Hiram’s music connects spaces and defines worlds. Immersed in specific natural environments, he listens and channels what he hears through different instrumentation. Wooden flute expressions build green waves, melting into synth textures and flecked percussion. He draws the emotive core from wind and birdsong and plants it into slow-moving, reflective compositions, music that pulls inward while linking listeners to something larger, something beyond sight. His newest album, Shade Songs, has a darker tone, but is no less welcoming. Drawn-out melodies have an elastic quality, folding back in on themselves while harmonies reach skyward. Harp plucks tiptoe across patient drones, leading from darkness to light until those boundaries dissolve.
Shade Songs is OUT NOW and available HERE. Hiram’s website can be found HERE.
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Let’s travel back to the beginning. What are some of your earliest memories of sound or music that have stuck with you? Do any of those still feel present, or influential, in your work today?
When I was very young, I was a choirboy in The Land of Lakes Boys Choir until around 10. So at an early age we were touring in Europe, performing in historic cathedrals, and memorizing Bach and liturgical music, which leaves a lasting impression. The idea of getting comfortable performing for large audiences and striving for excellence was instilled early on. I fall back to voice in my music pretty often, as it’s such an expressive and uniquely human tool. Works every time.
Another core memory is getting in trouble in 6th grade orchestra for improvising in key, instead of playing the part that was assigned to me. Funny now, looking back. I’m still a jammer at heart, I guess.
Deep listening is an important component of your practice. When did you first encounter it, and how did it resonate with you?
I like the term as a way to express the idea, but I’m not trained in the Oliveros school of deep listening. I’ve been thinking of it lately as giving attention. I like the idea of sharing space and surrendering to the sound. I’m not sure exactly how it first happened for me, but it’s evolved over the years to become a significant aspect of my work.
I relate to sound like an abstract painting. It’s colors and mood, like a whole language of its own to understand. It’s non-figurative, maybe non-linear, but absolutely carries emotion and narrative. Finding textures and patterns in challenging and abstract material is rewarding. If I really slow down and listen, I keep wanting to get deeper and deeper into the sound, and explore all the subtle details, until everything else falls away. Listening is my favorite mode of connecting.
Field recording is another important part of how you build your work. When you’re out gathering recordings, listening for sounds in a wilderness space, are you already imagining how it might fit into a composition? Or does that part come later?
I love the idea of using field recordings as a starting point; I’m always listening. Sometimes those natural spaces and sounds are so lovely; it’s just overwhelming and inspiring, and those are the sounds that I really like to use in my work. So part of it is putting yourself out into these environments whenever possible.
I do go out specifically to record new material for potential use in the studio, but the act of field recording, I think, is separate from the creative act. It’s a more neutral, invisible action. Maybe in that moment you recognize creative potential, but more often it’s listening from a passive perspective. When I field record, I’m usually sitting there quietly nearby, usually no headphones, just listening, so it’s often a practice of slowing down for myself in that moment as well.
Sometimes when you listen back, the sounds present themselves so clearly, it’s amazing. You never know when an uneventful session results in some magical, mysterious moment, or tiny movements appear that are impossible to hear from ten feet away. If I get a particularly lovely field recording to work with, it starts the process of inspiring the right instruments and tunings to best complement the sounds, and bring the composition into itself.
You’ve written about how there’s this split in the way you treat field recordings. Can you talk a little bit about that split? And has your instinct on where a particular sound or recording falls – has that gotten sharper over time, or does it still surprise you where things end up?
Yeah, it’s sort of a metaphysical distinction. I’ve developed a sense of the types of sounds I’m looking for. I wrote a piece about how certain sounds feel like they’re enough and should be left as they are. Not that the sounds aren’t beautiful or important, but that sometimes it doesn’t feel like I should add anything to it or change it. The sound stands alone. If you look at field recordings as documents of life in that moment, there’s a lot of power in that. I try to mostly represent sounds as we would experience them, meaning natural in the ears. I prefer open-air recordings for that reason, that it’s closest to what we might hear and feel in that space. But some sounds carry so much information, or they have so much to say by themselves, that it doesn’t feel right to intrude. I’d rather just listen.
Even with recordings that don’t offer an immediate creative pathway, I’m often surprised to discover how musical some of these sounds actually are with close attention. I’ve found myself going deeper and deeper lately.
I’m curious about your ideas of sonic conservation (and very much resonate with the idea). First, can you talk a little bit about what that phrase means to you?
I use the term sonic conservation to mean preserving sounds of the landscape, of the natural world, and bringing them into a new context. It’s caretaking, in the sense of giving attention. By listening closely and preserving these sounds, we can view them as a tangible record of the life of the space, and develop a better understanding of our place within it. As artists, we can then carry aspects of that space with us to inform and create new work. I like the term because it denotes a sense of connection and stewardship, which is how I feel about the planet generally.
It’s an environmental discipline that, for me, feels connected to my whole experience in the world. I’m a “leave nothing but footprints” kinda guy, so it’s a way to allow things to be as they are, to honor them, and to preserve elements of these spaces to share beyond that personal experience. Using these modern tools, we can document and learn so much about the world around us.
With all of that in mind, do you feel like you’ve got more of a responsibility with how you handle the material once you’re working with it in the studio? Or is this more about the act of listening to a place itself?
I’d say there’s a sense of responsibility to respect the sounds. The sounds have a spirit of the places they’re from, and they carry elements of the landscape with them, and it’s important to honor that. I try to let the landscapes shape the work, rather than the other way around. It’s the act of listening closely to a place and finding the story these places have to tell, but it’s also recognizing that sometimes your job is to just get out of the way. I’m not a field recording expert, more a close listener. So in collecting these sounds, it’s a record of the places I’ve been and the life and sounds they carry, but it’s also potentially material to be creative with, which is a choice to be made every time. I think being sensitive to the sounds lets you decide what feels right in whatever context.
Your latest album is called Shade Songs, and I really like this idea of using the shape light takes when it meets something solid as this jumping-off point. When did you first start thinking about this idea? Did it come before you started collecting material and recording, or was it something that took shape as you were working?
It took time as the material came together to fully recognize the themes as they presented themselves. I was initially focused on the physical space, or creating the feeling of sitting in the shade under a big tree. But as I continued to work and make music that relates to this idea, I recognized the many levels of the light and shade duality concept, and the album crystallized around that relationship. It became a way to understand these dichotomies and explain my own creative instincts. Plenty of artists have used the theme, but Haruki Murakami says it nicely: “Where there is light, there must be shadow, where there is shadow there must be light.”
The album has an array of field recording material, from coastal palms to deserts. What draws you to putting these sorts of dichotomous environments together on the same record? To be fair, I love the duality, but I’d love to know more about the thought process.
Part of it for me is to deliberately connect these locations to each other, and to illustrate that through shared context. The album is largely about contrasts, and the co-existence of light and shadow. They literally can’t exist without each other. So while it’s sonically interesting for the sake of diversity, I think bringing these locations together is more about presenting the balance between these different spaces. In connecting them, I’m hoping to show the connection to each other. What one might presume to be opposites are just two versions of life plugging away, doing their thing.
You also reference library music and dub as deeper inspirations on Shade Songs. Again, duality! It’s really great. What does each one of those kinds of music give you that the other doesn’t?
I’m fascinated by the tight storytelling in library music. Daniel O’Sullivan makes amazing contemporary library music that is so transportive and concise. I love the idea of strong, instrumental narrative, and going deep quickly. Tell the story, and get out.
Dub on the other side, lets you expand. Dub has dominated my listening habits more and more over the past few years, and as a producer I’ve been excited to explore the remix as a path to deeper connection and understanding of the music I’m working on. For this record, I really embraced the idea of using the studio as an instrument, and processing isolated elements in productions to bring movement and rhythm to the piece.
One brings a freedom through exploration and process, and the other brings structure and brevity. I love the idea of working in both worlds.
Let’s talk a little bit about improvisation since it’s also such a vital component of this album (and your practice generally, I think?). How do you know when a particular take/jam/whatever is done? Is that something you feel in the moment, or do you find it later when you’re going through and editing sessions?
Right, improvisation is the basis for everything I do. My personal musical experience is about picking up instruments and playing. Not to say I don’t write things, I do, but it starts there. Many of my recordings are first or second takes. It’s always about catching the energy of the session, the intuitive feeling, rather than aiming for perfect technique. I really try to listen when I play, and feel the right choices before I make them. I’m especially interested in the human element, so this album is maybe even more raw than usual, with some fluctuation and imperfections left in the mix.
Sometimes it feels like it’s never done, you know? Haha. I’ve asked this question myself to other artists and producers. Certainly, in the energy of the moment, one can feel that a performance was “right”, but it’s not until returning to the session to really know what serves the work best. Some tracks can be improved by removing elements, rather than adding anything. I make a lot of recordings that I don’t share, just experimenting or trying ideas, but they still have value.
I think playing/recording and editing/mixing are two separate modes of operating. I usually record myself, so I’m performing and recording at the same time. The session is about flow and feel, and the recording is about effectively capturing that. If the session catches a good feeling or idea, it’s worth working with. Mixing can get complicated depending on how deep you want to dive and what the initial instruments are. If I’m mixing and I hear something that stands out, I’ll stop, try to fix it, and move on. If it feels right, it’s probably done! But really, there is always more exploring we can do. I’ve learned to trust myself. If I hear something in it, then someone else will hear that too.
With the song titles, you’re jumping between Latin, Hebrew, and botanical names (the reference to it reading like entries in a field notebook is a nice detail). Were these titles – and specifically with the different languages – something you had in mind from the beginning of making this album, or did it come later, once the music existed? And how do the titles themselves function with the theme of Shade Songs?
The concepts for the titles came as the album was forming, expanding that idea of duality. I love language, and am really fascinated by etymology and word history. The words were chosen for what they mean, as well as the way they feel. I generally give tracks working titles as they’re being created, describing the feeling or space they represent, and the final titles came by finding translations from each working title. For example, the track Quies translates from Latin to “rest”, and Lente, which means “slowly”. They aren’t complicated concepts, just a reflection of the concept of the piece.
The project name Hiram is my actual middle name, from the biblical Hebrew. So it made sense to me to follow the tradition, and I’ve appreciated learning more about that language. Following the Latin is from the standards of scientific classification and the roots of English. Some of these words have other meanings in other languages too, which is fascinating. I’m into the idea of finding the parallels between these different modes of thought, and connecting the traditions and knowledge they have. They’re all not so different from each other.
The cover photograph is really beautiful – just visually stunning. Can you tell me a little bit more about the photo and where it comes from? It does a really nice job of visually framing the album.
Thanks so much. I got a new Lumix camera this year, and I’ve been excited to explore photography on a deeper level. I like the idea of there not being any true black in nature; it’s all shades of green, blue, and purples. With the cover image, I wanted to represent the many different shades of shadow. The light is not the focus, but defines the shadow, which is the subject.
The photograph is of a large mossy boulder from one of our all-time favorite camping spots at Trails End Campground. The campsite is off-grid, way up near the Canadian border, at the end of the Gunflint Trail in Northern Minnesota. It’s a beautiful cliffside location at the edge of the lake, with rapids nearby, and sunsets to get lost in. That spot and the Boundary Waters in the area are currently under direct threat from mining and burning from intense wildfires, so the place feels especially precious and relevant these days.
I also want to ask about Visible Light, your duo with Amy McNally. How did you two meet and start playing together? And what’s upcoming for the project?
Amy is my partner and best friend. We live together in South Minneapolis and make music as a way to stay sane, and connect and create together. She’s a lifelong cello player, and together we’ve developed a collaborative musical practice. We both have a shared love of nature, so that’s a big influence. Our music is rooted in live performance, listening and playing in the room together. It’s improvisation-based, but the ideas develop and sort themselves out through the rehearsal process. I’d call it “structured improvisation”, as we follow a form, but always allow for elements of choice.
Visible Light has a new piece that was composed during the Operation Metro Surge occupation happening in Minneapolis over the past Winter. It’s titled “Becoming”, and reflects the heavy reality of that moment. We’ll likely create a complementary piece for some redemption, and decide how to best share it in the coming months.
And then lastly, to close as always… What are some of your favorite sounds in the world?
Oh, this is a tough question. I’d say purring cats, summer cicadas, manatees cooing, and Astrud Gilberto. No favorites.
Foxy Digitalis depends on our awesome readers to keep things rolling. Pledge your support today via our Patreon or subscribe to The Jewel Garden. You can also make a one-time donation via Ko-fi.
