After over a year in this pandemic world, the daylight is finally starting to bleed through the darkness. The end is in sight. Some people are eagerly anticipating a dinner out. Some are excited about travelling. But, for me, the excitement is about going to a live show. This week's episode is about a live record. David Live. David Bowie's live album from 1974. This has got me thinking about the idea of the live show. Given this and the timing of second doses of the COVID 19 vaccine, I have found myself eagerly prowling listings for my favourite venues because I miss live music. What is it about the live show that elicits such an emotional reaction? Recently an old picture has been making its way around the internet. It reads:
Growing up in the suburbs of Ontario, finding people who liked the same music as you were rare. Those who did like the music were usually your friends. So, the experience of a concert is an act of unification. I remember in the mid-90s, I went to see Teenage Fanclub open for Weezer in Toronto. I was there for Fanclub, and I pushed my way to within the first ten feet of the stage. As the band launched into "Radio" from their album Thirteen, I looked around at the crowd. I remember watching a girl smiling and singing her heart out. She looked around, and we caught each other singing. We both smiled in the unifying moment of that moment. Now, no matter what show I am at, I always take a few minutes to look around at the fans. The fans at a concert are part of a pseudo-religious ritual. And, it is in that ritual, the audience comes together in a shared moment of unifying connection. It is not a coincidence that I bring up the religious-like experience of a live show. In our last article, I wrote about Walter Benjamin and the power of the aura. In that piece, I reflected on the aura that a vinyl record holds for many listeners. However, for me, I think that aura comes through stronger in a live music experience.
It may feel like every night there is a live show it is a reproduction of the same show, but for the people in the audience, that show is a moment in time. No matter how many times you think you will rewatch that footage on your phone, the truth is that you cannot replicate that moment. The venue, the sound, the sweat, the community, the ambiance of the show connects you to that moment. And, it is this combination of experiences that is the very emotional heart of the music. It is the very essence of the musical experience. The live show offers you a moment of joy that comes with connecting you and fellow fans and you and the music. But, that magical moment often comes when a band thrusts themselves into the uncontrollable. At this juncture, the artist is left to their own devices. You, as the audience, are unsure of what to expect, and this is the joy of a live show. One band that always elicits this emotion in me is Toronto's The Golden Dogs. The band's live show always feels on the edge. Dave Azzolini hurls the band into a frenzy from the start. As he does, the band seems to be playing on the edge of the uncontrollable, like a car furiously holding onto the road as it takes a hairpin turn. The Dogs hold on for dear life, and the audience is there in the back seat, worried it could fly off the road and take us with them. Yet, despite the sweat and the exhaustion, each show ends with utter joy. A live performance should in no way attempt to mirror the record but instead prevail at bringing you into a moment. Ninety minutes where you didn't think about bills, or life, your work, or anything else. Ninety minutes in which you exist with these fellow fans, and you live together off of the sounds from the band. You, the music, the venue and the moment are all together to create the aura of the live show. But, in that aura, you are lost. You are at one in the moment. Over my life, I estimate I have seen close to 1000 acts. Some were terrible. Some were good. Most, whether excellent or awful, tend to fall into the forgetful category. It doesn't mean that in that particular moment, the artist did step up. It means that the live show secures - as Benjamin notes the aura always does - a space in time. And, because of this, the feelings cannot be duplicated. My Teenage Fanclub experience in 1995 cannot be duplicated by the band or me in 2021. The memory of that girl singing along to "Radio" is trapped in the carbonite of my imagination. A moment that can be gloriously recalled, but can never be duplicated. It is this aura I continue to chase. Those small moments when we are lost in live performance. Those moments when we are glued to the sticky ground of a seedy bar that smells of Labatt 50 and sewage, and we don't want to be anywhere else. This week, I got my second jab. I also grabbed my first concert tickets in well over a year. I can't wait to stand (sorry for the people forced to stand behind me) and take in the swirling, chaotic lifeblood that is a live performance once again. I will be sure to look around at you, my fellow concertgoers. But, I will do so only for a moment. Then I will turn back to the artist and smile, knowing I am in my happy place.
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Photo courtesy of Zap Records, Kingston In 1984 Canada was in the midst of the biggest recession since the 1930s depression. Dealing with substantial interest rates that loomed anywhere from 14%-18%, people worked just to keep a roof over their heads. Others walked away from their homes, seeing the ability to own a home unachievable during such dire times. My father had been out of work for months. Every bit of money that came in from my mother’s job was stretched thin. Yet, my birthday was approaching. I was turning 11, and as much as I knew that we were financially in trouble, I was 11 and expecting something.
That day my father took me to the local used record store. I loved going to the record store whenever I had a few dollars, but over the last year, visits to the record store had become rare. My father and I entered the store, and he said for my birthday I could choose any two records. He was not much of a music fan, but I remember he didn’t rush me. He looked through records with no intention of buying, and when I finally made my picks, he passed no judgement on either choice. I left the store and crossed the street rifling between sleeves deciding which record would be the first to be played on my cheap fold-up record player. As a father, I think back on that day and think he probably felt embarrassed that this was the best he could do for his son’s birthday. But, honestly, it was the best birthday present I ever received. My choice of records at 11 year old is not important here (I am somewhat embarrassed to say they were Quiet Riot’s Metal Health and Twisted Sister’s Stay Hungry). What was important that day was that my father seemed to understand how I felt about music. Although it was not of any particular importance, he understood how I felt about it. I haven’t played either record in at least thirty years but they hold a special memory for me, and in the era of streaming services that is the conundrum that we now face about the buying of an album. German philosopher Walter Benjamin wrote his seminal essay “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction” in 1935. In the essay, Benjamin notes that works of art are created and imbued with an artist’s aura. However, he wonders what becomes of that aura in the age of mechanical reproduction? Ultimately, the aura is lost as it is reproduced. The most obvious case in point is the poster one might buy at an art gallery. It - as a facsimile of the original - bares little to no aura. No one will pay money to come to your house and see the poster. But, they will line up to see the original because it is the one and only. As a piece of art, we admonish it with reverence. There is a romanticizing of art when we talk about the aura. And, for those who buy records, I would argue that the aura plays a significant role. When we interviewed Adam Sturgeon from Status/Non-Status he recalled buying Elevator’s The Such. He was on a field trip to Toronto and enthralled to buy a record at the famed Tower Records (had he been my age, it would have been Sam the Record Man). In our interview, he said “I think it is important because of how I bought it”. The record for him holds an aura, which is based on the story, the place, and a moment in time. The aura for Sturgeon, and for many of us, is created in the moment we discover or own something that shapes us into our being. For Sturgeon, there was something about holding that record in his hands. Yes, this is nostalgic and no doubt romanticizes a commercial product. Really, what I am talking about here is what Marx and Veblen would call consumer fetishism, where the “fantasy of the appetites tricks the fetish worshipper into believing that an inanimate object will yield its natural character.” But, when we romanticize a purchase or a product, are we not objectifying it with an aura? I think the emotional connection we make to music and a record is valuable. Valuable to us as music fans, but also valuable to record stores. Surely, the creation of aura plays a factor in the retention of the record store. We are 20 years into the advent of user-friendly streaming, and yet records sales are climbing. Pitchfork reported that vinyl sales in 2020 were up 29.2% from the previous year. But why when streaming is so easy are vinyl record sales growing? There is no doubt that record store connects to the nostalgia I spoke about in my previous article “The Making of our Musical DNA”. The definition of self, which I argued was established between 17 and 24 is at least in part due to the grumpy record store owner telling you to put back Iron Butterfly’s Greatest Hits and instead thrusting some unknown band in your face. The caricature of the condescending record store owner has lost its reverence. But, to the record purchaser there is something in the buying of those cardboard sleeves and round discs that captures he essence of Benjamin’s aura. When I chatted with record collector Dave Kuhr he said “there is a certain power in saying ‘I have that on vinyl’.” But, when further pressed, his explanation conjures up words and phrases that highlight Benjamin’s philosophy. He is quick to note the “tactile feeling of the physical object.” The record holds a physical place, a key idea to Benjamin’s idea. Furthermore, he talks of “the ritual of dropping the needle.” What an interesting word to use. It immediately brought me back to spending hours looking at every detail of an album cover. Sliding the record out of the sleeve. The way in which we hold up that vinyl to the sky. Not unlike a priest holding up the sacrament. The entire ritual of the record conjures up religious connotations. And in doing so, we create the aura. The Wu-Tang Clan’s seventh studio album Once Upon a Time in Shaolin is a perfect example of a band that understood the aura of its art. They produced one single copy of the record (on CD), which they sold for $2 Million, the most expensive work of music ever sold. Even the packaging of the album was an art form. The album was encased in a silver jewel-encrusted box sealed with a wax Wu-Tang Clan seal. The lyrics and album notes are leather-bound. For Benjamin, the aura is tied to presence. Once Upon a Time in Shaolin is untarnished by modern mechanical reproduction. And, by creating a piece with no replica they created an art piece akin to a religious artifact. And this was the whole point of the record. On the band’s website Wu-Tang stated that the album was in response to a “music industry is in crisis” adding that “the intrinsic value of music has been reduced to zero.” For Wu-Tang the era of streaming or digital reproduction was all but destroying the art of music. Since 2015, when Once Upon a Time in Shaolin was auctioned the era of streaming has only grown. But, so too has the rise of the record. Are those who buy records searching for the bygone aura that that streaming doesn’t give them? For the musician, you certainly get the sense that for some of them their music is a piece of art. It does carry with it an aura. In our interview with Status/Non-Status’s Adam Sturgeon, he said that his record is his “musical landscape” that fits perfectly onto one side of a record. Dave Kuhr similarly used that word “landscape”. This is a lovely idea. The creation of music is like a landscape forged from the earth. There is a sublimity to a landscape. It can take our breath away and inspire awe, just like a good record. Even if it you haven’t listened to it in thirty years.
Petr Janata, a psychologist at University of California–Davis, explains that our favourite music “gets consolidated into the especially emotional memories from our formative years.” He calls this a reminiscence bump. The bump is defined as “a phenomenon that we remember so much of our younger adult lives more vividly than other years, and these memories last well into our adolescence.” He goes on to point out that “when we look back on our past, the memories that dominate this narrative have two things in common: They’re happy, and they cluster around our teens and early 20s.” This, of course, explains why adults cling to the music of their discovery as the epitome of music.
So, it really should come as little surprise that our greatest nostalgia should come during our pubescent and early adulthood. In puberty, we quite literally change in all manner of ways. Not only do we sprout hair, grow uncontrollably, and vocally swerve between Mike Tyson and Harvey Fierstein, but we figuratively start to push ourselves to a greater understanding of who we are and what we think about the world around us. We are on unsure footing, but only through that unsure footing do we begin to see what we are like and what we can become. Musically, puberty is perhaps the most obvious part of one’s musical direction. Being a bit of music dictator as a young parent, I rarely let the “wheels on the bus” go round and round in my vehicle. Instead, I remember conditioning my daughter into asking for Sarah Harmer, Stars, or The Delgados to be played “again.” However, imagine my dismay when she went to school and returned talking about Justin Beiber! Yet, as a 16-year-old, her own musical discoveries are beginning to come to fruition, and now I find her recommending artists like Inhaler, Wallows, or Woah to me. Her experience made me think of my musical journey. As a zitty-faced pubescent teen, I consumed Def Leppard, AC/DC, and Guns & Roses with abandonment. I liked it because it was kinda edgy, my parents didn’t like it, and it was - in my early estimation - “real.” In retrospect I also liked it because I was beginning to grow as a music listener. It was not the music that has come to define me, but it was the start of that journey. That journey would continue. And, it is that next stage that Trothen notes is so important. Early adulthood is where our musical DNA is truly forged. Psychologist Jeffery Arnett notes that early adulthood “is a period of the life course that is culturally constructed.” He furthermore adds that “adult commitments and responsibilities are delayed while the role experimentation that began in adolescence continues and in fact intensifies.” Early adulthood is not about the burdens of mortgage payments, bills, and RRSP contributions. It is instead a time when you live in a crappy apartment in the city and proudly go the entire day on coffee and jalapeño poppers. You live for the weekend when you will find a club that plays “your music” and where you dance with "your type of people.” This, for Treephones, and many of us, is the time when we start to establish our musical DNA. When writing this, I was reminded of a former student of mine named Eva. Throughout her teens, Eva "had a lot of social anxiety and hid this by keeping people at a distance." When she first walked into my grade nine class, she hid at the back of the room. Reticent to the world. In her estimation, "I had trained my body to be small and somewhat dark in appearance to fend off any unwanted attention or interaction." By grade 12, Eva had found some outlet in dance, and she was a far different young lady. However, it was in Early Adulthood when Eva found the music that would help her establish her true musical identity. African djembe drumming. "When I walked into my first djembe workshop in my early twenties I was absolutely terrified." Yet, as she played, "the feeling of creating this sound with my hands was exhilarating. Everything that we played and learned simply felt in tune with my body and I quickly craved more. I walked out of that workshop with a surge of energy and a vibration running through my body of excitement that something just felt right." In reading Eva's recollections, I am struck by the image of a young, unsure girl, who through music, grows. Soon, this new community would shape her further. She noticed a change in her body language. "I had to sit tall in stature so that my technique was better. I had to be loud and attract attention to myself to get the notes I needed with my hands.” But, more importantly, she notes that to “achieve any rhythm, I had to play alongside and together with others.” For a young lady who identified herself as “socially awkward and distanced” the music was now foremost. “It never mattered to the people around me because I was speaking through my body and these rhythms in turn spoke for me." Daniel Levitan has said that music is about “belonging to a certain social group” and that this “melds the music to our sense of identity.” That community is strikingly evident in Eva’s reflection. The music and the community of music was there to support her and help her grow. But, perhaps, more importantly, is that through this sense of identity, Eva was able to build an enviable confidence and find some kind of existential truth. But, that is what the music of our formative years does. In the energy of dance we find an identity devoid of hangups and reason. In the songs of early adulthood we learn empathy, heartbreak, and pure joy. For Eva, the music of the djembe is her. As she continued to play, and the energy grew, propelling her to open up “emotionally” and “socially” she found “without realizing it” she experienced “an unfolding.” Looking back, she notes that this “started at that first hit of that drum.” A drum that was hit in her early twenties and still beats in her today. The beat of the djembe is part of her DNA. Whether or not it shapes us into being, or where or not you are shaped by it. Music is you. |