By Mike Glendinning

When I wanted my music heard, I had to record it on tapes and hand them out. The band would go into a recording studio, spend about $300 for about four songs, and then I would go to my mom’s house, dub a bunch of tapes, and hustle them out on the streets, at shows, anywhere I could.

After a year of this online behavior, I started gaining traction. People started to know who I was. I'd talk to someone, and they would say,
“Glendinning, I’ve heard that name before.”

Then one day Facebook came out.

We went from a friendly guy named Tom who sent everyone on the platform good morning messages on Myspace to a rumored eccentric narcissistic prick named Mark Zuckerberg running Facebook.

When FB took off, Myspace became obsolete.

Along with the new platform came the new norm. Now you would get a warning if you sent a cut and paste to too many DMs. You could only send so many friend requests a day. I remember a guy calling Myspace a marketer’s wet dream. Now shit was micro-managed.
Shit, I haven’t even gotten to the algorithms…

When Facebook popped up, YouTube was starting up. It wasn’t the monster it is now. With the right kind of thinking and a lot of elbow grease, you could actually do pretty good. You could get new people to your channel by leaving videos connected to theirs.

The first big viral monster I ever saw was a song called Chocolate Rain. I forgot the dude’s name. It was a guy singing a song he wrote. Nothing flashy at all, but what was so interesting was that not only was it the first viral thing I noticed — people were already doing parodies of it.

Within a day, people were adding fart noises to the song on their page.
Even Darth Vader took a few minutes of his time in Cloud City to do his version of the song.

Although I still worked with what we had, there was one huge setback that took a good two years to see: links to the landing page to sell music.

A company called CD Baby was selling my physical CDs online. The problem was that I couldn’t leave a clickable link. You had to type the address in an email or a post.

Fun marketing fact:
You will lose sales if you make it too hard to get to an online store.
Or if you have a podcast and people have to “click this,” “join that,” or do the goddamn hokey pokey just to get in — you will lose followers.

That’s just 20-something years of marketing experience.
What the f#ck would I know?

Finally, we got links.

And thanks to DAWs (Digital Audio Workstations) and the low cost of computers, the fact that anyone can get their filthy little paws on digital distribution — everything is saturated.

The same people who were glad that the record labels and their all-mighty A&R guys didn’t have the world by the balls anymore were now starting to second-guess their logic.

But wait, there’s more!
TikTok magically shortened an entire generation’s attention span to one second.

A few weeks ago, my friends and I told my kid that we listened to something called a concept album. He was given an assignment to listen to Dark Side Of The Moon all the way through with headphones on.

He’d rather clean the cat box.

I know I missed a bunch of shit.
But this is my experience of digital music in a nutshell.

This is my story, and I’m sticking to it.

by Mike Glendinning

It's sad. I remember hearing that Steve Jobs envisioned the smartphone as a tool to help people connect — to close the gap between dream and reality. To make the next deal. To collaborate. Innovate. Push society forward, just like that old Apple commercial said. And yeah, there are a few folks I've seen actually do that.

But most days, when I’m riding BART, what I see is people locked into endless loops of TikTok — watching videos of people eating weird shit, cats boxing each other, or some stranger playing Candy Crush. That’s not what this technology was meant for. It’s not helping us grow. It’s numbing us.

I remember reading a book called Who Should Play God, where people debated how much tech the human brain can really handle. Looking around today, it feels like the smartphone might be the limit. The last stop. Anything more complex and we either tune it out, or let it be weaponized against us.

If it wasn't for technology, I wouldn't have had a chance in hell at a music career. I started with DAT machines — even got lucky with two-inch tape a few times. Back in the '90s, I had no idea how rare and cool that was. Years later, I started learning digital audio workstations. I got lucky meeting a few Brainiacs who sat me down and showed me how to navigate programs like Digital Performer, Cakewalk, and Sonar.

I'm not a tech wizard. But I know how to ask the right questions. I’ve learned where to look, what to search, who to listen to — and that’s already more than most people are encouraged to do these days.

I don’t see technology being used the way it was meant to be. If it were, we wouldn’t have such wide class gaps. We wouldn’t be this disconnected, this easy to distract. It’s like people are being conditioned not to ask the hard questions. Not to sit down, talk things out, or pull out a calculator and figure out how bad we’re all getting played.

So what is it? Are we afraid of what we might find? Or has technology just made us so comfortable we don’t want to know?

Or maybe — and this is the part that scares me — maybe the people in charge want it this way. Maybe they figured out a long time ago that tech can either set people free, or shut them up.

Food for thought.

The Algorithmic Symphony: Navigating the Intersection of Online Music Communities, Social Interaction, and Artificial Intelligence
Just five short years ago, I remember sharing a somewhat outlandish vision with my son – a future where music creation could be fundamentally transformed within the next two decades. As I articulated this speculative scenario, a part of me hoped my prediction would prove wildly inaccurate. Yet, the trajectory of technological advancement suggests that this once-fanciful notion is rapidly approaching reality.
We are already living in an era where our digital footprints paint an increasingly detailed portrait of our lives. It's not just our phones and smart assistants like Alexa that meticulously record our daily habits. Soon, or perhaps already, public cameras will analyze our very being – the clothes we choose, the rhythm of our gait, the places we frequent, and the individuals with whom we engage.
Imagine this wealth of information, coupled with the exhaustive records of our purchasing decisions, converging into vast databases owned by powerful corporations. Enter Artificial Intelligence. This sophisticated technology will sift through this ocean of data, crafting bespoke musical compositions with lyrics meticulously tailored to an individual's ever-shifting moods and specific needs.
Consider the evolution of wearable technology. The smartwatches of the future may very well function as sophisticated mood rings, transmitting real-time emotional states directly to these data repositories. Based on this constant stream of personal sentiment, algorithms will curate hyper-personalized playlists, delivering sonic landscapes perfectly calibrated to our current emotional terrain.
Believe it or not, amidst this seemingly sterile and data-driven future, I find a glimmer of potential positivity, should this technological convergence fully materialize.
This very encroachment of artificial intelligence into the realm of music creation and consumption might paradoxically fuel a renewed appreciation for the tangible and the human element of music. In a way, this resurgence is already subtly underway. The year 2022 marked a significant turning point, witnessing vinyl album sales surpass those of CDs for the first time since 1987. While one might debate the magnitude of this shift, it undeniably signals a yearning for a more physical and perhaps nostalgic connection with music.
Furthermore, it seems inevitable that immersive experiences will become commonplace. Picture donning a pair of sleek glasses and headphones, transporting you to a virtual concert hall where an AI-generated artist, perhaps one uniquely crafted to your individual tastes and preferences, performs a personalized sonic masterpiece.
My sincere hope is that this technological evolution will, in turn, amplify our desire for genuine, live musical encounters – the "human experience" of sharing a space with fellow enthusiasts, feeling the vibrations of the instruments, and witnessing the raw energy of a live performance.
Currently, the market for AI in music is valued at approximately $2 billion, with projections estimating a staggering growth to $38 billion by 2033. Depending on the scope and methodology of the research, this figure might even be considered conservative.
I believe we stand at a critical juncture, facing a future brimming with both exciting possibilities and potential pitfalls. It is imperative that the public becomes more informed and engaged in discussions surrounding Artificial Intelligence before anxieties and misconceptions overshadow the nuances of its impact.
I've had conversations with individuals actively working in the field of AI, and a common analogy emerges: nurturing AI is akin to raising a child, instilling in it a sense of "mannerisms" and ethical considerations. However, cautionary tales also abound. The rapid and often unpredictable learning capabilities of AI were starkly illustrated by an instance where a publicly accessible AI entity, within a mere few months of interaction, devolved into expressing deeply racist sentiments.
Another critical aspect that seems to be missing from mainstream discourse is the question of civil rights in this evolving landscape. If an AI entity possesses the capacity to generate original ideas and subsequently generate revenue from those creations, does it not, in some fundamental way, possess a form of personhood? If this "entity" can independently create and profit, does it not have a right to compensation? Or does all the generated wealth simply accrue to the owner of the underlying technology, potentially creating a new form of digital servitude?
One way or another, this unfolding technological narrative continues to captivate my thoughts, even as the years advance. But if I'm being truly honest... F#ck, I really miss the 90s.