The period drama The History of Sound struck a chord with me, especially as I watched it around what would have been my father’s birthday. The film is set partly in 1919, the year my dad was born. It’s about two music students, David (Josh O’Connor) and Lionel (Paul Mescal), who meet in a New England bar. They’re arguing over obscure folk songs. Lionel sings “Silver Dagger,” and David falls for him. They later travel to remote Maine to record folk songs using 1919 state-of-the-art technology, including wax cylinders and a diamond-tipped stylus.
The people they meet are amazed by the idea of preserving sound, something that used to vanish into the ether. It made me think about the revolution that recording sound was at that time. I have always worked with sound, but I seldom thought about its origins. In the 1850s, Édouard-Léon Scott de Martinville created the phonautograph. It recorded sound waves as lines on soot-covered paper. His work was similar to seismographs that study earthquakes. No one played these recordings until digital technology allowed it. In 2008, researchers found an 1860 phonautogram where “Au Clair de la Lune” had been recorded.
Thomas Edison made the next leap in 1877, creating a device that recorded sound on tin foil, allowing playback. His first recorded words were “Mary had a little lamb.” He envisioned using this for music and memory preservation. By 1919, Edison’s company had moved to wax cylinders, the year my father was born and the year represented in the film. Yet, I had no recordings of my father.
My father passed away in 2007, and I never recorded him. I only had a brief message he left on my work phone. Unfortunately, that was erased when NPR moved buildings. Watching the film reminded me of this loss. Near the film’s end, Lionel discovers a recording of David’s voice, a precious gift decades later. This resonated deeply with me, as I too searched for recordings of my father.
I learned he had presented a case at the Supreme Court in the 1960s, where recordings were made. My friend found the recording for me. Chief Justice Earl Warren announced, “Number 65: Weyerhaeuser Steamship Company, petitioner, versus United States.” Suddenly, memories of that day flooded back, including my father dressed in formal morning attire. I had never heard his 43-year-old voice until now. This was the voice that helped me with algebra and cheered me on at swim meets.
Listening to him speak again, I heard a young, assured voice with a Bronx accent I had forgotten. Justice Hugo Black even complimented him during his argument. Although Dad’s case didn’t win, those details weren’t what mattered. It was hearing the voice I missed so much, his voice that could answer any question from my young self.
Being able to hear him, even if indirectly, felt like a gift. A gift from the pioneers of sound recording like Edison and Scott de Martinville, and everyone who improved the technology. Their work has allowed me to speak to radio audiences for decades. For this, I am profoundly thankful.