Several semesters ago, when I abandoned half-a-dozen partially completed majors to study music, I spent the first several months patting myself on the back for having the modest courage to follow my aspirations as far as the comfort zone of academia allowed.
Live the dream, Matt. You've got what it takes."" I spoke reaffirmingly to my bathroom mirror on a daily basis, like a one-man production of the feel-good movie of the year.
Nagging doubts followed me over two issues, however. The first was my basic musical illiteracy. I pictured the rest of my class arriving, Stradivariuses in hand, from summer programs at Julliard, while I wandered down from the Appalachian foothills, banging a wooden spoon against the same pot which I had earlier used to cook my vittles.
The second, potentially more serious threat, was the possibility that nearly a decade of standing directly in front of PAs at concerts and pressing my head to stereo speakers would soon catch up with me, leaving me as deaf as Beethoven before I'd have the chance to force the Verve Pipe from my auditory memory.
Starting with a Discman in the mid-'90s and carrying through to the first years of the iPod, I fell into a vicious listening cycle which thrived on the physiological response to high volumes. Showing no regard for quality, I found that almost anything kind of rocks when played loud enough - even Incubus. My parents' warnings about hearing aids grew fainter as the dial crept up towards ten, as did everything else for the first few minutes after the headphones came off.
I felt like I could identify with smokers 100 percent in my wanton disregard for the health risks. What situation couldn't be enhanced by playing Weezer so loud that, even on headphones, a passersby would have the opportunity to sing along? The secondhand noise that surrounded me drew complaints from strangers on elevators, buses and trans-Atlantic flights, but I was always very gracious in turning it down after guessing the reason for their mute protests and pointing.
Among my own crowd at concerts on a weekly basis, the only things that usually needed saying during a song were easily translated into fist pumping and head shaking in the direction of the stage. Addressing a friend standing three feet away, on the other hand, was nearly impossible. A band couldn't be shouted down, nor could the ominous ringing that asserted itself between songs.
Without a formal sign language to fall back on, it was often necessary to take one's case directly to another's inner-ear. I didn't think of it as rude or unusual if a complete stranger cupped both hands around one side of my head and screamed with enough force to press their uvula against my ear drum: ""THIS BAND IS SO LOUD!""
When wandering out into the streets after a show, the sudden drop in decibels makes everything seem eerily distant. A particularly loud bass drum and a good lightshow can amplify this effect into a two-day trance. During this time, it's best to avoid all lengthy silences, especially the kind where you're encouraged to listen to your own thoughts or the voices of deities.
At Catholic school, moments of silent class prayer had me convinced that temporary hearing loss must be a recent phenomenon, as none of the Old Testament prophets was ever heard to say ""O' Lord, what dost thou mean with thy Eternal Buzzing?""
Tired of these inarticulate encounters with the Almighty and worried at the prospect of having to someday explain my hearing loss to grandchildren (""Have you kids ever heard of Rage Against the Machine?""), I decided to wean myself off the high-volume kicks when I came to college. Since then, it's been one day at a time keeping the volume knob in the middle, but I've come to appreciate the everyday noises I can now hear over my headphones. Not getting hit by cars on the way to class will do that.
Eh? What's that you say? E-mail Matt at hunziker@wisc.edu.
