I have this Crosley, briefcase-style record player that was every Tumblr girl’s dream in the 2010s. For years, it sat in a corner of my room, more a tabletop than turntable, until I canceled my Spotify and my record-player ritual began.
Now I turn my record player on in the mornings, a soundtrack to watching snow lilt to the ground or to jumping around my bedroom, and I listen to the radio on my drives instead of constantly skipping through song after song after song on Spotify.
The sound of vinyl has a magic to it. It may not sound perfect, but it feels perfect. No shuffling of a playlist created by AI, just songs in the order the artists intended.
I will be unstoppable once I get Sabrina Carpenter’s Man’s Best Friend on vinyl. It’ll be a double whammy when I find my hot pink iPod nano in its hot pink leather case from 2008, loaded up with my parents’ CD collection and hundreds of dollars of iTunes gift cards worth of music.
Music had more value on vinyl, and it has depreciated over time as another mass-produced commodity — a digital, intangible one at that. Unless it’s downloaded, your streamed music disappears around every spotty corner in Tahoe.
My decision to cancel Spotify is what many would consider part of the analog trend. And there’s a beauty, a richness to going “analog.” A mindfulness and simplicity and joy that takes me back to the hot pink iPod from Costco my grandpa gifted me. When life was carefree, the worst thing in politics was the Republican Tea Party, and consumerism didn’t hold the same weight it does today. The analog nature combats the fleeting aspect of novelties.
It’s not that I’m a luddite, I just tend to wonder about the cost of “advancement.” I strive to practice mindfulness in my consumption, and I seek to not take what I have for granted. I don’t need unlimited music at my fingertips. I want customized experiences throughout my life.
It helps that I poached the best and most classic of my parents’ collection like The Beatles, Simon & Garfunkel, Heart, ELO, and Janis Joplin. And I dig through boxes of records at every antique and thrift shop.
Life doesn’t exist on your phone, and your music doesn’t have to, either.
Consumerism has taken over every facet of life. It gives you a false sense of agency while it plays into the game of capitalism, only benefitting those who lord over us all. We own too much. We crowd our lives with overconsumption. The infinite songs on streaming manufacture control when you really end up letting Spotify’s algorithm choose for you.
It’s time to be intentional, to prop up the small business, the artisan, the artist. It’s so easy to get lost in constant consumerist culture, drowning in noise and options, always demanding more. More content, more things, more music. Less money, less time, less room for thought, for intention.
We feed into greed and forget the agenda of the exploiter, the colonizer of time and money. Even the resurgence of vinyl and the love for quality vintage clothing and furniture is capitalized on, prices hiked up to match the demand.
The authentic human experience is lived in a non-virtual world. Returning music-listening to a rawer form connects you to the music rather than the phone. And anything I can do to be more mindful with my attention gives me the most of life.
I was stuck listening to the same playlist on repeat (out of habit and love) — all songs I have on records or CDs, and while I love to live and breathe music every moment of every day, I didn’t love how little artists make off streams and Spotify’s decision to run ICE ads. It doesn’t matter if my one cancellation had no effect, I try to line my actions up with my beliefs.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think streaming platforms are evil. But I do wonder if the latest product will make you happy. Will it fill your life to fill your home with things upon things to the point that you forget your strife? Attention consumed by possessions and entertainment, value in quantity over quality.
You’re taught to find value in materialism. To crave trends so you can feel hip for a season. Trained to be insatiable for every sale, every seasonal product that’s bright and shiny and made to be trashed. Compelled to spend on products that keep breaking instead of earning enough to afford something lasting.
My record player turns off my autopilot setting. And it is only one part of my commitment to intentional consumption and aspirations to be more present and less on my phone.
