C30, C60, C90, Go! (or: the crucial dialectic between Side A and Side B)

Someday music will be only air. There will be no objects to hold or fetishize and people will simply collect lists. No disc, nothing spooled or grooved, nothing to scratch or break, no heads to clean, no dust to wipe, no compulsive alphabetizing. Nothing to put away in shoe boxes in spare closets and be embarrassed about.
The Washington Post: Unspooled. "It was a nation of tapeheads, living on some social margin, out past the faint hiss, waiting for nuclear war." I'm a sucker for these Style articles, but this one is different. It's an elegy, a last rewind; that excruciating moment when the tape runs out and the song cuts off and an apology is all that's left. Like a haircut so drastic you no longer recognize yourself in the mirror, it's time to throw those cassettes away.
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