Wired, Tired, Desired

The Italian fashion brand Diesel turned heads last month with a new release: a set of headphones plated in industrial aluminium, decked with edgy lockets and charms. True to the brand’s subversive ethos, the headphones sidestep the usual consumer-tech playbook where sleek, minimal, invisible has long reigned supreme. It’s music hardware designed to stand out.

Diesel isn’t alone in leaning into music hardware as a fashion statement. This season, headphones, CD players and boomboxes have been appearing everywhere on catwalks, in collections and across editorial shoots. 

There’s Alyssa Liu’s shoot for Teen Vogue, where the Winter Olympics gold medalist poses amid a tangle of CD players and stereos. Sandro’s recent editorial features a model in bright orange 80s-style headphones. Miu Miu debuted a custom Walkman as part of its SS26 collection. And then there’s the Tati Fête Bag, a viral creation from Nik Bentel Studio: a personal stereo shaped like a bag, with a control panel for spontaneous sound-sharing. The list goes on, quietly multiplying. 

On one level, analogue music hardware now functions as a convenient prop, instantly delivering nostalgic pop-culture charm. But on another, it signals something deeper about the way we listen. Audiophilia, once the domain of obsessive enthusiasts chasing top-tier systems, has evolved. Today, flexing music hardware – whether cutting-edge hi-fi or deliberately low-fi and retro – is performative and lifestyle-driven; a way to signal taste, style and cultural capital. While analogue audio offers a rich new visual and sensory language, brands risk reducing it to surface-level signalling. Without genuine functionality or cultural grounding, these cues can quickly read as hollow – another aesthetic to be cycled through.

The theatricality of analogue audio first bubbled up with the rise of the “Wired It Girl.” Shelby Hull documented the trend on her @wireditgirls Instagram as early as 2021, tracking wired earbuds spilling from the ears of celebrities such as Bella Hadid. As Hull told CNN, it wasn’t about a technical preference: wired headphones had become cool precisely because they declared indifference to tech. “She’s obviously wealthy, she can afford AirPods, but she always stuck to the wire,” Hull said of Hadid. “And there was something so effortless about it: very cool, very unbothered to keep up with the latest tech trends.”

And just like tangled earbuds, retro MP3 players and portable CD players have quietly returned. They offer tactile, physical interaction: buttons to press, weight to feel – a far more personal experience than swiping through Spotify on a black-mirrored iPhone.

Apple’s now-discontinued iPods, in particular, are enjoying a renaissance. A lively second-hand market has emerged around customised iPod Nanos with altered shells and clickwheels. iPod Shuffles, with their Dieter Rams-inspired industrial sensibilities and bright colours, have even been repurposed as hairclips – a form of wearable tech in its truest sense.

At its heart, the MP3 revival channels Y2K excitement: a time of private music libraries, before algorithms smoothed out our taste. (This resurgence also aligns with findings from Protein’s Nostalgia report, which points to a growing desire for tactile, pre-digital experiences – where physical media and hardware offer a sense of control and emotional grounding in contrast to the frictionless sprawl of streaming.) Anyone who remembers the early 2000s iPod silhouette ads – dancers moving freely against fuchsia, yellow and green backdrops to N.E.R.D. and the Black Eyed Peas – will recall that optimism: music players as tools of creative passion and liberation. 

It’s no surprise, then, that Apple devices are a touchstone for a new generation of pop artists. US singer Slayyyter calls her upcoming album Worst Girl in America “iPod music” – capturing the pre-algorithmic shuffle, where U2, M.I.A. and Kid Cudi could appear back-to-back, yet feel sonically aligned. Producer Ninajirachi has similarly mined this nostalgic intimacy in her breakthrough single iPod Touch, turning secret tracks on the bus into unforgettable personal moments. For many, using an iPod today signals a return to music as intimate ritual.

Performative audiophilia extends beyond intimate gadgets. Public hi-fi systems – where superior sound meets aesthetic craft – have become symbols of taste in physical spaces. From Valentino’s L’Atelier Sonore on Madison Avenue to Pharrell wielding the cult OJAS system in Louis Vuitton’s Fall-Winter 2026 runway, artisan speakers and curated listening experiences signal sophistication. Mateo Garcia’s geometric horn designs for Celine’s FW26 show that such systems are as much about visual poetry as sonic perfection. 

The rise of listening bars in London, Berlin, Paris and Barcelona over the last few years underscores this. Dimly lit, intentionally designed, these spaces have become the new default hangouts for those in the know. As Benny Howell, co-owner of UK audio space Holding Patterns, told Dazed: “They’re beautiful, well-curated and open. Listening bars draw from that Japanese influence, but apply it through the lens of community.”

With music quality slipping – thanks to compressed streaming formats and Bluetooth dominance – it’s perhaps unsurprising that audiophilia has become a potent marker of taste, a way to distinguish devoted listeners from the musically disengaged.

But performative audiophilia has its pitfalls. As hi-fi systems and listening spaces become markers of taste, brands entering this space face a credibility test. Thoughtful integration – through sound quality, curation and community – will matter far more than the mere presence of expensive or visually striking equipment.

And like the “performative male” of social media lore, displaying music gear without intention or depth risks hollow pretension. Wired earbuds dangling for cool-girl energy, empty customised iPods or €10,000 OJAS stacks gathering dust: all treble, no bass – and very much audio-poseur territory.