Ordinary language is all right.
One could divide humanity into two classes:
those who master a metaphor, and those who hold by a formula.
Those with a bent for both are too few, they do not comprise a class.
I need to think about this more, but when trying to push an idea related to this (about music affording certain kinds of experiences and activities) in a seminar, I met resistance related to the usual line of criticism of secondary properties. James O. Young is supposed to have something to do with this in Art and Knowledge, which I cannot at the moment recommend, but at the moment I also can't say what it has to do with it. But. My intuition is that this affordance thing works despite it possibly not working to think of say the affective qualities of music as secondary properties. Why? Not sure right now. But it should have something to do with the entrance of function on the scene, even (especially) in the case of a song affording certain emotonal experiences. That is, the trick is to put it in terms of what the listener is doing, not what it is about the song that the listener can come to know (i.e. attribute to it in some intersubjectively valid way).
Yeah, I know. Just pretend like you skipped this entry.
Another quote, this one from Raimond Gaita's A Common Humanity, p. 26. He is writing in part to argue for a richer understanding of the worth of others than traditional talk of obligations seems to support. The book seems to me very deep and thoughtful so far, and I'm taken enough by what the quote says indirectly about love that it seems a little crass to post it for the reason I originally intended, which is that I think understanding how we value art depends heavily on recognizing the ways in which our relationships with records are often much like the ways we interact with people, most importantly the ones we love. I don't really think it's that crass, though, since I would rather understand this with people, first. Anyway.
"Our sense of the preciousness of other people is connected with their power to affect us in ways we cannot fathom and in ways against we can protect ourselves only at the cost of becoming shallow. There is nothing reasonable in the fact that another person's absence can make our lives seem empty. The power of human beings to affect one another in ways beyond reason and beyond merit has offended rationalists and moralists since the dawn of thought, but it is partly what yields to us that sense of human individuality which we express when we say that human beings are unique and irreplacable. Such attachments, and the joy and the grief which they may cause, condition our sense of the preciousness of human beings. Love is the most important of them."
A reason why to often not put much emphasis on whether or not a person is right about what they think about a record: if we're interested in understanding why the record is important to them, why it's meaningful, how it affects them, then often the "wrong" things that they think are just as or more important than the "right" ones. If I hear a record as sad, quibbling with me over whether or not I am really experiencing sadness or some other more subtle or esoteric emotion because of some independent characterization you can give of the music ("when listening objectively others agree that this record sounds reservedly hopeful") seems to implicitly denigrate its importance for me.
The other week a student (a conducting major I think) in my philosophy of music seminar asked me to list my favorite records. I actually tried to list them - in the past year or two I have tried to avoid doing so. But I mostly just tried to recall what I put down the last time I wrote a list (this one here I think). I did a poor job, but adequate I suppose. I think I might have said these: The Curtain Hits the Cast, Kind of Blue and Bitches Brew, Crescent, Emergency & I, Change, Music for 18 Musicians, the Musical Offering with Neville Mariner and the Academy of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, and I think Outkast. The thing I am most disappointed at leaving off is 69 Love Songs, because I have been thinking about and listening to them a lot lately.
He said it was a broad range of stuff. Oh, it gets broader.
Sometimes I aspire to have this blog be a kind of improvisation.
But maybe it's more like the kind of improvisation on the Monk track from the Riverside box where you can hear him practicing "Round Midnight" in the studio for about twenty minutes. He's improvising, but it's not for a record or a performance, so he gives himself more opportunities to test things, to start over, to double back.
If you think of records as (at least tentative or provisional or suggested) answers to questions, then one question for Emperor Tomato Ketchup - at least at times - might be "How much can a record sound like a rock record while being as fundamentally non-rock as possible?"
(Dots and Loops seems to me to not care about answering that question.)
I always lean in closer when "The Drum Thing" comes on on Crescent. It has something to do with the way Coltrane articulates his phrases - maybe it constantly seems to court fading away completely, not just at the beginnings and ends of phrases but during them too.
I'm not clear enough on the details of Deleuze's position (described below) to know whether what I'm going to suggest would better be thought of as another sort of image of thought, or a particular kind of thought in the image of problem solving or encounters with the unknown, as he advocates. But anyway.
This idea of an image of thought seems helpful along with this idea I mentioned, about taking improvisation in music more seriously in order to help better understand improvisation in other contexts. I had in mind very wide-ranging contexts: writing a paper, teaching a class, finding your way to a new place, talking with a new person, talking with a person you've known for a long time, cooking, making a mixtape, packing your suitcase for a trip, listening to a new record, listening to an old record, reading, friendship, love. This is not to say that these cannot be done in non-improvisatory, or less improvisatory, ways. Or that there are not degrees. For some it may be better, in certain circumstances, and for certain goals or criteria, to plan them out more. For some, planning seems to be of extremely limited use, and sometimes harmful or at least inhibiting. All can be done improvisationally. I think that doing them this way may often make them work out better, or negotiate unforseen problems more readily. Often when we do them and unforseen problems do arise, we do improvise. But I think we often do so unreflectively, or regard the improvisation as something we would rather not have to do. A better understanding of how improvisation works might make it seem more central, more vital, might help us recognize the ways it's always there, even if in a sort of suppressed form.
I especially have in mind a picture of improvisation like Paul Berliner's in Thinking in Jazz, which I am unfortunately not able to give an apt summation of at the moment. But the emphasis he puts on a couple things seems key. His book is organized following the life path of an improviser: background conditions and musical knowledge the improviser brings to the practice, the way the improviser learns to improvise initially by learning from other musicians and trying for themselves, the way the improviser's technique develops over time in response to their continued attention and interaction with other musicians. Also, Berliner does well making the resources that improvisers have to draw on seem - I don't know, real, thick somehow, making it clear that it's nothing as naive as "they just get up and play whatever they want", while also not slipping into "they just figure out a bunch of riffs to play beforehand". Elements of improvisation like these seem to have direct analogues in the activities above, and emphasizing their importance in musical improvisation is important if the activities are to be meaningfully described as improvisation, since our typical understandings of them seem to often involve drawing on a store or reserve or experience that somehow guides us aside from the contingencies introduced by the improvisational context, and the idea that somehow we can get better at them over time while still never mastering them.