The spring of my freshman year of college was a pivotal moment in my life. It was during this time that my mom made the decision to sell my beloved drum set. The decision was not an easy one for her, but she knew I was passionate about music and wanted to support my interests. So, with the money from the sale, I set out to buy something that would enhance my music experience: an MP3 player. But not just any MP3 player, I splurged on an iRiver iHP-120, a multi-codec jukebox.
You see, I was always the kind of person who appreciated the underdogs, the ones that offered something different than the mainstream. While everyone around me was raving about how amazing Apple’s iPod was, I couldn’t help but feel drawn to the iRiver. It had a certain charm and uniqueness that captivated me. Unlike the sleek and minimalist design of the iPod, the iRiver was a black brick with visible screws and silver rails – a physical presence that made a statement.
But it wasn’t just the aesthetics that drew me in. The iRiver was packed with features that set it apart from its competitors. It boasted a 1.8-inch 20GB spinning hard drive, a joystick on the front, four physical buttons, and a lock slider on the sides. It even had an FM radio and an equalizer button. And to top it all off, it offered a 3.5mm headphone jack, as well as a pair of optical/analog combo jacks for line-in and line-out. This meant that someone else could plug in a second pair of headphones, allowing us to listen together. It even came with a lapel mic and a wired remote, making it convenient for recording interviews or controlling the player while it was tucked away in my backpack.
Admittedly, the array of features was overwhelming at times. I rarely used the wired remote due to the static it introduced, and I never quite figured out how to make use of the optical ports. Nevertheless, the iRiver became an integral part of my life. I used it not just for listening to MP3s, but also for recording interviews for my journalism classes. It became a vessel for preserving memories – from scandalous stories shared by friends to collections of dubiously tagged MP3s borrowed from others. It even served as a way to transfer my schoolwork between library computers and my dorm room desktop.
To protect my prized possession, I invested in a gummy case that came with a belt clip. I also joined an online forum dedicated to all things iRiver. It was there that I discovered a world of possibilities, from replacing the iRiver firmware with Rockbox to upgrading the hard drive with CF card adapters. While I never went as far as actually replacing the hard drive, I reveled in the customization options available to me.
Over time, as technology advanced and smartphones became the norm, I found myself carrying the iRiver less and less. However, I couldn’t bring myself to part with it. Its hard drive became a time capsule of my musical taste and memories. From a folder filled with various artists to a collection of Elliott Smith and Mountain Goats albums, it held a snapshot of my life before the era of streaming services. It even contained a recording of my friend Bill talking about his time in a Jesus People commune. Pulling it out every so often allowed me to reminisce and be transported back to those moments in time.
Reflecting on the iRiver now, I realize that it represented a time of scarcity that seems foreign to the younger generation. My children, for example, have little experience with physical media and find it hard to fathom a time when not having a physical copy of something meant not having access to it. Back in high school, I carried around a portable CD player along with a bulky binder filled with CDs. The iRiver simply replaced that binder, allowing me to listen to my favorite albums on the go. It had its limitations, of course, but it was a different world from the abundance of options we have today.
Recently, I decided to revisit my old companion. I dug it out of a drawer and turned it on, only to find that all my files were gone. Panic set in, and I thought I must have accidentally deleted them. But then, a glimmer of hope appeared as I spotted the “rebuild database” option in the menu. I clicked it, and to my relief, the iRiver recovered a thousand files from the recycle bin. Nothing had been lost after all.
In the end, the iRiver iHP-120 holds a special place in my heart. It was more than just a music player – it was a symbol of my individuality and my willingness to embrace something different. It reminded me of a time when technology was not just about convenience and abundance but about the joy of discovery and the appreciation for what we had.
