A Quiet Return

quiettrio

I want to quietly return to trying to write about music.

Last year I started a blog called Ice Mask Whale. This is the next evolution of that blog. A new site, a new name. Some attempts at definition…

Attempt No. 1

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The internet is obsessed with the new, feeding on new stories, new gossip, new quick-takes and hot-takes, newly generated content, empty puffs of novelty designed only to be clicked on. Gone are actual paradigms – all that remains are paradigm shifts, a constantly refreshing page. Yet, at at the same time, it is obsessed with the past, with the cataloguing of photographs and moments, viewed through the hazy filter of time, or the false nostalgia of an Instagram filter. Music journalism is often directed down these two lines as well: it feeds, too, on new artists, new album announcements, new gimmicks, new styles, and, simultaneously, on nostalgia for the old styles: best of the 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s, etc. If music is not new enough to fit into the former cateogory (“check this out”) but not old enough to fit into the latter (“remember this?”) then nothing is written about it – indeed, nothing can be written about it, because we don’t have a framework for it. It is lost in the cracks, dead in the water, caught between exposure and retrospective, between review and re-view. Yet obviously we still listen to this music. Obviously there are still things to say. To listen between the noisy bugle call of the new and the hazy nostalgia of the old is to listen in the quiet return: to music after it has emerged, hot and molten and glowing, but before it has hardened. Not a hot-take, nor a hardened, established viewpoint, but something in between: a cooling take, a sustained reflection.

Attempt No. 2

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Think of a song, and it quietly returns to your mind. It is a kind of conjuring magic. The way a ghost must sense things: there and not there.

Attempt No. 3

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Aside from the immediate pleasures of actual in-the-moment listening, what other pleasures are there in music? There is a second pleasure in reflecting on music, in hearing it again in the mind’s ear, in reimagining it through metaphor. The first pleasure is outside of language: we listen to music because it is better than language, saying less but communicating more. Yet this second pleasure – the afterburn of the music, the ghostly impressions it leaves behind itself – is accessible to language. All art has this dual pleasure: there is the pleasure of actually reading a novel, word-by-word, and then there is the pleasure of remembering it afterwards, inhabiting the haunted memory palace we build in our minds as we read it. So it is with music. But with the novel, both pleasures are tangible enough to write about: the material of the critic (language) is used on the material of the examined object (language). With the music writer, this is not the case, the music itself being untouchable by language (hence “dancing about architecture“). So the music writer is left with only the afterburn of it, its quiet (silent) return in the mind. This is all we can write about. As music passes from sensory experience (present) to non-sensory memory (past), a translation occurs – it becomes not just sound but colour, tone, texture, mood, image, and indeed, language. This might happen in a fraction of a second – as when we talk of “an immediate impression” – or gradually, over repeated exposures. It is these translations and impressions we reflect on, mull over, return to, when we write about music.

Attempt No. 4

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We are sometimes prone to expect immediate gratification from things. If something doesn’t immediately make sense, immediately reveal itself fully to us, we shut it out: label it as obscure, obtuse, “not for us”. But the deepest connections we have with things (pieces of music, places, people) are often with the things we don’t immediately like, the things that take some time and work to adjust to. The ‘growers’. The best records don’t announce themselves noisily or showily or immediately but require us to quietly return to them, again and again. This quiet returning breeds its own quiet return, like the return on a long-term investment: gradual, accumulative, but eventually extensive. This is the quiet return of music.

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