Up until the last century, our only access to music was either to make it ourselves or find someone who could. Imagine, unless you lived in the city and had means, Mozart's "Marriage of Figaro" was just dots on a page. It is baffling to realize that some of the most complicated and brilliant pieces ever penned were created in such a context. And how did listeners manage to comprehend such complex and lengthy music in just one listen? We take Green Day and pound those 3 minutes into our heads ad nauseum. It is in our nature to over-consume that which we find beautiful (the definition of lust I believe), which has me wondering if our access to nearly any song at any moment has diminished our reverence and consequently our enjoyment of the musical experience. We easily forget that there is beauty in restraint or moderation.

And so goes my curiosity with regards to recording and distributing Urban Hymnal. Part of the delight in the event is its intimacy and isolation; it is just a moment to be had. To record and recycle and relive seems contrary to the nature of a live experience, does it not? But even Goldsworthy made a film and a dozen coffee table books for the sake of permanence, as well as income. What makes him so endearing is his passion towards that which is fleeting (his mediums of choice include leaves, pollen, and ice). I think he is mad. But, I am also envious of his willingness to create and then literally watch as the thorns and dust overtake the work of his hands. I don't know if I'm that brave. I want a record of all I create. A tangible object that I can bring to the marketplace to justify my blood and tears.

So I am decidedly ambivalent as to whether we should record Urban Hymnal or not, knowing that my ideals are probably just that, ideal. For here I am at the office, days after our concert, regretting that I can't relive the experience of Tara's voice floating in the rafters of St. Mark's--even if it is through these unbearable computer speakers. And... here I am, at the office.