It is not a novel thought, I know – the charm of the old, sweet love songs, is well known, and it is easily dismissed as mere nostalgia – but in the context of today’s highly addictive landscape, it resonates in important ways.
It occurred to me that the old songs (let’s just say, old enough to be in the public domain) which sound so innocent, can rekindle a taste for Little Dopamine.
Dopamine may have given early hominids an advantage over other primates:
Kent State paleoanthropologist Owen Lovejoy proposes a new “neurochemical hypothesis for the origin of hominids,” in which females mated more with males who were outgoing, but not too aggressive. And males who cooperated well with other males may have been more successful hunters and scavengers. As human ancestors got better at cooperating, they shared the know-how for making tools and eventually developed language—all in a feedback loop fueled by surging levels of dopamine.
The author even suggests that cooperation may even be addictive, but I disagree. The technology resulting from cooperation has become has created an addictive landscape, but cooperation, like art, friendship and love itself, while pleasurable, is comparable to the seasons, which provide opportunities to over- indulge, but they pass before a creature can become addicted. Re-wiring our brain to appreciate Little Dopamine, then, is the antidote to our dependence on Big Dopamine.
The love songs, playful and charming, are wonderful in all their artful naïveté. Even with all the wink-winks thrown in, like “all I want is just one kiss” (when Mr. Chevalier adds “or three or four”), or as Jolson hints when sings that nothing could be finer than to be in Carolina in the morning” – these songs still can conjure feelings for an innocence we have lost.
To be sure, it was a different time and many of the old songs contain an abundance of lyrics to which we must take offense, and one may develop a tolerance to racism and ignorance, but still, I think (hope) one does not develop a craving for more and more of it. Sadly, racism and other evils, last beyond their obsolescence.
Love, thankfully, does not become obsolete. Rather, if we are lucky enough to be possessed by it, we refine it, we cherish it, and we cultivate it. Here is why:
The landscapes of love, despite annoyances, personalities and eccentric tastes arise out of the illusion of happiness. Just as child’s play becomes grown up passion, kissing, holding hands, appreciating things together can become like fine art. And just as an artist clings hopefully to her passion even with when no one else appreciates her work, just so we all, even the most jaded addicts among us, never give up the innocent dream of true love.
Little Dopamine experiences, like a passing crush, are non-addictive, but pleasurable just the same. At one time or another we have all had them – be they mere passing fancies or puppy love – and we’ve either left them behind, to be nostalgically reminisced about (ah the bitter-sweet taste of regret), or we have made them fundamental to our true sense of contentment.
Contentment, too, is antithetical to addiction. My optimism suggests to me that the “good old good ones,” as Louis Armstrong called these charming songs, might rekindle a taste for the subtleties of Little Dopamine, sort of like the sound of a single violin lost in a symphony. It’s there, Little Dopamine is, lost in the Big Dopamine.
Love, despite what the wizened worldly might say, is not addictive. When it lasts, it is just like contentment, like sleep – a welcome respite after a long day; and when shared with a partner, love is like a dream shared, not alone in sleep, but awake in life.
We have to put our faith in such simple heart flutters as they used to sing about in the old, love songs. Just as a plant has faith in light or an animal has faith that the next meal will reveal itself in the landmarks and pathways of its landscape, we too, must have faith that the flicker of an eye beam from a loved one will never go out.