I found myself wondering this morning if the people who make the on-hold music ever actually listen to it?
Presumably, at some point in their initial brainstorm session, someone mooted the idea of having a soothing piece of classical music or a medley of popular tunes to distract the caller from their grievances and calm their ruffled feathers?
So why instead did they opt for a hideous piece of elevator music that sounds like it is being played on a child’s synthesiser? A piece of music, shrill and grating, that plays ad nauseam until someone finally deigns to pick up your call.
This music, in addition to being the very worst kind of ear poison, is also thoughtfully unoptimised for the on-hold system. As a result, it sounds like it is being beamed from Mars through a biscuit tin. The speakers pop, crackle and hiss, and the volume levels swing wildly between inaudible and deafening.
How is it that, in the golden age of sound, with perfect audio clarity and Bluetooth speakers up the wazoo, that this kind of audible monstrosity is allowed to sully our ears?
Do the telco companies ever stop to consider what sort of effect this aural barrage might be having on its customers?
Remember, these are people ringing up to complain about something. They are not calling for a friendly chat. They are disgruntled and disillusioned, and many of them are already harbouring a low-key hostility towards the corporation.
All they need, to turn this hostility into a full-blown psychotic episode is a lengthy period on hold coupled with the kind of music you might attribute to a castrated cat.
Now add into the mix, a pre-recorded voice, caring and earnest, informing you every two minutes that your call is important to them.
A voice that, all too aware of the captive nature of its audience, goes on to try and sell some crappy upgrade to your contract or remind you of other “great products.”
As you are digesting this latest assault on your ears, the heinous caterwauling of the song from hell begins again. Once more your bleeding ears are subjected to an unholy din that sounds like an orchestra tuning up their instruments through the blown tweeters in your car.
Just as you snap and vow horrible deaths on the good ship Telstra and all who sail in her, your call is answered.
“Hello,” a faintly nervous voice says, “welcome to Telstra. How can I help you?”
Now I’m no expert, but I’m betting that by now, the call centre staff are all too aware of the homicidal effects engendered by their on-hold music.
And no doubt this makes them trepidatious to answer the phone, knowing full well that someone is going to scream at them for ten minutes about the aural assault they have just been subjected to.
And that’s before they even get to their original complaint!
I mean, I wouldn’t be in a hurry to pick up that call either, would you?
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