Radio Lear

Radio Lear

Welcome to Radio Lear, a captivating exploration of sound and thought that transcends conventional boundaries. In our unique way we invite you to embark on a unique journey curated by Max Sturm, a visionary artist and Creative Director. Discover the transformative power of sound as it intertwines with the principles of metamodernism, bridging the realms of art, technology, and human expression.

Episodes

  1. 1 day ago

    Sound Beneath the Arches – The First Radio Lear Sound Assembly Recording

    An archway holds a space open. People can pass through it, pause beneath it, or gather within its shelter. On Wednesday 16th September 2026, the Braunstone Gate arches became a place for gathering through sound, as Radio Lear’s Sound Assembly brought together a live mix of electronic performance and shared contributions. Paul Conneally performed using a mobile version of GarageBand, incorporating a loop from Miffy Ryan. Sound contributions from Traci Howard, John Coster and Rob Watson filled the archway space, bringing several people’s creative impulses into a shared setting. This is the first recording to emerge from the Sound Assembly sessions, with others to follow. It will be broadcast in its unedited form on Radio Lear at 9pm on Friday 18th September 2026, with a podcast available after the broadcast. There is something fitting about beginning this series beneath an arch. A threshold is a place of possibility: somewhere between arrival and departure, between the familiar uses of a space and whatever we might discover there together. Sound Assembly opens that threshold to listening. The tools can be portable and everyday. A mobile device running GarageBand becomes an instrument for live performance. A loop supplied by another artist becomes material that can be carried into a new situation. Each contribution enters a space already occupied by other people, other sounds and the possibilities of an encounter. Authorship becomes a conversation. Paul’s performance, Miffy’s loop and the contributions from Traci, John and Rob belong to the account of how this recording came into being. Together, they suggest a way of making in which an individual gesture can become part of something that no single participant fully possesses. For Radio Lear, this is an important part of what an emergent arts practice can offer. A session creates an opportunity to find out what happens when people bring their attention and imagination into a shared space. Its value includes the act of listening to what someone else has introduced, and allowing that contribution to change the possibilities of our own. The philosophical writing of Arthur Schopenhauer offers one way of thinking about this attention. He understood aesthetic experience as a temporary release from the restless demands of wanting, pursuing and achieving. In encounters with art, we can become absorbed in something beyond our immediate concerns. Music occupied a particular place in his thinking because of its capacity to express something fundamental without first having to describe an object or tell a story. Sound can move us before we have found words for what it means. Sound Assembly invites a modest, practical exploration of that possibility. What happens when we give sound time to occupy our attention? What becomes available when we loosen our grip on the need to reach an immediate conclusion? These questions do not require everyone to share a philosophical outlook. They can remain open within the experience itself. One listener may attend to texture, another to repetition, another to the relationship between a sound and the space around it. Meaning can take shape differently for each person. Broadcasting the recording unedited preserves the session’s unfolding duration. It gives listeners the opportunity to encounter the live mix as a continuous process, following its development rather than hearing a selection of excerpts. The invitation is to spend time with a first recording from a practice that is still taking shape. Radio extends that gathering beyond the arches. A sound made in one place travels into another: a kitchen, a bedroom, a pair of headphones, the quiet of a Friday evening. The circumstances of listening change, and the work acquires another setting in which to be heard. This first Sound Assembly recording marks the beginning of that journey. Further recordings will follow as the sessions develop and more contributions find their place. Listen to the unedited live mix on Radio Lear at 9pm on Friday 18th September 2026. A podcast will follow after the broadcast.

  2. 27 Aug

    What Comes Back – The Space Between Passing and Beginning

    There is a moment when a tree lets go of a leaf. From where we stand, it looks like an ending. Yet beneath the surface, the next season is already being prepared. In this episode of Headspace from Radio Lear, the music asks a simple question: what becomes possible when we recognise that passing and beginning belong to the same cycle? This is not an invitation to pretend that every change is welcome. It is a chance to listen to the space between holding on and moving forward: the interval in which one form has loosened, while another has not yet fully appeared. What Can Be Gained When Something Passes? We often speak as though holding on is strength and letting go is defeat. We welcome the promise of a new beginning, but resist the disturbance that makes it possible. Growth, however, rarely arrives on an empty stage. It emerges through what has weathered, altered, completed its part, or made room for something else. That does not mean everything that disappears is neatly replaced. A cycle is not a guarantee that what passes will return in the same form. The branch remains bare for a while. The ground can look still. Some changes leave questions that cannot be quickly resolved. Yet stillness is not necessarily the absence of movement. Old material can become nourishment. An emptied space changes what can enter it. Even repetition is transformed by time: the person, place, or idea that returns has travelled. The tension, then, is not simply between loss and gain. It is between two movements that may need one another: releasing what cannot remain and becoming available to what has not yet taken shape. How the Music Moves The programme opens with slow ascent. Weight and lift are present together. In Brian Eno’s An Ending (Ascent), completion seems to contain its own horizon. The ending does not simply fall away; it opens into space. The sequence then becomes more physical. Bryan Senti’s Malecón suggests an edge where fixed ground meets moving water. Caroline Shaw and Sō Percussion’s A Gradual Dazzle builds through soft percussion, interlocking chords, and repeated beginnings. In her notes for the album, Shaw describes chords that pivot, rise, interlock, and restart. Renewal here is gradual and collaborative, not a single triumphant flash. Spiraling and Temporal Dryft complicate the idea of straightforward progress. A spiral returns, but never to precisely the same point. Drift may appear directionless, yet it still carries us somewhere. The music allows growth to be curved, patient, and partly unknowable. At the centre, Abandon Window and Or hold the opposites open. To leave a window might mean turning away from one view. It might also mean leaving an opening unguarded. The choice remains alive: departure or invitation, ending or beginning. What Comes Back Is Changed Ryuichi Sakamoto’s immersive version of andata begins the return. Its movement feels travelled rather than possessed. Then Shabason and Krgovich’s What Comes Back makes return itself the question. What comes back may carry memory, but it also arrives altered by time. This is the difference between a circle and a spiral. A circle suggests exact repetition; a spiral revisits familiar ground from another position. The closing tracks, Topaz and Ideas of Light, bring colour and illumination. Light does not erase the shadows that gave it shape. It makes edges, textures, and openings more visible. The sequence reaches brightness without forcing certainty. This matters because beginnings are often described as clean breaks. Lived time is rarely so tidy. An old commitment may continue to teach us after it has ended. A new idea may carry traces of what came before. Rest and growth can occupy the same day. The Space Between Seasons The opposites are not cancelled. They give each other definition. Without change, continuity can become repetition without renewal. Without continuity, change has nothing from which to grow. In a period of transition, we might therefore ask more than, “What am I leaving behind?” We might also ask, “What has this made available?” What room has opened? What knowledge remains? What small beginning is already present, though it has not yet declared itself? There is no need to hurry towards an answer. Like a field between harvest and spring, what appears empty may be gathering the conditions for another form of life. Music in This Episode A Winged Victory for the Sullen – Steep Hills of Vicodin Tears (Mixed) Brian Eno – An Ending (Ascent) (2005 Digital Remaster) Bryan Senti – Malecón Caroline Shaw & Sō Percussion – A Gradual Dazzle Christopher Willits – Spiraling Cool Maritime – Temporal Dryft Jon Hopkins – Abandon Window (Remaster 2023) kangding ray – Or Ryuichi Sakamoto – andata (immersion 2023) Shabason & Krgovich, Joseph Shabason & Nicholas Krgovich – What Comes Back Sky H1 – Topaz Sun Rain & Spookyfish – Ideas of Light Headspace is a reflective, music-led podcast from Radio Lear. This episode listens for what is quietly becoming possible in the spaces life is making.

  3. 27 Aug

    The Kindness of Returning – A Weird Walk Through Songs That Carry Us Home

    Lift the Latch. A garden gate lifts, clicks, and swings. Boots meet a damp path. Somewhere nearby, a blackbird tries one clear phrase after the rain. That is where The Kindness of Returning begins: not at a monument, a haunted ruin, or a place marked on a tourist map, but at an ordinary threshold. The route in this podcast mix is an imagined sound-walk. It leads through rain and fields, towards open water, and eventually back to the garden. Its landmarks are songs. Many of those songs carry difficult things. There is parting, betrayal, grief, rural loss, and the pull between leaving home and staying put. There are old warnings and uncanny broadcasts. There are figures at the edge of the field and voices that seem to arrive from another time. Yet, this isn’t a journey into darkness for its own sake. We are listening for what shelters life inside these sounds: self-respect, endurance, friendship, curiosity, and the knowledge that weather changes. What If a Haunting Is Asking for Care? We often treat haunting as a threat. But a haunting can also be a form of unfinished attention. It may be a memory that has not found its proper resting place, a warning that still has something useful to say, or a fragment of the past waiting to be heard differently. Traditional songs are especially good at holding such things. They allow sorrow to take a recognisable shape. Once it has a melody and a human voice, it can be carried and shared. That does not make the pain picturesque, and it does not turn every inherited story into historical fact. It simply gives us a way to stay present without being overwhelmed. Anne Briggs opens the path with “The Snow It Melts the Soonest”, a Northumbrian song documented in the early nineteenth century. Its winter imagery frames pride, parting, and anticipated return. For this walk, the important movement is the thaw. Cold feeling is real, but it is not permanent. The wind begins to sing, and the landscape changes. Bert Jansch’s “Black Water Side” takes us to a more vulnerable meeting place. Beauty and hurt sit beside the same water. We do not need to romanticise betrayal to recognise the strength of the voice that survives it. Pentangle’s “Let No Man Steal Your Thyme” offers another kind of protection. The botanical symbolism belongs to a long family of warning songs, but its message still feels immediate: guard your time, trust your judgement, and do not let another person diminish what is growing in you. Strange Transmissions and Open Doors The electronic pieces alter the weather of the walk. Broadcast and the Focus Group build “The Be Colony” from voice, tape, rhythm, echo, and recovered fragments. It feels uncanny, but also playful. A collection of partial signals becomes a temporary commons. Broadcast’s “Lights Out” lets our eyes adjust rather than closing the world. Comus’s “The Herald” opens a long clearing in the undergrowth. Pye Corner Audio places a steady pulse beneath the clock, while the Advisory Circle’s “New Dimensions In” treats the passing seasons as an opening rather than a loss. These recordings do not reproduce the past. They rearrange its textures. Public-information voices, analogue electronics, acoustic instruments, and studio residue become material for new acts of imagination. Memory is not a sealed room. It has doors. The Shore, the Valley, and the Field At the water’s edge, June Tabor’s “The Great Selkie of Sule Skerry” brings a Northern Isles ballad of love across boundaries. The sea keeps its distance, but it also keeps moving. The song asks us to consider whether love can recognise difference without trying to erase it. Lal and Mike Waterson’s “The Scarecrow” stands in the seasonal field. This is not an ancient ritual preserved intact in song, but an enigmatic modern composition from Bright Phoebus. Its unsettling imagery has prompted many interpretations. Here, it becomes a question about care: who tends the crop, who is protected, and who is left exposed? Then New Model Army carry us through the rain-swept valleys of “Green and Grey”. The song understands that both leaving and staying have costs. It holds attachment to place alongside class, violence, ambition, and the lure of somewhere else. Belonging is not simple loyalty. Sometimes it is the difficult work of seeing a place clearly and still caring what happens there. Giving Grief Somewhere to Rest Towards the end of the walk, Shirley and Dolly Collins bring us to “The Unquiet Grave”. In the old ballad, excessive mourning disturbs the beloved’s rest. It is a stern image, but it also contains a gentle truth: grief needs a voice, and it needs permission to loosen its hold. Remembrance should not trap either the living or the dead. We pause, listen, and continue. The final path leads into “The Garden of Jane Delawney” by Trees. A garden is never finished. It is made through repeated acts of attention: watering, pruning, waiting, noticing what has returned, and making room for something new. That is the nurturing heart of this mix. It does not pretend that every landscape is safe, or every inherited song is comforting. It offers something more durable: a way to move through difficult weather with discernment, tenderness, and company. The gate closes softly. The rain has stopped. The path ends where it began, but the walker does not. Running Order Anne Briggs — “The Snow It Melts the Soonest (Remastered)” Bert Jansch — “Black Water Side (2015 Remaster)” Broadcast and the Focus Group — “The Be Colony” Broadcast — “Lights Out” Comus — “The Herald” June Tabor — “The Great Selkie of Sule Skerry” Lal Waterson and Mike Waterson — “The Scarecrow” New Model Army — “Green and Grey” Pentangle — “Let No Man Steal Your Thyme” Pye Corner Audio — “On the Clock” Shirley Collins and Dolly Collins — “The Unquiet Grave” Sol Invictus — “The English Dead” The Advisory Circle — “New Dimensions In” Trees — “The Garden of Jane Delawney”

  4. 15 Jul

    Listening Without Resolution

    This mix moves through ambient suspension, fractured electronics, field recording, art rock and early machine music. Without spoken commentary, the connections between the tracks are carried by texture, rhythm, contrast and atmosphere. The listener is left to encounter the sequence directly, without being told what it means. That absence of explanation creates its own question: does music become more open when interpretation is withheld, or do we simply project more of ourselves into it? Memory as Material Many of these pieces treat memory not as a stable record, but as something fragmentary and continually revised. A sound can be preserved, sampled, rearranged or detached from its original setting. Once that happens, does it still belong to the past, or has it become part of the present? Some tracks seem to recover lost or obsolete materials. Others reopen earlier compositions and place them in new circumstances. The effect is not straightforward nostalgia. It is closer to excavation. What do older sounds still contain? Do they offer refuge from the present, or do they expose possibilities that the present has failed to realise? Natural and Artificial Sound The sequence repeatedly blurs the boundary between acoustic and electronic sources. Field recordings become composition. Instruments are processed until their origins are obscured. Synthetic sounds begin to feel organic. Machine rhythms take on warmth and irregularity.  This raises a broader question about technology. Is technology always a distancing force, or can it deepen attention? Can a machine help reveal the atmosphere of a place, the texture of a memory or the emotional weight of a sound?  The distinction may not be between nature and technology, but between technologies that accelerate experience and those that make closer listening possible. Inner and Outer Landscapes Several tracks suggest landscapes, but these are not simply geographical locations. They may be volcanic, urban, domestic, cosmic or imagined. They can feel vast and external, yet also strangely intimate. A garden can become a psychological space. A satellite can suggest isolation. A rhythm can return the listener to the body. A distant texture can feel like an internal memory. Where does a landscape end and an inner state begin? Is the listener entering the music, or is the music revealing something already present? Stillness and Propulsion The mix alternates between contemplation and movement. Some passages suspend time. Others compress it. Rhythms emerge, intensify and then dissolve back into atmosphere. Ambient music is often treated as passive, but stillness is not necessarily inactivity. It can sharpen perception. Equally, rhythm is not simply momentum. It can organise attention and restore physical presence. What kind of time does the music create? Is it linear, cyclical, remembered or suspended? And what changes when the body begins to respond before the mind has formed an interpretation?  The sequence does not offer a single argument. Its tensions remain open: memory and invention, archive and loss, stillness and propulsion, intimacy and scale. The listener may hear anxiety in the damaged signals and obsolete technologies. But there is also renewal. Fragments are not merely preserved. They are made active again.  Perhaps the central question is whether recovery means returning to what was, or making something new from what remains. Track Listing Billow Observatory – Colza Dialect – Full Serpent Discordant Ambiance – Satellites in the Stars Flying Lotus – CAPTAIN KERNEL Hideki Umezawa and Giuseppe Cordaro – III movimento Natasha Pirard – Buisson de mûres Oneohtrix Point Never – Measuring Ruins Peach – Batangas Beat Six Missing – A Dance Superpoze – Siècle Tycho – Source (Live Mix) Delphic – Submission Sakanaction – Inner World – Rearrange 2023 Cluster – Hollywood

  5. 25 Jun

    Making Space for Emergence – Deepwell and Armonia Arts

    There is a tendency in contemporary life to assume that creativity is something exceptional. We associate it with professional artists, performers, designers, musicians, and makers. Creativity becomes a special category of activity rather than a natural human capacity. Yet the conversations we have on Radio Lear often suggest something different. Creativity may be less about talent and more about attention. Less about performance and more about participation. In this episode, Francis Deepwell of Deepwell Arts and Poppy Haritaki of Armonia Music and Arts reflect on the spaces they have created for people to make, play, learn, experiment, and gather. Their stories begin with pottery and music, but they quickly move towards wider questions about how people discover confidence, meaning, and connection through shared creative activity. What emerges from the discussion is a challenge to many of the assumptions that shape contemporary culture. We live in a world increasingly organised around efficiency, measurement, and prediction. Educational systems are evaluated through targets. Cultural organisations are asked to demonstrate outcomes. Social life is mediated through platforms designed to capture attention rather than deepen experience. Creative practice often moves in the opposite direction. It requires uncertainty. It requires patience. It asks us to spend time with materials, sounds, ideas, and other people without knowing exactly what the outcome will be. The philosopher Michael Polanyi described this as tacit knowledge. We know more than we can tell. A musician understands something through listening and playing that cannot be reduced to a set of instructions. A potter learns through touch, repetition, and responsiveness to the material. The knowledge exists in the practice itself. This sense of discovery runs throughout the conversation. Francis describes encouraging participants to move beyond templates and predetermined outcomes. Poppy speaks about inviting students to explore sounds before they become concerned with technical correctness. Both are describing a shift from reproduction to exploration. There is a useful concept from systems thinking that helps illuminate this process. Emergence occurs when relationships between people, materials, and ideas generate something new that could not have been predicted in advance. Water is not simply hydrogen and oxygen placed side by side. It possesses qualities that emerge from their interaction. Creative activity often works in the same way. A group of people gathered around a table making prints, shaping clay, or improvising music becomes something more than a collection of individuals. New ideas arise. Confidence develops. Friendships form. Skills grow. The experience acquires qualities that belong to the group rather than any single participant. These moments can be difficult to measure. They rarely fit neatly into funding applications or policy frameworks. Yet they are often what participants remember most clearly. The quiet concentration of a room absorbed in making. The unexpected beauty of something created by hand. The surprise of discovering abilities that had previously remained dormant. For Radio Lear, these questions matter because they touch on the relationship between culture and community. Creative activity is not simply about producing artefacts. It is also about creating conditions in which people can encounter themselves and one another differently. A pottery workshop becomes a place of conversation. A music lesson becomes a process of self-discovery. An exhibition becomes a shared act of interpretation. The challenge is how to sustain such spaces in a culture that increasingly values speed over reflection and consumption over participation. The answer may lie in the kinds of places Francis and Poppy describe. Modest spaces. Adaptable spaces. Spaces that welcome experimentation and allow people to arrive without needing to define themselves as artists before they begin. Perhaps creativity is not something that belongs to a select few. Perhaps it is something that emerges whenever people are given the opportunity to pay attention, work with care, and make something together. Listen to the full conversation with Francis Deepwell and Poppy Haritaki in this edition of Radio Lear.

  6. 4 Jun

    The First Path Is Made By Listening

    Radio Lear is beginning a new Weird Walks-inspired strand with a music-led episode that sets the ground for future walks, field recordings, local stories and sound-led explorations of place. This first episode is not a walk in the usual sense. It is a threshold. It is a way of tuning the ear before the foot goes forward. The programme is built as a reflective music mix, shaped around the feeling of a path opening at dawn, a gate creaking in a hedge, a churchyard holding its weather, a river carrying memory under a bridge, and a city edge becoming strange when listened to closely. The episode takes inspiration from the wider culture of weird walking: the practice of wandering with attention, following old paths, noticing overlooked details, and treating landscape not as scenery, but as a living archive of signs, stories, absences and returns. This Radio Lear strand is not an official Weird Walk production. It is a local and independent response to that atmosphere of walking, listening and wondering.1 The music in this first mix is reflexive. It does not sit behind the idea of the walk as decoration. It turns back towards the listener. It asks what kind of place is being imagined, what kind of memory is being stirred, and what kind of attention is being formed. Some tracks suggest haunted folk paths and old rural thresholds. Others move through analogue hum, field-recording texture, urban dusk, river sound, tape hiss, distant bells and low drones. The effect is not intended to produce a fantasy landscape, but to loosen the ordinary one. Walking can be a simple act. It can also become a symbolic act. A path may be public, practical and familiar, but it may still carry traces of past use. It may lead past a gate, a chapel, a river, a field edge, a market, an underpass, a phone mast, a row of trees, or a patch of waste ground that seems to resist explanation. The strange is not always remote. Often it is close by, embedded in the routine places we stop seeing because we pass them too often. This episode asks the listener to begin there. Not with a grand expedition, but with a change in attention. What sound marks the beginning of a walk? What does a place sound like when nobody is performing for it? What changes when a familiar route is recorded rather than merely crossed? What does the path know that the map cannot show? Future episodes will move more directly into walking, field sounds and spoken reflection. The presenter will ramble, record, gather fragments, tell folk stories, and listen for the ways in which place and imagination answer one another. These programmes will make room for uncertainty. A story can matter without being treated as fact. A place can feel symbolic without being forced into explanation. A recording can carry atmosphere without needing to resolve it. Listeners are invited to take part by making their own short field recordings. Choose a place. Record one minute of sound. Add a few words about where it was made, when it was made, and what question it raised. It might be birdsong, footsteps, traffic, water, a gate, a rehearsal, a market closing, wind in trees, or a voice telling a remembered story. The recording does not need to be polished. It needs only to be attentive. Radio Lear is interested in sounds that help us hear place differently. We are interested in walks that pass through the edges between the everyday and the mythic, the civic and the dreamlike, the remembered and the newly made. We are interested in the small act of stopping, listening and asking what might still be present beneath the surface of the ordinary. The first path is made by listening. The next one needs your footsteps. Radio Lear can be heard on DAB in its broadcast area and online. To send field recordings, walk ideas, local stories, sound-art proposals or questions, contact rob@radiolear.uk. More information is available at radiolear.uk, and Radio Lear can be found on social media at @radiolearuk. Endnotes 1 Weird Walk describes its work as a journal of “wanderings and wonderings” from the British Isles, with attention to landscape, folklore, music and the strange textures of place. See: Weird Walk.

  7. 3 Jun

    Listening To The Room – Word, Open-Mic Voices And The Practice Of Attention

    Radio Lear is built around the idea that creative audio can do more than carry information. It can hold atmosphere, memory, presence and the small shifts of attention that happen when people gather, listen and speak. In this feature, recorded at a Word open-mic event at Attenborough Arts on Thursday 28th May 2026, we hear poetry not as a finished cultural product, but as a living social act. This is not a full recording of the evening. It is an edited impression of the event, shaped from a sequence of voices, fragments and moments. The aim is to give a sense of the room: the red light on the stage, the microphones, the papers held in hand, the pauses before speaking, the warmth of the audience, and the way a loosely curated event allows different kinds of expression to find their own place. Open-mic events have a particular energy. They are neither entirely formal nor entirely casual. There is a structure: a host, a stage, a running order, a microphone, and an audience waiting to listen. Yet, there is also uncertainty. Someone may be reading for the first time. Someone may bring work that has been carefully shaped over months. Someone else may arrive with a poem written only the day before. The room has to adjust to each voice as it comes forward. That adjustment is part of the art of the evening. An open-mic room is not only made by the performers. It is made by the listeners as well. Their patience, laughter, stillness, encouragement and willingness to stay with uncertainty all shape the event. Culture is not simply being presented here. It is being practised. For Radio Lear, this is an important distinction. Much of the value of spoken-word and community arts practice lies in the conditions that allow people to become audible. A poem in this setting is not only a text. It is a moment of presence. It is a person stepping into a shared space and asking others to listen for a few minutes. The feature includes work that moves through emotional repair, memory, humour, disability access, faith, daydreaming, family, belonging and the return to creative confidence. Some of the voices are reflective and intimate. Others are comic, rhythmic or theatrical. What holds them together is not a single theme, but a shared format: the open-mic invitation, the temporary stage, and the willingness to risk speech in front of others. Kamisha Hawkins brings a reflective and musical quality, moving through shame, fear, grief and self-acceptance towards tenderness and repair. Bavin, Gohel’s “Dear Rome” turns the imagination of travel into practical questions about access, lifts, toilets and the body. Jessica’s poems gather colour, family memory, waiting, movement and inherited stories into a personal map of where someone comes from. Cat Hurst’s piece offers one of the clearest reflections on what poetry can do when it returns after a long absence. Poetry is remembered first as something that once felt like a test, something to be analysed until it stopped breathing. Then it comes back differently: less like an examination, more like an open door. That sense of return runs through the feature. Return to voice. Return to confidence. Return to imaginative attention. Pearl’s contribution is more intimate, shaped around belonging, womanhood, family, faith and the search for a place to stand. Imane’s poem moves across different religious and spiritual spaces, less as doctrine than as felt experience. Lorna Al-Wain opens out into a chant-like reflection on daydreaming, treating the drifting imagination not as wasted time, but as a charged and potentially creative state. Thin Man brings a different register again, with comic exaggeration, absurdity and theatrical release. This movement between tones is one of the strengths of a loosely curated event. It does not flatten the evening into a single mood. It allows seriousness and play to sit alongside one another. It allows a room to move from vulnerability to laughter, from prayer to absurdity, from memory to rhythm, from hesitation to performance. There is a civic quality in this, although not in the formal language of institutions. It is civic in the everyday sense of people gathering, making room for one another, and accepting that public voice does not only belong to polished speakers or professional performers. It belongs also to those who are trying something out, returning to something lost, or finding the courage to speak for the first time. Radio Lear exists for this kind of listening. It is a platform for voices, stories, soundscapes and creative encounters that might otherwise pass quickly through a room and disappear. Recording does not replace the live event, but it can leave a trace. It allows the atmosphere to travel. It allows a listener elsewhere to hear something of the timing, warmth and unpredictability of the room. What stays with this recording is not only the content of individual poems. It is the sound of people stepping forward. The small intake of breath before a poem begins. The papers shifting. The audience responding. The moment when a voice finds its balance. The way humour changes the air. The way a room can hold someone’s uncertainty without rushing to tidy it up. In that sense, this feature is not only about Word, or poetry, or one evening at Attenborough Arts. It is about the practice of attention. It is about what happens when people are given a modest platform, enough time, and a room willing to listen. For Radio Lear, that is the value of sharing this recording. It offers a glimpse of culture being made in real time: informal, generous, imperfect, emotionally varied, and alive to the voices that emerge when a space is held open.

  8. 13 May

    Radio Lear Podcast – Traveling Through Sonic Environments

    This episode of the Radio Lear Podcast moves through a sequence of sonic environments that suspend ordinary time. The mix is less concerned with momentum than with drift, immersion, and gradual transformation. Across ambient electronics, electro-acoustic composition, kosmische repetition, contemporary classical music, modular synthesis, and post-rave atmospheres, the tracks gather into a contemplative structure that explores memory, landscape, transcendence, ecological consciousness, and the emotional residue of technological culture. The opening passage, beginning with Craven Faults’ “Stoneyman”, establishes the emotional terrain of the mix immediately. Craven Faults’ work has often been described as a form of sonic archaeology, rooted in post-industrial Yorkshire landscapes, abandoned infrastructures, and the lingering psychic weight of industrial memory. Critics repeatedly note the way his music stretches and distorts perceptions of time through hypnotic repetition and evolving modular patterns. The sound feels both ancient and futuristic, as though the machinery of a forgotten industrial age has begun dreaming. The steady pulses and layered sequences evoke railways, moorlands, ruined mills, and weathered stone, but also the strange continuity between human labour, memory, and landscape. This sense of temporal suspension continues through Laraaji’s “Holomin 1”, which introduces a more explicitly spiritual dimension. Laraaji’s music exists within traditions of meditative listening and ecstatic ambient minimalism. His luminous zither tones and gently unfolding harmonic textures create a moment of release from the pressure of everyday consciousness. In the context of the mix, Laraaji acts as a threshold figure, guiding the listener from geographical memory into interior contemplation. M83’s “A Necessary Escape (Part 2)” adds emotional cinematic scale and romantic melancholy. The movement from Craven Faults and Laraaji into M83 suggests a widening of emotional perspective, from landscape and stillness toward memory, longing, and emotional release. The track functions almost as an inhalation before the mix settles into its deeper reflective structures. Floating Points’ “Corner Of My Eye” introduces another key emotional register. Sam Shepherd’s work consistently merges jazz sensibilities, electronic abstraction, and emotional intimacy. Reviews of the track emphasise its intricate drumming, soft organ textures, and reflective atmosphere. The piece occupies a delicate space between improvisation and precision, warmth and detachment, reflecting a wider metamodern tendency to reconcile emotional sincerity with technical sophistication. Kieran Hebden and William Tyler’s “Secret City” expands the geographical imagination of the mix. Tyler’s cosmic Americana and Hebden’s minimal electronic sensibility combine into a drifting psychogeography of imagined roads, absent communities, and invisible infrastructures. The music evokes movement without destination, landscapes experienced not as fixed places but as emotional states. Throughout the centre of the mix, artists such as Max Cooper, Kaitlyn Aurelia Smith, Dopplereffekt, Fire-Toolz, and Djrum deepen the exploration of technology as both alienating and transcendent. Max Cooper’s “A Sense Of Getting Closer” reflects his longstanding interest in emergence, systems theory, neuroscience, and emotional cognition. His work often treats electronic sound as a means of exploring human consciousness itself, not simply as entertainment. Kaitlyn Aurelia Smith’s contributions are especially significant in shaping the emotional architecture of the mix. Her modular synthesiser compositions frequently dissolve distinctions between machine systems and organic life. Tracks such as “Everything Combining” and “I Miss the Way You Swim” suggest fluidity, interconnectedness, ecological awareness, and biological intimacy. Her music imagines technology not as cold machinery but as a living extension of natural process. Dopplereffekt’s “Multiverse Wavefunction” introduces a colder, more austere form of speculative listening. Rooted in Detroit electro traditions but heavily informed by scientific and cosmological concepts, the track shifts the mix toward abstraction and post-human speculation. Yet even here there remains an emotional undercurrent, a fascination with mystery and unknowability rather than technological domination. Fire-Toolz destabilises the atmosphere further by introducing fragmentation, overload, and digital mysticism. The collision of ambient textures, shoegaze atmospheres, metallic intensity, and devotional aesthetics reflects the psychological condition of contemporary online existence: overstimulated yet yearning for transcendence. Rather than resolving this contradiction, the music inhabits it fully. The Orb’s appearance reconnects the mix to the psychedelic lineage of British ambient culture, where humour, dub, rave, and cosmic drift coexist. Their presence acts almost as a memory trace of earlier utopian electronic cultures, reminding listeners that ambient music has long functioned as a social and psychological refuge from acceleration and fragmentation. The closing section of the mix gradually moves toward emotional openness and release. Marconi Union, John Metcalfe, Ava Rasti, and the collaboration between SAGES, Ólafur Arnalds, and Loreen guide the listener into quieter and more reflective spaces. These tracks emphasise dusk atmospheres, emotional vulnerability, memory, and reconciliation. The final pieces feel less concerned with exploration than with acceptance. Across the entire sequence, the mix alludes to a deeper sentiment structure that connects many of these artists despite their differing genres and cultural contexts. There is a recurring search for forms of transcendence within late technological culture. Rather than rejecting technology, the artists seek ways of re-enchanting it. Modular synthesisers become ecological instruments. Digital systems become vehicles for emotional reflection. Repetition becomes meditative rather than mechanistic. There is also a consistent concern with time. Many of the tracks employ slow transformation, cyclical structures, suspended resolutions, and gradual accumulation. This creates an experience of duration that resists the accelerated rhythms of contemporary digital life. Critics writing about Craven Faults, in particular, repeatedly describe his ability to “warp your perception of time” through immersive long-form composition. In this sense, the mix corresponds strongly with Arthur Schopenhauer’s conception of music as a temporary release from the suffering generated by endless striving. Through sustained listening, the listener briefly steps outside ordinary instrumental consciousness and enters a state of contemplative suspension. The tracks do not resolve suffering or uncertainty, but they create temporary spaces in which reflection, stillness, and emotional openness become possible. This podcast therefore operates not simply as a playlist, but as a movement through overlapping emotional and cultural landscapes. Industrial memory, ecological consciousness, post-rave introspection, speculative cosmology, ambient spirituality, and contemporary classical melancholy all coexist within a wider metamodern sensibility: an attempt to recover meaning, sincerity, and emotional depth without abandoning the complexities and contradictions of contemporary technological culture.

  9. 25 Mar

    Art, Identity, and Rehabilitation – Creative Practice in Prison Contexts

    This podcast explores how art can play a meaningful role in the rehabilitation of people in prison. The discussion brings together Rob Watson, Xiaoye Zhang, and Charlie Birtles, recorded at the Brewhouse Arts Centre in Burton-on-Trent. Each contributor brings a distinct perspective, shaped by their work in community media, arts practice, and engagement with criminal justice contexts. A key focus of the conversation is how art creates space for reflection and expression in environments that are often restrictive and emotionally pressured. Drawing on their experience, the contributors describe how creative practices such as visual art, writing, and performance can help individuals process difficult experiences, manage emotions, and begin to reframe their sense of identity. Art is positioned not as a peripheral activity, but as a purposeful element of rehabilitative work. The discussion also considers how creative engagement can support communication and relationships. Art is seen as enabling forms of expression that are not always possible through conventional channels, offering a way for people in custody to articulate complex emotions and experiences. This, in turn, can contribute to improved relationships with staff, peers, and family members, and help to foster a more constructive environment. There is also a clear recognition of the practical challenges involved. The contributors reflect on the need for consistent provision, skilled facilitation, and institutional support if arts-based approaches are to have lasting impact. Short-term or isolated projects are seen as limited in their effectiveness, particularly where there is no pathway for continued engagement after release. Questions are raised about how the value of art is understood and assessed. While the benefits in terms of wellbeing, behaviour, and personal development are evident in practice, these outcomes are not always easily captured within formal evaluation frameworks. This creates a challenge when it comes to recognition, funding, and integration into mainstream criminal justice approaches. Overall, the podcast offers a reflective and practice-based discussion of how art can contribute to rehabilitation. It invites listeners to consider how creative work might be more effectively supported and embedded within systems that aim to reduce harm and support long-term change.

  10. 24 Mar

    Art School – Studio 17 and the Practice of Staying Together

    There is a particular kind of space that does not announce itself. It is not defined by its walls, nor by the tools arranged across its surfaces, nor even by the works that accumulate over time. It is defined instead by a continuity of presence. Studio 17, as described in this conversation, is one such space. It is less a studio in the conventional sense than a long-held conversation, unfolding across decades, carried by those who have entered, left, returned, and remained. What emerges from the voices of the artists is not a singular narrative of artistic production, but a shared condition of being alongside others. The studio offers proximity. Not only physical proximity, but a kind of attentiveness. Artists speak of sensing one another, adjusting to rhythms that are not imposed but felt. There are moments of quiet, moments of conversation, moments of withdrawal and return. The space holds these variations without demanding resolution. This rhythm is not incidental. It is cultivated through time. Over thirty years, the studio has sustained a collective identity that is neither fixed nor fragile. It persists because it allows for difference. Artists arrive with different practices, different histories, and different levels of confidence. Some return to art after long absences. Others begin tentatively, discovering their voice in relation to others. The collective does not erase individuality; it provides the conditions in which individuality can emerge. There is a practical dimension to this. Materials are shared. Advice is given when asked. Work is seen, responded to, and occasionally challenged. Yet what is described goes beyond collaboration in any formal sense. It is closer to mutual recognition. The presence of others becomes a form of support that is not always verbalised. It is there in the background, shaping the atmosphere of the work itself. For some, this shared environment becomes transformative. Confidence develops not through instruction alone, but through participation. To be accepted within the space, to exhibit alongside others, to contribute to a shared history, alters how one understands oneself as an artist. The studio becomes a site of transition, where private interest becomes public expression, and where personal practice acquires a social dimension. The longevity of Studio 17 suggests that this form of collective life answers a deeper need. It offers continuity in a field often marked by precarity and isolation. Artists describe the difficulty of sustaining practice alone, the challenges of motivation, the uncertainty of recognition. Against this, the studio provides a steady ground. It is not immune to change. Members pass away. New members arrive. The character of the space shifts. Yet, the underlying structure remains intact, carried forward by those who continue to gather. The retrospective exhibition, marking thirty years, becomes more than a display of work. It is an act of remembering. Works by those no longer present are held alongside those of current members. The exhibition does not resolve the passage of time; it makes it visible. In doing so, it reinforces the sense that the studio is not simply a place of production, but a repository of shared experience. What is striking is the absence of instrumental language. The artists do not speak primarily of career progression, market success, or institutional validation. These concerns are present, but they are secondary. The emphasis falls instead on enjoyment, on learning, on being part of something that endures. Art is described as a way of inhabiting time, of finding meaning in the act of making, and of connecting with others through that act. In this sense, Studio 17 resembles an art school that has escaped its formal boundaries. It retains the essential qualities of a learning environment, but without the temporal limits or hierarchical structures that often define institutional education. Learning continues indefinitely, shaped by experience rather than curriculum. The collective becomes both teacher and archive. To listen to these accounts is to encounter a different model of artistic life. One in which the shared space is not merely supportive, but constitutive. It shapes the work, the artist, and the relationships between them. It suggests that the conditions in which art is made are inseparable from the art itself. And that sometimes, what endures is not the individual work, but the space that makes such work possible. Art School, as a series, begins here. Not with theory, but with practice. Not with abstraction, but with the lived experience of artists who have chosen, over many years, to remain in proximity to one another. The lesson is not stated directly. It is held in the space between them.

  11. 3 Mar

    Morphic Resonance and The Deep Memory of Sound

    Each Radio Lear mix is assembled as more than a sequence of tracks. It is an attempt at recollection. Not nostalgia, not revivalism, but recollection in a deeper sense: a turning again toward forms that may never have vanished, only fallen silent beneath the noise of modern life. Rupert Sheldrake’s concept of morphic resonance proposes that memory is not stored solely in brains but inheres in fields of pattern and habit. Forms, once established, become easier to repeat. The past is not inert. It presses forward, shaping the present through resemblance. Whether one accepts the hypothesis literally or metaphorically, it offers a compelling aesthetic image. Culture, too, may possess habits. Songs, rituals, gestures, and myths may persist as fields of resonance, awaiting reactivation. Radio Lear’s name gestures toward one such field: the legend of King Lear, rooted in the mythic landscape of the British Isles. Shakespeare’s Lear is not only a tragic monarch but an archetype of dislocation, pride, madness, and eventual insight. “Ripeness is all,” says Edgar near the end of the play. Ripeness implies a season, a rhythm, an organic unfolding. It suggests that meaning ripens within time, not outside it. Lear’s tragedy unfolds against heath and storm, on open land, within elemental forces. The sacred landscape is not backdrop but participant. If morphic resonance suggests that patterns strengthen through repetition, then myth itself may be understood as a cultural field. Carl Jung described the collective unconscious as containing “the whole spiritual heritage of mankind’s evolution.” Archetypes are not learned as facts. They emerge. They recur. They shape imagination across generations. Jung’s language and Sheldrake’s language differ, yet both point toward a continuity beneath conscious awareness. Cultural memory may not reside only in archives and textbooks. It may be carried in symbol, rhythm, and tone. Music operates precisely at this level. Shakespeare, in another late play, writes: “We are such stuff as dreams are made on.” Sound enters us before concept. It moves through pattern and repetition. In a mix, motifs reappear. Textures echo. Harmonic atmospheres recall earlier fragments. The listener may not consciously register the return, yet something feels familiar. This is not unlike Jung’s archetypal recurrence. Nor is it unlike the strengthening of habit that morphic resonance proposes. The British Isles are layered with such habits. Wells dedicated to saints. Standing stones aligned to solstice light. Ballads carried across centuries. Wordsworth sensed this when he wrote of arriving in life “trailing clouds of glory.” William Blake compressed the same intuition into a line: “To see a World in a Grain of Sand.” Both writers evoke continuity between the minute and the cosmic, the present and the primordial. Landscape and imagination interpenetrate. Yet modern urban life often appears dislocated from these rhythms. We move through spaces designed for efficiency rather than ceremony. Seasonal markers blur. Ritual becomes optional, then marginal. Intergenerational transmission weakens as mobility increases and communities fragment. Why has the city, which gathers so many people together, so often failed to sustain shared cultural practice? Why does collective memory appear to thin rather than deepen amid digital abundance? One answer may lie in habit. If cultural forms strengthen through repetition, then the erosion of ritual interrupts their field. Where there is no shared song, no repeated seasonal gathering, no narrative told and retold, the resonance attenuates. It does not disappear entirely. It recedes. The heath remains beneath the asphalt. The old wells remain beneath the pipes. A metamodern approach does not reject modernity nor retreat into romantic reconstruction. It oscillates. It recognises irony yet seeks sincerity. It acknowledges fragmentation yet reaches toward coherence. In this oscillation, morphic resonance becomes a useful metaphor. If patterns can be strengthened through renewed repetition, then cultural practice can be reactivated without naïve revivalism. A Radio Lear mix, then, becomes a modest ritual. It gathers contemporary sound art, experimental composition, field recordings, spoken fragments. It allows ancient archetypes to refract through electronic timbre. The legend of Lear becomes not a museum piece but a living question. What happens when pride dissolves into storm? What remains when identity strips away? “As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods,” Lear cries in despair. The line carries cosmic vulnerability. Yet from within this vulnerability, recognition arises. Morphic resonance suggests that repetition is not redundancy. It is intensification. Jung suggests that archetypes surface when conditions permit. English writers across centuries have sensed that imagination is rooted in place. If these intuitions converge, then cultural memory is neither purely psychological nor merely historical. It is relational. It is enacted. The question, then, is not whether the past survives. It is whether we choose to participate in it. Modern urban life may have become dislocated from intergenerational habit not because myth has vanished, but because ritual has become optional. When seasonal cycles no longer structure communal time, when sound becomes background rather than shared event, the field weakens. To curate a mix is to risk re-patterning. To name it after Lear is to invoke a lineage. To draw upon sacred landscape, archetypal narrative, and contemporary experimentation is to operate within oscillation rather than certainty. If there is such a thing as cultural morphic resonance, it will not be summoned through assertion. It will be strengthened through attentive repetition. Perhaps the deeper question is this: what would it mean for urban culture to remember itself? Not to replicate the past, but to re-enter its habits with awareness. If music can hold a field of resonance, then listening becomes participation. And in that participation, myth may once again find voice in the storm. Notes 1. William Shakespeare, King Lear, Act 5, Scene 2. 2. C. G. Jung, The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche, Collected Works, Vol. 8. 3. William Shakespeare, The Tempest, Act 4, Scene 1. 4. William Wordsworth, “Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood.” 5. William Blake, “Auguries of Innocence.” 6. William Shakespeare, King Lear, Act 4, Scene 1.

  12. 1 Feb

    Intangible Labour’s Ritual Cleanse

    The enactment of Intangible Labour’s Spiritual Cleanse unfolds with a familiarity that is older than the institutional languages we now use to describe art, work, or care. What takes place in the Adult Education Centre and the surrounding streets of Leicester is not merely a performance, nor an intervention, but a ritualised action that resonates with the deep grammar of Ancient Greek worship. Its power lies precisely in its refusal to separate the aesthetic, the civic, and the spiritual into distinct domains. In Ancient Greek culture, ritual was not a retreat from everyday life but its intensification. Processions moved through the polis, carrying fire, song, and symbolic objects, not to escape the city but to re-bind it. The presence of flame in this enactment, tended carefully and publicly, recalls Hestia, the goddess of the hearth, whose fire anchored both household and city. Hestia had no grand temples or myths of conquest. Her sanctity was quiet, continuous, and infrastructural. To keep the fire alive was to sustain communal life itself. The Spiritual Cleanse mirrors this logic. The fire is not spectacular; it is carried, guarded, and walked through traffic, side streets, and the rhythms of an ordinary evening. This is not theatre staged against the city, but ritual enacted within it. In Greek terms, it resembles the thysia and the pompe, acts where movement, offering, and collective witnessing mattered more than belief or explanation. Meaning arises through participation, not interpretation. The cloak, marked and re-marked with symbols of everyday life, functions as a contemporary analogue to the ritual garment or votive object. In Greek practice, objects accumulated meaning through use, inscription, and repetition. They bore the sediment of collective life. Here, the symbols of working-class existence, beer cans, footballs, eyes, cigarettes, are not ironic signifiers but offerings. They name what usually remains unseen, much as ancient ritual named forces that exceeded language but structured daily existence. What is being cleansed is not a space in any hygienic sense, but a social condition. Intangible labour, care work, emotional work, unnoticed maintenance, has no altar in modern bureaucratic culture. Greek ritual, by contrast, gave form to precisely those forces that could not be measured or owned. Catharsis was not psychological release but communal rebalancing. To walk, to sing, to tend fire, to mark cloth, was to realign the visible and the invisible. There is also a distinctly Greek seriousness to the playfulness of the enactment. The roller skates, the hazard sign, the casual humour, echo the way ancient ritual often incorporated inversion, satire, and embodied joy. Sacred games were not solemn abstractions but lived contradictions. Nietzsche’s question, “What sacred games must we create?”, hangs quietly over the performance, not as theory but as necessity. In a metamodern context, the Spiritual Cleanse does not attempt to resurrect a lost pagan past, nor does it parody ritual as spectacle. It oscillates between sincerity and knowingness, between myth and municipal reality. Like Greek ritual, it assumes that meaning is not invented by individuals but emerges when bodies gather, move, and attend together. What remains after the fire is extinguished is not an artwork in the conventional sense, but a memory of alignment. For a brief time, the city remembers itself as a living body, sustained by labour that cannot be itemised. In this sense, the enactment does exactly what ancient ritual once did. It restores attention to what holds the world together, quietly, persistently, and without applause.

About

Welcome to Radio Lear, a captivating exploration of sound and thought that transcends conventional boundaries. In our unique way we invite you to embark on a unique journey curated by Max Sturm, a visionary artist and Creative Director. Discover the transformative power of sound as it intertwines with the principles of metamodernism, bridging the realms of art, technology, and human expression.