by calum marsh
at my apartment in downtown toronto, late at night, i can hear cars, creaking floorboards and pipes. ambient sound is inescapable — whatever incidental noises happen to be circulating in earshot at any moment by definition qualify, including the din of muffled voices, refrigerator hums, air-conditioning purrs and distant footfalls that comprise the daily cacophony of our homes and offices, so constant and unobtrusive that we tend to tune the lot of it out.
last winter, i bought a google home, and when i go to bed now, it whisks me off somewhere far away: to the twilit countryside, or to a house on the ocean, or to a cabin in the woods with a roaring fire. its built-in library of ambient sounds are beautiful and transporting. it can summon a riot of crickets, or the steady wash of a hard rainfall, or the rhythmic undulation of waves crashing against a shore. they relax me tremendously, and make it, i find, much easier to fall asleep. it’s not a matter of imagining that i’m somewhere other than in the middle of the city. it’s simply that this regular, low-level flow of subtle noise is a more comfortable silence than the sounds inherent to my room.
the google home’s ambient library is the work of nick zammuto, former member of the acclaimed experimental indie rock duo the books, who now works as a sound designer on the google assistant personality team in massachusetts. zammuto’s albums thought for food and the lemon of pink were vast technicolour collages of idiosyncratic samples and patchwork soundscapes; it is curiously appropriate that he would graduate to full-blown ambience. he recorded most of the home sounds himself in his own backyard when he was living in vermont, synthesizing them with effects from cinematic sound banks that google owns the rights to and layering and mixing them to maximize their breadth and immersiveness.