For A Friend

"For" a friend more so than "to" a friend:

Of Ones & Heroes

As technology advances, so do the expectations from those technologies. A wheel is invented, and soon the expectations advance from moving a cart to lifting heavy objects through a pulley system; an automobile is invented and soon the expectations advance from pragmatism to luxury; MPEG-1 Audio Layer 3, or “MP3,” compression format is invented and soon the expectation advances from playing music on the computer to playing music on the mobile listener. It is the latter example that is germane, as I have finally accepted the digital format with my first purchase of a downloaded album. Yes, my expectations have advanced.

Format changes are nothing new to our ever-advancing technological toolbox. We have been witness to numerous formatting advents and extinctions, all driven by our evolving demands for increased fidelity, mobility, capacity, or simple absurdity. Format changes have typically been a phenomenon for film and music media, although it may not be long before even the ink-blotted newspaper becomes a perception of memories past. Being an audiophile with a born-on date of 1980, I have come to love the compact disc. While it couldn’t match the 120 minutes of playtime showcased by its father, “The Tape,” the compact disc pushed the limits of human hearing fidelity, was more durable the tape, allowed for instant track skipping, and, obviously, was compact. The compact discs that I currently own approach seven hundred, making me a most neurotic curator of an alphabetically organized auditory gallery. Each disc is complete not only with the music in which it encodes, but also an art booklet that compliments the musical recording, thereby amalgamating a feat of synesthesic expressionism. Furthermore, the music and art booklet document memories like a storybook, reminding me of near-forgotten experiences, people, or places that surrounded my initial exposure to a particular album. The compact disc is indeed a vital canvass upon which I’ve encoded much of my life...until last week.

The invention of MP3 compression in the early 1990’s has become the bellwether of a revolution. The on-demand music experience is no longer relegated to the nearest 120-volt AC outlet; rather, a nearly unlimited playlist is available to your eighth cranial nerve at any location, at any time, and -- most importantly -- you are the deejay. Save for some hiccups while compact memory capacity catches up to allow for the preservation of high quality sound, the digital, intangible format is superior and it is here to stay; the tangible digital format is, well, like...soooo 2007. Why 2007? Because that is when the compact disc received its final knockout punch from five English blokes known as “Radiohead”.

Radiohead were the first major band to release an album, In Rainbows, solely as a download without contemporaneously releasing a tangible compact disc or vinyl format. And it has been reported to have been downloaded by the millions (not to mention the probable million(s) that downloaded from peers). Radiohead wasn’t necessarily looking to be innovative mavericks, rather, the move made marketing sense. With a digital album, there is minimal production and distribution costs, thereby obviating numerous middlemen and even reducing their carbon footprint -- something more sacred to the British industrial psyche. Furthermore, this digital release allowed another unprecedented maneuver: pay what you want for the music. “Buyers” of In Rainbows literally entered online what they wanted to pay for the music, be it $50 or $0 (well, technically it had to be at least $0.01). This not only empowered Radiohead, but empowered music listeners to demand better music and live shows from the industry. And all the while, happy listeners can mosey about our blue planet, enjoying every pensive note of In Rainbows via a discarnate digital terrain. The expectations have indeed advanced.

Consequently, I’ve recently been pondering how long I would keep alphabetizing corporeal music discs among my picturesque musical gallery. The answer, I knew, was not much longer. I had one lingering caveat though, which was to surrender the art booklet. Buying digital music, at least as far as I know, usually does not come with a digital version of the art booklet. The days of shaking off that cellophane static and smelling the sterile vapors of freshly pressed art would be over (as would the DNA damage in my lung epithelial cells, I suppose). But alas, the art booklet was usually viewed upon the initial listens to the accompanying music, and then shelved until some random moment when I had to know if that really is Maynard James Keenan singing the backup vocals on Rage Against The Machine’s “Know Your Enemy”. My ultimate acceptance of the digital download format came with my recent and enthusiastic discovery of the dubstep artist and British recluse, “Burial”. This somewhat obscure, yet brilliant artist released an album late last year titled Untrue, and after obsessing over this masterpiece I wanted more. I knew the first, even less-known self-titled album would be hard to find. So I could scurry about Portland’s local record stores, lock my bike up in the rain, discover that they don’t have it, have them order it, return to the store (probably also in the rain) a week later, and pay $16 for it....or I could push a couple buttons on Amazon.com, pay $8, and have it in about 60 seconds. Done.

Since this decision, I haven’t, and probably won’t, look back; in fact, I’ve looked forward. After tolerating the clinical schizophrenia of my aging car CD player, as well as the lengthy process of deciding which discs to bring along for my war-powered automobile adventures, I have upgraded to an “iPOD-ready” car stereo deck. Wow. Why did I wait so long?! All week I’ve actually been looking for ways to support Saudi Arabia and drive around listening to anything, all the while controlling my iPOD vicariously through my dashboard -- the iPOD itself reclines invisibly in the glove compartment.

So as I sit among the dancing shadows of Bink’s fireplace in Northeast Portland and type this blog entry, a coincidence has just occurred. A familiar song that I haven’t heard in a while just blessed the house jukebox. The song is “No Surprises” from Radiohead’s magnum opus, OK Computer. The memories this song stirs are of a cherished summer trip in 1997 to the Black Hills of South Dakota. I was new to Radiohead at the time and picked up their latest release, OK Computer, to provide a soundtrack for my camping vacation. The trip, for reasons inapposite here, will never be forgotten. Over 10 years later from a rain-shadowed pub on NE Alberta Street in Portland, Oregon, I muse upon how the sunset looked after that mountain storm, and how from that jettisoned boulder in Custer State Park the stars looked like God’s thoughts revealed across the sky... ”KLDU#E*EJKdjds9!!!!?!!!!?????”...and now some thrash punk song just started playing. At Bink’s, I’m not the deejay; but as soon as I step outside these doors, I am the deejay. And I just happen to have OK Computer nestled in my glove compartment for the ride home.