A fellow entry-level worker (we’re the proletariat of advertising) walks into an open production room next to me, on the 10th floor. He wears an iPod earphone – and two seconds later, I hear muted but distinctly off-pitch crooning coming from the production room.
I look over to a designer who I know loves music; I’m hoping that he will look back and share my excitement about the flawed singing-along. But Chris is wearing earphones of his own. I am alone in this robotic world of enjoyment, musical ecstasy repressed under the sound of printers.
Yet, some articulation (like my colleague’s, who has left the production room and is now singing at his desk) gets out. That articulation, slow but sharp, is the rebellion that we all live for.