An almost inaudible battle is taking place in Mali, but if we cover our ears to the sound of intolerance it will grow until it deafens us.
FADE
IN, FADE OUT
PRELUDE
…hardly notice
how it started, it was as if it had always been there, the ticking of a clock, or
the hum of a fridge. It had arrived
stealthily, like an underlying doubt, and although it would be almost
impossible to pinpoint now, there must have been a starting point, a beginning,
a moment in time when the silence was broken.
Broken? No,
silence is not a piece of fragile glass to be shattered by piercing notes.
Silence is a bar on a pentagram; it is music’s perfect partner.
Let us say
then, that there came a time when the sound grew loud enough to be heard. It
nagged at our daily lives, invaded our dreams, eventually imposing itself on us
totally as it moved
from
imperceptibility
through
dissonance
into deafening
noise.
SYMPHONY
‘Hey, Joel,
hey, how’s it going?’
Marcus
slapped him on the back and gave him a half hug. Joel had expected this, it was
part of the obligatory bonhomie; good vibes were part of the protocol. But he
knew it was not really meant, not this time. Marcus smiled, but looked at Joel
suspiciously, as if he had already scented the purpose of his visit.
‘Fine, just
fine. You look like a happy man!’
Joel
prodded his companion’s stomach.
‘Least I
got my hair!’
A
supposedly friendly banter that did nothing to ease the atmosphere. Joel picked
up a miniature guitar from Marcus’ desk. It gave him something to do with his
hands, like a bad actor. From behind Marcus a poster of B.B. King, lost in his
personal world of blues, ignored them both.
‘So what brings
you here, my friend?’
Asked
casually, but dangled as if it were bait.
‘I need to
talk to Carl. Is he in?’
A deflected
answer. Not a good sign.
‘He’s
upstairs in the soundtrack studio. He’s got a lot on his agenda. Anything I can do for you?’
Far too
transparent. Joel sidestepped.
‘You could
give me your sister’s number.’
‘She gave
up her number a long time ago.’
The
attempted humour, the pretend intimacy was falling flat on its face. Time to
move on.
‘I have to
speak to Carl now. It’s important. Could you let him know I’m here?’
It was a
request, but at the same time an order, and coming from Joel, coordinator of
the Cultural department, it was also a veiled threat. There was no point in
trying to delay him or probe him further.
‘Wait
here.’
At a perfectly
illuminated canteen table sat a beautiful blonde girl with the eloquent
gestures of a professional actress. Her companions had been chosen to supply
contrast: an Afro American boy adorned with gadgetry, an Asian girl with jet
black hair brushed over one shoulder, a red haired youth with an incipient
beard, like a junior lumberjack. They pretended to eat and drink and gossip
idly. The camera swung gently across identical groups of students towards the
entrance to the campus canteen. A dark boy walked in, hands stuffed into his
jeans pockets, an enigmatic look on his face. The camera panned back to the
girl, who twitched nervously, communicating her uneasiness through her
well-studied though overacted facial movements.
Carl
stopped the sequence and set it back to the beginning.
‘That’s the
scene. Now I have to add the background music, the soundtrack.’
Out of
habit he spoke clearly, stressing each syllable, facing Aisha directly so that
she could read his lips if necessary. He was unsure if her operation had been a
success or not, and to what degree she could now pick up the sound of his
voice. The implant had a little green light that blinked on and off from time
to time, but he did not know if this was significant or not. From where Aisha
sat she could see the light reflected in the wide screen.
‘Music is
still difficult for me to hear correctly. It sounds metallic. Since the implant
I can hear more, much more, but the sounds have changed. Your voice sounds
different. I suppose I’ll get used to it.’
The studio
was a small room, full of mixing desks and monitors. There was a smell of old
carpet and new plastic. Carl sat in the big chair, the one with wheels. Aisha
sat on the assistant’s chair, aluminum, sticky fake leather upholstery, no more
than a metre from Carl.
‘Do they
check the equalization when you go for checkups?’
‘Uh huh,
but it still sounds odd.’
‘But you
can hear much better, I mean much more?’
‘Oh yes,
it’s fantastic, really fantastic. Thanks
to all of you.’
Carl
blushed and turned back to the screen; he hadn’t been fishing for gratitude.
She was referring t the fact that the musicians, organized via the studio, had
staged a number of charity gigs so that she could have her implant operation. She would be eternally grateful, which meant
Carl would feel eternally uncomfortable.
He decided
to try her out. With his back to her he started to explain.
‘What I do
now will colour the scene, give the impression I want. Well,
what the director wants. If I choose a
certain type of music, the scene takes on a different air.’
He swiveled
to face her. She nodded. But had she heard him? She realized she was being
tested, and answered accordingly.
‘I see what
you mean, though I may not be able to pick up the soundtrack too well.’
She still
spoke in her slightly swollen way, as if she had something in her mouth, but
she no longer shouted, he noticed.
‘Well let’s
see. First, I am going to make it a romance. She has been waiting for her loved
one to arrive. When he does, she is thrown into a whirl. Love will conquer
all.’
‘At least
at the movies.’
‘OK, here
goes. Take one.’
Violins,
tinkling piano, a harp somewhere in the distance. The boy enters, her heart
swells, riding on the waves of emotional music. It must be love!
‘Very
pretty. I didn’t get it all, as I said, it sounds very metallic, but I can hear
it, I can feel the atmosphere.’
‘Great!
You’ll get used to it, more and more as time goes by, you’ll see. But that’s
excellent. Now let’s change the whole idea. A horror story. She is safe with
her friends, hoping to god that her worst nightmare won’t turn up. But then, oh
no! It’s him! Fear, panic, terror! Ready?’
Erratic
sounds against a backdrop of tense, slightly discordant strings, off beat and
dramatic bass sounds. A crescendo of harsh, frenzied orchestration accompanied
by a piercing high note as the dark boy enters.
‘Wow, how
it changes the whole concept of the scene, eh? From love to fear, just by
changing the music score, Incredible.’
‘And that’s
what we do, amongst other things like recording the bands and stuff. We also do
adverts and jingles. Video game sounds lately. Anything to do with the world of
music.’
Aisha toyed with a miniature antenna that she could
connect to a base plaque just above her ear.
She was about to give thanks again when Marcus appeared at the door.
‘Hi Aisha.
How’s it going. You picking it all up now?’
‘Most of
it. It still sounds a bit metallic, but I suppose that with time…
Marcus cut
short the niceties by his look of concern. Carl and Aisha fell silent waiting
for an explanation.
‘Joel’s
downstairs. Wants to see you now. Won’t take no for an answer. I don’t like
it.’
‘Send him
up.’
Aisha saw
her cue.
‘Well, I’ll
be off now. Thanks so much for…’
‘No, Aisha,
just a minute if you don’t mind. Are you in a hurry?’
‘Nnnoo’
Which
meant, not necessarily, not if you need me. Are you sure?
‘Just for a
few minutes. If you don’t mind?’
‘No, no,
that’s fine.’
‘Tell him
to come on up’.
CHORUS
The first
to arrive had come in peace, as political refugees. They were brothers, and all
they sought was a safe haven and a little compassion. Later came their armed
colleagues, rebels fighting the good fight. They presented themselves as the
oppressed, the misunderstood, and called for collaboration. Insidiously they
began to take control of the area, at first attempting to persuade the locals
to follow their example through fine words and acts of charity. When they saw
that the change in the community was too slow, they began to employ a strategy
of subtle coercion. Gradually the local
populace began to realize that they had lost control of their destinies, that
the once welcome rebels had turned into their new rulers. Too late they looked
up from their tables and saw that the enemy had been invited to enter.
FUGUE
Joel could
be seen through the glass door, his form slowly rising from the stairs like an
introductory note. He was confident and
very calm, at least in appearance. He
said nothing, just a smile for Carl, an acknowledging nod for Aisha. He walked over to a mixing desk and leant
against it nonchalantly, trading comfort for pose. There was a rhythm too,
probably very simple in its basic form, but with accents and backbeats that
were difficult to catch for the uninitiated.
Aisha
insisted; she ought to go now. Carl ignored her silent pleas and turned all his
attention to Joel.
Neither man
spoke, as if it were a contest and the first one to start a conversation would
lose. Joel toyed with the knobs on the control desk; Carl, still sitting,
waited expectantly for his visitor to begin.
The false friendliness that had reigned downstairs was blaringly absent
in the studio. At last Joel said
‘We had
some great times together, eh? Some great times.’
He waited,
but Carl did not reply.
‘But that
was a long time ago, Carl, a long, long time ago, and things change, things are
changing.’
He broke
into a nasal tone and sang the Bob Dylan truism ‘oh the times they are
a-changing’. Carl threw a look at Aisha who was swaying nervously from one foot
to another, sensing the tension and begging to be left out of it. But she was
as much a part of it as everyone.
‘What do
you want here, Joel? Have you come back to remember when we were friends?’
Straight to
the heart. Joel winced theatrically, but also possibly too he was reeling a
little, he hadn’t expected such bluntness, such open animosity. He stood up
straight, pulling himself up to his full height, which was considerable, as if
by so doing he could assert himself better.
‘OK, Carl.
‘
He sniffed,
pulled at his sleeves, and began to recite the purpose of his mission. He
looked hurt, as if he would have preferred a different manner, but as they had
insisted, they would now receive the full, unabridged official version. He gave
the impression as he spoke that, due to their cold reception, he was now obliged
to withdraw any help he may have been able to offer. So be it.
‘The
Committee has decided you have two days to clear out. They will take the
building for other cultural uses. Any instrument discovered after that date
will be publicly destroyed along with all technical material. No exceptions, no
prorogues. Two days, no more.’
‘Thank you
for the warning.’
Joel
remained erect, unshaken by Carl’s attempted sarcasm. There was another
silence.
‘Do you
remember Aisha? She is Paolo’s daughter, you know, Paolo, the keyboard player?’
Joel once
more acknowledged her presence by a slight inclination of the head.
‘She had
hearing problems, was born almost totally deaf. But with a little help we
managed to organize a number of concerts and pay for an implant. Pure
technology. Look.’
Joel knew
Carl too well to be pulled in; he knew the ground was being prepared for a
speech, for a lesson. Well he too had lessons to teach.
‘The
Committee has decreed that music can only be employed under their cultural
guidance. Any other music, of any kind, is to be considered the trumpet of the
devil.’
A provocation.
But Carl would not be thrown off track.
‘Paolo’s
daughter.’
She was being used as evidence.
‘It is the
collective that counts, not the individual.’
Said like
that it sounded like an insult. Aisha had not undergone delicate surgery to
hear this.
‘I must be
off now. If you don’t mind?’
She left
them to it.
‘The
collective versus the individual. Are we still dragging up that false
dichotomy? How can you believe such
nonsense, Joel? You’re a musician!’
‘I am no
longer.’
‘You are a
musician, like it or not. You can’t just walk away from half of your life. The
collective, the collective. What is a collective but a group of individuals? In
a band the singer cares for his or her part, playing with the rhythms, the
silences, trying to communicate…
‘Look, I
haven’t come here to listen to all this…’
‘but she
needs the band, needs the drummer, the bass player, the…’
‘There is
no point in going through all this again, Carl, I did not…’
‘Because
what you are doing is exclusion. You are cutting out those who do not agree
with you, you want a monotonous world with one voice, but you know…’
‘Look,
Carl, we have been together for a long time, I just want to warn you, that’s
all…’
‘Music
opens its arms to new instruments, new sounds. It is fusion, not confusion.
That’s why it is the only universal language.. .’
‘The
devil’s trumpet!’
‘Then don’t
listen, don’t play, don’t go to concerts, cover your children’s ears! But do
not silence the rest of us, damn you!’
At some
stage Carl had stood up and confronted Joel. Now they stared at each other with
passion and mistrust in the long pause before the final note.
‘Two days.’
CODA
When the
militia broke in most of the instruments and mixing desks had gone, hastily
loaded onto trucks and driven at full speed to the border. What remained, some
old drums, mike stands, some out dated pieces of technology or parts too heavy
to remove, were dragged into the street and burnt.
The erratic
crackling and hissing sounds that accompanied the column of black smoke could
not be interpreted as either music or silence.
It was pure cacophony.
