Music was once, universally, a shared experience.
By technological necessity — i.e. a lack of recording equipment, distribution, and playback devices — it had to be. Even as technology evolved to allow people to experience music independent of others, the nature of sound caused one person’s music to become another’s. Sometimes this was good. Nights spent with my high school friends listening to albums we loved come to mind. Sometimes this was bad. Think of the asshole who lived above you who insists on playing his shitty music at 3 AM.
Then came the Sony Walkman. For the first time, music could be entirely portable and, more important, entirely confined to the experience of one individual. The iPod and other MP3 players have since continued and accelerated this trend. It’s neither good nor bad, but there is no questioning that the shift has occurred. Think about it: When was the last time you and someone else sat around and listened to music? I mean, really listened to it instead of just playing something as background noise. It’s probably been awhile. And how many people do you see out in public with headphones in their ears?
Music is often still a shared experience, though the sharing — both in method and type — has changed dramatically due to the advent of digital music and the development of the internet, which allows for it to be shared instantly with people thousands of miles apart. Twenty years ago, you found out about a band through word-of-mouth, a music magazine, or maybe by seeing them open for another band that you paid to see. If you were especially interested, you’d go to the local music shop and risk $10-20 on the hope that the band’s recorded output would be good. Today, by contrast, the listener has thousands upon thousands of artists available to you for sampling with but a few search keywords.
It is also much easier today to read writing about music. Enter the linked article: “Where We Will All Be Received” by Nell Boeschenstein. I’m embarrassed to admit that I can’t remember how I stumbled upon it but stumble upon it I did. The article is fantastic by any measure, the writing strong and the backstory — a sister’s struggle with cancer treatment — poignant. Great writing connects, and article this one is no exception: Reading it made me reflect on my own experiences with the album.
I used to hate Paul Simon’s Graceland. I thought the African rhythms and drums were stupid. I also disliked the production: “Too 80’s,” I thought. But then, Inspection 12 — one of my favorite bands as a youth — covered “You Can Call Me Al” on their album Get Rad. It was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Everything about it worked; from the acoustic guitar interpretation of the song’s signature intro riff to the dramatically better rendition of the “Amen and Hallelujah!” line before the final chorus, the song was fantastic. It’s common sense that a song doesn’t go from shitty to amazing just by being covered by another artist. There has to be a seed of greatness in the original tune that the interpretating artist can nurture, shape, and refine into a new (and better) song. Inspection 12’s cover got me thinking: Maybe the Paul Simon’s “You Can Call Me Al” isn’t so bad after all?
That thought remained frozen for years; it thawed a bit when I bought two individual tracks from Graceland (“You Can Call Me Al,” logically, and “Boy in the Bubble”), but I never listened to the album as a whole, even after it became part of my music collection as one of a large stack of vinyl that my dad gave me.
A year or so ago, my friend Rachel was in town for a visit, and we were at my place hanging out and listening to music. She dug through my vinyl collection and stopped at Graceland; “We have to listen to this!” So we did.
As the album played, it started to make sense to me in the way that art can when you experience it with someone who loves it. Rachel loved Graceland. But her love for it seemed to be less about the individual songs and more about the feelings and memories that she experienced while listening to it.
I remember Rachel telling me that she loved the song “Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes” in particular because it reminded her of her father. I don’t remember the exact story, or even generally why this song that reminded her of him, but the details of her memory aren’t nearly as important as the simple idea that music is powerful and life-changing. It provides comfort and familiarity during times of stress and tension and brings joy when joy is needed and much appreciated. In Rachel’s case, Paul Simon’s album will, for the rest of her life, remind her of the times when, as a kid, she would sit with him and listen to it. That’s an incredible thing.
We all have our own Gracelands — those works of art that deliver a powerful contact high of combined memory and emotion. We should treasure them and keep them safe; and, like Rachel and Boeschenstein did, we should share them with each other for one reason: Music — even in the era of iPods and headphones — offers people, whatever their differences, the rare place Where We Will All Be Received.
