I haven’t regularly bought music—CDs, LPs, cassette tapes, downloads, or otherwise—since I got a Spotify login from a European friend back in 2009, before it was even available in the US. At the time, it seemed like magic: unlimited access to everything, all at once. Honestly, it still does. But over time, I’ve come to realize that something essential has been lost in this new way of listening.
What I didn’t realize then—but which I think more of us are starting to recognize now—is that unlimited streaming and algorithmic recommendation engines have fundamentally degraded the experience of being a music lover. We supposed (quite reasonably) that more access would mean more enjoyment, connoisseurship, fandom, knowledge, and experience. But in reality, it’s the very act of seeking, searching, researching, and finding the music we love that makes us truly love it. When someone or something else does this for us, it deprives us of the process through which we form strong bonds with the music in our lives.
I used to discover music by reading critics whose taste I admired, browsing record stores or libraries, asking friends for listening recommendations, and, way back, exchanging mixtapes. That process wasn’t just a means to an end; it shaped my relationship with music itself. The time and effort spent looking made the music feel earned, like something I had a real stake in. Streaming, for all its convenience, has made music feel weightless—available at all times, but somehow less valuable.
We love music first and foremost for the way it sounds. Within a few seconds of listening to something, we know intuitively whether it’s for us or not. But that’s only the beginning of what it means to connect to music. We form deep connections when we know something about who made it, when and how they made it, who influenced them, where they tour and perform, and what kind of people attend those performances. When music is disembodied from these contexts—when it exists primarily or entirely within the ecosystem of a streaming platform—we cut ourselves off from the possibility of truly falling in love with it.
Megastars like Taylor Swift (whom I adore) show us what’s missing from the typical streaming experience. Her ubiquity, openness, and cultural presence give us a deep sense of connection that goes beyond her sonic world. We know and follow her influences, her backstory, her creative process. But in the world before streaming, this kind of familiarity wasn’t reserved for only the biggest stars—it was the norm for serious music fans across all genres. Whether you were into classical, jazz, punk, folk, or electronic music, you knew not just the artists but the labels they were on, the scenes they emerged from, the musicians they collaborated with. That context was part of the joy of listening.
In contrast, algorithmic recommendations do none of this. While they absolutely excel at helping us find music we’ll respond positively to on a first listen—and therefore continue streaming—they fail miserably at helping us form truly meaningful connections with artists. Algorithms serve us an endless stream of what we already like, but they don’t provide the framework to understand why we like it or where it fits into a larger world of music.
Leaving aside the horrific impacts that streaming has had on the ability of small and medium-sized artists to make a living from recordings, our current listening paradigm is also making things worse for listeners. From this perspective as a listener—not as a composer—I want to reclaim that deeper relationship with music.
A few weeks ago, I splurged on an LP of an album I’ve streamed constantly for the past few years: Shai Maestro’s absurdly excellent Human (ECM, 2021). I spent more on the damn shipping from Germany than I did on the LP itself. I tracked it obsessively as it wound its way through customs. I was physically excited when I saw the box in the mailroom at Rutgers and I opened it up on the spot. I’ve played the disc probably eight times in the past two days and it’s been pure joy. This was $40 extremely well spent.
We can’t go back to the way things were, but we can recognize what’s broken and find ways to synthesize technology with the deeper engagement that makes music meaningful. One way or another, it has to involve putting in the work.