Spotify Wrapped or Data Collection Glamorized?

It’s nearly time again for “Spotify Wrapped” — or in other words, it’s that time of year when, on top of having to cope with your dad’s out-of-pocket political rants drunkenly spewed over Christmas dinner, you need to worry about whether your music taste will stand the test of a public scrutiny more damning than that at a PMQ… via your own Instagram story. Spotify’s annual “Wrapped” feature is a fun, engaging experience for users and a genius marketing strategy, but it’s a ticking time bomb come November for anyone who’s spent the year stealth-streaming their way through questionable bangers. But should listeners be more worried about a different kind of privacy leak?

Spotify Wrapped is perhaps the most engaged-with example of data collection being rebranded into a positive event. Out with dissertation-length terms and conditions and in with colourful, personalised graphs (cue swooning) of our daily listening habits. The personal touch has the same draw of a BuzzFeed quiz or a zodiac deep-dive — our individuality is essentially externally validated without too much fear of rejection.

The shareable nature of the Wrapped statistics effectively serves as organic marketing for Spotify. What other brand can bank on going viral every single year just by making a few cleverly-coded animations? This strategy not only promotes the platform but strengthens user loyalty; we become attached to our data as a recorded part of our personal histories as if it were an album of baby photos. You’re not about to burn those precious memories by switching to Apple Music.

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery — especially when it comes to marketing. Other services have followed suit of Spotify’s antics, with YouTube Music and Deezer now also offering annual insights into users’ top songs, artists, and playlists. Apple Music provides “Replay”, which unlike the former, is accessible year-round.

One could argue that by providing users with insights into their own data, such streaming services promote transparency and build trust, as users gain an insight into how their data can be utilised responsibly. Under a different light, Spotify palliates data collection by presenting it as ultimately beneficial to users. Aside from the other minor downsides of Spotify Wrapped—its susceptibility to false representation if the user’s listening habits vary and its potential to overshadow the enjoyment of music—, the company’s data collection practices have raised several privacy concerns that many users may not be fully aware of.

Spotify collects a much wider range of personal information than just listening habits. They harvest email addresses, names, contacts, payment details, precise geolocations, system usage, and advertising data. The platform then shares much of this data with various third parties, including advertising and marketing partners. This can be used for user profiling and targeted advertising.

Thanks to the implementation of data protection laws and GDPR, users have the right to access their data and understand how it is used. However, having this right and being able to effectively exercise it appears to be separate battles. Many users find it challenging to manage and navigate their privacy settings fully, and Spotify’s data retention policies—detailing how long personal data is stored and what users need to do to have it deleted—may not be fully transparent. 

In June 2023, Spotify faced a hefty fine of approximately €5 million by the Swedish Authority for Privacy Protection (IMY). The company fell short in its duty to handle users’ data access requests, marking a violation of the General Data Protection Regulation (GDPR). This sends a concerning suggestion that behind the glorious Spotify Wrapped, our other personal data is not as protected as we’d like.

This is part of a trend where data breaches and misuse of personal information are becoming increasingly common. If our identities are conceptualised as statistics and tightly defined categories, we leave little room for true individuality and play into a culture where our identities are sold as commodities. 

This taps into much broader ethical and scholarly discussions around the commodification of identity under neoliberalism. As theorists like Wendy Brown argue, neoliberalism thrives on reducing our humanity into quantifiable metrics — numbers that can be marketed, analysed, and sold. Spotify Wrapped, while delightful on the surface, exemplifies this process. Our love of art and music is an expression of ourselves, but data collection offers this empowering practice up to be digested by the capitalist machine (for lack of a less dramatic phrase). Basically, it dehumanises us.

Postcolonial theorists have pointed out how data collection practices disproportionately exploit marginalised groups, exacerbating discrimination. As Ruha Benjamin discusses, algorithms and data often encode biases that privilege dominant groups while marginalising others — a phenomenon Spotify and similar platforms are unfortunately not exempt from.

In commodifying our music taste and turning our individuality into a marketable product, Spotify Wrapped invites us to celebrate how effortlessly our humanity can be twisted and exploited beyond our control.

So, while I don’t suggest dimming your excitement for one of the cultural landmarks of the year—lord knows we need things to look forward to—it’s worth unwrapping any ignorance around how your data is used, and asking: what effect could that be having on you? What advertisements have you seen lately, and why have they been selected for you? Is your social media feed negatively impacting your mental health? Technology can make dreams come true, but it’s a devious genie — it doesn’t always have your best interests at heart.

Words by Felicity Haslin

A Dar(e)ing Foray into Bodily Fluids and Faulty Sound Design: Yes, I Went To See The Dare

So it’s like 2pm on Wednesday and I’m one flask of instant coffee and two RAND cold brews deep in Laidlaw (mind: alive) toying with the idea of committing to read Baudrillard’s Simulacra and Simulation for my dissertation when my phone chimes. My intestines clench – I wipe away an fading skidmark of hoisin sauce from my joul – I’m in the library – why is my Do Not Disturb off? I’ll tell you why: divine intervention. It’s an email from Warren Higgins at Chuff Media. “URGENT – RE: THE DARE TOMORROW NIGHT”. 

A tear forms in the corner of my eye, rolls down the side of my face. The sound of it hitting the floor reverberates off the cold, angular interior design of the library. The swathes of international students and Herefordshire finance bros in quarter-zips fall silent. They all know what has befallen Leeds… I will be present at The Dare’s gig at Belgrave.

Fast forward 29 hours. 19:00. My room laden with discarded jumpers. I stink of Versace Eros. I have toothbrushed away the red wine tidal mark from my bottom lip 3 times, but I’m starting to think it adds to my vampire-hit-by-a-car aesthetic. I have “All I Need” by Air on my speaker because I feel romanced by the air of the moment. I’ve used my honed research skills (a network of gay men on Instagram stretching from Scarborough to Southport) to recruit another twink to accompany me. I stub out my incense (“Tropical Lemongrass”) and saunter to the bus stop. 

20:30. Everything is red. Adult DVD is warming the crowd up. I turn to my compadre (“sebastiAn? Justice-y? Maybe.”). It’s pushing nine. He’s itching for the man himself to guess the colour of someone’s underwear. All the bodies in the room hold an abstract charge, part anticipation for an act whose USP is manifest eroticanostalgia, part awe of the negative space already held by a not-yet-present act whose USP is also a very rentable suit-and-sunglasses combo. We’ve been waiting: the crowd flicker like candles on the verge of burning themselves out, iPhone flashlights extend out between bodies in frenetic little blooming rings every time a sound technician comes to tamper with the synth. 

21:07. He emerges and the aerated agitation of the crowd bubbles over into a boiling, frothing fever for what is to come. “Open Up” does exactly what it describes as the first track, leading into a breakneck back-to-back performance of “Good Time”, “Sex”, “Perfume”, and “I Destroyed Disco”, the last two interrupted almost comically by brief technical issues that somehow aesthetically align themselves with the sleaze and artificiality of the product The Dare has marketed to us. But the atmosphere is anything but soiled. The pot continues boiling over. There is a sense, in this room, of a unique catharsis. It feels like an embodiment of a deceased pop dancefloor, immortalised as something of the past, something crumbled into territories of other genres for about 10 years, resurrected by a man iconicised by his non-descriptness, his grand interpolation of a milieu of electroclash artists dragged unceremoniously into a prior unrendered present-future.

21:45. The People have been waiting for this. The setlist descends (ironically) into “Elevation” and “You Can Never Go Home”, after an electric interpolation of “Guess” into “Bloodwork” from the rocket-fuel debut Sex EP (2023), giving us a minute to breathe. We are ready for an encore worthy of such a gig, hair matted with sweat and eyes bloodshot, a bass-amplified forcefield pressing in on the room from its edges. He acknowledges what we’re waiting for after telling us we’re his first European show to mosh for him, we roll our eyes: continental Europe doesn’t understand what year-round drizzle and 14 years of Tory office make catharsis mean. 

Then the metallic opening synths of “Movement” lead us into a three-track fury, moving into “All Night” and then “Girls” as the crowd begins lifting dancers into the air, throwing bras onto the stage, screaming “I LOVE YOU!” à la One Direction fanfic. The bass hits, hypnotic, we all know the words, acrylics begin ripping panelling off the stages, scratching grooves into the floor, throwing vodka tonic into the sky. Boys are kissing! Tits are out! I can smell Kesha! Or a Jack Antonoff who never met women who write lyrics in diaries! The roof opens up to the pitch of the night. Maybe we’ll all be swallowed. Maybe swallowing is part of the commitment to the performance. After all, what’s a spitter to a swallower, and what’s a swallower to The Dare?

Words by Kyle Galloway