Sound, like furniture and light, is an influential element in a space, and should be treated with as much importance as other elements. A great deal of public spaces (restaurants, cafes, stores) in Hoboken play the same or very similar sounding music. It’s mostly the same set of songs, a cycling group of the 40 most popular tracks in the U.S., most of which are written by the same small assortment of largely indistinguishable artists and released by the same three major labels. Each time we enter a space occupied by this kind of music, there’s very little to be surprised about — we’ve heard these songs before, and the melodies they regurgitate from other songs we’ve probably heard next door. The whole enterprise is riddled with sameness, like a musical monopoly.
Marc Augé coined the term “non-place” to describe a place where a person exists in a state of nothingness, indistinguishable from peers, anonymous, and non-applicable to their environment. The location is not distinct enough to earn the title of “place.” It’s worrisome to think of places we so actively move through as sonically non-distinct from one another and therefore non-affecting to our perception of sound. Each time we go into a place, we see the walls, the furniture, the height of the ceilings, perhaps we see people already influencing the space, and hear the sound. Sound is distinct from the other components because although it is technically physical, it does not appear physical like the others, and therefore our guard is down, and it can be more impactful to our perception. As musical selection in these environments becomes more and more homogeneous, our sound-perception of places as distinct from one another fades, and our lives become more boring.
I was recently in a pizzeria where soccer was on the television. Many of the employees were demonstrating their perfected technique of watching and kneading, actually quite impressive to a passerby. Some patrons were watching intermittently during their conversations, some had focused their eyes to their personal screen, and others seemed to be there just for the game. The soccer’s presence and the diners’ reactions to it, whether attentive or not, completely changed the environment. It was exciting, dynamic, and felt representative of the society it occupies space in. I became acutely aware of the influence this soccer match and its viewers had on my experience. There was a soundbed of small celebratory exclamations aimed at the television and the Spanish players featured on it, of light laughter and conversations typical of a Sunday. It felt authentic and unique, like what was happening was a reflection of the individuality of the components of that specific environment, except for the music. They were playing “Firework” by Katy Perry. I was consciously unsurprised at the song choice, but now I was paying attention, and it made no sense. I don’t mean to be misleading; it’s a perfectly acceptable song—actually, I like it—but it was simply not effective in that environment, when so much other music absolutely would be.
Brian Eno, a music producer and theorist, was among the first to discuss furniture music, proposing sound as a component of an environment, something I have mentioned a fair bit. He composed a short album entitled Music For Airports, which is populated by three long ambient songs. The airport was actually one of the places Augé used to describe the non-place, as people remain anonymous to one another there. But Eno personified the place, gave this monotony an expressive identity. I don’t know whether or not Eno directly took reference from Augé’s theories, and it doesn’t really matter, because what we see from the listener’s side is a study on the non-place, to remove our perception of it as such. Naturally, I’ve listened to Music for Airports in an airport — it outlines the space, creates a narrative for anonymity, and it’s well suited to be a component of its environment. I’m not suggesting we all get Brian Eno to score every restaurant in Hoboken, I’m just using his attitude to music in a space as I’m using Hoboken to represent a collection of spaces. I’m suggesting that within each of our public spaces, an identity through sound and music can be achieved, and can breathe life into our experience.
I was talking about this standardization with a friend who happens to be a musician. He agreed that this monotony and sameness in music can be quite unproductive for our happiness. He shared my strong feelings that we can do better with very little work, and that the small details of music in a public space actually have a definitive impact on our experience. My friend was slightly more drastic in his criticism of complacency, claiming that as humans we are more “susceptible to certain evils.” When surrounded by this monotony, we stroll through our world with clear and fulfilled expectations of the sort of environment we are about to walk into. I’m reminded of a rather naff but applicable phrase: variety is the spice of life. It’s romanticized and waxed poetic, but I agree, and I, for one, would prefer a spicier life when eating a slice of pizza.
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