The word “listen” can function both as a noun —“Give a listen”—and as a verb: “Are you listening?” In Michel Faber’s first work of nonfiction, Listen: On Music, Sound and Us, he gives both uses a workout. Known for category-resistant fiction like 2002’s The Crimson Petal and the White and 2014’s The Book of Strange New Things, Faber promises that this book, which was decades in the making and exhaustively examines genres, their artists and their respective audiences, “will change the way you listen.” True enough. In doing so, it also broadens the act of listening in directions that are surprising, sometimes unsettling and ultimately endearing.
Faber has his opinions, and he doesn’t hold back. He thinks composing and playing classical music is often more a test of musical skill than true creative work. Rock is still too Anglocentric, its audiences unreceptive to listening to songs sung in languages other than English; the loss is ours, he notes. Today’s multimedia-infused performances are a “synergy of illusions.” He weighs in on the vinyl versus digital debate and the practice of lip-syncing. His thoughts on The Beatles and their albums are included, along with those on David Bowie, The Beach Boys and the Rolling Stones. It would be easier to point out his omissions than the many artists he includes, but let’s give it a try: He opines about Beyoncé, Beethoven, Madonna, Aretha Franklin, Britney Spears, Whitney Houston and Marvin Gaye, among others. It’s a sprawling survey that sometimes feels unwieldy, but Faber covers miles of ground with knowledgeable panache.
Music needs audiences, and Faber spotlights joyful children first introduced to rhythm and the elderly keeping their memories alive in the tunes embedded in their minds. Music is known for its healing properties as well, and Faber gives special attention to and heartfelt praise for caregivers who use it to benefit people with Parkinson’s disease, dementia and other conditions.
Exploring the act of listening through the prisms of history, culture and his own troubled childhood, Faber—who has chronic tinnitus—dances through chapters titled “Do You Hear What I Hear?” and “Let’s Hear It One More Time for Ludwig!” In “The Tracks of My Tears,” he arrives at what it is about music that makes some people cry. With that, he brings his listeners to common ground where music thrives: our humanity.
