Noise is in the news these days, especially with some O'Hare International Airport and Wrigley Field neighbors complaining that they're victims of decibel attacks from screaming planes and blaring videoboards.
However these disputes are resolved, one thing is certain: The quality of sound, both good and bad, is among the most significant, yet least-discussed, aspects of the human habitat. But architects and urban designers invariably stress the visual and forget the aural.
And that's a shame, as Eric Leonardson will tell you, because sound's impact is ubiquitous, whether it's the soothing melody of a waterfall or the unrelenting beep of machines that keep hospital patients awake at night.
Leonardson, an adjunct professor at the School of the Art Institute, is founder and co-chair of the Midwest Society for Acoustic Ecology. "We're trying to raise awareness of the importance of sound," he said, explaining the tiny group's purpose.
Negative sound — the nuisance of noise — grabs the headlines. But there is also positive sound, and when Leonardson takes his students through Millennium Park, he points out how sound can enrich human experience.
Starting at the twin glass-block towers of the Crown Fountain, with their digitally projected, 50-foot-high human faces, he asks them to pay heed to the hiss and spray of the water tumbling down the towers; the giggles of the children waiting for the faces to spout jets of water; and, finally, the happy screaming and laughter that accompany the eruption.
Then there's the Lurie Garden, whose massive "shoulder hedge" masks the sound of street traffic as well as activity at the nearby Pritzker Pavilion.
Because of the hedge, "you get a clear sense of the sounds of birds and insects in the garden," Leonardson said.
Sometimes, we can't hear those sounds, due to the squeal of tires, the honking of horns and the revving of engines, not to mention the ear-shattering rumble of the "L." Yet the background buzz of moving vehicles can also remind us that cities are vital, dynamic places.
"Just listen to the music of the traffic in the city," went the lyric of Petula Clark's hit 1965 song, "Downtown" which helped lead people to rediscover cities at a time when many were fleeing them.
In the urban romanticism of "Downtown," there are no grinding garbage trucks or zooming motorcycles.
There are no roaring jets streaking over city and suburban homes. And there is no bitterness of the sort that some Wrigleyville residents are expressing at the noise emanating from speakers attached to the ballpark's new videoboards.
"The music (if you can call it that) begins at least two hours before the game," Pam Piane, who lives in the 3700 block of North Sheffield Avenue, wrote in an email. "In addition each time a player walks up to the plate there is music blasting from the new speakers. Then there is more of the louder music in between innings" and during events on non-game days.
In an email, Cubs spokesman Julian Green defended Wrigley's sound system, saying that the team has worked with sound engineers "to strike the right balance between providing quality video and audio content for fans inside the ballpark while ensuring reasonable sound levels outside."
The number of complaints about noise, Green wrote, has dropped since Opening Night, when calls poured in from as far away as Fullerton Avenue. Bennett Lawson, chief of staff for 44th Ward Ald. Tom Tunney, in whose ward Wrigley Field is located, backs that up.
"Our call volume has gone down dramatically since April," Lawson said. "The Cubs have worked to manage that noise and keep it inside" the ballpark.
In baseball, to be sure, silence is not golden. Part of the fun of going to the ballpark is the carnival atmosphere. The strains of organ music are baseball's equivalent of the circus calliope. To residents like Piane, and fans who prefer pastoral quiet, the music coming from the videoboards is excessive. Yet not all of Wrigley neighbors are bothered.
"It's noisier, but it doesn't affect me," said Ken Keefer, who lives in the 3700 block of North Kenmore Avenue. "If you live here and you don't like noise, you're in the wrong spot."
Such is the clamor of sound disputes, which reverberate through history.
In ancient Rome, the World Health Organization's community noise guidelines inform us, "rules existed as to the noise emitted from the ironed wheels of wagons which battered the stones on the pavement, causing disruption of sleep and annoyance."
Sound (forgive me) familiar? Transportation versus sleep. Profits versus peace.
And we all know which side wins out.
It should surprise no one that Chicago's noise control laws exempt aircraft and airports, as well as stadiums. But there's another way.
In some Chicago suburbs, ordinances enforce "quiet hours" at night and restrict the times when lawn services can use those annoyingly loud leaf-blowing machines.
In some European cities, car-free districts, and protected "quiet areas" let birdsong and other sounds of nature predominate over the sounds of machines. The European Union will soon phase in new standards that cut car noise. In approving the rules, the European Parliament cited research showing that continued exposure to high levels of traffic noise can be "physically draining, disrupt organ functions and contribute to cardiovascular and other diseases."
But as Millennium Park reveals, not all sound is noise even if all noise is sound.
Sound can alleviate, as well as accentuate, stress. It can delight us as well as drive us crazy. Sound should be a part of the recipe for cooking up great cities. Yet concocting that recipe is as much art as science.
Our take on sound, in short, should be about much more than measuring decibels.
Twitter @BlairKamin