Quick guide to audio file management and naming conventions
I once asked a group of about eight audio makers about file management and the conversation almost ended in a
Father’s day 2022
I walk two steps behind but he keeps slowing down to keep us in line.
The alleyway is stereotypically dark and long. It’s after 1am, I have no idea where I am and my phone’s about to die.
“I don’t believe there’s a taxi rank down there”, I say, trying to hide the quiver in my voice.
The mid-fifties man has followed me after witnessing me get unceremoniously kicked out of the hotel. He’d offered to help, but so far had only slowed me down. At first I thought he was drunk, then I thought he was dim-witted. Now we were in a dark alley together, I was beginning to think something else altogether.
“I’m not going to mug you. Besides, I think you’d win in a fight”, he said.
That’s the exact thing someone with a knife who was about to mug me would say, I thought.
“You’re quite compact”, Seren says, noticing my backpack as she gives me a hug goodbye at the train station.
The bag needs to stay under 10kg so I can do the whole trip without checking luggage. I should be well under soon — the one kilogram worth of Australian tea-towels I’d brought is evaporating with each country I pass.
Bristol’s just one of seven cities I’m stopping over this 14-day European tour. I’ve partnered with various creative audio community groups to perform a bunch of live shows where I share a few audio documentaries with live narration.
Despite the overly ambitious and under-resourced nature of this thing, the tour has run smoothly so far. Each of the three shows has been special, with Bristol being the biggest.
I’ve bootstrapped this project in my spare time. As the logistical scale and parameters (work, family, budget) came into focus early on, I realised the approach and attitudes I’d require. Minimum viable product. Minimal setup. All-out gratitude for the generous people helping make it happen. And importantly, any expectations I had about the success of the shows would need to be in line with the marketing budget — zero.
Success is getting to the city and doing the show, anything on top of that is a bonus.
The train leaves Bristol Parkway at 9.57am.
By the early afternoon I’m in London eating a Greek mixed grill for two with my friend, Georgia. We hang out and talk audio. Before I know it, the clock strikes 9pm.
Thanks to the munificence of friends (and their couches) the total accommodation budget for this trip is $286. The cost includes a couple of hostels but the bulk of that cost is one hotel I strategically booked for tonight. Saturday marks the halfway point and I wanted a place where I could do some washing and not be woken up when Frank in bunk five stumbles in at 3am after a big night at Berghain.
Tomorrow’s flight to Stockholm leaves early from Stansted airport and I’d organised a hotel close by. The train from London to Stansted is easy enough but I’m shocked when I try to book a taxi to the hotel. It’s 40 quid. I’ve budgeted for unexpected costs and I’m tired so I think ‘stuff it’ and get in.
The hotel is further away than I expected. After 15 minutes I start to wonder how early I’ll need to wake up in the morning to get back in time. The taxi points me to the door of The George Hotel.
It’s close to midnight but there’s a note at reception with a number to call for late check-ins. A New Zealander named Dee answers the phone and very quickly tells me I’m not on the list and must be at the wrong hotel.
“This happens all the time”, she says, adding, “you need to check your paperwork”.
I check my paperwork and the confirmation has the address of The George clearly listed. Words ensue. The hotel is part of the same chain but Dee will not tell me the address of the hotel I’ve supposedly booked and hangs up on me.
I call back and ask her to at least come down so we can talk in person and she can possibly help me. It’s after midnight now and I realise I have no idea where I am, I need to be back at the airport in a few hours and my bag is full of dirty washing.
A man sitting on the stairs is listening to my desperate phone conversation. He tells me the place is weird and the staff are terrible and that I’ve probably got the correct address. The reassurance is well-intentioned but it’s nothing I hadn’t already realised since walking through the door. I’m in problem-solving mode and the real-time commentary only adds to my growing anxiety.
With no plan, I step out of the hotel.
The cobblestone town reminds me of the time Harry Potter tried to go to Diagon Alley but ended up in that evil place. Instead of people yelling at walls, I see drunk Englishman screaming about football.
I’m not sure where I’m walking when I hear him behind me.
“I’ll help you out”, the man from the stairs says.
Picking up on the fact my budget is limited, the man suggests a bus, but to know the bus timetable I need the UK Bus Checker app.
He tells me “it’s essential” and that I should really already have the app.
When I ask if we can just look up the bus timetable on his phone, he says he doesn’t have it.
He leads me to a seat — the bus stop. I download the app and then realise two problems: it needs me to enter where I am and where I’m going, neither of which I know.
As I try to get an answer from the man about the first question, I realise this isn’t a bus stop.
A cheap solution has fast faded, and the night grows darker.
“I’m just going to get a taxi”, I announce, deciding this bloke is only getting in the way.
“I’ll show you the taxi rank”, he says.
With no better option, I reluctantly follow.
“Just on the other side here”, he says after a short walk, gesturing through a drawn out alleyway.
I stop.
I can feel a true crime series coming on.
I don’t love listening to them and I’m certainly not interested in starring in one.
When we get to the other side, with me toggling between slow and power walking so I’m not near this guy, we hit an empty taxi rank.
“No chance there’d be one here at this time”, the man says.
It’s after 1am now and I’m stuck.
I take a minute to assess the surroundings and how I might be able to improvise my way out of this. By now, I’ve given up on the hotel. I just need to get back to the airport where I can wait it out and make sure I make the flight tomorrow.
Then — a mirage in the distance — I see a bus pull up down the road.
“That’s the bus!” the man says. “Go for it!”
I start running down the street. The bus driver notices the wild look in my eye.
I tap on. I feel like Harry Potter when he’s stuck on the side of the road and a bus appears out of nowhere and takes him to safety.
I hold my hand up as we drive past the man standing, frozen as he watches me roll by.
After a few minutes I pull up the map on my phone. I notice the blue dot and my heart sinks.
This bus is going in the opposite direction to the airport, back to London.
The bus driver knows what to do. We pass a bus heading the other direction, he flashes him down and I jump out to switch.
I make it to the airport and walk in like I’m the guy from the cover of that Muse album. Alien bodies are strewn out across the airport tiles.
It’s 2am. The flight leaves in four hours and I have no intention of trying to sleep. There’s a metal barrier against the wall — an obvious attempt by the airport to try and make sleeping here as uncomfortable as possible.
I find a corner and settle in. With the remaining battery on my phone I open Whatsapp to make a call.
I don’t believe it’s fair to figure out a way to do an adventure like this, do all the work required to try and make it worthwhile, and then complain about missing home.
But tonight I give myself permission. Not because it’s been a challenging day, but because Australia is waking up to Father’s Day.
It’s my second Father’s Day being a dad. There was a lot to juggle when booking the trip and missing Father’s day became a necessary causality.
But more than that, when I booked this trip I was naive to how hard it would be to be away for this amount of time. Two weeks might not seem like a lot, but every day my beautiful daughter, Daphne, is learning and developing. I worry about what I’m missing.
She flashes a giant smile when she sees me on the call but after that it’s straight back to climbing stairs. We don’t have stairs at home so this is really exciting for her. “Up!”, I hear her little voice squeak in the background. She couldn’t say that a week ago.
The next call is to my Dad. As well as Father’s day, today happens to be his 70th birthday. He’s on loudspeaker with Mum, as always. I tell them a bit about the tour and that it’s been a bit of a tough night.
“This experience is all part of it”, I say, like I’d planned it. And while I’m in a bit of pain right now, resting against a backpack full of dirty washing, I remind myself of the zero expectations policy. I can’t be disappointed if I don’t have expectations.
Sitting on the cold tiles I think about the birthday lunch they would be preparing for dad. I wonder if they got takeaway or if mum cooked. I hope it wasn’t a BBQ. If it was, I wonder if Nick put on an apron. I think about the ritual of Matt offering me a Tooheys, knowing I’ll say no. And I wonder who did the ‘hip hips’ when they sang happy birthday.
Tonight I’m performing at a cinema in Stockholm — I’m here and I’m doing the show. Anything on top of that is a bonus.
Get tickets — Mike Williams: ‘Who Gives a Fork?’ tour
