Vinyl Flunky.
Matching up the contents of La Norme Concrète with the real-world copies of The Concrete Standard is the easy part. The advantage to maintaining a record collection that only exists virtually is that the sentimental factor is greatly reduced in some instances, because one of the greatest dealbreakers when it comes to deciding whether to hang on to something (in addition to the psychic imprint it leaves on the mind and the memory bookmark it inserts into the brain) is, ironically, the packaging, which is often some of the more fleeting and superficial elements of any material object.
Example #1: I still have the box that Jones, my old iPod, came in. It serves no further purpose, because Jones has moved on to better things, but it still sits on my shelf because of the moment in time it's attached to in my memory; plus the iconic silhouette graphics are still pretty stirring. On the other hand, five fingers: it's just a cardboard matryoshka that also exists on thousands of other peoples' shelves (plus landfills and recycling centers) and has been featured in countless of unboxing photoessays on any number of tech-fetish blogs. I'm only a casual design groupie, so there's no point in hanging on to packaging, no matter how distinctive, that's already been documented in other, more anal archives. The only practical reason to keep the box that anything comes in is for future transport, and the only other box that I still have that fits that criteria, and gets semi-regular use, is Proteus' original packaging.
Example #2: At Alma Mater my associates and I were regularly showered with promotional copies of newly-released or soon-to-be-released records. ("Showered" is perhaps an overly optimistic descriptor; more often than not, "begging for" was the operative term) Most of these "promos" came in the requisite jewel cases; identical, plastic, and utterly soul-sucking, but some of the records from specialty labels were a little fancier, most notably the late 90s re-releases from Impulse Records that attempted to recreate the distinctive style of the original vinyl pressings. These often featured gatefold artwork, expanded liner notes, and a paperstock composition that mimicked the feel of an old record jacket. Having items like these in The Concrete Standard made me want to listen to more jazz.
On the other hand, five fingers: as pretty as the packaging is, it's still just a surface detail; especially if the old adage that says the music is the only thing that really matters turns out to be true.
Dealing with packaging and its influence on minimizing however, takes on a whole new set of issues when coupled with something that is hopelessly obsolete and fatally nostalgic, but at the same time infinitely collectable and an organic foil against the digital artifacts of our post-postmodern world: vinyl.
Saddled with the Generation X stigma, I naturally grew up in a world where the audio hierarchy was dominated by the compact cassette, followed closely behind by an already-fading vinyl culture. When the compact disc premiered in 1982, I was presented with a choice of paths; embrace the burgeoning technology or cling to the already-perceived-as-obsolete format. A combination of personal economics and throwback nostalgia pushed me towards the vinyl end, even going so far as to start scrawling "SAVE THE LP" on any available flat surface with a Sharpie. And since every radio station in the country, including the ones run by my high school and community college, still employed massive vinyl libraries to provide their playlists, it was a given that anywhere I went to host a program was guaranteed to have at least two working turntables, allowing me to pick and choose from my own collection and customize the shows I hosted.
In this sense, so-called "obsolete" technology was actually an advantage, because the playback gear had already been grandfathered into the structure, while new technology like CD players either weren't the rage or hadn't been installed yet. As far as the current situation is concerned, I no longer have a turntable, I don't currently host a radio show, and I don't have the skills to be a DJ. Still, the vinyl contingent of The Concrete Standard is proving to be the most tenacious faction of the three primary formats to rid myself of. For whatever strange reason, the smaller, slicker, more futuristic compact disc seems to have less value than the bulky, fragile, and fusty phonograph record; similar, but not the same as the heightened value the incorporeal mp3 file has over it's digital hard copy brethren.
Maybe it's because vinyl is slightly more difficult to replicate digitally that it has more staying power. Or, like everything else, it reminds us of where our collections started, as well as the potential breadth of our collections. In a post-postmodern world that is rapidly duplicating everything from more fragile formats to digital archives, very little is being left behind, but for efficiency's sake, the most relevant and popular items are being processed first. That leaves several hundred thousand worlds that are still hiding in record shop understock, used bookstore warehouses, and countless other backrooms.
The past has always been the future before the future was new.
Related: Negativland's "Shiny, Aluminum, Plastic and Digital" essay.
⎋
Example #1: I still have the box that Jones, my old iPod, came in. It serves no further purpose, because Jones has moved on to better things, but it still sits on my shelf because of the moment in time it's attached to in my memory; plus the iconic silhouette graphics are still pretty stirring. On the other hand, five fingers: it's just a cardboard matryoshka that also exists on thousands of other peoples' shelves (plus landfills and recycling centers) and has been featured in countless of unboxing photoessays on any number of tech-fetish blogs. I'm only a casual design groupie, so there's no point in hanging on to packaging, no matter how distinctive, that's already been documented in other, more anal archives. The only practical reason to keep the box that anything comes in is for future transport, and the only other box that I still have that fits that criteria, and gets semi-regular use, is Proteus' original packaging.
Example #2: At Alma Mater my associates and I were regularly showered with promotional copies of newly-released or soon-to-be-released records. ("Showered" is perhaps an overly optimistic descriptor; more often than not, "begging for" was the operative term) Most of these "promos" came in the requisite jewel cases; identical, plastic, and utterly soul-sucking, but some of the records from specialty labels were a little fancier, most notably the late 90s re-releases from Impulse Records that attempted to recreate the distinctive style of the original vinyl pressings. These often featured gatefold artwork, expanded liner notes, and a paperstock composition that mimicked the feel of an old record jacket. Having items like these in The Concrete Standard made me want to listen to more jazz.
On the other hand, five fingers: as pretty as the packaging is, it's still just a surface detail; especially if the old adage that says the music is the only thing that really matters turns out to be true.
Dealing with packaging and its influence on minimizing however, takes on a whole new set of issues when coupled with something that is hopelessly obsolete and fatally nostalgic, but at the same time infinitely collectable and an organic foil against the digital artifacts of our post-postmodern world: vinyl.
Saddled with the Generation X stigma, I naturally grew up in a world where the audio hierarchy was dominated by the compact cassette, followed closely behind by an already-fading vinyl culture. When the compact disc premiered in 1982, I was presented with a choice of paths; embrace the burgeoning technology or cling to the already-perceived-as-obsolete format. A combination of personal economics and throwback nostalgia pushed me towards the vinyl end, even going so far as to start scrawling "SAVE THE LP" on any available flat surface with a Sharpie. And since every radio station in the country, including the ones run by my high school and community college, still employed massive vinyl libraries to provide their playlists, it was a given that anywhere I went to host a program was guaranteed to have at least two working turntables, allowing me to pick and choose from my own collection and customize the shows I hosted.
In this sense, so-called "obsolete" technology was actually an advantage, because the playback gear had already been grandfathered into the structure, while new technology like CD players either weren't the rage or hadn't been installed yet. As far as the current situation is concerned, I no longer have a turntable, I don't currently host a radio show, and I don't have the skills to be a DJ. Still, the vinyl contingent of The Concrete Standard is proving to be the most tenacious faction of the three primary formats to rid myself of. For whatever strange reason, the smaller, slicker, more futuristic compact disc seems to have less value than the bulky, fragile, and fusty phonograph record; similar, but not the same as the heightened value the incorporeal mp3 file has over it's digital hard copy brethren.
Maybe it's because vinyl is slightly more difficult to replicate digitally that it has more staying power. Or, like everything else, it reminds us of where our collections started, as well as the potential breadth of our collections. In a post-postmodern world that is rapidly duplicating everything from more fragile formats to digital archives, very little is being left behind, but for efficiency's sake, the most relevant and popular items are being processed first. That leaves several hundred thousand worlds that are still hiding in record shop understock, used bookstore warehouses, and countless other backrooms.
The past has always been the future before the future was new.
Related: Negativland's "Shiny, Aluminum, Plastic and Digital" essay.
⎋