Here is a hot take: Photos should only ever be taken on a disposable camera. The iconic shots that we see today of our favourite rock 'n' roll stars should be banished if they were taken using a digital camera and then edited.
We often complain about social media and modern technology for a range of reasons. We say that it has affected the way people create art, that it has formed an addiction to our phones, and that it has moved us further apart from one another as opposed to closer together. However, I would say it's done something much more damaging than that: it has robbed us of 'the moment'.
Perfection in its many iterations is the name of the game. When we take a photo, we check if our hair's doing its best, our eyes are open, and our smiles aren't crooked. While this all might sound like normal practice, it's not why we opt to take photos. We take photos to capture a perfect moment, make a memory, not to make a moment perfect. If your eyes were closed when a picture was taken, then that's how it should be remembered; if someone walked in front of you when the shutter closed, then so be it, and don't get rid of motion blur: if someone were moving, let the image stay dynamic.
It's not just photos where our reluctance to embrace a moment as is exists, but within music as well. Thanks to modern technology, we no longer consider songs as something tangible or finite. Instead, we recognise it as something which will always be there, borderline disposable in its ease of access, and therefore, we don't recognise the true privilege that it is for us to listen to a tune.
We take the listening experience for granted, but when you actually consider the amount of effort that goes into an album, into the writing, recording, marketing and release of a piece of music, the fact that those sounds find you, the fact they make their way down your lugholes and into your heart, is a pretty magical thing.
As I write this, I stare at my weary copy of T Rex's My People Were Fair and Had Sky in Their Hair... But Now They're Content to Wear Stars on Their Brows. I'll be honest, I've never been a huge fan of the band's later stuff. The electric guitars and anthemic feel have never quite done it for me. I much preferred this earlier offering, the stripped-back stuff, the kind of music that only sounds appropriate played around a campfire. Of course, where I didn't have the crackle of fire, I did have the occasional static thanks to grooves on the record, which would accompany every time I played it.
That record is battered beyond recognition now. It breaks my heart because it's worth a fair bit of money and because it was one of my favourites to listen to. I won't go into detail about what happened: it involved me and some friends after one too many drinks putting the album on, and one of them tripping over, falling onto the record player and dragging the needle across every inch of it.
I've listened to the album on my phone since, but it doesn't sound the same. Without the static and crackle in the background, it comes across as too clean. Also, listening to music on technology that hadn't even been thought about while the songs were being recorded has always felt strange to me. But this brings me back to my initial argument about how songs can escape us, which should make us embrace their existence all the more. I still have my copy of My People Were Fair, even though I can't play it, because there is something beautiful in the memory of when I could.
The album is now a ghost of itself, but the memory of running those songs is equally as wonderful as hearing the songs themselves. I'll replace it one day when I can justify paying an arm for a record that I already own, but until then, this is a haunting I'm happy to entertain. It mocks me with its imperfections, and I am all the more drawn to it. Music is a finite thing; enjoy it while it lasts.