If a tree falls in the forest, does it make a sound? And what if an entire forest falls? Around Here, The Birds Plant The Trees, inspired by a “clear-felled wasteland” in Leitrim, Ireland, amplifies these questions. In the digital era, it prompts an additional question: “When the liner notes are integral to the release, will listeners intuit the point?” We hope so, in the same manner as those hearing classical works over the centuries have gleaned the intentions of the composers, from “The Goldfinch” to The Four Seasons. In her first work for ensemble, Natalia Beylis uses different instruments to evoke “the rustle of beetles in the hedgerow, the squeak of a leaning Sitka spruce, a lone curlew’s call,” and her overall concern is that listeners will hear the richness of a richness of a landscape and be moved to protect it.
While this landscape is incredibly specific: a single field on 12 December 2025, beginning at 6 a.m. ~ it could be any environment threatened by large multinational corporations, who swoop in to offer short-term recompense for long-term loss. Looking out over the field, Beylis notes the activity of a single blackbird, and later, an entire flock. Adding to the pathos is the fact that even birds are now endangered (for details, we recommend Robert Macfarlane & Jackie Morris’ The Book of Birds). If the music of the actual birds is inadequate to promote empathy, might music take up the cause? The alternative is to say nothing and to play nothing.
As one might expect, the 51-minute piece is filled with intricate description and high drama. The cello’s low notes launch the piece in a reverent tone, considering at a field that once was a forest. As the other members of the string quartet join in, the nuance starts to develop. What began as drone becomes a harmonic suite with a distinctly Irish lilt. Then the first taps of percussion, like small creatures rustling through the grass, foraging for breakfast.
A period of abstraction follows, during which every resident of field and forest receives their own spotlight. The blackbird eats and mates and cross-pollinates. The squirrels rush to and fro; the fox chases the shrew. All the while, the breeze threads through the branches of the hawthorn, creating a rhythm of leaves. The atmosphere seems peaceful until the thrums of the 15th minute, a soupçon of danger as most of the animals and instruments go into hiding.
The contrast between presence and absence is integral to the composition. One feels the recession of sound as one might feel the destruction of trees. What was once lush becomes a hush, like the quietude of midday. Then the drone re-develops, a symbol of hope and regrowth. A vast cymbal strike like a gong at 32:07 interrupts the process, leaving only the drums and the wind in its wake. Willie Stewart’s work in this segment is enthralling; it sounds like architecture being built. But as the strings re-enter, are they busy as bees or as bulldozers? The listener is left to decide. Beylis initially planned to “write something to equal the harsh cacophony of the harvesting machines as they shred the nests of fledgling buzzards; to evoke the rumbling shaking noise I’d hear in bed at night as they crashed the huge trees they’d cut to the ground,” but relented for the sake of the blackbird. The dissonance that follows the drums suggests that the idea was not totally discarded. This makes the closing segment all the sweeter: consonance rising out of dissonance, form from chaos. The forest may have been leveled, but around here, the birds plant the trees.
This being said, the story is not meant to encourage as much as it is to unsettle. Robert Plant once sang, “if there’s a bustle in your hedgerow, don’t be alarmed now.” Beylis has a different message: be alarmed. Be very alarmed. (Richard Allen)
a closer listen 