Noise is an inescapable feature of urban life. Residents of any Medieval city would have lived their lives against a soundtrack of incessantly pealing church bells, clattering wagon-wheels, clipping hooves, ringing anvils, and baaing and mooing livestock. Water would have sloshed as it was scooped from wells; ordure would have plopped and splattered as it was flung from windows. In Victorian London the streets of Covent Garden would have resonated with the cries of chestnut-roasters, grocers and flower-sellers, and noise had even made its way beneath the streets, with the rattling of the new underground trains. A city without street noise would be eerie, disconcerting and just plain wrong, as anyone who ventured into a major urban centre during the pandemic realised.

When visiting art galleries I often think about the sounds that might have accompanied cityscapes depicted on canvas. How I would love to hear the conversation of the couple in the foreground of Caillebotte’s Rue de Paris, temps de pluie as the raindrops drum on their umbrella, the gondoliers’ shouts in a Canaletto canal-scene, or the hoots of laughter in a busy Bruegel market.

Of course, our streets have also always been alive with the sound of music. From wandering minstrels to commedia dell’arte troupes, musical entertainers have set up for business in narrow alleyways and grand public piazzas alike throughout all of human history. And who isn’t captivated by a good busker? The acoustic guitarist in the Tube, the opera singers in Covent Garden, the violin student, the cute child carolers. All of these and more give us pleasure and enjoyment as we go about our daily lives.

Councils also seem increasingly intent on Disneyfying the streets of our most beautiful historic cities

Recently, however, something cacophonous has invaded our streets. Although some local authorities, such as Manchester City Council, claim to discourage amplified music, at least on paper, others seem to have agreed en masse to authorise it. Now we are bombarded with ear-splitting rackets, which are impossible to escape. A particular repeat offender local to me simply blasts music out of his phone and shouts along to it, his voice ricocheting off walls for streets around. Bruce Springsteen, alas, he is not, and passers-by attempt to stifle their smirks. I once asked a relative who worked for a local authority whether prospective buskers are auditioned to check whether they have any discernible talent before being granted a licence. Cue eye roll. “What do you think?”

Councils also seem increasingly intent on Disneyfying the streets of our most beautiful historic cities, an endeavour that becomes particularly frenzied around Christmas time. On a recent visit to my home town of York — one of our most elegant cities — I felt depressed by the intrusion of tacky street “entertainment” and its accompanying racket. An enormous Ferris wheel loomed over Parliament Street, surrounded by an array of less-than-charming fast-food stalls, and in King’s Square your teeth were set on edge by thuds, clanks and screeches from an enormous ghost train. It’s a wonder they aren’t blasting the Harry Potter theme tune at full volume at you as you walk down the Shambles. Yet.

In Oxford, meanwhile, the emperors’ heads that stand proud outside the Sheldonian Theatre weep ruefully down on Broad Street, one of our great historic thoroughfares, now blighted by scruffy planters in a highly expensive supposed “traffic-free” scheme that nevertheless sees taxis, tour-buses and bikes hurtling at pedestrians from unexpected angles. Here there is currently an enchanting Victorian merry-go-round, with twinkling lights and barrel-organ tunes, but it must compete with multiple other sources of amplified music from a makeshift Christmas market nearby. As for London, raucous American pop blasts boombox-like out of Tuk-Tuks that career giddily around the West End like arrogant new kids on the block, lights blazing late into the night.

Why have councils allowed all this? Is the idea that it will entice visitors? If so, the reverse is surely more likely to be true. In 2023, Edinburgh City Council conducted a public consultation on busking and found that “the majority are supportive of buskers and liked to hear them around the City, but are not ok with very loud buskers, or buskers performing the same thing, in the same place, for a long time”. The study noted that “excessive amplification has a more significant impact on those living or working nearby”, and that further problems could be created when a busker whipped up a noisy crowd. Despite the fact that the council had, presumably, authorised the use of speakers, it admitted rather feebly that it had “no enforcement powers” to deal with excessive noise, noting that “those powers lie with Police Scotland”, whose “resources are stretched”. Ergo, it’s a free-for-all.

Is this a distinctively British phenomenon? This summer I visited Paris in the short window between the Olympics and the Paralympics, when the streets were gleaming and near empty, the workers’ regular August exodus from the city no doubt having been compounded by fears of crowds of sport-loving tourists. As I explored the city on foot, I heard only one instance of amplified music, in the Latin Quarter — the leader of a walking tour who was playing Edith Piaf’s “La vie en rose” on her mobile phone. It was relatively quiet, it was appropriate to the local environment, and it moved on swiftly. But other than that, street noise consisted of the hubbub of voices at pavement cafés, traders delivering goods, children playing, and the occasional tooting car horn — the authentic sounds of the city, rather than jarring aural pap which has no connection to the local context.

Street music can be joyous, and put a spring in your step and a smile on the face of all but the most humourless. It can also be a vital form of income for jobbing musicians and music students. But at its worst, poorly performed, dialled up to eleven, and forced aggressively on passers-by and local workers and residents who cannot flee, it can be just as much a sign of urban decline as piles of litter and boarded up shops.