Carr and Donohoe eschew the typical depiction of a storm as a linear escalation. Instead they illuminate the multitude of comings-and-goings that occur throughout its lifecycle: the quietening of birdsong, the thickening and dispersal of the wind, the ever-changing texture of the rain. The title itself is an act of misdirection. Most of the runtime concerns the storm's prelude (it's a full half-hour before we hear the first rumble of thunder), and we're ushered into a fadeout before we even reach the aftermath. Thus we're left to reevaluate the edges that constitute the composition and its concept. When can a storm be said to truly commence? What if the aftermath is for us to nurture within ourselves, in silence, after Carr and Donohoe have departed the frame?
The piece is based on a performance at last year's Open Ear Festival, which takes place each year on Sherkin Island in Cork, Ireland. Using a combination of field recordings, instruments and natural materials gathered from across the island, the duo trace the transformation of a landscape as a storm passes through it. Their instrument performances often manifest as acts of camouflage, with horn-like drones woven into the actual howl of coastal gales, or shakers mimicking the early stirrings of a downpour. Yet elsewhere these musical interventions are sudden: deep, metallic clangs that ripple through the surrounding environment, sending mammalian bleats into retreat and calling amphibious gurgles forward, announcing the progression of the storm into a new phase. There's no dramatic climax. The thunder is fleeting and subdued, caught within the crossfade between anticipation and consequence.
