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 world

• How its “lek” gatherings turn the forest into a natural amphitheatre

• Why this modest-looking bird is a star of nature documentaries

• The critical link between the Piha’s life and the health of the Amazon

Listen, 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.

— Martyn
The 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.