When at ten minutes past three in the morning on Friday the guitarist Graham Coxson started with the epic riff of Song 2, the audience at Primavera Sound stepped on the summit. Seeing and hearing the Blur interpret such an iconic song was for many the culmination of a great night; the time to dance without brake; to sing at the top of their lungs (the English with the good tone that they learn in the pubs and, those from around here, to their own); the opportunity to become the most viral video selfie. "It's not my problem," Damon Albarn proclaimed from the stage.
In situations like this, the comforting feeling of belonging to the same community is activated in each of those present. Seeing others carried away by the same festive outburst that makes you move and get closer to the stage reaffirms your enjoyment of this ephemeral pleasure.
Something similar happens in stadiums when the action of scoring a goal generates a sudden burst of shared joy. People who don't know each other at all can hug each other in full swing, even in societies as little effusive as the Catalan one.
But it is evident that the impulse that motivates the enjoyment of soccer is more basic (or, if you prefer, less complex) than the one that leads us to listen to the same song over and over again.
The issue –nothing less– of why we like the songs that we like is the one addressed by the teacher, sound engineer and producer Susan Rogers in her book This is what it sounds like. What the Music you Love Says About you (Vintage), which Blackie Books will publish in Spanish. Rogers and the journalist Marta Salicrú spoke about what the songs we like say about us at the Primavera Pro conference.
Rogers, who was Prince's sound engineer on Purple Rain, pinpoints the internal processes that cause a song to pump dopamine into our brains: authenticity; realism (what your mind wants to see when you listen to a song); novelty; melody, lyrics, rhythm and timbre. “A good theme does not have to be perfect –she explained-, since the profile of each person is different from the other. If you're more into melodies, you don't need a funky drummer, you already have Beethoven, who appeals to you”.
Rogers has a suggestive expression to define this search for our own musical identity: “I wrote this book to help you better understand the street you live on, even if (like me) you can't tell an A sharp from a B flat”. In his opinion, this learning allows you to improve your connection with music and enjoy it more, as well as getting to know yourself better.
This reflection is at the origin of the happy moment that you live live before the riff of Song 2 or when listening to the verses of Kendrick Lamar's Alright: the feeling that you live on the same street as the people around you, although in London style festival girl on your left is stimulated more by rhythm than by melody and you, unlike the Nottingham tourist on your right, put originality before lyrics.
The value of the face-to-face experience that is lived in a festival is not a minor issue. Interacting in space, time and interest with the public and artists is the best way to resist the advance of the standardizing algorithm.
In full dizzying development of Artificial Intelligence (AI), it is urgent to learn to identify those factors that make the face-to-face experience not only more authentic, but also more stimulating. Learn to identify those who live in our same street. And celebrate with them.
This week a suspicion has been confirmed: young people understand what they read less and less. In Catalonia, the deficit in reading comprehension is particularly embarrassing. And music? Do we understand why we like the songs we like? Will the next generations appreciate the goldsmithing of analog composers who activate our neural networks in a differentiated and unipersonal way, or will they settle for canned music for a chat? Susan Rogers's work points the (good) way.
