In 1984, American science fiction writer William Gibson defined “cyberspace” (a term he coined) as “a consensual hallucination experienced daily by billions of legitimate operators” in the near-future world of his novel, Neuromancer, where human consciousness drifts through a blinding data-world of corporate geometries.
More than three decades later, the English documentarian Adam Curtis traced how that hallucination became reality in his BBC documentary HyperNormalisation: “Over the past 40 years, politicians, financiers, and technological utopians—rather than face up to the real complexities of the world—retreated. Instead, they constructed a simpler version of the world in order to hang onto power, and as this fake world grew, all of us went along with it, because the simplicity was reassuring.”
Today, this “simpler version of the world” fits into our pockets. The average American now spends around five hours per day—about 2.5 months per year—on their smartphone. Most artists now depend on social media for visibility, and a small handful of tech companies now determine how culture is discovered and monetized. Whether you experience this moment as a dystopian technocratic existence, an interconnected digital wonderland, or some incredibly boring third thing, technology doesn’t just permeate most every facet of life, it intercepts substantial chunks of the day, warps tastes, and short-circuits human interaction.
It’s true that within many artistic fields, digital tools have made an extraordinary amount of art possible and accessible, but there is also the reality that the hyper-integration of technology has left the door open too wide for manipulation by powerful corporations, and has encouraged isolation between artists and audiences.
“Take Spotify, for example,” says Aaron C. Schroeder, owner and recording engineer of Pierced Ears Recording Co.—a tiny yet wondrous basement studio in the Ballard neighborhood. “They bury musicians that don’t pay them money to get promotions on playlists,” he says, referring to the streaming service’s forcing of lower royalty rates on artists to be included on “Discovery” playlists, a practice that bears striking resemblance to the radio “payola” schemes that were outlawed by Congress in 1960. “I just don’t like having someone else in control. And then how do you get people to hear you in a digital space? Well, now you have to promote in a digital space, so now we’re stuck on social media constantly. A false reality of a sort, or a second reality. And I’m analog.”
On a recent Sunday morning, Schroeder invited me to his studio to show me the workings of his Presto 8N vinyl lathe, an original from the 1940s. It “cuts” records in real time, a process in which a Van Eps Duotone cutter head—a needle-like device on an adjustable arm—carves sound vibrations into a soft vinyl disc (or record blank) in the form of the continuous spiral grooves, which your home record player needle then traces back into sound.
“You can really record any sound onto the record,” he explains. We discuss his ideas for hosting pop-ups around town where anyone can record anything they want on the spot and take home the record, and his ideas for bespoke groove patterns, like recording the record from the center outward, or in sequential spirals.
Schroeder uses a mix of digital and analog recording technologies, and maintains a website for his studio and business-only Instagram and TikTok accounts for minimalist marketing (“It’s like Backpage”), but he talks of tech devices and programs as though they are only one kind of tool among many, the amount of importance we have placed on them being unfortunate. The idea that a platform could change their business model or simply close shop if profits dried up, essentially deleting the most visible evidence of musicians’ artistic output, is also a possibility that haunts Schroeder. If that happens, “who’s to say you ever existed?”
Kelly Froh, executive director of Short Run Comix festival-turned-nonprofit, is among the many people I spoke with who think physical media—things like handmade books, visual art, hand-drawn comics and zines, vinyl records and cassette tapes—and the communities they spawn provide a necessary counterbalance to tech domination in the arts. “Why do any of these smaller festivals exist if we can just buy whatever we want online? It’s so you can show up, and you can actually look into the eyes of the artist, and talk to the artist, to the person that made these books.”
Froh is a firm believer in real-life settings where you can meet the artist at the point of purchase, and likely come away with personal artist recommendations, a newfound knowledge and appreciation for the time and techniques that go into the art form, and make any number of person-to-person connections—all weaknesses of the digital marketplace.
The online environment also gives the false sense of infinite choices and egalitarian platforming, when in reality, online algorithms (not to mention governments) suppress many artists and voices if you don’t follow their guidelines, both stated and unstated, before the general public even has a chance to click on them.
With physical media, however, “there’s no need to censor yourself,” Froh says. “If you were to promote something on the internet, you would have to block out certain words so the post doesn’t get buried. I don’t want to think about any of that shit. Just do your own thing.”
Froh also sees organizational potential in physical formats for off-the-grid information sharing in times of political or social turmoil: “Zines are untrackable in that way, and they’re not gonna be blocked by some evil algorithm.” She continues, “For people who feel helpless as our democracy is crumbling, guess what? They’re screen printing posters, they’re making pins and buttons, they’re making zines and fliers, posters on poles.” Indeed, at a recent anti-ICE rally on Capitol Hill, organizers were handing out keychain whistles packaged with a zine that outlined the whistle’s uses and whom to contact if officers are spotted; on a recent trip to Hex Enduction Records & Books in Lake City, I left with a tour guide zine for safe small-town queer hangouts, and leafed through an impressive hand-bound book about anarchism and “settler socialism.”
James Ballinger, who ran the influential heavy-rock-focused Seattle music zine The Seattle Passive Aggressive during its decade-long run in the 2010s, agrees that physical media is an important part of the social ecosystem. “It keeps things true, and it keeps things away from [that] kind of outside influence, or a fear of saying things that’ll make people upset, or [come off as too] political. I print it, I can’t go back and change it, or delete it. I can’t go back and edit that typo, it’s out there. Technology’s weird, and social media has made people weird as far as what they feel they’re free to say. So I think zine culture is important, because you can say what you need to say, get it out there.” Ballinger also takes issue with the thoughtlessness that social media rewards through ambiguous reposts and bandwagon “likes.” Conversely, physical media “allows you to not just say what you want to say because you’re passionate about it; you have to collect your thoughts and say things intelligently.”
Across town at Concuss Creations screen printing, local musician and artist Rob Castro prints band merch on the same press as protest swag. “Since I print my own shirts out of my own shop, I can basically print anything I dream of. If I want to flex a run of protest tees before a march, I can do that.”
Kay Redden, founder and operator of Seattle cassette-tape label Den Tapes, likens the choice to interact with physical media to shopping local, given the increasingly competitive attention economy of today: “It’s kind of like voting with your dollar, like when you’re opting to support a local business rather than go to Home Depot or whatever.” In this way, devoting time to the making or consuming of physical art can be seen as a net positive in the war over our time and data points—each non-technological activity we participate in has become an act of micro-revolution.
Back in the Pierced Ears studio, Schroeder is walking me through the process of folding a zine. Using scissors, he cuts a slit across the middle of a halved 8”x11” piece of paper, then accordions it into eighths. The result is a miniature flipbook complete with quirky yet informative diagrams showing the step-by-step process of recording a record on his equipment. He puts one in the sleeve of each record he cuts.
“It is a problem in every aspect of Western civilization,” he says. “We use tools to try and make things we consider to be beautiful, but I think we have corrupted the concept of beauty. The natural world is what’s actually beautiful, a manicured lawn, not so much… I’m a fan of music with edges.” I suggest that an ideal metaphor may be a Zen garden, where humans manipulate natural elements with tools, but the tools aren’t pesticides that are supposed to kill any imperfections.
After thinking for a moment, he answers, “We’re just doing an odd beautification ritual. I don’t think everything looking the same is the correct answer.”