2

Noise as “sound out of place”: investigating the links between Mary Douglas’ work
on dirt and sound studies research
Hugh Pickering and Tom Rice

Keywords: noise, dirt, pollution, sound studies, anthropology, Mary Douglas

Abstract
“Noise” is an important subject in sound studies research. However, due in large part to the
fact that judgements about what constitutes noise are highly subjective, researchers have
often struggled to define it. Where attempts have been made, many have settled on a
definition of noise as “sound out of place,” a reformulation of Mary Douglas’ definition of
“dirt” as “matter out of place” (Douglas 1966: 44). Beyond this, however, no effort has been
directed towards exploring the link between dirt and noise or seeing how far the analogy
between the two extends. This article corrects this omission by undertaking a close reading
of Douglas’ writing on “dirt” and linking it to contemporary sound studies research. It argues
that far more than simply giving rise to the definition “sound out of place,” Douglas’ classic
anthropological work can be used as the basis for an integrated “theory of noise,” deepening
our understanding of what it means when we describe a sound as “noise” and drawing
attention to the ambiguous, transgressive and dangerous qualities and potentials of noise.

Introduction
Noise has been a subject of deep fascination to those working in the interdisciplinary field of
sound studies (for a helpful overview see Novak 2015). It is a key tool in our lexicon of
ways of describing and defining categories of sound, and although we may encounter these
categories as apolitical and objective, they are “socially, culturally and morally informed and
motivated,” and because of their subjectivity, can be considered “essentially political in
nature” (Chandola 2012: 391). It is this subjective, “political” attribute of noise that is of
interest to sound scholars, who hope that in studying noise they can read “the codes of life,
the relations among men” (Attali 1985: 6).

Due to its subjective and political nature, formal attempts to define noise have had limited
success. Novak (2015) helpfully identifies three broad “discursive contexts” within which
noise takes on different definitions: the aesthetic, the technical, and the social. In aesthetic
contexts, noise is a category antithetical to “music.” Here the two form a classic Hegelian
dialectic (Elbow 1993), with their combination yielding the third category of “all audible
sound.” This definition of noise is most commonly experienced in the context of musical
performance: for example, if one were to watch an orchestra, the notes played would
constitute music, while the accidental clattering of a violin-bow against a music stand or the
creak of the pianist’s stool would constitute noise. Alternatively, noise may be defined in
aesthetic contexts as roughly synonymous with “bad,” often used as a categorical critique of
emerging styles of music (Novak 2015). In the early twentieth century, for example, jazz
was considered barbarous, uncivilized noise (Moore 2007), and in more recent times hip-
hop and punk have been similarly described.

In technical contexts, noise is contrasted with “signal,” and refers to any kind of interference
with a message being transmitted. The “static” produced by a long-range walkie-talkie, for
example, is referred to as “white noise,” while the black and white “fuzz” of a badly tuned
cathode ray television is “visual noise.” More than solely technical, this definition of noise is
fairly common in everyday language. Complaining “I can’t hear you – it’s too noisy!” in a
busy café implies the noise/signal distinction, where the desired signal (speech) is drowned
out and obscured by all other sound (noise).

In social contexts, noise is used as a descriptor for deviant sonic behavior, highlighting
societal norms and delineating what is acceptable and what is not. A neighbor's dog barking
late at night is “noise,” despite the fact that it is not opposed to “music” or “signal,” because
it occurs outside the accepted sonic order. Its designation as “noise” implies that the night is
a quiet time and denotes an expectation that dogs be kept under control.

Novak’s “discursive contexts” are in practice less different than they might at first seem.

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 Uniting all three is the fact that noise is a relative category that can “only take on meaning
by signifying something else” (Novak 2015: 2). Whether defined as not-music, not-signal or
not-appropriate, noise as a descriptive term or category of sound only makes sense in
relation to other terms and categories. Equally, the discursive contexts all specify that noise
is unwanted, begging the question “unwanted by whom?” and reminding us that noise is
predominantly a subjective category. To call something noise is to make a value judgement,
and we can easily call to mind situations that use alternative classifications of sound. For
example, the knocking of the violinist’s bow and creaking piano seat are the music in John
Cage’s influential “silent” composition 4’33, while the “noise” of a busy café could be an
asset when having a private conversation; correspondingly, the barking of a dog could be
construed as “signal” warning of a potential intruder.

R. Murray Schafer takes a similar approach to Novak in his influential book The Tuning of
the World (1977: 273), pointing out that while the word “noise” has “a variety of meanings
and shadings of meaning,” there are four particularly important definitions. Three of these
map broadly onto Novak’s discursive contexts: “unwanted sound” (social), “unmusical
sound” (aesthetic), and “disturbance[s] in any signaling system” (technical). Schafer’s
fourth definition, “any loud sound,” acknowledges that “noise” is also often used in common
language to refer to sounds that are “particularly loud” (Schafer 1977: 273). However, while
volume does indeed often play a part in the experience and designation of sounds as noise,
loudness alone does not account fully for why some sounds become “noise,” not least
because of the variability with which volume translates into experience. Two sounds of
similar loudness may each be experienced as noise or not, depending entirely on their
context (consider the loud “noise” of a passing police siren compared to the similarly loud
“music” of a concert). Equally, sounds of quite different volume may be experienced in
counterintuitive ways. A person snoring “quietly” in the bed next to you may seem very
noisy, for instance, while the much louder sound of a commuter train might not be
experienced as noisy and may even be deemed relaxing or sleep inducing. In situations
such as these, there may be analytical benefit in making a separation between the terms
“loud” and “noisy.” We can take “loudness” to refer to the volume of a sound and “noisiness”
to refer to a sound’s symbolic capacity to be perceived as unpleasant. Therefore, a train
may be “loud” but not necessarily “noisy,” while a person’s snoring may be “noisy” though
not necessarily loud.

One suggestion might be that there is a point at which a sound becomes objectively “noisy”
when it reaches a certain volume; perhaps one at which physical damage begins to be done
to the ear. But, again, this approach misses the richness and plurality of noise as an
experiential and classificatory phenomenon. As Paul Hegarty puts it “[although noise] can
be loud, it is much more about what is deemed to disturb, and loudness is only part of that
overall sense of noise” (Hegarty 2007: 4, original emphasis).

Seeking a concise definition, many sound scholars have described noise as “sound out of
place,” a reformulation of Mary Douglas’ classic definition of dirt as “matter out of place.”
This definition is especially useful, as it emphasizes the contextual nature of “noise” and,
crucially, recognizes that it is a category into which sounds are placed rather than an
essential quality of sounds themselves. Indeed, when reading the literature, it is striking
just how often this appropriation of Douglas’ famous line takes place. Peter Bailey is
perhaps the first to make explicit the connection, writing that to define noise we should
“echo” Douglas and refer to it as “sound out of place” (Bailey 2004: 23). Bailey’s suggestion
then reappears in the same words in Emily Cockayne’s history of dirt and noise in
seventeenth Century England (Cockayne 2007: 113) as well as Making Noise, Making News
(Chapman 2014: 30), Mark Chapman’s history of suffragette print culture. It also appears in
Religion Out Loud (Weiner 2014: 7-8), Isaac Weiner’s exploration of religious sound and
public space. Karin Bijsterveld, too, makes the connection, writing in her history of twentieth
century noise that Douglas’ work on dirt and the idea of “sound out of place” “have much in
common” (Bijsterveld 2008: 37). The idea is raised again in the same terms in Kim-Cohen’s
In the Blink of an Ear (Kim-Cohen 2009: 111) and Garret Keizer’s The Unwanted Sound of
Everything We Want (Keizer 2010: 27). Finally, Pauline Destrée makes the Douglas link in
an article on the politics of noise in “estate” communities (Destrée 2013: 16), and Jonathan
Willis connects the two in his book on church music and social discord (Willis 2010: 225).

In addition to the above, there are also several implicit references to Douglas in the
literature, moments where noise is defined or described as “sound out of place” without
specific mention of Douglas or “matter out of place.” Foremost among these is British
physicist G.W.C. Kaye, who in 1931 wrote that noise should be considered “sound out of

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 place” (Kaye 1931: 443). So similar is Kaye’s description of noise to Douglas’ description of
dirt that some have subsequently described his work as a reinterpretation of Douglas (e.g.
Bijsterveld 2008: 240; Keizer 2012: 27), despite the fact that its publication predates
Douglas’ “matter out of place” by thirty-five years. Mike Goldsmith also describes noise as
“sound out of place” in the introduction to his book Discord (Goldsmith 2012: 2), as does
Roland Atkinson in an article on the ecology of sound (Atkinson 2007: 1905). Similarly,
Siegmund Levarie describes noise as “sound that is disorderly” (Levarie 1977: 21), and,
finally, while he does not refer explicitly to sound being “out of place,” Jacques Attali evokes
Douglas when he describes noise as “destruction, disorder, dirt, [and] pollution” in his
seminal work Noise (Attali 1985: 27).

Despite the seeming consensus on a definition of noise as “sound out of place” suggested by
the above, there has been, to date, no detailed or systematic analysis of the link between
noise and dirt, either within the field of sound studies or without. This is a problem for
several reasons. Firstly, those quoting Douglas often use the “sound out of place” definition
as a convenient, tidy way to conclude difficult discussions on the nature of noise, without
further investigation or a dissection of the appropriateness of the comparison. This raises
the potential of academics offering an inadequate definition if noise and dirt are not
analagous. Additionally, by not fully investigating the links between Douglas’ work on dirt
and noise, academics are missing out on the potential of understanding noise more deeply.
Although Douglas wrote extensively, and literal discussions of dirt in her writing total only a
handful of pages, these pages say far more about dirt than simply describing it as “matter
out of place.” If the noise-dirt link is “correct,” so to speak, then Douglas’ other writings on
dirt will be useful in understanding noise. Finally, exploring Douglas’ writing and opening
links between sound studies and a wider body of anthropological ideas helps to preserve
and reinvigorate the strong interdisciplinarity of sound studies.

In this article we argue that the link between dirt and noise is indeed productive in terms of
understanding noise. By linking Douglas’ key points on dirt to selected work on noise from
sound studies literature, we aim to show how each can inform the other. We begin with a
brief history of the idea of “matter out of place” before giving an overview of Douglas’ work
on dirt from Purity and Danger and the essay “Pollution.” This overview is not a
comprehensive summary of all that is contained in each, but rather a deliberate selection of
the most important sections for gaining an understanding of Douglas’ ideas on dirt. We then
begin applying these ideas, taking each of Douglas’ main points in turn and illustrating how
they relate to specific pieces of research on noise from within sound studies. Finally, in view
of Douglas’ ideas, we argue that noise should not be thought of as “like” dirt; it is both more
accurate and more productive to say that noise, in fact, is dirt: an aural type of pollution.
We then point to some of the benefits of thinking of noise in this way.

The Theory of Dirt

Despite it becoming her most famous saying, the phrase “dirt is matter out of place” was
not actually coined by Mary Douglas. Its exact origins are unclear, but the earliest known
version appears in the record of an 1853 speech given to the Royal Agricultural Society by
Lord Palmerston (who would later go on to be the fifth Prime Minister of the United
Kingdom) (Fardon 2013). Nevertheless, “matter out of place” remains the quintessential
Douglassian expression and is a keystone in both of her major efforts concerning dirt: Purity
and Danger (1966) and the later essay “Pollution,” first published in the 1968 Encyclopaedia
of the Social Sciences and subsequently included in the anthology Implicit Meanings
(Douglas 1975). What follows is a summary of her theorizing on dirt in these texts.

Dirt, as we know from the famous phrase, is “matter out of place,” a definition that, Douglas
states, implies two important conditions: “a set of ordered relations and a contravention of
that order” (Douglas 1966: 44). To Douglas, “there is no such thing as absolute dirt” (idem:
2), and “no single item is dirty apart from [i.e. outside of] a particular system of
classification in which it does not fit” (idem: vii). “Where there is dirt there is system”
(idem: 44), because dirt is not an independent, objective attribute of something, but a
“residual category [of things] rejected from our normal scheme of classifications” (idem:
45). It is a label for “all events which blur, smudge, contradict or otherwise confuse
accepted classifications” (Douglas 1968: 50), and, importantly, it is a relative term – “what
is clean in relation to one thing may be unclean in relation to another” (Douglas 1966: 10).
Douglas illustrates these points with mundane examples: shoes, for instance, are not dirty
in themselves, “but it is dirty to place them on the dining table” (idem: 44). Similarly, food
is not necessarily dirty, “but it is dirty to leave cooking utensils in the bedroom” (idem: 37).
Neither is dirty in an absolute sense, but is considered so due to its out-of-place-ness.

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 Whilst cooking utensils are dirty within the context of the bedroom, in the kitchen they are
in the right place and hence – relatively speaking – clean. Dirtiness is less a property of
things than it is a contextual label attributed to them.

Things may come to be “out of place” by being anomalous or ambiguous. Douglas defines
an anomaly as any “element which does not fit a given set or series,” while ambiguity is a
characteristic of something capable of two interpretations (idem: 47). In Douglas’ view, the
categorization and organization (of objects, animals, senses, encounters, etc.) implicit in
perception is, above all, an act of sense-making. Life, she suggests, is “inherently untidy”
(idem: 5), and the separation and demarcation of experience into categories is an effort to
“impose system” and make sense of the world (idem). Things that are anomalous or
ambiguous are seen as dirty because they resist this kind of classification by not easily
“fitting” into established categories. This directly threatens the perceptual (and inherently
social) structure, and, as a consequence, anomalous and ambiguous things are often seen
as disgusting, disruptive, and dangerous. However, these are not the only possible
reactions; there is a “whole gradient on which laughter, revulsion and shock belong at
different points and intensities” according to the type of transgression (idem: 47). What is
consistent is that anomaly and ambiguity demand at least some kind of reaction because, as
Douglas states, when we encounter them the underlying feeling is that “a system of values
[…] has been violated” (Douglas 1968: 50).

In order to counter the discomfort inherent in such transgressions, they must in the first
place be limited, and, when they do occur, “fixed,” leaving dirt tidied up and dissonance
reduced. Processes to achieve these ends are what Douglas refers to as our “pollution
behavior,” and they are deliberate, creative acts. Eliminating dirt, she states, “is not a
negative movement, but a positive effort to reorganize the environment” (Douglas 1966: 2),
and the aim of pollution behavior is to ensure “that the order in external physical events
conforms to the structure of ideas” (Douglas 1968: 53). One of the principal ways in which
this is achieved is through the exaggeration of difference. Douglas states that it is only by
exaggerating the difference between “within and without, above and below, male and
female, with and against” that a “semblance of order is created” (1966: 4), as exaggeration
sharpens the boundaries between categories which may otherwise be hazy or indistinct.

Once transgressions have occurred, they can be dealt with in a number of ways. Breaches of
pollution rules may be “punished by political decree, sometimes by attack on the
transgressor, and sometimes by grave or trivial sanctions” (Douglas 1968: 53), and
additionally the simple act of labelling something “dirt” plays an important role, as the
inherent negativity of the term serves to publicly condemn the contradiction or confusion of
cherished classifications that has caused it. This has the effect of clearly outlining what is
expected and acceptable and what is not. As Douglas writes: “when something is classified
firmly as anomalous [or ambiguous], the outline of the set of which it is not a member is
clarified” (Douglas 1966: 47). In other words, labelling something “out of place” (and
therefore dirty) simultaneously establishes what would be “in place” (and therefore clean).
In Douglas’ example of shoes on the dining table, for instance, calling the situation dirty
reinforces the idea that, usually, shoes are not placed on the dining table, and it is hoped
that the act of labelling such behavior “dirty” will cause the offender to recognize the out-of-
place-ness of their action and “fix” the transgression by revising the placement of the shoes.

Of course, what is “out of place” to one person may not necessarily be so to another. Dirt
exists only “in the eye of the beholder” (Douglas 1996: 2), and what is classified as dirt
varies between groups and individuals. Although dirt can be consistently defined as “that
which must not be included if a pattern is to be maintained” (Douglas 1968: 50), what
constitutes a “pattern” or what is considered a desirable pattern has no such consistency.
Whereas the “sorting” of perception (and experience) into categories is a human universal,
their boundaries are entirely a matter of culture. Indeed, pollution behaviors form a central
part of what we mean when we speak of “culture,” as dirt, by definition, invokes the wider
structure of which it is not a part. Additionally, due to their important role in reinforcing and
maintaining the social order (i.e. outlining what is and isn’t acceptable behavior), pollution
rules take on a deeply symbolic role, and dirt, according to Douglas, carries a “symbolic
load” (Douglas 1996: 4). The labels “clean” and “dirty” can be mapped on to more overtly
moral ones such as “pure/impure” and “sacred/profane,” and pollution beliefs are used “in a
dialogue of claims and counter-claims to status” (idem: 3). To be “clean” is to be good, to
agree to cherished classifications, and to uphold the social order and accepted ways of
being. By contrast, to be “dirty” is to be bad, to disregard convention, to confuse or ignore
classifications and have different and unacceptable ways of being. Dirt, far more than just

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 “matter out of place,” is indicative of an entire moral system.

A Theory of Noise
Having established the basics of Douglas’ theory of dirt, in this section we begin applying
them to noise. Our methodology here is essentially very simple and is roughly akin to
striking out the word “dirt” and replacing it with “noise” to see if Douglas’ aphorisms retain
their sense. Even the most significant of Douglas’ ideas about dirt are drawn from the initial
premise that it is “matter out of place,” and so it follows that if noise is truly “sound out of
place,” then Douglas’ other remarks will translate. Drawing on examples from everyday life
and contemporary sound studies scholarship (including, for example, texts on the Reggae
sound system session, Victorian soundscapes, sound in the contemporary slums and favelas
of Delhi and Rio de Janeiro, and noise music), we explore some of the intricacies of the
noise-dirt analogy. We examine the implications of the definition “sound out of place” before
looking at the concepts of anomalous sounds and ambiguous sounds. We then look at sonic
transgressions and how they are negotiated before finally moving on to consider whether or
not noise, like dirt, can be said to carry a culturally significant “symbolic load.” By testing
Douglas’ anthropological ideas against sound studies research in this way, we hope to
highlight the synergies between these two discursive fields and emphasize both the
potential and the value produced through their integration.

Sound out of place

Just as with dirt, defining noise as “sound out of place” implies two important general
conditions: a set of ordered relations and a contravention of that order. Noise, under this
definition, is the by-product of “a systematic classification and ordering of sounds,” and
there is therefore no such thing as “absolute noise” because no sound is noisy outside of the
particular classificatory system in which it does not fit. Sounds are not noisy in themselves,
but can become noise if they occur in a place where they are not supposed to be. The
opposite can also be said to be true: any sound occurring in its appropriate place is, by
definition, not noise. “Noisiness” is not an inherent quality of sounds, but a label attached to
them.

As in Douglas’ writing, these ideas can be illustrated with everyday examples. Shouting, for
instance, is not necessarily a “noisy” thing to do, but to shout in a library is generally
considered noisy because it is classified as a silent (or quiet) space. The sound generated by
shouting – and the behavior itself – is “out of place” within the context of a library, and is
thus considered “noise.” In a different context, however, (perhaps a football match)
shouting would be “in place” and would most likely meet with approval as an expression of
engagement and enthusiasm. Importantly, just as “dirtiness” and “cleanliness” are relative,
so too are “noisiness” and “quietness,” and “what is quiet in relation to one thing may be
noisy in relation to another.” A library is quiet when compared to a football match but would
be noisy compared to an anechoic chamber.

Anomaly and ambiguity

If noise is “sound out of place,” then sounds, like dirt, come to be “out of place” primarily by
being anomalous or ambiguous. What might this mean? Translating Douglas’ definition, an
anomalous sound is one “which does not fit a given set or series.” This does little
conceptually other than reinforce the idea that sounds are considered noise if they are “out
of place.” By not fitting a given set or series, anomalous sounds are by definition “out of
place” and are therefore considered noise. Again, just as with dirt, when a sound is
classified as anomalous, “the outline of the set of which it is not a part is clarified.” The
shout in the library is noise because it is an anomaly, and classifying it as such reinforces
the fact that the expected state is quietude.

While applying anomaly to sound effectively tells us what we already know, the concept of
an “ambiguous sound” is altogether more interesting. Again following Douglas’ definition,
ambiguous sounds are those that are “capable of two (or more) interpretations.” Consider a
cold caller heard over the telephone whose voice sounds at times “male” and others
“female.” Despite having no bearing on the content of what is said, the ambiguity of the
sound demands attention and often provokes a desire to “know” the “true” sex of the caller.
Confronted by ambiguity, there is a human need to categorize. It is also possible to think of
other examples of ambiguous sounds that provoke a related but slightly different response.
The call of a fox, for example, is uncannily like the shriek of young woman or child. Even
when one is familiar with the fox’s call, it can still be disconcerting. Anybody who has ever
generated a noticeable “fart sound” in a public place by sitting on a leather chair will know

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 that the ambiguity over the origin of the sound makes for an interesting social experience,
and, just as Douglas states, revulsion is not the only possible reaction. In a Doctor’s
surgery, shock and embarrassment would likely be the response, whereas a quasi-fart in a
primary school would likely generate howls of laughter.

What connects the above cases is that they are examples of sounds capable of provoking
two auditory interpretations. It is possible, however, for sounds to be ambiguous in other
ways. Henriques (2003) has implied that a kind of sensory ambiguity is a crucial factor in
both the perceived danger and almost mystical lure of extremely loud[1] music. He writes
about reggae/dancehall “sound system sessions” taking place in Jamaica, informal outdoor
concerts where competing “sound systems” (made up of DJs, MCs, and producers) vie for
the affection of gathered crowds in a continual game of one-upmanship. While for the
audience the session is first and foremost a street party, to the sound systems it is a
volume-based status game where high wattage amplifiers and giant speaker stacks are
king. Describing the sound system session, Henriques uses a series of strong and seemingly
contradictory adjectives: the music is “hard, excessive and extreme.” Through its volume it
becomes a “physical force” with its own “weight and mass” (Henriques 2003: 451), and yet
at the same time the sound is also “soft and embracing,” and attending the session is an
“enveloping” and “immersive” experience (idem). Because of the volume of the music, it is
no longer purely an aural phenomenon; sound becomes a physical force that penetrates and
invades the body: “it’s not just heard in the ears, but felt over the entire surface of the skin
[…] the bass line beats on your chest, vibrating the flesh, playing on the bone and
resonating the genitals” (idem: 452).

In Purity and Danger, Douglas illustrates the concept of ambiguity by summarizing Jean-
Paul Sartre’s essay on stickiness (1943). Something that is sticky or viscous, she writes,
“repels in its own right, as a primary experience,” as it calls into question the hitherto
established categories of liquid and solid (Douglas 1966: 47). The viscous is unstable, and
“clings like a leech” (idem); it “attacks the boundary between [oneself] and it” (idem).
Touching a “normal” liquid is a different sensory experience because one remains solid,
whereas “to touch stickiness is to risk diluting [oneself] into viscosity” (idem.). The ultra-
loud sound system sessions of Jamaica operate on a similar logic: the enormity of the
speaker systems means that the music is not only heard as a sound but felt as a touch, and
it is clear from Henriques’ description of the intense vibration that conventional bodily
boundaries become blurred. However, rather than repelling (as with viscosity), ambiguity in
this case generates an intense and almost hypnotic pleasure. This is not entirely surprising;
as we have already established, encounters with ambiguity can generate a wide range of
reactions, and there is a long history of deliberate exposure to transgression and ambiguous
states as part of pollution rituals and other ceremonies (Burke 1978; Douglas 1966; Marriott
1966; Turner 1964).

In fact, while some have argued that reggae is uniquely subversive and dangerous (Davis
and Simon 1977; see also Chang and Chen 1998), it seems logical that any genre played
loud enough has the power to become ambiguous and generate a powerful attraction. The
“chest rattle” caused by deep notes played on a high-capacity speaker system is a
ubiquitous feature of the modern concert, and our predilection for music to be very loud can
perhaps be explained by reference to its sensory ambiguity. Of course, listening to music at
lower volumes (where it is mostly[2] an auditory sensation) is still enjoyable, and so our
attraction to ambiguous, high-volume, multi-sensory “tactile” sound does not serve to
explain our enjoyment of music in general. Nevertheless, ambiguity is a useful concept in
exploring, for instance, the draw of very loud music and its use in concerts and other
musical contexts that can be regarded as public rituals.

A final aspect of ambiguity worth considering briefly is its propensity to be felt as

dangerous. Douglas explains that because ambiguous things and ambiguous behavior
threaten the perceptual and social order, they are generally to be feared and admonished.
Once again, this idea translates directly to sound and is well illustrated by the Jamaican
example. Despite being intensely enjoyed by those who attend, sound system sessions are
controversial and condemned in wider Jamaican society. Newspaper columnists write of the
dangers of attending the sound system session and warn that even those who do not attend
may suffer the ill effects of its noise. Stress, loss of sleep, cardiovascular problems, and
even damage to foetuses are cited as potential health risks[3], and while there is no doubt
that sustained exposure to loud sound can have a negative health effect (Passchier-Vermeer
and Passchier 2000), it is interesting to note the extent to which sound system culture is
rejected as medically dangerous.

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 Douglas describes how ritual pollution behaviors have often been explained by “medical
materialism” (i.e. the idea that there is an underlying medical or “scientific” reason for
certain acts, objects, and substances being classified as dirty – that they are likely to induce
sickness, for instance). While Douglas recognizes that medical materialism may well play a
part in some acts of classification, she argues that it does not fully account for the intricacy
and elaboration found in the wider system of classification. We see an interesting parallel
here, in that the same can be said of noise. Thus, rather than being seen as purely
medically dangerous, sound system culture is seen as socially dangerous, constituting the
basis for a considerable “moral panic” (Thompson 1998) in Jamaica. The DJs and promoters
associated with sound systems are castigated in the press for “polluting the environment”
and “denigrating women and children” with their “regular doses of lewd, vulgar, misogynistic
content”[4], while those who attend are described as deviant and out of control (Henriques
2003: 455). The lyrics of songs played are felt to promote only violence and “slackness,”
and the sound system session as a whole is considered “entirely and absolutely excessive”
(idem). It is not just the loud music that is “out of place,” ambiguous, noisy, and dangerous;
the associated culture is too.

Negotiating transgressions
Because sonic transgressions pose a clear threat to order, action must be taken: they must
be dealt with, tidied up and “fixed.” In a general sense this is often achieved by the simple
act of labelling something “noise.” Just as with “dirt,” publicly calling something noise (or
“noisy”) implicitly condemns it and, crucially, shores up the boundaries of whichever
cherished classifications have been confused or ignored. Not only does this minimize the
socially disruptive effects of noise (by reasserting the expected order), but it can also put an
end to the transgressive behavior itself. For example, to return to the idea of a shout in a
library, asking the offender to “keep the noise down” condemns their behavior by labelling it
“noise” and at the same time clearly signals to others that shouting in a library is a
transgression to be avoided, whilst also reinforcing the idea that the library is classified as a
quiet space. Through labelling it is hoped that the noisy person will recognize their
transgression and modify their behavior. This is a direct parallel of the earlier example of
encouraging someone to take his or her shoes off the kitchen table.

If labelling is a first step in negotiating transgressions, further approaches, according to

Douglas, include “political decree,” “attacks on transgressors,” and “grave or trivial
sanctions” (1975: 111). A keep quiet sign on the wall of the library might be considered an
example of the first of these, and it is possible to find others more obviously and
conventionally “political.” The 1997 Noise Abatement Act of Jamaica, for instance, takes a
legislative approach to tidying up sonic transgressions. Introduced as a direct response to
the growing popularity of sound system sessions (Henriques 2003), the Act aims to regulate
the practice and puts direct limits on the places where loud music can be enjoyed:

[No person shall] operate, or permit or cause to be operated, any loudspeaker,

microphone or any other device for the amplification of sound, in such a
manner that the sound is audible beyond a distance of one hundred metres
from the source of the sound and is reasonably capable of causing annoyance
to persons in the vicinity. (1997 Noise Abatement Act: 3)

The Act also states that sounds occurring between 12am and 6am and those heard in the
proximity of hospitals, nursing homes, infirmaries, hotels, guesthouses, and private homes,
“shall be presumed to cause annoyance to persons in that vicinity” (idem: 4, emphasis
added). Even if the majority of the residents of a particular area attended a sound system
session, if it took place close to almost any kind of building, it would be illegal and could be
shut down on the argument that it is a sonic nuisance. The language of the Act leaves it
wide open to interpretation, and the odds are stacked strongly in favor of sonic and social
order. Of course, as always, laws need a deterrent, and the grave or trivial sanctions that
Douglas states we can expect to find are evident in equal measure. Those breaking the
Noise Abatement Act will, in the first instance, be subject to a monetary fine, while the
punishment for subsequent offences increase in severity, culminating in a final sentence of
twelve months imprisonment. “Attacks on transgressors” are likewise in evidence, with
Jamaican newspapers featuring editorials lambasting those who break noise abatement laws
and calling for stronger enforcement of the Act[5].

Editorials can also be considered evidence for Douglas’ assertion that transgressions are

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 negotiated through the exaggeration of difference. As specified in Purity and Danger, this
point can be interpreted in two ways. Firstly, it can be understood as the exaggeration of
the difference between categories in order to make them seem more distinct than they are.
Calling a library “silent” is an example of this: libraries are obviously not totally silent (there
are printer noises, footsteps, etc.), but classifying them as such exaggerates the difference
between them and other spaces and so keeps the classificatory system both simple and
intact. Secondly, Douglas’ statement can be understood as the exaggeration of differences
between those who transgress and those who do not (from the perspective of one group), in
order to reduce the cognitive dissonance caused by equally rational people operating under
a different set of rules.

To the journalists and worried letter-writers in Jamaican newspapers, those who attend
sound system sessions are using a different classificatory system: night-time is not “quiet
time” but “party time,” and loud does not equal “bad” but “good.” This creates friction, and if
transgressions cannot be “tidied up” by political decree, grave or trivial sanctions, or attacks
on transgressors, then an exaggeration of the differences between the groups can at least
“explain away” the fact that notionally similar people have entirely different attitudes. Thus,
those who consider the sound system session “noise” distance themselves from those who
don’t by calling them “excessive” and “immodest” and casting them as members of an
immoral, hyper-sexual underclass far removed from the Jamaican mainstream (Henriques
2003: 455).

Importantly, while clashes in Jamaica over sound system culture illustrate these points
nicely, it is by no means an isolated or exceptional example, and similar attempts to “tidy
up” noise can be found elsewhere. The United Kingdom, for instance, has its own noise laws
(laid out in the 1996 Noise Act), the breaking of which may lead to similarly grave or trivial
sanctions (e.g. ASBOs, imprisonment, petty fines, the confiscation of stereo equipment),
and a quick internet search reveals that the phrase “attacks on transgressors” can
sometimes take on a decidedly literal meaning[6],[7].

Neither, it is important to add, are the above ways of dealing with sonic transgressions
confined to a particular moment in time. In his book Victorian Soundscapes, John Picker
gives an excellent account of similar noise conflicts in nineteenth-century London. The city is
described as a sonically dense, cacophonous place where “clanging bells, cracking whips,
clattering carriages, clamoring hawkers […] roaring crowds, [and] barking dogs” all fill the
air. The worst of sonic offenders, however, are the street musicians, itinerant performers
collectively known as “organ grinders” playing drums, banjos, fiddles, and hand-organs for
money (Picker 2003: 42). To the “brain workers” of the city’s emergent professional class,
organ grinders were a considerable sonic nuisance, the “hoarse bray” of their instruments
an affront to – and transgression of – the preferred sonic order (idem: 47). Once again, one
group can be seen to exaggerate the differences between itself and the (perceived)
offenders in a bid to negotiate transgression: professionals dismissed organ grinders not
just as an underclass but as sub-human altogether, and editorials from the era typically
characterized them as beastly invaders. In mocking Punch cartoons they are drawn as
swarthy, simian figures, and one particularly ebullient commentator likened them to
“baboons escaped from the Zoological Gardens” before stating that no Londoner should
“sally forth to business without first spiking, or hanging, or shooting one of the howlers of
the streets” (idem: 52).

Despite appearances, such attempts to deal with transgression should, for Douglas, be seen
primarily as positive efforts to reorganize the sonic environment rather than negative efforts
to eliminate noise altogether. By restricting (or attempting to restrict) certain types of
sounds, those in Victorian London (and contemporary Jamaica) aimed to ensure that the
order of “external physical events” (i.e. sounds) conformed to a particular “structure of
ideas.” Namely, the idea that sounds from outside the home should not intrude into it and
that privacy and silence are concomitant.

The symbolic load

As well as demonstrating that approaches to dealing with sonic transgression are consistent
over time, the Victorian example is also particularly useful for illustrating the point that
noise, like dirt, is symbolic. Nineteenth-century London was a place where dirt, noise,
excrement, violence, and crime were close to the senses “of all who ventured beyond their
front doors” (Calder 1977: 15), and the home, therefore, played an important role as a
sanctum where one could “escape urban realities and attain a degree of separateness” from

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 the exterior world (Picker 2003: 44). However, whilst dirt, excrement, violence, and crime
can all be “shut out” both literally and figuratively by the closing of a door, noise has the
unique power to penetrate, and so its prevention and exclusion is of the utmost importance
if the illusion of separation is to remain.

To the home-owning professional classes, noise symbolized the general dirt, decay, and
disorder of the outside world as well as the limited extent of one’s authority over it.
Controlling it was therefore crucial, both as an act of distinction – i.e. demonstrating that
you could afford to live in a place that is not “contaminated” by noise – and also as a
symbolic gesture of detachment from the realities of the world. In campaigning for silence,
those in the middle classes sought to define themselves and their position in society, and
their actions can be considered part of a “continuing struggle between refinement and
vulgarity” (Bailey 1998: 31). Debates about noise were less a matter of “quiet vs. loud”
than they were one of “civilization vs. barbarism” (Bijsterveld 2003).

In fact, questions of noise are rarely actually about “loudness,” just as, as Douglas states,
questions of dirt are rarely actually about pathogenicity or a concern for hygiene. Tripta
Chandola illustrates this point nicely in her work on the sonic encounters between classes in
Delhi. She describes how, despite the fact that both slum dwellers and the middle classes
emit ostensibly similar sounds into the environment, it is only those emanating from the
lower end of the social spectrum that come to be heard as “noise” (2012). Both groups
listen to music, for instance, but music heard from the slum by nearby residents of middle
class apartment blocks is not “music” but “crude, badly-amplified noise.” However, the same
middle class residents judge their own music to be acceptable, well-amplified, and simply
“music” (idem.).

What Chandola’s example illustrates is that “noise” “is an issue less of tone or decibel than
[one] of social temperaments [and] class background” (Schwartz 2004: 51) and, looking
back over the previous examples, noise and class are clearly linked. In Jamaica, the sound
system session is a predominantly working class affair, while in Victorian London organ
grinders were most often immigrants from Continental Europe. In each case, “noisiness” is a
quality attributed to a lower social group by a higher one, and debates about noise are used
as proxies for discourses unsuitable for the public sphere. The organ grinder debate, for
instance, can be seen as one of thinly veiled racism, where cries about the influx of the
“half-monkey, half-dirt” street musician symbolize concerns over rapid immigration and the
increasing fragility of the middle class (Picker 2003). The Jamaican example expresses a
similar sentiment, where “middle-classness” itself is felt to be under attack not only from
loud music, but also equally “loud” working-class culture (Henriques 2003), and in Delhi,
the distaste for noise amongst the middle classes represents a generalized distaste for
slum-dwellers and slum life (Chandola 2012). In each case, “noise” is a hitching-post to
which other debates are tied and serves as a symbolic surrogate for the darker issues of
class, race, and social hierarchy.

Of course, these examples presume a single classificatory system of sound when we know
this not to be the case: just as dirt is seen only “in the eye of the beholder,” noise is heard
only “in the ear of the beholder.” To the sound system operators, organ grinders, and music
listeners, their sounds are not “noise” but legitimate sources of enjoyment or income, and
the label “noise” is rejected. Alternatively, noise as an attribute may be actively embraced
(by those accused of it) as a form of resistance. To the disenfranchised, downtrodden, and
silenced, noise is a way to be heard and can be an effective tactic used to exercise a
“politics of presence” (Oosterbaan 2009). Noise is at once “marginalized sound and [the]
sound of power and resistance” (Chandola 2012: 402) that, like dirt, is used in a dialogue of
claims and counter-claims to status.

Martijn Oosterbaan demonstrates this point well in his piece on the sonic battles of the
favela in Rio de Janeiro (2009). He describes how different social groups use highly
amplified music as a weapon in the fight for “sonic supremacy.” The drug traficanteś of the
favela play extremely loud funk music to verify their power and “challenge the police and
[…] other drug gangs in Rio de Janeiro” (2009: 88). Their music is in turn opposed by
religious evangélicos, who link funk music to prostitution, drug abuse, and violence and
counter it by projecting their own equally loud gospel music into the favela soundscape.
These groups, then, each embrace the productive power of noise, using amplified music to
assert their presence in the favela.

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 In a similar example, Seb Roberts argues that the production and performance of noise
music in present-day Japan can be considered an instance of noise being used as a tool for
resistance (2013: 111). In the face of the “sonic totalitarianism” of the Japanese city, in
which individuals are subject to an “unending siege of [aural] instruction and intimidation,”
the act of “playing” noise music becomes a “reclamation of autonomy within acoustic space”
(idem.). Indeed, the genre(s) of noise music more generally can be considered a particularly
instructive example of individuals and groups embracing the category of noise and using it
as a productive force.

Noise music can be understood to play on and subvert the existing noise/music binary in
what Marie Thompson refers to as a “poetics of transgression” (2017: vi). From the earliest
experiments to more recent examples, noise music artists have found purpose in opposing
themselves to established and conventional ideas of music (Hegarty 2007). They have
embraced and celebrated what Goddard, Halligan, and Hegarty refer to as the tendency for
departures from previous systems of sonic norms to be perceived as “ugly and rebarbative
noise” (2012: 2). It is perhaps not surprising that the reaction to such departures has
sometimes been strong; Hegarty notes that the first public performance of noise music in
1914 was met with “uproar,” to which the performers responded by “launching themselves
into the crowd [and] beating up the dissenters” (2007: 12). Nonetheless, noise, like dirt,
can act as a “powerful pole of attraction” and “provides new forms of pleasure, not least of
which are the pleasures of transgression and subversion” (Goddard et al 2012: 1). There
are clear links here to other rituals of inversion and reversal, where enjoyment, excitement,
and release are gained from stylized rejections of and challenges to the dominant social
order.

Nevertheless, whether accepted or rejected in specific instances, what noise symbolizes in

the wider discourse remains roughly the same: it is disorder, rebellion, instability, and
contravention of the expected (or dominant) order. Like dirt, noise carries a symbolic load,
and the labels “quiet” and “loud” can be mapped on to more overtly moral ones such as
“pure/impure” and “sacred/profane” or, as we have already seen, “civilized/barbarous” and
“classy/classless.” Noise, class, and status form a nexus where to speak of one is to invoke
all three, and it is unclear where the boundaries between them begin or end. In short, to be
quiet is to be good, to agree to cherished classifications, to uphold the sonic and social
order and to follow accepted ways of being. To be noisy is to be bad, to disregard
convention, and to confuse or ignore classifications and have different and unacceptable
ways of being. Noise, far more than just “sound out of place,” is indicative of an entire moral
system.

Conclusion: a dirty theory of noise

It was argued above that it has become commonplace amongst those writing about sound
to define noise as “sound out of place,” a definition which borrows the words of Mary
Douglas and suggests a connection between dirt and noise that has until now neither been
proved nor properly investigated. It was also argued that where noise and dirt are only
connected superficially, those drawing on the “sound out of place” definition have
overlooked other aspects of Douglas’ writing that are useful for understanding noise. By
undertaking a close reading of Douglas’ theory of dirt and applying it extensively to noise,
this article fills a gap in the literature and introduces rigor to an area of sound studies
discussion from which rigor has been conspicuously absent.

We have found that the link between dirt and noise is both substantive and useful and argue
that repositioning Purity and Danger as a key text for sound studies has been a productive
process. Applying Douglas’ theory of dirt to noise gives us a new set of aphorisms and
reveals much about how and why sounds come to be “noise” and what it means when we
designate them as such. We now know, for instance, not just that noise is “sound out of
place,” but that sounds primarily come to be “out of place” by virtue of being anomalous or
ambiguous. We also know that anomalous and ambiguous sounds are frequently seen as
disruptive or dangerous – although these are not the only possible reactions – and that
steps must be taken to negotiate, deal with, and otherwise “tidy up” sonic transgressions so
that order can be restored. Likewise, thinking about noise through Douglas deepens and
strengthens our understanding of noise as symbolic and emphasizes that debates about
noise often have less to do with loudness or sound than they do with status, hierarchy, and
class.

In the previous section, noise was frequently described as being “like dirt.” This would seem

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 to imply that noise and dirt are analogous. The same is suggested by the literature that
mentions both dirt and noise. Bailey, for example, writes that noise “echoes” dirt (2004:
23), while Bijsterveld states that the two “have much in common” (2008: 37). In each
instance, the implication is that “noise” and “dirt” are similar, but different, that they are
categories constructed by comparable processes but are in some sense distinct. For this to
be correct, however, there must surely be a clear, identifiable way in which noise and dirt
differ, and our investigation would suggest that there is none. Each of Douglas’ theoretical
points about dirt can be applied to noise, and in the empirical examples we have considered
it is unclear what separates the two. We would suggest that in situating noise and dirt as
analogous, sound scholars have not gone far enough. Rather than thinking of noise as
similar or equivalent to dirt, we should instead say that noise is dirt, an aural type of
pollution. Thinking about noise in this way heightens our consciousness of noise as a
charged and challenging presence. If we see noise as dirt/pollution in the Douglassian
sense, then we can appreciate with more immediacy the revulsion, fear, and danger which
noise can evoke as well as the potential it holds as a creative force for use in acts of
deliberate aesthetic and social transgression. In short, we are better able to appreciate the
fullness of its social meaning. At the same time, equating noise with dirt draws awareness
to the collective mental and physical effort which goes into managing, controlling, and
otherwise dealing with the sonic ambiguities and transgressions we encounter in our daily
lives, whilst foregrounding the cultural dispositions which demand and validate responses to
noise. Defining noise as “dirt” also eliminates the gap between what we might call “dirt
theory” and “noise theory,” so that existing literature about dirt has the potential to become
literature about noise. We would suggest that writing on dirt, whatever its disciplinary
origin, should be read and reinterpreted with the aim of generating new insights into noise.

It was a favorite phrase of Douglas’ to say that any explanation of dirt that was “piecemeal”
was bound to fail (1966: vii; idem: 51). Pollution ideas, she wrote, could only be understood
in relation to their broader and more significant whole. In this article we hope to have
shown that any explanations of sonic behavior that are piecemeal are likewise bound to fail.
“Noise” can only be understood in relation to the wider concept of dirt, and a Douglassian
approach is invaluable because it can be used to weave examples of sonic pollution behavior
from different geographies, centuries, and intellectual disciplines into a common theoretical
thread. In fact, applying Douglas’ work on dirt to noise appears to offer something as
valuable and extraordinary as it is unfashionable: the possibility of a grand narrative or
unifying theory of noise.

By pointing to the value of Douglas’ work, we hope to have added to an existing set of
anthropological contributions to sound studies (e.g. Erlmann 2004; Feld 1990, 1996, 2003;
Friedner and Helmreich 2012; Greene and Porcello 2005; Helmreich 2007, 2010; Ingold
2007; Porcello 2004). Our discussion also suggests that through studying noise, researchers
have an opportunity to move sound studies from the fringes of anthropology to its core,
positioning it as a vital part of the cultural-investigative enterprise. Douglas writes that
“since our common human condition does not give rise to a common pattern of pollution
observances,” the differences between them can be studied “as an index of cultural
patterning” (Douglas 1968: 55). If noise is dirt, as we suggest, then the phrase “pollution
observances” also refers to attitudes towards sound. These can then also be considered an
“index of cultural patterning,” and researchers could undertake comparative, cross-cultural
“noise studies” to elucidate the differences between cultures. Importantly, this would be
much more than simply a matter of finding out what counts as noise in various places;
because mentions of noise/dirt necessarily invoke the schema of which they are not a part;
unpicking pollution behavior reveals the wider structures and underlying binaries at play in
societies. Noise, then, is a subject worthy of anthropological study because, as Mary
Douglas almost once said, “where there is noise there is system.”

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[1] Although “loudness” is a relative concept – as discussed in the introduction to this piece
and the sections “Why Noise?” and “Sound out of Place” – here Henriques uses it to refer to
sounds that have a ‘large volume’.
[2] Technically all sounds are vibrating waves of energy and thus in a certain sense
“physical.” However, sounds below a certain volume are typically “heard” rather than “felt.”
[3] “Clamp Down on Noise Nuisance,” in Jamaica Gleaner, 12/11/2012.
[4] “Outrageous suggestion to rethink night noise law,” in Jamaica Observer, 2/11/2012.
[5] “Editorial: Enforce the Law!,” in Jamaica Gleaner, 8/11/2010.
[6] “St Helens man ‘stabbed noisy neighbor’ to death,” BBC News, 10/01/2012.
[7] “Neighbour who killed mother was obsessed by noise,” The Telegraph, 24/07/2004.

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