THE PRESENCE OF SOUND

An Analog Revival in a Digital Age

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In a world where moments blur into notifications and memories vanish into a feed, something subtle yet quietly powerful is unfolding. A return to the tangible. Vinyl records. Film cameras. Polaroids. Cassette tapes. On the surface, it might feel like nostalgia. But it’s more than that. It’s about longing for texture. For ritual. For presence. And for an aesthetic that refuses to be reduced to pixels.

The crackle of a needle isn’t noise- it’s a pause. The sound of vinyl, the weight of a camera, the whisper of turning pages-each one an act of resistance against the clean, soulless efficiency of digital life. And the numbers confirm it. In 2022, vinyl outsold CDs in the U.S. for the first time since 1987, with 41 million records sold and over $1.2 billion in revenue (RIAA, 2023). In 2023, sales climbed again-up another 10% (Pitchfork, 2024).

But it’s not about sales. It’s about wanting to see the music. To touch it. To hold an album, explore its artwork, flip through lyrics, and listen to a story told from start to finish. Jack White said it best:

“The ritual of vinyl demands your attention. And that’s exactly what makes it worthwhile.”

The same is true of photography. An analog camera doesn’t offer instant previews. No delete button. No second chances. Just the silence before a shutter click, the wait that follows, and the quiet magic of development. In early 2024, Kodak temporarily halted film production-not because demand slowed, but because they couldn’t keep up (Fstoppers, 2024). That’s not nostalgia-it’s momentum.

For Gen Z, the most connected generation in history, analog has become a personal rebellion. They’re not romanticizing the past-they’re rejecting the present pace. Choosing cameras without screens. Creating images that live offline. That waits. That breathes. Vinyl Alliance reported in 2023 that Gen Z is the fastest-growing group of record buyers (Vinyl Alliance, 2023). For them, this isn’t a trend- it’s a language.

Across Instagram and TikTok, the #vinylcommunity is flourishing. Teens and young adults share handwritten playlists, show off thrifted LP finds, and trade notes about pressings, sound quality, and memories. Gigi Hadid’s analog account @gisposable and David Dobrik’s Dispo project both tap into the same desire: to slow down, capture, and savor.

In Berlin, Claas Brieler-a musician and vinyl archivist-spins records from his 15,000-piece collection in candlelit rooms, convinced that analog is the only way to be truly present with music (Analog Foundation, 2023). In New York, Jamal Alnasr runs Village Revival Records with the care of a librarian. He knows every album. Every story. Regulars include Rosalía, Bella Hadid, and neighborhood kids who stumble in and leave transformed.

Justin Cary began developing film in his kitchen in Kansas in 2019. Now his lab, Midwest Film Co., processes rolls sent from across the country-from photographers, artists, and musicians who want more than megapixels. His work isn’t just chemistry. It’s resistance. To speed. To polish. To burnout.

That resistance sounds like something. The soft crackle of vinyl. The grain in a print. Light leaking where it shouldn’t. Colors that don’t come from presets. And a smell-paper, dust, developer fluid. These so-called flaws? They’re what make analog feel alive. Honest. Beautiful.

Photographers like Thalíe Gochez, who shoot entirely on film, and visual artists like Bastiaan Woudt, whose digital work channels the calm and depth of analog tones, remind us: the medium matters-but intention matters more. What you notice. What you slow down to capture. What you let be imperfect.

Sound engineers, DJs, designers, collectors-they’re not trying to revive the past. They’re reimagining the present. Bringing weight back to the fleeting. Meaning back to form. And silence, somehow, back into listening.

Maybe we can’t unplug. But we can choose when to tune in. Analog doesn’t offer escape. It offers return. To rhythm. To space. To stillness. To self. That’s not retro. That’s human.