Wednesday, January 12, 2005
it makes the airport bearable
As a part of their year-in-review coverage, the Flagpole asked their writers to submit a list of their favorite sounds of the year. I wasn’t able to get anything turned in on time (I was too busy making up for all the years I’d been saving myself for marriage), but that doesn’t really matter, because there was only one sound I truly loved in 2004. I had to hang out at Hartsfield (or whatever they’re calling it now) on a few occasions this year, in April, July, and August, and every time I found myself entranced by the hum made by those auto-compacting trash-cans they have. It took me an hour to realize what the tone was the first time I encountered it; every five minutes or so I would hear this mechanical whirring, followed by a bright, inviting drone that would last for a few seconds. It almost felt like a flash of light more than a sound. It made me think of warm autumn afternoons, riding in the back of a wagon full of hay, rolling over verdant fields covered in red and orange leaves. I had no idea where it was coming from, and for a while I thought I was maybe going insane and hearing things in my head. I was both relieved and excited when I found out what was making the sound. I am proud to live in a country that has musical trash-cans that sound like LaMonte Young. In the future, radio, tv, and the internet will be replaced as the prime disseminators of popular music by automatic trash-cans, and at that time a new era of American cultural preeminence shall have arrived. Even if the damn things are made in Japan or somewhere.
As a part of their year-in-review coverage, the Flagpole asked their writers to submit a list of their favorite sounds of the year. I wasn’t able to get anything turned in on time (I was too busy making up for all the years I’d been saving myself for marriage), but that doesn’t really matter, because there was only one sound I truly loved in 2004. I had to hang out at Hartsfield (or whatever they’re calling it now) on a few occasions this year, in April, July, and August, and every time I found myself entranced by the hum made by those auto-compacting trash-cans they have. It took me an hour to realize what the tone was the first time I encountered it; every five minutes or so I would hear this mechanical whirring, followed by a bright, inviting drone that would last for a few seconds. It almost felt like a flash of light more than a sound. It made me think of warm autumn afternoons, riding in the back of a wagon full of hay, rolling over verdant fields covered in red and orange leaves. I had no idea where it was coming from, and for a while I thought I was maybe going insane and hearing things in my head. I was both relieved and excited when I found out what was making the sound. I am proud to live in a country that has musical trash-cans that sound like LaMonte Young. In the future, radio, tv, and the internet will be replaced as the prime disseminators of popular music by automatic trash-cans, and at that time a new era of American cultural preeminence shall have arrived. Even if the damn things are made in Japan or somewhere.
