Emotional Attachment

I was reading a recent interview on Indietracks with PJ Court from The Primitives who, in the late ’80s, were one of my favorite bands: “…Nothing will replace the ceremony of putting on a vinyl record. The bottom line is there’s no emotional attachment to an mp3.”

It made me reflect on how, from a music fan’s standpoint, the game has obviously changed with digital distribution now in full effect. I don’t mean to sound overly sentimental, but here was the typical process of following my favorite bands before the digital revolution, and when I finally had a job to afford to buy music:

I used to go to Tower Records or, whatever indie record store within driving range, usually Aron’s Records in Hollywood. When I used to visit my brother in Berkeley, it always included trips to Rasputin and Amoeba. Always.

At the stores, I’d leaf through Melody Maker or NME. Strangely, it was the ads that excited me the most, rather than the editorial. I’d find out what releases were available or coming out, taking mental note of any limited editions. As these were UK newspapers I’d be browsing, the releases I’d anticipate were commonly UK imports. I would then check the store’s stock, or return later.

If a particular item was in stock, I’d buy it. I’d take it home. Listen to it. Commit it to cassette (for my car). Usually I’d make a mix tape with with some tracks from that release (especially if it was a single or EP with “b-sides,” and then I’d make a cassette cover (I’ve designed well over 100). Then, maybe I’d get bored with that release after a while and trade it in at an indie record store. And with store credit, I’d buy something else. Repeat cycle. This was my “ceremony.” While it’s not totally gone, it’s certainly diminished.

Other ways I’d find out about new music might’ve been from watching 120 Minutes on MTV. Or, perhaps enjoying an opening band at a live show (a pre-4AD Red House Painters, opening for Pale Saints, was not one of them). Back then, though, bands selling merch at shows usually just meant t-shirts. Selling actual recorded material was unusual. After all, isn’t that what record stores were for?

Nowadays, I don’t follow music as obsessively as I used to. I mostly rely on friends’ recommendations. I usually can’t be bothered to browse 30-second samples on the iTunes store. The old music-buying process has now been reduced to: hear about it and download it. Done.

These shapeless, intangible MP3s are visually represented by a small JPEG and is made up of binary ones and zeroes on some type of device. And when you fall out of love with it, you can’t take it to a used record store to trade it in. You either ignore it or delete it. And even if you delete it, it’s fairly easy to reacquire. It has no smell, like that cocktail scent of vinyl and its sleeve with the faint smell of ink, or that fragrant and undoubtedly toxic smell of the new cassettes (What? You don’t know what I’m talking about?).

Is there really is no “emotional attachment” to MP3? If anything, that emotional attachment has transferred to my hard drive. I couldn’t begin to put a dollar value on it, with all the months of non-stop music on there, accumulated over many years. Perish the thought if that thing ever craps out on me.

Hmmm…

Excuse me while I go back up my hard drive.