In my late teens, as I drove through the highways of Los Angeles to get to work, I found myself listening to Brian Wilson’s 2004 album repeatedly.
Smile
, several hundred times over. I quite enjoy the Beach Boys, but I wouldn’t call myself a die-hard fan, and their music has been popular for multiple decades now
backstory
of
Smile
It never truly grabbed me. However, the album was a sonic enchantment: every intricately produced track seamlessly flowing into the following one, adorned with Wilson’s elaborate, occasionally whimsical adjustments atop a radiant backdrop. Even when my old Mazda refused to play the disc, which happened frequently, I could vividly recall the entire experience in my mind.
At one point, a buddy suggested we go watch Wilson play at the Hollywood Bowl, an expansive open-air venue nestled among the hills separating Los Angeles from the San Fernando Valley with seating for about 17,000 people. In most places, such an event might lead to overwhelming sensations, yet the Bowl’s central calm location transformed it into a sanctuary—serenely cool, shadowed, and nearly silent beneath the lavender heavens. We uncorked our wine as Wilson and his ensemble stepped onto the stage.
Right from the start, with the very first note of the a cappella introduction, things began to falter—they wobbled. Throughout the entire album—which served as their setlist—the instruments and even Wilson’s vocals seemed strained and unstable, trembling with every measure played as though they were performing not under the canopy of an outdoor amphitheater but rather along a distant stretch of desert road, just beyond the visible edge of the world. Particularly striking was how fragile Wilson’s voice sounded compared to his meticulously crafted recordings; he transformed what once felt smooth as silk into something almost unrecognizable. While the studio version exuded polish and precision, this live rendition embraced imperfection—it became rawly human instead of mechanically perfect. Witnessing thousands of people collectively create and experience this music brought about a profound sense of humanity awakening within them—a bit like seeing life spark anew inside one of our cherished mechanical friends.
Music has changed today. Fussy CD players have become uncommon. On the contrary, we possess the incredible ability to call up nearly any song we imagine at virtually any location. In certain ways, our engagement with music has transformed significantly.
how
We’ve listened as society has evolved: Individuals now sport $500 headphones on public transit and shell out sums rivaling the gross domestic product of East Timor just to catch a glimpse of Taylor Swift from seats throughout an enormous stadium. Yet, the driving force behind this contemporary age is accessibility. In times past, music remained confined within reach—performers and listeners gathered in spaces intimate enough to convey sounds either naturally or mechanically. Those living today may recall knowing individuals who witnessed one of the earliest broadcast concerts—a delicate trial conducted via telephone lines during a performance at the Paris Opera back in 1881. Today, libraries brimming with tunes surpass what even seven consecutive lifetimes could consume, all thanks to streaming through smartphones reaching almost every corner of our planet.
In yet another significant aspect, however, our listening habits have diminished. This trend doesn’t apply universally, but frequently enough to warrant consideration. The primary cause is the use of a solitary loudspeaker instead of two—much like natural human hearing—and upon closer inspection, one can notice this phenomenon almost ubiquitously, akin to an aggressive foreign plant along roadsides. All audio content we come across consists of multiple levels of artificial manipulation and separation from the original source vibrations. Thus, this discussion does not center around maintaining certain standards of sonic purity; instead, it focuses on the auditory spaces created through music and whom or what these spaces accommodate within their confines.
Since the beginning of recorded music, those who sell it have depended on a questionable vocabulary.
fidelity
Challenging listeners to distinguish a recording from what they consider “the real thing” is pointless, particularly when considering how outdated many recordings sound. While we indeed perceive sounds through auditory means, we simultaneously take in these vibrations using our entire bodies. Beyond mere audio quality at concerts lies an array of elements such as staging, lighting, amplification, and décor which contribute significantly. These factors not only influence what we hear but also what we observe; for instance, seeing spectators move about or feeling the impact of applause on your skin—or sensing shifts between captivation and disinterest.
Undoubtedly, attempts will continue to recreate this multifaceted experience synthetically due to the financial allure of achieving higher levels of realism. However, every step toward perfect replication merely intensifies the desire for further refinement. Descend once more to the unassuming confines of any ordinary venue, and without needing labels, you’ll be overwhelmed by myriad sensations that underscore its authenticity.
For many years, the high-fidelity sales pitch proved successful. Upon their return from World War II, American servicemen formed a burgeoning consumer group, as cultural historian Tony Grajeda pointed out. Slogans like “concert-hall realism” encouraged them to purchase audio gear. Additionally, the introduction of stereo sound—with distinct left and right channels—became feasible for domestic use in the latter part of the 1950s, driving growth for manufacturers of both records and devices. To fully embrace this new tech, consumers had to upgrade everything they owned.
The New York Times
devoted entire segments to the shift towards stereo technology: “Despite some record sellers, even many who believe mono recordings still outshine stereo discs, expressing optimism that through adequate promotion and public awareness campaigns, consumers might be persuaded otherwise,” stated an article from 1958.
observed
.
Acoustic instrumentalists played a crucial role in shaping the advent of recorded audio, and these trailblazers recognized that the mixing board held as much significance as any musical tool. This understanding came about when researchers at Bell Laboratories were exploring these new territories.
demonstrated
It featured new stereophonic technology in a performance at Carnegie Hall in 1940, conducted by Leopold Stokowski.
he ran the sound levels himself
, basically remixed live the sounds he had captured with his Philadelphia Orchestra. Stokowski had collaborated with his friend Walt Disney over many years to develop a prototype of surround sound.
Fantasia
The outcome was a
system too elaborate
To reproduce extensively, which was ultimately discarded (with its components contributed to the war effort) prior to the film’s nationwide release.
Pioneers such as Stokowski acknowledged a distinct rising force in multichannel audio, potentially more compelling and justifiable than simply imitating a live performance: to create, and subsequently recreate in homes nationwide, an auditory theater.
without
A physical counterpart—a specially designed acoustic environment within the recording studio, assembled track by track using individual recordings of instruments and vocals. Traditionally, this musical setting was unified, where performers and audience shared the same space only momentarily during the live performance. However, the recording technique split this space into three distinct parts: one area for capturing the initial audio, another for playback, and an imaginary “soundstage” formed through the mixing phase as an intermediary step. This conceptual space could possess its characteristics such as dimensionality, temperature, and echo, allowing every aspect of the performance to be spatially positioned in 3D according to the preferences of the engineer— who may concurrently serve as the artist.
Glenn Gould achieved lasting renown through his interpretations of Bach’s keyboard compositions in the 1950s. Despite being an exceptionally skilled and error-free live artist, his initial recording breakthrough involved piecing together numerous performance segments to create an almost superhuman level of precision for each part of every composition, much like seeing LeBron James exclusively in highlight clips. (“We’ve recorded quite a few endings,” Gould informs his producer during one studio session, as recounted in Paul Elie’s excellent work.)
Reinventing Bach
.) By the 1970s, the editors of the anthology
Living Stereo
Gould subverted the typical application of multi-mic recording; rather than employing it to depict the standard imagery of a concert hall stage, he utilized different microphone placements to generate the impression of a dynamically shifting acoustic environment—a concept he occasionally described as ‘acoustic orchestration’ or ‘choreography.’ This approach was similar to filming a movie in a studio with a hand-held camera, fundamentally altering the entire dynamic between observer and observed.
Pop music lagged behind classical compositions in terms of creative innovation; numerous hit records from the ’60s were initially recorded in mono. This format later gained a retro charm when record labels remastered these tracks—often with “fake” stereo effects—to boost their market appeal. (If it had come out through the Beach Boys at that time,
Smile
It would have been a mono recording, and indeed, Brian Wilson himself is hearing impaired in one ear. The real breakthrough didn’t come about until the late ’60s, when Pink Floyd embraced experimentation with
quadra
phonetic sound—from four speakers—that allowed pop music to become a more dependable platform for innovative techniques in both recording and production.
Today, even the simplest pop song reflects an intricate level of production that would be incomprehensible without advanced academic qualifications. However, the technological transformation of music creation, dissemination, and listening experiences is filled with contradictions. Over the initial century—from the Paris Opera’s pioneering use of telephones to the introduction of CDs in the early ’80s—the progression towards superior sound fidelity was steady and relentless; this enhancement served as both a marketing strategy and a pursuit of artistry. Yet, everything changed when file-sharing emerged around the turn of the millennium, followed closely by devices like the iPod and later the iPhone. These innovations favored reduced file sizes for easier online transmission over high-quality audio, prioritizing accessibility and portability above sonic excellence. Similarly, Bluetooth technology sacrificed clarity for wireless ease-of-use, eliminating cords altogether. Voice-activated assistants such as Alexa and Siri further encouraged integrating versatile speakers into various parts of daily life. Finally, the prevalence of streaming platforms linked these elements seamlessly, resulting in a series of compromises leading back to lower-than-optimum audio standards alongside unparalleled availability: every piece of music accessible anywhere, albeit often in less than ideal formats.
Individuals continue to enjoy music inside their vehicles or through headphones, undoubtedly, and numerous people possess various types of multi-speaker audio systems. Lone speakers are typically
additive
, appearing in spots where you might not expect the finest audio quality: within the dining area, out on the patio, even by the seashore. These devices act as modern replacements for boomboxes and radios; they prioritize the existence of sound over its specific form or clarity.
And yet, what many of these locations share is that they’re spots where individuals gather. Both the iconic performances and the music we enjoy alone continue to become more profound, with their literal and symbolic platforms growing increasingly intricate. (I don’t believe I’ve ever experienced such a strong feeling of
space
Then again at Beyoncé’s performance in the Superdome about two Septembers back.) However, in our daily life
communal
The experience of enjoying music has diminished. A speaker crafted to encourage you to purchase additional toilet paper, emitting its solitary tune from the edge of your kitchen—it marks the first instance since the advent of high-fidelity sound nearly a hundred years ago that we have broadly accepted reducing the scale of music in our daily lives.
For Christmas, I placed an order for a pair of $60 Bluetooth speakers. (This topic had become something we joke about regularly ever since a more elaborate Sonos system appeared in his recently purchased but still unfurnished home just a few days post-closing, being the sole item present.)
I
we worked on making the space habitable (“I grabbed some extra speakers for us, honey!”). Following the directions, we set them up in stereo configuration before moving them over to the fire pit area where we had previously managed with just one speaker. I suspended them from two different trees, launched Spotify, and allowed an algorithm-generated playlist to play. Amidst the dancing shadows and dim light, you could sense the quietude of the performance space come alive, much like those instances when the conductor steps onto the platform at the start of a concert.
Fantasia
As the music started, it didn’t seem to originate from a specific location on the ground as we were accustomed to; instead, it appeared to emanate from within the forest or perhaps even from above in the sky—or possibly from an era long past, where the performer might have been among us, sitting amidst the radiance and enveloping us with additional layers of comfort. The audio quality was far from pristine, lacking the precise clarity you’d expect from a hi-fi system, without a distinct “sweet spot” for listening, and the low end could have been more robust. Nonetheless, the soundscape created a setting, and we found ourselves immersed in it collectively.
