For my analog experiment, I chose to listen to a record all the way through. While this sounds like it wouldn’t be quite the feat I think it is, there was an incredible amount of attention and intention that went into this experiment.

I have a few records hanging on my walls, and I’ve probably listened to them a few times (once), but I rarely have the means or time to sit and listen to a record all the way through. I’m also a chronic shuffler. I make a new playlist at the start of every season and put all the songs I’m currently listening to at the time in the playlist. That’s how I listen to music. Random songs from random albums, only placed in the order I found them, creating a perfect sonic representation of the season itself and where I was in life at the time. It’s a wonder to go back and listen to previous seasons, remembering where I was when I heard the songs for the first time, remembering why they were resonating with me, etc. But listening to an album all the way through is a different experience. Intended order is huge. Rarely do I listen to songs on an album in the order in which the artist wanted me to. On Spotify, you can listen all the way through in the correct order, but you can also skip. That’s one thing about listening to a record. You can’t really skip. 

My roommate Claire has a cute, vintage-looking (though it surely is not) record player in her room. For my experiment, I decided I was going to listen to music. Just listen. Not listen and scroll on my phone, not listen and read, not listen and do homework, not listen and talk to my friends, not listen and fall asleep, just listen. I was going to plug my (Dad’s) headphones (from 2005) into the record player and just listen. For the duration of the album. Uninterrupted. Because I can so do that, right?

The album of choice was Joni Mitchell’s “For the Roses.” This is Joni’s fifth album. I found it in a $2 bin at the local antique barn, took it as a good omen, and bought it immediately, despite not having the immediate tools with which to play it. As an artist myself I see Joni as an embodiment of what it means to be a woman and singer/songwriter at once. And as fans of Joni know, her music is no longer accessible on Spotify, which is where I do all my listening. The album had been stuck to my wall with duct tape for about two months, and now it was time to listen. JUST LISTEN. 

It was seven o’clock. I’d gotten home from my long day of classes, made myself dinner, and warned my roommates. 

“Nobody knock on my door until I text you. I have to listen to music,” I said before going upstairs. 

“You have to listen to music? You always listen to music,” responded Lia. It’s true. My whole life is underscored. Music is playing at all times; in my headphones, on my laptop, from my guitar. But in this moment I realized that that might not mean I’m always listening to music. It means music is always playing. 

I moved Claire’s record player into my room and placed it on my floor. I sat cross-legged in front of it, plugging my headphones in. Shoot, I barely know how to do this, do I? Slide the record out of the sleeve. Place it on the turntable. Lift up the arm that holds the needle. The record starts spinning. Now comes the part where I can feel my Dad over my shoulder, reminding me to place the needle down correctly so I don’t scratch the record. 

Shit. I totally just scratched the record. 

I try again. This time, I get it. There’s a gentle hum before the music starts. Okay. It’s go time. 

I listen. Side A plays in little scratches and hums. It’s beautiful. It’s loud. I close my eyes and it feels like Joni is sitting right next to me. I realize that for all the Joni I grew up hearing in the kitchen, this album almost never played. I don’t recognize a single song on Side A. Not only am I listening, I’m listening for the first time. I feel myself paying more attention to the music than I’ve paid to anything in a long time. It’s hard to think of a single task I complete on a daily basis that can’t be done while I also check my phone. But if I check my phone now, I’d surely miss a crucial word, note, moment. I wouldn’t be listening, it would just be playing. In fact, my phone was still downstairs for this very reason. 

Now for Side B. I flip the record knowing I was halfway done. How am I feeling? I realize, in horror, that I feel kind of anxious. I don’t know what to do with my hands. I sit on them. I don’t know where to look. I just watch the record spin. 

Man, I think. I must look crazy right now. 

Is that even true, though? Or is that just a product of growing up in a world in which anyone could take a picture of me at any given moment and show me what I look like? Also, why does that matter right now? Why is that on my mind at all?

I take a deep breath. Finally, a song I recognize. “You Turn Me On, I’m a Radio.” I hum along. And this is when I truly fall into the experience. The anxiety melts away once I stop thinking about myself, how I look, what I’m doing. I’m just listening now. And when I start just listening, it goes by so much faster. 

I’m not watching the needle anymore, so when the last song fades out, I’m expecting another one to start. But then the hum dies down and I hear it stop. It’s over. I listened. I just listened. 

I realized at that moment that I don’t have a clock in my room. I only know the time from my phone, which was still downstairs. So I don’t even know how long that was. I just know that I could feel every muscle in my body when I got up to put the record player back in Claire’s room. I could hear the rustling of the paper sleeve when I slid the record back into its case. I was tuned in. I was listening.