or
Public transport headphone madness
I know what you’re thinking. Yes, people listen to music on public transport. Nothing new there. We’ve landed on the moon. That’s old news. I never gave it much thought either.
Until recently.
In recent times, unencumbered by work worries or indeed worries of any other kind, I have thought in some depth about the question, what is with all these headphone wearing fatherfuckers on public transport? What are the implications, the ramifications, the tribulations?
I suspect that your average Emma has considered the issue, in a flickering subconscious kind of way, and if pressed (on the solar plexus) would advise of certain issues.
What is with people who play their music so loud that you can hear it? Aren’t they hurting their ear drums? That’s so rude.
Mmm, it’s nice not having to feel the impingement of all these other consciousnesses on my consciousness as we sit in this crowded moving box.
My music’s not on but fuck it, I ain’t taking the ear plugs out. People are leaving me a lone.
Bugger, my battery’s dead.
So I gathered some data. 12 bus rides, 10 train rides, several parkpath walks. My results are not statistically significant but for my purposes today that doesn’t bother any one one whit. Here are the figures:
Bus: 39% of all passengers wear headphones
Train: 46% of all passengers wear headphones
Park walkers: 25% of all pederasts, I mean pedestrians, wear headphones.
I have no doubt, these numbers are conservative. I voted for the shooter’s party at the last three local elections. ipOd and mp3 penetration will continue unfettered. Old non-listening folks will die off. The bus drivers will start wearing them. The percentages will climb.
We’re all stars, or perhaps supporting cast, in our own movies. The soundtrack floods our ears while we stroll down the street.
Except when we're victims of the new ipOd-Invade, which can broadcast your music for 30m in all directions, parasitising existing headphones.
People are living very, very different commuter lives these days. No one talks – unless it’s on the phone to someone somewhere else. Do they think? In the way they might think in other situations? (as a card carrying over thinker, with scant little to show for it, I’m loathe to ascribe judgement to this). And I’m afraid that probably not many of them listen either. At least not the way good music deserves to be listened to. This is tv on to keep you company, headphones on to block out the others, your thoughts, your pain. Hey, these are valid purposes.
But like TV, we receive. As others have said, we live in a strange world nowaday. There is so much information, so much broadcast, so much noise with seeming meaning in it – but with very limited opportunities for a meaningful reply. We can but do naught in its face. There is no appropriate response, but to receive. The relationship between information and action has changed, has been disturbed.
Maybe if I thought about it some more I’d figure out what it all means. These public transport headphones. Or I might find out it means nothing. Nothing but fodder for me, silly me.
Friday, November 14, 2008
The First Ever Z Generation Concert
Now that a few weeks have passed and the dust motes are in their last throes of settlement, there are a few lessons I think can be drawn from the event.
For those who’ve been living on Jupiter this last month, here’s a précis of what happened at Pod People in the Park (also known as the Sugarloaf Shuffle). A truly cross-genre concert was held in a big park by the name of Sugarloaf in California on October 24. Rock, reggae, world music, any genre you might care to name. This was a big event, a long day, and a long night. Some big big names, but also a broad, broad smattering of lesser known musicians. A common theme: one hit wonders. As with many festivals these days, there was also a personal, or spiritual, or psychological, or self-help aspect. There were even language lessons.
It was an all-ages concert, and of course it was the younger ones who fully mastered the technology. Some genius figured out a way to create a distributed electronic transmitting device, handed out to concertgoers, whose thousands upon thousands of inputs would be summed, at intervals as regular as you please, into a single, simple output.
The first few acts were massive. They only played a couple of songs each, but that seems to be the trend at festivals these days. The crowd was right into it. I won’t go into the names, but these were your top ten, grammy award winning, rolling stone magazine covering kinds of acts. The next act was just as big, but they only played one song. Go figure. The crowd seemed to like this.
The next five songs were all played by different acts, and not one of them finished their song. Weirdly, some of them went straight into the chorus, then finished. Even weirder – some of them went straight into the catchiest part of their song, even if it wasn’t the chorus, and played that, and then stopped. A few poor bands were cut off after playing the first bar – a fate that was strangely spared for songs that had a slow build up. Some bands that had already played came back and played again. The stage was a whir of roadies, instruments changed, drum kits frantically assembled and reassembled. The roadies were friggin incredible, they must have all lost 35 pounds by the end of the day.
Embarrassingly, at one point in the day a really long, and rather boring song went on for what seemed like an hour, but was probably only 10 minutes – the crowd was temporarily distracted by an event on the other side of the field and didn’t seem to mind anyway.
Well, the concert went on, and followed this same strange trend. Very frequent band changes, songs often stopped in their middle, old bands reappearing. And by the end of the night, things hadn’t changed – if anything it had gotten a bit worse. Rather than saving up the best names for the end, it was just more of the same, except perhaps their fifth or sixth best songs.
To me, the whole thing was a shambles. Yes, there was an air of expectation associated with trying something new. But in the end there was no atmosphere, no musical build up and release of tension, no anticipation. This is not what concerts are about. If this is what happens with big, bold ideas, give me small and meek ones for chrissakes.
Thing is, the crowd didn’t really seem phased – they were happy to be there, happy for their celebrity musical idols to be there, happy to be taking drugs and chasing members of the opposite or same sex, as the case may have been. I heard the organisers claiming a success and promising a bigger and better P3 next year, but I won’t be there. I’ve spoken to a few people about this and the smart ones agree, the mindless application of technology to our cultural activities is, well, mindless. These people just don’t understand the human condition. Course, seeing as I and a few smart friends are the only ones disagreeing, it could be us that don’t understand. But I don’t think so.
The iPod, and especially the iPod shuffle, are no ways to organise a concert.
For those who’ve been living on Jupiter this last month, here’s a précis of what happened at Pod People in the Park (also known as the Sugarloaf Shuffle). A truly cross-genre concert was held in a big park by the name of Sugarloaf in California on October 24. Rock, reggae, world music, any genre you might care to name. This was a big event, a long day, and a long night. Some big big names, but also a broad, broad smattering of lesser known musicians. A common theme: one hit wonders. As with many festivals these days, there was also a personal, or spiritual, or psychological, or self-help aspect. There were even language lessons.
It was an all-ages concert, and of course it was the younger ones who fully mastered the technology. Some genius figured out a way to create a distributed electronic transmitting device, handed out to concertgoers, whose thousands upon thousands of inputs would be summed, at intervals as regular as you please, into a single, simple output.
The first few acts were massive. They only played a couple of songs each, but that seems to be the trend at festivals these days. The crowd was right into it. I won’t go into the names, but these were your top ten, grammy award winning, rolling stone magazine covering kinds of acts. The next act was just as big, but they only played one song. Go figure. The crowd seemed to like this.
The next five songs were all played by different acts, and not one of them finished their song. Weirdly, some of them went straight into the chorus, then finished. Even weirder – some of them went straight into the catchiest part of their song, even if it wasn’t the chorus, and played that, and then stopped. A few poor bands were cut off after playing the first bar – a fate that was strangely spared for songs that had a slow build up. Some bands that had already played came back and played again. The stage was a whir of roadies, instruments changed, drum kits frantically assembled and reassembled. The roadies were friggin incredible, they must have all lost 35 pounds by the end of the day.
Embarrassingly, at one point in the day a really long, and rather boring song went on for what seemed like an hour, but was probably only 10 minutes – the crowd was temporarily distracted by an event on the other side of the field and didn’t seem to mind anyway.
Well, the concert went on, and followed this same strange trend. Very frequent band changes, songs often stopped in their middle, old bands reappearing. And by the end of the night, things hadn’t changed – if anything it had gotten a bit worse. Rather than saving up the best names for the end, it was just more of the same, except perhaps their fifth or sixth best songs.
To me, the whole thing was a shambles. Yes, there was an air of expectation associated with trying something new. But in the end there was no atmosphere, no musical build up and release of tension, no anticipation. This is not what concerts are about. If this is what happens with big, bold ideas, give me small and meek ones for chrissakes.
Thing is, the crowd didn’t really seem phased – they were happy to be there, happy for their celebrity musical idols to be there, happy to be taking drugs and chasing members of the opposite or same sex, as the case may have been. I heard the organisers claiming a success and promising a bigger and better P3 next year, but I won’t be there. I’ve spoken to a few people about this and the smart ones agree, the mindless application of technology to our cultural activities is, well, mindless. These people just don’t understand the human condition. Course, seeing as I and a few smart friends are the only ones disagreeing, it could be us that don’t understand. But I don’t think so.
The iPod, and especially the iPod shuffle, are no ways to organise a concert.
From the strangest of roots
Did you hear how Joan Ass Policewoman wrote To Be Lonely?
It’d been a good day at work – productive, but not overly. Lunch was good, but it hadn’t filled all corners of her stomach. Time to go home, but too much time before dinner. Will I do it, yes I will, I’ma heading for the vending machine downstairs in the lobby. So many choices. So many damned choices. Twisties, salt and vinegar chips. A cookie. Chocolate bar. What the – mint Aero?! Nod of the head. This is the one, that I will try. And of course the song flowed from there, and ended up being quite unrecognisable from its snack-based roots.
It’d been a good day at work – productive, but not overly. Lunch was good, but it hadn’t filled all corners of her stomach. Time to go home, but too much time before dinner. Will I do it, yes I will, I’ma heading for the vending machine downstairs in the lobby. So many choices. So many damned choices. Twisties, salt and vinegar chips. A cookie. Chocolate bar. What the – mint Aero?! Nod of the head. This is the one, that I will try. And of course the song flowed from there, and ended up being quite unrecognisable from its snack-based roots.
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Artful Science dies on
Withdrawal symptoms. They're enough to make even the most professional of addicts quake in their doc martens. There seems to be a common theme at play in yonder withdrawing brain and it's all to do with what the drug normally does. All drugs are fun, and turn on fun buttons in the brain. (The brain can get used to this, turning down the natural fun machinery because it's rendered superfluous by the drug, and necessitating increased dosage with some drugs for the same fun effect.) In withdrawal, not only are there no drugs around to push the fun buttons, but the brain is so helplessly dependent on artifice for fun, that you feel the exact opposite of fun. My idea is a drug whose effects are so unpleasant and lame, that withdrawal would be an elation-soaked walk in the park. In fact, some addicts may do permanent damage to their brains, damage that would see them unable to experience lows ever gain.
On an unrelated note, every time excitement machine Billy Slater (or Bill Slater, as Rabs Warren calls him - have you noticed how Raymond does that occasionally with players' names?) gets the ball, the whole crowd experiences a collective relaxation of the pelvic floor.
On a related note, Slater's life partner recently had a baby which they named Tyla and amazingly, she has already been promised in marriage to Shannon Noll's firstborn.
On an unrelated note, every time excitement machine Billy Slater (or Bill Slater, as Rabs Warren calls him - have you noticed how Raymond does that occasionally with players' names?) gets the ball, the whole crowd experiences a collective relaxation of the pelvic floor.
On a related note, Slater's life partner recently had a baby which they named Tyla and amazingly, she has already been promised in marriage to Shannon Noll's firstborn.
Bibularity Dipson
John Birmingham has stolen my (Hofstadter’s?) idea for a novel. Question is – is that done now? After one creates something novel, can others follow and be great? Yes, undoubtedly yes I think.
So the idea, as cutted and paste from my previous incarnation (Clarke, 2008*), is follow as,
Wiping a country off a map (physically). Survivors determine how country lives on. Explore certain themes or do a plain what if scenario. US? Hundreds of thousands of troops, diplomats, cultural exports, expats, etc.
True – I haven’t written the book. But it resides in me like a colossus hidden by six walls of marble. Birmingham’s book was spied by me in the airport bookshop, harold be thy name. On the cover was the title Without Warning^ and beneath it the subtitle, or perhaps nonsubtitular explanatory remark America is gone. I picked not the book up, I perused not its contents. But it naturally recollected my original thought and thoughts about my book idea.
I tried to flesh out the idea some more, to put some more meat on it, to breathe life into it, to feed it nutrients so that its dna and proteins could do their tasks etc. But I was interrupted.
I figured you’d need a setup, explaining how the country is erased. The story would then take place afterwards (maybe straight after, maybe a year, maybe longer). as I’ve not yet written a long story, I’m not sure what the main event would be, but it does seem to me to be endearingly ripe with potential.
* Clarke H, 2008, From A5 notebook, Unpublished Manuscript.
^ I semiforgot the title when writing this, and came up with 'Suddenly'. As I was writing a footnote to explain that this is not the title, I remembered the title – I had the impression that my memory was true`.
` The impression of something being true; the feeling of something being significant, meaningful, profoundly deep – I don’t hear people talking about the importance (scientific, everyday...) of these brain reflexes. Imagine you could take a pill to engender that feeling!
So the idea, as cutted and paste from my previous incarnation (Clarke, 2008*), is follow as,
Wiping a country off a map (physically). Survivors determine how country lives on. Explore certain themes or do a plain what if scenario. US? Hundreds of thousands of troops, diplomats, cultural exports, expats, etc.
True – I haven’t written the book. But it resides in me like a colossus hidden by six walls of marble. Birmingham’s book was spied by me in the airport bookshop, harold be thy name. On the cover was the title Without Warning^ and beneath it the subtitle, or perhaps nonsubtitular explanatory remark America is gone. I picked not the book up, I perused not its contents. But it naturally recollected my original thought and thoughts about my book idea.
I tried to flesh out the idea some more, to put some more meat on it, to breathe life into it, to feed it nutrients so that its dna and proteins could do their tasks etc. But I was interrupted.
I figured you’d need a setup, explaining how the country is erased. The story would then take place afterwards (maybe straight after, maybe a year, maybe longer). as I’ve not yet written a long story, I’m not sure what the main event would be, but it does seem to me to be endearingly ripe with potential.
* Clarke H, 2008, From A5 notebook, Unpublished Manuscript.
^ I semiforgot the title when writing this, and came up with 'Suddenly'. As I was writing a footnote to explain that this is not the title, I remembered the title – I had the impression that my memory was true`.
` The impression of something being true; the feeling of something being significant, meaningful, profoundly deep – I don’t hear people talking about the importance (scientific, everyday...) of these brain reflexes. Imagine you could take a pill to engender that feeling!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
