Thoughts on Bernie Krause's - the great animal orchestra.

A few days ago I purchased Bernie Krause's new book, entitled the great animal orchestra, in two minds. One chasing merriment, the other, trepidation. As it turns out, both caught up to their quarry, these thoughts pertain to what happened when they collided.

Patrick Farmer - Thoughts on Bernie Krause's - the great animal orchestra

Yet more backdating. Radio Zero.

The second piece of mine was played on Radio Zero by Paulo Raposo as part of the RadiaLx2010 festival of radio art. 

The piece played is called Fantasy is a place where it Rains, and is a assemblage of recordings made in and around the River Severn. 

Many many wonderful artists took part in both shows, and it has been a privilege to take part.

Thanks so much Paulo. 

Backdating. World Listening day.

I have had a few of my pieces, reworked, played on the radio as of late. 

An assemblage of recordings made at the Panshanger Aerodrome site, was played as part of the World Listening Project.


This falls under the heading of Episode 2, curated by John Kannenberg, was collated under the nomenclature of Urban Archaeology.


It was played on Resonance FM, amongst others, on the Framework programme.

an | bare

Recording trees, dependant on wind, 

largely dependant, 

convincing myself am so. 

and struggle as it would. 

with microphones 

and not often wind. i leave them,

feeling no need to forcefully interact, i sit, 

and that is the least i can do.

Listening the hum around oneself, excluding oneself.

The concept of writing, the manifestation of words written, only comes when I write. My mind does not have something to say before I say it. So, taking my headphones off, sat under a Veteran Oak tree, the wire of the contact microphone rising in the air like a charmed snake, I write. The wind is blowing in from the west, the coast, in shards, when listening through headphones the wash of noise almost scares me. From my vantage point, a hill overlooking the town, sound in part becomes more telling, in that my knowledge of the area is highlighted, but also becomes more blurred than usual, the volume of the wind separating and unifying myriad aspects of the towns entire auditory spectrum. Now I must change the position of the contact microphone, and find a new place to sit. I am no longer shaded by the canopy of the large Oak, I am shaded by my headphones, my view of the town is only partially blocked by a flight of Swallows, soon heading south. As the wind comes in i hear the creaking of the felled tree I am recording at the same time as I see the blades of grass blowing, as it, well, I do not know what to make of it, in any sense of the situation. I can not think, but it does make me feel, something.


Earlier, I had stayed in the same spot, recording the same small area of trees for over an hour, the microphone never moving far away form the part of the tree that had preceded it. Yet the difference, substantial. It makes me hear like there are many trees residing in the same spot, as if one tree were the home of thousands of trees. Looking down, I resist the temptation to swing on the tree branch, then I look up, the microphone had slipped, the putty dry from overuse. The squeaking and crackling of the branch resounding as shadow, not that I hear this as a negative. Now I have stuck it back firm to the bark of the limp branch, barely hanging onto its body, stroking the ground, becomes all the more intense. My eyes start to water, not through what I am hearing, but through the intensity of the wind.

To Gather

"Firstly there is the unity in things whereby each thing is at one with itself, consists of itself, and coheres with itself. Secondly there is the unity whereby one creature is united with the others and all parts of the world constitutes one world." - Pica Della Mirandola.


Perched on a small rock so as not to disturb what is beneath me, and the bank of the River Severn lapping at my shoes. Where i find myself is transitory, was once underwater, and will be again. There are crows in the boughs of the Oak trees over the river, and I can hear many different tones, as if the river were behind me as well as in front. A bed of distant sedge to my right, and left infact, although one is smaller in size. My microphone is attached and before I picked up my notebook I was listening, marvelling at the roughness of such fragile things, things that will only be here for a moment. I wonder what they sound like when engulfed in the river water, it looks like rain. As I feel my feet digging further into the substrate, the Sun becomes so bright that I can barely see the page I am writing on, I remember why I stopped listening with headphones, why I always stop listening with headphones. But then I spot two adolescent Ducks and the Sun shines on me again. I see the algae dancing underwater, I wish to sit here until it disappears, this fragile environment, listening to how it changes, and listening to how I change.


I prop myself up and attach my microphone to an unknown, to me, Shrub. I can see the imprints that my feet have made, but only for a short time, and now the sky is turning blue. The river shapes the banks and the banks guide the river, I merely sit still and smile at the apparent stillness of a Muslin Moth Caterpillar, diaphora mendica, realising that I will always be noisy in comparison.

Patrick Farmer - Severn Farms Pond. - Free Download.

"Beauty is everywhere a welcome guest" - Goethe.

These five recordings contain a minute glimpse of the auditory world of photosynthesising pondweed (HornWort or ceratophyllum demersum), located at the Montgomeryshire Wildlife Trust nature reserve, Severn Farms Pond. Made audible is the production of teeming oxygen bubbles, the plants using energy from the sun to produce sugar, the beginning of an age old system of process and equilibrium.

These sounds are of a very low audibility, and have been 'picked up' by specialist hydrophones, or underwater microphones. Due to the close proximity of traffic on either side of the reserve, there is a constant low frequency presence, a slight amount of this has been filtered out, but in keeping with a certain aesthetic of representation they are left alone.

The last recording is an example of the sheer weight surrounding the reserve. I kept this because rather than being overwhelming, it is to me, a joyous thing. It shows that such minutiae can exist in any conditions and that intriguing worlds are all around and will continue to exist regardless of our anthropic presence.

Going out and searching for such auditory phenomena as this, I am constantly reminded of what it was like to be a child, intrigued by everything and anything. Always listening and watching, not taking anything for granted. Long may it stay that way.

These recordings owe a debt to Lee Patterson. A wonderful human whose depth of exploration is only exceeded by his humour and dress sense.

Patrick Farmer - Severn Farms Pond. <-- Right click and Save as to download

Montgomeryshire Wildlife Trust

of entropy

Just as the sun was starting to curl up for the night, I was driving from Caersws back home and decided to take a road that I hadn't travelled or investigated for many years, going through Bethel and Bwlch Y Garreg, to where I thought I was going to end up, Tregynon. About 10 years ago I lived up that way in an Observatory, a wonderful and peaceful place. Driving past various farms you always see interesting things, and today the sight of hundreds of Starlings all lined up along the side of the road brought the largest smile to my already lined face.


After many stretching hillsides and gravity defying stone walls I ended up, too my surprise, at a Nature Reserve called Llyn Mawr, or Boggy Heaven. This particular nature reserve is about two Miles from the nearest main road and just a tad north of an old courthouse I used to live in called Neaudd Newydd, and it is without a doubt the most peaceful and relaxing spot that I have come across.


Walking down to the lake I was met by the sights and sounds of Curlews, Rams, and Aberdeen Angus, I believe one was actually giving birth, but most interesting to me was the slight crackling that was becoming more apparent the closer I came to the water. I started running to the shoreline in childish excitement, the best kind of excitement, to be met by what I can only describe as the most fascinating and joyous phenomena that one could ever wish to witness.


I ran back to the car to get my recording equipment (earlier on in the day I had been recording at the Hafren Forest) and by the time I got back to the shoreline the wind had increased to such an extent that cascades of ice were piling ontop of one another. The friction, beginning with the movement of wind and water, creating hordes of delicate patterns all around the edge of the lake.


The atmosphere around Llyn Mawr was balanced in a state of poetic equilibrium, a fleeting series of ectones, by the time I left the shore the ice had whispered away to almost nothing. A sound not unlike wind through trees.

Panshangar (in progress)

The overlooked space of Panshangar aerodrome had me searching for vibrations with my hands rather than purely hearing my way through the space. Sensing a perceptive betweeness, moving from there, sitting still, leaning towards the unassuming and attempting to disconnect my thoughts from my senses in order to experience the space in a more encompassing manner. Wherever I locate myself within it I affect the sounds that I hear and create, not literally, but upon moving, my mind moves also, perhaps within a time interval, space in reverse, new ideas clouding old, old ideas not having time to formulate but still influencing the new due to the very fact that they existed in a preceding fashion. If this influential stream is to be correct however, ideas cannot be said to be clouded as they are evidently not separate in their truest form, we see them how we want to see them and how they want us to see them at the same time. The function of the image, as Nikolai Gogol once said, “is to express life itself, not ideas or arguments about life. It does not signify life or symbolise it, but embodies it, expressing its uniqueness.”