The Spotify DJ Eats Your SoulA short bit of nonsense. by Michael Harrispublished 03/12/26
The year is 2022 and I’m lying in my bed alone at three am. I’m probably upset about a girl or something so I scrolled Spotify looking for music. I don’t know anything about music but I remember how much Peter loved Black Country, New Road. I see they released a new album so I play it and quietly begin to levitate out of my bed. Ants From Up There immediately (as it did for so many losers) became one of my favorite anythings; I played it until I could blind karaoke every song. Peter and I discuss it incessantly: the meaning of the metaphors, Isaac Wood’s departure from the band, and how “The Place Where He Inserted the Blade” is an indie show “Sweet Caroline.” His love of the band with their first album became our love of the band with the second album. Just one year later, his recommendation became essential to my life.
An algorithm can’t recreate this moment. An algorithm can’t feel passion for anything nor can you respect the taste of an algorithm. An algorithm can only regurgitate what it has learned about your preferences through data collection. It won't challenge you, expand your taste, or share anything it loves with you; it will only trap you in an artistic prison of your own design.
My favorite song is “This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)” by Talking Heads. One of my favorite film critics, Tim Grierson, would consistently espouse his love for the band. I thought he was cool and I wanted to be like him so I began religiously listening to Talking Heads. They became and still are an essential part of who I am. They became that because someone who I respected that taste of said that they would.
What is the meaning behind your favorite song? It was probably a similar circumstance. I'm going to assume it wasn’t because a robot cued it for you on your phone.
If you only listened to the Spotify DJ, you would never engage meaningfully with art. You’d never share headphones with a friend or heed the powerful recommendation of a critic you respect. You’d only ever cycle through music even a robot could figure out was good for you. You’d have no soul.