Missing, presumed dead: A eulogy for my trusty, ancient, lost MP3 recorder.

It was there when I met Elizabeth Moss on the snowy Toronto set of The Handmaid’s Tale, my hands shaking from the below-freezing temperatures. It was also there when I sat between Killer Mike and El-P backstage at the Echoplex in Los Angeles, just Run the Jewels and me enjoying their hefty rider – a massive tapas platter. The red light was on in an Auckland hotel complex when I spoke to John Paul Jones from Them Crooked Vultures (and Led Zeppelin!) as Dave Grohl mixed drinks behind the bar. It was switched on backstage interviewing bands at Coachella, the Big Day Out and all of the Laneways. And it was there as I met dozens of emotional musicians in the dying days of the Kings Arms as eyes stared at floors and tears dripped into beers.

My small silver MP3 recorder has been there for everything. That time Miley Cyrus fled paparazzi in a limousine while clutching her tiny dog tightly. On the table when Bob Odenkirk and Vince Gilligan told me their new show Better Call Saul was waaay better than Breaking Bad. In my hand when I vomited all over the front lawn of a luxury Sydney hotel just minutes before interviewing Emma Stone and Andrew Garfield on camera. When I was granted five minutes with a very grumpy Harrison Ford but he cut it to four by taking a cellphone call from his wife, Calista Flockhart. Also, that time I hung up on Wiz Khalifa for being a bad interviewee and a terrible person.

Over the past 16 years, my MP3 recorder has captured every key moment. Almost every story I’ve written over that time began with something stored on it. It’s travelled everywhere with me, recording thousands of interviews. Going solo on a Fijian couples cruise. This bonkers week in Las Vegas. Two hectic hours in Zane Lowe’s Apple Music studio. Seven minutes with Lorde. It has captured moments with artists and bands who are no longer with us. A very hungover Mac Miller. A delightfully chirpy Chris Cornell. A delirious phone call with Foo Fighters drummer Taylor Hawkins. One of Shihad’s final interviews before they disbanded. Name someone from film, TV, music or gaming over the past two decades and it’s highly likely their voice was captured by my recorder.

All that for just $130. That’s all it cost in 2010 to purchase my new Sanyo MP3 recorder. Work paid. I pulled it out of the plastic and stuffed it into my pocket next to my keys and my iPhone 4. Soon, I never left the house without it. I know that device so intimately I can operate it without looking at it. Slide the side button up to turn it on. Push the larger button to record, the smaller button to stop. Better, flasher MP3 recorders hit the market soon after I got mine. Then iPhones offered voice recorder apps, making my device obsolete. Yet I couldn’t part with it. It was discrete, trusty, reliable. I liked how old it was, how it felt like I was carrying my own personal piece of history around with me. It felt like every interview added to the canon, like another book going on the library shelf.

I’m taking a gentle stroll down memory lane today because my MP3 recorder has gone AWOL. It is missing, presumed dead. At some stage last week, it just disappeared. I have never lost it before. By now it feels like an extension of me, a fifth limb. It’s always there. And now it’s not. I have panic-searched everywhere: benches, bags, cars, jackets, pant pockets and bins, even places it could not possibly be. I called every store I visited on Friday. It’s not there. It’s nowhere. It’s just … gone. The timing is eerie. Like many journalists in 2026, I have found myself between jobs, looking for work, scanning Linkedin and Seek, wondering what’s next. Mondays are bad. Tuesdays aren’t great either. I feel adrift and unmoored. Being separated from my MP3 recorder isn’t helping.

Do I replace it? Get a new one? Start the whole process again? Or do I give in, modernise and use an iPhone app? All options feel wrong. In an ideal world, my MP3 recorder will show up today, perhaps down the back of a couch, or stuck in a shoe, but I have already searched those places several times over. There are files on that device that need to be transferred to my laptop, crucial interviews that need to be transcribed. I can’t lose them. I don’t want to ask for re-dos. That’s embarrassing. It’s never as good. It always feels awkward. I’ll look like a noob. It’s only happened twice in 25 years. I just want my MP3 recorder back. I need it. I miss it. Part of me even thinks: how do I do journalism without it?

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