Digital Music Distribution.pdf

Digital Music Distribution

The digital music revolution and the rise of piracy cultures have transformed the music world as we knew it. Digital Music Distribution aims to go beyond the polarized and reductive perception of “piracy wars” to offer a broader and richer understanding of the paradoxes inherent in new forms of distribution. Covering both production and consumption perspectives, Spilker analyses the changes and regulatory issues through original case studies, looking at how digital music distribution has both changed and been changed by the cultural practices and politicking of ordinary youth, their parents, music countercultures, artists and bands, record companies, technology developers, mass media and regulatory authorities. Exploring the fundamental change in distribution, Spilker investigates paradoxes such as: • • • •

The criminalization of file-­sharing leading not to conflicts but to increased collaboration between young people and their parents; Why the circulation of cultural content, extremely damaging for its producers, has instead been advantageous for the manufacturers of recording equipment; Why more artists are recording in professional sound studios, despite the proliferation of good quality equipment for home recording; Why mass media, hit by many of the same challenges as the music industry, has been so critical of the way it has tackled these challenges.

A rare and timely volume looking at the changes induced by the digitalization of music distribution, Digital Music Distribution will appeal to undergraduate students and policy makers interested in fields such as Media Studies, Digital Media, Music Business, Sociology and Cultural Studies. Hendrik Storstein Spilker is associate professor in media sociology at the Institute for Sociology and Political Science at the Norwegian University of Science and Technology in Trondheim.

Routledge Advances in Sociology

For a full list of titles in this series, please visit www.routledge.com/series/SE0511 218 Human Rights, Islam and the Failure of Cosmopolitanism June Edmunds 219 New Generation Political Activism in Ukraine 2000–2014 Christine Emeran 220 Turkish National Identity and Its Outsiders Memories of State Violence in Dersim Ozlem Goner 221 Composing Processes and Artistic Agency Tacit Knowledge in Composing Tasos Zembylas and Martin Niederauer 222 Islamic Environmentalism Activism in the United States and Great Britain Rosemary Hancock 223 Mediating Sexual Citizenship Neoliberal Subjectivities in Television Culture Anita Brady, Kellie Burns and Cristyn Davies

224 The Social Organization of Disease The Social Organization of Disease Jochen Kleres 225 New Immigration Destinations Migrating to Rural and Peripheral Areas Ruth McAreavey 226 Open Borders, Unlocked Cultures Romanian Roma Migrants in Western Europe Edited by Yaron Matras and Daniele Viktor Leggio 227 Digital Music Distribution The Sociology of Online Music Streams Hendrik Storstein Spilker 228 Liberalism 2.0 and the Rise of China Global Crisis, Innovation and Urban Mobility David Tyfield

Digital Music Distribution

The Sociology of Online Music Streams

Hendrik Storstein Spilker

First published 2018 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2018 Hendrik Storstein Spilker The right of Hendrik Storstein Spilker to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data A catalog record for this book has been requested ISBN: 978-1-138-67390-8 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-56163-9 (ebk) Typeset in Times New Roman by Wearset Ltd, Boldon, Tyne and Wear

Contents



List of illustrations Acknowledgments

  1 Introduction: Digital dramas

viii ix 1

Music on demand?  1 The folding of technologies  4 Into and beyond “the piracy wars”  9 An overview of the chapters  11   2 Not only about listening: Understanding the new everyday life of music

15

Perspectives on the appropriation of digital music  16 Analyzing youth  20 The omnipresence and omni-­interest in music  21 Top ten music-­related practices  24 You can always get what you want?  29   3 The value of access: Negotiating file-­sharing and streaming among young people and with parents Domesticating controversial technologies  33 Piracy as morality and rebellion  35 Digital music technologies as generational boundary markers and asymmetries  38 Reflections on piracy and legality  40 Together in crime?  43 Music in context – negotiating other ICTs  47 An access culture?  48

33

vi   Contents   4 In search of the “hacker-­punk”: Digital music technologies for countercultural measures? 

52

The promises of punk style do-­it-yourself  52 The quest for the hacker punk  54 What is so punk about punk?  57 The digitalized underground  59 In search of the hacker punk  61 The gap between near and bin(e)ary things  64 The unruliness of technology  65   5 Pre-­distribution networks and professional networks: Becoming an artist in the age of “piracy cultures” 

68

Of network studios and piracy cultures  68 Assembling work  71 A visit to the network studio  74 Being within or without the music industry?  79 The pre-­distribution network and the professional network  82 Hail to the album!  85   6 The irony of virtuality: The production of music and news in “the new economy” 

87

The contents of “the new economy”  87 Network society or Internet society?  90 A prehistory of digital news and music  91 Ensure control over the resources  95 Gain entry to the networks  98 Gain entry to the networks #part 2  101 Ensure control #part 2  104 The new economy: a parasitic economy?  106 The irony of virtuality  108   7 The making of “piracy standards”: Assessing the interplay between commercialism and idealism in technology development (with Svein Høier) The interplay between idealism and commercialism  114 The movement of technologies across time and space  117 MP3’s route to dominance  118 DivX: the MP3 of video?  122 The power of the piracy–entrepreneur nexus  127

114

Contents   vii   8 Media kills music? An analysis of the newspaper coverage of the Piracy Kills Music campaign

132

The fourth music estate?  132 Understanding the role of the media in the piracy controversies  133 Identifying frames  136 Qualitative framing analysis  137 Quantitative framing analysis  142 “Wasn’t much help to get”  143   9 The regulation of digital music distribution: Assessing the states and futures of the field

149

Introducing five regulatory models  149 1 The partial obviation of the ownership model 150 2 The hope and health of the access model 154 3 The professionalization of the alternative revenue model 157 4 The remix model as ideology and practice 160 5 The radical and the limited compensation model 163 The manifold roles of music, musicians and music users  166 10 The music welfare state

170

Folding revisited  170 Programs, antiprograms, circumventions, ramifications …  172 The old and the new divide  174 The triumph of piracy  176 The technological empire  179 A state of balance?  181

References Index

185 205

Illustrations

Figures   2.1 Hanne’s map   5.1 Leyshon’s (2001) musical networks   5.2 Burnett and Weber’s (1989) production and consumption systems   5.3 The pre-­distribution network and the professional network   6.1 Weekly readers of the six biggest Norwegian online newspapers/media 10.1 The old divide and the new divide

29 73 75 83 88 177

Tables 2.1 2.2 3.1 3.2 8.1 9.1

Preferred music technologies Use of the Internet for music-­related purposes Reasons for downloading Reasons for limiting downloading Pro- or anti-­music industry articles The five regulatory models and the assignment of roles

22 25 42 43 142 167

Acknowledgments

As the story I tell in the beginning of the introductory chapter illustrates, the germ of this publication goes back to the late 1990s. However, the main bulk of the research that has led to the book was conducted as part of the project “Pandora’s Jukebox: Music and Moral in the Information Society.” The project was financed by NFR’s (Norwegian Research Council) program KIM (Communication, Information and Media). The Pandora-­project had NFR-­financing from 2006 into 2010, but outlived its financing by several years – which might be taken as a proof that research, in the same vein as music, is as much of a cultural good as an economic commodity. I will first thank the Pandora-­team, which besides me, consisted of Professors Knut H Sørensen and Bjørn Sørenssen as advisers and PhD student Asbjørn Tiller, who wrote his dissertation on the experimental use of sound and music in digital art productions as part of the project (Tiller 2011). Thanks to all the master students and/or research assistants who have been connected to the project throughout the years: Helene Engen, Pia Johansen, Erling Rognes Solbu, Kristian Moen, Hanne Kershaw, David Jönsson, Bjørnar Nybakk and Erlend Heimsvik, Next, thanks to colleagues at my home institution, the Norwegian University of Science and Technology (NTNU) in Trondheim, and colleagues elsewhere that have commented on parts of the manuscript, encouraged me and provided feedback and moral support: Knut H. Sørensen, Svein Höier, Ingrid Lehn, Ann Rudinow Sætnan, Toril Aalberg, Aksel Tjora, Ingunn Hagen, Nora Levold, Jan Frode Haugseth, Marika Lüders, Anders Fagerjord, Arnt Maasø, Terje Rasmussen, Martin Engebregtsen, Espen Reiss Mathiesen, Terje Hillesund, Astrid Gynnild, Anders Nordgård, Arlene Luck, Jonathan Sterne and the various participants in the working group “Digital media” at the bi-­annual Conference of Norwegian Media Research. Svein Høier and I have had a constructive co-­operation on what has become Chapter 7 of this book. At Routledge, I wish to thank Emily Briggs and Elena Chiu, who have been encouraging on behalf of the book project since we established contact in 2014 and enthusiastic and motivating advisors during the process. Three anonymous reviewers provided most helpful feedback on the manuscript.

x   Acknowledgments I would also like to thank all the interviewees that with different focusses have shared their experiences, experiences and assessments. Ultimately, it is these that have made this research, and hence this book, possible. Thanks to Marthe Jørgensen at TNS Gallup for taking the time to look up figures and statistics on request – and to Anita York at Retriever for helping me with off-­work log-­on to their databases at a critical moment. I wish to acknowledge Berghahn Books, International Journal of Communication and Nordic Journal of Digital Literacy for letting me use earlier published work. Four of the chapters are revised versions of earlier articles or anthology publications. Some parts of Chapter 3 have earlier been published as “Too old to rock’n’roll? Negotiating file-­sharing technologies in the family context and the school context,” Nordic Journal of Digital Literacy, Vol. 5, 2010, Nr. 2: 134–152 (Spilker 2010). Chapter 4 is a revised version of “Punks, Hackers, and Unruly Technology: Countercultures in the Communication Society,” in Werenskjold, R.  F., E. Sivertsen and K. Fahlenbrach (eds), Media and Revolt: Strategies and Performances from the 1960s to the Present. New York: Berghahn Books (Spilker 2014). Chapter 5 is a revised version of “The network studio revisited: Becoming an artist in the age of ‘piracy cultures’,” International Journal of Communication, Special Issue on Piracy Cultures, Vol. 6: 773–794 (Spilker 2012). Chapter 7 is a revised version of “Technologies of Piracy? Exploring the Interplay Between Commercialism and Idealism in the Development of MP3 and DivX,” International Journal of Communication, Vol.  7: 2067–2086 (Spilker and Høier 2013). The most difficult and heartfelt thank is to my girlfriend and wife through 23 years, Kristin Hestflått Spilker, who sadly passed away two years ago. She was the one who encouraged me to keep up the work and persevere when I wanted to jump to other research fields (or jobs very far outside academia). And then there is everything else. The day that I write these words, coincidental or not, would have been our 25th anniversary. Finally, the most caring thanks to my three supportive children: Andri, Live and Bror (at time of writing 24, 18 and 17). They have contributed to this book in the role of “undercover agents” – keeping me updated on the evolution of digital music technologies while crashing my PC, insulting my car radio and terrorizing me with their Spotify-­playlists.… And, in fairness, they have tipped me off about a fair portion of the music that fills up my Tidal-­playlists. Of course, I am still so childish that I have to list some of it: Jake Bugg, First Aid Kit, Asaf Avidan, Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros, “Children Song” by PaceWon & Mr. Green, “No Church in the Wild” by JAY Z & Kanye West.… Trondheim, December 14, 2016

1 Introduction Digital dramas

Music on demand? My interest in the topic of digital music was awoken in 1997, on a plane trip from Oslo via London to Edinburgh. 1997 was a significant year in my academic life. I got my first appointment as a researcher, a one-­year assignment on the EU project SLIM (Social Learning in Multimedia) – a project basically devoted to case study based, cross-­country analysis of web-­based start-­up initiatives in the sectors of work, education and entertainment. At the end of the same year, I also applied and received funding for a doctoral project investigating the development of commercial Internet content services in Norway. On the plane to London, I was engrossed reading drafts for the upcoming Edinburgh meeting, when the guy seated next to me excused himself, telling he could not avoid catching interest in the stuff I was reading. We got into an engaged and interesting discussion about the development of the Internet, and he presented himself as Stein Aanensen, former employee of Telenor, the greatest Norwegian telecom operator, and now marketing director of a start-­up company named MODE. MODE, he told me, was an acronym for Music-­On-Demand. The service was planned as an online music store for the sale of music streaming and music downloading. It was initiated by a group of enthusiasts fronted by a former Uriah Heep member and had obtained solid funding and backing from, among others, German Fraunhofer-­Gesellschaft, Norwegian Telenor and a couple of British stakeholders. Telenor had for example, Aanesen told enthusiastically, invested €7.5 million in the project. As it turned out, MODE was many years ahead of their time. Initially, MODE was met with interest and curiosity by music industry representatives, but, fueled by the growing turmoil over online music sharing, the initiative faced increasing skepticism and resistance from the right holders. Later we learned that 1998 was the year when “MP3” exceeded “sex” as the mostly used search phrase on the Internet. The service ended up never being launched, and the beta version was removed from the web in the spring of 1998. However, during that plane trip, Aanesen managed to convince me that digital music was going to be “the next big thing,” the new “killer app” – even if it, at least not in the first round, assumed the shape he had imagined.…

2   Introduction: Digital dramas The accidental meeting on the plane opened my eyes to a world in transition. The topic of digital music has been a dominating and continuous research interest ever since. In my doctoral thesis on the development of commercial Internet services, digital music services was one of the main cases, together with among others online news and Internet banking (Spilker 2005, see also Chapter 6 in this book). In 2005, I obtained a post doc grant from the Norwegian Science Foundation to conduct a broad inquiry – “The Pandora’s Jukebox” project – on the developments within digital music, encompassing production, consumption and regulatory perspectives. First and foremost, it is the fruits of this research, which I have continued to develop in my position as an associate professor, that are presented in this book. The emergence of networked digital technologies has opened up the possibilities for radical changes in the ways we produce, distribute, consume and otherwise relate to music. At the same time, and as a consequence, the developments have spurred periods of heated controversy in what has become known as “the piracy wars” and “the streaming wars” (see e.g., Allen-­Robertson 2013; Rogers 2013; Andersson Schwartz 2014; Fredriksson and Arvanitakis 2014, Mulligan 2016; Wikström and DeFillippi 2016). Thus, I have conducted my research in the midst of a truly “liminal phase” in music life, to borrow a phrase from anthropologist Victor Turner (1969). According to Turner, liminal phases are especially interesting objects of study for social scientists because conditions and relations that once were taken for granted become temporarily suspended. It introduces times of moral drift and institutional destabilization. Liminal phases render open new possibilities, but also fears and anxieties, ambiguities and paradoxes. Following Turner, Pfaffenberger (1992) has coined the term “technological dramas” to describe the productive and performative nature of periods of sociotechnical change. There are several possible outcomes of such technological dramas. In the relation to digital music distribution, at least four hypotheses have been advanced. One is what we could call the levelling hypothesis: The drama alters fundamentally the rules of the game. Barriers to entry are lowered, and intermediaries and gatekeepers made superfluous. Artists communicate directly with fans and Internet users, and Internet users become engaged in co-­creative and remixing activities (see e.g., Kusek and Leonard 2005; Lessig 2008; Jenkins et al. 2013, 2016). In opposition stands the normalization hypothesis: After a period of turmoil, everything returns more or less to the old, with the same constellations of power and the same dominating actors. Users reappear as consumers (see e.g., Freedman 2016; Rimini and Marshall 2014; Burkart and Andersson Schwartz 2015). A third hypothesis is the deadlock hypothesis: The involved social groups get locked in a conflict they are not able to or interested in getting out of. Each maintains stubbornly its position, and the opportunity for change turns into a damaging, counterproductive situation (see e.g., Rogers 2013; Sinnreich 2014). Finally, there is the balancing hypothesis: This is a situation where the interests of most players are taken into account and dealt with in a fairly reasonable

Introduction: Digital dramas   3 manner. The benefits of the new technologies of music distribution are reaped at reasonable costs and conditions for all (see e.g., Sinnreich 2016). The overriding aim of this book is to contribute to the understanding of the forces behind and the outcomes of the drama of digital music distribution. Which of these hypotheses provide the most adequate picture of the outcome of the digitalization of music distribution? Which forces have influenced the development, and in what manner? While the changes in the music life are profound and interesting in their own right, I approach them not primarily as a sociologist of music, but as a sociologist of new media technologies. As, for example, Lessig (2002, 2004, 2008) and Burkart (2010, 2014) persistently have reminded us, what is at stake in the controversies over digital music is not only the future of music, but the future of the Internet as a communication and distribution platform – and the conditions for cultural production in society more generally. Digital music has been a fulcrum and test bed for novel ways to distribute cultural content, such as file-­sharing, streaming, online sales, models for crowdfunding, recommendation based services and so on (see e.g., Morris 2015; Rogers and Preston 2016; Wikström and DeFillippi 2016). Furthermore, it has incited the development of new approaches to copyright and new regulatory policies (see e.g., Postigo 2012). To answer the research questions, this book offers a case study-­based analysis of “relevant social groups” (Pinch and Bijker 1987 – see later) and how they have affected and been affected by the development of digital music technologies. We shall investigate evolving practices and arrangements from strategic sites across the entire spectrum of cultural production and use/consumption. In doing so, this book differs from efforts with comparable aims as mine, such as Wikström’s “The Music Industry” (2010), David’s “Peer to Peer and the Music Industry” (2011), Allen-­Robertson’s “Digital Culture Industry” (2013), Roger’s “The Life and Death of the Music Industry in the Digital Age” and Morris’ “Selling Digital Music – Formatting Culture” (2015) all of which basically address the changes in digital music distribution from an industrial point of view. On the other hand, Andersson Schwartz’s Online File Sharing (2014) is based on case studies of use/consumption (and is more narrowly confined to activities within file-­sharing networks whereas I present a broader and more contextualized take on user’s music-­related practices). To my knowledge, this book is the only monograph that analyzes digital music distribution both from the consumption and production side in a combined effort (and includes perspectives on regulation as well). This synthesizing approach is offering new vantage points and fresh outlooks. In a kind of extended “circuit of culture” analysis (Gay et al. 1997), it analyzes the initiatives and strategies of various involved and affected groups such as technology developers, music industry actors, performing artists, countercultural activist groupings, mass media journalists, regulators, young people, and parents. Taken together, it is my ambition that the case studies presented in this book will unravel some of the central dynamics and outline the contours of the emergent new landscape of digital music – and of the Internet and the conditions of cultural production and reception more broadly.

4   Introduction: Digital dramas Some clarifications about two of the words in the title of this publication: “Distribution” is seen as the key that connects the various involved and affected actors and highlights the relation between production with consumption. It does not exclude matters related to production (e.g., the artists use of home studios) or consumption (e.g., the user’s organization of music) – but places the center of gravity on the connection between these acts. Braun puts it this way: “The study of distribution cuts straight to the heart of who has access to culture on what terms” (2014: 127). By “streams” I mean all kinds of online streams – one-­to-one, one-­to-many, many-­to-many, some-­to-some. The term thus obviously includes, but is not confined to, what has become known as streaming – it also encompasses the downloading, uploading and sharing of music files in its personal, piratical and  commercial variants. Furthermore, we can add the online exchange of tips,  recommendations, links and play lists – everything that sets the music in motion.

The folding of technologies “The piracy wars” – depicted as a conflict between digital “pirates” (Internet activists and enthusiasts, or Internet users in general) and the music industry – has dominated both the academic literature and the popular media accounts of the developments within digital music since the advent of Napster. Of course, it is impossible to write a book about digital music without relating to the piracy controversy. The scholarly debate over piracy has taken some interesting turns in the later years, starting with Castells and Cardoso’s (2012) special issue on “piracy cultures” in The International Journal of Communication and followed up by other journal special issues such as Nowak and Whelan (2014), Roth (2014), Andersson Schwartz and Burkart (2015), and Burkart and Andersson Schwartz (2015) – in addition to anthologies by Fredriksson and Arvanitakis (2014) and Baumgärtel (2015) and the monographs mentioned above. These contributions will be frequently referenced and discussed throughout the book. At the same time, the whole design of my research has been spurred by a desire to go “behind the piracy wars” – to move the analysis of digital music beyond the trench positions of the 2000s. The ambition is on the one hand to present a fresh and more nuanced perspective on the controversies, who the involved parties are and where the conflict lines go. To anticipate the course of events, I will end up in Chapter 10 by suggesting a “new divide” in addition to the “old divide” of piracy–industry oppositions. On the other, to explore changes in the way we produce, distribute, consume and otherwise relate to music that so far have gone relatively unnoticed. As a further teaser, I can reveal that this pursuit will reveal surprising tensions and paradoxes as we dive into how the various social groups strive to appropriate, integrate and give meaning to the digital music technologies within their business and life world contexts. I will start by introducing the notion of folding – a concept that in many ways frames and accentuates the theoretical underpinnings of my work. Many of the

Introduction: Digital dramas   5 participants in the piracy controversy have referred to the inevitability of the technological developments. Especially, there has been a tendency with proponents on the activists’ side to argue for the obvious and relentless movement towards an unrestricted and all-­encompassing sonic commons, where every other response than adaption represents idiocy. Merriden’s (2001) book about the Napster trial and its aftermath, entitled Irresistible Forces, is a good example. In a similar vein, Kusek and Leonard, in their much cited Manifesto for the Digital Music Revolution, argue that we are hastily moving towards “a future in which music will be like water: ubiquitous and free flowing” (2005: 33). Of course, it is tempting to accuse Kusek and Leonard for an unfortunate choice of metaphor, given the growing real-­world conflicts over the water resource. Advocates from the industry side have also made recourse to the rhetoric of inevitability. In a report entitled “The State of Music Online: Ten Years after Napster,” Maddon (2009) admits that the e-­commerce dream of “the Celestial Jukebox” has not yet been fulfilled. But she maintains: “For now, quality and reliability are still an issue, but the march of technology will quickly stomp out that minor hurdle” (ibid.: 16). In my view, that is a quite surprising summing up, all the more since she earlier on in the report noticed that (and “ten years after Napster”): “What’s clear at this point in the evolution of the music business is that there is no clear business model” (ibid.: 4). A basic premise for my research has been that there is nothing self-­evident about digital music – nothing inevitable, nothing obvious, nothing irresistible, nothing relentless. I could have used the concept of negotiation to underscore this point. In science and technology studies (STS), the development and appropriation of technologies are often described as acts of negotiation between actors with different power and objectives. The notion of negotiation highlights the processual and societal character of the evolution and diffusion of technologies. However, it is worth noticing that within STS the term is often used in an extended and abstracted sense. In common language, on the other hand, negotiations are usually thought of as something taking place if not around a table, then through some kind of common and public sphere where people explicitly voice their arguments. In several of my case studies, I will analyze the emerging practices and understandings of people that not necessarily regard their actions and meanings as negotiation initiatives, at least they are not overtly or intentionally thought of or meant as such. Still, these practices and understandings clearly matter for the future of music. Therefore, I rather prefer the imaginary of folding. Folding is originally a geological concept, used to denote the way different natural forces, for example the movement of the earth plates, are changing the character of the landscape through time. When I suggest applying the concept to describe the processes through which digital technologies become appropriated and “socialized,” I draw on basic insights from STS. The folding metaphor highlights the point that the diffusion of technologies seldom (never) follows any linear logic. Adaption might seem as a straightforward matter and “a minor hurdle” if one tries to predict and deduce technological development from alleged attributes of the

6   Introduction: Digital dramas technology “itself.” However, such a view overlooks the crucial interplay between technological, economic, legal and cultural forces. The concept of folding directs attention to this interplay. During appropriation, technologies, practices and relations are bent, twisted, turned around and rearranged. When different social groups are appropriating digital music technologies, new social spaces are created, with reconfigured notions of time, values, space, rights and the more. As the chapters in this book will amply illustrate, the emerging contours of the landscape of digital music distribution are complex formations, with unexpected tensions, experiences, challenges, and paradoxes. The folding approach helps to explain the diverse and often contradictory assemblages of technologies, practices and relations that constitute the new everyday life of music. Popular postmodernist interpretations of digital technologies have seen them as representing the dematerialization of social life and reality and the annihilation of time and space. The concept of folding provides the grounds for a critique of such both to grand and to simplified conceptions. Rather, what is happening is the formation of new forms of sociotechnical life and materialized culture – not necessarily more straightforward (faster, smoother, more effective etc.) than earlier forms, but characterized by their own distinct combination of social and technical elements, and with their own logic and functioning and challenges and tensions. As several studies convincingly have demonstrated, there is a paradoxical tendency for technology to solve problems by creating others (see Fredriksson and Arvanitakis 2014; Marshall et al. 2015). In a similar vein, in relation to music, it has frequently been claimed that the present era represents the end of scarcity, referring to the alleged ubiquity and omnipresence of digital music and the ease of reproduction and distribution. Actually, this viewpoint has been voiced, in different versions, by spokespersons from different sides of piracy controversy – from both the various free culture advocates, from several artists, from media commentators, from music industry representatives and spokespersons from the technology industries. “Music everywhere” was the slogan of a Telenor campaign for the youth portal DJuice a couple of years ago. Seemingly, compared to the analog days, it is now possible to get everything, anywhere, anytime – however, “everything,” “anywhere” and “anytime” still need to be enclosed in quotation marks. The idea of “the end of scarcity” can be criticized along much of the same lines as the critique of dematerialization and time-­space annihilation. It might be tempting to agree with Meikle and Young when they criticize restrictions on access to music imposed by commercial services such as iTunes or Spotify, by arguing: “Scarcity is not a natural part of the convergent media environment, but must be manufactured artificially to preserve its value” (2012: 188). As an old music enthusiast and a dedicated user of various net-­based music services, I am strongly fascinated by the many new possibilities for searching, discovering, retrieving, organizing, distributing and sharing music online. However, we must not be blinded by the seemingly overwhelming opportunities.

Introduction: Digital dramas   7 Just to take one example: Ten years age file-­sharing networks such as LimeWire and BearShare appeared as pioneering door openers to and guarantors for the sonic commons. Today, the possibilities offered by these services seem, in many respects, as cumbersome and outdated. Of course, Meikle and Young are right in pointing out that services such as iTunes and Spotify impose certain deliberate restrictions on the ways in which music can be accessed. I will discuss the politics of DRM, “walled gardens” and “the Splinternet” (cf. Levine 2011) in several of the chapters in this book. However, principally, seen through the prism of folding, the configurations of iTunes and Spotify represent variants of attempts at folding, with a specific (for good or bad) set-­up of characteristics. In that respect, iTunes and Spotify are not disparate from Pirate Bay or Rapid Share. They are all trying to impose a certain ordering of the musical landscape, to mold it in ways that render some actions possible while denying others. Clearly, this is a constructivist argument – but not a relativist one. All attempts at folding the musical landscape stem from the cultural, economic and political interests of certain social groups – some privileging the interests of the music industry, others the IT industry, the consumer electronics or the telecoms. Some are prioritizing especially dedicated and/or competent users, while others are designed more for non-­specialist users. Thus, the argument about the (potential) end of scarcity runs the risk of “naturalizing” the interests of certain actors and overlooking the privileging and prioritizing that constantly are at work in the carving out of the future of music. Folding does not happen solely through the design of technology – but is the result of an interplay between a number of factors. Lessig (1999, 2004) provides a fourfold division of regulatory mechanisms, which can serve as a useful starting point towards a typology of folding forces. He distinguishes between what he calls (1) architecture, (2) markets, (3) laws and (4) social norms. The first force, architecture, refers, in the widest sense, to all kinds of material arrangements, either “natural” or human-­made, that either constrains or enables certain forms of human action. The original, geological meaning of the term folding is in this respect illuminating – there are certain ways you will consider more appropriate for a mountain passing or an urban walkthrough than others. In the context of the Internet and ICTs, architecture refers to the ways technological capabilities and restrictions are designed into particular implementations of computer and communications hardware and software. Lessig (2002) distinguishes between three “layers” of information and communication technologies: the material layer, the code layer and the content layer. The second force, laws, is the domain and responsibility of governments and other legislative bodies. Laws are regulation through a set of formal, explicit and officially sanctioned rules, founded and enforced according to certain principles such as duration, predictability, scope and reach. Principally, laws are trying to encourage and enforce specific forms of technological architecture (and market formations and social practices), while forbidding or making other forms less attractive.

8   Introduction: Digital dramas Markets define the boundaries for socio-­economic activity. Markets regulate through different mechanisms, of which price, assortment and terms of service are the most important. Political economists have steadily pointed at the trend towards global market concentration, where fewer and fewer (and bigger and bigger) companies exert control over the goods and services at offer (and thereby define “the rules of the game”) (see Croteau and Hoynes 2007). However, as Castells (2009; Castells and Cardoso 2012) has noted, the media landscape of the 2000s has actually been characterized by two opposing (or maybe complementary) trends: On the one hand increasing concentration, on the other the fact that more and more communication and distribution are taking place outside established media channels. Other scholars have analyzed this through the binary concepts of “gift economies” and “market economies” (see Jenkins et al. 2013; Andersson Schwartz 2014). Finally, there are social norms, which are the least theorized of Lessig’s regulatory mechanisms. Actually, I think this category needs to be extended to norms, interests and literacy. Social norms are undoubtedly an important folding force. Norms defines what is regarded as proper behavior in a given social grouping. They regulate through the many slight and sometimes forceful sanctions that members of different communities and networks impose on each other. Norms are marked by their evolving character – they are in continuous, on-­going development (not at least in relation to new technologies) (see Spilker and Levold 2007). In addition to norms, there are other socio-­cultural factors influencing practices. Literacy is a significant one. By literacy I refer to the evolving skills actors are able to mobilize and activate in the encounter with digital music technologies. These skills influence both the preference for certain set-­ups and solutions and services, certain ways to interact with the technologies, as well as the degree and intensity and virtuosity of usage. Björkin’s (2012) study of the uses of file-­ sharing systems and Steirer (2014) study of music collecting and streaming services strikingly demonstrates that music searching and collecting are not banal and forthright affairs. The value and return the users received from file-­sharing and streaming were strongly connected with skills in remembering titles, the abilities to navigate by aid of different classification systems and to employ complimentary databases to find the stuff they were looking for. Interest in music (and technology) is of course important for the ways digital music technologies become appropriated. The degree of interest, as well as the preference for different music genres and “single-­songs versus whole albums,” will influence a wide range of choices with regard to digital music. Björkin’s (2012) study also uncovers how certain file-­sharing systems are designed to cater the needs of dedicated users while others have more appeal to non-­specialists. In the same vein, Hagen (2015a, 2015b) shows that the construction and use of playlists on Spotify and Wimp in dependent on both skill and interest. Interests will vary according to different personal and social variables, i.e., age, sex and class. The affiliation with different music subcultures is another, more music specific factor. In Chapter 4, I show how the rave scene, the goth subculture

Introduction: Digital dramas   9 and  the punk movement have appropriated digital music technologies in different ways. All the forces I have discussed now – architecture, laws, markets, norms, literacy, interests – contribute to the folding of digital music landscape. They are at work in parallel and interaction. At times, they are reinforcing each other, at others, one might undermine another. This explains why the development of digital music technologies should be studied as an on-­going, not finished process (that does not end with the launching of a new technology or the approval of a new law). It also explains why the folding of digital music technologies should be studied as a multi-­sited process.

Into and beyond “the piracy wars” When I started on my post-­doctoral study, writing on digital music was quite unilaterally focused on the piracy controversy. In both research literature and popular accounts, the dominant way to frame changes in digital music distribution was to depict it as a war between the music industry and “the pirates” (the community of Internet users). Furthermore, many of the most discussed contributions were written by law scholars, which led to a somewhat narrow and at times exclusionary detailed orbiting around issues of legal frameworks and legality. Empirically, these studies based much of their argumentation on court examples (see e.g., Litman 2001; Lessig 2002; Fisher, 2004; Boyle 2008). In designing my research project, I started from a conviction that the dominant dichotomous portrayal of the field as a battleground between one industry and a group of users was both too narrow and partially misleading. It did not problematize the relationship between different groups neither on the production side (i.e., between record companies and artists, or between the music industry and the technology industries) or on the consumer side (i.e., between young people and parents). Furthermore, I was convinced that the one-­tracked conflict focus stole the attention from other dramatic changes in the ways we relate to music, that only peripherally and vaguely were related to the piracy wars (i.e., how artists employ novel tools in the production of music and communication with fans, or how digitalization poses both possibilities and threats to countercultures such as the punk movement). The design of the study has been informed by Pinch and Bijker’s (1987) concept of “relevant social groups.” Pinch and Bijker argue that in order to understand the development of a given technology, you need to analyze the evolving practices and understandings of the groups involved with and affected by a given technology, including their conception of problems and solutions, threats and possibilities. Eight “relevant social groups” are examined in the eight case studies: technology developers, music industry actors, performing artists, countercultural activist groupings, mass media journalists, regulators, young people and parents. Basically, the outlook in this book is taken from Norway. The empirical material stems from and covers the state of affairs in Norway (with a partial

10   Introduction: Digital dramas exception regarding Chapter 7), which is the country where I live and work. The reasons for this are of course related my proximity to, and acquaintance with, Norwegian conditions. In some cases, i.e., the analysis of the mass media coverage in Chapter 8, a comparative analysis was a feasible option – but also in that instance I decided to concentrate on the coverage in the Norwegian media, to maintain a certain density and coherence to the analysis. However, I am not pursuing a specifically Norwegian discussion. The ambition is to use the outlook to discuss more general – international, conceptual and generative – aspects of digital music distribution. The analyses are thorough compared to findings from other studies and related to international discussion in the field. In many respects, Norway shares many characteristics with and are influenced by the same developments as the rest of the Western industrialized world regarding the use of ICTs in general and digital music technologies specifically. I will argue that the outlook from Norway in some respects offers an especially favorable vantage point to the field of study. Norway – together with the other Nordic countries – has been at the forefront in the deployment of digital technologies. It has been highly rated on comparative figures on every measure: Internet penetration, broadband penetration, mobile phone penetration, smart phone penetration, use of file-­sharing networks and use of streaming services. The situation with regard to adoption of music streaming services is at the moment unique in Norway and Sweden. With nearly 80% of the total revenues from music sales coming from streaming, Norway and Sweden are “the world’s most advanced market for music streaming services” (Nordgård 2016; see also Mulligan 2016 and Tschmuck 2016). On the production side, a disproportionate share of the initiatives that have imprinted the development in the field of digital music originate in the Nordic countries. This includes the first experiments with online transfer of sound using MP3 compression (see Chapters 6 and 7), the creation of the file-­sharing network Pirate Bay, development of novel streaming services such as Spotify and Wimp – as well as the formation of the first political party devoted to the defense of digital rights, the Piracy Party (first in Sweden, later in Norway). I have deployed a multi-­site and multi-­case study based approach (Maaløe 2002), and the empirical material consists of a wide range of material, from in-­ depth interviews, group interviews and surveys to various forms of document analysis. The collection of the empirical material has partly been conducted by  master students and/or research assistants in the Pandora Jukebox-­team (see  Acknowledgments), therefore I use “we” in the book when I talk about the data collection. As the composition of empirical material varies from case to case, each chapter contains short sections on methodology. In sum, the case studies form a kind of extended “circuit of culture” analysis (Gay et al. 1997) – moving across the whole spectrum of cultural production and consumption. The eight case studies that make up the body of this book have been organized accordingly – starting on the consumption side in Chapters 2–4, then

Introduction: Digital dramas   11 sliding over to the production side with the study of semi-­professional artists in Chapter 5. Chapters 6–7 deal with the industry strategies and technology development, Chapter 8 is an analysis of the media coverage of the digital music, while Chapter 9 discusses regulatory issues. Finally, Chapter 10 is a concluding chapter which draws up the main findings and their implications for theory and policy. There are both theoretical and a field-­specific reasons for the (perhaps somewhat “unorthodox”) decision to start with the consumption cases. The theoretical reason is related to the critique of linear innovation and communication models, moving one-­directionally from producers/senders to users/receivers and the corresponding reconstruction of users as important “folding agents” (e.g., Hall 1993 [1973]; Silverstone et al. 1992; Lie and Sørensen 1996; Sørensen et al. 2000). The field-­specific reason is the specific importance of users in the development of Internet and digital music distribution and the fact that the rise and spread of digital music distribution in large parts took place outside the realms, control and initiative of the established music industry (see Abbate 1999; Allen-­ Robertson 2013).

An overview of the chapters In Chapter 2, I investigate the defining characteristics of young peoples’ use of digital music technologies, based on both quantitative- and qualitative empirical material among Norwegian youths. The chapter presents the multitude of music-­related practices that young people engage in through digital technologies. It notes how the research on music use has changed from a focus on sharing in studies of file-­sharing to a focus on listening in studies of streaming, while arguing for the need for a broader, more encompassing perspective on digital music use than both these two in order to fully comprehend what digital music use is all about. Finally, the chapter addresses the consequences of the move from file-­sharing to streaming for the use of, and engagement with, music. Chapter 3 moves from the study of practices to the study of values and morals. The framing discussion is to what extent – or in what sense – the practices of young people can be understood as part of an insurgency against established orders. Was the use of file-­sharing tools in the 2000s regarded as part of what Castells and Cardoso (2012) has called “piracy cultures” or as an ordinary, mainstream activity (Burkart and Andersson Schwartz 2015)? The chapter analyzes youth’s motives for engaging with or abstaining from file-­sharing activities and how they view the ongoing discussions on digital piracy. In addition to the empirical material also employed in Chapter 2, this chapter is based on a series of family interviews. The second part of the analysis looks at the negotiations over digital music use between young people and parents and asks whether digital music technologies are regarded as controversial technologies in the family setting. Finally, the question of rebelliousness is addressed in light of the turn to streaming.

12   Introduction: Digital dramas From (more or less) ordinary young people (and parents), we move to a specific counterculture in Chapter 4. The chapter explores how the punk movement has appropriated the Internet and digital music technologies as part of its cultural and political repertoire. It is based on interviews with both former active (in the 1990s) and now active participants in the movement. Traditionally, the punk movement has rejected the use of mass media for tactical measures, instead focusing on the construction of alternative communication- and distribution channels based on the principles of do-­it-yourself (DIY). Initially, one could expect that some of the supposed capabilities of the Internet and digital music tools offer new possibilities for DIY-­based action, but the chapter will reveal how the new technologies also pose challenges and invoke tensions within the scene. The chapter also explores the relationship between the punk and hacker movements. Chapter 5 examines “artists-­in-the-­making.” It takes Theberge’s (2004) notion of “the Network Studio” and Latour’s (2005) notion of “reassembling/ disassembling” as a point of departure to investigate the development of home recording and home distribution practices among semi-­professional musicians. The central research question concerns whether these new practices are used to sidestep the traditional career patterns of the music industry. In other words, do they add up to “piracy cultures” that challenge and threaten established social orders? The study reveals how the rise of the networked home studio has altered the initial phases of the processes of music making in important ways. However, the musicians did not perceive the new practices of the home studio as a substitute for professional studios and traditional ways of making a career, but rather as a preparation. The study suggests that the developing practices of the home studio should be understood as the formation of “pre-­distribution networks” – not actually side stepping, but eventually leading into the professional network of the music industry. Chapter 6 takes a comparative grip in order to examine the digital strategies of the music industry – by juxtaposing them with the strategies of the newspaper industry. Using Castell’s (2000) and Rifkin’s (2001) two different models of how content is to become valuable in the digital domain, the chapter reveals how the music and newspaper industries came to implement opposite approaches for an Internet presence. The newspaper industry established web publications in which the content was made freely available and the question of economic gain was put on hold. By contrast, the music industry attempted to protect their content, insisting that the Internet should not make a difference, awaiting the development of legal and technological frameworks to assure economic control. The chapter follows the turns in the strategies of the two industries from the 1990s up to date. What the chapter calls “the irony of virtuality” lies in the fact that none of the industries have done particularly well with their (opposing) strategies. “Content is king,” was the slogan of the millennium, but instead content has become a prisoner of the new technologies. The seventh chapter – co-­written with Svein Høier – moves from content industries to technology developers. It also uses a comparative grip to approach

Introduction: Digital dramas   13 the development of the two central “piracy standards,” MP3 (sound) and DivX (audiovisual content), analyzing the actors, strategies and motivations involved in their inception and diffusion. The chapter explores how the development of the two standards each represents different approaches to standardization that have moved between “commercial” and “idealistic” phases. The ANT concepts of “displacement,” “translation,” “immutable mobiles” and “permeable technologies” are used to explain the degree of stabilization of the two standards. The comparison exhibits both some surprising contrasts and similarities between the development of the two standards, which is used to make some general points regarding the interplay between idealism and commercialism – between piracy and industry – in the development of the digital media technologies. In Chapter 8, the media coverage of the file-­sharing controversy – more specifically the campaign “Piracy Kills Music” – in eight central Norwegian newspapers is analyzed. Initially, two theories of the role of the media are contrasted: Herman and Chomsky’s (1988) propaganda model, which postulates that the media tend to operate in accordance with the established powers of the society (e.g., the music industry), and Hjarvard’s (2009) medialization theory, which claims that the media are increasingly operating in a more autonomous manner, following its own inner logic. In light of these contrasting perspectives, the chapter asks what role the mass media have played in the digital music controversies. Has it been a “lap-­dog” or a “watch-­dog”? The chapter also launches the concepts of “the fourth music estate” and “discursive domestication” in order to understand the position and role of the media in relation to the other actors involved in digital music distribution. Using a framing approach, the analysis reveals five dominant frames of the media coverage. Chapter 9 is about regulation. This chapter has kind of a double status, as both the last analytical chapter and the first concluding chapter – since the question of regulation is assessed in light of the findings from the consumption and production chapters. I identify and analyze five different models for the regulation of digital music distribution – the ownership model, the access model, the alternative revenues model, the remix model and the compensation model. In the final section, a summarizing table compares the role of the music, the musicians and the music users in the five models (and the implications for other involved parties are discussed as well). Concluding the chapter, I note that while there is a competitive relationship between the models, they all co-­exist today and are likely to continue to do so. However, what form the co-­existence takes, that is the vital question for the future of digital music distribution. The concluding chapter, Chapter 10, ties together the main threads of the book. It argues that one of the main contributions of the book, together with other recent scholarly work in the field, is to show how digitalization has influenced musical life in a myriad of different and surprising ways and to draw a more complex and contradictory picture of the fascinating, but conflicting landscape of digital music distribution than the piracy–industry dichotomy of the 2000s were able to capture. It discusses how the piracy–industry dichotomy should instead of as opposing poles be seen as a continuum full of interplays and

14   Introduction: Digital dramas ramifications, and also how it is cross-­cut by other, less theorized and researched, conflict lines. The chapter launches the concept of “the new divide” between cultures of technology cultures and cultures of music that possibly is as important as “the old divide” of piracy–industry relations. In a final section, it identifies the most urgent challenges for future research and policy and promotes the ideal of a “music welfare state.”

2 Not only about listening Understanding the new everyday life of music

The use and users of technologies are at one end point of the digital music distribution chain. Whether it is the beginning or the finishing point are dependent on the eyes that sees. Of course, this is much of a hen and egg puzzle. De Guy et al. (1997) formulated the “circuit of culture” model exactly to avoid prioritizing either production or consumption. However, I have to start this book somewhere, and there are both general and specific reasons for why I have decided to start with use and users. They general are related to the critique of linear innovation and communication models, moving one-­directionally from producers/senders to users/receivers. I have grown up with this critique that, both within STS and media studies, has forcefully argued for the view of users as active participants in the shaping of media and communication technologies (e.g., Hall 1993 [1973]; Silverstone et al. 1992; Lie and Sørensen 1996; Sørensen et al. 2000). In line with this reasoning, I understand users as central folding actors in molding the landscape of digital music. The specific reason to start with the user side is related to the prominent role users have played in the development of Internet and internet-­based sharing of music and other cultural goods, referred to with such terms as “the culture of sharing” (Abbate 1999) and “participatory culture” (Jenkins 2006, Jenkins et al. 2016). It is a fact that the rise and spread of digital music distribution in large parts took place outside the realms, control and initiative of the established music industry (see Allen-­Robertson 2013). Internet users discovered and experimented with the possibilities for online transfer of sound files in the 1990s (see Chapter 7), and the popularity of these transfers was reflected in the fact “MP3” superseded “sex” as the most popular search phrase on the Internet during 1998 (Sterne 2012: 206). In the 2000s, online file-­sharing networks became the dominant mode of music distribution, while the 2010s are witnessing the rising popularity of streaming models, at least in developed countries. It has been interesting to note how the emphasis of the research on digital music use has changed from the 2000s to the 2010s. While studies of the use of file-­sharing networks were quite narrowly concerned with sharing practices, the emerging literature on streaming has so far mostly focused on listening experiences. My ambition for this chapter is to open up and broaden the perspectives on what digital music use is about. I think my effort to search for ways to

16   Not only about listening broaden the intake on digital music use started with a feeling that the then predominant sharing perspective was somewhat too narrow – sharing might be important, but there is more to digital music use. On the other hand, a one-­sided focus on listening has its obvious limitations as well – while a streaming service might be perceived as an outstanding listening device, it might be reckoned lower when it comes to other music related activities such as ordering, sharing or remixing. In this respect, this chapter aims to contribute to the present research literature by offering a more encompassing view on digital music use. It is important to keep in mind that the emerging patterns of use happen against the backdrop of more than a decade of turbulence and controversies over digital music distribution. Users have been faced with technologies designed to stimulate some actions while rendering others more difficult. Latour (1992) has denoted the term “programs of action” to account for the way technology developers are trying to inscribe certain preferred actions into the design of the artefacts. A broad perspective on digital music use will make it possible to assess and identify how users have responded to such “programs.” In this chapter, I thus ask: What are the defining characteristics of the youth’s use of digital music technologies? In what ways and for what ends have the users appropriated digital music? What kind of practices and preferences have been enabled or restricted through the various available technologies such as file-­sharing networks and streaming services? I will base the chapter on material about music use among young people over more than a decade. I will present findings from two questionnaires and two rounds of focus group interviews, carried out in 2005/2006 and in 2010. In addition, I will employ secondary material from newer studies of youth’s use of streaming services as a supplementary source, thus making possible a longitudinal assessment of the development.

Perspectives on the appropriation of digital music Scholarly research has been dominated by literature that addresses the controversies between the music industry and “digital pirates” at a legal or economic level. Comparatively, less scholarly effort has been invested in empirically investigating the actual patterns of use of digital music technologies – or to develop a conceptual framework to understand these evolving user patterns. However, in the emerging research literature, it is possible to delineate four different intakes to the appropriation of digital music. I will denote them as the sharing perspective, the musicking perspective, the discovery perspective and the remix perspective. In this section, I will review studies within each of these perspectives. The predominant perspective on digital music use in the 2000s was the sharing perspective, connected to studies of the use of file-­sharing networks. In the early 2000s, a couple of studies set out to investigate the dynamics of file-­sharing networks such as Napster and Gnutella, searching for new forms of online sociability (see Adar and Huberman 2000; Golle et al. 2001; Giesler and Pohlman 2003;

Not only about listening   17 McGee and Skågeby 2004; Skågeby and Pargman 2005; Giesler 2006; Cuevas et al. 2010; Andersson Schwartz 2014; overview Nowak and Whelan 2014). Basically, these studies conceptualized file-­sharing networks as gift economies, drawing on the theoretical framework dating back to Marcel Mauss. In gifting economies, the foundations for exchanges are not money, but other, more reciprocal forms of motivation and rewards. The classical motivation for participating in gifting economies is the maintenance of social ties, or eventually the expansion of social networks through reciprocal exchange of gifts. However, as these studies soon revealed, not all exchanges in file-­sharing networks can be explained with reference to this type of motivation. Skågeby and Pargman (2005) make the handy distinction between “communicators” and “instrumentalists.” The communicators saw the purpose of file-­sharing as a way of making friends and creating stronger social ties between the members of the network – in accordance with the reciprocity motivation. By contrast, the instrumentalists saw “personal communication (and making friends) as a nuisance and an unnecessary hindrance for the most important function of the network: to give and receive goods without restrictions” (ibid.: 122). Indeed, one of the basic themes in the studies of online file-­sharing, understood as gifting communities, has been to conceptualize gifting when the participants are unknown and anonymous to each other. Giesler and Pohlman suggest that “instead of constructing Napster’s gifting economy as one that takes place in-­between individuals, (we should understand it) as a reciprocal giving to and receiving from ‘the community’ ” (2003: 274). Gu et al. (2009) talk about “the social norm of indirect reciprocity.” In the late 2000s, some studies set out to research the entanglement of online and offline practices of music use. In their study of users of Push!Music, a mobile music sharing system, Håkonsson et al. (2007) find a difference between “sharing with friends” (people one knows from the outside) and “sharing with strangers” (people one exchanges with online) – which they summarize as “active with friends” and “passive with strangers.” When sharing with friends, the users wanted the activity to be visible, supporting already existing social networks and practices, be able to send songs as pranks and let the sharing prompt discussions about music and related matters. On the other hand, the ideal mode of sharing with strangers was automatic exchanges, thereby providing the users with new music in a non-­intrusive and less socially demanding way. In her study of Norwegian music users, Nag (2010) makes a somewhat similar distinction between the “large-­scale sharing” and “small-­scale sharing” of music. When carrying out large-­scale sharing through file-­sharing networks, the activity is “content centered.” In small-­scale sharing, it is “interactivity centered.” Small-­scale sharing can occur both off- and online. Among Nag’s users, the most typical forms of small-­scale sharing were through the burning of CDs and file transfers via MSN, while sharing at LAN parties was also mentioned as another example by some male interviewees. The latest contributions on the use of file-­sharing networks have dug deeper into the ideological motivations behind file-­sharing. Mylonas (2014) and

18   Not only about listening Marshall et al. (2015) discuss file-­sharing as cultural resistance. This is also a central theme in a couple of studies investigating varying ideological motivations among different groups of file-­sharers (Lewis 2015; Andersson Schwartz 2014; Andersson Schwartz and Larsson 2014). Not surprisingly, these studies show how ideological motivations are most clearly articulated and connected to technological and economical resistance among active uploaders, while file-­ sharing more took the form of taken-­for-granted activity among the majority of users. The ordinariness and taken-­for-granted-­ness of file-­sharing has led some recent contributors to argue that file-­sharing has moved from a counter cultural activity to trivial mass consumption (Andersson Schwartz 2012; Rimini and Marshall 2014; Burkart and Andersson Schwartz 2015). There is a marked contrast between studies on the use of file-­sharing networks and those on streaming services. While the former first and foremost have studied file-­sharing as a sharing activity, the latter apprehend the use of streaming services from what I will call a musicking perspective. The musicking perspective is primarily concerned with new (mobile) listening patterns and their effects on sociality and the experience of time and space (see Nowak and Bennett 2014). The term “musicking” (Small 1998) was initially denoted as a broader term encompassing all kinds of involvement with music, but in this stream of research it has basically been used to approach the sociological and psychological processes related to the listening of music. The research agenda for the study of music listening was set out by DeNora (2000) by investigating the multiple ways through which people use music as a resource to structure their lives. Actually, in relation to digital music technologies, the musicking perspective was first employed in research on the use of MP3 players. The point here is to investigate in what ways the new devices have enhanced the musicking experience. In his study of iPod-­use, Bull has argued that “personal stereos” offer the users unprecedented levels of control over music: Users “fine tune the relationship between mood, volition, music and the environment in ways that previous generations of mobile sound technologies was unable to” (2006: 136). Skånland (2011, 2012) shows that the use of MP3 players functions as a resource for different purposes and is actively used according to mood, situation and purpose. Bickford (2014) and Bergh et al. (2014) argue against an isolation thesis, arguing that the use of mobile music devices on the contrary is augmenting social interaction. Studies of the use of streaming services have by and large continued in the same vein. In her seminal work on Norwegian streaming users, Hagen (2015a, 2016) investigates the extensive and extended role music has taken on in the individual’s everyday life and the way the use of streaming services is incorporated into the planning and execution of daily tasks. The omnipresence and ubiquity of musicking is a central tenet in her work. However, both Hagen (2015a) and Lüders (2015) find a more limited use of the social functionality offered by the streaming services than they expected. In an interesting project comparing the use of streaming services among Swedish and Russian youth, Werner and

Not only about listening   19 Johansson (2016) identify gendered traits in the use of streaming technologies and points out how the gendering of music and media technology can be seen as simultaneously context-­bound and cutting across geographies. Working within the same project, Goldensweig (2014) depicts an ambivalent attitude towards streaming services among the young Muscovites, especially related to their lack of functionality for storing and retrieving personalized music collections. In light of the current analysis, the musicking perspective is important since it helps us remember a fact that is almost so obvious that one runs the risk of overlooking it: That listening is somehow at the heart of the musical experience. The third perspective on digital music use is the discovery perspective. In the introduction to a special publication on music and discovery, McCourt and Zuberi (2016) review the ways in which streaming services are tailoring musical discoveries through both algorithms and curators. However, “even the best efforts of algorithms and experts fall short at predicting consumer behavior, which remains just as difficult online as it is through traditional channels” (ibid.: 123). The limitations users experience with the discovery triggers of the streaming services is further explored in a study by Kjus (2016). An older study by Björkin (2012) has identified some of the same challenges in file-­sharing systems regarding “how to know” and “how to find” what you are looking for. Nowak (2016) shows how youth’s music searches are connected to their life and listening biographies, and asks us to be more attuned to the role of music in individuals’ longer life narratives when approaching their particular musical discoveries. In sum, these studies form the basis for a critique of the design of digital music technologies. However, in Kjus’ (2016) work, online, “in-­service” discoveries are seen in relation to other means of musical discoveries. Kjus finds that most of his interviewees’ musical discoveries did not stem from the recommendations and search engines of the streaming services, but from friends, the media and live music performances: “Afterwards, however, many of them would seek to deepen or extend the experience using the streaming service” (ibid.: 135). In the same vein, Nag (2010) has developed a useful four-­fold typology of music discovery:  1 2 3 4

Self-­initiated discovery – When the user devotes time to actively searching for music by him/herself;  Discovery through social networks – Music discovered through the exchange of information and tips with friends;  Discovery through music venues – Music discovered at festivals, concerts and other venues specifically devoted to music;  Random discovery – A diverse category used to capture all instances when music is discovered when the primary aim of the user is something else such as watching a film, attending sports, playing computer games or going to cafes.

The last perspective on the use of digital music that I have identified is the remix perspective. Most of the work I refer to here has not been occupied solely

20   Not only about listening with music use, but with the creative use of different media forms in general. In this context, the term remix does not refer to a musical genre, but to the ways people are mixing and tinkering with various digital media in their everyday life. From this perspective, the most interesting thing about new media tools is that they have fostered a development that is turning more and more people into producers of culture. A survey from the Pew Internet Research underscores this point: In 2006, 26% of American teenagers remixed content they had downloaded from the Internet (Lenhart et al. 2007). Such observations have led Lessig (2008) to suggest that we are seeing the rise of a “remix culture,” a culture of creativity in which media users rip and mix media content, creating derivative works, fan art, blogs, remixes and mash-­ups. The notion of a remix culture has triggered a number of studies that have investigated the use of new software tools and net-­based services for the production and dissemination of user-­generated content (Burgess and Green 2009; Chelotis and Yew 2009; Fagerjord 2010; Seneviratne and Monroy-­Hernández 2010; Sonvilla-­Weiss 2010; Jervenpaa 2011; Jenkins et al. 2013). Kershaw (2010) has developed a model that differentiates between different levels of tinkering/remixing practices (more on this later). Within this model, the creation of playlists is seen as one form of remixing, since existing expressions are places in new contexts. A couple of studies have investigated the role of playlist as a creative way of ordering music tunes according to individual moods and desires (Kershaw 2010; Kristensen 2014; Hagen 2015b). The analysis in this chapter has been informed by all the four perspectives presented in this section. Taken together, the perspectives give us an extended repertoire for approaching how users are appropriating the new technologies.

Analyzing youth The analysis in this chapter is a synthesis of four data sets, two quantitative surveys and two rounds with qualitative focus group interviews. The Pandora Surveys were conducted in 2005 and 2010. Young people between 12 and 19 in Trondheim, the third biggest town in Norway, were asked about their attitudes toward and practices related to digital music distribution. There were around 700 respondents in each of the surveys. The two qualitative data sets consist of focus group interviews. In the winter of 2006, we interviewed 28 young people between the ages of 14 and 19 about their experiences with digital music distribution in a series of seven focus group interviews. Each group interview consisted of four interviewees –two girls and two boys from the same class. Three of the interviews were with pupils from secondary school, while the rest with pupils from high school. A new series of focus group interview was performed in the winter of 2010 consisting of 24 young people within the same age span using the same interview set-­up, three interviews in secondary school and three in high school. I will use Hagen’s (2015a) study of streaming users, based on focus group interviews from 2013 and with many similarities with our interviews, as a

Not only about listening   21 supplementary source, to discuss the development of newer user-­patterns related to streaming services. However, I have not had access to her raw material, but rely on the presentation she gives in her doctoral dissertation. All of the names in the qualitative interviews have been anonymized. In the analysis, I have used brackets after each name, e.g., “(17A).” The number is the age of the informant, while an “A” indicates that the interviewee belongs to the 2006 interviews and a “B” the 2010 interviews. Excerpts from Hagen are presented in normal citation quotes. In both the surveys and the group interviews, we asked a broad range of questions regarding the “hows” and “whys” of the respondents’ use of digital technology for music-­related activities. There were questions regarding the use and evaluation of new music technologies in comparison with older technologies for the retrieval of music, including the use of music-­related technologies and services for various purposes such as sharing, discovery, retrieval, storing, organizing, tinkering and listening. The quantitative material primarily helps to chart the distribution of different practices and opinions. While I will only present figures here showing the difference between the populations as a whole, the material has also been analyzed according to age and gender (see Heimsvik et al. 2005; Kershaw et al. 2011).1 The qualitative material provides an opportunity to achieve a deeper insight into the details of the practices and their underlying rationales. The design of the 2010 questionnaire (and interview guides) was fairly similar to the 2005/2006 studies, but also included a set of new questions, thereby reflecting the development in the field. Thus, they included new questions related to the use of the mobile phone, to the use of social networking and streaming services, and finally to questions designed to uncover the scope of the tinkering with and “remixing” of musical content.

The omnipresence and omni-­interest in music Music is an important part of growing up. It has been a central identity marker at least since the 1950s – important in the construction of youth and generations as significant sociological categories. The changes in music technologies have been part of this. Just as Elvis, Beatles, Sex Pistols and Nirvana have defined subsequent generations of music listeners, so have Radio Luxembourg, vinyl records, MTV and the Sony Walkman. There has taken place a diversification and pluralization of playback technologies over the last 50 years, and the rise of Internet and online connections along with new devices and services have prepared the ground for what has been called “ubiquitous listening” (Kassabian 2013; Gopinath and Stanyek 2014). It is tempting to assume that the increased availability and accessibility of music has given music an even more extensive and important role in the lives of young people – an argument that both Hagen (2015) and I (Spilker, 2009) have put forward. At least, our interviewees understand and connect their music interest with the appearance of online technologies. The following statement by

22   Not only about listening Birgitte (17B) is not unrepresentative: “I would not have listened as much to music as I have done if it had not been for the Internet.” Several of the interviewees comment on how their musical taste and listening habits have been altered and extended as a result of increased exposure to different kinds of music online. In the Pandora Surveys we asked the participants to graduate their music interest on a scale from 1 (“minor interest”) to 10 (“major interest”). If we categorize answers from 8 to 10 as “great music interest,” 70% of the 2005 sample and 61% of the 2010 sample placed themselves here. There was not any significant difference between the sexes on this question either – a total of 66% of the girls and 64% of the boys categorized themselves as greatly interested in music. It is an interesting question whether the decline in music interest between 2005 and 2010 has to do with the newness and heated controversy around online music distribution in 2005. However, even more interesting is the remarkably strong interest in music among young people in general that these answers testify to. There is a wide-­spread and generalized interest, not connected to any minority or smaller number. Thus, these figures support Nowak and Bennett’s (2014) critique of music sociology for over-­emphasizing fan groupings and subcultures. Music has a great (continued or growing) role as an identity marker during adolescence. Catering to this interest, the new music technologies have been picked up and employed – together with older technologies for music playback and retrieval. Today’s children grow up in increasingly media-­rich households (Livingstone 2007). This definitely holds true for the Nordic countries, which for a long time have been at the forefront of the development. In the 2010 Pandora Survey, 90% of the young people possessed their own computer (up from 72% in 2005), 98% had access to the Internet from home (up from 92% in 2005) and 86% had their own MP3 player, whereas 90% had the possibility to retrieve music through their mobile phone. In addition, TVs, radios and CD players were (and still are) common in Norwegian homes. Hence, in terms of access, a brief description would be that almost everyone has access to almost everything. In the survey, we asked the young people to specify their preferred technologies for the retrieval of music from among a list (three at most). Table 2.1  Preferred music technologies; percentage (n = 1,420)

PC CD player MP3 player Radio TV Mobile phone Minidisc LP player Cassette player

2005 (%)

2010 (%)

72 71 63 44 34 11 7 3 3

77 30 58 40 23 39 3 8 0

Not only about listening   23 This table shows that the PC stood out as the most popular music technology in both 2005 and 2010, while the CD player lost considerable ground over this period. The MP3 player also still held a strong position in 2010, but the mobile phone already then experienced a strongly rising popularity. The table also shows that older technologies such as TV and radio have maintained a position as music media. In particular, the radio’s seemingly quite stable position is worth taking notice of. On the other side, technologies such as the minidisc- and cassette-­player played a marginal and diminishing role, while the LP player experienced a slight revival. Generally, in the focus group interviews the young people did not express any strong ideological commitments regarding the choice of music technologies, but often made use of what was at hand and most suited for the situation. For example, the use of the radio was connected to certain places and routines – bathroom/showering, kitchen/making food, car/driving, bedroom/waking up (or falling asleep) – while the use of the TV was basically connected to the living rooms. The choice between the MP3 player and the mobile phone was often reported to be a matter of “coincidence”: If they had remembered to recharge their battery, if they were able to find the correct earplugs, indeed, if the device was even at hand. Of course, technological properties such as storage space, battery capacity and transmission speed also mattered. Both the MP3 player and the mobile phone had become important sources for discovering and sharing music among friends, through peeking and listening at each other’s playlists and swapping files through Bluetooth or cables. The personal computer was the most popular music technology in 2005, and had strengthened its position in 2010. “The PC is the new record collection,” stated Runar (14A). This is possibly a statement that was less meaningful for many of the other interviewees – several commented on the pointlessness of even speaking of collections when music had become so easily accessible. For example, Eva (15A) expressed that she actually became happy when her hard disc crashed and she lost all 3,000 music files stored there since the incidence gave her an opportunity to tidy up and start over. Still, the convenience of storing was certainly one aspect of the popularity of the PCs. Christoffer (14B) emphasized freedom of choice as another advantage: “You can choose the music you want to listen to yourself, compared, for example, to the radio.” Baard (14B) pointed out that on the computer, you “can find everything.” Another issue that became very evident through the interviews is how the PC had acquired a role as a passage point for other activities: CDs were ripped or burned, transfers of music to MP3 players and mobile phones were prepared and executed, and music heard on the TV or radio were searched for. There are two main findings emerging from this inquiry: The first is the omnipresence of music in the everyday lives of the youth. A common trait is how extensively music is integrated into a diverse set of the youth’s everyday practices and routines. They are appropriating a variety of music technologies, both old and new, for different purposes and occasions. In 2005 and 2010, the PC, connected to the Internet, was the motor in this new everyday life of music,

24   Not only about listening playing the role as the “obligatory passage point” (Latour 1987) for all of the youth’s music-­related activities. Today, we know that, in the Nordic countries, the smart phone has taken over much of the position the PC had only a few years ago (IFPI Norway 2016; Nordgård 2016). In terms of how it is facilitating everyday practices and routines, this is an interesting shift that I will discuss towards the end of this chapter. However, as Hagen points out, the dominant picture is still that music technologies are used “for various purposes based on diverse service capacities and user capabilities” (2015a: 94). Second, there is an omni-­interest in music among the young people, making music a central identity marker in growing up. All of the interviewees we interviewed displayed a substantial interest in music, which they connected to the activities and experiences that the Internet enabled and facilitated. In this passage, Stina (15A) gives a vivid description of her Saturday evenings in front of the PC: Well, first I just go in and look.… Maybe I have found a song that I like from a film, and then I’ve searched for that song. And then I’ve seen another song with almost the same title, and then I download everything that pops up. And I listen.… Much of what pops up is not exactly what you’re looking for, but maybe you like some of it, and then you continue searching, and in the end you get a lot of amusing stuff, and you download all the songs from the bands. It’s so exciting! It’s very exciting to sit and mess around with it on Saturday nights.… (laughter) It’s my life, in a way.… For Stina, it is evident that the interest in music is deeply entwined with the multiple practices rendered possible through the Internet and the PC. In the next section, I will look more systematically into different practices that the young people engage in through the use of digital music technologies.

Top ten music-­related practices In the Pandora Surveys the interviewees were asked to state the frequency of their use of the Internet for a series of different music-­related activities. In the table below, I have grouped the percentage of the interviewees who conducted the various activities weekly or more often: The table reveals the wide spectrum of activities that young people engage in. I will start by commenting on the eight variables that were included in both surveys. In 2005, the three most popular activities were downloading music from file-­sharing networks (which 57% did on a weekly basis or more often), sharing music with friends through e-­mail, MSN or the like (49%) and searching and finding new music (63%). The first two questions correspond to Nag’s (2010) distinction between “large-­scale sharing” and “small-­scale sharing,” hence indicating the importance of both activities. The popularity of searching and finding new music is in line with McCourt and Zuberi’s (2016) focus on discovery as part of the new everyday life of music. In 2010, both searching for music and

Not only about listening   25 Table 2.2 Use of the Internet for music-related purposes; Percentage doing so weekly or more often

Finding information about favorite artists (n = 1,386) Listen to samples of music on the hit charts (n = 1,375) Listen to Internet radio (n = 1,376) Search and find new music (n = 1,381) Share music with friends through e-mail, MSN or the like (n = 1,374) Download music from file sharing networks (n = 1,374) Buy CDs through mail order from Internet shops (n = 1,370) Buy music for downloading from iTunes or the like (n = 1,377) Listen to music from streaming services such as Spotify or the like (n = 736) Visit music sites like MySpace, Urørt or band home pages (n = 730) Watch music-related videos on YouTube or similar sites (n = 735) Discuss and exchange information about music on Facebook, Twitter or other social media (n = 734)

2005 (%)

2010 (%)

41 40 28 63 49 57 5 8 –

44 78 31 76 54 41 9 22 73

– – –

26 80 38

sharing with friends had maintained and increased their popularity at 76% and 54%, respectively, while downloading experienced a marked decline, down to 41%. Oddly, listening to music on the hit charts almost doubled in popularity from 2005 to 2010, up from 40% to 78%. One part of the explanation for this is possibly that while in 2005 you could only listen to short excerpts, in 2010 you were allowed to hear the entire song along with video. Other activities, such as finding information about favorite artists and listening to Internet radio, were also quite prevalent both in 2005 and 2010, thus adding to the diversity, while music retailing has achieved a foothold among the young people. In the 2010 survey, we included four new questions in order to assess the appropriation of the new social media services for music-­related purposes. It turned out that watching music-­related videos on YouTube had become the most popular overall activity at 80%, while music streaming services, spearheaded by the Swedish ad-­based Spotify, also experienced widespread appropriation at 73%. Both these figures demonstrate that “cloud-­based services” (see Morris 2011; Nordgård 2016) have attained a solid grip in the youth segment. The same could be said about the way Facebook, Twitter and other social media have facilitated discussions and exchange of information about music, thus tapping into the youth’s interest in sharing between friends. A total of 38% did this on a weekly basis or more often. Finally, 26% visited MySpace, Urørt or band home pages – more dedicated sites for artists to present themselves and communicate with their fans. Thus, this table adds to the conclusions about the omnipresence and entwining of music in the everyday life of the young people, showing the variety of uses that a majority of the young people engage in. With the aid of the qualitative material, I will now develop an extended typology of these various practices.

26   Not only about listening 1. Large-­scale sharing. Most of the interviewees in the focus group interviews were using or had been using different file-­sharing programs. Overall, Limewire was the most widely used file-­sharing network, both in 2006 and 2010. For the majority of the interviewees, the use of one file-­sharing network was enough, and they used the network that gave them the best access and most convenience at the time. More “advanced” users preferred to use several networks, either because they wanted to be able to perform more advanced searches or because different programs/networks had different strengths. As one example, Torgeir (16A) was using Limewire for single song downloads and BitTorrent sites for the downloading of full albums. 2. Getting. However, our interviewees seldom described their use of file-­ sharing applications as sharing. For the young people, the use of these applications was much more thought of as being about getting (and discovering). Indicative of this, the activities were consequently described as “downloading” and not “file sharing.” Early research on file-­sharing networks was informed by a search for new forms of online sociality (see e.g., McGee and Skågeby 2004). However, they soon became disappointed because there was little sociality to find. Our material confirms this picture. Not one of the interviewees said that he/ she had gotten to know anybody through the use of file-­sharing networks. The practices of getting were basically connected to the use of (illegal) file-­sharing networks – though some were also downloading from other sources such as band home pages and Urørt, as well as buying from iTunes. Another example of getting was Paal (17B), who was using the program “Any Video Converter” to convert music streams from YouTube into downloadable MP3 files. 3. Discovering. An important aspect of the net-­based music practices was discovery. In the long quote from Stina (15A) that I cited earlier, she is describing the fascination that she experiences when spending the evening in front of the computer searching for and discovering music. Many of the other young people also told about the pleasures and excitement in finding new tunes. The practice of what Nag calls “self-­initiated discovery” is quite common. In 2006, this type of discovery was foremost performed through searching file-­sharing networks. In 2010, much of these practices had been taken over by new services such as YouTube and Spotify (a couple also mentioned Grooveshark). Social media were also much used for Nag’s second category of discovery: “discovery through social networks” – by getting tipped off from friends about interesting music. The new features of programs such as LastFM and Spotify, which allows users to search through friend’s playlists, were highly valued. 4. Researching. I will add “researching” as a distinctive type of practice. It resembles discovery, but while discovery is primarily about finding new music, researching is about finding out more about artists or songs one already knows. Thus, studying the discographies of artists or finding lyrics to songs would be examples of research. As pointed out by Beer, the Internet makes it possible for us to “engage in research into any popular performer with great ease and free access” (2008: 229). Such research is pursued through the use of various resources: band home pages, fan blogs, bulletin boards, newsrooms, Google,

Not only about listening   27 Wikipedia and sites such as www.allmusic.com and www.lyricspedia.com. Elisabeth (16B) explained the attraction of this type of research practice: “Because it’s so much more to the artist than just the music.” 5. Small-­scale sharing. Sharing music with friends was a prevalent practice. The young people told us that discussions and exchange of information about music were normal everyday activities, often leading to the sharing of music files or the exchange of links or tips through the Internet – or by whatever means that were most practical in the situation. The transfer of music files was carried out through swapping via Bluetooth, burning of CD’s or by copying from each other’s hard drives. However, just the name of a song or link was often sent, and then the song was searched up and downloaded from a file-­sharing network or accessed through Spotify or YouTube. In 2010, the sharing of playlists via social media had become popular. 6. Self-­sharing. By use of the term “self-­sharing,” I refer to the activities of copying and transferring music from one music device to another for one’s own use. All interviewees, for example, transferred music to their MP3 players or mobile phones from time to time. For some, these activities were quite time consuming, with frequent replacement of music, involving creative considerations concerning the selection of music and at times demanding technical skills to overcome difficulties. The PC had the role of activity center for the spectrum of self-­sharing activities, ranging from ripping CDs, burning CDs, placing music on memory sticks, transferring music to mobile phones or MP3 players, or copying to external hard drives or other backup systems. Interestingly, the possibilities for self-­sharing were pointed out as an important argument for continuing with downloading music instead of or in addition to streaming in the 2010 interviews. Several of the young people emphasized that having the music stored on the hard disc gave them a sense of control and flexibility. As Vebjørn (17B) said: “When I have the files, I can move them wherever I want.” 7. Organizing. Another set of activities are those related to the organizing of the music on the computer. For some, the organizing was not an important issue, just leaving the files where and as they were downloaded or copied, without further considerations. Others spent a lot of effort in creating systems for the storage and retrieval of music. The most common way of organizing is through the creation of playlists, a feature in many music programs. A more comprehensive approach consisted of the systematization of the entire music catalogue on the hard drive based on different ordering principles, for example by artist or genre. 8. Collecting. All forms of organizing music are also a form of collecting music. Steirer (2014), for example, has suggested an extended definition of collecting were activities that in one way or another increase the use-­value of music beyond mere listening are included. However, in a more narrow and traditional sense, just a few of the interviewees were systematically and devotedly collecting music from special artists, time periods or otherwise. Some did thou, for example Runar (14A), who were collecting live recordings of Bruce Springsteen concerts.

28   Not only about listening 9. Listening. When speaking of music, listening is such an obvious practice that one runs the risk of overseeing it. However, as studies from the musicking perspective have made us aware, there are several considerations and decisions connected to the acts of listening (Bull 2006; Skånland 2012; Hagen 2015a). The choices of devices for listening were dependent on several circumstances, including availability, mobility and flexibility. Naturally, smaller devices such as MP3 players or mobile phones were preferred when on the move, while the radio was preferred for certain other occasions. In 2010, the PC was still the most popular technology even for the playback of music. Perhaps surprisingly, few of the interviewees mentioned sound quality as an important issue regarding listening. Control, privacy, flexibility and access seemed to be more pertinent considerations. Thus, the preference of the computer as a playback medium was explained by the circumstance that it was the site where the young people had stored or access to most music. 10. Tinkering. By tinkering, I refer to practices of recontextualizing and remixing music in a playful manner, putting it together in novel ways. Arguably, there are different levels of tinkering practices (see Kershaw 2010). At a basic level, the creation of playlists or gift CDs could be seen as everyday acts of tinkering because they involve new ways of ordering and sequencing songs. In this sense, all of my interviewees are tinkerers to some extent. A more advanced form of tinkering concerns the use of music in one’s own multimedia productions by adding sound to picture slides or video clips. In the 2010 interviews, several of the interviewees told us that they had made use of music for such purposes. Some had done it in relation to school projects, while others had done it for their blogs and other spare time projects. For instance, Aksel (15B) regularly video recorded play scenes from the game Counter Strike, adding favorite music to the shootings for release on the web forum Catch Gamer. Finally, there are forms of tinkering in which one actually makes changes to existing sound expressions and/or produces new ones. While several of the young people had attempted this on an elementary level through the use of standard programs such as Garage Band, four of the interviewees had more extensive experience with remixing or producing music. Large-­scale sharing, small-­scale sharing, getting, discovering, researching, organizing, collecting, self-­sharing, listening, tinkering … these are ten distinct music-­related practices that emerged from this classificatory analysis of my interviewees’ different forms of engagement with digital music technologies. In the 2010 interviews, we asked the young people to draw “mental maps” showing the various sites, services and applications they used for music-­related purposes. Below is the map drawn by Hanne (16B), which visually illustrates some of the diversity of uses explored above: In the map, Hanne has listed the most important sites and services she uses, while also indicating their prime use: The Pirate Bay to download, CD and iPod to listen, Facebook to share with friends, Spotify to discover, Windows Media Player to listen on the PC and Buzz to discover punk and rock bands not known in Norway. Thus, the map nicely illustrates how different services are employed

Not only about listening   29

Figure 2.1  Hanne’s map.

for different purposes. Furthermore, the way Hanne has drawn arrows between the various practices, services and technologies also nicely illustrates the virtuous interweaving of the different parts of the youth’s musical lives.

You can always get what you want? The multiple music-­related practices explored in the previous section, demonstrates the need for a broader, more encompassing approach to the appropriation of digital music technologies than usually found in the research literature. In the beginning of this chapter, I noted how the emphasis of the research on digital has changed from the 2000s to the 2010s. While studies of the use of file-­sharing networks were quite narrowly concerned with sharing practices, the emerging literature on streaming has so far mostly focused on listening experiences. I have shown how both these foci, taken alone, represent a too narrow perception of what digital music use is about. In order to capture the breadth of engagement, we need to triangulate all of the perspectives on digital music use found in the research literature thus far – the sharing perspective, the discovery perspective, the musicking perspective and the remix perspective. We then need to add some new ones – especially in relation to the organizing and “self-­sharing” activities presented above. Only then does the full picture start to emerge – or else we run the risk of overlooking important aspects of the youth’s engagement. Clearly, this may also have implications for the design and the politics of digital music technologies.

30   Not only about listening A basic conclusion emerging from this chapter is that young people want to do more of everything – they want to listen, play, share, create, order and the more. We may characterize the youth’s engagement with digital music technologies through the following headings: •

•

• •

Diversity – Young people were relating to music in a variety of ways. It was not any distinct practice, but rather the sum of the diverse practices that constituted the new everyday life of music. One of the possible explanations for the popularity of the PC compared to the other technologies was that it allowed for more diversity in use. Flexibility – Young people were – and wanted to be – flexible in their relationship to music. This attitude of flexibility was apparent not only in the ways young people were choosing the devices that were on hand or most convenient for the purpose at any time – but also in their preference for the PC as the technology that offered the most flexibility in terms of uses (e.g., the possibility for private and social uses, as well as for instrumental and communicative uses). Accessibility – Young people had become accustomed to an entirely new level of access to music, and had a preference for technologies and services that would assure them of this. Interweaving – Young people were fond of technologies and services that could communicate with each other – as illustrated by Hanne’s drawing on the former page. It was striking how youth’s blended legal and illegal practices in a seemingly seamless manner.

Looking back, young people have, from the outset, shown an enormous interest and appetite for digital music technologies and eagerly seized all the opportunities that have opened up through Internet and online distribution. In terms of folding, I will argue that the basic role of the way users have appropriated digital music distribution, has been to transform the Internet from what we may call a “a thin medium” to “a thick medium” – that is, by dramatically increasing the level of online activity from the late 1990s and onwards. The analysis in this chapter has shown the breadth of practices involved in this transformation. In this respect, it is important to keep in mind that the world of digital music is a world that to a large degree developed in the interplay between users, “prosumers,” internet activists, IT entrepreneurs and technology industries (see Spilker 2005). It is a world that for a long time progressed outside the realms of the music industry. Long into the 2000s, the basic strategy of the music industry in the digital domain was to hamper file-­sharing, by legal, educational, technological and other means. The turn to streaming services represented a shift in industrial strategies. Instead of hampering, streaming services are, at least partly, accommodating some of the users’ desires for accessibility and flexibility. Thus, these services hold the promise for letting the music industry regain some control over its products and revenue streams (although the business models are still uncertain, see i.e., Wikström and DeFillippi 2016).

Not only about listening   31 We have seen that some interesting changes took place in the music practices of young people between 2006 and 2010. First, there was more use of nearly everything, which can possibly be understood in light of the continued development of new technologies and services, thereby fueling youth’s interest in and appetite for music. Second, the emergence of cloud-­based services such as YouTube, MySpace, Spotify and Facebook (to mention the most important in our material) clearly captured the youth segment. In the second part of the analysis, I identified ten different music-­related practices that showed the breadth of youth’s everyday engagement with music. Services such as Spotify and YouTube have particularly tapped into the practices of discovery and researching, while Facebook and other social network media (as well as the interweaving of Facebook with streaming services such as Spotify and YouTube) have catered to and stimulated youth’s preferences for small-­scale sharing with friends and acquaintances. Consequently, these services have clearly gained a foothold in several of the music-­related practices that young people engage in. However, regarding some of the other practices I identified, the picture is somewhat different. The practices of tinkering are a case in point. I differentiated between different levels of tinkering practices. On a basic level, services such as YouTube and Facebook have been successfully able to cater to youth’s inclinations by including possibilities for the creation of playlists and related features. However, in order to be able to carry out more “advanced” forms of remixing, such as conducting own multimedia productions or remix or mash-­up music, streaming will not do (see Jenkins et al. 2013). In the same way, to perform the practices of what I have entitled self-­sharing requires a degree of user control that is at odds with the business principles behind most cloud services. As Vebjørn (17B) pointed out earlier: You need to have the files to be able to move them around as you like. Some of the other practices as well, for example those of organizing (and getting of course), are not necessarily compatible with the logic of cloud-­based music. The same also holds true for the practice of collecting. Steirer (2014) is one of the harshest critics of the design of the new streaming services. He argues that the turn to mobile phones and the push to produce simpler user interfaces has resulted in more and more ready-­made choices and made it increasingly difficult to enter and alter data. The continued influence of these trends leads Steirer to predict that in the future “consumers will likely find themselves able to perform even fewer organizing practices with their data collections than they can today” (ibid.: 86). He goes on to claim that streaming “as it is currently constructed represents a victory of industry interests over those of collectors” (ibid.: 80). Continuing in the same vein, Marshall (2015) points out how what he calls the three “foundations” of collecting – ordering, owning and desiring – become obsolete in the world of streaming. Thus, from the vantage point of this analysis, it is important to point out that the rising popularity of the smart phones and streaming services may come at a cost. I summarized youth’s engagement in music in four headwords: diversity, flexibility, accessibility and interweaving. Based on the latest figures from the

32   Not only about listening Norwegian record industry (IFPI Norway 2015, 2016) – showing that streaming now has a market share of nearly 80% and the diminishing of file-­sharing down to 4% in the youth segment – it may be inferred that easy access have trumped other desires among young people. Or to put it in the pessimistic tone of Lessig (2008): We are witnessing a transformation from a RW-­culture (read-­and-write-­ culture) to a RO-­culture (read-­only-culture). I do think this is an exaggerated conclusion. But in the seemingly friction free and conflict free world of streaming, it is a pertinent question to ask what has happened with the rebellious potential that the Internet users were said to represent in the 2000s (see Castells and Cardoso 2012; Arvanitakis and Fredriksson 2014). In which respect can the youth’s practices, unfolded in this chapter, be seen as part of a “piracy culture”? What is eventually going to be the outcome of this rebellion? And is it a fading rebellion? These are questions we will turn to in the next chapters.

Note 1 We found few significant differences between the genders. There were some interesting differences between the age groups, especially related to the preference for different types of technologies. These are commented on in the analysis.

3 The value of access Negotiating file-­sharing and streaming among young people and with parents

Domesticating controversial technologies In the late 2000s, the Norwegian record industry associations launched a large campaign against file-­sharing named Piracy Kills Music. The target group for the campaign was young people between the ages of 15 and 25, and the campaign was rolled out in TV, newspapers and on the Internet. A special web site for the campaign, www.piracykillsmusic.no, was also established.1 The stated purpose for the campaign was to inform the public about the law in force. As one of the initiators, Terje Klausen from GramArt, said: “Surveys have shown that 50% of this age group lacks knowledge of law in force concerning downand up-­loading of illegally copied music files.” This broad campaign was followed up by a more specialized campaign targeted at the educators – parents, teachers, youth club leaders and ICT personnel in the schools. Two new web sites were established – www.musickillscreativity. no and www.ansvarliginternett.no [responsibleinternet.no] – and informational material was sent out to all the 3,000 secondary and high schools in Norway. The brochures listed a long list of actions that the schools should take to increase the safety of their data systems and prevent their use for unauthorized distribution of copyrighted material. They also included detailed suggestions for the shaping of the schools’ ICT regulations and outlines of information letters to be sent to staff and pupils. The central message to the school authorities was clearly evident even on the front page of the leaflet: “Do you know that you’re responsible for what the school’s computer equipment is used for?”2 (for  a detailed analysis of the music industry’s school campaigns, see Gillespie 2009). However, the arguments of the recording industry have not been the only ones in circulation. Opposing viewpoints were voiced by academics, media commentators, consumer activist organizations such as Electronic Frontier Norway3 and the Piracy Group,4 and from file-­sharers themselves. Actually, the Piracy Kills Music campaign got a quite harsh treatment in the press, as we will see in Chapter 8 where the media coverage of the campaign will be dealt with in more detail. Activist organizations were mocking the campaign, launching counter-­ campaigns like PiracyKillsNoMusic and Piracy Frees Music.5

34   The value of access The piracy-­campaign and the reactions it invoked tells us much about the moral climate for the appropriation of digital music technologies. In this chapter, I will look into the youth’s – and their parents’ – attitudes towards the controversial character of digital music technologies, especially file-­sharing technologies. Digital music technologies have been imbued with controversies from the outset. Since the late 1990s, the so-­called “piracy wars” (see e.g., Sinnreich 2014) have raged between the music industry and a more or less loosely coupled assemblage of Internet activists, technologists, file-­sharers and ordinary Internet users. Thus, the domestication of digital music technologies has taken place in a context where powerful external actors have tried outspokenly to convince young people about their viewpoints. The empirical material for the analysis is the same as in last chapter, both surveys and focus group interviews with young people. In addition, I will draw on a set of family interviews conducted in the prolongation of the 2010 data acquisition. Special attention is paid to the 2010 data. 2010 was a year of rupture and transition. As we saw in the last chapter, file-­sharing was still something “everyone” was doing. At the same time, however, the streaming service Spotify had experienced a major breakthrough among Norwegian youth. The year 2010 thus offers a strategic looking glass for investigating the values young people attached to these different services. In the previous chapter, we saw how young people desirously threw themselves upon the new music technologies – and appropriated them for a wide spectrum of activities. However, a question we did not discuss was to what extent – or in what sense – these activities can be understood as part of an insurgency against established orders. Castells and Cardoso (2012) have coined the term “piracy cultures” to capture the observation that an increasing number of people are building media relationships outside the institutionalized set of rules in the content industries. In Castells and Cardoso’s conception, the notion of piracy is not confined to criminal practices in a legal sense, but is used to capture the flourishing of alternative networks and communities for the creation and distribution of content. On the other hand, scholars such as Rimini and Marshall (2014) and Burkart and Andersson Schwartz (2015) have argued that media piracy has lost its transformative potential and slipped into mainstream media consumption, becoming “normal” and “boring.” I will approach the question of rebelliousness by looking at digital music consumption as a youth practice and a generational phenomenon.6 Since at least the 1950s, music consumption has possessed rebellious elements and been part of generational uproars (see e.g., Cunningham 2006). Historically, it is perhaps the hippie movement and the punk movement that are the best examples of instances where music consumption exhibited clear political agendas and were coupled with alternative ways of living and organizing, including alternative distribution channels and dissemination arenas. Music and music-­related activities writ large thus came to define and imprint whole generations of youth. As several writers have pointed out, the rise of new media and communication technologies have increasingly come to be part of the defining elements for successive generations

The value of access   35 of young people (see e.g., Livingstone 2002; Ito et al. 2010; boyd 2014; Lim 2016). Especially, the rise and appropriation of the Internet itself during the 1990s had such a character (Jenkins et al. 2016). Thus, approaching music consumption as a generational phenomenon, I will here be more occupied with the technologies of music consumption rather than the music itself. The empirical foundation for the analysis in this chapter consists partly of the same qualitative and quantitative interviews as in the previous chapter. Some of the most interesting aspects that came out of the focus group interviews were the youth’s stories about how file-­sharing was negotiated with their parents. Additionally, we therefore conducted another set of interviews, this time with a number of young people and their parents. This gave us the chance to counter the youth’s stories with those of the parents: 19 interviewees were interviewed, in a series of eight family interviews. In the analysis, all interviewees have been given other names. In the family interviews, I use (P) for parent and (Y) for young people to make it easier to separate them. In the first part of the analysis, I will focus the moral values of the young people. To what extent did the young people relate their activities to the ongoing discussions over digital piracy? How up-­to-date and engaged were they? In an earlier work, I have argued that the massification of Internet around 2000 was not, as all commentators then expected, marked first and foremost by increasing commercialization, but by the generalization of the Internet as a counter cultural arena (Spilker 2005). Can the activities of the ordinary young people that we have interviewed be seen as part of such a generalization? I will also address the question of the strength and the outcome of this – possibly – counter cultural activity. In the second part of the analysis, I will look at how attitudes towards digital music distribution are negotiated in the family setting. Lim (2016) has argued that differences between family members, for example young people and their parents, in how media technologies are domesticated could be analyzed as different forms of asymmetries, while Green (2001) has made the suggestion that domestication could be analyzed as a process of boundary-­making. In the case of file-­sharing, we know that this predominantly has been a youth activity (we also know that there is a lot of exceptions). What forms of asymmetries are invoked in relation to and what types of practical and moral boundaries have resulted from the activity? Jenkins et al. have described how parent’s reactions towards new media commonly are “inflamed by media sensationalism, moral panics, and culture wars” (2016: 51). How do digital music technologies tap into this picture, compared with other controversial themes regarding online activities?

Piracy as morality and rebellion We can look at the public discourse around digital music technologies as resources and pressures for the way the young people appropriate these technologies, developing morals and practices (see Hartman 2009). The public discourse has basically consisted of two sides. One the one hand, it has been the

36   The value of access viewpoint of the music industry, tellingly illustrated by the piracy-­kills-music campaign described in the introduction. Predominantly, the industry has argued that file-­sharing is harmful, because it enables consumers to acquire music without the owners’ consent and without paying for the use of the products. They maintain that it is the right of the property owners to decide how their assets should be exploited and used. Unauthorized file-­sharing is illegal and immoral – and economically damaging for the music industry. On the other side Internet activists and most of the academic community have tried to balance the arguments from the music industry with alternative viewpoints. Several commentators have criticized the music industry for being too conservative and repressive (see e.g., Lessig 2002, 2004; Fisher 2004; Gillespie 2007; Boyle 2008; Wikström 2010; Sinnreich 2014). One line of critique has been that the social costs resulting from the record industry’s strategies are too high. It contends that there is something fundamentally wrong with a law that labels the bulk of young people under 25 as criminals. Furthermore, it has been argued that an effective enforcement of the law, hampering illegal file-­sharing, will demand forms and degrees of surveillance that will represent a threat to democracy. Another set of arguments has concerned the worth of user-­driven music sharing. It has been held forth that user-­driven music sharing represents forms of resistance that in different ways are culturally creative, socially beneficial and economically productive. The term “digital commons” was popular in the 2000s to denote the potential of the Internet for becoming a platform for an unsurpassed sharing of cultural resources (May 2000; Lessig 2002, 2004; Lindenschmidt 2004; Postigo 2012). Interestingly, the idea of a digital commons was advanced and defended from socialist, liberalist and value conservative positions. From a value conservative position, digital commons represent a possibility to preserve and protect valuable cultural heritage from the worst fluctuations of turbo capitalism. The socialist defense is connected to the viewpoint that all cultural expressions are the result of collective achievements and therefore belongs to the people and should be universally and unrestrictedly available. A liberalist stance argues that the sharing of resources in the form of digital commons, whether science, data code, music or information, is a continuous source for the creation of more and better innovations. In this manner, positive values have been attributed to file-­sharing and other activities challenging established orders. Some suggestive terms have been suggested to denote the achievements of the many who contribute to the new modes of cultural production and consumption. Castells and Cardoso’s concept of piracy cultures have been widely discussed and generated a stream of research over the last years (see Castells and Cardoso 2012; Burkart and Andersson Schwartz 2015; Andersson Schwartz and Burkart 2015). The term is used to capture the flourishing of alternative networks and communities for the creation and distribution of content. Castells (2009, 2012) views today’s media landscape as dominated by two seemingly opposing trends: On one side the increasing concentration of power among established media companies, on the other side the

The value of access   37 increasing amounts of communication and distribution taking place outside traditional channels. In a similar vein, focusing on the potential of the Internet and the circulation of cultural content in turning more and more people into producers of culture, Jenkins (2006; et al. 2015) has suggested that we see the rise of a participatory culture and Lessig (2008) the proliferation of a remix culture. Thus, when the young people were participating in or abstaining from file-­ sharing activity, this formed some of the discursive context they were surrounded by (and of which they were more or less knowledgeable). In the analysis, I will look at the youth’s own motivations for file-­sharing and their awareness and perceptions of the discourse around digital music technologies. I will compare my findings with two other works that have discussed different user motivations. In his study of Swedish file sharers, Andersson Schwartz (2010; and Larsson 2014) found three common types of motivations or justifications for the participation in file-­sharing:  1 2 3

“It’s unstoppable.” It is impossible to reverse the phenomenon.  “The artists/producers don’t suffer”/ “Culture in general doesn’t suffer.” File-­sharing does not replace sales, but stimulates the interest in the artist and/or in music in general.  “It’s democratic.” This legitimation is similar to the idea of digital commons (see above).

Another typology of user motivations has been developed by Lessig (2004). Lessig distinguishes between four different reasons for file-­sharing:  A B C D

As substitutes for purchasing content.  To sample music before purchasing it.  To get access to copyrighted content that is no longer available elsewhere.  To get access to content that is not copyrighted. 

Lessig comments: From the perspective of the law, only type D sharing is clearly legal. From the perspective of economics, only type A sharing is clearly harmful. Type B sharing is illegal but plainly beneficial. Type C sharing is illegal, yet good for society (since more exposure to music is good) and harmless to the artist (since the work is not otherwise available). (Ibid.: 68–69) In the 2010 Pandora Survey, as we will see, we actually construed one of the questions to test Lessig’s typology.

38   The value of access

Digital music technologies as generational boundary markers and asymmetries The double agenda of this chapter is first to look at the moral values of young people and second to assess the interplay between these values and the negotiations over digital music distribution in their families. This will be used as an intake to reveal the (eventual) seditious character of digital music practices, based on the assumption that one of the manifestations of rebelliousness will be boundary conflicts within families. To which degree and in what way does the use of such technologies function as a boundary maker and a conflict arena in a generational sense? I will approach the latter question in the context of conflicts and negotiations over the use of other types of ICT. How high is the conflict level regarding digital music practices in comparison with activities such as online gaming, chatting, pornography, social media use etc.? We know that the use of ICTs in general is often a source of controversies between young people and their parents (see e.g., Clark 2013; Livingstone and Sefton-­Green 2016; Staksrud 2016). Thus, the comparison can tell us something about the relative “heat” surrounding music technologies vis-­à-vis other digital technologies. Making such comparisons is in line with the focus on the contexts of use, which is one of the ways the domestication approach (see Chapter 1) differs from earlier perspectives on media use (Livingstone and Drotner 2008, Hoover and Clark 2008). The domestication approach is interested in the relation between the domestication of particular media contents or technologies and the other activities of the household: “Domestication may be seen as the process through which an artifact becomes associated with practices, meanings, peoples and other artifacts” (Sørensen 2006: 47). A secondary reason for broadening the outlook is the fact that research on the use of ICTs in the family context has almost completely neglected digital music technologies. None of the articles in The International Handbook of Children, Media and Culture (Drotner and Livingstone 2008) take up music technologies. Neither will one find discussions on the topic in central textbooks like Livingstone (2002) and Buckingham (2007), nor in the newer work of for example Clark (2013), boyd (2014) or Lim (2016). This is indeed a peculiar omission, given both the widespread use and the controversial nature of digital music distribution. Anyway, we thus have to look at the general literature on ICTs and young people to theorize generational aspects of digital music use. In different ways, much of this literature has had as its offspring parental concerns over these technologies. It is not hard to find examples of how the youth’s use of digital media has caused public and parental anxieties adjacent to moral panics, nurtured by media sensationalism and fear of the new. Jenkins et al. argue that many parents are “simultaneously afraid of and afraid for youth” (2016: 33). Admittedly, anxieties towards sex, drugs and rock’n’roll still abound, but anxieties towards the dangers caused by new media are definitely adding to the picture. We can make a long and fascinating list of all the dangers that have been

The value of access   39 connected to youth’s online activities: wasting time, encountering pornography, experiencing sexual harassments, developing anti-­social behavior, being bullied, meeting child abusers, excessive gaming, blurring of fantasy and reality, loss of capacity for attention and concentration, health risks such as eyestrain and physical inactivity, violent content, data theft, financial fraud, virus, and so on and so on. In research, a substantial number of studies have studied the risks caused by one or some of these dangers (for an overview, see Staksrud 2016: 5–6). A more general approach to online dangers can be found in Livingstone et al. (2012) and Staksrud (2016). The interesting question for my study is how online music use – and the hazard of copyright infringement – taps into this list. Some researchers have pointed at the paradoxical attitude many parents display towards digital media. On the one hand, they are aware of the growing importance of the technology and want their children to be digitally literate (Rahayu and Lim 2016; Livingstone and Sefton-­Green 2016). Also, they want to use it as a means to nurture family ties and exercise parental surveillance (Yoon 2016). But on the other hand, ICT-­use is imbued with concerns. Green thus calls ICTs “a symbol of the ‘damned if you do/damned if you don’t-battle’ that parents wage with the future on behalf of their children” (2001: 51). While many of the studies have departed from parental concerns, some have chosen a more open-­ended approach, taking the youth’s practices and perspectives as a starting point. Early examples include Pasquier (2001), Livingstone (2002) and Hartmann (2005). In these studies, a central focus is on how digital media provides new opportunities for young people, for example related to creativity and self-­determination. The title of Ito et al.’s (2010) book – Hanging Out, Messing Around, and Geeking Out – points to different forms and levels of literacy young people develop through their leisure time tinkering with new media. boyd (2013) describes how kids are using social media to create their own public spheres as part of their autonomy and adulthood projects. Similarly, Jenkins et al. call attention to the way young people have always been attracted to new media technologies “because they [are] seeking a space outside of adult supervision” (2016: 31). The emerging approach to youth-­parent relationships advocated by these scholars is to analyze them as negotiations with the possibility to, negatively or positively, alter existing family patterns. Clark, for example, sees ICTs as technologies that can “mediate, symbolize, and disrupt or reinforce the social relations of the family” (2014: 329). Taking a more normative, but still constructivist stance Jenkins et al. argue that an important task for research on families and new media is to identify arenas for constructive and open dialogs and “healthy cross-­generational interactions” (2016: 51). In the literature on young people, families and ICTs, there is hardly any discussion on how opposition towards parents might be related to resistance towards more general social norms and structures. A partial exception is Boyd  who comments: “Teens’ practices in social media are neither frivolous nor without impact in other parts of public and civic life, whether they are trying to be political or not” (2013: 207). I will get back to both the possibility of

40   The value of access cross-­generational interactions and the question of a dual family-­societyresistance towards the end of the chapter. Finally, I will present two concepts that I find fruitful for the analysis of family negotiations over new media. The first is the concept of boundary-­ making. Green (2001) has made the promising suggestion that domestication could be analyzed as a process of boundary-­making – how the making of boundaries forms an important part of developing both practices and morals. In this chapter the focus is on possible generational divides. In the case of file-­sharing, we know that this predominantly has been a youth activity. Given the controversial nature of the activity, I further expect that it could give rise to negotiations, conflicts and regulative efforts on the side of the parents – in short, that it could function as a boundary-­maker within the families. What types of practical and moral boundaries have resulted from the activity? The second concept is the concept of asymmetries, advanced by Lim (2016). She argues that because of the personal character of new media technologies and their “remarkable combination of instrumentality and emotionality, their entry into the household will inevitably provoke alternating reactions” (ibid.: 2). To analyze family members’ alternating responses to new media, she makes a distinction between six different forms of asymmetries: power asymmetries, expectation asymmetries, practice asymmetries, access asymmetries, competency asymmetries and value asymmetries. The challenges related to asymmetries in the families are not necessarily to reduce and level them out, but to find ways to cope and live with them. Which asymmetries are invoked in relation to digital music distribution? Asymmetries in values? Asymmetries in competencies? And how are they handled?

Reflections on piracy and legality The empirical material for the analyzes in this chapter includes the four sets of data – the two Pandora Surveys and the two sets of focus group interviews employed in the previous chapter. Special attention is paid to the 2010 data, since, as argued in the introduction, 2010 was a year of rupture and transition. In addition to these sources, a main empirical source is a series of family interviews. Some of the most interesting aspects that came out of the initial focus group interviews in 2006 were the youth’s stories about how file-­sharing was negotiated with their parents. Together with the second round of interviews and surveys in 2010, we therefore also conducted another set of interviews, this time with young people (of the same age group) and their parents. This gave us the chance to counter the youth’s stories with those of the parents: 19 interviewees were interviewed, in a series of eight family interviews. In the analysis, all interviewees have been given other names. The young people are denoted with the same way as in last chapter, with a parenthesis with age and a letter indicating sample – “A” representing the 2005 focus group interviews, “B” the 2010 focus group interviews and a “C” for the family interviews. The parents are notated with a “P.”

The value of access   41 I will start by looking at the youth’s viewpoints towards file-­sharing and streaming. As we saw in the previous chapter, the Pandora Surveys showed that the percentage of people that was downloading music from file-­sharing networks on a weekly basis had decreased from 57% to 41% from 2005 to 2010. At the same time, the new opportunities for listening to music from Spotify and watching music videos on YouTube had received tremendous popularity, with respectively 73% and 80% of the young people stating that they were using them weekly. The focus group interviews from 2010 and the family interviews confirm this picture. But even if many of the young people told us that they had reduced or stopped all together with file-­sharing because of Spotify, all of them, with only two exceptions, had used or were using file-­sharing networks intensively in periods and were knowledgeable and experienced about their functioning. Basically, the youth’s attitudes towards file-­sharing mirrors the arguments put forward in the academic debate on the topic – but with a somewhat more pragmatic bend. If we look at the three forms of justifications that Andersson Schwartz and Larsson (2014) are describing, variants of the first one – “it’s unstoppable” – were frequently found in our material as well. Harald (17B) argued against laws that criminalize activities most of the young people are engaged in: “To download is like a norm. All are doing it.” Christina’s (17B) considerations of the difficulties of prohibiting file-­sharing reflect the arguments of Lessig (2002, 2004) and Fisher (2004): “Downloading is not going to stop. Then you would have to close down the Internet.” The second argument of Andersson Schwartz and Larsson – “the artists/ producers don’t suffer” – are also expressed by several in my material. Torgeir (16A) (and his dad) had little pity for the record companies: “My dad is as pissed at the record companies as I am, so he thinks it’s perfectly alright.” Tomas (16B) looked at it from a less aggressive angle: I think that the fact that it has been possible to download for free has done much good for the music. Because that’s really the purpose with making music. To release it so that people can listen to it. Elisabeth (15B) supplemented to this line of thought: “You get more fans and can benefit from more people going to your concerts.” Others, still defending file-­sharing, were concerned for the income of the artists. Christina (17B) again: “There should be found alternative ways for artists to earn an income. Perhaps through taxation.” The democratic justification of Andersson Schwartz and Larsson is harder to discern in my material. Johanne (16B) was an exception: “Downloading should be legalized. Music is so important so everyone should have access.” Overall, however, we heard few explicit arguments that connected file-­sharing to ideas about digital commons and universally shared cultural resources. Basically, the young people seemed to take these resources as a given and were more oriented towards pragmatic considerations.

42   The value of access In the Pandora Survey of 2010, we included a question where we asked the respondents about their motivations for downloading music. The response alternatives corresponded to the four different categories of Lessig (2004). The question was presented as four claims and the respondents were asked to agree or disagree along a scale from 1 to 10. The table below shows the percentage placing themselves on the “agree-­side” of the scale: As we see, all of Lessig’s categories of downloading find substantial resonance among the survey respondents. Both A-­type, B-­type and C-­type of downloading are specified as reasons for downloading among about one third of the young people. In the group interviews, the interviewees gave examples of sites they used to listen to demos from new artists and music that was difficult to obtain from legal sources. However, the most striking finding from this table is that the “harmful” type of downloading, the D-­type, is by far the most prevalent reason given. Two thirds of the young people readily admitted that they agree with the claim that they download music to avoid purchasing it. This finding is in line with the impressions we got from the group interviews. In these interviews, we discussed the youth’s relationship to the legality of file-­ sharing networks. Principally, the young people knew that file-­sharing was illegal. Like Aida (18B) said: “Of course we know it’s not legal. We’re told over and over again.” With regard to the more precise demarcations, the knowledge was more varied. Some had rather detailed knowledge, about both legal and illegal sources, and the difference between sharing with friends and with strangers. Others were more less sure. In any case, they seemingly displayed few moral scruples with file-­sharing regardless of source and form. Still, we saw that the amount of use of file-­sharing networks had decreased from 2005 to 2010. In the 2010 survey, we included a question where we listed several reasons for not downloading. The interviewees were again asked to agree or disagree along a scale from 1 to 10. There are some interesting patterns in this table. First, we see that lack of knowledge and poor connectivity are the least probable reasons for limiting downloading, together with restrictions from the youth’s parents. In the “second heat,” we find the arguments that are most directly linked to the music industry campaigns against file-­sharing (along with restrictions from parents): The wish to be law-­abiding, a fear of being persecuted, and a concern for the rights and income of the artists. Around one quarter of the respondents admitted that these can be grounds for curbing file-­sharing. These numbers indicates that the focus Table 3.1  Reasons for downloading; percentage agreeing to claim (n = 622) (%) A Basically downloading music that is not protected by copyright (free demos and samples etc.) B Basically downloading music that is too special to find in ordinary outlets C Basically downloading music to listen through and find out what to buy D Basically downloading because I then do not have to purchase the music

34 36 36 63

The value of access   43 Table 3.2  Reasons for limiting downloading; percentage agreeing to claim (n = 647) (%) Do not know how to do it Am not allowed by my parents Am afraid of being caught and persecuted Limit downloading to avoid virus Limit downloading because of poor Internet connectivity Uncertain about what is legal and not Limit downloading because of concern for artists’ rights and income Limit downloading because do not want to break the law Download less than otherwise would have done because of streaming services like Spotify

12 12 19 37 14 24 27 27 55

and pressure against file-­sharing from the industry in these years had at least some impact. However, the two most important reasons for reducing file-­sharing were of a different kind. Fear of viruses – related to the occurrence of malicious files in file-­sharing networks – was widespread. Thirty-­seven per cent of the young people stated that this was a possible reason to limit the presence in these networks (and some of the young people in the group interviews knew the rumors that the malicious software had been seeded by the music industry themselves through undercover agents, cf. Lobato and Thomas 2012). Finally, the launching of Spotify was seen by far as the most relevant reason for limiting file-­sharing among the youth, with as many as 55% agreeing in the claim. In the group interviews, the pro and cons of Spotify were the subjects of lively discussion. The most important arguments in favor of streaming services were their convenience and simplicity. In addition, it was mentioned that you avoid viruses and save space on the computer. Tomas (19B) and Martin (18B) delivered the counter arguments: They complained about the lack of transferability and control with Spotify tunes. Also, they did not want to be dependent on Internet connectivity to listen to music, therefore they still preferred to download. Legality did not enter the discussions until we (the interviewers) brought it in.

Together in crime? We saw that restrictions from parents were not frequently emphasized as a reason to stop file-­sharing. I will now look at the kinds of discussions around digital music distribution that unfold in the youth’s families. First, I need to give a short account of the parents’ literacies and practices in this regard. Contrary to the young people, who generally displayed a huge interest in music and were employing and integrating digital technologies in nearly all of the activities they engaged in throughout the day, the picture is much more varied among the parents. On the whole, the parents displayed less interest in, and enthusiasm for, music and music technology than the young people. Most of them had some CDs and

44   The value of access even vinyl in the bookshelf, but their use was extremely varied. For some, the music collection only stood and gathered dust. Use was totally occasional and accidental. Others used music for certain occasions – such as when doing housework, reading, or when the spouse was out of the house. Three of our interviewees had considerable experience with the new digital music technologies. Felix (P) and Marthe (P) had coupled their loudspeakers to the PC – and were now using only the PC for music dissemination. Felix (P) had installed and learned to use BitTorrent, and had downloaded everything he had found of the old favorites from the sixties. Fredrik (P) had first tried to find a way to digitalize his collection of LPs – but found out that it was too cumbersome and time-­consuming. Instead, he had eventually downloaded a share of the same music. However, even if only three of our interviewees had personal experience with the new music technologies, others expressed a desire to acquire it. Mia (P) saw only advantages: Away with all these CDs. Rather download. It occupies much less space. Just have a playlist. But so far this is only a dream. Perhaps it will be in the future. In Mia’s case, the desire was to substitute the CDs with a playlist. For others, the MP3 player functioned as an entry point. As Helle (14C) stated: “Mum has got an MP3-player, so now she has to learn to download too.” Thus, regarding music interest and practice, the picture among the parents was strongly varied, and for most of them music use had some importance on some occasions in their everyday life. Overall, however, it is fair to say that the parents were less occupied with music and music technology than the young people. The next question is whether these practice asymmetries and competency asymmetries (Lin 2016) are followed by moral asymmetries – and whether these prospective differences lead to concern, conflicts and boundary-­making (Green 2001) within the households. How do the young people and the parents morally relate to and negotiate over digital music distribution? As I noted earlier, some of the most interesting things that came out of the initial group interviews with the young people were their stories about how file-­ sharing was negotiated with their parents. Let us look at one example: (16A):  Well, it’s more like – parents don’t know anything about it. They cannot handle it. You know, they are 40 or 50 years old, they.… Torgeir (16A):  Dad knows a great deal, but he is…. Mia (16A):  Yes. But mom and dad don’t know anything about such things. They can hardly.… Mom doesn’t even know how to open a word-­document. And she gives a shit in such things, really. Torgeir (16A):  My dad is as pissed at the record companies as I am, so he thinks it’s perfectly alright. Stina (16A):  It’s mom who sits and asks me to download, so.… Like: “Download some Abba, Stina, come on now!” (laughter). Mia

The value of access   45 Tom

(16A):  Yes, my parents have also wanted me to download music for them. Because if they want to listen to it themselves, it’s like “can’t you burn a CD for me” and that way. So maybe I should demand payment … (laughter).

Actually, none of the interviewees in the young people interviews reported that any restrictions were imposed by their parents regarding file-­sharing. Part of the motivation for the family interviews was to get the parents’ side of the story – as well as to get a more nuanced picture of the negotiations within the family. Could we have witnessed a misrepresentation due to bragging in the youth groups? In our eight families, we identified varying patterns in how music technology was negotiated. In one family, the parents had actually prohibited downloading. Johanna (17C) had earlier downloaded everything she desired. But then the parents discovered that “downloading was like stealing, and that one could get punished for doing it.” Johanna (17C) had to remove LimeWire from the PC and stop downloading. She said that she understood her parents’ reactions in a way: “I understand that one has to stop to get things on track. But it’s so easy.” Johanna (17C) further told us that she had stopped downloading for a year or so. But all her friends download and send music files to her by way of MSN. “It’s nearly the same,” she admitted, and her mother Mari (P) wondered: “Where is the principle?” The family of Fleming (P) and Jenny (15C) is perhaps the family that is closest to Johanna’s family. Fleming (P) told us that he was highly skeptical of his daughter’s downloading practices: “Personally I think it’s a nuisance.” But he thought it was a challenge to control so that it didn’t happen. Flemming used the phrase: “Download, burn and delete.” At least he thought it was unnecessary to fill up the PC with music files “by the bucket.” However, Jenny (15C) told us that she didn’t share the concerns of her father. She argued that file-­sharing was commonplace, and that she had no worries in that respect. In some of the other families, both young people and parents mentioned that they actually thought it would be fair to pay for the music, for the sake of the artists. However, they raised questions about whether downloading was harmful and to whom. Marthe (P) said: “I’m not sure whether the record industry needs to earn that much money.” Felipe (P) engaged in the same arguments, but was concerned that it would become more expensive and difficult for new artists to get released. But he also argued that the relationship between the Internet and music was ambiguous, since the Internet also offered new ways for artists to spread their music. In Felix (P) and Fredrik’s (P) families the attitude was more along the lines of “is it possible, then we’ll do it.” Felix said that they did not have any scruples even it was illegal. Fredrik (P), himself not a downloader, argued in the same vein: If one doesn’t want people to download, one has to do something. Remove mp3 or install some protection that makes it impossible. So I don’t have a moral dilemma there, really. There are other things that are more important!

46   The value of access A final approach to downloading was represented by Mia (P) and her son Geir (15C). Geir was an active downloader, and had no restrictions from his parents. Mia (P) also induced Geir to download for her. Her most important argument was that downloading was part of the new youth culture. She saw a lot of positive aspects with downloading and sharing music, and was highly critical towards the new copyright law: It’s a law that is impossible to enforce. As a teacher I have one rule: That I don’t make rules that are impossible to follow up on. And it is that way with downloading now. It has become part of “the soul of the people” – at least of Geir’s generation. In this family, the emphasis was on the positive value of file-­sharing in itself – echoing the arguments of activists and researchers who have argued for the value of cultural sharing (see Lessig 2008; Sinnreich 2014). We have seen that different arguments have been put forward in family negotiations over digital distribution of music. Referring to the steadfast attack on file-­sharing carried out by the record industry, I earlier on asked whether file-­ sharing acted as a boundary-­maker and a source of conflict between the generations (Green 2001). I think it’s fair to conclude that in our material it wasn’t a source of conflict. Even in the two families with somewhat restrictive parents, the file-­sharing activities didn’t seem to cause great turmoil. Furthermore, the enforcement of prohibitive rules in these families was also rather weak. In Johanna’s (17C) family, she was in principle told not to download, but her circumvention strategies were not sanctioned in practice. In Jenny’s (15C) family, the parents tried to put forward a somewhat double moral: We will look through our fingers at your download activities, but please hide your traces. In the other families, downloading was accepted, for various reasons and with some reservations. There are also some additional points to be made from these interviews. First, the new music technologies were something that were discussed – and could be discussed – in all our families. Second, in several of the families these technologies functioned as a source and opportunity for active cooperation and socializing between the generations. In this way, the family interviews supplemented a picture we had seen of the contours in the youth interviews. In the youth interviews the young people gave us plenty of stories about such cooperation and socializing. I have already mentioned “download some Abba, Stina.” The interviewees also gave several examples on how music was distributed between family members. Reidar (16A) told us: Mom and dad, both download from LimeWire. Ask me to download music for them and such things. My whole kin does it. Grandma comes and asks me if she can burn a CD on my PC.

The value of access   47 Werner and Johansson (2014) find a predominance of father–young people interactions in relation to digital music in their study of Swedish and Russian youth. In our material, interactions go in all directions and between all family members. However, music might open a special space of opportunity between fathers and daughters, as Emma (15B) illustrated: Dad knows a great deal about music. Tells me about the story of music and everything.… The only thing that dad and I talk about is music, really. And, in parallel with the discussion and distribution of music, ICT literacy may also be exchanged. This occurs in both directions, as in this example: (14A):  In a way it was dad that helped us to get going…. Maybe he’s not so legal himself. Jannicke (14A):  In my case, I thought dad how to do it. And after I started to download, he started to download too. Siril

Thus, what we have seen here is that in many families digital music is a space that actually provides what Jenkins et al. has called “healthy cross-­generational interactions” (2016: 51).

Music in context – negotiating other ICTs The last research question concerned the relationship between the negotiations over file-­sharing and negotiations around other ICTs. In the family interviews, we asked about the attitudes towards and regulation of ICTs in general. Regarding general attitudes, our parents seemed to be in line with the picture earlier research has depicted (see Livingstone et al. 2012; Staksrud 2016). The motivations to invest in computer equipment and broadband access were largely connected to “usefulness” – work, school and educational purposes. Felix (P) said that they had bought a PC for Gabriel (17C) and installed broadband when he started high school: “The information about the homework was actually only given on the net.” But Felix also said that a further motivation to install broadband was a curiosity to learn what the new technology could offer. Generally, the parents expressed that they thought it was important that their children learned how to master new ICTs. However, the use of ICTs was not without tensions. We have seen that only one family tried to regulate the download activity. But when it came to other types of ICT use, most of the young people experience some kinds of restriction. The most striking example in our material is the case of Geir (15C) and Mia (P). We saw how Mia encouraged and cooperated with Geir around his download activities. When it comes to other types of computer and Internet use, the picture is rather different. Mia has been rather strict with setting limits. “Do you remember the rules?” she asked Geir, and Geir listed them: Not to search for pornography, only have people he knows on his MSN-­list, not upload pictures or

48   The value of access share private information like his mobile number or last name. She is also regulating the time Geir is allowed to play computer games – only two hours a day on World of Warcraft: “But if he comes home with a bad result on a school test, it might be more severe restrictions, especially on the playing time.” Mia (P) stood out in our material, by so actively encouraging file-­sharing while enforcing quite strict regulations and expressing strong concerns regarding other types of ICT use. Felix (P), in contrast, was also clearly pro-­file-sharing, but told us that he had few concerns and imposed no rules on Gabriel’s (17C) ICT use in general, saying “he should learn to take care of himself.” However, most of the other parents were closer in their attitudes to Mia. They expressed some forms of concern and were trying to regulate computer activities in some ways. Recurring concerns were damaging content, contact with strangers and waste of time. Fredrik’s (P) credo was “get out, do something else!” We see here that our parents, regarding the use of ICT in general, were acting in accordance with what Green (2001) termed “the damned if you do/damned if you don’t battle.” In a study by Levang (2008), young people were interviewed about all aspects – except file-­sharing! – of their everyday life with the Internet and the role of their parents in it. Her main conclusion – certainly with several modifications – is summed up by a quote in the title: “Totally far out to consult the parents.” I have no reason to draw such a drastic conclusion from our material. However, we found concerns and conflicts related to several aspects of the youth’s use of the Internet and ICTs. File-­sharing was not prominent among these. When Fredrik (P) said that there were “other things that are more important” he was referring to these other concerns, especially time spent on computer games. In fact, our material suggests that file-­sharing in many families was viewed as a fairly “healthy” activity – and as a space where young people and parents could get together in a digital everyday life where such spaces might otherwise be scarce. Or as Emma (15B) put it: “The only thing dad and I talk about is music, really.”

An access culture? In this chapter I have researched the moral values of young people and questioned to what degree their digital music practices can be seen as oppositional and seditious. The last part of the chapter has been devoted to an investigation of how values are negotiated in the family setting. This was based on the premise that music consumption has a long history of being a fulcrum for generational and societal upheavals (see Cunningham 2006). Thus, the reasoning was that the family negotiations could function as a mirror or a prism for discerning how the  larger societal controversies around music distribution were refracted in everyday life. We have to conclude that it was bad as a mirror. The turbulence and controversies around music distribution, which had stirred up so much media publicity through the whole of the 2000s (see Chapter 8), was to a small extent reflected in the household negotiations. Why not?

The value of access   49 Lim (2016) has suggested that we look for six different forms of asymmetries when analyzing the household appropriation of new media: asymmetries in power, expectation, practice, access, competency and morals. Clearly, several of these asymmetries were present in among the members of our families. The differences between parents and young people with regard to expectations and practice were perhaps the most striking – as a group the parents were less occupied with music. As a natural consequence, they were also often less competent – even if we saw examples of skills being exchanged both ways. Possibly, there were other asymmetries in power and access as well, even if we did not see them put into play. However, the most interesting finding was that all these other asymmetries did not lead to value asymmetries – or at least not to value controversies. We saw that the parent’s reactions to the file-­sharing practices of the young people ranged from silent acceptance and pro forma prohibition to active cooperation. Moreover, music technology was a topic that could be actively and constructively discussed in the households. We observed numerous examples of a lively exchange of both viewpoints and competencies as well as of music files themselves – in a digital everyday life where such exchanges might otherwise be rare. In the terms of Green (2001), music and music technology did not function as a boundary-­maker. Rather, it functioned as a boundary-­breaker and a bridge-­ builder. Jenkins et al. have called for “healthy cross-­generational interactions” (2016: 51). In the same vein, Ito et al. have stressed the importance to look for potential sites for “productive adult engagement and intervention” (2010: 341). Here the young people and their parents were rockin’ ’n’ rollin’ together. In fact, our material suggests that file-­sharing in many families was viewed as a fairly “healthy” and quite harmless activity. We found concerns and conflicts related to several aspects of the youth’s use of the Internet and ICTs. File-­sharing was not prominent among these. When Fredrik (P) said that there were “other things that are more important” he was referring to these other concerns (in his case especially the time his son spent on computer games). There are some characteristics about music and music technologies that perhaps have made them especially appealing for the type of cross-­generational interactions that we have observed. First of all, everyone relates to music, everyone is a little interested and understands a little. It is a little bit like the weather, as long as the forecasts are not too bad. But even if the family negotiations over file-­sharing did not reflect the larger societal controversy, the question of what kind of values that can be associated with the youth’s activity is still an interesting one. Several scholars have described the proliferation of Internet countercultures in the 1990s and the cooperative and creative enthusiasm that came to characterize them (see Abbate 1999; Castells 2001). I have earlier argued that the massification of the Internet around 2000 was marked by the generalization of the network as a counter cultural arena. Similarly, Jenkins (2006; et al. 2013) and Lessig (2008) see the rise of what the call “participatory culture” and “remix culture” as subcultural phenomena grown large.

50   The value of access boyd (2014), however, has made a somewhat contrary observation in her study of teenagers’ use of social media. boyd herself, being a teenager in the 1990s, became attracted to Internet culture as an alternative and an escape vehicle. But to the young people of the late 2000s, the Internet did not represent something alternative anymore, but something obvious. The ordinary young people she was researching did not have the same value orientations as the Internet countercultures she was attracted to in the 1990s. This is an observation that seems to fit well with the majority of the young people we have talked with as well. Some, like Tomas (16B), had developed well-­founded viewpoints. Tomas saw his defense of file-­sharing as part of his socialist commitment. For most of our interviewees, however, file-­sharing tools – as well as “legal” gadgets like the iPod and services like Spotify – had been appropriated in a much more obvious and unreflecting manner. They knew the arguments about “piracy kills music” and the legal crusade the music industry was waging against file-­sharers, but they did not take it very seriously. They thought of file-­sharing as both something irreversible and something quite harmless. The dominant attitude was more like, “is it possible, then we’ll do it.” For young people, in general, music and music technologies engage and occupy them much of the time, and they are eager to test out and appropriate new tools that can enhance their experience. Digital music technologies are fun, harmless and have “come to stay.” With regard to file-­sharing, we have seen that quite pragmatic and “amoral” considerations were the most dominant. Two thirds of the young people in the 2010 survey readily admitted that they downloaded music to avoid purchasing it. When asked what could make them limit downloading, fear of viruses was the number two reason and the introduction of Spotify number one – none of these in any sense either especially rebellious or obeying reasons. Around 2010, Spotify had its big breakthrough among Norwegian youth. In the same vein as with file-­sharing, our interviewees offered rather pragmatic arguments in favor of streaming: convenience, simplicity, ease of access. In a way, these conclusions are at odds with the turmoil that has been caused by their actions – the fact that a whole generation of young people took to the file-­sharing networks. Marshall et al. have suggested that we can speak of “unintentional societies” to resolve this discrepancy: “Members of these incidental societies might not necessarily hold consciously articulated anti-­copyright or “open knowledge” positions, but nevertheless their general attitudes and social customs are built into their downloading habits” (2015: 185). Thus, we might argue that the young people have been rebellious by practice and numbers, if not by values. There are also good reasons to see the occurrence and legal accept of services like YouTube and Spotify more as a victory of file-­sharing than of the music industry’s actions to stop it – a theme that will be further explored in Chapter 10. However, as I argued towards the end of Chapter 2, the rising popularity of streaming services comes at a cost – they prioritize access and convenience at

The value of access   51 the expense of more communal activities like remixing and collecting. The majority of the young people in my material seemed to be willing to pay this price. Thus, everyday life with music is, from the youth’s own perspective, more ordinary and pragmatic than the celebratory accounts of Lessig (2008) and Jenkins (2006, 2013) depict. As a mass phenomenon, youth culture is more of an access culture than a remix or participatory culture.

Notes 1 The website has now been taken down. 2 The brochure can be downloaded from http://cpanel8.proisp.no/~piracjhv/wp-­content/ uploads/2008/04/opphavsrett-­og-sikkerhetsguide.pdf 3 www.efn.no 4 www.piratgruppen.no 5 www.piracykillsnomusic.no and www.piracykillsmusic.net. Both websites have now been taken down. But see http://itavisen.no/2007/02/07/piracy-­kills-no-­music/ for documentation. 6 Of course, I am fully aware that the use of such technologies has not been confined to young people. However, there is clear evidence that file-­sharing applications were far more used among the younger cohorts than the elder (see e.g., Eilertsen 2009).

4 In search of the “hacker-­punk” Digital music technologies for countercultural measures?

The promises of punk style do-­it-yourself In this chapter, I move the focus from “ordinary” young people and parents to the appropriation of digital music technologies by a specific counterculture: the punk movement. In general, the study of groups that stand out as differentiated from the ordinary and the mainstream is interesting both in its own right – and in the way it can shed new light on “known” phenomena. It can uncover new aspects, specific tensions, other opportunities and challenges related to the social uptake of technologies. Of course, the punk movement is not a randomly chosen “out-­group,” but a more than average politically and musically engaged counterculture – and music and politics is exactly what this book is about! Traditionally, the punk movement focused on the construction of alternative communication and distribution channels based on the principles of do-­ityourself (DIY) (see Spencer 2008; O’Connor 2008; Gauntlett 2011; Reja 2014; Makagon 2015). Therefore, it is reasonable to expect that some of the supposed capabilities of the Internet offer new possibilities for DIY-­based action. This chapter revolves around the question of whether the Internet and other digital technologies have been taken up and utilized as an opportunity to strengthen and renew the cultural and political practices of the punk movement. Or formulated the other way around: Has the punk movement developed a counter cultural agenda for the distribution of digital media and music? As part of this questioning, I will also explore the relationship between the punk movement and the hacker movement. The punk movement is interesting for several reasons. It is a music counterculture with an overt and potent political agenda. It has also – perhaps paradoxically – managed to remain meaningful and renew itself through the years, making it a lasting element of the underground music scenes over decades. Certainly, there exist opposing narratives regarding the history of punk. According to one popular version created basically by mass media (and some of the punk pioneers themselves), punk was a short-­lived phenomenon that collapsed in an orgy of blood, drugs and violence in 1979. However, following Gosling’s (2004) “revisionist” history, after the outburst years of 1977–1979, the punk movement managed to transform itself from an “anticulture” into a counterculture.

In search of the “hacker-punk”   53 Historically, the most important part of the movement’s transformation consisted in the establishment of an alternative institutional network centered around self-­governed youth houses or “autonomous zones” in urban areas throughout Europe and South and North America. Arguably, this institutional network is an important part of the reason why the punk movement has managed to remain more consistent and enduring than for example the hippie movement (see further discussion later on). Also, while punk through the years has experienced the development of a lot of offshoots – hardcore, third wave ska, emo, riot grrrl, queer core, straight-­edge – the scene has not undergone the same splintering and fragmentation that occurred, for example, in the rave scene (see Gulla 2006; Reja 2014). But has the introduction of digital media and music made any difference to this picture? The uptake and appropriation of technologies has been theorized as processes of domestication (Silverstone and Hirsch 1992; Lie and Sørensen 1996; Berker et al. 2005; Levold and Spilker 2007; Lim 2016). A central premise within this line of theorizing is that technology appropriation must be understood as a two-­way process (Oudshoorn and Pinch 2003; Jasanoff 2004). The two-­way process argument is developed as an explicit critique of technology determinist and linear models of innovation (see Sørensen et al. 2000). Taking up the metaphor of folding introduced in Chapter 1, there is not only one force in action here. Rather, we may envision the process as something similar to the collision of earth plates. It may be that one is moving faster towards the other, but the result of the collision is none the less an outcome of the combined, counteracting forces at work. On the one hand, new technology may change existing social practices and formations. Haraway (1991) points out how new technology may appear as a disruptive element in social contexts. The introduction of new technology may bring uncertainty and instability into existing cultural networks. However, it is equally important to be aware that its introduction in new settings can transform the technology, by producing new visions for its use and immersing it in new socio-­technical arrangements or assemblages (Latour 2005). Looking at it from this perspective, studies of countercultures and alternative cultures takes on a special significance. The punk counterculture is a potential field of tension in the communication society. In the previous chapter, I was looking for rebellious or “piratical” values among “ordinary” young people – but I did not really find much other than a smoldering potential. Does the punk movement possess a more explicit counter cultural agenda for the appropriation of digital media and music? My interest in punk counterculture is connected to the expectation that the appropriation by counterculture of new ICT will assume forms that will rattle and threaten more habitual ideas of the importance and use of these technologies. I will study this on two levels. In general, I will examine how new ICT, with its communication opportunities, has – or has not – been absorbed in and been made part of the countercultural repertoire. I will, moreover, have a special focus on how the punk scene deals with digital distribution of music. Music is a

54   In search of the “hacker-punk” defining element for the counterculture, while the controversies linked to file-­ sharing and copyright protection have long been perhaps the most heated conflict area in the development of the Internet. It is therefore interesting to examine the type of viewpoints a political activist community with many performing musicians has adopted in this context. What is viewed as the morally “correct” way of dealing with ICT in the counterculture, and how is it distinguished from the “ordinary” youth’s more “average” way of dealing with digital technologies? How has the introduction of digital technology transformed the counterculture, and how have the moral values of the punk movement influenced the uptake of the technology? I will examine these questions through an analysis of the appropriation of ICTs by the Norwegian punk scene. More specifically, the analysis is based on a case study of the activities at UFFA,1 the self-­governed youth house in Trondheim, one of two such houses in Norway.2 The analysis is based on qualitative in-­depth interviews with active or previously active actors at UFFA, the house for free youth activities in Trondheim. Interviews with five participants between 19 and 26 years of age represent today’s active UFFA members. We also interviewed five people who were active during the consolidation of UFFA in the 1980s, who at the time of the interviews were between 38 and 42 years of age. In all interviews, we focused on the interviewees’ understanding of technologically related change processes and countercultural strategies in the encounter with new ICT. Our data collection also consisted of a total of eight supplementary interviews, including interviews with performers from other music communities such as hip hop and electronic music, local and Internet radio actors from Trondheim Underground Radio (TUR) and Radio Revolt, the Student Radio in Trondheim, as well as an interview with a representative of the network activists called Electronic Frontier Norway (EFN). We have also studied fanzines, magazines, netzines, network forums, band websites and other media from the 1980s up to today.

The quest for the hacker punk I have formulated my expectations concerning the counterculture’s appropriation of new ICT more specifically as a quest to find a projected character I have called the hacker punk. I envision the hacker punk as a person who is involved in countercultural activism with some type of political commitment, someone who is eager to express himself musically and is fascinated with the opportunities afforded by digital media. Let us outline a historical backdrop for these expectations. An important inspiration for this case study has been a passage in Manuel Castells’ book Internet Galaxy, where he states that there was “an interesting connection between some of the social subcultures of the post-­1960s period and the hacker culture” (2001: 51). The connection between the hippie movement and the hacker movement in the 1960s and 1970s was later documented in John Markoff ’s What the Dormouse Said: How the Sixties Counterculture Shaped the Personal Computer

In search of the “hacker-punk”   55 Industry (2005) and Fred Turner’s From Counterculture to Cyberculture: Stewart Brand, the Whole Earth Network, and the Rise of Digital Utopianism (2006). These studies describe how a significant overlap and exchange existed between the music and computer countercultures of the 1960s and 1970s, both in terms of the people and the ideas involved. “Hacking” is a term that was initially used by students who were members of computer clubs at MIT and Stanford to describe the activities undertaken by these clubs. Ceruzzi defines the original meaning of hacking as “not to do a programming job specified by one’s employer” (2000: 215). Hackers thus came to represent a sophisticated form of playful and exploratory ways of using computers. Many descriptions of the hacker phenomenon also attach importance to the development of an ideological rationale for the activity, linked to an understanding of ICT as a liberating and anti-­authoritarian tool, which indicates the ties to the hippie movement. This ideological rationale has become known as the hackers’ ethos: “[H]ackers were defined by their adherence to an ethic, a code of beliefs that was predicted on access to computers, freedom of information, the mistrust of authority, and the belief that computers could be used for constructive social change” (Thomas 2000: 204). I cannot review the whole genealogy of the development of the hacker movement here, as Taylor (1999) does when identifying five generations of hackers. What is important is that the hacker movement has continued to be the reference point of computer countercultures in various forms up to contemporary times (see Coleman 2012; Goode 2015; Milan 2015). Ross, for example, offers the following enthusiastic description of the importance of hacking: “[H]acking, as guerrilla know-­how, is essential to the task of maintaining fronts of cultural resistance and stocks of oppositional knowledge as a hedge against a techno­ fascist future” (Ross 2000: 255). Today, we must situate the practice of hacker-­ like countercultural activity to movements like the open source movement and Anonymous and organizations like Electronic Frontier Foundation (EFF ) (and its Norwegian counterpart, Electronic Frontier Norway (EFN)), WikiLeaks and the movement associated with “pirate politics” (see e.g., Assange et al. 2016; Coleman 2015; Fredriksson 2015; Goode 2015; Jääsaari and Hilden, 2015). My research questions are thus connected to the ties between this type of computer counterculture and the punk movement. In a certain sense one might claim that my quest for the hacker punk was anticipated as early as in 1984, when William Gibson presented the cyberpunk in his novel Neuromancer. Gibson created the cyber punk metaphor based on the force and appeal that the punk counterculture had for contemporary youth. In Neuromancer, a picture is drawn of a computer-­mediated future where tribal groups dominate urban life through their ability to integrate “the hyper-­efficient structures of high technology with the anarchy of street cultures” (Cavallero 2000: xi). Others also found inspiration in the punk movement when attempting to describe how computer networks would change social formations, for example Hakim Bey’s (1991) idea of computer networks as tools in the construction of “temporary autonomous zones.”

56   In search of the “hacker-punk” Cyberpunk is above all a literary science-­fiction genre which had its heyday in the 1980s, and which used elements from contemporary youth culture and technological development to construe its fictional universe (see Bell et al. 2004). To some extent this fictional universe has then served as inspiration for the formation of new sub-­cultural identities, for example the community around the periodical Mondo 2000 and their “New Edge” (see Sobchack 2000). Arguments against cyberpunk literature (and against subcultures such as the one around Mondo 2000) have, however, also been heard, where it is claimed that cyberpunk only has marginal ties to punk – as McKay (1999) claims in his article with the appropriately worded subtitle “the punk in cyberpunk?” His argument is that cyberpunk only borrows the aesthetic from punk – i.e., the provocative use of cultural artifacts – while the political agenda of the punk movement is left out. In the words of Gosling’s (2004) history of the movement, we can say that cyberpunk embeds the exhibitionist phase of punk in 1977–1979, but it does not incorporate the reconstruction and new consolidation of the punk movement which occurred from 1979 onwards. A further reason for avoiding the use of the cyberpunk term is that cyberpunk has to be seen as having little to do with music and music countercultures. My projection, the hacker punk, is in contrast a character that has a firm base in a particular music counterculture, where music continues to be a constituting element in the practice of the countercultural elements, and where the counterculture elements are countercultural beyond the use of provocative aesthetic expressions, i.e., with a more explicit political agenda. I thus expect these elements to be combined with a fascination and critical involvement in new ICT and its possibilities. The use of the Internet and other digital technologies in the development of new forms of political resistance is a well-­researched area with comprehensive literature (see Hill and Hughes 1998; Meikle 2002; McCaughey and Ayers 2003; van de Dunk et al. 2004; Castells 2009, 2012; Lievroew 2011; Werenskjold et al. 2014). A commonly used example is connected to how different social movements and countercultural activists exploited digital technology to organize protests in connection with the WTO summit meetings around the turn of the century and more recently during “the Arabian spring”. This literature is generally enthusiastic about the Internet and the potential of other digital communication technologies for the renewal of grassroots activism, and tends to praise the possibilities it gives for participation in a creative application of digital protest. These works do not, however, tell us much about the importance of music and music countercultures in connection with the new forms of activism. Nevertheless, one particularly interesting study in this context is St. John’s (2003) study of rave music communities in Australia at the end of the 1990s. St. John finds that the rave culture he studied cannot be described as exclusively nihilistic, Dionysian, nomadic and unstable, the way other commentators previously described the house and rave culture (see Maffesoli 1995). He describes how the Australian rave scene has developed new types of protest in addition to partying, and often at the same time. Actions/festivals such as “Reclaim the streets” and

In search of the “hacker-punk”   57 “Ohms not bombs” are examples of what is designated as “carnivals of protest” and “political partying.” A central element here is the innovative utilization of the new digital surroundings to increase the tactical repertoire and organizational capacity of the counterculture. In this context, St. John draws attention to how “the repurposing of technology for countercultural ends has a lineage in early ham radio enthusiasts, personal computer hackers, independent radical desk-­top publishers, audio and video scratchers” (ibid.: 72). In the same vein as the literature about social movements on the net, St. John is enthusiastic on behalf of the ability of the rave scene to exploit digital technologies to transform cultural expressions, mobilize new participants and expand in time and space. Other studies, however, draw a more trivial picture of what happens in the encounter between music subcultures and digital technologies. Hodkinson (2003, 2004) argues that new communication technology primarily creates social spaces in the extension of established social patterns. Based on an observation of the presence of the Goth movement on the Internet, he asserts that it is used to maintain the external dividing lines and the internal sense of identity in a subcultural youth formation. Hodkinson describes Goths as a “self-­sufficient and self-­contained” group, where the adoption of digital technologies makes little difference when it comes to recruitment to or the practice of the music subculture. St. John and Hodkinson have studied two different types of music scenes, one presented as expressive, outgoing and with a stated political agenda, the other closed, introvert and apparently apolitical. Therefore, it is not surprising that they find two different approaches to digital technologies. I will call the appropriation of the rave movement a transformation strategy, and the appropriation of the Goth movement a trivialization strategy. Based on my hypothesis on the hacker punk, it is clear that I expect that the appropriation strategy of the punk movement will be closer to that of the Australian rave scene. Is this the case? Furthermore, a striking feature of the analyses undertaken by both St. John and Hodkinson is the absence of turbulence, conflict or resistance in connection with the appropriation of technology. It does not appear that the selection of appropriation strategy has been subjected to controversies in these communities. Does appropriation really occur so painlessly and frictionless?

What is so punk about punk? When on November 10, 1981 young people in Trondheim squatted an abandoned house and founded UFFA – (the Norwegian abbreviation for Youth for Free Activity), this occupation was part of a wave running through Europe. While the punk movement in earlier years had been responsible for random riots, such as those on the night before May 1 (in Oslo) and May 17 (in Trondheim), these actions were now focused on a demand for self-­governed arenas for youth activities. Gosling (2004) asserts that the punk movement in this period went through a transformation from being an anticulture to a counterculture. The punk  communities developed a new agenda around 1980, focusing on the

58   In search of the “hacker-punk” development of alternatives to the mainstream culture/general society. This remodelling came to form the underpinning of a viable counterculture, which continues to attract new generations of young people. I would like to point out five elements that have come to characterize the punk movement: 1

2

3

4

5

The DIY ethos. In connection with the redefinition of the punk movement, the DIY (do-­it-yourself ) ethos was a key element. The aim was generally to establish as many independent arenas and channels as possible for music performance and other activities as alternatives to the established cultural industry and general society. The DIY culture has come to include a whole “value chain” of bands, fans, dealers, studios, promoters, media and other resources. Link between politics and music. The focus on the establishment of independent arenas and channels did not lead to a de-­politicization of the punk movement. It did not withdraw from society as many other “self-­reliant” groups have done. Comments on, criticism of and protests against the authorities and capitalist organizations have always been an important feature of the activities. The movement has thus always been about more than just music. It has developed in the fusion or overlap between music and politics (see Haugdahl 2005). “Autonomous zones.” An important banner issue for the punk movement in Europe in the 1980s was the establishment of self-­governed youth houses, or “autonomous zones” as they eventually came to be called. These were acquired through a wave of house occupations. Blitz in Oslo and UFFA in Trondheim are the Norwegian examples of this (see Maat 1983; Johansen 1988). The squatted houses have doubtlessly functioned as identity anchor points, continuity carriers and recruitment arenas. Urbanity. The punk movement has always primarily been oriented toward urban spaces, which is another way in which it differs from the hippie movement. On the aesthetic level, the movement has idolized what we may call an “aesthetics of the asphalt,” which has dominated clothing styles and musical expressions. Politically, the city has also served as the central arena for resistance, expressed in slogans such “the street is ours.” The idea has been to open alternative niches and spaces within the cityscapes. Innovative protest forms. The final element I will point out here concerns the ability of the punk movement to renew political protest through creative utilization of technology, artistic techniques and the exploitation of the opportunities of urban spaces. In this context, I can mention examples such as house occupations, street concerts, carnival-­like protest street parades, fanzines, poster art and political tagging. Punks have also demonstrated the ability to expand their repertoire in recent years, illustrated for example by the phenomenon adbusting (see Sørensen 2016).

These five elements are vital to the understanding of the remarkable survivability and continued appeal of the punk scene.

In search of the “hacker-punk”   59 The vitality of the UFFA milieu is a good example in this respect. UFFA is an autonomous youth house with the weekly general meeting as the supreme decision-­making body. The general meeting is in principle open to all, but an implicit requirement is that you must be a user of the house and involved in the community if your vote is to count. The form of government may perhaps most appropriately be called a “do-­ocracy.” UFFA has housed and houses a number of activities, such as café operations, book café, music rehearsal rooms, music studio, concert premises, fanzine and magazine production, local radio and various action groups. The punk community based at the UFFA house has had substantial off-­shoots over the years, highly visible in the nearby neighborhood of Svartlamoen, with relatively self-­governed housing areas, cafés, second-­hand shops, studios, musical practice studios and day-­care center operations (see Johansen 1988; Haugdahl 2006; Brendeland et al. 2011). My premise is, therefore, that the punk movement has constituted a creative force which has helped transform physical and social urban spaces through the establishment of alternative arenas and channels for activity, and by appearing as a disturbing element in its relations to the larger society. The UFFA entrepreneurs spoke about how, at the start of the 1980s, there were no places for young people in Trondheim to hang out. They feel the situation today is different, and punk is ascribed much of the honor for this. As Roy put it: “This need for a place to hang out, that’s different now, really. People hang out all over the place.” I do not problematize this premise, rather I ask: Has the punk movement carried this creative force over to its dealings with the new ICT? Does punk transform digital spaces in the same way as physical spaces have been transformed? Has the DIY ethos been renewed to also include an agenda for the use and production of ICT?

The digitalized underground Digital technology, spearheaded by the Internet, has obviously made its mark in relation to the punk counterculture, as it has in most other arenas of society. Concerning music-­related activities, the contacts generally pointed out that the Internet was quite important. Bands at UFFA today use different social media and web services, such as Trondheim Underground Radio and urørt.no, to promote their activities to the audience, concert organizers, record companies and other stakeholders. It is common to post songs and videos on these websites, which visitors can then stream or download. Digital tools are used actively for booking and in the communication between artists and concert organizers. One special underground phenomenon has been the distribution of music via “distros.” Music enthusiasts have acted as go-­betweens for artists and fans and acquired and distributed music via distribution lists, preferably made available via fanzines or bulletin boards. This activity has found its electronic extension, and the tools are now e-­mail lists, websites and discussion forums. Many of the contacts mentioned that they find much of the music they are attracted to by

60   In search of the “hacker-punk” using specially dedicated file-­sharing networks. Swedish and Dutch-­based networks for punk and hardcore music were mentioned in particular. Some bands also use the Internet to download free software to establish home studios and produce music. A few also use the Internet more directly and interactively in processes with music production, for example by sending unfinished material to be processed by a studio or to receive tracks from musicians who live far away, without depending on playing together at the same time in the same studio (see Chapter 5). The Internet is thus used extensively for communication, distribution and, in part, production of music. Where underground bands in the 1980s distributed their music on cassettes through the postal system, digitalized formats distributed via the Internet have enabled more rapid and immediate exchange. The Internet has increased the mobility of underground music further by, on the one hand, making existing networks more efficient and, on the other hand, making them more all-­encompassing. However, even if making oneself visible to a broader audience now also takes on virtual forms, concerts and releasing records continue to be core activities for the underground community. Trading and selling physical records – both CDs and vinyl – continues to be surprisingly common, still functioning as a vital “glue” connecting bands and fans. O’Connor (2008) and Reja et al. (2014) make the same observation regarding the Canadian and the Brazilian punk scene respectively. It appears that, in the punk culture, the idea of exchanging music on a physical medium is a part of a culture that should be preserved. In the 1980s, fanzines and eventually also local radio were crucial channels for the exchange of information and opinions. Today, new idealist web services have in part taken over the functions of fanzines and local radio. Net forums have become an important arena where people can stay updated and exchange opinions. Many bands and private individuals have created websites with forums that have been popular for some time. In Trondheim, in particular, Trondheim Hardcore3 and the UFFA house website4 have been key elements. Trondheim Hardcore was established in 2001 by members of central hardcore bands in the city with connections to UFFA. The idea was to write and inform about a music genre the press in general hardly covered. The aim was also to reach beyond the core UFFA community. Trondheim Hardcore was popular as a netzine and net forum until the spring of 2004. But then something happened with the forum. After some years, the community fragmented and the initiators gave up. At the end of 2006 the website stated the following: Trondheim Hardcore has been laid to rest. Much has happened since a group of enthusiasts came together in Jarleveien in Trondheim in the autumn of 2001 to create an alternative channel to disseminate our enthusiasm for the genre. Much good came of this, and as the case should be in a radical community, several factions arose, and things were watered down.… Much has also been said about a forum which at times was quite heated by the typical Internet discussions of the time.

In search of the “hacker-punk”   61 The UFFA-­house website and Facebook page has experienced some of the same problems. The “official” pages had been operated and moderated by persons who are involved in the community on assignment from the general meeting. The website maintained an overview of events arranged at UFFA, and provided the history of the house, picture galleries, information about the café menu, and book café offers and so on. It also contained a discussion forum. Some discussions were political. The problem of putting these on the web was that outsiders, such as members of “Unge Høyre” (the youth association of the Norwegian Conservative party) would intrude and create “an unpleasant discussion climate” (Thomas). Eventually, this led to the forum being closed down due to the publication of in-­house discussions. In the same manner, the Facebook page has been restricted to mainly instrumental uses, like publishing information about concerts, releases and other events. The problem was that, in addition to connecting like-­minded people, web forums enable the observation of countercultural discussions for outsiders. This has not always been easy to handle. On the one hand, web services with forums such as Trondheim Hardcore and uffahus.org contributed to making the inside discussions more accessible and extending the reach of countercultural opinions and information. On the other hand, the experience with such services is that they might launch processes over which the counterculture has little control. The interviewees experienced much “noise” and “lack of seriousness” in discussion forums. Therefore, they have eventually come to be seen as less appropriate, particularly in relation to the political aspects of their activities. Because of the Internet, more people probably know about what is going on at UFFA and in the punk scene today than previously, and subsequently more people establish and maintain more peripheral and loose ties to the community. One might claim that the periphery of the UFFA community has become more densely populated. There is, however, nothing to indicate that the active core at UFFA has grown. The most important decisions connected to the community’s activities continue to be made through face-­to-face contact – at the general meeting or in “the corridors” and “on the street” among those who are in the house or in its neighborhood on a day-­to-day basis.

In search of the hacker punk My next question is whether the punk movement had developed its own digital values and ICT policy – a renewal of the DIY ethos that comprises an agenda for the use and production of ICTs. Furthermore, I want to examine if there exist any links between the music counterculture and computer countercultures, such as the open source movement. According to UFFA veterans, discussions on new technological artefacts for UFFA have traditionally focused mostly on practical or financial matters. But purchases were rarely made without some political debate. The appropriation of a Xerox copier, for example, led to discussions about buying a photocopier from a multinational company and the consumption of electricity. Political debates

62   In search of the “hacker-punk” could arise on many levels and in most contexts. Kristin, one of the veterans, tells about the criticism that arose when the use of Letraset in fanzine production was substituted with typewriting. This was a sell out! Today UFFA has installed an encrypted wireless network, which regular users with PCs and other devices can use anywhere in the house. Most active UFFA activists also have PCs and smart phones with Internet connections at home. The UFFA activists found it totally acceptable to run software from, for example, Microsoft, without having the proper license. What about using free open-­source software as an alternative to Microsoft’s software? One of our contacts outside UFFA itself – Anders, the founder of the web service Trondheim Underground Radio (TUR)5 – believed it was a paradox that people from the political music underground did not get more involved in political discussions related to Internet and software issues. He based his TUR operation on GPL (General Public License) software with open source code. A degree of competence is required to operate these, but Anders felt it was nevertheless strange that so few in the punk movement bothered to understand these issues: “When using Microsoft software, you are basically distributing goods you are actually against,” he argued, “and you are also strengthening the hegemony of an industry that is working against you.” There is a dawning recognition of this issue internally in the UFFA community, as expressed by Thomas: There is free software, for both this and the other thing. I have friends who keep telling me I should use such things, since I’m so politically involved and against big companies, so I really shouldn’t have been using Microsoft products and things like that. In spite of this, the typical UFFA punks are not active users of open-­source software. Nor is UFFA an active institution when it comes to hacking or other digital action forms. Several of the activists believe that hacking may well have a political-­activist function, but they feel that hacking is primarily about personal adrenalin kicks to achieve status or to commit financial fraud. None stated that they knew hackers or that they had heard of something of that sort in connection with UFFA and the punk/hardcore community. Kristin, the veteran, is nevertheless certain that hackers exist in the punk counterculture: Hackers in our community, I’m sure they exist. I’m dead certain about this, people who … or … well, like people who make viruses and stuff like that, I believe so. Kristin envisions that hackers and people from the punk movement may have common political goals and interests. Therefore it is “logical” that someone with a background from a political punk/hardcore community might start hacking and committing computer sabotage. It is, however, striking that our contacts do not

In search of the “hacker-punk”   63 claim to have any specific connections to political hacker communities in spite of the potential for action offered by the combining of technological innovations with the DIY spirit. Hacking is something other people do. When it comes to downloading music, the UFFA youths see a political-­moral dilemma in that they in principle support free distribution of music, but they also want to support small bands and record companies that want to distribute music but also survive financially. The UFFA youths feel there is a difference between downloading music from big rock stars and small unknown bands. Small record companies may have a problem with a lack of revenues, but they feel no pity for bands such as Metallica and Coldplay or the record companies Universal and Sony. Several of these young people also expressed worry about a future where one would have to pay for all use of intellectual property. There may be a political statement in the way they are aware of whom they are “cheating.” Their conscience does not bother them when they pirate large commercial actors. This also applies to not paying license fees for using Microsoft products. A Robin Hood attitude may be looming here that chimes well with punk’s fundamental anarchist attitudes. It is, however, going a bit too far to consider the file-­sharing of UFFA youths as an exclusive countercultural political strategy. As we saw in Chapter 2, pirate copying and file-­sharing have been practiced by most young people, regardless of such background variables as income, gender and countercultural belonging. UFFA youths are undoubtedly more politically involved than the average youth, but it does not appear that their political involvement can easily be linked to downloading habits, even if they like to “defend” their actions by referring to anti-­capitalist principles. There are few developed or stated morally based standpoints to copyrights and access to music. Following the success of the open-­source movement internationally, initiatives have been made to offer alternatives to the traditional copyright legislation for music and other cultural products, the most prominent of these being the “creative commons” licenses.6 In the interviews with musicians affiliated with UFFA, nobody mentioned Creative Commons licenses as a possible strategy for managing their music digitally against the dominating licensing regime. The traditional response to the capitalist structures of the cultural industry in the punk movement is DIY: Create your own industry. It appears that this continues to be the strategy to ensure a sustainable underground scene. However, the DIY ethos has not been reformulated to any significant extent to incorporate the introduction of ICTs in the music counterculture. The overriding impression is that today’s UFFA activists generally use the Internet in the same way as most other young people. Their activities in general revolve around surfing, playing online games, chatting, discussing, watching videos and listen to music. Apparently, they do not connect their use of the digital media to their involvement in the punk counterculture. I expected to find established links between the music counterculture and the ICT counterculture, a countercultural cooperation, which on paper appears to be opportune for both parties. What is blocking such a connection?

64   In search of the “hacker-punk” The punk culture is known for developing creative ways of demonstrating resistance and independence. In recent years adbusting is an example of this. As a music counterculture, it is based on the ability of the participants to manage an underground-­based industry outside the established structures of the mass culture. However, my hypothesis about cooperation or idea exchange between countercultures, evidenced in the renewal and vitalization of the music political repertoire of the punk movement, has to be abandoned. What is it that makes it so difficult for punkers to let their creativity loose in the digital field?

The gap between near and bin(e)ary things While companies such as Statoil and Coca Cola are the targets of political activism and countercultural campaigns, there is apparently very little computer activism in the punk culture. An explanation the UFFA youths give for this absence of a clearer political stance with respect to ICT is that there are limitations on how much attention one can devote to the political aspects of all conditions in life. Even punkers have to deal with the world they are living in, even if they may not be fully comfortable with the way things happen. UFFA youths clearly feel that the Internet is dominated by the same political structures they basically oppose. The lack of active resistance against this is defended by the argument that you cannot boycott absolutely everything – as Eirik aptly puts it: That’s really a very interesting topic you have there, as in how punk is it to join this Internet thing. How punk is it to buy Converse shoes which have been bought up by Nike, how punk is it to drink Coca Cola.… I think we should be aware of what we consume and which channels we use, through the Internet and everything. But it can’t be a goal to be 100% politically correct in everything; that would only make your life fucking tiresome. The UFFA youths also feel that competence is required to develop an updated music policy resistance strategy for the digital world. Thomas, for example, believed that: The problem with such open source code things is that it’s too complicated, at least a lot of the time, you know, if you don’t have the adequate technological skills. As a community, UFFA has moved from being at the cutting edge of ICT competence to now being in the middle of the pack. At the end of the 1980s it could reasonably be argued that UFFA was very advanced, due in large part to the enthusiasm and competence developed in the production of various fanzines. This competence was further enhanced through UFFA’s flagship, the Folk & Røvere [Folk & Robbers] magazine. The activities at the time were propelled by creative missionaries in the community. Today there seems to be a lack of this type of enterprising projects. Even if  hacker visions of open structures in cyberspace may appear attractive, the

In search of the “hacker-punk”   65 community today lacks proactive entrepreneurs who can create interesting projects where the punk/hardcore culture’s DIY ethos can be adapted and developed in digital surroundings. Some of the UFFA youths also state that they understand hackers and proponents of open source code as a closed culture with little ability to communicate principles and competence to the external world. Several of the interviewees mentioned that it might be easier to take political standpoints in relation to things felt, in some sense, to be nearer. The punk counterculture has competence when it comes to more traditional political issues such as resistance against American cultural or political imperialism, suppression of women and police violence. Cyber activism is not part of this established political repertoire. One could then claim that the UFFA punk culture stands for an orientation towards the near rather than binary things. Creative new forms of action take the form of initiatives such as adbusting, dealing with urban space, instead of, for example, so-­called DoS attacks (blocking network services), which might have been the digital-­space counterpart.7 In this context it is important to bear in mind that UFFA draws on a tradition linked to visibility in the physical urban landscape. Adbusting is a relatively new action form that can be added to this tradition. The networks of physical locations and social relations in the punk culture today seem to have more of a preserving than an innovative function. In UFFA’s case, this has proven to be a strength in terms of cultural continuity and recruitment. However, in the eager endeavor to preserve original ideals, some of the ability to face political challenges with creativity seems to have disappeared. In this way, the appropriation process is influenced in a direction that prevents the possibility of a constructive update of the countercultural DIY repertoire in the digital domain.

The unruliness of technology Previously in this chapter I referred to the comprehensive literature that is strongly optimistic in relation to the possibilities for utilizing the Internet and other digital technologies to develop new forms of political resistance. St. John’s (2003) study of the Australian rave scene, and its innovative exploitation of the new digital sphere, was given as an example of the countercultural renewal of the link between politics and music. I expected that it would also be in the interest of the punk counterculture – here represented by UFFA – to appear as an element of unrest in the digital domain. My findings suggest, however, that the realities are somewhat more trivial, while the difficulties and challenges of countercultural appropriation of ICTs are greater than the optimism found in the literature I mentioned. A process of appropriation has been going on, and is still going on, when it comes to new ICTs in the punk movement, but this only negligibly refers to hacker counterculture ideals. The link between music and politics is important for UFFA, but no link appears to have arisen between politics and the digital reality where much of today’s music activity occurs. The DIY ethos has not been renewed to include

66   In search of the “hacker-punk” digital policy issues. This means that apparently no new underground policy has been produced at UFFA in the wake of the Internet. Even if ICTs act as an enrolled resource in the tool chest of the counterculture, the UFFA community so far does not truly take to heart the political aspect of the new technological spheres. UFFA thus reveals an ambivalent and in part unresolved relation to new digital media. The culture lacks a creative strategy in relation to influencing or opposing today’s communication and distribution regimes. I have been hunting for the “hacker punk” at UFFA – a hunt inspired by such works as Markoff (2005) and Turner (2006) and their uncovering of the links between hippies and hackers in the 1960s and 1970s. However, the study showed that few or no links existed between the local music counterculture at UFFA and computer countercultures. Even though punk counterculture and computer counterculture should, “on paper,” have much in common, they appear to be two different projects. To my knowledge, no other inquiries into the relationship between the punk movement and the hacker movement have been conducted. Therefore, Kristin’s assertion that there probably are “hackers in our community,” remains a question for further research. Actually, few studies have explored the use of digital media in the punk counterculture. Reja’s study of the Brazilian straight-­edge scene has a quite optimistic conclusion claiming that the Internet has strengthened the community and “the shared passion for music” (2014: 2). However, her conclusion seems a little exaggerated; all the time she, too, points to several tensions that have arisen due to the introduction of ICTs. Haenfler’s (2006) ethnography of the straight-­edge punkers in the USA, on the contrary, is rather pessimistic and reveals contradictions and mixed emotions in line with what I have observed. Citing one of their interviewees, the Internet has “really taken a lot of fun out of hardcore” (ibid.: 179). Even if my picture is somewhat more nuanced, for UFFA the appropriation of ICT contributes to making the music counterculture deal with a more unruly hybrid collective of technology, competence and social relations. This new order does not simply mean a plethora of new ways of approaching countercultural activities, but also offers a new type of challenge with respect to social control. The overarching problem is the transparency and perforation of the borderline between inside and outside, leading to what Callon (1999) has termed “overflows.” The lack of a clarified policy and strategy for ICT issues may be considered a symptom of the ambiguous value ascribed to ICT in the punk movement. When it comes to music policy, this may be interpreted as a paradox, as the music counterculture lacks a creative strategy against the ICT policy of the commercial music industry. Where the punk/hardcore culture had DIY as its strategy to avoid intervention from commercial actors in the early 1980s, no corresponding creative strategy exists to match the digital surroundings through which much of today’s music life is mediated. I believe that this may stem from the fact that being countercultural is a demanding competence. We have seen that the activists at UFFA today lack the

In search of the “hacker-punk”   67 insight and will to get involved in the political challenges of digital music and media. Domestication may for the music counterculture be seen as a way of defining order and disorder (Marshall et al. 2015). As a counterculture it is basically dependent on retaining some disorder as part of survival. It is, however, hard and demanding to always stand for alternative ways of doing things. Moreover, the expanded distribution of politics and music may be a threat to social control. It becomes more difficult to control what is kept inside the community and what is “leaked” to the outside world. Thus, the music counterculture does not necessarily have the same political interests as the computer counterculture. It appears that for the time being we should forget the hacker punk. UFFA’s ambivalent relation to ICTs reveals that the appropriation process has not occurred as painlessly as Hodkinson (2003, 2004) and St. John (2003) found in their studies. My study has showed how Internet use has been embedded in the punk scene and contributed to creating new space for niche activities. The fact that the Internet has been taken into use by the music counterculture does not necessarily mean that the counterculture determines the conditions for the result of the use. It rather appears that ICT functions as a disruptive element that the music counterculture does not have full control over. This time punk is rather the victim than the source of unruliness.

Notes 1 “Ungdom for fri aktivitet [Youth for Free Activities]”. Trondheim is the third biggest city in Norway. 2 The other is Blitz in Oslo, the capital of Norway. 3 www.trondheimhardcore.com 4 www.uffahus.org 5 www.turmusic.no 6 See www.creativecommons.org 7 DoS: Denial of Service.

5 Pre-­distribution networks and professional networks Becoming an artist in the age of “piracy cultures”

Of network studios and piracy cultures Chapters 2–4 have basically studied digital music distribution from the consumption side. Of course, in Chapter 2 we saw how many of the young people engaged in “remixing practices” to varying degrees, thereby making them what has been termed “prosumers” or “conducers” of culture (see Sørensen and Williams 2002). Furthermore, most of the participants in the punk community in the previous chapter were amateur musicians themselves, thereby providing a kind of a sliding passage from the consumption to the production side of the “circuit of culture” (Gay et al. 1997). In this chapter – which is the first of three “production chapters” – I will look at digital music distribution from the perspective of artists/musicians as producers of culture (to be followed by chapters on the music industry and technology developers respectively). As Baym (2012) has pointed out, very few studies have actually studied digital music distribution from the musicians’ point of view, despite categorical claims about how digital tools are revolutionizing music production and distribution, fostering new connections between artists and fans, and making intermediaries from producers and agents to record companies and retailers superfluous and obsolete (see e.g., Kusek and Leonard 2006; Owsinski 2009; Cohen 2010; Rogers 2013; Brae 2014; Rogers and Preston 2016). However, the sparse empirically based literature that has actually investigated how artists are appraising and appropriating digital technology shows how artists are not just jumping on the new opportunities, but striving with new tensions and challenges (David 2010; Baym 2012, 2014). Not least, the controversy between the music industry and Internet users has put artists in an ambiguous situation. On the one hand, the changes threaten their traditional income patterns, while, on the other, the same changes are potentially opening up some new ways to make a career (see Negus 2015). Furthermore, the changes might even challenge the very notion of what being an artist is all about. In both principle and practice, today’s recording possibilities are omnipresent and available for all. Audio recording, mixing and editing applications are part of the basic software package for new personal computers and, lately, for many mobile phones, as well (see Hiebner and Hiebner 2015).

Pre-distribution and professional networks   69 New recordings can be easily uploaded and distributed in various ways through the Internet. Researchers have commented that the distance between input and output, between consumption and production, has – at least in some respects – become significantly shorter. According to Wikström (2009), this has fostered “increased amateur creativity” – or what Lessig (2008) has termed “a remix culture.” In a similar vein, Castells and Cardoso (2012) have coined the term “piracy cultures” to denote the growing number of people building media relationships outside the institutionalized set of rules in the content industries. The term “piracy” was originally coined by content industry actors to stigmatize and criminalize file-­sharing activities. Somewhat uncritically, it has been taken up by academic researchers attempting to measure the effects of file-­sharing on record sales and the challenges this phenomenon poses for policy (see Peitz and Waelbroeck 2004; Stryszowski and Scorpecci 2009; Waldvogel 2011; Kariithi 2011). In these studies, “piracy” has been used to denote acts of infringement of copyrighted content. This use of the metaphor has been criticized as running an errand for the industry, most persistently by Lessig (2002, 2004). However, as David points out, Internet activists over the last years have “inverted the negative associations given to piracy and taken this term as a symbol of rebellion against corporate authority and its attempts to police the Internet” (2010: 116; see also Mason 2008; Mattelart and Morris 2009; Fredriksson and Arvanitakis 2014; Burkart 2014). In Castells and Cardoso’ conception, the notion of piracy is not confined to criminal practices in a legal sense, but is used to capture the flourishing of alternative networks and communities for the creation and distribution of content. David (2010: 144) lays out four hypotheses regarding the possible outcome of such activities, which can either turn out to be: (1) a relatively insignificant parasitic practice, (2) a substantive threat to cultural innovation, (3) a subversion that reinforces dominant versions (e.g., leading people to buy more music), or (4) a practice that embodies new and progressive forms of social interaction. Thus, in scenario 1, the outcome is negligible; scenario 2 would confirm the doomsday predictions of the music industry, with fewer and fewer musicians having the incentives to create music; while scenario 3 represents the ironic flip, in which alternative practices end up strengthening established orders. Actually, it is only in scenario 4 that there are outcomes truly worthy of being called “piracy cultures.” Therefore, to address the transformative potential of the notion of piracy, I will reserve the term for practices that, in one way or another, constitute treason against established social orders. The point is not whether activities should or could be defined as illegal, but whether they have the potential to change orders. This will also be the lens through which the practices of the artists will be approached. To denote today’s changes in recording and distribution, Theberge (2004) coined the powerful notion of “the network studio.” Theberge gives an historical account of the development of recording technologies, an evolution which he  describes as a continuous movement toward “non-­space” and “non-­place,”

70   Pre-distribution and professional networks In Theberge’s account, the network studio is the (possible) end point of a development that has emancipated the recording of music from place and space, propelled by an industrial logic of standardization. The network studio allows for an unprecedented degree of coordination and connectivity at an increased speed and with lower costs. Nonetheless, the emergence of the network studio and the “anywhere/anytime logic” has opened up a paradoxical situation, according to Theberge: (The network studio) can operate in different ways in different contexts: at times reinforcing the pattern of information “flows” characteristic of the dominant economic order, and at others working outside of it, facilitating a kind of autonomous production practice or, at the very least, a very different pattern of exchange. (Ibid.: 776) In other words, the network studio can both heighten efficiency within the existing music industry structures, as well as foster the development of “piracy cultures” according to the definition above. I will basically use the term “network studio” to refer to the use of “augmented” home studios facilitated by the introduction of the Internet and other digital devices, thereby exploring the possible emergence of the autonomous production and distribution practices which Theberge has hinted at. My research questions are therefore the following: How has the network studio been appropriated, and what does it represent in terms of possibilities and opportunities for the musicians? To what extent are the practices of the network studio either framed within or working outside the traditionally dominant economic orders of the music industry? The home studio was born in the 1970s with the introduction of simple 4-track recorders with integrated mixing facilities (see Cunningham 1999). Soon, digital technologies, such as synthesizers, drum machines, samplers, and particularly, musical instrument digital interface (MIDI) sequencers, all helped to open up the possibility for more complex recordings (Pinch and Trocco 2002). Throughout the 1990s, the personal computer became the control center for the home studio, outfitted with multi-­track recording software and easily available sound processing technologies (Tschmuck 2006, 2016; Anderton et al. 2013). The augmentation of the home studio into a network studio is, of course, related to the advent of the Internet. The connectivity offered by the high-­speed Internet has affected home-­based music production in several respects (see Watson 2016). To mention only a few of these, consider the following examples: Most recording software is now downloaded, whether legally or illegally, from the net, with a vast array of add-­ons being immediately available whenever needed. Network connectivity has made working together on a recording much easier, as music files can be transferred, developed, remixed, and mastered back and forth – such as between different members of a band. Finally, the Internet promises a new route for establishing and maintaining a relationship with fans,

Pre-distribution and professional networks   71 as music can be “tested out,” and promotion and distribution can be managed directly from the home (Baym 2012, 2014; Choi 2016). The users of digital recording equipment can be charted on a continuum, ranging from low-­experience users (e.g., school kids tinkering with their new equipment) to professionals (e.g., experienced musicians who wish to create extensive productions). The analysis in this chapter is based on in-­depth interviews with a total of 22 musicians. Our interviewees can be located on “the upper half ” of the continuum. They ranged from singer/songwriters and band members with fairly established careers to upcoming artists and people basically engaged with the production of music for others. The interviewees composed and performed in different music genres, from rock and pop to hip hop and electronica. They ranged from 19 to 45 years of age, with most of them in their mid-­ 20s. For all the interviewees, music was their central hobby and passion. Most of them had some experience as both recording artists and live artists, and most of them had a dream or ambition to make a living and career out of their music. Since none of them, at the time of the interviews, were making a full-­time living out of their music, a fair common label for our interviewees could be that of “advanced amateurs,” “semi-­professionals” or “artists in the making.” What our interviewees have in common is that they are all experienced and dedicated users of the network studio. They each have a personal competence and interest in questions related to home-­based music production and its implications. Finally, most of them expressed a motivation to go as far as possible with their music. Hence, I will argue that this group constitutes an especially interesting research subject in regard to the rise of autonomous music production and distribution practices and their transformative potential. Preparing this chapter, the material has been analyzed according to two broad themes: (1) The use and evaluation of the home studio “per se” in the various phases of music creation, production, and dissemination, which is the theme for the first part of the analysis; and (2) the relative merits of the home studio and the prospects of building a “career from home” vis-­à-vis professional recording facilities and traditional career patterns in the music industry, which is the theme for the second part of the analysis.

Assembling work Theoretically, we can understand David’s (2010) four hypothesizes regarding the artists’ encounter with digital technologies and engagement in “piratical activities” as possible outcomes of processes of folding (see Chapter 1). In the everyday life of artists, the event of the Internet has represented a rupture and an alternation. In the previous chapter, I compared the punk culture’s encounter with ICTs with the collision of earth plates. The notion of other dramatic geological phenomena as those of earthquakes and eruptions and floods could also be invoked to indicate the transformative forces everyone engaged in music has to deal with. However, the geological associations must be used with some caution. While humans, relatively speaking, to a limited extent can affect the

72   Pre-distribution and professional networks outcome of these geological concussions, we do have far greater influence, at every step, over the changes put in motion by new technology. The concept of folding, applied to interactions between humans and technology, is meant to highlight the non-­linear, non-­determinist character of technology appropriation. It helps us envision the outcome as entangled and twisted arrangements of social and material elements – where one otherwise could be tempted to predict obvious and determined courses of development (e.g., the death of professional sound studios, record companies and music retailers). As pointed out earlier, my use of the folding concept is closely linked to insights from science and technology studies (STS) and its most important branch actor-­ network theory (ANT). In the previous chapter, I coupled it with the notion of “mutual shaping” and “co-­construction” of technology and society (see Oudshorn and Pinch 2003; Jasanoff 2004). In this chapter, I will analyze the practices of the musicians through the lens of ANT’s concepts of socio-­technical “networks” and “assemblages.” According to ANT, our surroundings can be understood as being constituted by networks and collectives built up from associations and relationships between humans and “things” (Callon 1986; Latour 1987; Law 1994). The actor-­networks are often referred to as “heterogeneous networks” (Law 1994) or “hybrid networks” (Latour 1987, 1993) to underscore the analytical blending of elements traditionally kept apart in scholarly work both in the social sciences and the technological disciplines. Thus, ANT has made possible an analysis of phenomena as emerging relations between humans and technologies/materials. “The network studio” – considered as a set of technologies – has no clear determining effect in and of itself. It is only “affording” or “rendering possible” certain types of actions (Latour 2005: 72). What matters is how it is put to use, ascribed meaning, and connected to the rest of the world by different types of users (Lievroew 2014; Brunton and Coleman 2014). In recent years, Latour has come to use the notion of assembling to denote the work involved in tying networks – or assemblages – together (Latour 2003, 2005). Assembling is the work of putting a diverse set of elements together, and depending on the circumstances, it requires a varied set of competencies, including cultural, political, esthetic, technological, legal, etc. (see also Lessig 1999; Gillespie 2007; Gillespie et al. 2014). Conceptually, assembling and folding are closely connected terms – folding can be thought of as the total result of the assembling efforts of various actors, which is neither an aggregate nor a compromise, but something more disorderly and untidy in between. Or folding can, in more singular instances, be thought of as the assembling work of an actor plus the counter and sideway forces simultaneously belaboring the assemblage. The accompanying term to assembling, reassembling, has only a polemical meaning in Latour’s writings (2005). In this chapter, I will use it to denote maintenance and repair work, the acts of putting elements back “in place.” ANT has traditionally been more interested in the construction than the deconstruction of networks. This is a useful starting point for analyzing how the users of network studios have created new production and distribution networks. However, what

Pre-distribution and professional networks   73 has then happened to the old, established networks in the course of doing this? I will add the concept of disassembling to the toolkit in order to be able to discuss this question, denoting processes of untying and setting aside elements. A final question has to be addressed before embarking on an empirical analysis: What did (do) the established networks of the music industry look like? Wikström (2009) discusses several models which have been developed to map the architecture of the industry. Basically following Wikström, I will present two such models that are particularly relevant for the upcoming analysis. The first is Leyshon’s (2001) analysis of musical networks. Leyshon argues that the music industry consists of four networks that “possess distinctive but overlapping functions, temporalities and geographies” (ibid.: 60). These are the networks of creativity, reproduction, distribution, and consumption (see Figure 5.1). The creativity network is the network in which music is created through various “acts of performance,” such as songwriting, performing, producing, sound engineering, etc.; the reproduction network is centered on the licensing and recording of music; the network of distribution is the area for manufacturing, distribution, and promotion; the network of consumption is organized around the activities of reading about, listening to, purchasing, and collecting music. Leyshon argues that one of the advantages of his approach is that it makes it possible to address changes “in the complex and often messy organizational structure (of the music industry)” (ibid.: 60). Arguably, the model presents an image of the music industry that is anti-­monolithic, flexible, and multidirectional,

Musical instruments and supplies

Studio musicians Sound engineers

Recording studios Manufacturing

Producers Artists

Song writing Performance venues

Networks Creativity Reproduction Distribution Consumption

Artists’ management/ talent agencies

Recording companies

Promotion and distribution

Legal services Music publishing

Figure 5.1  Leyshon’s (2001) musical networks.

Retail outlets Shops/ stores

Mail order

Electronic delivery channels

74   Pre-distribution and professional networks with  several entry points – one of a possibly malleable industry. He uses this model to analyze the possible impact of new digital technologies, and he claims that we are facing “the emergence of a new technological assemblage within the music industry … organized around software formats and Internet distribution systems” (2001: 74). This assemblage has the potential to reshape all four musical networks. Following Leyshon, the technologies of the network studio should clearly be reckoned as part of the greater forces which possess such reshaping potential. In contrast, Burnett and Weber’s (1989) model presents a more monolithic picture of the recording industry. Their model more or less consists of the same components as Leyshon’s model, but is analytically divided into two, instead of four, “systems”: the system of production and the system of consumption. Burnett and Weber’s “system of production” includes Leyshon’s creative, reproduction, and distribution networks. The production system is centered on the activities of the recording companies, which are seen as the gravitational point of the industry. It is described as a highly complex system, with tight connections and ties between the various components, as well as interwoven roles, structures, and processes. The consumption system is understood as a much more fragmented system, and it is only loosely coupled with the system of production: “The relations among record producers, artists, marketing and promotion specialists, trade press and so on are stronger than the relationships between producers and consumers” (Wikström 2009: 51). In Burnett and Weber’s model, consumption and production are only connected through three weak links: the media, concerts, and the economic act of purchasing music. On the one hand, the radical promise – or threat – of the network studio is to make the whole of Burnett and Weber’s system of production obsolete by possibly doing away with producers, record companies, and the established patterns of promotion and retailing. On the other hand, it promises new, tighter connections between production and consumption (see, for example Owsinski 2009; Hiebner and Hiebner 2015). Will the promises be fulfilled?

A visit to the network studio The personal computer has been the production center of the home-­based network studio. According to Taylor (2001), the creative process involved in the production of modern popular music can be characterized by four essential techniques: multi-­track recording, MIDI programming, sampling, and sound synthesis. Among the interviewees, all these operations are basically performed through the use of a personal computer and software packages such as Cubase, Logic, or Pro Tools. Some are using more specialized software for certain tasks (e.g., using MAX to perform the programming of sound into the hardware). The technical setup of the network studio further consists of various assemblies of loudspeakers, instruments, sound transforming devices, and acoustical arrangements, all linked to the computer.

W-L C-L

Studio engineers

Artists

Weak link Conditional link Production system Consumption system

Aesthetic production

Songwriters

Musicians

Independent producers Major companies

Advertising/ promotion

Production

Wholesale distributors

Concert production

Retail sales

W-L

W-L

W-L W-L

W-L

Exposure through media

Attending concerts

Peer opinion leadership

Listening

if ferentiation/ rebellion

Purchase decision

Gratification

Repetition of the old

C-L

Figure 5.2  Burnett and Weber’s (1989) production and consumption systems.

76   Pre-distribution and professional networks There is a division between those basically working with MIDI (computer generated sounds) and audio (“real sound” recordings). A “pure” MIDI studio would typically consist of a computer and a MIDI keyboard, or perhaps a synthesizer or a digital drum set, whereas a “pure” audio studio would consist of a computer and diverse types of equipment, such as microphones and amplifiers, as well as adjusted acoustical surroundings to record the vocals and actual instruments. Even so, the “pure” variants are possibly the rarest instances. Among my interviewees, even those essentially just working with MIDI had some additional equipment for audio recordings (e.g., a microphone for vocals). Vice versa, those with a predilection for audio recordings also used MIDI programming in parts of or throughout the recording and production process, for reasons of either efficiency or cost savings, or to obtain additional effects. All of my interviewees were experienced users of home studio facilities. For them, the home-­based network studio represented a world of new possibilities in the creative process of making music. An important motivation for the appropriation of music recording and editing technologies has been the possibility such technologies offer to tinker and experiment with sound. The opportunities to test out ideas and play with the material were central to their approach. Today’s software packages offer almost unlimited possibilities for manipulating sound recordings in various ways, including pitch, beat, touch, tempo, decay, sequencing, randomizing, etc. From the Internet, the interviewees found numerous extensions to their software in the form of samplers and plug-­ins. The boundlessness of possibilities is demonstrated by this passage from the interview with Hans and Dan: Dan: 

When I started out, I downloaded all the time. Because then it was like, I have to have this and this and this, and I have to test that and that and that. But.… Hans:  It gets like some kind of sport in the end, to find as much as you can. You don’t really do it for the sake of the music, you just sit there and become greedy. Dan:  You end up as a collector. It becomes a mania. Actually, several of the interviewees described the work of limiting their software setup as being one of the most demanding. The availability of advanced multi-­track techniques has opened up editing options that were previously reserved for only the most expensive professional recording studios. Cutting up, mixing, and copying soundtracks are now tasks that can be done almost instantaneously. In particular, the interviewees emphasized the possibilities of altering and remaking the recordings throughout the process, in addition to being able to go back on choices made at an earlier stage. Ken, who was one of the older musicians, contrasted this to the way he was used to making recordings before: It was a revolution in itself, as it allowed you the possibility to record your ideas and work with them back and forth at home, instead of going into a

Pre-distribution and professional networks   77 studio and paying €50 per hour to play with your music. In that way, you become a whole other type of creative musician than I think was ever possible before. Today, musicians compose, play, record, and produce their own music. Some important aspects of the creative process are the possibilities now available to experiment with sound effects, as well as to cut and paste in the recordings and redo earlier takes. Of course, the network studio has made recording music much more affordable. Trond, who was also one of the older musicians, said that, in the past, one had to be very well prepared before recording anything, due to the cost of the tapes: Before, it cost €80 to do a 30 minute tape with 24 tracks, so you had to plan more in detail how you were going to use your time. At that time, you really had to rehearse before you went to a studio. With the computer-­based equipment of today, this is no longer necessary. Nonetheless, it should be noted that illegal downloading seems to be part of the explanation for why so many musicians can now record music with good sound quality on their own. Most of my interviewees admitted that they download most of the software they are using from various file-­sharing networks, since the licensing fees for official versions of many of the software packages were described as prohibitively expensive. The network studio has clearly changed the way musicians work together. Those of the interviewees who were playing in a band or working on projects with other musicians reported that it was very common to circulate work in progress between the musicians. With the network studio, musicians and band members have obtained a toolkit that simplifies and structures the process of composing and rehearsing new music. The interview material reveals that the network studio has replaced much of the work that bands have traditionally performed in rehearsals. By recording and circulating ideas and drafts, the rehearsal process has become more efficient, because the musicians can prepare and work with their tasks before the band meets to rehearse. The use of digital recording software has made it possible to generate sheet music automatically, thereby making it easier to teach instrument parts and vocals to other musicians. On the other hand, digital recording software was also frequently used to record rehearsals, so that bands could document and evaluate their performance. Control was mentioned as another aspect that contributed to the appeal of the network studio. In the network studio, the interviewees were controlling all stages of the recording process, from inception to the end product. The musicians took on the multiple roles of composer, performer, technician, and producer, with no external interference. Jonas explained:

78   Pre-distribution and professional networks You can create music, you can arrange music, you can perform music and you can record music. You can also start on the process of distributing music, which was previously the responsibility of the record companies. This points to a new type of assembly between technologies and activities that used to take place in separate spheres of the music production process. When music is produced in a network studio, the established distribution of the roles between producers, technicians, musicians, and manufacturers becomes blurred. The interviewees generally believed that this has given musicians greater power and control over their music than they had previously. The network studio has also opened up new ways to expose and distribute music. All of the interviewees except for two were using the Internet to present themselves and make their music publicly available, work which was being done through homepages, blogs, SoundCloud, YouTube, Facebook, and the Norwegian site Urørt. The Internet was valued as a convenient tool for promotion and distribution, particularly in terms of communicating directly with fans and acquaintances. The interviewees experienced the feedback they were getting for their music as stimulating and entertaining, if sometimes a little annoying – in line with the finding of Baym (2012) and Choi (2016). For my interviewees, the appeal of the network studio can be summed up in five basic motivations: It stimulates creativity, it is economically beneficial, it is (in some respects) time efficient, it gives them increased control over the production process, and it makes it possible new ways to expose their music. To borrow a term from Latour (1987), this has led to the rise of the network studio as being a new “center of calculation,” meaning that it is a central site where the activities of modern societies burst out. As such, the network studio has not only absorbed, but also renewed and transformed, practices that previously took place elsewhere. We have seen how the network studio has altered the act of recording music that used to belong to a professional studio, allowing recording to become part of an ongoing process and not just an end product. The network studio has also taken over the collaboration of activities among musicians that used to take place in rehearsals. Furthermore, the network studio has opened up a new channel for two-­way communication between artists and consumers, seemingly sidestepping the weak links of Burnett and Weber’s model (see Figure 5.2). In important ways, the network studio has facilitated a reassembling of the creative processes of music-­making that fosters the sort of autonomous production and distribution practices that Theberge (2004) foresaw. Arguably, the practices of my interviewees can also be seen as part of the “remix culture” that Lessig (2008) describes; in the novel ways they are exploiting networked digital technology to tinker and experiment with sound. We have seen how the interviewees were using editing software to perform what Kusek and Leonard (2006) term “cut-­and-paste artistry,” a phrase they use to describe how musicians make new music by combining lots of “raw” prerecorded material, including sound bites, samples and loops.

Pre-distribution and professional networks   79 Do the new assemblages rising around the network studio also qualify as “piracy cultures?” The interviewees said that they based the setup of their network studios on illegally downloaded software, thus qualifying them as pirates within the narrow legal definition of content industries. However, in prolongation of Castells and Cardoso (2012), I suggested another definition of piracy, where piracy is understood as treason against established social orders. Framed this way, piracy can therefore also be defined as acts of disassembling. I have pointed out that the network studio has given musicians unprecedented control over all aspects of the music production process. But what are they using this control for? What are the strengths and reach of the new assemblages of music making? To appraise the dimensions of eventual treason, we have to more thoroughly investigate how the interviewees assess the network studio vis-­à-vis the traditional networks and patterns of the music industry.

Being within or without the music industry? Remember, the interviewees were chosen because they were known as dedicated and experienced owners and users of home studio facilities. For that reason, it was interesting to know how they evaluated the potential of the new technologies. Numerous commentators have claimed that the widespread availability of cheap high-­quality recording equipment has made professional recording studios obsolete. Kusek and Leonard, for example, comment on the possibility of artists today being able to create albums entirely in the comfort of their own home studios: “This fact has wreaked havoc on the recording studio business, as most artists no longer need to spend a fortune renting elaborate facilities for recording, editing and mixing” (2006: 144). Even so, they note that some artists still make their recordings in professional recording facilities, but assert that this decision comes “more often than not at the request of the record label that is backing them” (ibid.). My interviewees were asked to compare the relative merits of the home-­based network studio versus professional recording studios. As it turned out, they all actually had some arguments in favor of the professional recording studios. Counter to all claims, the professional recording studios were generally seen as offering better equipment, since they usually consist of more hardware machinery than the home-­based studios. The general opinion was that such equipment generates better sound. For audio recordings, the recording outfit (microphones, preamps, cables, etc.) in professional studios is often more expensive and of better quality than what is common in home-­based studios. A professional studio will also have special sound-­insulated spaces for the recordings. In particular, the home-­based studio was seen as unsuitable for the miking of drums, and also for some acoustic instruments. In the home-­based studio, drums and other instruments could be replaced by MIDI and software instruments for practical and economic reasons. The material shows that this was the usual procedure when the interviewees worked with composition and sketches at the demo stage. However, the tendency that emerged in the interviews is that such substitutions are seen as static and unauthentic.

80   Pre-distribution and professional networks Another type of argument in favor of the professional studio was related to competence. Given the experience and dedication of my interviewees, one might expect that they would not feel they were in need of any external expertise. But this was not the case. The interviewees stressed that music production demands a lot of knowledge about sound and how technology affects it, as well as a lot of experience and training in how it can be manipulated. In her study of recording engineers, Horning noted: Yet while it is truer than ever that “anyone” can make records of reasonable quality, would-­be recording engineers now must have extensive training and experience even to work as an intern in a professional studio.… The value placed on tacit knowledge, experience, and human interaction in professional recording has not diminished. (2004: 705) This was also true for my interviewees. All of the interviewees except one had used professional studios on one occasion or another. The use of professional recording facilities was seen as an important arena, both for feedback on one’s work and for exceeding one’s competence. Those of the interviewees who had already released their own albums had all chosen to do the final mixing and mastering in professional studios. This also functioned as a way to secure the quality of the artwork. In reality, this finding demonstrates some of the limitations of the “remix culture,” in which affirmation is given and competence developed in communication with peers in (Web-­based) communities of interest (Lessig 2008). We have seen how all the interviewees were engaged in various forms of such communication. However, when the content production gets as ambitious as it did for my interviewees, relying solely on such feedback is not seen as being sufficient. In fact, after analyzing the relationship of the interviewees with doing professional recording, a somewhat different picture of the home-­based network studio starts to emerge. The home-­based studio has given the interviewees the possibility of recording reasonably good music demos without relying on professional recording facilities. This was regarded as being of importance, since such demos can be circulated among musicians, fans, radio stations, record companies, music reviewers, and organizers of live events. Yet, the tendency that emerged in the interviews was that the music produced solely in home-­based studios was simply regarded as “demo music.” Real releases demanded the expertise and equipment of the professional recording studios – at least for some parts of the job. We saw earlier how home studio facilities have made recording an integral part of the creative processes of making music, not just the result of these processes. However, from the viewpoint of the interviewees, the final dynamics were missing. Thus, home studio recording became only the beginning of a process that, for them, would hopefully end up somewhere else. This also affected how they comprehended the material they made available through the Internet. None of the interviewees put out their entire “catalogue”

Pre-distribution and professional networks   81 online. On the contrary, the rule was to be quite restrictive about it. The material released on homepages, SoundCloud, and the like was seen as demos, sketches, and “situation reports.” Their function was basically meant to be samples and “teasers” for something that would soon appear through other distribution channels. Thus, music distributed directly through the Web was looked upon as being in a more unfinished state – and was accordingly given lower status than music distributed in more traditional ways. Another finding was that some of the interviewees revealed scruples against releasing music produced in their home-­based studio, since the music had been produced with the aid of illegally downloaded software. Based on my material, it also seems that we are faced with quite an astonishing paradox: The flourishing of home-­based studios has not driven musicians away from the professional studios. On the contrary, home-­based studios have given more musicians than ever the possibility of making professional recordings! By doing parts of the recording at home, the musicians saved money and time in the professional studios, thereby allowing them both to be better prepared and to use their energy more effectively while in the professional studios. As a consequence, it has become cheaper to make professional recordings, and thus, more musicians can afford to do so. Actually, what we have witnessed here is an example of David’s (2010) third scenario – a subversion that ends up reinforcing the dominant order. We have seen that competence and equipment were central arguments in favor of doing professional recordings. It is also possible to identify a few more underlying causes. These have to do with the comprehension of the professional recording studio as a meeting place and entrance point to the industry. The interviewees did not believe that marketing and promotion through the Internet was very effective. As Trond puts it: “The chances of being discovered by the right people through the Internet amounts to zero.” To reach a wider audience, it was seen as a necessity to employ the resources and channels of the established music industry. In this picture, the professional recording studio served a function as a site where musicians could get their foot in the door – a place where people met, contacts were made, names were dropped, tips were circulated and recommendations were given. It can even possibly be argued that the actual network building that takes place within the professional recording studios was not the most important aspect. Rather, it was how the use of professional recording facilities tapped into the self-­esteem of my interviewees as musicians and their “feel for the game” of what is the decent and proper way of going about things. The understanding of a professional recording studio as an entry point can be seen as a symbolic ascription which is part of a wider construction of what it is like to be a real artist. In this construction, to record in a professional studio not only functions as an actual quality check of an artist’s work, but also as a symbolic hallmark signaling the seriousness of the artist. Proper music should be recorded in professional studios. Real artists make albums. They sign contracts with established record companies and release their music in a traditional manner. Traditional forms of

82   Pre-distribution and professional networks marketing and promotion are necessary. Based on my material, this model of making a career seems to be a quite strong and “locked” construction.

The pre-­distribution network and the professional network Spearheaded by the Internet, new digital technologies have brought us to a period of transition in how we relate to music that deserves to be labeled as revolutionary. As we saw in Chapters 2 and 3, users have embraced the new technologies and found new ways to copy, share, and distribute music. Through the Internet, vast amounts of legal and illegal material have been made available for everyone. As numerous commentators have noted, this has put the established music industry under tremendous pressure (see, for example Fisher 2004; Gillespie 2007; Boyle 2008; Lessig 2008; Allen-­Robertson 2013; Morris 2015). In recent years, the music industry has responded to the challenge by agreeing to try new business models, such as pay-­per-download services like iTunes, or subscription services like Spotify. Nevertheless, it remains to be seen whether these new models will reaffirm the relationship between the music industry and music users (see Morris 2015; Wikström and DeFillippi 2016). The central question brought up by the rise of the home-­based network studio is whether musicians and would-­be musicians will become part of the digital music revolution. In Theberge’s (2004) original account, he asked whether the network studio would operate outside the established music industry, facilitating new patterns of exchange. For several commentators, the answer has been obvious. Owsinski maintains that, today, “record labels, radio and television [have] become mostly irrelevant” (2009: ix). In addition, some popular examples have repeatedly been taken as proof of this development. One of them is the band Radiohead, which in 2007 released its new album, “In Rainbows,” for which fans were allowed to pay whatever they wanted, even nothing. Another is Trent Reznor’s (who records under the stage name Nine Inch Nails) release of “Ghosts I-­IV” on the official Nine Inch Nails website, nin.com. The release came in four different versions, ranging from free downloads of a sample of the songs to a deluxe edition consisting of all 36 songs, as well as a lot of additional bonus material, costing $300. Moreover, fans were encouraged to make their own remixes of the songs and upload them on a special section of the website (see Wikström 2009; Tschmuck 2016; for further examples, see Owsinski 2014). These are rare examples, though, and the broad awareness of these examples could be as much a reflection of how some commentators want the world to look as one of how it actually looks. In the beginning of this chapter, I contrasted two models of the music industry. In Leyshon’s model, the music industry is characterized by four overlapping networks, representing its “complex and often messy organizational structure” (2001: 61). Leyshon portrays a volatile industry, one in which the different networks (creativity, reproduction, distribution, and consumption) are quite open to change. Actually, Leyshon predicts that this will be the result of the appearance of the network studio:

Pre-distribution and professional networks   83 Low-­cost recording equipment … has created the conditions for a different form of “technoscape” – one that encourages largely independent, autonomous forms of local production rather than contributing to the dominant networks of power. (Ibid.: 73) In contrast, Burnett and Weber (1981) present a “two-­world model” with tight, not easily untied connections within the established music industry, in addition to a more fragmented community of users with only weak links to the industry. Based on my findings, it seems that Burnett and Weber’s model has offered the better prediction. I will now attempt to further qualify that conclusion. The analysis presented in this chapter has documented how the home-­based network studio has become part of two different assemblages, as illustrated in Figure 5.3. On the one hand, the network studio has become the “calculation center” of a network of new production and distribution activities. As we have seen, this network essentially consists of an assembly of downloaded software, computers, various types of recording equipment, Web-­based collaborations with fellow musicians, and the application of various Web services for the promotion and distribution of music. I have employed Latour’s (2005) notion of “reassembling” as a reference point for my analysis. “Reassembling” refers to the processes that tie various sorts of actors together in new constellations. The network studio has clearly reassembled some of the processes of music-­making. In some respects, the activities rendered possible by the network studio appear as “autonomous Net-based collaboration with peers

Downloaded software

The network studio

Web-based promotion and distribution

The professional studio

The big, real, really big music industry

The chasm Professional recording facilities, including legal software/hardware

Professional expertise

Figure 5.3  The pre-distribution network and the professional network.

84   Pre-distribution and professional networks production spheres” (Theberge 2004), where musicians can develop their musical identity on their own terms. Furthermore, its networking characteristics make the network studio into an arena to conduct self-­presentation and build contacts. I have also asked whether the practices of the network studio have any “disassembling” effects – whether they constitute a threat and a treachery against the established practices and structures of the music industry. The eventual treason is, of course, related to the potentially unlimited reach of the Internet, which, in theory, makes it possible to sidestep the traditional patterns of music production and distribution. Still, the networks that my interviewees assembled were basically of a local character, with limited outreach. It was seen as being very difficult to target a wider audience by making one’s music available through the Internet. Furthermore, there was no money in it. The interviewees referred to the problem of “information overload” on the Internet. Some mentioned that they seldom listened themselves to music uploaded to sites such as SoundCloud, YouTube, and Urørt, both because of the amount of music available there and because the quality of the material is so often poor. As a result, these sites have the character of a “test bed,” while real life goes on elsewhere. On the more positive side, the network studio was evaluated as an important element in the process of making music. For many, it has become an indispensable tool for being able to create music at all. The network studio has altered the process of music-­making, allowing recording to become an integrated part of an on-­going process of music composition and rehearsal. It has made it possible to continuously produce demo material that can be tested on fans, peers, and fellow musicians. In this way, the network studio has extended the space for activities related to communication and feedback. I will argue that the network studio constitutes the central node in small and limited, but effective, pre-­distribution networks. In contrast to these pre-­distribution networks stands the established professional network of the music industry. We have seen how the use of professional recording studios for my interviewees served as a (practical and mental) entry point to the professional network. Here, the interviewees obtained access to professional expertise and equipment, as well as possible contacts and recommendations that could lead them deeper into the network. Thus, for my interviewees, the use of professional recording facilities was seen as a necessary precondition for producing “proper” music, making “albums,” and becoming “real” artists. In the professional network, the home-­based network studio plays a rather marginal role. However, we have observed the emergence of a possible division of labor between the network studio and the professional studio. Some parts of the music production process have been delegated to the network studio – typically, generating ideas, experimenting, and making demos. Others were delegated to the professional studio – e.g., the audio recording of certain instruments, and the final mixing and mastering. In this way, we may have witnessed the folding of the home-­based network studio into the massive hybrid network of the music industry.

Pre-distribution and professional networks   85

Hail to the album! In the introduction to this chapter, I commented on how, to some degree, the term “piracy” has moved from the accusations of the content industries to be taken by Internet activists as a symbol of rebellion against corporate authority. This was, for example, clearly the case when the anti-­piracy campaign of the Norwegian music industry, labeled “Piracy kills music,” was met with the counter-­campaigns “Piracy kills no music” and “Piracy creates music” (see Chapter 3). The same, of course, holds true for the popular Swedish torrent site Pirate Bay (see Allen-­Robertsen 2013; Burkart and Andersson Schwartz 2015). Castells and Cardoso’s (2012) concept of “piracy cultures” is formulated in somewhat the same vein to denote the growing number of people building media practices and relationships outside the institutionalized set of rules in the content industries. I also suggested that the importance of these practices and relationships could fruitfully be assessed using David’s (2010) four scenarios as a lens. In the first scenario, the outcome of the formation of non-­institutionalized practices and relationships would turn out to be rather insignificant and negligible. Some might be tempted to conclude that the practices of the network studio users belong to this category, given the limited outreach of the networks that my interviewees were building and the low importance ascribed to them. However, such an inference would neglect the significance of the network studio in the creative processes of music-­making. Clearly, there is nothing in my material to support David’s second scenario – that these new practices should somehow constitute a threat to cultural innovation. By and large, my findings are most in accordance with the third scenario – the ironic flip, in which alternative practices end up strengthening established orders. This is most obvious in the way that the rise of the network studio has actually made the use of professional recording facilities more accessible for a larger number of musicians. On a larger scale, it is visible in how most of the activities of my interviewees are directed toward, and not against, the established music industry. Thus, David’s fourth scenario, the emergence of new and progressive forms of social interaction, receives limited support from this case study. Although the creative processes have changed, the perspectives on how to build careers have not. Consequently, the practices and relationships of my interviewees do not really constitute a “piracy culture” according to the definition put forward in the beginning of the chapter. It is interesting to reflect on the difference between David’s (2010) findings and mine. David has performed case studies on the practices of six artists (Arctic Monkeys, Enter Shikari, Simply Red, The Charlatans, Madonna, and Radiohead), strategically chosen to unfold the breadth of alternative stances taken by artists today. His conclusion is that the current situation offers more freedom to artists and fosters new relations between artists and audiences – thereby supporting the fourth scenario. However, the difference between our studies is that David has basically looked at established artists with the time, opportunity and (occasionally, at

86   Pre-distribution and professional networks least) nerve to experiment. In addition, his sample includes two well-­known examples of entrepreneurial bands, Arctic Monkeys and Enter Shikari. On the other side, my interviewees were not in the same position as musicians on the verge of a career, nor did they have the same entrepreneurial spirit. It would clearly be interesting to know more about the distribution of the entrepreneurial spirit among established and not-­so-established artists on a broader scale. I think that one of the most important contributions of this case study is the identification of an inherent conservatism that probably exists among many artists and would-­be artists. Negus talks about the artists’ “enduring romantic sensibility” (2015: 156). The music industry has only had a limited degree of success using their technical, legal, and media strategies to regulate the practices of Internet users (see Chapters 2 and 3). However, this chapter indicates that the industry has done far better in making artists stick, as it seems that the music industry is able to effectively reproduce a conservative, “naturalized” understanding of what becoming an artist should look like. For the bulk of my interviewees, the norm for a “real” career is to still use professional recording studios, be contracted by a record company, release traditional albums, distribute them through established channels, and leave the marketing and promotion to the trade. It might be apt to use some caution in relation to these conclusions. Over time, it may very well be the case that the practices of the network studio can turn out be more transformative than my interviewees were able to survey. Hence, it cannot be ruled out that, in the future, the network studio will become a powerful tool in an upheaval against some of the core structures of the music industry. As this chapter has indicated, too much uncertainty exists so far as relates to the striking power of the network studio, vis-­à-vis traditional production practices and distribution channels, to make it appear as a trustworthy alternative. In the autumn of 2010, Erlend Mogaard-­Larsen, the director of By:Larm, which is the biggest music trade venue in the Nordic countries, took the initiative to found a Nordic Music Prize, an inter-­Nordic selection of the best music album of the year. Interestingly, he stated the reason for the founding as such: Actually, it is totally far out to do this in an era where the sale of albums is declining year by year. But we want to honor what seems to be the driving force for many musicians, the desire to create something authentic, an artwork if you like, that lasts for 30 or 40 minutes. Everyone can make a song or two, but not everyone can make an album. (Quoted in Bryne 2010: 44) The possibly nostalgic attitude that Mogaard-­Jensen puts on display here would certainly be appreciated by my interviewees. In the turmoil of today’s music life, the consumers (that is, consumers as file-­sharers) could be said to be acting as revolutionaries. By contrast, the artists and musicians (that is, musicians as network studio owners) should, at best, be described as evolutionaries – or even revisionists. Hail to the album!

6 The irony of virtuality The production of music and news in “the new economy”

The contents of “the new economy” In the previous chapter, we saw what gravitational forces the established music industry, with the renowned record companies in front, were still exercising towards many artists. Indeed, it appeared as an almost mythical attraction based as much on a conception of indispensability as related to the services they actually offer. At the same time, we know that the record companies have been a hate object number one and target for fierce criticism for numerous scholars, journalists, Internet activists and users. In Chapter 3, we witnessed how Torgeir (16) found common ground with his father in their anger towards the record companies: “My dad is as pissed at the record companies as I am.” They have not been alone – as the analysis of the media coverage of “the piracy wars” in Chapter 8 will also reveal. The record companies have, for that matter, been a popular target for criticism of greed for many decades (see Negus 2015) – but with renewed force in connection with the rise of digital music distribution. In this chapter I will take a historical and comparative look at the strategies of the music industry in the face of the digital development. As Rogers and Preston have pointed out, the music industry was “the first of the established creative and cultural industries to deal with … the challenges arising from the evolution of the Internet as a medium for the circulation and promotion of content” (2016: 53–54). Arguably, it was one of the first two, if we include the newspaper industry among the creative and cultural industries (or speak of the content industries). Both industries experienced the challenges from the mid-­1990s onwards. At the same time, they chose widely different strategies to meet the challenges. For these reasons, they make an interesting comparison. Thus, I will provide “a critical history” (van Dijk 2012; Allen-­Robertson 2013) of the different and changing strategies of the two industries in their encounter with online distribution. By the Internet’s breakthrough in the mid-­ 1990s, a number of commentators pointed out the significance of providing content to foster and ensure the growth of the online activities. There is no doubt that music and news were two of the most important engines spearheading the massification of the Internet (see Spilker 2005). In the Norwegian context, online newspapers – with vg.no in the forefront – have been on top in Norsk Gallup’s

88   The irony of virtuality Internet polls since they were established in 1997, and have had continuous growth (see Figure 6.1). In the same way, all available figures show that more and more Norwegians use the Internet for (legal and illegal) music-­related activities, increasingly more extensively.1 The forms of distribution for music and news have therefore set some important parameters for cultural and economic activities online. Initially, the music industry and the newspaper industry chose diametrically opposite approaches to the Internet. The newspaper industry established online papers where the content was freely available for the users and bracketed the question of earnings – in what editor Kvistad called “a seizure of commercial idiocy.”2 The music industry attempted to hold back its content, insisting that the Internet should not make a difference and awaiting the development of legal and technological frameworks. These differences between the music industry’s and the newspaper industry’s strategies in relation to the Internet have been an important motivation for the following analysis. Why did the two industries choose such different approaches to the challenge of the Internet? In addition, how have these opposite strategies turned out now, in hindsight? 2,500

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–500 VG.no Aftenposten.no

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NRK.no Dagens Næringsliv (dn.no)

Figure 6.1 Weekly readers of the six biggest Norwegian online newspapers/media (in thousands).

The irony of virtuality   89 According to exponents for the somewhat loose theory tradition connected to the term “the new economy,” the future was looking bright for producers of cultural content in the 1990s (see Thrift 2005 for a review). The new economy was depicted as one where production and distribution is extensively carried out through data networks. This mediation was assumed to have implications that transform the rules of commercial activity. Especially, the theories of the new economy were tied to a belief that information and “intellectual goods” would become increasingly important to the detriment of traditional material goods. For example, in a much cited quote, Castells stated that the economic structures in the networked society are organized around “flows of capital, flows of information, flows of technology, flows of organizational interaction, flows of images, sounds, and symbols” (2000: 442). Similarly, Rifkin (2001) explained that we are faced with a shift from industrial production to cultural production. While the industrial period was characterized by the commodification of work and material, our time is characterized through the commodification of play and experience. Intellectual capital has taken over as the driving force for economic processes. It is worth mentioning that Rifkin means that “intellectual capital” will less and less frequently be exchanged in the market. Instead, one will try to protect the control over such resources, and they will just be rented out or licensed to consumers with limited use rights. According to Rifkin, economic power will exceedingly be concentrated around providers of valuable intellectual capital, who will control the conditions for user access to critical ideas, expertise, games and experiences. The basis for these shifts is the new information and communication networks, which dramatically increase the reach and circulation rate and turnover of cultural experiences and information, while the turnover of industrial goods will appear as cumbersome and antiquated in comparison. The importance of place and material will decrease, as Castells has argued through the term “the space of flows,” which operates outside of traditional local anchors, and Rifkin, through the idea of “the age of access,” where access to cultural experiences and information means more than ownership of artifacts. Importantly, the reduced importance of place and material must, according to theories about the new economy, be seen as beneficial for producers of cultural content such as the music industry and the newspaper industry. They should be expected to occupy the core positions in the new economic order. However, Rifkin and Castells differ on the basis of power in the new economy. Rifkin sees power as tied to control of cultural resources. Castells’ perspective can be seen as more dynamic, where power is defined through participation – and centrality – in the “the space of flows.” A logical consequence of Rifkin’s understanding of power will therefore be to choose a strategy similar to the one pursued by the music industry: Focus everything on ensuring control over the resources. The strategy of the newspaper industry, on the other hand, can be seen more in line with Castells, where gaining access and position in the networks is primary. What strategy has worked better – resource control or network entry?

90   The irony of virtuality The analysis in this chapter is based on a variety of sources, covering digital strategies and developments in the Norwegian and the Nordic context. As described in the introductory chapter, Norway and the Nordic countries have been in the forefront of developing online content, both when it comes to spread of use and development of services (cf. also Nordgård 2016; Wikström and DeFillippi 2016). Thus, the success of industry strategies here should provide interesting historical lessons and signals for the further development of digital content distribution. A nucleus for the analysis is semi-­structured interviews with approximately 30 interviewees in the music industry and the newspaper industry, conducted in the early stages of digital development between 1999 and 2005 – as part of my doctoral work (see Spilker 2005). Furthermore, the analysis is based on fieldwork at the industry gatherings of By:Larm and Trondheim Calling throughout the period, industry and academic seminars on the developments within the newspaper industry, industry and academic reports and statistics, and media coverage.

Network society or Internet society? Before we go to the analysis, it is necessary to provide a short critique of the theorization that went under the heading of “the new economy.” Rifkin’s and Castells’ predictions of the centrality of content and content producers in the network society and the new economy are based on an understanding of the transformative power of data networks. However, these and other contributions to the literature of the “new economy” have been criticized for providing a superficial and schematic account of historical developments and pressing everything into a singular logic (see e.g., Theberge 2005; Bell 2007; Howard 2011). These theories were obviously inspired by the possibilities of digitalization and the fast growth of the Internet, but the analysis of the socio-­technical preconditions was weak. Thus, their predictions can be accused of deducing social and economic developments from abstract considerations of the capacities of data networks in general.3 However, the formation of the Internet cannot be explained as a result of the general availability of data networks. A corrective to such accounts is to be found in the (STS-­inspired) literature on the history of the Internet (see Abbate 1999; Thomas and Wyatt 1999, Ceruzzi 2000; Gillespie 2007; Meikle and Young 2012). Here the Internet is understood as a specific historical configuration, formed and folded by the activities of specific social groupings. The literature on the history of the Internet points in this context towards the importance of at least four factors:  1 2

The Internet was developed as a publically funded project. The Internet was shaped as a decentralized network, designed for the sharing of computer power and information. 

The irony of virtuality   91 3 4

The users of the network were given opportunity to participate in further developments, resulting in a uniquely dedicated user base, experiencing an ownership to the network.  It was a free network for a long time – for students and employees at colleges and universities. 

Many writers point out these factors as a precondition for the success of the Internet – often referring to the failure of creating proprietary commercial networks such as videotext and x.25 in the same period (see Abbate 1994, 1999; Kyrish 1996). Today, most people probably equate the Internet with data networks, as the Internet is seen more or less as synonymous with long distance data-­ communication. While this may work as an everyday understanding, it is actually an impression that hinders us from seeing that the world of digital networks could have been (very) different. Furthermore, it makes it difficult to understand the challenges that have confronted the content industries in the establishment of an online presence.

A prehistory of digital news and music I will therefore start this analysis by an excursion back to pre-­Internet days. For a long time, the Internet was only one of many approaches towards data networks, also long distance networks. An example is the branches of Nordlandsbanken, as the first bank in Norway connected through an online terminal system, in 1971 – only two years after the first Internet connections (ARPANET­connections) were established between four universities in the USA (Fygle et al. 1993). In fact, the Internet remained a relatively small and unknown data network until far into the 1990s, especially from a commercial vantage point. The newspaper industry had experimented with the digital dissemination of news since the 1980s. One example is the news service Ajour, which Aftenposten launched in 1985 as a collaboration with the bank DnC, targeted to business clients through DnC Telebank. Ajour had their own editorial staff with six employees, which was supposed to serve up to 1,000 business clients. It aimed to deliver “electronic information services with an emphasis on finance news.”4 At the same time, Dagbladet developed the first “electronic flashboards” which were displayed in public areas, and later also on buses and trains. Belonging to this early history with text-­based digital news reporting is also other experiments with technological solutions such as text-­tv, audio text, fax, CD-­ROM and portable units (see Kyrish 1996, Boczkowski 2004). A common trait for these early experiments was that one imagined that digital news would be exclusive services, which consumers would be willing to pay more for than traditional paper-­based news reporting. It was possibly radical thoughts that the editor in chief for Adresseavisen, Gunnar Flikke, expressed when he returned from a study trip in the USA in 1995, suggesting that electronic news delivery should not cost more than paper delivery. On the same trip

92   The irony of virtuality he observed, as he mentioned in passing, that about 60 newspapers and magazines worldwide offer part of their product as electronic text through the Internet, but claimed that “none of these offers can really be seen as electronic newspapers” (1995: 121). There were also stakeholders who conducted “pre-­Internet” experiments with music distribution in data networks. Notably, one of these was Sygna, based in the small village of Sogndal by the Sognefjord. Sygna was probably the first in the world to use the compression standard of MP3 to transfer music within data networks. This standard was already developed several years earlier at the Fraunhofer Institute in Germany, mainly as a standard for long-­term storage of sound that could be used by libraries and other sound archives (see also Chapter 7): And it was then we discovered, in 1991, that it was actually possible with an mp3 transfer if you had sufficient hardware on both ends. We then conducted an experiment with Jonas Fjeld and Knut Reiersrud [well-­known Norwegian folk/blues musicians], where they recorded a track that was transferred through an mp3-line from Sogndal to a recording studio in Oslo.5 In its first phase (from c.1989–1992), Sygna’s business model was to build databases and to sell online music information – notes, information about works, composers, ensembles, repertoires etc. – through musical libraries and other institutions where professional musicians could gain access. The files were then only thought of as “a data reference in conjunction with other types of music information.” The same thing was really the case in Sygna’s second phase (c.1992–1996), when the company focused on CD-­ROM releases with musical information, e.g., about brass bands and folk music – even though the sound tracks gradually gained more prominence in these releases. The main point here is that Sygna, like the newspapers, imagined that digital content services would be valued higher than their paper-­based or analogue counterparts. Thereby, they operated in line with the expectations regarding cultural content as central for the value chains in the network society and in the new economy (Shapiro and Varian 1999; Rifkin 2001; du Gay and Pryke 2002). There are, therefore, many examples that several stakeholders in the newspaper industry and at least a few in the music industry, had started to prepare for a digitally based future. The Internet was, however, not part of these plans. From spring 1995, this changed rapidly. Brønnøysund Avis and Dagbladet were the first to release their Norwegian online versions in March. It now snowballed both in Norway and internationally: “1995 saw newspapers settling on the web as their electronic publishing environment of choice” (Boczkowski 2002: 273). In a short time, from being completely absent on the agenda, the Internet took over all focus as the medium and technology for electronic news distribution: “de facto, the Web has become the prime arena for multimedia newspaper development in the near and medium-­term future” (Molina 1997: 208). For the first few years, online papers were defined as test-­projects in most newspaper houses. They were freely available for users, but media people

The irony of virtuality   93 expected this only to be a short transition phase. Payment solutions would soon be in place. Aftenposten claimed in the summer of 1996(!) that “the free culture online is history,” with referrals to the newspaper Handels- og Sjøfartstidende and the commercial-­marketing magazine Kampanje that closed their online versions. NTB – that otherwise had been available online before any other stakeholders – did the same.6 It was, however, soon proven that the subscription services were far from successful. There was little interest, and meanwhile the open online papers became increasingly popular. Handels- og Sjøfartstidende retreated to free versions after one year with subscriptions (Lynnebakken 2001; Vinnogg 2001). The trials with free online issues had developed into permanent solutions. Within a few years, what earlier had been seen as unthinkable and absurd, was the reality: All the major papers in Norway published news free for their readers. For Skeid in Nettavisen, the realities were clear: “We thought we would get paid for subscription, that was one of the things we thought, and it was a little bit like that it was at the time, but we soon left that illusion behind.”7 Svendsen in Adresseavisen was a bit more concerned: “The main point is that the price of information decreases. The Internet makes all access to information cheap and so overwhelming that to imagine people paying for information becomes harder and harder.”8 Meanwhile, in the Sognefjord: At Sygna, the entrepreneurs began imagining a large potential in the opportunity to establish a commercial service for distribution of music online. Around 1995, an enormous optimism in relation to the cooperation with Fraunhofer Institute and Sygna’s innovative use of MP3 technology had evolved: “Sygna is about to develop a technological monopoly through … the deal with FhG regarding using their technology for sound compression and decompression” (Spilling 1995: 16). The company MODE (Music On DEmand) was established with partners in several European countries, and, with support from the EU, they would develop a service that demonstrated how the ISDN-­technology, Internet/Web and MP3 compression could be “combined to form unique opportunities for shopping and publishing of music.”9 MODE’s commitment stands out as a particularly offensive and early initiative for commercial utilization of the Internet. However, from the information I have gathered, it also looks like the music industry generally in the mid-­1990s viewed the Internet with some curiosity. Many of those interested in music at the time had found that the Internet was an appropriate tool to socialize with likeminded people and to search for information about artists, and the music industry on its side saw a marketing potential in that context. Watson shows in his study of “the Phish.Net Fan Community” how the band’s record company supported this Internet service from a belief that “Phish.Net represents a larger fan community/market” (1997: 128). So far, it was exchange of information and opinions about bands and artists that dominated. Only to a very humble extent was there actually digital distribution of music, something that probably was related to the technological limitations in the transfer capacity online, and also the lack of effective tools to wrap,

94   The irony of virtuality compress, process and record sound through a PC. Burnett reported on a breakthrough in 1995, when Sony started utilizing a new compression technology and made 15 seconds-­long samples from new albums available for download: “It takes a few minutes to download a 15 second excerpt of a song and then decide if one wants to take the time (15 to 20 minutes) to download the entire song” (1996: 148). This, however, would change dramatically shortly after. Software for compression and decompression of MP3 files was made available as “free shareware” in 1997. This meant that everyone with some technological competence could listen to music in MP3 format, and also make, save and distribute MP3 files. Internet users were on the way to figure out how they could access and share music online on their own. Towards the end of November 1997, the first article about MP3 could be seen in newspapers in Mediearkivet, an NTB-­ message titled “Net-­pirates give you free music.”10 In 1998 there were articles about this phenomenon almost daily.11 The music industry feared a pulverization of their revenue streams and started to focus on how they could prevent the distribution of MP3 files. This development represented bad news also for MODE. They claimed to have possessed a valuable marked advantage with their technology for coding and decoding of MP3 files, but this now slipped out of their hands: I think what happened with the mp3 technology … it is developed by Fraunhofer, but it was licensed, as far as I know, by Thompsen Electronics.… And they were the ones who licensed the algorithm further, and I think these license agreements is of a character.… Before you knew it the encoders were everywhere.… And you can speculate on why that happened, but I think there has been many strong, large organizations here who were more interested in gaining lots of traffic.… By using the novelty effect that you can now download music.… And that it may have been a hidden agenda.… It is impossible to document, but something happened with the licensing of the technology that made everything spin out of control.12 MODE had planned to launch their services in the spring of 1998, but this was, however, postponed. The record companies, who previously had been open to and interested in cooperating, now became more reluctant and restrictive. The development in the world of the Internet – and the response by the music industry – had made direct sales of music over the Internet a bad idea, at least in the short run. The planned net service would never see the light of day, and after a short period as a software provider, MODE had to resign in 2001. These early stories about music and news tell us that something about the Internet was different. Commercial stakeholders met a distribution arena that functioned in a different way than what they were used to, where established business models did not work. The Internet did not function the way the literature about “the new economy” and the network society expected: Rather than cultural content becoming more exclusive, it looked like the contrary was happening.

The irony of virtuality   95 As we saw previously, the newspaper industry and the music industry met this new reality with different strategies – the newspaper industry aimed for entry to the network, while the music industry aimed for resource control. These strategic choices would also turn out very differently in the following years.

Ensure control over the resources The music industry’s attempt to gain control over the distribution of digital music was intensified around the millennium. Internationally, a number of new services started by innovative Internet users and entrepreneurs appeared in 1998 and 1999. These services made use of the new opportunities for online distribution of music that laid in “the unique combination of www, isdn and mp3,” as Dagfinn Bach explained it. The service mp3.com gave users access to their own music library regardless of their location and what computer they were using, while Napster gave the users an overview of what types of music other users had in their computers and the opportunity to share amongst one another. The music industry – or more precisely the phonograph industry – answered with lawsuits against these services. Both mp3.com and Napster had to close their services (in their original forms) after the American Record Company Association, RIAA,13 won the lawsuits against these services for violating copyright law. These lawsuits gained much publicity, and the outcome was announced by the music industry as an important victory in the fight against unregulated sharing of music (see Merriden 2001; Lessig 2004, Carter and Rogers 2014; Morris 2015). They were, thereby, a central part in the industry’s more extensive strategy to gain legal control, partly through using existing legislations to pursue unauthorized use and distribution, partly by revising legislation. Much of the music industry’s energy has been directed at changing – tightening – legislation in the digital field. The new American copyright law, DMCA,14 which was enacted in 1998, was seen by many commentators to go a long way in supporting the interests of the music industry (see Lessig 2004; Allen-­ Robertson 2013). Copyright law has also been revised in most European countries after 2000, with the purpose of regulating the digital distribution of music. In Norway, a new copyright law, the so-­called “MP3-law,” was implemented in 2006, which, even if it in certain areas did not go as far as the music industry wanted, led to a criminalization of unauthorized downloads of music from the Internet (see Haugseth 2005). I have followed the debate the Norwegian music industry has had around distribution of music online, for example how it unfolded at the yearly industry meeting By:Larm. The first time online music was discussed as a theme was at the seminars in 1999, where Trond Øgrim, a former left-­wing politician, made an aggressive speech where he predicted that the record companies were about to die out. Reports say that this presentation left the industry representatives in a state of shock.15 In Bergen in 2000, discussions regarding the distribution of music online were the primary part of the seminar program, with presentations and panel

96   The irony of virtuality debates such as “Electronic trade are revolutionizing the music industry,” “Hype or facts – about Mp3” and “Digital underground.” This partly created some positive curiosity surrounding what opportunities were appearing online. At the same time, some recurring representatives from the record companies and industry organizations voiced their usual objections, which usually had to do with the need to clean up the online chaos, before one could establish legal and responsible activity there. In Tromsø in 2001 there was a panel debate about “the Net-­pirates,” but interest was already decreasing: “We are tired of this, it is boring,” was how the seminar manager Øystein Ronander experienced the feedback.16 He thought the reason for this was that such debates were often repetitive, but also pointed out that still nothing had happened. As a seminar manager, Ronander had now begun to think differently. Instead of more debates he was counting more on “continuing education” and “adult education” to increase the knowledge level in the industry, an approach he claimed had given him much positive feedback. In the field of online music, “adult education” basically consisted of a copyright seminar arranged by the rights organization TONO.17 They experienced such a great demand for this seminar that it became a recurring event in the years to follow. It looked like the industry was more interested in the technical details of TONO’s report routines and revenue models, instead of the more principled and political aspects regarding TONO’s strategy in preventing further “online piracy.” Judging from the atmosphere at By:Larm, it can look as if the mainstream in the Norwegian music industry – artists, dealers, companies – went through the following change in their attitude towards the Internet: From the initial shock in 1999, through wary curiosity in 2000, to ignorance and a focus on bureaucratic management thereafter. Evidently, the industry experienced that it had many other more interesting issues to deal with. In this climate, there was little room for experiments and development of new services. Two start-­ups – Norwegian Freetrax and Swedish(-Norwegian) Boxman – gained some attention in 1999 and 2000. Boxman aimed to develop an online music store with a wide profile, famous artists and a repertoire for “the whole family.” Freetrax had a more anarchistic approach and labelled itself “the world’s first democratic record company.” In Freetrax’s business model, the artists themselves could choose which songs to offer and how much they would cost, while the users could customize the profile of the service according to their preferences. In 2001, both companies went bankrupt, after having wasted a substantial amount of money. They were both among the victims of the dot-­com collapse. Boxman’s most acute problem was that they never got clearance to sell music through direct downloads, only CDs through mail order. For Freetrax, the main problem stemmed from their business model; during Freetrax’s first year, 800,000 sound clips had been either streamed or downloaded from the online service, but of these only 240(!) files were purchased.18 Ronander of By:Larm said that he sensed a sigh of relief in the industry when Freetrax and Boxman went bankrupt: “We were right, it was not so interesting

The irony of virtuality   97 after all,” was the melody. Petter Singsås, managing director in Universal Norge, confirmed Ronander’s observation in a correspondence to Freetrax entrepreneur Lars Kilevold in Dagens Næringsliv by the end of 2000: I remember three–four years ago when people in Lars’s camp said: “The train is leaving and the record industry is not following. So typical of the record industry to not understand new trends and technology.” We can now ascertain: No train has left. And today I am terribly pleased that the record industry did not get carried away and started using all their money and power on technology and distribution.19 This statement illustrated the music industry’s approach to the Internet: The energy was used to establish a legal framework that would ensure that the industry would keep – or regain – control over music distribution, to be able to continue business as usual. There was an insistence that the Internet should not make a difference, a denial that the Internet would lead to changes in established business models. From 2002, the music industry has also attempted to supplement legal control with technological control, through a focus in developing technical solutions under the common term of DRM.20 However, these attempts have experienced insurmountable challenges (Gillespie 2007; Allen-­Robertson 2013; see also Chapter 7). Lobato and Thomas (2012) have pointed out the irony in the fact that the music industry, through these investments, has fostered a new growth branch for the ICT industry. Thus, the music industry was not very successful in closing the distribution of music online through their attempts to gain legal and technical control. New technology often introduces an element of unrest in existing social patterns. With the term “closing,” Bijker (1995) hints at the situation that occurs when the use of new technology becomes steady, and a somewhat stable understanding and practice is established around the technology – either through a form of consensus amongst the involved stakeholders, or by one group of stakeholders managing to control and enforce the conditions for use. None of this was the case for digital distribution of music. The strategies of the industry were met with continuous criticism and protests from engaged Internet users. The examples of adverse actions were many and creative. One such action was the international CD burning day, which was organized in protest of the copy protection with which many record companies in 2003 started to equip their products (see Vaidhyanathan 2004). Another humorous variation was the consumer organization Elektronisk Forpost Norge’s release of “The Copy Protection Album” – a CD only including copy protections.21 More generally, the control measures that the music industry tried to implement were met with the development of better and improved file-­sharing tools and new channels for distribution of music between users (see, for example, Morris 2015; Marshall et al. 2015). What was occurring was an unorganized user-­to-user mediated mass education in the usage of alternative methods of distribution. When the music industry

98   The irony of virtuality started serious attempts to fight “piracy” in 1998, the exchange of music online was still a rather modest phenomenon. Lessig (2002) claims that Napster had 200,000 users at the time when RIAA went to court against the service. By the end of the case, the number had grown to a tremendous 57 million users. However, the case against, and the shutdown of, Napster (in its original form) did not stop the exchange of music – quite the opposite. Large groups of users started utilizing other file-­sharing networks and gained competence in using these. Ten years and many verdicts later, the trial against Pirate Bay in 2009 received some of the same publicity and the same result (see Andersson Schwartz 2014). In other words, an informal technical training of large groups of users had taken place, and also a set of values had been brought into effect that claimed the users’ right to exploit the possibilities for distribution and sharing for which the Internet had opened up. It is therefore reasonable to conclude that the music industry’s investment in resource control through technological and legal means was, by and large, a failure.

Gain entry to the networks So what about the strategy of the newspaper industry? I mentioned earlier how the newspaper industry chose a very different strategy than that of the music industry. We saw that online newspapers became free and freely accessible for everyone with Internet access. Where the music industry invested in resource control, the newspaper industry went for entry into the networks. Was this strategy more successful? When the first newspapers were established with online services, it was not obvious what an “online paper” should be. Engebretsen described in 1997 two possible “prototypes” for the development of online papers. The first prototype would be based primarily on interactivity, the dialogical contact with public. The other prototype Engebretsen imagined would be developed with a basis on “media’s capacity for storage, searching, presentation and navigation” (1997: 29). However, it would soon become evident that none of these “prototypes” would become dominant in relation to the development of online papers. From humble experiments and test-­runs in 1996 and 1997, a remarkable escalation of investment in online papers took place in 1998, both within the established newspaper houses and amongst the entrepreneurs like Nettavisen and digi.no. Calculations by the Norwegian newspaper association (Norske Avisers Landsforening) showed that the established papers alone spent between 800 and 900 million kroners in the development of online papers in the period 1998–2001.22 There were two main actions that characterized the investments. First, it was the streamlining and integration of the online initiatives with the organizations’ general activity. One wanted to achieve synergies in the form of flow and reuse between the media organizations’ various editorial desks and publication channels. Second, the efforts were aimed at strengthening news distribution. Investments in new publication systems and more journalists and editors were

The irony of virtuality   99 primarily aimed to make online publishing faster and more effective. The online papers were, thereby, capable of increasing the speed of news distribution. However, investments in systems to upgrade archival functions and interactive offers were treated more randomly (see Spilker 2005). The online papers would find their place as a medium of the moment rather than as in-­depth or dialogic media. High speed became the defining ability for the new services. There are probably many reasons why this happened. Maybe it was a strategically sensible strategy for the newspapers to establish their position in a complex, emerging Internet landscape. Probably, it has also something to do with the logic of the news – inherent in the concept of news itself – that drove the developers of online papers in the direction of becoming a medium of the moment. They felt they had to try out how fast it was possible to make the news circulate. Svein Arild Sletteng in Adresseavisen was precise when he stated: “We were possessed and intoxicated by the thought of finally taking up the competition with radio and TV at their home turf; on what we always had seen as their competitive advantage.”23 It is also fair to see the focus on quick updates in relation to online papers becoming free papers – I will come back to this shortly. For the sake of balance, it is appropriate to point out that a gradual expansion of the “repertoire” of at least some of the newspapers took place, especially from 2003 onwards. Dagbladet.no began publishing an online version of the popular Saturday supplement The Magazine [Magasinet] in 2003. Another interesting development in the mid-­2000s was that interactive services and user generated content also began to find its place in the online papers. Well-­constructed comment functions helped to increase the interest in the services and to generate more of the crucial “clicks” (Ottosen 2006). Dagbladet.no was also one of the first to develop a blog-­service where the users could create their own blogs, and they experienced a great success with their contact-­service, blink.no. The online papers have had a steady and persistent growth in the period from 1996 and beyond, measured in number of users. Figure 6.1 is from Norsk Gallup’s Consume & Media overview and shows the number of weekly users for the largest online papers. We see, for example, that the largest Norwegian online paper, VG Net, exceeded one million weekly users by 2003 and two million in 2014. For the first time in 2006, the largest online papers exceeded their respective paper counterparts.24 It is obvious that online papers have been an important driver in the massification of the Internet in Norway, an attractive content service that the users wanted. The Internet gave the users other and further sources of information than they have had before – from search engines and Internet archives to discussion forums. In this context, the online papers primarily found their place as a medium for frequent news updates (and gradually through a careful expansion of the repertoire by, amongst other things, the incorporation of some new dialogical opportunities). The online papers were able to adopt this position without any real problems. Online users have welcomed the online papers as an attractive channel for news information, and based on high user counts and minor critiques

100   The irony of virtuality many are obviously pleased with this way of receiving news – or more general “journalistic material.” Unlike the music industry, the newspaper industry succeeded in the 2000s in achieving relative “closure” on how news is distributed online – or more precisely, a common understanding of what an online paper is and what function it has. It has established somewhat stable understandings and practices around the production and the use of online papers amongst the involved actors (Bijker 1995). Naturally, this is an observation at a broad level. There was a continuous effort to develop the editorial profiles and introduce new offers through the decade – but these efforts were more of an incremental character. Generally, the concept of online papers very quickly found a place within the media and the Internet landscape. With the development of the Internet we have seen the emergence of a number of new distribution channels for information, such as search engines, discussion forums, blogs and wikis. The newspaper industry succeeded through the online papers in gaining a central position in this setting. In that sense, the network entry strategy has seemingly succeeded where the music industry’s effort to gain resource control has failed. Are we, therefore, speaking about a sunny story, a story about order and progress in all fields? Well. Even though the newspaper industry succeeded in attracting online users where the music industry provoked and pushed them away, this does not mean that, in the absence of overt “popular resistance,” the newspaper houses were able to proceed just as they wanted. They have succeeded in making a product embraced by the Internet users – but this success did not come without a price. On the contrary, this is exactly where the problem lies. Kvistad in digi.no fired off the following statement in a long speech defending the fact that digi.no was planning to convert to a paid service in 2001: Yes, we know very well that generous sites have given away their costly produced content entirely for free and by this have spoiled the online readers. But we also know that, in a strange mix of terrified established media stakeholders, marked pressure and plain commercial idiocy, it is rather fear, insecurity, and doubt that has motivated most online content initiatives, rather than the good strategic analysis.25 However, when it came down to it, digi.no did not dare to demand payment at that time – or later. Still, Kvitstad’s outburst illustrates the fact that the newspapers have never been comfortable with the fact that online papers are mainly free. One reason for this is that it may undermine the media’s understanding of fairness and order in life, as we can sense by the Kvistad-­quote above (“we are not running a simple free newspaper”). Worse was the uncertain economic base the developments online created for news production. Even if the situation towards the end of the 2000s on the surface looked quite good and stable, there were several underlying worries. First, the dependence upon advertising revenues had made the online papers what Schjelderup (2006) calls a “one-­legged-economy,” highly vulnerable towards cyclical fluctuations in

The irony of virtuality   101 the advertising market. The newspaper houses have pursued a continuous and relatively desperate chase for alternative sources of income, but with modest success. Second, many printed newspapers experienced at first a weak, but later significant, reduction in circulation from 2002 onwards.26

Gain entry to the networks #part 2 Meanwhile, up north: As we have seen, the music industry had for a long time only one strategy towards the digital challenges – to stop the unauthorized file-­ sharing of music by all means. CD sales had peaked at an all-­time high in 1999 (see Rogers 2013) – and the industry put all their efforts in preserving the status quo based on CD sales as the dominant mode of distribution. Only slowly, reluctantly and after considerable external pressure were they willing to participate in experiments with digital delivery. Easley et al. (2003, referred to in Allen-­ Robertson 2013: 148–149) examined 128 record labels during the early part of the 2000s. The great majority of the labels restricted their online presence to setting up a website with information about their artists and releases, occasionally with the possibility to listen to small samples. Some had started using online space to advertise in order to drive physical sales. Only a few labels had entered into any form of experiments with digital distribution through early services such as PressPlay and MusicNet – but found a great deal of difficulty in making their services successful. Internet users had several objections to these early services: Restricted selections of music in comparison with file-­sharing networks (usually only parts of the catalogue of one or few labels), high pricing (from €3–5 per tune) and several restrictions on how the tracks could be used. Allen-­Robertson calls the labels’ approaches “entirely rights-­centric”: “In their attempts to ensure they were not providing users with base materials for piracy, they overlooked what had drawn users to the digital format” (2013: 149). In Norway, a couple of initiatives were announced in the spring of 2003, commenced by music-­interested entrepreneurs such as the punk and country artist Casino Steel. However, these initiatives more or less crumbled at birth due to the same reasons as mentioned above. A notable exception was the company Phonofile and the service musiconline.no. musiconline.no gathered music from the back-­catalogs of more than 100 independent Norwegian record companies and made their catalogs accessible for online distribution using WMA files (later also MP3 files). However, due to high pricing and niche products, Phonofile came to work mostly towards the B2B-market, as a retailer of music for professional use in radio, TV, film and commercials. But musiconline.no has survived up to today (as klicktrack.com from 2010), expanded their investments to Sweden and Denmark, and now represents almost 1,000 independent record labels.27 It was not only Internet users that were frustrated by the music industry’s restrictive policy and low engagement with the development of legal online services. However, it required pressure from an international giant as Apple to

102   The irony of virtuality create the first breakthrough. Apple had already experienced tremendous success with their MP3 player, the iPod. In 2004 they launched iTunes, which offered digital sales of music from all major international record companies. It was no small achievement: “Apple transformed the digital music market because of a determination to do things differently and the ability to back up this steadfastness with ferocious negotiation skills” (Mulligan 2016: 129). In 2008, after further negotiations – and defeating more resistance – iTunes was also allowed to meet the users demand for more flexibility and portability by offering copy protection free MP3 files instead of the company’s own copy-­protected AAC files. However, iTunes never got the same foothold in Norway as it did in some other markets (most notably the US) (see Brae 2014). In Norway, iTunes downloads have not at any time accounted for more than 20% of legal sales (see Mulligan 2016). It was also estimated that downloads through iTunes only amounted to a few percent of the total downloading that took place through file-­sharing network such as the Pirate Bay by the end of the 2000s (Eilertsen 2009). Possibly, this never bothered Apple too much, as long as the Internet users applied the iTunes software and Apple products to access music. Steve Jobs, earlier CEO of Apple, admitted that it was not through sales of music files, but from the sales of special equipment such as iPods and later iPhones that the company made their main earnings (Levy 2007). This has continued to be Apple’s basic strategy in the music field: “Apple has always been in the business of selling music in order to sell hardware.… It runs its music business on an at best break even basis” (Mulligan 2016: 140). Thus, music serves as an allurement for device lock-­in. The second – and in the Norwegian context major – breakthrough for legal digital services was represented by the rise of commercial streaming from around 2010. The spearhead for this development was the Swedish service Spotify, founded in 2006 by entrepreneur and technologist Daniel Ek. Spotify operated on an invitational only basis from 2008, but was launched openly in Scandinavian and some other selected countries towards the end of 2009. The service has from the outset offered two different types of subscriptions – more restricted ad-­based subscriptions (“freemium”) and ad-­free subscriptions with additional features (“premium”). Spotify has become the world’s leading music streaming service, available in more than 60 countries – most recently Indonesia and Japan – and with some 100 million subscribers (of which 30 million are paying subscribers).28 In the Norwegian market, two domestic start-­ups have competed with Spotify. Wimp has been the most prominent of these. Wimp was born out of a partnership of software developer Aspiro, telecom Telenor and music retailer Platekompaniet and launched in connection with the music industry gathering By:Larm in 2010.29 Wimp promoted itself vis-­à-vis Spotify through two assets: better sound quality and more editorial material. Wimp has managed to remain a key player in Norway, largely thanks to a distribution agreement with Norway’s leading cable-­TV and broadband provider Canal Digital.

The irony of virtuality   103 The second Norway-­based actor is the small company beat.no, which – as MODE/Sygma – is exotically located on the island of Mjømna, outermost in the Sognefjord. Beat.no has 8,500 paying subscribers in Norway, through distribution deals with cable-­TV and broadband providers Riks-­TV, Altibox and Get.30 However, beat.no’s priority for the last years has been the Asian market, where they have 600,000 subscribers, basically in Bangladesh. At the moment, the Scandinavian streaming market is unique on a global scale. In Sweden and Norway, nearly 80% of total revenues from music distribution come from streaming (IFPI Norway 2016) – where the comparable figures from countries such as US, UK and Germany are under 20% (Nordgård 2016; Mulligan 2016). Two-­million-two-­hundred thousand Norwegian (out of a population of five million) are listening to Spotify on a weekly basis, 450,000 to Wimp/TIDAL and 350,000 to Apple Music. Approximately 60% of these users report listening through paid subscriptions.31 Illegal file-­sharing of music has decreased progressively since the introduction of streaming services.32 The turn towards streaming can be interpreted as a radical reorientation of the record companies’ principles. After having pursued a Rifkin-­like (2001) strategy of resource control for more than a decade, the streaming turn is more in line with Castells’ (2000) network entry strategy. Streaming services such as Wimp/ Tidal and Spotify offer users more or less unlimited access to music in exchange of a monthly subscription or exposure to ads. Of course, I am aware that the term unlimited should be used with some caution here – but in comparison with earlier legal distribution models, streaming is definitively different. And, so far, I have not even mentioned YouTube, which offers its vast repository of both official and user-­uploaded music(-videos) legally and with the record companies’ consent.33 However, the streaming turn has been a reluctant move for the industry. As we have seen, all initiatives have come from external players, from technology entrepreneurs within or backed by hardware manufacturers, broadband providers and cable-­TV companies. Only after intense persuasion have most parts of the industry gradually accepted this distribution model. Some express considerable enthusiasm. For example, Bjørn Rogstad, the CEO of the Norwegian division of EMI, called off the fight against piracy in 2012, stating that: “We are not using time and energy on the fight against illegal file-­sharing and pirate-­copying anymore.… The challenge now is to improve and better exploit our business models for digital distribution.”34 In the same vein does the yearly report of IFPI Norway brag: “We have come extremely far in the music industry by offering several services that offer ALL music, in comparison with adjacent branches such as publishing, film and media” (IFPI Norway 2016: 4). Still, the objections against streaming have not come to a halt. A recurring theme has been that streaming is riddled with unjust allocation models and provides low revenues for the record companies and the artists (see Maasø 2014; Nordgård 2016; Sinnreich 2016). Tschmuck (2016: 19) quotes an estimation that claims that for to reach the same revenue as for 100 self-­distributed CDs, you need to sell 3,800 retail-­CDs, get one million Spotify-­streams or 4.5 million

104   The irony of virtuality YouTube streams. Mulligan (2016: 149) presents similar figures. I cannot vouch for the accuracy of these estimates, but they indicate some of the challenges with the streaming model. Matters get further complicated by the circumstance that none of the streaming services seem to be doing too well in economic terms. Spotify has been running with large deficits ever since it started.35 Wimp/Tidal had to report €30 million in losses for 2015.36

Ensure control #part 2 The newspaper houses, in turn, went from a period of relative stability by the mid-­2000s to new times of turbulence from 2008 onwards. The financial crisis in 2008 resulted in a dramatic drop in the advertising revenues for that year. Even more troublesome, advertising revenues continued to decline even after the general economy stabilized and started to grow again from 2010.37 In parallel, the circulation of the paper editions took another brutal loop downwards. VG, Norway’s biggest non-­subscription paper, halved its circulation in only five years from 2010 to 2015, from 233,000 to 113,000. For Aftenposten, the biggest subscription paper, the fall was not that dramatic, but also experienced a reduction from 240,000 to 172,000.38 Undoubtedly, both these downward trends are connected to the massification of smart phones (and tablets) in the same period, resulting in increased ubiquity and mobility of digital hardware and increased access and omnipresence of digital news. The advertisers have also moved much of their budgets to the digital domain, where larger parts have been devoted to social media and search engines with Facebook and Google in the forefront. The newspaper houses’ responses to this situation have been intensified digital investments – in new types and forms of content – on new platforms and on an expansion of activities beyond journalism. Regarding content, one trend has been to develop special sections or sites or even apps targeted at specific – and especially interesting – audiences, such as Aftenposten’s “Junior” for children and Adresseavisen’s “Trondheim24” for young people and students. Another trend has been soaring investments in online video production, largely motivated by the belief that advertising yields will be growing in this area. Even more noticeable is the (continued) proliferation of publishing platforms. The regional newspaper for Trondheim, Adresseavisen, is a good example. Already in the early 2000s, Adresseavisen staked out a new basis for its business operations, stating that they are not any longer only a newspaper, but a content provider. As a content provider, their new ambition was to be visible, deliver, spread out and recycle their journalistic products in as many channels as possible – resulting in the startup of Radio-­Adressa and TV-­Adressa in addition to Net-­ Adressa and Paper-­Adressa. With the events of social media and smart phones, the proliferation of platforms has continued (see Küng 2015). Mobile apps have become a new entry point for news distribution. Social media such as Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat, Instagram and YouTube are new channels for dissemination. In the emerging media landscape, users have a multitude of possibilities for access to content,

The irony of virtuality   105 creating both opportunities and challenges for the newspaper houses: “Direct access via websites and apps is becoming relatively less important, and search and especially social media are becoming more important” (Cornia et al. 2016: 35). A further trend is represented by a move towards activities that have little to do with journalism, but are centered on the newspaper houses as a brand. For example, Adresseavisen offers their subscribers trips abroad, i.e., to China, Italy or France, typically with a culturally oriented program and guided by retired journalists. Other examples of activities of this type are events, shopping or advisory services. This is not an entirely new phenomenon, random examples can be found way back in time, but as a strategy it is undoubtedly pursued in a more systematic and exploitive way than before. Another form of exploitation of available assets is the exploitation of the newspaper’s local delivery network of paperboys for other purposes. Adresseavisen has this autumn started to offer ready-­made breakfast with the morning paper! It is not difficult to agree with Nielsen and Schrøder (2014) when they argue that the newspapers, far from being conservative as some criticize, actually have been quite creative and explorative in their strategies to meet the digital challenges. The online editions have also experienced an uninterrupted growth during all of the 20 years since their inception (see Figure 6.1). In spite of that, the income situation has not improved in the last period either. The expected and hoped for profit from digital investments has failed to appear. Now some are hoping that video revenues will contribute to change the picture, but as Bengt Nielsen of VG rhetorically asks: “Does anyone seriously think that video is the rescue of the old newspapers?”39 Even after 20 years of online presence, it is estimated that for most newspapers 80–90% of their income still comes from their paper editions (Cornia et al. 2016). Reduced circulation of the paper editions also means that decline in overall earnings continue to outpace digital growth. Thus, the resources for digital investments “generally continue to come from cross-­subsidies and/or cost-­cutting elsewhere in each organization” (Cornia et al. 2016: 7). All major newspaper houses in Norway have undergone painful expense cuts and staff reductions from 2014 to date.40 In this situation, more and more newspapers have (finally) turned to various forms of payment and subscription models for online readership (in Norway called e-­papers to separate them from the free online papers). The emerging dominant model for the online (website/app) presence in Norway is a combined solution, where some of the content remains freely accessible for all while some is reserved for subscribing readers (while the metered models that dominate in the UK and some other countries are rare and marginal) (see Brock 2014; Küng 2015; Cornia et al. 2016). Actually, the e-­papers (or “plus-­editions”) can present a substantial readership, given that most newspaper houses first began promoting them in earnest from 2013 onwards.41 However, so far most of the readers are subscribers of the paper edition that receives access to the e-­editions for free or a close to nominal

106   The irony of virtuality extra fee (often around €3 a month). VG, the big non-­subscription paper, has managed to capture some customers through a bundle agreement with Norway major telecom company, Telenor.42 Of course, the introduction of paywalls for online content represents a turnaround and recourse to a Rifkin-­like (2001) resource control strategy. At the moment, however, the newspaper houses are trying to balance this with a network access strategy – trying to balance subscriptions and sealed content with expansion over more platforms to feed traffic. Undoubtedly, this is a very demanding line to pursue if one is to avoid one damaging the other.

The new economy: a parasitic economy? There are strong contrasts between the music industry’s and the newspaper industry’s approaches to digitalization. Initially, the two industries chose diametrically opposite strategies. The music industry’s resource control strategy led to chaos and resistance. The newspaper industry did, through the network entry strategy, buy order and apparent progress, but, by looking more closely, for an unbearably high price. In the last decade, both industries have felt compelled to perform something like 180o turnarounds – again in opposite directions, crossing each other’s tracks. However, on closer inspection, the similarities between the two industries are even more conspicuous. Both marches into digital terrain have been characterized by wobbly steps. The outcome, after 20 years of searching and exploring, is also very much the same: None have really been able to develop a satisfying and sustainable business model. The analysis has shown that neither the newspaper industry nor the music industry has been able to deal well with the challenge from the Internet. Digital distribution of both news and music has developed very differently to what the optimists behind the rhetoric of the new economy predicted. On one point, the new economy theorists are still right: Digitalized cultural content has functioned as the driving force in the digital networks. User statistics I have presented show how both news and music have been attractive engines for the massification of the Internet. However, this has mainly happened outside the control of the established business models of the newspaper industry and the music industry. It would be too trivial and ahistorical to claim that this has happened just because everything is “just a click away.” It is not the logic of the network society but that of the Internet society that has triggered this development – not the result of a frictionless condition but of the forces of folding. The Internet has represented a culture and architecture for sharing and distribution that commercial content producers have not really been able to sidestep or overrun. Relying on the attempts to commercialize music and news online, there is little that remains of the original prospects for the new economy. This does not necessarily mean that a new economy – or new economies (in plural) – does not exist – but these have a very different anatomy.

The irony of virtuality   107 The initial strategy of the music industry was to cling to the “old” economy – to try to re-­create established business models in a new digital environment. Basically, that meant an economy based on unit price sales of music, where the unit price preferably remains the same as or higher than before. This strategy was pursued through an arsenal of technical and legal means in an attempt to shut down the new opportunities for distribution outside established channels that the Internet users were utilizing. Only slowly and reluctantly, and after considerable pressure from the Internet users and outside technology companies, were they willing to participate in experiments with digital delivery. In this process the initiative and solutions have univocally come from entrepreneurs from other sectors. Streaming services such as Wimp/Tidal and Spotify have effectively taken over the market. In Norway today, around 80% of the income from music sales comes from streaming. The industry has become a stream economy, where record companies and music artists get paid by the number of streams. At the same time, the rise of the streaming economy has meant that the music industry has been forced to learn to live with less control (Wikström 2010, 2012). As Tschmuck (2016) points out, there are still many uncertainties related to streaming – both artists and companies need alternative revenue streams. Amongst other things, Tschmuck mentions sales of different types of additional products and lifestyle products related to the artists, and the utilization of opportunities related to branding and sponsorship. As an answer to this challenge, many record companies have expanded their activities, now offering artists so-­ called 360o deals. Rogers and Preston define 360o deals as arrangements where the record companies “not only control recording rights, but also … publishing, touring, merchandise channels and more” (2016: 60). While this has been a necessary move for the record companies, at the same time it has implied a move away from the core business – performing activities where one not necessarily have the same competence and earning money from other things than music. Tessler argues that it represents the resolution of the record industry: “In its place stands the global music entertainment partner industry” (2016: 36). Rogers and Preston are even more skeptical, claiming that we are witnessing “the relegation of rock culture to the realm of “Disney” culture” (2016: 67). The newspaper industry already has much experience in attempting to survive with less control. We have seen how the dependence upon advertising revenue led the news houses to provide even more content online – in exchange for more clicks. Online papers are still today basically click economies, where “the common currency is number of page references,” as Knut Ivar Skeid in Nettavisen formulated it already in 1999.43 The newspaper houses have never been happy with the online papers’ dependence upon advertising revenue – since the advertisement market is notoriously unstable. Therefore, the newspaper houses have been forced into a continuous chase for alternative sources of income, dealing with everything from the sale of editorial services such as archive access and full format-­access, online subscriptions, various forms of e-­commerce, classified ads and targeted marketing, to a variety of “membership services” far

108   The irony of virtuality away from the core business such as diet clubs, dating services, events and travels. And provision of bread slices – as in Figure 6.1. Thus far, one has, however, only to a limited extent managed to create economic revenues from these additional services. Based upon the experiences of the music industry and the newspaper industry, we see the contours of an extreme scenario where the content producers are coerced into gathering their revenues through a mixing of the click economy and the stream economy with two other types of economies that hardly appear more attractive: a small change economy and a parasite economy. By small change economy, I mean a business that functions without regular, stable sources of income, but where the content producers almost on a day by day basis try to make a few bucks out of every situation where they have the opportunity: a diet tip here, some coffee mugs with logos there. Or to use the following picture: A business where the content producers gather pennies here and there like drunkards with a hangover after a party that went too far. A parasite economy illustrates a situation where the content producers are financed, for example, by the telecommunication or hardware companies who buy proprietary services for their lines or products. In other words, a situation where the content producers, in exchange for income, become some sort of smallholders for other “landlords.”

The irony of virtuality “Content is king!” was a much-­used slogan at the end of the 1990s, which in popular form summarized the faith that commercial content producers had in digital networks and the new information-­based economy. We can now ascertain that we – at least in economic terms – are faced with a rather depleted king. The Internet has created an arena for distribution where established business models cannot be re-­created and new models have had a hard time gaining a foothold. A tempting conclusion is that there is no new economy whatsoever – it is only the old that no longer works. If we can talk about a new economy in the cases of music and news, it consists of the circumstance that no one is paid for what they actually do any more. This has been, as I have shown, clearly connected to the fact that online users have succeeded in developing alternative distribution tools that have changed the conditions for the flow of content. More generally, online users have demonstrated an ability and interest to relate to, process, sort, manipulate and distribute digital content on a scale that clearly invalidates some traditional notions about consumer roles (see, for example, Tapscott and Williams 2007; Gabriel and Lang 2015). The extensive growth of peer-­to-peer based distribution of cultural content led some to suggest that the online world was a non-­market or a non-­economy. For example, a number of authors analyzed the Internet as a modern case of gift-­ economy organization (see, as examples, Barbrook and Cameron 1996; Raymond 1999; Barbrook 2002; Zeitlyn 2003; Studer 2004; Weber 2004;

The irony of virtuality   109 Andersson Schwartz 2014). Among others academics, the metaphor of the Internet as a digital commons has been popular (May 2000; Lessig, 2002, 2004; Lindenschmidt 2004; Cobcroft 2010; Navas et al. 2015). According to these perspectives, the central conflict regarding the development of the Internet is between those who want to develop the Internet as a gift-­economy or a digital commons, and those who want to restructure the network in line with more traditional market models for distribution of cultural content. Thus, “the new economy” will be a result of this battle. Even though there are clearly important conflicts of interest between online users and content producers, these perspectives nevertheless represent a naïve view of the development. They are namely leapfrogging one crucial condition: Some are making – and have for a good while been making – revenues on the Internet. Big revenues. As Dagfinn Bach in MODE touched upon when he reflected on how the MP3 algorithm was “let loose”: One can wonder how it happened, but I believe there have been many big strong organizations involved that were interested in increasing traffic.… And in hindsight you can see who made money on this.… The telecommunication companies.… They have had a substantial increase in traffic. Telecommunication companies have had large and increased income from the Internet. This can be illustrated, for example, by numbers provided by the Norwegian Post and Telecommunication Authority, which show that the average family had a telecommunication bill just less than €800 in 1998, while in 2004 it had increased to about €2,100 – almost tripled in the six years that coincided with the massification of the Internet (Post og teletilsynet 2004).44 Increasingly, users have also received their Internet signals through cable-­TV and satellite-­TV providers. Similarly, electronics and IT providers have had huge revenues from sales of electronic equipment, PCs, mobile phones, storage media and various accessories and gadgets. As Tschmuck has noted: “Companies that had no prior or at best only weak links to the music industry suddenly became a highly relevant part of it” (2016: 13). It is not the case that the music industry or the newspaper industry has completely ignored these revenues, even it seems so. Let us look back at two examples, where the newspaper industry and the music industry, respectively, have questioned the skewed distribution of revenues in the digital domain. The first controversy was over the question of whether telecommunication companies should pay online papers (and other content providers) for the traffic they generated. The background for such a suggestion was an argument about the popularity of the online papers and other content services and how they had increased online traffic and helped the telecommunication companies gain high revenues from online usage (Jahren and Jenssen 2002). Some, like the leader of The Journalist Union, Olav Njaastad, argued that in this situation it would not be unreasonable if Telenor and other telecommunication companies shared these revenues with the content producers.45

110   The irony of virtuality In Sweden, in the summer of 2001, there was an initiative with the purpose of achieving a revenue split arrangement. A company named Tric tried to build an alliance among the online papers and other large content producers to push the telecommunication companies to pay for content traffic. The plan was to demand that Telia and other Internet-­providers pay online papers a sum according to reader counts. Not surprisingly, the telecommunication companies rejected this idea. Director of communications at Telenor, Ole Magnus Grønli, commented this way: “Tric’s plan is not acceptable for Telenor. We want the content producers to get paid, but the sites must be paid for by their users not by another provider.”46 In the end, Tric did not manage to get anywhere with the telecom operators. Wiese in Dagbladet called for a clearer attitude amongst the regulating authorities: If Narvesen or Rimi [retailing chains] had been fighting for the same measure of control over the papers they distribute as the state-­controlled Telenor does with providers of digital content and services, it would have been completely unacceptable.47 Berg at digi.no commented on the question of the telecommunication companies sharing their revenues with online papers in the following way: “There has generally been little discussion about this in Norway, we and other content players are generally too servile towards the telecommunication companies.”48 The other discussion revolved around the question of whether electronic storage media or recording equipment should be subject to fees for compensating musicians (and other creators). This discussion was played out in relation to the preparations of the new copyright law, the so-­called “MP3 law” that was enacted in 2006. An important moment in the revision work – even though it was not very present in the media debate – was the question regarding what is called “private copying compensation.” Copyright law has traditionally given the consumers the rights to copy music and other copyrighted material for private usage. Central in the legislative work was the definition of these rights in relation to downloading and uploading online, something that was solved, in part, by specifying that these rights were only applying in regard to legally acquired material. Further, from the 1980s, it was an established principle that compensation should be given to authors in exchange for the possibility of private copying. In the revision work, it was opened up for a discussion about whether such a principle of compensation should be continued and in what form. In the first draft, the Ministry of Culture (2003) presented two different models of financing private copying compensation. In alternative A, it was suggested that the compensation was levied through taxation on unrecorded CDs or other means of storage (à la the earlier cassette fee fund). In alternative B, the taxation would be financed through a separate post in the state budget. The music industry’s (including the artists’) organizations were all in favor of the first model, as they argued it would fairer in that the taxpayers would be

The irony of virtuality   111 generally charged, and at the same time it would ensure a stable and not an arbitrary revenue base. As is claimed in NORWACO’s statement, “[w]hen the compensation is tied to the turnover of storage media and recording equipment, the revenues will automatically follow the scope of private copying” (2003: 5). On the other side, the technology-­industry organizations were united against alternative A. ICT-­Norway claimed that private copying, legal or illegal, was not the problem of the ICT industry: “ICT-­Norway suggests that a possible fee is placed on pre-­recorded music, since it is the music industry’s problem that their customers are making copies of these products” (2001: 1). Furthermore, it was argued that taxation of storage media and recording equipment would lead to more bureaucracy for the technology sector and stifle the emergence of new digital products, and, as Business Software Alliance writes, “have negative consequences for the ICT-­industry, the users and the economy as a whole” (2003: 3). In the fall of 2004, it was leaked that the Ministry of Culture would select alternative B – against the advice of the music industry and in line with what the technology industry wanted.49 The size and facility of the compensation would, in that way, be made an object of negotiation between the music industry and the authorities, while the technology industries stayed clear on the sideline. In two cases content producers have tried to challenge technology providers – the newspaper industry has challenged the line providers, the music industry has challenged electronics and hardware industry. In both cases, the content providers lost. Thus far, the fight for the digital revenue streams has clearly gone in favor of the technology industries. The media historian Niels Ole Finnemann (2005) makes an interesting comparison between the “industrial society” and the “information society,” where he claims that in many ways the information society is a more industrial society. He argues that the increased use of ICT in areas in society does not represent a deindustrialization of society, but rather an expansion of the areas that can be industrialized. Finnemann’s claim is that we are “on our way into a society that builds on an expanded and radically renewed industrialization” (ibid.: 67). This seemingly counter intuitive way of argumentation, I think, can advantageously be transferred to the findings in this chapter. I started by presenting Rifkin’s (2001) thesis that the new economy would be based upon a move from industrial to cultural production, with a corresponding transition from the commodification of material to the commodification of (cultural) experiences. However, we have seen that digitalized culture has not so easily lent itself to commodification. Cultural content has clearly become more important than ever before with the emergence of the Internet – in the sense that content is the driving engine in the expansion of digital networks. Cultural content is produced, used, distributed and circulated in a previously unknown scope. However, at the same time, the content has become more fleeting, mutable, dispersed and uncontrollable. Castells (2000) also imagined a development in line with Rifkin’s predictions. “The space of flows” would increase the range and turnover rate of cultural experiences and information – something Castells undoubtedly was right about.

112   The irony of virtuality However, thus far, it has proven to be more difficult to find ways to capitalize on this. The economy has struggled to find a foothold in the virtual domain – it is simply too transient. The controversies around splitting the telecommunications revenues and taxation of storage media prove how difficult it has been to argue for models that would possibly not have given a fairer distribution in relation to the digital creation of wealth. The desperateness and the impossibility in the content providers’ position may be illustrated even more clearly in relation to the development of copy protection technologies (DRM technologies). As Lobato and Thomas (2012) point out, possibly the only thing the music industry has achieved by this is to create a new growth sector for the ICT industry. These examples also illustrate how a shift in power and balance between economic sectors in society has been taking place – a displacement that is not about reduced significance of the material, as the spokesmen for the new economy have proposed. Quite the opposite, in a world where cultural content circulates as never before, it is the producers of the physical infrastructure and of gadgets that have taken control over the revenue flow. The new economy has, thereby, first and foremost become a more material economy. We may call it the revenge of materialism. Or the irony of virtuality.

Notes   1 See, for example, NORWACOs surveys that show the growth of music downloading through the 2000s (Eilertsen 2001, 2003, 2005, 2007, 2009) and IFPI Norway (2016) for the growth in the use of streaming services.   2 Øystein Kvistad: “Derfor tar vi betalt,” digi.no, December 13, 2001. www.digi.no/ digi98.nst/print/md20011213170753_kvi_48348363   3 Castells tried to meet this criticism in The Internet Galaxy (2001), where he attached the growth of the new economy to a certain form of entrepreneurship, dot-­com entrepreneurship. Dot-­com entrepreneurship was further tufted on the culture of three groups, which has meant a lot for the development of the Internet, namely the techno-­ elites, the hackers and the “the virtual communitarians.”   4 Georg Parmann, “Aftenposten tilbyr nyheter på skjerm,” Aftenposten December 21, 1985. http://atekst.mediearkivet.no/, DOKNR: AFT85/61093. John Myhre, “Elek­ troniske vinduer mot forretningsverdenen,” Aftenposten 18.08.1984. http://atekst. mediearkivet.no/, DOKNR: AFT84/37772.   5 Interview with general manager Dagfinn Bach, September 20, 2002. Sygna/MODE’s history is an unknown and exciting part of Norwegian IT history. In the chapter “Da mp3 kunne kommet fra Sogndal” in my dissertation, I provide a fuller version of this story (Spilker 2005).   6 Jofrid Egeland, “Nå er det ikke gratis lenger,” Aftenposten, August 25, 1996. http:// atekst.mediearkivet.no/, DOKNR: AFT96/35415.   7 Interview with Knut Ivar Skeid, CEO Nettavisen, December 20, 1999.   8 Interview with Rolf Dyrnes Svendsen, news editor Adresseavisen, February 18, 2000.   9 www2.echo.lu/impact/projects/isbi/en/prop4050.html 10 Baard O. Aakvaag, “Nett-­pirater gir deg gratis musikk,” NTB, November 14, 1997. http://atekst.mediearkivet.no/, DOKNR: NTB9711140079. 11 Seek “MP3” in http://atekst.mediearkivet.no/ 12 Interview with manager Dagfinn Bach, September 20, 2002. 13 Recording Industry Association of America. 14 Digital Millenium Copyright Act.

The irony of virtuality   113 15 Robert Gjestad, “Ulven som ble from,” Aftenposten, 06.03.2000. www.aftenposten. no/kul_und/kultur/d128105.htm 16 Interview with Øystein Ronander, September 2003. 17 Companies that on behalf of composers, writers, and music publishers administer copyrights for musical works. 18 Jan Thoresen, “Musikksalg via mobilen,” Aftenposten, February 26, 2000. http:// atekst.mediearkivet.no/, DOKNR: AFT200A/10960. 19 Knut Selsjord, “Cd kan bli moro,” Dagens Næringsliv, December 28, 2000. http:// atekst.mediearkivet.no/, DOKNR: DNLGML/389366. 20 Digital Rights Management. 21 http://efn.no/thekopisperrealbum.html. 22 Gunnar Grytås, “Svir penger på nett,” Dagens Næringsliv, June 21, 2001. http://atekst. mediearkivet.no/, DOKNR: DNLGML/396860. 23 Interview January 20, 2004. 24 Audun Giske, “Større på nett enn papir,” Kampanje, September 18, 2006. www.kampanje.com/medier/article48962.ece 25 Øystein Kvistad, “Derfor tar vi betalt,” digi.no, December 13, 2001. www.digi.no/ digi98.nst/print/md20011213170753_kvi_48348363 26 Unsigned, “Papiravisene stuper videre,” Propaganda, December 11, 2006, www. propaganda-­as.no/emneomrader/media/papiravisene+stuper+videre/art360862.html 27 Bjørn Eckblad, “Musikalsk nettfusjon,” Dagens Næringsliv, February 6, 2010. 28 https://news.spotify.com/us/2016/09/29/spotify-­arrives-in-­japan/ 29 N.N., “Musikkåret 2012,” Dagsavisen, December 28, 2012. 30 Interview with CEO Njål Wilberg, October 31, 2016. 31 Number provided by Marthe Jørgensen, Norsk Gallup, November 2016. However, see Chapter 9 for a critical assessment of these numbers. A large portion of the subscriptions are part of telco-­bundled offerings. 32 Marcus Tobiassen, “Taper mer til loven enn til piratene,” Dagens Næringsliv, June 23, 2014. See also IFPI Norway, 2015. 33 In Chapter 2, we saw that music-­video watching on YouTube was even more popular than streaming services such as Spotify among the youth in the Pandora Survey 2010 (with respectively 80% versus 73% watching/listening on a weekly basis). 34 Knut Selsjord, “Avblåser pirat-­kampen,” Dagens Næringsliv, February 7, 2012. 35 Robert H. Gjestad, “Strømmetjenester som Apple Music, Tidal og Spotify taper milliarder hvert år. Hvem dør først?” Aftenposten, September 13, 2016. 36 Marcus Tobiassen, “Tapte en kvart milliard,” Dagens Næringsliv, September 13, 2016. 37 Kjersti Nipen, “Uro gir bråbrems for papiravisene,” Aftenposten, November 16, 2011. 38 http://medienorge.uib.no/statistikk/medium/avis/190 39 Bengt Nielsen, “Når enden er nær,” VG, December 7, 2015. 40 Jarl Nymo, “Sviktende inntekter og nedbemanning,” Dagbladet, January 13, 2016. 41 See http://medienorge.uib.no/statistikk/medium/avis/190 42 Espen Tjersland, “Nær ved å knekke koden,” Dagens Næringsliv, October 31, 2013. 43 Interview December 20, 1999. 44 Comparable figures for later years have not been possible to obtain. In total, Norwegians spend €1.6 billion on telecommunication services in 2016 (NKOM 2016). 45 Siri Gedde-­Dahl, “Hvorfor skal Hermansen dele?” September 10, 2001. http://atekst. mediearkivet.no/, DOKNR: AFT2001/46135 46 Einar Ryvarden, “Telenor vil ikke betale for din surfing,” digi.no, July 25, 2001. www.digi.no/digi98.nsf/pub/te20010725093026_er_41223620 47 Andreas Wiese, “MEDIE.KOM: På svært kort sikt,” Dagbladet, September 29, 2001. http://atekst.mediearkivet.no/, DOKNR: DBLGML/255774 48 Private e-­mail November 25, 2002. 49 Arne Kristian Gansmo, “Sikrer privat cd-­brenning,” nrk.no, October 6, 2004. www. nrk.no/musikk/4149551

7 The making of “piracy standards” Assessing the interplay between commercialism and idealism in technology development with Svein Høier The interplay between idealism and commercialism In this book we have so far met the developers of the technologies of music distribution in two different connections. In both connections, they have appeared on the fringes of the storylines. In the analysis of music countercultures in Chapter 4, it was the absence of a productive exchange or merger between the hacker counterculture and the punk counterculture that came as a surprise. In the comparison of the music industry and the newspaper industry in the previous chapter, the shadow of the technology industries darkened the content producers’ attempts at developing sustainable business models. It is time to move the technology developers up front. Arguably, the (absent) hackers of Chapter 4 and the capitalists running the technology ventures of Chapter 6 represent two different faces of technology development. On the one hand, hackers motivated by an ethic “predicted on access to computers, freedom of information, the mistrust of authority, and the belief that computers could be used for constructive social change” (Thomas 2000: 204). On the other hand, commercial technology companies supposedly run by a more traditional profit-­maximizing logic. We1 will argue that it is necessary to accentuate the tension between these two diverging rationales when one wants to understand the role of technology developers in today’s music landscape. It might seem as a superfluous pointing out that technology developers have mattered in the development of digital music technologies. But we hold that technologists have come to play a wider, more extensive and disproportionate role in digital music distribution than compared to any previous storage and dissemination medium. However, it is a versatile role, sometimes rebellious, sometimes establishment-­friendly, but always teaming up at its own discretion. Possibly, this unpredictability is part of what has given them their power. We will approach the Janus-­face of technology developers through an analysis of the development of some of the central standards that distribution is dependent on. As in the previous chapter, we have chosen a comparative approach. We shall investigate the development of two of the central “techno­logies of piracy,” the MP3 standard for sound and the DivX standard

The making of “piracy standards”   115 for  audio­visual content. We will write an “eventography” (Allen-­Robertson 2013) – or, more precisely, an “artefactography” – following the technology standards through the 1990s and 2000s, exploring how actors with different interests and motivations have shaped the content of the standards and the social and technological arrangements in which they have become imbued. The two standards can be depicted as the central “technologies of piracy,” each in their own field: MP3 in the field of online music distribution and DivX when it comes to the distribution of online audiovisual content. This distinction in itself makes a comparison between the two standards an exciting endeavor. Our basic research question revolves around the interplay between alternative, idealistic forces and commercial interests in the development of the Internet. A comparison between the developments of the two standards reveals a couple of surprising contrasts. We believe that these contrasts can be used to make some general points about the conditions for the transfer and the spread of standards and technologies as well as some more specific points regarding the interplay between commercialism and idealism in the development of the Internet. The question of whether MP3 and DivX are technologies of piracy is, of course, related to the way both have come to be closely associated with the unauthorized distribution of content through file-­sharing networks. However, even if this association might legitimize the labeling on a superficial level, it is our ambition to go behind such a vague notion through a study of the different groups of actors involved in the development of the two standards and the interests and motivations they brought along. The question of whether MP3 and DivX qualify as technologies of piracy will be scrutinized through analysis. In other words, this is a research topic, not a mere statement. We have coined the term “technologies of piracy” in connection to scholarly work on “piracy cultures” (Karaganis 2011; Castells and Cardoso 2012; Burkart and Schwartz 2015; Beyer and McKelvey 2015). The term “piracy” was originally coined by content industry actors to stigmatize and criminalize file-­sharing activities. However, as David points out, Internet activists have “inverted the negative associations given to piracy and taken this term as a symbol of rebellion against corporate authority and its attempts to police the Internet” (2010: 116). More broadly, Castells and Cardoso’s (2012) concept of “piracy cultures” represents an attempt to move the discussion beyond narrow definitions of legal and illegal. Their primary agenda is to address the implications of a situation in which “a very significant proportion of the population is building its mediation through alternative channels” (2012, p. 3). Similarly, it is a way to approach the situation that a great deal of the innovation taking place on the net seems to  occur outside of and in different ways than traditionally accepted ways of doing business and commerce (see Lobato and Thomas 2012; Bureau 2014; Roth 2014). The importance of the “alternative” in the development of the Internet was forcefully documented in Abbate’s (2000) rigorous study Inventing the Internet. Abbate coins the term “culture of sharing” to denote that the alternativeness consists of both a different, more idealistic type of motivation and a new approach

116   The making of “piracy standards” to cooperation and communication. She locates the roots of the culture of sharing in the affiliation some important computer milieus developed in response to the countercultural movements of the 1960s and 1970s and the resulting rise of a “hacker ethic.” The hacker code and culture of the 1970s has come to be seen as a precursor to not only the free software and open-­source movements and their inclusive approach to computing but also the principles underlying peer-­to-peer-­ based file-­sharing systems and collaborative efforts such as Wikipedia and Indymedia (see Lievroew 2011). Thus, it is fair to say that, compared to any other modern communication technology, alternative and idealistic forces have come to achieve a special prominence in the development of the Internet (see also Kelty 2008; Coleman 2013; Milan 2015). The tension between commercialism and such alternative and idealistic forces has been a major topic in Internet studies. The main focus in the research literature of the 2000s was on the clashes and confrontations between two supposedly incompatible worldviews (Lessig 2004; Vaidhyanathan 2004; Boyle 2008; Zittrain 2009). This research has undoubtedly revealed and mapped real conflicts of interest and has been crucial in raising awareness of the cultural and political stakes involved. However, perhaps as a mark of its origin in legal studies and its focus on court cases, there are reasons to suspect that it has drawn a distinction between two fronts that is somewhat too sharp. In contrast to this, Abbate (2000) early described the Internet as the outcome of the concurrence and blending of various interests and motivations. More recently, other scholars have presented more nuanced pictures of these dynamics. Terranova (2004, 2013) was perhaps the first to pinpoint the ambivalent relationship between what she termed “free labour” and “netslaves.” Other writers have shown that sides and boundaries are not always clear-­cut and fixed when commercialism and idealism interact, sharing the same Internet distribution systems (see Freedman 2016). As companies over the last decade have built their businesses around user-­generated content, it has similarly become paramount to rethink the distinction and dynamics between idealism and commercialism (see Gillespie 2010; Jakobsson and Stiernstedt 2010; Levine 2011; Roth 2014). In practice, we know that, for example, the motivations and interests behind the development of some of the well-­known file-­sharing systems are actually quite divergent. According to Lievroew (2011), Shawn Fanning, the founder of Napster, “was no intellectual property crusader” (p. 108), but just a student who wanted to help his friends share music files. The founders of Kazaa, Janus Friis and Niklas Zennström, have stated on several occasions that their intentions were clearly commercial (see Munk 2006). On the other side of the spectrum, the members of the think tank Piratbyräen [The Piracy Bureau] created The Pirate Bay as an explicit – as the name indicates – effort to support the free sharing of cultural artifacts and oppose prevailing regimes of intellectual property rights (see Kaarto and Fleischer 2005; Palmås et al. 2014, Andersson Schwartz 2014). To better understand the dynamics of the Internet, it is vital to closely investigate the movements and fluxes between idealism and commercialism when it

The making of “piracy standards”   117 comes to the development of standards such as MP3 and DivX. As we hope to show, some of these dynamics are better comprehended as relocations along a continuum rather than as opposite poles.

The movement of technologies across time and space DivX and MP3 are technological standards, meaning that they are a special type of technological artifact. More thoroughly than others, Bowker and Star (1999) have drawn our attention to how standards have become an increasingly powerful – albeit often overlooked – ingredient in communication societies. They define standards as a set of agreed-­upon rules for the production of (textual or material) artifacts. Furthermore, an important characteristic of a standard is that it spans more than one community of practice. It has spatial reach as well as persistence over time (Bowker and Star 1999: 13). When analyzing the development of the two standards MP3 and DivX, we will equip ourselves with a couple of conceptual tools drawn from actor-­network theory (ANT), analyzing the interweaving of social and technical/“natural” elements in the construction of technological artifacts (Latour 1987; Law 1994). According to ANT, it is not possible to read the significance of an artifact through a study of its technical specifications, but only through an analysis of the shifting social and material relations in which it has been embedded. These relations are called sociotechnical networks or assemblages. We will pick up from actor-­network theory three specific concepts. The first one is displacement. An artifact’s movement in space and time can be understood as a series of displacements. A displacement takes place, for example, when an artifact moves (back and forth) from a laboratory to a test panel, to a marketing agency or to different user constituencies. These situations are analyzed as potential sites for breaches in the development of a technology. Confronted with new social groups or new technical elements – for example, the merging of MP3 and DivX with the Internet – new associations and interpretations can be created. Our second concept is that of translation. When an artifact is dislocated – put into new settings with other groups of actors – its uses, interpretations, materiality and relations need to be adjusted in order for it to be appropriated. In ANT, these processes are called translations, which highlights that the direct or indirect negotiations taking place are a critical part of technology transfers. Through displacements and translations, new sociotechnical assemblages are created. More specifically, this happens through an intertwined process of renegotiations of the uses and meanings of the artifacts, the eventual reconfiguring of certain material aspects, and the establishment of new associations and relations with social and material elements to tie the artifact to the new setting. To these two concepts we will add the concept of immutable mobiles. This literally means that things are able to move other things without themselves being moved. Latour (1987) uses the concept to denote an artifact that has become so established and stabilized that it is able to take the transfer to new

118   The making of “piracy standards” sites and times and create new ties and relations without itself being challenged or changed. To become an immutable mobile is an effect that some artifacts achieve as a result of the sociotechnical processes they have already been involved in and the assemblages they already have become part of. Bowker and Star’s description of the qualities of some (“successful”) standards can be used to further illuminate the concept of immutable mobiles. They state that some standards “can have significant inertia and can be very difficult and expensive to change” (Bowker and Star 1999: 14). Think, for example, of the QWERTY keyboard, which has been implemented in billions of typewriters and computer and smartphone keyboards and incorporated into the hands and fingers of billions of users. To understand the concept of immutable mobiles, it is necessary to draw a distinction between material reconfigurations of the artifact itself and transformations in the artifact’s sociotechnical contexts. In the case of MP3 and DivX, this means differentiating changes in the codes or algorithms that the standards are based on and changes in the sociotechnical assemblages they are a part of. If an artifact has become an immutable mobile, the first one is unchanged while the second is expanding. This is in accordance with Latour’s (1987) original conception, in which he suggests this type of technologies should be called “immutable and combinable mobiles” (227). He elaborates: “The main advantage [of an artifact becoming an immutable mobile] is not only in the mobility it provides … but in the combinations it allows” (226). To what degree have MP3 and DivX become immutable mobiles? Our basic approach to answer this question has been to follow the technologies – that is, to follow the course of the technologies over time and identify the various types of actors connected to the technologies and the sociotechnical assemblages they have become part of. To undertake the analysis, we have undertaken a re-­analysis of existing research on the development of MP3 and DivX in combination with document analysis, primarily of a various set of net-­ based sources, including material such as published interviews, press releases, media coverage, encyclopedias, and tutorials. Additionally, we have used material from an interview with Dagfinn Bach, chief executive officer of Sygma AS, on Sygma’s cooperation with Fraunhofer and the company’s role in the development of MP3 (see Chapter 6).

MP3’s route to dominance This section provides an account of the development of MP3 as a standard and a phenomenon, focusing on the central episodes of displacement and translation. In the early years of that history, there are at least two points that are important to make in this regard: (1) MPEG was not commenced with either audio or transmission primarily in mind; and (2) the standard was not an obvious solution. It is natural to start the story with the formation of the Moving Picture Experts Group (MPEG) in 1988, a working group that was mandated by the international standardization organizations ISO and IEC to suggest standards for the storage

The making of “piracy standards”   119 of audiovisual content. The group was formed at the initiative of Leonardo Chiariglione, who had worked with video standardization in the European context for a long time, though with disappointing results, and who was impressed by the achievements of the expert ISO group, JPEG, in the field of pictures. Initially, the group consisted of 25 to 30 representatives from various industries in addition to some academic researchers. Among the industries were telecommunication operators, broadcasting companies, consumer electronics companies, computer manufacturers, terminal equipment manufacturers, and integrated circuits developers. The group was starting to work on a package of standards that would become known as MPEG-­1. The project concerned “video coding … for storage and retrieval applications on digital storage media” (Chiariglione 2011b: 3). One of the important goals of the group was to foster the development of compression algorithms that rendered possible the digitalization of film for the compact disc medium. The commercial potential foreseen included a solution to the problem of long-­term storage of film in archives and libraries. The group initially worked primarily with video and had less competence in audio (Sterne 2012: 140). However, a subgroup for audio was established in the autumn of 1988 under the leadership of Hans-­Georg Musmann. The group issued a call for proposals and received suggestions for 14 coding algorithms from industrial players such as AT&T, Philips CE, France Telecom, and Fujitsu Limited. Through clustering and testing, the group ended up proposing three audio compression standards – Audio Layers 1–3 – with subsequently more complex algorithms and higher compression rates (see Musmann 2006). Layer 3 was based on patented algorithms by the German company Fraunhofer-­ Gesellschaft. The full name of this audio standard was MPEG-­1 Audio Layer 3 – later abbreviated as MP3. In the usual accounts, MP3 is described as a compression technique that reduces the size of a music file to between one tenth and one twelfth of its original size without a recognizable loss of sound quality, which is accomplished by simply removing the frequencies that ordinary people cannot hear anyway. This is an account with enough accuracy for most occasions – and one that makes MP3 seem to be the obvious solution. However, as Sterne’s (2006, 2012) detailed accounts reveal, it took Fraunhofer years of research into psychoacoustics and information processing to reach the algorithms. Moreover, negotiations, compromises and modifications in the MPEG group among the 13 other suggestions took even more years. At one point, Audio Layer 3 was almost discarded because of problems with the encoding procedures, which would cause “considerable implementation costs. So much so that, at that time, many considered Layer III as impractical” (Chiariglione 2011a: 2). Audio Layer  3 was finally approved in November 1991. MP3 was not primarily conceived with music in mind, but rather as part of a larger project on developing video standards. Nonetheless, within the audio group there were people interested in audio-­only applications, including the development of digital audio broadcasting. The Norwegian company Sygma,

120   The making of “piracy standards” which was headed by Dagfinn Bach, was the first to experiment with the transmission of MP3 through the Internet in 1992 and, together with Fraunhofer, developed a very early MP3 player in 1993. Furthermore, realizing the potential in the combination of MP3 and the Internet, Sygma worked through the 1990s with the launch of a commercial online music service named MODE (Music on Demand) (see also Chapter 6 and Spilker 2005). Bach was convinced that the company had exclusive technological solutions and a future-­oriented business model, and the initial negotiations with the record companies were also promising. But before the announced launch in early 1998, problems were piling up. As Bach explains, “Something happened with the licensing of the technology that put everything out of control. Suddenly, the MP3 encoders were everywhere.”2 According to our sources, what seems to have occurred is this: To demonstrate its potential, Arian Koster of KPN Research suggested in 1990 that MPEG develop a software implementation of the MPEG-­1 standard. This required that all the partners in MPEG give away some of their code to the others. Chiariglione commented: “Frankly, I did not see at that time for what reasons anybody should give away part of his code, but it has always been my policy to not disallow something other people believed in” (2011a: 3). As part of this demonstration, the Fraunhofer team created a free program using Audio Layer  3 to compress digital music files. Katz (2010) describes the program as “a typical ‘demo’ – just good enough to give prospective industry users an idea of its potential” (p.  180). Meant just for circulation inside MPEG and its associated circuits, the program was stored unprotected on a computer at the University of Erlangen in Germany. These kinds of unprotected solutions for encoding MP3 have often historically been reworked and redistributed by Internet communities. According to Katz (2010: 180), a Dutch hacker known as SoloH discovered the Fraunhofer demo, hacked it and released what was then called mpegEnc on his website in 1993.3 Similarly, according to Sterne (2012), an Australian hacker performed a “reverse engineering” solution called l3enc (p.  201). Others contributed with further refinements, working on the features they found most important. For example, while mpegEnc was known to have a (for that time) nice user interface, Swedish programmer Tord Larson’s bladeEnc from 1994 focused on improving the encoding speed.4 When Fraunhofer later released its own software solutions for encoding MP3 files, such as Winplay3 in 1995, this type of solution would also be redistributed among Internet users in modified or hacked versions.5 The years 1995 and 1996 saw the emergence of what came to be known as the “MP3 scene.” With access to MP3 encoders, Internet users started to rip their own MP3 files from CDs and other sources and make them available on the Internet. So-­called warez groups, at first operating openly, were competing to “release” music first and offer the widest assortment (see Huizing and van der Wal 2014). MP3 files began to circulate in various ways: on university servers, enthusiast home pages, IRC chat channels, “free webspace” services and FTP servers (see Burkart and McCourt 2006: 46–48). Soon, more commercially oriented services such as mp3.com, GoodNoise and MusicMatch began to appear,

The making of “piracy standards”   121 although the business model was uncertain. Basically, these sites offered a collection of links to various MP3 resources (see Morton 2004: 193–196). Predating Napster were thousands of MP3 files available for downloading. In September 1998 it was reported that “MP3” had surpassed “sex” as the most popular search phrase on the Internet (Sterne 2012: 206). Within one year of its release in June 1997, the popular, freeware MP3 player software, Winamp, received over three million downloads (Bronson 1998). In 1998, the first stand-­ alone MP3 players, MPMan and the RIO player (see Alderman 2001, pp. 58–59), were launched. Hence, there was already a vibrant “scene” at the time Napster was launched in July 1999, which was a precondition for the popularity the service would soon attain. Napster was the first service devoted exclusively to the sharing of music files in MP3 format between Internet users. The end of the 1990s saw MP3 settle as the de facto standard for digital music distribution. Several competing standards were around at the time – such as Microsoft/IBM’s WAV format, AT&T’s a2b standard, standards developed by the start-­up companies Liquid Audio and Real Audio, and advanced audio coding (AAC), which was later implemented in iTunes – but none of them managed to reach the same popularity as MP3. Neither did Vorbis, the genuine open-­source alternative to MP3. The use of MP3 continued to grow, even though the Recording Industry Association of America started to take legal action in the late 1990s against owners of FTP servers and solutions such as mp3.com and Napster. In the 2000s, the MP3 standard upheld its position as a “piracy technology” and was the dominant format for the distribution of music in file-­sharing networks such as Gnutella, Kazaa, LimeWire, and Pirate Bay. At the same time, MP3 increasingly, albeit reluctantly, received acceptance among commercial content providers. Liquid Audio was one of the first companies to cooperate closely with the record companies to establish a legal service for digital music distribution. Initially, its Liquid Music Player only handled files in a variation of the AAC standard using watermarking. However, due to market pressure, the company found it necessary to include support for MP3 on its software starting in 1999 (Alderman 2001, pp. 40–46, 55). Much the same story was repeated some years later when Apple launched its iTunes service (see Chapter 6). For some years, songs bought from the iTunes Store came in AAC format with copy protection. In 2008, the company decided to remove the copy protection from songs sold in the store, with users gaining the possibility of converting the files they had purchased to MP3s. Meanwhile, in 2007, Amazon MP3 became the first online music store to sell songs in the MP3 format, while seven of the biggest British online retailers got together to launch a joint logo signaling MP3 compatibility. A debater at the Norwegian website hardware.no made the following apt comment: “It’s not many years since MP3 was synonymous with illegality. That’s strange to think back at now when these types of approval marks are introduced.”6 The MP3 standard has moved back and forth between the commercial, formal economy and the idealistic, informal economy – and subsequently has been the

122   The making of “piracy standards” object of several displacements and translations. The first translation occurred when MP3 started to be perceived as an audio standard in its own right. In a second translation, MP3/MPEG-­1 went from being primarily about solving challenges connected to the long-­term storage of sound and video to become a tool enabling the distribution of digital audio. During both of these translations, the MP3 standard was also displaced – connected to new groups of actors with other interests, including audio researchers, radio industry players, and, eventually, as with the case of Sygma, Internet developers. Nevertheless, the development of MP3 was still taking place within the rules of the formal economy. It was with the third displacement and translation that MP3 embarked on its career as a piracy technology. Starting with SoloH’s tinkering with the Fraunhofer demo and his development of the mpegEnc software, MP3 was transformed from an industrial product to a hacker object. Initially, the hackers’ tinkering aimed at improving the encoding and decoding software. Gradually, though, the efforts became concentrated on finding effective ways to make music available online, as with the systems that the warez groups had invented for MP3 retrieval and, later, in the development and enhancement of file-­sharing applications. Still, MP3 could have simply remained a toy for the techno-­savvy. A fourth transformation occurred as an entire generation of ordinary Internet users appropriated MP3 as their preferred means for (freely) exploring and sharing music. Finally, in a fifth movement, MP3 was reinvented as a commercial product with portability as its primary sales pitch. A central tenet in Bowker and Star’s work – as well as for other sociologists of technology studying the development of standards – is that there is “no natural law that the best technology shall win” (1999: 14). The standards that end up achieving dominance do it for a host of reasons connected to the resources invested in them: market strategies, convincing work, ability to build on installed bases, and alliances. This is also true when looking at the history of the MP3 standard. The success of MP3 cannot simply be explained by technical sovereignty or lack of alternatives. Other factors must be taken into account, such as timing, the hackability of the encoding/decoding equipment, the affinity of the users, and the wide selection and portability of available MP3 files. The history of music distribution over the last 120 years has clearly demonstrated that no technological solution lasts forever. That said, the MP3 standard has clearly come to dominate the first two decades of Internet-­based music distribution.

DivX: the MP3 of video? Now, let us move to the DivX standard for video transmission and trace its inception and development. This section traces the various displacements and translations of the video standard DivX and describes the prominence of the interplay between commercial and idealistic forces. After releasing MPEG-­1 and MPEG-­2, the MPEG group published its first version of the third major standard, MPEG-­4, in October 1998. This was an extensive standard for multimedia that included, among other

The making of “piracy standards”   123 things, new ways to compress video. Microsoft was one of the many participants in this standardization process, and the next year, in 1999, it launched three versions of a video codec under its own brand: MS MPEG-­4 V1, MS MPEG-­4 V2, and MS MPEG-­4 V3. These three Microsoft codecs were all closely connected to the earlier efforts in the Motion Picture Expert Group, but only some of the video coding parts of the standardized MPEG-­4 were included in the releases from Microsoft. The three MS MPEG-­4 video codecs were again made interoperable with the proprietary Microsoft video solutions and existing file formats used by Microsoft. Hence, this initial development involved a partial implementation of the technology from the MPEG committee. The first versions of DivX, called DivX;-) 3.11, involved a reverse engineering of the MS MPEG-­4 V3 codec and were described as a hack in the release notes.7 The hack involved an extension of the functionality for the Microsoft solutions. When Microsoft released its MPEG-­4 V3 codec, it was released as a codec that could only be used in combination with the streaming file format known as ASF (created by Microsoft). The first DivX release made it possible to combine this codec from Microsoft with another solution from Microsoft, the video file format known as AVI.8 The reverse engineering was performed by Jérôme Rota and a German hacker known as “Max Morice,” and it enabled users to produce a file that could be both shared online and played back locally on computers (Bruegmann 2006, pp.  9–10). The DivX release thereby involved a merging of two solutions that were intentionally kept separate by the proprietor. DivX enabled users to share videos by using the latest – and at that time, the best – Microsoft codec available. The history of these Microsoft solutions also meant that the initial standard from the MPEG committee was now displaced for a second time. DivX primarily enabled two functions: By downloading the modified codec, users could effectively produce video files from different sources and play back such files on their systems. In more technical terms, this process is called encoding (or just coding) and decoding video files. First and foremost, the initial release was a video codec, but, again, this codec could be used together with encoding software and media players from other software producers such as Microsoft. Despite the fact that the first release of DivX in 1999 only combined functionality from existing software solutions in a creative way, the name DivX was understood as an independent innovation by many online users. The solution would soon become a popular way to prepare video files for online sharing when ripping DVDs and sharing different sorts of film and video material. DivX became a problem-­solving solution by making it possible to compress video files to manageable sizes within a format that could be downloaded and played locally, often by producing CDs. The DivX solution was becoming an underground phenomenon, growing fast and backed by online users who can be described as hackers, innovators and technical mentors. In retrospect, DivX itself explained that DivX was now “well on the way to becoming the MP3 of video.”9

124   The making of “piracy standards” However, as described in the official company history, the DivX story soon took another turn in 2002.10 At the beginning of 2000, Jérôme Rota was convinced by a former mp3.com executive, Jordan Greenhall, to team up and create a business around the DivX solution. The next logical step was fund-­ raising and development of the second software version, which at this stage was given the working title DivX Deux. Rota and Greenhall founded a company called DivXNetworks, and they were joined early on by Joe Bezdek, Tay Nguyen and Darrius Thompson. During 2000, the new company recruited the first investors in the project and organized a software development project, this time under the name Project Mayo. A project website, projectmayo.com, and a company website, divxnetworks.com, were established, and the news media began to report more frequently on the developments. In the summer of 2000, The Wall Street Journal wrote about the ongoing developments in an article entitled “Web Piracy Is Hitting Hollywood Sooner Than the Studios Thought”: Mr. Rota is busily working on a completely legal implementation of the DivX idea that won’t use Microsoft technology at all. In fact, he was in San Diego this past weekend, meeting with American technology experts and financiers who are putting together a company to pursue digital video – one of several groups doing so. (Gomes 2000, para. 6) The goal for the Project Majo website was to facilitate the creation of a new software version that had no ties to the initial Microsoft solution but that could still be backward-­compatible with the initial DivX release. A decision was made to go back to the solutions from the MPEG standardization process for the MPEG-­ 4, and at the beginning of 2001 the company established a new open-­source project called OpenDivX. This new development was undertaken to accelerate development toward the next DivX release and included yet another turn in the technology development by including open-­source development. This also meant that the OpenDivX project involved both commercial interests and idealistic mind-­sets, and during the spring of 2001 this diversity resulted in major conflicts of interest. Open-­source enthusiasts with an ideological attitude stood on one side, while company people stood on the other, and the center of the discussion was a new development, a source code called encore2, which was written by a DivXNetworks employee. This code was first published as open source on the project’s website in March 2001 but was soon removed from this site. The OpenDivX project therefore ended in a polarization between commercial interests and idealistic attitudes, with this dispute being a reminder of how commercial and idealistic forces may interact in different ways – they can sometimes be joined, but they also can function as competing actors with significantly different attitudes toward technology developments. However, in retrospect, the OpenDivX project can also be labeled as a success, resulting in two relevant solutions for the growing online communities that wanted to share video

The making of “piracy standards”   125 files. DivX released Version 4 later in 2001, and the XviD project – DivX in reverse – was founded as an open-­source project, which was similarly a continuance of the OpenDivX project. According to the norms of the file-­sharing communities, DivX was the only acceptable video format in 2001 and 2002. At this stage, the technical performance of DivX was contributing to the spread of the solution, and there was rapid growth in the amount of content being encoded into this format. The technical threshold for producing a DivX file was lowered in 2001 by available software such as Vidomi, DVDx, EasyDivX, VirtualDub, and others (Hattenhauer 2002). The historical starting point of DivX, being a hack, contributed to an initial credibility within file-­sharing communities, though over time a growing number of opinion leaders also developed preferences toward competing solutions such as XviD. One example of a shift in attitude is that in 2005 the norm for video encoding within P2P had changed to strongly recommending the use of XviD, and the future use of DivX was actually banned. It is also clear that the beginning commercialization of DivX, particularly after the disputes and release of Version 4 in 2001, was disliked by many early adopters, who started to think of DivXNetworks as “selling out” (Bowman 2002). DivXNetworks attempted to secure the relevance of DivX in the marketplace by continuously releasing new and better versions over the ensuing years. The first independent version of DivX, Version 4, was released in a beta version in the summer of 2001, in parallel with establishing the new website located at divx.com (Borland 2001). Version 5 was released in the spring of 2002, Version 6 in the summer of 2005, Version 7 in 2008, and Version 8 in 2010. The open-­ source developments within XviD had a number of releases after reworking the initial source from OpenDivX, and, unlike DivX, all its releases were distributed under the GNU, or General Public License. DivX experienced a lot of use in its first years as a company, but it also needed to find ways to turn this use into profit, and one of the commercial strategies that the DivX company tried to succeed with was a cooperation with the adware firm Gator, which was centered on a solution called Gator Advertiser Information Network. DivX released three different versions of DivX Version 5 – one that was free and two alternatives for procuring the “pro” version. Users had to watch occasional advertisements as a term of use for the pro version, or they could acquire the same extended functionality by paying for it or by choosing a reduced functionality (the free version). This solution around adware was a much-­discussed issue online, and the business cooperation with Gator that started in the spring of 2002 with Version 5.0 ended in the summer of 2004 with the release of Version 5.2. Another commercial strategy that was far more popular among DivX users was building alliances with electronic manufacturers that enabled the playback of DivX movies on stand-­alone DVD players, mobiles, set-­top boxes and other hardware solutions. This strategy started in 2002 with a cooperation around a brand of DVD players called KISS, and in 2005 the company, which was now called DivX, Inc., claimed to have over 175 consumer electronics partners and

126   The making of “piracy standards” more than 30 software partners (Stam 2005). On the software side, this type of cooperation also enabled new ways to encode DivX files. DivX, Inc. continuously attempted to show how its solution could be put to use within commercial services and to separate itself from the historical background as a hacked solution. The company also developed solutions for Digital Right Management (DRM) to compete with solutions from Microsoft, Adobe, Apple and others when it came to presenting video within commercial Internet-­ based solutions. Some of these business strategies clearly resulted in a decrease of DivX credibility within online communities, particularly when it came to strategies such as user payment, the use of adware, the development of DRM and the company’s many efforts toward cooperation with mainstream media. Nevertheless, the accumulation of DivX encoded content still contributed to pushing these video solutions forward, which it does even today, although many other formats have been more relevant the later years. XviD, being free and based on open source and a more idealistic attitude, turned out to be a popular technology within online communities in the first years after it was made available. The later years different versions of the standard H.264/ MPEG-­4 AVC, together with x264, have proven to be the most relevant technology when people share videos online. DivX has been described numerous times over the years as “the MP3 of video,” but its use today no longer justifies such a label. However, the history of DivX did culminate in a commercial success for its founders when DivX, Inc. was acquired for about $323 million by Sonic Solutions in the summer of 2010. Commenting on the acquisition in the form of a press release, the two companies emphasized Digital Rights Management: The acquisition of DivX brings Sonic a vast installed base of CE devices, all of which ship with Digital Rights Management (DRM) for the secure playback of Hollywood movies even when not connected to the Internet. DivX’s DRM, an important ingredient for the secure distribution of copyrighted video content, has been approved by major Hollywood studios.11 A solution that initially was thought of as a hack for pirates had turned into a commercial and mainstream solution that was now developed with content from the Hollywood studios in mind. In the following years, the technology developed by DivX again shifted between different businesses; Rovi Corporation acquired Sonic Solutions (including the DivX business) in February 2011,12 before Rovi Corporation sold the DivX (and MainConcept) business to Parallax Capital Partners and StepStone Group, in April 2014.13 DivX again changed owners, when acquired by NeuLion Inc., in February 2015.14 So, in sum, a number of commercial actors have continued to develop DivX as a technology and as a business over the later years. DivX has been embraced by new groups of actors and subject to different interpretations throughout its course. Similarly to MP3, DivX has a history related to the standardization work in the MPEG association through the

The making of “piracy standards”   127 proprietary variant MS MPEG-­4 V3, which Microsoft had drawn out and refined on its own. DivX initially started as a sort of crack in the form of reverse engineering of this Microsoft standard. In the first phase – the DivX;-) phase – the standard was constructed as a subversive technology and an underground phenomenon (as symbolized by the winking emoticon). Entering the OpenDivX phase, the standard was translated into a more “housebroken” development project by getting rid of the remnants of the Microsoft code, while trying to reap the benefits of the inclusive collaborative practices of the open-­source culture. DivX had become a popular way to prepare video files for online sharing within piracy cultures. However, the DivX founders were about to develop other ambitions for the standard. Even if it was legal, the OpenDivX project met considerable skepticism in industrial circles. In 2001, the OpenDivX project stagnated when the company withdrew the encore2 source code from the project’s website. This signaled the start of the DivX business phase, in which DivX was translated into a proprietary standard in an attempt to enroll commercial groupings from the film and television industries. As a part of this reorientation, DivX, Inc. tried out different strategies through the 2000s such as bundling the software with adware, launching pro versions, and implementing copy protection features. Nonetheless, the reorientation, not surprisingly, was met with harsh resistance from many of DivX’s original supporters, thereby resulting in the fragmentation, or “forking,” of the standard. The XviD development represented a counterstandard and an antiphase to the new direction and emerged as a real challenger to DivX.

The power of the piracy–entrepreneur nexus The starting point for this analysis was the position of MP3 and DivX as central technologies of piracy in the fields of music and video. A comparison of their life stories was used as a prism to shed light on the notion of piracy and its relevance for the development of the Internet and digital media. We have focused our investigation on episodes of displacement and translation, attempting to come to grips with how the standards of MP3 and DivX – understood as cultural, political, and economic artifacts – have developed. Both standards have undergone several episodes of displacement and translation, and, in some respects, the development histories of MP3 and DivX resemble each other. They have in common intimate connections with the standardization work in the MPEG consortium (the work on MPEG-­1 and MPEG-­4, respectively). Through displacements and translations, both moved from this origin to a significant hacker phase, which constituted the standards as technologies of piracy. Still, there are some important differences, and to clarify such differences, we find it useful to draw on Jordan’s (2008) distinction between two main types of hacking: (1) cracking, which is about breaking various forms of code systems and security solutions; and (2) open-­source development, which is a matter of  developing alternatives to proprietary software solutions (by legal means).

128   The making of “piracy standards” In  contrast to DivX, which included both types of hacking, MP3 never really went through a cracker phase, nor has it been, at least in an explicit sense, an open-­source project. Furthermore, it has only to a very limited degree been a hacker object at all, even though it should be mentioned that net users played an important role in establishing metadata solutions (ID tags) for the MP3 format (see Morris 2012, 2015). In the case of MP3, the tinkering has mainly been concentrated on the procedures of encoding and decoding and transmission, while with DivX there has been a continuous development of the core compression code. Looking at the incidents of the past 10–15 years, another difference is prominent: MP3 has gained commercial acceptance with no further modifications. By contrast, DivX is still a productive and generative concept but has failed to reach any type of universal recognition. Latour’s (1987) concept of immutable mobiles can be used to elucidate these observations. Latour coined the term as a way to approach the enduring influence that some technologies come to exert. This influence is rooted in their mobility – their ability to move across time and space – and in their combinability – the way they allow new sociotechnical practices and assemblages to be formed. Or explained differently, it is a result of the way they lend themselves to displacements and translations while not being transformed, at least materially speaking. We argue that MP3 is a solid example of an immutable mobile. After the initial approval of the standard within MPEG in 1991, only two minor adjustments have officially been implemented to the standard in a revision of MPEG-­1 in 1995. The ID tags added by the Internet community at approximately the same time have also largely become recognized parts of the standard. In addition, the standard has remained remarkably stable. Why did MP3 become an immutable mobile? We have already dismissed that the explanation primarily lies in the simplicity and obviousness of the standard, with reference to the politics, complexities, and uncertainties involved in the developmental work (cf. also Sterne 2012). Instead, it must be sought in the way that MP3 came to be part of a growing number of sociotechnical practices and assemblages throughout the 1990s: All the enthusiast efforts that resulted in MP3 being part of encoding software, warez sites, amateur and professional link collections, all sorts of music players including mobile devices, file-­sharing networks, and search engines. This made MP3 a virtually self-­propelling entity, paving the way for the commercial acceptance – more precisely, acceptance from the music industry – that we have witnessed later. As we have seen in following DivX from phase to phase, it has obviously been a mobile technology. Yet, compared to MP3 (or to its own potential), the standard has experienced a somewhat restricted mobility and combinability. Today, DivX (and XviD) is only one (two) of several competing standards for the distribution of video. The lack of a more general compatibility can make it difficult for most users to obtain an overview of what type of equipment they can use for encoding and retrieving DivX (and XviD). We understand this restricted mobility and combinability as a consequence of the fact that DivX has never managed to become immutable. On the contrary,

The making of “piracy standards”   129 DivX has been a permeable technology through its entire life course, as expressed by the continuous altering and rewriting of the specifications of the standard. This permeability has made DivX highly unstable, vulnerable to shifting interests, torn back and forth, and ultimately fragmented. Moreover, it is reasonable to point to the withdrawal of the source code for encore2 as a decisive moment in this connection. From a period in which DivX could enjoy general enthusiasm within piracy cultures, this move resulted in a resistance and search for alternatives among hackers and file sharers. We will finish this chapter by reflecting on the way both MP3 and DivX have been moving back and forth between idealism and commercialism. Despite all the differences between MP3 and DivX, if we simplify their life stories, both developments can metaphorically be described as pendulum movements between commercialism and idealism, beginning with a commercial phase, swinging to an idealistic phase, and then swinging back again to a commercial phase. As we have seen, MP3 moved from its MPEG existence to piracy existence through a slip and returned to the formal economy by more or less letting time work, while DivX was transformed from a MPEG/Microsoft standard to a technology of piracy through a hack and was re-­created as a commercial entity through a conscious (but not necessarily wise) move. Hence, both have made the movement between commercialism and idealism twice, albeit in different ways. A main point emerging from our analysis is how both technologies are the result of the interplay and exchange between more commercially and more idealistically oriented forces. With regard to this, we are in accordance with David (2010), who notes that the Internet today is the outcome and combination of “commercially motivated innovations … as well as more hacker induced innovations” (p. 31). The cases of MP3 and DivX are particularly interesting examples of such combinations because the public perception of both technologies is so strongly connected to the notion of piracy. Of course, the pendulum metaphor also represents a simplification of the developments. The relationships between the commercial and idealistic forces have been much more complex and intertwined. For example, there also existed commercial ambitions and attempts for DivX in the OpenDivX phase, as there were in relation to MP3 in its formative years in the mid-­1990s. And the other way around: MP3 is still the most important format for the informal distribution of music, and it still circulates video in the DivX format in file-­sharing networks. Therefore, the relationship is not only an either/or but also a both/and. These nuances are important for understanding how closely idealism and commercialism sometimes become intertwined. This will help us achieve a better understanding of hacker and piracy practices. In making these points, it is not our purpose to suggest that more persistent idealistic efforts do not exist. Indeed, the events we have described related to the forking of DivX and the development of the counterstandard XviD are in themselves examples of the opposite. However, until recently much of the research literature concerning hacking, piracy, and the relationship between idealism and commercialism more generally has drawn boundaries between the two poles that

130   The making of “piracy standards” are sharper and more insurmountable than is often the case. On the other hand, we have the somewhat reductionist analyses of, for example, Terranova (2013) and Fuchs (2014a), who suggest that all alternative and countercultural forces are, in reality, “netslaves” tricked by Internet companies to perform free labor. In both cases, it has been difficult to see the interplay and fluxes that are important for understanding the contemporary dynamics of the Internet. We agree with Lobato and Thomas (2012), who call for a more realistic (and less idealistic or fatalistic) analysis of the relationships between what they call the formal and informal economy. To accomplish this more realistic analysis, we need to inquire more deeply into the combinations, interplay, fluxes and dependencies between these forces. Subsequently, a more temporary and contextually situated picture of hacking and piracy will emerge. In this chapter, we have attempted to shed light on these issues by investigating two technologies of piracy. To justify their research engagement with “piracy cultures,” Castells and Cardoso explained the importance of understanding whether these “might either evolve toward new institutionalized market practices … or remain as counter-­cultural movements” (2012: 827). In this respect, our contribution has been to show how two technologies have made the crossover to new institutionalized practices – and to show the mutually very different manner through which they have done so. Actually, looking at the recent history of digital innovations, our analysis represents only two of several variants of crisscrossing technologies that dominate today’s media landscape. Bureau (2014) makes a distinction between “conformist” and “subversive” forms of piracy and piratical technologies. Conformist piracy occurs when piracy develops into “a stable deviance that is recognized and fought against by the authorities” (427). The Pirate Bay is possibly a case in point. Subversive piracy, on the other hand, successfully challenges society’s status quo and transform the rules and values of the society: “The game change and the pirates are no longer deviants but legitimate entrepreneurs” (427). It is important to notice that a central point in Bureau’s argument is that it is society and not piracy that are changing in the case of subversive piracy. Possibly, a more realistic formulation would be that of a two-­way influence, as our stories of MP3 and DivX illustrate. Nonetheless, both MP3 and DivX clearly fall into Bureau’s category of subversive piratical technologies. Arguably, it is in this piracy-­entrepreneur nexus much of the most important developments in digital media distribution take place – with ramifications both to amateur-­enthusiasts and big techno-­business. YouTube is another good example. Gillespie (2010) and Jakobsson and Stiernstedt (2010) have shown how the service balances boldly between being a platform for bottom-­up user-­generated amateur content and a pirate haven with being a top-­down mega-­buck marketing platform. Other variants of the piracy-­ entrepreneur nexus is found in the inventor-­founder stories of Palmås et al. (2014). They describe how the founders of the infamous file-­sharing network Kazaa (Zennström and Friis) later took part of the technology and developed the popular IP-­video telephony service Skype, while one of the inventors (Ek) of

The making of “piracy standards”   131 another infamous file-­sharing client, µTorrent, did the same when he later went on to found Spotify. Our story in this chapter is quite similar – only that our (dis-)reputed protagonist – in good actor-­network theory spirit – is not the founders and inventors but the mobile and recombinable technologies themselves.

Notes   1 Since this chapter is co-­written with Svein Höier, “we” will naturally be used where “I” is used elsewhere in the book.   2 Interview with general manager Dagfinn Bach, September 20, 2002.   3 See www.euronet.nl/~soloh/mpegEnc   4 See http://home.swipnet.se/~w-­82625/default.htm   5 See http://tiny.catpa.ws/a-­short-history-­of-my-­part-in-­the-early-­mp3-scene   6 See www.hardware.no/artikler/MP3-kompatibilitet-­garantert/57671   7 DivX was described thus in the text that followed the first release (all errors are in the original text): “This is a Hack of selected version of the M$ MPEG4 codec FOURCC and CLSid code have been hacked so you can make ALWAYS WORKING AVIs.”   8 The initial name used in the first release in 1999 was DivX;), created by adding a “wink” to the name of a dispatched digital video format called Divx from Circuit City in the United States. The emoticon in the name was removed in the later releases. This text will refer to “DivX” as a collective term to avoid rapid shifts between DivX;) and DivX as the subject under study.   9 DivX Networks: The official DivX 5.1 Guide, see document version May 9, 2004 at http://wayback.archive.org/web/20040615000000*/www.divx.com/support/guides/Div XGuide51.pdf 10 See document version 10/3/2004 at http://replay.waybackmachine.org/20020310 013140/www.divxnetworks.com/about/index.php 11 See http://blog.roxio.com/press/webdivisiondivx/2010/10/sonic_completes_divx_ acquisition.html 12 See www.reuters.com/article/us-­sonic-rovi-­idUSTRE6BM0ER20101223 13 See www.rttnews.com/2295136/rovi-­sells-divx-­mainconcept-businesses.aspx 14 See www.streamingmedia.com/Articles/News/Online-­Video-News/NeuLion-­AcquiresDivX-­Creates-a-­Full-Online-­Video-Solution-­101416.aspx

8 Media kills music? An analysis of the newspaper coverage of the Piracy Kills Music campaign

The fourth music estate? The controversies around digital piracy have received frequent, and at times intense, coverage in Norwegian newspapers ever since the MP3 phenomenon caught fire in the late 1990s. A longitudinal search on the phrase “MP3” in the eight largest Norwegian newspapers can illustrate this. For 1997, the search receives five hits, for 1998, 22 hits and for 1999, 139 hits. Since 2000, the number of hits has reached several hundred yearly, with the peak coming in 2005 with 934 hits. A similar search on the phrase “file sharing” reveals much of the same picture – although this phrase entered the common (and journalistic) vocabulary a few years later. In this chapter, I will focus on the media coverage of the campaign Piracy Kills Music. Launched in the winter of 2007, this €1.2 million campaign represents the largest and the most visible effort of the Norwegian record industry to conquer piracy. I will combine quantitative and qualitative methods to analyze the media coverage. More specifically, I will use a framing approach to delineate the most important storylines communicated through the media. Therefore, the research question addressed in this chapter can be formulated quite simply as: How did the mass media cover and frame the file-­sharing controversy? As I outlined in the introductory chapter, an important motivation behind this book has been to open up and broaden our understanding of changes in digital music distribution, which all too often have been portrayed quite narrow-­ mindedly as a conflict involving only two sets of actors – the music industry and Internet users. As part of this reasoning, we have throughout this book met other “relevant social groups” (Pinch and Bijker 1987) in the relation to the development of digital music distribution: artists, parents, regulatory authorities, musical and political subcultures, hackers. In Chapters 6 and 7, I ended up by pointing to an often overlooked, but perhaps especially important, third actor group when analyzing the piracy controversies, namely the technology developers and industries, which in many situations have acted as pushers in this drama, profiting from increased demand for equipment and traffic on the lines. It is in this connection that the pun in the subtitle, “the fourth music estate,” is to be understood

Media kills music?   133 – and of course in line with the way the mass media in other circumstances often are referred to as “the fourth estate.” Media theorists have argued that we live in a period of mediatization (see e.g., Hjarvard 2009; Lundeby 2009; Hepp 2013; Kramp et al. 2014). According to Hjarvard (2009), this period is characterized on the one side by the circumstance that the media increasingly operates as an autonomous actor in society, governed by their own set of rules and principles, the so-­called “media logic,” and decoupled from their previous ties and commitments to other institutions (e.g., state authorities, political parties, corporate organizations). On the other side, the era of mediatization is characterized by the increasing influence of the media in all other sectors of public and private life. The autonomy thesis runs, at least in part, counter to other influential media theories, asserting that various types of bonds between the media and other dominant elites and powers in society are reflected in the way the media covers events (see e.g., Herman and Chomsky 1988; Gitlin 2003). Formulated within a different vocabulary, this ambiguity has also been described through the metaphors of the media as a “watchdog” versus the media as a “lapdog” (see Schultz 1998). How can we apprehend the role of the mass media in the file-­sharing controversies? How has the media positioned themselves vis-­à-vis the other actor groups involved?

Understanding the role of the media in the piracy controversies The role of the media in the file-­sharing controversy has been given relatively little attention. Central publications in the literature on file-­sharing and peer-­topeer production from the last decade, such as Lessig (2004, 2008), Benkler (2006) and Gillespie (2007), do not address this aspect at all. The same is largely the case for recent comprehensive works dealing with changes within the field of digital music (Wikström 2009; David 2010; Allen-­Robertson 2013; Andersson Schwartz 2014; Morris 2015). The closest is David, who has analyzed the rhetorical strategies employed in anti-­piracy campaigns – but without performing a thorough analysis of their reception, i.e., by the media (2010: 96–117). Hence, there is a gap in the research literature on the file-­sharing controversy, which in a way is strange since media coverage is undoubtedly part of the way collective interpretations of new technologies are formed – and methodologically speaking, it is also a quite accessible part. I have (only) found three articles partially dealing with the media coverage of digital music technologies. In their study of “the social construction of Napster,” Spitz and Hunter (2006) investigated the discourse surrounding Napster in several arenas, including that of media coverage. They expected to find a tension between “the pro-­amateur mainstream press and the anti-­amateur corporate interests,” but found instead that “the ambivalence toward [Napster] was internal to much of the press’s rhetoric” (ibid.: 174). Napster was depicted as promising and frightening at the same time.

134   Media kills music? Guidi (2012) performed a semantic “space grammar analysis” of the use of terms such as “piracy” and “counterfeiting” in a corpus of Italian web articles, as well as in a larger corpus of web discourse in blogs, forums and the like. In both corpora they find that the perception and conceptualization of “piracy” are primarily constructed through negative connotations such as “theft” and “illegal appropriation,” while positive connotations are lacking. Guzman and Jones (2014) conducted a comparative analysis of the US coverage of Napster in the mainstream press and the music press. They found that the mainstream media devoted considerable coverage of Napster and tended to connect it to bigger cultural issues. Contrary to the negative coverage in Guidi’s Italian material, Guzman and Jones showed how Napster is often portrayed as an individualistic, entrepreneurial and democratic technology. In the music press, however, Napster was almost totally ignored. A few studies have also been conducted in the related fields of software piracy and movie piracy. Zammon and Curley (2007) investigated the media coverage of software piracy in the five leading US newspapers. Their main finding is that articles condoning software piracy displayed less moral intensity and were more balanced than the articles condemning piracy. Yar (2005) discussed two alternative sociological explanations of the rise of movie piracy: The “realist” explanation sees the rise as an outcome of a range of social, economic and technological changes, while the “social constructivist” explanation deconstructs the rise as a rhetorical and mediatized construct promoted by actors with an interest in inflating the phenomenon. However, Yar does not look for counter-­voices in the media. I will use a framing approach to delineate the most important storylines communicated through the media. A brief note on the (newspaper) media situation in Norway is necessary as a backdrop for the analysis. On most rankings of newspaper readership over the past few decades, Norway has come in second place in the world after Finland. In 2010, between 550 and 600 copies were sold per 1,000 inhabitants, as people from almost all segments of the population, both geographically and socially, are regular newspaper readers (Østbye 2010; Syvertsen et al. 2014). Norway has experienced the same decline in the circulation of print newspapers from the late 1990s as other Western countries, being affected in particular by the tendency of young people to reduce their reading of print media (see Chapter 6). However, this decline is partially offset by the corresponding growth in the readership of online newspapers. Consequently, newspapers in Norway still hold a strong position as a site where the public is updated and informed. I understand the framing of the file-­sharing controversies by the mass media as part of the process of the domestication or socialization of digital music technologies on a collective level. Traditionally, the domestication approach was used for analyzing the appropriation of technologies in households, focusing on the processes through which new technologies became (or did not become) part of the practices and meaning universes of the families (Silverstone and Hirsch 1992; Lie and Sørensen 1995; Berker et al. 2006). Nevertheless, as demonstrated

Media kills music?   135 in several studies, this is also a perspective that can be fruitfully applied when researching the appropriation of technologies by larger collectives, e.g., a nation state (see Sørensen 1999; Brosveet and Sørensen 2000). At this level, domestication is to be understood as a collective process performed by the various “relevant social groups” involved. In perceiving the media framing of digital music technologies as part of the domestication process, I draw inspiration from a couple of recent developments in the approach. Hartmann (2009) argues for the fruitfulness of including an often bypassed dimension in the analysis of domestication processes, a dimension she denotes as “discursive appropriation.” She notes that analyses of domestication have usually started with the material appropriation of an artifact (i.e., the buying, downloading or other type of acquisition). However, preceding the material appropriation there is always “imaginative work”: “Imaginative work does not, however, only apply to media technologies that are eventually bought. Quite the opposite: the imaginative work is everywhere – often more so when someone decides not to use a certain media technology” (ibid.: 235). This work encompasses the entire discursive construction around the technologies, about their potential societal consequences, the hopes and fears that become connected to them, the collective forming of interpretations – of which, as argued earlier, the media framing is part. Hartmann’s arguments are also recognized in the works of Skjølsvold (2012), who prefers to use the term “framing” for the processes that Hartmann denoted “discursive appropriation.” Skjølsvold has developed a new three-­dimensional model of “the socialization of technologies” comprised of: (1) the framing of technologies; (2) the embedding of technologies; and (3) the practice of innovation (ibid.: 38–52). The framing usually starts prior to the embedding and practice of innovation, though the dimensions are mutually constitutive. In the context of the socialization of technologies, Skjølsvold argues that “framing has to do with the way technology is understood or made sense of in relation to a set of issues, for example norms, policies, etc.” (ibid.: 39). The newspaper coverage “can be read as part of the collective domestication of [technologies]; as producers of meaning and sites of domestication, the newspapers take part in the technology diffusion process” (2012: 95). Skjølsvold is employing an actor-­network theory variant of framing analysis derived from Callon’s (1998) analysis of the formation of economic markets. However, as Kitzinger (2007) notes, framing analysis exists in different variants in a number of academic disciplines and traditions, including sociology, political science, linguistics and psychology. For the present analysis, I will stick to the way the concept has been developed and used within communication/media studies. The basic argument underlying the media studies version of framing analysis is that the media does not simply provide us with information, but offers interpretative frameworks through which the world can be understood (see McCullagh 2002). Entman (1993) summarizes the most important aspects of media framing in that it promotes specific problem definitions, indicates casual

136   Media kills music? explanations, presents moral evaluations and suggests certain solutions. It has been developed several “checklists” for what to look for when performing framing analysis (see Kitzinger 2007; Tankard 2001; Van Gorp 2005; Williams et al. 2003). I will employ a modified version of Tankard’s “list of frames approach” (see next section). Obviously, an important aspect of any framing analysis consists of performing critical readings, which includes constantly trying to uncover the (conscious or unconscious) journalistic choices made in the text. According to Kitzinger, it is just as important to look for what is excluded from the text as what is included: “What alternative frames could have been used? How might the problem, and the key players involved, have been presented differently? What alternative ideas about the causes and the solutions might have been considered” (2007: 134–135)? In cases when the media texts themselves present us with rival frames, and not only a dominant one, this work is surely made easier. However, even then it still remains an important sensitizing device. Ihlen and Allern (2008) make a distinction between two types of media framing analysis with different objectives. In the generic analysis, the goal is to develop or test generic categorizations of media frames in order to learn something general about the way the media performs framing that cuts across different cases. By contrast, in a case-­specific analysis the goal is to identify the specific frames applied in the coverage of an actual case, in order to develop knowledge of that particular empirical instance. In this chapter, the goal is clearly case-­specific. A last point about media framing concerns the relationship between the media and their sources. Media framing will be looked upon as a co-­construction between the various parties attempting to get their viewpoint across, as well as the journalists’/newspapers’ application of certain news criteria and other considerations that determine what ends up in print. The relative strengths of the different actors and their reciprocal connections will be evaluated in the concluding section.

Identifying frames The decision to focus on the media coverage of the Piracy Kills Music campaign was made for several reasons. The campaign was a very conspicuous and provocative effort by the music industry to conquer piracy, which resulted in one of the condensed periods of media coverage of digital music distribution, along with other events such as the Napster and Pirate Bay trials. Thus, the media coverage was expected to form a strategic arena for revealing divergent viewpoints on the issue while unveiling which voices were heard. Furthermore, the choice was made to obtain a manageable sample size for analysis. We decided to focus on the eight largest newspapers in Norway: the tabloids, Verdens Gang and Dagbladet; the national papers, Aftenposten and Dagsavisen; the financial paper, Dagens Næringsliv; and the three regional papers, Bergens Tidende, Adresseavisen and Stavanger Aftenblad (from Norway’s second, third

Media kills music?   137 and fourth biggest cities – Bergen, Trondheim and Stavanger). The digital search archive Mediearkivet, which gives access to all material that has been published in the print versions of the newspapers, was used for the search. We used the search phrases, “Piracy Kills Music” and “PiracyKillsMusic,” and limited the search to the years 2007 and 2008.1 After filtering out hits that either (a) were not editorial material or (b) actually dealt with something else, we were left with a sample of 66 articles, consisting of news stories and editorial commentaries. The material was subjected to a double coding procedure: an extensive qualitative analysis and a simpler quantitative one. For the qualitative analysis, a modified version of Tankard’s (2001) point list was used to code the data.2 In the initial phase of the analysis, we used a classification scheme in which each article was coded according to the following categories: (1) theme and heading of the article; (2) specific phrases used by a journalist; (3) choice of sources; (4) specific phrases used by interviewees; (5) problem definition of interviewees; and (6) eventual suggestion of solutions. An important element at this stage was to look for charged words and concepts, as these help in finding the underlying frames (see Gamson and Modigliani 1989; Kitzinger 2007). From the classification scheme, the process of identifying frames continued by creating a list of possible frames and attaching words, concepts, actors, problems and solutions to them. This is a phase of narrowing down and reducing complexity, until the researcher is left with as few possible frames as possible without losing central tendencies and important distinctions in the material. In our case, this resulted in the identification of five distinctive frames. The quantitative analysis was performed as a check of tendencies that were identified in the qualitative analysis, and out of an urge to present some figures on the relationship between newspapers, the music industry and Internet users. The articles were classified on only one variable: Whether they were pro-­music industry, balanced or anti-­music industry. If an article had a headline and/or more than two-­thirds of the presented arguments were favor of one side, it was classified accordingly. If no such pattern was discernible, it was classified as neutral.

Qualitative framing analysis The Piracy Kills Music campaign was launched on February 8, 2007 at the annual music industry venue By:Larm in Trondheim. It was a joint initiative supported by all the major trade organizations within the Norwegian music industry. The campaign was fronted by some of the best known artists in the country. Piracy Kills Music was rolled out on a broad scale with the opening of the website, www.piracykillsmusic.no, which provided information about the campaign, a FAQ section on legal issues connected to file-­sharing, a counseling service and a now infamous video. Advertisement time was bought on cinemas and television, and a great amount of promotional effects were distributed such as stickers, buttons, t-­shirts and shoulder bags. Furthermore, the campaign included informational and educational material targeted at both the press, the

138   Media kills music? general public, as well as packages aimed at teachers and pupils in the school system (see also Chapter 3). I was present at the plenary presentation that kick-­started the campaign, and heard the initiators declare their faith in their cause. They expressed a firm belief that the diffusion of fact-­based and attitude-­forming material would have an effect. However, the music industry did not expect to be alone in pursuing the campaign. From the podium, it was repeatedly stated that the industry counted on help from “good forces” – including parents, educational authorities, the police and the press. TONO lawyer Irina Eidsvoll Tøyen formulated it this way in Verdens Gang: “We need help in relation to spreading knowledge about the benefits of paying for music.”3 So, was there any help to receive? In the analysis of the 66 newspaper articles dealing with the campaign, we identified five distinct frames – which I have called the support-­and-help-­the-industry frame, the dying-­dinosaur frame, the head-­in-the-­sand frame, the one-­of-the-­most-successful-­campaigns-of-­all-time frame and the hopeless-­and-desperate frame. Indeed, as Tankard notes, “coming up with the names for frames itself involves a kind of framing” (2001: 98). Basically, I have used charged concepts found in one or more of the articles in the naming of the frames that illustrates and highlights the central aspects of the frame. The identified frames can be divided into two groups: The first three frames are about the understanding of the situation in the music industry, while the last two deal with an evaluation of the effects of the campaign. The support-­and-help-­the-industry frame This frame was voiced by both music industry representatives and some artists. In this frame, the problem definition is how file-­sharing undermines the business opportunities for the record companies (and artists). Josef from the rap duo Madcon says: “Now there’s just too much downloading. The industry is floundering, and there’s no money to release or promote music.”4 This problem definition is presented in order to justify and explain the background of the campaign: “It has as its goal to inform about what is legal and illegal when it comes to file-­sharing, and what the consequences are for the life of the music if the illegal downloading continues at the level it is today,” states Thorsby of IFPI.5 Some of the implications mentioned are that there will be fewer artists and narrower and “safer” priorities within the industry. The basic rhetoric within this frame is connected to needs and necessities. The Piracy Kills Music campaign is presented as a necessary move, and the need for a strong record industry is argued as being vital for both artists and consumers alike. Chirag from the rap duo Karpe Diem exposes this view: “It’s extremely hard for me to be a MBE and an artist at the same time. I need someone to do that job.”6 Even so, Josef of Madcon argues against alternative career patterns: “Artists discovered through MySpace don’t get big unless they have someone in the back pushing them.”7

Media kills music?   139 The solution presented within the-­support-and-­help-the-­industry-frame is to transform the youth/the Internet users into law-­abiding citizens through education and surveillance. In an interesting comment, Rogstad of EMI combines the educational and monitoring aspects in a cunning way: “The campaign is an appeal to boundary setters – teachers, employers, parents – to make them aware that it’s illegal to copy music. Surveys show that more than 50% of the population is not aware of this fact.”8 In a similar way, Thorsby of IFPI says that the aim of the campaign is to inform, but then reveals: “We have gathered a lot of information on the illegal traffic on the net, so we have every possibility of bringing charges on more file sharers and downloaders if we so wish. One risks both punishment and civil suits.”9 The dying-­dinosaur frame This frame was expressed by Internet activists, journalists, academics and some artists. In this frame, the problem definition is the opposite of the previous frame: namely that in their attempt to regain control of the music commodity, the record companies have labeled an entire generation of music users as criminals. The record companies are portrayed as prehistoric monsters that have failed to adapt to the new everyday reality of life on the Internet. The consequences of their strategies are said to give consumers fewer and poorer (and more expensive) choices, stifle the interest in music and hamper creativity. The term “dying dinosaur” was actually found in a defense comment by Siqveland and Klausen of the artist organization GramArt.10 But in the material, there are numerous other examples in which similar rhetoric is invoked: “The music industry will die” (heading),11 “the story of a living corpse” (heading),12 “the record industry is growing old” (editorial commentary),13 “the biggest international actors within the record industry [revealed] as dinosaurs in a new age” (editorial commentary),14 “the record companies will be gone in three to five years” (singer/songwriter McRae).15 The solution presented within this frame is simply to do away with the record companies. Johnsen of Dagsavisen writes: “An expensive intermediary is about to become superfluous in a reality where the musicians possess the means of production.”16 The self-­declared pirate Jackson adds: “To copy, to share with others, is not the same as stealing. But of course, we have to find alternative financial arrangements to avoid that the dying record business is dragging artists down with them.”17 The head-­in-the-­sand frame The next frame was voiced not only by journalists and Internet activists, but also by two music industry representatives (one Norwegian and one British). Within this frame, the problem is also the record companies. However, this time it is more about what they have not done than what they have done. The record companies are accused of not having kept track of the developments within the

140   Media kills music? industry and buried their head in the sand, waiting for the problem with file-­ sharing to pass. Swede Sunde, one of the founders of Pirate Bay, extends this line of critique to encompass the whole Norwegian debate of file-­sharing: “In Norway, it is still discussed as if file-­sharing is something one can take a decision on … but file-­ sharing has already been around for many years. The question that needs to be addressed is how to do something positive out of this, exploiting the technology in best manner.”18 Rogstad of EMI tells a funny story about when he was going to give a speech at an EMI conference in London in 2002. On the top of his PowerPoint presentation, he had written “The Lost Generation.” He goes on to say: “The whole speech went to pot. It became absolutely silent. I was a party pooper, and ended up alone at the dinner.” He continues: “No one was ready to take in the gloomy message.”19 Within this frame, the solution is that the music industry contributes to developing new solutions for digital music distribution. Sharkey of British Music Rights (and previously a vocalist in The Undertones) comments on a survey among British youth: It is obvious that this young and technologically up-­front generation is as engaged in music as any earlier generation. Counter to what we have believed earlier, they are also willing to pay for music. However, only if it is delivered through the services they long for. This message is clear and crisp.20 Rogstad supports this: “We have as a goal to deliver the consumers the music they want, in the way they want it, where they want it and when they want it,”21 However, not without some doubts: “I have not yet heard any good suggestions for how we shall obtain income from file sharing, but EMI is working with concrete solutions.”22 The hopeless-­and-desperate frame The last two frames have a different structure insofar as they are not dealing with the underlying problems in the music industry and the Internet world or with the possible solutions to these. Instead, they are concentrated around the actual contents and performance of the Piracy Kills Music campaign, evaluating whether it should be regarded as a success or failure. Some Internet activists, journalists and artists were quick to dismiss the entire campaign – and they received ample column space. In this frame, charged words such as “hopeless,” “desperate” and “absurd” are rhetorically used to cast doubt about the contents of the campaign: “The idea that piracy will kill the music is absurd” (Syverud in Piratgruppen),23 “the record companies are yelling and resorting to hopeless campaigns” (journalist in Bergens Tidende),24 “the campaign builds on failing assumptions” (Gramstad in Electronic Frontier Norway).25

Media kills music?   141 Later, the effects of the campaign, as well as the industry organizations’ celebration of it, are criticized. Syverud states: “To the best of my knowledge, the campaign has had no effect.”26 Østbø of Verdens Gang asks:  Is the campaign already a failure? Music sales are still going down. In other words, the kids have not been scared away from [file sharing], even if the campaign was put up as sheer scare propaganda with several in part very doubtful claims.27 The most-­successful-campaign-­of-all-­time frame Not surprisingly, this frame was voiced by music industry representatives. It is deals with an evaluation of the results of the campaign. Generally speaking, here the music representatives present the effects with terms of praise. The first occurrence of this frame is from March 2007, one month after the campaign was launched, in which Siqveland and Klausen of GramArt comment that it “has had the expected positive effect.”28 There are not many articles in the material where this frame is expressed, with the other examples being from the spring of 2008. The campaign’s PR advisor, Kjell Tore Ringdal, is the one most fully praising the effects: “The campaign has proved to be one of the most successful Internet campaigns of all time.”29 Ringdal tries to substantiate this claim by referring to a long and very varied list of success criteria: Piracy Kills Music has been supported by hundreds of artists, a jury has awarded it the best communication campaign for the past two years, it has reached hundreds of thousands Internet users and “talked with them during the time of the crime,” moved the attitudes of tens of thousands young people, as well as their parents, teachers and others, and created debates within the educational system and in political quarters. One month later a survey conducted by the campaign, which showed a 4% reduction in illegal downloading, received some coverage. Rogstad of EMI admits: “To be completely honest, we hadn’t expected any decrease in the number of file sharers, we had only hoped to stop the acceleration. We have achieved more in a short time than we had dared dream of.”30 Tøien of TONO adds: “It is less cool to download and file share illegally now than one year ago.” Tøien also uses the occasion to criticize the critics: With great astonishment, I have repeated many times that experienced journalists from the big newspapers make statements in relation to [the campaign] that are totally devoid of any pre-­briefing on the facts in terms of numbers, relations, constellations, quotes and so on.31 Of the five identified frames, the first and last frames were the pro-­industry and pro-­campaign frames. The other three frames were critical of the industry and the campaign, even if in some respects the head-­in-the-­sand frame was more focused on solutions. While performing the analysis, we made some initial

142   Media kills music? counts of the occurrences of each frame, which clearly showed that the dying-­ dinosaur frame and the hopeless-­and-desperate frame were the most prominent. However, since we were looking for connected arguments and not counts of items in the qualitative analysis (thus, one article could be coded and classified as belonging to two or more frames), we decided to conduct an additional quantitative analysis of the material. Was Tøien correct (from her perspective) in criticizing the coverage the campaign received from the big newspapers?

Quantitative framing analysis In the quantitative analysis, the articles were classified using only one variable, whether they were pro-­music industry, balanced or anti-­industry, which was done according to the criteria specified in the method section. The public debate on file-­sharing has generally been very dichotomous, and as we have seen, this has also been the case to a large degree for the media coverage of the Piracy Kills Music campaign. However, a smaller number of the articles could not easily be classified along this dimension, as some were news notices without evaluative elements, while others were simply about something else (i.e., a story discussing the most important individuals in the Norwegian music industry). Of the 66 articles in the material, 53 were included in the analysis. Table 8.1 presents the results broken down for each newspaper: From this table, we can see that the tabloids, Dagbladet and Verdens Gang, were the newspapers that published the most articles on the campaign. This is as one could expect since the issue of piracy triggers a broad audience and lends itself to confrontational coverage, with striking headings such as “The pirates hit back”32 and “The death of the record industry.”33 However, the regional paper Adresseavisen and the national paper Aftenposten were following close behind. When it comes to the amount of pro-­industry and anti-­industry coverage, it is difficult to see any systematic patterns of difference between the various types of newspapers. We can note that Dagsavisen, which is the national that has traditionally been associated with the political left, has a higher share of anti-­industry Table 8.1  Pro- or anti-music industry articles; percentage (n = 53) Pro-industry (%)

Balanced (%)

Anti-industry (%)

(n =)

Stavanger Aftenblad Bergens Tidende Adresseavisen Dagens Næringsliv Aftenposten Dagsavisen Verdens Gang Dagbladet

25 33 11 33 25 – 20 45

75 – 22 33 25 20 20 9

– 67 67 33 50 80 60 45

(4) (3) (9) (3) (8) (5) (10) (11)

Total (n =)

25 (13)

22 (12)

53 (28)

(53)

Media kills music?   143 articles than Aftenposten, which used to be connected to The Right Party. In the same manner, the financial paper Dagens Næringsliv, which undoubtedly has a greater share of readers among music industry executives than Internet pirates, displays the lowest percentage of anti-­industry articles of all the newspapers, whereas the regional paper Stavanger Aftenblad has the most “balanced” coverage. The most interesting finding from the quantitative analysis is obviously connected to the overall distribution, as more than half of the published articles – 53% – were dominantly critical of the music industry, while a little under a quarter – 24.5% – consisted of pro-­industry coverage. We undertook another split of the material, in which we sorted editorial commentaries from other articles. Of the 53 articles, 13 were editorial commentaries. These had a striking lopsidedness against the record business: 12 out of 13 fell in the anti-­music industry category.

“Wasn’t much help to get” At the launching of Piracy Kills Music, the initiators urged for help and a joint effort from all “good forces” – including parents, educational authorities, police and the press. However, the music industry has had a difficult time getting this coalition up on their feet. As we saw in Chapter 3, very few young people have experienced restrictions from their parents or schools regarding their use of file-­ sharing technologies. In most families, file-­sharing has not been thought to be among the problematic and contested issues connected to computer use. The police have also been reluctant to prioritize investigations of copyright violations. On behalf of various actors within the music and film industry, the Simonsen law firm made over 100 denouncements each year between 2008 and 2010 – but all of them went unprosecuted.34 And, finally, there has not been much help to achieve from the press either! As we have seen, the press has been predominantly critical of both the industry and the campaign. In the qualitative framing analysis, we identified five frames, of which three were critical: The dying-­dinosaur frame questioned the need for record companies in the age of digital music distribution, criticizing the industry’s rapacious strategies for conquering file-­sharing. The head-­in-the-­sand frame claimed that the industry had been sleeping in class and called for new constructive solutions to the problems. Lastly, the hopeless-­and-desperate frame criticized the Piracy Kills Music campaign for being misguided and futile. We also saw that the anti-­industry framings were delivered by a variety of actors such as Internet activists, artists, researchers and journalists. In contrast, the music industry representatives were usually alone in promoting pro-­industry framings, while occasionally being accompanied by artists. The bias towards anti-­industry coverage was confirmed in the quantitative analysis, in which we documented that the anti-­industry coverage outdid the pro-­industry coverage by 53% to 25%, respectively. The anti-­industry articles were usually structured so that the viewpoints of the critics were presented first, whereas representatives for the industry were allowed

144   Media kills music? to comment towards the end. Among the pro-­industry articles, there was a tendency to let the industry representatives appear without counterparts. However, this shrewdness did not lead to differences in emotional intensity or balance in the coverage, as Zammon and Curley (2007) found in their study of the coverage of software piracy. Overall, the coverage was marked by the confrontational tone that has characterized the file-­sharing debates from the start. Two fronts stand stubbornly opposed in seemingly deadlocked trench warfare. As I will return to shortly, the head-­in-the-­sand frame might be regarded as a partial exception to this picture. If all promotion is good promotion, then the Piracy Kills Music campaign could be counted as a success. During the 2000s, topics related to the file-­sharing controversies were regarded as hot stuff and were easily picked up by editorial desks and made their way to the front pages. File-­sharing coverage was among the news stories that received the most hits in the online versions of the newspapers. The interest was also evident in the way these stories were able to generate extensive activity in the discussion sections, as the campaign had an edgy profile that clearly made it media friendly. The ability to generate debate may be regarded as a value in and of itself – in terms of making sure that the public does not forget that a problem and/or a conflict exists. However, in this case this can be seen at best as a very marginal and fringy success criterion since there was already ongoing coverage of the issues, as exemplified by the number of hits for the search phrases “MP3” and “file sharing” during the 2000s. Thus, the evaluation of the campaign – at least as far as the press coverage part is concerned – has to be related to the way it was capable of ensuring that coverage was framed in advantageous ways. As David comments: There is limited value in being able to get a story into the news if that story is only to be framed in such a way that leaves you looking worse than if it had not been brought to light at all. (2010: 111) In this respect, Piracy Kills Music was definitely not a framing success despite the efforts and means that the music industry invested – and despite their “elite” position and connections. This finding is in accordance with the conclusion from David’s study of the anti-­piracy efforts of the American music industry: “While able to generate a large amount of publicity … the content industries have been unable to frame news in their favor” (2010: 115). The finding could be explained with reference to Castells’ theory of indexing: If there is little dissent, the media will index according to a single set of evaluation on a given issue.… On the other hand, the more there is division and ambiguity in elite responses … the more the media exercise their own diverse judgments in the indexing of an event. (2009: 159)

Media kills music?   145 However, Castells (and David) discuss opposing viewpoints within society’s elites. But the anti-­industry arguments that received column space in the Norwegian media came from a wider set of sources – self-­declared pirates, Internet activists, young people, artists – than even a very wide definition of elites would encompass. Hence, it is difficult to accuse the media of having been any elite’s lapdog, as the dominant power thesis of the media would lead us to expect (Schultz 1998; Herman and Chomsky 1988). In the case of the file-­sharing controversies, the newspapers seem to have operated more according to its own “media logic,” as argued in Hjarvard’s (2009) mediatization thesis. In designing this case study, we decided to focus on how the newspapers covered an anti-­piracy campaign. Could another, or perhaps more extensive, sample have yielded different results with regard to the media framing of the file-­sharing controversy? I doubt that, as long as are talking about the coverage in the first decade of the century. Having followed the controversies around music distribution online closely since the 1990s, my experience is that the news media has loved variants of the-­Internet-rebels-­are-shaking-­the-music-­industryplot from the outset (see Spilker 2005). Our findings are also in line with what Guzman and Jones (2014) found in their study of coverage in the mainstream media in the US. Nonetheless, we have witnessed a change in the media coverage after 2010. First, there seems to be an overall decrease in the coverage compared to the “top years” of the 2000s. Second, there are still stories about controversies and pirate activities, but there is more room for other framings of online music as well. Especially, we can observe more stories that fall in under the framing I called the head-­in-the-­sand frame. This was the only framing in our material that was actually voiced by both industry representatives and Internet activists alike. Remember, this frame had a critique of the music industry’s omissions as its departure point, and as such, implied a certain level of self-­criticism on behalf of the industry representatives. At the same time, this frame provided a meeting ground for the parties to actually talk together, and not only against each other, discussing future solutions. A nice illustration of this was Dagbladet’s coverage of a debate between IFPI head Thorsby and Pirate Bay co-­ founder Sunde. Thorsby stated, “The future isn’t necessarily that the consumers pay the unit price for each song, I understand that.” Sunde replied, “Thank you.”35 The focus on solutions seems to have gained a more prominent place over the last years, as there have been more stories about new services, novel gadgets, companionships, artists coming up with original stunts, etc. On the more critical side of the coverage, we have seen the rise of a new conflict frame, namely that which presents digital music distribution as a conflict between the music industry and the technology industries. I was consciously looking for a frame of this type in our material, but found it to be missing. Nevertheless, after the music industry started to target Internet Service Providers, this framing has received some column space.

146   Media kills music? Seen as part of the ongoing collective domestication of digital music technologies, the changes in newspaper coverage after 2010 should be understood in relation to the displacement of user practices and the development of new services. Through our two surveys, the Pandora Survey 2005 and the Pandora Survey 2010, as well as our follow-­up focus group interviews, we could document the decrease in the amount of file-­sharing as early as in 2010 (Heimsvik et al. 2005; Kershaw et al. 2011; see Chapters 2 and 3). The 2010 survey also demonstrated the immense popularity that the new music-­related streaming services spearheaded by YouTube and Spotify had achieved in a very short time. At the time of this writing, the latest “substantial” entry for “Piracy Kills Music” in Mediearkivet is a story from February 2012 entitled, “Calls off piracy fight.”36 In the article, Rogstad of EMI declares the campaign finished: “Illegal file sharing and pirate copying is not something we spend time or money on anymore. Now we are looking forward completely elsewhere.” Thorsby of IFPI adds: “This looks completely different now than only two years ago.” As argued in the theory section, the importance of media framing should be understood in the way it contributes to collective domestication processes. I promoted Hartmann’s (2009) notion of “discursive appropriation” as a fruitful concept that sensitized us to pay more attention to meaning exchanges surrounding the uptake of new technologies. In this perspective, the media framing is seen as part of interpretation processes, sometimes foregoing and delivering premises for, while at other times reflecting and being influenced by the development of new everyday practices and technological applications. Of course, as we know from 50 years of media impacts studies, the media is not a mere reflector, but also not the only messenger. Discursive appropriation takes place in numerous arenas. Recently, much scholarly attention has been given to the new public or semi-­public communication spaces on the Internet and the way these challenge the traditional news media in the forming of public opinion. For example, David asserts that in relation to file-­sharing, there has taken place “an inversion of mainstream media claims through new-­media forms of communication” (2010: 97). The case of piracy and digital music distribution is most likely an example of a topic in which new media spaces have been influential for discursive appropriation processes. Digital music technologies have been discussed extensively in blog sites, discussion groups and social networking sites, including the file-­ sharing networks themselves. It is fair to assert that these sites have provided arenas in which more updated and elaborated exchanges on certain aspects of development have taken place, and of course more voices have had the possibility to make themselves heard. On the other side, the newspaper coverage has had a different and broader catchment. However, in the case of Norway, there is little reason to suspect that there has been competing coverage in old versus new media. As we have seen, it is not only elite voices that have been admitted into the mass media. Alternative and activist viewpoints have also been given ample space.

Media kills music?   147 The media coverage has had a clear anti-­establishment bent, which might be seen as another “irony of virtuality” – given the fact that both the music industry and the newspaper industry have been severely and negatively affected by digitalization. However, just because you are in the same boat does not mean that you have to agree on the course.

Notes   1 Naturally, the most intense coverage of and debate around the campaign was in these years. Forty-­one of the articles are from 2007 and 25 from 2008. In 2009, there were eight matches and in 2010 three matches for Piracy Kills Music in the archive, in 2012 one match, in 2013 one match and in 2015 two matches.   2 Tankard’s original list also includes elements such as pictures, picture text, logos and other elements, all of which are excluded in the database of Mediearkivet. Mediearkivet consists of only plain text.   3 Irina Eidsvoll Tøien, Kampanjen er ikke død. Verdens Gang, September 17, 2007.   4 Eivind Kristensen and Gunnar Hagen, Full samling mot pirat-­nedlasting. Dagbladet, July 2, 2007.   5 Lisa Åsgard, Musikkbransjen ser deg. Aftenposten, February 13, 2007.   6 Thomas Talseth, Jonas Tjersland and Bjørn Thunæs, SLÅSS mot piratene. Verdens Gang, July 2, 2007.   7 Eivind Kristensen and Gunnar Hagen, Full samling mot pirat-­nedlasting. Dagbladet, July 2, 2007.   8 Thomas Talseth, Jonas Tjersland and Bjørn Thunæs, SLÅSS mot piratene. Verdens Gang, July 2, 2007.   9 Lisa Åsgard, Musikkbransjen ser deg. Aftenposten, February 13, 2007. 10 Tomas Siqveland and Terje Klausen, Drapet på musikken. Dagbladet, March 4, 2007. 11 Marie Aubert, Musikkindustrien vil dø. Dagbladet, July 12, 2007. 12 Jonas Skybakkmoen, Historien om det levende lik. Adresseavisen, July 7, 2007. 13 Jonas Skybakkmoen, Innsirkling. Adresseavisen, March 4, 2008. 14 Lars West Johnsen, Piratparanoia. Dagsavisen, March 19, 2007. 15 Marie Aubert, Musikkindustrien vil dø. Dagbladet, July 12, 2007. 16 Lars West Johnsen, Piratparanoia. Dagsavisen, March 19, 2007. 17 Pål Vikesland, – All musikknedlasting må bli lovlig. Adresseavisen, September 10, 2007. 18 Eirik Kydland, Utfordrer debatten om piratkopiering. Dagsavisen, August 27, 2007. 19 Alf Marius Opsahl og Live Fedog Thorsen, Den tapte generasjonen. Dagens Næringsliv, June 21, 2008. 20 NN, Ny britisk undersøkelse: 95 prosent av de unge kopierer musikk. Stavanger Aftenblad, June 21, 2008. 21 NN, Piratgruppen: – Lovende signaler fra bransjen. Stavanger Aftenblad, June 21 2008. 22 Karen Moe Møllerop, Fildelere kjøper flest plater. Dagbladet, November 7, 2007. 23 NN, Piratene slår tilbake. Verdens Gang, February 7, 2007. 24 NN, Når larmen har lagt seg. Bergens Tidende, February 22, 2007 25 Per Kristian Bjørkeng and Arve Henriksen, Lite gehør for anti-­piratkamp. Aftenposten, March 26, 2008. 26 Jonas Skybakkmoen, Tyven, tyven. Adresseavisen, May 21, 2008. 27 Stein Østbø, Farlig farvann. Verdens Gang, August 28, 2007. 28 Tomas Siqveland and Terje Klausen, Drapet på musikken. Dagbladet, March 4, 2007. 29 Kjell Tore Ringdal, PR-­babbel fra Bergen. Dagbladet, February 22, 2008. 30 Anders W. Hagen, Blåser av kampanje i skolene. Dagens Næringsliv, March 25, 2008.

148   Media kills music? 31 Irina Eidsvoll Tøien, Kampanjen er ikke død. Verdens Gang, September 17, 2007. 32 NN, Piratene slår tilbake. Verdens Gang, February 7, 2007. 33 Sverre Andreas Danbolt, Platebransjens død. Dagbladet, March 6, 2007. 34 Anders W. Hagen, Alle saker henlagt i fire år. Dagens Næringsliv, January 25, 2012. 35 Geir Ramnefjell, Krigsmusikk! Dagbladet, February 19, 2008. 36 Knut Selsjord, Avblåser piratkampen. Dagens Næringsliv, February 7, 2012. There are three later hits for “Piracy Kills Music” (one in 2013 and two in 2015). However, these contain only “nostalgic” referrals to the passing (to the failure) of the campaign.

9 The regulation of digital music distribution Assessing the states and futures of the field

Introducing five regulatory models At a basic level, regulation could be seen as something performed by all actors involved and partaking in a field through their actions and objectives. They contribute to the molding and folding of the field, intentionally or unintentionally, simply by acting in accordance with their norms and desires. If they are many enough or powerful enough, no further plan it required. However, usually when we speak of regulation we connect the term to more conscious, systematic and long-­term endeavors. Hence, we can separate the concept of regulation from the overarching concept of folding by reserving it for the more strategic and planned parts of the actors’ actions. This chapter is about regulation – about the regulatory efforts and scope of actors involved in digital music distribution. I will introduce five regulatory models as an attempt to sort and order the various initiatives that has been forwarded to reestablish order in the field of music. They are all at work in the music field today – through laws, by being de facto market standards, enshrined in the technologies we are using, and by being parts of the practices, norms, interests and literacies of Internet users around the globe (cf. Chapter 1; Lessig 2002). They have in common a concern for the consequences of digitalization. But they partly differ with regard to exactly what consequences they are concerned about: artists’ rights, user rights, business models, cultural diversity, incentives for creativity and innovation and more. And, of course, they differ in the solutions they propose. The ambition of this chapter is, in light of the previous case studies, to provide an analysis and assessment of these different regulatory approaches. The five are: • • • • •

The ownership model The access model The alternative revenue model The remix model The compensation model

Introducing this typology, I build on earlier work by Spilker (2009) and Wikström (2012). In my 2009 article I distinguished between four models, but

150   The regulation of digital music distribution failed to see the coming of the access model, at that time in its inception. From Wikström, who distinguish between three models, I have borrowed the names of the two first models, the ownership model and the access model. His third model, the context model, is basically about additional features in access services – or they could be seen as smaller elements of what I will present as models three and four. Compared to Wikström, my outlook is broader, also including regulatory efforts that are not digital per se, but are responses to digitalization. Arguably, the five models form the most important avenues for the future development of the field – in one mix or another. They are not – or at least not necessarily – mutually exclusive. However, the mix of or weighting among the different approaches are in no way indifferent. On the contrary, the future development of the field of digital distribution hinges exactly here. This chapter has kind of a double status, as both the last analytical chapter and the first concluding chapter. Originally, it was planned as a chapter where I analyzed the role of public authorities in the same way as I have devoted one chapter to each of the other “relevant social groups” (Pinch and Bijker 1987). And through the discussion of the five models, I will look closer at the role of the authorities in this chapter. However, it seemed more fertile to approach the government’s role in connection with efforts from market actors and grass-­roots initiatives. Hence, this chapter also starts pulling together the threads from the previous chapters. For example, the discussion of the first two models builds on, but extends and contextualizes the analysis of the music industry strategies in Chapter 6. In the same vein, I will also assess the regulatory models in light of the findings from other chapters, i.e., the youth chapters.

1  The partial obviation of the ownership model The ownership model was the dominant model for music distribution from the invention of the gramophone, gradually surrounded by an elaborate system for music sales and rights management with the record companies in the key position (see Burgess 2014). The record companies (more rare, the artists themselves) manage the rights of the artists’ recordings and sell them on to the consumer in various wrappings – singles, albums, compilations and collections. The storage medium has varied – from vinyl and cassettes to CDs and digital files – and so have the retailers – from Edison himself to iTunes. However, the basic principle has remained the same, based on merchandise sale of music just like any other goods that can be bought at the groceries or the town market (accompanied by a legal framework of rights and duties on behalf of both seller and buyer). The ownership model has, as Wikström formulates it, “served the industry well over several decades” (2012: 13). It is therefore probably not surprising that the digitization of music has come to be so strongly marked by the recording industry’s attempts to preserve this model. The whole fight against piracy is inextricably linked to these attempts. What characterized the recording industry’s initial responses to the file-­sharing phenomenon were the continuous and

The regulation of digital music distribution   151 persisting efforts to conquer the unregulated music flows through legal and technological means. Through extensive lobbying, the industry organizations worked to strengthen and extend the existing legal copyright framework, which was argued to be incomplete and unsuitable for the digital era (for example, in Norway and several other countries all forms of music downloading were legal until the so-­ called “MP3-law” came into effect in 2006, see Haugseth 2005). Armed by stiffened laws, the industry’s started going after file-­sharers, suing them for copyright infringement and imposing heavy fines (see David 2010; Allen-­Robertson 2013; and Andersson Schwartz 2014 for detailed treatments). However, in many countries the industry met problems with having the police and the courts to prioritize to investigate and prosecute these cases. Also, as we saw in Chapters 3 and 8, the strategy became increasingly unpopular with the public. The attempts to hamper file-­sharing by technology have included the employment of both controversial and shady tools. The development of various types of copy-­protection technologies, so called Digital Rights Management-­technologies, has in many cases been at odds with the fair-­use rights of consumers. The music industry has, in addition, been recurrently accused of shattering the usability of file-­sharing networks by seeding malicious and infected files and engaging in various forms of surveillance and infiltration. Lobato and Thomas (2012) have identified the emergence of a whole new industrial sector in the shadow of the piracy wars: “The anti-­piracy industries” often work on behalf of the cultural industries and consists of four branches: technological prevention, revenue capture, knowledge generation (through surveillance) and policing/enforcement. In parallel with the pursuit of individual file-­sharers, there have, of course, been the much-­publicized trails against file-­sharing services, of which the close-­ down of Napster in 2001 and the verdict against Pirate Bay in 2009 are the best known. However, through the 2000s the music industry got their victories only to experience that new and improved illegal services popped up in the back wash. Around 2010, the industry changed its strategy, prioritizing its efforts on targeting Internet Service Providers (ISPs) with the main goal of forcing them to block content from illegal sites. This strategy has had some success in some countries, for example Denmark (see Levine 2011; Burkart 2014). The music industry’s strategies to control file-­sharing have met strong opposition and resistance and been objected to and criticized for a number of reasons. A frequent criticism has been that the industry has spent more energy on preventing the spread of their products than to facilitate it. The consequences have been giving consumers fewer and poorer choices, stifling the interest for music, hampering creativity and labelling a whole generation of music users as criminals (see e.g., Lessig 2002, 2004; Fisher 2004; Gillespie 2007; Boyle 2008; Wikström 2010; Sinnreich 2014). In another line of criticism, the overall necessity of record companies in the era of digital music distribution has been questioned. The fight against online piracy has been a campaign predominantly driven by the big record companies (even if they in some circumstances have managed to array a broader alliance of

152   The regulation of digital music distribution music industry actors, such as in the Piracy Kills Music campaign). An important rhetorical move from the big record companies has been to stress a concern for the rights and the incomes of artists. However, it is first and foremost the large record companies and the unit sales of music that are threatened by digital music distribution. Record companies have thus been accused of pushing artists before themselves in a battle that really is about preserving their own lucrative business models. Frost (2007) has put this criticism forward forcefully, and argues for the “disintermediation” of the record companies: In the era of digital distribution, record companies are unnecessary and cost-­expensive intermediaries, and by doing away with them, music prices to consumers would fall considerably and artist compensation rise. Belsky et al. (2010) point out how few artists have actually ever made a living off record sales. According to their figures, only 10% of the 32,000 albums released each year in the US recoup, and of these, only 250 sell enough to provide a decent annual salary from the ordinarily royalties. In a very critical essay, McLeod (2005) even claims that the majority of artists contracted to record companies end up sitting in debt. However, doing away with record companies probably looks more promising on paper than in practice. In Chapter 5, we saw that for many artists, the established career patterns of the music industry still are looked upon as the “proper” way of doing careers and being recognized as “real” artists. The record company-­centered ordering of the music industry provides more than direct economic rewards: meeting places, networks, skills and expertise, symbolic valuation. A third criticism has been to focus on the level of surveillance and persecution that enforcing the copyright laws would imply. I have on an earlier occasion claimed that the effective enforcement of copyrights would demand a level of control that would represent the end of the Internet as we know it (Spilker 2009). It would undoubtedly have grave social and economic expenses if the record industry should get through with tough law maintenance. Criminologist Christie (2003) once argued for a legalization of marihuana in Norway, arguing that the social expenses of turning 20–25% of the population into criminals were too big. In this case, the rate of offenders is significantly higher – while it is very hard to argue for the health hazards connected to music sharing. Economically, the expenses of a tough line in prosecution would undoubtedly overload the police and the legal system. However, let us before we move to the other alternatives consider a notion of “imperfect enforcement.” De facto, this is the form of enforcement that has taken place in most Western countries, and based on the recent comments from Norwegian industry representatives it is at the moment the stated strategy in Norway. In terms of innovation, it can be argued that “imperfect enforcement” is actually quite dynamic and productive (while both alternatives, total enforcement and no regulation, do not entail the same incentives). In one of the ironies of virtuality, the copyright enforcement of the music industry has fostered the

The regulation of digital music distribution   153 development of continuously improved file-­sharing and circumvention technologies. The transfer of Pirate Bay and other p2p-systems from using torrent-­ tracking to magnet-­linking is one example of this (Bodó 2015). The refinement of VPN (“Virtual Private Network”) technologies is another. Napster – if operative – would today look old and outdated. Importantly, these advances could potentially have – and some have actually had – a far wider range of uses than for illegal file-­sharing (see illustrating examples in Palmås et al. 2014). In the same manner – but in another arena –the innovative development of the Creative Commons system of handling author rights (see model four) must be understood as a response to the current copyright enforcement (see Vaidhyanathan 2004; Lessig 2004). The development of new legal services such as YouTube and Spotify that build on the some of the qualities that made file-­ sharing networks popular (availability and sharing), but manages to outdo them on other parameters (access, convenience, reliability and quality) could also be seen as creative responses to a situation characterized on the one hand by the rise of file-­sharing as the dominant mode of music distribution and on the other by the enforcement of the prevailing copyright regime (see Jakobsson and Stiernstedt 2010 and Gillespie 2010 for interesting discussions of the balance maneuvers of YouTube). The notion of “limited enforcement” might seem tempting, giving the record industry the opportunity to prolong the viability of the ownership model while allowing new working markets to emerge and not imposing to harsh limitations on Internet users. However, the current situation in some countries – Norway and Sweden – is that fight against piracy and for the ownership model has been called off – even if one might suspect that this could be only temporarily and on the surface. As the CEO of IFPI Norway, Marte Thorsby, said at the call-­off press-­conference: “It’s important to keep two thoughts in the head at the same time” – meaning that the rights organization would not rule out further pursuit of pirates or facilitators of piracy.1 Since then, they have among other things worked to gain authorization to be able to force ISPs to block out piratical services. Overall, they have kept and strengthened their arsenal of legal and technical tools to be activated if the situation warrants it. The ownership model still lingers in the heart of the recording industry – even if it after considerable external pressure has been willing to experiment with other models. Slowly and reluctantly, the industry has accepted letting loose some of their control and permitted the introduction of alternatives to the unit sales. However, the ownership model still has a considerable size in some major markets such as Germany, the UK and the US (Brae 2014; Mulligan 2016). It remains to be seen whether the discrepancy from the Scandinavian situation is just due to a “time-­lag” or to deeper structural and cultural differences. Furthermore, as we saw in Chapter 5, the model is still firmly rooted among artists. The fact that significant retro-­markets for vinyl and even CDs have emerged (see Reynolds 2011; Rothenbühler 2012; Steirer 2014) also indicates that there will be a continued space for the ownership model in the future.

154   The regulation of digital music distribution

2  The hope and health of the access model Towards the end of the 2000s, so-­called “cloud services” rose up as the hope for solving the conflicts in the music world after what had been a “decadus horribilis” for the music industry. Wikström’s much cited book The Music Industry (2009) signaled this with its subtitle – “Music in the Cloud.” The cloud metaphor is meant to capture (but obscures equally) the circumstance that media content is no longer kept at the user’s hard disc or other local storage medium, but resides and is accessed through broadband or satellite from remote server parks (see Jakobsson and Stiernstedt 2012). “Cloud services” thereby offers some possibilities of control through regulation of access which opens up for alternative business models. iTunes was the first cloud service of any size for music. But while iTunes only mimicked the old ownership model by doing unit sale of digital files (and offer remote storage), the breakthrough for a new model for music distribution came with Spotify. The basic idea for Spotify and other streaming services is to rent out access to music instead of selling music. Music is transformed from a commodity to a service. Instead of being in the business of selling things, the streaming business shares features with the accommodation or travel businesses, or even, if the services become very uniform, the water or electricity supply businesses (see Wikström 2012). Both in the public discourse and the research literature, one usually distinguish between two variants of streaming. But in reality, there are three. The first one is the free versions that offer access with various limitations in exchange for exposure to advertisements. The second variant is the subscription versions where extended access is offered in exchange for a usually monthly fee. However, the probably most common variant, both in Norway and world-­wide, is the third variant, the telco-­bundled versions. These are versions that are offered as part of the broadband subscription or for a heavily discounted fee. Usually, in terms of access to music and features, these versions offer something in between the free and the subscription services. The two biggest actors in Norway, Spotify and Tidal/Wimp, are both offered as part of such bundles (see Chapter 6). But so far, the streaming services have been unwilling to specify the proportion of its users belonging to this category. As it is with many successes, at the moment the streaming solution stands out as an obvious and self-­evident solution to the controversies over digital music distribution – of course especially in Norway and Sweden where nearly 80% of total revenues from music distribution come from streaming (IFPI Norway 2016; Mulligan 2016). Users have by and large embraced the streaming services, which in performance terms out-­do file-­sharing solutions on several parameters. In addition, they are freed from the moral and practical and emotional trouble of engaging in illegal activities. For the artists and the music industry, streaming has been a way to compete with file-­sharing and finally bring in at least some revenues from digital distribution. However. Always a however. The music industry has by no means given streaming services a unison and undivided welcome. Mulligan describes the

The regulation of digital music distribution   155 disagreements within the industry as follows: “The result is effectively a music industry civil war, with an often vitriolic debate that somewhat confusingly instils even deeper passions than piracy did at its peak” (2016: 148). Basically, there are three issues that cause this turbulence. The first is the question of whether streaming cannibalize music sales. Of course, if the users of streaming services were and were only previous and would-­have-continued-­ to-be file-­sharers, then the equation would have been easy. Some is better than none. Likewise if the opposite had been the truth and the only truth – that all streaming users earlier spent and would have continued to spend more money on music purchases. Less is worse than more. But the equation is naturally more complicated and imbued with uncertainties. We have witnessed that some big acts that traditionally have done well in the unit sale market – such as Coldplay, Black Keys, Adele and Taylor Swift – have withdrawn parts or all of their music from the streaming services. Other megastars – like Lady Gage and Rihanna – have heartily welcomed streaming, looking at it as an opportunity to grow exposure and sell other stuff (see the alternative revenue model next) (Mulligan 2016). This illustrates how the split cuts straight through the music world. The second question is about the pricing of the streaming services and the allocation of revenues between the record industry and the streaming companies. For the streaming services, this is an uttermost difficult balancing act – they must be able to both attract customers, survive as companies and please the music industry. So far, it has been a standard agreement that streaming subscriptions should cost €/£/$9.99 per month (although this has been heavily pierced by free and telco-­bundled subscriptions). It is known that Apple wanted to launch AppleMusic in 2015 with subscriptions at half the price, €/£/$4.99 per month, but was not able to negotiate an agreement with record companies (however, special “student subscriptions” are now offered in the US at $4.99).2 The third controversy concerns the allocation of revenues within the music industry – between record companies and artists and internally among the artists. One axis of discussion has regarded the fairness of the (current) pro-­rata model versus an (suggested) user-­centric model for revenue distribution. Shortly explained, in the pro-­rata model revenues are allocated according to the total amount of plays whether in the user-­centric model allocation is based on each subscriber’s plays. Because of favoring number of plays, the pro-­rata model has been accused of underpinning a megastar economy (see Sinnreich 2016). In Norway, this discussion has also been fueled by the paradox that while record music market now is growing again because of streaming, the local repertoire share, which traditionally has been around 25%, has sunk to 10–12% (Nordgård 2016). Estimates made in both Norway and Denmark show that a user-­centric model would not result in the expected changes in revenue distribution (Maasø 2014; Pedersen 2014). However, discussion over revenue distribution will continue within the industry. On the other side of the border have not all Internet users or activists been only delighted with the emergence of streaming service either. A frequent line of critique has been that the access model for the user represents a transition

156   The regulation of digital music distribution owning to leasing music. This has several problematic aspects (see e.g., Allen-­ Robertson 2013; Morris 2015). First, as a leaser you will lose your stored songs, albums, artists and playlists the day your subscription expires – or the streaming company changes its terms of usage or goes bankrupt. Second, as a leaser you lose the possibility to perform some of the acts you can do as an owner – collecting music loses both its practical and symbolical value (Negus 2015) and you do not have the same possibilities to organize and store music according to your preferred principles (see Steirer 2014 for a design critique of streaming services). Finally, as a leaser you are transformed to a mere listener or consumer of music. In Chapter 2 we saw how many of the young people engaged in tinkering or remixing activities. I discussed various more advanced levels of tinkering, from re-­ contextualizing music by using it in school or leisure time multimedia productions (e.g., school work presentations) to changing existing sound content by remixes and mash-­ups. The streaming solution does not allow you to do any of this. Other critics have connected the rise of streaming services to the fight against copy protection technologies (DRM) and to the fight against a closing of the Internet. Music from the streaming services come equipped with DRM, meaning that it is not possible to catch the streams and transfer them to other platforms or storage media. Even if for example Spotify has an offline solution on their premium accounts, allowing users to temporarily store the music locally, the DRM solution prevents users from moving the music out of Spotify’s eco-­ system. Of course, pirate hackers, fighting for open, transferable formats, have developed several solutions to circumvent the DRM, making conversion to MP3, AAC or other open formats possible (see Marshall et al. 2015). An even more far-­reaching criticism sees the rise of streaming services in relation to the demise of the Internet. In the 1990s and 2000s, the Internet was characterized by all the activity that took place on the open web and open file-­ sharing networks. Over the last years, we have witnessed a development where more and more activity moves from the open Internet to semi-­closed spaces and so-­called “walled gardens” (Levine 2011). More and more companies develop password-­encrypted and paywall-­protected services and applications. The transition from the PC to app-­based smart-­phones, and now also smart-­TVs and smart-­watches, has accelerated this transformation. Bernoff and Van Boskirk (2010) have termed it “the rise of the Splinternet.” In this picture, the streaming services are seen as drivers of an unwanted development. However, even if these are serious and potentially threatening objections against the access model, they have failed to attract as widespread support as the actions against the music industry strategies of the 2000s arose – at least in any practical and consequential way as for example in the form of boycotts or other demonstrations. As we saw in Chapter 3, the majority of ordinary young people and users seem to be willing to accept the mentioned limitations in exchange for the convenience of access. The crucial question regarding the access model will undoubtedly be whether it is possible to find an economical model that provides enough income for the

The regulation of digital music distribution   157 streaming companies to survive while satisfying artists and record companies and making them attractive and affordable for enough ordinary users. And one thing is to manage this in small, wealthy countries such as Norway and Sweden, another in the bigger markets of the world.

3  The professionalization of the alternative revenue model The alternative revenue model represents a completely different take on monetization. In this model, the question of revenues from music sales is more or less bracketed. Based on a recognition that it is difficult to earn sufficiently in one way or another from sales of music in a world where music can be copied and transferred so easily, music distribution’s primarily function is no longer seen as generating revenue. Instead, music distribution is used as a means to do marketing and promotion, connect to fans and build networks, in order to create earnings in other ways. Many have pointed out that in the current situation both artists and record companies need to search for and rely on alternative sources of income. Furthermore, it has been argued that digital media opens up completely new opportunities in this regard. What forms of alternative sources are we talking about? First and foremost, it is important to be aware that the sale of music has never been the main source of income for either for artists or the music industry as a whole. The music industry is a much more extensive industry than that of the activities of the record companies, but that has tended to be forgotten in relation to the issue of digital music distribution. Figures from Kusek and Leonard’s much debated book The Future of Music (2005) suggest that in the early 2000s the operations of the record companies globally amounted to $8.5 billion, while concerts, touring and live entertainment amounted to a 17.5 billion industry – more than twice as large. In 2012, the value of the live sector was estimated to have grown to 25 billion (Rogers 2013). Revenues from concerts or other forms of performances have not decreased in the past few years – on the contrary, the live sector is blooming as never before (see Rogers and Preston 2016). Second, the sale of different effects and life style products in relation to artists is a large and growing enterprise, a definite growth industry. We are here talking about a variety of extra products related to the artists as a brand. Traditionally, this was buttons and t-­shirts, but during the past years, we have seen the development of a wider assortment of life style products, sometimes whole fashion lines. In his song “Diamond from Sierra Leone,” rapper Jay-­Z sings: “I’m not a businessman, I’m a business, man!” (quoted in Tschmuck 2016: 21). We have also witnessed more creative and imaginative approaches to merchandize the last period, including innovative developments of digital gadgets from mobile protection covers to remix apps (see Wikström 2012). Sponsorship and patronage of artists by commercial companies is a third source of income of which we have seen an increase the last decade. The most prolific and compelling examples of this are the well-­known companies from completely different sectors that have started their own record companies and

158   The regulation of digital music distribution signed-­up profiled artists: Starbucks signing Paul McCartney, Carole King, Joni Mitchell and Elvis Costello; Red Bull signing among others Twin Atlantic and other independent acts; and Converse establishing “Rubber Tracks” and providing free recording studios in several cities in US to become integrated in the local communities (Tessler 2016). On the more mundane and less extensive side of sponsorship is the use of artists in various forms of advertising. A fourth source of potential income is through funding by fans and followers. While this undoubtedly has occurred sporadically earlier, with the rise of social media and the phenomenon of “crowdfunding” it has become much more common and systemized. Platforms like Kickstarter and Sellaband offer artists the logistics for crowdfunding campaigns to realize an album release or a concert tour (see Panay 2011; Scherer and Winter 2015; Tschmuck 2016). Findings from a large study on voluntary payment systems “suggests that voluntary donation systems are, in fact, a potentially stable alternative for providing artists with an anchor of support” (Belsky et al. 2010: 62; see also Benkler 2011). A fifth income source is through public funding. In some countries, such as the Scandinavian ones, there is a long tradition for various types of public grants and support and compensation schemes that artists can apply for. We will discuss public funding more in detail when we come to the compensation model. Sixth, music’s value as “secondary” medium has become more and more important (Rogers and Preston 2016). For example, it has become much more common to integrate and use music as a selling point in the release of films and TV-­series. The same is true for advertisements and for computer games. Of course, music games such as Guitar Hero, Rock Band and Sing Star occupy a special position in this regard. Overall, statistics from IFPI show that revenues from synchronization rights have multiplied over the last decades (Tschmuck 2016). Finally, a new market for music sales has emerged. In the alternative revenue model, the mass market is the bracketed market. However, new niche areas for music sales have emerged where the sale pitch is connected to some form of special quality – exclusivity, simplicity, special formatting or additional value, for example by special packaging or bonus material. It has become more and more common for artists to release their music in different versions, “simple” versions for the mass market and more exclusive versions for the fan market. Other examples of emerging niche markets are the retro-­markets for vinyl and CDs (see Reynolds 2011; Rothenbuhler 2012; Steirer 2014). So, as we see, artists have a myriad of ways to make a living in addition to music sales. According to the alternative revenue model, these income ways represent both opportunities and necessities. A new set of competencies are demanded to take advantage of this additional and alternative revenue sources. In an article about how artists can thrive on a networked music business, Engelmann et al. suggest the term “artrepreneur” to denote these new competencies: “A shift from artists solely culturally focused to a more commercially-­oriented artrepreneur” (2012: 32). Similarly, Tschmuck writes: “Musicians need different revenue streams to launch a successful career. Artistic talent,

The regulation of digital music distribution   159 therefore, has to be merged with economic knowledge in the concept of artrepreneurship” (Tschmuck 2016: 28). Mulligan calls the current epoch the “coming of age for artists as business people” (2016: 153). Artists need to be much more informed and learn that they “should question every commercial relationship that they had” (ibid.). For Tschmuck the solution lies partly in improving and redirecting artists’ education: “The artists have to gain expertise in the functioning of the music business and in self-­management. There is a need for music business education at all levels from schools to universities” (2016: 26). We are possibly witnessing a professionalization and a marketization both of the mindsets of (some) artists and of the apparatus surrounding them. Both linguistically and organizationally, there is a higher awareness around issues such as network building and brand management. Market mechanisms and business models have been established that make it more routine to exploit and harvest additional revenue sources. Much in the spirit of the times, this marketization and professionalization can be seen in parallel with developments in other creative fields such as sports and research. However, not all artists want to go with this. On paper, the alternative revenue model should also give the artists the opportunity to disintermediate the record companies and other costly intermediaries – they do not need them any longer when they do not base their careers on music sales. This has been forcefully argued by McLeod, claiming that we are seeing “a shift from the ‘music business’ to the ‘musician business’ ” (2005: 528). Similar arguments have been forwarded by Frost (2007), Bernardo and Martins (2014) and Tschmuck (2016). But, as we saw in Chapter 5, many would-­be artists still cling to the record companies as the proper pathway and passing point for becoming a “real” musician. Some of the musicians we interviewed also expressed repugnance and disgust at the prospect of all the work it would demand to pursue a career through new channels, sidestepping the record companies. One of the interviewees said: “We just want to play our music.” Here they were in line with Chirag from Norway’s most popular rap-­group Karpe Diem, also quoted in Chapter 8: “It’s extremely hard for me to be a MBE and an artist at the same time. I need someone to do that job.”3 That “someone” is for most artists still the good, old record companies. Actually, most record companies have performed an extensive restructuration of their business to adjust towards the alternative revenue model – a point that has tended to disappear in both the file-­sharing and the streaming debates. Towards the end of the 2000s, the record companies launched the concept of 360° deals, full-­ranged contracts to take care of all aspects of an artist’s career (see Gervais et al. 2011). “Under such agreements, labels not only control recording rights,” writes Rogers and Preston, “but can also hold the reins on publishing, touring, merchandise channels and more” (2016: 60). Thus, Tessler argues that “the record industry already no longer exists: in its place stands the global music entertainment partner industry” (2016: 36). Rogers and Preston give the record companies credit for the way they have handled digitalization. Rather than being

160   The regulation of digital music distribution stuck in the much publicized crisis, the record companies have “demonstrated their dexterity” and “proved adept at generating revenues from a broader range of sources” (2016: 61). Undoubtedly, in this move they have also extended their control over the artists. It is difficult to say much about the music users’ reactions related to the alternative revenue model. In our studies of young people’ music practices and morals (Chapters 2 and 3), we did not ask about habits or opinions with regard to, for example, live music or merchandise. Neither do I know of many other studies that have investigated these aspects. It would be interesting to know more about music users’ reflections on, for example, niche markets, merchandise pricing and live music and festival policies. For me, it is a kind of a paradox that the alternative revenue model makes fandom disproportionately more expensive while moderate interest becomes cheaper – contrary to the way sporadic users have to pay more and thus subsidize heavy users in other social context. As a consequence, the alternative revenue model fosters a variant of the free rider problematic. Another paradox of this model is the paradox that I dealt with in Chapter 6: That both artists and record companies are forced to chase their income from everything else than the things they are good at and interested in – to make music and produce records. The alternative revenue model represents a step towards the distorted future that I draw a picture of in the conclusion of that chapter: The situation where content producers were coerced and cursed to become beggars and smallholders in the small change and parasite economies. At least, it is an obvious example of what I called “the irony of virtuality”: That those who fill the digital networks with content and value do not get anything back and are driven to make money in every other way.

4  The remix model as ideology and practice While the question of revenues from music sales was bracketed in the alternative revenue model, in the next model the question of revenues altogether is bracketed. The departure point for the remix model is rooted in a completely different way of thinking about music than the focus on business and earnings in the others three models. In the remix model, music is basically seen as a cultural common good. Counter to the mindset of the music industry, the argument is that culture develops through the joy and excitement of sharing, not through profit. Philosophically, it holds that single works and sole authors in principle do not exist. All cultural expressions build on earlier works and are part of a tradition. Marshall et al. put it this way: The construction of “culture” has always depended on people being able to borrow, steal, exchange or elaborate previously existing stories, tropes, characters, themes, images, styles, pieces of music and so on. People continuously share and make culture of previously existing culture. (2015: 177)

The regulation of digital music distribution   161 In Chapter 3, I reviewed some of the literature on “digital commons” and how the idea of digital commons has been used in the defense of file-­sharing and piracy and the preservation and development of the Internet as an open platform in general – and in a critique of commercial enclosures and “the Splinternet” (May 2000; Lessig 2002, 2004; Levine 2011; Postigo 2012). I also showed that defenses of the commons were advanced from both value conservative, socialist and liberalist positions – preservation of cultural heritage, the belongings of the people and the source of innovation. The various activist groups defending an open Internet have formed a huge movement and been a significant power factor in the development of digital media. A digital commons philosophy has produced some remarkable results such as Open Source products from Linux to Firefox, Open Access for research and science, Wikipedia, WikiLeaks and other forms for knowledge sharing (see Porter 2010; Postigo 2012). We may also mention the Pirate Parties, the entering of Internet politics on the party-­political arena, which have received much recognition and some support especially in the Nordic countries – on Iceland the Pirate Party got staggering 15% of the votes at the national elections in autumn 2016 (see Burkart 2014; Fredriksson 2015; Jääsaari and Hilden 2015). One of the most prominent and persistent defenders of the Internet as an open platform and a digital commons has been the Harvard-­based law professor Lawrence Lessig. In the extension of his engagement in defense of file-­sharing, in 2001 he developed, together with a group of cyberlaw and copyright experts, an alternative legal system for the licensing of cultural works, the Creative Commons (CC) licensing system. Van Dijk (2012) makes a distinction between culture as an economic commodity and as a social good. While traditional copyright (the © regime) is developed to protect the former, CC is developed to protect the latter. There are six different types of CC licenses that all open up for certain forms of use and reuse by others. The basic distinction between the licenses is that some permit and others prohibit the creation of derivative works, and some permit and others prohibit commercial exploitation (see Bazen et al. 2014). A majority of CC licensed works allows the making of derivative (remixed) works (Porter 2010; Mandiberg 2012). Mandiberg discusses how other success criteria apply to CC-­licensed work:  The point of [CC-­licensing] is that the life of a project as a social phenomenon is its most important form and is often the primary form to be evaluated for success. The sharing of the project creates participation. And participation is at the edge of the beginnings of community. (2012: 189) Thus, one of the central goals is that someone finds your work worthy of being copied, sampled, mashed-­up or remixed. There exist several alternatives to the © regime – one is, of course, to release music without any clause whatsoever – but the CC alternative has by far become

162   The regulation of digital music distribution the most popular, possibly because it is free, easy to register and administrate art works in, and the way it regulates and safeguards against commercial exploitation and misuse. In January 2016, more than four million songs were registered with CC licenses. Bandcamp is the most popular platform for CC music with two million tunes, followed by Jamendo with 0.5 million. In addition are 13 million videos registered with CC licenses on YouTube, undisclosed how many of these being music videos (Creative Commons 2016). Connected to CC, a net label movement has emerged, a network of music labels devoted to the release and promotion of CC-­licensed music (Porter 2010; Galuzka 2012). Also well-­ known artists such as Robyn and Björk have released CC music and encouraged their fans to do remixes (Wikström 2012). These figures and examples tell us that CC has become a viable alternative for music distribution and that CC-­licensed music constitutes a vast pool of resources for sharing and remixing. Of course, CC releasing is no golden, hidden pathway to breakthrough and success. Mandiberg has entitled his article analyzing three CC cases: “Giving things away is hard work.” A reoccurring accusation against those doing CC releases is that they are only used by artists not found worthy of being released elsewhere (see Bazen et al. 2014). This is undoubtedly a too cynical and misanthropic perspective on CC. There are many examples of music artists and niche cultures with a fundamental idealistic motivation. Reja’s (2014) case study on the Brazilian straight-­edge scene shows how CC-­licensing is taken up in the toolkit of DIY culture. Similarly, both Porter (2010) and Galuzka’s (2012) studies of net labels show how CC licenses have become part of lively music subcultures. However, most of the artists doing CC licensing are not – and are not expected from the Creative Commons organization to be – “100% political correct,” as Eirik from UFFA put it in Chapter 4. This is, they are not devoting themselves in all and every part to the CC philosophy. The artists we interviewed were all releasing music on Bandcamp or the Norwegian CC-­platform Urørt – but looked upon it first and foremost as an easy distribution channel and a way to gain some experience and connect with fans. However, it was not seen as a way to substitute or side-­step professional sound recordings and record companies. It was a test arena and part of the “pre-­distribution network” that I described in Chapter 5 – while the professional network with a “real deal” with an established record company formed the ultimate goal and valuation criteria for their work. For the Internet users, the four million CC licensed songs out there have given them legally what they illegally took through the file-­sharing networks: access to an – in practical terms – infinite array of music. Galuzka comments that “[d]emocratization comes at a cost, namely … listeners’ confusion about what is worth listening to” (2012: 6). This is of course not a problem exclusive to CC music. The same challenge faces users of streaming services such as Spotify and Wimp/Tidal where the majority of music is © licensed. The problem comes with the share abundance of music and absence of traditional filtering mechanisms. Still, a specific CC challenge is that the resources are scattered and often poorly organized.

The regulation of digital music distribution   163 CC music gives the users the possibility to become co-­creators. Several examples of such co-­creation can be found in Lessig (2008), Ito et al. (2010), Wikström (2012) and Jenkins et al. (2013). In Chapter 2, we saw how many young people engaged in such activities in ordinary mundane everyday life contexts. In line with Lessig (2008) and Jenkins et al. (2013), I employed an extended understanding of remixing that includes re-­contextualization and argued that young people perform remixing, for example, when they incorporate music in multimedia presentations of school work. One of the main challenges for CC advocates is to increase the awareness and enhance the accessibility of CC music for such purposes. Regarding the record industry, idealistic movements can in general be threatening for commercial enterprises. Undoubtedly, they have been threatening in the case of Internet and piratical activism. Internet activists and techno entrepreneurs have challenged the position of the established record companies and forced them to enter on business models they are not comfortable with. Numerous lawsuits against remixing and sampling of © protected material is another example of how the industry have felt their business models threatened by technological and musical developments (O’Dwyer 2015). The Creative Commons movement has probably primarily been threatening by being rooted in the same type of thinking and activism. The concrete manifestations of and practices related to CC of today are possibly, despite their vastness, less frightening, due to their “pre-­distribution” character. As long as the record companies’ services are desired as things get serious, CC does not constitute a menace. The circumstance that artists test out – and take the cost of testing out – their music on their own may even be regarded as an advantage. It could function as a new type of filtering mechanism. The Arctic Monkeys is still the  prime example of this: A band that has worked its way to success through social media and then been picked up by an established record company (see David 2010).

5  The radical and the limited compensation model In the heyday of file-­sharing in the middle of the 2000s, some activists and scholars advocated for the introduction of a fee- or tax-­based compensation system for musicians (see Netanel 2003; Fisher 2004; Kusek and Leonard 2005; Bernault and Lebois 2006; Spilker 2009; Grassmuck 2011; Levine 2011). The piracy wars between the music industry and the Internet users seemed deadlocked in entrenched positions. It was argued that such a system would be a way out: A way to avoid the criminalization of whole generations of Internet users while giving the artists a compensation for the distribution and dissemination of their music. The cornerstone of these suggestions was a legalization of file-­ sharing in its unregulated, large-­scale form. Even if unauthorized file-­sharing has become a relatively marginal phenomenon in countries where streaming has had a breakthrough, I will argue that the suggestions for a compensation model include elements that make it relevant to repeat its main lines and discuss them in relation to today’s situation.

164   The regulation of digital music distribution The suggestion for a compensation system is not an unprecedented and extraordinary suggestion, but has several historical antecedents. Levine (2011) shows how the whole story of recorded music – the very basis of the establishment of the music industry – started with accusations of piracy. Song composers objected the right of performers to record music without permission. The US government had to step in to resolve the situation. In 1909, a license was created that allowed performers to cover any song as long as they paid a royalty. Lessig goes through the introduction of several music and media technologies – recorded music, radio, cable-­TV, VHS video cassettes – and shows how they all have been imbued with controversies over piracy: “If ‘piracy’ means using value from someone else’s creative property without permission form that creator … then every industry affected by copyright today is the product and beneficiary of a certain kind of piracy” (2004: 61). Furthermore, in none of these cases have (Western) governments resolved controversies by illegalizing the new technologies. Different countries have found somewhat different solutions for each of these technologies – but the solutions have in most cases involved some sort of compensation system (see Levine 2011 and Wikström 2012 on national/regional differences). I have already mentioned that a main argument for a compensation system for Internet distribution was to decriminalize the users. From a more positive angle, it was argued that such a system would facilitate the harvesting of the potential of a new distribution technology with unprecedented possibilities for sharing, discovering, tinkering and the more (see Chapter 2) – and to stimulate further technological developments to enhance these possibilities. Similarly, some of the proponents pointed out that for artists such a system should not first and foremost be seen as a compensation for and measured against the apostasy of revenues from CD sales: “Rather than a ‘compensation’ of alleged ‘damages,’ the system should strive to create sustainable resources for creative activities in the digital era that ensure that this creativity can flourish and grow” (Grassmuck 2011: 48). Obviously, there are many collecting and allocation issues related to a compensation model. At least five methods for the financing of a compensation system have been suggested: 1 2 3 4 5

Through taxation of producers of electronic devices for recording and playback, such as unrecorded CDs and DVDs, PCs, music players and mobile phones. Through a taxation of providers of bandwidth. Through a taxation of the developers of software and operators of services used for Internet-­based music distribution. Through a taxation of the Internet users, collected via the broadband subscription. Through the general tax bill.

In methods 1–3, the suggestion is in one way or the other to send the bill to technology industry actors. In methods 4 and 5, the bill is sent to the Internet users.

The regulation of digital music distribution   165 Both groups are apparent beneficiaries of the free flow of music – technology actors in economic terms, Internet users at least in cultural terms. Thus, this is very broadly speaking the justification for all of the taxation methods (see especially Bernault and Lebois (2006) and Grassmuck (2011) for more detailed discussions regarding both justification and practical considerations). Regarding allocation of funds back to the artists, we can basically distinguish between two different methods: measurement-­based methods and argument-­ based methods. Measurement-­based methods allocate funds to artists according to some pre-­defined criteria, such as, for example, the number of playbacks, downloads, streams or similar. At first glance, one may think that this would be the completely just way of allocating. But as the streaming allocation debate I mentioned earlier shows, there are always more politics involved in numbers than one believes. In argument-­based methods, funds are used as a cultural policy instrument and distributed by a board after applications from the musicians. Policy goals can, for example, be connected to quality standards, genre diversity, cultural heritage, export ambitions, innovation and more. A frequent objection against compensation models has been about the impossibility developing fair models both for collecting and allocating funds. Frost (2007) argues that any such compensation models would be unconscionable. For example, they would presumably levy at the same rate “people who use broadband connections only to surf the Web and e-­mail their grandchildren … as dorm residents who use Kazaa or BitTorrent frequently” (ibid.: 8). However, one may respond that there have never been very precise and just systems previously either – the same objections applies to music cassette fees, broadcast licenses and streaming subscriptions. One may even forward a counter-­argument: That there have never been better opportunities for crafting good, carefully differentiated solutions, with the possibilities for digital collection and processing of information. Anyway, the suggestions for compensation systems that involved legalization of file-­sharing – what I will call the radical compensation model – did not receive sufficient publicity and support, even if some governments – like in France and Brazil – examined the proposals quite thoroughly (see Bernault and Lebois 2006; Grassmuck 2011). On the contrary, most countries stiffened and tightened their copyright laws. In the 2010s, the legalization of and compensation for file-­sharing discussion has subsided, possibly due to the introduction of commercial streaming. However, in Norway (as in several other European countries), a “light version” of this compensation model has actually been implemented. This is the “private copying compensation,” based on “fair use exemption” in the law that allows users to make private copies of (legally obtained) music for themselves and close friends. This variant has its antecedents back in the days when unrecorded sound cassettes were a problem for the music industry. The governmental solution was to place a fee on every sold cassette and a fund was established to administer the compensation.4 In connection with the revision of copyright law in the mid-­2000s, it was opened up for a discussion about whether such a principle of compensation

166   The regulation of digital music distribution should be continued and in what form. The Ministry of Culture (2003) presented two different models of financing the private copying compensation. In alternative A, it was suggested that the compensation was levied through taxation on unrecorded CDs or other means of storage (see alternative 1 above). In alternative B, the taxation would be financed through a separate post in the state budget (see alternative 5 above). The government ended up with selecting alternative B – against the advice of the music industry and in line with what the technology industry wanted (see Chapter 6 for a more detailed account of the debate). The annual budget for the fund is inflation adjusted and in 2016 was approximately €4 million. The funds are allocated according to an argument-­based method, with applications from musicians and directed by a criteria-­set that includes most of the policy goals mentioned above. In addition, there is a loosely formulated criterion stating that: “The funds will especially be allocated to those groups that are exposed to private copying.”5 Even if the statutes for the fund emphasize that the compensation applies to copies of legally obtained music, this formulation may be interpreted as a concession to the existence of file-­sharing. In other European countries such as Finland and Germany, governments have implemented compensation models in line with alternative A and imposed taxes on hard disc drives (see Wikström 2012). Also, there exist several other public-­ supported arrangements – such as art grants, travel bursaries and export aid – that are not considered as compensation, but are still financed through the tax bill. I mention these arrangements in this context to show the variety of policy instruments that exist to, in Grassmuck’s words, “create sustainable resources for creative activities” (2011: 48). They also illustrate that discussions over compensation are still relevant when related to digital music distribution. Although “the radical model” is currently laid to rest, there are continued reasons to discuss the design and reach of public taxation policies and support arrangements. The most basic reason is obviously related to the conditions for music production and distribution in general. Another relevant policy topic regards the application of incentives to stimulate the use of CC licenses and similar types of open dissemination of cultural products (in parallel to the discussion over publicly funded research and publication in Open Access channels). I also think there are continued reasons to discuss the skewed distribution of digital revenues between the technology industries and the music industry (see Chapter 6). Finally, one could imagine situations where unauthorized file-­sharing or streaming again would flourish (i.e., if prices of legal streaming escalate) and the question of legalization once more becomes pertinent.

The manifold roles of music, musicians and music users In this chapter, I have assessed five very different models for the regulation of  digital music distribution. Part of the purpose has been to open up and broaden the agenda for discussions on the topic. It is all too easy to draw blatant

The regulation of digital music distribution   167 conclusions about how the reality looks and/or what the future will be like. First it was file-­sharing – for many file-­sharing appeared as the only reality and future of digital music. The music industry, on the other hand, clung firmly to the traditional unit sale of phonograms as the only viable way to go – eventually and optionally in a digitized wrapping. Then came streaming – and suddenly everything else disappeared from sight. Thus, an objective has been to grapple with such implicit technological (and musical) determinism and make visible that there are different options and directions for the future of music distribution. Arguably, the five regulatory models discussed in this chapter form the most important avenues for the future development of the field – in one mix or another. They are not – or at least not necessarily – mutually exclusive. However, the mix of or weighting among the different approaches is not unimportant. On the contrary, the future development of digital music distribution hinges exactly here. I will summarize the discussions in this chapter by performing a synoptic comparison of how the three arguably most important “actants” (Latour 2005) in digital music distribution – the musicians, the music users and the music itself – are assigned highly divergent roles in the different regulatory models. If we start with the artists, we see that they are delegated the quite passive role of revenue-­collector in three of the models (grant applicant in the compensation model if the allocation method is argument-­based). In the alternative revenue model, on the other hand, the artist obtains a much more active and entrepreneurial role as communicator and marketer of her or his music, merchandise and brand profile – as captured in the Engelmann et al. (2012) neologism “artrepreneur.” In the remix model, the creative process itself is more unfinished and continuing, carried forward into distribution with its inviting in of users in the creative process. I must emphasize that, in the table, I am referring to the artists’ role after or beyond creating music, which is, of course, their most important role regardless of model. The various regulatory models have probably some influence on the  creative processes as well. While being a very interesting topic – both for Table 9.1  The five regulatory models and the assignment of roles Role of artist

Role of music

Role of user

Ownership model

Revenue-collector

Commodity

Listener and musiccollector

Access model

Revenue-collector

Service

Listener

Alternative revenue model

Entrepreneur

Means for something else

Unclear/manifold

Remix model

Developer

Common good

Remixer

Compensation model

Revenue-collector and grant-applicant

Common good

Citizen

168   The regulation of digital music distribution discussion and further research – these possible fluctuations are more fine-­tuned and difficult to capture (except for in the remix model). In the role of music, the differences between the five models become very distinct and evident. The ownership model and the access model have one thing in common: that the music is sold in markets. However, it performs in wholly different markets with very diverging business logics: the commodity market and the service market. The alternative revenue model is also (mostly) a market model – but here the music is neither a commodity nor a service to be sold, but a mere means to sell other things (merchandise, events, brand profiles). The two last models represent a radically contrasting perspective on the role of music. Rather than being an entity to be shuffled around in markets, the basic rationale behind both the remix model and the compensation model is that music first and foremost is a shared cultural resource and a common good. Looking at the role of the music user, we can start again with the contrasts between the ownership model and the access model. In both models, the music user is in the first place assigned quite traditional consumer roles. The advantage of the access model lies, of course, precisely in the access – the for all intents and purposes unlimited amount of music users can access. However, the inconvenience is the restricted and passive role the user is delegated – resembling that of users of the traditional mass media (newspaper reader, radio listener, TV viewer) (admittedly, streaming services increasingly offer more sharing and discovering functionality). In contrast, the user is more empowered in the ownership model. S/he is granted more rights and has some additional possibilities as owner of the music (e.g., to build collections, make private copies, do resale, even remix). In the alternative revenue model, the music user has in principle an open role – of course, it is the goal of the artists to convert the users from detached listeners and “free riders” to consuming fans. In the remix model, the user is expected to live up to the Internet ideal of the “prosumer” (Ritze and Jurgenson 2010; Fuchs 2014b) – a participatory role where s/he is actively engages in remixing, co-­creation, redistribution and spread of musical content. Finally, in the compensation model, the user basically approaches the music in the role of citizen with duties (e.g., pay taxes and fees of various sorts) and rights (have access to music through public channels such as radio and libraries). Beyer and McKelvey (2015) argue that regulation of digital music distribution fundamentally is about the relationship between citizens and the state in modern societies, since it sets the key parameters and frames for free expression, privacy and access in digital environments. At least, the choice of regulatory models is decisive for the future conditions for the production and exchange of culture. I guess these final lines are a call for both more progressive governmental policy and more dedicated civic engagement.

The regulation of digital music distribution   169

Notes 1 Knut Selsjord, Avblåser piratkampen. Dagens Næringsliv, July 2, 2012. 2 Robert H. Gjestad, “Strømmetjenester som Apple Music, Tidal og Spotify taper milliarder hvert år. Hvem dør først?” Aftenposten, September 13, 2016. 3 Thomas Talseth, Jonas Tjersland and Bjørn Thunæs, SLÅSS mot piratene. Verdens Gang, July 2, 2007. 4 Originally named Kasettavgiftsfondet [The Cassette Fee Fund], later renamed Fond for Lyd og Bilde [Fund for Sound and Vision] to also administer a similar fee on video cassettes. 5 See https://lovdata.no/dokument/SF/forskrift/2009-03-31-381

10 The music welfare state

In this final chapter, I will launch the idea of “a music welfare state” as an ideal for the future organization of the field of music. The term “state” – in its political meaning – usually refers to a geographically bounded unit and the organizations and the apparatus that govern that unit. However, in my ideal, I am not referring to a specific state – even if my outlook is from Norway. Rather, it is connected to the ideas and principles of “the welfare state” as a form of governance (which is closely linked to the Nordic countries). One of the defining characteristics of the welfare state is the way it seeks to balance different contradictory interests – public and private, communal and commercial, statist and liberal. In this chapter, I will end up with discussing what such a balance could look like with regard to music, and assess the state of the music world today vis-­à-vis such an ideal. However, to get there we need to go through some of the main findings emerging from the case studies in this book first.

Folding revisited Through this book we have gained insight into some of the great – and some of the smaller – changes that have occurred in the music world the past 20 years. We have identified some of the forces that have been pushing these changes – and some of the forces that have worked against and counteracted them. In the introductory chapter, I launched the concept of “folding” as an overarching theoretical frame for the analyzes – accompanied by a couple of other terms such as Pinch and Bijker’s (1987) “relevant social groups” and de Gay et al.’s (1997) “circuit of culture.” The folding concept is an expression of the ambition that I initially had when I set out to study digital music distribution and designed the Pandora research project with its case study approach: The ambition to empirically investigate the disruptive and unpredictable character of the forces that have been and are at work in the shaping of the digital music landscape. I have been aided by the concept “circuit of culture” in defining the reach of the project: To cover both the production, consumption and regulation aspects of music distribution and understanding their relation as a circle or spiral movement. Finally, the concept of “relevant social groups” has helped me single out the subjects for the individual case studies which in turn have become the chapters of this book.

The music welfare state   171 While the eligibility of the last two concepts is evident in the organization and structure of the book, I will make some comments regarding how “folding” has been of use. My employment of the term has been imported directly from its application in geology, where it is used to denote the way different natural forces – for example the (slow) movement of the earth plates or the (fast) disruptions of earthquakes and eruptions – are changing the character of the landscape through time. For me, the basic importance of this import resides in the imaginary it produces: Anyone who has ever been in the mountains of Norway knows that the results of such geological concussions are not very tidy. And just as the mountains fascinate us with their messiness, their bends and folds, there is nothing straight, nothing linear or given with technological development. In making this analogy, I have drawn on basic insights from science and technology studies (STS) and its most important branch: actor-­network theory (ANT). Over three decades, STS and ANT have documented the complex, disorderly and unpredictable outcomes of technology appropriation. However, while humans, relatively speaking, to a limited extent can affect the outcome of geological concussions, we do have far greater influence, at every step, over the changes put in motion by new technology (even if our actions continually produce unforeseen consequences). It is exactly the interplay between social, cultural, economic and technological forces that has created the complex formations of digital music distribution. The concept of folding is a bulwark against any temptation to deduce the future on the basis of some natural and inherent characteristics of the technologies themselves. In several of the chapters in this book, I have defined “folding” in relation to other theoretical terms and concepts. For example, in Chapter 1 I argued that folding was a more encompassing term than “negotiation,” since it includes actions that are not overtly and intentionally meant as negotiation acts. Similarly, in Chapter 9 I delimited the term “regulation” from folding by reserving it for the more strategic and planned parts of the actors’ actions. In Chapter 4, I coupled folding with the notions of “mutual shaping” and “co-­construction” of technology and society (see Oudshorn and Pinch 2003; Jasanoff 2004), while in Chapter 5 I argued that folding could be understood as a closely connected, but also more extensive concept than Latour’s (2005) term “assembling.” Thus, the concept of folding is an overarching explanatory imaginary that combines well with and complements other key concepts within STS and ANT. The landscape of digital music distribution is radically different now compared to 20 years ago. However, we have not witnessed the coming of “the Celestial Jukebox” (Burkart and McCourt 2006), “the unrestricted sonic commons” (Merriden 2001), “the music like water: ubiquitous and free-­floating” (Kusek and Leonard 2005) or “the end of scarcity” (Meikle and Young 2012) that technology foreseers predicted. Rather, it is a rugged, frazzled and compound landscape made up of the many different forces that have worked on it. Admittedly, I have not further developed the folding concept in a systematic and continuous manner throughout the chapters – even if I made an effort to develop a typology of folding forces in the introductory chapter and the five

172   The music welfare state regulatory models of Chapter 9 may be analogous to varying geological formations. Arguably, as one anonymous reviewer commented, there is more conceptual work that waits to be done here. That has to wait for the next time – or for the next one to pick up the gauntlet. My approach to analyze the different folding forces has been to pursue the classic ANT-­strategy – to “follow the actors” (Latour 1987, 2005). I have studied the relevant social groups involved in the development and their appropriation of digital music technologies: What kind of practices have they developed? What kind of strategies have they followed? What new possibilities have the new technologies opened up for? What kind of concerns and resistance have they provoked? What kind of conflicts and alignments have they provided the grounds for? In pursuing these questions, I have discovered both some surprising forces behind and some paradoxical outcomes of the folding of the field of digital music distribution.

Programs, antiprograms, circumventions, ramifications … We can do some more developmental work on the folding concept by contrasting it to Latour’s (1992) terms “program” and “anti-­program.” For Latour, the term “program” denotes the inscriptions a designer/producer builds into an artefact to induce certain desired actions of the user. “Anti-­program” denotes the adverse reactions and re-­workings by the user when a program is experienced as limiting, inexpedient or in other ways unsatisfying. Undoubtedly, “the piracy wars” between the music industry and the Internet users has been one of the central dynamics in digital music distribution. The conflict is a textbook example of Latour’s paired terms. In Chapter 7, we saw how the whole conflict was set in motion early in the 1990s when hackers re-­ worked MP3, a standard developed for the long-­term storage of sound files, into a tool for online distribution of music. After that, two decades of hide-­and-seek followed. Baumgärtel (2015: 241) provides the impressive overview of the ever more sophisticated technological responses of the pirates on the music industry’s persistent efforts to gain control of unregulated music distribution: the warez groups of the mid-­1990s, the early download sites of the Web, the emergence of Napster, the development of less easy-­to-trace network protocols such as Kazaa and LimeWire, the success of BitTorrent technology and the rise of the Pirate Bay, cloud-­storage services such as Megaupload, the rise of “darknets” and the heavily encrypted Tor network. As Marshall et al. notes: “Events in one informational domain (legal prohibitions, for example) trigger reactions in another (technological work-­arounds, for example) in endless disruptive loops” (2015: 198). This programming and anti-­programming is a well-­known aspect of the piracy wars. Given the ensure-­control-over-­the-resources strategy that the music industry settled for in response to the challenge of the Internet (see Chapter 6), these “loops” were perhaps not surprising. However, the intensity, durability and steadfastness of the hide-­and-seek-­games have been remarkable. The same goes for the ingenuity of the involved parties. Several recent studies have argued that

The music welfare state   173 piracy inventions constitute the area where the most original and important innovations in digital media take place. Marshall et al. argue that “the order/­ disorder complex is likely to remain a major driver of social processes” (2015: 177). In a similar vein, Morris claims that “the combination of antimarket sentiments and practices … provide industrially useful feedback, information, and cybernetic commodities” (2015: 205). Bodó (2015) discerns how the Tor darknets, based on privacy-­enhancing encryption, have simultaneously provided a new life for the Pirate Bay, a playground for traffickers and pedophiles, become an invaluable tool for journalists and whistle-­blowers, and essential for governments to conduct sensitive communication. While the programs and anti-­programs in the first stages appeared as natural and logical based on the positions and interests of the involved actors, they have gradually taken paradoxical and almost parodic turns. Baumgärtel (2015) describes how he in Germany not only discovered an endless list of lawyers involved in the “anti-­piracy industry” – offering their services to copyright-­ owners – but an even longer list of lawyers involved in the “anti-­anti-piracy industry” of helping file-­sharers threatened by lawyers of the copyright-­owners. Lobato and Thomas (2012) analyze the rise of a whole new growth sector in the ICT industries, the anti-­piracy sector, consisting of four overlapping branches of anti-­piracy enterprise – technological prevention, revenue capture, knowledge generation, and policing/enforcement – unveiling how many of them are operating on the grey or dark side of the law themselves. In many ways, these analyses resemble or illustrate Haraway’s cyborg theory: Her description of how the rise and proliferation of post-­modern cyborgs is the product of the endless greed of modern capitalism that finally backfires by producing offspring that are “exceedingly unfaithful to their origins” (1991: 151). Arvanitakis and Fredriksson (2014) touch on some of the same keys when they theorize piracy as “leakages from modernity.” The newer studies of piracy draw a more multifaceted picture of the development and uptake of digital music technologies than the one-­dimensional and polarized accounts of the 2000s (see, for example, the monographs by David 2010; Allen-­Robertson 2013; Rogers 2013; Andersson Schwartz 2014; Morris 2015; and the anthologies by Arvanitakis and Fredriksson 2014; Baumgärtel 2015). Instead of a simple and fixed conflict, we are presented with moveable and mutable controversies and contentions with many junctions and sidings. Thus, while starting as studies of the programs and anti-­programs of the piracy wars, these studies ended up as studies of circumventions, ramifications, cracks and leakages – presenting a richer, broader and more nuanced picture of how the turbulence has, in my terminology, folded the music landscape. My study joins these newer studies, while hopefully also augmenting and supplementing them. In the introductory chapter, I stated that one ambition for this book was to go “behind the piracy wars.” By replacing “piracy” with “digital music distribution” as a heading, I have been spurred to visit sites and arenas for appropriation which has been overlooked also by the other studies mentioned above.

174   The music welfare state I will point out four such sites and arenas: the youth–parent nexus of Chapter 3; the music counterculture of Chapter 4; the role of the artists in Chapter 5; and the role of the media in Chapter 8. At each of these sites, I have uncovered how the individuals there struggle and wrestle with their own concerns and challenges in the appropriation of digital music technologies. Each of these chapters shows how digitalization influences music life in a myriad of different and surprising ways. These are some of the striking and “unthinkable” paradoxes I found: •

•

•

•

In the youth–parent relations, the topic of file-­sharing and piracy was not a source of controversy even if there were plenty of other conflicts related to the use of digital media. Rather than a boundary-­maker, it functioned as a boundary-­breaker and a bridge builder – a space where young people and parents could get together in a digital everyday life where such spaces might otherwise be scarce. For the punk counterculture, I expected it to be a source of unruliness and rebellion in the digital domain. Instead I found the opposite: That the digital technologies functioned as a disruptive element that threatened the values and borders of the music counterculture. I investigated whether the proliferation of good quality equipment for home recording would lead to the dismissal of professional recording studios. But the effect was rather the contrary. By doing parts of the recording at home, it has become cheaper to make professional recordings, and thus, more musicians can afford to do so. Thus, the potential subversion of the home-­ based studio ends up reinforcing the dominant order. The advent of digitalization has negatively affected the traditional business models of the mass media and the music industry in much the same manner. From such a perspective, it is surprising that the media coverage of the way the music industry has tackled these challenges has been so critical and uncomprehending.

I wrote that these paradoxes were “unthinkable” above. Neither the wording nor the quotation marks were coincidental. They are unthinkable in the sense that it is not possible to deduce them from inherent characteristics of the technologies themselves, nor from a narrow focus on the piracy controversies. To fully understand the transformations occurring, more open studies that follow the digital technologies into all nooks and crannies of the music world are needed. It goes without saying that the last words have not been said about the sites and arenas covered in this book – as the changes spurred by the introduction of digital music technologies still unfold.

The old and the new divide Not only is the influence of digital music technologies of a more comprehensive and wide-­ranging character than the earlier research was able to capture. Newer research contributions have also challenged the piracy–industry dichotomy from

The music welfare state   175 within. The previous decade’s portrayal of a neat and clean-­cut conflict between two clearly separated fronts – Internet pirates versus the music industry, idealistic versus commercial forces, gift economies versus market economies, commons versus enclosures – has been accused of being too simplistic to mesh the dynamics of digital developments. Hamilton writes: “ ‘Mainstream’ and ‘alternative’ are treated too often in discussions … as separate spheres, which belie their hybridization in practice” (2016: 164). Marshall et al. note that “extending copyright and breaking copyright can both be profit-­seeking activities” (2015: 196). Thus, Allen-­Robertson calls for investigations of “the dialectical relationship between the incumbent industries and the hacker ethic” (2013: 186). In this book, we have seen several examples of positions that are flexible, actors in movement and displacement of technologies. The young people of Chapter 2 have commuted between being Internet pirates and law-­abiding citizens and well-­behaving consumers. While the majority of young people at the moment seem satisfied with the legal streaming-­solutions, examples from when popular artists such as Taylor Swift withdraw their music from the streaming services show that the road back to file-­sharing or other fringe activities can be short. In Chapter 4, we saw a different example of fluctuations. In the 1980s and 1990s, the punk counterculture had an active and thought-­out policy towards the ICTs of the time – while it lacked the energy or competence to develop any corresponding policy in relation to the Internet and digital music distribution. However, in this book the piracy–industry, idealism–commercialism dichotomy has especially been thematized in Chapter 7. A main point emerging from the analysis of the development of the MP3 and DivX standards is how both technologies are the result of the interplay and exchange between more commercially and more idealistically oriented forces. MP3 and DivX are particularly interesting examples of such fluctuations since the public perception of both technologies is so strongly connected to the notion of piracy. Palmås et al. (2014) show how the same point can be made with regard to other central and popular “piracy” technologies – the Kazaa-­Skype link and µTorrent-Spotify connection – while Gillespie (2010) and Jacobsson and Stiernstedt (2010) analyze the bold balancing maneuvers of YouTube between being a platform for bottom­up user-­generated amateur content and a pirate haven with a top-­down mega-­ buck marketing platform. In making these points, it is not the purpose to suggest that more persistent idealistic efforts do not exist. Indeed, exactly the persistence, the intensity and the broad reach of such engagements has been and continues to be one of the defining and characterizing elements of the development of Internet in comparison with any other media technology. However, the points made above indicate the need for a more nuanced approach to match the real-­life dynamics. Some of these dynamics are better comprehended as relocations along a continuum rather than as opposite poles. I would like to draw attention to another, but related, type of critique that can be brought against the obsession with the piracy–industry dichotomy in the

176   The music welfare state 2000s: that it has prevented us from investigating other conflicts and connections. More specifically, I believe that the somewhat one-­sided focus has taken place to the detriment of another possibly as serious split between the cultures of music on the one side and the cultures of technology on the other. Actually, the research discussion on the polarizations and fluctuations have first and foremost revolved around splits and slides of the technology side, within what we can roughly denote as cultures of technology. They are about technology development, not about musical expressions and careers. They reconstruct a user-­producer-like dichotomy as a technology-­centered continuum from technology enthusiasts and pirates to hacker cultures to techno-­entrepreneurs to techno-­industries (see Castells 2001). We can line up a corresponding nexus on the music side: from music enthusiasts and pirates to DIY music cultures to the indie music enterprises and networks to the music industry. For sure, also within this nexus we find both splits and slides that are important to analyze with regard to the development of digital music distribution, as we saw in the analysis of the artists in Chapter 5. They are also touched on, in relation to digitalization, in the books by Wikström (2009) and Wikström and DeFillippi (2016). However, I also suggest that we should investigate further a possible, and under-­studied, split between music cultures and technology cultures. We were on the track of it in Chapter 4 – in the surprise of the absence of a hypothesized connection between the countercultures of punks and of hackers. Likewise, in the music industry analysis in Chapter 6, I unveiled the diverging interests of the music industry and the technology industries with regard to central topics such as user payments, customer surveillance, copy protection technologies and compensation models. I even indicated that the music industry was in danger of becoming smallholders of the technology industries “landlords.” There are a couple other writers who have also approached these tensions between music and technology – for example, Levine (2011) and Negus (2015) – but in general the topic has received little attention in the research on digital music distribution. Based on the discussion above, I have developed Figure 10.1 as an expansion of and replacement for the old piracy–industry dichotomy: I had some challenges in drawing up the nexuses of the music and technology sides while at the same time keeping the table simple and conveying the key message. The reader has to bear with its overall simplicity. However, the challenge for research to expand the repertoire should be clear. The old divide in the figure represents the piracy–industry dichotomy. It is intersected by the new divide, the divide between music and technology. The four double-­arrows in the figure represent the connections that then need to be investigated – both for splits and for slides.

The triumph of piracy If we turn to the more substantial conclusions to be drawn from this study, I will argue that one of them is summarized in this subtitle. In Chapters 6 and 9, I accounted for the unique situation of the Scandinavian countries at the moment,

The music welfare state   177 The New Divide

DIY-music cultures

Hacker cultures The Old Divide

Music industry

Technology industries

Figure 10.1  The old divide and the new divide.

where nearly 80% of total revenues from music distribution come from streaming (IFPI Norway 2015, 2016). However, the tendency seems to be that other major markets are coming after (Brae 2014; Mulligan 2016). We have seen that there is a fight in the streaming market over market shares and revenue allocation. In parallel, there is also a battle over interpretations of the situation. Actors from the music industry are eager to portray the streaming services as their merit – something they have initiated and propelled forward. It is their triumph and victory over Internet piracy, as the CEO of IFPI Norway declared in 2015: “In five years, we have thus virtually eliminated illegal file sharing. We have managed to restore a healthy economy in the music industry.”1 The rivalling interpretation is that the streaming services do not represent the victory over, but the victory of, piracy. Piracy has forced the music industry to accept, reluctantly, business models and services that it from the outset fought fiercely against. “Even though no-­one in the media industry will ever admit it,” as Baumgärtel (2016: 243) comments. Andersson Schwartz, however, quotes an industry representative, CEO of Universal Music Sweden, Per Sundin, who admits exactly that: “Without The Pirate Bay, the industry would not have changed so much as it did. Without The Pirate Bay, Spotify would never have seen the light of day” (2014: 175). In my view, it is difficult to understand today’s situation without seeing it as an outcome of the conflicts and turbulence of the past decade and the mass popularity that the illegal file-­sharing networks received not only among self-­declared Internet activists, but among the broad segments of “ordinary” Internet users. In Chapter 2, I introduced a “top-­ten” list over music-­related activities young people engaged in and employed digital music technologies for, in an effort to uncover and discern the reasons for their popularity. In Chapter 3, I asked whether the piratical activities of ordinary young people could be understood as a generalization of the

178   The music welfare state Internet as a countercultural arena – if a radicalization of attitudes and values took place in tandem with the mass influx to the file-­sharing networks. Based on my material, I expressed some skepticism towards such a claim. Indeed, some of the young people we interviewed had well-­founded viewpoints and defended file-­sharing as part of a socialist engagement. But the majority of the young people expressed no affiliation with or knowledge of Internet activists such as the Creative Commons/Free Culture-­movement, the Open Source Movement or the Electronic Frontier Organization. With regard to file-­sharing, we saw that quite pragmatic and “amoral” considerations were the most dominant justifications. Two thirds of the young people in the 2010 survey readily admitted that they downloaded music to avoid purchasing it. Convenience, simplicity and access were the most immediate arguments in favor of file-­sharing – as well as for the turn to streaming later on. On balance, one might argue that there is an “open culture” morality looming in the way that young people found it hard to consider music sharing as something wrong and criminal – as we for example saw in the negotiations over file-­ sharing in the family interviews. However, as I noted in Chapter 3, there is a discrepancy between the “ordinariness” of the motives of the young people and the revolutionary effect of their actions. Marshall et al. have suggested that we denote them “unintentional pirates.” They write: “The ‘incidental’ or ‘unintentional’ pirate is an inventor, innovator, inspirer and implementer of new techno-­ social platforms and circuits of exchange” (2015: 199). Thus, we may conclude that the young people/Internet users have been rebellious first and foremost by practice and numbers, not by values. The young people have been a forceful, but not faithful army – if by faithful we mean the adherence to a set of countercultural, idealistic, communal values. As long as the music industry’s response to the piracy challenge consisted in take-­downs of file-­sharing services and other attempts at blocking file-­sharing, this was not considered adequate, and the young people were quick and inventive in finding ways to circumvent legally and technologically imposed restrictions. It proved very difficult to force them away from file-­sharing. The introduction of streaming services such as YouTube and Spotify was a far more satisfactory response. The young people seemed readily willing to trade in some of the acclaimed values of sharing and remixing in exchange for services that could offer even more convenience and better access than they had. While it proved very difficult to force them away from file-­sharing, it proved reciprocally easy to tempt them away. However, the eventual impurity of the youth’s piracy has been a dynamic impurity – that once more has radically refolded the dynamics of digital music distribution. Actually, there are good arguments for regarding streaming services as products of piracy both indirectly and directly. Allen-­Robertson asserts that streaming services are services that have succeeded because they “have attempted to mimic the open capacities of the hacker market” (2013: 168). We can look at YouTube as an example. YouTube was the breakthrough and the piledriver for what eventually became (and until further is) legally and industrially accepted

The music welfare state   179 streaming services. Both Borgess and Green (2009) and Jenkins et al. (2013) make the point that YouTube did not succeed because they created a new youth culture, but because it was able to tap into a youth culture that already existed. In a very thought-­provoking article entitled “Pirates of the Silicon Valley,” Jacobsson and Stiernstedt (2010) claim that YouTube eventually became accepted not because YouTube was a smaller pirate than The Pirate Bay, but because it was bigger. Pirate Bay was still small and marginal enough for the record companies to dare to persecute and prosecute them, while YouTube had grown too big and had too powerful friends. Possibly, the acceptance had also to do with timing (the degree of desperation within the music industry) and impurity (see the discussion of the piracy–industry, idealism–commercialism dichotomy above). Of course, the streaming solution is a compromise, but it is a compromise that bases itself heavily on the legacy of piracy. Bureau (2014) draws historical connections between the file-­sharing/streaming link and other entrepreneurial and productive piracy triumphs such as the pirate radio/local radio link and the Free Software/ Open Source link. He makes a distinction between “conformist” and “subversive” piracy (which also, to match the previous discussion, could be denoted “pure” and “impure” piracy). Conformist (pure) piracy occurs when piracy develops into “a stable deviance that is recognized and fought against by the authorities” (ibid.: 427). Subversive (impure) piracy, on the other hand, successfully challenges society’s status quo and transform the rules and values of the society: “The game change and the pirates are no longer deviants but legitimate entrepreneurs” (ibid.: 427). In Bureau’s terms, all the linkages above are examples of subversive piracy. Arguably, the subversive and impure piracy is the most powerful and dynamic form of piracy, since instead of freezing the situation it changes the rules of society. In that interpretation, the heading of this section can certainly be defended.

The technological empire The development of the digital music services that have tempted and tapped into the desires of Internet users has rarely taken place on the initiative of the music industry. When the music industry decided to respond to digitalization by trying to preserve their old business models, they lost the opportunity to take a lead in the emerging market. The attempt to hamper file-­sharing and prevent digital exchanges proved counter-­productive. In one of the many paradoxes we have encountered in this book, the music industry gave away control in the attempt to gain control. Allen-­Robertson comments on the situation that arose: “With the legitimate option vetoed no-­one was moving to provide the tools and systems to engage with media in the ways that a growing number of people were becoming accustomed to” (2014: 185). Instead, the ground lay open for technology companies of various sorts, from garage start-­ups like Napster and YouTube to established companies like Apple Inc. – actors from the whole of the technology-­nexus I described earlier in this chapter, all eager to experiment with and exploit the opportunities in digital distribution. Software entrepreneurs have been heavily backed by actors from other

180   The music welfare state technology sectors – electronics and hardware manufacturers, broadband providers and cable-­TV companies – all of which have had much to gain from increased sale of gadgets and traffic on the lines. The outcome of this is, as Tschmuck notes, that “companies that had no prior or at best only weak links to the music industry suddenly became a highly relevant part of it” (2016: 13). Negus (2015) points at the different operational logics that distinguish the music industry’s from the technology industries’ approach to music – between what he calls the analogue and the digital economy of music. The analogue music economy is oriented towards production: “Emphasis is on locating repertoire and nurturing talent, recording and promoting that talent, and generating revenue from sales, performances and rights usage” (ibid.: 154). On the other hand, the digital music economy is more focused on content: “On finding ways of circulating that content with the stated aim of “monetizing content,” by generating revenue from streaming, data collection and analytics, cloud storage, and by attracting advertisers” (ibid.: 154). In Negus’ account, the weakness or the failure of the music industry has rested on “an enduring romantic sensibility” resulting in the continued investment in the musician as creative artist, while they have faced technology actors “valorizing ruthless entrepreneurialism, obsessive corporate imaging, contractual secrecy, and … using music calculatedly as a ‘customer engagement tool’ ” (ibid.: 156). Negus’ delineation of the differences between these industrial cultures is an important contribution to the study of what I called “the new divide.” In this relationship, the technology industries have been in the driver’s seat. One can wonder why music industry representatives have tediously repeated that it is impossible to get anyone to pay for music anymore. As I pointed out in both Chapters 6 and 9, a lot of actors are making big revenues from music. Negus summarizes it in this manner: “Yes, it is paid for, through subscriptions, telephone and Internet connection charges, the costs of computers, phones and iPads, speakers and headphones, and fees for electricity” (ibid.: 151). Thus, if digital music distribution represents the triumph of the pirates, it certainly also represents the triumph of the technologists. In Chapter 6, I pointed out how we have witnessed a shift in power and balance between industrial sectors. I called this shift the irony of virtuality or the revenge of materialism, commenting on the widespread belief that cultural content would be the main currency in virtual networks. But the contrary has happened: In a world where cultural content circulates as never before, it is the producers of the physical infrastructure and of gadgets that have taken control over the revenue flow. In effect, the economy of the music industry has become a backseat economy with regard to music distribution – clinging to old business models and acting reactively. In turn, that backseat economy has in many instances turned into what in Chapter 6 I called a parasite economy – where the music industry has had to subsume to the initiatives and conditions forwarded by the technology industries. Mulligan (2016) exemplifies how this, for example, was the case in the dealings with Apple first in relation to the iPod and then to iTunes. He presumes that the negotiations with the new music streaming services such as

The music welfare state   181 Spotify have been somewhat more favorable for the music industry, while YouTube still poses a problem (see also IFPI Norway 2016). On the balance, Tessler (2016) and Rogers and Preston (2016) argue that the music industry has, at least since the end of 2000s, been quite clever in confronting and adjusting to the challenges of digitalization. Towards the end of the 2000s, the record companies launched the concept of 360° deals, full-­ranged contracts to take care of all aspects of an artist’s career, not only recording rights, but also publishing, touring, merchandise sales and more (see the discussion of alternative revenues in Chapter 9). The 360° deals symbolized the transformation of the record companies into entertainment industry actors, while the musicians were transformed from recording artists to cultural brands. In this model, revenues from music sales are “merely an incidental conduit to more lucrative income streams” (Tessler 2016: 36). Thus, the irony of virtuality remains: Those who control the material gateways to the virtual domain are making the money while the providers of the content that fills and fuels the networks have to look elsewhere for reward.

A state of balance? In the introductory chapter, I introduced four hypotheses regarding the outcome of the “technological drama” (Turner 1969; Pfaffenberger 1992) of digital music distribution: the levelling hypothesis, the normalization hypothesis, the deadlock hypothesis and the balancing hypothesis. Based on the analyses in this book, we can dismiss the deadlock hypothesis right away. It may have provided an adequate description of the situation in the 2000s, but somewhere around 2008 and 2012, when the music industry accepted, however hesitantly, to try out the access model, the deadlock ended. In the final analysis, things are not going too bad in the music world – not for any of the involved actors. The music users have – after paying for their devices and broadband/mobile subscriptions – free or low-­cost access to millions of songs accessible almost anytime and anywhere. They are spending more time to listen to, discover, organize, share and doing other things with music than ever before. Artists have greater variety of choices and options with regard both to production and distribution than ever before, better possibilities of both doing good quality home recordings and to afford going to professional recording studios, use social media and streaming platforms to communicate with fans and test out music, while hoping to be discovered. Thus, it is possible to find moderate support for the levelling hypothesis in some of the case analyses of this book. However, in the switch from illegal file-­sharing to legal streaming, the majority of users were willing to resign to a more restricted user role. Also, the gravitational force the established music industry exerts over artists (see Chapter 5) prevents side-­stepping and levelling on a large scale. Digital music distribution has not done away with intermediaries or gatekeepers. Furthermore, the recording industry has adjusted to the new reality and musicians have become entertainment industry actors, while hoping for the access/ streaming model to be sustainable and increasing in value. The live music sector

182   The music welfare state has been blooming over the last decade, and revenue from merchandise, branding, secondary licensing and other alternative revenues has also risen. Technology industry actors have developed innovative services/technologies that have tapped into the Internet/music users’ desires while finding different ways to monetize them. Internet service providers, mobile telephony companies and the electronics industry are making a fortune. The regulatory authorities can just relax and let the days go by. And the mass media journalists have – well, they have found something else to write about. The last sentence is not exactly true. As I have been finalizing this book in the autumn of 2016, the newspapers have had several news items discussing the viability of the streaming market and the competition in it. I will get back to that. The rest of the above is, of course, also somewhat embellished and exaggerated. I do not suggest that everything is in the right place and perfect order and all issues solved. However, I do suggest that we now, after 20 years of turbulence, are approximating a state of balance where we are closer to reaping the benefits of the new technologies of music distribution at reasonable costs and conditions for most of the involved parties. Levine (2011) makes the reasonable assumption that the two worst choices for the future would be fully closed or fully open networks. He then goes on to argue that the choice is not about control or creativity, as the piracy advocates of the 2000s would have it, but rather about commerce or chaos. I do not agree with that argument. But I would like to borrow all the four Cs – control, creativity, commerce, chaos – and claim that we need all. The four Cs provide one way of measuring the state of music: A healthy music life has to include elements of all of them and find a sensible way to balance them. It is definitely possible to discuss how the music life of today could be better balanced, but I argue that we at least see the contours of something that could be functioning. This support for a balancing hypothesis is maybe a surprisingly positive outlook for the reader who has been through the whole of this book. It is partly formulated as a counterweight to some of the conclusions forwarded in some other recent works on piracy and digital media, which goes in favor of what I have called a normalization hypothesis. Burkart and Andersson Schwartz claim – like I have done – that the recent developments in digital music distribution demand “a general effort to provide counterpoints to research focused on activism and advocacy” (2015: 793). However, they argue that we are witnessing the “normalization” and “rationalization” and “mainstreamification” of piracy leading to the reproduction of global mediascapes. They conclude that the research “reinforces an impression that digital piracy escaped the exclusive provenance of technoculture long time ago, merging with mainstream media consumption norms” (ibid.: 793). In the same vein, Rimini and Marshall (2014) assert that “piracy is ordinary, piracy is boring.” Freedman (2014) addresses the question of a radical redistribution of power in the communication landscape, made possible by file-­ sharing networks and other democratizing technologies, but upholds that after a period of turbulence everything is back to what it used to be. “It’s called capitalism,” he states in the title of his concluding section (ibid.: 111).

The music welfare state   183 But there is nothing boring about digital music distribution. In my view, the case studies of this book are a testimony to the myriad, fascinating, complex, often paradoxical outcomes of the appropriation of digital music technologies. Through integration and contextualization in the social and economic lives of individuals, groups, organizations and companies, new practices and services have been developed that have radically refolded and remolded the landscapes of music distribution. Very little is like it used to be: There are new technologies, new practices, new actors, new roles, new business models, new power constellations. Indeed, we do not yet understand the full reach of these changes. That is why I object to the disillusionist outlook of the contributions mentioned above. My approach is more in line with Castells and Cardoso’s (2012; Castells 2012) approach to “piracy cultures.” They find that the media landscape of today is dominated by two seemingly opposing trends: On one side the increasing concentration of power among established media companies, on the other side the increasing amounts of communication and distribution taking place outside traditional channels. We need to investigate the dynamics of them both and their mutual relationship. This book has contributed to that research agenda by showing that, on closer inspection, there are different logics and cultures in operation within each of these trends. In the previous chapter, I delineated five different models for the regulation of digital music that co-­exist today. In this chapter I have drawn attention to an additional divide between music and technology that possibly cut across the piracy–industry divide, creating more contrasts and interplays. I have also suggested some main challenges for further research: 1

2 3

There is a need for studies that follow the digital technologies in their ramifications into all “nooks and crannies” of the music world, to fully understand the reach of the changes they have spurred (the youth–parent co-­operations of Chapter 3 are a good example). I will propose that the music-­technology divide – “the new divide” accentuated in this chapter – is worthy of a research strand of its own. Of course, it will be important to investigate the further propagation and appropriation of streaming services, continuing the work started by, for example, Maasø (2014), Hagen (2015), Nordgård (2016) and Snickars (2016).

I will conclude this book by pointing at some tasks for policy as well. I have argued that – thanks to the embracing of piracy practices by Internet users by numbers and the restless innovativeness of the technological empire, forcing the music industry to turnaround its strategies – we are now approximating a state of balance where most of the involved social groups can reap some of the benefits of the new technologies. In today’s situation, I see three major threats that could move us away from such a balance:

184   The music welfare state 1

2

3

The dominance of the technology industries. The continued dominance of the technology industries makes the discussion of a compensation system still relevant, a system where technology providers (hardware, software, access) pay a fee to the content creators, since it is, after all, their content that creates the basis for traffic on the lines and the attractiveness of the products. The rise (or reinforcement) of a superstar economy. Contrary to what many believed, streaming services seem to reinforce a superstar economy (see Sinn­ reich 2016). This has several reasons, but one of them is connected to the allocation models. Thus, a policy challenge is to search for more just allocation models, continuing the work of Maasø (2014) and Nordgård (2016). The disintegration of the idea of music as a common good and achievement. The idea that music is (also) a common good and achievement is definitely in danger of being pushed aside if there is no one there to protect it and the ground is left free for commercial actors alone. Some relevant policy tasks in this regard are discussions on how one can stimulate Creative Commons publishing, and how one could make it easier to clear existing music for (both amateur and commercial) use in remixes, samples, mash-­up’s and multimedia productions.

Originally, when I entitled this chapter “the music welfare state,” I planned to suggest that today’s situation – the balance I have argued that we are approximating – resembled some of the characteristics connected to welfare state models. Especially, I was thinking about how the balance I have discussed resembles the way welfare states ideally balance different contradictory interests. However, on reflection, I realized that the current balance is as much a Smithian as a Keynesian balance. At least in Norway, the regulatory authorities have played an exceedingly passive role. As a situational description, there are some other problematic aspects with the analogy as well. However, I decided to keep the term “the music welfare state” – but restore it as an ideal, as a heading for future policy and action. I earlier suggested that “the four Cs” – control, creativity, commerce, chaos – could be one way of measuring the state of music. A healthy music life – a music welfare state – could be thought of as a state where these contradictory interests are included and balanced – a yardstick for the well-­being of the music. To approximate such a balance – to deal with the policy challenges mentioned above and others – it is necessary that commercial actors and interests are balanced with more active and involved regulatory authorities and a maintained and revitalized engagement from affected citizens, Internet activists and research communities.

Note 1 Trond Bie, “-Vi har omtrent eliminert pirat-­musikk i Norge,” IT Avisen, January 27, 2015.

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Index

Page numbers in italics denote tables, those in bold denote figures. 360° deals 107, 159, 181 access model, the 149–50, 154–7, 166–8, 181 alternative revenue model, the 149, 157–60, 166–8 Andersson Schwartz, J. 2–4, 8, 11, 17–18, 34, 36–7, 41, 85, 98, 109, 116, 133, 151, 173, 177, 182 ANT (actor-network theory) 72–3, 117–18, 171–2 anti-anti-piracy industry 173 anti-piracy industry 151, 173 Apple Music 103, 113, 169 artrepreneur 158–9, 167 balancing hypothesis, the 2, 181–4 Bandcamp 162 Baym, N. 68, 71, 78 beat.no 103–4 Benkler, Y. 133, 158 Bijker, W see relevant social group Boxman 96–7 boyd, d. 35, 38–9, 50 Burkart, P. 2–4, 11, 18, 34, 36, 79, 85, 115, 120, 151, 161, 171, 182 Burnett and Weber’s production and consumption model 74–5, 75, 78, 83 Callon, M. 66, 72, 135; see also ANT; displacement; translation Castells, M. 8, 36, 49, 56, 144–5, 176; see also the new economy; piracy cultures CC see Creative Commons Celestial Jukebox, the 5, 171 circuit of culture 3, 10, 15, 68, 170 click economy 108

collecting (music) 8, 27–8, 31, 51, 73, 156 compensation model, the 110–11, 149, 158, 163–8, 176 compensation, private copying 110–11, 165–6 copyright: compensation for violations of 165–7; the © regime versus CC licensing 161; enforcement and legislation of 95, 150–3 © regime (traditional copyright regime) 161–3 Creative Commons 63, 153, 160–3, 178, 184 crowdfunding 3, 158 cultures of music 175–6 cultures of technology 175–6 cyberpunk 55–6 David, M. 3, 68, 85, 115, 129, 133, 144–6, 151, 163, 173; four hypotheses about piracy 69, 71, 81, 85–6 deadlock hypothesis, the 2, 181 DeFillippi, R. 2–3, 30, 82, 90, 176 digital commons 36–7, 41, 109, 161, 175 discovery perspective, the 16–19, 29 displacement 117, 121–2, 127–8, 175 DivX standard 13, 114–31, 175 DIY (do-it-yourself) 12, 52–66, 162, 176, 177 DRM (digital rights management) 7, 97, 112, 126, 156 du Gay, P. et al see circuit of culture Electronic Frontier Foundation 33, 54–5, 140, 178 enclosures, digital 161, 175

206   Index file-sharing: compensation for 163–6; as counter culture, rebellion and resistance 18, 32, 48–50, 176–8; fight against 95–8, 101–5, 143–7, 150–3; large-scale sharing 26; legal and moral perspectives on 35–8; and the mass media 132–47; motivations for participation in 37–8, 116; as ordinary and trivial 18; reasons for limiting 43; small-scale sharing 27; studies of 15–18; use of 24, 25, 32; various types 8; versus streaming 15, 18, 154–5, 167, 177–9; and youth/parent conflicts 38–50 folding 4–9, 71–3, 106, 170–2; different folding forces and processes 7–9; and negotiation 5–6; and networks and assemblages 72–3; and programs and anti-programs 172–4; and regulation 149 four Cs, the (control, creativity, commerce, chaos) 182–4 Fraunhofer-Gesellschaft 1, 102–4, 119–22 Freetrax 93–4 generalization, of countercultural values 35, 49, 177 gift economies 8, 17, 108–9, 175 Gillespie, T. 33, 36, 72, 82, 90, 97, 116, 130, 133, 151, 153, 175 hacker movement, the 12, 52–67, 112–14, 122–3, 127–9, 156, 172, 175–8, 177 hackerpunk, the 52–67 Haraway, D. 53, 173; and cyborg theory 173 hippie movement, the 34, 53–5, 58, 66 IFPI (International Federation of the Phonographic Industry) 32, 103, 138–9, 145–6, 153–4, 158, 177, 181 iPhone 102 iPod 18, 28, 50, 102, 180 iTunes 6–7, 25, 26, 82, 102, 121, 150, 154, 180 Jamendo 162 Jenkins, H. 2, 8, 20, 31, 35, 38–9, 47, 49, 163, 179; see also “participatory culture” Kusek, D. and Leonard, G.: cut-and-paste artistry 78–9; the Future of Music 2, 5, 68, 163; “music like water” 5, 171

Latour, B. 72, 78, 117, 167, 172; assembling, reassembling and disassembling 53, 78, 83, 171; immutable mobiles 117–18, 128; obligatory passing point 24; programs and anti-programs 16, 172–4; see also ANT Lessig, L. 2–3, 9, 36, 69, 72, 82, 95, 98, 116, 133, 149, 151, 164; RW-culture (read-and-write-culture) and RO-culture (read-only-culture) 32; typology of motivations for file-sharing 37, 42, 42; typology of regulatory mechanisms 7–9; see also Creative Commons; digital commons; remix culture levelling hypothesis, the 2, 181 Levine, R. 7, 116, 151, 156, 161, 163–4, 176, 182; see also the four Cs; the Splinternet Leyshon, A.: Leyshon’s musical networks 73, 73–5, 82 Livingstone, S. 22, 35, 38–9, 47 market economies 8, 175 massification, of the Internet 35, 49, 87, 99, 104, 106, 109 MODE (Music On Demand) 1–2, 93–4, 109, 120 Morris, J.W. 3, 25, 69, 82, 95, 97, 128, 133, 156, 173 mp3.com 95, 120–1 MP3-law 95, 110, 151 MP3 player 18, 22, 23, 27–8, 44, 102, 120–1 MP3 standard 1, 13, 15, 26, 109, 112, 132, 144, 156, 172, 173; development of 92–5, 101–2, 114–31 Mulligan, M. 2, 10, 102–4, 153–5, 159, 177, 180 music–technology split see technology– culture dichotomy music welfare state, the 170–1, 184 musicking perspective, the 16–19, 29 musiconline.no 101 mutual shaping 72, 171 MySpace 25, 31, 138 Napster 4–5, 16–17, 95, 98, 116, 121, 133–4, 151, 153, 172, 179 net labels 162 network studio, the 12, 68–86 new divide, the 4, 14, 174–6, 177, 182–3 new economy, the 87–91, 110–12 normalization hypothesis, the 2, 181–2

Index   207 old divide, the 4, 14, 174–6, 177, 182–3 Open Source 62, 121, 161; movement 55, 61, 63–3, 116, 124–8, 178–9 Oudshorn, N see mutual shaping ownership model, the 149–53, 166–8 Pandora Survey, the 20–4, 37, 40–2, 113, 146 Pandora’s Jukebox project ix, 1–2, 10, 170 parasite economy 108, 180 participatory culture 15, 37, 49, 51 permeable technologies 14, 128–9 Phonofile 101 Pinch, T see mutual shaping; relevant social group piracy: conformist and subversive 130, 179; and the media 133–6; as ordinary and trivial 18, 182; piracy­–entrepreneur nexus 127–31, 174–6; as rebellion 35–8, 48–50, 176–8; technologies of 114–17; the triumph of 176–9; see also filesharing; piracy cultures; The Piracy Wars piracy cultures 4, 34, 36, 68–71, 85, 115, 130, 183 piracy–industry dichotomy 4, 13, 174–6, 179, 183 Piracy Kills Music campaign 33–4, 50, 85, 132–48, 152 PiracyKillsNoMusic counter-campaign 33, 85 Piracy Wars, The 4, 87, 151, 163, 172; beyond 9–10, 173; and programs/antiprograms 172–3 Pirate Bay 7, 10, 28, 85, 98, 102, 116, 121, 130, 136, 140, 145, 151, 153, 172–3, 177–9 Pirate Party, the 161 Pre-distribution networks 12, 82–5, 83, 162–3 Preston, P. 3, 68, 87, 107, 157–9, 181 punk movement, the 9, 12, 34, 52–67, 112 relevant social group 3, 9, 132, 135, 150, 170, 172 remix: defined 20; different levels of 20, 28, 31 remix culture 20, 37, 49, 51, 69, 78, 80 remix model, the 149, 160–3, 166–8

remix perspective, the 16, 19–20, 29 Rifkin, J see the new economy Rogers, I. 2–3, 68, 87, 95, 101, 107, 157–9, 173, 181 scarcity, the end of 6–7, 171 sex 1, 15, 38 sharing perspective, the 16, 18–19, 29 Sinnreich, A. 2–3, 34, 36, 46, 103, 151, 155, 184 sonic commons, the 5, 17, 171 Splinternet, the 7, 156, 161 Spotify 6–8, 10, 25, 26–8, 28, 31, 41, 43, 50, 82, 102–4, 107, 131, 146, 153–6, 162, 175–8, 180 stream economy 107 streaming: and access culture 48–51; and the access model 154–7; and the Nordic countries 10, 103; objections against 155–7; and rebellion 48–50, 176–8; satisfaction with and limitations of 30–2; studies of 17–20; turn to 101–4, 154–7; use of 10, 25; variants of 154; versus file-sharing and piracy 15, 18, 154–5, 167, 177–9 Streaming Wars, The 2, 154–5 STS (science and technology studies) 5, 15, 72, 90, 171 technologies of piracy 115 technology–culture dichotomy 174–6, 179, 183 Telenor 1, 6, 101, 106–10 Theberge, P. 12, 69–70, 78, 82, 84, 90 Tidal 102–4, 107, 154, 162 tinkering see remix translation 117, 121–2, 127–8 Tschmuck, P. 10, 70, 82, 103, 107, 109, 157–9, 180 Turner, V. 2, 181 Urørt 25–6, 25, 59, 78, 84, 162 virtuality, the irony of 12, 108–12, 147, 152, 160, 180–1 Wiksröm, P. 2–3, 30, 36, 69, 73–4, 82, 90, 107, 133, 149, 151–4, 157, 162–6, 176 Wimp 8, 10, 102–4, 107, 154, 162