http://www.lirazelscastle.net/choir%20royal/Concerto%20No.%206%20in%20B%20flat%20major%20I%20[Allegro].mp3
Although the effect of the new MP3 player is not ideal, in basic terms it is still quite good. After testing, it seems that only some music files produce obvious popping noises during playback, while others can be played smoothly. Broadly speaking, the Flac format is better than APE, but some MP3 files are very choppy.
I bought a pair of headphones that cost about as much as an MP3 player, and indeed there is a difference! I only hope they will live a long, long life.
The MP3 player is truly a marvelous invention (of course, its earlier ancestor was the Walkman), and it provides a way of listening to music that was previously unimaginable: that is, enjoying music alone in the midst of a crowd. Originally, one of the main meanings of listening to music was to let one become “intoxicated by it,” suddenly lifted out of the original world, as if carried into another world altogether. For me, however, the strongest feeling of “stepping away” and transcendence comes neither at home nor in the theater, but precisely in the midst of a bustling crowd—watching the people around me busying themselves, I am busy too, for instance hurrying off to school… But once I put on my headphones and the music starts—whoosh, the whole world seems to change at once, and I suddenly no longer seem to belong to the world that had been there before. The busy people are still moving back and forth before my eyes, but I seem to be looking at them in a completely different way—yes, I seem to have become the spectator of this world, become God. I am both within it and utterly unrelated to the world around me… Only during the brief pauses between two pieces do the sounds of “this world” emerge once again, allowing the drifting soul a brief landing-place, before the next piece carries me into yet another mood…
When I listen to music, I try not to let my body remain still. When reading, there is no way to bob and sway, and one must also try to maintain one’s concentration on the text; so when reading and listening to music, one can only keep the body still while letting the mind move. But at other times I want to let the body move. Not dancing, of course—I never dance. Rather, walking or riding a bike. It is best to be hurrying along; if I cannot leave the spot too far behind (for example, during a class break or while waiting for someone), then I need to find a place to pace back and forth. Simply waving my hands or stamping my feet can of course also let the body share in the “rhythm,” but such movements in the midst of a crowd seem rather too conspicuous, and very easily are suppressed by me under my own self-scrutiny, or at least bring me some unease, so it becomes difficult to maintain an independent and at ease state. In fact, what transcends this world is only my “soul”; as one of the sights of this world, I myself am still busy here. When I am beholding this world in my own world, I am also beholding myself. Therefore, my own behavior must not be too conspicuous. But it also cannot remain motionless; otherwise, the impulse to move along with the rhythm has nowhere to be released, and either accumulates until it becomes uncomfortable, or wells up in a sudden, abrupt way, and in the end will all be noticed by me myself, thereby once again destroying that state of complete unselfconsciousness. Only the activity of walking or riding a bike can so naturally discharge the “rhythm” within the body that it is hardly noticed by oneself.
A few years ago, when I used MP3, what I mainly listened to were the mantras and dhāraṇīs of Tibetan Buddhism, and so besides bodily movement, I could also hum along with them. This was very much like the complete unity in what esoteric Buddhism calls “the mystery of body—the mystery of speech—the mystery of mind.” Such a state might be even a step higher than the classical music I listen to now—why must one hum mantras? Why not hum melodies or sing lyrics? Based on my own experience, the true meaning of mantras may lie precisely in the fact that they have no meaning at all—seemingly still speaking, yet each word is utterly meaningless; seemingly merely humming and murmuring, yet not simply producing sounds, but still possessing rules and rhythm. Through this, one can reach a certain mysteriously profound state: as if speaking yet not knowing what is spoken, as if moving yet unaware of what is moving, as if seeing yet not paying attention, as if thinking yet not knowing what is thought, as if present yet simultaneously standing apart from it all…
But classical music of course has its own advantages, and the harmony and beauty of its rhythm are unmatched. When one’s own rhythm is still unable to coordinate in a complete and seamless way, using the external force of classical music to stimulate one’s inner rhythm may be counted as a convenient expedient.
Of course, the me of now is somewhat different from the me of two years ago. In particular, I no longer wish to pursue any transcendent, mystical state, but instead want to return to being an ordinary person filled with vulgar desires. To plunge into the dense forest of concepts and hack one’s way through, and no longer be able to content oneself with “om ah hum.” But in any case, music is the best way to transcend concepts and enter a mystical, self-forgetting state.
This issue comes with the Brandenburg Concertos, which I never get tired of hearing. These are a fixed item on my MP3 player. I found a relatively fast link online, and it is the entire No. 6, not just the Allegro section. Of the six concertos, I do not seem to favor any one over the others, because each and every one can only be described as perfect. Of course, different versions sound quite different, but since I have always been content to remain an amateur when it comes to classical music, I have never paid attention to versions.
Translated from the Chinese original with AI assistance. The original text is authoritative.
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