I’m over streaming. It’s as simple as that.
After growing increasingly frustrated with my addiction to the little machine that seems to control my life—my phone—and a desire to connect more with the music I listen to and the artists I enjoy, I realized how sickeningly inseparable the two have become.
That’s a link I’ve endeavoured to weaken, proving it’s possible to shrink streaming’s role in my life, and maybe one day, I’ll live without it.
I love music, and anyone who knows me well can tell you that it’s true. I’m constantly listening, whether in my headphones, or blasting loud. Till now, most of that consumption has been through streaming, via my phone.
After feeling more and more disconnected with the life that was taking place right in front of me, and consumed by constant scrolling on-screen, I knew I had to make a change, but I wasn’t ready to give up music to do it.
So, I looked to the past.
It’s no secret that music sounds better on vinyl. I’ve spent years carefully poring over records at stores like Brian’s Record Option and Zap Records—window-shopping—but the prospect of purchasing a record player and lugging around crates of vinyl with my post-undergrad future uncertain didn’t seem like the right fit, at least for now.
CDs it was.
Weekend after weekend I trawled Value Village for a functioning CD player with a working radio, to no avail. One or the other was inevitably broken, and I was picky. In the end, it was a member of the radio community who was my saving grace. A group message, $15, and a quick wipe of dust later, my listening habits changed, hopefully for a lifetime.
I’m so drawn to music because it conveys life—the very thing I feel my phone separates me from. There are songs that’ll always evoke the sideways-stomach feeling of a new crush, the knife-twist of being hurt by a friend, or the plane touching tarmac on the city you call home. You don’t need streaming for that to continue to be true.
Now, instead of reaching for my phone as soon as I wake up, to guide me through my bleary stumble to the coffee machine, and through the mess of my drawers as I choose my clothes for the coming day, I tune into the radio—something I occasionally did before, but now, I’ve cut out the middleman.
All I have to do is click one button to tune into the station I know and love—CFRC 101.9 FM. You never know what you’re going to get with radio, and that’s part of its beauty. While platforms like Spotify feign an air of randomness and fortuity, it’s no secret that hitting “shuffle” is a calculated move on the app’s behalf.
When I’m not quite willing to put my fate in the hands of the host, I’ve learned to love CDs. Listening to an album in order, in full—often the artist’s intention—is something I rarely find myself doing on streaming. I’m a sucker for my favourites, and it’s all-too easy to avoid the ones you can’t recite word for word.
There’s something about being on a screen that ignites my impatience, not willing to wait for the track I’m hoping for.
But Madison—you might protest—there’s always an option to skip forward to your favourite track on a CD player too. I don’t feel the same desire for instant gratification when I’m removed from the screen. There’s something satisfying about waiting your turn, watching the number click over, and knowing the record well enough to know what’s coming.
Something about the tactile nature of physical media makes it more special, sacred—it’s intentional. Listening to music is a choice, one I’ll continue to make every day.
Not to mention, buying music is the best way to artists you love, especially those that are local. Physical music isn’t only a memento of the music you love—that can’t be rescinded by platforms later or made more expensive to access—but also gives artists the compensation they deserve for sharing their craft.
So far, I only have two, totally disparate selections, August and Everything After by Counting Crows, and What’s Chasing You by Marlon Williams. My CD collection may be small, but I have hopes it’ll be mighty.
My days now are calmer, and little by little, I feel my patience returning. I find the urge to scroll replaced by a desire to engage.
One day, I hope to extend my love for physical media to collecting vinyl, when I have more space, and honestly, money.
But for now, it’s me and my CDs against the world.
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