Why I Am Not An "Audiophile"

I usually preface these seemingly music-centered posts with this disclaimer (or something like it): Stick with me. It is about music, sort of, but there is a universal punch-line. There's a point made for all of us at the end....

When I was a teenager and had just started picking up the drum sticks and making noise on a little kit in my bedroom, I would often get very frustrated. I'd listen to recordings of other drummers (I specifically remember one being Steve Smith, of Journey) and then I would play my own drums. Constantly, I'd find myself disappointed in my sound (compared to his) and wonder why I couldn't get my drums to sound as "big".

Of course, at the time (at fourteen), I had no idea as to the electronic processing those drums went through in the studio: reverbs, compression, sound "exciters"...you  name it. This was the 80s. The recording studio had become the extra member in the band. The digital age was coming about, taking the hand-off from the recently perfected analog age...

Some years later, I got a "four track" cassette recorder. Same results. I was meticulous in getting the right levels. I was obsessive with microphone positioning. I tried sound patch after sound patch on the synthesizer... It never really sounded "right."

"Right," as you may imagine, was an equivalent to the results that could only be obtained from a multi-million dollar sound studio in New York or LA. By then, I knew this was the case. All I could do was shrug and listen to my work, lowering my sound standards, half-heartedly convinced I had done my best.

Now, every musician can have a digital studio in his bedroom. The results all depend on what you know. You can get "big studio" quality if you have good mic's, good instruments and a solid  knowledge of the recording process. But the range is huge -- in terms of the kinds of recordings you get -- from lousy to phenomenal. The fact remains, your average post-simian mug can get a hiss-free, reasonably good-sounding recording with a laptop and a hundred-dollar SM57.

But, this morning, I heard a feature on NPR about MP3s vs. high-def audio and one engineer's crusade to make better sound available to the masses...blah, blah...

Here we go again. Hyper analysis. Like we do for everything else in the modern world.

I have a discerning ear, but it is tuned to the blend of a horn and cello. It's connected to textures and tones and harmonies, not to whether a recording is sampled at a 456 shmigglewatt bit rate as opposed to a 550 shmigglewatt bit rate. Can I hear the difference? Sometimes. I admit it: my own CD (having been professionally mastered outside my little studio) sounds better than the MP3 version you can download from iTunes...

...but what happens is that my ear adjusts past the sound and its limitations and focuses on the music after

awhile. In a lot of ways "audiophiles" are the worst music appreciators. Many care more about the paint job than about what's under the hood, as it were. (There are always exceptions, of course, but I find this to be true about those I have known.) Analysis of the sound takes one's ear off of the music, itself.

I see people all around me trying to analyze everything. If a kid misbehaves, there are scientists out there studying the effects of breakfast cereals on behavior. You can take that data and throw it in the bin with the 550 shmigigglewatt bit rates.What we need back are dads and moms who learn to run the show with common sense, interpersonal intelligence and a firm, loving hand. I'll put that up against the chemical breakdown of Cap'n Crunch any day.

Wordsworth talked about those times during which we can "see into the life of things."  These were moments of feeling, not of analysis; it was the result of immersing one's self in the world (in his case in "Nature") and opening one's self up to the lessons it had to teach. If we spend all of our time looking under rocks, we can't see the mountainous clouds towering over the mountains.

Do I want good quality sound? Of course. But I would rather hear a second-rate recording of good music than a first-rate recording of bad music. I'll take harmonically interesting chords over the absolute perfect sparkle gained after a +9dB treble boost.

In listening to music, one should forget the mechanics and keep the direct line to the soul uncluttered; in life, we should, more often, be part of the flow (okay, I'll say it: Tao). We shouldn't research ourselves into being eternal diggers and sorters.

A Brotherhood of Rivals?

"Group mentality" and my distaste for it has been a recurring theme on this blog. I sometimes fear that regular readers might be sick of hearing it...

But, I don't hate groups, as a rule. For instance, I think it is cool when those with common interests get together to enjoy those interests. I'm even considering going to see Gavin Harrison give a drum clinic this fall. It's just that I won't be wearing a Zildjian T-shirt or a baseball cap with "Pearl" emblazoned on it. I don't like externalizing interests for the sake of others. Never have.

In short, it is cool to talk (or, even, to write about) drums, but I'm not a fan of broadcasting my interests superficially.

The drummer-cam; pre-first set.

This weekend, the band I am in played a group gathering in Wildwood, NJ. It was a biker weekend. The streets were glutted with Harleys, Ducatis, Hondas, custom bikes and even a few classic Indians. You'd think it would have been an environment of joviality; mass celebration -- a jamboree of jolly proportions.

Not really.

There wasn't a lot of smiling going on. If you watched the unending parade of motorcycles passing behind our stage, you saw expressions that looked more like a challenge than a metaphorical high-five among two-wheeled brothers. The atmosphere was one of subdued, communal anger; or, at least, challenge.

And the trappings! The vests and the bandannas and the leather pants and the other various shmagiggies...

Safety Beyond the Interwebs?

In some ways, I guess I am a rube.

This morning, I heard a report on the radio about a big company (I forget which one) that is "asking the question" as to whether there is "any way in the world" to protect its data from hacking. The fact that they have to ask this question seems spooky to me. It seems like the mass-thought has settled into total acceptance of the status quo. 

For the modest price of, say, ten million dollars, I would like to offer this company advice -- a way to prevent data from being hacked. I'll trust them to send a check the moment they see this. Here it is:

Take it off-line. Eschew the Internet.

You are most welcome, big company with a hacking problem.

The Genius of Brian Wilson

In general, when the name Brian Wilson is mentioned among (talented) musicians, you get a respectful, gentle, slightly sorrowful shaking of heads. Even musicians who didn't really like The Beach Boys are forced to admit that Wilson is something special. I fit this category: I have never liked the Beach Boys' sound, in general, but could always hear Wilson's genius through it all; like a Robert Frost quietly reading "Mending Wall" aloud in a crowded bar.

"Genius," as we know, is thrown around quite a bit, these days, but I think Brian Wilson is one guy who deserves the label. In fact, in terms of his harmonic and melodic concept, I think he ought to be recognized as one of America's greatest composers. I'd love to hear him write specifically for orchestra. I imagine the resulting sounds would rival the achingly atmospheric textures of Ravel.

Despite not being much of a fan of the Beach Boys' sound, I heard this again the other day and was reminded of what a treasure Wilson is, as a composer; and, also, of how sad he must have been -- a sadness that lead him down a now-famous path of self abuse from which he has, thankfully, recovered.

Here is a young man, writing the lyrics of a young man -- not terribly refined; sort of stilted in their poetic intentions; endearingly simple in their symbolism; wide-eyed with  honesty -- over the music of a harmonic genius, way ahead of his time, as he was (and is) always destined to be. Wilson's words:

"Ye Olden Blacksmith Shop"

Are you sometimes a real ass? I am sometimes a real ass. As parents, I think we are all asses at least forty percent of the time.

Cutting the grass, today, I was in a foul mood (as I usually am when cutting the grass) which was compounded by the fact that my sons and their friends had turned the back yard into a medieval military outpost. Yard chairs were woven with vines and covered with leaves; loose bricks were arranged into spots for "camp fires" and there were "weapons" (sticks) everywhere: lying in the grass; leaning up against fences -- you name it.

Stuff was in my way. The kids were going to get a stern talking-to when I went back in. "My work is hard enough," I would say to them, as they sat, hands folded, eyes wide and shameful. "The last thing I need is your junk in my way... Do I throw things in front of you when you are cleaning your room? Et cetera? Et cetera? Hmm? Et cetera?"

They'd hear about it, boy, those inconsiderate little snits. But, then, it happened. It always happens, you know? -- just when I get up a good head of fatherly steam. I saw this: