Photo by Ron Wolfson/Landov
Growing up a music-loving child before the digital age could be tricky. There were no aggregators, big-time curation was handled by the likes of Jann Wenner, and actually going through boxes of albums took as much time as a record store clerk was willing to give you. Thus, most of us relied on family, friends, or (if you were lucky) some sort of outside mentor. I relied on my dad.
My father was a small time songwriter who wrote songs you haven’t heard with some big names. He showed me Prince, Neil Young, and Leonard Cohen. He was my earliest curator. Take, for example, the Kinks. Much to the prospective reader’s chagrin, the first album he showed me was 1974’s Schoolboys in Disgrace, because my dad had no concept of cool. When I was old enough to become a dickhead disguised as an aficionado, I would pepper him with condescending questions like "But don’t you actually think their late '60s and early '70s stuff is far superior?" That sort of nonsense resulted in ridicule, because you see: my father, the hero, didn’t believe in time. He didn’t remember what order Elton John’s albums were released, or what his "classic" era was. He didn’t tell me what to think. He was the objective listener we all aspire to, totally unaware of the groupthink that shapes our perception of music.
We know that a good chunk of aural perception takes place in our brains. Groups of neurons collect your new Pitchfork-approved choices, and decode them in order to cause sensations. What’s important to me, is, why do we insist upon coloring those choices in ways that impact our enjoyment of music? And how will future people perceive this art, detached from the narrative that seems so inextricably linked to records in the present, and relatively recent past? Why does music seem so magical when we’re young and oblivious? Are we just beaten down and jaded by the time we’re old enough to buy a hi-fi system? My dad wasn’t. Or has the myth of the "career arc" and the "classic era", etc., gripped us in its ugly talons? Why are we not open to subjective greatness? Because of expectations we feed ourselves? Will these narratives that we hold dear in 2015 be a tangible part of the conversation when future generations revisit those records? The answer is no!
The greatest thing about time and art is that time washes away this type of context. This happens at almost an astounding rate now. Rap at large jacked Migos’ flow and made it corny in the time it took me to spread hummus onto my fucking sandwich. But what’s cool and what’s corny is irrelevant when our progeny find our Spotify playlists. We don’t have to be confronted with what was considered less than stellar, or what society at large had to say about art at the time of its release. You have to do a modicum of research to know what happened when Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring premiered in 1913. Why should I even write what happened? Would it enhance, or damage your visceral reaction to the work? Why should it do either?
This is not to diminish the role of the audience and critics. Without them, we as artists are shouting into an echo chamber. But shouldn’t we, as listeners, seek to have an open, childlike experience with a work of art, so that we may explore the art, and our pure perception of it, to its fullest potential?
Listening to a record within the larger cultural picture can be entertaining to some, and it certainly is the gasoline that fuels the thinkpiece engine that we, as sentient humans, should unequivocally reject. But that type of thinking invariably just ripens into "you need to keep this in mind while you listen" bullshit and Jefferson Airplane reunion tours. Recorded music is young. When was the last time you checked out Da Vinci’s work in series? If the answer wasn’t "college", you need to get a grip. Listen. Look. Keep everything else to a minimum—at least initially.
We create art because we are compelled to. We release art because we seek immortality. We want to be celebrated, to be lauded, to have Ninja Turtles named after us. The reason artists release attic-dwelling projects that didn’t pass the first sniff test is this: We think that maybe, just maybe, this could add in some small way to our legacy, to cement our immortality. Hell, releasing the vault-dwellers couldn’t hurt, unless it’s that Brian Wilson rap song. Maybe it turns out those throwaway songs were awesome all along, and we weren’t being the objective babies we needed to be. After all, any creator knows that there is a breaking point wherein whatever you’re creating just turns into mush. This is one way in which facts can distort and inhibit the listener’s capacity for magic.
Example: We all know that Let It Be was recorded before Abbey Road, and released after. Obviously, the Beatles weren’t happy with elements of that record. What do stating these types of facts serve, other than attracting every blow-hard within 50 yards? I think they serve as neural gateways, letting you know: Hey, you may really like the songs on Let It Be. You might love those schmaltzy string arrangements… but Abbey Road is the acknowledged superior, right? Right? Congratulations: you’ve averted a potentially blissful experience, and made an about-face right into neurosis.
It’s exciting and scary to think of a world in which listening can be, in some part, divorced from context and culture. Some people would tell you that separating art from the story of the art is absurd. Otherwise, we could have objective, truly naked listening! How novel! To listen like we’re children, blissfully unaware of PR narratives and media hype? Is "Blame Game" better, or worse, because we know what it’s about? Is "My Girl" better because we don’t have a clue? Is "You’re So Vain" about Warren Beatty? Is any of this truly relevant?
Time and time again, I’ve found that the most pleasurable and profound musical moments have come almost totally devoid of context. I found DJ Shadow’s Preemptive Strike in a box of trash when I was 22. I’ve had friends drop off jump drives full of music without explaining a thing, and I was able to listen, unencumbered by popular opinion. I’ve tried to return that favor. It’s the least I can do, seeing as how my friends gave me the greatest gift one can give: unmitigated joy.
In his 2013 interview on the Bret Easton Ellis podcast, Kanye West said, "I don’t like facts, because facts get in the way of my feelings." Take what you will from that. I heard it as a call to individualism, to a type of aural self-actualization. Only you, and you alone, can decide what a record means to you, and if it’s relevant to your experiences. Why do we engage with new art like we’re stuck in 2015, when art can transcend time? It’s easier not to try to like something. It’s easier to just listen. Can't we all just, listen?
Chris A. Rockaway is a producer for UGK, Tech N9ne, Paul Wall, Mistah Fab, Smitty, Ron Artest, Chamillionaire and more, and can be found on Twitter as @rockawayprod.