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Russ Paladino's avatar

This is a wonderful overview of the cognitive and social impact of music and sound. True, music often creates a shared experience, as in a concert setting or in religious services. Yet, everyone experiences and processes the music from their own learned perspective. So for instance, a happy summer song like “Hot Fun in the Summertime” may evoke happy feelings of carefree days for some. For others, that song could evoke feelings of loneliness and sadness if their life experience during the time that this song was everywhere was negative.

One aspect that you may have covered or are yet to cover would be the physical aspect of vibration on our human physiology. Composers organize sound, and thus vibration, to evoke feelings but the physical vibrations cause the listener to “feel” something simply by resonating with the frequency of the music. We are resonant beings. Everything in our world is vibrating at frequencies. Subjecting the environment to frequencies can invoke physical change, and in humans it is said that feelings and emotions are a mental reaction to physical sensations. I point to the tests of Tesla with frequencies and vibration. This salt example illustrates an instance of this phenomenon.

https://youtube.com/shorts/0tBx_qqK19c?si=uTwcrmN3ms_gRcfC

Great discussion. Thanks for sharing your knowledge. I’ll be following.

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Alex Kahn's avatar

Loving this series, Mendel.

I find myself thinking about how recorded music’s defining feature—repeatability—allows us to return to an exact emotional contour, a known landscape, a feeling we can summon on demand. That repeatability is part of its magic. BUT it also reveals a paradox: the same qualities that make recorded music comforting can later become constraining.

If someone’s early life was marked by inconsistent care—abandonment, neglect, or the feeling of “not enough”—recorded music can become a kind of prosthetic attachment. It provides a reliably attuned emotional presence, available when needed.

I would never deny the utility of this at certain times. As a teenager, I had songs I returned to compulsively. In the same way certain drugs provide a predictable internal experience, music offered reliable access to comfort, pleasure, and structure.

That is, until it didn’t. Over time, the very thing that once brought me joy began to feel flat, or even alien. It no longer matched who I was becoming.

This is the shadow side of repeatability. Once we’ve undergone significant psychological change, the static nature of recorded music might begin to grate. A song might become boring, irrelevant, or even cringeworthy—not because it changed, but because WE did.

Engaging with recorded music in this way can function like a transitional object—similar to a child’s favorite blanket. It provides continuity in times of internal chaos. But like all transitional objects, its purpose is temporary.

Live, adaptive or improvised music that is responsive and co-created, offers a different kind of psychological utility. It resembles the qualities of a securely-attuned other: able to sense and respond, to change with you in real time, to go

beyond comfort and pleasure, and to make space for novelty, awe, and transformation.

As the person develops into a larger sense of self, the musical container can grow and adapt to reflect their own inner transformation.

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