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The Inflation Reduction Act is already transforming America. But is it enough?

In the late spring, a scene happened that might have once — even a few years ago — seemed unimaginable.
Senator Joe Manchin and Energy Secretary Jennifer Granholm visited the town of Weirton, West Virginia, to celebrate the groundbreaking of a new factory for the company Form Energy. The factory will produce a new type of iron battery that could eventually store huge amounts of electricity on the grid, allowing solar and wind energy to be saved up and dispatched when needed.
Manchin was clear about why everyone was gathered in Weirton. “Today’s groundbreaking is a direct result of the Inflation Reduction Act, and this type of investment, in a community that has felt the impact of the downturn in American manufacturing, is an example of the IRA bill working as we intended,” he said.
It’s been nearly a year since the Inflation Reduction Act, President Joe Biden’s flagship climate law, passed. The law is successful. It is transforming the American energy system. And the Biden administration is implementing it as fast as it can: Since the law passed, the Treasury Department has published nearly three dozen pieces of complicated rules explaining how the IRA’s billions in subsidies can actually be used.
But is the IRA successful enough? The pace and scale of the climate challenge remains daunting. A recent report from the Rhodium Group, an energy-research firm, found that the United States would only meet its Paris Agreement goal of cutting carbon emissions in half by 2030 with more aggressive federal and state policy.
Here are some broad observations about how the IRA — and the broader project of American decarbonization — is going:
Politically, environmentally, no matter how you look at it: The power sector is the thumping heart of the I.R.A. Because engineers know how to generate electricity without producing carbon pollution — using wind turbines, solar panels, nuclear plants, and more — the sector is central to the law’s implicit plan to decarbonize the American economy, which requires, first, building as much zero-carbon electricity infrastructure as possible, while, second, shifting as much of the rest of the economy to using electricity — as opposed to oil, gas, or coal — as possible.
The electricity industry is also the site of perhaps the law’s most powerful climate policy — and its only policy tied to a national emissions-cutting goal. The law will indefinitely subsidize new zero-carbon electricity until greenhouse-gas pollution from the American power sector falls 75% below its 2022 levels. That means these tax credits could remain in effect until the 2060s, according to an analysis from the research firm Wood MacKenzie.
This was a first for American environmental law, and it remains poorly understood by the public. Even some experts claim that the electricity credits will phase out in 2032 with the I.R.A.’s other subsidies — when, in fact, 2032 is the earliest possible year that they could end.
Which is all to say that it’s early days for understanding the I.R.A.’s effect on the power sector. The data is provisional.
Yet the data is … good. Better than I expected when I started writing this article. The overwhelming majority of new electricity generation built nationwide this year — some 83% — will be wind, solar, or battery storage, according to federal data. Although that mostly reflects projects planned before the IRA was passed, it’s still a giant leap over previous years, and it suggests that the law might be giving clean electricity a boost at the margin:
The solar industry, in particular, is surging. The industry just had its best first quarter ever, with rooftop installations booming and some big utility-scale solar farms finally coming online.
But solar can’t power the entire grid, and other renewables are having more trouble. I’m particularly worried about offshore wind. To build a new offshore-wind project, companies bid for tracts of the ocean floor in a government-run auction. Yet many of those bids failed to account for 2021 and 2022’s rapid inflation, and some developers are now on the hook for projects that don’t pencil out. Most outside analysts now believe that the Biden administration will fall short of its goal to build 30 gigawatts of offshore wind by 2030.
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The boom in electric vehicle and battery manufacturing is clearly the I.R.A.’s brightest spot. (The two industries are one and the same: If you have a giant battery, you’re probably going to put it in an EV; and about a third of every EV’s value comes from the battery.)
Since the IRA passed, 52 new mining or manufacturing projects have been announced, representing $56 billion in new investment, according to a tracker run by Jay Turner, a Wellesley College professor. If you zoom out to all of Biden’s term, then more than $100 billion in EV investment has been announced, which will create more than 75,000 jobs, according to the Department of Energy.
It remains to be seen, however, whether this investment will produce the kind of durable, unionized voter base that the Biden administration hopes to form. So far, much of this investment has flowed to the Sunbelt — and in particular, to a burgeoning zone of investment from North Carolina to Alabama nicknamed the “Battery Belt.” These states are right-to-work states with a low cost-of-living, like much of the states that have absorbed manufacturing investment since the 1980s.
This might make Republicans think twice about undermining the IRA, but it might also be a missed opportunity.
In order to cheaply decarbonize its grid, America needs better power lines. Building long-range, interregional electricity transmission will allow the country to funnel clean energy to where it’s needed most. According to a team led by Jesse Jenkins, a Princeton engineering professor, 80% of the IRA’s carbon-reduction benefits could be lost if the United States doesn’t quicken the pace of new transmission construction. (Other models are less worried.)
Yet the effort to build more power lines — and the broader campaign to reform some rules governing permitting and land use, especially the National Environmental Policy Act — is probably over, at least in this Congress. Republican lawmakers figured out that Democrats are desperate for transmission reform, and they were prepared to make the party pay a high price for it — too high a price for much of the caucus. The bipartisan deal to raise the debt-ceiling also contained many of the moderate permitting reforms that Democrats might have accepted as part of a broader bargain over transmission.
Democrats are now stuck hoping that the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission, or FERC, will make smaller, more technocratic improvements to the transmission process when they take a majority of the commission’s seats early next year.
The biggest programs in the IRA target mature technologies, like solar, wind, and EVs. But the law is full of unheralded programs meant to encourage the development of early-stage climate technologies, such as sustainable aviation fuel. By encouraging technological progress, these programs could abate hundreds of millions of tons of carbon a year in the decades after 2030. They may prove especially important at reducing emissions outside the United States, according to a new analysis from Rhodium Group.
Which is to say that they could be — from a world-historic perspective — some of the law’s most important policies. But for now, few of these programs have been implemented, and we don’t really know how they’re going to go.
Some of them may also be devilishly hard to set up. My colleague Emily Pontecorvo has reported on the difficulty of setting up the tax credits for green hydrogen, which are some of the law’s most generous. If successful, the credits could give the U.S. a major new industry to tackle the decarbonization challenge; if unsuccessful, they could screw up the American electricity system.
Right now, most of the law’s consumer-facing tax credits are continuations of old policies — such as the longstanding subsidy to install rooftop solar — rather than something new. Perhaps the most expansive subsidy that consumers have seen so far is the new $7,500 tax credit for leasing an electric vehicle.
But many more programs will eventually come, including the IRA’s rebates for heat pumps, induction stoves, and electric water heaters. Those programs, some of which must be administered by state offices, have largely yet to be set up. (Even so — and in keeping with other encouraging trends — heat pump sales outpaced furnace sales in the U.S. for the first time last year.)
The Department of Energy is an agency transformed. The IRA held out the opportunity that the agency could metamorphose from an R&D-focused nuclear-weapons storehouse into the federal government’s dynamo of decarbonization. The Biden administration — and Energy Secretary Jennifer Granholm — has seized that opportunity.
As I wrote earlier this year, the agency has stepped into the role of being America’s bureau of industrial policy, replete with its own in-house bank. It has published some of the most detailed and sophisticated federal industrial plans that I’ve ever seen.
And it is getting admirably specific about each of the technologies in its portfolio. In a recent report on the nascent hydrogen industry, for instance, the department said that companies might not build out enough infrastructure because they can’t count on future demand for clean hydrogen. (It’s impossible for firms to invest in making hydrogen if they can’t be sure anyone is going to buy it.) Then, earlier this week, the agency announced a new $1 billion program to buy hydrogen itself, thus providing that demand-side certainty that producers need.
Let’s return to renewables. The United States is striving — but will likely fail — to build 30 gigawatts of offshore wind by 2030. It is building a couple dozen gigawatts of new solar capacity every year. That may seem like a lot: One gigawatt of electricity is enough to power about 825,000 homes.
But annual power demand in the United States is closer to 4,000 gigawatts — and it’s on track to grow as we electrify more and more of the economy. While decarbonizing the grid isn’t as simple as switching one energy source for another, still, it would take more than a century to build 4,000 gigawatts of renewables electricity at our current rate.
It’s a similar story in electric cars. The growth is good: EV sales rose 50% year over year in the first half of 2023. But the challenge is daunting: Electric vehicles made up only 7% of all new car sales in the U.S. during the same period, and decarbonizing the car fleet will eventually require making virtually all new car sales EVs, and then — over the next decade — replacing the 275 million private vehicles on the road.
And that’s the story of the IRA — from renewables to EVs, geothermal to nuclear energy. The trends have never been better. The government has never tried to change the energy system so quickly or so thoroughly. That, by itself, is progress: For decades, the great obstacle of climate change was that the government wasn’t trying to solve it at all.
But decarbonization will require replacing hundreds of millions of machines that exist in the world — and doing it fast enough that we avoid dealing catastrophic damage to the climate system. The IRA is about to take on that challenge head-on. Now we find out if it’s up to the task.
The real work, in other words, is just beginning.
Read more from Robinson Meyer:
The East Coast’s Smoke Could Last Until October
The Weird Reasons Behind the Atlantic Ocean’s Crazy Heat
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Plus news on cloud seeding, fission for fusion, and more of the week’s biggest money moves.
From beaming solar power down from space to shooting storm clouds full of particles to make it rain, this week featured progress across a range of seemingly sci-fi technologies that have actually been researched — and in some cases deployed — for decades. There were, however, few actual funding announcements to speak of, as earlier-stage climate tech venture funds continue to confront a tough fundraising environment.
First up, I explore Meta’s bet on space-based solar as a way to squeeze more output from existing solar arrays to power data centers. Then there’s the fusion startup Zap Energy, which is shifting its near-term attention toward the more established fission sector. Meanwhile, a weather modification company says it’s found a way to quantify the impact of cloud seeding — a space-age sounding practice that’s actually been in use for roughly 80 years. And amidst a string of disappointments for alternate battery chemistries, this week brings multiple wins for the sodium-ion battery sector.
One might presume that terrestrial solar paired with batteries would prove perfectly adequate for securing 24/7 clean energy moving forward, as global prices for panels and battery packs continue to fall. But the startup Overview Energy, which uses lasers to beam solar power from space directly onto existing solar arrays, thinks its space-based solar energy systems will prove valuable for powering large loads like data centers through the night. Now Meta is backing that premise, signing a first-of-its-kind agreement with Overview this week that secures early access for up to a gigawatt of capacity from the startup’s system.
Initial orbital demonstrations are slated for 2028, with commercial power delivery targeted for 2030. It’s an ambitious timeline, and certainly not the first effort to commercialize space-based solar, though prior analyses have generally concluded that while the physics check out, the economics and logistics don’t. Overview Energy thinks its found the core unlocks though: “geographic untethering,” which allows it to direct its beam to ground-based solar arrays anywhere in the world based on demand, and high-efficiency lasers capable of converting near-infrared light into electricity much more efficiently than pure sunlight.
The startup is targeting between $60 and $100 per megawatt-hour by 2035, at which point the goal is to be putting gigawatts of space solar on the grid. “It’s 5 o’clock somewhere,” Marc Berte, founder and CEO of Overview Energy, told me when I interviewed him last December. “You’re profitable at $100 bucks a megawatt-hour somewhere, instantaneously, all the time.”
Launch costs have also fallen sharply since the last serious wave of space-solar research, and Overview has already booked a 2028 launch with SpaceX. Solar power beamed from space also sidesteps two earthly constraints — land use and protracted grid interconnection timelines. So while this seemingly sci-fi vision remains unproven, it might be significantly more plausible than it once appeared. And Meta’s certainly not alone in taking that bet — Overview has already raised a $20 million seed round led by Lowercarbon Capital, Prime Movers Lab, and Engine Ventures.
Fusion startups are increasingly looking to nearer-term revenue opportunities as they work toward commercializing the Holy Grail of energy generation. Industry leader Commonwealth Fusion Systems is selling its high-temperature superconducting magnets to other developers, while other companies including Shine Technologies are generating income by producing nuclear isotopes for medical imaging. Now one startup, Zap Energy, is pushing that playbook a step further, announcing this week that it plans to develop fission reactors before putting its first fusion electrons on the grid.
Specifically, the startup is now attempting to develop small modular reactors — hardly a novel idea, as companies like Oklo, Kairos, and TerraPower have already secured significant public and private funding and struck major data center deals. Zap, however, thinks it can catch up to these new competitors in part by leveraging design commonalities between fission and fusion systems, including the use of liquid metals, engineered neutron environments, and high-power-density systems. “Fission and fusion are two expressions of the same underlying physics," Zap’s co-founder Benj Conwayby said in the press release. "This isn’t a pivot — by integrating them into a single platform, we can move faster, reduce risk, and build a more enduring company."
As the company outlines on its website, pursuing both pathways could eventually manifest in the development of a hybrid fusion-fission system, while also giving Zap practical experience interfacing with regulators and securing approvals. As The New York Times reports, the company is targeting an early 2030s timeline for its fission reactors, although Zap has yet to specify a timeline for fusion commercialization. Like so many of its peers, the company is eyeing data centers as a promising initial market, though bringing its first units online will likely require a significant influx of additional capital.
For all the concern surrounding geoengineering fixes for climate change such as solar radiation management, there’s one form of weather modification that’s been in use since the 1940s — cloud seeding. This practice typically involves flying planes into the center of storms and releasing flares that disperse a chemical called silver iodide into the clouds. This causes the water droplets within the clouds to freeze, increasing the amount of precipitation that falls as either rain or snow.
Alarming as it may sound for the uninitiated, there’s no evidence that silver iodide causes harm at current usage levels. But what has been far more difficult to pin down is efficacy — specifically, how much additional precipitation cloud seeding actually creates. That’s where the startup Rainmaker comes in. The company, which deploys unmanned drones to inject the silver iodide, says that its advanced radar and satellite systems indicate that its operations generated over 143 million gallons of additional freshwater in Oregon and Utah this year — roughly equivalent to the annual water usage of about 1,750 U.S. households. The findings have not yet been peer reviewed, but if accurate, they would make Rainmaker the first private company to quantify the impact of its cloud seeding operations.
Cloud seeding is already a well-oiled commercial business, with dozens of states, utility companies and ski resorts alike using it to increase snowfall in the drought-stricken American West and worldwide — China in particular spends tens of millions of dollars per year on the technology. Rainmaker has a particular aspiration: to help restore Utah’s Great Salt Lake, which has been shrinking since the 1980s amid rising water demand and increased evaporation driven by warmer temperatures.
In a press release, the company’s 26-year-old founder and CEO Augustus Doricko said, “With the newfound capability to measure our yields and quantify our results, Rainmaker will go forward and continue our mission to refill the Great Salt Lake, end drought in the American West and deliver water abundance wherever it is needed most around the world."
Sodium-ion batteries have long been touted as an enticing alternative — or at least complement — to lithium-ion systems for energy storage. They don’t rely on scarce and costly critical minerals like lithium, nickel, or cobalt, and have the potential to be far less flammable. The relatively nascent market also offers an opening for the U.S. to gain a foothold in this segment of the battery supply chain. But especially domestically, the industry has struggled to gain traction. Two sodium-ion startups, Natron and Bedrock Materials, both closed up shop last year as prices for lithium-iron-phosphate batteries cratered, eroding sodium-ion’s cost advantage, while the cost of manufacturing batteries in the U.S. constrained their ability to scale.
But one notable bright spot is the startup Alsym Energy, which announced this week that it has signed a letter-of-intent with long-duration energy storage company ESS Inc. for 8.5 gigawatt-hours of sodium-ion cells and modules, marking ESS’s expansion into the short and medium-duration storage market. Alsym’s CEO, Mukesh Chatter, told me this represents the largest deal for sodium-ion batteries in the U.S. to date — although it’s not yet a binding contract. Notably, it came just a day after the world’s largest-ever order for these batteries, as CATL disclosed a 60 gigawatt-hour sodium-ion agreement with energy storage integrator HyperStrong. Taken together, these partnerships suggest the sector is finally picking up durable traction both domestically and abroad.
ESS, however, is facing its own operational headwinds, nearly shuttering its Oregon manufacturing plant last year before securing an unexpected cash infusion and pivoting to a new, longer-duration storage product. Chatter remains exuberant about Alsym’s deal with the storage provider, however, telling me it represents a major proof point in terms of broader industry acceptance and an acknowledgement that “the benefits [sodium-ion] brings to the table are significant enough to overcome any stickiness” and hesitation around adopting new battery chemistries.
Chatter said that interest is now pouring in from all sides, citing inquiries from lithium-ion battery manufacturers, utilities, and defense companies and highlighting use cases ranging from data centers to apartment buildings and mining operations as likely early deployment targets.
A handful of startups are promising better, cheaper, safer water purification tech.
The need for desalination has long been clear in water-scarce regions of the planet. But with roughly a quarter of the global population now facing extreme water stress and drought conditions only projected to intensify, the technology is becoming an increasingly necessary tool for survival in a wider array of geographies.
Typically, scaling up desalination infrastructure has meant building costly, energy-intensive coastal plants that rely on a process called reverse osmosis, which involves pushing seawater through semi-permeable membranes that block salt and other contaminants, leaving only fresh water behind. Now, however, a number of startups are attempting to rework that model, with solutions that range from subsea facilities to portable desalination devices for individuals and families.
They could find potential customers across the globe. Many countries in the Middle East — including Saudi Arabia, Israel, Bahrain, Kuwait, and Qatar — rely on desalination for the bulk of their municipal water. Meanwhile, drought-prone regions from Australia to the Caribbean and California have also turned to the technology to shore up supply. But as the Iran war has underscored, this vital infrastructure is increasingly being treated as a military target, exposing a significant vulnerability in a resource relied upon by hundreds of millions.
One more resilient alternative is to move the plants underwater — making them more difficult to target while also harnessing subsurface pressure to do some of the energy-intensive work of desalination.
“I came up with the idea of using natural pressure to run the process,” Robert Bergstrom, a veteran of the water industry and CEO of the desalination startup OceanWell, told me. That meant “putting the membranes in a place where it’s already 800 pounds [of pressure] per square inch” — e.g. inside pods on the ocean floor, each capable of producing 1 million gallons of freshwater daily. By using the natural pressure of the ocean to drive the reverse osmosis process, this approach cuts energy use by about 40%, he said, thus slashing the system’s largest operating cost: electricity.
OceanWell’s design maintains a lower internal pressure within each pod than the surrounding environment, causing seawater to flow passively inside and push through membranes — just like on land, but without the high-pressure pumps. Compact pumps inside the pods then push the freshwater up a pipeline to the shore, while the resulting brine dissipates in the deep ocean.
The method also helps solve another problem with conventional desalination: environmental impact. Today’s facilities typically produce a more concentrated brine that they discharge at the ocean’s surface, which is more disruptive to marine ecosystems. The plants also frequently cause damage to organisms large and small by either trapping them against water intake screens or pulling them into the plant itself. That’s been a big sticking point when it comes to permitting these facilities, especially in California where the startup is based. OceanWell’s system, Bergstrom said, is able to filter out larger organisms while allowing microscopic ones to pass through the pods and return to the ocean.
The company began a trial last year in partnership with Las Virgenes Municipal Water District in southern California, testing its system in a freshwater reservoir full of marine life to verify its safety. Next it will test its pods in the ocean before undertaking a pilot in a to-be-determined location — California, Hawaii, and Nice in southern France are all contenders. If all goes according to plan, OceanWell will follow that up with a full-fledged commercial system targeted for 2030.
But it’s not the only startup pursuing underwater desalination — or even the one with the most aggressive timeline. Two years ago, Norwegian startup Flocean spun out of the subsea pump specialist FSubsea with a similar technical approach and a plan to deploy its first commercial system off Norway’s western coast this year. Flocean has already logged over a year of testing in the deep ocean, a stage OceanWell has yet to reach.
OceanWell thinks it can differentiate itself by meeting the unusually stringent permitting required in California. “If we can get it done in California, then the rest of the world will follow,” Bergstrom told me, meaning more resilient, more energy-efficient freshwater infrastructure for all. But it’s a high bar. The last major effort to build a desalination facility in the state led to a long-running fight that ended in 2022 with a rejection. Over 100 groups opposed the facility proposed for Orange County, citing risks to marine life, as well as high energy requirements and costs, with many arguing that alternatives — such as conservation and wastewater treatment — would be more superior options.
Megan Mauter, an associate professor of civil engineering at Stanford, thinks the groups may have a point, especially when it comes to overall system costs. The high capex of desalination can be hard to justify in California, she told me, since the state doesn’t need it 100% of the time, only in bad drought years. For example, just a few weeks ago, The Wall Street Journal reported that San Diego County’s desalination plant, by far the largest in California, now has a surplus of desalinated water that it’s looking to sell to drought-ridden Western states such as Nevada and Arizona.
And while desalination startups purport to cut overall system costs, she has her doubts about that. “The energy savings that they’re going to get are offset by some pretty high increased costs of the other elements of their plant designs,” Mauter told me. “In a subsea system, you’ve got these unproven and not mass-manufactured skids. You’ve got subsea installation, and then mooring it, and putting in pipelines that you’ve got to maintain all the way to land. You’ve got to convey water back to shore, which takes energy, and you are going to have significantly higher maintenance burdens in an open ocean environment.”
Despite her reservations, she certainly sees the appeal of non-traditional water sources, “even at costs that would have been totally infeasible a decade ago.” Municipal planners are staring down a future of worsening drought at the same time that states in the Colorado River basin remain locked in contentious negotiations over water rights, debating how to allocate cuts as river flows have declined nearly 20% since 2000. California’s narrow continental shelf also makes it an ideal environment for subsea desalination, as having deep water close to shore allows the system to harness pressure depths while minimizing the length of the pipeline needed to transport freshwater to land. Norway is also favored in this way.
“I don’t know whether the cost gaps can be solved, but I bet that the technology gaps could be solved,” Mauter told me.
Ultimately, she thinks the binding constraint is likely to be regulatory rather than technical. “Permitting is going to be a nightmare unless something fundamentally changes,” she said. Bergstrom told me that OceanWell is currently working with the California State Water Resources Control Board to revise its rules that govern desalination facilities in order to account for new technologies, though how long that process will take is anyone’s guess.
There’s one idea emerging in this ecosystem that largely sidesteps the regulatory constraints that control our land and seas. The startup Vital Lyfe has developed a portable desalination unit roughly the size of a small cooler that allows individuals and households to produce freshwater on demand with reverse osmosis — effectively decentralizing the desalination industry in the same way that the startup’s founders, former SpaceX engineers, helped decentralize internet infrastructure with Starlink.
“We’ve seen this paradigm shift coming out of Starlink that traditional, large, centralized, systems are very expensive,” Vital Lyfe CEO Jon Criss told me. “They’re hard to deploy and hard to scale up when you really need them.”
After raising a $24 million seed round in December, the startup launched its first product a few weeks ago, which retails for $750. At that price point, it’s a great deal for sailors spending days or weeks at sea, but likely too expensive for the individuals in remote communities far from water infrastructure that might need it most. Criss’s goal is to quickly iterate on this first product to bring more affordable models to the market in short order.
Portable desalination devices aren’t anything new in and of themselves — they’ve been used in military, maritime, and humanitarian scenarios for decades. The startup’s breakthrough, Criss explained, is more about manufacturing efficiency than technology. “We went all the way back, looked at why every component was designed and how to redesign it for high rate manufacturing. So we were able to substantially drop the cost of ownership and operation of these things.”
You’ll soon find Vital Lyfe’s product in big box retail stores, Criss said, though he also aims to partner with large-scale desalination facilities and utilities to help boost their output. Either way, the startup is already generating buzz — it’s seen significant inbound interest as of late, as the inherent resilience of its small system stands in sharp contrast to the vulnerability of conventional desalination infrastructure now being targeted in the Middle East.
The company is scaling up to meet the moment, building out a facility in Los Angeles county that Criss said will eventually produce 120 portable units per hour. He’s aiming to start production by summer’s end, ramping to full capacity by October. “Within the next three years we plan to account for about 10% of total membrane production at Vital Lyfe alone,” he told me, referring specifically to the production for the desalination industry.
The future of the industry, of course, could look like any combination of all of these approaches — portable devices, conventional plants on land, and modular systems at sea. What seems certain is that as the globe continues to heat up, so will desalination tech.
Why local governments are getting an earful about “infrasound”
As the data center boom pressures counties, cities, and towns into fights over noise, the trickiest tone local officials are starting to hear complaints about is one they can’t even hear – a low-frequency rumble known as infrasound.
Infrasound is a phenomenon best described as sounds so low, they’re inaudible. These are the sorts of vibrations and pressure at the heart of earthquakes and volcanic activity. Infrasound can be anything from the waves shot out from a sonic boom or an explosion to very minute changes in air pressure around HVAC systems or refrigerators.
Knowing some of these facilities also have the capacity to produce significant audible noise, growing segments of the population’s more tech-skeptical and health-anxious corners are fretting some data centers could be making a lot of infrasound, too. The whizzing of so many large computational machines combined with cooling fans and other large devices creating so many new columns of air flow. Add onto that any rotational onsite power generation – think natural gas turbines, for example – and you get quite a lot of movement that could potentially produce what they say is infrasound.
Some of the virality of this chatter about infrasound and data centers comes from a video about infrasound created by audio engineer and researcher Benn Jordan. Currently sitting at more than 1 million views, this short YouTube film documents claims that some data centers are operating like “acoustic weapons” through infrasound and harming people. Andy Masley, an “effective altruist” writer, has become the chief critic of the Jordan video, getting into a back-and-forth that’s raised the issue to Internet discourse territory.
The Jordan-Masley infrasound debate is honestly a bit of a mess. So I want to be clear: I’m not going to get into the science of whether or not infrasound poses any kind of public health risk in this article. We can get to that later. It’s worth saying that this subject may need more study and that work is ongoing. Also, talking about infrasound at all can make you honestly sound a little wacky (see: this study blaming people seeing ghosts on infrasound). It might also remind you of another panic in the Electric Age: electromagnetic fields, also known as EMFs. Developers of transmission lines and solar projects have long had to deal with people worried about transmission lines and large electrical equipment potentially glowing with invisible, unhealthy radiation.
In late 2024, I wrote about how an RFK Jr. supporter worried about this form of electrical emission was helping lead the fight against a transmission line in New Jersey for offshore wind. Maybe that’s why it didn’t surprise me one bit when the Health and Human Services secretary himself told a U.S. Senate Committee last week that he was asking the Surgeon General’s office to “do either meta reviews” or “base studies” on noise pollution and EMF radiation from data centers “so we can better inform the American public.”
“There’s a range of injuries that are very, very well documented. They’re neurological – very, very grave neurological injuries, cancer risk,” Kennedy Jr. told the Senate Health, Education, Labor and Pensions Committee on April 22 in response to a request from Sen. Josh Hawley of Missouri to study the issue. “The risks, to me, are tremendous.”
There’s also the unfortunate reality that infrasound impacts have previously been a cudgel to slow down renewable energy deployment. Wind turbines create infrasound because of the subharmonic frequencies created when one turbine rotates at a slightly different pace than another, producing a slightly dissonant low frequency noise. Groups like the Heartland Institute proudly list this infrasound as one of the reasons wind energy “menaces man and nature.”
But regardless of merit, this concern is already impacting local government decisions around data center projects, much like how one Michigan county sought to restrict solar energy on the same basis.
In February Adrian Shelley, the Texas director for environmental group Public Citizen, implored the city of Red Rock to study changing their noise ordinance to take into account infrasound. “It has effects on sleep patterns, on stress, on cardiovascular health, and it is potentially a very serious concern,” Shelley said at a February 11 city council discussion on data center rules. “It will not be covered by the city’s noise ordinance, which only deals with audible sound.”
Earlier this month in Calvert County, Maryland, a volunteer for their environmental commission recently told the county government that infrasound needs to be factored into their future data center planning. “It will have significant impacts on our region and the Chesapeake and the Patuxent because infrasound isn’t stopped by walls,” commission member Janette Wysocki, a proud land conservationist, said at an April 15 hearing. “It will keep going, it will move through anything. It’s a very long wavelength. So we need to protect our ecosystem.” Wysocki implored the county to consider whether to adjust its noise regulations.
Around the same time, similar concerns were raised in Lebanon, a small city in east-central Pennsylvania. “It permeates through concrete walls, it permeates through the ground,” Thomas Dompier, an associate professor at Lebanon Valley College, said at an April 16 Lebanon County commission hearing on data centers.
Lastly, last week I explained how Loudon County wants to rethink its noise ordinance to deal with low-frequency “hums” from data centers – a concern echoing those who fret infrasound.
Ethan Bourdeau, executive director of standards at Quiet Parks Intentional and a career acoustician and building standards writer, told me that what makes data centers unique is the “constant drone” of noise that could potentially carry subharmonic frequencies. Bourdeau said cities or counties could possibly factor concerns about infrasound into noise ordinances to address those who are most concerned. One way they could do it is by changing how decibels are weighted in the government’s measurements. A-weighting decibel meters are a common form of sound measurement geared toward perceptible noise. Using different systems, like C-weighting or G-weighting, would avoid ways that A-weighting can filter out sub-hearing frequencies.
“These are reporting and weighting systems where a sound level meter taking background noise receives all the unweighted sound and then you apply all these filters afterwards, like an EQ curve,” Bourdeau said.
So I guess if those most concerned about infrasound have their way, a lot of country commissioners and local elected leaders will be heading to the mixing booth.