Good Harbor Beach, 2005 oil on board by Ann Black.
Every venue you drop into these days, from the local supermarket to the mall to the beach, is inundated with trash noise. It makes our head spin. What if you were to wake up to the sound of bird song outside your window? It can still happen here in Chelsea-by-the-Sea, but it's practically impossible these days in the public square what with the mindless electronic engine-pumping sounds that come with every sunrise, midday and sunset — not to mention every segment of every TV show — always some automaton's choice of background music that kills the soul. We're talking the sons and daughters of Musak, something that started with the best of intentions — don't they all? — in elevators way back when and now fills every interstice of the modrin scene. We've despised Musak from day one, of course. First time we realized our impotence in the face of relentlessly broadcast music was as a pre-teen at Good Harbor Beach in Gloucester — Yes, the same town where local
losers girls just wanna have babies. In those days we imagined you could spend a day at the beach, get a little sun, body surf and listen to the soothing sounds of the ocean breaking on the sand. But no. Already then, perhaps 40 or more years ago, the rude intruders had their radios turned up loud, ruining everything for folks like us yearning to breathe free. You can't go anywhere these days.
Update: More rude intruders on parade at Dr. Sanity's Carnival of the Insanities.