Navneet Alang

There’s something to be said for stumbling upon genius. In the age of the feed, one is so often mired in a flow of the ordinary that it can feel remarkable to be struck by something, moved by it, even awed. This was once more common in our lives in front of screens, when blogging and social media felt more like places to share things one loved rather than things one finds outrageous, terrifying or merely exasperating (each sentiments generated by the avatar of our times, Donald Trump).

Anyway: I came across a some videos of Canadian jazz legend Oscar Peterson being asked to explain some aspect of himself or his style or his approach — whether how he plays the rhythm section with one hand and the melody with another; how his unusually large hands affected his playing style; or why he chooses to play one tune rather than another.

(As as aside, on that latter subject, Peterson says that he is drawn to creating tension in music and then resolving it, a technique or approach that is common in North Indian classical music)

Peterson is clearly a genius, but he’s also someone who can do with ease what most people couldn’t do after a lifetime of practice. It’s remarkable to see someone who in the smallest ways displays a depth of knowledge of skill that reflects a lifetime of thought, effort and practice.

I think it’s a good thing of which to be reminded: that we get to live in a world in which brilliant people are compelled to create beautiful brilliant things and we get to enjoy them. Or rather, we don’t just get to enjoy them; we get to be changed by them, upended by them, transformed.

In my attempts to turn into a walking cliche, I recently got a record player. It seems so obvious in retrospect — that in addition to the pourover coffee and carbon steel cookware and shelves lined with what seem like too many books, I would get into vinyl.

Still, the idea wasn’t to pick up yet another affectation, at least not consciously. I’m not sure I yet really care about analogue sound or the romance of liner notes and a physical collection. I have no interest at all in caring about the supposed sound quality benefits; beyond not really being true, audiophilia, I’m increasingly convinced, is a kind of mental sickness.

What is compelling about vinyl, however, is purposeful listening — that rather than the unmoored, floating experience of my Spotify algorithm, one instead listens to an album. (These are, I realize, hardly revelatory assertions or ideas.)

Still, the thing about the album and vinyl in particular is that there is a physical barrier to just skipping tracks. You’re more inclined to sit through it, even if you haven’t loved those tracks before. In my case, with my new and extremely limited collection, it was the more experimental wanderings of Brad Mehldau on parts of Largo that I had to sit with and be challenged by. It’s fine. Good even. It’s nice to find a reason to appreciate something.

But then, that’s the thing one misses about the “old web” sometimes — that you are confronted by things and in facing them, you recognize their brilliance or see it anew. Isn’t that the whole thing, really? What else could you want more in times like these than to find a reason to like something?