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All Sound Is Queer PDF
All Sound Is Queer PDF
“All Sound Is Queer”. The WIRE. London. Issue 333: November 2011.
Drew Daniel
Three queers walk into a bar. The bar is The Eagle, a leather bar on the fringe
of what used to be Manhattan’s meatpacking district, now the site of yet more
luxury condos for the hedge fund elite. It’s Friday night on “Black Party” weekend, a
circuit party for the muscle-‐and-‐amphetamines set. Queer A is transgender, never
goes to gay bars, nervous as he/she obviously doesn’t fit in, but giddy and curious,
happy to be there because of the sheer exoticism of this over-‐the-‐top macho
environment. Queer B, in tweeds, is here under duress, actively disliking the
bearded, shirtless, beerswilling demographic. Queer C is me, not hairy enough to be
a bear, nor muscular enough to be a gym queen, but down with sleazy cruising.
Waiting to check our coats, we all hear the same song: Lil’ Louis’ “French Kiss,” a
house track from 1989 that synchs a dramatic tempo drop to a female orgasm which
grinds downwards to a brain-‐erasing petite morte of pure pleasure and then,
basking in the afterglow, ramps back up to speed again. It’s the sort of “classic”
which you can’t not know if you’re a faggot of a certain age. Its presence here is no
accident.
This
must
be
the
place.
They’re
playing
our
song.
2
moment as an example of the way that sexuality and music intertwine to make
community and belonging possible, and it would afford a political pay off to the
powerfully binding force of such emotional attachments. Subcultures can “adopt”
mainstream artists or underground anthems and love them with a fanaticism that
like recordings. It’s an oft-‐told story, from opera queens loving Maria Callas to
showtune queens loving Judy Garland to 80’s pop fans loving Madonna to baby
dykes loving Bikini Kill to the countless queer fans of the present moment being told
to find-‐-‐or perhaps even finding-‐-‐ ratification in episodes of Glee or YouTube clips of
Lady Gaga. Pop music approaches its listeners with the Velvet Underground’s
promise in mind: “I’ll Be Your Mirror”. Buying into this fantasy, we are asked to see
and hear ourselves within the scenarios and implied identities that “our” music
Given the actively homophobic, or merely drab and exploitive, environment in
which so many queers live and work and struggle alongside everybody else, it’s no
surprise that there are plenty of people eager to invest in such deeply pleasurable
virtual acts of communion. For better and for worse, the shared experience of pop
music can create a ‘we’ within which to party, cruise, hook up, let off steam,
organize, network, protect, include. Or at least it is supposed to do that.
But a funny thing happened as we waited in line to check our coats: friction.
The
experience
of
being
met
at
the
door
by
Lil’
Louis
was
meant
to
be
welcoming,
3
the first familiar caress of a night of debauchery, a way to get everyone to come
together. It didn’t click. It didn’t bring A, B, and C together as “gay men” or as
“queers”. We weren’t united. Feeling caught out there by cliché as I enjoyed a guilty
pleasure, I was struck by the jarring distance between the female orgasm of the song
and the hypermacho setting in which it played. Was it here to remind us that we
were supposed to be men, or to perfume the shame of an imagined inward
femininity that everyone’s muscled and tattooed bodies were meant to disavow?
Not worrying about such things, A just chuckled at the song’s played-‐out-‐ness.
Straight up offended, B voiced his hatred of house music as the de facto genre which
gay men are simply assumed to enjoy. What we shared then as three queers hearing
a house anthem in a safe space was . . . nothing. The implied community supposedly
generated at the crossing of queerness and music is contentious and perhaps
illusory, and only ever happens as virtual force field of antagonisms between
At its worst and most alienating, the experience of music generates not
belonging, not identity, not community, but an oppressive experience that another
“Lil” Louis, French Marxist philosopher Louis Althusser, termed “Hailing.”2 His oft-‐
cited example is the beat cop on the street who calls out: “hey you!” In so doing, our
identities are conferred onto us and reinforced, kept legible, open to being offered
for inspection to the relevant authorities. Whether we are eagerly customizing our
Facebook profile or waiting in the queue for a passport, we are all good subjects in
the capitalist subject-‐machine. Like the beat cop calling us out on the street, the
presentation
of
house
music
in
gay
bars
performs
a
similar
function
of
social
4
subjection: Hey you! You are this kind of person! This is your music! The obligation
to “Enjoy!” is the ceaseless imperative of the culture industry and it sub-‐cultural
variants. There are all sorts of places to go and people to be, but so long as one is not
free not to be “someone”, there is really nowhere else to go, and no one worth being.
Identity is normative: you are a this, I am a that. The identity politics of the
1990s in particular were about claiming visibility, becoming identifiable, showing
up and standing up and being counted, being recognized by implicit watchers,
overseers, and media outlets. Above all, seeing and being seen is politics as usual.
Which is why the bagging and tagging of identities on behalf of a celebration of
difference is a dead end. The celebration of gay and lesbian difference offers no real
alternative to a dominant neoliberal capitalist democratic culture that is only too
happy to reinforce, include, and cater to them all as a dutiful rainbow coalition of
subject-‐consumers. Which is what makes hearing sound, rather than being hailed by
By contrast to vision, sound queers identity, and in the process offers a way
out of the hailing game. It does so by being an involuntary solvent of the self. As
everyone knows, you cannot close your ears. Going further than most, Jacques Lacan
declares that we cannot even fantasize an alternative: “In the field of the
unconscious, the ears are the only orifice that cannot be closed.”3 The promiscuous
open-‐ness of the ear, a hole that takes all comers, means that we as living systems
are open to and invaded by the world. Sound queers the self/world boundary, all
day,
everyday.
In
so
doing,
it
blurs
the
edges
of
any
self
that
the
subject-‐machine
5
cares to hail; even in the midst of the “hey you, here’s your house music” there are
other noises afoot, other sounds playing, other ways to become something more or
Which is why talk about gays and lesbians in music ought to productively
shift towards the queerness of sound itself, as both an agent and a solvent of the
political experience of antagonism encountered when hailing fails and the promise
of gay community peters out. Sound-‐ not music but sound-‐ can let us hear what is not
yet locatable on the available maps of identity. Hearing the queerness of sound
might help us echolocate the edges of subjection, and encounter the all that stands
All sound is queer. The “all” means: any, and each, and their endless
summation, the sound of the world. To hear this sound is to become queered. This is
the lesson we are taught in “The House of Sounds”, a short story written by the West
Indian pulp author M.P. Shiel in the 1920s. Here is its opening paragraph:
A
good
many
years
ago,
when
a
young
man,
a
student
in
Paris,
I
knew
the
great
Carot,
and
witnessed
by
his
side
many
of
those
cases
of
mind-‐malady,
in
the
analysis
of
which
he
was
such
a
master.
I
remember
one
little
maid
of
the
Marais
who,
until
the
age
of
nine,
did
not
differ
from
her
playmates;
but
one
night,
lying
abed,
she
whispered
into
her
mother’s
ear:
“Mama,
can
you
not
hear
the
sound
of
the
world?”
It
appears
that
her
geography
had
just
taught
her
that
our
globe
reels
with
an
enormous
velocity
on
an
orbit
about
the
sun;
and
this
sound
of
the
world
of
hers
was
merely
a
murmur
in
the
ear,
heard
in
the
silence
of
the
night.
Within
six
months,
she
was
as
mad
as
a
March-‐hare.4
6
A queer story, this. For what is this openness to the tune and tone of experience, a
twist which inspires horror and confusion in the bystanders who represent the
productive adult world, if not a kind of audio-‐orientation, a sonosexuality? To hear
“too much”, to hear what is “too quiet”, to claim to hear what we all know is not
there to be heard, is to be cut off from the human community. And yet that occurs
not as a flight from the world, but as a flight into the world, a tunneling into the
telluric grounding of the ultimate Earth, the subtone of planetary hum. Heard in this
way, Shiel’s sound of the world seems somehow both entirely everyday and yet
We can hear the unacknowledged “sound of the world” as many things.
Perhaps it is the grinding daily rhythm of alienated labor in the streets and the
factories and the casual temporary contracts of the quasi-‐employed, the ongoing
hum and hiss of capital that the prevailing “distribution of the sensible”-‐ to use the
formulation of Jacques Ranciere-‐ encourages us to tune out and ignore.5 Now, after
the bubble and the crash, do we even know what work sounds like?
If music has served to distract us from work, it has also tried to help us hear
the sound of work in a new way. It’s rarely quitting time for the musical citation of
labor: the ship engine sequence in Fred Astaire’s 1937 film “Shall We Dance” offers a
heavily swung and highly influential fantasy of obedience, while the metallurgical
hammering of “Kollaps”-‐era Einstürzende Neubauten (Zick Zack, 1981) brings the
sturm und drang; Annie Gosfeld’s ensemble work for industrial materials “Flying
Sparks
and
Heavy
Machinery”
(Tzadik,
1999)
zooms
in
upon
the
material
space
of
7
work itself, while the rhythmic labors of the workers in the factory scenes in Bjork’s
music for Lars von Trier’s 2000 film “Dancer in the Dark” are made critically
complicit in the musical escape fantasy of job-‐as-‐song/song-‐as-‐job. Working the
other side of the street, the all-‐singing, all-‐dancing workforce of the Brighton-‐to-‐
Broadway musical theatre franchise “Stomp!” grin while they grind, sweeping up ad
nauseam for weary tourists. Work is ongoing, all consuming, yet-‐ mostly-‐ outside of
the range of what shows up for us as a sound worth hearing. Work is that which we
know exists and which supports us or eludes us endlessly, but which we either
silence and disavow utterly, or render quaint by harvesting it as a compositional
resource.
But then again, “the sound of the world” might also be the sound of sex. The
question of how sexuality can be directly transferred or captured as sound is fraught
with the basic problem of where one would delimit the boundaries of such an elastic
term in the first place. Is there a queer pitch to be heard in the synthesized blurs of
Coil, in the tangy alternate tunings of Lou Harrison or Harry Partch? Is there a
sexuality to the care with which Joe Meek mics his vocalists, or the way that John
Cage plucked the needles of a cactus? Or the cries and moans of aktionist noise
performer Sudden Infant? Or does real sex have to be involved? And what would
make sex finally “real”, anyway? Listening to the recordings of John Duncan’s
infamous “Blind Date”, an audio document of an act of necrophilia supposedly
committed in Mexico in 1980 and released on the “Pleasure-‐Escape” cassette in
1984, offers a usefully extreme case in point: one cannot co-‐sign or verify anything
other
than
the
pressure
of
one’s
knowledge
about
its
context
onto
the
signal
in
8
question. Is this what necrophilia sounds like, or the sound of someone rummaging
in a pile of clothing and having a good laugh at the listener’s expense? On the other
end of the verité spectrum, the falsification of live, consensual acts of carnal
pleasure is an instantly familiar musical-‐cliché that sutures together the
breakdowns of Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love” (1969), Serge Gainsbourg’s “Je
T’aime . . . Moi Non Plus” (1969), Donna Summer’s “Love to Love You Baby” (1975),
Snares & Hecate’s ‘Nymphomatriarch” (Hymen, 2003) and countless other orgasm-‐
as-‐audio experiences. Quite simply, the implicit epistemological doubt about the
fakery of vocally sounded orgasm troubles every moment of seemingly obvious sex
sound with the shadow of artificiality. Inner and outer vibrations might correspond,
but they might not. The recording moment promises to pin its object securely to our
ears, but that very fidelity is haunted by the transcendental failure of sound to
verifiably align itself with the signs we use to describe it. This possibility of betrayal,
always open, never sure, constitutes the queerness of the sonic-‐ its failure to show
up, reliably, as “sex.” And that too undoes the theory that “the sound of the world”
which the little girl hears is, really, the sound of sexuality erupting.
Let us take the speculative thrusts and thought-‐experiments of “weird
fiction” and science fiction at their word. What if the capacity to hear the sound of
the world is neither the effect of the repression of work nor the effect of the
repression of sex, but something else: what if there really is something there, that
we are trained to ignore? Describing his attacks of precognitive psychic ability, the
narrator
of
George
Eliot’s
supernatural
novella
The
Lifted
Veil,
chimes
in:
“It
was
like
9
a preternaturally heightened sense of hearing, making audible to one a roar of
sound where others find perfect stillness.”6 Shiel’s little girl or Eliot’s psychic
medium are not particular cases, mad as March hares, but people who have failed to
accede to the prevalent distribution of the sensible, and so attain to and access the
sound of the world itself, potentially open to all. Who are we to disavow what they
hear?
demonstrate is the territorializing force of human language and human knowledge
upon the raw, inhuman fact of sound as a vibrational force. To hear the sound of the
world as capital, to hear the sound of the world as sexuality, even to hear the sound
of the world as the a-‐signifying outburst of the inhuman real, in each case
presupposes a certain stance towards the sonic, a conceptual a priori which leans
into sound in search of a meaning, a thrust, a tint, a fundamental frequency. It’s a
neat little feedback loop, a vicious circle: perception produces knowledge, and
knowledge filters perception. I can’t hear the world turning until I know that the
world turns; but once I know the world turns and claim to hear that fact, questions
emerge: am I hearing my mind, the world, or some misleading combination of the
two? To hear and “to know what one hears” are in a constant battle for priority, and
there is no possible neutrality here. The world makes a sound as it turns or it does
not. There is something to hear or there is not.
But how would we know? And how might an attachment to “knowing”, to the
secure
grounding
of
verification
and
proof,
itself
constitute
a
way
of
protecting
10
ourselves from the queer surrender of simply listening to the voices of those who
testify to the theft of their labor or listening to the voices of those who testify to the
pleasures of their bodies or the queer surrender of simply letting the vibrational
forces of the world enter us? These are queer stories not because they recount a
momentary realization that isolates a young person from their playmates with the
stigma of difference, and thus resemble the basic “coming out” narrative (though
they do resemble that). Rather, they are “queer” because all sound is queer, and the
fact of the sound of the world – its universality, not its difference-‐-‐ ruptures the
commonsense of normative, “straight” life. It is in the recalcitrance of its universal
and inhuman force that the insistent queerness of sound might offer a resource for
politics and a challenge to aesthetics. Could a new art and a new politics instruct us
to listen harder and better? To stand at odds with the expectations that tend to
govern this very magazine and its readership, might that listening require us to
listen more, yet, perversely, to know less about what we encounter? Conversely,
might listening to and for this universally available yet elusive sound of the world
occasion a re-‐distribution of the sensible, and, with it, a differently oriented art
A COLLECTIVE SCREAMING
Against this opportunity, there stands an army of hypermobile counterforces,
seductive cottonballs which stuff the ears and dull the edge of what sound offers.
They’re called words, and I too, dislike them. Sound is a given material plenum of
information and noise, always there, a cascade of never-‐ending waveforms, subject
to change, part of a continuum of vibration that precedes and exceeds the spectrum
of audibility. Pulling into and out of range, breaking and building bonds in the
process, sound claims us. But as we know and name, we tame the queerness of
sound with nominalist labels that partition and de-‐intensify the raw queerness of
the sonic on behalf of the empire of signs. Here sound turns against itself, the
partitioned sound-‐symbol-‐signs replacing and effacing the flow of the sonic.
But queer encounters with sound still happen. In the night, I am roused from
dreams by a collective screaming. The night is torn by cries that pour forth from a
permeable darkness. Where do these hidden choruses begin? Who makes up the we
in which I am now entangled against my will? Pulling at the curtains to look out into
the street I see that the bare tree in front of the hospital suddenly has leaves again.
Adjusting, coming back to consciousness, I look again and see that they are not
leaves, but gigantic crows, whose croaks and shrieks have stopped me from
sleeping, again. Of course, it’s only the birds. The sound of the world shrinks back,
My attempt to sleep is a withdrawal into a privacy of self-‐ownership in
violation of the porosity of the body to its world, a little nocturnal secession from
participation which these masterless and inhuman ambassadors from the plenitude
of sound have summarily revoked. Without consent and in despite of the
economically and politically defined property rights which would delineate what is
my
own
and
protect
me
from
such
invasion
and
violation,
I
have
been
included
in
12
the sound of crows in the night, enlisted into the murder in my midst. The
indifference of animal being to my desires puts us into a partnership without
community. We have nothing in common, yet here we are, together in the night,
It had to happen, both the release of sound and its capture into the sign. As I
see and recognize and know and name the mysterious screaming as “crow sound”, I
become a second Adam, asserting dominion over creation through the sorrowful
descent into language. But I wish to rewind to the moment of confusion, the
primordial chaos in which the sound is within me and I am ignorant, in the dark,
traversed by vibrations I cannot yet place, cannot yet hear as the sound of crows. To
a moment of knowledge to come which opens out a potentiality contained in Steve
Goodman’s purloined translation of Spinoza and Deleuze: “We do not yet know what
a sonic body can do.”7 What can be made portable from that moment on behalf of a
queer politics and a queer aesthetics of listening to and with the world? When faced
with the hailing call of “French Kiss” upon entry to the local gay bar, could it be as
simple as cracking open a window so that the crows can invade the Eagle, and
disrupt the house music and the identity politics-‐as-‐usual with a multi-‐species
“Parliament of Fowls” of their own? Less bears, more birds?
solidarity which would consist in my electing to speak for, or with crows, thus
magnanimously broadening the scene of political representation across the species
barrier.
The
crows
do
not
seek
the
vote,
nor
have
they
asked
if
I
care
to
hear
their
13
screams, nor do I acquire some honorific new status as their insomniac
eavesdropper. They too live within the city, and their sounds in the night
obnoxiously insist upon their presence, without regard, referendum or respite. In
the spirit of Jane Bennett’s Vibrant Matter: A Political Ecology of Things, I have in
mind a chastening encounter with the minimal political agency of the crows as my
neighbors along an ever expanding rollcall of vital materialist presence within the
city. The sonic disruption of crow-‐sound can re-‐shuffle who appears within that
community, but it can also fail to have any other effect whatsoever beyond its own
We can hear this sound of non-‐communication and purposelessness in an
ironic moment of failed animal mimicry: the climax of Josef von Sternberg’s 1930
film “The Blue Angel,” when Emil Jannings as Professor Immanuel Rath reaches his
rock bottom of degradation and madness, and, now turned clown, is pressed into
service as a human sound effect by his mocking employers. Expected to make a
“cock-‐a-‐doodle doo” noise as a gag at a precise point in a skit put on for his former
grating outburst which leaps past any particular emotion and achieves a kind of ur-‐
sound of pure affective charge. To be sure, one could claim that this sound above all
was saturated with plot significance: it is the character-‐driven expression of his
impotent rage at being cuckolded by Lola (Marlene Dietrich). But if we hear it as a
moment of raw sound intruding into the texture of the film, this noise manifests a
pure sonic expression that goes beyond even the timbre/music borderline
phenomena
which
Roland
Barthes
termed
“The
Grain
of
the
Voice.”8
Barthes,
alert
14
to the point of contact between music and language, sought to re-‐define what would
count as the “musical object” in the first place-‐ and in his analysis of operatic voices
he coined the distinction between “pheno-‐song” and “geno-‐song” to capture minute
shades of distinction in musical performances. But to capture the point at which
Emil Jannings throat queerly opens onto the ragged terrain of something that isn’t
culturally specific or even species-‐specific, we shall have to abandon music in favor
of the sonic as such. Instead of the vowels and phonemes of this or that language,
when we hear Emil Janning’s human bird call we hear something beyond emotion,
language, and humanity: the material sound of air ferociously barked out of a tube of
quivering flesh.
Of course, animal practices of soundmaking are not in any sense purposeless:
signals can warn of the approach of predators, announce one’s presence for mating
purposes, rebound upon space as part of an echolocation system, mimic the sound
of a more successful organism, and so on. Living systems which eat, mate, and
predate upon others are hardly indifferent. Even a cursory listen to the sounds of
vultures feeding on a dead zebra captured on Chris Watson’s “Outside the Circle of
Fire” (Touch, 1998) or the sounds of Weddell seal mothers nurturing their pups on
Douglas Quin’s “Antarctica” (Miramar, 1998) will convey the intentionality of animal
soundmaking on its own intimate terms. But it is even here that “the sonic” as a
manifold detaches from its causal connections to sources in intentional
performances from interested parties, human, animal or otherwise. The sound of
the world can be a truck passing by, it can be a parade of drunken frat boys, it can be
the
twist
of
tree
branches
in
the
wind,
the
settling
of
leaves
upon
themselves,
the
15
crush of contrary air currents within the clouds, or it can be the nameless, colorless,
ambient drone of a nonspecific continuum of animate and inanimate matter
expressing nothing but its own being. Sound stands aside from the purposes and
aims which occasion its production. It is indifferent, universal, and queer.
Going further, practices of recording, archiving and storage, in severing that
“acousmatic”, autonomous, adrift. All that is needed is to break the linguistic bond of
referentiality that ties source to waveform. Consider how the Dalmatian fishing
village immortalized in Luc Ferrari’s “Presque Rien” (INA-‐GRM, 1970), or the desert
sound if they were robbed of their respective signifiers of “village” and “insect” and
were instead set free to be themselves, prior to any identification, prior to their
entirely justified canonization as enduring classics of sound art annexed to an
ecology of preservation. Queerness abides in the refusal to preserve, in the
willingness to enter the space of ruinous, risky anonymity, to let sound pull us with
it into the black hole of an experience that is not yet stable. No fixed co-‐ordinates to
locate us in geopolitical space, no identifiable genus and species left to taxonomize.
Where the labels come off and the designation of particularity ends and the sound of
the world subsumes and dissolves, it is there that the queer universality of sound
makes itself available to thought, not as some ineffable audio-‐mysticism, but as the
way
we
already
hear,
all
day
and
all
night
long.
16
Purposeless indifference to production would then be one of the hallmarks of
the queerness of the sonic in itself, an orthogonal digression from intentionality and
subjectivity which Alain Badiou calls, in the second of his Fifteen Theses on
Contemporary Art: “the impersonal production of a truth that is addressed to
everyone.”9 At once micro and macro, the sound of the world turning resonates and
resounds whether you are listening or not, and it is addressed to all. A vibrational
ontology manifests the oscillations and Lucretian swerves of material being,
whether you have ears to hear it or not. You don’t need to know what you are
hearing to be moved, even changed, by what you hear. Sometimes, this
purposelessness emerges for someone who detects its very transience and is
changed by the sheer fact of passage. Zarathustra’s “Convalescent” attests to this as
sound momentarily upstages self: “For me-‐ how could there be something outside
me? There is no outside! But we forget this with all sounds; how lovely it is that we
forget! . . . In every Instant being begins; round every Here rolls the ball. There. The
middle is everywhere.”10 Sound intrudes upon us with the fact of the world, an
intrusion which affords us the possibility of forgetting our “me-‐ist” attachments to
our subjective particularity and affiliation and instead forces us to register the
everywhere of an ongoing being, an outside where we thought there was no outside.
Yet it is this recognition of an outside which, as it becomes transmissible and
shareable, might also constitute our human community as precisely the queer
Sound, the confusing eruption of the sonic into our life, can reinforce our
privacy,
our
alone-‐ness.
But
it
is
also
shared
and
shareable,
and
thus
makes
possible
17
a certain kind of collectivity, or better, a perceptual community that we share
together by remaining perpetually open to the world beyond that community.
Sound constitutes a common “pluriverse” for its auditory recipients who partition
and co-‐create that world in and through sound through sonic practices of spoken
language and music-‐making. Yet the capacity of sound to exceed the human, in its
ongoing expansion of frequencies above and below the human boundaries of 20 to
exteriority that precedes that world and resists capture in the terms set by human
hearing. Heard beyond its own bounds, this pervasive and non-‐specific sound of the
world signals the fact of a grounding material indifference that potentially breaks
mind-‐dependent phenomenological scenarios upon a hard kernel of the real. Thus,
community is both the positive assemblage of partitionings made within the sound-‐
plenum by the total set of actors included within it (human beings, citizens, slaves,
immigrants, corporate advertising, sound art), and the fact of a nihilistic exposure to
a sonic remainder that is implacably indifferent to those partitions, folds and forms
phenomena, and, yes, that old standby of philosophical smalltalk, the tree in the
Having reached the widest possible theoretical bandwidth and the lowest
common denominator in a single bound, let us return to the gay bar in which Lil
Louis’ “French Kiss” plays on. How might a capacity to listen for the sound of the
world obtain here? Is there something not just reassuringly gay but indifferently
queer
about
this
overcoded
anthem?
Must
we
abandon
the
pleasurable
familiarity
of
18
this dancefloor chestnut in order to hear the sound of the world that supposedly lies
beyond or behind it? The risk of arguments such as the one I have been pursuing is
that it will be misunderstood as a transcendental declaration that there is a
somewhere else and a something else that is better than the limited and oppressive
world of music and the cultures of human knowledge that contain, capture and
domesticate the raw queerness of sound. Like all transcendental arguments, this can
have the effect of soiling and rejecting what we have all around us in favor of an
“elsewhere”, a heavenly domain of purity, which we cannot really access, except in
But music too is part of the sound of the world. Human making and human
knowing falls within the open, endlessly plural totality of the world, and it too, can
show up as queer for us, queer in its articulation of material being, in its fusion of
what is human with what merely is. There is, then, a latent inhumanity within even
the human which is not the fact of our moral failing but the fact of our sheer
materiality, our continuity with the world we use and change. As Jane Bennett
points out in Vibrant Matter: A Political Ecology of Things with reference to our
carbon composition; “we are walking, talking minerals.”11 That is what links the
grinding tectonic plates that generate the sound of the world for M.P. Shiel’s little
girl with the grain of the voice in Emil Jannings bird-‐croak with the grain of the voice
in the orgasmic moans of Shawn Christopher, the vocalist on “French Kiss”. Even her
histrionic and theatrical cries of passion are so much air shoved through a tube of
meat which is within the world, and the magical synchronization of her moans and
sighs
with
the
ramping
down
and
ramping
up
of
the
tempo
of
the
drum
machine
19
boundaries. Beyond sexual difference, the song registers an even deeper ontological
continuum between stomping drum machine and coming human being, suggesting
that the electrons pulsing through circuitry in the drum machine and the neurons
firing in the ganglia of Shawn Christopher’s brain are somehow the same, deep
down, in their essential physical reality as electromagnetic charge. To take up a
buzzword much bandied about within recent metaphysics in the wake of Bruno
Latour and Graham Harman, humans and machines are all located within a “flat
ontology”, a continuum of being which levels down distinctions about what is more
or less important, more or less actualized, by advocating for what Levi Bryant terms
“the democracy of objects” within a “pluriverse” of worlds.12 Sound is queer because
this continuum of being is, in its very indifference to human agendas of valuation,
already queer. All sound is queer because the world itself is queer. The totality of
vibrational force is not a deep secret hiding at the margins but, exactly, a totality
that includes everything we as humans do. Accordingly, the choice between
listening to Lil Louis and listening to “the sound of the world”, is, at the very least, a
false choice. Here history has the last laugh. “Club Lonely”, the follow up single to
“French Kiss” is credited not to Lil Louis, but to Lil Louis & The World.
20
1
This
essay
was
originally
published
as
“All Sound Is Queer”. The WIRE. London.
Issue 333: November 2011. Given the journalistic context of a popular forum, citation was
kept to a minimum.
2
Louis
Althusser,
“Ideology
and
Ideological
State
Apparatuses.”
Lenin
and
Philosophy,
and
Other
Essays.
Trans.
Ben
Brewster.
London:
New
Left
Books,
1971.
170.
3
Jacques
Lacan,
The
Four
Fundamental
Concepts
of
Psychoanalysis.
Ed.
Jacues-‐Alain
Miller.
Trans.
Alan
Sheridan.
New
York:
Norton
&
Co.,
1998,
195.
4
M.P.
Shiel
“The
House
of
Sounds.”
The
House
of
Sounds
and
Others,
Ed.
S.
T.
Joshi,
Politics
of
Aesthetics,
Trans.
Gabriel
Rockhill,
London:
Continuum,
2004,
19.
6
George
Eliot,
The
Lifted
Veil,
Hoboken:
Melville
House
Publishing,
31.
7
Steve
Goodman,
“Unsound-‐
the
(Sub)Politics
of
Frequency.”
Sonic
Warfare:
Sound,
Affect,
and
the
Ecology
of
Fear,
Cambridge:
MIT
Press,
2010,
191.
8
Roland
Barthes,
“The
Grain
of
the
Voice.”
Image
Music
Text.
Trans.
Stephen
Heath.
and
Metaphysics,
207,
14.;
Levi
Bryant,
The
Democracy
of
Objects,
University
of
Michigan
Press,
2011.