There is something oddly unique about a gathering of people sitting on the floor in the middle of a pitch-black room. From the outside, it could appear to be a strange cultish ceremony, but at Akousma, it’s also a way to experience the finest pleasures of listening.
When purged from all other senses, even the most microscopic sonic detail can redirect thought. That’s why it takes someone who understands the silence of these large, empty spaces to make them speak.
This is where James O’Callaghan comes in.
He walked, unperturbed, to his laptop, which was centered in the room, and gazed down at the screen with the eyes of a falcon. With precision, he began.
Under the softest breaths of wind, the quietest shuffle of people shifting in their seats could be heard. Everyone froze, their ears attuned. The wind picked up and sounds accumulated, scattering across the dome of speakers. A clatter of knives, a far-distant cricket, and creaking doors set the scene for a disaster.
O’Callaghan caught our imaginations in his talons and swept us away. In one instant we were drowned in glitchy breaks that moved violently around the room; in the next, we bathed in the rich harmonies of noisy sawtooth pads reminiscent of witch house. But we always came back to the eerie narrative of a soundscape buried deep in the forest. When finally our mind’s eye could make out a path, his hypnotizing voice began guiding us back through this maze of obscure mysteries, back to the wind, and to that distant cricket. He left us as we had been found: sitting in the dark.
