Why I started listening to CDs again in the age of streaming

Cut to the Feeling is a monthly column by Anne T. Donahue about the art and pop culture that sparks joy, grief, nostalgia, and everything in between.

I was an idiot to have given all my CDs away.

In what feels like an instant, they were no longer my lifeblood; my sources of joy and independence. Upon the advent of the iPod and then, eventually, streaming services, I became consumed with the novelty of convenience — that with only the touch of a button and the constant untangling of my headphones, I had access to any and every song I loved, and didn't have to sift through any filler the way I did with entire albums. I could create mixes that suited my mood and mindset in real time, without having to rummage through unmarked discs hoping one of them contained Aqua's "Turn Back Time" (a banger if there ever were one).

Digital music didn't scratch or warp or get stuck under the seat of my car, nor was it crudely inscribed with Sharpie and labeled "GR8 TRAX." It was in the palm of my hand or in the stereo of my car, and I vowed never to go back again. The future was mine, and it was soundtracked by anything I wanted, at any time.

But the thing about novelty is that it tends to wear off. In the same way that Netflix has devolved into an exercise of scrolling until you're exhausted and choose The Great British Bake-Off for the 42nd time, Apple Music and Spotify began to feel less like the promised land and more like a trap of my own making. I didn't care to sift through new music for hidden gems or seek out artists adjacent to others I loved because it felt like too much work. Instead, I became overwhelmed by decisions and began listening exclusively to playlists curated for me by my apps, which meant I was being spoon-fed the same artists and songs ad nauseam — usually until I couldn't stand them anymore.

The magic dissipated as I grew less and less interested in the joy of discovery. Music was background noise and certainly not something I had an active relationship with. It was hard to remember when listening to a full album brought me anything but boredom.

Enter: nostalgia.

As a child of the 90s, I grew up making mixed tapes off the radio (and cursed the DJs who spoke over the last or first notes of a great song, effectively ruining a masterpiece). But my life was transformed with the introduction of the Compact Disc™, a superior way of listening to music because you didn't need to fast-forward, rewind, or worry about accidentally recording yourself singing "My Heart Will Go On" instead of Celine Dion.

I got my first CD player at 11, a joint Christmas gift from my parents and aunt and uncle. And I quickly began putting together a music collection that truly reflected the pop culture-obsessed baby angel I've always been: Abba Gold, the complete Star Wars trilogy score, Celine Dion, Celine Dion, Celine Dion, and above all, the soundtrack to Now and Then. I'd sit in my room reading Tiger Beat and Seventeen, convinced that the mere presence of and relationship to my CD player cemented that I was on the right track; that I was moving in the direction of adulthood thanks to my newfound access to albums tailored to the crisp, clean sound quality of a stereo system I eventually needed to pile books on so it wouldn't skip so often.

I'd check out CDs from the library since I couldn't afford their $25 median price at HMV or Music World, and I'd beg for gift certificates for any holiday so I could continue to curate a collection that reflected an ever-maturing me. Sure, I'd had cassettes as a kid, but CDs signalled a shift in values: my childhood tape collection consisted of Disney soundtracks and instrumentals set to whale sounds (imagine my classmates' joy when I brought that in to play during art class one afternoon), but my CDs mirrored those of my cool aunts and what I heard in my favourite movies and TV shows.

By eighth grade, I was the master of seeking out and securing soundtracks to Sabrina the Teenage Witch, 10 Things I Hate About You, and both installments of Titanic. By ninth, I'd graduated to limited edition mixed CDs and prided myself on memorizing the track order of MuchDance 98 before anybody else could. Sometimes, as a true cool kid, I'd just look at my CD collection, organized according to artist and year, and feel nothing but pride. Sure, I'd spent months of babysitting money on joining Columbia House, but I could finally count Jewel's Pieces of You among my treasures.

By the time I bought my first iPod Nano, I wanted only to consume as much as possible in the most accessible way. The idea of physically bringing a disc out to play on a stereo seemed like an archaic waste of time. Almost as wasteful as the idea of replacing the CDs I'd scratched — which was most of them.

And here we are today.

The older I get, the more everything feels a little less permanent. And in an attempt to feel anchored to my former selves, I've begun reaching for what I can actually hold onto. I know my memories of being a wee baby tween exist under a filter of nostalgia (and I don't actually want to go back), but to give them a physical component makes them feel a little less far away. Once upon a time, I was a wide-eyed sixth-grader who considered listening to music on an inflatable chair the peak of highbrow culture. Maybe that version of me is still kicking around somewhere.

Every album that once meant something to me was a gateway into revisiting the unjaded, enthusiastic kid I once was. Liner notes meant something again. My CD player was no longer a dust trap. I began to reacquaint myself with the track order of Big Shiny Tunes 2.

As a veteran thrifter, I started scouring the shelves of donated CDs, picking out the ones I'd tossed away a long time ago — at first buying only the ones I had once owned, but eventually graduating to greats like Fiona Apple or Tori Amos now that I was old enough to appreciate them. For $1.99 each, I discovered I could commit to listening to full albums as they were meant to be listened to, while keeping my ADHD-centric urge to skip onto the next at bay since I can only listen to them in my room on a boombox. (My car doesn't have a CD player, so I stay tethered to the AUX cord.)

Soon, CD-buying became a treasure hunt in and of itself: every album that once meant something to me (minus the whale sounds) was a gateway into revisiting the unjaded, enthusiastic kid I once was. Liner notes meant something again. My CD player was no longer a dust trap. I began to reacquaint myself with the track order of Big Shiny Tunes 2. And I actually began actively listening to music again.

None of this is to say that I don't stream or download or will subscribe only to physical media as some type of cultural purist. (Lord knows albums are expensive.) But I was so caught up in what came next that I lost touch with what drew me to music in the first place.

I'll never be the 11-year-old going bananas over the fact that she could finally play the full seven-minute version of Celine's "It's All Coming Back To Me Now," nor am I naive enough to think that Jonathan Taylor-Thomas will fall in love with me based on how complete my ABBA discography is. But studying to the sounds of Pure Energy 8 or Hanson's Middle of Nowhere is a physical reminder that I was capable of feeling that uncensored type of happiness. Which means that maybe by making time to nurture my relationship with music again, I might feel it a little more often.