There's only one thing worse than being put on hold by a large corporation's phone line: the terrible, terrible music that plays while you wait. Usually it's soft, soft rock or, worse, muzak. Not familiar with the term? You know it when you hear it: quiet, calm, soothing crap, usually with strings and synthesizers. Often times, if you listen close enough, you'll realize the muzak is actually a re-recording of a pop song, sometimes a even decent one. But instead of a rockin' guitar solo in ""Freebird"" you get a not-so-rockin' Moog solo. This is the music you tend to hear in elevators or in large department stores.
So why does this stuff exist in the first place? Why not just stick on the B-side of Exile on Main Street and let the good Macy's patrons shop in peace? Well, for starters, not everyone likes Exile. Secondly, there's a business motive. People who study things like consumer psychology and impulses have said that people may not like muzak, but it puts them in a calm, safe mood, so the thought of running up their credit card doesn't feel as scary as it might if Bat Out of Hell was blasting over the loudspeakers. It also was found that places of business that played music had a higher worker morale and productivity rate than stores that did not.
But it's not just in stores you hear muzak. It's also in elevators and airports. Any guesses why? You're right, of course. It's because these are scary places—claustrophobic, potential death traps. Could you imagine loading a plane and hearing ""American Pie"" in the background? I guarantee more than a few people would develop immediate and sincere doubts about embarking. No, we want to be reassured that our next few hours are free from torrential fire and large flying chunks of singed metal. That's why we desire—nay, demand—to hear ""Tubular Bells"" each and every time we stand in line at the airport Starbucks.
So, where and whence arose muzak? The story actually goes much further back than you might imagine. George Squire, an American general from WWI, patented the radio transmission of this lo-lo-fi music, presumably to be played over Army radio for the troops in their barracks. After the war, Squire started a company to mass-produce the music, dubbing the corporation (surprise, surprise) ""Muzak."" The word is a combination of ""Music"" and ""Kodak,"" Squire's favorite company. It started to take off during the '40s and '50s (when advertising and sociology were starting to suck air for the first time), and by the 80s (when advertising and sociology were huge, huge players) it became a staple of public life.
To this day, I have never met an individual who enjoys muzak. I went looking for defenses of muzak online, but instead found these delightful quotes: ""Muzak is the brand name of music's equivalent of aerosol cheese. Produced in massive amounts at great speed by an unskilled process, it destroys the mind, the ears and the ability to keep your fists unclenched."" And: ""Is there anything more annoying than muzak? By the time the caller has been put through he can no longer articulate his problem as he's chewed his hand off at the wrist, and is unable to operate the phone.""
So, the next time you're in a store, an airport or in Holding Hell on the phone, and you start to hear an even wimpier version of Peter Frampton's ""Baby, I Love Your Way,"" here's what you do: stick cotton balls in your ears, or, if cotton balls aren't immediately available, take the Vincent Van Gogh route using any sharp object in the vicinity. If all else fails, take the Hemingway route and do some home dental work. It might not be ideal, but it's light years ahead of the alternative.
