The Listener Podcast

Over a million seabirds. Albatross chicks scattered across the sand. Dolphins offshore. Monk seals resting on the beaches. One of the most alive places I have ever experienced.Those albatross chicks weren’t just being fed fish by their parents. They were being fed plastic. Bottle tops, lighters, fragments of our lives. Carried across the ocean and delivered to one of the most remote places on Earth. Their stomachs full, but starving.That’s the thing about pollution. It doesn’t respect distance. It doesn’t need permission. It arrives quietly, even in paradise.Right now, in places like Ukraine and across the Middle East, we’re seeing a different kind of pollution. Oil depots burning. Refineries hit. Tankers attacked. Thick black smoke rising into the atmosphere. Toxic chemicals seeping into soil, rivers, and oceans.Hundreds of millions of tonnes of emissions… but the numbers don’t tell the real story.The real story is what disappears.The birds that stop singing.The insects that never return.The silence that slowly replaces life.Because the same system that fuels war… fuels the plastic that ends up inside an albatross chick on Midway.It’s all connected.Midway is not just a remote island. It’s a warning.If we can’t keep a place like that clean… what hope do we have anywhere else?The question is simple.Are we still listening?give a black and white line-art drawingEdit

There’s something about rain that most people miss.To many, it’s an inconvenience… something to escape from.To me, it’s music.Rain creates its own orchestra, each surface a different instrument. I’ve recorded it all over the world… in rainforests where the canopy turns it into layered percussion, in temperate forests where it softens into a gentle hush, on metal roofs where it becomes sharp and urgent, and across lakes and oceans where it melts into something almost hypnotic.And then there are palm leaves…They don’t just catch the rain, they release it in bursts… sudden cascades of sound that feel alive.Give me a storm, thunder rolling, skies opening… and you’ll find me outside, soaked through, headphones on, completely at peace.Because rain isn’t just weather.It’s rhythm.It’s texture.It’s nature reminding us that even the simplest things can be extraordinary… if we just stop and listen.Most people run from the rain.I walk straight into it.#TheListeningPlanet #Soundscapes #Rain #NatureSounds #FieldRecording #Biophony #Geophony #ListenToTheEarthDo line artEditdo line art of a microphone in the rainforestEdit

There are moments in life that quietly reshape you.Not with noise or drama… but with something subtle. Unexpected.For me, one of those moments came just outside the suburbs of Birmingham.I had travelled out toward the border of Wales searching for something I had only read about. A bird I had never heard before.The grasshopper warbler.When I finally heard it, I didn’t believe it.It wasn’t birdsong. Not in any way I understood at the time.It was a reel. A continuous mechanical trill, like an insect caught in a loop. My instinct was to look down into the grass, not up for a bird. It confused me. Drew me in.Was it a call… or a song?That moment changed something in me.Because suddenly, the natural world wasn’t what I thought it was. The neat categories disappeared. Birds didn’t just sing like birds. Insects didn’t just sound like insects. Everything blurred.Years later, here in Florida, I heard that same deception again.The grasshopper sparrow.Even the name carries the confusion. And yet this time, there was something else attached to the sound. A weight.The Florida subspecies is critically endangered.That faint, insect-like buzz… is disappearing.And it made me think back to that first moment in the meadow. How innocent it was. How full of discovery. I didn’t know then that some of these sounds would become rare. That one day, hearing them would feel like holding onto something fragile.There are other birds that cross that boundary.The savannah sparrow. The soft ticking trill of the dark-eyed junco.But none of them compare to that first encounter.Because that was the moment I stopped just hearing nature……and started listening.🌍 Why This MattersWhen sounds disappear, we don’t always notice straight away.But they are often the first sign that something is wrong.Sound is the barometer of the natural world.And right now… it’s telling us a story we can’t afford to ignore.www.thelisteningplanet.com

I’ve always loved eagles.Not just admired them… loved them.The first time I saw one was in Scotland in 1978, over Glencoe. A golden eagle riding the thermals above Rannoch Moor. It wasn’t flying… it was owning the sky. That moment never left me.Since then I’ve been lucky enough to record them across the world — from the reintroduced white-tailed eagles on the Isle of Rum, to bald eagles in North America, and even the extraordinary harpy eagle deep in the forests of Costa Rica.There are around 60 species of eagle on this planet. Sixty different expressions of power, silence, and survival.And here’s the thing…If an eagle is still there, it means everything beneath it is still holding together.The rivers still have fish.The forests still breathe.The land is still alive.They are not just birds… they are a sign that the system still works.And yet, one of my favourite things about them is this…For all that size and power, their voice is completely unexpected. Not the dramatic scream you hear in films (that’s usually a red-tailed hawk). The real call of an eagle is far more delicate… almost surprising.But don’t let that fool you.Those talons would remind you very quickly who you’re dealing with.I’ve spent my life recording the true voices of the natural world, because reality is always more interesting than the version we invent.And every time I see an eagle, I feel the same thing I did back in 1978…Wonder.Because as long as eagles are still in the sky, there is still something left worth protecting.www.thelisteningplanet.com#TheListeningPlanet #Eagles #Nature #Wildlife #SoundOfNature #Biodiversity #Conservation

There was a time when you couldn’t look at the sky without hearing it.Not one bird… but manyI remember lying on my back in a field as a boy, watching skylarks climb higher and higher until they disappeared from sight… but never from sound. The air itself was alive. A chorus with no beginning and no end.Today, that chorus is fading.In my lifetime, we’ve lost billions of birds. Not in some distant place… but here. Around us. Quietly. Gradually. Almost without notice.And that’s the most frightening part.We don’t notice the silence until it’s too late.I’ve spent over 60 years recording the natural world. I have sounds in my archive that can never be recorded again. Species gone. Soundscapes altered forever.So I’ve started working on something new.A piece built around one simple idea:What does it feel like when the music of the planet begins to disappear?This is not about statistics.This is about emotion.This is about listening.Because a picture may tell a thousand stories……but sound tells a thousand pictures.And right now, those pictures are fading.🎧 “Skylark (Where Did You Go?)” — coming soon.If we listen carefully… we might still hear what we’re about to lose.www.thelisteningplanet.com

I have spent a lifetime listening.Not just hearing… but truly listening to the voice of the Earth.Because sound tells us things that our eyes cannot.A forest can still look whole…A river can still appear to flow…A landscape can seem untouched…But the truth is in the silence.The dipper no longer on the stream.The frogs missing from the marsh at dusk.The birds that once filled the forest… now gone.I have stood in places that looked alive… but sounded empty.And that is when you realise… something is wrong.Sound is the barometer of the planet’s health.It registers change.It proves change.It reveals what we are losing… long before we see it.We are taught that a picture tells a thousand words.But sound tells a thousand pictures.And right now… the Earth is still speaking.The question is… are we listening?#TheListeningPlanet #Nature #Soundscape #Biodiversity #Conservation #ListenToTheEarth

I recently had an email questioning a bird I logged on Cornell’s eBird.The reviewer suggested the call I recorded was a Magnolia Warbler rather than the Red eyed Vireo I had listed. He explained that Magnolia Warblers can give a whiny call that sounds very similar to a vireo and also pointed out that Red eyed Vireos usually do not arrive in our coastal hammock habitat until late March.It was a thoughtful message and I appreciated it. Good science improves when people question observations.The recording was made on my phone and I later compared the call against several reference recordings before logging it. To my ear the tone still feels closer to Red eyed Vireo, but I also understand the reviewer’s point and shared the spectrogram so we could compare.But the exchange made me smile because it reminded me of something that has happened many times in my life as a naturalist.People often trust the calendar more than the bird.Years ago in Costa Rica I found a Maguari Stork on a beach in Guanacaste. I was told it could not possibly be there because the species had not been recorded in the country for years. Yet there it was standing in front of us as clear as daylight.When I first came to the United States I reported a singing Swainson’s Thrush in a park. I received a barrage of emails saying it was impossible because the bird “does not arrive until April and does not sing until May.”So I went back the next day and recorded it.More than a hundred birders eventually showed up to see it and many said the same thing while standing in front of the bird.“It shouldn’t be here.”Birds do not read field guides.The world is changing. Climate patterns are shifting. Migration timing is moving. Yet sometimes birders still treat old data as though it is a rule book.I value review and accuracy deeply. Mistakes happen and they should be corrected.But one thing I have learned after a lifetime of listening to nature is this.Never tell the bird it shouldn’t be there because of a bookwww.thelisteningplanet.com

This is Martyn Stewart… with a life in sound from The Listening Planet.Recently I returned to England. Home. The place where everything began.But this time the journey was different.Someone had recommended me for an honour… an OBE. The Order of the British Empire. When I first heard the words, I honestly could not take it in. I kept thinking there must be some mistake. Awards like that are for extraordinary people, not a lad from a Birmingham council estate who spent his life wandering through woods with a tape recorder.Yet there I was, driving toward Windsor Castle.We actually got a bit lost on the way. My niece Amanda was navigating, and we ended up turning down a grand drive that definitely did not belong to us. But as we finally found the road to the castle gates, another car pulled in ahead of us.David Beckham.And I remember thinking, well… this day is already surreal.What we did not know until we arrived at the gates was that the medal would be presented by the King himself.Walking into Windsor Castle is like stepping into history. The stone walls, the guards, the quiet sense of ceremony that hangs in the air. When the moment came, I stepped forward and there he was, elevated slightly on the stage as tradition demands.The King smiled, spoke kindly, and pinned the medal to my lapel.And I remember thinking, how on earth did a boy who used to disappear into the woods with a microphone end up here?The strange thing is, the whole story nearly never happened.Months earlier I received a phone call from a number I did not recognise. These days I ignore most unknown calls because they are usually spam. But this one I answered.A British voice came down the line.“Hello, my name is Rufus Drabble. I’m calling regarding some documents we need you to sign.”I stopped him immediately.“Mate,” I said, “you’re not getting access to my bank account.”He patiently explained he was an officer of the British realm calling from Miami. I told him that meant absolutely nothing. Anyone could invent a name and say the same thing.To be honest… I practically told him to Fuck offA little later another call came from New York. Then an email with official looking paperwork. I still thought it was a scam. So I did what many people do these days.I asked ChatGPT.It told me there was a very high chance the message was genuine.Still, I was not convinced.Then the palace called my niece Amanda.“Would you mind ringing your uncle,” they asked her. “He thinks the honour is a scam.”Only then did I realise it was real.But receiving an honour for nature feels strange to me. There are so many people who have dedicated their lives to protecting wildlife. I have simply spent my life listening to it.And when I return to England… that is where the story truly begins.Because England is where I first learned to listen.When I close my eyes and think about home, I hear the dawn chorus.Long before the sun rises, a single voice begins. Usually the robin. Soft and thoughtful, singing in the half light before morning truly arrives.Then the wren joins in. Small bird, enormous voice.Soon the choir begins to build.Blackbirds, song thrushes, nuthatches, rooks and crows. One after another they enter the orchestra until the countryside is alive with sound.When I was a boy there were three and a half billion people on the planet. Less than half of what there are today. The world sounded different then.But there are still fragments of that past.When I visit places like the Cotswolds in spring, the dawn chorus still has that ancient quality. As if you are hearing something that has echoed through centuries.It reminds me of something I realised recently.I built a time machine.Not one made of flashing lights and blue boxes like Doctor Who. Mine is made of microphones, tapes, and hard drives.My recordings allow me to travel back sixty years.When I play them, I can see the landscapes exactly as they were. The fields, the woods, the hedgerows. The world as a boy once experienced it.One of those places was a bluebell wood across the road from my childhood home.To reach it you crossed a road, walked through open fields, passed a hedgerow, then another field… and suddenly you were inside a cathedral of trees.The woods were my sanctuary.If there were arguments at home, if life felt unsettled, I would disappear there with my recorder.The woods listened to me.Years later I asked the sound recordist Alice Boyd to revisit that place. She returned fifty years later… on the same day, at the same time in the morning.But when she arrived something had changed.The fields were gone.A housing estate now surrounded the bluebell wood.When she played the recordings back to me, I could barely speak.Cars. Doors slamming. Dogs barking. Aircraft overhead.The birds were still there, but their orchestra had been drowned by the noise of our modern world.And yet in my archive… the old sound still lives.Because sound truly does tell a thousand pictures.Close your eyes and step with me into those woods.As you walk through the fields you hear the wind brushing against the barley. Insects whisper through the grass. Leaves crackle beneath your feet.Then a bird calls.Suddenly the entire forest responds.A blackbird raises the alarm. Somewhere a fox shifts in the undergrowth. A hedgehog rustles through the leaves.Nature is constantly speaking.We have simply forgotten how to listen.As I grew older I began travelling further across England with my tape recorder. I bought my first Nagra recorder when I was nineteen and suddenly the world of sound opened up.Every landscape had its own signature.A meadow sounded different from a forest. Marshlands sounded different from farmland. Rivers changed everything.In places like the Wyre Forest I heard water running through woodland, mixing with birdsong in ways I had never experienced before.In Cannock Chase I recorded nightjars for the first time.Across the Peak District the soundscape changed again. Wide open grasslands, wind sweeping across the hills, and the haunting cry of the curlew.That call… long, mournful, almost ancient.When I hear it I imagine centuries of history echoing across the landscape.Further south in the Wye Valley I encountered kingfishers and dippers. The dipper is a wonderful indicator species. If you hear one along a river, it usually means the water is healthy.When I was young, rivers across England were alive with them.Another place that left a deep impression on me was the Norfolk Broads. A network of quiet rivers and canals stretching through East Anglia.There I heard a sound unlike anything I had encountered before.The bittern.A deep, booming call that rolls across the marsh like distant thunder.At the time bitterns were disappearing from Britain. Their numbers had collapsed and many feared they might vanish completely.But when Alice Boyd returned to the Broads decades later… she found something remarkable.The bitterns had returned.Sometimes nature can still surprise us.And so our journey across England ends, for now.From bluebell woods to the Peak District… from the Wye Valley to the Norfolk marshes.Every place with its own orchestra.But if you ask me which sound feels most like home… there is really only one answer.The blackbird.That rich, liquid song drifting across hedgerows at dawn.Sometimes the skylark challenges it from the open fields above, pouring music down from the sky.But somewhere in the hedgerow… a blackbird is always singing.And for me, that will always be the sound of England.www.thelisteningplanet.com

Birds are not the only musicians in Earth’s orchestra.Amphibians, insects, mammals and marine life all play their part. But there is another section that moves me just as deeply.The sound of the planet itself.Wind. Rain. Ocean. Thunder.Geophony.I have recorded hurricanes named Andrew, Milton, Hellen and Dorian. Each one had its own personality. Its own voice. Standing in hurricane force winds is not something most people would call relaxing… but there is something humbling about hearing the raw power of the Earth up close.Wind does extraordinary things when it meets the world around it. Power lines begin to sing. Buildings hum. Trees roar. The ocean becomes something ancient and unstoppable.Some people are frightened by those sounds. I understand that completely. But for me, they are reminders that this planet is alive and dynamic. Not built for our comfort. Built on energy and movement.I could sleep through a hurricane. Not because I dismiss its danger, but because I hear it as part of a much bigger symphony.The Earth is always speaking.The question is… are we listening?🎙️🌍www.thelisteningplanet.com

When darkness falls most people think the world becomes quiet.But listen carefully. The night is speaking.Katydids in the trees. Crickets in the grass. Cicadas vibrating through the air. These are not background sounds. They are the living pulse of the planet, the voices of ecosystems in balance.For more than half a century I have listened to the natural world. I have heard thriving landscapes rich with life and I have heard the silence that follows destruction. When insect choruses fade, habitats are failing. When their voices disappear, ecosystems are breaking down.We are not just losing sound. We are losing life itself.Noise pollution, habitat destruction, chemicals, and climate change are silencing the Earth’s natural orchestra. If we allow these voices to vanish, we lose one of the most powerful indicators of the planet’s health and one of our deepest connections to nature.Tonight, step outside. Listen to the night chorus. Then ask yourself what kind of world we are leaving behind and what you are willing to do to protect it.Protect wild spaces. Reduce human noise. Defend biodiversity.The planet is speaking. We must learn to listen and act.#ListeningPlanet #ProtectNature #BiodiversityCrisis #NatureNeedsUswww.thelisteningplanet.com

What is silence?For most people it means peace and quiet. But for me, silence is something very different. It is not the absence of sound, but the absence of life’s voices — the birds, the insects, the wild chorus we call biophony.True silence only exists in an anechoic chamber. What I seek instead is tranquility. A place where the Earth itself speaks.The rain falling through leaves.The wind moving through trees.The ocean breathing against the shore.The ancient voice of the planet.And yet, I have seen people leave wild places because it is “too quiet.” Some of us have forgotten how to listen. Some of us fear tranquility.Sound is not just something we hear. It is something we feel. It is the pulse of the Earth itself.www.thelisteningplanet.com

I want to share a small story with you.Many years ago, standing beside a quiet pond in the Wye Valley, I recorded my first reed warbler. A tiny bird hidden deep in the reeds, yet its voice filled the entire landscape with an endless cascade of buzzes, clicks, and song. I remember my tape running out while the bird continued, tireless, unstoppable. Even then, I knew I was witnessing something special.Moments like that shaped my life. They are why I have dedicated over half a century to capturing the voices of the natural world. But these moments only continue because of you.Your support here does more than help fund recordings. You help preserve fragile soundscapes, document species that may one day fall silent, and ensure that future generations can still hear the wild places of this planet.Every recording I share, every story I tell, exists because you believe this work matters.From my heart, thank you for walking this journey with me.Martynwww.thelisteningplanet.com

I live in the United States now — in Florida — though for more than twenty years Washington State was my home.The human voices around me carry a different accent from my British one, yet in the natural world, especially in bird song, I often hear echoes of where I came from.When I first arrived in America, it felt as though I had to learn a new language of sound. But it was not entirely unfamiliar — more like Spanish and Italian: different, yet sharing rhythms and tones that hint at a common origin.Take the firecrest of Europe and the kinglets here in North America. They are close relatives, belonging to the same family, and their high, delicate songs are remarkably alike. Hearing a kinglet in the forests of Washington instantly reminded me of the firecrest back home — a tiny voice bridging continents.Even birds that share the same name can tell very different stories. In Britain, our robin is a small bird with a gentle, delicate voice. The American robin, however, is something quite different. Despite the name, it is actually a thrush — larger, richer in tone, and far closer in sound to the thrushes of Europe.To my ears, the song of the American robin often recalls the Eurasian blackbird. If you were to hear a dawn chorus recording without context — especially from a distance — you might easily mistake one for the other, at least for a moment.Some birds, of course, truly share the same voice on both sides of the Atlantic. The starling in America is the European starling — the very same species. Introduced to North America in the late nineteenth century, inspired by references in Shakespeare’s plays, their whistles, clicks, and extraordinary mimicry sound just as they do back in Britain.Other comparisons reveal both similarity and difference. The skylark of Britain and the horned lark of North America share the same open landscapes, yet their songs differ greatly. The Eurasian skylark pours out a continuous stream of music as it climbs high into the sky, while the horned lark offers a shorter, simpler song. And yet both evoke the same sense of space, freedom, and wildness.Then there is the house finch of North America and the chaffinch of Europe. Though not closely related, both fill gardens and woodlands with lively, musical phrases that feel somehow familiar across continents.If you ever have the chance to listen to bird song from both sides of the Atlantic, you may understand what I mean. Different landscapes, different voices — yet deeply connected.And wherever you are, listening to birds remains one of the great privileges of being alive.Thank you as always for your support xxwww.thelisteningplanet.com

I’ve realised over the years that you have to be a certain kind of person to do what I’ve done most of my life.I can sit for hours, barely moving, listening. Not thinking. Just being. People often ask what’s going through my head and never quite believe me when I say “nothing” — but that’s the truth. It’s a kind of meditation.I think of my mind as having boxes. A reading box. A gardening box. An odd-jobs box. I only open one at a time. But my favourite box of all is the empty one. That’s the box I open when I’m recording.In a world that never stops making noise, we’ve forgotten how therapeutic it is to be quiet and to listen. When you do, nature reveals far more than she ever does to the restless observer. Life carries on around you, unbothered — until we arrive and make a din again.Silence isn’t absence.It’s presence.www.thelisteningplanet.comhttps://www.facebook.com/thelisteningplanet/

In the cloud forests of Costa Rica, some voices don’t give themselves up easily.This little bird, the Scaled Antpitta, speaks in low, trembling notes that melt into the forest rather than rise above it. When I first heard it, I thought it was an owl. Only later did I learn I’d been listening to one of the most elusive voices of the forest floor.I was lucky enough to record it near the volcanic slopes of Arenal. I only caught a glimpse of the bird itself — a fleeting moment — but its voice stayed with me.That’s why I do this work.To everyone who supports me here, and especially to those of you on Patreon, thank you. Your backing allows me to keep recording, documenting, and preserving these fragile soundscapes while they still exist. You’re not just supporting a project — you’re helping protect voices that might otherwise disappear into silence.I’m deeply grateful.Martyn 🎧🌿www.thelisteningplanet.com

Sometimes I ask people to listen… to silence.That silence could be the Irish elk.That silence could be the dodo.Extinction doesn’t just remove an animal. It removes a voice from the planet forever.During my lifetime, I’ve recorded species whose sounds no longer exist in the wild. The Panamanian golden frog. The northern white rhino. Voices gone within a single generation.Wildlife populations have dropped by 74% in my lifetime. North America has lost 3 billion birds since 1970.After nearly 60 years recording nature, two thirds of the soundscapes in my archive no longer exist as they once did.Silence in nature is not peaceful.Silence is absence.Silence is warning.Silence is forever.www.thelisteningplanet

Standing among an elephant seal colony is like stepping into another language.If a human made these sounds—deep belches, coughing roars, wet grunts—we’d probably turn away in embarrassment. On a Patagonian beach, they are the soundtrack of life itself.This is Península Valdés, on the coast of Argentina, the only place on a continental mainland where southern elephant seals come ashore in vast numbers to breed. Each year, tens of thousands arrive between August and March. The beaches fill with immense males staking out territory, pregnant females giving birth within days of landing, and newborn pups learning the world through sound before anything else.I spent hours here recording, trying to isolate individual voices in the chaos. Not easy. The air is thick with sneezes, bellows, coughing, and breath. One male stayed close to a female and her pup, repeatedly vocalising—low, forceful warnings to anything that came too near. Protection, dominance, presence—all expressed through sound.To us it may seem crude. Out here, it’s communication. Fat, breath, muscle, instinct—turned into voice.This is what a healthy, functioning wild place sounds like.Thank you Patreons xwww.thelisteningplanet.comFacebookhttps://www.facebook.com/thelisteningplanet/Spotifyhttps://open.spotify.com/artist/0ibpxyRfuKDpHxLbMzji2Y?si=g-a3esxYS1iA4Ge1z4Jwjg

I first began recording in Scotland in 1975, the same year the white-tailed eagle began its slow return.Before that, the bird had been hunted, poisoned and persecuted until it vanished from our skies. Its disappearance was not an accident of nature, but a choice made by people, one shot, one stolen egg, one poisoned carcass at a time. By the early twentieth century, the white-tailed eagle was gone.I didn’t see one on the Isle of Rùm during my early visits, but by 1978 they were there. I remember sitting quietly near a nest, microphones set, watching adults carry fish back to their young, hearing those high, piercing calls once again echoing across the Inner Hebrides. It was worth every second of waiting. Seeing them ride the thermals felt like witnessing something being put back where it belonged.Today there are around 200 breeding pairs in Scotland. A conservation success, yes, but the story isn’t finished. These birds are still persecuted in some places, still unwelcome to those who haven’t learned to share the land.In 2025, I saw them again while filming near Skye. Watching them soar, I was reminded that recovery is fragile. The return of the white-tailed eagle asks us a quiet question: if we can bring this back, what else might we still save, and what will we choose to lose?www.thelisteningplanet.comhttps://www.facebook.com/thelisteningplanet/https://open.spotify.com/artist/0ibpxyRfuKDpHxLbMzji2Y?si=YwW9fhvYQ0GkTSq3Ileo2w

I have always believed that natural sound is one of the clearest barometers of the health of our planet.When an ecosystem is thriving, you can hear it. The layers of birds, insects, frogs, mammals, wind, and water all exist in balance. Sound tells the truth long before statistics do.When human made noise enters that space, the balance shifts.As a young sound recordist, I could sit in the woods or by a stream for hours with little interruption. The only problem was how quickly my tapes filled up. What I captured then was abundant, complex, and alive.Today, truly quiet places are rare. Wildlife populations have declined dramatically in my lifetime, and vast areas of wild land have been altered or fragmented. The skies are filled with constant aircraft noise, and the natural world now competes with leaf blowers, vehicles, boats, machinery, and an endless human hum.Some birds now change their pitch just to be heard. In the oceans, increasing noise disrupts communication for whales and dolphins that rely on sound to survive.There are very few places left untouched by us.When I compare the soundscape of my childhood to what exists today, I understand why sitting undisturbed in nature once felt like such a gift. It is painful to witness the slow disappearance of something so fundamental.Sound is not just something we hear. It is how the natural world speaks.And we are losing the conversation.www.thelisteningplanet.com

One bird, above all others, embodies that sense of planetary connection: the Arctic tern.I have recorded Arctic terns in many places, including the Southern Hemisphere, but encountering them in Shetland feels especially profound. Here, they breed at the northern end of the world before embarking on a journey unlike any other.The Arctic tern holds the record for the longest migration of any animal on Earth. Each year, it travels from its breeding grounds in the high north to the waters surrounding Antarctica, and then back again. Over the course of its lifetime, that distance adds up to the rough equivalent of flying to the Moon and back.This is not poetic exaggeration. It is one of the most extraordinary biological feats on the planet.Imagine a bird moving through shifting biomes: Arctic light, temperate seas, tropical waters, roaring Southern Ocean swells, and the frozen margins of the Antarctic ice. Imagine the sounds beneath its wings changing constantly, from quiet northern dawns to the restless breath of global oceans.Now imagine following that journey through sound.www.thelisteningplanet.com

That book changed me.It told the story of a man who turned his back on London and the rat race, and chose wilderness instead. He found sanctuary in Scotland, at Camusfearna, where he lived with an otter named Mij. More than a story about an animal, it was a story about escape, solitude, and choosing a life shaped by nature.That book planted a seed. It introduced me to the idea that wild places matter, that silence heals, and that connection with other species can define who we become.I’ve carried a deep emotional bond with Scotland ever since. I recorded there for many years and fell in love with its landscapes, weather, and uncompromising beauty.In 1989, while living in Blair Atholl, Perthshire, I met Hamish Pelham Burn. We walked the glens together with our dogs. My yellow Labrador was called Mij, named after the otter. When Hamish asked why, I told him about the book. He smiled and said Gavin Maxwell had been a close friend of his.Hamish later took me to Camusfearna.That was 32 years ago.In 2025, I returned there with our film crew. The access felt different, the trees had grown thick, but the landscape was instantly recognisable. When I saw the old white house near the cairn where Gavin Maxwell is remembered, everything came rushing back.Camusfearna sits just beyond Glenelg, reached by a narrow, primitive road. This time, snow was falling. The atmosphere was unchanged. My heart raced as I approached the cairn, and memory flooded in. The boy. The book. The life that followed.When I leave this world, my ashes will be scattered here.Some places never let you go.www.thelisteningplanet.com

Use headphones to hear the low frequencies Deep in the forest at Finca Austria in Guanacaste, Costa Rica, a sound rolled through the trees so low it was almost subliminal. A soft, booming pulse that you don’t so much hear as feel. It stopped me in my tracks. That sound was the giveaway.The Great Curassow.A bird once common across tropical forests, now eliminated from much of its range by hunting. These days, you’re lucky to encounter one at all, unless you’re deep inside protected parks or truly remote places. They usually walk the forest floor, calm and deliberate, sometimes feeding in trees. The males often sing from high in the canopy, releasing that extraordinary low-pitched boom that feels older than language.I stayed still. I didn’t need to see it.The forest told me everything.Moments like this are why I record sound. Because long before a species disappears from sight, it disappears from the soundscape. And when you hear a voice like this still holding on, it matters.Some encounters are meant for the ears, not the eyes.www.thelisteningplanet.com

Most people think night is silent.It isn’t.It’s just happening beyond our hearing.In this podcast, you’ll hear strange clicking sounds that don’t belong to birds or crickets. Those sounds were captured using a bat detector, a piece of equipment that converts ultrasonic frequencies into sounds we can hear.What you’re listening to is an ancient conversation between bats and moths.Bats hunt by sound, throwing pulses into the darkness and reading the echoes as a map of the night. Some moths have evolved a remarkable defense. They produce rapid ultrasonic clicks that interfere with that sonar, confusing the bat just long enough to escape.It’s not singing.It’s survival.We don’t hear this world with our own ears, but it’s there every night above our heads, shaping who lives until morning.When I listen to these recordings, I’m reminded how much of nature exists just beyond us, and how fragile these hidden soundscapes really are.Have a listen.There’s far more going on in the dark than we ever imagined.www.thelisteningplanet.com

(apologies for the sound of my voice) I didn’t find these birds with my eyes.I found them by standing still long enough for the forest to trust me.From Costa Rica to Panama, Mexico, Peru, and deep into the Amazon, I recorded five antbirds living low in the understory, following army ants, waiting patiently for the forest to provide. Their voices are small, intimate, easily lost beneath chainsaws, roads, and noise.These are not loud birds.They don’t compete.They whisper.And that’s the problem.When the forest goes quiet, birds like these disappear first, long before most people even realise they were there. Every recording I make now feels fragile, like holding a breath that may never return.Listen carefully to the quiet voices.They are telling us something we can’t afford to ignore. www.thelisteningplanet.com

If you have ever been lucky enough to witness a prairie chicken lek, you will never forget it.To me, it feels like a Friday night pub back in the UK.All the lads are already there.Standing around.Waiting.They puff themselves up, stamp their feet, and boom out these extraordinary sounds, doing everything they can to impress.Pure confidence.Pure theatre.Then the females arrive, and suddenly it all matters.Each male is saying the same thing.Pick me.I have spent hours lying in the prairie, completely transfixed, recording this ancient ritual.Watching the light rise.Listening as the land comes alive with sound.This is not noise.This is communication.This is survival.Close your eyes and imagine those deep gobbles and low booms rolling across the open grasslands.This is the voice of the prairie.This is the story of the Greater Prairie-Chicken.www.thelisteningplanet.com

When I was about eight years old, I stood in a science museum staring up at a hologram of the Irish elk. One word sat beneath it: Extinct.I asked my stepdad what it meant.He said, “It’s gone forever.”At that age, I honestly thought if something was gone, you could just buy another one in a shop.Then I saw a picture of the dodo with the same label, and something in me shifted.As I grew older, and especially as a wildlife sound recordist, the meaning of extinction sank deeper. I realised it isn’t only about species disappearing—it can also be the disappearance of entire sound worlds.There was a time when Sundays were quiet.Shops closed, traffic slowed, and the world actually rested.Even towns felt like sanctuaries.Birdsong carried, wind moved without competition, and nature had a chance to be heard.Those Sundays are gone.And in a way, that quiet has become another subtle extinction.I often say that two-thirds of my archive is now effectively extinct—not because the animals are all gone, but because the conditions that shaped those recordings no longer exist. More people, more roads, more planes, more machinery, more intrusion into places that were once pristine.You can’t record today the way I could 30, 40, 50 years ago.Those clean dawn choruses, those insect nights without a highway’s hum—they have vanished.This is its own form of extinction.A slow, creeping one.The extinction of quiet.All we have left are the recordings.

I’ve spent my life recording wildlife, listening to the world in a way hunters never will. And I’ve also infiltrated the Safari Club International conference five times—rooms I was never meant to walk into.Inside, trophy hunting isn’t sold as “conservation.”It’s sold like a shopping spree.Booths offering “guaranteed tusker,” “exportable lion,” “aged-out leopard.” Price tags instead of respect. Hunters bragging about killing old elephants because they were “on their last molars,” as if that excuses pulling a trigger.Not once did I hear anyone talk about the animal’s role in its family, its ecosystem, or its place in the world. Just money, calibers, and inches of horn.I’ve watched elephants grieve. I’ve heard ecosystems fall silent when a predator disappears. I know what’s really lost.Trophy hunting isn’t conservation.It’s ego wearing camouflage.And once you’ve stood in both worlds—the wild, where life is sacred, and the convention halls where life is priced—you never confuse them again.#bantrophyhunting #thelisteningplanet

Every summer, a vast “dead zone” forms where the Mississippi River meets the Gulf of Mexico — a place where oxygen levels drop so low that marine life simply can’t survive. It’s one of the largest in the world, caused by nutrient runoff from farms and industry thousands of miles upstream. This isn’t just a Gulf problem — it’s a reflection of how our actions ripple far beyond where we live. Fertilizers, waste, and chemicals wash into rivers, then into the sea, turning once-living waters into lifeless silence. We have the power to change this. Cleaner farming, wiser consumption, and accountability can bring life back to these waters.#TheListeningPlanet #DeadZone #MississippiRiver #GulfOfMexico #Environment #SoundOfSilencewww.thelisteningplanet.com

When I was born in 1955, there were just over three billion people on the planet.I began recording at the age of eleven, when the world still had long stretches of silence — real silence — the kind that carried the wingbeat of a pigeon or the distant bark of a fox across open fields. Back then, I hardly ever saw a plane in the skies above my neighborhood. Motorways were few, and the roads that linked cities were narrow and quiet. The nights were dark, the air was still, and the earth still breathed on its own terms.As the years went on, those quiet places began to vanish.New motorways cut through countryside I once recorded in. Where I’d captured skylarks rising over meadows, the hum of engines now filled the air. Even in the most remote places — deserts, tundra, deep forests — the human footprint became unavoidable. A cargo plane would drone over a rainforest canopy. A jet would slice through an Arctic dawn. The faraway rumble of highways would travel for miles, carried by the wind.Every decade, the world grew louder.Each time I returned to a site I had once recorded, something had changed — not just in the soundscape, but in life itself. The dawn chorus that used to burst with dozens of bird species now came from only a handful. Insects that once hummed and buzzed through summer air were gone, and with them the frogs, swallows, and bats that relied on them. Silence no longer felt peaceful; it felt hollow, emptied of voices.The same machines that gave us convenience — the cars, planes, leaf blowers, chainsaws, generators — have slowly erased the subtle harmonies of the natural world. These noises are now woven into almost every recording I make. To find even a few seconds of pure, undisturbed nature takes immense patience, often heartbreak. I’ve stood in pristine forests, waiting for hours, only for a distant aircraft to bleed across the spectrum, flattening everything it touches.We used to think of progress as movement — faster transport, bigger cities, more production.But every gain in noise and speed has cost us something irreplaceable: the freedom of nature to speak. The orchestra of wild voices that once defined the Earth is being drowned out by our own.When I listen back to my earliest recordings — the blackbird from my childhood garden, the whisper of reeds on a still morning — I realize they’re not just sounds; they’re memories of a planet that once had room for quiet.And that quiet was life itself.www.thelisteningplanet.com

Dear friends,I’ve just released a new episode of The Listening Planet—and it’s a very personal one.It’s about the bird that most likely introduced me to nature recording: the blackbird.As a child, I would lie hidden in the bracken and listen. The blackbird’s alarm call taught me that something—or someone—had entered the woods. Its song, rich and flute-like, became the soundtrack to countless dawn choruses I recorded across the British Isles. The blackbird was my teacher, my companion, and my guide into the natural world.But today, the blackbird is in trouble.A mosquito-borne disease called Usutu virus has been spreading across Europe and the UK since 2020. In places like London, blackbird numbers have dropped by 40% in just five years. Add to this the sun-baked, wormless soils of Britain’s driest spring on record, and the pressure on this once-abundant bird is immense.The British Trust for Ornithology has launched a national survey—Blackbirds in Gardens—asking the public to log sightings from April through September. It’s a simple act: spot a blackbird, record it, and you’re helping science track the disease and protect the species.🎧 In this episode, I share my memories of how the blackbird shaped me, my recordings of their songs, and why now—more than ever—we must pay attention.👉 [Listen to the episode here]👉 [Take part in the survey here] https://www.devonlive.com/news/uk-world-news/anyone-blackbirds-asked-immediately-help-10462592The blackbird taught me to listen.Now it’s our turn to listen to it—and act.Thank you, as always, for supporting me and The Listening Planet. Your support allows me to keep documenting these fragile voices and sharing their stories with the world.With gratitude,Martyn 🌍🎙️

Deep in the emerald heart of the Amazon, a small, grey bird commands the forest with a voice that could rival a rock concert. The Screaming Piha’s two-note whistle can cut through layers of tropical noise — a sound so pure, it’s become the soundtrack of countless rainforest films.In this 10-minute episode, I take you into the canopy at dawn, where mist clings to the trees and the air vibrates with life. You’ll hear how the Piha uses its remarkable voice to attract mates, defend its territory, and play a hidden role in keeping the rainforest alive.🎧 You’ll discover:What makes the Piha’s call one of the loudest in the bird worldHow its “lek” gatherings turn the forest into a natural amphitheatreWhy this modest-looking bird is a star of nature documentariesThe critical link between the Piha’s life and the health of the AmazonListen, and you might just feel like you’ve stepped into the rainforest yourself.Visit www.thelisteningplanet.com#screamingpiha#martynstewart#thelisteningplanet

One of my favourite birds has always been the crow.From the carrion crows of my English childhood to the ingenious New Caledonian crow that crafts its own tools, these birds have been constant companions in my travels.In the UK, we share our towns and countryside with eight species of corvids — from the rook and jackdaw to the magpie and raven. Across the globe, there are over 130 species, each with its own look, voice, and character. They’re survivors, innovators, and some of the most intelligent creatures on Earth.In my latest 10-minute podcast, I share stories of crows from around the world — including the tragic tale of the Hawaiian crow (‘Alalā), driven to extinction in the wild, and the remarkable problem-solving skills of New Caledonia’s feathered engineers.CrowLove #BirdsOfTheWorld #Corvids #NaturePodcast #WildlifeStories #BirdPhotography #Crows #Ravens #Magpies #BirdLovers #AnimalIntelligence #Conservation #NewCaledonianCrow #HawaiianCrow #WildlifeArt #PatreonExclusive #BirdLife #NatureSoundscapes #MartynStewart #WildlifeRecording

Today I’m thrilled to share something close to my heart—and ears.I’ve just released a new episode of a life in sound, where I take you deep into the Peruvian Amazon to meet one of the rainforest’s most unforgettable characters: the Screaming Piha. If you’ve ever wandered beneath the canopy and heard a sound that pierced the very air, chances are it was this elusive gray bird. Loud as a chainsaw, yet almost impossible to see, the Piha is a phantom in the foliage—and a signature voice of the rainforest.🌿 In this episode, I talk about the moment I first recorded the Piha, its haunting call, and what it tells us about sound, mystery, and survival in the natural world.Thank you for continuing this journey with me. Your support means I can keep bringing the wild to your ears—and keep telling the stories that matter.With gratitude and wonder,Martyn

Hello my friends,This week, I want to take you into the Peruvian rainforest—where one of the strangest and most beautiful birds I’ve ever recorded made me stop in my tracks. Imagine this: a high-pitched squeak echoes through the trees. At first, I thought it was an insect… maybe even someone’s lost rubber toy. But when I looked up, there it was—the Plum-throated Cotinga—an astonishing flash of blue and purple perched high in the canopy.This episode of The Listening Planet is all about that moment. The sound. The surprise. The beauty.🎧 Included in this post:The full podcast episode featuring the Cotinga, Great Tinamou, Mountain Foliage-gleaner, and more.Behind-the-scenes notes from the field—my reflections on vulnerability, awe, and the importance of listening.These are the moments that remind me why I record. Why I’ve dedicated my life to sound. And why I believe we must protect what remains.Your support helps me keep going—through illness, loss, and the unraveling of wild spaces. Thank you for walking with me.With gratitude and sound,

There’s a clock in nature that never needs winding. No batteries. No digital screens. Just sunlight, shadow, and instinct.When I lived in Costa Rica, I discovered a ritual that took place every evening—almost to the second. Along the Pacific coast of Guanacaste, the sun begins its descent around 5:55 PM. But it’s not the setting sun that first grabs your attention—it’s the sound.At 5:50 PM, like clockwork, the cicadas begin to sing.At first, it's a few lonely calls, rising from the dry forest canopy. Within minutes, it swells to a deafening chorus—a tidal wave of sound that rolls through the trees. You don’t just hear it. You feel it.Locals often joke that you can set your watch by the cicadas. And it’s true. Their calls are governed by light and temperature, and every evening they greet the dusk with remarkable precision.In this exclusive soundscape, I’ve captured that transition—from the first few tentative voices to the full-on symphony of millions. It’s one of nature’s great crescendos.🎧 [Click above to listen] Thank you for supporting this work. With your help, I can continue documenting these fleeting moments—timeless reminders of a world that still runs on its own rhythms.— MartynThe Listening Planet 🌍🎙️

In the autumn of 1978, I had the incredible privilege of recording the hauntingly beautiful rutting sounds of fallow deer in the New Forest, Hampshire. Back then, the forest was untouched, a pristine sanctuary where nature's rhythms thrived. With nothing but two Shure microphones mounted on a makeshift tripod, I ventured into the heart of the mist-filled woods to capture the raw power and beauty of the rut.The atmosphere was thick with the energy of the rut. Bucks clashed their antlers, their deep grunts and bellows reverberating through the autumnal fog. The golden-orange leaves of the towering trees danced in the mist, creating a dreamlike backdrop for this once-in-a-lifetime recording session.The New Forest has changed over the decades, but that moment, those sounds, will forever live on in the recordings I made. It was a reminder of the fragile balance that nature holds, and how lucky we are to witness such sacred events.

The sky was still bleeding out the last of its ochre as the sun dipped behind the acacia trees. A slow hush fell across the savanna—not silence exactly, but a deliberate pause. The kind that comes before something sacred happens.The wind shifted. A coolness crept into the grasslands. And then… it began.From somewhere out there, beyond the brittle grass and the gathering dark, came a low rumble—deep, guttural, older than language. A lion was announcing his presence. Not a call, not a growl, but a declaration. A boundary drawn with breath.The first roar seemed to roll through the ground itself, vibrating in the ribs more than the ears. Then a second joined it—distant but matched in cadence, as if answering a challenge or greeting a brother across the dusk. The sound traveled for miles, echoing off termite mounds and baobabs, stitching invisible lines across the landscape. Each roar lasted just under five seconds, but it held the weight of millennia.I lay with my microphone on the red earth, recording. The stereo field cracked with each blast—air compressed and then flung wide, sending helmeted guineafowl flapping into trees. A jackal froze mid-step. Impalas, once grazing lazily in twilight, lifted their heads in unison, ears scanning the horizon like radar dishes.The savanna was listening.The lion’s roar is more than voice—it’s identity, possession, legacy.It says: I am here. I have survived. I am king, for now.As the night deepened, the roars grew closer. A male padded into the open, his mane brushed by starlight, the air around him heavy with pheromone and power. With each exhale, he carved his name into the dark.And then, just as suddenly as they had started, the roars ceased. A pause. A silence so vast it rang in the ears. In that breathless interval, the land remembered something it was trying not to forget:that it was once ruled not by engines and fences,but by breath and claw and voice.It struck me then—these roars are growing fewer each year.Fewer lions.Fewer nights like this.I pressed a hand to the earth and whispered a thank you,capturing one more echo before it vanishes.🙏 Thank you for being here—supporting, listening, remembering. These moments may be rare, but your presence helps keep their stories alive.

A friend of mine, filmmaker Nick Lyon, told me most of the sound effects in the film came from the natural world. That stopped me.So I watched Star Wars IV. Still felt far-fetched—but the sound design? Now that was fascinating.Chewbacca made from walrus and bear sounds. TIE Fighters screaming like baby elephants. Donkeys, camels, sea lions, lions—woven into galactic mythology.Turns out even a galaxy far, far away needed help from Earth’s wild creatures.We borrow from the natural world to create our greatest stories.Maybe it’s time we returned the favour.

Ever heard a bird that sounded like a broken modem or a laser beam? I have—and I recorded them.This week on The Listening Planet, I explore the incredible syrinx, the dual-voiced organ birds use to create their songs. Some species take this instrument to mind-blowing extremes—like the Brown-headed Cowbird, whose song bubbles and squeaks like a glitching robot, and the Montezuma Oropendola, whose alien call echoes through Central American forests like an underwater synthesizer.I recorded both these birds in the wild—two countries, two sonic performances that blew me away.🎧 Give it a listen and hear nature push the boundaries of sound:👉 audio above

When I moved to Washington State nearly 30 years ago, I was drawn to the voices hidden in the forest. Frogs, insects, birds—they all had stories to tell.One voice stood out: the Winter Wren (now called the Pacific Wren). A tiny, brown blur with a tail cocked skyward—and a song that could shatter silence. Over 70 unique songs in a single breath.Armed with my trusted Telinga parabolic dish, I captured that astonishing cascade of trills deep in the wet tangle of the Pacific Northwest.The names may change, but the wild voice remains.

There are places on this Earth where time slows and the silence says more than words ever could. The Kalahari is one of them.This image was taken during one of my visits to that vast, golden savanna—a place that’s often called a desert, yet teems with life if you know where and how to listen.As the first light of dawn touched the sand, a lone jackal appeared in the distance—quiet, watchful, belonging entirely to the landscape. I recorded the stillness that morning… the hush of the wind, the hush of the world. Occasionally, a truck rumbles far off—but if you listen closely, you might find a moment of peace in the space between.“Silence drapes the Kalahari...Only the wind speaks,and a lone jackal listens.In this vast stillness,peace finds its way through the dust.”I hope this brings you the same calm it brought me.#Kalahari #FieldRecording #NatureSoundscape #DesertPeace #WildAfrica #MartynStewart #thelisteningplanet

I’m excited to share something a little magical—and a little ridiculous—with you this week. In 2011, I was deep in the dunes of coastal Namibia when I recorded one of the most peculiar sounds nature has ever thrown my way.Meet the Desert Rain Frog (Breviceps macrops). It doesn’t croak. It doesn’t chirp. It squeaks. Like a rubber toy defying extinction, hidden beneath the fog-soaked sand.I lay there, alone in the dunes, headphones on, as this tiny creature squealed its heart out just below the surface. It wasn’t calling for love. It was protesting—“I may be small, but I’m not going quietly.”You can hear the full story—and that unforgettable call—in this week’s podcast episode, now live for all patrons. I’ve also included a hand-drawn sketch of this remarkable little being, squeak and all.🎙️ listen above 🎧 Includes: Full story, field note, raw and cleaned frog call recordingsThank you for continuing to support the preservation of these voices. This one still makes me smile every time I hear it.With gratitude,Martyn

Covered in tarpaulin, hidden away. Inside, a dog sat shaking, refusing to meet my gaze. His neck was scarred, his ear torn. He looked broken. I knelt beside him for hours. Whispered. Left a GoPro in his cage to study his movements. He wouldn't move much. I named him **Pocket**. And he changed my life. Day after day, I returned to sit beside him. Then one morning — the miracle — he wagged his tail. Barely. But it was enough. That tail wag told me he recognized me. Trusted me. Loved me. I asked Lola if I could adopt him. She smiled and said yes. I remember the call to Roo, my wife. We had just adopted a mistreated lab named **Bucket**, and I asked if she was okay with one more. She hesitated — then said yes, with all her heart. Pocket came to the U.S. with 112 rescued dogs.

I’m thrilled to finally share the story behind one of the most surreal, beautiful collaborations of my life — Wild Concerto. A sonic journey

Whispers from the grass. He is a bird with a beat. In the understory of a South American forest, where vines tangle and light filters down

In this episode, I speak of the bears who used to visit my garden in Washington State. I reflect on the extraordinary work of Dr. Lynn Rogers, who showed me that bears are not to be feared—they’re to be understood. They are curious, emotional, gentle beings. And they are being slaughtered.Some for thrill. Others for profit. All senselessly.Alongside the podcast, I’ve created a new artwork—“The Circle of Trust”—a quiet portrait of four black bears in a misty forest, with no human in sight. Just peace. Just presence. Just the world as it should be.If you’ve ever felt more at home in the company of animals than people… if you’ve ever mourned a creature you never met… this one’s for you.🔗 Listen to the episode🖼️ View the artwork🙏 Share your thoughts or memories of bears you’ve known or loved.Thank you for walking this path with me. For giving voice to the voiceless. For believing that we still have time to change.With gratitude,Martyn

That morning was like any other—until it wasn’t.I wandered from camp with my parabolic mic as the Kalahari woke up. Then, from the brush, came the strangest, most comical “heeeeeey!” I’d ever heard.I honestly thought one of the crew was messing around.Nope. It was real.A bird.The Grey Go-away-bird.Its call was unforgettable—wild, ridiculous, and absolutely perfect.Swipe to hear the moment I captured it in the wild.#FieldNotes #Birdsong #SoundRecording #WildlifeAudio #Kalahari #GoAwayBird #GreyGoAwayBird #NatureSound #BotswanaWildlife #DesertVoices #Ornithology #thelisteningplanet #MartynStewart

🌿 *Whispers from the ocean* 🌿This week’s episode carries a heavy tide…I’ve just released a new piece titled Whispers from the ocean — a heartbreaking look at the Queensland Shark Control Program and the silent massacre taking place beneath the waves. Over 1,100 marine animals killed in just seven months — including sharks, rays, turtles, dolphins, and even threatened species.It wasn’t easy to record. I had to re-do my narration several times, as I’m currently struggling with my vocal cords. But some stories deserve to be told, even if the voice cracks under the weight.Special thanks to Deb Ashcroft for opening my eyes to this tragic affair. her compassion and determination inspired me to dig deeper.🎧 Listen, reflect, and share. The ocean is trying to speak — we just need to listen.\#WhispersFromTheGrass #SharkNets #MarineConservation #OceanVoices #DebAshcroft #QueenslandSharkControl #SoundscapeOfLoss #SpeakForTheVoiceless #thelisteingplanet.

People often ask me what gear I’ve used to record the sounds of our planet over the years. Well — I finally sat down to tell that story.In my new podcast episode, “Tools of the Trade,” I walk you through five decades of sound recording — from nicking my brother’s Shure mic as a teenager, to discovering stereo with the Nagra IV-SJ, to mastering Mid-Side with my beloved MKH 30/40 combo.It’s a deeply personal journey that spans analog tape, MiniDisc, DAT, and digital workhorses like the Sound Devices 722 and MixPre-6.I even share the protocol I use to record oceans and rivers, and how I avoid capturing the sound of my own clothing or breath.To go along with the episode, I’ve created a six-panel hand-drawn storyboard that illustrates the evolution of my recording setup — from 1970s mono to the layered soundscapes of today.🎧 Listen to the episode aboveThank you for being part of this journey. Your support helps me keep listening, recording, and sharing the wild, vanishing sounds of Earth.— Martyn#fieldrecording #naturepodcast #soundscapes #thelisteningplanet #behindthescenes

Sometimes a sound arrives so unexpectedly, it demands to be shared — no matter how long it’s been, or what time it is.This voice belongs to a bird dressed like no other — the Vulturine Guineafowl. Imagine Michael Jackson on safari, minus the glitter. That’s how surreal this bird looks. Piercing red eyes, electric-blue plumage, and the confidence of a rock star.I recorded this one in Kenya, mic pointed toward dry bushland, where a flock strutted past in a blur of feathers and personality. Native to eastern Africa, these striking birds rarely fly — they run, bark, cluck, and posture their way across the scrub.🪶 I invite you to listen. It’s raw. It's rhythmic. It’s unexpected.And like all Whisper in the Grass moments — it arrives unannounced.