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.
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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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