One night, one bird, one tree, one spot by the Spree River in Berlin—
a virtuoso nightingale perched in his tree at midnight.

There we stood, Lucie singing, David on clarinet and iPad sampling the bird and playing synth sounds he thought the bird might like.

One piece, one take, no editing, just live. What two people and one bird can do.

From Shelley's "The Woodman and the Nightingale":

Make a green space among the silent bowers,
like a vast fane in a metropolis,
Surrounded by the columns and the towers

All overwrought with branch-like traceries
In which there is religion—and the mute
Persuasion of unkindled melodies,

Odours and gleams and murmurs, which the lute
Of the blind pilot-spirit of the blast
Stirs as it sails, now grave and now acute,

Wakening the leaves and waves, ere it has passed
To such brief unison as on the brain
One tone, which never can recur, has cast
One accent never to return again.

The world is full of Woodmen who expel
Love's gentle Dryads from the haunts of life,
And vex the nightingales in every dell.