My CD obsession is not about possessing “physical media.”

I’m on holidays on Vancouver Island, and since I’m in the big city, I’m taking advantage and doing some CD shopping. Ditch Records in Victoria – I could spend all day (and all my savings) there. I’ve restrained myself and only spent [AMOUNT REDACTED DUE TO EMBARASSMENT]. The obsession is back. But where did it ever go in the first place?

Sometimes I wonder if streaming music stunted my appreciation for music.

I feel like it did this primarily by diminishing my desire to give it my cultivated attention. By this I don’t mean simply an investment in the sense of money and time.

My CD hobby was a personalized investment. Freely-given space and energy sustained by enthusiasm.

Now that I’m back into CDs and shunning music streaming platforms, I have to be more deliberate in my decisions. Because, yes, I’m about to potentially spend what would equate to a full month’s subscription to Apple Music or Spotify on a single album.

If I’m going to drop that money, certain things have to be in order. Unless it’s a band or artist I’m already loyal to, I’ll want to familiarize myself with what I’m spending my money on. I need to do research.

The only proper use of a music streaming platform in my eyes is as a place to sample music – not listen to it.

And a bit of sampling is fine, but I don’t want to be endlessly sampling on a streaming platform, because then I’m back in the same situation I found myself in before returning to CDs. So, I find myself turning more and more to… music critics.

I’m examining critical acclaim – as I often used to – and then making my own assessment. I’ve had a tendency to assume that music critics are full of it or have a financial interest. That’s just how cynical and arrogant I can be. It’s taken me to my mid-forties to admit that there are real experts out there with insights I might actually want to hear. That is to say, I enjoy the conversation around music. But it only happens, and is only meaningful, when I’m about to invest.

I might also want to understand the context of the album. When it was made, why it was made, what the artist was going through, how the artist themselves understood the music and what it was meant to represent.

I roll my eyes when audiophiles talk about the “ritual” of putting on a CD or vinyl.

It’s pretentious. But I think they’re onto something, because there is a process you have to go through to listen to music the old way. And by today’s standards that process might even seem labourious.

I’m going to want some payoff for that labour. Which means I’m going to keep listening to this damn album until I get it – or don’t. But I’m going to give it a chance.

This is an ethos, by the way, that I don’t apply to books for some reason. If I’m a quarter of the way through a book, and I’m really not enjoying it – forget it.

Whereas with music, I’m searching for a familiar feeling. Like I’ve heard it before. Like it speaks to me, or for me. Whatever it may be, it’s not a feeling I often get by streaming an unlimited amount of music. And even when I do get that feeling while streaming, it seems… fleeting. I’m likely to consider it an accident. There are a billion other things to listen to, so it couldn’t have been special. Next… next… next.

The term “physical media” is derogatory. I see CDs, vinyl, tapes, etc. as cultural artifacts.

I suppose because “digital media” is now the default, we end up with the subtle linguistic shift, from “albums,” “records,” “vinyl,” etc. to “physical media.” Such a sterile, technical term. I see my collection as a curated personal archive, not an assortment of data storage units.

Recently I sampled (on my soon-to be-expired Apple Music subscription) Julie London’s 1955 debut, Julie is Her Name. Listening to music like hers has given me a renewed sense for how music reflects culture.

The instrumentation and production are a part of that, of course. The atmosphere. But in Julie’s case here, we have a woman expressing devotion and love to a man who doesn’t love her back. You’d never hear it today. It would be embarrassing. Women today sing about being strong and independent. Triumphant, not heartbroken and yet still in love. That kind of devotional love is seen as a rejection of the basics of feminism. Self-sabotage. Unbecoming of a 21st Century woman.

Nonetheless Julie is Her Name was a massive success because it resonated. You’re getting some sense of an emotion that permeated the time. How cool (and tragic) is that?

I’m buying that album. I’m not going to endlessly pay for a license to listen to it. It want it to belong to me – to us – not solely to streaming platforms.

Normally I’m not so possessive. My spiritual and political leanings trend towards finding contentment in a sharing economy and in owning less.

I’m always looking at my stuff and wondering if I should get rid of it.

You don’t deserve it. You don’t need it. You can’t take care of all this stuff. You’re greedy. You’re a hypocrite. This is just clutter. Your surroundings are a reflection of your mind.

Oh yeah, the nasty self-talk is on another level. Maybe you have a different tolerance for more stuff in your life, but this is where I’m at.

Rebuilding a CD collection has me feeling somewhat conflicted. Sure, the joy of the hobby has returned. The excitement is back. The hunt is on. But in Vedanta, this is rajasic. Based on passion and restlessness – rather lowly qualities in the eyes of sages. And in Islam, becoming obsessive about music is sometimes frowned upon because it draws you away from Allah.

I take these spiritual and scriptural warnings seriously because I do tend to go all-out when I get obsessed. I’ll need a strategy to keep this in moderation.

In the meantime, I’m rediscovering the joy I once had for listening to music. Thank you, streaming platforms, for the unlimited music. We had a good run. But somehow I allowed you to stunt my appreciation for music. I allowed you to draw me away from the cultivated attention and personalized investment I freely gave out of sheer enthusiasm.