I was going to write a piece today prompted by Sophie Heawood’s article in the Guardian this morning (‘Music has died now I’ve thrown away my CDs and only listen on my laptop’) so here it is. But only kind of.
Unfortunate though it is to admit, contemporary pop music has left me pretty cold for around a decade now, but for me my playback equipment is a long way down the list of things that are wrong. Like Heawood, I have also disposed of my old separates system, but I still listen to music on the best speakers I can afford in the best quality files I can get hold of. And I have, at least for now, kept all my CDs and records in case I one day have the space again to house a proper hi-fi set-up. But as hard-drive space gets cheaper every year, there’s no reason to suppose that lossless files won’t be the invariable norm in a few years and the old MPEG-1 Layer 3 consigned to history’s dustbin.
What’s sad to me, contemplating contemporary pop and rock music, is that when I do hear something I like, I tend to tire of it quite quickly – the trends towards total rhythmic quantisation, the tuning of every vocal part without listening to it first to hear whether it actually sounds in tune or not, and the brutal and unmusical over-compression of every element within the mix, and of the stereo mix at mastering, have led to the creation of an art form that does little for me, whose pleasures are exhausted quickly. I tend not to be able to live inside these songs.
I love being able to live inside a song. And thankfully it still happens pretty regularly that I find something that takes me somewhere entirely new. Recently I have been spending a lot of time wandering around the apocalyptic blasted-heath landscapes of King Crimson’s Red, the album’s final track, Starless, in particular. It’s an incredibly sad song, it sounds like the world ending. Strangely, though, I find a lot of comfort from this exhilarating, harsh piece of music.
While I freely admit a bias towards early-nineties alt. rock and seventies singer-songwriters, relatively few of my absolute favourite songs are by my favourite artists (a list which is heavy on those seventies singer-songwriters and nineties rock bands). Instead, there would be a lot of one-off disco, country, hip-hop, soul records by artists whose work I am less familiar (who are in some cases only useful to me for one song). Let me tell you about one of these records, the track that, if forced to, I’d nominate for the title of best record ever made.
A few years ago, on a freezing January Sunday, I first heard Odyssey’s Native New Yorker. I remember a lot about that day: meeting my then girlfriend in town for lunch, going for coffee afterwards, then cycling home in the cold. There was nothing exceptional in these activities; I remember them only because of what happened next. When I got home, I sat down at my computer and caught up with some websites I visit regularly. Some folks had been discussing Use It Up and Wear It Out on Freaky Trigger (where Tom Ewing reviews every UK number-one single as part of a feature called Popular. Years after starting, he’s in the mid-nineties now). I’d heard that song without taking much notice of it, but the big claims made on behalf of Native New Yorker by a couple of the regular commentors prompted me to have a listen to it on YouTube. I then downloaded the LP mix and listened to it 11 more times. In a row. One after the other, for over an hour, drinking it all in, the best (my apologies to Nile Rogers and the Bee Gees) disco record ever made. A great song (by Sandy Linzer and Denny Randall), brilliantly played, sung, arranged, recorded and mixed. A song I could live inside of for ever. A warm-hearted, urbane, bittersweet evocation of a place, a tribute so wonderful it actually makes me somewhat disinclined to ever visit it, in case the real thing was a let-down after years of living in Odyssey’s version of New York City.
The goal of any music fan must surely to be to find the songs that make you feel this way. I’m not suggesting that Sophie Heawood’s disenchantment with music would be magically fixed if she adopted a steady diet of New York disco and English prog. What works for me won’t necessarily work for anyone else, and there’s no reason why it should. But despite the predictable cynicism and jeering of the comments below the article (a good way to lose your faith in humanity is to read the comments of any newspaper article – the internet really does bring out the worst in people), I suspect Heawood’s realisation that the music she’s listening to every day is doing nothing for her is actually a commonplace one.
Whether the article would have been better placed in the Culture section, or used as the basis of an informal podcast discussion, is perhaps a worthwhile discussion. But the article’s basic premise is her lived experience, and as such can’t be denied by any amount of snark from the 690 people who’ve commented thus far. If they’re happy with their everyday music-listening experience, that’s great. I am too. Good luck to Heawood in improving her own.
Top: King Crimson (l-r, Bill Bruford, Robert Fripp, John Wetton)
Bottom : Odyssey (l-r, Lillian Lopez, Tony Reynolds, Louise Lopez)