When I moved to Camden, New Jersey, I expected to find a city struggling with poverty, unemployment, and crime. I didn’t expect to find a post-industrial landscape littered with technological relics that only an engineer like me could love.
My apartment is in a converted factory that fills a city block, and its wall of 14-foot-tall windows was designed to create a well-lit space for industrial workers. From those windows, I can see the river where barges once brought in raw materials for manufacturers that have been gone a long time. A short walk away is a century-old warehouse hand-crafted of brick. Even closer to home are the remnants of the coal yard that powered acres of manufacturing plants. It’s all here if you know where to look. So is the poverty and crime I’d heard so much about.
Peering out those fabulous windows at a notoriously dangerous place, I wondered: “What happened?” and “Why?” Tens of thousands of people once worked in this building where I sit, all of them earning good wages by making things that nobody buys any more. The view from my living room takes in acres of parking lots, and their pavement covers the foundations of still more dead factories. On the far side of the building? More of the same. Within eyeshot of this spot, there were once enough industrial jobs to keep an entire city employed. Now? I daresay there aren’t any.
I doubt that the people working here in the early 20th century could have imagined how quickly the hulking buildings, the towering smokestacks, the massive coal yard, and the far-flung rail spurs could simply disappear. No ruins. Not even any stray bricks. Razed. Demolished. Gone.
Imagine an entire sector of our economy—like the tech sector, with all those jobs in Silicon Valley and beyond—evaporating over the course of one worker’s lifetime. Earlier this month, Microsoft announced it was cutting 14 percent of its workforce. Those 18,000 lost jobs constitute the largest layoff in the company’s history. As I look at those figures, I think of Camden as it once was, and wonder if the future always looks like this: gritty and deserted. Maybe yesterday never sees itself being crowded out until it’s too late. “Eventually,” Bill Gates famously said, “all companies are replaced.”
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Camden has its own place in tech history. The city gave us our phonographs, our Victrolas, our radios, our televisions. Camden helped us talk to men on the moon. Just as Detroit gave us the cars we love, Camden gave us the devices that keep us entertained. The empty land out my window was home to a tremendous communications company that has had a lot of names—one of them was RCA Victor.
It’s easy to retain some distance from the failure of a factory that made gadgets buried so deeply inside a household appliance that they might as well have been invisible. By contrast, our entertainment devices today are our daily companions. The closure of a factory that made the compressor for your refrigerator is newsworthy, but the loss of the plant that built your childhood TV or the creaky old set your grandparents bought before America’s gadgets started being built overseas? When you imagine those people losing their jobs, it’s somehow personal.
The communications industry in Camden began when Eldridge Johnson, a machinist working in a small shop, was presented with a problem. Hand-cranked phonographs worked, but they sounded terrible. In his words, they “sounded like a partially educated parrot with a sore throat and a cold in the head,” according to several accounts. Johnson solved the problem with a spring-wound motor, and the business that he would call The Victor Talking Machine Company began selling record players to a world that hadn’t known it needed them. His company’s Victrola—with its finely crafted wooden cabinet enclosing a flaring horn —has come to symbolize early phonographs for many people. Eldridge Johnson gave people of all classes a new way to connect with their world in the same way that Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak gave us computers to connect to ours. Owning the latest Victrola was a status symbol on a par with sporting the latest iPhone. In a sense, phonographs and smartphones are just two points on a continuum that puts information ever more firmly in the hands of the masses. Maybe that continuum of brilliant tinkerers goes all the way back to Gutenberg. Or Prometheus.
Most of Johnson’s customers had never considered that they might hear an orchestra in their parlors, but they bought talking machines and Victrolas and adapted to the miracle of recorded sound. In 1904, the world’s largest and most expensive sign was erected on Broadway in New York, illuminating its message with a thousand electric lights: “The Opera At Home.” The makers of the Victrola knew what they were selling to customers—entertainment, novelty, status, and the world at their doorsteps. It’s hard for us to look back a century and grasp the impact of the affordable phonograph. When we get a new entertainment gadget, it has a pedigree. A flatscreen TV takes the place of a tube TV that took the place of a black-and-white TV that took the place of a radio that took the place of a phonograph. A smartphone takes the place of an MP3 player (among many other things) that descends from a CD player, a cassette player, a stereo and, ultimately, a phonograph.
But what did the phonograph replace? Before the 20th century, experiencing music at home meant hiring a chamber orchestra to play dance music for your formal ball—if you were rich. If you weren’t rich, you only heard music in your day-to-day existence if you made it yourself or if you had a talented friend. The nearest analogue in modern life to the first mass production of recorded music and phonographs is the advent of the Internet. If you are old enough to remember when you realized that your home computer gave you access to libraries, music collections, video archives, and hilarious cat videos from all over the world, then you can understand why factory buildings leapt out of the ground at Victor’s Camden plant.