The Machine Feeds the Masses and That’s Just Fine

The war on Spotify is the latest fashionable outrage, the sort of righteous indignation that gets trotted out whenever a journalist needs to reheat a few cold cuts of industry gossip into a sizzling exposé. Liz Pelly, in her recent Harper’s broadside against the Swedish streaming juggernaut, paints a grim dystopia of faceless ghost artists, exploited jazz musicians, and shadowy corporate overlords engineering a future where music is nothing but a soulless, profit-churning algorithm. The horror! And yet, as the hysteria swirls and the self-appointed arbiters of musical integrity shake their fists at the sky, the question remains: Do listeners actually give a damn?

Pelly's argument hinges on the idea that Spotify is betraying musicians by stuffing its playlists with stock music from anonymous composers, thus depriving "real" artists of exposure and royalties. A crime against humanity, she suggests, a dagger to the heart of artistic authenticity! But what if the crime is merely a feature of the modern marketplace? The notion that Spotify should be some utopian digital Eden for struggling musicians is a delusion cooked up by the same people who once claimed Napster would "save the industry." Spotify is not a church for music lovers—it’s a tech company, a business, a machine designed to profit from a global audience that treats music as an atmospheric condiment rather than a sacred text.

Let’s step back for a moment. The outrage stems from the proliferation of “ghost artists,” musicians operating under pseudonyms who pump out ambient loops and lo-fi beats, designed to be played in the background of dinner parties and dentist offices. Epidemic Sound, one of the chief purveyors of this content, has been likened to a digital sweatshop churning out lifeless muzak. But hold on—is this really a scandal, or just an evolution of the industry? The world has always needed background music. Elevator jazz, film scores, commercial jingles—none of these have ever been "artistic statements" in the way Pelly romanticizes. They are functional soundscapes, engineered for mood and consumption.

Spotify’s supposed crime is that it’s curating playlists with this sort of content rather than giving the slots to "authentic" musicians. But what is authenticity in an industry where even the most revered acts have managers, stylists, and marketing teams sculpting their image to fit the latest trend? The Rolling Stones licensed their catalog for corporate use decades ago. Metallica sued their own fans to protect their revenue stream. Pop artists are lab-grown by major labels, precision-engineered to maximize streams and social media engagement. The idea that Spotify is some unique villain in the commodification of music is laughable—it’s simply the latest stage in an industry that has always put commerce before artistry.

Even the artists crying foul about their supposed mistreatment by Spotify are guilty of ignoring a fundamental economic truth: If your music is good enough to generate an audience, you’ll find a way to make money from it. If not, no amount of Spotify ethics panels will change that. The market doesn’t lie. This is not the 1970s, where a record deal and a spot on FM radio could launch a career. Today, the power is in the hands of the artists more than ever before. Social media, Bandcamp, YouTube, Patreon—a thousand revenue streams exist for the musicians who know how to cultivate an audience. Complaining that Spotify doesn’t automatically elevate you to financial stability is like griping that McDonald’s won’t put your artisanal burger on their menu.

Spotify’s ultimate sin, according to Pelly, is that it treats music as a commodity rather than a sacred art form. But let’s be honest: the vast majority of listeners don’t care about the distinction. Most people don’t analyze their playlists like music critics; they want sounds to accompany their work, their sleep, their commutes. The rise of algorithmic curation reflects the way people consume music in the digital age—as a stream, not as a ceremony. And therein lies the true heresy in Pelly’s argument: the insistence that music lovers are being duped, when in reality, they’re simply engaging with music in a way that makes sense for them.

Is it fair that stock musicians get millions of streams while independent artists struggle for exposure? Maybe not. But fairness is not the currency of capitalism. Spotify is not a philanthropic institution designed to subsidize the struggling artist—it is a marketplace, and like all marketplaces, it rewards what sells. If people preferred a direct artist-to-listener model, Bandcamp would be the dominant platform. Instead, Spotify reigns supreme because it delivers exactly what the audience wants: an infinite buffet of curated sounds, personalized and ever-flowing.

Pelly and her ilk can gnash their teeth all they like about the dehumanization of music, but the reality is far simpler: the audience has spoken. And in a world where the masses prefer endless, AI-suggested playlists over the gatekeeper era of record labels and FM radio, maybe the real scandal isn’t Spotify’s business model. Maybe the scandal is that the musicians crying foul have yet to understand the game they’re playing.