Even though I now access music via my phone, my old iPod Classic is one of my most treasured possessions. I got it as a teenager after years of listening to CDs and a mini MP3 player; I loved the iPod’s cool, shiny surface, its touch-sensitive circle to scroll round and round, its font. Its library provided a sanctuary for post-lights-out texting marathons and long bus journeys – but more than anything, it was an opportunity to build an identity. I could look through my iPod and notice the flaws to work on and gaps to fill. I could be proud of seeing the bands I adored listed one after another. It was a new space to inhabit. My whole self, in 160GB.
One facet of this was building playlists, a digital extension of the CD mixes that shaped the major relationships of my early teens. I made meticulous playlists constantly: songs that put me in a certain mood; soundtracks for parties with each contour of the group dynamic predicted and musically provided for. I pruned and cultivated them over years, adding and taking away, some fading into memory, others evolving.
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