My collection, like all things that transcend their material worth, was built over about twenty years’ time and it’s eclectic range from pop to obscure experimental to worldbeat to classical to bluegrass literally spoke volumes about my own interests in all other things. I am a mid-range music geek, not a fanatic. I was a good little music consumer, buying new releases without having heard them, trawling record store bins for new discoveries, reading the music press, following and tracking down artists’ rarer works. This was the third physical incarnation of much of the collection, having mutated from vinyl to tape to CD over the years. I was not on the vanguard of the digital revolution, I did not do any P2P sharing, never signed onto Napster, hadn’t purchased an MP3 player. I was content with my nice shiny discs.

The loss of all that music blew a hole in my life. But did I ever really own the music? I owned the discs themselves, with their paper inserts and plastic jewelbox casing. I was investing in the right to keep hearing the music when and where I wanted, to play it for whoever I wanted. I was leasing the work of musicians and the products of labels. Now I had to determine the worth of something that I’d never really exacted a value on.

I asked myself - with the proliferation of music catalogs available online to download (illegally or not), did I need to buy back my actual collection of CDs? I’d purchased them once, why couldn’t they just send a replacement? Insurance couldn’t begin to pay me enough to really replace what I’d had. How much of my love of the actual music was being able to see all the CDs in my possession? Could I rebuild my library, literally bit by byte through online means? Would I be happy with a virtual library, or would it not assuage my collector’s ego with the ability to show what an impressive thing I’d built up? I gave tens of thousands of dollars to record companies, big and independent alike, over the biggest part of my life. I did not seek to get copies of my former collectibles illegally, but many of them were no longer in print, or were rare collectible pieces, and I wanted to get them any way that I could. Rarities are highly collectible to fans precisely because they are not mass produced and aren’t a profit-maker for any studio. I accepted copies from friends and burned through hours of Emusic.com and other services. I’d already invested so much money in these labels’ lists and artists’ careers, did I have to pay and repay continually for the privilege of having this music at hand? It was my misfortune alone that the discs were stolen, but it threw me into the grey areas where the lines of legal and illegal copying become blurred.

Gradually, the question became whether or not I had absorbed enough of the music over the years that I no longer needed to possess the discs they were recorded on. I could replay uncountable songs and passages in my head; what was left in actually hearing it replayed through a stereo? Some visceral connection of invisible sound waves, the physical act of their hitting my eardrums and provoking certain chemicals in my brain that gave me just the right mood enhancement?

Was the theft of my lifetime collection a forced end to a musical phase of my life? If, in going online to download countless new musics from unknown and lesser known bands, would I be going deeper into the real textures of the earth’s musical strata, rather than the packaged products of a handful of labels?

The major record labels maintain an arrogance of believing that they are the self-appointed filters and gates of what the public wants to hear. They have for decades tried to push music on us by repeated exposure and repeated purchase of exciting new formats (how many times have you re-purchased Dark Side of the Moon or Tapestry?); they’ve covered the airwaves with catchy songs and we absorb them - they become a part of our culture.

Labels have made us feel as if we’re purchasing the music. They’re the banks and slumlords, and we’re leasing the right to hear the music in each successive format. The digital revolution is freeing us from all that.

Here is what I say to the labels:

WHAT YOU PUT IN MY MIND BELONGS TO ME

We used to have to hunt down new music and old rarities by searching the record bins at all the right places. No instant internet search, no sampling, no downloading. Did we enjoy the music all the more because we had to invest so much time, effort and emotional expectation into finding it? Did the search make the music itself more valuable to us? Does today’s digital music’s accessibility make it less valuable? Does the constant stream of new and freely available music make it worth less? Is it more disposable because it now comes in a format that can be zapped out of existence in a millisecond?

The fact that I can download hours and hours of music a week, that I can possess it and control its accessibility into my head and psyche, the fact that because there’s so much of it and less time to actually absorb each download, does this weaken its spiritual power or spiritual affect on me?

There are times when I remember looking over the wall of CDs and wondering what I was thinking. I’d listen to 90% of the CDs maybe once a year. 30% I’d hear in bits and pieces from commercials, in stores, or on the radio. As each year went by, I’d amassed a collection of plastic and dust.

Now with virtual jukeboxes online filled with hundreds of thousands of songs and artists, all streaming through my stereo or moving with me, I don’t need shelf space. I’ve let go of the attachment to the impressive wall of music. As for the packaging itself, I just don’t pore over CD artwork or text within the CD the way I used to. More often than not, the graphics are lame and they don’t even include lyrics for fear that you’ll discover how lame the lyrics actually are. These days there should be a premium for actually purchasing the physical product - previously unavailable pictures of the band, stories, poems by their 3-year old daughters, whatever. Some bands and labels have begun doing this (U2’s most recent tiered option for How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb is a great example).

In the advent of cable television, where subscribers flocked to a wider variety of new channels that reflected their lineups, the major networks, which had been American culture’s "gates and filters" of viewing for decades, were given a big comeuppance. They did not disappear. Room was made for variety, for competition, and for smaller venues. The television landscape changed forever. So it is with music, and the conglomerated labels need to adapt.

The important question isn’t "what is a CD worth to you?" It’s "what am I worth to the artist and to the label?" If they see you strictly as a consumer, then you’re only worth the price of each new format of their product. If they see you as a fan, an investor, a subscriber - then you’re an integral part of their development, their career, and their success.