Maybe it’s because I’m a musician, or due to having been read to a lot before I started to read for myself at age 4, or because my family seems to be filled with generations of marvelous storytellers. Maybe it’s because I’ve studied for many years the bardic traditions of the Druids. But if seeing is believing, then hearing is belonging.
For me, audio books are both a natural progression and a journey backwards in time. By this I mean that anything I read, in my head I imagine either reading it aloud or having it read to me. It becomes a conversation. Granted, it would be difficult to have a conversation in real life as long as the Lord of the Rings trilogy. You’d have to stop for meals, a couple of naps, restroom breaks, and the endless stream of diversions that inevitably break up a three-day encounter with another person. Even if you reduced or compared it to that most modern of contrivances, the binge watch, it would take quite a chunk of time – and the rapt attention of both parties – to commit to, engage in, and successfully complete such a talk.
That’s one of the reasons why I’ve started several novels but never finished them. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to talk to me for that long. So, I keep it short – missive like this one, poems, songs. It’s not that I can’t extend an idea or premise out beyond the horizon – and anyone who’s talked to me in person knows I am capable of extemporaneous speech for quite a while. But sometimes, it’s better to take medicine – or poison – in small doses. Think of it as an inoculation against the doldrums.
One of the reasons I don’t play live music much anymore is the absence of a conversation. Again, maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s the people who come to the places around here that are available for gigs, where like in a casino, the band is an amenity like the all-you-can-eat buffet. It’s a loss-leader, as far as the venue is concerned, because people aren’t really coming in to see the band, but to eat, hang out with their friends, or get drunk. A live band in those kinds of situations needs to be more like a juke box, pumping out familiar sounds at a chat-enabling volume, not placing too many demands on the royal ear, so to speak, and definitely not presenting anything confrontational, controversial, confusing, or confounding. Consider yourself part of the furniture. Or worse, a mere player in a tribute band, actively pretending to be someone you’re not, someone completely different, someone worth listening to.
There are music venues that are not like that, of course. But they are becoming harder and harder to find. Odd, because when you consider the performance rights dues that a venue has to pay to support cover bands, radios, or juke boxes, original music is much cheaper. And since the patrons aren’t coming to see the band anyway, from a purely objective point of view it doesn’t matter what they play. So long as it is comfortable, right?
But art is not supposed to be comfortable. It’s supposed to show you something, make you feel something. A live music event is an experience: a specific time and space coordination that exists only now and involves absolutely everyone in its presence. Performers, promoters, patrons, bartenders, wait-staff, and even random passersby. It is a feast for the senses. And too many people these days seem to be too satisfied with pre-processed, microwaved, and poorly presented fast food that looks nothing like the pictures on the menu.
So many people are dying to simply talk to another person. Or to be heard. And yet we isolate ourselves more and more, not demanding greater physical or emotional interaction because we’re taught it’s unsafe, unsanitary – or maybe just “insanitary”.
Maybe that’s the problem. The conveniences we have demanded are now mandatory, and the entire might of civilized society is conspiring to keep us from actually touching each other.
So, if you can’t see live music, or a live play or dance recital, or poetry reading, go to the library on the weekend and watch the faces of children during Story Hour. Let their joy seep into your pores a little. Maybe you’ll remember what it’s like to be part of a tale, story, legend, myth, or history. Instead of just watching it go by or swiping left.
23 APR 2025
© 2025, John Litzenberg. All rights reserved.