Investigating an auditory addiction.

A personal reflection on filling core memories and mundane moments alike with /ˈmyo͞ozik/.

Streaming. A boon and technical catalyst for transformative access to digital content — including, among other obvious and epic media, an endless bank of music.

Everything from The Hymn Of Ugarit (The Oldest Song In The World) to uncharted, fresh releases from today’s celebrity musicians & singer-songwriter icons may be streamed via hand-held devices, computers, tvs, etc., with a little reliable WiFi. Artists, renowned or niche or new to the industry, of all genres: sharing musical genius, forms of poetry, unexpected mash-ups and refurbished classics, collaborations “we didn’t know we needed,” breakup themes and soulful ballads. Streaming has, of course, also been a legitimate blessing for our bank accounts (TBT $0.99 cent iTunes songs) and the sweetest relief from torturous Top 40 radio.

Such massive musical libraries are expected — I daresay demanded — by users and upheld by providers (Spotify and #AppleMusic, baby) to entice subscriptions and encourage retention. There are teams dedicated to slotting similar songs onto curated playlists for every possible mood, occasion, life event or road trip. Tracks all parsed and packaged so perfectly; there, in the app on the phone in our hand that’s an extension of ourselves, filling the spaces we inhabit, shattering those large seconds of silence.

The prioritization of diverse, provocative, emotive sounds keeps our auditory systems stimulated as we DJ even the most mundane moments of our lives. There is hardly a simpler joy than pretending your life is movie (the ones who get it, get it), vibing in a car full of friends, or quite literally dancing in the streets to your own beats. Streaming has unlocked the ability for us to pause, and put on our headphones when we need a minute…when we’re overwhelmed… when we need to calm down. Because a moment with our favorite music is so definitively a respite and source of assurance: “I am not alone,” “I am okay alone,” “I can do this.”

As someone who is massively moved by the power of artistic expression and the melodic arrangement of sounds, I’ve taken the practice of streaming music into nearly all facets of daily life. Queue: morning podcast→ 9–5 playlist→ workout jams→ ‘getting ready’ tunes→ sounds to unwind to → cry to→ dance to→ cook to — and that’s barely scratching the surface.

Last year, Spotify proudly Wrapped my 2021, giving an alarming retrospective into the 109,693 hours of music I managed to fit into 365 days. More than 99% of other listeners in the US. Presumably, this stat was supposed to make me feel badass or, somehow, superior for landing myself in the 1%. Instead, this information catapulted me into a fascinating self-assessment of my relationship to music and with silence.

I took stock of times I truly felt uncomfortable or uninspired in the absence of music. I felt my mood down-shifting when new sounds were lackluster. There was frustration if the playlist didn’t perfectly match the intensity or energy of my environment (and I remained unfocused until it did).

There were beautiful moments of silence, when in fact it wasn’t silent at all: birds, children laughing, noisy winds, the sounds of life and nature. There were weighty and stale silences — the force of acknowledging an uncomfortable feeling [like stagnation or shame] and processing it in-full, instead of only allowing myself an abridged version.

What remains clear: curating playlists and appreciating artists will always be an overwhelmingly uplifting practice. Any danger, as with all habits, lies in the unconscious participation. The use of unlimited access to distract from an inconvenient truth. The urge to fill a silence with something beautiful because it’s easier to get lost in a melody than it is to search within for what bubbles beneath the surface. I compare this behavior, this counterproductive use of streaming, to a very mild shade of what social media doomscrolling embodies — distraction, disassociation. Remarkably, all a person needs to combat this is mindfulness.

As I reframe my role as a user, a musical consumer, I’m reframing my relationship with emotional processing. I’m acknowledging when I need an angsty artist to expand upon my feelings, and later giving myself the required space to ingest and digest the root of those frustrations.

With this newfound intentionality, Spotify and I are happily committed for life. Even more outrageous joy, fulfillment and wonder awaits us in our impending and introspective years together — finding music that lights the soul on fire and sharing it with those who matter most.