Musically challenged

The cultural enthusiasm for music seems weaker than ever before. What happened?

May 24, 2022

Weekly Three

HEAR: “An imperfect assignment from a student of Rick Wade” is a mix by yours truly. As the title suggests, it’s imperfect. But I care not. I’m learning and it makes me happy. Listen and leave a comment on it if you have Soundcloud. I’ll be posting more there.

READ: In which Ted Gioia talks about fake artists on Spotify.

VIEW: Garments of Grass and Flowers by Jeanne Simmons, a photo series where humans are ingrained in nature.

No. 74: Musically challenged

For me and probably for you, it seems impossible to pinpoint the time when music became a facet of life. In one way or another, it has always been there, even — probably — before we left the womb. What’s easier for me is reflecting on the high point of my musical passion: high school. And that got me thinking. High points mark the beginning of a decline. So what happened after high school? Why can I point to a period that occurred eight years ago as the height of my passion for music? Why didn’t that passion continue to grow as expected?

I think it has something to do with changes in the way that people experience music. There have been many of these changes in the history of music, but one of the most important — in our lifetimes at least — occurred just as I was finishing high school.

But first, a rundown of the listening methods I experienced leading up to it. (Note: I was born in 1995).

First there was radio. Driving in the car with my mom, dad, or grandma, the radio would almost always be playing. There were three stations that they seemed to cycle through: two were pop, and one was hip-hop/RnB. And occasionally my dad would play a Spanish station where banda and classic ballads were the scheduled programming.

Then there were CDs. We didn’t listen to CDs in the car very often — radio was easiest — but there was a CD player built into the entertainment center in our living room, and my parents had a small collection of discs they’d accumulated before I came into existence. I remember my dad loading a CD now and then, perhaps when everyone in the house had been summoned to do some share of cleaning up. It didn’t matter what was playing. Hearing those CDs was special. It was music that was never played on the radio, so it was brand new to me — and then there was the sound quality. Clean. Crisp. Switchblade sharp to the radio’s butter-knife bluntness. That was the first time I had the sensation of music as something that could cut through me, making me feel new feelings, dictating my mood.

My brother and I shared a room at the time. Bunk beds. And one day our parents bought us our own stereo at RadioShack. It was red and black and awesome. There was the main console, two big speakers, and a subwoofer. You could load five CDs at once and cycle though them at will. We had fun with that thing. Green Day saw a lot of play time.

That CD stereo system was the last time I would use analog technology as a period-correct method of listening to music. Shortly after getting our stereo, the Apple iPod was released.

I didn’t get one immediately. Instead, I got a Zune, made by Microsoft. But for some reason or another — I didn’t like the Zune? The iPod looked cooler? I felt the social pressure to conform? — I eventually got the hailed chrome-and-white iPod, and if I thought the sound quality of CDs was incredible, it was something else entirely to have high-production melodies and thumping beats funneled directly into my ears. I bought albums on iTunes until I figured out how to illegally download music (I’m not proud of it). The iPod was a key to the world’s music library, and it initiated an amazing period of music exploration for me that would continue through middle school and into high school.

But having music on my iPod alone didn’t feel like enough. Like a good consumer, I wanted something physical — an object I could touch, take care of, display on a wall, etc. I would go out and buy CDs from the artists I really loved and play them at home on that trusty RadioShack speaker. These were in-depth, extended, and invested musical experiences. One album lead to other albums with related (or not) styles. The music helped inform my identity. New sounds inspired me to pick up new instruments. And this deep love led naturally to the height of my musical passion: vinyl record collecting.

The vinyl stage took place mostly in high school with my friend Yale. Besides listening to our music digitally, reading Pitchfork, TinyMixTapes and other websites dedicated to musical discovery, and trying to make our own music, we bought turntables and scoured record stores for interesting albums. This was the high point I mentioned earlier, for just as I was falling head-first in love with collecting records, streaming platforms were emerging. I quickly identified them as the beginning of the end. Going forward, I theorized, it would be hard — if not impossible — for people to connect with music as intimately as we had leading up to this point.

My reasoning? One of the aspects that made music so great was listening to artists by the album, rather than by the song. It was clear from the beginning of streaming services that, although you could listen to a full album, this behavior was discouraged. The focus music listening had zoomed-in to the song level. Listeners on Spotify, for example, were fed playlists, or encouraged to create them. Whole albums were just the vessels for individual tracks.

And, sure enough, my music sleuthing, collecting, and listening lessened. My enthusiasm waned. I went into college kind with an unaffected attitude towards music. I had no streaming platform. I had no downloaded songs. I had no records or record player.

Part of my falling off, of course, was my fault. I lost my battle to maintain my old ways. After holding out for a long time, I eventually downloaded Spotify, but it was far from the music-listening experience I had enjoyed before. The stuff "suggested" in the app was subpar and rarely interesting. Sometimes I got excited about an artist started to go down the rabbit hole, but one can only listen to the same stuff for so long. Then it was back to the same old, same old. Music felt boring when, once, it was the most colorful part of my life.

So what the hell happened? Music = boring? These should never equate. I’ve attempted to list some of the reasons I think the experience of listening to music today, as well of the future of music, is in jeopardy, especially when compared to the past. Many of these ideas were introduced to me by the awesomely erudite music aficionado Ted Gioia.

Reasons why it’s harder to enjoy music today than it used to be

Music today is listened to by song, rather than by album. The reason for this comes from an assumption by music purveyors — which are no longer record labels, but technology companies — who think people have short attention spans. I don’t buy it. If people can listen to an hour-long playlist, they can listen to an hour-long album. An LP is an experience designed by the artist. It may have an intro, a climax, and an ending. You go on a journey. You are invested. The sensation is greater and more engaging than a single song, and it keeps you coming back. CDs, vinyl records, or even paid downloads were cool because you bought the whole album, so why not listen to it? Look, I get it. Time is precious. I certainly don’t listen to everything by album today. Still, we should try to go the full nine yards, even if we skip the songs we don’t really like halfway through — at least we gave them a momentary listen. Looking for and listening to full albums is usually how I find the best stuff.
Streaming services prioritize their profit over your listening pleasure. Ted Gioia, a jazz music expert, tells a story about searching "jazz" on Spotify. The top result was a playlist called “Jazz in the background.” Out of fifteen tracks, he had only heard of two artists on the list. How could this be? His theory: The playlist was composed of tracks that would give Spotify the biggest monetary kickbacks, instead of tracks that were staples of jazz music. To do this, Spotify purchases tracks outright from unknown artists that sell their work without royalties. This probably explains my apathetic hiatus from music, and the apathy many younger people currently feel towards music. People aren’t engaging with music like they used to for the simple reason that the music they’re listening to isn’t engaging. What’s worse, why should Spotify care? If you’re paying for the service, it’s actually better for them if you’re not using it to listen to music. They are incentivized to promote subpar music and/or encourage you to stop listening to music altogether.
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Steaming services remove ownership from the equation. When you own something, you are — literally and figuratively — invested in it. I may be exaggerating, but after going to the record store, searching through the milk crates, choosing a record, paying for it, getting home, and (finally) listening to it, the music seemed to sound better. Not only that, but I had something to show for my money and effort. Album artwork. A cool, vinyl record. Card inserts that had the track lists, lyrics to each song, pictures of the band, and the credits. And all this was mine forever. You can imagine the sensation of this compared to paying monthly for nothing but access.
The element of discovery and surprise. In the throes of my high school enthusiasm, I would sometimes pick up records I knew nothing about simply because they seemed interesting or obscure. In stores you could find yourself walking down the “Country” aisle, or the “Techno” aisle, places you didn't expect to go but where you might find something you never expected to find, buy, and love. Digitally, Yale and I would spend a lot of time looking at editorial music websites. The writers on these sites would do some of the sleuthing for us, and share their findings — and occasionally their recommendations were really good. Today, in place of these methods of discovery, we have algorithmically generated playlists. These do the work for us. Admittedly, they are not always bad at their job. Still, "For You" playlists are obstacles when it comes to expanding our tastes. They make the already-laborious process encountering something new, exciting, and beautiful that much harder.
The stagnation of music-listening technology. Think of a type of tech. Refrigerators. Computers. Movies. TVs. Cookware. Cars. All of these technologies have advanced immensely over the past twenty years — all except music. To support this point, take the fact that the RadioShack stereo I had as a kid was better than anything I have now. Or, take the fact that the sound systems most teenagers owned in the 1960s (turntable hooked up to speakers) was likely better than what most people have now. Today, when it comes to listening to music, most either user tiny earbuds or the smart phone’s speaker itself. No wonder we don’t want to listen to music more often.

These are five points that begin to cover the problem. I’m curious: are there others you can think of that I'm missing? And, I wonder if you can relate to the ones I listed? Think back to before streaming services: what was your relationship to music compared to now?

I hear you asking, “OK, we get it you’re good at complaining, but what’s the solution?”

I don’t know. (I say that a lot). It's really hard to say. As you can imagine, these issues are much bigger than me. You may also be wondering, “What’s the alternative? Surely you’re not suggesting we go back to vinyl records, are you?”

That would be cool, but no. For all my discontent with streaming services, I use Spotify and Tidal on a daily basis, and while I used to have many records and a turntable, neither of these can be found in my house at the time of this writing.

So I guess the point of all this is to raise awareness of these issues. This change has happened in front of our eyes, and, until recently, I was completely ignorant about it. And it continues, and still in the wrong direction. Apparently, the music industry thinks TikTok may be their savior. Enter: the 16-second song. (God help us).

I’ve since returned to music, and my passion is finally where it was in high school. It feels incredible. But before this homecoming I was left mostly blaming myself for my lessened listenership. I though maybe I just didn’t care about music as much as I used to, but that wasn’t the right explanation. It’s that I was facing a series of hurdles that were getting in the way of my loving music as much as I used to. Now that I’m aware of them, I can navigate them. For now at least, that’s the best I can do for you: attempt to make you aware of these forces so you can zip left and zip right to avoid them, getting you back to the place where some old, beautiful song that you once loved more than anything can work it’s magic on you brain, body, and soul — just like old times. ♦

Mailbox

Regarding last week's newsletter, "Pretty":

Matt! This topic floats around in my mind about once or twice a day! How am I both 28, yet also a vulnerable, impulsive 8-year-old girl and an exhausted, frazzled 82 year old woman who has no energy? Where is the middle ground? Can we be so complex that the phrase "age is just a number" stands true?
My brother and his wife had a baby girl who is now 8 months old. I observed her on a trip recently, and certain thoughts came to mind, "This, THIS, is a baby. She has no agenda! There is no way she knows what is weird or cool to her yet. She is truly just taking it all in."
That's when I realized, as adults, we've experienced enough that we can express what our likes and dislikes are to form an educated opinion and make our own, fruitful decisions. It's a freeing thought, actually! We are not tied down by our parent's plans or rules, and we can truly be anyone we want on a day to day basis (within reason).
- Jenny

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