The thing about living in the digital age where everything is on a platform somewhere is that we are given data about it.

Exactly, two years after Northumbria was released, here are some numbers.

The album has been downloaded 9886 times and streamed over 11,000 times.

73% of people have listened to more than 74% of the entire album - which is, apparently, pretty good.

ConChie has 240 followers on Spotify.

I hear Joe Rogan is crapping himself.

The most listened to songs are No Sailor Leaves the Sea and The End of The Affair (Love Song to … ) - so one piledriving instrumental and one heartwrenching vocal tune about you and your children living with an alcoholic, then. The others are all much of a muchness, although This Green and Pleasant Land has shown a slight bump over the last few months, bless it.

All of that activity has earned me the princely sum of £117 - 46.

(Financially well worth the year of learning to play again, write again, record again, then … ).

And after two years of Northumbria being available to anyone at any time, those numbers are why from today it will only be available for download or as physical product from my website.

Here, in other words.

Here’s why.

I’ve done stats.

I’ve done stats analysis.

My PhD programme was remarkably thorough in that regard. I can data-scrape and mine and churn out quants and qual analyses with the best of them - and have done professionally.

Although even when well-paid for it, I just prefer not to.

And I’m reasonably computer-literature. One of my first jobs was building and project-managing completely integrated multimedia packages for corporates back when building a website was seen as an arcane process that only wizards could do rather than something a five-year old with knowledge of drag-and-drop technology can now do in five minutes.

It’s just …


It’s just …

It’s just …

The greatest Australian rower of his generation recently told me it’s never just about the data, mate …

His name is Drew Ginn. He once took a hacksaw to his boat to make it feel the way he wanted it to feel when he used it, which is something like Eddie Van Halen taking a chisel to his guitar back in the 70’s to make it sound like he wanted it to sound. The three Olympic Golds, one Olympic silver, five World Championship golds and countless other medals and awards from Drew’s career don’t tell the whole story.

Go and watch the man move a boat - there are plenty of clips on Youtube.

Drew Ginn moved a boat like Mozart wrote music - with flow and grace and poise and intimate, total connection to the moment.

He was the sweep rower coaches still play their crews videos of while saying this is how you do it.

This is not a digression into a discussion about how the sublime in any field rests on the mastery of the mechanics of that field - an idea I keep returning to. You can read more about that elsewhere in Origin(al) Stories.

No, it’s because Drew was right.

It’s not about the data.

The data says nothing about how incredibly challenging it was to learn to play again; let alone write; let alone record; let alone mix, sequence, master and release.

The data says nothing about the psychological, emotional or spiritual gains that were made in rebuilding and reconnecting those parts of myself to myself; or the satisfaction that comes from developing competence in anything.

And the data says nothing about the experience of the people who listened to Northumbria; the people who listened to it and who made it part of their day, their week, their month, their lives; the people who came back to it, who enjoyed it, or tapped their hands to the beat, or sang along, or followed their own journey within the contours of the music.

So, yes, I can obsess about the data.

I can count likes and follows and downloads and streams and chew over retention and progression stats if I believed that they were important; and I could try and grow my social media presence / numbers if I believed that those were more important than the things that was generating the data, which in Northumbria’s case is the music …

But I don’t.

I don’t believe those things are important.

I don’t believe the frame is more important than the picture.

I’ve written elsewhere that the people who have created the platforms that we now all take for granted think that it’s the platform that’s important; just as I’ve written elsewhere that it isn’t: without content, the platforms are nothing.

What the designers have cleverly and cynically tapped into is the average individual’s desire to be seen and heard; to be recognised; and to belong, leveraging the human brain’s susceptibility to stimulus.

Platforms are panopticons - endlessly repeating streams of people shouting ‘look at me, look at me, look at me’ over and over again to the point where it all blurs into one. Yesterday’s shout of look at me is the same as today’s which is lost in tomorrow’s, but each sustains the structure. People just go ‘round and ‘round and ‘round creating ‘content’ to keep up with the need to create ‘content’ to stay relevant to the algorithim. There’s no thought or consideration or rhyme or reason or value to it, either for themselves or others. It’s throwaway, a drop instantly lost in the digital ocean.

And when we do that, when we don’t attach any value to what we do … neither will anyone else.

Yes, the platforms are the ultimate end of culture: it’s all trash, it’s all completely throwaway, and it all means nothing beyond the meaning we bring to it.

Yeah. I know about French Poststructuralist relativism, thanks.

I just don’t believe it’s true.

I think that some things have more value and worth than others.

When it comes to platforms and content, the myth is that they free us up to be creative - we can cut out the machinery and go straight to expression without needing producers, engineers and the infrastructure of record companies to mediate our music.

And that myth is sustained by another one - the myth that fractionation means that the more followers we have, the more streams we get, the more downloads, the more we make.

The reality is that to earn the UK’s minimum wage of £8.72 per hour takes 7,267 streams on YouTube at an average rate of £0.0012.

So to make the same as one play on terrestial radio, your song needs to be fully streamed 72,000 times - and not just clicked on, and then clicked off.

Played completely from start to finish 72,000 times.

And those myths are sustained by another:

The myth that music, like movies, TV, books and art are now ‘free.’

The reality is that these things aren’t ‘free.’

Costed at my basic hourly professional rate, I know exactly how much Northumbria would have cost to make just in terms of billable hours had I been charging myself, without including costs for the production and engineering that I did, or the equipment, which was all borrowed.

And that’s before we start costing up the intangibles of creative industries: the hours spent learning, developing, crafting, trying, failing, trying again … hours that run into years of consolidated work.

Music isn’t ‘free.’

It costs time and money to make.

It costs spiritual and emotional energy.

It costs commitment.

It is part of a never-ending ongoing process of relentless hard work, self-appraisal and self-development.

If every single person who downloaded or streamed Northumbria had paid £1 to do so, I’d have just about have covered my billable hours costs.

But they didn’t.

And yet Northumbria remains.

Now let’s say that Northumbria had done the 72000 downloads and streams it takes to earn the same as one full spin on terrestial radio.

I’d have made £87.20 for that.

72000 downloads and streams is nothing.

Some people do that in a minute.

Not me, obviously.

But some people.

But back before the ‘it’s all free’ myths, if Northumbria had sold 72000 copies in vinyl, cassette and CD, at a standard artist royalty of say 80p to £1 per copy I’d have covered my production costs, and actually made a little money on the back end.

But it didn’t.

And yet Northumbria remains.

And if I did those numbers now with physical product, I’d be a successful artist - yet the same numbers 30 years ago would make me a respectable unknown indie musician.

Now, let’s say I took a physical copy of the album, in a recognised format, and I put that copy in a sealed box, and I bury it somewhere.

Let’s say I already have done

The meteor hits, civilisation as we know it is destroyed, mankind returns to barbarism.

Northumbria remains.

I’ve written elsewhere also about how if I’m creating content to feed Oruborus, I’m not actually doing the things that matter.

I’ve also written elsewhere about how if you give something away for nothing, no-one values it - which is exactly what’s happened here.

Northumbria remains.

It’ll be here when I’m not.

It’s a great album that I’m very proud of.

And because I value it, I’ve removed Northumbria from all platforms.

If you want to listen to it, and you should, you’ll have to buy a copy of it from here - this website.

Yes, it’s a fraction more laborious than clicking on it on your platform of choice.

But you’ll have made a choice to attach value to it in the form of your time and money.

And in doing so, you’ll be helping me to make the next one.

©℗ A. I. Jackson

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Origin(al) Stories was first launched to show some of the thoughts, decisions and processes that went into the writing, recording and release of the Northumbria album.

Following the launch of The Landing Stage, which brings together some of the things I do, I’ve continued adding to Origin(al) Stories.

Origin(al) Stories has none of the features beloved of self-help and influencers: how-to guides, lists, essential hacks.

Drawn from my personal diaries and journals, the posts might often seem unconnected, elliptical and fragmentary. Showing, as they do, my explorations of ideas and approaches and processes as I do things, they are best viewed as glimpses of my workings.

They show my mistakes, the false trails I’ve followed, and the blind alleys I’ve gone down - all of which are intrinsic parts of finding a path through to doing something.

If you’ve liked an Origin(al) Stories post, or it’s helped you with something you’re doing in some way, please share it to your socials, and give credit. All content on this website is under copyright and attributable.

None of my work will ever appear on platforms or social media, for reasons I talk about here, but which can be summarised as: platforms don’t pay or sustain people who make things.

Buying an album or a book direct from me helps me to make the next one.

So please do.

Thanks for reading. Have a great day. Tell the people you love that you love them. Be a positive force.