The most unbearable sound in the world? It’s silence
In this column, we deliver hot (and cold) takes on pop culture, judging whether a subject is overrated or underrated.
By Robert Moran
The biggest oxymoron in the English language is the phrase “peace and quiet”. In my world, it should be peace and loud.
Silence is horrible. At this point, my entire waking life involves avoiding silence. The first thing I do in the morning is turn on the TV, then I turn on the whistling kettle, then I turn on the coffee grinder. Once I’m out the door, I’ll pop in my earbuds, which will stay in there through my commute, through roughly eight hours at the office, and through the return ride home. When I get home in the evening, the first thing I do is slam the door, then I put on the TV or Spotify while I fry something loudly with the rangehood humming, and then, finally, I’ll yell at my children to go to bed already.
This is how life should be, a cacophonous symphony from morning to midnight.
This silence is excruciating, make it stop.Credit: Getty Images/iStockphoto
Weirdly, most people like silence. My partner, for instance, will randomly switch off the TV every now and then, or the car radio, and not even replace it with another source of noise. “I need some silence,” she’ll say and suddenly we’re floating in a vacuum of anguish where all I can hear is my darkest thoughts. It’s about as peaceful as Munch’s Scream.
In the wider world there’s something called the “sleep tourism” industry, supposedly worth a trillion dollars, where people spend money on calming apps and earplugs and private getaways to the bush where no one can hear you scream. What a bunch of suckers. I should sell these guys a VR experience of my childhood.
Growing up I’d usually be woken up by salsa or cumbia blaring at full volume throughout the house. Other days I’d be woken up by the loud, frenzied commentary of a Serie A match on TV. For a while I’d be woken up by a crow who just sat on our balcony yelling, probably foretelling my doom. And these were just the mornings! Nowadays, I could sleep through a drum circle.
People act like silence is the natural order of things. Sure, maybe if you lived in a black hole! In Sydney, for example, the city’s nightlife is continually decimated by noise complaints. You never hear about silence complaints. “I’d like to report that my neighbours are being suspiciously quiet. Can someone go and warn them to stop freaking me out?”
Silence, the worst Martin Scorsese film.
At school, there was a teacher who regularly made me write “Silence is golden” 1000 times as penance for talking during class. Silence is not golden; silence is violence. (Little did he know I only ever wrote it 333 times because I’d tape three pens together like an Archimedes of detention. So cosmically, I win.)
Nothing that is silent is good. Silent Night is the worst Christmas carol. Silence is the worst Martin Scorsese film. Silent auctions are auctions for cowards. Then there’s tennis and golf, sports where an official can actually say the words, “Quiet, please”, to a crowd of onlookers. Imagine complaining because the rustling of someone’s jeans interrupted your backhand? Meanwhile, Messi’s out there floating in free kicks from 30 yards out while 90,000 fans bang drums and blow horns.
Silent things are always creepy, too. Spiders. Thieves. Ghosts (at least until they scream boo, the best part). Have you ever tried listening to John Cage’s conceptual torture piece, 4′33? By 0′33, you’ll be spiralling, pleading for a copy of Merzbow’s Pulse Demon.
There are, maybe, three good silent things in the world. Silent Running, the 1972 thriller starring Bruce Dern as a manic astronaut. Silent discos, but only if you’re in them (if you’re an onlooker, silent discos are the absolute worst thing). And silent films, because they’re actually the opposite of silent.
Have you ever seen a so-called silent film? They have more sound than the latest blockbuster – the only difference is that, rather than talking and explosions, the sound is a jaunty piano score that only ends once Fatty Arbuckle has outrun the cops.
At this point, you’re no doubt psychoanalysing my noise obsession. “Classic death denial,” you’ll say, puffing your pipe, “this guy’s filling his days with noise so he can avoid ever contemplating death.” To which I’d say: yeah, you’re probably right, I don’t want to think about death. I’m the weirdo?
Meanwhile, your obsession with silence is classic Stockholm Syndrome. Silence is all about control. Think of the places that demand it: church, schools, libraries, public transport. You’re a prisoner, buddy. A prisoner who thinks you chose the silent train carriage by free will. Meanwhile, there you are feeling self-conscious every time your stomach gurgles.
Gurgle away, my stomach! No one can hear it anyway over the pounding gabber beat of my spirit.
Considering my home includes two children under eight, is located directly above a freeway and below a flightpath, and has neighbours – upstairs, downstairs, all around me – who seem to enjoy practising putting and/or marbles on their hardwood floors at any time of day, it’s ridiculous that silence is ever still an issue.
And yet, here it is right now, in the middle of the day, screaming unbearably into my brain. Please, pass me the Merzbow.
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