Why music is the greatest art form

Music journalist, culture writer, and accidental philosopher Hannah Ewens discusses a shared vital truth. Nowhere does this universal force come more alive than in the summer.  

I had a realisation at the beginning of the year that music is the greatest art form. The argument appeared in my understanding fully formed, not as a “take” or even an opinion, but a vital truth. I knew that music is the language of the soul, and the most potent way humans can express what it means to be alive.

It is probably useful to say here that I’m an accidental culture journalist of 15 years. I write mostly about music and spend a lot of time interviewing musicians. And yet, I go through phases of being completely apathetic about music. In those times, I might avoid listening to it for months, unless it’s for work. I was in one of these phases when I had this epiphany, that it is the unbeatable form. 

I have to conclude: if you are tired of music, then you are probably tired of life. 

Though it’s impossible to confirm, for now at least, expert anthropologists accept that music is probably the first human art form. Research suggests we may have even sung before we spoke, feeling our feelings together through song before we could explain them in language. It helped people bond, soothe each other, communicate emotion, and bring groups together.

Nowadays, we know that music has both a physiological and psychological effect. We don’t have to do anything to immediately connect with music, or to be changed by it. It’s not like we have to understand the culture it came from (although it helps). Or read and speak its language. Or have a fine arts degree or educated parents. Like a true magician, music works its magic without us even knowing how.

The same can’t be said of visual arts, literature, TV, or film. All the arts wish they were music. I know I might annoy some visual artists by suggesting that paintings and sculptures don’t have a fixed impact, but are instead experienced differently depending on the individual and their level of attentiveness and sensitivity to art. They are analysed and then understood. Art lovers talk about the immediacy of the form as if it’s music, in a way that I’m not sure tracks with most people’s experiences of traipsing through galleries. 

Then you’ve got literature, which evokes a musicality. Writers, especially poets, sweat and toil to craft sentences that have a rhythm, a flow, and a tone that feels like a song. Film and TV are little more than a puppet show without their soundtracks. Even dance hits its powerful peaks and troughs using orchestras. Music is what illustrates the emotional experience, communicating humanity to the viewer. 

The other day I posted about this online and a friend replied, “OK, Nietzsche.” It turns out, inevitably, that this realisation of mine was not especially original. Nietzsche said that without music, life would be a mistake. Plato viewed music as a cosmic force that gives soul to the universe. And the writer Kurt Vonnegut once suggested that many writers would prefer to be musicians. I don’t think he meant that too literally, but it would be a nice break for me to work in a medium that can express what words fight to reach.

Nowhere does our greatest art form come more alive than in the summer. When the warmer months arrive, I feel embarrassingly reborn. My irritable defenses fall away and I become receptive again: to pleasure, to sensory experience, to other people. Then I’m a caveman rediscovering all the ways music is elemental, as essential as water, air, or fire.

It’s this annual unfurling that means that years later, all it takes is some opening notes and an entire summer comes rushing back. Even when those opening notes are to Macklemore’s “Thrift Shop.” (Hey, the soul is not a snob.) 

The invisible spirit within cares not for intellectualism and politics of taste, and apparently has a passion for nasty looping sax riffs. You can’t reason with the soul about its favourite art form. 

“I’m gonna pop some tags” aside, you know what I’m talking about, right? As I use words, an inferior form. A bassline, a cold drink sweating in its plastic cup, bare arms brushing up against yours. You dance and your body comes online. You process the residue of weird emotions from ages ago and fleetingly make sense of yourself. And then there’s a new memory, imprinted onto whichever track was playing.