It’s been called the soundtrack to our lives. The language of the soul. A balm to soothe the savage beast. From tribal drums to a wailing theremin, music aims to captivate and free, to evoke joy and melancholy, to arrest our souls and fire our imaginations. The greatest composers aimed to incorporate sounds of nature: wind, thunder, the flow of water. This drive to interpret the natural world was no different than setting oil to canvas, or the carving of stone and clay, but something was incorporated that was not previously present.

Other art forms were static, relying on the palette or the graceful lines to evoke an emotional response from the viewer. The audience interacted with a stoic representation of an iconic figure, or event, or pastoral vision. Experimentation with light and shadow, styles of paint application, even reduction and exaggeration struggled to provide a sense of originality – and vitality – some tangible something that would differentiate a particular approach and catch the viewer’s eye, retinal inversions communicating dynamic images to brains overwhelmed with fleecy clouds and pudgy cherubs. “What is Art” Tolstoy posited in his book, and, unlike so many examinations of art, he managed to boil it down to an inclusive definition. Basically, he says, art is the culmination of the artist’s need to communicate a personal experience in a way that will incite an emotional response from the recipient.

Art, then, would mean different things to different people. One person’s art is another person’s soup can label, so to speak. It’s not up to you to feel the same way about Guernica as me; we all have different life experiences, so we all have different reactions to art, and that’s as it should be.But while all art is not created equal, is it delivered to its patrons equally? Is art in the eye of the beholder, too?

And what about the ear of the listener? Does the music of the spheres resonate within you and without you, as George Harrison might ask? As much as I would like to leap to a conclusion, sorting out the facts, and, for that matter, the emotions, of those admirers of art is not a process to be concluded prematurely. We don’t really “search our feelings” in this time of instant gratification and social media rushes to judgment. Our impatience with ourselves – and others – in trying to nail down how we really feel about something, anything (!) – shoe styles, politics, conspiracy theories – may be a symptom of the pressures of modern life demanding a rapid response: knee-jerk reactions supplant investigated, analyzed responses rooted in logical determinism, seldom to our benefit.

Our emotions, with which have become singularly – even historically – out of touch, are reduced to momentary jolts of vitriol and adrenaline, driven by entertainment media and zip-line adventures. Can we still connect with art? Is art for art’s sake still valuable to the observer?

Don Mclean asked, “Can music save your mortal soul?”

I would, in search of further, more concise clarification, ask: “What, then, is life without music?”

By now, no doubt, you may be wondering where all of this is leading: like any good railroad conductor, I will give you a couple of reference points.

My earliest recollection of listening to a music recording is a now-somewhat obscure piece from a set of WWII jazz musicians. It was a 78 rpm red-label Columbia pressing, the B-side of “Celery Stalks at Midnight” – another classic later covered by Doris Day with Les Brown (and His Band of Renown) – and a 1940s pop entry which earned my father an extra day of leave during his time as a Master Sergeant during the Italian occupation (a story deserving of its own timeline). The B-side of “Celery” was “Down the Road Apiece”, a trio-driven boogie with sly, comedic exchanges between the band and the song’s writer, Don Raye (his stage name), an American songwriter and stage vaudevillian.

The record itself was scratchy from years of being played on the low-fidelity weighted tone-arms of the music players of the day. It was a listening experience that today’s sonic snobs would fail to appreciate: the hiss and click, the occasional skip of a groove, and – not on this 78, but on some – the solid clunk as the needle negotiated the broken part, mended with near-engineering precision with straight-up epoxy. But from the opening piano and bass, I was hooked. The instrumental breaks highlighting the piano, bass, and whistle opened a new door for me, one through which I stepped and never looked back.

That’s what music should do, right? The nature of art is to help open our minds, our hearts, our emotions to something new, perhaps something greater. What is music but an gallery of sounds that strike the chords we already contain?

We relax with waterfalls, and rain, and wind in the trees. The sounds calm our souls, they energize our visions, they motivate us to aspire. And which of these do we choose to carry with us as our lives unfold? What Aeolian imprints do we take with us, in our memories, on our phones, in the playlists on our streaming platforms?

I know some sets I hope you’ll find as intriguing and lasting in their impact as I have.

More to follow……