One Play Wonders
As regular readers of this blog may have gathered, I have a large music collection, and I keep adding to it on a pretty regular basis. I'm no Joe Bussard (see "Stacks of Wax"), whose life revolves around collecting 78's (I watched the Desperate Man Blues documentary, btw, and it was fascinating; he's an overbearing, opinionated, and strangely charming man who absolutely loves the music he collects), but I love music, and expect to continue acquiring it.
That said, with a large inventory and new additions coming in, even though I listen regularly, there are some CD's which I played once and will never get back to again. Oh, I may grab one of them for a particular track to add to a mix, but a beginning-to-end listening session will never take place again for some percentage of the collection. The rest are like flowers – perennials and annuals, say. For example, today I'm listening to Irish Songs, one of many collections of John McComack recordings from the early 20th century. My father loved his voice – the archetypal Irish tenor - and I do, too, especially when he's singing the sentimentalized music hall Irish songs of his era (songs like "'Tis An Irish Girl I Love" or "The Green Isle of Erin"). Every now and then, I have a specific yen for McCormack's sweetness, remarkable high range, and antique repertoire, and trot out this collection.
This week I picked up two CDs - the Kronos Quartet's Caravan and Canto by Los Super Seven; I listened to both at work this week, and enjoyed them. But every time I finish listening to something new, one thing I consider is if I think I'll ever listen to it again once I put it in the stacks.
Listening to Kronos is as much an intellectual exercise for me as it is an aesthetic one, perhaps because as a violinist who played in a HS string quartet, I'm always interested in the arrangements, technique, etc. as much as I am in the qualities of the music itself. The Caravan CD is a free-ranging music set, with music from Eastern Europe, Portugal, California (a Terry Riley piece) and even a take on Dick Dale's version of "Misirlou" ; it includes a variety of other musicians, and integrates them well with the string quartet itself. I liked it, and may listen to it again. But I'm not sure. I have several Kronos recordings, and I do appreciate them and what they do – but at best they're biannuals (some of their Phillip Glass recordings get played when I go on a Minimalist bender). I'll be checking out sets of Monk and Bill Evans adaptations they put out a few years ago; if they work, they may get more regular play. But Caravan may turn out to be a one play wonder.
The Canto CD, otoh, is one I know I'll go back to. Right off the bat, there's a David Hidalgo song, "Teresa", about the saint/roses/desert/needs, that just grabs me. Between the lyric, the plaintiveness of Hidalgo's voice (I'm a big Los Lobos fan, incidentally), and the Alberto Salas' piano-over-staccato-Latin-rhythm arrangement, there's something I find irresistible about it. When the track first played, I repeated it 4 or 5 times, and now I've got it set as my wake-up music. The rest of the set, which is a mix Latin American musical styles, from Mexico to Brazil to Cuba (and not neglecting East LA) features artists like Caetano Veloso and Raul Malo, along with Super Seven regulars Hidalgo, Cesar Rosas, and Rick Trevino; I expect this one to become a perennial (the original Super Seven disc already is).
As a corollary, I don't know why it's so hard to get rid of records you'll never listen to again – or books you know you won't be rereading – but it is. Maybe it's the way they look on the shelves (one reason I haven't gone to the I-Pod side), maybe it's the fact that they seem to be part of myself in a way that other possessions aren't (to me), maybe it's just what Buddha called "attachment", the fundamental source of suffering, maybe it's just the vagrant thought that one day in a certain mood I may want to rehear the disc or reread the book. It’s hard to say, but there they are and - for the most part - there they'll stay.
That said, with a large inventory and new additions coming in, even though I listen regularly, there are some CD's which I played once and will never get back to again. Oh, I may grab one of them for a particular track to add to a mix, but a beginning-to-end listening session will never take place again for some percentage of the collection. The rest are like flowers – perennials and annuals, say. For example, today I'm listening to Irish Songs, one of many collections of John McComack recordings from the early 20th century. My father loved his voice – the archetypal Irish tenor - and I do, too, especially when he's singing the sentimentalized music hall Irish songs of his era (songs like "'Tis An Irish Girl I Love" or "The Green Isle of Erin"). Every now and then, I have a specific yen for McCormack's sweetness, remarkable high range, and antique repertoire, and trot out this collection.
This week I picked up two CDs - the Kronos Quartet's Caravan and Canto by Los Super Seven; I listened to both at work this week, and enjoyed them. But every time I finish listening to something new, one thing I consider is if I think I'll ever listen to it again once I put it in the stacks.
Listening to Kronos is as much an intellectual exercise for me as it is an aesthetic one, perhaps because as a violinist who played in a HS string quartet, I'm always interested in the arrangements, technique, etc. as much as I am in the qualities of the music itself. The Caravan CD is a free-ranging music set, with music from Eastern Europe, Portugal, California (a Terry Riley piece) and even a take on Dick Dale's version of "Misirlou" ; it includes a variety of other musicians, and integrates them well with the string quartet itself. I liked it, and may listen to it again. But I'm not sure. I have several Kronos recordings, and I do appreciate them and what they do – but at best they're biannuals (some of their Phillip Glass recordings get played when I go on a Minimalist bender). I'll be checking out sets of Monk and Bill Evans adaptations they put out a few years ago; if they work, they may get more regular play. But Caravan may turn out to be a one play wonder.
The Canto CD, otoh, is one I know I'll go back to. Right off the bat, there's a David Hidalgo song, "Teresa", about the saint/roses/desert/needs, that just grabs me. Between the lyric, the plaintiveness of Hidalgo's voice (I'm a big Los Lobos fan, incidentally), and the Alberto Salas' piano-over-staccato-Latin-rhythm arrangement, there's something I find irresistible about it. When the track first played, I repeated it 4 or 5 times, and now I've got it set as my wake-up music. The rest of the set, which is a mix Latin American musical styles, from Mexico to Brazil to Cuba (and not neglecting East LA) features artists like Caetano Veloso and Raul Malo, along with Super Seven regulars Hidalgo, Cesar Rosas, and Rick Trevino; I expect this one to become a perennial (the original Super Seven disc already is).
As a corollary, I don't know why it's so hard to get rid of records you'll never listen to again – or books you know you won't be rereading – but it is. Maybe it's the way they look on the shelves (one reason I haven't gone to the I-Pod side), maybe it's the fact that they seem to be part of myself in a way that other possessions aren't (to me), maybe it's just what Buddha called "attachment", the fundamental source of suffering, maybe it's just the vagrant thought that one day in a certain mood I may want to rehear the disc or reread the book. It’s hard to say, but there they are and - for the most part - there they'll stay.
posted by DJStan at 12:30 PM
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