That Brief and Magical Noise

Each one comes in a cover of its own. A package that has an attractive photo or art on one side and well-written, knowledgeable commentary on the other. We will read the back of the it. (I think that was required by a law somewhere.) But we want to read the commentary because it’s so well done. No matter how many previous ones we have of the same source, we always learn a bit more. Some are so beautiful that people buy special frames so they can be conveniently- and conspicuously – displayed on the wall. 

You slowly remove it from its protective cover in order to avoid producing any scratches, and after you have carefully placed it on the machine and pushed the button causing it to move, there is that delicate moment when you slowly place the sensitive cantilever on the outer edge. A brief and magical noise comes from the contact. Seconds later, wonderful things begin.

For many of us, that was our Japanese Tea Ceremony. The ritual was basic, but magnificent. There was a moment of revelation, a soaking-in of whatever the machine brought. Usually that gift was extraordinary. I will always remember as a young girl, my father, perturbed at my outburst of energy while mother was at market, sat me down, put his finger to his lips and said listen. Just Listen. He pull out a package and silently manipulated the machine. And then came that brief and magical noise. And, for the first time in my life, I heard side one of 'Dark Side of the Moon'. The Music. The Art Work. The sound of the AR3's. That memory remains vivid.

The music was, of course, the key part of the process, but there was a meaningful process. Compared to that, streaming music is practically an accident and playing a compact disk is a mechanical moment. Although the music itself can still be great, the experience has been diminished by omission of the ritual.  Gone are the album notes along with the album. The new experience is solely transactional, without an anticipatory moment or a nod to the artist. All of the preliminaries are brief and rushed.

My argument is that the preparation once was a key part of the enjoyment. And we have, without the slightest acknowledgement, omitted the awe, the respect, and the prolonged anticipation of the artist’s gift. No matter how fine the performance, streaming music or playing a CD is the musical version of instant coffee. With a record turntable, we are grinding the beans, getting a whiff of the aroma, and then placing the essentials in a special device so the flavorful experience gradually emerges.

Our society could use a return to the genuine combined with a serious search for beauty. The process may be somewhat inconvenient, but high quality usually is.