In the early 1990s, music was a treasure. My father, in his late twenties, would save every spare penny to buy cassette albums of Andy Lau, Aaron Kwok, and Jacky Cheung. Most were cheap copies, but a few originals—rare and precious—were locked away. My brother and I were never allowed to touch them. Originals were expensive, and living in our remote village made them almost impossible to find. Even if you could pay, authenticity was never guaranteed. Music demanded effort; it had value because it was scarce. I remember my father’s ritual: washing his hands, drying them carefully, and gently inserting a tape into the radio recorder. I could not always tell if the songs were truly great, but the attention and care surrounding them made them feel special. Music was rare, deliberate, intimate. As I grew older, I wanted music that could also teach me. I asked my father for an MP3 player—a small, no-name device with 128 MB of memory, enough for forty songs. I downloaded BBC and VOA program...