Muzak to my ears: A local study

The most disturbing thing about muzak is that it doesn't happen by chance. Thousands of people — recording artists, producers, marketers, corporate decision-makers, delivery people, electricians, mid-level functionaries and on and on, a whole world in six degrees — have lived their lives in part so you can hear that desolate, familiar music while purchasing shampoo. And one cannot simply wad up some pity to flick at the fact that that process is "those people's lives" — there is no safety in distance. You are a part of the process. Muzak is a part of your life.

Now, the reader is surely already familiar with the history and psychological principles behind playing music in stores, factories, death camps, etc. Behind this article lie countless other articles, consumer studies and nightly news features that have all gone a long way towards some thorough explanation. Allow me, then, to move past the macroscopic theorizing and focus instead on our everyday little muzak tragedies, the attempts to cope with life in what is, on a large metaphorical scale, a World of Muzak.

As with the prevention and management of a terminal illness, information and informed choices are the keys to keeping one's head above water. This article, then, looks to compare the muzak playing in several Princeton places — the Wa, CVS and the U-Store — not in order to cure us of muzak, but merely in order to make it less scary, to give us a sense of empowerment as we face it one day at a time.

It is possible to find meaning in muzak. Early one morning during reading period, if one is desperately stalled on a final paper, it is possible to walk into the Burger King on Nassau Street for breakfast and hear, say, Stevie Wonder's "Sir Duke" leaking out of the walls. As Stevie sings "They can feel it all o-o-oooover-rr . . .", all worries vanish. The paper will be a success.

More often than not, however, muzak threatens to deaden and destroy. Of the three spot under consideration in this article, CVS plays by far the most depressing and painful muzak. In "Beware of Darkness", George Harrison sings, ". . . As each unconscious sufferer wanders aimlessly." That line ought to be hanging over the entrance to CVS atop some infamous wrought-iron gate. As one shuffles along the aisles, the music is just that bad. There are two kinds of muzak that play, interspersed in no particular pattern, at CVS. The first kind of muzak is the most mournful, forlornful "R&B" (if you can call it that) probably ever produced. Every song is basically a keyboard track that sounds like it's being played by the latest castoff from a Phillipine reality show for orphans, layed over the airy vocals of singers who are probably the affectless grandchildren of the guy who decided to install horrible fluorescent lighting everywhere. The other kind of muzak is this third-tier country music that even the bathroom of a highway rest stop wouldn't be caught dead playing. Again, it's just that bad.

Too gloomed-out by the phat beats dropping over at CVS? Hightail it over to the Wa for a little funky relief! The Wa also plays a little Phillipine "oRph&B" and a little lousy country music (for example, at the end of the chorus of one of those "affirmation of self and heritage" songs that female country singers do so well, this woman sings, "It's all a part of me . . . and that's who I ammmmm . . ." Yes!), but the upper management of the Wa Corporation must have a little more nerve and soul because I've caught myself "grooving" several times while waiting for Yeni (oh sweet beautiful Yeni) to make my sandwich. A lot of the muzak is like the dorkier younger cousin of Sade, but I wouldn't be surprised to walk into the Wa and actually hear "Smooth Operator."

One time at the Wa, at about drunk o'clock in the morning, they were playing "Girl" by the Beatles. I really got into it. "Gotta love the Beatles, eh guys, am I right? Am I right?" I spun around, gesticulating wildly, but no one responded. I think a former Beatle said it best when he sang, "As each unconscious sufferer wanders aimlesslyyyyyy . . ."

This brings us to the U-Store, home to the most sublime muzak, which is beamed via satellite from the Muzak Holy of Holies, a tabernacle in orbit around the earth. Unlike the muzak at the Wa or CVS, this is not the lobotomized, attic-imprisoned muzak-brother of pop music. If that attic-dweller were (manacled to the bedsprings) to have a beatific vision of vegetable jazz, then that, and only that, would be the muzak at the U-Store. The music seems to have no beginning or end. There are no songs — only the movements of an endless catatonic symphony. It is Muzak Nirvana.

The mere contemplation of the U-Store muzak threatens to terminate this article right this second, its author slipping into the satori void. But before this crystal ship sails (to the U-Store, to browse through its wide selection DVDs, magazines, and haircare products, blissed out . . .), a summary: 1.) the second you step into CVS, scream at the top of your lungs to drown out the muzak, and keep screaming till you're ready to leave; 2.) wait around long enough at the Wa and, when a smooth soul classic comes on, make a move on one of the girls from Princeton High's field hockey team. 3.) ah, the U-Store . . . the Ohhhmmmmm . . . store.