The iPod Revival Club
When was the last time you bought an album in a store, burned a mix CD, or synced a playlist to an iPod?
If your estimation of my age increased with each preceding statement, trust your instincts.
As an elderly millennial who came of age in an era where we carefully crafted a discography of CDs and an intricate web of folders storing MP3 files, the methods by which we obtained music were an experience in and of itself.
Think of some of the ways you found music - or just as likely, how music found you?
At 14, did you come into possession of 12 CDs for merely a penny, contemplating your culpability in mail fraud as you attempted to extricate yourself from the Columbia House mail-order subscription service?
Did you, after sampling from a friend’s CD binder in high school Biology, discover your love for a particular artist and shortly thereafter find yourself in the music aisle at Future Shop, bathed in the store’s neon lighting while you contemplated which album to purchase first? (Author’s Note: it was the Beastie Boy’s Check Your Head).
Had you ever waited patiently and with bated breath while the disc drive in your family’s computer whirred and spun, somehow magically etching a mix of songs that reflected your mood onto a blank CD?
Almost a decade ago, I started paying a monthly subscription to a well-known music service, which promised access to tens of millions of songs. Joining the streaming era, and with it the ability to access almost any song I could think of, was a seminal moment in my music exploration and experience.
On balance, it’s been a net positive, as I’ve discovered music from incredibly talented artists, many of whom wouldn’t have otherwise been exposed on traditional radio or music charts.
I loved it. Until I started to love it a little less.
While understanding how the music algorithm works is beyond my grasp, I’ve started to believe its relentless quest to predict what music moves me and how I respond to it, is worth questioning.
I sometimes catch myself skipping tracks on a playlist ‘curated’ for me if, after the first five seconds, the song fails to draw me in - like a dopamine junkie endlessly scrolling through TikTok videos or swiping left on a dating app, convinced the perfect fix is just another tap away. And while I acknowledge the algorithms’ attempts to dial in that secret sauce, it often feels like (as an elderly millennial might say) they’re trying to make ‘fetch’ happen.
We’ve all had that experience where a significant memory is anchored by a particular song or artist. However, I’ve sometimes felt like with nearly unlimited access, I’m attempting to craft a memory around a moment or mood in a way that feels unearned.
While I have no plans to cancel my subscription, I have, over the past few years, gravitated more towards offline listening. More specifically, creating a space outside of my phone’s chaotic ecosystem where there is a finite amount of music available, chosen by myself, and with more intention.
Now, if I hear something I like, I try to purchase it. I’ve resuscitated my 2009 MacBook, complete with a CD burner, and have (again) perfected the art of the mix CD. Various iPods, which have stubbornly fought off obsolescence, accompany me on runs. While having an errant tree branch tear the corded earbuds off my head is violently humbling, I have gratefully accepted the compromise of having one fewer device to charge.
I’ve begun to purchase music I love in physical mediums on platforms like Bandcamp, which supports artists directly. The immediacy of my phone streaming a song over 5G is more frequently replaced by the slower but comforting ‘whirr’ of my Discman (purchased in 1997) as it brings an album from stillness to life.
There’s something about the physicality, or boundaries imposed by drawing music out of the limitless ocean that is online streaming, that creates a greater sense of appreciation in me. I’m somehow able to experience music at a depth and from different angles without the temptation of wondering, “what else is out there”.
I’m optimistic about what the future holds for music and how technology can improve the way we discover and listen. But don’t be surprised if you see me running on the trail with my iPod shuffle and wired earbuds, vibing out.
An artifact from a time when music belonged to you, not the cloud.
Nostalgic for the days of mix CDs and iPods? Share this trip down memory lane with friends.
