The joys of downloading?
Illegal downloading – every student’s favourite method of procuring music. Let’s face it, most of us students are pretty broke, and if not broke then the average student is far more likely to drink away their student loan in the pit of debauchery that is Ziggy’s than to spend their time eagerly perusing the latest releases section in HMV. Downloading is easier, far closer to my bed than the nearest branch of a major music retailer and, to risk stating the obvious, significantly cheaper.
In York, however, we’re presented with a bit of a quandary. The lovely people who kindly provide us freshers with internet access have decided, in their infinite wisdom, that illegally downloading music is quite inappropriate, thank-you very much. I’m sure our computer scientist friends have devised unscrupulous ways and means around the York Student Network’s Big Brother tendencies, but I’ve no idea how to do it – I just sit and sadly stare as my downloading thingies twitter warning messages about being “Unable To Establish An Internet Connection”. I’ve been looking at an “86% complete” legend for months now, but no matter how hard I try to force Millions Now Living Will Never Die to download by sheer force of will, it hasn’t worked. Yet.
The majority of my music collection may have originated from the mysterious ether of the interweb, true, but let me defend my position. Despite my download happy past, I have a weakness for CDs that is matched only by my weakness for second hand bookshops. If I really love an album then I won’t hesitate to prioritise a CD purchase over such trivialities as lunch. I just like to try before I buy, if you will. Such a weakness once manifested itself in a particularly unfortunate occurrence in the midst of a crowded shopping centre; I had successfully completed the purchase of long-time favourite, but never legally possessed album, The Cure’s dark, brooding masterpiece Pornography. “I’m so happy - I’ve finally bought Pornography!” I gleefully, and perhaps somewhat loudly, exclaimed to my friend. Mothers quickly ushered their children away from me, all the while casting furtive glances over their shoulders. I wanted to explain, “No, you don’t understand, I’m not talking about an objectified depiction of the physical act of love, I’m talking about a perfect slice of musical gloom that makes life worth living in those times when all hope is gone.” But my vocal attempts to clarify exactly what type of pornography I was referring to were to no avail; not one of the retreating mothers returned to offer their opinion on the remastered edition that I’d just purchased. Philistines.
Perhaps such scenarios could be avoided if I limited my musical purchasing to downloads, but I’m uncomfortable with the way downloading reduces music to a three-minute product. The physical album format brings together months, if not years, of hard work by musicians and packages it alongside the lyrics and visual artwork. In other words, it reminds us that music has the power to be something greater than just a source of instant gratification. I think we should be careful of discarding the album format too hastily, because it would be a sad loss indeed.
