In Recovery from Television

In July, I moved to a new condo and joined the ranks of homeowners dreaming the American dream. (So far, at least.) In the process, I didn’t transfer my cable TV and was thus without network television (local or otherwise) for about six months. (I got basic cable again about a month ago—more of that later.) I have to say that the experience helped my thinking generally—I read more, listened to (a little more) music, and generally felt my mind was somehow clearer than it had been with the television almost constantly on.

Of course, there are some real drawbacks to a life without any television at all. Lots of people watch TV, of course, and an observation about a favorite show can be a great conversation-starter. TV references abound in my lectures—or they used to—and they can be an effective (if somewhat coarse) method of making unfamiliar ideas or people more accessible. (Seinfeld has worked well for this purpose, but I don’t imagine that will continue much longer.) And I missed the final season of The Shield, one of the few TV shows I thought was actually well made. The problem, of course, was that I didn’t simply watch good television; I watched too much, well, very bad television.

But in January, as the new season of Lost was approaching and I realized it would cost only a few dollars more than I was already spending for my cable internet service, I decided to reactivate basic cable. I deliberately eschewed all the bells and whistles that I’d previously enjoyed: DVR, HD TV, endless channels that I couldn’t watch even if I didn’t have a job. And I wondered if I’d get hooked again.

Well, now it’s almost March and my television-watching is still under control. I watch Lost; sometimes I watch news. But one night I started watching Supernatural and got bored after about 10 minutes, so I decided to read instead. That’s a good development.

The Saddest Music

I was talking to my friend Chris Hill tonight about Rattle’s performance of Mahler 9. (It had been recommended by my friend Tobias Hünermann.) I bought it—months ago—but still haven’t listened to it. The reason? I feel as if I need to have a certain store of emotional strength to listen to it. Otherwise I become inconsolably depressed. I think the last time I listened to it was, oh, 1992—that's how deeply it affects me. Right now, I’m absolutely sure I don’t have the fortitude I need. For instance, lots of great animals in my life have died: the first was Lori’s cat Julio; then Kari’s cat Joon followed a few months later; then my own wonderful Chococat over the Christmas break. And just today Laurel’s dog Magy died. Animals are like children to me. So I’m certainly not ready for Mahler 9 anytime soon.

I’ve been wondering why it seems to me that all the saddest music I know comes from when I was younger. The second movement of Tippett’s Double Concerto; Barber, Knoxville: Summer of 1915; Albinoni Adagio; second movement of Tippett’s first piano sonata (why Tippett?); Duran Duran, Ordinary World. I think I was 33 when I heard the Duran Duran and that’s the last sad song I remember hearing as sad. Have I become immune to sad music now that I’m older? Do I feel less deeply? Or have I simply become less self-indulgent?

Strangest of all are the pieces that sometimes seem sad to me and sometimes don’t: Reich’s Music for Eighteen Musicians is one, but so are “Mache dich” from the St. Matthew Passion and Howard Shore’s closing credits music for The Two Towers. What accounts for the difference? It can’t be a question of quality alone. Does it come, perhaps, from the power of the memory with which the sad music is associated? And if that's true, might I someday have a wonderful memory associated with Mahler 9 that will make it possible for me to hear it as often as I’d like?