In sound and music, this modern life unravels

At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless; Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is, But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity, Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards, Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point, There would be no dance, and there is only the dance. TS Eliot

IT is the march of heels clipping on unflinching asphalt that reminds us of working in a busy city. And on dreary days, the modern foot soldiers plug into salvation through music, tuning out the sound of our march, in desperate hope that we are at least trudging to a beat of our own.

I was convinced of how music and sounds are intertwined with the city by a flurry of concerts, as well as an exhibition on Singapore's unique sounds this month. As part of a design festival called SingaPlural, two designers collected Singapore's various leitmotifs that were played when visitors tapped their EZ-Link cards on different card readers.

The exhibition looked at the "transience of a Singaporean identity", of how sounds can define the character of a city. Announcements heralding the whoosh of MRTs, durian sellers hawking their spiky fruit, the classic "mee siam mai hum" ditty, and that hypnotic "one-dollar" chant sung by a tissue-paper seller, are chimes from a modern city dressing up a gritty profile, if you would listen hard enough.

After fighting modern-day battles, there is, for example, solace from sounds coming out of a kopitiam. You hear the tinkle of a metal spoon, doing rounds in a glass of teh si siew dai, when an order of lemon tea is hollered as an order of "Clementi" (even though they are both three syllables long), and that relentless shuffle of chopsticks suggesting that utensils are made cleaner if hawkers make more noise washing them. It's a calming cacophony, a chaotic order.

Some may say nostalgia is yet another luxury we cannot afford. But the breathless pursuit of this modern life must be punctuated - oh, just so briefly - by sights and sounds, to sear some character into a place that has to evolve again after its fifty-odd years.

There is evidence for how evocative music can be regardless of genre, from post-rock, to classics, to pop. Rhythm and rhyme turn music into mnemonic tools, in what psychologists have dubbed the "reminiscence bump". Sounds anchor memories. And neuroscience suggests that when music is so written well, it stretches out tension before the expected resolution, and listeners are rewarded with an amped-up dose of dopamine.

Civilisation is defined by stories, and according to Yuval Harari's book on humankind's history, stories gave homo sapiens their evolutionary edge. Music is a form of narrative in its own right.

In Singapore, local songwriters have offered their lyrical take on their city. There is Serenaide's love song about the Girl from Katong, Humpback Oak's ode to Normanton Park, Shigga Shay as Lion City Kia, and The Observatory's cryptic Last Grand Fallible Plan which I interpret to be about the struggles of accepting one's country of birth - what Harari deems the fable of nationalism. More songs are bound to follow. Perhaps one day, Singapore will be sung about in the same way Billy Joel pays homage to Vienna, or as Suzanne Vega declares with salty zing that New York is a Woman.

Moments in the past

Music takes us back to moments in the past. A violin solo of the theme for Schindler's List is telling of hope amid a blemished backdrop of humanity's abject cruelty.

Last month, the Guns N' Roses concert here was packed with middle-aged men, dressed in bandanas and t-shirts pulled over expansive beer bellies, as they sought out their teenage years once again. As Slash ripped through November Rain, flames from lighters dotted the human sea, awash in waves of memories before the time came to grow up.

When you do grow up, you learn that friends die earlier than they should, because modern medicine is limited in the face of modern stress. At another concert here, a song from Hong Kong's God of songs, Jacky Cheung, unearthed new feelings of regret and pain, as he sang to send best wishes to the friend whom you must now let go. Here, in music, there are fresh tears for modern life.

On pensive days, I listen to Philip Glass, and in his soundtrack for The Hours, he tells of the story of a woman who is going to make a cake. It is a cake symbolic of a woman resentful of a domestic life in the 1950s. She is swollen with her second child, quiet with white rage over her restraints. It is fiction, but on days when you still face sexism in these present times, it comes to life.

The modern foot soldier can plug into the soundscape of an impermanent city, or move to a different cadence. This modern life may unravel against its erratic trajectory, but there is, at least, some choice in the soundtrack that defines our perception of the past, present, and future, on its own terms.

My most recent concert was one that matched the film music of John Williams against Hans Zimmer's. There were rousing themes from Star Wars, Harry Potter, and Indiana Jones. Undoubtedly, all good stories. But the most stirring one was Zimmer's piece from Inception, which is called Time, and plays as an anthem that chronicles our lucid dreams. And like the tale of dream-snatchers rummaging through the subconscious mind, the modern life can be as satisfactory as it is illusory, in all its ambition and ambivalence.