I recently inherited my father’s turntable and record collection, an acquisition that’s become an unexpected joy to me in the past few months. My reasons at the time for setting up the system were simple: pay homage to my father and occupy some empty square footage in my apartment. I never quite believed the earnest claims of audiophiles, that music actually sounded better through that antiquated machine. But when I dropped the needle onto Eric Clapton’s Slowhand and the beginning notes of “Cocaine” crept from the speakers, I felt like I was hearing the song for the first time, like I was tapping my foot in Olympic Studios in 1977, rather than trapped on the other end of so many phases of production that I could no longer parse out the instruments. “Cocaine,” “Wonderful Tonight,” “Lay Down Sally”—I had heard these songs dozens of times before, but never quite like this. The 3-foot speakers I’d acquired along with the turntable were no small contribution, but man! Music never sounded so good.
I’ve discovered there’s something therapeutic about the physical action of playing a record: dusting it off; laying it on the table; positioning the needle over the grooves. There’s a deliberation to the physical action that makes you sit down and actively listen. By contrast, when I play mp3s through my laptop I tend to wander off into another room to shower or cook dinner, allowing the music to drone idly on in the background. Often playing mp3s becomes mere entertainment or, worse, something to fill the silence, rather than a meaningful emotional experience. I’ve come to relish the first few seconds of skids and crackles at the beginning of an album as an anticipatory lead-in, as if, before picking up that first guitar note, the needle held all the longing and potential for beauty in the world. By contrast, when I download an mp3 I have nothing tangible to connect with emotionally—no object in my hand, no album insert to leaf through, no human salesperson to tell me how righteous that album is or even just grunt at me – only nebulous “data” in “cyberspace” that somehow makes pleasant noises.
By hearing my dad’s favorite music—The Who, The Band, The Rolling Stones, and many others—the way it was created to be played, I’m able to experience the delight that he took in these bands, from when they were first touring until the end of his life. He was crazy about them, crazy enough to show everyone who visited our house the poster-quality photograph he snapped of The Who at a live show in the ‘70s, and crazy enough to haul around those heavy crates of LPs for thirty years. His records have become an enormous and profound way for me to remember my father. So I’ve begun to wonder what cherished objects I will leave behind for my loved ones: iTunes “Genius”-generated playlists?
Around the world, music developed as a way to unite communities in culture. Now, thousands of years later, we have manipulated technology so as to individualize music and isolate the listener, perverting the art form and sapping it of much of its emotional power. On family car trips as a child I was subjected by my dad to endless tracks from Dire Straits and The Eagles—songs that I have come to love, songs that both remind me of past experiences and are experiences in themselves. So what about the child in 2008, sitting in the backseat with her iPod, ear buds firmly in place? What will her memories be?
From cheesing out with friends over that ridiculously happy cover of “Float On” to breaking it down with a hundred strangers on a club dance floor, sharing music with others (NOT in the illegal downloading sense) has made for some of the most poignant and exciting moments of my life. It’s no wonder that centuries ago African slaves sang out in sorrow their longing for the world to come, and that centuries later the Presbyterian congregation does still. Music, for whatever mysterious reason, reaches down into the human heart and makes us feel profoundly alive. Particularly when we share that music with our fellow man.
With independent record stores closing their doors every time we turn around and hardly a hoppin’ dance floor in sight, Triangle citizens need to step up and reclaim music for our community. If you’re with me, here are some practical things we can do to glean shared and meaningful experiences from music:
—Shop at Schoolkids, not iTunes. The guys (and girls?) who work there will be glad to point you to a righteous album or two. Both Schoolkids and Father and Son have great selections of vinyl records as well, old and new.
—Consider buying a used turntable as a gift for the holidays, or put to use the one that’s collecting dust in the attic.
—Unplug those ear buds when you’re in a public place. Talk to a stranger or just check out your surroundings.
—Give 88.1 a listen on your way home from work and get a taste of the bands in your backyard.
—Finally, visit our local deejays at White Collar Crime, Alibi, Poole’s, Jackpot!, and, of course, the Blacklisted parties at Five Star on First Fridays. (If you know of any other good places to groove, please chime in on the comment board.) Watch New Raleigh for announcements.
Photos by Ben McKeown.
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