"Epiphany": a musician in the world of streaming

Fall 2015

(Introduction by Lorenzo Righetto)

What makes a piece of music feel autumnal, or wintry, or spring-like, or summery? Does it depend on the climate of the region the music comes from? Arbitrary, nostalgic associations on the listener's part? The timbre of the singer's voice? Is it entirely arbitrary to say that Jon Hopkins's music sounds deliciously cold, that Ravel's string quartet in F major sounds like rain in April, that Joni Mitchell's “Hejira” is somehow balmy and damp, and that the music produced by the collaboration between Miles Davis and Bill Evans feels like the chill of October turning into November?

I've thought about music “seasonally” for as long as I can remember, but it's only recently that I started making playlists based on the seasons, I think because, as music technology rapidly forces us to distinguish between different “modes” of listening, I'm beginning to feel like I'm losing touch with the actual experience of listening to music.

What makes a piece of music autumnal, or wintry, or vernal, or summery? Is it the climate of the region of the music’s origin? Abitrary nostalgic associations of the listener? The timbre of a singer’s voice? Is it completely arbitrary to say that the music of Jon Hopkins is deliciously cold-sounding, and that Ravel’s String Quartet in F major sounds like the rain in April, and that Joni Mitchell’s Hejira is somehow balmy and humid, and that the music produced by the partnership of Miles Davis and Bill Evans is like the chill of October’s drift into November? I’ve thought about music seasonally for as long as I can remember, but it’s only recently that I’ve begun to make mixes around the delineation of the seasons, I think because as music technology rapidly coerces us into one mode of listening from another, I begin to feel like I’m losing touch with the very experience of listening to music.

But I'm also curious about this idea of losing touch with that experience; I'm interested in the different kinds of alienation that people used to an analog experience of the world go through when they encounter new, often ephemeral technologies. Streaming is uniquely alienating because the “cloud” becomes a substitute for physical objects in a new way, one in which the permanence of the record has been replaced by a kind of “permanence of availability”. Even with an mp3 loaded onto an iPod, listeners could at least fool themselves into thinking that the mp3 file wasn't going anywhere, at least not any time soon, and, following that line of thought, the listener could still be a collector of musical objects and experiences in much the same way as, say, someone with shelves full of CDs, cassettes, or vinyl. Honestly, I miss my first iPod, with its clickable wheel and its alphabetical list of every artist I loved enough to squeeze onto its limited storage.

With streaming, on the other hand, the act of collecting music has become more ephemeral than ever, a set of digital concepts that depend entirely on the availability of a strong internet connection and on the listener's willingness to suspend all disbelief about the permanence of that connection. Just think about what happened when Rdio shut down in December, effectively wiping out every user's playlists and listening histories. It's impossible to put a value on that kind of loss, not because the data itself has no value, but because it was something utterly ephemeral from the very start, existing as much in each listener's memories and associations as it did on Rdio's servers.

But I’m also curious about the idea of losing touch with that experience. I’m interested in the different types of alienation that people accustomed to an analog world experience when getting acquainted with new and often fleeting technologies. Streaming is uniquely alienating because the cloud becomes a surrogate for physical objects in a new way, a way in which the permanence of the record has been supplanted by a sort of “permanence of availability.” Even with an mp3 stored on an iPod, listeners could at least fool themselves into thinking that the mp3 file wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon, and in this line of thinking, the listener could still be a collector of musical objects and experiences in the same essential way as someone with shelves full of CD’s, cassettes, or vinyl. I sincerely miss my first iPod, with its click wheel and its alphabetical list of all of the artists that I loved dearly enough to include them in the device’s limited disk space. With streaming, though, the act of collecting music has become more ephemeral than ever, a series of digital conceits that are entirely dependent on the availability of a strong internet connection and the willingness of the listener to suspend any disbelief regarding the connection’s permanence. Consider what happened when Rdio shut down in December, effectively erasing the playlists and listening histories of its entire userbase. It’s impossible to ascribe a value to that sort of loss, not because the data was priceless, but because it was an entirely ephemeral thing from the beginning, existing in the memories and associations of any given listener as much as in Rdio’s servers.

Winter 2015/16

It's not only the sense of volatility that makes me feel resentful toward the encroachment of cloud computing on my life as a listener; it's also its vastness and the absence of cost. Even the flat monthly rates of streaming platforms annoy me as a listener as much as they appeal to me as a frugal consumer. Music has become like water in a developed country: a basic necessity, close to being freely available, stored in reserves the public rarely sees. In fact, if droughts increase in frequency and intensity, music will soon resemble water more than water itself does, in terms of its relative scarcity. This is a symptom of a broader moment in our culture, one in which music, words, images, media – ideas in general – seem to have their subtler powers diluted as technology is designed to profit from our aggregate consumption.

It’s not just the feeling of impermanence that makes me resentful of cloud computing’s insinuation into my life as a music listener, it is also its vastness and lack of expense. Even the flat monthly fees of streaming platforms bother me as a listener as much as they appeal to me as a frugal consumer. Music becomes like water in a developed nation: a utility, close to freely available, stored in reservoirs rarely seen by the public. Perhaps, as droughts increase in frequency and severity, music will soon be more like water than water itself in terms of its relative scarcity.  This is one symptom of a larger moment in our culture, one in which music, words, images, media—ideas as a whole—seem to have their subtler powers over us diluted the more that the technology is designed to profit off of our consumption in aggregate.

Still, I'm as complicit as anyone else – I pay for Spotify, and I genuinely appreciate that it gives me instant and relatively constant access to almost every piece of music I could want to hear (one glaring exception being the Drag City catalog). I grumble about Spotify's devaluation of the music I love just as much as I appreciate it introducing me to music I've never heard. I try to find new ways of forming associations with the music I love. Spotify lets you "save" albums, but when you're floating in a seemingly bottomless lake of music, I find that marking an album as "saved" is more of a symbolic gesture than a guarantee you'll ever go back to it.

Still, I’m as complicit as anyone else–I pay for Spotify, and I really do appreciate the fact that it gives me instant and relatively constant access to nearly any music that I should desire to listen to (one glaring absense being anything on Drag City). I groan about Spotify’s devaluation of the music that I love at the same time that I quietly appreciate it introducing me to music that I’ve never heard. I try to develop new ways of forming associations with the music that I enjoy. Spotify allows you to “save” albums, but when you’re afloat in a seemingly bottomless lake of sound, I find that marking an album as saved is more of symbolic gesture than a guarantee that I’ll ever come back to that music. 

So, in a terrible betrayal of my twentieth-century loyalty to the album as the supreme musical art form, I've started making Spotify playlists for friends and myself. Right now I'm putting together a mix for each season, something I'll keep doing until I get bored or Spotify shuts down, or both. There are two so far, one for autumn 2015 and one for winter 2015/16, both of which run past 30 songs. I think that's a fair length to try to leave something in reserve for future playlists. I try to make plenty of left-field choices alongside some more obvious calls, and I hope listeners come across something they've never heard, partly because a good deal of the music is relatively new to me too. The thing about a lot of the official Spotify and Apple Music playlists is that they tend to be pretty sterile and impersonal. Most Spotify playlists are like a deserted department store, just shelf after shelf of merchandise grouped by color, assembled with the help of an algorithm but without any unifying, personal thread running through it. Apple Music's official playlists tend to reflect a kind of shared wisdom about what you "should" be listening to, with that arrogant curatorial voice you might expect from what was, just a few hours before I wrote this, the most profitable company in the world (it's just been overtaken by Google's holding company, Alphabet). I try to make impulsive choices as part of the listening experience. I vaguely remember making a mixtape or two as a kid in the '90s, and being limited by whatever I had on hand was in a way a blessing, because it reflected the intimate experience of the person making the mixtape in a way we'll probably never really have again. But within the nearly infinite expanse of music now available to us (almost) whenever we want lies the power of the unexpected.

So, in a terrible betrayal of my 20th century allegiance to the album as the ultimate musical artform, I’ve started making Spotify playlists for friends and for myself. Right now I’m mainly doing a mix for each season, which I’ll continue to do until I get bored or Spotify goes under, or both. There are two so far, one for Fall 2015 and one for Winter 2015/16, both of which hover around 30 songs. I think it’s a good length to try to keep things for future playlists. I try to make a lot of leftfield choices alongside some more obvious picks, and I hope that anyone who follows along is introduced to some things that they’ve never heard before, as a decent amount of the music is relatively new to me too. The thing about a lot of the official Spotify and Apple Music playlists is that they tend to be rather sterile and impersonal. Most official Spotify playlists are like an empty department store, just racks and racks of merchandise grouped together by similar color, aided by algorithm but lacking any unifying and personal thread of significance. Apple Music’s official playlists tend to reflect a conventional wisdom about what you “should” be listening to, the sort of haughty curatorial voice that you might expect from what was the world’s most profitable corporation within just a few hours of my writing this (it was just overtaken by Google’s holding company Alphabet). I try to make impulsive selections a part of the listening experience. I vaguely remember making a cassette mixtape or two when I was a kid in the 90’s, and being limited to what one had on hand was kind of a blessing, because it reflected the intimate experience of the person making the mixtape in a way that we will never truly get back. But within the almost infinite expanse of music that is now available to us (almost) whenever we want it lies the power of the unexpected. 

This brings me back to the idea of seasons: constant, unchanging (well, not anymore, thanks to climate change) and natural. Our collective dependence on online experiences disrupts our ability to process and appreciate the physical world the way we used to. Even when I go camping, I sometimes feel the pull of the online world, with its synthetic, reassuring warmth. Organizing my musical experiences by season lets me mark time in a way my sensory memory can still make sense of, and lets me keep a finger on the outside world, even if its color is drawn from the trees and the ground and reconstituted within the narrow confines of our devices.

Which brings me back to the idea of seasons: constant, immutable (well, not anymore, thanks to climate change), and natural. Our collective addiction to online experiences upends our ability to process and appreciate the physical world the way that we once did. Even when I go camping, sometimes I still feel the tug of the online world, with its synthetic, reassuring warmth. Organizing my musical experiences seasonally allows me to mark time in a way that my sensory memory continues to understand, and it allows me to keep a finger in the outside world, even as the color is siphoned out of the trees and the soil and repopulated within the narrow confines of our devices.

Translation and introduction by Lorenzo Righetto.

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