Bill Posters is Guilty: On the Cultural Logic of Ambient

Neil Mulholland

Vol 1 #25, Winter 2002

As a cultural practice, ‘ambient’ has long been associated with the music of Erik Satie, Claude Debussy, Karlheinz Stockhausen, John Cage and Holger Czukay. This line of association owes much to Brian Eno’s Ambient 1: Music For Airports (1978), music that invites both active and passive consumption. Eno’s ambient has been the raison d’être of numerous disciples, such as Air and Boards of Canada, producers of music aided and abetted by the crystalline, uninterrupted play of Compact Disk. This canon of ambient music has been documented in numerous books, notably Mark Prendergast’s The Ambient Century (2000) and David Toop’s Ocean Of Sound (2001). Although these particular histories are signiﬁcant, by clutching to music they miss out on wider deﬁnitions and articulations of ambient. By the end of the ’90s, ambient wasn’t simply a record shop genre, it didn’t necessarily share the Zen ancestry of neo-Dada, or the ethereal calm of Eno’s wallpaper music, or the hard-headed structure of musique concrète; in some cases, it wasn’t even audible. In the ’90s, the meanings of ambient were radically transformed and contested in numerous ways. Ambient became as viral and ubiquitous as ambience, no longer merely a cultural strategy but a prevalent cultural logic.

In some spheres, ambient seemed to be (and predominantly remains) synonymous with the increasing popularity of ecology movements and ‘alternative’, non-Western thought in the rich, post-industrial West. The ethnographic, transcultural world beat music of ’80s acts, such as Talking Heads and Dead Can Dance, sanctioned numerous global trance records in the ’90s. These ranged from the cult tranceuroxpress, fashioned by Norway’s Biosphere, to the popular Baka chants and African rhymes mixed by France’s Deep Forest. Everyone from The Orb to the Art of Noise sampled and suckled on global beat. Global beat was a musical ideology that allowed ‘nature’ to be appropriated and reconstructed as a mirror of, and for, ‘culture’, with immeasurably varied levels of sophistication. Non-music, or ambient noise such as whale and forest sounds, was curiously juxtaposed with classical and world musics, principally Gregorian, Celtic, African and Bulgarian song. In the hands of primitivist acts such as Enya, all samples became ambient in the sense that they could be commercially ascribed to fashionable neocolonial and psycho-theological notions of the vernacular, the pastoral and the Edenic. As a vague audio representation of the global eco-politics, ambient music gained an authoritative hold amongst anyone who wanted to buy into New Age. Ambient was a polite, well-dressed native who might go unnoticed. It was therapeutic, domesticated and at peace with its surroundings, and hence a favourite of anyone who wanted to present themselves as ‘political, but not in a barricades sense’. Ambient, in this sense, was a representation of politics, the simultaneous manifestation and exploitation of a burgeoning green economic sector. It was made for the ’90s, a decade in which people increasingly expressed their political beliefs through what they consumed while concurrently being uncomfortable with consumerism.

As a form of politics by osmosis, ambient offered a paradoxical solution to this dilemma – the solution being a denial of closure. At its best, this was manifested in the inﬁnite run-on groove of Aphex Twin’s ‘We Are the Music Makers’ (1991) and the concrete pastoralism of his Richard D. James Album (1996). However, since it produced few memorable commercial singles, the legacy of ambient primitivism tended to be a futile search for the sublime, a road to nowhere that can never be exhausted by the market. The evocation of the authority of nature, found in lacklustre ’90s chill-out techno, eternally reverberates in today’s TV ads for nostalgic ambient CD compilations (and ubiquitous organic products). Nocturnal ’90s Westerners sought supplementary ‘nature’, but they wanted it in the right place at the right time, preferably electronically generated in the back room of a sweaty industrial club. Now they can bung it on the Bang & Olufsen and align chakras at home. This is beﬁtting of the duplicitous and incongruous politics of the rave movement in the early-’90s. Deeply narcissistic yet supposedly eco-friendly, demanding, like a subfusc Situationist, the right to party before the right to work, the passive nihilism of ambient techno is one source of our current ambient polity.

In the ’90s, this particular brand of ambient practice coexisted with more comprehensive critiques of the environment that drew on rearticulations of spatial and temporal meaning found in postmodern critical social theory, anthropology and geography. These critiques drew attention to the ways in which environments are engendered, empowered and contested by subtle and palpable means. The intimacies of postmodern geographies, explored by ﬁgures such as Marc Augé, Anthony Vidler, Doreen Massey and Edward Soja, built upon earlier ambient texts such as Gaston Bachelard’s The Poetics of Space (1969), Robert Harbison’s Eccentric Spaces (1977) and Jacques Attali’s Noise: the Political Economy of Music (1977). Augé’s Non-Places: An Introduction to the Anthropology of Supermodernity (1990), quickly became the Music for Airports of the ’90s. The main stumbling block for ’90s artists concerned with intangible social spaces, sonic ﬂy-posting and geopolitical contexts seems to be that too much capital was made in the ’80s of the ambient arena of social theory by the neo-avant-garde, artists who had culturally bowdlerised and exempliﬁed postmodernisms to death. Artists such as Barbara Kruger and Krzysztof Wodiczko had carefully fostered ethical engagement with the built environment, considering the city as a stage and script. Nevertheless, such artists lacked an important element of the ’90s ambient aesthetic; morphologically, they tended to bellow rather than emphasise the timbrel virtues of the voice. Their well-manicured, big-budget, spectacular political art retained fewer supporters in the ’90s, when Situationist writings found new audiences. Nineties artists could not naïvely seek to recover Situationist metaphysics, nor did they wish to be regarded as the inheritors of the ‘genuine’ political avant-garde; rather, they sought provisional respite from critical postmodernism’s epistemological hole (the liar’s paradox) and its exasperating moral courteousness.

Nineties artists re-examined ambient critiques of spatial temporality, remodelling maps and re-exploring ‘alternative’ psychologies of space from a perspective that was politically detached yet aesthetically absorbed by late avant-garde tactics. The Situationist industry of the late-’90s belatedly academicised and commercialised the anticipation and zeal that accompanied the rediscovery of (well-worn) counter-cultural tactics practiced by hooligan politicos in the late-’60s and early-’70s. Nevertheless, for a short time, replicating these strategies as style had its beneﬁts, chieﬂy helping to mitigate (rather than repudiate) the stiﬂing theoretical injunctions of critical postmodernism in favour of more playful and subtle approaches aimed at non-specialist audiences. Artist, Shepard Fairey, who began his viral ‘Obey’ giant propaganda in Rhode Island in 1989 as ‘an experiment in phenomenology’, now has volunteer operatives bombing around the globe, manufacturing dissent by generating desire for a product (the late wrestler Andre the Giant) that does not exist. In Glasgow, during its stint as Capital of Culture in 1990, such ambient approaches were particularly attractive to artists, such as Ross Sinclair, David Shrigley and Jonathan Monk, who spent that year re-narrating the city as an architectural uncanny, détourning posters (Monk’s Cancelled) and transforming derelict public toilets into bars (Shrigley’s The Ship). Given that it was produced during an economic recession, this ambiart had to differ from that produced by artists such as Kruger and Wodiczko; it was very cheap, simple (much of it was spontaneous), and effective (it spread by word of mouth). Crucially, given its lack of closure, such work was, like the run-on grooves of ambient techno, ethically nonchalant. At that cultural moment, it did not matter if artists produced such stunts, nor did it matter if anyone ever saw them; they were whispering campaigns with nothing to promote and nothing to lose. Unlike later ambient practices by their contemporaries – such as Adam Chodzko’s God Look Alike Contest (1992–3) and Mark Wallinger’s A Real Work of Art (1994) – this group of artists received no ofﬁcial art world acclaim for their quintessentially timbrel poeticisation of space.

In the ’90s, postmodernist ideas of interrupting the equilibrium and continuity of temporal space by exploring ambient strategies were gradually disassociated from their traditional strongholds of academia, architecture and art. This gave certain sectors of ambient a renewed sense of energy and vigour and the political determination for action. Ambient politics were most tenaciously evident in the culture jamming of pop bands such as the Kopyright Liberation Front and Negativland, groups who did see themselves as inheritors of post-Situationist avant-gardism. KLF’s White Room (1991) exploited the demand for chill out primitivist ambience to fund their inimitable anti-art agenda – a vitalising blend of hacking, pranks, plagiarism, disinformation, forgeries, nonsense, poetic terrorism, psuedoscience and sabotage. Internationally, self-trained culture jammers were quick to embrace virtual spaces and new media as globalised, level playing ﬁelds. Nevertheless, much jambient took place in the built environment as witty direct actions, and frequently exhibited ecological concerns. Vancouver Sodders, for example, rented out busy city car parking spaces for sunbathing on deckchairs.

In the ’90s, billboard liberation projects, popular since the late-’70s, were corporatised by organisations such as Adbusters, who attempted to bankroll dissent. Conceptually and economically, Adbusters’ glossy, anti-corporate corporate strategy was perfect for the ’90s in the way that it presented opposition as both legitimate and aspirational. Many of its campaigns focused on global corporations that produced unhealthy products, such as fast food, tobacco and alcohol (‘Absolut Nonsense’), or had bad employment rights records. Subvertisements such as ‘Buy Nothing Day’ and ‘Turn off TV’ were sanctimonious enough to appeal to the paternalism of liberal and puritan Americans alike, providing a privately ﬁnanced, simulacral welfare state. Fighting ﬁre with ﬁre (a tactic exhausted by pop Situationists such as Malcolm McLaren in the early-’80s), Adbusters embodied the oxymoronic politics of ambient as much as Benetton’s Colors magazine or Naomi Klein’s No Logo – instrumentalist charity remixed.

The avant-garde ambientertainment pioneered by groups such as the KLF, meanwhile, gained momentum among media terrorists, such as Chris Morris, who took jamming to mass audiences in the UK with self-reﬂexive TV news spoofs, The Day Today (1994) and Brass Eye (1997). Morris satirised the consequentialism of ’90s anti-corporate corporatism by fusing the concerns of ambient music and guerrilla politics to the point where both collapsed into style. The ‘Animals’ episode of Brass Eye negated ’90s negation, giving the animal rights movement (or rather its representations) the same treatment as third-rate celebrities and lacklustre politicians. Morris’ return to radio to produce the Radio One programme, Blue Jam (1998–9), marked a ﬁtting epitaph to the decade. The programme impeccably travestied the ambient musical genre, mixing smooth jazz loops, ambient groove, trance, trip-hop, drum‘n’bass, rock, techno, pop, dub and funk – overlaying them with the avant-argots of a dark comic mind.

By the mid-’90s, ambient was big business in both political and leisure terms. As business clients became increasingly worried about cost-effectiveness during the economic recession of the early-’90s, the latter half of the decade saw ambient forms of jamming become increasingly common in European advertising, mirroring the impact of the recession on artists working in the built environment. In Britain, ambient advertising, a ﬂedgling sector in 1995 worth £10 million, is expected to be worth £110 million by the end of 2002. Ambient strategies have varied enormously, ranging from guerrilla marketing stunts, viral emails and ﬂy posting to targeted text messaging. Environmental art has been heavily sourced by guerrilla stunt-driven outﬁts such as Cunning Stunts, who famously projected naked TV presenter Gail Porter onto the Houses of Parliament to publicise men’s magazine FHM. The Independent followed, creating its own news by projecting ‘To Let’ onto Parliament during the 1997 general election. Wodiczko’s favoured form of intervention has long been used by culture jammers such as comedian Mark Thomas (who projected 007 onto the MI6 building in London). Due to the popularity of this tactic amongst ambient advertisers, this has since been made an offence (but commercial pranksters simply add the ﬁnes to their fees). Glocal community action has been exploited, and parodied, by groups such as Diabolical Liberties, who last year were responsible for the viral ‘Save Our Local Takeaways’ campaign fronted by former World’s Strongest Man, Geoff Capes. Numerous chippies and kebab houses, as well as BBC Radio 4, Loaded and the local press, were scammed into promoting Snack Stop instant noodles, a new product from powdered baby milk connoisseurs, Nestlé. Jamming-style ad pranksters seek radical chic to attract further publicity; no product is taboo, no space secure from reiﬁcation. This March, Acclaim Entertainment promoted the launch of Shadowman 2 on PlayStation 2 by inviting bereaved relatives to allow ad placements on relatives’ gravestones.

Toward the end of the ’90s, commercials appeared practically everywhere, from gas silos and shaved heads to shroud wraps on scaffolding. Public spaces were highly sought after by ambient media groups who maintained the sites and sold site-speciﬁc solutions to their growing list of clients. In Britain, spaces were practically monopolised on petrol pumps (Alvern Forecourt Media), on sandwich bags and takeaway containers (Bag Media), on over 10 billion bus and train tickets (Ticketmedia and Madmedia’s Radion scented bus tickets), toilets (CPA Washroom Advertising and Captive View’s sensor equipped ‘Viewrinals’), changing rooms (Fitting Exposure), free postcards (Boomerang Media), phone boxes (Phonesites), Vespas (SkootMedia), shopping trolleys (The Media Vehicle), milk bottles (Milk Media), the bottom of beer glasses (PintAds), dining tables (Tablemedia), park benches (Benchmark), the ﬂoors of car parks and train stations (Face-IT Media) and on plasma screens installed inside buses (Media Initiatives). Such ambient marketing sought to circumvent the brand-saturated world by increasingly targeting fragmented audiences directly. In the UK, In Your Space placed airline adverts on trucks travelling along congested motorways, and FCA wrote ads for holidays in Wales into the grime of white vans stuck in London commuter trafﬁc. Captive and gender-speciﬁc spaces – such as toilets, changing rooms and particularly bars – appealed to clients interested in targeting customers when they are most susceptible to suggestion, such as when they are already consuming or when they’re drunk. Science ﬁction currently plays a key role, with many ambicommerce strategists pre-empting dystopian ﬁctions such as Steven Spielberg’s Minority Report. Blade Runner-esque images can be projected into the air by a 3D imager developed by the Media Vehicle. Borrowing an idea from Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, Metrocom are currently preparing to run commercials inside dark London Underground tunnels, mounting light boxes onto the tunnel wall to produce ﬂick-book style moving pictures.

The resources available to such organisations outstrip those available to the growing numbers seeking to reclaim public space from private hands. The will to regain the public canvas from ambient interlopers is not supported by the Third Way; rather, it is actively discouraged by PPP schemes. Politically, economically and organisationally, ambicommerce is seeking to gain the upper hand. To increase their list of blue-chip clients and to fend off growing complaints from the Advertising Standards Authority, four British companies within the sector have sought to regulate themselves, breaking from the Outdoor Advertising Association to form The Out of Home Media Association in May. A common code of practice for the ambient industry will not restrain rebel ambient companies which know that cheap, inventive guerrilla marketing will always be desirable. Ambient brandalism may be the new spam that jammers seek to police, but ambient creatives are well aware of the opposition’s tactics, since what they practice is a logical outcome of edit culture and its critique. In addition to ﬁnancial restraints, the ambient commercial proliferation opposed by jammers was spawned by an astute awareness of space created by young graduates’ knowledge of postmodern geographies and semiotic critiques of advertising. Semiotic Solutions’ disdain for market research in favour of semiotic analysis seems to conﬁrm that ambient is a cultural Möbius strip. Ambient is lean-burning and sustainable; it will expand exponentially with its own critique.