South of Shoreham Port
At Shoreham Port on the South Coast of England, a harbour arm sits shrouded in mist. A 500hz tone sounds at 2 minute intervals as an alert to those at sea.
In the years I’ve been recording at Shoreham Port I’ve not managed to record the fog horn. Yesterday I was in the right place at the right time and enjoyed listening to the tones from many different perspectives, two of which I’ve shared here.
I headed down to Shoreham Port this morning to do some listening. I took microphones but I had no real intention of recording. As I passed the Lagoon to the East and turned the corner on Basin Road, the familiar overpowering odour of fish from the fishing boats and dock hit my nose. I’m not a fan of fish, my memory of living in a council flat and the communal areas stale with the stench of a neighbour’s fishy dinners putting me off for life. Usually I hold my nose and walk briskly past, but today it struck me that this space is full of smells and how I’ve never fully turned my attention to them.
As I pass the fishing docks I picked up a smell from the building on my left, large air vents blowing out warm musty air that smells of bland dust. I walk on and sniff bouncy, rubbery clouds floating from the bicycle workshop.
Loud trucks pass me, exhausts spewing diesel fumes. In contrast, distant but growing is my favourite smell of timber shipped from Europe for local building work. It is an evocative smell and reminds me of walking in woods and forests. It mixes with the fresh air blown off the sea.
It’s quiet down here today but I pass a few people and pick up the scents of their soaps and deodorants. Clean, sweet fragrances that cut through the industrial haze. Next a hot, burnt scent - toxic. I think it is the fumes from the old gas works. Oil seeped in to the ground gets churned up by rough seas. On the road the sea scent is faint. I have to draw in deeply to pick it up.
Sound from a machine on the docks bounces off the sea wall throwing it’s location and confusing me. Smells do the same. Some are just out of reach. I can’t quite take enough in to establish what they are. They sit on the periphery of knowing.
A single cormorant sits on the cold pipe warning light.
My nose is already preparing for the water treatment plant, and it hits me before I’ve even crossed the road. I’ve described this stench as a mix of shit and washing detergent. A trace of perfume from a passing walker cuts through the stink for a moment. It is a welcome relief but I let them go by as I don’t want their scent trail to cloud the natural and unnatural smells here.
The whiff of freshly caught fish from a family set up with tents and multiple fishing rods. Two young men stand on a wooden groyne and leap in to the sea. I can smell sun tan lotion and more human odours as I approach Carrats Cafe. Fruity shower gels and clean deodorants. Hot oil, fried foods and coffee.
Smells are similar to sounds in that they are carried in the air, sometimes fleeting, difficult to place; sometimes loud and obnoxious, sometimes actually noxious. As I turned my attention to smelling I realised how easily confused I became and wondered sometimes if I was imagining smells - scent memories triggered by certain conditions.
Sheltered by a concrete harbour arm and a shingle and steel embankment built on sunken ships, Shoreham Port houses a sewage treatment works, a power station, a rock processing plant, a steel factory, wharves, lorry parks and burger vans: a backdrop for swimmers, nudists, cyclists, surfers, fishers and summer picnickers.
More from my collaboration with Angus Carlyle at Shoreham Port. Flux and Phantoms is a multi dimensional broadcast experiment for Radiophrenia, a temporary art radio station broadcasting from the Centre for Contemporary Arts in Glasgow. Field recordings gathered from Shoreham Port will be broadcast at 4PM on Saturday the 26th of August, and listeners are invited to use another device to simultaneously mix in “phantom frequencies” and recreate a phenomena encountered at the site: the appearance of enigmatic drones and tones at the edges of the acoustic atmosphere. These ‘phantom sounds’ can be streamed from Soundcloud via a link below.
The hope is that listeners will experiment by playing this second layer synchronised with the broadcast, using a mobile phone or a computer - possibly a bluetooth speaker - and engaging with the spatial nature of these recordings. We’ve been testing it out and it is a lot of fun to move the second sound source - the phantom sounds - around the listening space, with the potential to collaborate with friends and use more than one playback device.
Photo by Curtis James
To listen to the ghost frequencies which add an extra dimension to the "Flux and Phantoms" broadcast please tune into Soundcloud with another device and mix the two streams in your own space.
Last week Angus Carlyle and I spent the evening with a small group at Blast Theory’s ‘Pot Luck’ sharing our experiences and sounds from around Shoreham Port.
Blast Theory are an artists group specialising in interactive art and their studio overlooks the docks, warehouses and industrial machinery of Shoreham Port. There we shared the background to our project, a selection of recordings and journal entries, facilitated some Deep Listening exercises and an experimental spatial work, ‘Phantom Sounds’.
Thanks to everyone that came along and Blast Theory for inviting us.
We continue to develop this project, considering how we share it publicly and how we work with the community. The ideas and thoughts around all of this shift and change more than the intertidal zone shaped by the sea!
The evening included a group performance of Pauline Oliveros’ ‘Rock Piece’ using pebbles from the beach
Stone Table overlooking Shoreham Port
Looking forward to performing with Ascsoms and Jo Thomas at Spirit of Gravity in Brighton on Thursday 2nd March. It will be the first time I share some early ideas from South of Shoreham Port.
Over two years of listening and recording around Shoreham Port I’ve had many experiences of what I describe as Phantom Sounds. They are fleeting, carried on the wind, dissipating the moment I turn my attention to them, leaving me to wonder if they were real or imagined. I’ll share extracts from my collection of field recordings and the Buchla Electric Music Box will provide the phantoms. This is a first public sharing of part of an ambitious large scale project focussed on the area around Shoreham Port, which sits just over the road from my house.
I’m stood behind a new section of sea defences at Shoreham Port, listening to the power of the waves splash across boulders, then spray across the metal beams that form a secondary line of defence.
Rusted metal, brown, orange, striped and burnt, numbers scrawled on the surface. I’ve positioned my microphone right up against these girders, listening to the sea and wind activate them.
I’ve also attached a geophone to the structure itself, allowing me to listen in directly to the low frequency vibrations as the sea smashes in to it.
The recording begins with the roar of the waves and as it progresses slowly we enter the sound world of the material, until all we are left with are the resonances and vibrations of the structure alone.
I can see across the defences and the sea looks angry and wild, too close for comfort, and I’m certain a wave will come crashing over at any moment.
Nervous, my feet move and I catch myself noticing the sound picked up by the microphone. I’m trying to let go of it. “I’m here! Ok? I made the recording and sometimes I might be in it”. I sniff, my foot scrapes against gravel, the rustle of my jacket.
I don’t want to have to hold myself so tightly when listening.
Behind me the lamppost beats out a steady rhythm as the wind vibrates the pole and the cable inside oscillates. A person, hood up, arms folded, sits on sea defences near the cars surveying the churned up sea.
My head swivels from left to right.
I’m counting down the minutes. It’s a funny way to listen.
My hood flaps in the wind.
My nose runs.
Amongst all this I’m somehow managing to listen to the sound as the wind blows across this sleeping, weather beaten, decrepit machinery.
It sounds like hundreds of shards of rock falling like hailstones. A wide shower of crumbling shaking movement.
I glimpse a fox in the distance.
A red glow from a building behind me.
This is a binaural recording so best experienced on headphones.
I wanted to write more but I was too nervous in this deserted space I could barely think. Aren’t these always the spaces where dark things happen? I did my best to remember some details.
I’ve only witnessed Shoreham Power Station do this once before. Huge fluffy white clouds billow out from vents, and a midrange drone echoes around the space. I’m positioned on the pavement and large lorries pass fast behind me making me wobble. Listening back I’m struck by how the roaring vents, trucks and wind churned sea all blur and blend in to a pleasing soundscape. Occasionally small birds chatter and tweet along with the sounds of industry.
I’m thinking about the chapter in Mark Peter Wright’s brilliant Listening After Nature, about the ‘Noisy-Nonself’. How my instinct is to erase all signs of my being here in this recording moment. As if the mic just became, and made this recording under its own volition. As I write this my hood, pulled up to keep out the ferocious wind, flaps and ripples, and instantly I fear for my recordings’ purity, as if it will lose its worth and value if my presence is discovered. More thinking needed on this matter but I love where it takes my mind.
The sea wall from the beach
The sea wall runs for a short stretch along Basin Road South. Brown slabs of pebble dash concrete about 2 meters high with a slight curve towards the sea at the top. I place my microphone on the pavement facing this structure and press record.
It’s along this stretch that lorries park up, there are often many here over night and I assume the drivers sleep here in between long journeys. As I kneel down to set up my microphone my nose picks up a faint scent of shit. Fox or human, I don’t know.
The sea wall from the road
It’s a beautiful sunny morning, the heavy rain has eased but the wind is still strong and the sea is left churned up and busy. As I stand here on the road, also busy with passing cars and lorries, I can hear the roar of the sea over the wall, the in and out breath of the waves, the crash and white noise sizzle of pebbles being thrown and dragged.
The sea wall from the beach on a grey day
In the distance I hear the scraping of metal machinery against shingle. The sounds of the latest sea defence work further to the West.
The road gets busier. A Day aggregate truck pulls up and idles. Constant trucks and other vehicles passing. Cyclists hugging the gutter to avoid the angry sounding Diesel engines and screech of hydraulics. A vehicle reversing alert bounces off the wall. Beeps replaced with a sort of screeching sound. I wonder about the research that led to this change. Maybe this new sound carries less and was found to be less intrusive. It sounds like an angry dinosaur.
A brief calm. Dripping behind me. Waves over the wall. A creaky cyclist passes.
The sea defence wall from the beach
I’m interested in this sea wall and the acoustics of it. What it does to the sounds either side of it. Does it contain the sound of the sea as well as its physical power? I’ve been wondering for a while about blasting sounds at that structure. This recording uses contact microphones to tune in to the physical vibrations of the material.
The passage leads from Basin Road South to a raised pebble path that runs parallel to the shore. The acoustics of this thin space, large weathered grey concrete blocks on one side and ugly metal fence on the other, funnel the roar of the sea which increases in power until you exit and feel the full intensity.
The rain is heavy today, seeping through my waterproofs to my skin. I’m testing a new rain cover for my microphone and I’m a bit apprehensive putting my faith in it under these conditions but I’m holding out for a little while longer.
As I stand at the entrance to the passage, behind me I hear the familiar mix of port vehicles and cars, and the steel depot’s heavy machinery a distant drone. Often when I walk down this path I feel like I’m leaving one world and entering another, but today in the middle the two worlds blur, roaring sea trucks on slick wet roads.
I’m too wet now and ready to cal it a day. My thoughts distracted by Victoria’s trip to the hospital. I’ll come back to this another day.
Sea choppy this afternoon, churned up by south easterly wind. It’s busy down here but I take the chance on making a recording of the waves splashing over the sea defence boulders to the west of the harbour arm.
Large clumps of seaweed float in the turquoise blue, tendrils of hairy sea creatures tangling and untangling.
The sea is veined with white foam, constantly changing shapes and patterns as it rolls and splashes over the boulders. Occasionally a heavier wave hits, and I fear for my microphones. Large sonic cracks behind me as the sea hits the eastern part of the harbour arm.
In the distance a medium size boat is entering the harbour. Looks like one of the dredgers. I tune my ears in but I can’t hear the deep hum of its engine yet. The sun is warm, cancelling out the chill of the wind. One of those autumn days where I can’t make up my mind whether I need a jacket or not.
On the other side of the harbour, the bright fluorescent sails of small sailing boats lined up on a small beach flutter.
The dredger is closer now. It looks heavy, full of aggregate and sailing low in the water. A floating factory, full of industrial machinery - yellow cranes, cabling, metal walkways and at the front a tall brown rusted pillar.
The hum is lost under the sounds of the sea today. Maybe a faint drone ?
It’s called Dapper Dan. It really is low in the water. The bow wash looks like it is covering the side.
As the boat gets closer I realise it is called Sospan-dau, not Dapper Dan.
A small yacht enters (GBR 1418L) and the hi viz Jacketed harbour arm warden is walking toward me from the end of the harbour arm. Earlier he was in conversation with people fishing off the end. I must record him one day. He’s a constant feature down here.
On the coast guard station opposite where I’m standing, the radar spins slowly.
Carrats cafe car park is almost full with surfers’ vans and cars. Some drying and getting changed.
The wind is blowing hard (I check on an app that says 26mph but it feels stronger).
I walk towards the harbour arm passing surfers trailing wet footprints. The small turbines are spinning fast, blades cutting through the air, the deep whoosh phasing as I pass between them.
Light rain, tiny specks of sound against waterproof fabric, catch my ear and I consider turning back, but I push on judging it will only be a shower.
I arrive at the start of the harbour arm and the familiar sound of the gate swinging and clanging fills the air, with lighter, higher pitch clinks coming from the fence to the west. No whistling wind today, must be a different direction.
Looking to the east with a clear view that stretches along the coast, Brighton, Hove and the port seem squashed, closer together. Sense of perspective lost at this distance under these conditions. The sea is a light green blue, topped with white waves crashing against the beach, throwing up clouds of sea mist.
The sea roars all around me, enveloping me in wide range noise. I position my microphone and press record. I'm interested in the rhythm of the human made objects as much as the natural. The undulating sea taking up most of the space, the gates and fences a percussive out of time loop.
The wind vibrates the fence I’m leaning against and I welcome its warm physical connection to this space.
A walker passes in short sleeves. I’m wrapped up in fleece and full wind and water proofs. He walks along the deserted harbour arm, conditions too wild for the fishing that takes place most days.
The tee shorted walker returns from the end of the harbour arm. We exchange smiles and nods of heads.
The creaking gate sounds a bit like a farm animal. A donkey maybe.
I’ve kept a journal whilst recording at Shoreham Port, but the entries have tended to be lacking colour. I’m doing more to practice my writing skills including writing reviews of shows I attend, and I’m also developing my field recording journal writing too. Here is an entry from this week with the sound to listen to as you read.
Thursday 15th September 2022
Recording at the water treatment plant and then at the steel depot. Still and calm. Hardly any wind. Taking advantage of the conditions to record without the constant white noise wash of sea in the background.
A team of workers move huge steel beams under glare of floodlights , using large cranes and brute force to lift and position them in slow and what must be exhausting movements. First one alone then joined by 3 others. The whine of industrial electricity is joined by clangs and bangs as steel is lifted, dropped and hit. Now banged into position. A different pitch of electricity and then the new water pump nearby creaks and crackles in to life. It sounds like a broken washing machine full of concrete and happens roughly every 12 minutes. The sound of the old pump is gone now and I'm glad I recorded it.
Shoreham Port
The fresh sea air is masked by the putrid smell of the Southern Water sewage treatment. Shit mixed with washing detergent is how I'd describe it. On a windy day it is blown away, but on a calm still night like this it hangs around lingering like an invisible brown cloud.
It’s deserted down here apart from the odd cyclist using this route to bypass the main seafront road or a jogger running past with a big dog. I don't blame them, it is beautiful at this time of day as the sun disappears over the horizon.
I’m anxious though, feeling exposed. Constantly on alert, fearful of who might take this almost deserted route at night. It affects my ability to quietly listen, to really tune in to the sounds.
The sea black now behind me. Red dots in the distance play a silent sequence.
The water pump again. It’s an ugly sound to go with the ugly smell.
A fox slinks across the road and slips through a fence.
It’s a relief when the pump stops.
Don’t know why I’m so drawn to the sound of the steel depot. Maybe it’s the spacious soundscape. You can hear the size of it not because it is a roaring constant, but because of the way the distant electrical whine is broken up by screeches and the clangs that reverberate around the space.
The next water pump sound will be my signal to call it a night. I'm glad I put aside my anxiety and kept recording because just before the final water pump starts up, the steel depot has a brief moment of sounding like Star Wars light sabres, as thick tense metal cabling is manoeuvred and metallic pings resonate around the space.
I make friends with a fox on the way home.
