Dazzling and original, Sonata for Jukebox is a brilliant foray into how pop music has woven itself into our lives since the dawn of the recording age. Geoffrey O'Brien delves into twentieth-century pop music as we experience it: a phenomenon that is at once public and private, personal yet popular. O'Brien's book is more than a history of pop music, although fragments of t
Dazzling and original, Sonata for Jukebox is a brilliant foray into how pop music has woven itself into our lives since the dawn of the recording age. Geoffrey O'Brien delves into twentieth-century pop music as we experience it: a phenomenon that is at once public and private, personal yet popular. O'Brien's book is more than a history of pop music, although fragments of that history find their way into its pages. And it reaches far beyond a memoir, although it is an entertaining biography of the author's ears and his family's exceptional affinity, with pop music--his father was a leading New York DJ and his grandfather led a dance band in Philadelphia. Ultimately, it is an exploration of what we as listeners hear, what we think we hear, and how we connect that experience with the rest of our lives. The dizzying array of musical references plays like a sound-track as O'Brien explores how our lives are lived in the presence--and in the memory of the presence--of music.
...more
Paperback
,
336 pages
Published
April 6th 2005
by Counterpoint
(first published March 25th 2004)
One star knocked off for being borderline incomprehensible at times.
It turns out that Geoffrey O'Brien is the smarter brother I never had, and when he cranks up his typewriter after a few light ales and brandies some rather crazed things begin to happen. In this example he's on about the Beach Boys - hold on to your hat - :
The ripples of that tropical surf might be the last dawdling vibrations of some Gnostic manifestation. A molecular poetry, modular and self-sustaining, had been allowed to esc
One star knocked off for being borderline incomprehensible at times.
It turns out that Geoffrey O'Brien is the smarter brother I never had, and when he cranks up his typewriter after a few light ales and brandies some rather crazed things begin to happen. In this example he's on about the Beach Boys - hold on to your hat - :
The ripples of that tropical surf might be the last dawdling vibrations of some Gnostic manifestation. A molecular poetry, modular and self-sustaining, had been allowed to escape, like the light on an ancient star, from that Void whose centrality we found curiously reassuring. Was there a difference between lushness and nothingness? Didn't the most austere mystical vision of the heart and creation merge at the very crux where 'is' met 'is-not' with a hand-tinted postcard from Maui printed in 1905?
I like a man who takes his Beach Boys seriously but when they seem to have been merged with Wittgenstein at the genetic level, like in The Fly, it's BEACHGENSTEIN - run! - then I might just call for the check and kind of sneak out of the bar and leave old Geoffrey still demonstrating how "Sally Go Round the Roses" foreshadows Chernobyll and how you can't get a cigarette paper between the weltenschauung of Smokey Robinson and Stephen Hawking and how David Byrne on the evidence of "Once in a Lifetime" alone is clearly a follower of Jacques Derrida ("And you may ask yourself how did I get here? is this my beautiful house?").
But I do like the way this guy writes about music. Except that he often wastes his time on the wrong sort of stuff. You know, stuff I'm not that interested in. So I have a plan. Using my considerable resources, I will have Geoffrey O'Brien kidnapped and put in a plain but comfortable room many miles from civilisation. He will be well looked after. He will have writing materials and a cd player. I will then begin issuing to him, cd by cd, my entire record collection. He will buy his freedom by writing ten pages of his outrageous prose on each of my selections. The task will be daunting, it may take a couple of years, there will be tears and tantrums, some heartache and a few chuckles too before we finish. And at the end of it all we will have a three thousand page manuscript that only I will ever want to read. But sometimes you have to suffer for your art, don't you think? I know that Geoffrey will at first be resentful but eventually he will see that this will be his greatest, most essential work. Keep checking the news for "Mysterious Disappearance of Hifalutin Music Writer". You read it here first.
Everybody, well almost everybody, listens to music and loves some kind of music, be it what's hot at the moment or the sounds of one's childhood. Then there are "music people." Not necessarily musicians, but people for whom music is more than a soundtrack to life, it's inextricably intertwined with their lives. I'm one of those people, and Geoffrey O'Brien's book is by one of us for the rest of us. In lyrical prose O'Brien captures both the nostalgia for and the urgency of the music of/in his li
Everybody, well almost everybody, listens to music and loves some kind of music, be it what's hot at the moment or the sounds of one's childhood. Then there are "music people." Not necessarily musicians, but people for whom music is more than a soundtrack to life, it's inextricably intertwined with their lives. I'm one of those people, and Geoffrey O'Brien's book is by one of us for the rest of us. In lyrical prose O'Brien captures both the nostalgia for and the urgency of the music of/in his life. The author is a bit older than me, eight years, but we lived through the same musical times, at least starting in 1964, when Beatlemania turned an eight-year-old me into a music person. Rather than an uninterrupted through-narrative, the book contains a number of individual pieces using varying narrative strategies, some more effective than others. A blurb on the back cover makes an apt allusion to Proust, but for me the book's tour de force is the opening section, ostensibly a rumination on Burt Bacharach; its meanderings, along with its erudition, and that "how did he get there from here?" wonderment, suggests that this is, perhaps, how Montaigne might have written had he grown up with Top-40 radio.
...more
"Each listener's personal history can be stitched together from recollections of first encounters, recollections that in due course become private legends.... It's the peculiar faculty of music to make each such first meeting, in retrospect, a snapshot of what the world was at that moment. Sound is the most absorbent medium of all, soaking up histories and philosophical systems and physical surroundings and encoding them in something so slight as a single vocal quaver or icy harpsichord interjec
"Each listener's personal history can be stitched together from recollections of first encounters, recollections that in due course become private legends.... It's the peculiar faculty of music to make each such first meeting, in retrospect, a snapshot of what the world was at that moment. Sound is the most absorbent medium of all, soaking up histories and philosophical systems and physical surroundings and encoding them in something so slight as a single vocal quaver or icy harpsichord interjection. The listener wants not merely to hear the beloved record again but to hear it always for the first time." (14)
...more
Some of the more autobiographical essays in this collection can be read as companion pieces to his wonderful short stories in "Dreamtime". It's a very personal, idiosyncratic collection, so if you're looking for a cohesive philosophy of music or some sort of survey of the development of popular recorded music you'll likely be disappointed, but these essays reveal O'Brien to be an acute and sensitive observer of the place music holds in our mental world.
“Yet the laboriously sought musical epiphany rarely compares to the unsought, even unwanted tune whose ambush is violent and sudden: the song the cab driver was tuned to, the song rumbling from the speaker wedged against the fire-escape railing, the song tingling from the transistor on the beach blanket. To locate those songs again can become, with age, something like a religious quest, as suggested by the frequent use of the phrase "Holy Grail" to describe hard-to-find tracks. The collector is haunted by the knowledge that somewhere on the planet an intact chunk of his past still exists, uncorrupted by time or circumstance.”
—
4 likes
“The age of recording is necessarily an age of nostalgia--when was the past so hauntingly accessible?--but its bitterest insight is the incapacity of even the most perfectly captured sound to restore the moment of its first inscribing. That world is no longer there.”
—
3 likes