Walking around the city is a duality of visual pleasure and extreme loneliness. Music on the street has evolved from eclectic buskers to a sea of silence as little white headphones creep from inside clothing to the eardrums of the masses. Although I often find myself weaving in and out of the crowds like a Medieval Maypole dance the absence of ambient sounds constructs a parallel universe of separatism. We stand alone, with Ipods.
I’ve always wondered whether the various costumes of these city dwellers match their chosen soundtrack. Do the leather clad kids of Caledonian Lane listen to indie-pop/rock/clash prescribed to them by sub cultural standards? And do the fashionistas of Flinders Lane listen genres of contemporary obscurity reflected in their clothing?
There is a preconceived notion that our music appetite and our clothing persona go hand in hand, immediately dividing groups based on their appearance and not preference. I have never seen a photo of a death metal concert where there was a man in plaid cradling a nip of Scotch, raging with the rest. Somehow it seems morally wrong trap a person to one genre of music based on the shoes they wear. Yet we’ve all done it.
Associated with the ‘Emo’ revolution it is standard to think that the kids of Flinders Street Station strictly consume a diet of hardcore, gritty punk (think Rites of Spring and Moss Icon). However I was surprised that the first set of headphones I nervously requested from an expressionless women blasted soft rock idol Phil Collins. I walked away with a hint of a smirk on my face and what seemed like a thousand piercing death stares in my back.
Needing an antidepressant I ducked into Bird Brain cafe for a coffee where I found a group of floral fitted ladies, two of which were wearing non prescription glasses. Joining them for drink I was personally delighted that their idea of a Sunday Sound Session involved mix tape of Amon Tobin, Ratatat and Vangelis. I thought for sure they would have surrendered a taste mirroring their apparent intellectuality and feminist views, such as PJ Harvey and Sinead O’Connor.
Feeling satisfied that no stereotypes would be recognized from my outing, I decided call it a day. Later that night I crashed a house party, again in the city. Casually I chatted to a young lady - dressed head to toe in leather, pleather and a feather - about tunes she spun on a private level. Thinking I had disproved the generic clothing versus music theory she replied “I listen to whatever
Streetparty tells me to,” without a hint of sarcasm. It appears some books can be judged by their covers.