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ShareAs an always music-obsessed but often cash-strapped kid, I could never have guessed that one day my record collection would be better than the entire inventory of the used-record stores I used to browse for hours on end. Or that your record collection would be just as good.
In the age of vinyl, owning an album was a physical act, and perhaps even an accomplishment. There were obstacles and limitations, including the inventory of your local record shop, your budget, or the amount of remaining space in your bedroom. Which records you owned—and, almost as important, which records you did not—reflected your taste.
There was a pleasure in the pursuit, in digging through crates of $1 albums at yard sales or flea markets with hope of finding something other than the ever-present Fleetwood Mac and Eagles titles.
Then came cassettes, which made music more mobile, and despite audio quality that matched their cheap plastic appearance, allowed sharing between friends. Now if one of my friends owned the Violent Femmes on cassette, for the cost of a blank tape, I could too.
This created the first blurring of ownership of music. If I had a dubbed Maxell tape of the Doors but with the end of “The End” cut off on side two, did I “own” that album? Well, sort of. But not in the same way I owned ZZ Top’s Eliminator and 10 other selections procured from the Columbia Record and Tape Club for just one penny.
Cassettes also introduced me to the world of bootlegs, crappy audience recordings of bands performing in far-away cities, some of which had been dubbed time and time again. With these, I was able not only to collect my favorite music, but something rare and semi-illicit, not found at the record store in the mall. The limited availability was central to the appeal.
Later, after years of spending a grossly disproportionate percentage of my income on CDs, I entered the digital age with a music collection that was a source of pride. In addition to most of the seminal albums from rock’s standard pantheon, I had a large selection of live “import” CDs, purchased at inflated prices from behind the counter at indie record stores.
As shallow as it sounds, my music collection made up part of my identity. Some of the records were mainstream, some obscure. But every one had a memory or story associated with it.
Now, like everyone else, I’ve converted my music to digital files. It now resides on a series of iPods and iPhones, all dutifully backed up by hard drives stored in multiple locations. With iTunes and other programs I can do more than collect, I can collate, catalog and categorize to my geeky heart’s content.
The bootleg concerts I collected on cassette and then CD are now widely available online. Anyone with a high-speed connection can download torrents, or stream favorite shows from sites like Wolfgang’s Vault.
Over the past few years I accumulated more music than ever before, and could easily—almost too easily—have access to much, much more. Even so, until recently, there was an important dividing line. On one side, the library of music I possessed, and could point to, even if it is now stored on a hard drive. And on other, the music I didn’t own, either by choice or because I hadn’t been able to track it down.
But the growing popularity of cloud-based subscription music services, including Spotify, Rhapsody and others competitors, has all but erased that line. Buying any one album is pointless. I can listen to it—or any other album for that matter—as often as I want, almost anywhere I want, for less than the cost of buying the 12 songs individually.
There’s no real need to download any songs at all. There’s no point in collecting multiple copies of digital files. Any device that can play a locally-stored version of the file—a computer, a tablet, or a smartphone—could just as easily access the cloud-stored version.
So why am I still concerned with “owning” the new album by indie rockers Real Estate, of making it part of my curated collection? Why am I ambivalent about having that record and so much more available so easily?
Today, with my Rhapsody subscription, I have the same “ownership” of the Sleigh Bells debut as I do of Michael Bolton’s Christmas album. And does everyone else. Thus, the paradox of the modern music geek: I have the greatest record collection imaginable. But it’s almost exactly the same as all of Rhapsody’s other customers.
With the ability to share playlist and integration with social networks, the streaming services have transitioned record collecting from a solo pursuit to a more social experience. As a fan, I value how easy it is to hear the latest recommendations from Pitchfork or my friends. The joy of discovery is more readily available than ever. What’s diminished is the thrill of the chase.
So when I find something that I especially like, I still go through the expense and effort to save my own digital copy locally. I want to “own” these tracks, and to have them alongside the rest of “my” songs. Because having great music available to everyone is wonderful. But every true music snob still wants their hard drive to be cooler than yours.
