I understand change, and I enjoy it. Progress transformed the rotary phone I used in my childhood, an expensive device rented from the phone company since they were too pricy to own, to the relatively inexpensive, portable, cellular phone. The VHS tape of poor quality and deterioration with each use has been replaced by Blu Ray discs; high quality, amazing sound.
When it comes to music, however, I am quite happily a curmudgeon. I was raised on records, and I believe they will hold a special place in my heart until the day I die. There is something about the physicality of a vinyl recording; placing the needle on the edge, listening to the pre-song pops and whistles as it settled into the groove is a much more interesting ritual than double-clicking a mouse and streaming a song to your computer. The artwork on a cardboard sleeve was part of a record’s overall charm—the enormity of the prism on Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon, the freak show that was KISS on their first hit album, ALIVE—the cover art meant something back then; it was big, and hard to dismiss.
The rise of Compact Discs in the 1980s was an important leap forward for music; digital recording capabilities created a seemingly limitless sonic canvas to paint upon. Listen to Achtung Baby with headphones; the layers of sound are delicately nuanced and amazingly interesting. Unfortunately, the smaller size of a CD meant that the cover image became a little less important; instead of a big picture that could contain subtleties, the picture now had to be entirely to the point immediately. Even worse, people could buy carrying cases and ditch everything but the disc itself. One step forward for the recording process meant three steps back for the physical representation of a musician’s art.
Napster was another important leap for music. Anyone old enough to buy records can tell you many a story of having been burned by someone who put out a twelve-track record where only the single was worth listening to. You wasted your hard earned money for one song and got pissed; pick up Nelly Furtado’s first, self-titled CD for proof. Beyond the two radio tracks, the album is so awful it is unlistenable. Napster was great payback for a consumer burned by bad purchases. iTunes then advanced the idea the song was more powerful than the album. Instead dropping $13.99 for one good song and eleven mediocre tracks, you could quickly grab what you liked in an individualistic manner.
But for the old school among us, there still exist artists who create records that have a shape and flow to them. Bands that form an emotional arc with their album, making the narrative as a whole more important than the singularity of any one song.
To me, Peter Gabriel is a musician of such caliber. When he rears his oft-hibernating head, I tend to take notice and am interested in hearing what he’s up to. When I heard he quietly slipped a new CD into the market on March 2nd, I was surprised. There was no advertising, nor seemingly any advance notice of the release. I full-well understand the Peter Gabriel of 2010 is not the one of 1986; today’s generation finds it more interesting playing “Guess the Gender” with Lady Gaga than buying appealing music, and there’s nothing I can do about that. But when I entered into a Best Buy store and only found one “Greatest Hits” CD available under the Peter Gabriel placard, I was disappointed. Though he is no longer selling millions of albums, he is a big enough name to be pushing a few people to the stores. Hell, the fact he appeals to old farts like me who still buy CDs should be enough to stock some titles under his banner. But it was not to be; I asked a store employee for help, and he dutifully typed the name “Peter Gabrail” into the store computer and came up with no hits. I shook my head sadly at his ignorance, then took his G.E.D. hand and helped him correct the spelling. It made no difference; the store did indeed not contain any new Peter Gabriel releases within its walls.
So what did they carry? Plenty of “This Is It” material—CDs, DVDs, Blu Ray—by Michael Jackson.
Oh well. Maybe one day Peter will play “sleepover” with a bunch of boys, dangle a baby from a balcony, and die of an overdose. Then he’ll be a musician worthy of attention.
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