KRIS
I held a shotgun mic on an extendable boom above my head, my arms outstretched so that it pointed awkwardly to the construction yard like a fishing rod. I borrowed it and a digital sound recorder I had buckled to my jeans. I didn’t know if I was going to get too much interference from other sources – traffic groaning, people chatting on the sidewalk farther away. Waiting for the yellow site auger to drill another hole into the excavated foundation of another condo project.
In my other pocket I had two sets of tabs open on my phone’s browser. One tab had a friend-of-a-friend’s site. He built wavetable synthesizers – a little black box with pots to adjust the size and flavour of the signal going through it. He also makes a spring reverb module – an acoustic “room” the size of a cigar
