Acoustic Transposition Practices
The most basic version of this practice of transposition in my own work is either to physically play in environments such as parks or industrial basements, on shipping docks, roadways or street corners, under bridges and so on, or to procure recordings of those real world sounds, “transposing” the sounds of those places, in somewhat the same way one would transpose a solo or tune from a record. I take my violin, go out and sit beside machines, waters, objects and animals, and play with them, taking in their sounds, replying with what I find there. I often try to see what I can play that will encourage an animal to stay with me awhile, when they sit with me in return. But inanimate objects are utterly vulnerable. They cannot respond in kind. This makes the practice of playing with them an act of careful listening, in order to give them their due in sound, give them their space, let them have their part in whatever momentary music comes of my approaching them with a violin. This is a form of practice for the wide array of musics I have been engaged with since the mid-1980s that fall under the loose moniker of "improvised music". It is also a profound act of psychogeography. I am led through the city by a constantly shifting map of possible entities to listen to and play with in this way – a sonic dérive.
Beyond the basic technical questions of listening and finding new sounds, it is precisely in the impossibility of this pursuit that its greatest value lies. Where a sound cannot be imitated, allegories and symbols must be fashioned for it instead, and it is in this process that one finds one's own voice. Thus it maps the environment onto instruments, and spins forth ephemeral ghosts of these places, played back again into the world.
The first project I ever did where it was explicitly stated that I was using violin transposition was in 2014. Over the preceding two years, I had returned to school after a 17-year hiatus, and studied electroacoustic composition. I began working extensively with field recordings, and this added a new dimension to the transcription and transposition of real world objects, places and creatures. Both the soundwalk and the field recording expedition became new acts of psychogeography; new expressions of the solitary psychogeographical treks I had taken nearly every day of my life. Now I could take recordings of places, and return to them repeatedly – much like the transcription of jazz and folk music I had done earlier in life, which had also mapped a different sort of psychogeographical path into various communities in the cities where I lived. In doing this, I found a new understanding of that more traditional kind of transcription, where one tries to learn a loved or needed passage of music from a record. This, too, was an outstretched hand towards a flown place or time: a concert, recording session or evening in some music club, dance room or grange hall, trying to capture and transmute that music into the present. Even the materiality of recording is at the edge of place and time transposition: from the scratches on a 78 rpm record of King Oliver to the tape noise on a Language of Stone recording of new acid psychedelia, each gives the music the evocation of evaporated time and place.
So in spring of 2014, at a concert at Audiorama in Stockholm, I played earlier versions of compositions and improvisational structures that would become tracks on my LP SO(U)LEN(SKIN(NER), two years later. Four tracks of this LP were made to address the natural landscape of stone, animals and birds and vacillating of the sun where Stockholm is built. Here I will give the example of one of those earlier versions of the track called "STONE". This is the best recording of this version of STONE, from before I made the LP. It was done in the wee hours of the night in Örnsberg, overlooking an industrial area surrounded by the granite hills Nobel originally tested dynamite and gunpowder in.
I sat playing with stones first – with recordings of stones moving through a church fountain, massive boulders being carried away at a building site, the gravel which is such a prevalent soundmark of winter streets in Stockholm and the stone walkways in Skogskyrkogården. 
I played with these sounds, and came up with materials, which I sketched out. The score, shown here, was never meant for anyone but myself to see. I used it in the concert at Audiorama, because the materials were so new, and I wanted to physically look at the mark of each recording I'd used while I played, as if I were using a playback mechanism – even though the piece is made for a solo, acoustic, unamplified violin