The sounds of silence

A very, very quiet top ten.

The Hayward Gallery’s recent show of "Invisible Art" has proved that there is widespread interest in absent art. People are paying good money to see blank canvases and empty plinths. But is there the same market for silence? The Hayward’s director Ralph Ruggoff doesn’t think so. He has claimed that "in music you only have one person do a piece of silent music but somehow in art, artists kept coming back to the subject".

The music that he is referring to is John Cage’s 4’33’, which caused outrage when premiered in Woodstock, New York on 29 August 1952. For this performance the pianist David Tudor sat at his instrument but did not play it. Instead he opened and closed the piano lid three times, marking out the three separate movements that make up the 4’33” duration of the work.

Yet Rugoff is mistaken about 4’33” being the only silent composition. There have, in fact, been enough silent works to compile a Top Ten:

 

  1. György Ligeti, Three Bagatelles for David Tudor (1961). Paying homage to Cage’s pianist, Ligeti composed two silent bagatelles. Allowing a rare moment of noise, the third includes a single piano note

  2. John Denver, "The Ballad of Richard Nixon" (1969). Denver’s silent track inaugurated a series of mute critiques about politicians. See also Stiff Records’ The Wit and Wisdom of Ronald Reagan, which is comprised of two sides of blank vinyl, and Cherry Red Records’ The Compassion and Humanity of Margaret Thatcher, a box set featuring a blank tape and blank video cassette

  3. The West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band, "Anniversary of World War III" (1969). A time-travelling act of remembrance that lasts for two silent minutes

  4. John Lennon and Yoko Ono, "Two Minutes Silence" (1969). Combining their usual mix of solipsism and global politics, this act of remembrance marked Ono’s recent miscarriage as well as being a memoriam for ‘all violence and death’ (it was later covered by the grunge band Soundgarden who stated that they ‘appreciated the Lennon arrangement’)

  5. Sly and the Family Stone, "There’s a Riot Goin' On" (1971). This silent composition lasts 0’00”. It marks Sly Stone’s belief that "there should be no riots"

  6. John Lennon, "Nutopian National Anthem" (1973). Lennon’s second silent track was intended as theme song for his conceptual country, Nutopia, a place with no borders, leaders or laws ("other than cosmic")

  7. Ciccone Youth, "Silence" (1981). For this Sonic Youth side project the group shortened 4’33” to 1’03” claiming that it was a radio edit of Cage’s work

  8. Orbital, "Are We Here? (Criminal Justice Mix)" (1994). As a protest against the Tory government’s Criminal Justice Act, which sought to outlaw the "repetitive beats" of illegal raves, this mix of Orbital’s single is mute

  9. Slum Village, "Silent (Dirty)" (2002). Critiquing the campaign by the Parents Music Resource Center to sticker records with warnings about their "explicit" content, Slum Village self-censored this track, which features "the dirtiest fifteen seconds of utter silence ever not heard"

  10. Mike Batt, "A One Minute's Silence" (2002). Batt credited this composition to himself and John Cage. It was reported that Cage’s publishers sought full ownership of the work, demanding a six-figure sum for breach of copyright. While there is some truth in this story, Batt later suggested that the two parties had agreed to inflate the figure as a publicity stunt.

 

Mike Batt’s composition provides a rare case of a silent track gaining some attention. As Ralph Ruggoff’s quote indicates, most of these recordings are not widely known. Could this be because nobody has heard them?

Richard Osborne is Lecturer in Popular Music at Middlesex University

The composer John Cage. (Getty Images.)
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We knew we’d become proper pop stars when we got a car like George Michael’s

“That was George Michael!” we both shouted. “And he was driving the car we want!”

One of the clichés about celebrity life is that all celebrities know each other. Back in the Eighties, when we were moderately famous, Ben and I did often bump into other famous people, and because of mutual recognition, there was a sort of acquaintance, if not friendship.

There was a random element to it, as well. Some celebrities you might never catch a glimpse of, while others seemed to pop up with an unexpected regularity.

In 1987, the car we drove was a 1970s Austin Princess, all leather seats and walnut dashboard. In many ways, it symbolised what people thought of as the basic qualities of our band: unassuming, a little bit quirky, a little bit vintage. We’d had it for a year or so, but Ben was running out of patience. It had a habit of letting us down at inconvenient moments – for instance, at the top of the long, steep climbs that you encounter when driving through Italy, which we had just recklessly done for a holiday. The car was such a novelty out there that it attracted crowds whenever we parked. They would gather round, nodding appreciatively, stroking the bonnet and murmuring, “Bella macchina . . .”

Having recently banked a couple of royalty cheques, Ben was thinking of a complete change of style – a rock’n’roll, grand-gesture kind of car.

“I wanna get an old Mercedes 300 SL,” he said to me.

“What’s one of those?”

“I’ll let you know next time we pass one,” he said.

We were driving through London in the Princess, and as we swung round into Sloane Square, Ben called out, “There’s one, look, coming up on the inside now!” I looked round at this vision of gleaming steel and chrome, gliding along effortlessly beside us, and at the same moment the driver glanced over towards our funny little car. We made eye contact, then the Merc roared away. It was George Michael.

“That was George Michael!” we both shouted. “And he was driving the car we want!”

We’d always had a soft spot for George, even though we seemed to inhabit opposite ends of the pop spectrum. He’d once been on a TV review show and said nice things about our first album, and I knew he had liked my solo single “Plain Sailing”. We’d done a miners’ benefit gig where Wham! had appeared, slightly out of place in their vests, tans and blond bouffants. There had been a bit of sneering because they’d mimed. But I remember thinking, “Good on you for even being here.” Their presence showed that being politically active, or even just caring, wasn’t the sole preserve of righteous indie groups.

A couple of weeks later, we were driving along again in the Princess, when who should pull up beside us in traffic? George again. He wound down his window, and so did we. He was charming and called across to say that, yes, he had recognised us the other day in Sloane Square. He went on to complain that BBC Radio 1 wouldn’t play his new single “because it was too crude”. “What’s it called?” asked Ben. “ ‘I Want Your Sex’!” he shouted, and roared away again, leaving us laughing.

We’d made up our minds by now, and so we went down to the showroom, flashed the cash, bought the pop-star car and spent the next few weeks driving our parents up and down the motorway with the roof off. It was amazing: even I had to admit that it was a thrill to be speeding along in such a machine.

A little time passed. We were happy with our glamorous new purchase, when one day we were driving down the M1 and, yes, you’ve guessed it, in the rear-view mirror Ben saw the familiar shape coming up behind. “Bloody hell, it’s George Michael again. I think he must be stalking us.”

George pulled out into the lane alongside and slowed down as he drew level with us. We wound down the windows. He gave the car a long look, up and down, smiled that smile and said, “That’s a bit more like it.” Then he sped away from us for the last time.

Cheers, George. You were friendly, and generous, and kind, and you were good at being a pop star.

Tracey Thorn is a musician and writer, best known as one half of Everything but the Girl. She writes the fortnightly “Off the Record” column for the New Statesman. Her latest book is Naked at the Albert Hall.

This article first appeared in the 12 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's revenge