Robert Sanderson

An incidental vernal soundscape made before sunrise at Kelling Heath in North Norfolk. sharon sanderson - field recordings Robert sanderson - atmospherics

Salthouse-Kelling Crossroad Blues by Robert Sanderson

A response to some of the nasty goings-on taking place outside hotels up and down the land.

A Cawston Church triptych followed by a danse macabre. 1. Winged Messengers In Feathery Uniforms 2. The Foliate Stag 3. God Spede The Plow 4. The Quick & The Dead

An old song for Holy Week, originally collected around the beginning of the last century.

music for springtime sharon sanderson - voice & field recordings robert sanderson - instruments & samples

Northsealand (north norfolk edit) by Robert Sanderson

Incidental music for a junket.

Incidental music for the feast of St. George

Voices - Professor H. C. Wyld (reading an extract from Beowulf) Basil Brown, the archaeologist responsible for the discovery of the ship burial at Sutton Hoo

Under the Sun by Robert Sanderson

The Field of Air by Robert Sanderson

Life's too short to go to work by Robert Sanderson

Quite A Day 78rpm by Robert Sanderson

transcription of larksong by Professor Walter Garstang recorded by sanderson & sanderson

A song sung at wakes in the north of England dating from the 17th century, if not before. This ae nighte, this ae nighte Every nighte and alle Fire and fleet and candle-lighte And Christe receive thy saule When thou from hence away art past Every nighte and alle To Whinny-muir thou com'st at last And Christe receive thy saule If ever thou gavest hosen and shoen Every nighte and alle Sit thee down and put them on And Christe receive thy saule If hosen and shoen thou ne'er gav'st nane Every nighte and alle The whinnes sall prick thee to the bare bane And Christe receive thy saule From Whinny-muir when thou may'st pass, Every nighte and alle To Brig o' Dread thou com'st at last And Christe receive thy saule From Brig o' Dread when thou may'st pass, Every nighte and alle To Purgatory fire thou com'st at last And Christe receive thy saule If ever thou gavest meat or drink Every nighte and alle The fire sall never make thee shrink And Christe receive thy saule If meat or drink thou gav'st nane Every nighte and alle The fire will burn thee to the bare bane And Christe receive thy saule This ae nighte, this ae nighte Every nighte and alle Fire and fleet and candle-lighte And Christe receive thy saule

recorded by sanderson & sanderson a soundscape based on a derelict nuclear weapon testing site on the Suffolk coast

a soundtrack to a video project about abandoned world war two airfields recorded by sanderson & sanderson sharon sanderson - field recordings & voice robert sanderson - junk shop button accordion, gramophonics & atmospherics

voice - rabbi lionel blue

You were only obeying orders only trying to please your masters - you weren’t the sharpest chisel in the box but you executed your duties with enthusiasm and diligence. The law’s the law and rules are rules and who were you to disagree? If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well. Now, on this last night, Exploding fireworks Light up the sky Over the edge of the heath and the bars on the window cast faint shadows on the floor, and down the corridor the night-shift officer is in his office with a coffee and cigarette to keep himself awake. Let the film rewind. You’re a man in uniform. British Rail, London Bridge. Tickets please. Thankyou, madam. Thankyou sir. Executing duties. Enthusiasm. Diligence. And all the while a nagging memory at the back of your mind That never goes away But that was such a long time ago And you look so different now - heavier, jowlier – unrecognisable And you’ve come such a long way since then. Tickets please. Thankyou madam. Thankyou sir. Let the film rewind further. A different uniform, Domaczewo, September ‘42 and a clearing in a wood at the edge of town. The feast of Yom Kippur. The law’s the law And rules are rules, If a job’s worth doing, It’s worth doing well No birds are singing, and the ditch has been dug, And they’re standing there, fifteen of them, naked and shivering. They look you in the eye. You turn your face away. They curse you. Your past lies buried with them in the grave. You were only obeying orders, Only trying to please your masters, And now, on this last night, Exploding fireworks light up the sky And the film is rewound. Anthony Sawoniuk, formerly Andrei Andreeovich Sawoniuk (Belarusian: Андрэй Саванюк; 7 March 1921 – 6 November 2005) was a Belarusian Nazi collaborator from the town of Domaczewo in interwar Poland. After taking part in the murder of the Jewish community in his home town, Sawoniuk served in the SS until November 1944 when he defected to the Polish II Corps in the British Eighth Army. After the war, he settled in Britain, became a British subject, and became the first and only person to be convicted under the UK's War Crimes Act 1991. He died in prison in Norwich, England.

recorded by sanderson & sanderson voice & poem - olivia masi

recorded by sanderson & sanderson field recordings by sharon sanderson (cornecraik) gramophonics & keyboards by robert sanderson

the clattering sound of hectoring ignorance is louder than truth * out in the open deep-seated prejudices surface from below * lies are met with lies – who believes a word they say about anything? * they are not like us – there will be blood on the streets if nothing is done

music for good friday

New Ice Age (long version) by Robert Sanderson

field recordings produced by Sharon Sanderson

rook, flying into raking light by Robert Sanderson

This Jericho Road by Robert Sanderson

He spent his days dreaming of leaving and he remembered the stories he’d been told, of how the city shone at night, and how the streets were paved with gold So he sold off everything he owned and he hit the road with his trusty cat - he had no compass, guide or chart but never once thought of turning back He hitched lifts and he stowed away, he cut through fences in the dark, he begged for money in shop doorways, he slept on benches in the park He sold the cat to buy some food and the promise of a passport from a man he knew, he was told there’ll be a job for you if you pay up front – but that fell through The last anyone saw of him, he was sleeping rough near Trafalgar square - he ruined the feng-shui of the street, but when the police arrived he wasn’t there

Incidental music from Amnesia Theatre

This pagan king fey lord of the forest fecund fucker with bulging bollocks this rutting, spunking, bellowing beast hunted and torn apart by hounds once was dead, but now it lives resurrected and regenerated spewing forth foliage from its mouth and nostrils like the green men in the rafters out of sight hidden from the gaze of god it lives for ever

A few years ago, after my mother died and I was clearing out the house, I came across a photograph of a young man in uniform at the bottom of a bottom drawer (that's the photo above). Underneath his image, written in pencil, was the legend "Somewhere in France 1918", and on the back of the photograph, his name - John Henry Todd. I did a bit of research into him, and found out that he was a cousin of my paternal grandmother, and he served with the 13th Regiment of the Durham Light Infantry. He enlisted in 1916, fought at the the Battle of the Somme and other places on the Western Front, before being posted to Italy, where he was killed at Piave. He was twenty-one years old. I wrote a series of poems based on the photograph, and this, along with "Picardy Express", is part of that series. * You ended up in Italy at a place you couldn't pronounce, in a line of troops along a river to stop the enemy advance. There were rumours that the tide was beginning to turn and the end would be coming soon; Hang on in for victory, lads, the captain called and then we'll all be home. But the pride that you felt when you first took the King's shilling had diminished back on the Western Front, and on the banks of the Piave it finally evaporated like a cloud in the sweltering heat of a high-summer sun and gave way to a bitter disillusionment and a sullen resentment that was shared by everyone. They said things would be different when you got back to Blighty - homes for heroes, a fair living wage - but your betters would still demand your obedience and at the end of it all, nothing would change. What's the use of worrying? It never was worthwhile... Sheltering in your shell-crater, feeling in your pockets for a lucifer to light your fag, as the sky explodes above your head and armies, nations and continents collide you finally find your match. This is where history stops and everything is over in a flash. * At first, you were down as missing in action, then they wrote to your family to say you'd fallen in France, and for the sacrifice you'd made in fighting for your country empty platitudes were offered and our gracious King gave thanks. Italy, France (Iraq, Afghanistan) - it's all the same foreign field in the end. You were just another number on another sheet of paper that needed stamping; the geographical details of your death obviously weren't important to them. What was important was that you fought the good fight and helped win the good war, and as a sign of the nation's gratitude your name was chiselled on a block of stone so it would live for ever more. The waiting the waiting the two minutes silence the fidgeting children the shuffling of feet the waiting the waiting and then it's all over we carry on shopping and time fades the wreath.