I heard these sounds in September.
Read my latest Listening Journal.
journal
Listening Journal
I started a listening journal in September 2023 whilst on a residency in the Pyrenees. It wasn’t my first attempt to make ‘no microphone’* recordings, but it began a sustained period of recording sounds using words. Maybe it’s because it is relatively new compared to recording using microphones, which I’ve been doing for decades, but I’ve found the process has become my favourite way of connecting with listening.
My listening journal comes everywhere with me, and the feeling of opening it up to make a new entry is calming and invites a quiet focus I struggle to find anywhere else. I try to record in the moment rather than from memory, and find that this promotes a deeper listening and connection with the world around me, getting really inquisitive about what I’m hearing; the texture, rhythm, timbre, acoustics, time and spatial dynamics as well as exploring aspects of relationships, memories and place.
There is often no context in entries, just simple noting of things I’ve heard, with an attempt to record something of the character and detail of the sound. Sometimes it is important to describe the sound source and sometimes that won’t be so clear.
This is practice for me. Writing and listening.
I’m going to share extracts each month and begin with August’s recordings. I’m considering a number of bonus/subscriber content ideas including monthly extracts from the past year’s archive and an actual audio recording that accompanies each month’s extracts.
I’d be interested to hear if any of these recordings resonate with you and hope they might invite you to listen to the world in different ways. I owe a huge debt to Pauline Oliveros and other Deep Listening practitioners I’ve been fortunate enough to learn from and good friend and mentor Angus Carlyle, whose writing about sound has been inspirational.
*I read this term for the first time in Dirty Ear Report #2 last week. James Webb uses it to describe pretty much what I’m doing here.
Read MoreShards
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.
Tendrils of hairy sea creatures
Field recording journal - Shoreham Harbour arm sea defence boulders - 9th October 2022
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.
Harbour Arm
Field recording journal 5th October 2022
The wind vibrates the fence I’m leaning against and I welcome its warmth and physical connection to this space.
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.
The Water Pump Again
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.
