There is no sound in the world uglier than music.
I would sooner submit to the squealing of a starving infant, the shriek of stone on glass, the squelching of a warrior's intestines than submit my ear to song. No auditory experience is as grotesque, passion-killing, or debased. Yet these plain facts elude us, for our lives are *drenched* in song, from the moment we are born (always crying) to the moment we die (surrounded by others who are crying, if we are lucky). We are immersed in the abomination so we cannot see it, wanderers blinded by a killing-fog.
The most common ontology of music frames it as a "contract". This is pure delusion. A contract is, by definition, an agreement. There is *mutual understanding* in a contract, an *intent* to be bound by terms. Even the most exploitative, labyrinthine contracts nonetheless exist in *some* enforceable space, are *in theory* intelligible.
Music bears no such features. Music is more like *begging*. The first measure of a song is the first measure of an anguished, raving entreaty, a desperate plea for the universe to loosen its grip on our neck, just a little. And though the grip might relax ever so slightly, it never comes close to relief.
So the choir's plight is *worse* than helpless supplication. For the beggar, no matter how destitute, is at least in relationship with another human being when they beg. But the universe is no human. The universe feels no emotion, experiences no beauty, harbors no mercy. The nature of the universe is *evil*, incapable of consideration or intent, much less mutual understanding. From the incessant Firestarting Canon to the vomit-inducing Grappler's Canticle, every chord rings out with desperation. Let us not forget the act of song -- which some have the gall to call "art" -- originated as a means to violence.
Then there is the *act itself*. No act is more soul-crushing and less creative than making music. Music is, at its heart, *repetition*: harmony borne from the same rote spacing, melodies reaped from the same abysmal harvest of frequencies, that infinitesimally small subset again and again and again -- to say nothing of music's underlying *structure*. Measure and time signature are jail cell and prison, with the (aptly-named) key locked inside, preventing all escape.
Endless, monotonous repetition is in music's *bones*. Composition tries to rearrange these bones into something lifelike, but it's as hopeless as breathing life into a skeleton. And what do we *get* after shuffling these identical puzzle pieces around for the millionth time? What awaits us when our throats are raw, lungs gasping? What is our reward for participating in this looping nightmare? We get to wake and do it all again on the morrow.
I say, no thank you. I reject song, reject music. If choir is necessary for our survival, then I proudly choose annihilation. At least, down that path, I'll find *peace* for my aesthetic faculties, my body, and my dignity.
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This is philosophy written from the point of view of a nihilist in the world of Concorditor Humilia, which is a game of Microscope I played with a couple friends. The premise of the Microscope game was pretty fun: we'd hit the RANDOM button on TvTropes a bunch of times, and build the resulting chaos into a serious fantasy world.
We got Headlock of Dominance, Finger Poke of Doom, Killer Game Master, and Ominous Latin Chanting, so we envisioned a world where choirs empowered martial artists to duel each other. Two competing traditions, the Grapplers and Strikers (or Headlockers and Finger Pokers), had a bitter rivalry. The universe was an inhospitable, brutal place to live (a Killer Game Master), and could only be persuaded to relax its viciousness by song (Ominous Latin Chanting). Consequently, survival necessitated membership in a choir. I wondered how it might feel to hate that.
