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TIME: Almanac 1993
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TIME Almanac 1993.iso
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010791
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0107640.000
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1992-08-28
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ESSAY, Page 84In One Ear, in the Other
By Lance Morrow
If everyone's life is a movie, every life may need a
musical sound track: a heroic overall theme (like Lawrence of
Arabia or Star Wars) and various mood pieces to accompany the
separate moments -- romance, sorrow, shopping. There might be
a bright reveille on waking, a theme to shower by, music for
orange juice and coffee, bustling big-city notes, perhaps (like
those in 1950s New York office-girl sagas such as The Best of
Everything), by which to go to work. Winning an important
contract might call forth Chariots of Fire. The approach of
one's personal Great White Shark would be announced by an
ominous sawing of cellos.
It could be done. The technology exists. An aural implant,
perhaps a pulse monitor so that the music would follow the
body's beat . . .
On second thought, it is a revolting idea. But at least the
permeating noise would be customized. As things stand now, the
brain is assaulted by an indiscriminate aerosol of sound that
comes out of a can and spreads like a virus. Canned music is a
sort of Legionnaire's disease seeping through the world's
hotels: a Lawrence Welkish synthetic, a dense cloud of inanimate
noodling. It drifts from elevator to lobby, from lobby to dining
room and coffee shop, thence even to the men's room, then jumps
from hotel to hotel, from city to city, from country to country,
until no corner of the earth is safe from this blight of the
sprightly, a technique of musical leveling that can make any
music -- the Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel, Mozart, 2 Live Crew,
the Soviet anthem -- sound like Raindrops Keep Falling on My
Head.
Enlil, the Mesopotamian god of the atmosphere, sent down a
flood upon the world because of "the intolerable uproar of
mankind." Unwanted noise for some reason provokes irrational
fantasies of revenge: either submit to noise or annihilate the
source. If Enlil were still in office, not a square centimeter
of the earth would be dry. The only sound would be a gentle
global lapping of waves.
Noise performs its function in nature: as a warning, for
example, or a cry of pain, or as an aural accounting of reality
(those are footsteps that you hear approaching, that is the
surf, that is your boss). Noise by definition ought to be
random, as life is random. If noise is programmed, deliberate,
even institutionalized, it had better have a good reason. It had
better be Bach.
Noise is often a form of stupidity and an invasion of the
mind. Nature left the side gates to the brain (the ears)
incautiously open. Any passing Visigothic mob of decibels can
come swarming in, marauding, overturning thoughts, wrecking the
civilization.
An infant's cry of distress is so pitched by nature that
its urgency cannot be ignored. Thus life is served, the baby is
fed. But certain other noises that cannot be ignored (the
whooping car alarm, the political campaign) lead to madness,
homicide or, in most of us, an exhausted disgust. The poor
battered ear grows accustomed to the occupying armies.
If noise assaulted a different sense, say, the sense of
smell, then people would race from the room at the smell of
jackhammers, boom boxes and certain long stretches of Wagner.
Somehow the human nose has kept a comparative purity of
response; it remains a proud, indignant organ. The ears,
however, are defeated territory.
Canned music settles over the mind like a terrible
exhalation of "air fresheners." Noise becomes sinister when it
ceases to be episode and becomes environment. When someone
carries a loud radio onto a bus, what you have is an individual
committing an aggression against his surroundings. But canned
music is an assault of the surroundings against the individual.
The environment itself commits the aggression and does so
ironically in the guise of universal inoffensiveness.
A funny effect: the raunch of rock 'n' roll comes to sound
like the Church Lady. The Rolling Stones' I Can't Get No
Satisfaction: dum dum dum dum...dum dum dum dum. Thus does
detoxified music become most toxic, a lemon-scent, pine-suffused
fallout.
In Japan, WALK signs at intersections have been programmed
to tinkle Comin' Through the Rye or other tunes for pedestrians
as they cross the street. The effect is charming, at least to a
stranger, because it is unexpected, a silly cross-cultural grace
note, a line of sunlight. But canned, environmental, globally
permeating noise fills no human need. Somehow it has achieved
a life of its own. The world's hotel managers should pull the
plug, to universal applause. Then everyone in the lobbies of the
world could appreciate the subsequent sound of one hand
clapping.