Given the unpredictability of digital media producers, there is something reassuring about holding on to a hard copy of a recorded performance that is beyond their reach.
There is good news to report about how we use modern media. True, online digital media still dominate. The way things are going, we wonder if smart phones may soon be surgically grafted into the right hand. Even so, reports from a number of credible sources indicate that Americans are returning to an earlier pattern of collecting physical media: a change from the dominance of on-demand outlets such as Spotify, Amazon, Apple, or local libraries. There is nothing wrong with a lending system, other than their embedded and ever-accumulating fees. But physical copies of a document or performance are indeed having a moment. We are again becoming owners as well as borrowers.
As is obvious, buying a “record” album has again become a thing. Vinyl record sales have been climbing steadily for the last 19 years. And CD sales alone have climbed almost 50 percent in the first half of this year. In addition, the number of new bookstores in the U.S. has started to increase again. More American consumers want media they can own, no strings.
The cases of CDs and vinyl recordings are especially instructive. Owning an original release by a performer or group is close to having a physical master of the music that was originally approved by all involved. The product is a fixed record of a moment in time, and in the case of new vinyl, sometimes marginally improved with better engineering and manufacturing.
As a private person, a record or CD is yours to keep and copy for personal use. Like many, my CDs end up downloaded to an easy-to access home server, in addition to a thumb drive feeding a second home stereo, and another one that sits in a USB port in my car. The only moral imperative here is to pay for the original performance. That keeps a person on the right side of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act, as well as the recording artists who rightfully expect compensation for their efforts.
The media giants have done a great deal to follow a “rent” model of use represented by e-library books or Spotify music lists. But both make a title impermanent. And to keep the music coming, streamers require a payment of a monthly subscription. For their part, public libraries will download books to borrowers without charge for a few weeks.
Films are slightly different. It may be enough to pay for viewing a streamed film once. Except for the most devoted, films don’t easily bend to the idea of multiple view playlists. But music is different. We learn new music and, in many cases, come to love it. A physical copy on hand is like furniture in our head that does not have to be rented or moved. With the right device, it is always ready to recreate the magic that a person may experience with each replay.
It is interesting that studios usually go to great lengths to preserve master copies of their projects. Some of those masters sit in protected warehouses or distant caves that guarantee their safety. The closest a consumer gets to a valuable piece of audio or visual art is their own shelf that contains what I think of as a kind of consumer “master” of a performance. Given the unpredictability of digital media producers, there is something reassuring about holding on to an original form of the product that is beyond the reach of later remastering.
Sadly, we may never see the likes of Tower Records, HMV, or Virgin record stores again. But lucky is the city or town that still has a few bookstores, a record shop, and perhaps one of the 600 Barnes and Noble stores still functioning. Unfortunately, the original Tower Records store on Watt Avenue in Sacramento is gone. If had I spent any more browsing time there while going to college they could have asked me to pay rent. But they still do mail order and, if you are in Japan, there are several multi-level stores. As with so many things, the Japanese got it right. They have never waivered in their love of CDs and records.
-Add in the degraded audio quality of most streaming, MP3 compression, or home-based Bluetooth equipment, and you are suddenly in the cheap seats behind the restrooms–some distance away from what can be heard from a studio master released as a CD
A few years back I wrote a piece about whether we were done collecting books and music. Many people are, but it can be a mistake to abandon those once-loved CDs. What is interesting now is how streaming has come to dominate the music industry. Streaming means you pay a fee to access a vast library service with the music you want to hear. In most cases its incredibly small royalties are a thumb in the eye to musicians, but it is ever so convenient for people who want wall to wall music without having to lift a finger. No collecting required. In 2019 Spotify had become the dominant form of music delivery, with other services like Pandora, radio and YouTube not far behind.
What a different world the music industry was in 1999, when 900 million compact discs were sold. But in the years that followed, the CD lost favor and went into a near total collapse of sales. Suddenly perfect digital copies could be made without additional purchases. By 2007, most of the huge brick and mortar stores like Tower Records and HMV were shuttered, and favorite form of retail therapy died with them. CDs now sell at the modest rate of 31 million copies a year, with Japan the only remaining major consumer. In fact some who study music industry trends in the United States barely notice this superior older format.
As for streaming, what benefits consumers is often a nightmare for performers. Fee-based streaming services put performers at the end of a meager financial food chain that was mostly tapped-out before they were paid. In 2019 the Canadian cellist Zoe Keating reported that her royalty for each stream of her music played by Spotify was $0.0054.
This short essay came to mind after reading a recent article from the Guardian’s Matt Charlton, who wondered if there was any point in holding on to the silver discs that solved many of the problems inherent in vinyl records. Some audiophiles will disagree, but modern CDs can offer stunning sound. They also eliminated the problems created by physically trying to race a stylus through a narrow trough of vinyl. Clicks, pops, inner groove distortion, warping, and washed-out sound from worn down grooves are problems listeners no longer have to contend with. But as Charlton still sees it, CDs “are inherently unlovable, with none of the richness or tactile nature of vinyl, or the kooky, Urban Outfitters irony of tapes.”
His reasons don’t add up to much of an argument. Is he serious about the sonically handicapped cassette tapes that were originally designed for dictation? And what about “tactile vinyl” with grooves everywhere that you are not supposed to touch? I also must have missed the concerts at Urban Outfitters. Overall, I’m not feeling the vibe.
A CD has the capacity for sound accuracy higher than what Apple, Amazon and other music services are routinely streaming.
In fact, CDs are amazing as carriers of music and its supporting images and texts. The standard sampling rate of 44,000 Hz a second is a phenomenal rate for accurately rendering what microphones have heard (assuming your playback device has a decent digital-to-analogue converter.) This is the big remaining asset of the CD; it has emerged as an easy way to hold on to what avid music listeners call “lossless” sound. That is, a CD has the capacity for sound accuracy far above what Apple, Amazon and other music services are routinely streaming. Add in more degrading streamed audio files like MP3 compression or Bluetooth equipment, and you suddenly only qualify for the cheap seats near the restrooms.
Of course there are some caveats. Many listeners seem to have trained their ears to not care about less-than-optimal sound. And even a well-made CD won’t help what started out as a bad recording. In addition, if smaller cards and memory chips can now hold the same accurate audio content, the CD remains the most accessible medium we have for holding the complete package of music, notes and images that a carefully thought-out album represents. For me, new music starts from a physical CD, a personal “master,” before it is stored somewhere else as a high-quality audio file. What’s not to love about these small silver marvels?
As a private person, a record or CD is yours to keep and copy for personal use. Like many, my CDs end up downloaded to an easy-to access home server, in addition to a thumb drive feeding a second home stereo, and another one that sits in a USB port in my car. The only moral imperative here is to pay for the original performance. That keeps a person on the right side of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act, as well as the recording artists who rightfully expect compensation for their efforts.
It is interesting that studios usually go to great lengths to preserve master copies of their projects. Some of those masters sit in protected warehouses or distant caves that guarantee their safety. The closest a consumer gets to a valuable piece of audio or visual art is their own shelf that contains what I think of as a kind of consumer “master” of a performance. Given the unpredictability of digital media producers, there is something reassuring about holding on to an original form of the product that is beyond the reach of later remastering.
