If you use music to set or fix your mood, Spotify is a tantalising tool. Feeling sad? Cry to your personalised “Depress Sesh Mix”. In a romantic crisis? Stew in your own “Situationship Mix”. As I write this, I’m listening to Spotify’s Daylist, a mix that refreshes every few hours based on my own listening habits. Today’s vibe is “funky beats roller skating tuesday early morning mix”. At 120bpm, the algorithm knows I need some energetic house to roll from my bed to my desk.
The problem with this listening experience isn’t just the creepy AI-driven intimacy of it all, more that the same songs are recycled in a predictable loop. Spotify’s algorithm has anaesthetised artists I once enjoyed. Every time I hear the slippery psychedelic bass of Khruangbin slinking into one of my playlists, or flow in seamlessly from another artist’s radio, I violently hit skip.
A decade ago, Spotify favoured human-curated playlists made by artists, celebrities and music aficionados. But in 2021, the streaming company pivoted towards machine learning, feeding “nearly half a trillion events” into computer models every day. Now, user data – chiefly our listening history, interactions with Spotify’s user interface and the time of day – is packaged into a mixtape for every micro-occasion.
Advocates argue this is a chance to democratise music promotion, neatly matching artists with their audiences. Critics suggest this ultra-subjective experience limits musical discovery to the already familiar – and the less it’s challenged, the more my music taste narrows. So as a test, I quit Spotify for a month, to bring some soul back into the way I find music.
First, I consulted people who had never used streaming services, like my dad, who grew up in 1970s London in the heyday of punk and glam rock. Hunched in a booth in his local record shop, he would listen to a sample and take a punt on what vinyl to buy – A-side or B-side. Some albums apparently missed the mark, and others, like Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon, transported him to a different universe. He insisted I start with my favourite artists, and listen to every album front to back, as if reading a story.
Inspired, I bought a $30 record player in an op-shop and hunted for vinyls. Late to the record renaissance, it was slim pickings – Australian pub classics, Christian country or Christmas hits. But when a friend pointed out my new turntable was missing a needle, it became a dusty but decorative addition to my living room.
My 20-year-old neighbour had another suggestion: a diamante-encrusted iPod, which she produced in a ziplock bag like a hallowed artefact. Found for $200 on Facebook Marketplace, plugging in wired earplugs and hitting shuffle was a nostalgic throwback. But this romance was short-lived: the iPod was incompatible with my Bluetooth speaker and demanded hours of admin to upload music.
The biggest challenge came when driving my old silver Subaru, as I was stranded with only a single CD, a flimsy aux cord and my thoughts. Stuck with silence, I wondered what the new grinding noise was – until I discovered my local community broadcaster, Vox FM 106.9. More than 5 million Australians listen to community radio every week, for 17 hours on average – and now, I can see why. The station prides itself on “real music” and even has the tagline “You never know what you like until you try it”. Just what I needed! And it’s true, I had forgotten how good it feels to wind down the windows and blast Push the Button by the Sugababes, and then to roll them up again when a classical German song, a mystery even to Shazam, comes on.
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I contacted Justin Moon, who runs a popular underground radio station and record shop in Newcastle. He sources music from record fairs, friends, and Bandcamp – distributing interesting sounds as a conduit, or Hermes figure, to lay (or lazy) people like me. Moon is noticing that his customers are searching for a more “active” listening experience. “It’s not this kind of passive wash-over-you rubbish that you make your two-minute noodles to and forget all about 10 seconds later,” he says.
Music – like film, TV, and food – is now served to us effortlessly, instantly. But this has caused the way we consume music to be more siloed. Spending a month hunting for new music myself, rather than relying on an algorithm, made me feel more connected to my parents, friends, radio presenters and even complete strangers. Their recommendations – whether to my taste or not – came with a part of themselves, a memory, or a shared interest.
After my month’s Spotify hiatus, my algorithm hasn’t been cleansed. Over the course of writing this piece, my daylist has evolved into “french indietronica swimming pool tuesday afternoon”, whatever that means. There are two Khruangbin songs on there. It’s safe to say I would rather play roulette with the radio.