Half a kilometre from my window, there is a railway marshalling yard. It looks like this (HIGH TRAFFIC!). My building is the long, ribbed one in the centre of the rectangle marked "Richnet".
On summer nights, the finest ambient music in the world drifts over from there. It consists of the high-pitched, piercing metallic sounds made by the wheels of railway cars rubbing against the rails as they brake. This song is especially beautiful at dawn — it brings a feeling of utter psychedelia and the unbearable brightness of existence. From time to time, the high frequencies are interspersed with mid-range sounds—the clatter of empty railway cars and the ghostly voices of dispatchers. Sometimes they are joined by the deep rumble of a train passing in the distance. Occasionally, one can hear dogs barking in the residential neighbourhood, the engines of passing cars, and the footsteps of early pedestrians. But the cosmic half-screech, half-moan of the wheels is beyond compare. Only recently did I realise that I grew up with this sound. To me, it is intoxicating and beautiful. It is a pity that I cannot describe it in words as I hear it. Recording it would require a good microphone, and even then there is no guarantee that outsiders would understand its beauty. Those raised on Brian Eno's languid, amorphous passages do not appreciate genuine, "industrial" ambient music.
In winter, the music grows slightly quieter, but something else becomes much more noticeable. The smell. The smell of the substances used to treat the sleepers, the smell of oil and fuel oil, the smell of smoke from the small factories beyond the tracks. It is as sharp and piercing as the screech of steel wheels against the rails. The uninitiated would call it bitter smoke. But it stirs my blood and makes my heart beat faster. It is exhilarating, powerful, and lets me feel the fullness of the universe. Yet only my favourite music—the music of the rails—allows me to understand its beauty.
Music of the Rails
2006-06-11