Owning (Not Renting) Music

Rent it on digital, own it on analog

I'm listening to a new album from The Bad Plus, my favorite jazz trio, streamed from NPR Music's First Listen page. Streaming it before it pre-release is a luxury. The album drops next week but I'll have to wait four more weeks for my vinyl copy. I'm grateful for this preview and next week will be glad to have a downloadable stream, but it's the physical record that will really make me smile.

This NPR stream is online only. I don't own it and don't even have the rights of a renter. I enjoy it at their pleasure so long as they have it online.

Next week, I'll rent the album through my subscription service, download it to my phone, and enjoy so long as the service makes the album available and there are no glitches. Recently, I lost all access to another album and was reminded who owns what.

I could purchase the stream, but what satisfaction is there in owning a sequence of ones and zeroes?I'm a physical, tactile guy. Buying the vinyl record satisfies my urge to own and more.

The NPR stream is only music. My subscription stream will tell the album title and each song's name as it plays, but nothing more. Streamed music is pure signal stripped of all noise. That seems like a good thing but it just isn't.

When I receive the vinyl copy, I will slide the record from its sleeve, place it on the turntable, brush it clean, drop the needle, and sit to listen while reading the liner notes, musician credits, song titles, and so on. All that and the album art are noise that enhances signal.

The trade-off is convenience. My turntable is anything but portable. I'm not ready to spend money on additional turntables. I used to make tapes of albums for listening in the car and on my walkman. Now I use the stream for that convenience and enjoy the records at home. It's not a choice between either the stream or the vinyl. I use both and the balance, like that between signal and noise, works.

Putting a record on, cleaning it, and repeating all that every twenty minutes is inconvenient. I have to be involved in selecting, playing, and continuing the music. Inconvenience is a feature, not a flaw. To understand why, consider a birthday message delivered one of three ways.

First, a Facebook message: Happy Birthday. Like. Like. Like. That feels like a machine pinging rather than any personal connection.

An email is nice, someone taking time to type a message. It's a personal connection that feels good.

Then there's a handwritten note delivered by mail. Not a printed card, but a personal letter written just for me. Email disappears into the archive, Facebook messages are lost in the feed, but I keep a letter forever.

NPR's stream is a Facebook message. My subscription stream is email. The vinyl record is a personal letter from The Bad Plus that I will keep the rest of my life. Passing my finger over the record spines, selecting Never Stop II, and putting it on is a complete experience, surpassed only by seeing them live. If I could just manage to have them appear regularly in my living room, I would let the record go. Until then, I'll hang onto it and savor the feeling of ownership.

(I'm indebted to Damon Krukowski's excellent The New Analog for the idea of signal and noise. Buy a copy of the book now.)