There is a peacefulness to old-school analog technology that is sorely missing from the data-mining, invasive smart technologies we have become accustomed to. Specifically, I’m talking about playing vinyl albums versus using a streaming service.

Sometime in the early 1990’s, when music production shifted from albums to CDs, my late husband and I packed up our beloved vinyl collection and stowed the boxes away. When I moved, those boxes moved to a friend’s. Recently, I brought them home, found a mini record player, and have been listening to memories ever since.

Flipping through the boxes looking for which music I’m in the mood for, checking out the album art, playing side one, manually flipping to side two, all these actions form a ritual before the needle even hits the groove. It’s so peaceful. It’s like taking a deep breath before a long walk. I can’t help but compare this mini ceremony to the quick scroll for a playlist on my phone; hit play, hit shuffle, oops, don’t feel like that song, hit skip. My impatience and ever shortening attention span is easily indulged with a quick tap. Albums require, request even, a bit of patience; slow down, listen to what was intended to be a musical journey.

I will admit to making all kinds of new discoveries through streaming. I’m not a complete curmudgeon. I have a techno-crush on my Shazam app. However, consider the feeling of shared experience when you discover that someone you just met loved the same album you did. What two people have the same playlist? A discussion about a shared love of music becomes distilled to preferences of genre, which platform is best, which artists.

There is no “smartness” to my little mini record player; my listening choices remain a private experience. There is no algorithm operating in the background, guessing my mood, cueing up the next selection, working to satisfy my streaming dollars. Data mining does not offend everyone to the degree it offends me. And, I’m well aware that the music industry has always been a marketing machine. The difference is, when I put that needle down, there are no eyes on my wallet.

Albums, like the books we collect are a snapshot of who we were when. I will argue that playlists, or any digital collection, don’t carry the same gravitas. Looking at music from both sides now, I appreciate that streaming services offer a broader, global range, even if it means accepting the algorithm. But… tapping open a streaming service can’t compare to the physicality of putting an album on; the anticipation, the hiss of the needle on the wax… I recall parties where I was in charge of the music, making the choices, flipping to side B; it was so personal and so deliberate. Such a responsibility.

Keep your joy.

Contentment is for Cows: Short and sweet reflections on life’s complications.

Posted every Sunday, unless it’s a holiday, or summertime.