Reports say that Apple might introduce a cloud-based music storage and streaming service. It would compete with Amazon's "music locker" service, and beat Google to the market too.
Music lockers -- online storage of your music collection -- are not new. Michael Robertson, founder of MP3.com, started such a service, called Oboe, in 2005. The appeal is threefold. First, storing your music in the cloud makes it accessible anywhere. Second, there is the backup safety factor. Third, with the right apps you can stream your music files via multiple devices.
So even though iPods and other portable music players can accommodate large libraries and are portable, local storage and playback is still a nuisance when your mobile lifestyle includes several devices.
Music lockers hint at the "celestial jukebox" concept, which theorizes an on-demand music library in the cloud that users can access from anywhere. In the Apple/Amazon/Google models, the celestial jukeboxes are many, built by individuals, and consist of individually owned songs. The grander celestial jukebox vision imagines one universal music library accessed by many, rather than many jukeboxes, each accessed by one.
Universal celestial jukeboxes already exist, and have for many years, but usage has not taken off. Rhapsody is a veteran in this business, having launched nearly 10 years ago in 2001. I have been a Rhapsody subscriber since the beginning, but I'm writing this as a Rhapsody advocate secondarily, and primarily as a true celestial jukebox advocate.
The a-la-carte style of online music store (iTunes and its ilk) is old-fashioned. The model is analog at the core, wrapped in digital clothing. The concept of personal storage makes it old-fashioned, and moving that storage to the cloud doesn't modernize the concept of ownership upon which it is based.
That is really what the cloud represents: a different concept of ownership. I pay Rhapsody a monthly subscription fee to get my ears on the entire library of 11-million tracks. I don't even remember what it costs; 12 or 15 bucks a month. I have an MP3 player optimized for Rhapsody, so I can drag-and-drop from the service to my device. Other apps bring Rhapsody streaming to my smartphones. The web site is a full-featured app in itself, and carries all my settings onto any connected computer in the world.
Most people don't like this deal, because it's not true ownership. Drop the subscription, and you lose all your music, because it's not really your music. I get that. But here's the thing. It feels like ownership, and in the end, that's what counts to me and the minority loyalists who embrace music subscriptions. I feel like I own 11-million music tracks, because I can access them, transfer them, and listen to them as if I had bought them on iTunes.
Let's imagine I did buy them on iTunes. I'd be at least 11-million dollars poorer right now -- and believe me, I can't afford it. How much have I actually spent? Over 10 years, at $15 a month, I've dished out $1,800 for ownership rights to a vast celestial library available anywhere, anytime.
This argument isn't new. In fact, I'm a little embarrassed to be putting it down yet again, when I and so many others have said it all so many times over so many years. The market rules. If people don't like the value of music subscriptions, Rhapsody and others will continue to struggle uphill.
But if Apple is making news with a prospective music locker, which is merely a personal hard drive in the cloud, it's time again to point out that the cloud isn't just about storing what you own. The potential of the cloud is to redefine what it means to own things. For me, access is the new ownership.
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(I started to fix that typo and add the "l," but "persona" sounds good. Maybe I just invented the latest buzzword by pure serendipity. My fifteen minutes, please.)
We need to sell music, movies, and everything else. We want to sell it to individuals no matter where they are. Right now, we're stuck in the mode that is expressed by the old saw of the VP of I.T. who's standing next to an ATM machine on a stormy night, muttering, "It's ME, dammit!"
"It's ME, dammit!" Yep, that's the root problem that we need to find a solution to.
So, that electronic disc has had the long life-span that I intended for it when I bought it, all those years ago, whereas every single computer I have ever owned (except for a handful of lovingly maintained antiques that I collect ...) has been at most a two-year asset.
No, we still have a long way to go.
Where are my original photos you may ask? After I uploaded them to flickr, I sent them to a relative for safekeeping- she promptly lost them.
My point is, anything you put in the cloud can be compromised. It's great that I can access my notes and information from around the world, but without several backups either on line, hard drives, or hard copies, it is far to fragile to depend on. But don't take my word for it- just do a web search for Dropbox and Amazon's recent bungles.
Digital music (etc...) distribution systems still have not found ways to address the very real concerns such as the ones you describe.
My instincts still tell me that the "print on demand" model may yet prove to be the solution that is most satisfactory... provided that the printed material actually has archival-quality permanence, which present day recordable media do not.
It really is a reflection of the bigger problem that is discussed quite a lot in the archival community. (For instance, check out the "Public Vaults" exhibit at the National Archives, with its large display on the impermanence of present-day digital media.)
I have LP's that my grandfather gave to me, and I can still play them today. This kind of permanence and durability is important.
I have computers bought a dozen years ago that are "beyond worthless."
Whatever "the solution" might be, it must come down to one of three things:
(a) Tie the collection to something of true permanence, that is not "the owner's computer."
(b) Provide durability based on "endless backups," and assume the subscriber's heirs don't really care.
(c) Persuade the subscriber not to care to possess a durable copy; that, somehow, the corporation itself will be "durable."