How Do I Avoid Becoming Uncle Rico?

unclerico

Christmas has ruined me, and I’m struggling. Many people suffer similar or related problems in January: it’s that time of year.

It was Blue Monday on the 18th January, the statistically-proven lowest point of a dark, cold month that represents a boom time for the diet and fitness industries. It’s a boom time also for DeAgostino, the publishers of those weekly magazines that provide people with the parts needed to build a scale-model of a ship, or a racing car. You only ever see their adverts on television in the early weeks of a new year; they promise a new hobby for a new start, and the hope of combatting the same old ennui. There are already adverts on television for summer holidays, and the Easter bunnies will shortly go on sale in Tesco.

Unlike some, however, I’m not struggling due to Christmas excess, or an excess of Christmas. I’m struggling due to Christmas indolence. Three weeks of sitting on the sofa, slowing depleting the Roses tin, has turned my brain to jelly. Concentration is elusive. My sentences are very short. The ability to sit down and read or write for any decent length of time has deserted me. I somehow lost an hour this morning listening to the 3-second Windows 98 start-up chime slowed down 4000%, which had turned it into a 4-minute ambient masterpiece.

I remembered that the chime was created by Brian Eno, and I wondered if perhaps he made it this way, and then sped it up 4000 times. And then it was 10am, and I had nothing to show for the day.

Things were much clearer in the past, in those dim and distant days of 2015. I was motoring along, fighting on two fronts. I was making progress with some self-directed learning around data, and I was sticking (mostly) to a regime of daily writing that was producing over 5,000 words each week. Some of those words were even quite useful.

I lost another 30 minutes last week, repeatedly watching a 27-second clip of the film Napoleon Dynamite, in which Uncle Rico expertly lobs a minute steak into the face of Napoleon, a moving target on a bicycle. Uncle Rico spends much of the film wishing he could get back to 1982. I feel much the same way about late 2015.

Just like Uncle Rico, though, I’m possibly looking backwards with rose-tinted glasses. His assertion that things would be different now had the coach only thrown him into the 1982 game doesn’t help his situation in the present day. His claim that, “Back in ’82, I used to be able to throw a pigskin a quarter mile”, is similar in part to my own assessment of my productivity and progress in late 2015. I was working, and putting the hours in, but it’s questionable whether I had successfully honed in on my target in the same way Rico eventually, but pointlessly, did with the steak. How do I avoid becoming Uncle Rico?

Things just don’t add up.

“Things throw themselves together but it’s not because of the sameness of elements, or the presence of a convincing totality. It’s because a composition encompasses not only what has been actualised but also the possibilities of plenitude and the threat of depletion. Matter in an unfinished world is itself indefinite – a not yet that fringes every determinate context or normativity with a margin of something deferred or something that failed to arrive, or has been lost, or is waiting in the wings, nascent, perhaps pressing” (Stewart, 2008)

Is this a convincing argument for the fragility of a robust theory? And surely that question contains something of a paradox. Things just don’t add up.

Along with the Write Club prompt piece, quoted above, and in an effort to kick-start my 2016 writing, I recently read a 1997 article by Will Straw on record shops (Straw, 1997), picked at random from a digital pile of papers in my ‘To Read’ folder. The paper considers the emergence of music Megastores in the early to mid 1990s, stores that capitalised on the CD boom and pop music’s rich and varied catalogue. It ponders the potentially dangerous possibilities of a production, distribution and consumption chain (of events) that is highly rationalised, and increasingly reliant on data. It felt like looking in the mirror, seeing my own project reflect back at me, but somehow distorted by another time, another place, another unique collection of events. It is a paper trapped in a fascinating mid-1990s singularity, one where the CD boom appears to have perpetual momentum; it is a boom in cruise control. It has no idea that a steak is flying through the air on an inescapable collision course with its face.

Straw has no way of knowing this, trapped in time on the page (trapped in time like the stalled version of Uncle Rico, the one who did get thrown into the game, back in ’82). From the vantage point of unfrozen time, I want to tell Straw that he was right, but also that he was wrong, but also that it’s ok, because so was everyone else.

Or were they? The events of the digital revolution were ‘waiting in the wings, nascent‘ and certainly pressing. And pressing with a certainty that neither Straw, nor the people behind the counters of the Enormostores, could possibly have foreseen.

The singularity of January 2016, when a man – me – types words into a laptop – these words – also affords the benefit and luxury of suggesting that perhaps they should have known. But they couldn’t, and they didn’t. We now know that the steak met the face sometime between 1998 and 2000, the watershed period of the ‘Napster moment’, according to Bhattacharjee et al (2007), and a new configuration of possible singularities were set in motion.

Straw’s is a singularity that contains a listener experience fragmented to hitherto unseen levels, where each listener experience is ‘an innumerable collection of singularities’ (De Certeau, 1984) arrived at through things that had happened by 1997, and also things that hadn’t happened. I’m trapped in a similar singularity, in the here and now. I have no way of knowing how the ‘book’ I could (or threaten) to write about this will be read (…or if it will be read…) and can not possibly know how it will stand up in the year 2037. We could be listening through chips installed in our inner ears by then. Or we could be doing something else entirely. All Year 2037 singularities are possible, and the version of 2016 seen from each of them may well beg questions about how on earth we didn’t see it all coming. We can never see it coming.

bruce-springsteen-nebraska

I never liked Bruce Springsteen, and I never quite got David Bowie, either. Then, one day, without me seeing it coming, the penny dropped for me with Bruce Springsteen. The penny is yet to drop for me with David Bowie (and, yes, I realise I’m almost certainly at fault here). There are innumerable singularities implied by this. If I hadn’t listened to Nebraska on that particular day in 1997 and had listened instead to Aladdin Sane….(I can’t be sure it was 199R-354906-1412775755-40127, by the way, I just know that it was around that time. For the purposes of cosmic neatness, though, let’s conspire in the fiction that it was the very day Straw put pen to paper). Bowie or Springsteen, separated by a fraction of a second of a day almost 20 years ago, when the stars aligned and wind blew in the right direction and my mood was receptive. A freakish event constructed of infinite variables, past and present. How do you theorise something like that? And how do you theorise something like that when it’s a situation extrapolated out to encompass the musical experiences of millions of people, as I am trying to do with my PhD? Don’t get me started…I’m trying to write a thesis.

So let’s get back theory instead, weak or otherwise.

There is an argument implied by much of the rhetoric of what I’ll refer to here as ‘the data lobby’, and it’s been put forward explicitly by Anderson (2008) in the form of ‘The End of Theory’. It suggests that theory has had it’s day. Academics disagree, but their actions imply they perhaps see a flying steak out of the corner of their eye (Savage and Burrows, 2007). The line of reasoning behind these developments, on either side of the Dead Theory fence, has it that the depth and accuracy of knowledge that (Big D) data can produce, or predict, means there is no longer any need for theoretical models for understanding the world. Instead we’ll simply know, or (more worryingly) won’t need to ask. And we’re back once again to Straw: we can’t possibly know if this is true but we can retreat instead, in the meantime, into a theory of data. We can construct, for instance, a method of holding the algorithms to account (Ananny, 2015). Each position here (dead theory, or theory that alive and kicking) is a singularity, lurking inside the potential of a larger one.

“For me” says Stewart “the point of theory now is not to judge the value of analytical objects or to somehow get their representation ‘right’, but to wonder where they might go and what potential modes of knowing, relating and attending to things are already somehow present in them as a potential or resonance” (Stewart, ibid). A data scientist training a predictive model may make a similar statement. No-one knows if either, or both, are correct. We can never know, we can only arrive at the future singularity and look back over our shoulder.

For me, looking at popular music consumption in 2016, is it the ‘singularity’ of the violent explosion of the Napster moment (the digital big bang) that is my analytical object? Or is it the slow re-intermediation brought about by the emergence of the likes of iTunes and Spotify (..and lo, the earth cooled)? Or is my analytical object the innumerable, unique, but still strikingly familiar ‘Vermonts’ (Stewart, ibid) that throw themselves together for an instant when someone puts the needle on the record and listens to a song (and in that instant becomes a David Bowie/Bruce Springsteen fan)?

(If we want to consider a conspiracy theory singularity for a second, it has just occurred to me that Nebraska was released in 1982, the year in which it all went south for poor old Uncle Rico. This is probably just a coincidence, though)

Using the phrase ‘putting the needle on the record’ is itself an example of a moment in time having what Stewart calls a resonance, or a residue. Despite what you read in the papers about the rampant resurgence of vinyl as a musical artefact, or in the fact that DeAgostini have now added vinyl reissues of classic jazz albums to their suite of products, the (Big D) data would suggest that – in the grand scheme of things – very few people do put the needle on the record these days. Somewhere amidst that dichotomy, there is a singularity where the elusive truth of this present moment may potentially reside.

I think that’s what I’d like my singularity to be.

So, I’d better get started on this book. There is no time like the present.

************************************************************************************************************

ABOUT THIS POST: As of my PhD studies at BCU, I’m involved with a Pop Music Writing Group. We meet once a fortnight and respond to an academic paper, or a book chapter, or some other provocation, with a few words of our own. The purpose is to get us all writing regularly, flexing the muscles so that the task of coming up with 80,000 words isn’t quite so daunting. This time around we were responding to Kathleen Stewart’s 2008 article, ‘Weak Theory in an Unfinished World’, and specifically we were to relate a line from it to our own projects and working process. The line was: “Don’t get me started – I could write a book”.

We each post our writing to a private Pop Music Writing Club blog, but sometimes I post mine here (normally when I remember – I’m very bad at maintaining this blog). I should do it more often, though, as I quite like the element of risk, the sense of ‘growing up in public’, that is involved with putting works-in-progress such as this out there.

If you would like to know more about my research project, or just tell me how wrong I am about David Bowie (even though I already know I am), then please feel free to drop me a line – craig.hamilton@bcu.ac.uk – or say hello on Twitter (@craigfots).

*************************************************************************************************************

Ananny, M., 2015. Toward an Ethics of Algorithms Convening, Observation, Probability, and Timeliness. Sci. Technol. Hum. Values 0162243915606523.
Anderson, C., 2008. The end of theory: The data deluge makes the scientific method obsolete. Wired.
Bhattacharjee, S., Gopal, R.D., Lertwachara, K., Marsden, J.R., Telang, R., 2007. The effect of digital sharing technologies on music markets: A survival analysis of albums on ranking charts. Manag. Sci. 53, 1359–1374.
De Certeau, M., 1984. Walking in the City.
Dynamite, N., (Unpublished). Hunting Wolverines in Alaska
Savage, M., Burrows, R., 2007. The coming crisis of empirical sociology. Sociology 41, 885–899.
Stewart, K., 2008. Weak theory in an unfinished world. J. Folk. Res. 45, 71–82.
Straw, W., 1997. “Organized Disorder”: The Changing Space of the Record Shop. Clubcultures Read. 57–65.

 

Advertisements

‘Walking in the city with headphones on’: some thoughts about Music, Big Data & The Harkive Project

*****************************************************

I’ve recently become involved with a Pop Music Writing Group as part of my PhD studies at BCU. We meet once a fortnight and respond to an academic paper, or a book chapter, with 2000 words of our own. The purpose is to get us all writing regularly, flexing the muscles so that the task of coming up with 80,000 words isn’t quite so daunting. This is the 2nd piece of work I have produced for the group. It’s a response to a chapter from Michel De Certeau’s 1984 book, ‘The Practice of Everyday Life’, entitled, ‘Walking in the City’, in which I begin to explore some ideas around music and ‘big data’ as they relate my own PhD and The Harkive Project.

*****************************************************

Walking in the city with headphones on

Following a recent conversation with friends about general health and fitness, I worked out, using Google Maps, that during the course of my normal, daily life, I regularly walk over 25 miles each week. This total did not include the steps I take around my home or office, or any sporadic forays into the world of sport, but consisted solely of my daily commute to work, which includes a half-mile walk at either end of a bus journey, twice a day, and a daily walk of over 2 miles with my dogs. That I walk the equivalent of a marathon each week during two activities I take entirely for granted was a surprise.

As I trudge through these miles I’m almost always accompanied by music. I listen using my iPhone, with headphones, and normally via my Spotify subscription, which gives me unlimited, mobile access to a large catalogue of songs and to my library of playlists. The only time I’m not listening to music is usually on Saturdays, when the walk I take coincides with a live football broadcast on the radio, which I listen to using the mobile BBC Radio app, also via headphones and using my iPhone.

The interesting thing to consider for the purposes of this essay is that data related to a lot of this activity is either logged, or is capable of being logged, by third parties who can find a use or value for it. My iPhone can report my geographic position and movement, and the songs and/or radio programmes I listen to are logged by the respective media outlets that deliver them. My mobile service provider, 02, as well as Spotify and the BBC, already know a certain amount of personal information about me, including my age, sex, postal address, and bank details, and from there it isn’t too great a leap to understand that it would be possible to cross-reference my listening and geographic activity with other consumer activities I engage in. My data can also be cross-referenced with other information, such as the local weather conditions, or the consumption patterns of others. Further to that, and like many others, I have an online identity that exists in numerous dispersed places, including social networks and in the logs of search engines, which could enable further cross-referential analysis. In short, from just a small element of my normal, everyday life – the activity of walking around the city with headphones on – I am generating a good deal of potentially useful data from which it is possible for organisations to glean valuable information about not just my music consumption, but also about my other habits, opinions and preferences. I am, of course, not alone here; millions of others generate similar data about themselves on a daily basis, and often without any effort to do so on their part.

There are a number of ways one can react to this as an individual: indifference; annoyance; ambivalence; fear; and acceptance, are all possible emotional responses. Whether, at the one extreme end, you view this data capture as symptomatic of a culture of surveillance and control consistent with the practices of 21st century Western capitalism, or, at the other, as a harmless and entirely non-intrusive means of media companies improving the quality of the services they offer, it is nevertheless a state of affairs that almost everyone who engages with media (and other) services in a hyper-connected modern world finds themselves implicated in. Extrapolating out from the tiny example of my walks around the city, and viewing the generation, collection and analysis of data on a global scale, we are collectively facilitating and assisting in the creation of millions of bits of data on a daily basis at a rate hitherto unseen in human history.

Due to the scale and voracity of such activity, issues and questions related to data protection, use, monetisation, ownership, access, surveillance, storage and archives are of growing interest to academics in a number of fields (see Housley et al (2014) for an overview). The realm of data is of particular interest to scholars of Popular Music because of its growing influence on matters related to the production, distribution and consumption of music, and it is here that my own area of research intersects with the wider debates.

In very broad terms, my PhD research project provides a mechanism and motivation for music listeners to share with me details of their music consumption, which I then intend to analyse. Clearly, then, by creating, promoting and operating The Harkive Project, I am engaging in very much the same activity I have described above, and in particular it is similar to the activities media companies and rights holders involved in the music industries are currently focussing a large amount of attention and resources on1. On a positive note, this has the benefit of making my project timely. On another, more problematic level, it raises a question: If my project is to make an original contribution to knowledge, how do I ensure that it is steered towards something new, something different, and is not in danger of simply replicating, or contributing to, the work and conclusions of those involved with industrial data analysis, both in and outside of the music industries? In other words: How is Harkive different?

In order to begin to explore this problem I’m going to attempt to map the work of Michel De Certeau, and in particular his discussion of walking in the city as a practice of everyday life (De Certeau, 1984, pp. 91–110), on to a discussion of some ideas around music and data, using my own experience of listening to music as I walk as a reference point. For the purpose of this we must first substitute De Certeau’s New York City for the landscape of popular music consumption. Imagine, if you will, not a city built of a network of roads, buildings and people, with laws and regulations governing activity, trade and movement, but one comprised instead of an ecosystem of media businesses, music listeners and connections, both on and offline, that has regulatory frameworks of its own, including copyright legislation, pricing models, and so on.

By adapting Jeremy Silver’s (2013) idea of digital city-states, we can understand the larger players in the marketplace (Amazon, iTunes, Facebook, major labels and broadcasters, and so on) as the skyscrapers that dominate the skyline of the city and to which the main routes and thoroughfares carry and direct traffic. The smaller, side-streets lead to the mid-sized buildings (Bandcamp, Soundcloud, independent retailers, media outlets and labels), and the less-trodden paths to the unregulated, or niche areas of the landscape (band sites, messageboards, torrent sites, and so on). With this image in mind, we can then swap De Certeau’s view from the top of the World Trade Centre for the view afforded by the collected and collated data about music consumption (sales, streams, searches, social media metrics, and so on), which ‘makes the complexity of the city readable, and immobilizes its opaque mobility in a transparent text’, and for the people walking in the streets of New York, far below, we can instead see the music listeners navigating their way from song to song, service to service, within ‘the city’.

In this context, the data generated and collected by my music listening whilst walking can be understood as an infinitesimally small element of the texturological picture of music consumption practices that are created by music listeners daily. Along with millions of others, I am the co-writer of a ‘poem‘ I cannot read; I am (we are) ‘the individual in the mass that is read by the all-seeing eye as representational of the individual’. As individuals we could perhaps find this problematic – it depersonalises us; it is an affront to our idea of self. But is there also a problem with applying such a logic to the arena of music consumption, where the idiosyncrasies of taste and other drivers so heavily influence our choices in listening to the music we do? I shall return to this question later in the essay.

We can also understand the design and development of the present landscape of consumption in terms of De Certeau’s idea of the city, which produces it’s own space by repressing that which could compromise it, creates systems to suppress tactics of opportunities, and creates universal and anonymous subjects; ‘a finite number of stable, isolatable, and interconnected properties’. If we consider, for example, the service I use on my daily walks, Spotify, as something which grew out of a response to disruptive digital technologies (piracy, in other words), then De Certeau’s model could easily be deployed here: the ecosystem of music consumption reorganised by the establishment of new ‘loci of exchange’ (Burkart and McCourt, 2006) in response to citizens not sticking to the designated pedestrian zones of the city, for instance.

According to De Certeau’s model, the concept of the city must always attempt to make the fact of the city fit its model. Even if ‘linking the city to the concept never makes them identical..it [nevertheless] plays on their progressive symbiosis‘. The data gold-rush and the continued drive for and investment in the creation of music discovery platforms2 is a case in point here. We can track and ‘predict’ consumption with data, therefore listeners must consume according to this data via music discovery platform recommendations, which completes the circle. As Simon Frith observed, long before the advent of the age of Big Data, ‘the culture industry is the central agency in contemporary capitalism for the production and satisfaction of false needs(Frith, 1981, pp. 44–45), and in that sense, data can be seen as merely the latest logical step in the process of standardisation and rationalisation in popular music that was so heavily criticised by Adorno (Adorno and Simpson, 1942).

Yet, in spite of this, and just as the work of sub-cultural theorists (Hebdige, 1979) and sociologists examining music in everyday life (Bull, 2000; DeNora, 2000) who built upon Adorno et al attempted to show, there is hope to be found also in De Certeau’s model: ‘beneath the discourses that ideologise the city, the ruses and combinations of powers that have no readable identity proliferate’.

Just as it is in the city, so it is in music…

…and it is perhaps here where a glimmer of hope appears. The driving premise of Harkive from its very inception was the idea (my assumption) that, ‘No two people listen to music in precisely the same way’. If that is indeed the case, and De Certeau’s model would suggest that it is more than mere possibility, even in spite of growing and efficient rationalisation through data, then it follows that a reliance and focus on data alone is a flawed approach. Indeed, this idea is explored by Lazer et al (2014) in their caution against any creeping ‘Big Data Hubris’ in academic enquiry. I would argue that similar caution should be paid by those operating at an industrial level.

Can data, for instance, ever fully account for what De Certeau refers to as ‘practices of space‘ – the illusive movements of walkers in a city (for which we can read, music listeners)? A possible hypothetical aim, function or argument of Harkive, then, would be to argue that it cannot. This is not to say that data is without merit, of course, and, indeed, to test out such a hypothesis would require a methodology that mapped Harkive’s data against industrial data in order to challenge or disprove the conclusions drawn. It would also be one that simultaneously built on and challenged existing scholarly ideas around music consumption. However, whilst challenging existing ideas within the academy is the function of a good academic, a potential danger in identifying flaws and under-attended areas of industrial practice in the music industries would be that I provide a means for their reification. As I hint at below, however, neither the academic nor industrial process can ever be complete. The only guaranteed outcome in both cases would be more questions.

There is a great deal more to be made of this reading of De Certeau’s work, I feel: the idea that footsteps (listens, plays) are ‘an innumerable collection of singularities‘; that walking (listening) is a speech act; that it has a grammar and a rhetoric of its own, and so on, lend themselves as ideal models for exploring music consumption in the context of data. Unfortunately, space does not permit me to explore them here, and in any case this line of thought would require a considerable amount of further development before anything concrete might emerge. However from this explorative start there are perhaps the beginnings of a position of my own, the kernel of an argument. In closing, I will attempt to sketch out some related areas that might be included in such a development.

As hinted at above, the ideas considered provide numerous routes back to themes explored by popular music scholars over the years, and thus to possible areas of new knowledge in the context of modern developments:

  • If big data can be seen, for example, as representative of the latest logical step in the march of ‘reason’, and if the actuality of listening that reason can never sufficiently explain is ‘material reality’, then the presence of Adorno looms large;
  • Just as Sterne (2012) and Milner (2010) have pointed out in their explorations of the development of recording and audio technologies, the idea that a recording, however advanced, can capture a true representation of reality, is fundamentally flawed – for Sterne (2006), the gaps between the zeros and ones in digital recording, it’s flaws, in other words, are where the interesting questions lie;
  • The affordances of zeros and ones are exactly what the service offered by Shazam uses to do its work. It now accounts for 10% of all digital music sales3 and is heavily influencing music production and distribution through the monetisation of its data. It represents a further rationalisation of process in the music industries, yet a similar service, HitPredictor, armed with granular data and an algorithm which analyses the ‘hit potential’ of a song, entirely failed to predict the success of All About That Bass, one of the biggest hits of 2014. Building on Sterne’s observation above, is it possible that the failures and blind spots of Big Data are more interesting than its successes?;
  • I’m aware that I have completed a 2,500 word essay entitled ‘Walking in the city with headphones on’ based on a theory of everyday life, and only briefly mentioned a number of key studies in the field of popular music and everyday life, notably Micheal Bull’s ‘Sounding Out The City’ (2000) and Tia DeNora’s ‘Music In EveryDay Life’ (2000). Both studies pre-date the current developments in Big Data (although Michael Bull did update his study in 2006 to include a consideration of the rise of the iPod). The opportunity to build on both pieces of work to include digitally delivered music, big data and social media (and the idea – another assumption of mine – that the relationship between the acts of ‘listening to music’ and ‘communicating about music’ is evolving) would be another potentially fruitful route that my project could incorporate.

Bibliography

Adorno, T.W., Simpson, G., 1942. On popular music. Institute of Social Research.

Bull, M., 2000. Sounding out the city: Personal stereos and the management of everyday life. Berg Publishers.

Burkart, P., McCourt, T., 2006. Digital music wars: ownership and control of the celestial jukebox. Rowman & Littlefield, Oxford.

DeNora, T., 2000. Music in everyday life. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge.

Frith, S., 1981. Sound effects; youth, leisure, and the politics of rock’n’roll. Sound Eff. Youth Leis. Polit. Rocknroll.

Hebdige, D., 1979. Subculture: the meaning of style. Methuen, London (etc.).

Housley, W., Procter, R., Edwards, A., Burnap, P., Williams, M., Sloan, L., Rana, O., Morgan, J., Voss, A., Greenhill, A., 2014. Big and broad social data and the sociological imagination: A collaborative response. Big Data Soc. 1, 2053951714545135.

Lazer, D.M., Kennedy, R., King, G., Vespignani, A., 2014. The parable of Google Flu: Traps in big data analysis.

Michel, D.C., 1984. The practice of everyday life. Berkeley U Calif. P.

Milner, G., 2010. Perfecting sound forever: the story of recorded music. Granta, London.

Silver, J. 2013. Digital Medieval, Xtorical Publications Media.

Sterne, J., 2006. The mp3 as cultural artifact. New Media Soc. 8, 825–842.

Sterne, J., 2012. MP3: The meaning of a format. Duke University Press.

1The most high-profile recent example of this is the acquisition of MusicMetric, a firm specialising in music data collection and analysis, by Apple in a deal reported to be worth $50M. http://musically.com/2015/01/21/apple-buys-musicmetric/. Whilst the reasons for the purchase have not been made public by either party, industry experts have speculated that MusicMetric will be incorporated into the relaunch of the Beats Music service, which Apple acquired in 2014.

2For an overview of the manner in which data is having a growing influence on industrial practice in the music industries, see http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2014/12/the-shazam-effect/382237/

3The figure was reported by the BBC in January 2015, but it should be noted that Shazam itself was the original source of the figures http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/technology-30917477

 

Frankie Goes to Spotify

Further to the previous post about getting Frankie Goes To eBay up and running in the online world, I decided that it might be a nice idea to keep a running playlist of the records that pass through my hands. I’ve created a Spotify playlist and will add a song from each release as and when I pick them up. If you subscribe to the playlist it should automatically update with the new songs as I add them.

This project is broadly about what happens when I buy and sell records, but the reason I decided it would be an interesting and enjoyable thing to do is because of my love of music. That sounds like a fairly obvious thing to say, but it’s worth considering for a moment.

Without music the growing number of records in the inventory would just be curiously packaged bits of circular plastic and they would struggle to hold our interest. Because they are each the carrier of a different sound, and because each of those sounds might be considered to be great, bad, or just atonal shite, depending on your taste, each has the possibility to be a barrier or a gateway to new musical worlds. Perhaps this is one of the reasons why mooching through old vinyl is such an enjoyable activity – every box of abandoned vinyl is thrillingly alive with promise. Alive with  promise, or else copies of No Parlez by Paul Young. It’s a tightrope.

Anyway, by purchasing these particular items and grouping them together chronologically under the banner of this project and then using the thoroughly modern medium of Spotify to create a playlist of songs, I have engaged in a fairly random and accidental act of re-contextualisation, and through this I have discovered, for instance, that I Love Everybody by Johnny Winter sounds pretty great when it follows Don’t Rain On My Parade by Barbara Streisand.

I may or may not be the first person alive to have ever discovered this particular nugget of music scheduling but now you know about it too, which is what the pop music and the internet is all about. You’re welcome.

Here’s the Spotify link: Frankie Goes To eBay

Happy listening!