I remember when I first spent time in my college’s music library. The sheer magnitude of music available was a jolt of electricity and a continued revelation throughout my time there.
Now, of course, a physical archive of commercial recordings is utterly pointless. The magnitude of music available on any smartphone dwarfs what was available in that library. I can hear anything – anything! – I want to hear, wherever I am.
Still and all, I wish for kids the revelation I felt.
There’s something about having your eyes opened that helps you to really see the landscape. Seeing out a plane window for the first time changes how you see the world. Seeing a Monet or a Rembrandt painting in person is a completely revelatory experience, compared to seeing a print or a digital copy. Saying “I love you” for the first time changes your worldview.
Those are all parallels to how I felt when I suddenly had access to vast collections of music I’d never heard. But having it available for your entire life is different. It’s just as some might come to take “I love you” for granted, or as someone who grows up in a home where a Monet is hanging might end up ignoring it, or as people debate whether aisle or window seats are better. The beauty becomes background noise, and you don’t notice or appreciate it.
I celebrate every day, being able to listen to any music I want. But I wonder whether that celebration would be there if there were never a time before I had that available to me.
(Not coincidentally, that music library is now closed, its space repurposed for other uses.)