There's something fascinating about the way certain analog technologies refuse to disappear, despite the relentless advance of digital. From vinyl records to film cameras and modular synthesizers, these instruments of the past are experiencing a renaissance that goes far beyond simple nostalgia. Because behind the enduring appeal of analog lies a deep desire to reconnect with art in a slower, more engaging and, ultimately, more fulfilling way. Because sometimes, it is precisely the frustration of having to overcome the limits of a technology that makes it irresistible.
A return to the "difficult"
In the era where everything is just a click away (or it seems so), analogue challenges us to slow down, to commit ourselves, to dedicate time and effort to the creative process. For example, I mentioned modular synthesizers: fascinating, complex machines, where each sound requires the manual connection of cables and modules.
There are no shortcuts, no ready-to-use presets. “Just” hours of experimentation, trial and error, until the desired result is achieved. It's a challenge that many musicians embrace with enthusiasm, as if the effort were an integral part of the charm. Just as a journey is part of the journey, or rather: sometimes it IS the journey.
The analogue, or: the art of imperfection
There is more. In the analogue universe, imperfection is not a defect to be corrected: it is an added value. The rustle of a vinyl, the grain of a photo taken on film, even the slight "out of tune" sound of an analog synth: these are all characteristics that give the work an aura of uniqueness and authenticity.
They are the famous "happy accidents", those unexpected moments in which technology seems to take on a life of its own, go on its own, giving surprising and unrepeatable results.
Half of what you do when you try to make music is a happy accident that ends up sounding better than you intended. If the machine doesn't do exactly what you thought it would, or goes a little out of tune, it's all part of the process. Your mistakes or accidents become part of what you're trying to do, instead of thinking, 'Oh, I'll erase this and do it right again.' You get a little bit of randomness, and that randomness can add so much to what you're trying to achieve.
John, musician from Melbourne
In the game of courses and recourses, return to active users, not passive ones
You couldn't explain why some car manufacturers they put the physical buttons back in the cockpit (no, it's not a question of costs). Because record stores they are opening again in the United Kingdom. Because children want cell phones but they start tormenting Pop-its and Fidget spinners. Think about it carefully.
Choosing analog also means claiming an active role in the process of enjoying art. It's not just a matter of pressing "play" and letting Spotify music flow, of taking hundreds of photos of the pasta and lentils that they put in front of us. It's not about end up paralyzed in front of a billion on-demand contents, or potential "partners" to dribble by swiping endlessly.
Every interaction requires involvement, attention, care. Whether it is precisely positioning the needle on the vinyl groove, delicately loading a roll of film into the camera, or meticulously connecting the cables of a modular synth, each gesture becomes a ritual, a moment of deep connection with the instrument and with the art that comes from it. More than anything, with themselves.
The analog belongs to the future, because it is an antidote to alienation.
In a world increasingly dominated by artificial intelligence and algorithms, analog will be a bastion of the human, a way to reaffirm the central role of the individual in the creative process. As stressed the singer-songwriter Nick Cave, commenting on an AI-generated song “in the style of Nick Cave”:
This song sucks. […] ChatGPT has no inner being, it has not been anywhere, it has not endured anything, it has not had the audacity to go beyond its limits. And therefore it does not have the capacity for shared transcendent experience, since it has no limits to transcend.
Huge fucking Nick Cave. You understand what an artist is, right? It took him a moment to embrace the whole concept. If you don't have limits, or don't set any, or aren't aware of having them, you don't transcend anything. You have nothing to overcome, and therefore you overcome nothing.
Ecco.
Perhaps, after all, this is precisely the secret of the timeless charm of the analogue: its ability to highlight the uniqueness and fragility of the human experience, with all its imperfections and its impulses towards transcendence. Analog will survive the artificial avalanche. He will be here, with us, to be touched. To remind us that art, the real one, is born from the artist's struggle with his own limits, and that it is precisely in this struggle that his most authentic beauty lies.
It's one of the reasons why it makes no sense to be afraid of cars. We are the perfect ones, because being perfect means having everything: even defects.
