Make Massage Music Great Again

There is no chill with the Muzak bumping

I try my best to get at least one massage a month and tend to net out at about 15 a year, and the best massage I got in 2024 was at Altered States in Ft. Greene. Even though the space itself is not exactly recommended for anybody suffering from claustrophobia¹, I still enjoyed every minute and didn’t feel like somebody had used my body like a punching bag 48 hours later. But there was one somewhat comical moment when my therapist was working the trigger point on my thigh when I couldn’t help but point out that I’d never had a massage to The Disintegration Loops by William Basinski. The person working my tension out asked if I didn’t like it. I said no, I love it; it’s just weird thinking it’s literally the sound of tapes disintegrating and part of the lore is he finished the project as he watched the WTC fall on 9/11.

Big womp womp moment from me, I know. Sometimes I just can’t help myself from knowing too much and sounding a little too much like the guy from one of my favorite Onion headlines. I get nervous when there’s too much silence, and I suppose it was just my way of making conversation, but the music didn’t bother me at all. I was enjoying it—and then it was off. Kinda suddenly; it was as if somebody heard the entire conversation and realized the jig was up.

I was a little sad that I’d ruined the little avant-garde listening party, but mostly because it was a rarity to actually hear something chill and decent while getting worked on. I’ve grown far too used to having to try to block out whatever awful music is playing from the speakers while somebody is grinding their elbow into that sensitive spot just above my buttocks, and I’d just like some peace while that’s happening.

I did not know the horrible sounds that awaited me.

A month later, after the longest damn year of our lives, my wife and I treated ourselves to a couples massage at a fancy resort while on vacation. We spend a lot of time at Cap Juluca in Anguilla since her family lives down there, and we’d been wanting to check out the new spa that had been finished since the last time we’d visited, so we booked 90 minutes and got down to getting rubbed down. As I got under the sheet, the therapist asked us if we had any preference for music. I was surprised by the question but figured I’d let Emily ask since she doesn’t usually get massages and one of the many things I love about her is she knows what she likes. She said “Something chill,” and a few seconds later it was too late to turn back as the shitty, sterile fake classical that I like to call Fauxzart started playing. I didn’t want to mess with the flow of the massage, so I just went with it, trying to imagine some sad Julliard grad being locked in a room forced by some guy in a suit to “Play something beautiful” to pay back their student loan.

Massage music is almost always bad. It doesn’t matter if you’re getting it from that weird inexpensive place with the neon sign that you think might be streaming you to the dark web or the bougie spot that tries to upsell you CBD balm and has candles for sale from Flamingo Estate sitting right next to the touchpad screen you tap your credit card with. If it’s not the Fauxzart or some depressingly beautiful score by a modern master, then it’s usually the even worse third option: building lobby Muzak. One of the best massages I ever got was while some truly horrible piano version of “My Heart Will Go On” played on repeat while I considered whether or not I should ask the therapist to turn it off. Reader, I did not. And now from time to time, I’ll close my eyes and see Leonardo DiCaprio frozen in a block of ice saying, “Jason, please turn this music off. I’m in this watery grave forever and I can’t stop hearing this horrible version of this iconic song.”

In a more perfect world, there would be an easy solution to all of this. I’ve considered just putting in earbuds or possibly pulling a Ryuichi Sakamoto and telling the places I like going to the most that I’ll put together a little soundtrack for them that includes some Alice Coltrane, a few tracks off the incredible Kankyō Ongaku: Japanese Ambient, Environmental & New Age Music 1980-1990, some Bitchin Bajas, Laraaji, a pinch of Boards of Canada, a track or two off Lou Reed’s Hudson River Wind Meditations, a dash of Joanna Brouk, and maybe some André 3000…for the kids. If they don’t want that, I’ll just say Ambient 1: Music for Airports.

Even if I was able to convince one place to listen to my suggestion, there are so many massage places out there—many of them very questionable—that there’s a very good chance somebody you know will have to suffer through listening to some synthetic sounding instrumental of “I Will Always Love You” while they’re paying for a foot rub. I have no solution for this problem; the best possible solution is to be vigilant. If you hear something bad, say something. Let them know that maybe the music is ruining your massage, and if they don’t have anything better, then silence is preferred.

1. I swear I heard somebody say the incredibly tight sliver of hallway between the curtained-off rooms you have to traverse to use the bathroom was influenced by Marcel Breuer…or maybe it was Hieronymus Bosch)