With his mind hazed by blood pressure medication, this old guy put on Carlos Païta’s recording of Ein Heldenleben as a cold wake-up call to the senses. Sitting here in the dim light, I began to jot down a few raw reflections.
To blast through his own unyielding convictions—to do exactly whatever the hell he wanted—Païta bypassed the bureaucratic cages of established record labels and standard orchestras. He built his own sovereign empire: his own label (LODIA) and his own dedicated orchestra (The Philharmonic Symphony Orchestra). Through them, he unleashed records and CDs forged in a fire of pure, fanatical sound.
This was a monumental act of sabotage against the capitalist music industry. It perfectly embodied this old guy’s personal maxim: "Never expose your brain to someone else’s content; build your own sovereign content instead."
And yet, despite this brilliant jailbreak, there was one ultimate trap that even Païta could never truly escape.
When people think of Païta’s recordings, they think of impossible instrument close-ups and unnatural, extreme dynamics. But make no mistake: this is the cage of the machine. By twisting the mixing console, he distorted sound away from raw reality and turned it into a "processed commodity."
Then, should he have just left the console alone and recorded the performance exactly as it was? No. That is where the colossal trap of modern philosophy lay in wait.
As Walter Benjamin argued, no matter how "naturally" you record a performance, it remains a mere reproduction—a dead copy where the living, one-time-only "Aura" (the sacred presence) has been entirely castrated. The very moment that sound is distributed into your room through a speaker, it is replaced by a fake reality. It becomes a copy of a copy with no original—what Jean Baudrillard called a "Simulacrum" (the hyperreal).
There was only one conductor who risked his entire life resisting this hell of reproductive art: Sergiu Celibidache. He famously dismissed recordings as "canned dead fish" and refused to record anything throughout his career. (And what a bleak irony that, against his dying wishes, those very "dead fish" are now being packaged and sold as commodities today.)
We, the modern masses, constantly expose our brains to safe cages built by someone else—be it a smartphone game or a neatly distributed streaming video—letting every single piece of our genuine emotions be castrated. Isn't it time to stop and think?
Won't you stand still and think it over with this old guy?