Ocean of Noise:

The Pacific Coast Highway and the Songs of the Sea

Part V of

Sonic Highways: Musical Immersion on the Roads of America

It’s not terribly surprising that one of the most beautiful and scenic drives in the country snakes along the Pacific coast of California.

The Pacific Coast Highway (or PCH)—a staggeringly scenic byway connecting Los Angeles to Northern California’s Mendocino County—transcends transport normality, graciously cluttering lucky drivers with breathtaking seaside vistas. Northbound travelers, on the far side from the ocean, mingle with visions of painted seaside cliffs, while their southbound counterparts hug the flimsy-looking aluminum guardrail with reservation, though any uneasiness is swiftly forgotten at the sight of the navy blue Pacific tickling the sandy coastal oases that pepper the looming shoreline like misguided polka dots.

The PCH is admittedly somewhat of a terrifying road to drive on. If you’re going north it’s not so bad, but going south is an adventure in gauging one’s courage. The PCH is twisty for most of its run, and when heading south you’re basically grinding on the guardrail, which more or less looks no stronger than a piece of aluminum foil, and it’s basically all that separates you from a watery grave.

One of the vistas from one of the many pull-offs the PCH has to offer.

However, if you can get past that, then you’re in for an absolute treat. The PCH makes up California State Route 1, and as it slithers up the coastline it boasts some of the most beautiful natural landscape that side of the Mississippi. And like I said, if you’re driving north on it it’s waaay less scary.

It’s kind of amazing how the coastline evolves as you proceed northward on the PCH. At its start, it’s rather flat and uneventful, as it parallels US-101 and is basically littered with surfboards and Nissan Xterras. The real beauty kicks in just past San Luis Obispo, and continues up through Big Sur and Monterey Bay, where the highway seamlessly slides along the bay, like a silent ice skater skimming the perimeter of an abandoned arena.

I’ve only been on the PCH on two occasions¹. The first was the cross-country trip I took with my two friends back in 2009. We thought it would be nice to go ALL THE WAY from LA to San Francisco along the PCH. Obviously this was not the best laid-out plan, as the PCH would take an extra two or three hours to traverse (compared to US-101). Alas, I only got a taste, as we only took it to Santa Barbara before giving up. However, two years later, my father felt inspired (as he often does) to take an extended “family spirit journey” with my sister and I, this time traversing basically the entirety of the state of California. And travel we did! Starting in the sweltering madness of Death Valley, we then went to Sequoia Nat’l Park, Yosemite, Point Reyes, Big Sur, and San Francisco. Amongst our travels in and around Point Reyes and Big Sur, we frequented the PCH. I don’t think my sister really enjoyed it much; I think it kind of bugged her out to be so close to the edge of a cliff. I would be lying if I said I didn’t agree with her, but for me, it was more invigorating than nauseating.

"The album's driving rhythms softened ever so slightly as the sun began to sink, painting wispy shadows of boulders and pines to our left."

Near Point Reyes, CA.

The great thing about California is that it is pretty much always sunny there. The only cloudy day we saw on the PCH was our drive from Point Reyes down to Big Sur. We stopped in Muir Woods (briefly), and the air was so saturated that we couldn’t see the tops of the Redwoods. The PCH—as I have reiterated time and time again—is breathtakingly beautiful: silky cliff sides + tumultuous tides = eye candy. I vividly remember listening to two different bands on that trip, at two different times, on two different legs of the highway.

The first that comes to mind was when we were staying in Point Reyes. For those of you who don’t know, Point Reyes is a peninsular nature preserve about an hour or so north of San Francisco that acts as both a national seashore and a popular vacation/hiking spot. I remember coming south from Mendocino, the ocean on my right, peeking menacingly over the laughable excuse for a guardrail as the sun was beginning to set over the vast, churning blanket of sea. As we twisted southward—and as I battled the feisty mess of goo in my stomach trying to force its way upward with every turn—I put on the debut album from LA band Local Natives, Gorilla Manor. The sun was at one of those perfect angles, when it wasn’t in anyone’s face at all yet at the same time it elegantly smeared the shoreline bluffs with splendid amber hues. The album itself relies heavily on interpersonal vocal harmony and warm, organic percussion, and as we snaked southward, Gorilla Manor dictated our rhythmic gravitational sways. The album's driving rhythms softened ever so slightly as the sun began to sink, painting wispy shadows of boulders and pines to our left. At the same time, it was almost as if the songs off Gorilla Manor—the tenacious “Sun Hands” and their harmonious cover of Talking Heads’ “Warning Sign” leading the pack—were nipping at our heels, adding a sense of urgency to our serpentine odyssey. I’m pretty sure my dad was just trying to avoid driving on the PCH at night, and I can’t blame him, however there was a moment during “Sun Hands” where I could have sworn the sun was bouncing with the music. I’ll never know for sure I guess.

From the PCH in Jenner; the mouth of the Russian River near Penny Island.

Several days after that we were driving on the PCH once again, this time heading north to San Francisco from Big Sur. We had just left the Point Lobos Preserve—a beautiful little secret hideaway between Big Sur and Monterey—and we were heading up the PCH towards San Francisco. I opted to put on Passion Pit—an electro-rock quartet from Boston. Passion Pit has an affinity for appropriate use of bright, synth-charged songs in the major key, giving an upbeat, happy feeling to the music, which reflected our surrounding landscape beautifully. As the sun meandered across our windshield, Passion Pit’s achingly heartfelt yet infectiously optimistic lyrics and dazzling instrumentation swirled around our ears and bounced playfully off the tranquil beaches and cresting, iridescent waves that stroked the frantically inert sands to our left. When “Sleepyhead”—the band’s bursting, glittery breakthrough masterpiece—graciously erupted on the stereo, it felt as if the shimmering sunbeams that were slicing through our vehicle began to flash and shift with unprecedented purpose, as if the light were actually dancing with us, or, at least, beckoning us to enter into some kind of ultraviolet waltz.

The Pacific Coast Highway is oddly terrifying, breathtaking, and sensual. At times it can feel like a perilous mountain pass, while minutes later it takes the form of a serene, inviting delight. I encourage the implementation of bright, invigorating, and colorful music with many layers. Sight is a key element with the PCH, as is physical momentum, as the twisting nature of the road lends a soothing, relaxed rhythm that manifests itself in the gentle to-and-fro swaying of seatbelt-laden bodies, drifting like buoys in the sea. And if all else fails, just listen to The Doors.

It’s almost believable that Jim Morrison wrote all his songs driving on this road.

¹As this was written in 2013, this statement is no longer true. I have since lived in California and thus have been on the PCH about 23095820958203985 times since.