They take my bag, my phone and my jacket, then scan me with a metal detector to make sure I haven’t got any electronic devices secreted on my person. It seems a bit like overkill – by this point I’ve already signed a form confirming I won’t make any “audio, video, visual or other type of recording” in a contract that will “continue for the remainder of your life or until 2103, whichever occurs first”. Once the team are satisfied, I’m told to head through the door and that hot green tea will be available.
I choose a spot a little bit to the left with a good view of the PlayStation One that has been selected, I’m told, due to its superior audio quality. People file in after me, spreading themselves out over beanbags and chairs. At most, attendees share a couple of looks, perhaps a smattering of words. The longest conversation I overhear is a couple of sentences long – a security guard asking a pair to move over a bit so they aren’t blocking the way.
Wu-Tang Clan performing at Rod Laver Arena in May last year.Credit: Jonathan White/Rod Laver Arena
The man behind me has brought a notepad and pen, and I immediately regret not doing the same. Then I think a bit more. No, trying to take notes would probably distract me – and what would I write down anyway? Lyrics? My reactions? Pithy lines that could be dropped straight into this article? No, I only get one shot at this experience, and that fact is already beginning to pick at me.
In 2015, American hip hop group the Wu-Tang Clan released their seventh studio album, Once Upon a Time in Shaolin. All things being normal, this would have meant much to their fans and little to anyone else, but the band decided to do something different with this one. Instead of releasing it across streaming platforms and in stores across the world, they created only one copy and deleted all of their digital files. In an era where almost any song you can think of is available at your fingertips, Wu-Tang Clan turned Once Upon a Time in Shaolin into a unique artistic experience. It’s music, experienced almost as visual art and I’m now only one of a handful of people to experience even a small part of it.
The album was originally purchased by controversial “pharma bro” Martin Shkreli reportedly for $US2 million. Shkreli, who spent six years in jail for financial crimes, has thoroughly woven himself into the album’s storied history – first for buying it, second for having the album seized along with other assets in 2018, and most recently for reportedly streaming the album online.
The Wu-Tang Clan’s single-copy, unstreamable 2015 album Once Upon A Time In Shaolin, courtesy of Pleasr, a global art collective.Credit: Mona/Jesse Hunniford
Last month, after being loaned the album by current owners PleasrDAO (a group of NFT collectors), Hobart’s Museum of Old and New Art put the album on display as part of their Namedropping exhibition and hosted the first public listening parties. Tickets were free and all the slots booked out almost instantly – the waiting list numbered in the thousands.
What’s played to us that day in the recording studio is a specially curated 30-minute sample. As the music starts, I decide not to try to memorise lines; just to let the music wash over and through me, and see how those around me are responding. Some close their eyes to be completely alone in the experience, others sit still, eyes fixed on the PlayStation. I hear the scratch of pen on paper behind me, and smile as I see two men in different parts of the room nodding their heads exactly in time with one another.
Once Upon a Time in Shaolin – or at least the 30 minutes I heard of it – is spectacular. To me, music is most successful when you feel the emotions and the passions of an artist through their work. It’s hard, though, to know if the music alone is what was so transformative or if the unique way of experiencing it elevated it from good to great. Or, maybe I have it all backwards – maybe this is the only time I’ve ever truly appreciated music properly and fully.
Once it’s done, a museum worker comes in, removes the disc from the PlayStation and carefully places it inside a safe. Security and performance blur into one another.
Whenever I’m in an art gallery, I take photographs of the works I like. Most of the time I never look at them again, but knowing they’re there, perhaps featuring a stranger’s elbow, is a relief.
It’s the same for most experiences of art. You can’t recreate the magic of the original, but most of the time a pale echo is possible. In theatre, you can’t conjure up the exact energy of a specific audience and cast, but you can usually find a copy of the script. You can’t relive a concert, but if you really want to run a lawnmower through your memories, you can watch shaky phone videos. There’s usually some way of going back.
Listening to Once Upon a Time in Shaolin, however, is a truly fleeting experience. I can’t go away and read the lyrics. I can’t go back over tracks and listen to them again to see if my mind changes. I can’t even discuss it with friends. This is art you enjoy purely in the moment, and then it’s gone for the remainder of my life – or until 2103, whichever occurs first.
Elizabeth Flux travelled to Hobart as a guest of Mona.
The Booklist is a weekly newsletter for book lovers from books editor Jason Steger. Get it every Friday.