I’d listened to a few cassette tapes lately on some old equipment. Surprisingly both the tapes and the equipment still function despite two to three decades of worn out, unlubricated, screeching mechanics.
Not without nostalgic sentiment did I navigate back and forth, hearing the hiss throughout the tracks.
However, in contrast to what I normally sustain, I’d not perceived greater listening engagement in a tape over the compact disc. CDs have not felt computerized.
Having listened to plenty of disks over the past several weeks, the experience likewise felt remarkably sublime. The tape equipment hadn’t felt more analog, at least in a way that would heighten audio appreciation, acoustic subtleties aside.
Both lend to rewarding and attention-oriented listening, selection limited to the physical media library, no overabundance anxiety, no inclination to ever acquire more.
Since I mostly listen to entire albums, the sequential-random access dichotomy between the two media hardly makes a difference.
I actually prefer the enlarged CD album artwork, something at least mildly pretentious in reproducing the vinyl sleeve element otherwise farcical of the miniature cassette insert.
Of further interest, I’ve long considered the impact of music ownership, comparing the physical media with the downloaded (MP3).
I’ll not mention streaming channels. It would make a too polarized of a comparison, and too easy a target for audiophiles of vinyl documentaries.
As it stands, my strictly owned physical media does feel marginally more authentic. Although it behooves us to revisit the question of what is authentically ours and where the said authenticity originates.
I’ll venture further that with music ownership, the concept appeals to imagination as much as with everything else.
The notion of physical media perusal pleases: but also reeks of that superfluity in the supposed ownership of most objects from rudimentary household wares to acres of weed-infested real estate.
We’re fragile transitory beings on this playground. We enter and depart empty-handed. The objects live a short tale. However silly, I must remind myself of that with trifles as fatally inconsequential as compact disc casing.
On the other hand, I don’t believe the authentic ownership factor really that impactful in the sense of appreciation as I spin those tracks; no more than the ownership of all those books (marked by handwriting, creases, stains and spilled liquids) impacts my inner projection as I flip the pages.
I’ve borrowed, exchanged, sold, donated heaps of this space-consuming content in the past, and will continue on. The ephemeral matter lives a continuous cycle of transformation and decomposition. Ownership, smownership.
Is not our present, momentary state of engagement the more responsible for the inner satisfaction? Don’t let imagination complicate the already perilous existence by occupying needless dimension.
Yet how I love those bookshelves. Although if they burn, that’s too okay. It would make for a different sort of roast.
Attachment to these objects fosters fragility, unique to each case.
The digital bits could undergo incidental deletion or loss of access by factors that need no mention. They demand complex computing machinery and direct current.
The books, the actual books that is, can suffer damage or severe wear. Though that kind of fragility is local to each specimen.
CDs can undergo incidental scratching or deformation that will render them from perfectly playable to perfectly capable sofa stabilizers. But physical abuse aside, they prove nearly immortal as far as I know.
Tapes, on the other hand, gradually wear out. The tape can sustain tearing. And yet you can patch that tape; patch it together with scotch tape and continue to extract further life. Or cut an entire section of incriminating audio, the old fashion way, the cold war way, should you be so inclined.
Questions, comments? Connect.