There are two woofers currently in my household. One is a traditional woofer of the canine variety, a stout little staffordshire bull terrier named Mako.
The other is an electronic sound device known as a sub-woofer. Well no, I had no idea what a sub-woofer was when it arrived but I quickly found out.
It produces that noise you sometimes hear when a fl ash car driven by some supposedly cool dude youth trundles past to the sound of rap or perhaps heavy metal composition.
It is the sound that you literally feel in your body, causing deep vibrations in the chest, strange palpitations in the heart area and general trepidation by those unused to the ways of the woofer.
As far as I can hear – a matter under debate by those who claim I am going a bit deaf as opposed to those who believe I am deliberately ignoring them — it does not apply to rock music and other lively tunes of that era. For instance I don’t believe the King (Elvis Presley) knew about sub-woofers. And although I lay on the couch and then on the floor in front of the soundbar, I could not detect woofing from my favourite Eagles tracks.
As someone rather unpleasantly pointed out I need to drag myself into the new century, now 21 years on, to get the full benefit of music with a sub-woofer.
While I personally don’t believe my favourite musicians and vocalists such as Adele, Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen and even Tina Turner, need woofing back-up, the music isn’t the most profound problem.
Apparently the sub-woofer, once connected, will stay that way and will respond to anything broadcasting a deep bass note.
Which is why I can no longer watch this century’s movies. After I had politely listened to the owner of the new sub-woofer expound on its benefits, I explained I couldn’t stay up to see a film on our absolutely terrifying giant screen. I had a little headache and needed a corresponding little liedown.
With the door shut. The sub-woofer owner tried to persuade me with the promise of a nice family movie (e.g. no more than five dead bodies at any one time and preferably less in total than a multiple freeway crash involving a fuel tanker and a train). I remained adamant.
I had no sooner got prone on my comfortable bed with a good book of the sort that makes no sound whatsoever at all when a terrible scraping sort of noise startled me to the window.
I felt sure it was the council come with their monster machinery to dig another trench or paint more startling red and white stripes to keep pedestrians safe.
There is a real council where I am currently staying in Sydney with my younger daughter because of the health reasons and pandemic travel bans.
This council has a strong, almost personal relationship with the ratepayers, addressing letters by name, informing us what is planned for the railway station up the road and how much longer the roadworks are going to be.
Real councillors respond to people’s comments and requests by actually listening, and if they say they will indeed do a special rubbish pickup on such and such a day, then you had better be ready for it.
There are real people who represent real ratepayers who organise real action on this council, including somewhat mysterious midnight roadworks to deal with incidents of fallen trees and pipe repairs that occur remarkably often near our front gate. However, I say nothing against these people and the noise I was hearing was nothing to do with the council.
It was the sub-woofer on the soundtrack of the supposedly family movie, Twister, about tornadoes causing havoc and mayhem in America. Yet another reason not to be there in the USA, especially at the moment.
I expect Americans feel similarly about Fiji in the cyclone season, but not so much during elections, when we get to have them. I slammed the door to my room, stuffed a towel along the bottom, put in my iPad earplugs and endeavoured to ignore the clamour.
The other woofer, Mako the dog, has no iPad because she would probably eat it and earplugs don’t fit her funny little ears. She was suffering deeply from the racket and din of what seemed to her a series of storms within the livingroom.
Or perhaps a practice run for Armageddon, if she was into conspiracy theories.
She rarely barks much except at next door’s cat, next door’s dog, anyone who tries to deliver things to the front door without specific resident- authorised approval and low-flying aircraft (about 50 a day due to the house being beneath a take-off and landing corridor for the international airport).
However, she was now making a ruckus fit to challenge the sub-woofer and had to be removed to a quieter spot behind a closed door.
Provided none of our neighbours has a little chat with the council about noise pollution, we understand the sub-woofer is in residence for a short period only and will soon move on with the owner, Dave the Jack Hammer Operator, to a new apartment building, hopefully with tolerant co-renters.
At that point, our remaining woofer will be restored to her usual equilibrium and mental health, chancy as both these things are.
The owner of the most amazing sound system with its three kms of cables, two soundbars, a towering collection of speakers and state of the art sub-woofer may think he’s the cat’s meow.
But others don’t, certainly not the resident woofer.
The views and opinions expressed in this article are the author’s and not necessarily of this newspaper.
