How Listening Practices Affect Our Musical Relationships

Music has always been a host for community, identity, and shared cultural experience. Since Édouard-Léon Scott de Martinville invented the phonautograph in 1857, the first device capable of recording sound, music reproduction and listening practices have evolved dramatically. Over time, these changes have profoundly shaped how music functions within society. From hand-cranked gramophones and shellac records to vinyl LPs, cassette tapes, and the iconic Sony Walkman, each technological advancement has altered the way people access, experience, and relate to music. We are long past the days of selling CDs from car boots on street corners or downloading bootlegged MP3s on platforms like Limewire. Music technology has developed rapidly, arguably more so than many other art forms, consistently reshaping both artistic production and cultural participation.

Today, digital streaming dominates the landscape of music consumption, largely due to its convenience, accessibility, and the sheer volume of content available. Platforms like Spotify, Apple Music, and YouTube allow millions of tracks to be accessed instantly by anyone with an internet connection. However, this ease of access comes at a cost—not just to musicians, who are often underpaid for their work, but also to listeners, who may be increasingly disconnected from the physical, social, and artistic dimensions of music culture. 

One major issue is how streaming platforms like Spotify and TikTok often spotlight a single viral hit from an artist, while the rest of their catalogue remains largely unheard. These popular tracks are frequently remixed, sped up, or slowed down, designed to maximise engagement through quantity rather than depth. In this environment, the algorithm takes centre stage, encouraging fleeting trends over lasting connection, and consumption over reflection. Many of these songs are created or modified to fit short-form video content or mood-based playlists, where the goal is not to appreciate the music itself, but to maintain a vibe or aesthetic. This strips songs of context, backstory, or even authorship, as audio is repeatedly reused without credit or deeper engagement. This leads to a musical culture where everything is instantly available, yet somehow disposable. Artists are often judged by how “algorithm-friendly” their tracks are, and listeners are conditioned to scroll through songs with the same speed and disengagement they apply to social media. The deeper meanings behind songs, albums, or artistic choices are lost in the push for high-volume interaction. This phenomenon reflects a broader shift in how music is treated—not as an art form to be experienced, but as content to be consumed and moved on from.

As streaming reshapes listening into a solitary, data-driven habit, we are left to consider: what happens to the tangible, community-rooted experience of physical media? What is lost when we no longer browse record bins, ask for recommendations, or attend local gigs to discover new music? These older practices once brought us closer to the music we love, the artists who make it, and the cultural scenes that surround it. 

This essay argues that while streaming platforms offer unprecedented access, they risk reducing music to passive background noise. In contrast, record shops foster intentionality, community, and deeper cultural engagement—offering a model of musical connection worth preserving in the digital age.

Experience of the record shop

Visiting a record shop offers a unique and tangible experience that digital platforms often lack. Physically interacting with music through browsing shelves and handling vinyl records creates a tactile connection to the medium. The artistry of album inserts and cover designs adds a visual and aesthetic layer to the musical experience, often providing more information about the artist, the context of the work, and its cultural background.

Record shops also foster personal interaction. Asking staff for recommendations becomes a heuristic process, one shaped by trial, intuition, and shared experience, rather than predictive software. Over time, workers begin to understand your tastes and suggest music that aligns with or challenges them. This dynamic can lead to musical discovery that algorithms might miss. Buying a vinyl record or a CD is a commitment, not just a click. You’re supporting not only the artist but the local shop and the culture it helps sustain. Music becomes something you collect, treasure, and revisit—rather than consume and forget.

Beyond commerce, record shops often serve as community spaces, a melting pot where scenes intersect. Customers or listeners might learn about local gigs, underground shows, or niche artists through informal conversations. These shops can function as venues themselves or simply as places to hang out, creating opportunities for like-minded individuals to connect and “find their tribe.”

However, these spaces are not without flaws. They can also be sites of exclusion, where gatekeeping around musical knowledge or taste creates barriers to entry for newcomers. Despite this, record shops remain vital spaces for cultural exchange, music discovery, and subcultural identity.

Experience of streaming

The experience of streaming music is markedly different from that of visiting a record shop. In many ways, it democratises access: anyone can upload their music to major platforms, and listeners have virtually everything at their fingertips. This ease of access allows for rapid exploration and instant sharing, making it simple to recommend or discover music through social media and online communities.

Streaming platforms often use algorithms to suggest music, which can lead users down unexpected rabbit holes of discovery. While this can be exciting and expose listeners to new genres or artists, it also means that the experience is largely shaped by data-driven predictions rather than human recommendations. The context surrounding the music—its cultural origins, visual presentation, or artist intent—is often minimal or absent. This tends to lead audiences to become more passive in their listening habits.

Another notable aspect of streaming is the presence of advertisements and promoted content. Even with paid subscriptions, users may still encounter material pushed by the platform, shaping listening habits in subtle ways. Unlike the communal or social aspect of the record shop, streaming tends to be a more solitary and independent process. Listeners are often disconnected from local music scenes, and the sense of discovery is largely mediated by technology.

From the artist’s perspective, streaming can be disheartening. Despite global reach, many receive only a fraction of a penny per play, raising ongoing concerns about the sustainability of music as a career under this model.

Human interaction into data points

The main reason I chose this topic is my concern that streaming is making us increasingly individualistic. Since the 1970s, globalisation has steadily reshaped Western culture, contributing to a homogenisation of creative expression. While countries still maintain their own traditions, many forms of cultural output now appear in the same digital spaces, often taking on similar aesthetics and behaviours. This shift has led to the development of a monoculture—where cultural production becomes standardised, and people across the globe engage with content in similar, predictable ways. As a result, creativity and critical thinking may be diminished in favour of passive, mindless  consumption, David Hesmondhalgh (2021, p.10) describes this type of listening as ‘Wallpaper’:

“Wallpaper is intended to be pleasing but ultimately merely decorative. The implicit underlying idea is that music should demand more of us, that it should force its way into our attention, requiring that we be more actively engaged, and that streaming is preventing this from happening.”

Much of our digital behaviour has become automatic and habitual, especially in how we discover and engage with music. Streaming platforms like Spotify and YouTube encourage this passivity by providing endless content tailored to our preferences, making it easy to consume without reflecting on why we listen—or who profits from this model. Platforms don’t just reflect behaviour, they shape it. Consumers, designers, and platform owners are all part of an ecosystem where overconsumption often leads to unfulfillment. Ewa Mazierska (2020, p.269) supports this critique, noting that:

“Businesses have turned to digital solutions to solve this problem, applying the same techniques used within high-frequency trading in financial markets, and terrorist surveillance by government intelligence agencies—a persistent attempt to quantify both music and human behaviour.”

This quote illustrates how deeply entrenched these systems are, and how far removed they are from music’s emotional or communal roots.

In contrast, the record shop once served as a cultural hub—a physical space for discovery, conversation, and connection. Browsing through records was not just a transaction but a ritual. Today’s streaming platforms offer none of that. The experience is independent, data-driven, and highly individualised.

While this can be empowering in terms of personal freedom, it also isolates us from wider cultural dialogues. We no longer have to negotiate our tastes with others or explore unfamiliar genres through social connection. Instead, algorithms guide us into echo chambers, endless rabbit holes of music that reflect our preferences back to us.

“The digital landscape, then, has become situated in an ‘economy’ where time and attention are the currencies.” (Vivrekar, 2018, p.6)

Vivrekar here, talks of a broader shift in the attention economy, where platforms compete for our time using persuasive design. Streaming services and social media apps are engineered to keep us engaged, often at the expense of meaningful connection or deep listening. Microtrends rise and fall in days, and AI-generated content increasingly fills our feeds. Content that may mimic human creativity but lacks soul, context, or cultural depth. Vivrekar speaks on the implications that interacting with media in this way might have on us:

“The compounding effect of these products on the higher level cognition can then be extended to impact the very basis of our ‘freedom, wellbeing, and even the integrity of the self,’ which demonstrates these seemingly small design techniques can have large cognitive impacts when interacted with so frequently and intimately.” (Vivrekar, 2018, p.9)

In the absence of meaningful physical spaces for young people to gather, share ideas, and push boundaries, online culture has taken over. But the spaces we have online are becoming increasingly filled with AI-generated noise and promotional content. Even premium streaming services feature promoted tracks or curated playlists designed to boost visibility for certain artists, not necessarily those who resonate most with listeners.

However, there are still spaces that push back against this. Sound system culture, particularly collectives like Channel One and Iration Steppas—continues to create physical environments where music is not just heard but felt. These systems champion vinyl, analog warmth, and intentional selection. Their events transform listening into a shared ritual, a communal experience rooted in history, resistance, and deep appreciation for sound. In these gatherings, the music is not fragmented or backgrounded—it’s front and centre, shaping atmosphere, identity, and connection. In contrast to the atomised nature of streaming, sound system culture reminds us of music’s power to gather people, to hold space, and to transmit something deeper than algorithmic taste.

Further exploration

As I reflect on the broader themes explored in this essay, particularly the shift from physical to digital music consumption—I’ve become increasingly aware of how interference plays a role not only in our listening habits, but in our everyday environments. The city itself is filled with constant noise: engines, alarms, construction, overlapping conversations. This auditory clutter creates an oppressive soundscape—one that mirrors the overwhelming speed and volume of digital life. Much like algorithm-driven streaming, this noise saturates our attention, leaving little space for deep listening, emotional resonance, or community connection.

In contrast, physical spaces like record shops once offered a refuge from this kind of overstimulation. These were places where listening was intentional, where time slowed down, and where sound was treated with care. Choosing a record, handling it, flipping it—these acts demanded presence. In many ways, they countered the disconnection created by both urban noise and digital overload.

Streaming, while convenient, rarely offers this kind of sanctuary. The infinite scroll of suggested tracks and algorithmic playlists reflects the same relentless pace as city life, reducing music to background noise or passive habit. We may be listening more than ever, but often with less awareness and less connection.

This raises a deeper question: if music is fundamental to human well-being, what does it mean when our primary modes of accessing it are shaped by platforms built to maximise engagement, not care? Sound isn’t just entertainment, it’s how we make sense of the world, process emotion, and connect with others. When our attention is constantly fragmented, we risk losing the emotional and cultural depth that music can offer.

Exploring interference, in both sound and systems, opens a path for future research and creative work. How do our listening environments shape our mental health and social behaviour? Can we reclaim sound as something intentional and meaningful, rather than passive and disposable? And how might we design or reimagine listening spaces—physical or digital—that support reflection, presence, and community, much like record shops once did?

These questions suggest that the debate between streaming and physical media is not just about format or nostalgia. It’s about how we relate to sound itself, and by extension, to each other.

Conclusion

To conclude, there are still many pressing questions about where the music industry is heading—and what kind of future we are allowing technology to shape for us. As tech companies continue to extract user data and profit from it, platforms like Spotify have positioned themselves not only as distributors but as gatekeepers, curating what we hear, how we hear it, and what gets visibility. This has fundamentally changed the relationship between artists and listeners, often prioritising engagement metrics over emotional or cultural depth.

One of the most important realisations I’ve had while writing this essay is that living simply and mindfully, especially in how we consume music, can be a quiet act of resistance against the demands of capitalism. The system profits from constant growth, speed, and surface-level consumption, and the music industry has not been spared. Artists are often reduced to content creators, listeners to passive consumers, and platforms to profit machines. In this environment, we risk losing the intimacy and shared humanity that music once facilitated.

Observing how many of my peers interact with streaming services has reinforced this. So much of what is listened to now is algorithmically generated: endless playlists, mood-based mixes, and songs played more out of habit than desire. What concerns me is that streaming services don’t differentiate between an intentional listen and background noise, a stream is a stream. And that metric, void of context, is what shapes future recommendations and success for artists. So, where do we go from here? 

A potential solution doesn’t lie in completely abandoning streaming—it’s too embedded in how we live. But it does lie in finding a balance: valuing physical media where possible, supporting local record stores, going to shows, and actively seeking out music that challenges us. It’s about being more intentional with what we take in, resisting passive consumption, and reconnecting with music in ways that are tangible, communal, and reflective.

Ultimately, we must ask: is the current model sustainable? Not just economically for artists, but culturally and emotionally for all of us. In a world where attention is constantly being fragmented and redirected, music, once a powerful force for connection and change, risks becoming just another backdrop to distraction. To preserve its soul, we need to slow down, listen deeply, and create space for music to mean something again.

References (Annotated Bibliography)

Mazierska, E. (2020). Popular Music In The Post-Digital Age: Politics, Economy, Culture and Technology. New York: Bloomsbury Academic.

Mazierska’s book explores how digital platforms have reshaped the political, economic, and cultural dimensions of music. In my essay, I drew on her critique of data-driven music consumption to show how listeners are transformed into data points, and how streaming platforms undermine artists’ autonomy and creative depth. Her insights supported my argument that algorithmic culture erodes meaningful listening and reinforces a passive, commodified relationship with music.

Vivrekar, D. (2018). Persuasive Design Techniques in the Attention Economy: User Awareness, Theory, and Ethics.[online] Available at: https://stacks.stanford.edu/file/druid:rq188wb9000/Masters_Thesis_Devangi_Vivrekar_2018.pdf.

Vivrekar’s thesis discusses how persuasive design captures user attention across digital platforms, contributing to the attention economy. I used this to frame my concerns about how streaming services are designed to maximise engagement rather than meaningful listening. Her concept of persuasive design helped me argue that platforms like Spotify shape behaviour and fragment attention, pushing music further into the background of daily life.

Hesmondhalgh, D. (2021). Streaming’s Effects on Music Culture: Old Anxieties and New Simplifications. Cultural Sociology, 16(1), pp.3–24. [online] doi: https://doi.org/10.1177/17499755211019974

Hesmondhalgh’s article outlines five major critiques of music streaming, including its promotion of ‘functional’ listening and the dominance of background music. I used this source to support my analysis of how streaming promotes passivity, discourages musical discovery, and reduces emotional engagement. His arguments helped contextualise my concerns about how music is becoming less of a social or cultural force and more of a disposable commodity.