Zack Wendling of In the Agora links to a story about British researchers who think Internet downloading and MP3 players are lessening our ability to appreciate songs or musical performances:
"The accessibility of music has meant that it is taken for granted and does not require a deep emotional commitment once associated with music appreciation," said music psychologist Adrian North on Tuesday.
[. . . ]
"In the 19th century, music was seen as a highly valued treasure with fundamental and near-mystical powers of human communication," said North.
Wendling at first disagrees with the researchers, saying it's what we listen to, not how we listen to it, that makes the difference -- if you listen to crap, you won't be ennobled. But then he seems to accept the premise: "But even among those songs that could reasonably be said to edify the soul, I think something has been lost with their ubiquity, a sense of preciousness that rarity brings."
But isn't that the same kind of thing that must have been said when the printing press was invented? These precious words will lose their rare quality if the common rabble tries to comprehend them without our guidance. May those British researchers be locked in a room with Led Zeppelin records until their ears bleed.
The point of all art is to communicate, to pass along the artist's vision of the human condition to the rest of us. The more of us who have a chance to share that vision, the better. The first time a play by Shakespeare aired on television, more people saw it than all the people who had ever seen all the stage productions of it in history. That's a good thing. If I can appreciate the haunting sense of isolation of Edward Hopper's "Nighthawks" by looking at the print on my office wall instead of going all the way to Chicago to see the original on display, better for me, better for the idea Hopper was trying to get across, better for goals of art.
Of all the art forms, music has always been among the most accessible. Before there were the Internet and MP3 players, before CDs and vinly albums and eight-track tapes, people used music to tell their stories and pass along their histories. More people have shared songs in meeting halls and around campfires than have dressed up to to be seen in the company of other dressed-up people to hear a second- or third-rate orchestra murder Beethoven.
I have a CD of Dvorak's "New World Symphony" that I've listened to scores of times, and certain passages of it can still bring tears to my eyes. I wore out several vinyl versions of Aaron Copeland's greatest hits until I finally got it on CD. Zack's first instinct was the right one: It's what we listen to, not how we listen to it or its ubiquity, that matters.
