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Are we past the age of must-have Christmas gifts?
These were always a mass media creation. Endless ads and fluffy news stories manufactured desire for the latest novelty—Tickle-Me Elmo, the Clapper, and all the other As Seen on TV delights of late December.
In our fragmented, algorithm-customized world of information, breaking through and staying broken through long enough to make it to a wishlist is nearly impossible.
MrBeast is arguably the most famous entertainer in the world, yet he remains almost comically unrecognizable to anyone who isn’t a devoted fan. (As evidence of the odd nature of modern fame, that last sentence would seem specious without the word “arguably” in it, even though hard numbers say MrBeast is the most popular person on the most popular platform on the planet.) What chance does a doll commercial have?
The tech that gave us this fragmentation also gave us the one-tap purchase and buy-now-pay-later. It’s easier to order than it is to make a list. Anyone who wanted a Labubu got one, along with all the accessories and an aftermarket designer bag to clip it to (near-mint, four easy payments).
If anything today is a must-have, it’s the devices themselves. But these are now so expensive (and widely owned) they’re a risky and impractical purchase for most gift-givers. The devices do need a lot of subscriptions, though, and their accessories need constant replacement. So perhaps the hot gift is a virtual purchase—an Apple Store gift card, redeemable for hardware or in-app purchases. It’s never been more naked that we’re just trading cash.
Or maybe I’m getting old. “It’s the thought that counts,” was always as common as the refrain of Jingle Bells from adults around Christmas, and I say it more often myself every year. It’s an old chestnut that I value as much as whatever is roasting on the fire.
My favorite thoughtful gift was obsolete even before the age of the smartphone, though it, too, is a victim of technological advancement. For years, I gave people CDs. This wasn’t just a Christmas thing. All year, I’d trade custom mixes with friends. But as the damp, drizzly November weather came in, I found myself pausing in front of record stores, a long shopping list dancing in my head.
There’s a right way and a wrong way to give someone music, and the same general strategy applies to books and movies, too. The wrong way is to push your preferences on the recipient. I like this and you should too. Here the art is not a gift, it’s homework. Only with a mixtape can you expect someone to listen in order to understand you, and even then it’s a short walk to total narcissism. Split up the soul sharing with a few bangers, at least.
The right way takes thought. What music does this person like? What great record don’t they have? Have they said they wanted anything lately? Sadly, streaming has made the last two questions irrelevant and is working on the first through its devaluation of recorded music. To know these things about a person, you had to truly know that person. You had to know their collection and their taste, and to pay attention to what they’ve said. This process is the same as it is with any other gift, to a degree, but music was not an ordinary gift. The recipient may listen to the record you give them for years—on walks, at home, in the car, and in so many different moods. If they love it, you and this person now share an emotional secret. If they hate it, you have an inside joke (and a better idea of what to give next time).
I’m certain there will be plenty of vinyl records under trees around the world this year. And that’s cool. But in the pre-streaming years, the physical album was necessary to have if you wanted to hear something—even if you only touched the CD once, when you ripped it to mp3s for your iPod. Now, a record is a display object more than something you listen to, unless your intended recipient is a dedicated analog listener (which brings a whole new set of challenges to the purchase). It’s just as likely a gift of vinyl will prompt someone to stream an album more often. That’s nice, but a little of the magic is gone.
Most of the music shared this holiday season will be beamed over Bluetooth—connections awkwardly commandeered by houseguests’ devices and songs chosen as one person looks over the shoulder of another, gazing into the screen’s infinite selection, where every album is meaningful, but means almost nothing to have.
