Habitual Listening

Rupert Loydell’s recent piece on his changing listening habits resonated strongly with me, not so much for the detail (though some of that chimed, for sure) but for the general thrust. The narrative of change through time, or something like that. A time for reflection, anyway.

In terms of some details from Rupert’s piece, I do remember when David Toop came to Exeter to promote his Ocean Of Sound book and CD compilation, and it was certainly good to be reminded of Exeter’s Binary Star record shop. Tucked away on a tiny cobbled lane leading to the castle it sat next to the ubiquitous Timepiece nightclub and the Hole In The Wall pub, both of which are still there (or certainly were in 2020, which is the last time I was in that part of the city), I remember it fondly as a source of great delight and as a scourge on my bank account and credit cards. It is possible that I was one of only a very few customers still buying 7” singles at the time (mid ‘90s), and I am quite certain that the small box on the counter top was stocked almost exclusively with Punk Pop treats that might entice me. The environment of Binary Star too, rather than that of the nightclub (for which I already felt myself too old) proved elemental in hooking me into the thrill of drum’n’bass. A young chap called Mike would play me white labels and new releases that sounded like the future. Both the noise and his enthusiasm were utterly addictive and I am glad that both infected my body and soul for a time. Of course it is somewhat startling to think that this was all happening over thirty years ago, but this seems to be how time works, accelerating ridiculously as we age. Long since disappeared, the Binary Star location now hosts a hairdresser. Read into that what you will.

In truth I do not particularly mourn the loss of physical record shops, or indeed shops of any description. To do so seems to me to be, to coin a phrase beloved of contemporary sports people, wasted energy. Those times are not coming back, at least not any time soon, and I suspect that when we mourn the loss of physical things from our pasts we mourn not the things themselves but our very youth. This is understandable and probably to a greater or lesser degree unavoidable. The extent to which we allow it to poison our present and future existence is much more within our control, however, and this is what our energies ought to be focused on. That and simply savouring the moments we live within.

Music is certainly still one of the things that makes my own moments pleasurable, though it would be true to say it now takes up a much smaller proportion of my day to day existence. Long, long gone are the times when I could and would listen to music whilst doing almost anything else. For quite some time now I have found it impossible to even contemplate the idea of writing or reading with music playing ‘in the background’. I rarely even have music playing whilst doing the housework or cooking, preferring the sounds of the garden seeping through the open windows and doors, or the inevitable ear worm snatch of some song half remembered in my head.

Unlike Rupert, who admits that he still wants an object to hold in his hand, I find that I no longer feel the need for a physical artefact when it comes to music. My younger self would find this inexplicable, but that would be his prerogative, as it would be for those my age who still feel attached to their vinyls, old and new. And for the, ahem, record, I don’t think it sad to feel one way or the other about any of this, do not think of it in terms of either capitulation or blind adherence. It simply is, or is not.

As noted however, this has not always been the case for me, and for many years I felt that my records, tapes and CDs held an emotional attachment in their physicality as much as in the music they held. This certainly held true for the first half century of my life, until one day it suddenly didn’t. I suspect that this may in some way be related to my early retirement from teaching at the age of 55 when my level of income dropped by two thirds and the idea of spending well over twenty quid on a new album felt not just unsustainable but somehow rather preposterous. Also, as with teaching, which I loved for the majority of the thirty years I spent in the profession, it was rather as if a switch had been flicked. So just as one day I just realised that I no longer wanted to work in education (and was fortunate to be in a position where I could act on that feeling), one day it seemed that the physical records, tapes and CDs simply no longer held the same kind of emotional hold on me that they once did. Memories, such as they are and as much as I can recall, are still triggered by the actual songs and this is more than enough. I have the vast majority of those songs in a digital format, can listen to them whenever I want and thus am happy to let the objects themselves go. Well, someone is going to have to pay for them, but you know what I mean…

These days then the ongoing sales of my physical collection generally cover the costs of buying new music, which is almost exclusively now in a digital format. To the no doubt horrified glares of some of my friends I do use Spotify a fair bit to listen to music, but this is mostly for either older albums or to test drive new releases. If that new release appeals to me then most of the time I will look to buy it on Bandcamp or, at a push, the old iTunes Store. Like Rupert though I still listen my music playing through ‘the stereo’ (it goes through a Cambridge Audio DAC, into a Rega amplifier and out through Epos speakers for the audiophiles who might be reading) as opposed to through tinny computer speakers. So perhaps all is not lost, or all is indeed lost, depending on your (dance) stance.

Also unlike Rupert I have no great desire to talk to musicians about their work. I enjoy the very occasional dip into an artists’ memoir or a book about a group or period I used to enjoy (Paul Simpson’s enthralling Revolutionary Spirit is the last great one I read), but more often than not these also increasingly leave me cool at best, and if I never read another ‘oral history’ it will be decidedly far too soon. Neither do I read anything much about music online these days. Perhaps a review or two if they are written by friends or people whose taste I largely trust. Oddly enough it’s in this aspect that I think things have come full circle in so far as ‘discovering’ music. There is something appealing about picking up on a new record, a previously unheard artist, a new (for which read old) book or author through the words of friends. It reminds me of conversations in the playground at school or the hushed chats in the Art classroom. Did you see? Have you heard? You should read…

Things change and stay the same right enough.

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Alistair Fitchett

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