I’m stood behind a new section of sea defences at Shoreham Port, listening to the power of the waves splash across boulders, then spray across the metal beams that form a secondary line of defence.
Rusted metal, brown, orange, striped and burnt, numbers scrawled on the surface. I’ve positioned my microphone right up against these girders, listening to the sea and wind activate them.
I’ve also attached a geophone to the structure itself, allowing me to listen in directly to the low frequency vibrations as the sea smashes in to it.
The recording begins with the roar of the waves and as it progresses slowly we enter the sound world of the material, until all we are left with are the resonances and vibrations of the structure alone.
I can see across the defences and the sea looks angry and wild, too close for comfort, and I’m certain a wave will come crashing over at any moment.
Nervous, my feet move and I catch myself noticing the sound picked up by the microphone. I’m trying to let go of it. “I’m here! Ok? I made the recording and sometimes I might be in it”. I sniff, my foot scrapes against gravel, the rustle of my jacket.
I don’t want to have to hold myself so tightly when listening.
Behind me the lamppost beats out a steady rhythm as the wind vibrates the pole and the cable inside oscillates. A person, hood up, arms folded, sits on sea defences near the cars surveying the churned up sea.