By Joel Warner
By Michael Roberts
By Alan Prendergast
By Michael Roberts
By Michael Roberts
By Amber Taufen
By Patricia Calhoun
By William Breathes
"Have you ever heard of Enya?" my dentist asks.
"Hate her," I say.
"Yeah, but several patients suggested her." To prove his point, he produces a sticky note with ENYA written on it.
This is all part of Larry Gabler's highly democratic background-music selection process. Seven years ago, having abandoned his habitual light-rock radio station, he installed a multiple-CD changer, began acquiring CDs, and set them to shuffle randomly. Now the mix changes constantly, based on what music Larry discovers during his lunch hour, which patients make suggestions, and who complains. On this particular day, a critical mass of dental hygienists has decreed that there is "too much twangy country," and so Larry is about to eighty-six Bill Monroe, Hank Williams and Bob Wills. At first I disagree, but then I remember that, as a patient, I have a vote. If I produce Muddy Waters or Frank Sinatra on my next visit, both will be given a fair trial.
Enya or no, this is a marked improvement over the days when "dentist's office" music consisted of Muzak and Mantovani, a soundtrack that no one really listened to but that somehow set everyone's teeth -- real or temporary -- on edge. With the old background music, you had to concentrate if you wanted to identify a song. But without thinking, I know that "Born in the USA" is playing right now. I wonder what the rest of the world is listening to.
The last time I visited my neighborhood Conoco Break Place, loud Elvis dominated. Today the King has been replaced not by another artist, but by a sort of high-energy pulsing, played at a subliminal level. Inside the store, the pulsing is louder. Howard the manager, who is nearly deaf, explains that all the Conoco music comes from corporate headquarters.
"What happened to Elvis?" I ask.
"Elvis?" I yell.
"Oh, we can change the channels on the doohickey in the back," he says, disappearing to do just that. After a few seconds, the pulsing changes -- to pulsing with a pedal-steel guitar thrown in. "Did it change to country?" Howard asks hopefully. "We're allowed to change it to whatever we want."
Downtown, all of the elevators are strangely silent. But there is music everywhere else.
At the ESPN Zone, it is unabashedly loud but indistinct, overlaid with the crash of bowling pins and video games. "We were slammed at lunch, so we had to turn it down," the hostess says. "It comes on satellite, from corporate."
"Sounds like Van Halen!" I yell.
"Not to me! I think it's Britney Spears!"
Whatever, it's still a sporting, manly mixture designed to make customers want to compete! And have a beer! And maybe a burger! And buy a T-shirt!
Over at the FirstBank branch office, the score is C&W-ish, with female vocals. Hey, life is hard for all of us Western folk, it seems to imply, but you can pull yourself up. So how about a home-equity loan? Or finance a new auto: You don't really live in Denver if you don't own a truck.
At the deserted Ann Taylor Loft store, I encounter genuine Muzak. "It's designed to make you want to stay and shop," explains a young saleswoman. "They send us a new one every month."
"And it repeats every three hours," her co-worker adds.
"And how do you like that?" I ask.
"And the Cranberries, every single month," says a third saleswoman. "At least before, it was all instrumental."
Aaah-aaah female singing is the perfect description. Rather than making me want to stay and shop, it makes me want to leave.
I pop into the Children's Place, where I expect to hear Raffi, maybe. Instead, I hear whoa-whoa male singing, with harder beats. Backstreet Boys, I'm informed.
"Corporate puts it together for people who shop here, who aren't actually kids," says the young woman behind the counter. "They're people who work downtown. It's hip-hop, Top Forty, some Christian music mixed in."
"For people your age?"
"Right -- except personally, I like Christian punk. I could listen to MXPX and Reliant K all day, but it won't happen."
Later, in the Safeway produce section, I suddenly feel that all's right with the world. A second later, I realize this is because the Allman Brothers' "Melissa" is spouting from the P.A. system. Safeway's nailed me: A consumer who once considered this music risky and rebellious, I've grown old enough to express my reckless spirit by purchasing pints of berries I don't need.
"It's more than just creating a feeling of warmth in the background. We're there to help clients enforce their brand," says Brett Balthorpe, a third-generation purveyor of Muzak in San Antonio, Texas. (Before he got on the line, I was put on "Girl From Ipanema" hold, but only for a second.) "For about fifty years, all we did was the Environmental Program," he recalls. "That's the Muzak people stereotype. And then, fairly recently, they decided to appeal to customers who wanted what we call "foreground" music. We started adding programs -- country, classical, Spanish-language."