I like noise. Especially when I’m working. It helps me think. That’s something that has perplexed even those of my co-workers, friends and acquaintances who ironically listen or play nothing but the noisiest stuff to unwind. Not me. Noise helps me concentrate.
In his book On Writing, popular author Stephen King says that he listens to nothing but AC/DC or whatever hard rock is on hand whenever he’s writing one of his many bestsellers. It helps him keep the outside world at bay, a sort of aural smokescreen or filter. Far from claiming myself to be a writer at par with King, I do understand and share his reasons for preferring cacophony to harmony or melody. Unlike the popular author, my tastes do qualify as noise — and not just AC/DC (which really isn’t, unless you’re part of a generation who may only know Ozzy vaguely as a TV star).
I literally prefer noise.
That doesn’t mean I can write on EDSA around lunchtime. Nope, I like my noise to be created consciously, to have a purpose or a semblance of composition. I like the sound of hubris — and how impregnable it is — even when things are careening off the rails. Probably why many of my friends think I’m the opposite of a control freak — I’m a “chaos freak.”
This reminds me of an exchange between Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman in Days of Thunder, actually (the only thing I really remember from that movie — aside from Quentin Tarantino’s endorsement — “It’s Sergio Leone on wheels!”). Cruise’s character boasts that he likes racecar driving because it’s knowing that he “can control something that’s out of control.” Of course, the frizzy-haired Aussie spitfire that she is, Kidman retorts, “Control is an illusion, you infantile egomaniac.” When I start writing, there’s no better or more apt description of my state of mind.
Noise — the kind made by musician/art terrorists like Throbbing Gristle, Non or the various local artists compiled in S.A.B.A.W — is liberating. It pushes me into a frenzy that I’d be hard-pressed to reach without amphetamines or, at least, caffeine. I’ll admit that my imagination is quite timid and needs something to jar it into action. This might go a long way to explain why it’s common for many people (including myself) to get their best ideas while on the toilet. Must also explain why I love violence in cinema so much. Better than sex, it is.
Why am I going on and on about noise?
I’m writing this just after coming home from witnessing a gig that had several different musicians onstage being conducted (somewhat) by new media artist Tad Ermitaño. Among others there was hip-hop’s last surviving warrior Caliph8, guitarist Blums Borres, sound terrorist Lirio Salvador and other musicians of varying backgrounds doing improv within a structure devised by organizer/birthday celebrant Tengal. It has something to with the number “9” but I’d be hard-pressed to explain. (Check out the S.A.B.A.W. site for more details.)
My head’s still buzzing and I thought I’d let some of the din out of my head. With that terrific ruckus, I only wish that Tengal and the rest of this burgeoning scene keep up the assault. I’ve got no tolerance for silence — except when I’m editing myself.
It’s during this time I turn on the TV, hoping the noise of the rest of Manila will coax me back in my shell.