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And Not A Note I Like! |
Why does every corner of my life have to be invaded by 'music'?
By
GERALD NACHMAN
of TheColumnists.com
The other day I saw an anguished letter to the editor lamenting the fact that, despite Pacific Bell Park's dedication to preserving the sanctity of old baseball at its new stadium, cheesy rock music continues to blast out of loud speakers between innings and during lulls in every San Francisco Giants game.
Just as it did at Candlestick/3Com Park, and just as it does in most ballparks--and, for that matter, just as it does everywhere, the "music" just keeps coming. You hear it in video stores, elevators, grocery stores, record shops, of course, and even in that former sanctuary of solitude, book stores. I expect libraries are now weighing the advantages of drawing more children to the stacks if sucked inside by the rap style of Puffy Combs.
The issue is this: music, music everywhere, nor any time to think, to paraphrase a poem I must read some day. It isn't just that it's crummy pop music, but that there is no escaping it. It is there, jangling on the telephone, burrowing into your ear on call waiting. It is in airport terminals, cranking up flight anxiety even more; it is inside the airplane as you await takeoff. It is in restaurants, department stores, the dentist's office. My formerly tasteful dentist at least tuned the dial to a classical station, but he retired and his replacement is a KOIT listener, which may mean finding a new dentist.
It is harrowing enough to visit a dentist without also being subjected to Mariah Carey or Britney Spears (names I thought I'd throw in to show how hip I am, although I have no idea who they are--nor, I might add, they me). I might compromise on Sinatra or Keely Smith, but otherwise I'd prefer the gentle sound of a hygienist whispering sweet nothings in my mouth.
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It is almost impossible to find a place today where tinny music is not required listening. This all began a generation ago when the dreaded Muzak first infiltrated our lives, our pores, our very bones, like some hideous airborne germ or noxious radiation emanating from an unseen nearby nuclear waste dump. It has seeped into every aspect of modern life until you almost don't hear it anymore. Almost.
Recorded music is such an accepted part of our world now that it seems too late to eradicate it. This is noise pollution at its most devious, masquerading as music. The original idea, I guess, was to spray the atmosphere with some sort of aural Airwick, to protect us from the ghastly sounds of actual life.
I am blessed or cursed with ears that could pick up a guitar twanging three blocks away. I have spent more time than I want to admit searching out the source of a radio station blaring somewhere within my consciousness, only to track it down and find that it's coming from a house-painter's portable radio across the street, treating everyone in the neighborhood to the sounds of a hip-hop station he's not even listening to -- but I am. People turn on music today the way they used to smoke, without even thinking about its gruesome consequences to innocent bystanders. Rock Muzak won't kill you, but it can burn holes in your peace of mind.
I used to think that if the music was more to my liking -- show tunes, say, or symphonic music -- I wouldn't mind, but I no longer feel that this is necessarily the case. I once lived beneath the apartment of a man who played Gershwin songs on his piano all night, but it wasn't any help.
Much as I love music, when I want to hear it, I'm not interested in music that's just used to fill air or kill time; that's really an abuse of music. I enjoy non-music just as much. I groove on the sounds of silence, to quote Simon & Garfunkel. I like the ambient sound of pages rustling in a bookstore, or the low hum of people conversing in a restaurant. (There are still a few bistros where you can hear yourself ordering; piped-in music cranks up the sound level even higher).
Or, yes, the gentle music of a crowd enjoying itself at a baseball game, which is not only how God and Alexander Cartwright intended the game should be played, but also allows you to contemplate the nuances without rude interruptions from some creepy unseen DJ.
If ever a game needed music less, it's baseball, which has its own sound of hawkers peddling hot dogs and beer and peanuts, the soothing babble of the crowd and the occasional surge of a roar when something happens on the field. It is the perfect adult white noise while reading or eating. Baseball doesn't need rock music any more than it needs dot games and cartoons and other kiddie graphics to entertain customers who are there, I would think, to escape TV and computer games and all other visual and vocal pollution.
The only shabby reason for loud music at ballgames is, of course, to draw younger people to the park. Actual fans, of all ages, are quite content to focus on the game and, if in need of sound, can converse with their friends or fellow spectators. Piping music into a ball field, especially one like Pac Bell Park that touts its throwback to another era, is a time- and mind-warping experience.
Fans of that era did not expect or need or miss loud popular music. When there was music, it was live and played on a large organ located somewhere beyond the scoreboard. Or there might be a pick-up band like the Silly Sym-Phony that serenaded Dodgers fans at Ebbets Field. Otherwise, it was silent enough to hear a player pounding his glove or a derisive shout from the stands or, the prettiest sound of all, the crack of bat against ball, which still has the power to penetrate even heavy metal.
© 2000 by Gerald Nachman. Nachman caricature © 2000 by Jim Hummel.
You can comment on this column or reach Gerald Nachman with an email to: talkback@thecolumnists.com
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