There are days when music speaks to us, and others when it seems to murmur from behind frosted glass. And it isn’t the music’s fault. It isn’t that a piece has lost its power, or that a record we once revered now sounds pale. It’s us, unable to reach it. Because listening — really listening — asks for something close to a ceremony. Listening is an act of surrender, and we aren’t always willing, or ready, for that level of openness.
In an age where everything is speed and background noise, it’s worth remembering how important it is to seek out and protect the moments set aside for listening to music. I don’t mean having it on, but creating the right conditions for music to exist fully within us. The difference is as subtle as it is crucial. Listening to jazz in traffic might be practical, but it’s almost a betrayal of Coltrane. Bach doesn’t suit a gym’s broken headphones. And even the lightest pop deserves a space where it isn’t just a soundtrack for washing up.
Every style demands its own kind of attention. The minimalism of Philip Glass needs air, mental space, something close to meditation. Flamenco, visceral fire, demands skin and presence. Intelligent electronic music won’t tolerate being rushed. Some music wants you to embrace it; other music wants you to throw yourself in. Some can walk beside you like a discreet shadow. Some demand the absolute centre of your inner world for an hour. Understanding this is also a form of loving music.
But we can’t always manage it. And here lies one of the most human truths about listening: our capacity to listen isn’t constant. There are days when a sublime record slides off us like cold water. Others, when a minor EP gets under our skin completely. And it isn’t (only) about the quality of the work, but about our state of mind. Every devoted audiophile has felt that frustration of knowing they’re in front of a magnificent record… yet feeling unable to get inside it. Other times, we devour songs hungrily, as if the music had found us exactly when we needed it.
Just as we don’t eat the same way every day, we don’t listen the same way every day either. There are hungry days, and indifferent ones. What makes the difference isn’t only what’s playing, but what inner mode we’re in. There’s a «listening mode» that doesn’t switch on by default. It comes on quietly, with presence, with a willingness to open up. And when that mode switches on, even a record we know by heart can feel like a revelation.
That’s why the right to silence, to pause, to the space needed to prepare ourselves to listen, is worth defending. Not to turn music into a religion, but to give it back its sacred value. Music owes us nothing. It’s we who must go and seek it out. And when we truly do, it always answers.
By Jordi Amela