“I am continually arriving from some strange place and everything I see is new and strange …” Artist, writer and naturalist Walter Anderson

The first morning I woke up in Houston, after 12 years of less than fitful sleep in my former stomping ground New York City, I woke up gradually and happily thanks to the sound of birds singing all around the house. I wasn’t jarred from my sleep by the sound of a garbage truck bouncing low rider style down a completely potholed third world nightmare of a street.

At no point in the night did I have to put a pillow over my ears due to drunk-off-their-ass hipsters staggering arm and arm outside my window screaming out Arcade Fire songs. Now, occasionally I have to endure a late night PA fueled Tejano party as well the sound of semi-regular rehearsals by the neighborhood's budding rock band (Who I really like by the way! You GO rock band!).

But from that first morning on, I have, for the most part, enjoyed a daily and nightly binaural serenade of bugs, frogs and birds. LOTS of birds, the likes of which I had never heard back in New York City.

My recent Houston ornithological observations include the following specimens:

THE GREAT TAILED PORTAMENTO BIRD

SONG: “Squeaks, gurgles, shrieks, and piercing ascending whistles …” Similar in sound of bottleneck slide guitar or Cajun fiddle. Loud as hell. “High pitched squeal of” aaarrrahhgkkk. Flight call is eeeaaarrrraaahhhghkkk.

Call indicating that the neighborhood rock band is practicing Blondie’s “Call Me” is eeeeyaaaaaagghkkkkheeeagk!!!

ORANGE BEAKED VOYEUR

BEHAVIOR: Rests on the fence separating your and your built-approximately-18-inches-away neighbor’s house. Orange beak inadvertently guides your eye to window above neighbor’s kitchen sink over which he or she can clearly be seen drinking a beer and finishing off the last of the tortilla chips.

You don’t WANT to look, but you can’t exactly HELP it, you know?

Field recording #1 by Chris Becker. Recorded with handheld Zoom recorder while standing in neighbor's front yard making every effort not to look like a stalker or a terrorist.

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DAWN TO DUSK MONKEY BIRDS

BEHAVIOR: Gathers in large groups, yet remain completely invisible to the human eye, prompting transplanted New Yorkers to ask: “What the hell is making those sounds? Doves? Owls? Monkeys?”

SONG: Sings simultaneously with several other Monkey Birds creating an antiphonal pygmy-like din. Lulling. Soothing. Incessant. Sun up. Sun down. When do these birds sleep? And what do they look like? Call is Oo-whoooooooo or hu woo wooooooooo.

Field recording #2 by Chris Becker. Note the creative use of creaking screen door superimposed over the primary and secondary melodies of the aforementioned Orange Beaked Voyeur and several Monkey Birds:

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When I'm not busy writing for Culturemap, my job is being a composer. A composer who, like Brian Eno, believes that the recording studio is an instrument. Soon after moving into our new home, I felt compelled to record the birds I was hearing and enjoying so much.

Perhaps these recordings could inspire a new direction in my compositional output! However, I quickly discovered that the bird-songs I wanted to capture could be quite … elusive.

On more than one occasion, I’d wake up to the hypnotic antiphony of the aforementioned monkey birds and tell my wife: “Wow! I gotta record them birds! I’ll be outside, sweetie!”

Stumble out of bed, stumble to the kitchen, pull on my sneakers, forget about brushing my teeth, grab the Zoom H4, make sure the batteries are charged, open the front door holding the recorder high in the air in the approximate direction of these mysterious indigenous creatures and ... nothing.

Not a sound. Like someone picked the needle up off of a spinning record. What the hell?

It was as if the birds KNEW I was trying to record them. So, after a great deal of cumulative experience in the wild, and several unsuccessful attempts at recording my noisy winged neighbors, I can offer this advice to my fellow field-recording artists: Wait the little buggers out.

I found that if I just stood there long enough, with the Zoom on "record," eventually the birds would start their chattering again — tentatively at first. Then maybe a bit louder after about 10 or 15 minutes. You gotta just hang in there. Blend in with the scenery. Don’t freak. The whole time them birds are checking you out.

In the later years of his life, artist Walter Anderson isolated himself from friends and family for months at a time camped out on the Mississippi Gulf Coast's Horn Island watching, drawing, and painting birds, sometimes chest deep in stinky water while flies stung his face. I’m a dilettante compared to Anderson’s level of commitment which landed him in a mental hospital at least once.

But I can say from experience that there IS something, something intensely spiritual, that you tap into when you go out into the wild or in my case, my neighbor’s front yard, to spot and record a bird. As I said, the birds seem to know what you’re up to, and they take charge of the situation. And then it dawns on you that what you are bearing witness to, by slowing down, standing still, and just listening, is something you have absolutely no control over.

But that's OK. It’s life and you are experiencing it in a profound way.

Here is the first piece of musique concrète I created shortly after arriving in Houston. The piece is named after the street where most of the bird sounds you’ll hear were recorded. Other sounds include kalimba, wind chimes, a train, passing cars and airplane.

Lawrence Street. Composed and recorded by Chris Becker:

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“I am continually arriving from some strange place and everything I see is new and strange …” Does this describe anyone you know? Is it a fair description of the creative act?