Music of the Urban Environment
This week I was inundated with music. Once I started paying attention, I realized that music surrounds me every day. I went shopping, for instance, on Queen Street and the first clothing store I entered was playing very loud punk music. It sort of fit with the store image of funky, trendy and young. I zipped through in five minutes or less. In a store called Caban, however, the environment was completely different and hence the music. Jazz played softly in the background encouraging me to linger over the popasan chairs and thick terry cloth robes. I leisurely browsed as did everyone else. When I entered one of the many trinket stores on Spadina, I found that they were playing classical music, which seemed at odds with the store atmosphere. When I hear classical music, I picture myself enveloped in a luxuriously decorated store with dark wood panelling, pristine glass shelves and expensive merchandise. Perhaps I am being a snob. On Sunday, my day was filled with music. On my way to the Roundhouse Garden, we encountered several St. Patrick's Day bands in full uniform blowing heartily on their trumpets and beating their drums. Later on at the Rex, bluegrass filled the smoky air as I sipped my hot toddy. Today, at the Bay, old, sappy songs that were never very good, even at the height of their fame, played in the background. I wonder who chooses the music? Later on in a restaurant, there was silence, except for the low murmur of conversation, which I found unusual. So unusual that I actually noticed when the music was eventually turned on. It wasn't distracting, just noticeable. As a footnote to this week, I would like to write about a musical experience I had two weeks ago at a dive in Kensington whose name escapes me right now. The music was hard, dark and strange. It grated on my nerves. It made me wince and cringe. It annoyed and deafened me. I couldn't hear most of the lyrics for the electric guitars screeching in the background. Occassionally, I could make out a phrase or two: "Humanity is screwed! The world is dead!" but for the most part, I could have sworn the masked lead singer was just bellowing at the top of his lungs. I stayed 15 minutes. That music experience was just too visceral and in my face for me to enjoy. If I was bombarded with that on an elevator, I would get off and take the stairs. Some noise just can't be considered music. This brings me to a question: What is music?
When I am at home, it is rare for me to listen to music, yet I enjoy it immensely. I wonder why this is so? Perhaps I feel overwhelmed by all the sounds of the day and my unconscious wishes for a break. Perhaps I am too lazy to turn the cd player on. Maybe I don't have any good cds. Maybe I don't like what is playing on the radio or on my computer. At any rate, I often hear music in my head. Does that count? Is it still music if nobody else can hear it?
This week I was inundated with music. Once I started paying attention, I realized that music surrounds me every day. I went shopping, for instance, on Queen Street and the first clothing store I entered was playing very loud punk music. It sort of fit with the store image of funky, trendy and young. I zipped through in five minutes or less. In a store called Caban, however, the environment was completely different and hence the music. Jazz played softly in the background encouraging me to linger over the popasan chairs and thick terry cloth robes. I leisurely browsed as did everyone else. When I entered one of the many trinket stores on Spadina, I found that they were playing classical music, which seemed at odds with the store atmosphere. When I hear classical music, I picture myself enveloped in a luxuriously decorated store with dark wood panelling, pristine glass shelves and expensive merchandise. Perhaps I am being a snob. On Sunday, my day was filled with music. On my way to the Roundhouse Garden, we encountered several St. Patrick's Day bands in full uniform blowing heartily on their trumpets and beating their drums. Later on at the Rex, bluegrass filled the smoky air as I sipped my hot toddy. Today, at the Bay, old, sappy songs that were never very good, even at the height of their fame, played in the background. I wonder who chooses the music? Later on in a restaurant, there was silence, except for the low murmur of conversation, which I found unusual. So unusual that I actually noticed when the music was eventually turned on. It wasn't distracting, just noticeable. As a footnote to this week, I would like to write about a musical experience I had two weeks ago at a dive in Kensington whose name escapes me right now. The music was hard, dark and strange. It grated on my nerves. It made me wince and cringe. It annoyed and deafened me. I couldn't hear most of the lyrics for the electric guitars screeching in the background. Occassionally, I could make out a phrase or two: "Humanity is screwed! The world is dead!" but for the most part, I could have sworn the masked lead singer was just bellowing at the top of his lungs. I stayed 15 minutes. That music experience was just too visceral and in my face for me to enjoy. If I was bombarded with that on an elevator, I would get off and take the stairs. Some noise just can't be considered music. This brings me to a question: What is music?
When I am at home, it is rare for me to listen to music, yet I enjoy it immensely. I wonder why this is so? Perhaps I feel overwhelmed by all the sounds of the day and my unconscious wishes for a break. Perhaps I am too lazy to turn the cd player on. Maybe I don't have any good cds. Maybe I don't like what is playing on the radio or on my computer. At any rate, I often hear music in my head. Does that count? Is it still music if nobody else can hear it?