Wild Things: The magical music of blackbirds

A pied butcherbird with a backdrop of the red stone monolith at Uluru National Park in Australia’s Northern Territory.

A male red-winged blackbird.

A common grackle. Ed Kanze Photos

By ED KANZE

A corollary to the idea that beauty lies in the eye of the beholder is that music  arises in the ear of the listener. Sounds are what we make of them. Today, I hear a flock of common grackles and red-winged blackbirds whistling and warbling in the treetops, and my ears rejoice. These birds, not famed for the sweetness of their singing, assemble in mixed groups in early spring and produce some of the finest music (in my judgment) the world will ever know.

Is it singing? That’s up for grabs. In his 1904 classic, “Wild Birds And Their Music,” the naturalist F. Schuyler Mathews wrote that the common grackle, which was widely known as the “crow blackbird” in his day, “is a songless bird, and his conversational notes are not altogether musical.” Mathews’ is the majority opinion, yet, at least in early spring, I disagree heartily with it. Later on toward summer, when grackles are mostly making squeaky hinge sounds interspersed with cackles, and red-wings are asserting brassy territorial claims in marshes and swamps, I hear things differently. But for the moment, with a blackbird flock made up mostly of common grackles gathered in treetops near our kitchen door, I hail their gorgeous effusions, whether or not anyone calls it singing.

One effect the hearing of this mellifluous jumble has on me is bringing back happy memories of sunrises in Australia — two in particular. On the first of them, 30 years ago, my wife, Debbie, and I were camped at Eungella National Park, in the state of Queensland. There in ancient rainforest at the edge of the Great Dividing Range, we spent much of our time searching for platypuses. We had the thrill of finding many. But as exciting as it was to observe egg-laying, duck-billed mammals diving in a muddy river for their tucker, it was even more magnificent to start each day with a concert staged by butcherbirds.

A troupe of pied butcherbirds, which are predatory songbirds, camped overnight in a clump of trees across the Broken River from our tent. Before dawn, when morning was still night, a single voice would begin to warble and gurgle. The tones were rich and full. With the light slowly bringing definition to the landscape, one butcherbird after another would join in. No harmony involved — this was wild jazz, with each performer improvising in what seemed to our ears like no particular pattern. The volume was cranked up high. Astounding! The music compounded our joy to be alive in that marvelous time and place.

The other Australian sunrise that stands out in memory occurred in March, 2015. I was co-leader of a tour. We were up and out early to explore the great monolith of red stone known as Uluru, or Ayers Rock, and no one in our group looked entirely pleased to be out of bed and moving. That all changed when the music began — a wild rush of whistles and chimes and sounds that beggar description. Smiles spread over faces. The excellent Australian tour guide I was working with had no idea who was making the sounds, nor did our savvy Australian bus driver. Happily, I was able to earn my keep. “Butcherbirds!” I said. 

For most, a trip to Eungella National Park in Queensland, or Uluru National Park in Australia’s Northern Territory, requires the investment of a great deal of time and money. Much more economical all-around, then, to just step out your back door. Early one morning, if you’re lucky to have them, you may have a chance to listen to freshly arrived blackbirds caroling in the day.