A brief reflection on musical discovery in days gone by
Usually when I sit down to work on content for this site, I have a clear path laid out in front of me. Often there’s been some sort of research process, whether that’s repeated listening and notetaking for an album review, collecting answers to interview questions, or good old fashioned Googling to find other sources that I might want to cite in an article. That’s not really the case this time around. I could make a list of misfortunes and excuses from the past month that have kept me away from this work, but I’ll save the (metaphorical) ink and get to the topic at hand.
Even when things are going smoothly, I find that this time of year, the transition from late Autumn into the first days of winter, lends itself to nostalgic distractions. Maybe that would make a good segue into a piece about the cyclical nature of media trends, but I’ll come back to that another time (not to mention that I touched upon the concept previously in my article on the “CD Revival”, which you can check out here)
When I reminisce about my formative musical experiences, the memories coalesce into a tapestry of faded, increasingly rare experiences. Saving up money to buy CDs, ripping those CDs into a computer program so they could be downloaded onto an mp3 player, starting a record collection, working as an on-air host at a college/public radio station. All of these avenues of access shaped my listening habits in a way that is still relevant today. Now most of those avenues are infrequently traveled, or closed down entirely.
I’m not one to argue that things were “better back then”. In fact, I’m glad to no longer be ripping CDs, running out of storage on my iPod, or combing through the internet to try and find low quality uploads of albums that are out of print or not widely available. The convenience of streaming allows unprecedented access to the global library of musical art, and that in and of itself is a positive thing in my opinion. Even algorithmic music discovery, a practice that I think is easily manipulated and can often put listeners into the same sort of “boxes” that streaming initially promised to help us break out of, can in the right circumstances lead down a path that might not have been taken otherwise. I myself must admit that I first encountered some of my favorite artists and albums of recent years via the recommendations section of a streaming service. Still, there is something I miss about the “old ways”.
I think to put it simply, the thing I miss most is community, the human element of music discovery. There are a lot of albums and artists that have influenced me not just with the power of their music, but through the experiences that brought me to the music. Whenever I play my LP of Bob Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited (which I still think is his finest work), I’ll always think of Pat (Rest in Peace) from Culture Clash Records, who sold me his personal copy because he told me they had it in stock and felt bad when they didn’t. I’ll think back to the way he talked to me and my friends about the stuff we were into, and always seemed to have something to add no matter how disparate the genres (having a functional conversation with me during my blues purist phase and my buddy Drew during his prog elitist era was probably not an easy task). I also think about the numerous parallel conversations that took place at all of the other record stores around my hometown.
When I listen to Nick of Time by Bonnie Raitt, I think back to my job cataloguing vinyl 45s for the music library I worked at in college. I used to be allowed to keep doubles that had been discarded because there was already a better copy in the collection. One of these castoffs was a cassette single of Nick of Time, which proceeded to get stuck in the tape deck of my 2004 Ford Taurus. It stayed there until that car got totaled in an accident on my way to a Death Grips concert. And somehow I still love that song, despite it being the only thing I could listen to in the car for months. Probably because it soundtracked a lot of important moments during that phase of my life.
Any time I listen to an old blues record, I’m taken back to my first guitar lessons as a teenager. My teacher Jeff exposed me to the full spectrum of blues, from electric Chicago blues, to the early Delta styles, country blues, jazz-blues, and more. We’d spend hours sometimes after our scheduled lesson time, just listening to and talking about T-Bone Walker, Magic Sam, or the “Three Kings” of the blues. My first experiences performing on stage were sitting in with Jeff and his band. It was the first time I was part of a musical scene, and the experiences and mentors I had in that environment are still critical to my musical identity.
I could go on reciting albums and styles that I love and explaining why, but reminiscing isn’t the sole reason I’m writing this, and I feel that my point has been made; music can be an incredible source of community, but the specific ways in which it helped me build community are not as common as they once were. There is an emergent practice within this type of community that should also be explored however, specialized curation.
Curation still exists of course. In fact, it’s probably more of a factor in the listening habits of the typical consumer than ever before, but now it’s a mechanical process. This negates two elements I really love about listening experiences that are curated by people; passion and randomness. When I worked in public radio, I hosted a 2 hour long jazz, blues, and RnB show once a week, and occasionally subbed in for other DJs, in which case I’d play assorted indie rock and experimental music. The entire schedule of the station was comprised of these 2 hour long shows, each hosted by a different DJ who personally selected all of the music that would be played during their block. This had the dual effect of making sure the station was always playing carefully hand selected music, as well as creating a sort of musical roulette for the listener, where tuning in at a different time of day would expose them to a different genre, as well as the tastes of a different host. When recommendations are made by a digital algorithm however, the joy of stumbling across new music that you wouldn’t have otherwise heard can be lost. These systems take into account a vast array of data in order to determine what music you are statistically most likely to enjoy. This is not inherently sinister, and can be useful for those who hope to discover new artists who are working in a vein similar to their favorites, but it also has the potential to narrow one’s horizons as the algorithm continuously refines and narrows the niche into which it has decided you fit. This aspect of the process can be actively pushed back against by seeking out a wide range of music using manual search functions, but many will not take the time and energy to do so. The shift towards algorithmic discovery feels to me like the loss of an ecosystem. The shiny new mall of the Spotify Discover Weekly Playlist offers some nice amenities, but I’ll miss the unpredictable sound of the wilds that preceded it. The broad decline of radio as a medium doesn’t bring me too much grief; the long advertising blocks and mediocre, repetitive playlists of the big stations don’t offer much value in my opinion, certainly not when compared to the expansive and ad free experience of streaming, but the waning relevance of college and public radio stations is a byproduct of that process, and an unfortunate blow to “traditional” music discovery methods.
Of course, some things have shifted in the opposite direction, most notably the record collecting scene. I began my collection right around the dawn of the current vinyl revival. Lots of people my age were starting to become interested in the medium then, but it was still niche enough that independent record stores and a few specialized online marketplaces were the primary distribution method for physical records. This helped create the communal atmosphere I addressed earlier. Communities are made up of people, but spaces are an important part of the equation as well. Somewhat paradoxically, as the size of the community has increased, the spaces that brought people together have become less impactful. The increased demand for vinyl has led big box retailers to reintegrate LPs into their stores. For many new collectors, the record buying experience is no longer intrinsically tied to the independent record stores that served as not only storefronts, but as meeting places, hubs of information, and even performance venues in some cases. Luckily, collectors still have the option of visiting these local spaces, but the addition of vinyl sections to Walmart and it’s competitors will undoubtedly play a part in shaping the culture of the next generation, and I’m not convinced it will be a positive influence. As the market fills up with shrink-wrapped new vinyl, I wonder if we are leaving behind the golden age of the record exchange. During the years where vinyl was being overshadowed in popularity by CDs, cassettes, and MP3 downloads, it was possible to walk into a record store with a $20 bill and leave with three or four used LPs. Not only could you sometimes get a great deal on a record you’d been looking for, but when the price was low enough you could even justify picking up albums you’d never heard of just because the cover art was cool, or the clerk recommended it. This was great for hobbyist collectors, but also provided fertile ground for entire music scenes. Projects like The Wu-Tang Clan’s Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers), J Dilla’s Donuts, and DJ Shadow’s Endtroducing….. were made possible by the abundance of cheap vinyl. Prior to the internet’s widespread adoption, the best way to find samples for creating hip-hop instrumentals was to have a big stack of records to comb through in search of brief snippets that could be cut out and recontextualized as part of an entirely new musical composition. While the tech has changed, the randomness of this method, and the magic of stumbling across the right 4 bars that inspires a new track, still drives a notable subculture of DJs to this day.
When I compare my musical past to my musical present, I do my best to embrace exciting new channels, while also holding on to the valuable parts of my now outdated experiences. Usually this manifests as trying to find new methods of community building in virtual spaces. While I don’t think the internet ever functions as a suitable replacement for physical music scenes, it can foster meaningful communication that simply wasn’t possible in the past. This Substack site is partially a product of this communication. Some of the current and upcoming Sound and Space content would not be possible without platforms like Tiktok, software like Zoom, and the general ubiquity of the internet. Using these channels, I have been able to discover, connect with, and talk to people that likely would have never crossed my path otherwise. I have been able to stay in contact with friends who are making music in scenes that I am no longer directly a part of due to my lack of geographic proximity. I have been able to share my work and start to build an audience without any overhead expenses. The current media landscape presents many challenges, not the least of which is the rate at which it changes, but there’s opportunity there as well. Even if you don’t like it, this is the boat we’re in, and it’s best to make peace with that. I don’t have a major call to action for my readers, but I would encourage anyone who has read this far to ask their friends what they’ve been listening to, or look up a song that you heard in a coffee shop, or even just hit play on an album you haven’t checked out before, just because the cover art stands out while you’re browsing a streaming app. If you keep an open mind and ear, there is a world of music that you are bound to fall in love with if you make space to listen.
Nicholas Rossler 