Headphones 4 comments

By Andy Whitman

I would have fallen in love with music in any case, but headphones hastened the process. My aqua transistor radio, a nearly constant childhood companion, was fine as a basic transmitter of tinny, monaural sound. But it was woefully lacking in, shall we say, sonic nuance.

And so, early in my high school years, music opened up to me in entirely new ways when I purchased a real stereo system, complete with bass and treble controls and speakers with exotic components called tweeters and woofers and sub-woofers. But the crowning touch was the Koss headphones.

For the uninitiated, Koss headphones in the 1970s were roughly the size and shape of large cereal bowls, one on each side of the head. They completely engulfed each ear and blocked out any other sounds. And they were particularly impressive late at night, when the lights were out and I was in bed.

In the absence of any other stimuli, I was free to focus my full attention on those astonishingly clear sounds and to lose myself in new worlds. Certain albums and certain songs simply sounded better when I wore those headphones. Some music, in fact, could not be fully appreciated without them.

I particularly recall the ending of an Emerson, Lake, and Palmer album where Keith Emerson’s keyboards bounced from left channel to right channel, then back again, the music ping-ponging across my skull. It was like hearing—really hearing—music for the first time.

The irony isn’t lost on me that I suffered a significant hearing loss in desiring to focus more intently on the music I loved. Headphones, of course, can be wonderful tools when used judiciously. But I didn’t use them judiciously. I used them as the equivalent of gazillion megawatt speakers, blasting those amazing sounds into what turned out to be surprisingly fragile eardrums. The legacy of those days—two hearing aids—now serves as a constant reminder of the high cost of pursuing hipster glory. Who needs earrings when you can sport matching Oticon 370VTs?

I still have those old Koss headphones. They still work, although, for fairly obvious reasons, I’m reluctant to strap them over those mutinous ears. More importantly, I’m not really sure that I would use them even if my ears were undamaged. It’s not because of what I would hear, but because of what I would not hear.

Headphones block out the world. That might be fine if the world presents no pressing demands. It’s not fine when the goal is to escape those pressing demands, and I have developed some expertise as an escape artist, with secondary proficiencies in procrastination, rationalization, and willful denial. Music, as wondrous as it is, can often aid and abet that process.

There are a thousand distractions and diversions out there, all promising instant gratification. And I realize now that the headphones offered a convenient, albeit often revelatory, distraction. They offered the aural equivalent of 3-D films, and the “wow” factor sometimes obscured the more mundane problems of song structure or lyrical inanity.

It’s Lent, and in true Jesus Freak Protestant fashion I’m trying to honor the spirit of Lent without getting ritualistic and rule-oriented about it. So I’m giving up music for a while, the “while” more or less bounded by the forty days of Lent and unbounded by the fact that I still have albums to review and deadlines to meet.

I also know that listening to music has the potential to be a life-giving activity, and I don’t want to lose sight of that in a zealous attempt to impose austerity on my life. But I understand the value of slowing down, stopping, eliminating the many distractions in order to focus more clearly on what really matters. And I recognize my ever-present tendency to escape, to take what can be good and even holy and to refashion it into a disfigured idol. I am, in short, trying to be discerning, trying to find the balance.

When I first encountered the magic of headphones the most attractive facet of that experience was the discovery of clarity. It was akin to turning the radio dial just a notch, moving from a static-filled, distant, indistinct signal to a brave new world of musical nuance and beauty.

I heard fingers brushing guitar strings. I heard the intake of breath before a singer launched into a rousing chorus. And then I turned it up, reasoning that a good thing would be made even better by more, always more, by reveling in the sheer wonder of a glorious racket.

Now I am trying to turn it off, again for the sake of clarity. The world—and indeed the musical world—continues to be insistent, loud, and demanding. But the voice I’m striving to hear is quiet. There is no substitute for listening intently in the ordinary way, with the remnant of the ears I have left.