Unless I missed it, Mike Doughty never explains specifically what "I Die Each Time I Hear the Sound" means or is referring to, but I think it's inferred plainly by the recurring phrase "The world was absolutely new" which he sets up in a brief anecdote about John Cage in the chapter "Absolutely New." I understood "the world was absolutely new" to capture the feeling you get the first time you experience something, songs or pieces of songs in particular, that make you "die each time" you hear them. As someone with 120 hours worth of songs I feel that way about, I can appreciate the motif.
I don't think you need to be a fan of Doughty to enjoy his stories about his first times hearing songs, though it helps to relate, to have your own collection of memories like:
- the first time I heard Nirvana, I was riding in the back of a pickup truck on the autobahn surrounded by other soldiers, and suddenly the cold didn't exist and the exotic German landscape faded and there was only this .... what was THIS?!
- the first time I heard Ball Tongue by Korn, I was late to a movie because I had to stay in the car until the end of the song and then longer until the DJ announced the artist
- the first time I heard White Stripes ... in 2004 ... I thought, "Does Zeppelin have a new album?!"
- the time my dad returned to the station wagon from the King Soopers in Evergreen, Colorado, circa 1976, with the record An Evening With John Denver under his arm, no one else in the family remembers, but how could I forget something so important?
- or the first time I heard Super Bon Bon, the first time I heard Screenwriter's Blues, they demoted all other types of highs to insignificance
The memories of frozen moments in parking lots or restaurants or parties when I first heard the sounds (R.L. Burnside's drone!) that still make me die each time I hear them, go on and on. You could write a whole book about them, but would anyone read it? Doughty shares a joke he and Scrap have about the long stories people tell about hearing Soul Coughing the first time that essentially all end with "then I heard Super Bon Bon." Clearly Doughty picked just the most compelling of his own "first time" stories, because they are not the entire substance of the book. There are "chapters" (1 to 3 page anecdotes) about his entire life, not arranged chronologically or by category, about experiences as a musician and as a person with other musicians, friends, recovery, and women. I did not identify a pattern for the order of the stories, but they flow. My guess is he arranged them with a musician's instinct for rhythm.
He reports his experiences with fans compassionately, because he is also a fan, but there is a poignancy to the stories because he has clearly been impacted and traumatized by fans who cross the line into stalkers. I read, holding my breath a little, wondering, did I ever go too far? Did I make him so uncomfortable with the poem I mailed or the harmony I recorded to one of his songs that I repaid all the joy his music has given me and continues to give me with fear? Am I blocking out anything truly crazy I may have emailed or done when I saw him perform one of those 8 or so times (is that normal?) that is going to jump out of these pages to bite me with shame? I didn't think so, and it didn't happen, but I still felt bad for the times I may have been more obsessive or intrusive than normal, whatever that is.
He mentions a feeling he sometimes gets that people want him to thank them for having their lives changed by him. I've been thinking about that lately, not specific to him, but about musicians in general, and how they give us this thing, these eternal configurations or productions of sounds that kill us, in a good way, and how we can never pay that back, how inadequate the one-time $9.99 cost of a recording is for what we get in return. I'm a member of Doughty's Patreon because I like the idea of everyone who's benefitting from an artist helping that person continue to make art, but it's so small. I buy him a coffee once a month and he freezes time for me over and over again. You can never properly say thank you to someone whose songs vibrate your soul.