Spotify’s 'frictionless' model: What does it cost for music fans and artists?
Liz Pelly’s Mood Machine examines Spotify’s impact on the music industry, its fans, and the artists behind the music.
 |
| Illustration by Denis Pobytov |
By Sarah Oktaviany and Novanka Laras
Mood Machine: The Rise of Spotify and the Costs of the Perfect Playlist, by Liz Pelly
Spotify’s impact on music has been nothing short of transformative. Since its founding in 2006, the music-streaming platform has revolutionized how people access, listen to, and discover music. For many, Spotify has become the go-to source for all things music, offering an ever-expanding library of songs available at the press of a button. Its algorithmic playlists, tailored to users' moods, preferences, and listening habits, promise a “frictionless” experience—one where music flows seamlessly into our lives, without the need for decision-making, downloads, or the hassle of purchasing songs. This convenience is undeniably appealing. However, as Liz Pelly details in her book Mood Machine, this idealized vision of music streaming comes with significant drawbacks, especially for the artists who create the music and the fans who love it.
Pelly, a seasoned writer who has reported on Spotify and the wider music industry for years, delves into the complex and often problematic nature of the streaming model. While Spotify has made a monumental impact on the way we listen to music, Pelly's critique highlights the negative effects of the service’s data-driven approach on music culture, the artists behind the songs, and the very essence of music as an art form. In a time when streaming is the dominant mode of music consumption, Mood Machine forces us to ask: at what cost?
Spotify was founded in Stockholm in 2006 as a response to the rampant piracy that had taken over the music industry. At a time when illegal downloads were decimating album sales, Spotify promised a legal, easy-to-use alternative. The platform’s revolutionary model offered users unlimited access to music for a small subscription fee or for free with ads. At the time, it wasn’t the first such attempt to provide an alternative to piracy, but it was by far the most successful. Previous ventures—like Jean-Marie Messier’s plans to create a streaming service under the Vivendi Universal banner—had failed to capture the public's imagination. Similarly, Apple’s iTunes, the digital music marketplace that had found success by selling individual songs, wouldn’t launch its own streaming service until after Spotify had already established itself in the U.S.
In the years since Spotify's launch, streaming has become the most popular method of music consumption worldwide. It’s transformed the music industry, pushing physical album sales to the margins and relegating digital downloads to the past. Spotify, with its huge market share and rapidly growing revenue, is at the forefront of this shift, boasting a market capitalization of nearly $100 billion. However, as Pelly points out in Mood Machine, the platform’s success comes with unintended consequences for the music world.
At first glance, Spotify’s mission seems straightforward: to “unlock the potential of human creativity” by providing artists with a platform to reach new audiences and enabling fans to discover fresh music. But Pelly argues that this mission is undermined by the platform's reliance on algorithms, which have come to dictate not only what music is heard but how it is created.
One of the most striking phenomena Pelly discusses in her book is the rise of “ghost artists”—anonymous musicians hired to produce generic, mood-fitting tracks for Spotify playlists. These artists, often hired by content farms, are paid a flat fee to write and record music designed to fit into specific mood categories such as “ambient,” “chill,” or “relaxation.” These songs are not created with any artistic intent but are instead manufactured to meet an algorithm’s requirements for streaming. Spotify users searching for calming music to accompany their meditation or relaxation routines are often met with tracks that sound pleasant but have little emotional depth or unique artistry. Pelly calls this phenomenon “perfect fit content” (PFC), and it has become a staple of Spotify’s playlist ecosystem.
These tracks, often devoid of any recognizable artist or unique creative vision, crowd out music made by actual musicians. In fact, it wasn’t until an exposé in Dagens Nyheter, a Swedish newspaper, that the ghost-artist program was publicly revealed. The anonymity of these artists was so carefully protected that fake biographies, social media profiles, and even personal websites were sometimes created for the non-existent musicians behind the tracks. Despite this, audiences seem unfazed by the lack of authenticity—by the mid-2010s, Pelly reports, “sleep playlists were absolutely crushing it on Spotify.”
As Spotify’s playlists became dominated by mood-driven music from content farms, Pelly introduces the concept of “streambait.” Streambait, she explains, is the aural equivalent of clickbait—a tactic used by Spotify to attract as many streams as possible by offering music that fulfills a particular need or desire, even if it lacks artistic depth or creativity. While clickbait content is typically designed to lure people into clicking on sensationalist headlines, streambait offers music that is intentionally bland, inoffensive, and easy to consume. This music serves its purpose without ever challenging the listener or offering any real artistic value.
Pelly notes that while streambait might be seen as a cynical ploy to maximize profits, Spotify’s intentions are not necessarily malicious. Instead, the platform is simply trying to meet the demands of its vast user base, who have come to expect an endless stream of music that fits their needs at any given moment. The music may not be groundbreaking, but it’s convenient—and convenience is what Spotify has built its empire on.
But this shift toward streambait, and away from artist-driven music, raises important questions about the role of music in our lives. When algorithms, rather than human curators or passionate creators, dictate what we hear, the art form risks becoming homogenized. Music, once a vehicle for personal expression, cultural commentary, and emotional connection, becomes just another background noise—an endless flow of perfectly fitting content that requires no engagement or thought.
Perhaps the most troubling aspect of Spotify’s dominance, according to Pelly, is its role in the devaluation of music. As the platform grows and evolves, it increasingly treats music as a commodity—something to be consumed and discarded with little regard for its creators. This is most evident in Spotify’s opaque payment system, which pays artists a fraction of a cent each time their song is streamed. Despite Spotify’s claim that it provides exposure to artists, Pelly argues that the streaming model is inherently exploitative, as it prioritizes quantity over quality and provides little financial reward to the musicians who create the content that powers the platform.
Even more concerning is Spotify’s adoption of “Discovery Mode,” a payola-like system that asks artists to accept a 30% reduction in royalties in exchange for increased playlist placement. This practice, Pelly argues, essentially forces artists to sacrifice their earnings for the chance to be heard—a modern-day version of the record industry’s long-standing tradition of exploiting musicians.
The issue is compounded by Spotify’s disregard for the diverse subcultures from which many artists emerge. In the race to categorize music by mood or genre, the platform often distorts niche genres and movements, turning them into marketable commodities. Microgenres like hyperpop—a genre defined by its experimental approach to electronic dance music—become distorted, misrepresented, or overlooked altogether, as Spotify’s algorithms prioritize streaming potential over artistic integrity.
Despite the overwhelming success of Spotify, Pelly believes that there is hope for a more equitable future for music. One potential solution, she suggests, is the public library model. She points to Iowa City’s Local Music Project, which distributes music by local bands through the municipal library system. In this model, artists are compensated upfront for their work, ensuring that they receive fair compensation for their music, even if it doesn’t generate massive streams. While this model may not be feasible for high-profile artists like Kanye West or Mariah Carey, it offers a glimpse of an alternative to Spotify’s one-size-fits-all business model.
However, Pelly’s central concern remains the devaluation of music as an art form. While streaming services like Spotify have made music more accessible than ever before, they have also reduced it to a transactional commodity—something to be consumed, rather than appreciated. In this landscape, music risks losing its soul, and the artists who create it may be left behind.
In the end, Mood Machine is a powerful critique of the ways in which Spotify has reshaped the music industry. Pelly’s meticulous research and keen insights shed light on the dangers of an algorithm-driven, profit-focused approach to music, highlighting the ways in which it diminishes the role of artists and erodes the value of music itself. While Spotify’s rise has democratized music access and made it more convenient for listeners, it has also created a system in which creativity and artistic integrity are secondary to commercial interests.
Pelly’s work serves as a reminder that while convenience and accessibility are important, they should not come at the cost of the artists who make music meaningful. A little friction—whether in the form of fair compensation for artists or a more thoughtful, artist-centered approach to music consumption—could go a long way in ensuring that music retains its status as a vital, human-centered art form. As we move further into the age of streaming, it’s worth considering whether the convenience of a frictionless experience is truly worth the price.
