Garefowl is a project connected to the archipelago of St Kilda, Scotland. Ewan Macdonald and his father Murdo, relatives of one of the men who killed the last Great Auk (Garefowl), conceived the project to reflect on and mark this family history. Garefowl is an international collective of musicians combining strings and electronics: Nathan Bontrager (viola da gamba/harmonium/banjo), Stuart Graham (bouzouki/harmonica/harmonium), Chris Jones (concertina/mandolin), Ewan Macdonald (fiddle/smallpipe drone), Richard O’Flynn (island sounds/percussion/XRD drones), Jess Whelligan (cello).

Things That Vanish was recorded on Hirta, the main island of St Kilda, at night. The soundscapes of Hirta breathe across the record: a quiet rolling swell of winds, waves, birds, and the otherworldly thrum of the snipe. Taking influence from the traditional folk music of St Kilda, the tunes on the record are inspired by the threatened seabirds of the islands (Puffin, Guillemot, Storm Petrel, Cormorant, Shearwater, Kittiwake, Gannet, Bonxie, and Fulmar). The band were intrigued by the folk stories around these birds, and how they often are depicted to imbue a primal, dark and haunting nature. In such tales, the birds retain a quality akin to a sea monster: preying upon calves and sheep, and believed to be the pelagic souls of drowned sailors or the cursed spirits of cruel captains.

No synthesizers were used on the recording. Instead, the production draws entirely on sampled and processed field and hydrophone recordings collected on St Kilda. Additionally, drones were created through a process pioneered by Richard O’Flynn and Joe Gardner. Rock or bone samples are analysed using X-ray diffraction (XRD), which creates a spectrum with peaks corresponding to the sample’s chemical composition; this spectrum can then be mapped to sine waves, forming a drone. The record will be out in its entirety on AD 93 on the 2nd of October. The first single, Buthaigir / Puffin, will be released alongside the album’s announcement on 12th August.

“The Last Garefowl” 1840, midsummer. Four men were clambering over the rocks of Stac an Armin, a shark’s-tooth of stone rising from the waters off St Kilda, when they met with a very strange creature. It was a heavy, cumbersome thing. Nearly three feet tall when it lifted its chest from the ground. Its back was black and its breast was white, and it had a thick, dark bill etched with silver. Short wings protruded from its shoulders—more like flippers—for it did not fly but swam, shooting through the sea as if the water were thin as air. ‘Gearrabhal’, said one man: garefowl, or great auk. It was so much larger than the birds around it, and so strange. “Prophet-like that lone one stood,” another remembered, much later. When they found it, it was sleeping. It was not the only one of its kind, but it was one of the last. Since the 16th century, the great auk had been under attack. British sailors happening upon vast colonies of the birds off the coast of Newfoundland had seized on it as source of sustenance, killing the birds in a carnival of obscene excess. They roasted birds over fires built of the bodies of their brethren—for their flesh was rich in oil and burned like kerosene. They would herd hundreds of the creatures down a gangplank into a ship to their doom. They would pluck the birds alive, for their feathers—increasingly rare—were gaining in value. There were no more great auks in Newfoundland, and ever fewer elsewhere. Once, they had been common on St Kilda, though they had dwindled away. Two decades earlier, a rare visitor was caught and detained on a twine for three days. But that was a long time ago now. Not wanting to miss their chance, the men grasped it, heaving the surprised bird back to a stone bothy where they slept at night while, in the day, they gathered eggs and young birds for salting—food to keep the islanders alive through the ‘black months’ of winter. For three days they worked. On the fourth day, a great storm got up. Wind battered at the bothy like a banshee desperate to get in. Waves lashed at the stack. On the cliffs outside, birds clung to rocky ledges. Behind the hut, the captive gearrabhal shrieked and wailed. Hours of this. An awful sound. The men began to see it differently. No longer of a fat, beatific bird, but a malevolent power: “a maelstrom-conjuring witch” summoning aid. Terrified, they stoned it to death. It was the last garefowl ever seen on St Kilda. Today, the abandoned isles of St Kilda host nearly a million breeding seabirds. It is the largest colony in the North Atlantic. But, as the story of the garefowl shows us, even vast populations are vulnerable to collapse. After a century of growth, St Kilda’s great skuas, fulmars, kittiwakes, guillemots and razorbills are in sharp decline. It is not too late to learn the lessons of the past.