link: Nancy Adam Susan

The robotic hypnotic quality of the echoic female voice reciting names over and over seems to me much more disconcerting than the EVP phenomenon that we talked about recently on Hummadruz. Here’s perhaps the creepiest of all the currently broadcasting Numbers Stations, dubbed Swedish Rhapsody (the name of the melody):

Audio link: Swedish Rhapsody

The tinkly music box tune and the sampled voice of a young girl are surely the stuff of radio nightmares. One of the most fascinating things about these Numbers Stations is that on a purely aural level they are evocative and intriguing, and speak of a Cold War era that is surely fading as we move into the world of high speed internet and digital encryption. If you’d like to hear some more of these strange radio relics, there’s a substantial collection of recordings here on archive.org – these are part of The Conet Project which is available through Irdial Discs. Irdial also makes the entire collection available for free as mp3s.

One Trick Pono

The ‘big’ news in audio this week is that legendary musician Neil Young has introduced a new music player to the world – the Pono. The word ‘pono’, apparently, is Hawaiian for ‘righteous’. The principal selling point of Pono is, according to Mr Young, that it presents the listener with ‘the best quality audio available’. Here he is pitching the concept (badly) to a fairly underwhelmed David Letterman:

Flea, bassist from the Red Hot Chili Peppers, effusively spruiked the Pono experience to Rolling Stone:

“It’s not like some vague thing that you need dogs’ ears to hear. It’s a drastic difference.”

Rolling Stone reports that Flea discerned this ‘drastic difference’ after hearing Aretha Franklin’s ‘Respect’ played in Mr Young’s car. Now, I suppose Neil Young has a pretty good sound system in his Cadillac, but trust me, a car is not an optimal listening environment for a phone conversation, let alone for judging music quality, so I for one am taking the audio assessment of a bass player from a rock band criticized for the egregious loudness of its recordings with a grain of scoff.

See, the problem with this kind of thing is one of perspective. Even if we accept that Pono will deliver an appreciable difference in fidelity to what is already available – and for the record, I don’t – Neil Young thinks enough people care about that to make his idea a commercial viability. He obviously doesn’t go to cinemas, have teenage daughters, listen to the radio, or pay attention in any way to how the great majority of people consume music. He’s failed comprehensively to understand the reason that compression codecs like mp3 caught on in the first place, and, worst of all, he’s possibly the only person in the world not to have learned a business lesson from the VHS/Betamax format war of the late 1970s (which, in case the point needs to be made, showed that people don’t give a flying fuck about quality when it comes down to it). As much as I admire Neil Young as a musician, I think his business acumen sucks.

Let me put it to you from my personal perspective as a prospective Pono punter: I’m a trained sound professional with a love of music – new and old – and an appreciation for the amount of work that goes into the craft of getting it to my ears. I love good quality sound. Occasionally I buy music for the fidelity of its recording. But mostly, I don’t. Mostly I buy it for its content. I buy it for the songs, or to play while I’m making dinner, or to listen to in my car when I want to be able to ignore the hum of the city. I rarely have the time to sit and just listen to a recording in the relatively superior listening environment of my sound studio. I like to take my music with me, so I have some on my phone, and some on an iPod in my car. I have re-purchased music I already owned so I can do this, and have also digitized my not-insubstantial CD collection. Now – WHY ON EARTH WOULD I BUY A PONO AND ALL MY MUSIC AGAIN? I know that, theoretically, mp3 and AAC are inferior to uncompressed digital (whether that extends to the stratospheric192kHz/24-bit sound that Pono offers is arguable…) but I don’t care. I bet the Pono music won’t be as cheap as the iTunes store, and I bet the Pono won’t interface with my car. And I already carry around music on my phone – why would I want another gadget cluttering my pocket? It’s one of the cool things about the iPhone: I have music, a phone, a diary and a camera with me at all times in one unit. What I’m trying to show you here is the vast hurdle that Neil Young is proposing to leap, on the basis that people care about superior sound quality.

An interesting aspect of the reporting of this story is that the press seems to have picked it up under variations of this leader: “Neil Young Expands Pono Digital-to-Analog Music Service”, which, aside from being an entirely inaccurate appraisal of the way the gadget works, rides on the coattails of the hoary old myth that analog recording is somehow magically ‘superior’ to digital. Analog is different to digital. That is all. You may even prefer the sound of old analog recordings over modern digital ones, but that has, these days, nothing at all to do with tehnical quality. It’s merely fashion. And it’s a fashion that can, in fact, be reproduced adequately – for the great majority of listeners – under existing digital audio codecs. Why, if you really want very high quality audio, it’s already available in iTunes (not quite the 192kHz offered by Pono, but Jesus, people – Aretha Franklin IN A CAR???)

My prediction? One year on from the official launch of Pono and you’ll be buying the things on eBay for 50c. Come back and tell me I was wrong.


Another of the matters that I intend to explore regularly on Hummadruz is the veritable trash mountain of  hifi audio myths. Superstitions and irrational belief systems flourish in places where there is a substantial amount of subjectivity and a stratosphere of opinionated experts – especially where there is considerable profit to be had. High end audio is the perfect place to find plenty of hokum.

It’s hard to know where to start with ‘professional’ hifi. There is so much misinformation and gobbledegook that pretty much wherever you turn there’s some implausible gadget or other for improving your sound, from gold-plated digital connectors, through pens that make CDs ‘clearer’ to (quite unbelievably) expensive wooden knobs for your amplifier. And that’s not even tippy-toeing into the world of serious audio fruitcakes.

Today I’m going to examine the simplest, and perhaps the most exploited of all hifi components: speaker cables. The hyperbole spouted by the vendors of these products is voluminous. Their ‘oxygen free, polarized di-electric, elevated-off-the-floor, cryogenically chilled’ cables will make your muddy cloth-filtered music sound like it’s been triple-washed in Persil! It’ll come out of the speakers at a fidelity beyond studio quality!

What’s going on here? Can some bits of wire really make that much difference? Well, yes and no. First of all there’s an important point to note about speaker cables – they carry a much higher level signal than anywhere else in the audio chain because by the time it gets to them it is amplified. In practical terms, what this means is that your actual modulated raw audio signal is at its most powerful going from your amp to your speakers. Why is that important? Because by this time the electrical signal is bumped up way beyond the noise level of all the other components in the system – most of the stuff that can be done to affect the fidelity of the signal itself has already been done.

That being said, what then becomes significant is the best way to get the electrical signal from out of your amp into your speakers with the least impediment possible, and this essentially comes down to one thing: providing the happiest and least reactive conduit for your excitable electrons to travel along. Now there are some mitigating factors involved: no matter how good your path is there is some wear and tear on how well the electrons fare. They are effected by the quality of the conductor, the distance they have to travel and other electrical phenomena such as capacitance and inductance. But here is the critical point: none of these things are really much of a problem in ten feet of speaker cable. In addition, even if you were able to demonstrate some non-optimal electrical artifacts over such a short distance, it is unclear what effect, if any, these have in relation to audio fidelity.

So. What is the most important factor to consider in getting your electrical signal to your speaker? Just one thing: lots of copper. Copper is a terrific conductor of electricity. It’s very kind to the electrons as they pass though, giving them the easiest path to travel that they could ever want. And when we’re talking about ten feet, all being said, that’s really not that much copper.

I’m now going to give you a tip that will save you hundreds of dollars and make your hifi system sound as good as the very nerdiest of your audio-buff friends: for your speaker connections, forget all about the oxygen free, diode rectified, dipped-in-chocolate, used-only-by angels $400-per-foot Pear cables and instead just use a good quality, large gauge twin-core electrical cable.

That’s it! Use some wire like this and no-one on the planet will be able to tell the difference between it and the most expensive cable you can buy! I found the stuff above for less than $2 a metre and you can do even better than that. Sum total for speaker cable for my studio: $45. And that’s for a full 5.1 sound set up, with 6 speaker sources. I could have spent many hundreds of dollars – thousands, even – if I’d done it with a fancy cable brand.

And, in case you’re still wavering in your point of view, consider this story:

In 2007, James Randi put forward his famous Million Dollar Challenge to the makers of Pear cables, defying them to demonstrate in a double blind test that their product would outperform a cheaper good quality cable of the same length (‘outperform’ in this context is understood to mean that it would reliably and repeatedly be preferred as more accurately representing the audio it carried, as assessed by an experienced listener). Predictably, after first calling the Challenge a hoax, and then resorting to ad hominem attacks against Randi, Pear’s CEO Adam Blake refused to participate. This is an unequivocal admission of flim flam. If your product performs as claimed, you can only come out of the Randi Challenge looking absolutely golden (with the added advantage of $1000,000 cash in your pocket). If you back out, then this surely indicates that you are afraid that the results will not bear out the hyperbole in your marketing. There have been, to date, no double-blind experiments that have demonstrated in any way that a cable that costs you thousands of dollars is any better at rendering audio than a good quality one of under a hundred. Indeed, tests that have been undertaken, like this ad hoc (but reasonably conducted) trial made with audiophile Mike Lavigne as the expert listener, tend to show that expensive cables fare no better than cheaper alternatives (something which Mr Lavigne quite admirably concedes).

Audio buffs like to pontificate ad nauseum about the how much difference the supposed ‘high end’ speaker cables make but to those of us who work in the business they just look like nitwits – we don’t use those kinds of cables! So what these people are claiming is that they can hear better sound in the reproduction of the material than we heard when we made it! That, of course, is an absurdity of the highest order.

I’d like to end with a true story. Many years ago, a hifi aficionado acquaintance of mine invited me around to hear his new system. He had spent many thousands of dollars on components, and waxed lyrically about his new speaker cables, which, he said, had improved the fidelity of his music by an impressive order of magnitude. Knowing about my skepticality of such claims, he swore that even I would notice! He sat me down and pressed play on one of his favourite jazz recordings. Could I perceive a superior sound quality? Was I astonished at the clarity of his sound? Well, not so much – I spent a more than a few minutes coming to grips with the fact that his speakers had been wired out of phase, a much more egregious degradation of the listening experience than even speaker leads made of string would have inflicted. And something that he had not even noticed. After we fixed the connections, he went on to maintain that the cables were responsible for a whole new realm of clarity in his listening experience.

‘But what are you comparing them with?’ I asked.

‘With the old ones,’ he said.

‘But you’ve just set your whole rig up in a new room, and you have new speakers,’ I said. ‘How can you possibly tell?’

‘You’re such a skeptic!’ he cried.

And he was right, I am.

Now I’m not suggesting that all hifi buffs would make such obvious mistakes as these, but the thing is, my friend had invested so much money and faith in his speaker cables that he had little choice but to believe that he was witnessing superior sound reproduction. And I do suggest that this phenomenon has more than a little part to play in influencing the subjective experience of listening to recorded music.

Horses Don’t Think

We’re all familiar with the phenomenon of pareidolia – the tendency of the human brain to try to make sense of random visual information by forming it into something we recognize (like the face of Jesus on a tortilla or a likeness of Mother Theresa on a cinnamon bun). Today on Hummadruz we’re going to look at an aural version of pareidolia which goes under the name of Electronic Voice Phenomena, or EVP.

EVP is the term given for the appearance of strange, indistinct human voices on previously recorded magnetic tape – voices that supposedly weren’t there when the original recording was made.

This phenomenon was first ‘discovered’ by Attila von Szalay, in the early 1940s. Von Szalay was a ‘ghost’ photographer and was looking for some additional corroboration of his belief in a spirit world. After making recordings of ‘silence’ on a reel-to-reel tape recorder, von Szalay claimed to have captured voices on his tapes, voices that he believed belonged to people who had died. With psychic researcher Raymond Bayless, he published his findings in the Journal of the American Society for Psychical Research in 1959.

In that same year, philosopher, film producer and birdwatcher Friedrich Jürgenson had made some recordings of bird sounds in the backyard of his Swedish house. On playing back those recordings, Jürgenson became convinced that they contained the voices of his deceased father and wife speaking to him, and he published his experiences in a book: Voices from Space. A few years later, Latvian author Konstantīns Raudive read Jürgenson’s book and, intrigued, contacted him. The two men began to make recordings of the ‘voices’ and compiled an astonishing 100,000 of them, which Raudive went on to document in his 1968 book Unhörbares wird hörbar (“What is inaudible becomes audible”), later published in English in 1971 as Breakthrough: An Amazing Experiment in Electronic Communication with the Dead. Over the course of their experiments, Jürgenson and Raudive became completely convinced that these faint voices that appeared in the etheric hiss of the magnetic tape were nothing less than the spirits of the dead attempting to make contact with us living folk. Furthermore, the two men were of the mind that they could actually communicate with these spirits by asking questions and then leaving pauses in which the voices might answer.

I have an original copy of Breakthrough. It is, I have to say, pretty much unreadable. A small portion of the book is given over to explanations of how the spirit voices are captured and to rambling accounts, daft philosophizing and pseudo-scientific jargon about the voices and hypnosis and psychology and acoustics and all manner of other abstruse matters.

The larger part of the book consists of transcripts of what the voices had to say. The thing that becomes apparent very quickly on reading them is that if these really are the spirits of the dead trying to communicate with us, then the dear departed have either all gone completely senile, or only the lunatics among them are bothering to keep in contact. To make things even more crazy, the messages Raudive and Jürgenson received were also polylingual, with the ‘spirits’ sometimes speaking in German, sometimes French, Swedish or Russian, and sometimes in Raudive’s own Latvian tongue. Often they alternated language on every second word. Here are just a smattering of the things the spirits wanted Raudive to know (you can read the interminable babbling of the spirits for yourself here, should you care to):

Nedoma zirgi (Horses don’t think)

Matei sip galva (Mother has a headache)

Tada flickes nakti (Such a girl at night!)

Golva! Golvas nav! Konstantin, Konstantin, esmu ar tevi vienmer (Head! No head! Konstantin, Konstantin, I am always with you)

Vi koordinati (We are co-ordinated)

Ka tu skrini var tupet? Furchtbar tu dzer, muns Koste! (How can you hover in the cupboard? You drink terribly, my Koste!)

Kosta, van, pietiek ar muziku (Kosta, friend, it is sufficient with the music)

Nomierinies, te Erde oben (Calm yourself; up here is the earth)

…and on and on and on for hundreds of pages with thousands of other incomprehensible and/or dreary snippets. The voices seem entirely incapable of stringing together more that about a half a dozen words into any semblence of coherence. Frankly, if you accept that EVP has any credibility at all, the afterlife comes across as some kind of huge dull and sprawling cocktail party filled with the kind of people you’d step in front of buses to avoid. All on acid.

I know you’re dying to hear some examples of what I’m talking about, so here are some clips from recordings made in the 1970s by EVP researcher Raymond Cass, who is a well known figure among the EVP community, and whose recordings have been collected in recent times on the CD The Ghost Orchid. In each these examples, Mr Cass tells you what you should be hearing. Now go to another page on the same site and see if you can figure out what any of these voices are saying.

As quaint as it all sounds, EVP is not merely an archaic remnant of fin de siecle spiritualism. There are numerous EVP societies still in existence, some even progressing on from analog magnetic tape methodology to embrace new media such as digital audio recording and computer technology. In addition, the phenomenon appears in popular culture from time to time, such as in the film White Noise (where it formed the basis for a lot of extra silliness) and in tv shows such as Fact or Faked. Paranormal Files (where it is invoked to provide silliness in its own right). And, of course, the wonderful eclectic ramble of the internet has seen to it that EVP, like so many other misguided interpretations of the world, continues to have some traction among the less rationally minded.

The mechanisms for recording EVP vary considerably, but they all basically boil down to one thing – getting a recording of something that has a vague enough informational content to allow the listener to impose a personal interpretation on it. Mostly this is done by creating a recording that has a very high noise floor. In audio terms, noise manifests as an evenly distributed amount of random audio information – you would be familiar with it as the sound you hear along with the static that you see on a tv screen that isn’t tuned to a channel. In early EVP recordings, this kind of sound was quite likely to occur on a recording because in those days electronic sound equipment was much more prone to high levels of system interference and tape noise than today. An early EVP researcher might typically proceed by making a recording with a microphone in a sealed cabinet in a quiet room, or even by dispensing with the microphone entirely and simply setting the recorder running with the gain turned up high. This would pretty much ensure plenty of wide bandwidth noise in the end result, along with the amplification of any electrical hums, buzzes, whines and static that can easily be induced in these old electronic systems.

The application of this kind of technique in the late 1940s and early 1950s coincided with another helpful element for EVP: the rise of radio broadcasting. When these old tape machines were recording with the gain turned right up, there was a very high likelihood that they might pick up and amplify extraneous radio signals. These faint signals – in those days more often than not consisting of  spoken word – would wax and wane under the threshhold of the noise floor and background hum and voila! – on listening back to the ‘blank’ tape: ‘spirit’ voices.

The funny thing is, to me this seems so obviously all that is happening that it’s hard to understand how anyone can think it’s anything else, but in the ’40s and ’50s (and being generous, even in the early ’60s) I’m willing to accept that it possibly could have seemed more mysterious. These days, though, with the explanation readily at hand and easily demonstrated, it’s perplexing that anyone can still maintain a belief that EVP is any kind of communication from the spirit world. There are so many questions that must be answered before Occam’s Razor can be blunted here: Why are the spirit voices always so indistinct and their words so open to interpretation? How is it that they sound so much like snippets from terrestrial radio broadcasts? Why do they speak in platitudes and non-sequiturs and can hardly ever manage a  sensible or meaningful sentence? In short, why do they seem so much more like the vague dissemblings of spirit mediums and the abstruse meanderings of astrologers than concise communications from sentient beings? Even if we accept that the vague vocal mutterings are from spirits of the dead, what is the point of talking to them if they make no sense?

Like many matters of pseudoscience and superstition, most of the EVP phenomenon comes down to the peculiar psychology of the human brain. There is no doubt that practitioners and exponents of EVP want their recordings to be evidence of life after death. This powerful influence sways their judgement in such a way that the phenomena of pareidolia (discerning patterns in randomness) and apophenia (finding significance in unconnected and meaningless events) conspire to provide, for them, persuasive evidence for their already-formed beliefs, even in the face of a much more likely and scientifically demonstrable explanation.

This will become a core theme of the matters we will go on to examine in Hummadruz, there is no doubt.