by someone who hears too much and not enough
I begin every field recording session at 4:45 a.m. sharp. The light is cold and indecisive, and the streets are anesthetized by the residue of last night’s mistakes. I dress in black merino wool and breathable nylon, the kind that resists sound—because silence is a luxury, not a given.
I place my recorder, a Zoom F8n Pro, on the Pelican case I keep obsessively clean. Eight XLR inputs, 32-bit float. Fail-proof. Insurance for the uncontrolled.
Let’s talk about microphones. Because it’s important.
There’s a sacred geometry to microphone patterns. The way two capsules interact—like dancers choreographed by physics. If you don’t understand this, you have no business in the field.
X/Y is surgical. Two cardioid mics angled 90 degrees, capsules aligned. Minimal phase issues. Perfect for close, focused stereo—urban detail, forest ambience within 3 meters, or a decaying laundromat AC unit humming in D minor.
Mid-Side (M/S) is the controlled chaos I crave. A cardioid or shotgun in the center, figure-8 on the side. The width is adjustable after recording. That kind of power makes me sweat. Use it when you want total dominance in post—like in sound design, when you're building the mood of a town right before something unnatural happens.
ORTF and DIN offer wider images, natural stereo, time delays approximating human ears. Excellent for rural textures: rivers, wheat, wind through a wooden fence post. You’re trying to imitate the brain, and that requires empathy. Something I fake convincingly.
When I record in mono, I am making a statement. It is an intimate, unblinking gaze.
Mono is for source material: a hammer on concrete, a dog’s nails on tile, a refrigerator compressor that sounds like it’s begging for death. Mono is clean. Punchy. Useful.
Stereo is for environment. For emotion. The space between things. Capture stereo when the space is the sound. But know this—if your stereo image is muddy, if it collapses in mono playback, then you’ve failed. You’ve documented chaos, not curated it.
I use Line Audio CM4s for stereo pairs: small, flat-response, and unpretentious. I pair them with Cinela wind protection—because Rycote is for cowards who don’t want to spend the extra $300 for silence.
Shotgun mics like the Sennheiser MKH 416 are my rifle—long-range, hyper-directional. Excellent for birds. Terrible for ambience. That’s why I always bring backup: a cardioid, a lav, a hydrophone in the trunk. Just in case the lake starts talking.
Wind is not weather. It’s sabotage.
At minimum, use foam. If you're serious, use a blimp. Deadcats are essential. Don't let the fur fool you—this is about muffling violence. If your recording has even a whisper of wind distortion, delete it. Burn your SD card. Start over.
I once heard a beautiful meadow ruined by a gust. It haunts me.
Always bring a stand.
Even if you think you’ll go handheld. Even if you’re “just hiking.” Your hands are too alive, too human. Use a carbon-fiber boom pole. Use shock mounts. Do not trust the ground. Bring sandbags. Tape cables. Eliminate every variable that isn’t the sound itself.
If you're in the city: clamp mics to metal. Elevate them above the traffic line. If you're in nature: low-profile, hidden mounts near the source. Be invisible. Be the ghost of infrastructure.
Good field recordists don’t look for sound—they wait for it.
I find my best locations by walking, early, with no headphones. Just an open mind and a notebook. I catalog everything: time of day, wind direction, human traffic, bird patterns, barometric pressure.
Cemeteries at dawn are excellent. So are empty parking garages, wetlands after a storm, laundromats between cycles, and any old structure about to collapse. Sound clings to forgotten places like mold to drywall.
Every take is slates. Verbally. With metadata.
“July 12th, 2025. 6:02 a.m. Downtown alleyway. Cardioid mic. Mono. Light drizzle. Occasional car passbys. 96k, 32-bit float.” Then I mark the take on my Sound Devices Wingman app, log it in Notion, and back up to three drives.
I name files with discipline: AMBI_CITY_AlleyRain_July2025_Take03.wav
No spaces. No mistakes. No excuses.
Field recording is not about sound. It's about truth.
You capture the world as it is, not how you think it should be. And that takes a kind of madness—a meticulous devotion to the ephemeral. Every raindrop, leaf rustle, and distant airplane is fleeting. You preserve it. Frame it. Freeze it in 32-bit amber.
So go out there. Dress like you belong in a crime scene. Carry too many mics. Record until your arms ache and your memory cards cry. Then catalog it all like your soul depends on it.
Because maybe it does.
And remember:
Coffee first. Wind protection always. Slate your damn takes.
