It’s a physical thing
Why digital music files will never replace CDs and vinyl
Rachel Stone

I remember buying my first album.

My dad took me to Tower Records in New York, and I picked up a tape of Heart’s Dog & Butterfly. I was in love with it. I brought it with me to lunch afterward, standing it up on the table so I could stare at it as I ate. I clearly remember the joy of ripping it out of its cellophane prison and liberating the liner notes, which I read over and over again until I memorized every person and every word.

Some time later, when my dad came home with a new gadget and a copy of Sgt. Pepper’s that he’d borrowed from the library, I had my first CD experience.

Over the years my CD collection grew, and the semi-annual alphabetization and intricate sub-categorization became cumbersome. Given all the scratches, cracked jewel cases and obnoxiously missing discs, I welcomed the digital frontier and all its possibilities. It was efficient, economical and (theoretically) waste-reducing. I didn’t even have to put on pants to acquire a new album.

But sometimes I stare at the mess of random songs or put them on shuffle and just think how boring it is: blips and pieces cobbled together electronically. They’re passive and stagnant and, no matter how good they are individually, together they are an immaterial Frankenstein’s monster.

A couple of weeks ago, I was lured in by a MySpace marketing ploy that streamed a full album for several days before abandoning me to the usual four-song limit. Desperate for Track 2, I left my office, walked through the rain to the nearest music store, plonked down my cash and bought the CD.

There was that familiar excitement again as I shredded the wrapping and unfolded the package. I listened to the CD. And then again. I took it to my friend’s house and we listened to it on repeat for hours. I listened to it in the car, ate dinner to it, introduced it to other friends and took naps while it was playing.

By the end of the week the CD and I were officially dating.

There’s something profound about owning a physical album. It’s an experience. It’s a palpable moment, forever reminding you of your emotional state when you first connected with it. You may leave it for a while and move on to other songs and recordings, but eventually you’ll make your way back — and it’ll be there for you in all its permanence.

I can’t say the same thing about the MP3s gathering digital dust in a folder on my computer. To bring them to a friend’s house I need to buy expensive equipment and somehow improve my ability to manipulate small electronic devices.

I couldn’t tell you what my first download was. Long since deleted, its only evidence is a fragment hidden somewhere on my hard drive.

But I still have my first album, and I dare say I always will.

Rachel Stone has since cheated on her new CD with four others. Shhh.