The ride up from Glenridding was a slog. Coming at the end of a trying couple of hours tackling heavy rain and steep hills, it was surely put there to finish me off.
I’d gleefully turned into Greenside Road from the main drag of the village, but I knew from the contour lines on the map that a fairly sharp incline lay ahead. I barely made it to the pub halfway up the paved section before having to concede defeat, get off and push. I plopped down on a strategically placed bench and consulted the map some more, buying my tired legs some time, before using a second wind (Third? Fourth?) to round the next bend and pass the remaining houses of Greenside Road.
Where the houses stopped, so too did the Tarmac. From there on, the surface was rough gravel with the occasional teasing strip of ancient concrete. Where the road levelled out, I’d hop on my bicycle and pedal for a time, until having to get off and push once more.
I was well aware of the remoteness of the youth hostel I’d booked, located as it is not in the village but an hour or so into the walk to Helvellyn. But this didn’t comfort me much as I staggered on towards my home for the next few days. I was also struck by the realisation that the village would remain distant for the length of my stay, with this long track separating my bed from the nearest shops.
Reaching Helvellyn YHA was, therefore, a wonderful feeling. I found a pretty stone building set among trees, alongside a roaring beck. Inside, reception staff checked me in and I was quickly out of my soaked gear, and unpacking to find that the carrier-bagging of my luggage had paid off. My map was a little worse for wear – brand new a week ago and now rough and damp at the edges, already losing its shape as I’d re-folded it multiple times to follow my current route. Another mental note to only purchase laminated OS maps from now on: they’re worth the extra cost.
Having changed into warm, dry clothes and filled up on a decent enough meal at the hostel’s restaurant – maybe the remoteness of the shops would be less of an issue after all – I headed out for an exploratory wander.
The day’s showers had given way finally, leaving misty, wispy clouds hugging fellsides, and transforming becks and streams to roaring torrents as they tumbled down the valley to the lake.
All around me were signs of the area’s lead mining past – from small stone foundations and rough tracks to vast workings further up the valley. But these ghosts of opportunistic industry were all that was left to distract me from the remote nature of my base for the week.
That solemn, final trudge up Greenside Road had been worth it as I looked back down Glenridding Beck towards Ullswater: I’d paid for this sense of remoteness and, amid the silence, I was already very pleased that I had.
After a trying ride from Penrith, the way the road wound down to the shores of Ullswater was a real treat. The curves in the serpentine road as it threaded its way downhill kept giving glimpses of the body of water that lay below, leading me right to its edge.
Once at the valley bottom and alongside Ullswater, the rain had stopped and the road, though busier, was smooth – and flat. Pushing on from this point felt easy, almost dreamlike, as the views across the lake revealed mist-shrouded fells, lone trees, and vast woods. The usual view was across Ullswater’s narrow middle, but as the road followed its curves, I could occasionally see up most of its length to far, sunlit reaches in the distance.
Although my proximity to the lake’s edge meant I could easily see the clarity of the water, the low, gloomy clouds and dull, muted colours of the surrounding fells gave Ullswater a black, oily appearance.
Following the road to Glenridding from this point was easy. The road mostly hugged the water’s edge, making for a flat ride that only occasionally rose to tackle a rocky outcrop before leading down to the level of the water once again. The mid-afternoon traffic heading towards Glenridding, Patterdale and onwards was steady, but not busy.
There’s something wonderful about a route that follows water. Roads and paths that hug rivers, canals and lakes feel very natural and organic – like the route wasn’t decided by a man with a measuring stick. Instead these routes feel obvious, direct and ancient. We are drawn to water’s edges and, where bodies of water are long and narrow, rather than wide and round, it makes sense to follow those edges from one point to another. And where a long narrow lake is hemmed in on both sides by steep hills, crags and mountains, this narrow strip of land becomes a habitable sanctuary – a thin ribbon granting passage to those who seek it.
But it’s easy to let your mind wander as you push on and on, your bike feeling heavier and heavier at each rise. One of the best ways to snap out of such meditations is the appearance of the sign welcoming you to your destination. Glenridding greeted me with the sight of a handful of hotels, a small shop or two, and the requisite tourist information centre.
The rain had long since stopped, and my swift progress meant I was well on the way to drying off – which was a bonus, because although I’d reached the village, my final destination lay a few kilometres further on, up Glenridding Beck.
Last Friday I attended Keeping Tracks, a free one-day seminar covering current trends in the archiving of sound recordings from a number of perspectives.
The event, held at the BL’s conference centre, drew a mixture of folks from the archive and heritage sectors, as well as a number from the music and broadcasting industries, with the rest made up of hackers, programmers and technologists.
I would probably stick myself in the first of these categories; although my day job doesn’t involve sound recordings, it does require overlapping skills such as stock maintenance, selection, curation and the ability to look back just as much as forward.
Initial concerns I had of being discovered as an outsider were quickly allayed, then, and a fascinating day unfolded.
The first few sessions, from Pop Music Curator Adam Linehan’s introduction, via AV Scoping Analyst Adam Tovell and Curator of Digital Recordings Alex Wilson, all came from British Library staff.
Adam Tovell’s session was an in-depth introduction to the various formats held by the BL, and the risks and opportunities faced by an institution which holds some 5 million unique recordings across 1.7 million ‘carriers’, held on more than 40 unique formats. Tovell’s delivery had a lecturely tone which belied his age, but was no less fascinating for it. I was enthralled.
His talk was also starkly honest: after explaining that the ideal window for digitisation of these various formats before they degrade or otherwise become unusable was something like 20-30 years, he told us that the current rate of digital transfer within the BL’s vast collection would take them more like 48 years to complete…
As usual, the Q&A session that followed was able to shed some light on the risks and opportunities that had been discussed – one point was that many digital formats (e.g. DATs) could be transferred much faster than real-time thanks to built-in error-checking. Another was the need to appraise the collection and weigh it up against those of other similar institutions such as the BBC and see where efforts can be combined – or standards agreed upon, at least.
One final question queried whether there was room to be selective about what got transferred – could any holdings be conveniently ‘lost’ if it was decided it wasn’t worth the effort? No, was the answer: the item had been added to the collection at some stage after the usual rigorous selection process and, as part of the collection in its current form, was necessary to be maintained.
Alex Wilson’s talk went into some detail around collecting music already in digital forms – particularly ‘born digital’ releases – from various labels and distribution methods such as Bandcamp. There was talk of metadata importing, and the use of APIs to standardise and automate the process.
Metadata was a constant theme throughout the day’s sessions. In one question following Alex’s talk, someone asked why BL curators should be able to alter the metadata sent through with files when they are coming direct from source, e.g. the labels and artists themselves. Naturally, it was explained that the curators, as trained, experienced individuals, reserve the right to correct and adapt metadata to suit the needs of the library and its users. The counterpoint was also raised that even metadata from the source isn’t always 100% accurate anyway.
The other main point from Alex’s session was twofold: UK legal deposit laws do not cover audiovisual materials (this was news to me), any such arrangements being therefore voluntary; and the relationships between most of the major labels and the BL have, in recent years, “fallen into disrepair.” This was slightly alarming. But despite this, it was said that building bridges with the more innovative and flexible indie labels would provide a solid foundation on which to build stronger relationships with the majors in future.
One audience member repeatedly asked, “but whyyyyyy?” with regards to the fact that legal deposit doesn’t cover sound recordings. He was subsequently told by exasperated BL staff who happened to be in the audience, increasing in seniority, that it had been lobbied for time and again, but was just not deemed necessary by the powers that be, due to the volunteer agreements in place. Chicken and egg.
After a short break came probably my highlight of the day. The Quietus writer Rory Gibb was onstage to interview Lesley Bleakley of Beggars Group (a British record company that owns or distributes several other labels, including 4AD, Rough Trade Records, Matador Records, and XL Recordings) about the label’s attitudes to archiving its own material across the entire length of its existence.
From Gary Numan to Biffy Clyro, via Pixies, The National, mclusky and the White Stripes, it’s fair to say I have quite a number of Beggars releases in my collection, and I have a lot of respect for them. Lesley was a fantastic, passionate speaker who clearly has the right mix of business nous and respect for the history and heritage Beggars has created – she was the CEO of the American arm for many years, and had recently taken time away from her career.
In setting the scene for Beggars’ archive arrangements to date, Lesley talked about the Beggars offices of old having a large room where things were just stored with no real order, nor forward planning. She also said how one of the senior staff had kept his own trainspotter-ish collection of two of each release.
But she explained that the recent vinyl resurgence, along with the need to monetise old recordings via videogames like Rock Band, had meant increased attentions on archive materials from a business perspective. She emphasised how both these use cases rely on maintaining the original master tapes to work from. She explained how many early masters were just not kept – the 2″ reel-to-reel tapes being wiped once deemed finished with.
On the other hand, the amount of duplicate materials held in their offices was vast, due to multiple copies of things like promo video cassettes being produced for distribution to various worldwide media channels in the days before digital file transfer.
But the great news was that Beggars Group has recently been given planning permission for a purpose-built archive building, and are in the process of compiling archive materials from the various offices to finally put it all in one place. She talked briefly about the technical issues encountered along the way – from storage conditions to cataloguing protocols – before explaining how in the process she’s become something of an archives nerd.
She made two cracking points in summing up: “I’m fed up of people thinking archiving is dusty and boring – it’s brilliant! It’s fascinating, and it’s necessary.”
And, having talked about the archive from a largely business perspective, she also came back to the point of such a collection being part of the wider national (and international) heritage: “It’s music… It’s culture… It’s not ‘ours’… We do need to look after our copyright though!”
After this inspiring chat, things were brought slightly more down to earth, but no less inspiring, with a session from the National Library of Norway. We were told by Trond Valberg and Lars Gaustad that unlike here in the UK, Norwegian legal deposit has covered audiovisual recordings since 1989, and the Library now collects pretty much all of the country’s cultural output, from books, newspapers and music, to radio and television broadcasts and the web.
Interestingly, we were told that the number of CDs being taken in by the Library was now decreasing, while the number of vinyl LPs was increasing. The vinyl resurgence was probably the other main theme of the day, alongside metadata.
The Norwegians went into some detail regarding the technology behind it all – with some ‘bragging slides’ with mind-boggling numbers, such as a server farm of 3 lots of 6 petabyte hard drive racks keeping it all backed up, with approximately 6 petabytes a day being added to the archive – or 10 petabytes at peak.
They also talked about partnerships with software and database designers in coming up with bespoke metadata and cataloguing programs. Really, the National Library of Norway sounds like the perfect model for other countries to follow with regards to a complete digital national archive of cultural output.
Sacha Sedriks, of BBC Future Media, was up next to tell us all about their recent experiment Playlister, which enables radio listeners to track down a song they heard, add it to a personal playlist, then stream it via the likes of Spotify.
What began with a cutesy PR rundown of a fabulous new service for all BBC fans to start using very quickly evolved into some fairly deep data chat – stuff like establishing and maintaining unique, canonical artist, track and works IDs to ensure consistency of metadata across all the myriad services the BBC operates.
Sedriks explained that the service had been a hit particularly among listeners to the UK Top 40, along with the kinds of slightly more nerdy, discovery-based radio shows from the likes of Annie Mac and Gilles Peterson, with users wanting to investigate the new sounds they’d heard.
Although radio is naturally Playlister’s bread and butter, some TV shows have added implementation as well, and interestingly, the first ‘big hit’ of the service at launch was Peaky Blinders. Indeed, this was how I first stumbled on and used the service myself – Playlister enabled viewers to identify the Nick Cave and Jack White tracks used to soundtrack the gritty Birmingham drama series.
Next up was something of a sales pitch from Decibel Music Systems, whose admittedly clever software can rip apart traditional relational databases and retrieve results from a graph database, allowing queries of increasing complexity. Examples were given of drilling right down into segments of tracks, or grouping results by seemingly abstract links.
They also produce editorial content to go with the ‘facts’ used on the system, and this revelation spawned quite a fascinating Q&A session asking about the differences – legally and financially – between ‘facts’ and ‘information’, and whether such things were only ever produced in-house, or were perhaps sometimes collected from the wider Internet?
A slightly choppy link-up via Skype was next, with the Music Tech Fest in Massachusetts providing a panel-for-hire for us to put questions to. Led by music/tech/future/past guru Andrew Dubber, the gang tackled some of our dustier queries with a slightly more American music/tech conference vibe. It was nice to get a different perspective on things, and although the Skype connection was a touch shoddy, it all worked quite well, considering.
Quite a staggering point from one Stateside contributor though – with us all running around madly trying to archive EVERYTHING, he simply explained that throughout history, the loss of the majority of our heritage is normal, and inevitable. I’d argue that just because this has been the case in the past, it doesn’t mean we can’t do all we can to try and get better at it! His subsequent analogy that the Internet may well go the way of the telegraph was perhaps a little severe, but his point was pretty solid. It’s always good to get a little perspective when you’re knee-deep in discussions of this kind.
The final session was a hoot. A roundtable chaired by the Wire’s online editor Jennifer Lucy Allan, between three niche record label bosses: Jonny Trunk of Trunk Records; Spencer Hickman of Death Waltz Recording Company; and Roger Armstrong of Ace Records.
All three labels produce releases destined to be heard by only a small few, and they revel in this, producing really nice packages of rare sounds that will not just be listened to in the background, but enjoyed and consumed. Jonny Trunk rescues dead library music and other oddities; Hickman rebirths the otherwise excellent-in-their-own-right soundtracks to horror films of questionable quality; and Armstrong pumps out compilations of vintage music to fans who want to check out a scene and read the liner notes: “We sell booklets and throw some music in with it!”
Actually, what was most interesting was that Armstrong, older than the other two, had arguably the most progressive views, repeatedly trying to win them over to his idea of really well-made, hyperlinked digital booklets to accompany their releases. Trunk and Hickman were having none of this however, happier to put out short runs of beautiful LPs to the small community of fans out there waiting for them.
Along with some funny anecdotes and asides, there was some interesting stuff regarding how hard – or easy – it can be to get music licensed for release. Armstrong explained that Ace Records’ compilations accompanying Bob Dylan’s Theme Time Radio Hour were able to secure the White Stripes’ contribution thanks merely to Bob’s name being on the cover. Trunk mentioned having spent mere minutes emailing the right people to get access to what he wanted. And Hickman had stories of friendships forged with composers and producers having spent months tracking them down and earning their trust in re-releasing forgotten gems.
I thoroughly enjoyed this discussion to finish off the day’s sessions. More than anything, it left me wanting to go out and buy some LPs, just as Lesley Bleakley’s enthusiasm made me more enthused and excited than ever by the sound archive sector.
…Unfortunately, things weren’t quite over. Although the official sessions were complete, Mark Fisher was scheduled to give a brief, closing speech.
Having found myself soaring on the optimism, enthusiasm and vitality of a sector many see as dusty and unnecessary, Fisher kind of bummed everyone out with a jolt back to ‘reality’, talking about stuff like constant distractions from cellphones and “the Mark Zuckerberg universe…” – stuff we all already know, and can deal with in our own way.
He made some valid points, but it felt unnecessarily negative to round off a day which been all about embracing potential with a talk like this. Further, much of his talk blamed technology for all the negativity of shortened attention spans and so on, ignoring the many benefits, and particularly the benefits within this sector that had been referred to by many of the day’s speakers!
He also made points about nothing musically innovative – on the creative side, at least – having occurred since the turn of the 21st century. Fine, but not at all what we had gathered to discuss. He briefly touched on the ways that music consumption has benefited from technological advances, but hardly celebrated it. This, coming at the end of a day geared towards innovation and best practices in music storage, discovery and consumption was perhaps a little misguided. Overall, his rant felt unplanned, illogical, and certainly poorly targeted.
But no matter. Ignoring the closing words, the day was a huge success. I found myself fascinated, intrigued and inspired. It was everything I’d hoped it would be, and even exceeded my expectations. I came away full of new ideas about the specific challenges and opportunities of the sound archiving sector, and with a renewed enthusiasm towards the entire libraries, museums and archives sector in which I find myself engrossed.
The fact that the day had gone so well, and been so varied and fascinating is to be celebrated and commended – the fact that it was free… That’s truly remarkable.
Thanks very much to all the contributors, to Alex Wilson and Andy Linehan, and to all at the BL who made the event possible. It was fabulous.
One of the things I’m loving about my time in Milton Keynes (and there genuinely are a lot – I’m just being lazy about writing them up) is its weird and quirky planning and construction.
There are so many interesting little factoids and trivia about MK that start to emerge when you glance at a map or history book (and I do that with alarming tenacity).
Since buying a bike recently (my first new and very own bike since I was about ten!), I’ve been absolutely loving getting out and about on it, as well as just using it to get to and from work. Amongst MK’s weird and wonderful transport systems is the fantastic network of Redways* – cycling (and pedestrian) paths which criss-cross the city and mean you can get from one point to almost any other without ever crossing a main road (and only rarely crossing minor roads).
The Redways have opened up a sort of virtual landscape to me, and they’ve enabled MK to make sense to me, where before everywhere kind of just looked the same. It still does, of course, but I’m starting to get my bearings and I’m enjoying being able to correspond a point on a map with a place I can visit.
But where this process gets a little bit more intriguing than your bog-standard ‘navigating by map’ is when you go to a location on a map which… just isn’t really there in real life.
Milton Keynes was planned so precisely and so carefully that, inevitably, sometimes things didn’t go to plan. This results in quirks and oddities on the scale of whole neighbourhoods being paved, roads built and street names assigned… And then they are just left, as if abandoned.
One such neighbourhood (one of several, actually) can be found surprisingly close to Campbell Park, the new city’s central recreation area. I stumbled on it by accident, following my nose along another ribbon of Redway.
Suddenly, across the road from the park I found myself surrounded by roads that were laid, along with pavements and kerbstones, and lines of trees. But behind the kerb were no houses – no buildings at all. Just wasteland leading to another copied-and-pasted tree-lined avenue.
It was actually quite eerie – and this was on a sunny Saturday afternoon, when a minute or so before I’d been whizzing past Campbell Park’s cricket ground. And yet, suddenly, here was windswept silence, with only a distant hum of traffic and the wind in the leaves.
And what I might even love most about this whole weird place is that on all the maps that cover the area, the roads are all named. Above you can see down the length of Taymouth Place. Nearby turn-offs lead to Smithsons Place, Reliance Lane and Limerick Lane.
But nobody lives at these addresses, and there are no road signs. And yet they exist on maps and, presumably, in some sort of planning database. There is much for me to explore and investigate, clearly.
As before, but in reverse, it took just a few turns of my pedals before I found myself cycling past flats and a busy road once more. Now that I’ve found this place by accident, I’m taking a more concerted effort to find more. I’ve seen a few that are easy to find, opposite huge supermarkets and similar. Then there are those almost stereotypical junctions with spurs to roads that never got built.
I need to be careful about the tools I use for this mission. Google Maps is pretty accurate, but using the satellite maps and Street View imagery often only tells half the story – or less. The ‘current’ satellite view of my workplace still shows a hockey stadium, for example. And there is an adjacent patch of land to the one I talk about above, which appears to be in the same condition according to Google, but has since been built upon.
So, it’s a mystery story with a few tools necessary – a handful of maps, my bicycle, and a curiosity to seek out some of MK’s more surprising hidden gems. I’ll let you know what else I find.
When I moved to Milton Keynes, I was (Milton) keen* to embrace the sorts of cultural events that were bound to pop up around the city.
* Sorry about that.
Having had the great fortune to live in a city like Manchester for the last four years, I’ve been privileged to be surrounded by interesting, diverse and exciting events seemingly constantly on the go. There was always something happening and, inevitably, I started to take that for granted and let a lot of it go ignored. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed and took part in my fair share, but it’s true to say I was spoiled for choice in Manchester.
So my move to Milton Keynes was always coupled with a small fear that I would lose out in that arena; I had this preconception that, as an ‘artificial’ new city, MK would lack the kind of cultural infrastructure for which Manchester is so celebrated.
Luckily there has been a good deal of stuff to grab my interest – some of which I’ve covered here already. The latest slice of culture in the city to catch my eye – actually it caught Lisa’s eye – was the Carabosse Fire Gardens at Campbell Park, part of the intriguing Milton Keynes International Festival.
Taking place last weekend, the installation was only there for a couple of nights, and thanks to the sudden good weather, it was very popular, with the £2 tickets all but selling out.
Lisa and I went down not really knowing what to expect – probably not the huge queues (which we fortunately bypassed due to pre-booking), and certainly not an installation as vast as what we found in the park.
Stretching as far as we could see in the dying light – around the recently-erected beacon – were thousands of tiny flickering lights: flames alongside paths, in trees, suspended from metal frames and fires being bellowed and stoked all around.
Although the popularity meant that some sections moved at snails’ pace, there were plenty of focal points to stop and take it all in.
And that was the best part of it really, the whole surreality of it all. The icing on the cake was the live music – from ethereal loop-ridden guitar music to plaintive and eerie saxophone occasionally accompanied by xylophone and soft singing from musicians in metallic constructions wearing hats and suits.
It all had a rather Gothic, steampunk feel to it. Amongst the twilight and the deeply natural feeling of skin warmed by flame on a long summer’s evening, I absolutely loved it.
It wasn’t without the inevitable slice of humanity who turned up pissed and probably weren’t in the best frame of mind to really enjoy it – but you can’t have anything. Taking the time to stop and take in the weird majesty of it all more than made up for that.
Anyway, it was brilliant and totally unexpected – and a huge success: reports say that more than 12,000 people attended over the course of the weekend. Hurrah for that, and hurrah for more like it in future.
As an aside, I made a little video while I was there – hopefully it’ll give you a better flavour of the event than my silly words: