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A music critic’s odyssey against second-hand music

By Michael Vincent on July 30, 2014

SCHAFER2

I try to listen to
the still, small voice within
but I can’t hear it
above the din
– from Little Audrey’s Story by Eliza Ward

After many years of living in cities, (Vancouver, Montreal, Toronto), I finally got fed up with the hustle-bustle of it all and moved to the country. I’m now settled in a 150 year-old historic home in Waterdown ON, just a stone’s throw from Burlington. Much of what prompted the move was the rampant noise pollution.

Since the industrial revolution, our cities have become crammed-full with rumbling trucks, incessant car alarms, endless clanks and clunks, leaf-blower drones, and outdoor patio parties galore that call out into the night.

I can’t stand it. It’s an assault upon the senses.

The worst city for noise is Vancouver, which seems to be much more sonically obnoxious than any other city I’ve lived in. Which is a shame, because it’s also the most beautiful.

These days, sometimes the birds even sound like car alarms:

It’s enough to make you want to move to the country, and so I did.

Since moving to Waterdown, it’s been mostly idyllic. The birds sing freely and you can hear the wind blow through the trees. The frogs come out at night, and cicadas fill the air with their rattle throughout August and early September.

But this summer, my backyard oasis has had a soundtrack applied to it. It’s been totally redesigned into a strange muzak-filled time warp by my neighbours. Meet “Jack” and “Louise”: retired baby-boomers with terrible taste in music. A few weeks ago they have taken it upon themselves to rid the block of the sound of wind, birds and other wildlife, and replace it with 1980’s era Phil Collins.

After they spent the better half of an afternoon installing a new outdoor sound system, I knew I was in for some trouble, which for me, begins and ends with secondhand music.

I’ve been walking around with a face like a pit-bull chewing a wasp ever since.

DAY ONE: 8 a.m.

PHIL-COLLINS1991

“Sussudio oh oh.
Now she don’t even know my name,
But I think she likes me just the same.
Sussudio oh oh,”

Phil Collins’ Greatest Hits on repeat blare.

The lyrics waft through the yard like a 1980s circa sport coat with shoulder pads as wide as a juiced-up quarterback.

In a 1982 interview Collins once said, “Beyond a certain point, the music isn’t mine anymore. It’s yours.” Well thanks a lot Phil. Have you met my neighbour? My yard will never be the same again.

The hell finally ended about 9:30 that night.

DAY TWO: 9 a.m.

Again, Phil Collins. “Sussudio oh oh.” At 7:30 pm, it finally stopped…  The pirate stereo started back up again at 8:15 p.m. and ended at 10 p.m.

“Su… Su… Sussudio!”

DAY THREE: 10:30 a.m.

Phil Collins… again. Outdoor stereo was turned off around 3 p.m., then on again at 4 p.m. till 6:30 p.m.

I can feel it coming in the air tonight, oh Lord
And I’ve been waiting for this moment for all my life, Oh Lord
Can you feel it coming in the air tonight, oh Lord, oh Lord

At 7 p.m. I finally mustered up the will to walk over and ask him to turn it down. He smirked, “You know Mike, your kids are noisy when they play in the yard, but you don’t hear us complaining about it because I’d like to think we’re good neighbours.” In other words – leave us alone and learn to love Phil Collins as much as we do. The music stays.

Upset, I looked for answers. Dear Facebook: What do I do? Help!

Advice poured in:

“shotgun mic > Garage Band > assorted funky plugins > guitar amp should do the trick.”

“Fight Collins with Slayer.”

“Call the cops”

“If I was there I’d bring over my ampeg and crush everything.”

“Complain to the city”

I don’t own any Slayer, but I do have “Put The Lime In The Coconut” by Harry Nilsson, and a very accomplished pair of studio reference monitors.

I opened all my windows, and played the “masterpiece of annoyance” over and over again. It weighed heavily against Easy Lover like a pair of cement water wings. The point seemed to have been made painfully clear and our neighbours turned off the “music”. Success! That’ll teach ‘em.

Or did it?

DAY FOUR: 11 a.m.

I woke up with Phil Collin’s ballads sailing over my hedge like an errant pair of leotards from Flash Dance. I rushed down to my studio. This time called for the heavy guns: Wagner!

We were at war. The casualties, horrific. The neighbours stood their ground against the cacophony. After an hour, a white flag rose over the hedge, and “the Phil Collins” retreated into the early afternoon like a bad hangover.

hole

DAY FIVE: 8 a.m. (Oddly quiet)

The smoke cleared, and the day passes without a peep from the neighbours’ backyard sonic arsenal.

DAY SIX: (afternoon)

eggplantThe neighbour stoped by with some eggplant. “Sorry about all the noise, Mike. I was painting the shed out back and the music helps pass the time, but it’s all done now.”

“You better believe you’re done,” I thought to myself. Phil Collins is no match for Wagner. I took the eggplant as the spoils of war, and promised a batch of my famous eggplant soup. Of course unannounced to him, my next step was a stealthy backyard raid with some wire cutters. Failing that was a move back to the city. (Do people listen to Phil Collins in Toronto?) Thankfully it didn’t come to that.

It’s been a month now, and the scorched backyard soundscape has been restored. The birds are singing again.

But just yesterday, I was walking to the local corner store, and who was to drive by but my good neighbour, with Phil Collins’ In the Air Tonight blaring from his tinny car stereo. He waved and smiled at me. The hair went up on the back of my neck.

Pollution kills…

Michael Vincent

Michael Vincent
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