I look forward to the day I can pass down my record collection to my kids. By “records” I mean playlists, and by “pass down” I mean tell them my password.
I’ll be dead when that day comes, but it warms my heart to imagine them deciphering my meticulously prepared tagging system. “What’s ‘grunge,’” they’ll perplex, tears streaming down their middle-aged faces as they remember my fondness for unkempt plaids. I just hope they don’t lapse on the subscription payments else my life’s work will vanish into an ephemeral cloud from which all bits stream.
Music ownership is dead, already. iTunes, the great disrupter of physical CDs, has been disrupted by Spotify streams. Once the vanguard of digital consumption tastes, Apple is now the...
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