Every Song Ever

Every Song Ever: Twenty Ways to Listen in an Age of Musical Plenty is a title that is designed to grab me, specifically me. It also has a couple subtle pieces of misdirection in it. “Every song ever” and “musical plenty” seem to be talking about the endless Spotify playlist that we all listen to, music from every land and age becoming ever more accessible. “Ways to listen” to music that can accommodate this wide open world seems like rich territory to explore. I was looking forward to a master writer introduce some new ways of breaking down and listening, some new ways to explore.

That's certainly part of Ratliff's project, but it very quickly becomes clear that Ratliff thinks that any grand systems of taxonomy or replacements for the genre markers that once guided record buyers in a Sam Goody's are doomed to fail. His twenty ways of listening are not the only twenty ways of listening, not even the best twenty ways of listening. Just twenty of his ways of listening. If we accept this, than the project of the book becomes more modest. We're not thinking of new taxonomies at all, merely observing that there are techniques and spirits that animate music that manifest differently across musical traditions, and an open listener has it in their power to appreciate music in this new way.

Which, by the way, is not that different from the old way. Ratliff makes the implicit argument that genre as a system of classification is tied to the mid-20th century record industry and should be thought of as a historical anomaly. If this is so, as I think it is, what came before? Every Song Ever is an exercise in the tradition building written about by T.S. Eliot in “Tradition and the Individual Artist:”

No poet, no artist of any art, has his complete meaning alone. His significance, his appreciation is the appreciation of his relation to the dead poets and artists. You cannot value him alone; you must set him, for contrast and comparison, among the dead. I mean this as a principle of æsthetic, not merely historical, criticism. The necessity that he shall conform, that he shall cohere, is not one-sided; what happens when a new work of art is created is something that happens simultaneously to all the works of art which preceded it. The existing monuments form an ideal order among themselves, which is modified by the introduction of the new (the really new) work of art among them. The existing order is complete before the new work arrives; for order to persist after the supervention of novelty, the whole existing order must be, if ever so slightly, altered; and so the relations, proportions, values of each work of art toward the whole are readjusted; and this is conformity between the old and the new. Whoever has approved this idea of order, of the form of European, of English literature, will not find it preposterous that the past should be altered by the present as much as the present is directed by the past. And the poet who is aware of this will be aware of great difficulties and responsibilities.

I love the idea of this book: To expand the reader's musical horizons and deepen their understanding by grouping music pieces not by genres or time periods, but by cross-cutting and tantalizingly amorphous qualities and attributes, such as slowness, quietness, intimacy, virtuosity, sadness, etc.

I also love the diversity of styles among the pieces that the author highlights (each chapter ends with a specific list of music tracks, ranging from Duke Ellington to Drake, most of which are nowadays accessible via subscription services like Apple Music, Spotify, or, in my case, Tidal). The book helped me discover new musicians by encouraging exploration with a music player: you'll want to carve out 2-3 hours, put on your best headphones, and read a chapter while clicking around on the computer. It's a wonderful rabbit-hole to descend into.

Unfortunately, with some exceptions, the bulk of the narrative is too brisk with the factual material on one hand (I wish the author, who is clearly a walking encyclopedia of music, would dwell on some of the concrete topics or would dig more into history) and, on the other hand, too heavy on the abstract, the music-theoretical, and the know-it-all attitude. So, sadly, I gave up after several chapters. The frustrations of reading overpowered the joys of discovery. To give an example passage, which I kinda get, with lots of re-reading, but don't get much out of:

“If you understand music as free enterprise, which is how most people in America have understood it since the decline of the piano in the living room—the mid-1970's, pretty much—then the spectrum of quietness, intimacy, and silence in music might seem a form of selfishness or self-sabotage. It is not wanting to be heard, or only wanting to be heard on your own terms. But if you listen another way, the quiet impulse might be a populist idea. It might reach more people. It is an expression of civility. It is not trying to interrupt or drown out anything else. It allows for the rest of life to be heard. And it connects to a much greater pool of history and human expression.”

If that kind of writing is music to your ears (ha!), you will love “Every Song Ever”. Otherwise, proceed with caution, maybe see if your library has this title.