Sometimes, as I and I'm sure many are wont to do, I'll go outside and sit on a little parkbench, listening to birds chitter and chirp away. At times there are big industrial watchamadoodles buzzing away, adding to the soundscape. When you listen to these things for long enough, they blend together.
Here, in Birdsong, is a similar experience. It's a collection of birds even John Audubon may be proud of, each one chirping here and there, coming in and out of the scene as each one pleases. But these birds are different; some of them are of pantagruelian scales; others are biomechanical, seemingly, but they still blend into the landscape; a few of these birds are, rather, not birds at all — that is to say living modular gadgets, wired up, coated in feathers and let out to scurry the Earth a while. They seem to be overtaking the regular population, their patches — their songs — changing as they become more animated.
A few small species, more recognisable to you and I still grace us with their prescence at times. A majority of this new population though? Mutants, imitations, cadavers. It's as though they are becoming something completely new, babbling like brooks and whirring as if they were technological gizmos; tapes disintegrating and becoming stunted, stuck in their players; scientific instruments are blistered, busted and blowing the place up.
To say the least, this composition really brought a lot out of me. It's tense. Absolutely and totally tense. It's absolutely fantastic and one of the most beautiful, horrifying things I've heard in a long time. Birdsong boasts a wonderous discomfort, a euphoric vileness. I for one love it. Everything about it is totally awe-inspiring.
MEGAFAUNA will invite you into their world, their home — you may be treated to company briefly but that doesn't mean you're going to be treated to dinner.
What a masterpiece!