Echoes From A Shopping Centre

I’m standing at a urinal at Heathrow Airport. Terminal 4.

It’s early June. 6am. I have just been “deplaned” rather than disembarked the plane from Bahrain. My ears are yet to adjust. Sounds are muting, amplifying and echoing at their own pace and own rhythm, no matter how much I fuss with and rattle them.

From a cubicle, I hear a voice singing along to a tune playing over the airport PA. I'd been ignoring it but become aware that it is something ghastly by Michael Jackson. Something from his post “OK” phase and eons away from his “good” phase. A phase that ended in 1982, if I am feeling generous.

The occupant of the toilet cubicle sounds happy. But he is murdering the song. Murdering it slowly. No quick bullet to the temple for this one. This evil, sadistic fucker is killing it by the death of a thousand cuts.

I find it a truly unpleasant thing to hear.

But, it got me thinking. It was the first music I had heard in a public space in months.

This is a difference between life in Saudi Arabia and the UK. Silence in public spaces.

In the UK, music is everywhere. You can’t avoid it. Even when you think you are out of harm’s way, it creeps up on you. TV jingles, advertising, ring tones, computer games… some little bastard on the back seat of the bus playing with his bastard phone. It is always there, replacing the dull throb of the humdrum. And you become so used to it, by and large, your subconscious deploys its own mixing desk and fades it down so low that it may as well not be there. All though you are largely tuned into it, you are simultaneously tuned out; grabbed into the moment, only when you hear something that you either love or hate.

Back in my Topshop days, it could be quite startling and unsettling when the PA system stopped. Not just because it meant that it may be a precursor to a fire alarm and – as an employee – I'd wait to establish whether it was a male or female voice cutting in to politely reassure me that the incident unfolding was being investigated. The gender of voice determined the level of blind panic you were required to deploy (see notes below). It wasn't that. Without music, the store just lost something.

Topshop was a barn, so everything echoed. Music filled the void. Without music, it became cold. Time stood still. It became utterly dispiriting. Lonely. Somehow – I have no idea why – it seemed to die. 

But, to counter that, and to hark back to a previous point, the staff simply ignored the cyclical music soundtrack that was pumped out hour after hour, day after day and week after week to fill the gap. No one praised it. When it was mentioned, it was always criticism. Staff pushed to breaking point by music that they didn't like. But mostly, it was ignored and unnoticed by all and sundry. I lost count of the times, while talking to a colleague, I would refer to a track I had heard on the shop floor that I liked - a track that had somehow passed the Bruno Brookes taste test (see notes) to be included on the playlist – only to have them stare at me as if I were an imbecile. 

There was usually a blank look in their eyes:

“Music?"

"Music played on the shop floor. Is there?" 

"What song? Who?" 

“No Pussy Blues?" 

“No Pussy Blues” was the very first song I heard being played while I walked across the shop floor as a Topshop employee. Thinking back to a couple of horrific, cringe worthy conversations in pubs that stepped right to the sheer cliff face of personal humiliation, perhaps it was prophetic. I mean, I was about 100 years older than most of "the young and the beautiful" that I was working with. 

But, hell, the track still gets to me every time. Magic!

But, back on topic.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a fan of music being so ubiquitous and unrelenting. 

I love music. But, by default, I hate music in equal measure. I do not understand people choosing to use it as background noise. Music is there to be heard. As an experience, it should be immersive. You should swim in it and you should be prepared to drown in it. 

The best music is life itself.

So I have always been confused by and often plain offended by music being used in the background. 

But I wasn’t ready for Saudi and it's silence.

Picture a shopping centre where the only sounds are the low throb of air con and distant traffic, the sound of feet walking on tiled floors, the click click of metal hangers on metal display arms, the muted sounds of a thousand disassociated conversations endlessly echoing around a soulless glass and concrete space.

Cold. Emotionally dead.

But it steps beyond the shared space, over into the thresholds of the individual stores. 

No music. No muzak.

Not even Richard Clayderman being piped in. "Live from hell".

This is how I find Mall of Dhahran, Venicia Mall and Al Rashid Mall. Musically silent.

I’m going to pause. I typed “Al Rashid Mall” into Google to check my spelling and immediately linked to the following YouTube clip. Take a look… it is NOT a fair representation of the real experience. The only tiny temper that you are likely to hear in there is from an irate child/husband being denied some sweets.

I spoke with an Arab colleague about it the other day. He agreed. But he couldn’t explain the logic or reason why music is not played. There are radio stations out here. Western, Arab and Indian music is not difficult to find. It’s intrudes in advertising and jingles as much as in the west, so it isn’t music per se. Music may not be encouraged but it is not outlawed. My colleague highlighted that it is probably driven by the proximity of mosques and prayer spaces in the shopping centres… which I understand, but I am surprised that music isn’t piped and faded for prayer times. The technology is there. But – hey - who am I and what do I know?

But I cannot help being troubled. A year on, I still find it slightly unnerving. shopping centres feel as if they are closed. I walk round feeling as if I've been locked in or am trespassing. Almost as if I will be approached imminently and escorted to the exit for to be fed some wise words by a Security Guard before being thrown on my arse into the street.

Restaurants are the same.

Think what it is like at a chain restaurant. Take away the music and all you are left with are echoes, the sound of extractor fans, cooking, scraping cutlery and furniture and mastication. Everyone talking in whispers to avoid being overheard three tables away. 

There is a void.

A void of mild discomfort.

Many restaurants get around the issue by turning the volume up on the TV. So you eat with the sound track to the news in Arabic, or to round the clock sports coverage or – as in my case, in a Thai restaurant – a documentary about abattoirs. I don’t watch TV anymore (see notes, below), so I find this even more distracting, intrusive and unnecessary than loud music.

TGI Friday can be found all across the Kingdom. I’m not a fan of their food. It’s frozen. It is heated, rather than cooked. It has nothing vibrant or fresh associated with it to offer. It is as plastic and fake as the presentation.

But, in the UK, I get that it offers something beyond a McDonalds meal deal. 

Like it or loathe it, it is a destination based on the atmosphere that it chooses to create. It aims to be the party of all parties. Whatever the day or time it may be, it wants you to buy into the idea that it is the night before the biggest weekend of your life.

OK. I’ve started something… I guess I ought to finish.

In Saudi, the weekend runs Friday through Saturday, so the chain should really be renamed TGI Thursday.

And realistically, I am not sure that they should keep the “G” in the name, given the religious connotation. It doesn’t mean “Golly” because that could be deemed racist. If it means “Gosh”, then that is because of the stupid, vacuous, wet morals of Christians choosing to play fast and loose with the word “God” to get around the whole, apparent, blasphemy issue.

The “G” stands for “God”. We all know it. No good hiding. No good pretending. Move on. (See Notes)

Now, I am not suggesting they replace the “G” with an “A”. Ignoring the fact that it would be commercial suicide, it would just be silly. Perhaps they should go with an “F”, instead. After all, it was one of Chris Evans’ two ideas and it worked for him in the UK; it’s wild and rebellious streak really put punk to shame.

OK. Back on track.

What TGI Friday in the UK does to create an atmosphere, is pump up the volume. For all the dark lighting, all the big personalities among the waiting staff, it is reliant on the musical backdrop to set the scene of unparalleled fun.

Back off track. 

In KSA, TGI Friday have also done away with employing staff who are wannabe actors or natural extroverts. TGI, over here, is staffed by average blokes taking orders, delivering food, hanging around, waiting for you to finish to claim a wage at the end of the day. In silence.

TGI provides an eye wateringly loud and bass driven soundtrack to your night out. It gives you all the latest homogenised, viciously calculated and "sales demographic" driven pop hits alongside hateful, classic party anthems that you could wish for. In my case, it gives me 100% more of this type of music than I could ever actually wish for. And so it goes. You have to shout to be heard like you are at a nightclub. Conversation is retarded. You eat the overpriced food and think about what you will do when you've been set free.

It’s fun. Honest. I love it. 

At home and in KSA. It's my favourite.

So, in Saudi, I have reached a point where going out I wouldn't care if I heard “Earth Song” or some other abomination that Wacko left us as a parting shot to the World. A point where I wish for almost anything to fill the void.

It’s mid September. London.

I’ve, again, been “deplaned” by Gulf Air. Again, I am in the toilets.

Washing my hands, I note the music playing. It’s something ghastly by Culture Club. Something released after their “Not the best” phase. It’s sweet and sugary. My teeth are immediately set on edge.

I am immediately brought back down to earth with a crash. And it makes me think: "Heathrow Airport really knows how to test me".

NOTES

Topshop Fire Alarms - A female voice meant that it was probable that it was a false alarm or drill. A male voice meant that the incident was urgent, ominous and very real. With a male voice, your life expectancy had just been shortened and it was now every man, woman and child for themselves. Even the mice would head for the exits. The chaos, panic, paranoia and senseless drama it caused was only surpassed at opening time on Boxing Day.

Bruno Brookes - Sorry to ruin any dreams you may hold that a bunch of fashionista in Shoreditch dream up what is played in Topshop and Topman stores. It is a bunch of accountant types in an office in Kingston working for former Radio One DJ and alleged domestic abuser, Bruno Brookes. I don’t think he has ever been cool or "on trend". Note; even when he played an uncensored version of “Killing in the Name Of” with it's 17 "fucks" on prime time radio, it was an accident.

Television - About three years ago, my TV broke. I decided not to replace it, as its primary use was as background noise. I used to waste days channel surfing without knowingly watching anything. I have a TV in my apartment in Saudi. I’ve been here over twelve months and am yet to switch it on. Recently, I got a message from a colleague telling me that one of the Saudi channels was showing a decent film that I should make an effort to watch. Relenting, I decided to watch it… After five minutes, I could neither find the remote control nor figure out how to switch the TV or cable box on. I read it as an omen. I don’t watch TV.

The "G" Word - When I worked at Topshop, there was a period where the staff T-shirt had a front print reading “OMG Topshop” in bright yellow print on black. The design was the winner of an in house competition among the staff who were going to have to wear it. There was a fuss in the management team because one staff member (maybe more) refused to wear said shirt based on his/her faith. Many of my colleagues were annoyed and vocally stated that they should just “get on with it” because it was just a generic phrase that everyone uses. The staff concerned considered it inappropriate and a betrayal of their beliefs. Now, I do not share said beliefs and the slogan didn't impact me at all, but I had sympathy for them. If you believe in something to the core, you should never compromise. I was on their side. It got sorted out, they were allowed to wear a plain tee instead, from memory. Obvious. Common sense.

What amazed me about the situation, though, was that after the resolution was reached, we were told that the “G” in question did not and never did to refer to or mean “God” but “Gosh”. And it struck me that senior management appeared were trying to claim some ridiculous moral high ground. It seemed that they were trying to convince me that they were showing benevolence to the foolish rather than just accepting that they hadn't considered that some people get touchy about glib blasphemy (actual or not). As always, I just let the arrogance wash over me... Worse still, within the management team, even after the compromise was reached, the conversations/gossip/bullshitting/general backstabbing/political positioning went on for an eternity and I recall one person – remaining nameless to protect the fucking stupid – who would correct you if you dared to refer to the word “God”. And it left me stunned. Did she really believe the utter and total bollocks that Topshop fed her? Worryingly, I think that she did.

Finally

I'm posting this on 21st October, Lux Interior's birthday... Had he lived, he would have been 69 years old today.

So let yourself be immersed. Feel free to drown.

RIP Lux. Stay Sick.