Tag: konratieff

Ashes in the Ledger

Sometimes I wonder how many social democrats and Jews of all extractions—bankers, pharmacists, tailors, teachers—found their hands brushing against the paper edges of stock certificates for Audi, Bayer, Hugo Boss, Thyssen, IG Farben, Krupp. How many of them sat in cramped apartments in Berlin or Vienna, trying to reconcile their progressive ideals or ancestral guilt with the dividend checks that arrived on time? Could they have known, or did they simply not look? And if they didn’t look, was it because they couldn’t bear to, or because the alternative—a life without that income—was unthinkable?

Maybe there was a Jewish chemist in Frankfurt who believed in the socialist cause, the kind who lectured his son on solidarity and the workers’ struggle, but who also rationalized his holdings in IG Farben. “What can I do?” he might have said, folding his hands. “It’s not my factory. It’s not my Zyklon B.” Did he know? Or a Social Democratic alderman in Hamburg who wore Hugo Boss suits—tailored perfectly to his reformist speeches, perfectly stitched to stand up to the bourgeois opposition—and who privately thanked himself for his wise investment in the firm.

It’s not hypocrisy exactly, though hypocrisy plays its part. It’s survival, wrapped in capitalism’s suffocating embrace. It’s the damned problem of complicity in a world where even the innocent are investors, where justice and profit are rarely bedfellows. And I think about that, about them, because isn’t that the Jewish question, after all? Not the one history asks, but the one we ask ourselves: “What am I supposed to do when my hands are tied to the same wheels that crush me?”

And, of course, it’s never just Jews. The Germans, the Americans, the French. Everyone has a stake in the machinery. Everyone owns a little piece of the war, even the peace-loving ones, even the idealists. Maybe especially the idealists, because they need that stake to keep on dreaming their dreams.

And me? What would I have done if someone handed me a share of Bayer in 1925, a tidy inheritance from an uncle with no children, just chemicals in his veins and ambition on his mind? Would I have burned it in defiance or tucked it into a portfolio, knowing it might pay for my children’s education, my wife’s medical bills, my own peace of mind in an increasingly unpeaceful time?

I’d like to think I know the answer. But that’s a lie, isn’t it? We never really know what we’d do—not until the papers are in front of us, not until the money is in our hands, not until we feel the weight of history bearing down on us like a shareholder’s meeting we can’t refuse to attend.

Did the Captains of Industry know? Did the men who sat behind the polished mahogany desks of Audi, Bayer, Hugo Boss, Thyssen, IG Farben, and Krupp, men who dressed in finely tailored suits and polished their egos with the same attention they gave their portfolios, know that the great, shining machine of industry they were feeding would, in time, begin to chew on its own? Perhaps not in so many words. Perhaps it was a matter of not knowing as much as it was not asking. The slow, almost imperceptible gnaw of complicity that runs like a thread through the fabric of a company’s rise and fall, through the lies we tell ourselves while others take the brunt of it. But in the quiet corners of their minds, buried beneath layers of ambition and arrogance, could they have known that the very system they were financing—the grand spectacle of global capitalism, of shareholder value, of industrial might—was a beast that would eventually devour even the hands that fed it?

Perhaps they did. Perhaps some of them saw it coming, the great collapse, the inevitable breaking point. But what choice did they have? Could you be a player in a system so vast and powerful and still hold on to your purity? Could you climb to the top of a mountain of capital built from the ashes of others’ suffering and still look down without a touch of pride? Could you gaze at your dividends, the returns on your investments, and not see the hand of history drawing ever closer, a hand that might one day slap away your carefully constructed facade?

No, they didn’t know, not in the way one knows the end of a novel, the way you know that the last chapter will arrive before too long. It was a slower process—an accumulation of small decisions, of overlooking the darker corners, of pretending the rot was someone else’s problem. IG Farben’s contracts with the Nazis, Krupp’s steel feeding the war machine, Bayer’s patenting of chemicals—these were just facts of doing business, weren’t they? They were the necessary costs of progress. A price paid for the bright future. In the margins, somewhere between board meetings and champagne toasts, they told themselves that the world was a place where winners win and losers lose. They were simply winners.

There’s a cruel irony in it, of course. Because even as the foundations of their empires began to crack, they clung to their faith in the system, even as the system turned on them. They thought, as all men in positions of power think, that they could control it. That with enough maneuvering, enough strategy, enough money, they could ride out the storm. They were wrong. But of course, by the time they realized it—when the cracks were too deep and the storm had already broken—their wealth had become as fragile as the paper it was printed on.

And so it goes.

The Jew owns shares in IG Farben. The teacher owns shares in Bayer. The Social Democrat owns shares in Audi. They own them reluctantly, sure. They own them because a cousin said it was a sound investment, because a neighbor swore the yield was better than war bonds, because some analyst with a reassuring face on the radio promised dividends as sturdy as the Reichsmark. They own them not because they love what the companies produce, but because everyone owns something, and better to own a piece of progress than to be left out entirely.

But what are they really buying? IG Farben isn’t just a chemical company. Bayer isn’t just pharmaceuticals. Audi isn’t just cars. They are machines on sliding scales of entropy, machines dressed up in the finery of industry, their factories humming with the energy of collapse. These companies don’t just produce goods—they go from raw materials to heat death. They extract, they exploit, they expand, and in the process, they wear down everything: workers, resources, the very society that props them up. Every share is a vote of confidence in the machine of entropy. Every dividend a reward for feeding the beast that devours us all.

The system is designed for heat death. It’s not an accident, not some tragic malfunction. It’s the design. Progress doesn’t run on innovation or ingenuity; it runs on entropy.

The concept of heat death is simple, almost banal, but its implications are vast and unyielding. It begins with a law, one of the few laws that govern the universe without exception: entropy always increases. This is not a law of man, to be bent or debated. It is a law of nature, universal and absolute, indifferent to our desires or fears.

Imagine a system—a room, a planet, a galaxy. In it, energy moves like water spilling from a higher to a lower place. Heat flows from the hot to the cold until there is no difference, no gradient. At first, this is productive, even vital: the flow of energy fuels stars, sustains life, and drives machines. But the same process that creates order—by burning fuel or building structures—inevitably creates disorder elsewhere. The ashes, the waste, the broken pieces—these are entropy. Slowly, inexorably, the system approaches equilibrium, where no more energy flows, and nothing changes.

On the scale of the universe, this means that the stars will burn out, one by one. The galaxies, which now swirl in splendid motion, will become cold, diffuse clouds of gas. In time—unimaginable spans of time—there will be no more movement, no more light. The universe will become a uniform, silent void. This is heat death: not fire and fury, but the absence of both.

What is unbearable about this idea is not its inevitability but its finality. The universe, in its birth, promised so much: complexity, beauty, possibility. And yet, written into its very fabric is the promise of its own dissolution. Entropy is not merely a force of nature; it is a force of betrayal. What builds also destroys, and the greater the structure, the greater the collapse.

Even we, in our small lives, see this mirrored everywhere. The machines we build to sustain us wear out. The systems we create to organize ourselves decay into corruption. The fire of human ambition burns, yes—but it also leaves ashes. We dream of progress, of permanence, but in the end, everything succumbs to entropy.

What then can be done? Nothing. The laws are immutable. And yet, perhaps there is some consolation in understanding. To know the law of entropy is to know the truth of existence: that all things are temporary, and that within this temporary nature lies their meaning. We do not fight entropy to win; we fight it to live, for as long as we can, with as much grace as we can muster.

What they did not understand, or perhaps did not wish to understand, was that the heat—the very heat that powered the engines of production, the machinery of life itself—was not a promise of life, but a prelude to death. The machine he had helped to build, like all machines, was an agent of entropy. Not the sudden, violent collapse of a great empire, not the crash of a factory, but the quiet, slow death of all systems, the unrelenting expansion of disorder. This was not the collapse of one man’s dream, or the failure of one system—it was the universal condition of things. Heat death was in the machine long before he ever invested his faith—or his shares—in it.

The machine knew this, of course, in ways that its creators never could. The gradual acceleration of decay, the increasingly complex forms of its demise—the system that promised life did not know how to give it, and thus, it only ever devoured. But there is no steering entropy. Entropy does not heed the will of men. Entropy is not a force to be bought or sold. It is the price of the universe itself—the price of every system, every plan, every certainty. No matter how fine the mechanism, no matter how polished the machine, it is bound to the same finality: the dissolution of all things into an unstructured, featureless state. The machine that had promised him a future would deliver none. In the end, he was not an owner of shares, but a shareholder in oblivion.

And so he sat, at his desk perhaps, or at the table of some meeting, eyes fixed on the horizon of history, unaware that the very thing he had pledged his loyalty to—the thing that had promised him security, comfort, continuity—was the very thing that would, inevitably, turn its machinery inward and consume him, and all those like him.

The Social Democrat with their earnest morality, the Jew with their scruples, the teacher with their quietly ethical heart—all of them believe they’re different. That their investment is reluctant, that their participation is marginal, that they are outsiders in the system they profit from. But there are no outsiders. Once you own shares, you’re inside the machine, and the machine is entropy.

The collapse isn’t a bug; it’s the system’s final, perfect feature. The same industry that builds wealth also builds collapse. The shareholders think they can stand apart, that when the system devours itself, they’ll be spared, standing tall on a mountain of profits. But they’re wrong. Entropy eats everyone in the end. And it saves the shareholders for last, savoring their illusions of immunity, their desperate belief that they’ll somehow escape the inevitable.

DRESSING ENTROPY IN HUGO BOSS

Entropy is the ultimate shapeshifter. Today, it wears the sharp tailoring of Hugo Boss uniforms, medals gleaming like a carnival trick, its shoulders broad and its authority unquestioned. But this is just the latest costume. Entropy has been in disguise before: sometimes it drapes itself in the gilded robes of monarchy, at other times in the starched collars of Enlightenment rationalism, or the red banners of revolution. The costume changes, the slogans change, but the fundamental fact remains—Entropy is still Entropy. No matter how shiny the veneer, no matter how polished the facade, the cracks are already there, running invisibly beneath the surface.

Humans have a knack for dressing up their decay, for putting lipstick on the inevitable. We build systems, we erect ideologies, we manufacture empires, and then we place Entropy at the center of it all, decorating it with ceremony and pomp as if to ward off the truth of its nature. The uniforms are meant to inspire confidence, to convey permanence, but they do nothing to stave off the collapse. Entropy doesn’t care about uniforms. Entropy eats uniforms for breakfast.

It’s a sick sort of comedy, isn’t it? We design systems to fight the forces of chaos, but we build into them the very seeds of their undoing. We invent new costumes to dress up the old monster, thinking maybe this time we’ve outsmarted it, maybe this time Entropy will play by our rules. But Entropy doesn’t play. It just waits.

In the end, the uniform is meaningless. Whether it’s the imperial purple of Rome or the mechanized efficiency of modern industry, Entropy always wins. It is the true constant, the quiet devourer behind every proclamation of progress and power. And yet we keep decorating it, as if a bit of gold trim might turn the tide. As if a new name, a new flag, a new uniform might trick the untrickable.

And so, as the once-great men in their now-wrinkled suits and ties watched the world burn, they discovered something else that nobody likes to talk about—when it all goes up in flames, nobody’s standing on top anymore. Nobody gets to win. They were just cogs in a wheel.

The Social Democrat owns shares in Volkswagen. The Jew owns shares in Audi. The teacher—mild-mannered, bespectacled, grading essays about the moral arc of the universe bending toward justice—owns shares in IG Farben. This is not hyperbole; this is history. These are facts. They didn’t buy into Nazi uniforms or Zyklon B. No, they bought into progress. Into a system that promised efficiency, productivity, order. What could be more innocent, more ordinary, than owning a piece of a well-run machine?

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The machine wasn’t broken. That was the worst part. It was humming along perfectly, like a well-fed beast, doing exactly what it was designed to do: chew up the world and spit out ash. People kept talking about fixing it, but no one had the guts to admit it wasn’t broken at all. It just didn’t care about them. It never had.

The funny thing about machines is that they’re supposed to make life easier. And they did, for a while—until everyone realized the machine wasn’t running on oil or electricity. It ran on people. You could grease its gears with sweat and hope and maybe even a little love, but sooner or later, it wanted bones. And it always got them.

People at the top didn’t see the problem. Why would they? The machine worked for them. It gave them everything they could possibly want—money, power, bigger yachts, smaller waistlines. Every time the beast coughed up a new disaster, they just threw another party. “It’s just business,” they said, sipping cocktails made from the tears of the damned.

Meanwhile, the rest of us kept turning the crank, pretending we weren’t the fuel. We told ourselves we had no choice. The machine needed us, and we needed the machine. Sure, it ate a few of us now and then, but that was just how it worked. Progress always comes at a price, right?

Here’s the kicker, though: we knew better. Deep down, we all knew. The machine didn’t need to run. It never did. But stopping it would mean admitting we’d been suckers all along. And nobody likes being a sucker.

So we made excuses. We called it entropy, the natural order of things. The universe is falling apart anyway, right? Might as well enjoy the ride. But entropy doesn’t need our help, does it? It’s perfectly capable of wrecking everything on its own. We just speed things up because we’re impatient. Or maybe because we’re scared.

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The thing about jumping off the machine is that it always feels like the wrong time. The gears are grinding, pistons pumping, the whole thing vibrating like it’s alive, and there you are, clutching the edge, staring at the mess of parts below. The other operators look at you like you’ve lost your mind. “You can’t jump,” they say. “You’ll get chewed up in the gears. Or worse, you’ll end up in the scrap heap.” Nobody seems to notice the machine is falling apart—or that it’s always been falling apart.

But the truth is, jumping off is easier than they make it sound. The hard part isn’t the jump. The hard part is convincing yourself that you don’t need the machine. It’s realizing that every promise it made—of progress, of purpose, of some great outcome—was just noise. It was all designed to keep you cranking levers, pulling switches, and feeding it more fuel. Once you see that, really see it, the grinding metal below stops looking so terrifying. Sure, you might take a few bruises on the way down, but at least you’ll be free of the endless clanking that’s deafened you for years.

Of course, the machine doesn’t stop for deserters. Once you’re off, it keeps roaring forward, its gears turning without pause. And that’s the punchline, isn’t it? The machine doesn’t care that you’re gone. It never cared. You were just one more cog, easy to replace. And while that truth stings, it’s also the best feeling in the world: knowing you’re free to walk away, to start building something of your own—something that doesn’t grind people into dust.

But the machine was entropy. Always entropy. System-entropy, wave-entropy, market-entropy. Whatever you called it, it wasn’t designed to spare its own architects, let alone its investors. Yet they believed. They believed in their special exemption, their clever foresight. The collapse was for someone else—those other investors, those other shareholders, the poor fools who didn’t know how to hedge, who weren’t smart enough to see where the world was going.

So you jump. The air rushes past, the noise fades, and then—wham. You hit the ground. Your knees buckle, your hands scrape the dirt, but you’re alive. For the first time in what feels like forever, the noise is gone. The world is still. You look back at the machine, its smoke trailing into the distance, and realize it wasn’t the gears you were afraid of—it was the silence that came after.

What makes it worse, what makes it unforgivable, is that you knew. You knew what Volkswagen built, what Farben manufactured, what Krupp supplied. You knew, and you told yourself it didn’t matter, because what mattered was the system itself—the unstoppable force of progress, the indomitable march of capital. Entropy wrapped itself in precision engineering and quarterly reports, and you convinced yourself that it was something else entirely. Something clean. Something you could benefit from without ever being touched by the blood it spilled.

And when the system collapses, it collapses for you too. It devours you last, not out of mercy but because you taste the sweetest. You, the self-aware shareholder, the reluctant participant, the one who held your nose while collecting dividends. The machine feeds on your denial, your smugness, your belief that you stood apart.

The world is still, as if you’ve stepped into a void where sound was never born. You look back at the machine, its smoke thinning against the horizon, and realize it wasn’t the grinding gears that filled you with dread—it was the immensity of what lay beyond them. The silence stretches, vast and infinite, a space too big to hold onto and too deep to escape. And yet, that vastness is yours now. It wasn’t the gears you feared, but the quiet that comes after. That quiet isn’t emptiness; it’s potential—the first step toward something unbound and true.

And so it goes.

Philosophy and Konratieff cycles

Konratieff cycles, also known as Kondratiev waves or long waves, are economic cycles lasting approximately 40 to 60 years, named after the Russian economist Nikolai Kondratieff. Kondratieff proposed that capitalist economies go through long-term cycles of boom and bust due to technological innovations, changes in infrastructure, and shifts in economic fundamentals.

These cycles are often divided into four phases:

  1. Expansion (Boom): A period of economic growth, marked by high productivity, technological innovation, and investment. Prices and profits rise.
  2. Recession (Crisis): The economy begins to slow down. Investments stop yielding high returns, leading to reduced growth.
  3. Depression (Contraction): A deeper slowdown where overproduction, excess capacity, and economic stagnation occur. Prices drop, and profits shrink.
  4. Recovery (Revival): The economy begins to recover as new technologies emerge, sparking new opportunities and investments.

Each Kondratieff cycle is usually driven by major technological innovations like the Industrial Revolution, railways, steel, electricity, automobiles, and the digital revolution. These innovations spur growth until their saturation leads to stagnation, setting the stage for a new cycle.

To explain Kondratieff cycles through the lens of philosophers, we can connect the four phases of these economic cycles with key philosophical ideas about history, technology, and social change.

1. Expansion (Boom) – Hegel and the Dialectic of Progress

Hegel’s dialectical method is useful for understanding the expansion phase. He argued that history moves forward through a process of thesis (an idea or status quo), antithesis (a challenge or opposition), and synthesis (a resolution or transformation into a new stage). During the expansion phase, new technologies and ideas (thesis) create rapid economic growth. The economy appears to evolve, building toward higher complexity and productivity, much like Hegel’s vision of progress toward absolute knowledge.

2. Recession (Crisis) – Nietzsche’s Will to Power and Disillusionment

Nietzsche’s concept of the will to power can describe the recession phase, where the initial optimism of progress gives way to a sense of disillusionment. In this stage, the forces that drove the boom have reached their limits, and the economy is no longer growing at the same rate. Nietzsche viewed human striving as driven by a fundamental will to dominate and overcome limitations. Here, the over-extension of economic power and ambition hits a wall, leading to a breakdown in the system’s capacity to innovate or expand.

Both Schopenhauer and Sartre offer valuable perspectives for understanding Kondratieff cycles, particularly when it comes to the experience of individuals and societies within these economic phases. Their existential and pessimistic insights highlight the human condition in response to these broader cyclical changes.

Schopenhauer – The Will and Pessimism in Contraction and Crisis

Schopenhauer’s concept of the Will, which he saw as an irrational, blind force driving all life, can be connected to both the recession and depression phases of the Kondratieff cycle. For Schopenhauer, the Will is never satisfied; it continually strives for more, leading to suffering.

In the recession phase, we see society’s collective Will in action—overreaching and pushing the economy toward crisis. Like the unsatisfied individual, the economy struggles to sustain itself, chasing growth that no longer comes. There’s a sense of exhaustion, as the economic system, driven by blind ambition, reaches the limits of its power. Schopenhauer would interpret this stage as a demonstration of the futility of economic striving—everything that seemed promising in the boom turns into frustration and decline, mirroring his view of life’s inevitable suffering.

In the depression phase, Schopenhauer’s pessimism deepens: the system collapses into stagnation, reflecting the general weariness and disillusionment he often spoke about. People experience this economically as job loss, scarcity, and social despair. Schopenhauer believed that through the recognition of the futility of the Will’s striving, one might seek ways to detach from these cycles of desire and suffering, but at a societal level, this period reflects collective burnout.

Sartre – Existential Freedom and Absurdity in Expansion and Recovery

Sartre’s philosophy of existentialism emphasizes freedom, choice, and the burden of responsibility, which aligns well with the expansion and recovery phases of the Kondratieff cycle.

In the expansion phase, Sartre’s notion of existential freedom comes to the forefront. The technological innovations and economic growth present during a boom offer societies new possibilities for defining themselves. Sartre emphasized that individuals and societies are condemned to be free—they must constantly choose their paths, even though this freedom is often experienced as a burden. In a boom, the choices seem endless, and society exerts its freedom in new directions, fueled by optimism and growth. However, this freedom also brings anxiety, as Sartre would argue, because every new opportunity carries the weight of responsibility and uncertainty about what comes next.

In the recovery phase, Sartre’s ideas about absurdity and the reinvention of meaning take center stage. After a period of depression, where the structures and values of society seem to collapse, the recovery phase can be understood through Sartre’s belief that humans must constantly reinvent meaning in the face of an absurd universe. The economy, having suffered through stagnation and crisis, begins to find new directions, much as individuals must redefine their lives after experiencing a crisis of meaning. In this sense, recovery is not just an economic resurgence but a moment of existential rebirth, where society, like the individual, takes on the freedom to create itself anew out of the chaos.

Summary

  • Schopenhauer represents the pessimism of recession and depression, focusing on the futility of striving and the inevitable suffering when growth halts and ambition falters.
  • Sartre captures the existential freedom and absurdity of expansion and recovery, where societies must confront their freedom to choose new paths and redefine meaning in the face of the void left by economic crises.

Both philosophers add a rich, existential layer to Kondratieff cycles by emphasizing human suffering and the need to confront our freedom within these long waves of economic change.

3. Depression (Contraction) – Heidegger’s Technological Enframing

In the depression phase, we can turn to Heidegger’s concept of enframing (Gestell), which describes how technology becomes a dominating force, reducing everything to a resource to be optimized and consumed. In this phase, the earlier technological innovations now lead to stagnation as they no longer provide growth but instead trap the economy in overproduction and excess capacity. The human experience of being becomes overshadowed by technology’s instrumental logic, and the economy mirrors this, becoming rigid and lifeless.

4. Recovery (Revival) – Deleuze and Guattari’s Rhizomatic Rebirth

Finally, the recovery phase aligns with Deleuze and Guattari’s concept of the rhizome—a decentralized and non-hierarchical network that spreads in unexpected ways. In this stage, new technological or economic ideas emerge unpredictably, breaking free from the old system’s constraints. These new innovations create new pathways for growth, much like how a rhizome grows horizontally, creating new possibilities that reinvigorate the economic structure. This reflects the creative destruction that brings renewal and leads to a new cycle.

In this philosophical view, Kondratieff cycles are not just economic but also shifts in the broader social and cultural logic, shaped by the underlying human drive for power, the constraints of technology, and the renewal of creative potential.

Here’s a list of Kondratieff cycle phases paired with philosophers:

  1. Expansion (Boom) – Hegel (Dialectic of Progress)
  2. Recession (Crisis) – Nietzsche (Will to Power and Disillusionment)
  3. Depression (Contraction) – Schopenhauer (The Will and Pessimism) / Heidegger (Technological Enframing)
  4. Recovery (Revival) – Sartre (Existential Freedom and Absurdity) / Deleuze and Guattari (Rhizomatic Rebirth)
  1. Expansion (Boom) – Hegel (Endless Dialectic, Great Pretender)
  2. Recession (Crisis) – Nietzsche (Power Trip, Reality Check)
  3. Depression (Contraction) – Schopenhauer (Relentless Pessimism), Heidegger (Techno-tyranny)
  4. Recovery (Revival) – Sartre (Freedom’s Burden), Deleuze & Guattari (Rhizomatic Chaos)

Why Have Key Changes Disappeared? The Algorithmic Flattening of Music

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There was a time when music changed because musicians changed it. The 1960s and the late 1980s were moments of exploratory abundance, where artists—unconstrained by invisible hands of optimization—chose their own paths. Key changes, unconventional structures, and unexpected genre fusions weren’t strategic decisions; they were what happened when musicians pushed at the edges of possibility. Industry followed them, not the other way around.

Key changes, or modulations, work by shifting the pitch center of a song, disrupting the listener’s internalized sense of harmonic stability. Western music is built on tonal relationships where the ear instinctively gravitates toward a home key. By moving that center—whether through a direct shift, a pivot chord, or a chromatic modulation—composers create surprise, tension, and emotional lift. The classic truck driver’s modulation, where a song jumps up a whole step (as in Whitney Houston’s I Wanna Dance with Somebody), injects an adrenaline rush by subverting the expected harmonic resolution. More sophisticated modulations, like the pivot from B major to C major in The Beatles’ Penny Lane, momentarily disorient the listener before resolving into a new tonal center, creating a sense of expansion. Meanwhile, Stevie Wonder’s Golden Lady cycles through complex key shifts, never settling completely, keeping the harmonic floor constantly shifting beneath the listener. These techniques weren’t just embellishments; they were fundamental to how artists structured anticipation, tension, and release, making music feel dynamic, unpredictable, and alive.

The Algorithmic Flattening of Rhythm and Harmony

The constraints of a top-down, efficiency-driven system have not only erased key changes but have also stripped rhythm and harmony of their expressive depth. Time signatures, once an avenue for experimentation and narrative flow, are now largely constrained to 4/4 with an unyielding grid of quantized beats. Digital audio workstations (DAWs) and algorithmic playlist curation favor rhythmic uniformity, as deviations from an expected pulse introduce cognitive friction—something deemed detrimental to passive engagement. The elasticity of groove, found in the push-and-pull of live human performance, has been compressed into robotic precision, where even live drummers are often subjected to quantization tools that snap performances into digital conformity. The hypnotic rigidity of a grid-locked beat isn’t a stylistic choice; it’s an enforced constraint, designed to optimize track transition fluidity in streaming playlists and background listening environments.

Chord progressions have suffered a similar fate. The harmonic motion of a song, once a dynamic interplay of tension and release, is now streamlined into cycles of maximum familiarity. Where composers once navigated between tonal centers, employing secondary dominants, modal interchange, and chromaticism to evoke depth and unpredictability, today’s production standards favor the simplest harmonic loops that ensure instant recognition and seamless looping. The industry’s preference for the I–V–vi–IV progression (seen in countless hits from The Beatles to contemporary pop) isn’t purely aesthetic—it’s an emergent property of data-driven optimization. Complex harmonic movement introduces uncertainty, which in turn reduces listener retention in algorithmically curated environments. The once-adventurous chord shifts of artists like Stevie Wonder, David Bowie, or Joni Mitchell—where harmony functioned as a narrative force rather than a background scaffold—are now considered liabilities in a system that prioritizes music as passive content rather than active engagement.

In this Fordist technocracy, where music is engineered rather than composed, the decline of key changes, shifting meters, and harmonic nuance isn’t accidental. These are inefficiencies in a system designed to remove cognitive barriers to consumption. The great pop architects of the past built sonic cathedrals, layering harmonic and rhythmic complexity to elicit surprise, challenge expectations, and reward repeated listening. Today’s algorithmic mandates demand the opposite: a frictionless, uniform soundscape, optimized for continuity rather than transcendence, where the listener is no longer a participant in musical discovery but a passive node in a data stream.

The High-Modernist Gaze and the Elimination of Métis in Music

This transformation in music is not an isolated phenomenon. It is a manifestation of a broader technocratic impulse—what James C. Scott, in Seeing Like a State, describes as the high-modernist faith in centralized, scientific management over the organic, local knowledge of practitioners, or métis. Just as top-down urban planners once believed they could improve upon the spontaneous order of cities, today’s music industry believes that the complex, intuitive decisions made by musicians can be replaced by data-driven efficiency. The logic is simple: if audience engagement can be optimized through statistical analysis, then the role of the artist becomes secondary, if not entirely obsolete.

Key changes, shifting time signatures, and adventurous harmonic progressions fall victim to this ideology because they introduce unpredictability—an unacceptable inefficiency in a system designed for smooth consumption. High modernism, in its musical form, operates on the assumption that an engineered approach to song structure will produce superior results to the messy, exploratory processes of musicians. This is why the harmonic structures of pop songs have been flattened into endlessly repeating loops, why rhythm is rigidly quantized, and why dynamics are compressed to remove variation in volume. These decisions are not purely aesthetic; they are systemic optimizations meant to maximize engagement by eliminating anything that requires too much attention, effort, or patience from the listener.

Kondratiev Cycles and the Economic Logic of Standardization

This shift also fits within a broader Kondratiev-style economic cycle for creatives. Historically, periods of musical innovation and expansion—such as the rise of rock in the 1960s or the genre hybridization of the late 1980s—coincided with economic conditions that rewarded risk-taking and experimentation. In such eras, artists were not just tolerated but actively incentivized to push boundaries, as the industry had not yet reached a stage of full optimization. However, once a medium matures, the incentives shift. As with industrial manufacturing, where an initial boom of invention eventually gives way to automation and cost-cutting, the music industry has moved from a phase of artistic discovery to one of algorithmic efficiency.

This is why the question isn’t whether key changes, odd time signatures, or complex chord progressions are effective—they work just as well as they ever have. The real issue is whether they are convenient within a system built for frictionless optimization. Just as mechanization pushed artisans out of manufacturing, algorithmic standardization is pushing idiosyncratic musical elements out of the mainstream. The goal is no longer to innovate, surprise, or challenge—it is to produce a steady, predictable stream of background content that integrates seamlessly into the digital environment. What was once an expressive art form is now being retrofitted into a consumer product, its edges sanded down for maximum usability.

In this framework, music no longer exists to engage the listener’s imagination but to sustain a constant flow of attention, uninterrupted by the distractions of artistic complexity. It is a triumph of technocratic control over artistic intuition, a system where the human touch is no longer a feature but a flaw to be engineered away.

So key changes die, not because they have lost their power, but because the architecture of our cultural economy no longer has room for them. The system doesn’t need emotional lift or surprise; it needs retention, predictability, and maximum demographic coverage. This is music that must function as content—a substrate for data accumulation, a backdrop to engagement, a tool of behavioral engineering.

The machine doesn’t hate music. It just doesn’t understand why music would need to exist beyond its function as a streamable, monetizable, measurable product.

The decline of key changes is a symptom. The real question is: what kind of culture do we want, and who gets to decide?