a dark room, a record player and a box full of vinyl

Three years ago, I began an informal "listening club" with my only two friends who appreciated an eclectic array of music. This was also right about the time when vinyl was making a resurgence, and my very kind aunt bequeathed unto me her 30-year-old turntable, a spare needle, and the remaining scraps of what used to be quite a formidable record collection (Abbey Road, Sgt. Pepper, etc). On top of this, I dug out my mom's old collection (some David Bowie, Led Zeppelin, Elton John, etc) and began searching for some obscure records on eBay – modern, experimental/ambient albums, rather than the standard pop records of the 60s/70s.

Anyways, this listening club had a few rules:

Once a record starts, it doesn't stop.

Everyone gets a turn to pick an album.

Do not interrupt the album unless you are dying.

And so, we would gather about once a week in the darkness of each others' basements and worshipped sound together, filling the emptiness with reverberating waves of pure analog aesthetics – scratchy needles, dusty album, the occasional pop or hiss.

One album in particular that was a sheer revelation to all three of us was Bass Communion + Pig's "Live In Mexico" LP. We were all fans of Bass Communion, but had never heard this album before, so we sat in the dark together, anxiously waiting for the sounds to come through our speakers...and then it hit. As if a gaping portal to the underworld opened through the stereo speakers, 120 decibels of pure noise anger flooded the room! It was physically binding. I don't remember blinking, or breathing or thinking, but just basking in this sinister delight.

And it was better than any film, or any concert, or any novel or video game I had yet experienced.

At this point in my life, I already loved music and sound. I was learning about recording, playing various instruments, songwriting, etc. However, it opened my ears to a new way of hearing – a better way of hearing.

When I stripped away all of the distracting elements of usual life, and when I elevated the music to a level above convenience (rather than listening on an mp3 player through cheap earbuds on a busy bus or street or cafe or whatever), and I really, really listened to the sounds, I found there's a real power, a real value in these invisible sound waves.

When I took the time, and the effort, and the inconvenience to appreciate something that dozens of people spent dozens of weeks planning, practicing, producing and perfecting, I found a real respect for the medium. I found something greater than a catchy hook or a cool-sounding guitar tone. It was a step beyond, and I've been searching for it ever since.

(I apologize for the length and for the pseudo-haughtiness of this post; it is moderately tongue in cheek)