Choice, we are told, is an unqualified good. The ability to have anything, anytime, is framed as a triumph of modernity, a liberation from the constraints of the past. Nowhere is this more evident than in the transition from physical to digital media. But what if the promise of limitless choice is, in reality, an alienating force, one that strips away the meaningful engagement we once had with culture? What if choice itself becomes a form of unfreedom? I loved my portable MiniDisc player. Much more than my first MP3 player, an iPod. At first glance, this preference seems counterintuitive. The iPod promised everything: entire music libraries in your pocket, a killer design, no need to decide in advance, no need to be limited by physical constraints. And yet, it was precisely the necessity of making choices, the deliberation over which discs to bring, which to leave behind, that made the MiniDisc experience richer. With a MiniDisc player, I had to think about my day. What mood might I be in? Which albums would I actually listen to? What, ultimately, was worth carrying? These decisions weren’t just logistical; they were curatorial. The act of selecting what to bring shaped the experience of listening itself. It introduced scarcity, not in the capitalist sense of artificial deprivation, but in the sense of meaning derived from limitation.
“But what if the promise of limitless choice is, in reality, an alienating force, one that strips away the meaningful engagement we once had with culture?”
“And yet, it was precisely the necessity of making choices, the deliberation over which discs to bring, which to leave behind, that made the MiniDisc experience richer. With a MiniDisc player, I had to think about my day.”
Was there a perfect equation to calculate the optimum number of MiniDiscs for a fifty-minute rail journey, balancing variety, mood, and the satisfying weight of a curated selection? If so, it might have looked something like this:
D = (T / L̄) + M – A
Where:
- T = total journey time (in minutes)
- ̄L = average track length (in minutes per song)
- M = mood factor (a subjective multiplier based on desired variety, e.g., 1.2 for high variety, 0.8 for a consistent mood)
- A = anticipated distraction factor (e.g., time spent reading, looking out the window, or switching discs)
For a fifty-minute journey, assuming an average song length of four minutes, a moderate mood variation, and occasional distractions, the equation suggests one disc might suffice, but two would provide a more flexible, curated experience. So why did I carry ten or more? This act of selection was itself part of the enjoyment, part of the ritual of listening. But in attempting to construct an equation for this experience, have I already fallen into the trap of algorithmic thinking, imposing control, quantifying spontaneity, and stripping away the organic flow of choosing music for the journey?
“This act of selection was itself part of the enjoyment, part of the ritual of listening. But in attempting to construct an equation for this experience, have I already fallen into the trap of algorithmic thinking, imposing control, quantifying spontaneity, and stripping away the organic flow of choosing music for the journey?”
In contrast, the iPod, with its endless scroll of possibility, flattened the experience. When everything is available, nothing feels necessary. Music becomes ephemeral, flicked through in search of something else, something better, something new. The burden of choice, paradoxically, erodes the value of what is chosen. This is not liberation but a different kind of constraint, one in which cultural engagement is subordinated to consumption. Marxists have long understood that capitalist production is driven not by the needs of the many, but by the profit motives of the few. The shift from physical media to digital downloads—and then to streaming—was never about democratising access to culture. It was about severing the connection between the listener and the object, transforming music from something owned to something rented, from a possession to a service. This process alienates us from culture in multiple ways. First, it dissolves the ritual of engagement. No longer do we invest in albums, listen repeatedly, or allow music to sink into us over time. Instead, we skim, we skip, we let algorithms dictate our preferences. Secondly, it reduces music to a commodity stripped of context. A MiniDisc compilation reflected its maker; a playlist is an abstraction generated by machine learning. Finally, it eradicates permanence. Streaming platforms giveth and taketh away, what is available today may be gone tomorrow, as licensing agreements shift beneath our feet, reinforcing the disposable nature of modern media. The MiniDisc, by contrast, had a presence, it was compact, and satisfyingly tactile. Its translucent plastic cases, with their precise, mechanical disc-loading mechanism, gave a sense of durability and purpose, a far cry from the fleeting impermanence of streaming services.
“The burden of choice, paradoxically, erodes the value of what is chosen.”
“The MiniDisc, by contrast, had a presence, it was compact, and satisfyingly tactile. Its translucent plastic cases, with their precise, mechanical disc-loading mechanism, gave a sense of durability and purpose, a far cry from the fleeting impermanence of streaming services.”
The MiniDisc now exists as a kind of cultural phantom, a spectral reminder of a different path that could have been taken. Its physicality, its necessity for selection and engagement, haunts the seamless, weightless experience of streaming. In this way, it embodies a hauntological presence, lingering at the edges of an abandoned future, one in which we might have sustained a more deliberate, material relationship with music. Even the use of a separate music player has been taken away from us, a mobile phone now the preferred device, with its Spotify or Apple Music offering a never-ending flow of content, yet further eroding any sense of permanence or curation. The illusion of infinite choice disguises the reality of deeper dispossession. When we ‘own’ nothing, when we simply access culture as a service, we become more susceptible to the dictates of capital. The MiniDisc player demanded a different relationship: one of selection, curation, and engagement. The iPod and its successors instead invited passivity. And now, as music disappears into the cloud, even the act of choice itself is vanishing, replaced by endless recommendation loops, by autoplay, by the quiet erosion of autonomy.
“The MiniDisc now exists as a kind of cultural phantom, a spectral reminder of a different path that could have been taken.”
“When we ‘own’ nothing, when we simply access culture as a service, we become more susceptible to the dictates of capital.”
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