A guide, of sorts, for today's rudderless oafs
A guide, of sorts, for today's rudderless oafs
I tell you what phrase brings up terrible images: chillout dance. The amount of twittish behaviour that immediately springs to mind is surprising. At the moment, I can see a man in his late 30s, sweaty, curly hair down to his shoulders, bobbing up and down on the spot, arms outstretched towards the ground, hands and fingers moving frantically as he stares at some unspecified point about 10 yards above your head. This gives him an air of intense concentration which, combined with the arm movements, suggests that he's shaking ants down his sleeves. I suspect he's on a beach somewhere. Possibly in Buenos Aires. More likely Goa. Though it could be Eastbourne.
On another day, this phrase would make me think of an oafish student, rather too unwitting to know what a idiot he's being, fixated over his turntables playing some unremarkable music at overly loud volumes, smiling to himself gormlessly. It's about 6am on a Saturday, and everyone else in the room would rather be listening to something else at lower volumes. Because they all feel terrible.
Yet another chance encounter with this phrase would make me think of a middle-of-the-road fashion clothes store, bathed in a white light similar to that in the DFS adverts, trousers on open rails in the middle of the shop, shoes on chunky alcoved shelves. Outside of their luminscent packaging the clothes are very bland, and an instantly regretted purchase. In this shop, overweight blokes wearing what appear to be male maternity clothes slop around, flicking the corners of the piles of jerseys and shirts in a half-hearted fashion.
It's not really a good look, chillout dance, is it? I guess it's not the music that's the issue here. After all, much of it is pleasant, not too atonal or abrasive. Most everybody can get along with it. It's the "chill out" part that gets my goat.
Beach: thankfully music-free.
Imagine a week without a few moments of solitude and contemplation. Or a month missing a peaceful stroll through a park, up a hill or around a museum. Well, actually, I guess it can happen pretty easily, although one would rather it wasn't the case. The important factor in these acts is that in the main, there is little need for the wallet. Although the park, museum or hill may be maintained in their current states through the benevolence of the state or a charitable trust, it's a hard push to say that they are commercial enterprises. You are enjoying the sound of nothing more than your own footsteps, your breath, and whatever else may be emitting sound within earshot. This is ambient noise. It chills you out. And it is not for sale.
The phrase "chillout music" smacks of unimaginative companies muscling in on a cherished corner of our lives, reducing peacefulness to a collage of breakbeats, synth sweeps and aspirational, beach-set cover art. And for some reason, saying this makes you a young fogey, or an knowing contrarian, petulantly bucking the trend. How is this not an encroaching blight on our lives? Should everything we do be soundtracked? We don't need that much more cocooning in our own little noisy world, especially in the few choice moments where we can spend time actually enjoying the sounds, or lack of them, around us.
So, this informs my views to a large extent when choosing a lovely, chilled way to spend a day. This is not to say that this is all I want to do; more, if chilling is what I'm after, I'd rather it was all natural and stuff. Pubs are generally best off without music or fruit machines. It is such a massive pleasure when this is the case. Every time. Just thought I'd mention it, landlords. Hiking along a ridge in the Lake District releases oodles of the happy hormones, tonin, tannin, or whatever it is. Strolling through a museum, aisle after aisle of cracked tiles, boat models or japanese swords is funny, baffling and relaxing. Please don't start piping Lemon Jelly through the speakers.
