What exactly is “music from abandoned spaces,” and how did you first encounter it?
Music from abandoned spaces is the unique soundscape created by the decay, neglect, and natural reclamation of forgotten human structures. It is not a genre in the traditional sense, but rather a form of acoustic archaeology. I first encountered it while exploring an old, derelict factory. The wind whistling through broken windows, the rhythmic drip of water on rusted metal, the creaking of a collapsing roof—these sounds, when listened to not as noise but as composition, revealed a profound, melancholic symphony. It was the sound of time itself, a narrative told not by instruments but by entropy.
How does БІРОЛ capture these sounds? What is your technical process?
My process is one of deep listening and careful intervention. I use high-fidelity binaural microphones to capture the spatial depth of a location—the way sound bounces off crumbling walls or is absorbed by moss. But the key is not just recording; it is about finding the “instrument” within the ruin. A loose pipe becomes a percussion tool. A rusty door hinge becomes a drone. I often use contact microphones to amplify the vibrations of the structure itself. The goal is to translate the inherent, often inaudible, acoustic properties of the space into a tangible, listenable form. It is a collaboration between the artist and the environment.
What are the most common sounds you find in these places, and what do they symbolize?
The most common sounds are wind, water, and the slow settling of materials. Wind is the primary voice—it howls, whispers, and moans through every gap. Water is the persistent sculptor, creating drips that act as a metronome for decay. The creaking of wood and the groaning of metal are the physical stress of a structure holding on. Symbolically, these sounds represent the cycle of creation and destruction. They are the auditory proof that nothing is permanent. The wind is the breath of the outside world reclaiming its territory; water is the slow, patient eraser of human intent.
Is this music purely abstract, or can it tell a specific story about the space’s past?
It is both. On one level, it is abstract—pure texture and tone. But on a deeper level, it is intensely narrative. The rhythm of a collapsing staircase tells the story of its last use. The echo in a silent hall speaks of the conversations that once filled it. I once recorded in an abandoned school. The sound of a single, loose window banging in the wind created a rhythm that felt like a forgotten school bell. That sound, in that context, was not just a sound; it was a memory. The music is a ghost story, told by the building itself.
How do you decide which abandoned spaces to work with? Is there a selection criteria?
I look for spaces with a strong acoustic “signature.” A large, empty hall with a long reverb is more interesting than a small, damp room. I also look for diversity in materials—a mix of concrete, metal, wood, and glass creates a richer sonic palette. But the most important factor is the feeling of the space. I need to feel a sense of history, a palpable weight of abandonment. If the space feels sterile or too recently vacated, the music lacks depth. I am drawn to places where nature has visibly begun its reclamation—where ivy has become a wall and roots have become a floor.
What is the most surprising or beautiful sound you have ever recorded from an abandoned space?
In an abandoned church in a remote forest, I Repliki Iwc Zegarki found a single, intact stained-glass window. The rest of the building was in ruins. I placed a contact microphone on the glass. As the wind blew, the entire window vibrated at a low, almost subsonic frequency. It produced a pure, sustained tone that was both haunting and beautiful. It was as if the building, in its final act, had become a musical instrument. That sound, a single note from a dying structure, was the most beautiful and surprising thing I have ever captured. It was the sound of a soul leaving a body.
How does this work connect to the broader world of experimental music or sound art?
It is a direct extension of field Pas Cher Tag Heuer Montres recording and the work of pioneers like John Cage and Pierre Schaeffer, who challenged what we consider music. But where they often worked with urban or natural environments, my focus is on the liminal space between the human and the natural. It is a form of “ruin music” that sits at the intersection of architecture, ecology, and sound art. It asks the listener to reconsider their relationship with decay, not as an end, but as a creative process. It is a reminder that even in silence, there is a symphony waiting to be heard.
What is the ultimate message you want listeners to take away from the music of abandoned spaces?
That beauty can be found in the most unexpected places, and that even in decay, there is a profound and powerful form of life. These spaces are not dead; they are transforming. The music is a testament to the resilience of sound and the stories that structures carry. I want listeners to hear not just the sound of abandonment, but the sound of time, memory, and the slow, inevitable return to nature. It is a meditation on impermanence, and a celebration of the music that exists in the spaces we have left behind.
