On Creativity

I am a musician. I always will be. I produce and record music professionally. I make records. As they say, “music chooses you, you don’t choose music.” I also recently started a construction company, specializing in old home restoration and remodels. I spent the last half of a year transitioning from being a full-time recording engineer, to the point of launching this company officially. And when people would ask me about it, I would tell them (and myself) that “recording music is a hard way to make a living, and I needed to pay the bills, you know?” To a certain extent, that is all true, but there is much more to my decision, which I am only now in the process of figuring out. In fact, I’m beginning to see that creativity ultimately is what drives many of my actions, and that it constantly demands an outlet- be it music, building, cooking, or writing.

Musicians drop like flies. So many people study music seriously (either in a formal institution or not), and have great intentions of working in music professionally. Then the reality of how difficult it is to make a living in music hits them (or they realize that being a professional musician is work, just like anything else), and they ultimately wind up getting a real job, getting married, having kids, and essentially they become hobbyist musicians, or quit altogether. I am married. I have a real job. I plan to have kids. I am not a hobbyist. And for a long time, I have felt the need to emphasize to people that I am a serious musican/recording engineer, and that my dabbling in construction was “just to pay the bills.” In fact, as I’m beginning to figure out, building things is an essential part of who I am, regardless of whether I do it for a living. Yet, it feels as though, by having construction be my main source of income, I am somehow sending a message to the universe that “music was too hard, so I’ve given up and gotten a real job.” This in turn threatens my credibility as a musician/producer, perhaps because I’m not willing to suffer through the “starving artist right of passage,” or go to every show, or be up on every new band.

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“You LaBelles are so creative!”

That was a typical message left in the comments field of my Catholic grade school report card. I am the youngest of five siblings, all of whom attended the same grade school as me, and had many of the same teachers. And it was true, we were all very creative. I have fond memories of my brother and three sisters producing elaborate variety shows for our parents. And I recall a particularly monumental “Barbie Wedding,” wherein they had crafted an entire wedding, including a pool-side resort for the honeymoon, and carried out a formal wedding service.

I suppose our creativity stems from having parents who encouraged it, and from growing up with humble means, and needing to keep ourselves entertained cheaply. Each of us is creative in our own unique way, which benefited the necessary collaboration of our childhood play. There is an age gap between me and the other four siblings, however, so I was not involved with the collaboration and play in the same way that the others were. My recollection of my childhood is that I spent a lot of time entertaining myself, usually with creative activities. For as long as I can remember I have loved to create, to draw, to build, to compose, to envision something and make it real.

A good friend and mentor, trombonist Don Immel, once asked me “what was I into when I was twelve?” Don had observed that, for many people, the types of things they were into when they were twelve bespeak certain truths about their personality. This makes a lot of sense if you consider that at twelve (give or take a year), a person is on the brink of becoming a teenager, but has a fairly developed brain and personality. He is adult-like in some ways, but still innocent. We spend our teenage years, which for many extend well into college, navigating a complex minefield of social challenges, not without casualties. Often we sequester some of our true personality traits, and many people never recover them after their teenage years.

It certainly took me a few years of college to shed my teenaged self, and feel like I was an adult. Of course, this process was not a conscious one. Ironically, as I got further away from my teenaged self, I found myself once again interested in the sorts of things I liked when I was twelve. I spent my undergrad and half of my graduate degree pursuing the noble goal of becoming a professional orchestral trombonist. It became increasingly apparent to me, however, that I would not find satisfaction working as an orchestral trombonist because, frankly, a professional orchestral position does not allow for much creativity, even if you’re the concertmaster. Like my twelve-year-old self, who enjoyed LEGOs and drawing, I needed an outlet for my creativity. At the same time that I was becoming disenchanted with the prospect of an orchestral career, I was also discovering how much I enjoyed recording and producing records, which can be a very creative process. I was also working on the side as a handyman/carpenter, finding myself falling in love with old homes, and the creativity that went into building and maintaining them.

I haven’t formally looked into the origins or makeup of creativity. I would imagine that there are volumes of discourse on this subject, so forgive me if I’m rehashing here what has already been established. But upon recent reflection on the source of my own creativity, I have come to the conclusion that creativity is a function of language and aesthetics; it is a matter of linguistics. For, when one embarks to create a thing, he first, if unconsciously, establishes some parameters as a reference against which to compare his thing. Those parameters can be divided into two main categories: the first category is comprised of those elements which determine what the thing is. The second category is comprised of those elements which determine whether the thing is good, desirable, or beautiful. That is to say, the second category is the thing’s aesthetics. From a linguistic perspective, if we look at the first category as the thing’s grammar and syntax, then we can define creativity as the ability to recognize and decode the language of that which you are attempting to create, and manipulate it to your own ends. Logically, then, success in a creative endeavor can be defined by one’s ability to organize and manipulate the grammar and syntax of their creative endeavor in a way that is pleasing to others. An obvious example of this idea is cooking. Anyone can combine a given set of ingredients, but the success of the outcome depends on the cook’s ability to combine those ingredients in a manner which is pleasing to others. Success in the creative world comes down to how good an aesthete one is. Of course, it easy to confuse creative success and creative satisfaction. One can be satisfied by their own work, regardless of whether it is aesthetically successful.

Perhaps the message on our grade school report cards, then, should have said “You LaBelles are so good at language!” In fact, we are, as a family more gifted in the areas of language than, say, math. My oldest sister majored in Romance languages and speaks several languages, two of my sisters have written childrens’ books, and my brother teaches high school English. My SAT score was mediocre, because, although I scored well on the language half of the test, my math left something to be desired. But being adept at language, and needing to manipulate it are not one in the same. I cannot speak for my siblings, but I know that I must create. It seems reasonable that creativity and language aptitude are related. The reasons behind why I, why we feel the urge to create are a bit more murky, however. I suppose that part of my urge to create comes from an innate desire to improve. Whenever I cook a familiar dish, I strive to improve it, and I make mental notes about what did and did not work for next time. For some people, the element of surprise fuels their desire to create. They feed off of the idea that this time around, by chance something really special will happen, and they work at mastering the elements which they can control, so as to give chance the best possible opportunity to flourish.

When I am doing something creative, in my mind’s eye there is an ideal, perfect thing which I am striving for. This striving is not always a conscious activity. I also do not want to imply that mastering something is the ultimate goal of creativity. The idea of mastering something is too domineering, too masculine to be associated with creativity. The beauty in creativity is that it is essentially mysterious. Much like how “music chooses you,” creativity chooses you. It can be fostered and cultivated, but it chooses you.

Artistry and creativity are similar but discreet ideas. If an artists needs to communicate something, however abstract, then a creative person needs to make something, however abstract. Two years ago, when my wife and I took on a major home renovation project, I was surprised at how many of our friends offered to help out. It seems as if people have an innate desire to work with their hands. Some people almost seemed to covet, not the house itself, but the satisfaction we got from reviving it. This suggests to me that working with your hands, that making something is not only a basic human desire, it is an activity that for many people is not fulfilled by their day to day routines. Some people take up hobbies to fill the void. I find it curious, however, that many people do not find pleasure in cooking from scratch, for instance, which is probably the most basic and human creative activity! Many people treat cooking as a chore, something to be done quickly, something which, after a long day of work, impedes getting other things done, or gets in the way of relaxing at the end of the day.

It is tempting to be nostalgic about some sort of mythical old-fashioned lifestyle, where most things were made lovingly by hand, and everyone was fulfilled because they spent their days working with their hands and being creative. But I can vouch that I live an essentially creative life, and it is satisfying. I make things for a living. Concrete physical things. I am hired to make a concrete physical thing - be it a physical sound recording, or a kitchen remodel - and I am paid for it. It feels honest and human. Often, at the end of the day, my muscles are tired, or my ears need a rest, but I feel satisfied. And, when I get home from work, I often cook dinner. More creating. Sometimes I write blogs. More creating. Sometimes I write songs. More creating. Maybe I am imagining that people assume I’ve given up on music because I’ve started working construction. Regardless, I can say that by living an essentially creative lifestyle, I enrich all my creative endeavors. It is creative cross pollination, and I recommend it. The more I pay attention to what makes things aesthetically pleasing, the more wisdom I find in my own creativity, and the outcome is better because of it.

The Beatles on iTunes: the sign is nigh

Recently I’ve been on a huge Beatles kick. It’s been great fun re-discovering some of the earlier stuff, the very songs that got me excited about music in the first place. Lizzy and I have been watching the Anthology series, which aired when I was in eighth grade, around the time I started my first rock band. Watching the series this time around has has not only reinvigorated my interest in the Beatles, it has made for a kind of strange flashback, as I lay awake in bed thinking about arrangements, bass lines, harmony lines, etc., just as I did when I was thirteen.

What’s more bizarre is that, as I was listening to “Paperback Writer” yesterday, I switched on my computer (my homepage is the New York Times), only to find a front page article on the Beatles. It seems that, after years of legal battles over trademark rights between Apple Corps. (the Beatles’ company) and Apple Computers, the Beatles have agreed to sell their music on iTunes. Even though, I’m sure, this has been in the media for weeks, I really had no idea it was coming. And yet this news seems to have coincided with my recent obsession with the Beatles. For the remainder of the night, I mulled over the news that the Beatles catalog was now available on iTunes.

Then, later last night, on Facebook, someone posted a link to a Gary Neuman video. I proceeded to geek out on Gary Neuman, searching for videos on YouTube, quickly gaining familiarity with his catalog. But here’s the thing: I would only watch 1/3 to 1/2 of each video (on my iPhone, by the way) before I became disinterested, and moved on. This is not to say that Neuman’s music is not engaging. On the contrary it’s quite engaging (and seemingly ahead of it’s time). After about seven Gary Neuman videos, I was struck with a thought: that the Beatles catalog is now available on iTunes is a sign of the end times.

OK, not really. But it does make a substantial statement about how music is consumed these days. The Beatles, after all, have sold upwards of 177 million records in the U.S. alone. That is a staggering figure. Not only that, but the Beatles continue to sell large numbers of albums some 40 plus years after they broke up! If there is any one band that does not need to succumb to the digital era, it is the Beatles!

I remember discovering the Beatles. I’m not sure what initially sparked my interest in them, but I do remember how excited I was to get ahold of every Beatles-related item I could. I dusted off my parents’ old vinyl records, I asked for CDs for Christmas and birthdays, and I spent my allowance on Beatles CDs. There was a certain “thrill of the hunt” in every new Beatles discovery I made. Watching the Anthology series, as of late, has stirred-up in me that “thrill of the hunt.”

But in discovering Gary Neuman last night, the thrill was gone, as it were. I could quickly consume one song, be done with it halfway through, and move on. And the next song was (literally) at my fingertips. There was no real commitment on my part. I consumed Neuman’s music as if it were a Twinky. It’s not surprising that the whole experience left a bad taste in my mouth. And, really, it was unfair to Gary Neuman, an artist with a long, influential, and respected career.

The author of the New York Times article (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/11/16/business/media/16apple.html?_r=1&scp=2&sq=beatles&st=cse) quotes commentator John Perry Barlow, saying ‘It’s probably some of the most remarkable songwriting created by humans and there are new generations coming along that don’t already know these songs,’ as if making the Beatles’ catalog available on iTunes can be justified by the idea that it can only lead to young people discovering the Beatles. But I wonder whether these new generations are going to experience the same fervor in their Beatles discoveries? There is something mysteriously satisfying about going through the motions of the “Beatles right of passage,” motions my parents went through. As I watch old Beatles footage, I am amazed by the crazy, screaming crowds, with hoards of teenage girls in tears over the Fab Four. I simply cannot imagine the ironic teens of today unanimously going crazy over a band. Nor can I imagine those same teens being singularly “into” one band. There are so many choices at their fingertips, how could the teens of today possibly devote so much of their attention to one band, no matter how truly great that band is? It’s a depressing question I pose. For musicians, it's a deflating question I pose.

There was a whole-hearted infatuation with the Beatles in the teenagers of the early 1960s. This infatuation bespeaks a certain commitment on the part of the fan. The fans were committed to tuning into the Ed Sullivan Show, or the local Saturday morning radio show. The fans were committed to buying the singles just as soon as they came out. The fans lined up outside of the record store the day before Sgt. Pepper’s dropped. There was an active engagement on the part of the fan, a willingness to devote real time, money, and energy to a band. To my mind, casually perusing YouTube does not constitute real time or energy, and it certainly doesn’t cost anything. This business of having anything you want, any time you want is troubling. Great music (great art) deserves our time and attention!

As I write this, I have to wonder whether the fact that I have recently renewed my interest in the Beatles is a coincidence? It is likely that, in the lead-up to Apple’s big announcement, there was a lot of press, which in turn permeated the general consciousness. But, regardless of whether I have Apple/iTunes to thank for my recently renewed interest in the Beatles, it is likely that I would have gone down the same path at some point, just as I have before, and probably will again.

While writing this blog, I got a phone call from Pete Droge (I work with Pete at his Puzzle Tree Studio). Pete mentioned that he recently attended an old-fashioned listening party, where everyone shared a recording that he or she liked, and then they simply listened. Often I lament that we never simply listen anymore, and I make a point to do it from time to time. Call me old-fashioned, but I sincerely hope that the upcoming generations of new Beatles fans just sit and listen to the Beatles, regardless of how they obtained the music.

Over the past few years there has been a lot of talk and speculation over the state of the music industry. We often refer to how music is consumed. No one seems to question the very idea of whether music should be consumed, however. This is no minor matter of linguistics! If I were to decode my own little blog, I suppose that this is the issue at the heart of this piece. The thought of merely consuming the Beatles’ music makes me sad.

How much would you pay?

Here's the deal: I'm surveying musicians to see what they think is a reasonable price for studio time. I've given this a lot of thought, some things to consider are listed below.

1) I want my studio to be a place that people want to record. In other words, I'm not at all concerned about my studio's "creds" (i.e., gold records on the wall, etc. etc.). Rather, I'm striving to create a place with a great vibe, where people can be creative, and have a recording that sounds great to boot- at a price that is attainable.

2) I recognize that the recording industry is rapidly changing. The reality is that most artists just don't have the cash to go into a commercial facility for all their recording needs. Moreover, artists are working ever faster, and there are aspects of a commercial facility which are clunky and time consuming. If you want to put up a single on Myspace or Bandcamp, etc., it just doesn't make sense to go spend $800/day at a big studio, and then have it mastered, etc. I'm hoping to be a happy medium between your friend who has an interface, some Chinese mics, and a computer, and a big commercial studio. My studio has proper acoustic treatment, a decent mic selection, and a good headphone scenario. It has the infrastructure of any commercial studio. It does not have a vintage Neve 8048 mixing console or fancy vintage German mics.

3) I take recording very seriously. I consider it an invaluable part of the creative process in music. I view recording as more than simply documenting music- I try to tap into the spirit of a song, and make a recording that translates that spirit to the listener. My hope is that people see the value in working with someone who cares as much about recording their music as they do creating it. I also think that, just as in music, there is an important recording lineage, a lineage which I study as ernestly as I study music. One of the things I take seriously is archiving recordings. I make sure to document each recording, and create archival DVD backups of each session. I worry that with the speed of technology, and the busyness of life, many great recordings are going to be lost because of careless file management. Unlike a big reel of 2" tape, digital recordings have a way of disappearing...

4) I would like to offer a discounted rate to students (high school and college aged students).

5) I can see opening my studio up to a hybrid model of clientele/studio relationship. More and more musicians are recording at home, or tracking basics at a commercial facility, and mixing, etc., at home. I think my studio could have a potentially valuable role in that model.

So, what do you think is a fair price for recording at my studio? I foresee having an hourly rate, as well as a block "day" rate. What is a fair student discount rate? Feel free to post a comment below this blog, or shoot me an email: vlsending14@msn.com

Savor Every Sip

“I bet a couple workin’ class heroes like yourselves could use a little Socko! I know the routine (wink wink): party all night, then you gotta wake up and work.” These were the words of a marketing rep from the Socko energy drink company who approached my friend and me at a fast food establishment in Spokane, WA. I ran a painting business in college, and we were taking a lunch break from a job. We left the place with two 22 oz cans of Socko, and made our way back to the job site. The Socko lived in the truck for a couple days- neither of us were especially interested in it. Then we got to the last day of that particular paint job, and we were behind...it got to be 3:00, and we had a mountain of trim to paint...so we drank our Sockos. There was a discussion about how we would finish, whether we could put off the next job for another day. We didn’t have an alternative, we had to finish. Socko was the answer. I vividly remember watching Tim practically run along a narrow section of roof, madly painting trim faster than I had ever seen him paint. Energy drinks quickly became our silver bullet, our “closer.”

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Recently Lizzy and I traveled to my hometown of Spokane, WA, to visit family, and do some renovation work on my mom's bathroom. On our drive home we stopped for gas in George, WA (yes, there is actually a town named George Washington) . The late July sun was just setting, and the rugged central Washington desert was beautiful.

A family pulled up in a SUV- I gathered that they were traveling from somewhere in central Washington to Seattle, and had never been to Seattle before. The family consisted of a dad, two boys, ages 11 and 13, approximately, and a teenage girl of about 16. The boys each had cell phones, and immediately were texting, upon stepping out of the SUV. While negotiating their cell phones (undoubtedly responding to very serious messages) the two boys sauntered into the quick-y-mart. Out they came with "tall boy" sized (22 oz) energy drinks in hand. They cracked open their drinks and started to guzzle the sugary liquid energy.

As I observed this little moment at the quick-y-mart, my first (cynical) thought was "ugh, how American." Then I thought sympathetically about how these kids must be continually dehydrated, quickly working towards a middle-age onset of diabetes.

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The other day Lizzy and I had lunch with a friend and mentor of mine, Joan. We got to talking about the orchard in central Washington where Joan grew up. Joan had just returned from visiting her sister and nephew, who live near the site of the old orchard, which no longer exists. Joan’s nephew has been cultivating a raspberry farm, a new venture for him. (Central Washington isn’t known for it’s berry farms, but as the apple has less of a presence in our state agriculture, farmers have turned to other crops.) Joan’s nephew’s berries won’t show up in your local market, however. No, his berries are bred to be a component, a building block for other food. It turns out that there is quite a (growing) market for essence of raspberry. As Joan described riding atop a raspberry picking machine, my mind began to compile a list of the sort of products that might contain raspberry flavoring. Soft drinks immediately came to mind.

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In A Moveable Feast, Hemingway describes the fogged windows and warmth of a cafe on the Place St.-Michel where he whiles away Parisian winter days, working on stories, fueled by coffee. Hemingway later describes Gertrude Stein’s salon, where he and his wife called upon often, and enjoyed, among many things, “natural distilled liqueurs made from purple plums, yellow plums or wild raspberries.” Somehow, I cannot imagine Hemingway reminiscing about anything as he sips Red Bull in a cafe in Paris. Yet the image of a twenty-something Ernest Hemingway sipping his cafe au lait, writing some of his first novels is immediately romantic, just as partying with Gertrude Stein, nursing a glass of distilled wild raspberry liqueur seems much more human than downing a glass of Red Bull mixed with cheap rum (a popular bar drink).

There is a lot of potential for commentary on our progression (digression?) to needing compact, instant energy boosts. That topic is almost too obvious. The occasions for consuming energy drinks are old news; people have been short on sleep since the dawn of man, I’m sure. But it is the rate and speed of consumption that concerns me. On a typical visit to a cafe, Hemingway may have consumed a dosage of caffein comparable to one energy drink. I can only assume, however, that he savored it, that he took it in, just as he took in his surroundings and the people with whom he came in contact. Coffee is hot. It cannot be consumed rapidly. It is something one savors.

Coffee beans typically are picked by hand.

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It is blackberry season, here in Seattle. Wild blackberries thrive in Seattle’s climate. Blackberries cling to hillsides, and spread in valleys. They grow on the side of the freeway, and in people’s yards. So Lizzy and I have been picking blackberries often, as of late. Picking wild blackberries is a process to be savored. Negotiating the many thorns, searching for clusters concealed by leaves- it’s slow, delicate work. Regardless, I’m amazed at how few people take advantage of our plentiful, free supply of blackberries! But the other night, as we were picking blackberries, dusk quickly approaching, I was reminded of Joan’s nephew and his automated raspberry picking machine. Say what you will about the quality of life for a typical migrant worker, there is something very human about gently plucking a berry from it’s branch, and placing it in a basket. I can just see Gertrude Stein and co. on holiday, romping about the countryside picking wild berries, and having a grand time of it. If their writings are any indication, Hemingway and Stein lived in a world where people relished life, savored the things that wanted to be savored.

The rising popularity of energy drinks worldwide signals a disquieting departure from Hemmingway’s and Stein’s world. But savoring provides its own kind of energy: a long lasting, slow burning energy. Fortunately, it is an energy that we have not yet figured out how to harness and distill into a compact form. I hope we never do. I also hope that as we search for new, sustainable forms of energy, we also turn inward, and once again come to appreciate what we already have, and what we’ve had for thousands of years. On the surface, savoring is appreciating what you consume. True savoring, however, is a highly efficient form of energy extraction. When you truly savor a good cup of coffee, you do not need as much coffee to feel satisfied.

When Tim and I were struggling to finish our house painting job on time, there was another option. Although we might have ruffled some feathers in the process, we could have delayed the next job a couple of days. We could have accepted that our current job would take us another day or so, taken our time, and finished the job without rushing. Which is not to say that the job we did was of poor quality. We certainly did not savor our work, however. On that last day, our labor went from being a skilled craft, to being work. Of course, we weren’t being paid to savor our work.

Vinyl Sounds So Good!

I recently picked up a first pressing, near mint vinyl LP of J.J. Cale’s Really. It sounds incredible. So does my copy of Michael Jackson’s Off The Wall, also on vinyl and in really great shape. I’ve grown accustomed to hearing Off The Wall and Really on vinyl, and I can’t imagine hearing them any other way. While the chances of hearing J.J. Cale on the radio are slim, in the wake of Michael Jackson’s death, there have been ample opportunities to hear MJ’s music on the radio. In digital form, the re-mastered older stuff (such as Off The Wall) doesn’t sound very good, at least, not to my ears. Why is that?

I remember when I first really got into music. I was in seventh grade. I had recently occupied the unfinished converted attic of my mom’s house, complete with orange shag carpet, plaid couch, and the family’s old hi-fi system from the ‘70s. My daily routine was to ride my BMX bike home from school, head to my room, and crank some old records. My favorites: Led Zeppelin II, The Jimi Hendrix Experience- Smash Hits, Heart- Little Queen, and anything by the Beatles. My memory of the sensation of feeling that music come alive out of those wood grained, 10” hi-fi speakers, filling up the room, is still vivid and exciting.

I haven’t really grown out of my seventh grade music listening phase. In fact, I recently made a pilgrimage to my mom’s basement, where I found the box of old records. My Little Queen record still sounds great. Led Zeppelin II is a little worse for wear- I guess I really liked that one. I suppose that my affinity for vinyl can be attributed to me listening to vinyl in my formative years. My brain associates the excitement of listening to records with the sound of vinyl. This may explain why a lot of the people my age who record and mix music tend to like things brighter, and more compressed than I; they didn’t grow up listening to vinyl. I listened to vinyl because it’s what we had, and I couldn’t really afford CDs of my own.

Does vinyl sound better than digital? I sure think it does, but this question really boils down to a matter of taste. Or does it? We recording engineers spend a lot of time these days trying to mimic the old analog sound. We lust after vintage pieces of recording equipment, the values of which have ballooned in recent years. We design and use software that aspires to model analog gear by way of complex algorhithms. I have been on a personal quest to achieve and master that typically ‘70s dry, warm studio drum sound.

But whether vinyl sounds superior to digital does amount to a matter of taste. I liken it trying to argue that music from the Classical period (i.e., Mozart, Haydn, etc.) sounds better than the music of 20th Century composers. Music from the classical period is generally more pleasing to listeners, but it is impossible to make a case that it sounds better.

Vinyl as a medium has two things going for it, though. First, vinyl is more dynamic, in terms of loudness. The limitations of the vinyl medium dictate that the overall volume (loudness) of the recording can only be so high, otherwise the needle is likely to “jump” out of the groove, or the music can distort. This means that the engineers who record and mix music for vinyl are forced to keep the overall loudness of the record at a conservative level, thus they cannot simply compress and limit the music, so as to “jam the needle,” as it were (and as is the standard technique in modern recording of pop music), because too much loudness causes distortion, etc. Ironically, this results in recordings that are arguably more “punchy” and exciting, because they are so dynamic. The listener “feels” every snare hit, every guitar attack more because the dynamics have not been squashed.

The second thing vinyl has going for it is the experience of listening to it. During my graduate studies at the University of Washington, I took a great seminar with Larry Starr, a renowned American music scholar. The theme of the seminar was “Great Albums.” Each of us presented a critique of a significant album to the class. Starr gave several of his own presentations throughout the quarter, one of which covered Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. The Beatles took great care in how they presented Sgt. Pepper’s, including the pace and sequence of songs on the record. As a class, after having listened to it on vinyl, we found it incongruous to listen to the record straight through, as one might do with a CD. The record was intended to pause between “Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite!” and “WIthin You Without You.” You could argue that converting Sgt. Pepper’s to digital goes against the artists’ intentions for the work (not to mention the cover art!).

It takes time to listen to vinyl. You carefully pull the record out of the sleeve, clean it off, set it on the turn table, drop the needle, and close the lid. Five or six songs in, you have to turn it over. The listener is involved in the listening process in a very real, physical, visceral way. My parents reminisce about eagerly awaiting the release of the White Album. When it did come out, they sat in their living room that night with a few friends and some beer and wine, and listened to the record, over an over again. The experience was a community event. Listening to records was an activity in and of itself, not something you did while driving, or while doing something else.

I know a guy who has a life-sized bust of Michelangelo’s David, cast from the real statue. He had it shipped from Florence to Seattle. His reasoning behind the extravagant purchase is that art should be handled, enjoyed in a very real and human way. With the casting you can run your fingers over Michelangelo’s chisel marks, you can give your whole attention and presence, physical and otherwise, to the work of art. While viewing art at a museum may not be as physical as touching David, museums offer the next best thing: a dedicated place to enjoy the art, free of any distractions. We seek the same sort of physical experience of the art when we go to a live show. But more often than not, we experience music passively. When was the last time you put a copy of the Mona Lisa in the background, to view while you were cooking? Vinyl demands your physical presence, it’s a ritual. Somehow, rifling through my iPod doesn’t feel nearly as human as pulling a record out of the sleeve.

Humans are more than just physical beings, however. There is a magic that happens when humans convene in one place and make music. Call it magic, call it metaphysics, call it what you will, but sometimes that magic is really special- it’s what we try to capture when we record music. I sometimes wonder whether vinyl is better at translating that magic. It’s not that digital doesn’t translate “vibe,” a James Brown record still grooves like hell, regardless of whether it’s on vinyl, CD, or mp3. But here’s my crackpot hypothesis: sound waves are in essence analog, they are physical waves made up of molecules. Analog recording mediums transfer these waves in an electro-physical way. Digital mediums, on the other hand, at some point along the way convert the sound waves into ones and zeros, and back again. The sound waves temporarily leave the physical world (at least the physical world on a scale which we can comprehend). Could it be that our ones and zeros can’t capture that special energy at a high enough resolution to compete with analog mediums? For that matter, analog doesn’t really have “resolution” to begin with, it’s not rendered at all. Analog simply transfers the energy. When analog energy morphs into digital energy, can it morph back to it’s original form, without losing information along the way? Do we (or at least some of us) perceive that loss, but can’t fully comprehend it? Has our technology still got some catching up to do, or has our technology gone too far?

All I know is that I love the sound of vinyl. It sounds like music to me.

The Public Option

The recent hysteria over the various town hall meetings about Obama’s Public Option is perplexing. The question of whether we should have some form of publicly-run heath care is not perplexing, however. The whole debate can be reduced to one fundamental question: is health care a basic human right? If Obama were to look America in the face, as it were, and ask that question, America would have no choice but to support the Public Option.

If you give a man a choice between doing what is just, and doing something that is (if not evil) less just, but will make him more money, more often than not he will choose the latter. It is human nature. Health care cannot be put at the mercy of human nature, it should not be left to the market.

Now, I don’t want to suggest that all humans will always choose making money over what is just. Compassion is as much a facet of human nature as greed, it’s just that compassion often succumbs to matters of money. Another way to frame it is this: if you give man a choice between what is just, but will cause him to make less money than he currently makes, and an option that is less just, but will allow him to maintain his current income, he will choose the latter.

What I can't figure out is why all the radical conservatives have chosen health care as their battle. Why on earth would anyone not want a nation where health care is available to everyone? There would be fewer pregnancies (so fewer people drawing down welfare), less disease, fewer homeless, fewer poor people, fewer people unable to work because of chronic health problems, and more jobs in the medical field. The pharmaceutical companies stand to benefit, even if they can't demand as high a premium, because there would be more doctors prescribing more medicine to more people! AND, most people would still have a choice- if they wanted to go with private healthcare, they still could!

The semantics within the name “Public Option” are no accident. Ironically, one of the main arguments against Obama’s plan is that people fear that they would lose their ability to choose a doctor, choose a health care provider that best suits them. But Obama’s plan is called the Public Option. The plan simply adds another option. The naysayers will have more choices!

Of course, there is the matter of taxes. No one wants more taxes, and if you’re a hard working American whose employer provides healthcare, funding for which comes out of your paycheck, you don’t want your taxes to be funneled into someone else’s healthcare. I get it. But how about compassion for your fellow man, for the greater good? After all, everyone wants healthcare for themselves and their family. You could argue that everyone thinks that they deserve health care, that it’s a basic human right. Well, at least for working Americans, right? Herein lies the crux. It is a matter of justice. It is a matter of morals. It is not a matter of economics or politics.

Elephant in the Prius

We've got it all wrong.

The great "elephant in the room" is not Global Warming, it is our unwillingness to scale back our progress. Or perhaps it is our definition of progress that is to blame.

With progress comes a certain sense of entitlement. The retired insurance worker who has worked and saved all his life feels entitled to finally reap what he has sewn, in the form of a dream house, or an R.V., or vacations to Europe, or that Corvette he has long lusted after. And why shouldn't he?

Are we entitled to progress? We seem to accept wholesale the idea that entrepreneurship is basically good. After all, our country is essentially founded on the very idea of entrepreneurship. Of course we should reward engenuity. But should we necessarily reward growth? An entrepreneur fosters an idea, and helps it grow. Our system rewards successful growth, but what if the idea is no good? Someone had the idea for a new household cleaning product, they fostered it, helped it grow. Is the Swiffer really a good idea?

The so-called "green movement's" presence in our culture is growing. It is an idea that is being fostered by many. The green movement is misguided, at times, however. Auto companies are scrambling to produce the next Prius because consumers want more efficient cars that pollute less. And as Priuses continue to replace gas guzzlers, we progress towards a greener, cleaner earth. The real problem, however, is that we need to drive less! As a nation we have progressed to the point that almost every American has his or her own personal transportation. We can hop in a car and go anywhere, anytime. The bottom line is that no one wants to give that up. We feel entitled to it. I liken it to telling a kid that if he eats all his peas, he can have desert. So the kid eats all his peas, and gets his desert. Just try to take that desert away from him. We shouldn't reward him for eating his peas- it should be a given that he'll eat his peas. Peas are good for you.

One last example: someone has the idea to start a little mom and pop office supply store. The store does well, and soon they open another one. Eventually the store grows to become a world-wide chain of big box office supply stores. Most people would consider this a great success story: small beginnings lead to wealth and power. What's wrong with running a small office supply store, or even few small office supply stores, and making a decent living? Why did the store need to grow? Why is this growth considered success? Is it really progress to put small office supply stores around the country out of business because they can't compete with big box prices? Yet we are not willing to call into question our right to entrepreneurship.

My hope is that entrepreneurship and moderation can exist harmoniously. Now, if someone figures out how to capitalize on moderation, we'll truly be making progress.