Music is not a mere arrangement of sounds; it is the architecture of emotion and the language of more than language. It is in a society drowned out by overloading with logic, data, and communication that music stands as an enigma: it most eloquently says what cannot be said in words but its silence would be an existence gap. From the misspellings of ancient rituals to the computational playlists of the present, music informs our common consciousness, crossing over cultures and centuries. Philosophically, it poses the very question of expression itself: why is it that human beings, and not beasts, are compelled to transmute silence into sound, and sound into sense?

"Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and that which cannot remain silent."

– Friedrich Nietzsche

Music has traditionally been one of the strongest community-making forces. In early and tribal cultures, rhythmic drumming and chanting were not entertainment but acts of survival and rituals of bonding, ceremonies binding individuals into something larger than themselves. This primal communal sense lasted for centuries and became subcultures where music was not just a common aesthetic but an identity. The 1970s punk, where bands like The Clash played "London Calling," was more than a music culture—it was a resistance culture, a battle cry to resist social stagnation and political turmoil. Hip-hop itself emerged in the Bronx as a form of reclaiming voice and space, as tracks like Public Enemy's "Fight the Power" and turned beats into manifestos.

A possession dance in the Oued Souf region of Algeria, c. 1950. Photo by R. Richard

Music has been a tool of social and political protest for centuries, giving voice to the voiceless. In the civil rights movement in America, the works of the likes of Sam Cooke's "A Change Is Gonna Come" and Nina Simone's "Mississippi Goddam" were songs, yet also acts of protest, impassioned critique reduced to melody and rhythm. In South Africa, anti-apartheid movement found its anthem in "Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika" and in the soul-stirring voice of Miriam Makeba. Even movements today are given strength by music: recall how Kendrick Lamar's "Alright" provided a soundtrack for Black Lives Matter protests.

“As long as I’m talking about my community and what we go through every day, the music will forever live and forever resonate.”

– Kendrick Lamar

Philosophically, music's ability to make a difference is due to its own form of expression. Words might be argued with, fought for, even censored, but music is on a higher plane emotionally than reason, one that penetrates to the human condition. It can be jubilant or angry, very private or wildly public, but always it contains a kind of truth that can't be kept quiet. That's why dictators have historically dreaded music, silencing a song or sanitizing lyrics—because beneath the melody can be an idea powerful enough to overthrow the ruling elite.

If music has always possessed the power to come together and mobilize societies—via revolutionary tunes to the sacred hymns of ancient cultures—then Devon Turnbull represents a new kind of devotion: one grounded in deep listening.

HiFi Listening Room Dream No.1 and other works’ at Lisson Gallery, London – Courtesy Lisson Gallery

“There’s no better way to listen to music than with what’s in front of me”

– Devon Turnbull

When Devon Turnbull was an infant in New Jersey, he crawled between the speakers of his father’s Pioneer-built system and swayed to the music. His parents’ soundtrack was an eclectic mix: George Harrison and Phil Collins on one side, Brian Eno and ambient experimentation on the other. It was the start of a childhood where music was not just sound but an experience of presence and awe. 

This led him from the meditative practices of the Maharishi School in Iowa—where his family had moved when he was eleven—to the streets of New York, where, at thirteen, he fell in love with hip hop. This was not just a genre, but a culture founded on sampling, community, and resistance—echoing the very same revolutionary qualities that had defined music for decades. He spent hours crate-digging for rare vinyl at iconic record stores such as Fat Beats and Sonic Groove, a practice that educated his ear and gave him an intimate understanding of music as a social pulse.

Photo on the right by @garberco_

Turnbull’s life would take him across cities and disciplines: from Seattle’s audio engineering programs to Tokyo’s meticulous culture of sound, to founding the influential streetwear label Nom de Guerre. Yet, design and fashion were always intertwined with his obsession for sound. He became an artisan of listening, building bespoke audio systems for figures like Mark Ronson and Virgil Abloh, as well as spaces like Public Records and The Ace Hotel—places where music becomes an experience rather than background noise.

Today, Turnbull’s mission is philosophical as much as it is technical. He is preserving and expanding the HiFi community—a culture nearly extinct in Japan, where the art of pure, uncompressed listening still carries sacred weight. His work is a form of cultural activism, less about protest songs or anthems, and more about creating sanctuaries for music itself. 

If music is capable of triggering revolutions, Turnbull's work is its quiet antithesis: an open invitation to decelerate, to listen, to consider listening itself a revolutionary act. At a time when songs travel through phone speakers and computational playlists, Turnbull is reappropriating the idea that music requires space, time, and dignity—something that can bring people together not in protest, but in shared silence and amazement.

The Ojas x NNNN ON Series with Devon Turnbull.

In many ways, his work echoes what Kendrick Lamar’s “Alright” did for protests: it created a collective experience, a sense of shared resilience. Only, where Lamar chants, “We gon’ be alright,” Turnbull invites us to sit, listen, and be present. Both, however, emerge from the same philosophical truth Nietzsche hinted at: music speaks where words fail, and what it says is too important to remain silent.

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Words: Simone Lorusso