Slow Media.

The other day my friend and I went to an acoustic gig by my current favourite band, The Big Moon. Taking place in the small venue upstairs in Rough Trade Records in Bristol, it was an intimate and beautiful experience, only slightly marred by the fact that, as all the performers were sitting down, we could mostly only see the tops of their heads from our position near the back. It also finished at 8:30pm — plenty of time for me to get the train home, which is very much my kind of gig these days.

The ticket price also included a CD. A CD! Remember those? Only, I no longer have any way to play a CD. My friend and I talked about this afterwards, both of us lamenting giving up our CD collections in favour of soulless, algorithmically led streaming platforms. She told me how her teenage daughter is now discovering music and exploring artists through their CDs, upon realising that albums are often artworks in their own right, meant to be experienced as a whole, complete with sleeve artwork and printed lyrics. This was how we experienced music growing up, and it’s only with hindsight (and the disillusionment brought on by big tech) that we can see what we’ve lost. Going to a record store, browsing the shelves and carefully selecting a purchase was a special experience, an intentional act. And yes, some of this is undoubtedly the nostalgia we feel for our youth, when we had endless free time and no responsibilities. But somewhere in between, we traded convenience for care, and lost something in the process. Not only do we no longer own our music, but we value it less. We rarely spend the time listening to an album over and over, poring over the lyrics and learning the words by heart. And, as a result, perhaps we have lost the opportunity to truly connect with the artist too, to allow ourselves to feel what they are feeling — which really is what art is all about.

We’re not the only ones feeling that way. Another friend wrote recently about how she’s gradually rebuilding her CD collection, and others have voiced similar sentiments. We’re realising what we lost and beginning to make conscious choices to support artists and take our music offline, to carve out creative and thoughtful space where the tech companies can’t reach. And I think that’s important to do, especially now these same companies seek to wrap their tentacles around every aspect of our lives and suck us dry, abandoning any pretence of supporting creativity or benefitting users. I’ve been thinking more and more about how we can extricate ourselves from this technological prison we’ve willingly walked into. It comes down to being more intentional and selective, slowing down and taking the time to both be creative and appreciate others’ creativity. Listening to an album instead of skipping through. Reading the articles blog posts and resisting the temptation to let AI summarise. Making things with our hands and bodies and full minds, not just consuming. Writing by hand, drawing with pens and pencils, making music in a room with others.

It’s hard to do when we’ve become so conditioned to the fast-paced digital life of everything at our fingertips. I certainly won’t be abandoning all my digital technology; I’m a programmer, I build websites, and a lot of my own creative practice is wrapped up in code and in sharing things online. Nor am I claiming we can or should all go back to some rose-tinted version of the past. But I think many of us could do with bringing some humanity back into our lives, and the first step is noticing.