We’re here to talk following your departure from the TEARS site, where you were the second resident in this experimental program. You spent more time there than anyone else has so far—myself excluded, of course. So unlike the previous interview, there is some time and space between you and the site, which I’m curious to see if it impacts your reflections. To start, how would you introduce yourself?
Sure, the short version is that I’m a musician and researcher, interested in the intersection of sound and emergency contexts. I study dissonance and its effects on the body—both conceptually and physiologically. I think a lot about how public sounds, like sirens and alarms, shape our cultural understanding of catastrophe and disaster. My work explores whether changing these sounds could shift our perception of emergencies, perhaps seeing them not just as accidents but as something potentially transformative. I’m formalizing these ideas in a Ph.D. in creative practice at the University of Southern California.
We’ve known each other for around 20 years—half of our lives, in fact. We’ve shared a lot of collaborative moments, from music to critical exchanges and co-living experiences. Given that history, you were one of the first people I thought of inviting to TEARS. You’re rugged in both the physical and cerebral sense, which makes you a great fit for this space—someone capable of navigating a wilderness of thought as well as actual wild landscapes. So, what were your expectations before coming? Did you have a specific project in mind, or were you just open to see what would unfold?
Knowing where the earthship is—its remoteness and distance from urban infrastructure—I was drawn to the sense of being intentionally detached from modern conveniences. That setup gave me space to rethink the things I usually work on: making music, writing about sound, and researching. I was especially interested in how being away from the urban environment would impact my work. This was my first time staying there solo, and being alone really shaped my experience of the place and what the TEARS program offers.
To me, the experience centers on self-reliance. The absence of urban infrastructure isn’t just pragmatic; it impacts you intellectually as well. It’s like pulling away a veil that cities place over your perspective. After a day in the earthship, I felt that “urban veil” starting to lift, letting me see things with a fresh perspective. I was reminded of how subtly powerful that veil is. The detachment wasn’t just about the lack of trash collection or conventional plumbing; it re-prioritized my intellectual pursuits in a way I hadn’t fully anticipated.
Then you arrived, and we dove right into things. We’d talked about using this time for music production, without really knowing how it would unfold, but trusting that something would emerge. We’ve done this kind of improvisational work before in different settings with varied results, but always with something enigmatic as the outcome. I’m curious—what was it like for you to revisit that process here? What did you feel during our time making music together?
Working on another Perpeteia project in the earthship was fascinating, especially given the self-reliance aspect I mentioned. Perpeteia has always been an inexact but rigorous practice for us, and years of playing together have built a muscle memory of improvisation. To bring that into the earthship context added a unique layer. If someone listened to the album, they wouldn’t know the gear was powered by solar energy, in the middle of nowhere, off-grid—but if they listened closely, I think they’d sense it. There’s an intensity there, a severity that’s influenced by the need for self-reliance.
For example, we had to work during peak sunlight to avoid draining the batteries, and the whole process felt like being on a life raft. It’s a curated raft, one you want to be on, but there’s still that undercurrent of urgency. We stayed connected to the wider world’s issues through conversations and news bits, which also fed into the music, infusing it with a feeling of endings or thresholds. It was a concentrated, intense experience—different from the more relaxed, hours-long jam sessions we’ve done elsewhere.
Outside of making music, there was also the profound silence. Coming straight from three months of work in Tucson, that silence was both a relief and a challenge. My ears had to adjust, and initially, all I could hear was this inner “fuzz” or static in my ears, which made me think about the Taos Hum and other auditory phenomena.
The silence out there is something else—I’ve never experienced anything quite like it. In winter especially, with the added layer of insulation from snow, it’s almost maddening. I’ve heard my own pulse so loudly that it keeps me awake. My neighbor, Jez, has a theory that it’s caused by deep underground volcanic tubes resonating like the throat of some immense subterranean-being, stretching from Colorado down through New Mexico. When I hear that hum in winter, I imagine it as a voice, not just a sound. Anyways, please continue.
That resonates with what I was experiencing. It got me thinking about the hum, auditory hallucinations, and the “bicameral mind” theory that Julian Jaynes proposed. He suggested that at one time, people interpreted their inner monologues as the voices of gods, which eventually evolved into what we now consider our “self-talk.” It’s interesting to apply that idea to phenomena like tinnitus, where we hear sounds that don’t have a clear external source. If we shift away from seeing these experiences as brain misfirings or accidents, we might see them as connections to something larger, even ancient—like the Taos Hum you mentioned.
We also spent time revisiting some past work—music we’d recorded around 2013-2015 that had been gathering digital dust. It felt like a fitting end to your residency to review those recordings and realize how valuable they are. So, my final question for you, one I’m asking all residents, is: how did it go? Were there successes or failures, surprises, discomforts, or suggestions you’d have for future residents?
Revisiting the Perpeteia archives felt strangely aligned with the TEARS program. It was like we were looking at this “compost heap” of media we’ve carried with us, unprocessed, for years. Listening back, I realized the material was even more compelling than I’d remembered, and by deciding to publish it, it felt lighter. That process mirrored the ethos of the earthship—nothing piles up; everything gets recycled or transformed. So that was a success.
For future residents, I’d warn against letting dogs eat the desert grasses, which can be indigestible and require surgery to remove. As for the program itself, I formatted my project to allow for open-ended results, so the site influenced my work, especially my writing and research, in ways I couldn’t have anticipated. The album we recorded together also felt like a success, in large part because of the setting, which gave our work a certain urgency and focus.
Perfect. Any last thoughts before we wrap up?
No, I think we covered it all. I feel good about this conversation.
Good. Thank you.