The iPod Turns 25, and I Miss Owning My Music

Twenty-five years ago this November, Apple started selling the first iPod. At the time, it felt like the music-tech equivalent of jetpacks. Although MP3 players had come before, the iPod was a truly revolutionary device for its size and storage capacity. The tagline promised “1,000 songs in your pocket.” Before then, carrying 1,000 songs would’ve involved some very, very big pockets.

Hearing about the anniversary sent me looking for my old iPod. After a full weekend of searching, I finally tracked it down at the bottom of a shoebox in the back of our storage unit. I don’t know why I’d held onto it all these years. I probably just assumed that throwing it away would involve visiting a government website and reading the fine print about recycling electronics.

I eventually ditched my iPod for streaming, like pretty much everybody else on the planet. Spotify and Apple Music each offer more than 100 million songs, or at least 99,990,000 more than I had on my iPod. I can now hear almost anything I want, whenever I want. And yet, I mostly use this miracle of science to skip songs and complain about the algorithm.

My first iPod was a fourth-generation Classic model, the white brick with a click wheel. I bought it in 2004, shortly after I’d turned 30, and quickly became enamored with it. Over the years, the surprisingly sturdy device was dropped and scratched more times than I can count. I took it everywhere, and loved it maybe a little too hard.

Now, iPod in hand, I hesitantly plugged it in to charge, without much hope that it’d actually turn on. But sure enough, it sputtered to life. There was Arcade Fire, Death Cab for Cutie, Modest Mouse, Sufjan Stevens and other artists I hadn’t thought about for years. Apparently, I’d been auditioning to curate the next Garden State soundtrack without telling anyone, including Zach Braff.

I hit play, and Christina Aguilera’s “Beautiful” came on. Alphabetical order had exposed me immediately. I switched it off like a teen caught watching Skinemax in the ’80s.

The musical evidence

Now that my iPod was actually working, I wasn’t about to plug it into my computer to update anything. What if I misunderstood a prompt and erased the whole collection? Whatever was on there would have to stay.

Apple had advertised that my particular iPod model could hold up to 10,000 songs, and I’d come close to filling it. Looking through what I’d kept, I could remember all the ways music used to find me. There were albums I’d discovered in record stores and CDs I’d burned from friends. Some of my music was bought from iTunes at 99 cents per song, and I remember giving those purchases more thought than I currently give to my health insurance. Then there were the bootlegs, acquired at considerable risk to the family computer. 

It felt strange to hold so much of my former self in one hand. I wanted to give that guy a hug, then ask why he needed so much Beck.

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