“Nostalgia is a file that removes the rough edges from the good old days.”
Doug Larson
When I was a kid in the 90s, I joined something called the BMG Music Club. Which sounds exclusive, but really, it was just a mail-order miracle for people who owned more hope than money.
The pitch was simple: twelve CDs for a penny. A penny. I don’t know who came up with that price point, but it was genius. Because when you’re a teenager with no job and questionable hygiene, a penny is achievable wealth. I had that kind of money. I was liquid.
So I signed up.
Filled out the form. Checked the boxes. Licked the envelope with the commitment of a man making real financial moves. And then I waited. Because back then, you didn’t get things instantly. You had to earn them with anticipation and the U.S. Postal Service.
Weeks later, a box showed up that changed my life—or at least my CD tower.
Hootie & the Blowfish. Spin Doctors. Boyz II Men. I didn’t just own them—I believed in them. Each CD was a small miracle, proof that if you wanted something badly enough, and were willing to give it thirty-five business days, the universe would reward you.
Of course, that’s how they got you. Because once you were in, you were in.
Suddenly, BMG was sending me a new CD every month whether I wanted it or not. There’s nothing like getting a surprise Enya album in the mail to make you question your life choices.
But I didn’t cancel. I couldn’t.
It felt like being part of something—like a musical secret society run entirely through bulk mail. Every month, I’d rip open the box like Christmas, then spend hours reading the liner notes like they contained the meaning of life.
That’s the part I miss. The waiting. The ritual. The feeling that music wasn’t just there—you had to go get it.
Now, I can listen to every song ever recorded on my phone while brushing my teeth.
And somehow, it all feels smaller.
I skip around, half-listen, and pretend I’m discovering something new—when really, I’m just avoiding silence.
Streaming is amazing, don’t get me wrong. But I miss the friction. I miss the commitment. I miss caring enough to actually sit down and listen.
The BMG Music Club taught me two important lessons:
- Never underestimate the power of marketing to teenagers.
- The best things—the songs, the moments, the people—are the ones you have to wait for.
The music isn’t better now or worse. It’s just easier.
And sometimes, easy is overrated.
