by Glenn Bennett
There was a time when the four-minute song ruled the world. It wasn’t a rule written in stone, but more of an unspoken agreement—between artists, listeners, and radio stations alike. Four minutes gave you space to explore. You had time to breathe, to build, to layer. You could set a mood, bring in a solo, loop back, and land the final chorus with weight. But somewhere along the way, that space got compressed. That permission to stretch out got revoked. And in its place came something faster, leaner, more impatient.
The truth is, music didn’t just evolve sonically—it sped up culturally. The way people consume sound today isn’t about the long play. It’s about the instant hit. It’s about what grabs you before you even realize you’re listening. Somewhere between streaming platforms, social media trends, and the endless swipe culture, the four-minute track quietly became the exception rather than the rule.
Now we’re in an era where 2:15 is more common than 3:45. And if your intro lasts more than ten seconds, you’re already losing someone. The listener isn’t sitting with headphones on in a room full of silence. They’re hearing your track while walking through traffic, scrolling TikTok, checking messages, dodging distraction. You’re not just fighting for attention anymore—you’re fighting to survive in it.
Streaming platforms changed the game first. When payout is measured per stream—not by length—shorter songs become smarter songs. You earn the same for a two-minute track as you do for a five-minute one, but the shorter song is more likely to get replayed. And replays mean rankings. Rankings mean visibility. Visibility means playlists. And playlists are where listeners live now. So what do you do? You trim the fat. You get to the hook faster. You shrink the bridge. You kill the outro. You make your point and you move on.
There’s a deeper story beneath all that, though. The shortening of song length isn’t just about metrics—it’s about culture. We’ve been conditioned to expect speed. To chase novelty. To scroll before we finish. The algorithm doesn’t reward patience. It rewards patterns. It rewards familiarity. It rewards what’s easy to package, clip, and repeat. And that’s had a major impact on how songs are written, produced, and released.
As an artist, especially one who builds from the ground up—layer by layer, loop by loop—you feel that pressure. It’s like trying to paint a mural on a sticky note. You’ve got ideas that need space, moods that need time, and sounds that don’t reveal themselves in just sixty seconds. But the world’s asking you to condense. To summarize. To deliver the emotion in under three minutes or risk being forgotten.And yet, not all is lost.
There’s still a lane for the long form. There are listeners who want to sink in, who crave that immersive experience, who want to hear something unfold. You find them in the corners—on Bandcamp, on SoundCloud, at live shows, inside vinyl jackets. They’re not the majority, but they’re loyal. They’re not driven by the charts—they’re driven by connection. They’ll sit through a seven-minute loop piece if it hits their soul the right way. And they’ll return for more because it made them feel like time stopped instead of being stolen.
The challenge today isn’t just writing music people want to hear. It’s deciding which world you want to live in while you’re doing it. Do you build for the feed or for the feel? Do you trim everything down to fit the platform, or do you risk being skipped in order to stay true to the stretch of your sound?Somewhere in that tension is where the most honest music is being made right now. Artists are starting to get smart with dual versions—offering a 2:30 cut for Spotify or TikTok, and a full 4:45 vision for their real fans. That’s not selling out—it’s adapting without giving up. It’s offering a door in, and a deeper hallway once they enter.
When I sit with my guitar, or map a drone bass under a slow gear loop, I’m not thinking about time first. I’m thinking about presence. Texture. Vibe. But then, inevitably, the question creeps in: is this too long? Will they stay with it? Do I need to cut it down? Sometimes the answer is yes. Sometimes it’s no. But every time, it’s deliberate. That’s what separates noise from narrative. That’s the difference between chasing the algorithm and communicating something real.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from releasing under @gdotbennettmusic, it’s that some songs find their people because they’re short and sweet. Others find their place because they’re unbothered by the clock. And the key is knowing when each approach serves the art better. Short songs are not lesser. Long songs are not better. Each length is a tool. But you’ve got to choose it on purpose. Not out of fear. Not because the market told you so.
The death of the four-minute song isn’t a tragedy. It’s a shift. It’s a mirror. It reflects how we’ve changed as a culture. We’ve made music quicker because life feels quicker. We’ve made songs smaller because attention is shorter. We’ve cut down length because we’re running out of room. But we haven’t run out of meaning. Not if we’re intentional. Not if we’re willing to ask why we’re writing in the first place.
I still believe in the long track. I still believe in the extended build. I still believe in repetition that becomes meditation, and layers that reveal themselves slowly like sunrise through fog. I also believe in the power of a hook that hits right away and a drop that lands like a punch. There’s room for both in the music world—it’s the middle that’s gone missing. The song that’s not short enough to be viral, not long enough to be immersive, not focused enough to be felt. That’s where the danger lies—not in the clocks, but in the compromise.
So the next time you start a track, think about the time you’re claiming from your listener. Is it 2:15 that says everything you need to say? Or is it a 4:05 that deserves to unfold? There’s no wrong answer—but there is a wrong intention. The only sin in today’s music landscape is letting the trend write the song instead of the truth.
The clock is ticking, but that doesn’t mean the music has to rush. Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do as a creator is to take your time—then ask your audience to do the same.—
“Music like time needs to breathe”
gdotbennettmusic.com 