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Cultural Comment
By Alex Ross
September 23, 2020
In his recent book, “Decomposed,” Kyle Devine drives home the point that there is no such thing as a
nonmaterial way of listening to music. Photograph by Martin Parr / Magnum
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Devine’s findings may, at first glance, provoke a helpless shrug. Every field of
human endeavor entails some form of environmental destruction, and the music
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industry is perhaps no worse than any other. A sour critic might point out that
printing a book about the political ecology of music makes its own contribution
to the despoliation of the planet. But Devine isn’t interested in inducing guilt;
he simply wants us to become more aware of the materiality of music. He
writes, “There is a highly intoxicating form of mystification at work in the
ideology of musical culture more generally.” As a result, music is “seen as a
special pursuit that somehow transcends the conditions of its production.”
Devine’s critical history of recording formats throws a necessary wrench into
that mythology of musical purity.
When Devine goes back to the beginnings of the recording industry, he notes
how often the innovations of Thomas Edison, Emile Berliner, and others were
tied up in the science and business of chemicals. Edison experimented with
wax, celluloid, and phenolic resin, in the process becoming an early leader in the
manufacturing of synthetic plastic. Berliner favored shellac, which depended on
a resin produced by the Asian lac beetle. Shellac was the dominant format until
the advent of vinyl, in the mid-twentieth century. The harvesting of lac, in
India, involved horrible conditions for laborers, although the material itself was
biodegradable and therefore less environmentally troublesome than the plastic
formats that followed.
Polyvinyl chloride, from which vinyl records are made, is produced from the
hydrocarbon ethylene. It is a petrochemical—and indivisible from the baleful
behemoth of the oil industry. The physical hardiness of the material has added
to the quasi-spiritual aura surrounding the long-playing record: decades-old
vinyl records can still produce a rich, evocative sound. But the same hardiness
means that vinyl is exceptionally difficult to dispose of, once its usefulness is at
an end. Often, it winds up buried in landfills. Devine naturally does not
overlook the irony attendant on the much bruited vinyl revival: progressive-
minded hipsters who fetishize vinyl are widening their carbon footprint in ways
they may not realize.
In a chapter on the digital and streaming era, Devine drives home the point
that there is no such thing as a nonmaterial way of listening to music: “The so-
called cloud is a definitely material and mainly hardwired network of fiber-optic
cables, servers, routers, and the like.” This concealment of industrial reality,
behind a phantasmagoria of virtuality, is a sleight of hand typical of Big Tech,
with its genius for persuading consumers never to wonder how transactions
have become so shimmeringly effortless. In much the same way, it has
convinced us not to think too hard about the regime of mass surveillance on
which the economics of the industry rests. Spotify’s inability to become
consistently profitable tends not to bother investors, who see vast potential in
the company’s hoard of personal data. The musicologist Eric Drott fills in more
of that chilling picture in a recent Journal of the Society for American Music
article, titled “Music as a Technology of Surveillance.” According to Drott,
Spotify’s head of programmatic solutions once boasted, “We not only know
what our users are listening to, we also know their personal activities as well,”
and gave showering as an example. The company registers “550,000 shower
streams per day.”
Even as new formats come to the fore, old ones cling to life, often in
conjunction with nostalgia or longing for an idealized past. The compact disk
remains the bedrock of many people’s collections, mine included. The vinyl
revival proceeds apace, and a cassette revival is underway. Perhaps we’ll see a
shellac revival, or even a wax-cylinder revival. The problem is that the
accumulated glut of technologies and formats only increases the environmental
stress that our demand for maximal musical variety imposes.
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Devine holds out hope for a shift in consciousness, similar to the one that has
taken place in our relationship with food. When we listen to music, we may ask
ourselves: Under what conditions was a particular recording made? How
equitable is the process by which it has reached us? Who is being paid? How
are they being treated? And—most pressing—how much music do we really
need? Perhaps, if we have less of it, it may matter to us more.
Alex Ross has been the magazine’s music critic since 1996. His latest book is “Wagnerism:
Art and Politics in the Shadow of Music.”
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