The paradox of Beethoven in Brixton

The absurdity of the whole situation hits you as you ascend the escalators from the London Underground to the street level at Brixton tube station in South London. Some days are different from others in terms of the loudness and ferocity of the music. On a few occasions, I suspect that the station attendants, frustrated by the unyielding character of the vibrant community outside their gates, deliberately blast high decibels of Chopin in a vain attempt to subdue the unflinching ‘spirit’ that pervades the area. I doubt it accomplishes the desired effect.

Brixton is an interesting town in South London at the end of the Victoria Line. I do not live there but my route home occasionally takes me through both its tube and rail stations. The energy outside the station is palpable. Incense sellers and religious zealots vie for your attention while pick pockets occasionally enjoy a quick dip or two into pockets of unsuspecting people. Brixton is famous for many things including clubs, restaurants, art and sadly crime. There is a well stocked food market in the area which reflects the rich ethnic diversity of the area. As an immigrant, I am pleased that I can buy African ingredients for 'soul food' cooking just around the corner. This post is not about food however. Instead its about the absurdity of the classical music playing at Brixton station.

The character of Brixton appears to be predominantly made up of ethnic minorities and a strong, well established black community (including Black British of Caribbean and African descent). As is expected, the impression one gets from simply standing at the grubby and crowded bus stop outside the station entrance is that this is a community that has since lost any relationship with its (possibly) Nordic origins but which is unashamedly proud of its reputation as being a nucleus of racial and cultural diversity. One some days, you will find a gap toothed, barefoot Rastafarian handing out flyers while miming and dancing to invisible songs playing in his head. Other days, you will find gum chewing teenagers in their ‘dutty wine’ jeans hanging around the entrance speaking at the top of their voices with the full compliment of ‘innits’ and ‘thoughs’. The whole atmosphere feels like one on the verge of breaking into a marijuana inspired hip-hop or reggae concert or more sinisterly, a full scale riot! Once, while waiting for a bus, out of the corner of my eye, I caught some guys dealing (drugs) a few meters from me. Cue posh Etonian accent and horrified expression, “One wonders what one must do in such awkward circumstances!”

This backdrop makes it all the more absurd to hear classical music blaring from the speakers at Brixton station. You get the impression of Beethoven in a DJ or beat-box contest with Dizzy Rascal. No debate on who wins that one! I asked a friend who used to live in the Brixton area to explain this odd situation. She is of the opinion that the classical music is being played to calm and soothe nerves and hopefully prevent local gangster members from killing each other. She says that classical music is played at most London stations where there is a high crime rate. Another guy is convinced that playing ‘Pachelbel Canon in D Major’ in a place like Brixton must be part of a secret MI5 conspiracy to slowly brainwash black people into becoming more ‘white’ Bri’ish.

After a bit of research, I found www.urban75.org which claims that in order to drive disorderly teenagers away from the station, London Underground started piping endless recitals of 'uncool' classical music in the ticket hall in 2005. Can someone please tell London Underground to think of something more interesting as this approach surely has only had the effect of making classical music a joke in these surroundings? Are the local pick pockets supposed to say to each other, “Oi! Geezer! Shall we sample a bit of Mozart before we commence nicking (stealing)?”

Next time you travel through Brixton station, spare a thought for the poor station attendants who can only stand by and watch as the beautiful strains of Tchaikovsky’s ‘The Nutcracker’ waft from the speakers, into the streets outside, above the sea of moving heads, its strains lost in the incense flavored night breeze. Also spare a thought for the Rasta man handing out flyers who, by the way, is most probably also confused by the music hence his dancing to invisible melodies. Ya man!