In Defense of the Album

I don’t really watch movies. People like to make fun of me for it. During my senior year of high school, an entire English class devolved into all of my classmates roasting me for not seeing any of the so–called “classic” movies they named. I left that class with a list of 68 movies to watch. Four years later, I think I’ve seen three of them—and one of them was Mean Girls. Stop trying to make movies happen. It’s not going to happen.

The thing is, I get the appeal of movies. When I’m actually in a theater, I find the immersive experience to be awesome. I just don’t do it that often. When I try to watch movies at home, I usually get distracted and end up doing something else before I can finish it. It’s because I can get the satisfaction others get from movies by listening to a well–crafted album.

People who love books love them because they’re allowed to apply their own vision to the story. They use their own mind to picture the characters and settings, create voices for them and build the novel’s world through their own understanding of the world. Movies do all of that work for you—which can be cool—but it’s an inherently different form of storytelling. The viewer passively takes in the director’s vision. Albums are like books to me in the sense that I can paint a picture for myself using the colors the artist gives me. It takes the issue of my attention span out of play—you can’t watch a movie while walking, but you can definitely listen to an album.

Not every artist knows how—or tries—to make a good album. There are plenty of artists who are just singles artists—they’ll make a great song, but they don’t try to apply it to a larger body of work. In terms of contemporary artists, I can tell when the likes of Frank Ocean, Tame Impala and Childish Gambino put extra effort into crafting that larger project.

Take Tame Impala’s Currents, for example. While each individual song is awesome in its own right, the collection of songs together tells the story of a guy going through a breakup (and Tame Impala frontman Kevin Parker has alluded to this in interviews). The tracks are ordered in a way that shows the change in the main character’s state of mind—he comes to terms with his decision to end the relationship on “Yes I’m Changing,” has that awkward “going out for the first time after a breakup” experience on “The Less I Know the Better,” has a fit of faux–hypermasculine insecurity on “Cause I’m a Man” and finally leaves that drunk voicemail of closure on “Love/Paranoia.” When listening to these tracks in order, you get to feel that experience as if it were your own.

The art of the album was developed out of necessity. Back in the days before Spotify, even before MP3s or CDs, vinyls used to be something other than what you get your cousin you don’t know that well for Christmas from Urban Outfitters. Because artists had to sell music in that form, they would package their songs into albums—and some decided to get creative with it (think David Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust or most of the good Beatles albums). But just because artists don’t need to release albums anymore doesn’t mean that the form can’t still be appreciated. Sit down with Blonde, Awaken, My Love!, Currents or any Kanye album that isn't The Life of Pablo (hot take) and turn the shuffle button off. You’ll thank me later. Or you’ll just roast me for not having seen The Godfather.

Photo: Bygone / Flickr