Here's a word that might make you shudder a little. It's one that calls to mind those smoothie bottles that chirrup their wholesome goodness at you in the first person, a word that has even worse associations when applied to music: "precious" has become a kind of shorthand for a strain of teeth-grittingly whimsical affectation – the sort of plinky-plonky cutesiness that sticks its hand in the air with its eagerness to be slapped over the next mobile phone TV ad. Yet, in terms of how we experience music, "precious" is a word in need of rescuing.
Indie may now be a watery term, but much of its sensibility was bound up in the concept of preciousness. Not in terms of its lyrical or musical tweeness, although there was plenty of that too, but in the way its modes of production and distribution made music something to be sought out, often with difficulty, and then duly cherished. Rarity and intimacy were key and they're qualities that encourage cherished appreciation.
It's telling that a whole episode in musical history, a key strand of modern indie, is known simply by a single cassette compilation originally only purchasable via mail order – the C86 compilation that NME put together in 1986.
The commonest sneer levelled at C86-era indie had to do with its insularity; now, the ease with which anyone with an internet connection can stream or download pretty much any song has joyously done away with that problem. Being able to access music so easily has made listening habits broader and, for that reason, music more interesting. But it may also have spoiled us.
It's hard not to develop an aural antsiness when YouTube is there for the flighty browsing, iPods for the impatient shuffling. Meanwhile, Spotify and every other streaming service allow us to take for granted a song being there for our ears when we demand it. In short, our restless listening might mean we're in danger of becoming careless listeners, too. This is a broader issue than simply one of track-hopping skim-listeners being unable to listen to a whole album. The sight of a forest of phones, each reflecting a miniaturised version of what's happening on stage, has become a staple feature of live music – how engaging can the experience of watching a pixelated, diminutive version of things be? Perhaps, to use a word even more unwelcome than "precious", we need just a bit more reverence when it comes to listening.
Over the last few years, theatre in this country has realised the heightened awareness that odd venues and small-scale performance instil in audiences. Music, too, has cottoned on with initiatives such as France's Blogothèque (a series of filmed mini-gigs that includes Arcade Fire playing in a lift) and London's Black Cab Sessions. The wonderful Bandstand Busking, which puts to use London's disused bandstands with free, not hugely publicised Sunday afternoon gigs, is one of my favourites. Their magic isn't just to do with being free; there's something about seeking out an old bandstand you didn't know existed, and finding a great band there playing to just a handful of people, that feels extraordinary.
Last summer, I watched Micachu and the Shapes charm the few people who had gathered at east London's Arnold Circus. A few weeks ago, the same bandstand hosted the Vivian Girls. The sense at these gigs that you are one of a lucky few to find and experience them certainly makes you listen with a bit more attention. And, after watching bands play packed festivals this summer – or, rather, mostly not watching, but craning over people's shoulders for a glimpse of a stage-side screen – performances like this feel even more precious.
Seeking out a London bandstand to watch your favourite band play to 30 people is, however, piddling compared to travelling all the way to Brooklyn to hear just one song, once. In 2007, Sufjan Stevens, the much-adored, dorkily sincere Detroit singer whose music is filled with deeply felt lyrics about faith and family, held a competition. He invited fans to send him a Christmas song they'd written and, in a sort of song swap, the best would win its composer exclusive rights to a new Sufjan Stevens track.
Which explains why the suitably remote-sounding "Lonely Man of Winter" has only been heard by winner Alec Duffy and the 120 people who've so far made the journey – I think we could call it a pilgrimage – to his apartment. Here, four at a time, Sufjan fans listen in unison, but on separate headphones, to this one song. Duffy, incidentally is a theatre director: a man who knows the importance of ritual and the value it brings. After he won the rights to the song, he posted this on his theatre company's website: "In an effort to counter the cheapening effects of internet all-availability, and to recapture an era when to get one's hands on a particular album or song was a real experience, we… would like to share this song with Sufjan fans in a special way. We would like to invite you to our Brooklyn home for an exclusive listening session of this gorgeous song, with hot beverages and cookies provided for your enjoyment."
The word "douchebaggery" had a lot more online outings after that. The bile spat over Duffy's perceived selfishness and elitism in not uploading the song and letting the world have it included one fan website, All Good Naysayers, mouthing off about Duffy's "little asshat teaparties". What, precisely, an asshat might be I can't picture, but I'm pretty certain it qualifies as "precious" in all the wrong ways. Duffy's enterprise may be fey – his promise of "hot beverages" is a little cringey – but his reasons are to do with "precious" in the word's best sense.
One of Stevens's loveliest songs, "To Be Alone With You", begins: "I'd swim across Lake Michigan/I'd sell my shoes." Those who've crossed lakes or timezones to hear Duffy's Sufjan Stevens song will, I think, understand the romance that a moment won after a considerable amount of journeying affords.
