It’s January 31st and the first month of a year long project I’ve decided to undertake: each month recording a bird’s song and improvising with it on the piano, then piecing them together as one musical offering.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I have always loved the sound of birds, even though I’d be hard pressed to identify any on mere sound alone beyond the immediately obvious blackbird, crow, robin and the occasional chiffchaff. Living in the city can often feel isolating and the sound of birdsong on a dull day is a breath of fresh air. Birds symbolise a life beyond the confines of tarmacked roads and continually growing infrastructure, and it always feels such a relief to hear them. As a pianist I am fascinated by the music of their calls, the variety of songs and their interweaving voices as they layer on top of one another - an inter species improvisation. I am curious as to how the piecing together of music from person and creature sits, does this give a new context to the bird’s song, do they act as a duet? Each month is intended as a sketch of sorts, a musical experiment and a snapshot into the year’s calendar - twelve reflections as the earth moves through it’s annual cycle.

 

Over Christmas 2025 I decided to gift myself a portable audio recorder and set out to record birdsong in whichever form it appeared - tuning into the nuances and individual languages of these birds and learning to recognise them by sound. I began on one of the first days in January keen to catch the early risers, so as the sun was breaking, I headed for the woods. No agenda, my ears and mind were open to whoever sang. There was one song that rose above the rest, a unique array of calls, lighthearted and spontaneous. I pressed record. What I heard was an incredible beauty and elegance. Yet, it struck me how much human interference the recorder also picked up: aeroplanes, trains, sirens and so many motorbikes. It seems obvious that noise pollution would exist in the city, but I had never heard it so loudly before. It seemed cruel that these birds who have existed long before us are offered such a harsh accompaniment to their songs of the morning. I took myself home once the woodland was sufficiently lit and the dawn chorus had simmered down. I uploaded the files and listened through to what I’d recorded. It upset me how many of the recordings felt unusable, consumed by the sounds of commuter traffic. What I managed to salvage you hear on this first track, a short minute and a half of song which I hope captures the essence of this magnificent bird. After much research, I believe this to be a song thrush. Resident in the UK all year round, the song thrush is a woodland bird often heard at first light and as darkness falls at the end of the day. The male’s song includes over a hundred different phrases which they repeat two or three times before continuing with a new phrase. I played around with a few different ideas on the piano and settled on something which is a Satie-esque take on the thrush’s repeated phrases.

 

As Robert Browning wrote:

 

That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,

Lest you should think he never could recapture

The first fine careless rapture!