As a classical trumpeter, Sarah Belle Reid felt that she was constantly being asked to emulate the sound of someone else. Boxed in by black and white ideas of what constituted good or “wrong” playing, she developed full-blown performance anxiety by the time she finished her undergrad performance program. Music was her passion, but the rigorous classical path clearly wasn’t working for her.
On the first day of grad school, Reid inadvertently stumbled into an improvisation ensemble rehearsal, where she was invited to improvise for the first time; fearful as she was, Reid gave it a go. Free improvisation led Reid into the world of experimental sound, electroacoustic music, and modular synthesizers — which made her “fall in love with sound itself,” imperfections and all. Reid’s sonic explorations on the modular synth eventually fed back into her trumpet playing, and when she finally merged the two worlds together, she discovered a musical voice that felt like her own.
One of her coolest handcrafted electronic instruments is MIGSI (Minimally Invasive Gesture Sensing Interface) — co-developed with Ryan Gaston — a removable interface that attaches to her trumpet for electronic augmentation. Performing with MIGSI, Reid bridges her hard-earned trumpet technique with her expanding concept of music and noise, further facilitating her expressive voice. She’s passionate about helping others find their unique voice, too — she offers creative mentorship, teaches online sound synthesis courses, and holds faculty positions at two universities.
Reid’s distinct skillset is on full display in her latest project, Accidental Ornithology — a collection of 14 improvisations “each inspired by the unique calls and behaviors of imaginary birds.” The album is a collaboration between Reid and Vinny Golia, an acclaimed jazz woodwind player whose mischievous musicality colludes with Reid’s deft electroacoustic manipulations. The result is gripping timbral and textural variety, from the glitchy gurgling sludge in “Mud Diver” to the wispy gliding overtones in “Great Ghost Crane.” With most of the tracks lasting a concise 1-4 minutes, the album doesn’t wear its welcome either — somehow, Accidental Ornithology is as wild and imaginative as it is cohesive and discerning.
On the heels of Accidental Ornithology’s release, I had the opportunity to ask Reid five questions about the album and her musical practice.
How did you approach the recording session for Accidental Ornithology? Did the improvisations inspire the bird names or vice versa?
Vinny and I were sitting in his kitchen having coffee on the morning of the recording session, and he kept pointing out birds through his window. I noticed he had a bird watching book on the counter, so I asked him if he knew what the birds we were seeing were called. Vinny immediately started giving them these elaborate names that sounded more and more far-fetched—and with his sense of humor, I honestly couldn’t tell if he was being serious or just messing with me! The idea of imaginary birds was never explicitly discussed or planned going into the session, but I do think in some subtle way it may have impacted the musical explorations that unfolded later in the day.
We didn’t plan anything specific for the recording session itself; I don’t think we even knew what instruments the other was bringing. The imaginary bird identities and characteristics really came together during the mixing process, and were inspired by the improvisations themselves—some of the music on this record is quite angular and moody, while other parts are a bit tongue-in-cheek and playful—we had a lot of fun coming up with track names and stories for each bird (which are included on the poster as liner notes).
Accidental Ornithology is an impressively succinct and focused album, especially for something made up of free improvisation. Did you and Vinny record one long improvisation, or did you perform discrete improvisations for each of the birds?
We ended up doing one long session, and honestly we barely talked at all—just played and listened, taking natural breaks when something felt complete. We both had a bunch of instruments set up around us so we could just reach for whatever we needed in the moment—I had my trumpet, quarter-tone flugelhorn, laptop, and modular synth, and Vinny had this incredible collection of woodwinds: quarter-tone contrabass flute, piccolo, and 3 or 4 different clarinets. I also had access to Vinny’s mic feed and was running that into my modular synth and computer for some real-time manipulation and processing of his sound (in addition to my own).
We actually recorded a lot more material than what ended up on the final album (I think we played for 4 hours straight!). When I was mixing the record and the various bird identities started to take form, it became clear which improvisations really captured that world we were creating. What makes playing with Vinny so special is his range on his instruments, and his ability to turn on a dime—you find yourself in these moments where everything can transform in an instant. Half the fun is never knowing exactly where the music might take you next. I really love that kind of improvising, where you’re constantly surprising yourself.
You’ve done quite a bit of work developing strategies for notating your sound-based electronic/acoustic compositions for others to play, often using intuitive geometric forms and other pictographic elements. But how do you jot down ideas for yourself?
It really depends on what I’m trying to capture or remember at the moment. Sometimes I’ll jot down quick text prompts in my journal about the feeling or character of a sound, other times I’ll sketch out simple graphs showing how I want the sound to move or develop over time, and sometimes my notes are very technical breakdowns of signal routings and/or control settings for a specific technique. When I’m working on bigger pieces, like the electroacoustic opera I recently finished composing, I often use a combination of more traditional notation alongside these other approaches.
A lot of what I’m interested in notating for myself isn’t necessarily about specific notes or rhythms—it’s more about the quality of sound and how it changes. For example, in this project with Vinny, I might sketch out a shape that represents a general energetic arc, or write a description like “gurgling, unstable multiphonics that dissolve into air.” These kinds of notations help me remember the essence of an idea while leaving room for exploration.
In another piece for trumpet and electronics that I’ve been touring recently called Manifold, my “score” is essentially a pictographic chart that maps out time horizontally and shows how the character and density of sound evolves over time. I’ll attach descriptive words and technical cues for things like when I need to repatch my synth to access a certain kind of sound. It’s a way of giving myself both a creative framework and practical reminders for performance. Since I come at everything primarily as an improviser, these kinds of notations work more like flexible guidelines than exact instructions—they give me a structure to explore within, while leaving space for discovery in performance.
Do you feel more connected to the process or the product of your art? I’d love to know more about your relationship to both and what you find fulfilling or maddening about each of them.
I’m definitely drawn to the process. My whole approach is very exploratory—I love letting structures and ideas emerge through experimentation rather than having everything mapped out in advance. When I’m working with electronics especially, there’s this beautiful push and pull where you might start with one idea, but the instrument leads you somewhere completely different. I really love thinking about my instruments as collaborative partners rather than just tools. You build these patches that have a life of their own, that sometimes move with you and other times push back in surprising ways.
At the same time, I always have these big, ambitious projects simmering—probably way more than I’ll ever actually be able to do! Like this electroacoustic opera I’m working on now—I have this really exciting and clear vision for it, even though the logistics of putting it all together can be pretty intense. Whether it’s new instruments I want to build, large-scale works I want to stage, or multi-channel audio installations, these bigger projects might take years to complete. It definitely takes patience, which can be maddening at times. But these projects are so inspiring to me that even though I wish they could happen faster sometimes, I love slowly chipping away at them. Having both these long-term visions and smaller projects going at once feels like a good balance for me—and it’s really gratifying to know I’m always working toward something that stretches my current comfort level as an artist.
What aspects of your musicianship (whether on a macro or micro level) are you currently working on?
I’m always working on my listening practice. Ever since discovering Pauline Oliveros’s Deep Listening work, I’ve been fascinated by how much detail you can find in sound when you really give it your full attention. Sometimes I’m still quick to judge whether something is “good” or “bad”—if I miss a note or wobble a bit on my tuning, for example, when in reality that unexpected sound might be perfect for the musical moment. Especially in the world of free improvisation, I’m always practicing a kind of slowed-down listening, where every sound that enters into the space—whether “intentional” or not—is worth consideration.
Related to listening is interaction, which is another aspect of my musicianship I’m always working on. Especially when combining acoustic and electronic instruments together, how you create linkages and connections between the different instruments is a really important aspect to consider. Does the synth always follow/respond to the acoustic instrument, or can it sometimes take the lead? Can it hear or sense its environment, and if so, how much is it influenced by external input? How much push and pull can you create between the acoustic and electronic elements?
For example, I might make a small change in my trumpet multiphonics, which creates a whole cascade of reactions in the electronics, which then inspires me to respond in new ways on my trumpet, and so on—creating a kind of feedback loop, where it’s hard to tell “who” is leading. This project with Vinny added even more layers to that idea: we had a multi-directional feedback loop because we could hear each other acoustically, and I was also processing his and my sound independently from one another, which we could hear in our headphones. I love to use chaotic and/or unpredictable methods for processing and manipulating sound in improvisations, because it gives you so much more to respond to.
I CARE IF YOU LISTEN is an editorially-independent program of the American Composers Forum, and is made possible thanks to generous donor and institutional support. Opinions expressed are solely those of the author and may not represent the views of ICIYL or ACF.
You can support the work of ICIYL with a tax-deductible gift to ACF. For more on ACF, visit composersforum.org.
