Author(s): David Rothenberg

Music

The richness and variety of birdsong is both a scientific mystery and a source of wonder. David Rothenberg has a unique approach to this fascinating subject, combining the latest scientific research with a deep understanding of musical beauty and form. Can the standard explanations of territoriality or sexual selection account for so many species' astonishing inventiveness and devotion to singing? Whether playing the clarinet with the white-crested laughing thrush in Pittsburgh or jamming in the Australian winter breeding grounds of the Albert's lyrebird, Rothenberg touches the heart and soul of birdsong, offering an intimate look at the most lovely of natural phenomena. Extract from Why Birds Sing by David Rothenberg It is March 2000 and I am in Pittsburgh to jam with the birds of the National Aviary, the finest public collection of caged birds in the United States. The plan is to arrive at dawn, to catch the wary singers in their early morning chorus, when the most sound is happening. The artist Michael Pestel is waiting for me at the aviary gates, far from the fancy parts of town. Pestel has been playing with the feathered residents of the place for years. The human staff like to let musicians in during the early hours before the public, mostly guided schoolchildren, bring their own noise and chatter. At six in the morning the doors are still closed. All kinds of shrieks and whoops come from inside the walls. Through the screens we see darting movements of huge dark wings. Pestel, looking like a disheveled artist not used to getting up at this hour - the scraggly beard, the uncombed grayish hair - has his flute and various home-made stringed instruments. He also has a bit of the explorer in him, his long untucked shirt with many pockets full of hunters' bird calls. I assemble my clarinets and saxophones out of their cases, along with a large plastic Norwegian overtone flute and some Bulgarian double whistles. A bit drowsy, but ready to hear what these birds have up their sleeves, we head for the marsh room, a vaulted expanse with an observation deck and water birds from all over the world. Sunbitterns and egrets, spoonbills and teals. A green oropendola swoops over the water and gray Inca terns, with their impressive white whiskers, walk gently along the railing. Splashing and plunging, calling, swimming. I strain my ears to catch some pretty rocking bird beats. They sound familiar. The aviary is blaring Marvin Gaye at top volume to these birds at six o'clock in the morning. They are definitely squawkin' and squealin'. ?I cannot work in these conditions,? mutters Pestel. ?We've got to get these people to turn that racket down.? ?Didn't you tell them we were coming?? ?No,? he shakes his head. ?Art always arrives without warning.? As an art professor, he should know. At first he was a sculptor, but living in the same city as this incredible aviary had led him into the world of music. Motivated by the presence of these flying musicians, Pestel over the years has picked up flutes, recorders, bells, whistles, anything else that the birds might respond to. Understandably, he has developed a unique style of playing, somewhere between Eric Dolphy and the South American musician wren. The music is just one part of an artistic oeuvre that includes gallery installations with bird sounds, pebbles, and revolving wood structures, set up in exhibitions all over the world. I'm still concerned. ?You sure they'll let us do this?? ?No problem, man, I've come here many times before. These people know me. These birds know me.? The sprinklers are turned down. Marvin is turned down. I wonder if they will prefer our live music. Does a blue-crowned motmot or a violaceous euphonia really want to hear strange instrumental shrieks before breakfast? Weren't they doing fine with ?What's Going On?? Wittgenstein had the nerve to warn us that if a lion could talk, we would not understand him. Can you be so sure, Herr Ludwig? If a lion roars, we do understand him. If a cat purrs, we understand her. And if the voice of an animal is not heard as message but as art, interesting things start to happen: Nature is no longer an alien enigma, but instead something immediately beautiful, an exuberant opus with space for us to join in. Bird melodies have always been called songs for a reason. As long as we have been listening, people have presumed there is music coming out of those scissoring beaks. First published 2005.