A matter of substance

It’s getting around to the time of the year when people–well, a few people anyway–ask me what I might like for my birthday. This never used to be a difficult question. I lusted after stuff. There were always at least a dozen albums on my gotta-have-that list, then there was the gear category, and the book category–two categories, actually–cheap guilty pleasures and expensive collector’s editions, and there was the art category–pottery, paintings, prints, photos…

But ask me these days and my mind kind of goes blank. Got nothin’. Have I achieved a state of enlightenment transcending material possessions? Unlikely. Am I trying to reduce my carbon footprint? A little maybe, but not by cutting back on greenhouse-gas emitting works of art. Instead, I think it’s the growing lack of substance in the former objects of my lust, and in the disappearance of the physical institutions that fed and informed my desires.

As an example, the paraphernalia of music used to be as important as the music itself. Bulky shelving to house the vinyl, cover art and poster art for the walls. There were extensive liner notes and a basket of music magazines to study. And the quality and size and power of your stereo components spoke volumes of your station in life. More space in the living room belonged to music than to overstuffed furniture.

An important part of having company or being company was the opportunity to browse another’s collection, to admire or scoff or discuss or recommend albums and bands and venues and songwriters and radio stations. There was bin-diving at the long-vanished neighborhood record store and those heartfelt discussions with the opinionated mavens behind the counter. There were obscure foreign releases and bootlegs.

And what do I have now? An iPod in my phone, earbuds and a few apps, a one-click purchase account at Amazon and iTunes. My phone is exactly the same as the one the lame guy who only listens to Nashville Top 40 has. I would never know that important bit of information about him because I use my earbuds and he uses his.

The music that was once part of the public persona is now privatized. The part that was actual and in-person is now relegated to social media. I rarely have a chance to show it off, I can’t lend my music to anyone, and there’s nowhere (in the physical world) to go for recommendation and discovery. It’s just me and an algorithm based on previous purchases. The entirety of the music apparatus in my life is now small enough to get lost in the couch cushions. It’s all gotten pretty insubstantial.

Hmm. I guess what I do know what I want for my birthday–a time machine.

Tags: listeningpost