Listening Wind

Every few years I wake up to find that music technology has passed me by. This was most certainly the case when my son finally coerced his mother and I into using Spotify to listen to music in our home. I gave it my standard test, "play Flying Saucer Safari," and it did not hesitate or flinch. From out of my speakers poured what Trouser Press once referred to as, called it "highly ordinary" and "a sub-Devo mesh of hiccupping vocals, angular tunes with tiresome stop-start rhythms and a high, weedy guitar/organ sound." What does Trouser Press know, really? 
So once that hurdle had been passed, we decided to go all in, asking our home robot to find all the music we cared to hear from that corner of Al Gore's Internet. Abruptly, our CD collection became more physical media holding up our speakers. And while I dance around my living room to the tunes I know and loved from long ago, I worry just a little about how my enjoyment is being paid out to the artists whose music from which I continue to extract joy. This is what I assume my monthly fee is helping to fund. I worry, but I don't stop using the service. The capacity to be able to play Baby Shark with barely a moment's hesitation is invaluable. 
Well, okay. It has a value, and the folks at Spotify have met my price point. Much in the same way that streaming services have all but eliminated my need to purchase tapes, or discs of most any sort. Having a collection used to be something that gave me satisfaction. Then it gave me a hernia when I had to tote all that vinyl from one apartment to the next, and finally across the country. When I moved into my own house, I let those albums go. By that point, I had converted most of those purchases into compact discs. When we had a toddler in the house, we sought to eliminate the disorganization brought on by this proto-audiophile by decanting all our CDs and putting them, along with their attendant artwork, into vinyl sleeves and storing them all in drawers. These were labeled alphabetically for easy filing. 
And now they sit there, as mentioned previously, holding up our speakers as we listen to our streaming music. For tiny percentages of a cent for each play. Meanwhile, the machines make suggestions of music I might like, since I seem to enjoy the Suburban Lawns. The deeper I dig, the more they pile on in front of me. Records I never bought by artists I never really knew. Now all I have to do is ask my home robot to play some Brandi Carlile. Because the kids these days seem to like her just fine. 
Me? I abhor a vacuum.