WHY WOULD ANYONE RECORD OUT THERE?
Carlos Norton
(21st of May, 2025, late evening). We spent the whole day recording at various locations in Heinavësi, amongst rocks, caves, trees and lakes. Now we’re relaxing at the house; some are inside preparing food, whilst others are outside exchanging jokes translated into the various languages spoken by the international members of the team. Some are enjoying the sauna, alternating between the heat of the enclosed space and an icy dip in the waters of Kermajärvi. I’m relaxing outside, enjoying a beer and a bit of peace and quiet after the day’s intense sounds. I can hear someone coming out of the sauna and getting into the water.
And then, magic happens.
Sonja Saagaia begins to sing. There is no wind at all and, apart from the chatter around the house, everything is silent, broken only occasionally by the birdsong and Sonja’s singing. Submerged in the lake up to her neck, she lets her voice skim the water’s surface, gliding and echoing off the lake’s banks. From where I’m sitting, a fabulous sound reaches me. I run to fetch microphones and a recorder, and when Sonja comes out of the water, I ask her to start again so that I can record her.
I tell the others that we’re going to record, asking them to remain silent, and press ‘rec’. Sonja leaves the sauna again, steps into the water and begins to sing once more. At that very moment, the sound of a car begins to drift in from the distance, approaching along the gravel road behind the house, heading towards the tip of the Kurikknamiemi headland, situated on the other side of that part of the lake, directly opposite the house where we are recording.
I can hear the car through my headphones, but I’m not sure how audible it is. At the end of the recording, I tell Sonja that it would be best to record it again, because of the sound of the car that passed by. Shivering, she admits she doesn’t have the courage to go back into the cold water to do it again.
That night I listened to the recording several times, noting the car’s excessively loud presence and cursing our bad luck, as it is rare for a car to be driving along that road. The following morning I exchanged messages with a colleague in Portugal who was due to record in a studio that day. He wouldn’t have any problems with cars driving past unexpectedly. The question naturally came to mind:
Why would anyone record out there?
Around 12,000 years ago, Homo sapiens ceased to consist exclusively of nomadic hunter-gatherers, and part of the population began to settle down and build permanent dwellings. What initially consisted merely of rudimentary shelters against the elements and predators soon came to house tools and implements, food, objects of worship and devotion, and even objects of no practical use – purely decorative or sentimental. Over the centuries and millennia, building materials and techniques, as well as the rationale behind their use, gradually changed. Houses gained rooms with specific functions and practical fittings. Above all, they became increasingly comfortable and efficient. And increasingly, they isolated people from the outside world.
Gradually, but at an ever-increasing pace in recent decades, rural houses with farmland, and urban homes with vegetable patches, terraces, rooftops and courtyard gardens have been disappearing. Instead, we have built blocks of flats, garages, outbuildings and buildings of all kinds, where even the balconies have been enclosed, minimising our contact with the outdoors, with nature and with the world.
And it is there, in perfect isolation within four walls, that we seek a taste of nature. And that is why we have a photograph of a natural landscape on the living room wall, the fish tank with its two goldfish, and a few vases of flowers by the window (if several die, it’s best to replace them with plastic ones, which are less trouble). On Sundays, if it doesn’t rain, a walk in the park, before running to the shopping centre.
Our way of life has changed dramatically in recent times, not only in the way we live in our homes, but also, more generally, in relation to the world in which we live. Music is no exception. In ancient times, people sang mainly in nature, outdoors, or in places with good acoustics, such as caves and caverns. Often, songs accompanied the rhythm of work, expressed prayers, recounted real stories or tales from the collective imagination.
Later, in urban areas, community events in public spaces, or street performances by minstrels, travelling entertainers or jugglers characterised the musical life of the period. At the same time, amongst the ruling elites, there was a growing trend towards organising specific performances in palaces or castles for a select group of the upper classes. Music played or sung in the streets became the preserve of the common people and the lower classes of society.
Over the course of several centuries, classical music was performed in majestic halls or imposing churches, and the number of performance venues built for this purpose began to multiply. Theatres, concert halls, auditoriums and other venues where it was possible to listen to a concert (or any other kind of artistic performance) without too much interference from outside noise. In recent decades, this concept has been refined to near perfection in venues scientifically designed to ensure that sound reaches the entire audience, and that even the sound of the audience itself is not too noticeable within the venue.
The same logic applies to recording studios, but with a much more recent history, given that sound recording only began in the late 19th century, and the first music recording studio designed as such was Abbey Road Studios, which opened in 1931. With less than 100 years of studio history, they have nevertheless been quick to embrace technological innovation. Today, improvements in external soundproofing, the ability to shape the desired internal acoustic environment, and the exceptional quality of microphones enable perfect recordings from a sound capture perspective. The digital world of audio has also simplified the recording process, making it much quicker and easier.
So, if studio recording is now so perfect and straightforward, why don’t we just stay in the recording studio?
When we record music, as a rule, the key is to record the music itself and not everything that’s going on around it. That’s why we build soundproof studios. Generally, we record only the musical sound produced, clean and isolated. Some people take a different approach and view music not just as the sound of the notes produced, but also as the totality of sound required to generate them. Consequently, they often choose to record the singer’s breathing, the bow scraping against the cello strings, or the pick striking the guitar strings. This approach varies depending on the engineer, but also on the artistic result they are aiming for. What hardly anyone will want is to capture the sound of neighbours shouting, a chair being dragged across the floor in the recording room, a motorbike passing by outside, or a dog that won’t stop barking. Therefore, whatever the approach, all recordings are intentionally restricted to what is produced solely within the studio, inside the recording booth. Hence the need to soundproof it and the great advantage of recording in a studio.
So why record outside the studio?
Why leave a comfortable, well-equipped studio – with all the right conditions and excellent acoustics – and head out into nature, where there are unpredictable sounds, wind, rain, heat, cold, ants and mosquitoes?
One of the main reasons is financial. Professional studios are quite expensive, and the investment usually only pays off if the recording is intended for commercial purposes.
In the digital age, it is becoming increasingly accessible and easy to use simple equipment that allows for high-quality home recording. For those living in the quiet countryside, away from urban centres, it may even be possible to record simply at home, in a bedroom or living room; but for those living in cities, it is almost impossible to guarantee the absence of unwanted sounds, however well soundproofed the house or flat may be.
Thus, as an alternative, it may be feasible to look for an outdoor space, away from noisy areas. This raises the first problem: what is noise? And what is silence? What sort of outdoor space might this be?
Silence is essentially a concept. Only in an anechoic chamber is there absolute silence, but it is impossible to stay inside for more than a few minutes without risking going mad.
But outside of that, there is no silence. There is always sound, from various sources. And nature is full of sounds. Sometimes a frenetic cacophony, depending on the location; sometimes peaceful and relaxing. Definitions of noise vary widely, but there is likely to be a relatively broad consensus, at least in this context, that noise is any sound that is unwanted.
The sound of a seagull can enhance a recording of a harp by the sea, but it can be a nuisance (and therefore noise) if it does not fall silent during an introspective section of a choral piece.
Conversation between people will be a raucous noise if picked up whilst a lute is being recorded beneath an olive tree, but it will be a soothing sound if we are recording Irish music in a pub (provided it is kept at a reasonable level, of course).
The range of sounds present in a given location (and at a given moment) should be suited to the type of musical performance intended, something which is logically related to the musical genre. In some genres, even industrial and urban sounds may fit the bill. In nature, the sonic diversity is such that every artist is sure to find comfort in different locations. Emotional and sentimental comfort – this is the second reason, and in many cases the main one, for someone to record in nature.
Given that people are usually so cut off from the outside world – particularly those living in large cities – there is a pull from nature, a sense of needing to lose ourselves in the natural environment, in its various habitats. There we find ancestral emotional reasons, ingrained in our animal nature. This sense of well-being is reflected in our creative disposition. It is a cliché to say that nature inspires us.
Nature inspires
Returning to the silence of the studio, the musician prepares to record. In the control room, the engineer gives instructions which the musician receives through his headphones. “You’re recording.” And the musician plays. There is no sound other than that of the instrument. There is no one else around. Amidst the walls, reflecters and soundproofing, it is both monotonous and efficient. He receives no stimulus other than the music itself. This allows the performer to concentrate completely. But the performance remains confined to the musical creation and composition itself. Which is almost always an advantage. Without distractions, the performance is perfected to the utmost, and the sound quality is superb.
The studio aims to capture an isolated sound so that it can later be processed in post-production, allowing it to be properly manipulated to achieve a sound as if it had been recorded elsewhere. This is something that a number of plug-ins can do easily. However, it is possible to seek out the desired acoustics in another venue in advance to minimise the need for post-production. And in that case, the result is more authentic. That is why many record in churches, monuments and other venues with the desired acoustics. The historical and cultural context of the music in question is usually a significant factor too.
However, recording in nature is more than that; it is more than just acoustics. It is a dialogue with nature, as nature is not a constant. Performing a piece in a way that is disconnected from nature will cause all nature sounds to take on the form of noise, regardless of whether the sound is pleasant or not, as it is not part of the music. This dialogue presupposes the integration of sound into the breathing, the rhythm and the adapted interpretation itself. All the frequencies, pulsations and variations in the surrounding sound can greatly influence the artistic performance.
It is always a dialogue with nature
There are, however, two types of reaction to the sounds of nature. For some, nature acts as a source of inspiration, altering the artist’s state of mind and even their physical readiness. Clearly, a performance in the midst of nature will never be the same as one within four walls (it is not a question of better or worse, just different). But there may also be a more emotional and sensory response, where the artist shapes the performance according to the acoustic qualities of the space they occupy, adapting it to the moment and turning it into a genuine dialogue. In practice, the latter will only work fully in a solo performance. In a recording with several musicians, it will be more difficult for everyone to perceive external stimuli emotionally in exactly the same way (though not impossible). As a rule, individual concentration on keeping in step with the ensemble does not allow for major deviations, without the risk of everyone losing their way. This was something that became evident during the course of the project.
Another observation arising from the project is that this dialogue with nature is all the more genuine and heartfelt the more unfamiliar and exotic the place is, as the discovery of sounds enhances the dialogue through the attitude of a flâneur, who allows themselves to be carried along aurally through the surrounding space. Habituation leads to desensitisation. Anyone living near a railway station ceases to hear the trains after a few years. The brain has become accustomed to the regularity of the trains passing by, and these sounds cease to be stimuli. If a new locomotive passes by with a distinctive sound, or if it passes at a completely unexpected time, one becomes alert and the brain signals the sonic anomaly. Otherwise, it is inaudible. A natural environment to which we are accustomed may have the same implications. The wind rustling through the leaves, the frogs, the birdsong, the flowing water. Recording in nature always has a liberating aspect to it, but doing so in a familiar place leads to an obvious planning, as you already know what you’re going to find. That park we go to on Sunday mornings now offers little that is new.
On the other hand, in a distant and unfamiliar place, every minute detail – whether auditory, visual, tactile or olfactory – becomes a stimulus, and this strong desire for discovery and exploration enhances the performer’s immersion in nature.
Ultimately, it is always about dialogue, not merely about having sounds of nature in the recording. For that, it is actually much simpler to record in a studio and add the work of a soundscape designer. You avoid the mosquitoes, the long hours in the sun or the cold, the planned days that ended up being cancelled because there were reindeer hunters on site, or chainsaws, or because the forecast was wrong and it rained heavily.
Recording in the wild doesn’t incur the costs of a professional studio, but naturally it also lacks the precision, efficiency, predictability and scope for rigorous planning.
Almost everything is unknown, and, as has been repeated time and again throughout the project, the best plan is to have no plan. It is for there to be no plan at all. The best approach is simply to act with flexibility and adapt to the location and the moment.
And of course, it may go wrong. And it will go wrong. Just as it did during Sonja’s recording. In the studio, a car passing by outside wouldn’t have been a problem, but the opportunity wouldn’t have arisen either, as the whole moment was an impulse. An impulse created and driven by what was in that place and what happened at that moment. Even if Sonja were to record the same melody in the studio later on, it would be impossible to capture the same emotion. Singing whilst feeling as though you’re immersed in icy waters, accompanied by echoes, birds and friends, provides a unique stimulus that cannot be replicated within the walls of a studio. And even if post-production were to create an interesting sound, that real sound from that moment is inimitable.
If only it hadn’t been for that car…
An outstanding recording was lost, but the incredible moment will remain in the memories and hearts of everyone who was there.