I have a confession to make: I’m a complete hypocrite when it comes to music. For someone who meticulously separates her recycling and once lectured a delivery driver about excessive packaging (sorry about that, mate), my music consumption habits have been my environmental blind spot for years. The evidence sits in my living room—three shelves of vinyl records, two boxes of CDs I can’t bear to part with, and a dusty collection of cassette tapes that I keep for “nostalgic reasons” despite not owning a working cassette player. Oh, and I stream music constantly on my phone, computer, and smart speaker. It’s not exactly the model of mindful resource consumption I preach about in other areas of my life.
This contradiction hit me hard last month during The Great Flat Clear-Out (a seasonal event where my housemate Theo and I pretend we’re going to significantly downsize our belongings but end up just reorganizing them). As I lovingly wiped dust off album covers and arranged them in some new organizational system that made sense only to me, Theo asked an innocent but cutting question: “Have you ever actually looked into the environmental impact of all this music stuff?”
I hadn’t. Not really. And that’s strange, because I’ve researched the environmental impact of practically everything else in my life—from my shampoo to my bicycle tires. But music? Music had somehow received a free pass, existing in this magical category of “things Eliza doesn’t apply ecological scrutiny to” alongside, well… nothing else actually.
So I did what I always do when confronted with an environmental blind spot—I dove headfirst into obsessive research mode. Three weeks, seventeen spreadsheets, and one very patient record shop owner later (thanks for answering all my weird PVC questions, Mike), I’ve emerged with a much clearer picture of music’s environmental footprint. And it’s… complicated.
Let’s start with vinyl, the format that environmentalists love to hate but music enthusiasts (myself included) can’t seem to quit. The hard truth is that records are essentially fossil fuel pucks. Traditional vinyl is made from polyvinyl chloride (PVC), one of the most environmentally problematic plastics out there. A standard 12-inch record contains about 135-160 grams of PVC, and the production process involves numerous toxic chemicals and significant energy consumption.
When I first discovered this, I felt that familiar pang of eco-guilt as I eyed my record collection. Those beautiful album covers and that warm sound suddenly seemed tainted. But then I noticed something interesting in my research: the environmental impact of vinyl varies dramatically depending on how it’s produced and—crucially—how long it lasts. A record pressed in the 1970s that’s been played for 50 years has a very different lifetime carbon footprint than a picture disc special edition that gets played twice and sits on a shelf.
This led me down the rabbit hole of “lifecycle assessment”—the idea that we need to consider the entire lifespan of a product, not just its production. And this is where physical media like vinyl gets interesting. Records are remarkably durable when properly cared for. Many of my parents’ records from the 60s and 70s still play perfectly, which means their environmental impact has been spread over decades. Records can also be recycled (though it’s complicated and not widely available), passed down through generations, or resold—extending their useful life and avoiding the production of new materials.
My head was spinning with these complex calculations when I moved on to CDs. Compact discs are made from polycarbonate plastic rather than PVC, which is somewhat less problematic environmentally. They also contain aluminum, lacquer, and various dyes. A single CD weighs only about 15-20 grams—significantly less material than vinyl—but the cases add another 70-100 grams of plastic. The production process is less energy-intensive than vinyl pressing, but CDs are also less durable and harder to repair when damaged.
My CD collection from the 90s shows the scars of enthusiastic teenage listening—scratches, cracked cases, and those weird cloudy marks that somehow appeared despite my careful handling. Unlike vinyl, which can often be professionally cleaned and restored, a badly scratched CD is usually destined for the bin. (Though I’ve definitely tried the toothpaste-buffing technique with mixed results.)
Then there are cassette tapes—those wonderfully tactile little plastic packages of music that defined my childhood. Made from polyester, polycarbonate, and various metals, tapes actually contain less plastic than CDs or vinyl in terms of raw weight. But they’re notoriously fragile (who hasn’t experienced the heartbreak of a favorite tape unspooling?), difficult to repair, and nearly impossible to recycle due to their mixed materials.
As I was cataloging the environmental sins of my physical music collection, I almost convinced myself that streaming must be the green solution. After all, there’s no physical product, no shipping, no shelf space required—just pure music delivered electronically. Surely that’s better for the planet?
Well… it’s not that simple. (It never is with environmental questions, is it?)
Music streaming services rely on vast data centers running 24/7, a global network infrastructure, and the electricity needed to power all those systems. Every time I stream my comfort-listening playlist while cooking dinner, I’m using server resources, network bandwidth, and the energy required to run my internet connection and playback device. It adds up surprisingly quickly.
The numbers I found were eye-opening. Depending on the quality of the stream, an hour of music streaming generates between 25-350 grams of CO2. The huge variation depends on factors like streaming quality (higher quality = more data = more energy), the energy efficiency of the data centers involved, and the carbon intensity of the electricity used to power everything from servers to your phone.
But here’s where it gets really interesting: the environmental impact of streaming versus owning physical media depends entirely on how many times you listen to the music. A vinyl record might have a production footprint of 2-5 kg of CO2, but if you play it 100 times, that works out to just 20-50 grams per listen—potentially less than high-quality streaming. A CD has a lower production footprint of 1-2 kg CO2, making it even more competitive with repeated listens.
In other words, if you’re someone who listens to the same albums repeatedly (hello, fellow obsessive music fans), owning physical media can actually be more environmentally friendly than streaming the same music hundreds of times. But if you’re more of a musical explorer who rarely listens to the same track twice, streaming generates less carbon per listen.
My head was starting to hurt from all these complex calculations and conditional statements. Is my vinyl habit environmentally defensible or not? The answer kept coming back: it depends.
It depends on how the vinyl was manufactured (some pressing plants are now using renewable energy and recycled materials). It depends on how many times I’ll play each record over its lifetime. It depends on whether I’ll eventually pass it on to someone else or if it’ll end up in landfill. It depends on the energy sources powering the streaming services I use. There’s no simple, universal answer.
Which is, I suppose, true of most environmental questions when you dig deep enough. But still, I needed some practical guidelines for my own music consumption habits. So I developed what Theo now teasingly calls “Eliza’s Music Manifesto” (though it’s really just a few scribbled notes stuck to our fridge):
First, I’m going to be more intentional about physical purchases. No more impulse-buying records that I’ll only play once. If I’m going to own vinyl, it should be for albums I’ll listen to repeatedly over many years or that have special artistic value in physical form. The beautiful gatefold artwork, the ritual of cleaning the record and carefully dropping the needle—these experiences can justify the material cost for music that truly matters to me.
Second, I’m exploring greener options within physical media. Some of my research led me to companies making records from recycled vinyl or even bioplastics derived from non-fossil fuel sources. Yes, they’re more expensive, but buying fewer, better records seems like a good approach. I’m also looking at second-hand purchasing, which extends the life of existing records without driving new production.
Third, I’m being more conscious about my streaming habits. Simple changes like downloading playlists for offline listening rather than repeatedly streaming the same songs, reducing streaming quality when I’m just playing background music, and using wifi instead of mobile data (which is generally more energy-efficient) can reduce the carbon footprint of digital listening.
Fourth, I’m supporting artists and labels who are addressing these issues. Several independent labels are now offering carbon-neutral or carbon-negative releases, investing in environmental projects to offset the impact of their physical products. Musicians like Coldplay and The 1975 have been experimenting with more sustainable touring and merchandise practices. Putting my money behind these initiatives encourages more widespread adoption.
Finally—and this was perhaps the most important realization—I’m accepting that perfect environmental purity is not achievable in music consumption or any other aspect of modern life. The goal isn’t zero impact (which is impossible unless I stop listening to music entirely, which would be a sad existence indeed). The goal is mindfulness, making informed choices, and gradually reducing my footprint where possible.
This whole journey has made me think differently about my relationship with music. The environmental impact isn’t just about the format—it’s about our entire approach to cultural consumption. We’ve moved from a world where recorded music was relatively rare and precious to one where it’s essentially infinite and instantly accessible. That shift has changed not just how much energy and resources we use, but how we value and engage with music itself.
I’m not giving up my record collection, nor am I canceling my streaming subscriptions. But I am bringing the same thoughtfulness to music that I try to bring to other areas of my life. And interestingly, that thoughtfulness might actually enhance my enjoyment. When I carefully select a record to buy rather than acquiring it impulsively, when I fully engage with an album rather than having it as disposable background noise, I’m not just reducing environmental impact—I’m creating a deeper relationship with the music itself.
Last night, I invited some friends over for dinner and pulled out a second-hand copy of Nina Simone’s “Baltimore” that I’d found at a local record store. We listened to the whole album straight through while we ate, the warm vinyl sound filling my small flat. No skipping tracks, no algorithm-generated recommendations, just intention and presence with that specific collection of songs. It felt valuable in a way that’s hard to describe—like we were participating in something more meaningful than casual consumption.
So maybe the answer isn’t choosing vinyl OR streaming as the “correct” environmental option. Maybe it’s about bringing more consciousness to both—treating streaming with the respect usually reserved for physical media and ensuring physical purchases truly earn their material cost through repeated, meaningful use. Music matters too much to be treated as disposable, regardless of how we access it. And finding a balance that honors both the art and the planet seems like a harmony worth striving for.
