Joshua Marquez and David Toop

David Toop: First, I wonder if you could say more about the specifics of the RAIR residency: what you learned, what possibilities it suggested, and what sort of shift you feel is happening right now in response to your project? 

Joshua Marquez: When I first learned of the RAIR residency, I was excited to apply and immediately had several ideas for projects. My initial thoughts were very specific to recording techniques and manners of organizing sound that were tangible, but they were a little sterile or clinical — ways that I had worked before. I could see myself planning a longform composition, with a mapped-out trajectory and very composed moments. Although this was exciting to me, I wanted to approach this residency with more openness — to explore sound more deeply, but also let go of some control. If I had planned out a composition, I would have ended up “fishing” for sounds throughout the facility to meet the aesthetic needs of the piece. Instead, I wanted to be open to whatever I found, and allow the materials to guide the work. My only guiding parameter was to use as much material as I could from RAIR. So, most of the field recordings were taken on 1/4-inch and 1/8-inch magnetic tape salvaged from the site.

This connects to the concept of waste culture. We aren’t able to pick and choose what is wasted — we are caught with what we (collectively) throw away. We all must deal with the consequences. On some level, trash belongs to no one, because it is discarded. But on the other hand, trash belongs to everyone, because it is returned into a world that we all occupy. 

While in residence, I had to accept whatever materials (and sounds) came into the facility on any given day. On some days, I was able to acquire some interesting percussion instruments, and record them. On other days, I was able to record the hustle-and-bustle of workers at the facility sorting materials. This fluidity opened my ears to sounds that I may have ignored. Additionally, it took away the pressure to capture a perfect recording — I just collected what I could, and was grateful for all that I collected. In fact, the most interesting sounds were the ones that didn’t catch my ear while recording in-person — sounds I would have discarded if I went into this project with a fleshed-out plan in mind. Through the process of discovery, some of the recordings contained wonderful “lowercase music” when amplified. The fact that they were captured on “trashed” tape, with all its inherently glorious imperfections, only made them more interesting.

To continue with this idea of “recycling,” I found ways to turn these discarded objects into sound-making devices with some small electronic components. Thus, I “returned” the sound back into the materials from which they came. Completing this cycle several times, as you can imagine, resulted in some interesting aesthetic and philosophical filtration. These results will be heard once the composition is released as an album of the same name, Recycled Soundscapes. 

I learned a lot from this project. This residency allowed me the time to explore, experiment, and fail. This is what makes RAIR unique. Not only did I have access to materials that are hard to come by, but I also had access to a facility that is brimming with life and sound. I find myself taking things like this for granted when “fishing” for the best materials. Sometimes, they are right in front of me, even in the trash.

DT: I’m also interested to know what didn’t work or didn’t turn out in the way you hoped — in other words, what do you think you need to reassess?

JM: Perhaps I went a bit to the extreme with my openness, specifically when gathering field recordings. Although I collected a lot of wonderful moments that may have been overlooked, I walked away from some sounds that I could have investigated further, because of my commitment to “unbiased listening.” A lot of my music is controlled, whether it be a hypernotated score or a very pristine recording environment. Letting go of that control is hard to do. I think there is a benefit to having a direct plan, at times, and it is about finding that balance. When I improvise, I can let go of plans, but the control is within my hands — my instrument. 

I’m happy with the result, and I had a great time. For me, I learned a lot about my process by actively not engaging with my process. I discovered that I’m not as open to sounds as I think. Just because I utilize a lot of “noise” in my music does not mean that I am aware of the “noise” that surrounds us. One of my mentors told me that he wants to “feel the wound” in my work. He told me that I tried too hard to compose the moment, and that my embrace of imperfections was too choreographed. Often, I’m too precious with my work and I need to be more precarious. RAIR really allowed me that opportunity to produce something without having to overwork it. I’m still reflecting and working through it, but I want to continuously reassess these processes in future projects.

DT: You spoke passionately about being somewhat caught in the middle — Asian American but not having a complete sense of belonging either as an American or a Filipino artist. I’m interested to know how you feel that lack, as you’d expressed it, might be articulated through your practice as it is developing.

JM: These feelings of in-betweenness have been with me for as long as I remember. There is a constant pull between two worlds that leaves me unresolved. Although I am keenly aware of how I would like to express this through my work, I think that it exists in my creative output merely because it exists within me. I’m constantly finding ways to further express these feelings, but I’m also allowing my work to exist within this liminality. I don’t know if there is a way to better articulate that idea of being caught in the middle because the idea itself is somewhat nebulous. 

I find great comfort in microtonal harmonies, processed sounds, and sounds that push beyond the more conventional tones that we hear in a lot of music (i.e. extended techniques). Although we have found ways to quantify and identify these sounds, they exist somewhere on a spectrum between “tone” and “noise,” “harmonious” and “inharmonious.” Of course, much of this is subjective and entirely based on context.

I am also interested in the contention between analog and digital worlds. In the age of social media and the Internet, we live vicariously yet in isolation. We can digitally witness these analog actions and, somehow, find connection. This is the case beyond the art world, although the arts are steeped in digital connections. We occupy this liminal space where digital representations of art or people serve as our primary connections. Of course, this was all heightened during the COVID-19 pandemic. I find myself trying to use both analog and digital techniques to create work as a means to express these complex feelings. The confluence of these two approaches creates a plethora of contradictions. Both approaches have benefits and failures. I tend to lean into the failures within my work, because those seem the most interesting philosophically and aesthetically. 

I bring this up because it connects to my ethnic liminality. I find myself wondering how I coexist in these two worlds, not entirely belonging to either one. I think this is why I have been gravitating toward electronic music and amplified music performance, because it allows these liminalities to be explored.

JM: Similarly, you expressed some thoughts about being both a writer and a musician. I wonder if you could share more about the complexities of navigating two worlds, and how they collide?

DT: Tensions and contradictions can be uncomfortable or painful in psychological and social terms, but they can also be very productive as unavoidable elements within our practice. There are acute differences between being a writer and a musician, though I feel that's changing for various reasons. Traditionally, musicians have been reluctant to write about their practice, and writers have frequently been characterized as aspiring or failed musicians. It's not as simple as that stereotype, of course, but there's an element of truth in it. Using words to analyze music has a distancing effect, whereas music has a foundation in repeated practice, and there are many traditions of nonverbal teaching or transmission. Constant practicing “embeds” technique, making it possible to play without “thinking” (although performing is a kind of thinking). 

Speaking personally, I found it impossible to suppress one or the other, but bridging what I perceived to be a gap was extremely hard. It became particularly acute when I was first invited into academia, in the early 2000s. I felt a growing pressure to write in a more academic style, to give scholarly lectures — and at that time, I also felt rather remote from any music scene. 

What you realize eventually is that some problems can't be solved in a specific time frame. You work on them but they gradually dissolve in the complex unfolding of living and working. It's a lifelong project that requires patience, and an acceptance that certain difficulties are integral to your practice. The rise of research-based art has made it easier to resolve this gulf between writing and playing. Yet at the same time, I often sense another possible strategy, just beyond my reach or understanding. The process of working on these tensions is what's really important — not so much the mirage of solving the problem.   

DT: Lastly, there’s a definite solo artist approach to some of your work, but in other cases, you work in a more improvised, collaborative setting. How do those two approaches connect? Do they contradict each other, enhance each other? Do they create a tension that needs to be resolved, or maybe suggest new potentialities for the future?

JM: I guess I like contradictions. Perhaps this is further proof of my liminal dilemma. There is always a tension when it comes to deciding how to best express something. For some of my work, I don’t think it is appropriate or necessary for others to be involved. For other work, it is vital to approach with a collaborative spirit. Beyond composing, I spend a lot of time improvising both by myself and with others. 

Growing up, before formally studying music, I would freely improvise and create noisy soundscapes with others, all the time. I think I immensely missed that when I stepped away, especially during graduate school, when I became very serious about composing. 

I do everything in my power to fully express myself, and my bevy of contradictions. Sometimes that takes the form of a highly-notated and obsessively-planned string quartet, or a completely improvised electric guitar performance. I find myself moving in a direction where some of these ideas are converging, but I’m unsure if they will be able to coexist in one place. Perhaps my creative output will continuously live in some liminal state.