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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Would the BBC's Nazi drama SS-GB have felt half so resonant a year ago?

This alternate history is freighted with meaning now we're facing the wurst-case scenario. 

Would SS-GB have felt half so resonant a year ago? Though the clever-after-the-fact Nostradamus types out there might disagree, I can’t believe that it would. When it comes to the Second World War, after all, the present has helpfully stepped in where memory is just beginning to leave off. The EU, in the process of fragmenting, is now more than ever powerless to act in the matter of rogue states, even among its own membership. In case you hadn’t noticed, Hungary, for instance, is already operating as a kind of proto-fascist state, led by Viktor Orbán, a man whom Jean-Claude Juncker, the president of the European Commission, jokingly likes to call “the dictator” – and where it goes, doubtless others will soon follow.

The series (Sundays, 9pm), adapted from Len Deighton’s novel, is set in 1941 in a Britain under Nazi occupation; Winston Churchill has been executed and the resistance is struggling to hold on to its last strongholds in the countryside. Sam Riley plays Douglas Archer, a detective at Scotland Yard, now under the control of the SS, and a character who appears in almost every scene. Riley has, for an actor, a somewhat unexpressive face, beautiful but unreadable. Here, however, his downturned mouth and impassive cheekbones are perfect: Archer, after all, operates (by which I mean, barely operates) in a world in which no one wants to give their true feelings away, whether to their landlady, their lover, or their boss, newly arrived from Himmler’s office and as Protestant as all hell (he hasn’t used the word “degenerate” yet, but he will, he will).

Archer is, of course, an ambiguous figure, neither (at present) a member of the resistance nor (we gather) a fully committed collaborator. He is – or so he tells himself – merely doing his job, biding his time until those braver or more foolhardy do something to restore the old order. Widowed, he has a small boy to bring up. Yet how long he can inhabit this dubious middle ground remains to be seen. Oskar Huth (Lars Eidinger), the new boss, is keen to finish off the resistance; the resistance, in turn, is determined to persuade Archer to join its cause.

It’s hard to find fault with the series; for the next month, I am going to look forward to Sunday nights mightily. I would, I suppose, have hoped for a slightly more charismatic actress than Kate Bosworth to play Barbara Barga, the American journalist who may or may not be involved with the British resistance. But everything else seems pretty perfect to me. London looks suitably dirty and its inhabitants’ meals suitably exiguous. Happiness is an extra egg for tea, smoking is practically a profession, and
the likes of Archer wear thick, white vests.

Swastikas adorn everything from the Palace of Westminster to Trafalgar Square, Buckingham Palace is half ruined, a memorial to what the Germans regard as Churchill’s folly, and the CGI is good enough for the sight of all these things to induce your heart to ache briefly. Nazi brutality is depicted here as almost quotidian – and doubtless it once was to some. Huth’s determination to have four new telephone lines installed in his office within the hour is at one end of this horrible ordinariness. At the other is the box in which Archer’s mutinous secretary Sylvia (Maeve Dermody) furiously stubs out her fag, full to the brim with yellow stars.

When I first heard about The Kettering Incident (Tuesdays, 12.20am; repeated Wednesdays, 10pm) I thought someone must have found out about that thing that happened one time I was driving north on the M1 with a more-than-usually terrible hangover. Turns out it’s a new Australian drama, which comes to us on Sky Atlantic. Anna (Elizabeth Debicki), a doctor working in London, pitches up back in Tasmania many years after her teenage friend Gillian disappeared into its Kettering forest, having seen a load of mysterious bright lights. Was Gillian abducted by aliens or was she, as some local people believe, murdered by Anna? To be honest, she could be working as a roadie for Kylie, for all I care. This ponderous, derivative show is what happens when a writer sacrifices character on the altar of plot. The more the plot thickens, the more jaw-achingly tedious it becomes.

Rachel Cooke trained as a reporter on The Sunday Times. She is now a writer at The Observer. In the 2006 British Press Awards, she was named Interviewer of the Year.

This article first appeared in the 24 February 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The world after Brexit