Music has always been one of our favorite ways to disagree.
Nothing turns a pair of faces over 40 sour faster than the buzzing beat of electronic music, colloquially known as EDM, crashing through the windows of their Toyota Prius as they pray for the light to turn green. It’s the kind of music that shakes stuff – the kind of music you can’t really ignore. And to a pair of classically trained ears, it can sound like a power generator imploding on itself in a chaotic mess of synthetic sound.
I used to hate it. Like many of EDM’s critics, I saw the music as a reflection of the audience it drew. As a writer, I was artistically offended (if something that lofty and pretentious even exists) by a genre of expression that seemed to fuel and profit from the mindless head bobbing of sweaty college crowds.
For certain performers this might be closer to the truth. The very use of the word “performer” to describe electronic artists reveals how co-opted the music has become by the rave and festival scenes. But this isn’t true of all EDM artists, or even most of them, and the reason it took me this long to notice is so obvious, it’s frightening:
I wasn’t listening.
More accurately, perhaps, I wasn’t listening very hard. I was too thrown off by the rude novelty of the sounds to care if they worked toward any meaning underneath. In retrospect I see how superficial that approach can be. It’s a little like throwing a book in the trash because it starts with a word you’ve never heard before.
Anybody with a morsel of creativity knows that’s the kind of book you want to read. Good writing, like good music, is challenging to us – we can only tell the same stories, in the same tired language, for so long. But while styles may shift and evolve, it has always been the intention of the writer – or composer, or artist – that matters most.
The things you really care about are the things you should write about. And the things you really care about can’t be tailored for an audience. What’s most important is the idea you have, and the energy you can put behind it. It’s so easy to fall into the usual traps, thinking you have to produce something people will like. There are a thousand ways to make art, but seeking the approval of others isn’t one of them.
It took me a long time to understand that, and even now it’s a lesson I’m struggling with. I think it’s the kind of lesson you never fully learn. Writing is beautiful because it has the power to transport us, to whatever dewdrop or universe the mind might conjure up – but we must be careful not to lose ourselves along the way. We must abandon hope of somehow finding the “right words,” and settle for the words that come to us. In time, we may realize this isn’t really settling at all.
The words that come are the words we need.
Metawhimsical 