Tools manipulated in an old workshop, clocks slowed down, the spinning wheel of a rusty bike, children playing near a church, the sound of the wind in Norfolk, climbing up the stairs in a disused windmill, ghost echoes. Those are some sounds that constitute the atmosphere of The Silent Watcher. Presented in their raw form or heavily processed, they all relate to old memories, often blurred and incomplete; the aural equivalent of a faded polaroid. From field recordings, layers are created, manipulated, taken apart and rebuilt and soon begin to tell a story - a story often buried under droney textures and fragmented melodies and only partially revealed, but more often distorted and reconstructed.