{"id":6904,"date":"2021-10-18T17:46:32","date_gmt":"2021-10-18T15:46:32","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.classical-music.com\/?p=159729"},"modified":"2021-10-25T17:24:05","modified_gmt":"2021-10-25T15:24:05","slug":"singing-with-nightingales-folk-singer-sam-lee-on-the-majesty-of-duetting-with-nature","status":"publish","type":"rss_feed","link":"https:\/\/c01.purpledshub.com\/bbcmusicmagazine\/rss_feed\/singing-with-nightingales-folk-singer-sam-lee-on-the-majesty-of-duetting-with-nature\/","title":{"rendered":"Singing with Nightingales: folk singer Sam Lee on the majesty of duetting with nature"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

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By Simon Broughton\n \t\t<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Published: Monday, 18 October 2021 at 12:00 am<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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W<\/span>e\u2019ve been asked to follow in silence. It\u2019s 11pm in Sussex woods. I\u2019m in a line of people walking single-file following folk singer Sam Lee for a rare musical encounter. There\u2019s a clear night sky and half-moon bringing a silvery burnish to the silhouetted trees. Walking this route about three hours ago before dusk, it was noisy with birdsong<\/strong><\/a> \u2013 dozens of calls including robin, song thrush, garden warbler, blackcap and cuckoo. Now it\u2019s silent except for the occasional distant owl hoot. <\/span><\/p>\n

The path narrows and becomes muddy, squelching with each step. The wood thins out into a coppiced area which is more open. That\u2019s when we start to hear the nightingales in the distance. It\u2019s only males that sing in their own territory, primarily to attract a mate.<\/span><\/p>\n

After about 15 minutes, we stop beneath a line of trees. A nightingale is singing incredibly loudly, perhaps a metre above our heads. You feel you could touch it. But looking up, all you can see are the stars in the sky and the branches of the thicket on either side. The bird is invisible.  <\/span>A nightingale isn\u2019t much to look at anyway \u2013 it\u2019s a \u2018little brown jobbie\u2019 as birders say. But in the imagination it\u2019s like a bright indication of spring: the sap rising from the earth, into the bluebells which are flowering, up the tree trunks and into the leaves and then bursting out in the darkness in a silvery torrent of song. Sam Lee calls the nightingale a \u2018decorator of silence\u2019.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Folk singer and collector Sam Lee. Credit: John Millar<\/i><\/span><\/figcaption><\/span><\/i><\/div>\n

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Although it\u2019s famed for its song more than any other bird, it\u2019s not a mellifluous outpouring of melody. The phrases come in short bursts. It\u2019s as if it has two voices: one that is high, pure and melodic; the other low, guttural and raspy that interjects at random. The syrinx, which produces the song, has two separate voice boxes, each attached to a different lung-like wind sack.<\/span><\/p>\n

After listening to the bird for many minutes, sometimes dialoguing with a more distant one, <\/span>we hear a low drone on a cello \u2013 a warm sonic bed <\/span>over which the nightingale sounds even more sparkly. But then the cellist, Matthew Barley, raises his pitch and starts imitating what the nightingale is doing. This is no mean feat given the quicksilver unpredictability of the song. But this strange musical meeting has a precedent.<\/span><\/p>\n