Every instant we exist, the air that surrounds us contracts and expands, either from our unconscious breathing, from the swiftly turning planet, or simply from the quivering particles of matter.
Even in our most isolated spaces, the anechoic chamber engineered specifically to nullify these vibrations, we hear the blood pumping through our own body and the faint buzz of our nervous system. Sound is inescapable up until death.
Music, what is in most cases thought of only as the audible result of complex chains of intertwined processes of human activity, is built on the exclusion of this totality of sonic presence. An instrument is defined precisely by what sounds it does not make. A noise by its inability to be periodic, harmonic, pure.
Nature, the physical plane out of which our species sprung, contains nowhere the materials of conventional music, with its rationally tempered scales and neatly quantifiable durations. We are not beholden to these origins; it is because of them, rather, that we must continuously justify our artifice.
If we invert music, we find ourselves lacking in the usual excuses of beauty, catharsis, or sublimation; we are instead forced to confront the material conditions of a moment and the fundamental uncertainty of our reality. Only then, from an applied tabula rasa, are we free to perceive the raw immanence of our sounding environment.