We think of dissonance and noise as the brutal forces of unpleasant sound frequencies – but for all their pomp and bravado, these two concepts represent very fragile phenomena. Take any three notes on a piano that sound unpleasant to your ears and play them in a loop. Throw a random chord on top for good measure. Before you know it, your ear will start searching for context, interpreting the loop as an intentional musical statement and acknowledging it as meaningful – perhaps even pleasant – sensory information. That’s all it takes for dissonance and noise to vanish into thin air. As the musician and musicologist Adam Neely puts it: »Repetition legitimises.«3

Today, we expect popular music to have sounds and textures that might have repulsed our forebears: Rock is grounded on distortion, metal venerates the tritone, and one can’t think of hip-hop without the sound of scratched discs. Noise and dissonance are feeble, mortal creatures, existing outside the realm of »music« (or in opposition to it) for a very brief moment before they are absorbed into its fold. This happens over generations and across cultures, too. 

As someone who grew up with each foot in a different musical system, I feel like I have been listening to noise my entire life, unawares: I was raised in Pakistan by a mother who adored Indian classical music and vintage Bollywood pop songs. She was quick to knock on my door and tell me to »turn that racket down« every time I played Led Zeppelin in my teenage bedroom. Same if I played Robbie Williams. 

When I left Pakistan in 2007 to study in the UK, I met people who thought Pakistani music was Bollywood music and nothing else. In an effort to complicate their perception, I would regularly interrupt their spontaneous outbursts of bhangra parodies and try to introduce them to the works of the legendary qawwali singer, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. He remains an exalted figure in Pakistani music history who, through his work with Peter Gabriel, had also enjoyed quite a bit of popularity in the West during the early 1990s. So I thought this would be an appropriate introduction to the music I grew up on. Some embraced it, some appreciated it from afar, some winced and ran for acoustic shelter, disparaging the whole enterprise as »noise.« This judgment irked me. How could this beautiful, sacred music be so cruelly written off as noise? Had I been listening to noise my entire life, behind my own back? Over the years, this cognitive dissonance has turned into an obsession with noise.

The history of noise is often told as a history of Western industrialisation: as an invention of the Italian Futurists4 who sought to break away from the restrictive conventions of classical music theory to look for new forms of expression in the roar and grind of urban soundscapes. This essay will explore the integrated histories of dissonance from the perspective of non-Western musical systems that have often inspired the pursuit of »noise« in Western music. Through conversations with contemporary Pakistani musicians who navigate these territories using a broader set of personal and cultural reference points, this essay will advocate for a deeper understanding – and engagement – with dissonance and noise as cultural artefacts of aesthetic and ethical significance. 

Not all noises are created equal. There is a distinction to be made between dissonance, noise-in-music, and »noise« music. 

Dissonance possesses a physical dimension that can be observed. Some notes or frequencies, when played together, interfere with each other in ways that create a »beating effect.« In other words, these frequencies clash with each other, appearing almost but not quite indistinguishable, prompting neurons in our brains to respond to both tones, not knowing which frequency to follow.7 

To some degree, all musical systems rely on dissonance to create a sense of musical motion. Dissonance instigates tension – it initiates a journey away from the home chord or »the tonic,« making the »resolution« more satisfying. In that sense, it is a relative concept, wrestling with frequencies that our ears identify as home. The philosopher Theodor Adorno thought of dissonance as an expression of pain and alienation that nonetheless remained loyal to the »utopia« of the final musical resolution: »It contains within itself a concealed consonance,« he wrote.8 Some notes, when played simultaneously or in succession, are considered more dissonant than others, but their function in the Western classical tradition has been one of sacrifice at the altar of the tonic. The main focus of Western music – as well as many other musical cultures – has been on this journey back »home,« and on making it more compelling, against the forces of dissonance that threaten the safe return. Dissonance often plays the role of the villain – a plot device – in a story that’s really about the ingenuity and resourcefulness of the hero (the composer), determined to restore order and save the day.

»Noise« has a different intensity but like dissonance, you can get more or less of it in all sorts of colours. For example, William Basinski’s Disintegration Loops (2002) comprises tape loop recordings played for extended time, with noise and cracks increasing as the tape deteriorated, leaving a ghostly imprint on the music. Leyland James Kirby’s The Caretaker project (1999-2019) also explored noise as an intrusion, seeping into the recording through a gradual degradation of musical (and cultural) memory over time. This is atmospheric noise – it is not inherent to a composition; it is an imposition of time and space, a quirk of technology.  

Other avant-garde composers such as Edgar Varèse, Arnold Shoenberg, and Igor Stravinsky have explored the far reaches of dissonance where it begins to turn into noise. More recently, harsh noise musicians and japanoise15 artists such as Merzbow, Hanatarash, and even newer projects Dreamcrusher and Victoria Shen, have replaced dissonance with pure noise. Their music is a monolithic, impenetrable wall of abrasive frequencies; a sound jettisoned out of musical conventions as we know them. For me, harsh noise is dissonance emancipated from the gravity of the tonic, the identities assigned to different frequencies, and the neat division of time. It is a musical wilderness; a frightening freedom. 

I would go as far as to include John Cage’s infamous »4’33”« in the list of noise music. It is often described as »four minutes and 33 seconds of silence« but this is a liminal silence – it explores noises that are obscured and sanitised by musical performances. You hear the noises produced by mortal bodies: coughs, and so on. You hear creaking chairs, hands brushing over strings. You hear the uncomfortable code of conduct the audience is expected to follow in the absence of any sound. That piece is not about silence, it is about noises. And yet it is so quiet. That’s the sort of expressive range noise music possesses.

Tuning the Ear

The notion of a musically ordered state differs across cultures and not simply for matters of taste, but pragmatism as well: A lot of our musical systems have developed in tandem with the practicality of tuning instruments in ways that are useful for composition and performance. 

The octave (two frequencies spread out over a 2:1 ratio that sound like the same note – a »low« and a »high« C, for example) – can be divided into any number of frequencies to derive musical intervals.  As early as in ancient Greece, many tuning systems had settled on the »ideal« intervals found naturally in something called the harmonic series.16  I’ll spare you the physics and the maths, but all you need to know is that in such a system, transposing the intervals to different keys on a fixed-pitch instrument like the piano is almost impossible. The performer would be required to retune the instrument each time they played in a different key. 

By the late 18th to early 19th century, the Western musical system came to show a preference for the 12-tone interval system – a system first developed by Prince Zhu Zaiyu of the Ming court, who described his new pitch theory in his Fusion of Music and Calendar published in 1580.17 This elegant but »imperfect« system divides the octave neatly into 12 semitones, but at a cost: the Western »equal temperament« tuning system is inherently (and mildly) dissonant if we define dissonance as certain ill-suited ratios of sound frequencies. Someone who has only ever been exposed to just intonation might find Western musical systems to have some odd and possibly »unpleasant« musical intervals and vice versa, because the very notion of musical »order« is conceptualised differently through different tunings. Different tunings open up different musical possibilities just as they impose their own limits on consonance and harmony. 

The equal temperament – which now feels »universal« to us – was not adopted straight away. Many composers such as Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven, played »well-tempered« instruments with unequal tunings. It was a long while before this imperfect and slightly dissonant tuning was standardised in Western Europe.  

As Western Europe turned its ears to the equal temperament system, colonial conquest gave Western composers access to the »exotic« music of the East. The year 1889 marked the 100th anniversary of the French Revolution and the nation celebrated with the Paris Exposition Universelle, an extraordinary World's Fair. Among the most popular exhibits was the »kampong« – or village – of Java, which hosted »a spectacle of sacred dances, accompanied by an infinitely curious music,« according to Julien Tiersot, a musician and scholar who visited it. »It will take us as far as possible from our civilisation,« he wrote.18 This music was what we know as gamelan music of Java. 

One of the visitors to the »village« was the composer Claude Debussy, who became so enamoured with the music that he made repeat visits. Gamelan music can be thought of as a percussion orchestra with mainly metallophone instruments. It uses the slendro scale: five pitches spaced approximately equally over the octave so it has a completely different way of conceptualising harmony. There is no universal or fundamental pitch and »unison« instruments may be intentionally made slightly out of tune with each other, »to produce a shimmering timbre when they are played together.«19 In this case, dissonance and noise is deliberately programmed into the music as a charming ornament rather than a subversive or offensive element. Debussy was so impressed he once said: »Javanese music obeys laws of counterpoint that make Palestrina seem like child's play. And if one listens to it without being prejudiced by one's European ears, one will find a percussive charm that forces one to admit that our own music is not much more than a barbarous kind of noise more fit for a traveling circus.«20

Though there is a conceptual difference between dissonance and noise, it’s difficult to say when the former tips over into the latter. Everyone seems to have a different threshold. For Shehzad Noor – a Pakistani musician who performs under the moniker Shorbanoor – the pursuit of dissonance or noise is an exploration of musical boundaries. »Dissonance or noise is another word for the unfamiliar,« says Noor, » it feels unnerving because it’s a provocation but it’s full of possibilities of new expressions that might be experienced as music by someone, somewhere if they find meaning in it.« Rahema Zaheer – a noise musician and visual artist performing under the name Neroli– agrees with Noor. »It is about expressing something visceral or intense – unrestrained. Noise music subverts our understanding of what music is or should be…I love that.«25

As a music teacher to young kids, Noor has to create spaces for children to play with sound, »which inevitably leads to noise.« He states that »[Noise] is such a big part of their imagination…of their joy…and then imagine some adult comes along and tells them it’s ›wrong.‹ I can’t really bring myself to ›correct‹ them, I can only explore possibilities of expression with them which often means embracing noise. Noise can be hostile and abrasive, but often it’s nourishing, it comes from a place of curiosity and playfulness. I try to bring that into my own work.«26 

When elements of music or performance are arranged in unconventional ways, we perceive it as dissonance or noise, but »it can be meaningful,« says Shehzad. His song, »On-wards to Lahore,« takes a detuned ukulele into unnerving territory, incorporating »noises that soundtracked the precarity I grew up in.«27 Similarly, Noor says »that noise is autobiographical – it’s common to the neighborhood I grew up in and my music.«28

• Onwards! To Lahore by Shorbanoor

• Onwards! To Lahore by Shorbanoor

Western and South Asian traditions tend to define consonance and dissonance in similarly »objective« terms, but don’t always agree on what sort of emotional value can be attributed to it or how much of it is acceptable. Shehzad’s brother is a sitar player in the South Asian classical tradition. Does he think about noise or dissonance differently? »It is a complex and well-developed musical system. He has a tradition behind him, and somebody to tell him which rules constitute music and bring it into existence; when music is happening and when it isn’t,« says Noor, half-jokingly: »I envy that he has a clear idea of dissonance and consonance. There are a lot of rules – even about which time of the day is suitable for different modes. There is this sense of playing the right thing at the right time. But there is a lot of freedom in the form of improvisation – the freedom is derived from the limits, it seems.«31 

Noor’s brother subscribes to an ancient musical system that makes good use of what is commonly called »microtonality« in the West. This term refers to musical pitches outside of the 12 semitones (shortest musical interval in the Western equal temperament tuning system) that are perceptible to the human ear, and are often used in other musical cultures which have subsequently developed their own concepts of dissonant and consonant intervals, scales, and modes. South Indian music has shruti (microtones) which feature in gamakas (ornamentation of notes through variation in pitch; a gliding and curving touch given to a fundamental note). Moreover, out of the 72 ragas (scales or modes) found in South Indian carnatic music, 40 are said to contain »dissonant« intervals, and therefore, are governed by strict and extensive rules about how a performer must navigate them.32 

• This Stained Dawn (Original Score), by Neroli

• This Stained Dawn (Original Score), by Neroli

As a result of the unequal tuning used in South Asian classical music, it does not contain harmonic motion. A melody is usually accompanied by a percussive rhythm and meditative, atmospheric drones. The emphasis is on creating motion within a single tone – like applying subtle pitch bends – rather than moving across different harmonic contexts using absolute pitch (as is the case in most of Western classical music). This doesn’t make one system better than the other, nor does it make one tradition more open-minded than the other, unfortunately. However, for Zaheer, these drones and gamakas served as a bridge to ambient and noise music. »Noise music to me is about the raw materials of sounds; about textures and the qualities inherent in them and how they can be used for expressive purposes. It is about that immersion – in the quality and properties of sound itself,« says Zaheer, »the inspiration for that was there in the ragas of Ravi Shankar and meditative minimal drones of ustad Zia Mohiuddin.«

Microtonality was embraced by some Western avant-gardes such as Karlheinz Stockhausen and Iannis Xenakis as an experimental practice, but to the Indian, Arab, and African theorists who had developed musical traditions out of it, there was obviously nothing subversive about it. It was simply music. In fact, the very term »microtonality« suggests that the semitone is the norm. The Western tuning system conceptualises these 12 semitones as distinct pitches with trenches and fences separating them from one another but in »microtonal« systems these boundaries are fluid; ambiguous. The ontological stability of the notes, their identities, are complicated by these fuzzy, messy spaces where frequencies »beat« against one another; spaces that are both enclosing and permeable; contradictory. This constant flirtation with ambiguity and instability in microtonal music may strike as noise to unfamiliar ears, but for Pakistani musicians or Mongolian throat singers, this is home.

Questions like what qualifies as noise and what qualifies as music seem to be predicated upon completely arbitrary value judgments about the role and nature of dissonance in the musical architecture of our cultures. A closer examination of noise suggests it is not outside of music, it is indigenous to it. Noise can indeed add a wide variety of tonal qualities to a harmonic sound, giving each instrument its individual voice, or timbre.36 

In his lecture, »The Liberation of Sound,«37the avant-garde composer Edgar Varèse said: »Indeed, to stubbornly conditioned ears, anything new in music has always been called noise. But after all what is music but organised noises? And a composer, like all artists, is an organiser of disparate elements.« 

This makes me think of noise not only in terms of aesthetics but also ethics. We think of music as a meaning-making endeavour that is supposed to rescue us from the edge of chaos. Ideally, a musician harnesses the forces of nature to expel noise from our vicinity, keeping meaninglessness at bay. No wonder then that music is omnipresent in our societies. However, music is not always made to be heard, processed, or interpreted. There is music in elevators, shops, airports and on the phone to the bank, yet this music does not say anything to us. Often nicknamed as »background music«, »muzak« or »elevator music,« this type of music can be so offensively dull and vacuous that the composer Brian Eno wrote an entire body of work as an ethical retort against muzak. In the liner notes of his seminal ambient work, Music for Airports (1978), Eno wrote:

»Whereas conventional background music is produced by stripping away all sense of doubt and uncertainty (and thus all genuine interest) from the music, Ambient Music retains these qualities.«38

If music is supposed to communicate meaning and noise is something that obscures or even destroys it, then we can think of muzak as noiseless noise. This complicates the boundaries between music and noise. What we identify as »music« in our surroundings can become meaningless noise in certain contexts, just as »noise« can become imbued with meaning if it is heard in a context in which it speaks to us. 

How we produce and consume music has ethical implications: Are we curious or narrow-minded towards new forms of expression? Are we arrogant enough to believe that our culture has expressed all there is to express as a species; that it speaks for everyone who has ever existed and will exist? How quickly do we jump to conclusions about unfamiliar forms of expression? Do we wait for a musical idea to develop over time or do we demand instant gratification? 

• Hyphens, by Bathtub Sailing

• Hyphens, by Bathtub Sailing

Noise music exists at the margins of musical orthodoxy, and by its very nature, it is underground and otherworldly. In many ways it represents the exotic or the alien »other,« the unknown, the imagined. »Music« disciplines and normalises certain attitudes towards this other. As Jacques Attali says: »The code of music simulates the accepted rules of society.« »Noise« tries to subvert those rules because noise is just another name for whatever practice or artefact we arbitrarily eject from our culture, deeming it undesirable and meaningless. Those who pursue it – in any cultural context – are driven, at times, by a  lonely conviction that there is some value and truth in it, without which, they cannot fully express themselves.

We don’t have to like noise music simply because it’s noise music – the same way we are not expected to like all the »music« that’s out there. 

Our engagement with noise can be just as critical as our engagement with music but firstly, we must recognise the intrinsic value of noise as a portal to worlds beyond the blinkers of our »civilisation;« beyond our biases and prejudices towards things we are quick to dismiss as unworthy of our time. If »noise« beckons us as far away from our comforts as our curiosity may take us, we should heed its call because that journey is worth the price of the ticket alone.