Song of Our Country
A couple of days ago Dad forwarded me this article about the use of music as torture device in Guantanamo and other U.S. military prisons. They use a wide variety of songs ranging from Britney Spears to the Bee Gees to the Barney theme song, but heavy metal has proven especially effective:
As an interrogator for the U.S. Army's 361st Psychological Operations Company explained to Newsweek: "These people haven't heard heavy metal. They can't take it. If you play it for 24 hours, your brain and body functions start to slide, your train of thought slows down and your will is broken."
Personally I think 24 hours of anything loud enough to keep you from sleeping would have the same effect, but I got another interesting take on the cultural angle of music from my current personal-happiness reading, The Sex Lives of Cannibals. It's the memoir of a guy who gets a master's in international relations and can't find a Real Job and sort out what to do with his life (sound familiar?) so he follows his girlfriend to her new job on a tiny coral atoll in Kiribati. He forgets to bring his CDs and is therefore forced to suffer through months and months of constant repetition of the Macarena, by far the most popular song on the island. His next-door neighbors are particular fans, playing it over and over at deafening volume. Then, one day, his CDs arrive.
"Tiabo," I said, full of glee, "You must help me."
She eyed me suspiciously as I plundered through our box of CDs.
"You must tell me which song, in your opinion, do you find to be the most offensive."
"What?" she asked wearily.
"I want you tell me to tell me which song is so terrible that the I-Kiribati will cover their ears and beg me to turn it off.'
"You are a strange I-Matang."
I popped in the Beastie Boys' Check Your Head. I forwarded it to the song "Gratitude," which is an abrasive and highly aggressive song.
"What do you think?" I yelled.
"I like it."
Damn.
I moved on to Nirvana's Lithium. I was sure that grunge-metal-punk would not find a happy audience on an equatorial atoll.
"It's very good," Tiabo said.
Now I was stumped. I tried a different tack. I inserted Rachmaninoff.
"I don't like this," Tiabo said.
Now we were getting somewhere.
"Okay, Tiabo. How about this?"
We listened to a few minutes of La Bohème. Even I felt a little discombobulated listening to opera on Tarawa.
"That's very bad," Tiabo said.
"Why?"
"I-Kiribati people like fast music. This is too slow and the singing is very bad."
"Good, good. How about this?"
I played Kind of Blue by Miles Davis.
"That's terrible. Ugh...stop it."
Tiabo covered her ears.
Bingo.
I moved the speakers to the open door.
"What are you doing?" Tiabo asked.
I turned up the volume. For ten glorious minutes Tarawa was bathed in the melancholic sounds of Miles Davis. Tiabo stood shocked. Her eyes her closed. Her fingers plugged her ears. I had high hopes that the entire neighborhood was doing likewise.
Finally, I turned it off. I listened to the breakers. I heard the rustling of the palm fronds. A pig squealed. But I did not hear "La Macarena."
Victory.
"Thank you, Tiabo. That was wonderful."
"You are a strange I-Matang."
As an interrogator for the U.S. Army's 361st Psychological Operations Company explained to Newsweek: "These people haven't heard heavy metal. They can't take it. If you play it for 24 hours, your brain and body functions start to slide, your train of thought slows down and your will is broken."
Personally I think 24 hours of anything loud enough to keep you from sleeping would have the same effect, but I got another interesting take on the cultural angle of music from my current personal-happiness reading, The Sex Lives of Cannibals. It's the memoir of a guy who gets a master's in international relations and can't find a Real Job and sort out what to do with his life (sound familiar?) so he follows his girlfriend to her new job on a tiny coral atoll in Kiribati. He forgets to bring his CDs and is therefore forced to suffer through months and months of constant repetition of the Macarena, by far the most popular song on the island. His next-door neighbors are particular fans, playing it over and over at deafening volume. Then, one day, his CDs arrive.
"Tiabo," I said, full of glee, "You must help me."
She eyed me suspiciously as I plundered through our box of CDs.
"You must tell me which song, in your opinion, do you find to be the most offensive."
"What?" she asked wearily.
"I want you tell me to tell me which song is so terrible that the I-Kiribati will cover their ears and beg me to turn it off.'
"You are a strange I-Matang."
I popped in the Beastie Boys' Check Your Head. I forwarded it to the song "Gratitude," which is an abrasive and highly aggressive song.
"What do you think?" I yelled.
"I like it."
Damn.
I moved on to Nirvana's Lithium. I was sure that grunge-metal-punk would not find a happy audience on an equatorial atoll.
"It's very good," Tiabo said.
Now I was stumped. I tried a different tack. I inserted Rachmaninoff.
"I don't like this," Tiabo said.
Now we were getting somewhere.
"Okay, Tiabo. How about this?"
We listened to a few minutes of La Bohème. Even I felt a little discombobulated listening to opera on Tarawa.
"That's very bad," Tiabo said.
"Why?"
"I-Kiribati people like fast music. This is too slow and the singing is very bad."
"Good, good. How about this?"
I played Kind of Blue by Miles Davis.
"That's terrible. Ugh...stop it."
Tiabo covered her ears.
Bingo.
I moved the speakers to the open door.
"What are you doing?" Tiabo asked.
I turned up the volume. For ten glorious minutes Tarawa was bathed in the melancholic sounds of Miles Davis. Tiabo stood shocked. Her eyes her closed. Her fingers plugged her ears. I had high hopes that the entire neighborhood was doing likewise.
Finally, I turned it off. I listened to the breakers. I heard the rustling of the palm fronds. A pig squealed. But I did not hear "La Macarena."
Victory.
"Thank you, Tiabo. That was wonderful."
"You are a strange I-Matang."