URSABLOG. A Change in Space and Time 3: Sound and Vision.

At one point soon after I moved into my new place, dispirited by towers of unopened cardboard boxes, I started to think that it was foolish of me to hang on to so much stuff, especially that which could be easily reduced and stored digitally on one small hard drive. But then I opened a box – almost at random – containing LP records, and my mood immediately changed.

As I flicked through the discs – they had not seen the light of day for six years, perhaps longer – I was overtaken by waves of affection, curiosity, and sorrow. Affection for things that were so important to me in the past, curiosity to hear how they would now sound, and sorrow that they had been banished from my daily life for so long. But I put the box aside: I had more important things to do.

Later, after clearing up other, more urgent stuff, I returned to the box of records and put them all out on a bookshelf. There were not that many records there – some having been thrown out in past house-moving episodes – but those that were left were the hardcore remnants of my musical life stretching back over forty-five years, more if you include some recordings I inherited from my father. Then I found the box containing my record player, speakers and the amplifier, similarly neglected for too long.

I set up the turntable, the amp and the speakers, and selecting a box set of Beethoven string quartets I placed one record on the turntable, pressed the start button, and watched as the disc began to turn, the arm move across and the needle gently settle with a self-satisfied hiss before finding the groove, and listened to the music – with a warm, round sound – emerge from the speakers. I stood there, transfixed for a few minutes, as the once-familiar music flowed through me. And then I got back to emptying further boxes.

I have the nagging feeling that my life of late has been directed by unseen digital hands, both exploiting and restricting me in ways I cannot quite put my finger on. Like many other people, I was an enthusiastic – although not necessarily early – adopter of Spotify, finding seemingly unlimited resources of recordings of all types and genres. But as time has gone on, I have become concerned that despite this abundance of music, my tastes and range are being narrowed into rather melancholy blind alleys.

I have got what used to be called catholic – i.e. wide – musical tastes. I don’t want – in theory at least – to remain stuck listening to the same stuff over and over again; I am hungry for new music, and new sounds. I had thought Spotify would help, but I find that the more it learns about me the more it wants to seduce me into the life and listening habits of a miserable middle-aged bastard.

Spotify has two ways of suggesting new music to me, and to broaden my mind. One is called the “daylist”, the composition of which changes every three hours or so, apparently culled from the history of my listening habits. The other way is six different daily mixes “Made for Simon Ward”.

I like listening to music when I am writing, so let me give you an example of what Spotify has suggested now, as I am writing this.

The “daylist” is imaginatively called “post-classical compositional ambient saturday evening” and whilst arguably it is post classical, and ambient enough for a Saturday evening, and relaxing and unobtrusive enough for writing, even for writing on a Saturday, it is not music I would have chosen myself. It seems to be mostly piano tinkerings in the minor key turning themselves repeatedly as if trying to identify a tune, creating I suppose – almost as an unintended consequence – a post-classical compositional ambient Saturday evening. Which is fine, but I rarely pause to check out a track that’s caught my ear.

In fact, the track I am listening to right now, ‘Pockets of Light’ by someone called Lubomyr Melnyk would never inspire me to go and check when he is next playing in my area, or even his other tracks. All it is inspiring me to do right now is to stop writing this, go and look for a bottle of wine, and pick up a book, and listen to those Beethoven string quartets again.

Looking at the “Made for Simon Ward” daily mixes, some of the composers on number 3 are fairly familiar – Steve Reich, Philip Glass – but are again music for looping too. The others are nods to jazz, entechno, and one hardcore classical list. But none are tempting me to dive deeper.

Spotify’s own blurb, says:

Spotify recommendations help you find music… you’ll enjoy.

That’s nice of them.

Our personalised recommendations are tailored to your unique taste, taking into account many factors, such as what you’re listening to and when, actions you take like searching, skipping or saving to Your Library, information you share with Spotify like your location, age and who you follow, trends and the listening habits of people who have similar taste, the characteristics of the content itself such as genre and release date, and the expertise of our teams.

Teams? That seems reassuring, but teams of real people? I doubt it. They are trying to give the impression that they have lots of keen, cool, knowledgeable, eager, agreeable, helpful young people, like the ones you may have found in cool record shops many years ago, gently pushing you to broaden your limited horizons and explore beyond your stunted tastes into areas that can make you cooler, almost as cool – but never quite as cool, obviously – as they are. It was only later in life that I realised that continuing to work in record shops beyond your youth isn’t really that cool at all.

Let’s be clear, Spotify’s teams are just machine learning algorithms (what they try to pass off as AI) that are trawling the data of sound out there to match yours, and people like you, of your age, location and taste. The suggestions they come up with for me imply that I really don’t need that much excitement in my life and should just settle down and take it easy, despite the fact that my own self-curated playlists of angry, loud, challenging music of varying genres suggest I still have a lot to get out of my system. Or into it.

Anyway. Spotify goes on:

In some cases, commercial considerations may influence our recommendations. For example, Spotify offers a promotional tool that enables artists and record labels to highlight priority songs, increasing the likelihood of them being recommended in specific algorithmic playlists: Radio, Autoplay and certain Mixes. This can help artists be discovered by new listeners and grow their fan bases, including prior to a new release, as part of a cultural moment or in celebration of a milestone. For streams of those priority songs generated in impacted playlists, Spotify charges a commission.

So apart from trying to dull my senses to a level more appropriate to those of advancing years and accompanying tastes, they’re also going to shove unsuitable music down my ears, and get paid for it. It’s getting clearer now.

They conclude:

Listener satisfaction is our priority for all of our recommendations, and we only ever recommend content we think you’ll want to hear.

The phrase “we think” in that sentence is doing a lot of heavy lifting.

So, the feeling that Spotify wanted to sedate me was not entirely unfounded. Sometimes it’s like being stuck on a coach with a bunch of people of a similar age and having to listen to a mix tape that belongs to the self-appointed coolest person on board, that wants to “curate” your tastes, and gets a kick back for it.

I realise that the last sentence places me in a certain time and space, a time before ubiquitous earphones, and before we were all encouraged to have our own personal soundtracks to navigate us through our own personal movies. In other words, it shows my age.

But paradoxically, the more I am encouraged to interact with the world via the various platforms I use, the more I am being told what to think, listen to, and do. The more personalised our online life becomes, the more commoditised we become. This is perhaps nothing new, but it does seem to make life duller.

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Before the moving guys finished, they asked me where I wanted what they thought were the most important items of furniture: the bed and the television. The bed I can understand, the television less so, but they were not to know my personal habits, they were – I guess – judging me on my location, age and the tastes of people similar to me.

I don’t watch television at all – except when there is something important happening in Greece or there is football on – and I use it almost entirely for watching films or series on DVD. This places me in a particular demographic which I am completely unashamed of.

Films in particular are things that I want to concentrate on, and my tastes are fairly wide there too. Different moods require different movies, but I have never really got used to using Netflix or other streaming platforms. I find the choice too bewildering, and just like a restaurant that has too long a menu to cover all tastes – the food is unlikely to be great – too many films lead to the risk of choosing a dud: tasteless and immediately forgettable, and a waste of time and money.

In my previous flat the DVDs were all stuffed into the cupboard under the TV, and when I was in the mood to watch a film it meant grabbing a handful and spreading them out on the floor. If I was lucky I would see something immediately, and the rest could be shoved back in. If not, and I was in an indecisive mood, more DVDs would come out, the floor would become a mess, and I would just as likely end up watching nothing.

My new flat also has shelf space for all the DVDs to be put out. I find it is so much easier and quicker to choose something that fits my mood when everything is on full display. It is also easier to recognise and throw away DVDs that I will never watch again – why the hell have I still got that? – when they are in plain view.

But something about changing flat and reorganising my things has made me more adventurous in my viewing habits generally. One recent evening, too tired to read, and too indecisive to choose a DVD, I looked at what was on in the open-air cinemas of central Athens that evening. Despite the abundance of choices in my area – I am now blessed with many θερινά within walking distance – nothing caught my eye.

There was one cinema however that was showing a French film from the 1970s with English as well as Greek subtitles – how pretentious of me – very close to where I used to live. I checked the bus times, had a quick glass of dry white wine at a bar right next to the bus stop, before I went and watched the film (Alain Delon looking moody surrounded by various beautiful women, nice enough but it didn’t change my life), with a couple of beers and smoking my head off. Open-air cinemas are one of the true joys of living in Athens.

The thing is that if I had still been living in my old place – less than five minutes walking from the small yet perfectly formed cinema – I would more than likely not have gone at all. But in my new place, uninspired by what I had at home, I was more motivated to search for other options, even if it meant changing and going out, and whilst I was out, having the unique – almost Parisian – pleasure of having a snappy glass of dry white whilst waiting for the bus to arrive, and then basking in a warm Athenian evening watching a stylish film that ultimately meant nothing. Even more to the point perhaps, I left no digital footprint of my tastes to assist others to hone my tastes further. I was just alive, enjoying the moment, and not having to do anything else at all.

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Then I found the boxes of CDs. The first problem I had was that I didn’t have a CD player, except the DVD player which was now connected to the television in a different room. I ordered a new CD player via Skroutz (if you know, you know), and whilst waiting for it to arrive, I carried on playing records.

Apart from enjoying the novelty of the sound of records playing, I was reliving the conventions of playing records. For those that don’t know – a sizeable amount of the population I imagine – the average record contains about 15-25 minutes of music per side. You then have the option of playing the same music again, or turning the record over and playing the other side. Or putting a new record on completely.

But you have to get up and do something. Whether I was working at my desk, writing, or reading a book on the sofa, or just pottering about, the end of one side created a break, a silence, waiting for a decision from me to do something. It also made me realise how passive I had become in the streaming era.

With Spotify – or whatever – the music just keeps coming, you don’t have to do anything, it will just keep playing, filling my ears whatever it deems suitable for someone of my previous tastes and age – not forgetting those of similar tastes and in my age bracket – reinforcing my tastes.

If I was concentrating on something, whether working, writing, reading or pottering, I would more than likely carry on what I was doing until I reached a natural break and then decided what was next. I chose the soundtrack to fit what I was doing, or even more novel, I would choose what I wanted to listen to, and then just sit and listen to it.

Even when working, if I wanted to carry on listening, I would have to get up and set the turntable moving again. That short break was enough for a brief refresh, a quick stretch, so that on going back to my desk I felt more able to carry on. With streaming music, I just kept going until I couldn’t; I wonder whether continuous work, or writing, reading and even pottering was as productive without those mini-breaks. Probably not.

In the brief explorations I have made around my new neighbourhood, I have noticed that there are quite a few record shops around, and have inspected their wares in the shop windows, and taken a sneaky peek through the doors to see what they have to offer. A couple catered for specific tastes – death metal, or glam gothic, or something – so I didn’t venture in, others just seemed to say to me: “you are too old/uncool to enter.” I would like to find a record shop that caters for a wider range of music including jazz, or classical, or perhaps even entechno. Perhaps listening to records is not the niche and antique activity I had imagined; there must be shops that cater for people of similar tastes and life expectancy as me, somewhere.

CDs are another thing. They are more convenient to store and to play, containing at least twice the music on one disc as two sides of an LP. And I don’t have to get up to play the disc again – I have a remote control; if I want to change the disc I will still have to get up, getting that same short, beneficial break in the meantime. But the sound from a CD is very different.

I made an experiment: I took a record first acquired in my distant youth and listened to one side. Then I got a CD of the same music and played the same tracks. Then I routed Spotify through the amplifier and played the same tracks. It is not just that the sound was different – as would be expected – but my experience of listening was different. Playing the record took me back to my teens, the CD back to my 30s, Spotify was in the here and now. My emotional connection to the music was informed not just by the memory of the music, but by the memory of the sound of it. Whilst not being too Proustian about it, the physical sound of the record brought back something more vital and effective, something like the urgency of life, something more real than the packaged and digitised later versions of it.

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The boxes were now emptied, and the one thing left – after buying and fitting new lighting – was to hang the pictures. This took time too. I left it to last, because I wanted to get used to the light – natural and artificial – before making the final choice. I decided that the main rooms deserved paintings only, and to divide them by theme. Portraits in one space, people in another, landscapes in another. And then ones which greet you as you walk into a room, and others to contemplate and gaze on when sitting and resting.

Paintings – as opposed to prints or photos – are also more physical; they are evidence of a person doing things with materials on canvas, wood or paper, and are unique. Whether it is because of the high ceilings, the different, north-facing light or just the novelty of being in a new place, my paintings – some of which I have had for over twenty-five years – have taken on new life, new meaning. They are like old friends that I have just met again, and I see things in them, some different, fresh, revealing, and some reminding me why I became friends with them in the first place. They are fitting companions to a new – yet also pre-existing – life.

Reading on the sofa, or on the bed, listening to music as the light fades into twilight, turning on the lights, and seeing a different side of a face, or a fresh aspect of a landscape, is gently invigorating. There is no digital substitute for this, at least not yet.

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And yet there I was – however momentarily – thinking I could throw everything out and store it all digitally. But that would have meant I would not have enjoyed the satisfaction of the physical effort of disgorging all the boxes, of finding appropriate places for their contents to live, all the while interacting with – and living in – the joys that sound and vision can bring. But this is probably not the life that the digital evangelists would like me to live.

The place I have arrived in is far along an arc I embarked on some time ago. I no longer use social media like Instagram and Facebook, have given up dating platforms as hopeless and demeaning, have never been tempted to use TikTok or Snapchat, and limit my use of YouTube to that which is absolutely necessary.

I do not say this to show off, or prove that I am greater than thou; I say this from bitter experience, and have put these restrictions in place to protect me from myself. My use of these apps did not make me happy, and in some cases made me deeply unhappy, and my life worse. It led to dead spaces in my life, spaces which I could have filled with more productive things. It led to misunderstandings with real people, it increased my ignorance and confusion, deluding me whilst seeming to enlighten me.

These apps filled my life with noise and images, finding ways to manipulate them – and me – and make them constant and ever-present; I never need be alone. But I was. They diminished my ability and desire to make my own choices or decisions. They suggested choices for me – based on data I produced rather than who and what I really am – and if I did not do anything to check or correct their flow, they carried on regardless.

I wonder if the decision to move house was not just about moving on – as I have already suggested in earlier posts – but also about taking back control of my life. (It may be purely coincidental that COSMOTE have not yet got around – after many no-shows – to connecting my internet.)

I am not writing this to make you like me, or think better of me. It just occurs to me that I don’t have to go with the digital flow of everything out there; I want to replace ethereal, digital chimeras with things of substance, physicality and life. Hell may be other people, but Sartre didn’t possess a smartphone. Online judgement is far more damning.

And if it sounds like I’m living like a monk in a library, forsaking the world for a life of solitude, then we’ve obviously never met in person.

Simon Ward