In The Gift of Good Land, Wendell Berry writes of the value of small solutions. An example he gives is riding a bike to lower your personal carbon footprint. There are massive global technology companies spending billions of dollars (and expending who knows how much carbon fuel) to work toward making vehicles more efficient and emit fewer pollutants. One of the towering figures of our age is Elon Musk, who (even with his re-sized public image after his brief yet intense involvement with the current administration) has been heralded as one of the great generals in the army against emissions with his luxury electric cars. (Be reminded that his other pet project does consume a little rocket fuel, about 700,000 gallons a second, and his newest pet project [Grok] is wreaking havoc on the power grid of Memphis).

And yet, as mentioned in an article from the NYT, e-bikes are now reducing the daily need for gasoline by a million barrels a day - more than all the electric vehicles in the world. Getting out of your car and riding a bike has more potency than marginal gains of vehicle efficiency ever can.

My other favorite example of this is Stoop Coffee. A couple living in San Fransisco wanted to get to know some neighbors and grow a sense of community where they live (don’t we all). The obvious course of action here might be to put invitations to a party under all the neighbors doors or form a community organization and try to get people to join. Maybe gossip on Nextdoor a bit more.

But their brilliant solution was small. They decided that every Saturday morning, they would take lawn chairs outside and sit on the sidewalk while they drank their morning coffee. That’s it. For a month nothing happened other than doing what they would have anyway, just outside. Then one neighbor joined them. After that, it was a cascade of connections and community formation unlike anything most young Americans have ever experienced. They now have a neighborhood WhatsApp group, shared spreadsheets with resources and needs, and throw larger events regularly. A small act that took a little bit of courage transformed a collection of urban housing units into a neighborhood.

My small solution this past year was leaving books where I tend to sit. At any one time I now have a couch book, a chair book, and a bedtime book. I read eleven more books this year than last year without changing any else.

What else is in need of a small solution?

Many years ago a friend referred to me as someone who “likes maintaining things.” I think the immediate context was knife sharpening, but it’s true, I do like maintaining all kinds of things. I especially like things that can be maintained.

I’m thinking about this because I recently came across (via @bradleyandroos) this quote from Pete Seeger: “You should consider that the essential art of civilization is maintenance.”

When I read this I had just picked my car up from its (quite expensive) high-mileage maintenance. A pair of fifteen year old dress shoes were at the cobbler’s getting new soles. During Thanksgiving week I spent several hours re-weaving the seat of an antique stool that belongs to a friend. Maintenance was on the mind.

Before, during, and after of a stool I restored for my dear friend George. George is in his 80s and the stool was his mother’s, I think it’s over 100 years old.

As I worked with the stool I was reminded that though it is a simple construction it is of a higher quality than the vast majority of furniture in most homes. This style of post and rung stool is four large sticks and eight smaller sticks. The large sticks have holes drilled partway through and the smaller sticks are stuck into them. The only difficult thing about making this is aligning the holes in each leg so it ends up a rectangle. Not long ago this would have been a basic project in shop class (when we had a real country). Years after the glue failed the stool was held firmly together by the seat weaving, which is itself made of recycled paper. The materials to fix the stool cost maybe five dollars and it will last for decades, by which time it will be serving its third generation (at least, I don’t actually know how old it is).

In fact, every part of the stool is reparable. As long as there is someone with the desire and skill, any post or rung of this stool could be replaced and put back together as the same useful and beautiful object. (I will leave to the philosophers whether it is the same stool after every part of it has been replaced).

This ability to be fixed is a practical and economic value that is hard to find in most modern furniture or consumer goods of any kind. They are designed to be consumed, not maintained. Although that is not exactly correct. They are designed to be used until a mission critical part (usually made of plastic) fails, rendering the entirety of its other materials useless, destined to be gathered to the halls of its PFAS fathers. They are trash with a temporary use to tempt you to buy it.

This noble stool I have now written too many words about will never be trash. When in the course of time it is broken beyond reasonable repair or its usefulness is finally at an end it can be burned, buried, or left in the woods. Even with the slowest method there will be no trace of this stool in a few years. Throw it in the fire pit and it will be gone in an hour. Even our disposable goods are not designed to be disposed of.

I’m thinking primarily here in terms of the world of things, but the application to institutions, relationships, our bodies, and many other things, should be obvious.

To maintain is cheaper than to repair or replace.

I’ve been listening to podcasts for about 20 years now, about as long as I’ve been doing anything regularly and roughly the full lifespan of the podcast. Long enough at least that I have noticed the major shift they have undergone in the last few years. When I first started listening they were primarily actual radio programs distributed via RSS. This meant they could expand listenership to those who didn’t happen to be around their radios during broadcast time (perfect, since radio listening was beginning to decline, though it is still much stronger than I would have guessed). I remember describing it to my mother: “It’s a radio show you can download and listen to anytime.” The accessibility of RSS syndication meant everyone could broadcast, and that’s what they did! This continued a long time. Podcasting was a free-form audio genre that became it’s own pillar of the media institutions (RIP Gimlet Media) but was accessible to anyone because of the openness of distribution (of which I learned all kinds of things from Manton Reese’s write-up about syndication). There were the pros, radio people who found creative freedom away from the clock and radio format needs, but using largely the same set of professional tools. The archetypal This American Life, an actual radio show rebroadcast as a podcast, and its many imitators are the coin of this realm. Then there were the indie folks. People with a passion project that found an audience through the delivery of the podcast feed. Two great examples of this are the History of Rome podcast and the History of English podcast. Both wildly nerdy, encyclopedic passion projects run by amateur enthusiasts. All of these are in the lineage of radio. Scripted or structured interviews, they are information, entertainment, edutainment, criticism, and commentary. They could be many things, but they had the soul of radio without the limits. The technological constraint of radio is the limitations of the AM and FM radio bands. You can only cram so many channels into the Very High Frequency band, and you are limited to a certain power transmission. These are regulatory controls more than technological, but they had major cultural impacts. Radio is regional. You can reliably find a public radio station in the 80s or low 90s, and they will syndicate a lot of the same shows, but the announcers and local commentary will indeed be local to you. This limitation means a finite variety of channels in any vicinity, and thus at least some amount of cultural cohesion in a location. Nearly everyone I knew growing up listening to our local public radio and thus exposure to a similar band of information. We were on the same wavelength (sorry, that’s all my radio puns). RSS (magical as it is!) means everyone is chasing personal interests, which are likely not provided for locally and take the place of local news. (Radio also had a profound influence on music genres and commercialism. Interesting interview here.) About 2023 there seems to have been a seismic shift in the nature of podcasting. I first started to notice that younger people (late teens and 20s, my students) started talking about podcasts again. There was a while there where the fact that I listened to podcasts was a generational marker, but all of sudden we were all listening to podcasts again! Then I realized my students meant something wildly different by “podcast” than I did. All at once I started seeing people posting YouTube videos with a host and guests sitting on couches talking into microphones about whatever banality of the day was getting clicks, and this was a “podcast.” I noticed that all the podcasts I listen to (almost exclusively in the car) started referring to those “watching” since they had started recording in video. About the same time various smutty “podcasts” became wildly popular and a “podcast” hosted by someone with a tangential relationship to the world biggest pop star became a major culture force. (I don’t intend to burden my mind with understanding how all of that worked, but I understand they are getting married). Dear reader, what I just described is daytime television. The podcast I grew up with is something you download and listen to on your iPod while you mow the lawn or ride the train or exercise. They are primarily monologues. Maybe you learn something you discuss over dinner (the famous words, “There’s that episode of This American Life…”). The new podcast you watch on YouTube while attractive people with full makeup interact in charming ways. They are almost exclusively unscripted and conversational and draw on celebrity power to attract viewership. This shift from exclusively audio to primarily video is a major portion of why Derek Thompson’s argument that everything is television is so convincing. Privately watching distant people, the state of Television, is the default state of being alone. And the podcast has become exactly this: being alone while observing other people together. I also wonder if it has become the dominant form of conversation. Listening to this podcast (which I downloaded and listened to in the car like a proper millennial) this week I was somewhat amused by the way the host and guest sound almost exactly alike. They are both intensely “conversational” in their manner. They talk about interesting things as well, but I suspect the main benefit we get from these is that we feel like we are participating in an engaging conversation, a privilege it seems harder to find IRL.

Two recent concert experiences left me feeling particularly full. Though utterly different music from one another, they had a quality that made me (as someone who gives concerts occasionally) think a little more about what a concert is for. The value of live music has always been self-evident to me, but I think I have placed my finger more precisely on why.

Both recent concerts were joyful affairs with energetic music, but generally speaking my own tastes are more austere. I enjoy music like a winter landscape; beautiful, but also harsh and perhaps even threatening. Not necessarily comfortable, though I make room for that as well.

This is all to say, I have felt the same value at lots of different kinds of concerts and the diversity of the recent two reminded me of the many diverse and profound concert experiences I have been able to have. What is it that they all have in common? Why should we insist that attending live music is such a significant part of the humanities education we offer?

My new thesis is that a concert is an affirmation of the goodness of being alive.

But not just the nice parts of being alive. Music affirms the entire range of the givenness of human experience. A problem the philosophers of music have puzzled over for some time is why people enjoy music expressive of negative emotions. We generally avoid sadness and disappointment if we can, it goes, so why should a concert hall fill to see Dido and Aeneas cruelly separated from one another in the underworld? Why listen to Shostakovich’s tenth symphony roil with anger and bitterness?

Though we instinctively avoid the circumstances that lead to those affects, they are an unavoidable part of life. They are (please forgive me) the being of being a being. Life comes with joys and sorrows. These are given as well, some of the gifts of living.

For some of us it is hard to dwell in our emotions. Weddings and funerals (to span the range of social expression) both have a certain number of ceremonial aspects to slow down and facilitate the feelings we should have at such significant moments. Reflecting on our grandfather’s funeral my brother said, “That was one of the best days of my life.” I completely agreed, but it wasn’t until later I figured out why. In facing up to death and remembering a good life we felt so alive.

This is the role of the concert. It is a place to confront your most uncomfortable feelings, experience them in your body and remember, “This is part of being alive. This is good.”

The performer takes the responsibility of choosing some of the various shades of experience and inviting the audience into them. Our greatest performers are like priests of our emotion, ushering us to a space of deep presence with our inner selves.

When you play the searing D minor partita Sarabande (BWV 1004) you say that living people experience embodied sorrow. (JSB certainly did.)

When the subjects unite in the Jupiter symphony finale you say it is good to live together in diverse unity.

When “Freude” erupts from the chorus of Beethoven’s 9th symphony we say living humans experience unspeakable joy.

The concert is a sacred space to claim some small fragment of the human experience and invite your audience to feel it with you and to remember the gift it is. To live as embodied creatures in a state of reflection so that when we step back out to our living we don’t forget to be alive.

One of the secret pleasures of reading used books is when you find an artifact from the previous owner. This Hoover Dam tour ticket from 2009 made the perfect bookmark.

One of my favorite things to do is plan concert programs. As much fun as actually playing concerts is, I am almost constantly thinking up new combinations of pieces that have connections or fit a theme. (If any classical guitarists out there just can’t decide what to play hit me up, I have enough programs for years of my own playing). In an average classical guitar concert, most people will be hearing most of the works for the first time. Presenting them in a context that helps them connect to the music on first hearing and connect them to something they already know is what I’m always trying to do.

Usually I’m working on these programs for a long time, noticing a connection here or there and finding pieces that fit. Once I had the idea to play the Bach D Minor Partita (BWV 1004) but pair each movement with a modern piece that has some resonance with it. It took over a year to choose all the pieces. This past spring, though, I had a program fall from the sky; a bit of curatorial spontaneous generation.

I was driving to work listening to a great album by Alvaro Pierri (https://outhere-music.com/en/albums/brouwer-el-decameron-negro-other-guitar-works) which introduced me to Tres Danzas Concertantes. It’s a work of juvenilia, but packs a serious punch. I knew right away I wanted to play it at some point, and by the time I had gotten to work a full program of guitar and keyboard works had come together.

I wrote it up, emailed it to a colleague and asked if he would be interested in presenting it. He finally agreed and here we are presenting this program.

Manuel Ponce, Sonata for Guitar and Harpsichord

This is a somewhat neglected gem from one of Mexico’s finest composers. Classical in form, baroque in texture and melodic sensibility, and modern in its jarring, nearly constant key changes.

Mario Castelnuovo-Tedesco, Fantasia, Op. 145

This is like the perfect blend of Debussy and da Falla. Lush harmony contrasted with driving rhythm and a remarkable pianism (Tedesco’s own instrument). One of my favorite pieces in all the guitar chamber repertoire. Tedesco lived quite an interesting life and ended up in Las Angeles (like Arnold Schoenberg) teaching composition to aspiring film composers in Hollywood. A wildly prolific composer he wrote over three hundred concert works and about a hundred film scores.

Bryan Kelly, Basque Suite for Guitar and Harpsichord

Kelly is rarely played outside of England. I can find no information about this work other than that it was published in 1978. I only know of it because a copy of the guitar part was included in a box of music given to me by a retiring guitar teacher. A work for guitar and harpsichord seemed unusual (the Ponce being the only I knew of) so I filed it away until the right time, which came with this program.

Leo Brouwer, Tres Danzas Concertantes

The piece that brought all the following three together into one program. I didn’t know until recently that he wrote it when he was only 19. He ability with form is already on display, and it’s really terrific fun.

I am not one to get much from the lyrics of songs. When musical processes are happening language ones aren’t. There are songs I have listened to hundreds of times and I don’t have the slightest idea what the lyrics are about or even what they are for the most part, it’s just part of the music. I am amazed when I meet people who think of songs as a poem with musical accompaniment. I do not understand that.

This is why it’s surprising that some of the words I’ve thought about the most recently are from a song. In the narrative song “Tangled up in Blue” Bob Dylan presents this scene after the protagonist heads home with a strange woman:

She took down a book of poems and I began to read Written by an Italian poet of the 13th century And every one of them words rang true And glowed like burning coal Pouring off of every page like it was written in my soul From me to you Tangled up in blue.

True to form, this is the only part of the extensive lyrics that I know or understand. This stanza stuck in my mind after a few listens and has been with me ever since. They describe so perfectly an experience of encountering the past that has happened to me and still happens on occasion. It’s something I am almost constantly seeking, though I never thought of it before.

It’s when you are reading an old book, or walking through the 17th century wing of an art museum, and among all the other portraits and lines one arrests you. It speaks directly to you, and you wonder how it came alive. Why does it glow brighter than the rest?

I am a haphazard reader of poetry at best, but I made my way through an entire volume of George Herbert a few years ago. I could read for days without this encounter, then one day, unexpectedly, a poem would grab me by the throat.

Most of my encounters with the past have been through music, but in two different ways. The interpretive work of another musician will show you something you never heard before. What a great gift, to be able to quicken a dead page of notes in the ears of another. But sometimes, when I work hard at it or sometimes at random, it will happen through the musical score.

I’ve been reflecting a lot recently on being an ear-driven musician. A musical score is a curious thing. In many disciplines the cultural artifact is received as it is. We have a painting, a chair, a sculpture. It inhabits its own space and is its very self. The work surrounding it is curatorial (putting it in a context to be appreciated) and critical, commenting on it in relation to itself, it’s contemporaries, and it’s cultural tradition. Other than restorative work, you don’t do much with the thing itself besides careful observation.

Music (in notated form) and drama require realization. The received artifact is a set of instructions, not the thing itself. To be of any interest, this must be done interpretively.

In his musings of the enduring quality of Bach the pianist Jeremy Denk says this about the musical score:

“A score has nothing to do with paper, or e-ink; it can appear on an iPad or on parchment. A score is at once a book and a book waiting to be written. Perhaps a golden age of music was born with the score and died with the recording. If you are listening to a recording, you are hearing someone’s truth about Bach’s truth, their idea of Bach’s truth. The wonderment is that you may hear truths you never suspected, possibilities you never dreamed—but still you are buying another person’s truth. So I say, in all seriousness, if you don’t play an instrument, take one up; take lessons; make the time.”

Embedded here is the idea that the fullest enjoyment of music is through individual interpretation. Making the music as it if were written on your soul and writing it on your own soul in the process.

This is why I continue to play old music. It’s also the standard I bring to old music. If it doesn’t burn and I can’t make it pour off the page like it’s my own then perhaps it should stay in the past. It at least doesn’t belong in my repertoire.

Of all the old music this comes easiest with Bach. Just below the surface it is ready for a renewal. I have been playing the D Minor violin partita (BWV 1004) for almost four years solid now. I cannot imagine getting bored with it. Just today I thought of something new in the minor arpeggio section of the Chaconne. This happens regularly after hundreds of hours of study and practice. This music is like a campfire ember clouded over with ash; the slightest stir will renew its glow.

We don’t always know what’s written on our souls. We’re like Sauron’s ring of power. It has a message but it’s faded from view until it’s been put in the fire so it can glow again. It’s not always obvious when a piece of music will come to life either. Some require a lot of work. The spark isn’t easy to find. Sometimes an inspiration I’ve heard in another performer seems flat and lifeless in my hands. But when the combination of text and performance come together, an old Italian from the 13th century might show you something you needed to say and give you the words to say it.

Note: I wrote this post for my old blog in the fall of 2022. This was before the current hysteria surrounding AI automation, but it would seem the observations here are only more acute than they were then.

After several years of frustrating wrangling with various hosting, domains, website crashes, and my own stubborn unwillingness to learn how it all works (a wise person once told me “don’t be good at what you don’t want to do”) it seemed like micro.blog is the best place to make some space for myself online. This post felt like the right place to start.

In Kurt Vonnegut’s first novel, Player Piano (1952), we are introduced to a society where manual labor has been fully automated. Managerial work of various kinds remains for the educated and intelligent. A scarce amount of maintenance on the machines that accomplish the actual work supporting society give a few others something to do. For the rest, unless they are crazy enough to expend energy on creating art or poetry, there is no pressing need to work. Most of society can live in their suburban homes with regular deliveries of new goods.

This creates a social problem. The formerly employed workers have nothing to do. The result is not a leisurely utopia, but a culture rife with social pathology. It becomes apparent that large swaths of society need something to keep them busy. How do the mangers keep the formerly employed busy? Reconstruction and Reclamation.

The “Reeks and Wrecks,” as they are known, are armies of former laborers (that is, those who used to be an indispensable part of providing for the needs of every person) who now set about doing menial tasks. A stop sign has been knocked down by a careless driver? A team of twenty or thirty Reeks and Wrecks will be dispatched to reconstruct it. Some aluminum cans have been littered along the highway? A dozen or so otherwise idle fellows will reclaim them and return them to the factories where the machines they used to operate will turn them into spare parts or raw material for new products.

I am teaching “Intro to Music Technology” this semester. Most of our class will be very practical, learning basic fluency with a number of different applications, but this being Higher Education I though it appropriate to spend a little time thinking about the effects of technology on creative work.

Reflecting on my current relationship with tech has got me downright nostalgic. Like most 30-somethings, my first computer experiences were on a desktop PC in the “computer room,” tinkering with MS Paint or playing solitaire and pinball. My brothers and I would all pile on the swivel chair to shepherd our characters across the Oregon Trail or down the Amazon (which we installed from a disc that came in a cereal box).

We were duly amazed when the desk-occupying CRT monitor and floor-filling computer tower were replaced with this:

All at once we had access - not to the internet, but to creative software. This was in the apogee of the Steve Jobs era, when Apple was for the creatives. What is in the middle of the dock that comes preloaded on this iMac? iPhoto, iMovie, GarageBand. We suddenly had creative tools that were almost perfectly engineered to be accessible to amateurs while still giving enough capability to create whatever we could think up. It was truly (for us at least) a bicycle for the mind.

The internet came somewhat later when we finally got a broadband internet connection. Around 2003-ish (if memory serves) this was the height of the blogspot era when everyone you knew who was online was probably writing a blog. They were definitely reading them.

We followed the logic of our available technology at the time and used the internet to broadcast our creative work. We all had blogs. We figured out how to post videos online before youtube. Starting with the blogspot templates, some of us learned some crude coding so we could customize our websites in ill-advised ways.

In fact, the blog editor panel invited this kind of tinkering. The html was right there, you just had to start typing. The designers of this technology left an open invitation: be creative, make it your own. Create your piece of the internet as you see fit.

As I’ve experienced it since these heady days, the internet has been on a steady march toward automation. Even the first version of facebook I participated in (c. 2008) was insanely (and inanely) chaotic compared to today’s unified experience. Before the Timeline, we had a Profile that could be customized in many ways (though even this paled in the customization possible [and expected!] of a MySpace page).

I’ve begun to think of these late stages of Web 2.0 we’re in as an automated factory. Everything is automated within the high walls of our online mega corporations, where slaking the data-thirst of The Algorithm is the business model. They don’t need your thoughts on this or that, they only need the next set of pixels that will arrest attention for a few seconds longer and teach the machine what it is you really want to see so it can be delivered in an ever-narrowing form of pure attentional lust. Media is custom-made for the medium, created for consumption.

Distribution is automated. Create the right content and the machines will show it to an audience. It will in fact “go viral,” a label that used to be reserved for a once-a-year or so phenomenon. Virality is a daily occurrence on the newest platforms. It’s the business model.

Manufacturing is (mostly) automated. “Content creation” would seem to be the area where creativity still shines through. With billions of individuals inhabiting these environments, you would think you could come across something unique or even shocking in its creativity. This is the great deceit though. You may create the content, but to be successful (to be seen by an audience, the essential value of social media) you must capture the attention of the means of distribution. Without that you will not be seen, and to not be seen is the great failure of social media. (As Wilde might have it, even worse than being seen in increasingly embarrassing ways. “Cringe” is an entire sub-genre where people have made themselves famous. If capturing attention is the value it’s better to be famously embarrassed than obscure with your dignity.) In Alan Jacobs’s phrase, we are constantly directed “towards the frivolous or the malicious.” 

Distribution rewards content conformity. The designers want it this way, that’s why they have provided the creative tools within the app. You don’t have to go to any other photo-editor where you might be tempted toward originality (or worse, leave the compound and spend time in an offline app where they cannot make money on you). Have you tried this new filter that makes you look like a deer? You should try it. It’s fun. Everyone is doing it and it makes you unique.

As Vonnegut shows in Player Piano, with automation comes idleness and with idleness disaffection. What I haven’t understood until recently is that I was a pretty fulfilled factory worker before the current state of affairs. I was making stuff. Like the most skilled machinist who used to delight in lathing perfect parts with tight tolerances until on his last day of work his actions were programmed into the machine and it now continues to make his perfect parts day and night. It need only stop for occasional maintenance, while he has permanently stopped in front of his television.

What to do? Well, I have decided to enlist in the Reeks and Wrecks of Web 2.0. Reconstructing a piece of the internet that was a channel for individual creation rather than mass-attuned virality. Reclaiming a bit of space where I can create, because if you aren’t creating something you are likely going to be replaced and spend your days watching algorithmic feeds.

The point is decidedly not to build an audience, but rather a project of repairing my own broken attention and wresting it away from the consumption of frivolity. Out here in the internet wilds maybe we can find some small shards of value. Reconstructing a blog and reclaiming what tiny turf I can make by hand in whatever way I want seems like a way forward.

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