Enough has been said about the Salt Lake City local music scene. What about the local bird scene? Back in the day, if you went under a bridge to listen to music, you weren’t listening to a DIY band with a generator. You were listening to the songs and calls of the local birds.
Now, what business do I have writing about bird sounds for a radio station? Admittedly, it is a sound, and by some definition, local music. But, bird sounds, either in the foreground or background, have been used to convey a wide range of emotions and ideas. In many cases, this can be entirely atmospheric.
Music ft. birds
The Durutti Column’s “Sketch for Summer” brings back the feeling of a seemingly endless summer night, under the setting sun of the warm, shimmering guitar. The song feels excruciatingly alive; the twitter of the birds and the lub-dub rhythm of the drums bring me back to a home I’ll never be able to return to.
Bird sounds are also a frequent target for sampling in electronic music, often used as ambient textures or countermelodies, exemplified by the seagulls in “Happy Cycling” by Boards of Canada. Or, it can comprise the entire melody, such as in Aphex Twin’s “Slo Bird Whistle,” which I can best describe as music my cat would love.
Björk’s album, “Utopia,” blends electronic and woodwinds with birdsong to develop a whimsical ambiance. At times, such as during “Saint” and the title track “Utopia,” the chirping is tightly interwoven with the flute’s melody and can be difficult to distinguish. I can’t help but imagine an ensemble of folklore forest creatures with carved instruments playing along.
At the beginning of “The Gate,” is the song of the Montezuma Oropendola, a bird present in Venezuelan folklore, believed to be the ghosts of stillborn and young children who went off into the jungle to sing. Björk likens the sound of this bird to a subtractive synth from the 70s, sounding like “R2-D2, or techno.” What results is a celebration of imperfect and frustrating love, contrasting with a world full of suffering and beauty.
Silver Mt. Zion’s “Pretty Little Lightning Paw” stands out from the paranoid and hostile world described in “Microphones in the Trees,” and the hopeless surrender of “There’s a River in the Valley Made of Melting Snow.” The song is messy, and an atonal choir beats against the fuzzy guitars, raw strings and field recordings to build an overwhelming atmosphere. But, as the song continues, the scattered chirping of the birds seems to sing along with Efrim Menuck’s tattered and warbled vocals.
In a bleak, uncertain and beautiful world, this album serves as a call to arms to find freedom in a world that cannot be stripped of its light. The looping bird calls are the sound of their home, a quiet refusal and hopeful song to those who will listen closely.
Local highlights
It’s easy to grow accustomed to the familiar singing of the birds, letting it fade into the background and become another piece of the surroundings. The warble or chirp of a single bird becomes a small piece of an orchestra playing a piece conducted by the season and location.
The valley is especially rich in instruments, with waterfowl in the Great Salt Lake and nearby wetlands, grasslands, and fields on the West end supporting foragers and birds of prey. Forests and tree-laden suburbs support many more songbirds. It can take a sharply trained eye to distinguish them by sight, and a well-tuned ear to tell them apart by sound. But, a few hints can go a long way to reveal their secrets.
Before the dawn breaks, the American Robin will start to sing its morning song. A mascot of spring, old newspapers used to report their first sighting of the year as a sign that spring had finally come. At the tail end of a sleepless night, they can feel like cruel bringers of the day. They sing in caroling phrases, strings of ~10 whistles rising and falling in pitch that are assembled from repeated syllables, described as “cheerily, cheer up, cheer up, cheerily, cheer up.”
Song Sparrows are another common yard bird that sticks much closer to the earth, nesting on the ground or in shrubs no higher than 12 feet off the ground. Recognizable from their long, brown rounded tail, back and wings dotted with rust, their white underparts and conical beak. They sing in jazzy improvisations, with a loud burst of a few well-spaced notes, followed by an improvised trill and chatter.
Despite their vast range, their song patterns vary greatly as young males listen and copy the songs of nearby adults. The songs grow more complex as he matures, until he has a repertoire of his own to attract the females who sing far less frequently, and are attracted to the uniqueness of a male singer’s song.
Mourning Doves are migratory birds that arrive in the valley in April, named aptly for their mournful and melancholic cooing. Unmated males sing out a soft “coo-oo,” which is followed by two or three louder coos. The “coo-OO-oo” is the nest call, sung from paired males while nest building, sung in the timbre of a low clarinet or French horn. An adult male can be identified by their slender build and thin neck, their pale yellow-brown head and breast, and their black bill. Their wings and back are a darker brown, wih their tail pointed at the tip.
Black-capped chickadees are permanent residents of the valley, with a distinct black cap and bib and white cheeks. I’ve had the most luck spotting them on the East side of the valley, in neighborhoods with old mature trees, and they are common visitors to bird feeders. Their name comes from their call, “chickadee-dee-dee”, with increasing “dee” phrases indicating greater alarm.
When a predator is detected, they’ll often make a high-pitched “see” call, which causes all chickadees who hear it to freeze until they hear an all-clear signal, “chickadee-dee.” Their song is a mournful two-note whistle, “fee-bee,” often described as “hey-sweetie,” which they begin to sing in mid-January.
How to help the band keep playing
Birds can learn and copy the songs of others as well as add trills and improvisations to impress mates. For permanent residents of the valley, these songs grow more and more unique with each generation. This builds a musical landscape that might not sit at the front of your attention, but marks home to you. The Salt Lake Valley is home to a rich population of birds, but their singing grows fainter as the years go by. So too does part of the valley’s soul.
Millions of migratory birds depend on the Great Salt Lake, an ecosystem teetering on the verge of collapse as the water level continues to fall, shrinking their habitat. In addition, urban development is encroaching on wetlands, open fields and river environments. These urban environments select for only generalist bird species, lowering the valley’s biodiversity and damaging the greater ecosystem that they exist within.
There are many rewarding actions that an individual can take, as well as organizations in the valley that are doing great work. Replacing or reducing lawns with native plants can be a boon for local insect populations, keeping birds well fed. Window collisions at home can be mitigated with glass films and decals. As for light pollution, Tracy Aviary’s Lights Out Salt Lake project encourages you to turn lights off between 11 p.m. to 6 a.m. Responsible bird feeders provide nourishment and support, especially for migratory birds, but they should be cleaned at least once a week. They also provide a lot of entertainment and a wide variety of birds up close, depending on the food you leave out.
To name just a few of the organizations in the valley, Tracy Aviary’s Conservation Science program focuses on community science to steward natural habitats and has many opportunities to get involved. The program provides education about wildlife and hosts regular birdwatching outings, in addition to influencing public policy.
Just as the spirit of the valley rings out through our local music scene, so too does it come from the calls and warblings of the birds near and dear to us. There is a great amount of work and responsibility that must be done to ensure they will be able to sing on for years to come.