Can music feel pain? Do songs possess dignity? Do symphonies have rights? Of course not, you might say. Yet think of how we anthropomorphize music, not least when we believe it has been somehow mistreated. A singer butchered or mangled the “Star-Spangled Banner” at the Super Bowl. An underrehearsed cover band made a mockery of Led Zeppelin’s classics. An orchestra didn't quite do justice to Mozart’s Requiem. Such lively language upholds music as a sentient companion susceptible to injury and in need of fierce protection.

Loving music till it hurts: it’s something many of us are likely familiar with. First, we know what it’s like to love certain music so much, it hurts—that deep and aching feeling of being moved to tears, chills, and supreme wonder. Second, we know what it’s like to love such music until we believe the music itself is capable of feeling hurt. (Can music experience pain? Not literally. Yet think of how we anthropomorphize music, not least when we believe it has been somehow mistreated: a singer butchered the noble “Star-Spangled Banner,” a pianist mangled the delicate Mozart sonata.) Lastly, we might love music so much, we end up hurting other people. This book’s Prelude outlines how people’s love of music can spark behaviors, attitudes, and discourses that demonstrate a fierce protectiveness of music, sometimes to the detriment of fellow human beings. A central question here concerns whether people can find ways to love music without intentionally or unintentionally weaponizing this love—that is, without allowing it to serve oppressive, discriminatory, and violent purposes.