The contemporary music industry is structured around the promotion of new releases. For record labels, the goal is straightforward: to bring their latest single by its in-house artist into the charts\u2014and to keep it there. Yet, during the 1980s, as the Compact Disc (CD) became the dominant format, consumers began repurchasing on CD the vinyl records they already owned.[1]<\/a> As a result, albums that had been out for years suddenly found themselves back at the top of the charts. However, the charts were originally designed to promote new musical releases. In 1991, the industry therefore introduced a distinction between frontline<\/em> and back catalogue<\/em>: only recordings released within the previous 24 months (18 months since 2008) were eligible for chart inclusion,[2]<\/a> while older titles were classified as back catalogue.[3]<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n With the rise of streaming platforms, history appears to be repeating itself. Industry professionals have observed a growing share of streaming activity devoted to back catalogue recordings: in 2024, they accounted for 73% of all global streams.[4]<\/a> In France, during the same year, back catalogue titles\u2014defined as releases over 36 months old\u2014represented 60% of the Top 100,000 audio streams.[5]<\/a> While new releases continue to dominate the charts (constituting 80% of the French Top 200 streaming),[6]<\/a> it is the back catalogue that is driving overall industry growth. Several explanations circulate among industry actors: the rise of nostalgia-driven listening among younger audiences;[7]<\/a> the \u201clong tail\u201d effect,[8]<\/a> reflecting the coexistence of novelty (as flow) and back catalogue (as stock); and the influence of recommendation algorithms that surface \u201cnew-to-them\u201d tracks, often drawn from the back catalogue.[9]<\/a> Nonetheless, there is widespread agreement that since 2015, back catalogue streams have exceeded those of new releases,[10]<\/a> and the trend is accelerating.<\/p>\n\n\n\n In light of this shift, one might assume that capitalising on the growing importance of the back catalogue while sustaining the promotion of new music would require a redefinition of the industry\u2019s traditional categories\u2014a debate widely reflected in the trade press.[11]<\/a> Since 2020, the French National Syndicate of Phonographic Publishing (SNEP) has included albums up to 36 months old in its Top 200;[12]<\/a> the analytics company Chartmetric has even proposed extending this threshold to five years.[13]<\/a> Yet fieldwork conducted among professionals at major record labels (hereafter referred to as \u00ab majors \u00bb)[14]<\/a> suggests that the issue cannot be reduced to categorisation alone. For these professionals, streaming represents a paradigmatic transformation in the circulation and consumption of music. Whereas physical retailers, constrained by limited shelf space, tended to prioritise novelty, streaming platforms now offer virtually unlimited catalogues.[15]<\/a> This shift has reconfigured the economic model\u2014from one based on the purchase of physical media (logic of ownership) to one centred on digital listening (logic of repetition).[16]<\/a> Within this paradigm, the visibility of work now depends heavily on playlists and algorithmic recommendation systems that encourage repeated listening. Beyond temporal categorisations, it is the traditional marketing and promotional practices of the music industry that are being called into question and reshaped. This raises a central question: how do industry professionals seek to update the back catalogue within a streaming-driven ecosystem that remains centred on the valorisation of new releases?<\/p>\n\n\n\n This article introduces the concept of updating<\/em> (\u201cactualisation\u201d in French) to describe the processes through which the past is brought and revalorized in the present.[17]<\/a> It draws on empirical research\u2014observations and thirty interviews conducted between 2020 and 2025\u2014with back catalogue professionals working in the French subsidiaries of two majors.[18]<\/a> One of which was examined in depth through a doctoral project (industrial PhD). The analysis also incorporates a corpus of sixty trade press articles and reports on the recorded music market.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The updating<\/em> of the back catalogue is nearly as old as the music industry itself. In the first half of the twentieth century, the invention of the record accelerated the rediscovery of \u201cold\u201d music\u2014primarily classical repertoire. Between 1900 and 1950, the share of \u201ccontemporary\u201d music (for the time, that is, post\u2013nineteenth century) in Path\u00e9\u2019s catalogue fell from 97% to 25%, while that of music composed before 1800 rose from 3% to 37%[19]<\/a>. In 1900, the most frequently recorded composers were Verdi, Sullivan, Gounod, and Wagner; by 1950, companies focused instead on those of the previous century\u2014Beethoven, Bach, and Mozart. With the advent of the long-playing record (LP) in the 1950s\u20131980s, updating<\/em> primarily took the form of compilations and reissues. The arrival of the CD, cheaper to reproduce and capable of holding twice as many tracks as a vinyl record, further reinforced this logic.[20]<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n A first mode of back catalogue updating<\/em> involves editorial work on well-known artists who no longer release new material, through reissues and compilations. This practice is mainly carried out within majors. On the one hand, these firms often hold exploitation rights to older catalogues\u2014particularly recordings made before the 1990s\u2014under artist contracts that entail relatively low royalty rates.[21]<\/a> On the other hand, the enduring fame of these artists reduces financial risk and increases the profitability of \u201c<\/em>back catalogue projects\u201d<\/em>, encouraging in recent decades the acquisition of catalogues by majors or investment funds.[22]<\/a> For instance, Sony Music\u2019s 2024 purchase of Queen\u2019s catalogue for $1.27 billion, or Pophouse Entertainment\u2019s acquisition of KISS\u2019s for around $300 million.<\/p>\n\n\n\n As with \u201cfrontline<\/em> artists\u201d, majors have several strategies of updating<\/em> based upon the current visibility of back catalogue<\/em> artists. The research identified three categories.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The first includes forgotten artists<\/em>, whose updating<\/em> is minimal. A professional described a case involving a 1960s artist who wanted her album to be reissued:<\/p>\n\n\n\n I calmed her down by saying we\u2019d put part of her repertoire online. At least, legally speaking, we were no longer doing nothing\u2014since it\u2019s written that we have the right to exploit it or not if we wish. [\u2026] The only issue is that putting something online isn\u2019t automatic; there\u2019s a lot of work involved.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n This situation highlights a tension between, on the one hand, the obligation to exploit a catalogue\u2014or at least not to simply refuse\u2014and, on the other, the expected profitability given the workload required by label professionals. Consumption of this category of artists\u2014whether physical or streaming\u2014remains very low, and the editorial work (digitisation, clearance,[23]<\/a> delivery to platforms) is often considered too time-consuming relative to potential revenue. As a result, majors tend to opt for minimal solutions\u2014putting unavailable tracks online, adding an anniversary sticker to existing physical releases\u2014or licensing the catalogue to another label,[24]<\/a> thereby defusing possible conflicts with the artist or their heirs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The second category concerns artists deemed to be in need of repositioning<\/em>. These performers typically enjoyed major success several decades ago but have since faded from the public eye. A back catalogue<\/em> project manager described the case of a singer who died in 2016:<\/p>\n\n\n\n When he passed away, we were contacted by his daughter, who asked us to create several projects. We\u2019ve already released a <\/em>greatest hits album<\/em>, one or two small low-cost compilations, and now a tribute album is coming out. [\u2026] That\u2019s going to be the first step toward rebuilding his image\u2014by next September, for the fifth anniversary of his death, we\u2019ll release the first complete discography box.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Physical products are tailored to different audiences: a complete discography box set for longtime fans, best of<\/em> compilations for knowledgeable listeners, and a tribute album featuring frontline<\/em> artists for broader audiences. Producing back catalogue<\/em> projects for artists \u201cto reposition\u201d is financially risky, as it is difficult to predict the purchasing behaviour of these diverse publics. This is a well-known feature of cultural industries: because cultural goods are experienced goods<\/em>, their success is inherently unpredictable.[25]<\/a> Traditional media promotion (press, radio, television) therefore remains essential to mitigate risk.[26]<\/a> Even when commercial success is limited, some professionals emphasise the cultural<\/em> <\/em>orheritage<\/em> dimension of their work. As one project manager said, reflecting on his career,<\/p>\n\n\n\n At least I\u2019ll have played my small part in making sure my kids still know these artists.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n The third category encompasses famous artists\u2014often described by professionals as legends of French chanson<\/em>. Unlike those \u201cto reposition\u201d, these artists already benefit from extensive updating<\/em> and remain widely consumed, both through streaming and physical sales. For such \u201clegends\u201d, as for other categories, label teams frequently rely on birthdays or death anniversaries to launch new products. These dates provide opportunities to \u201cspeak up\u201d\u2014to initiate targeted marketing campaigns\u2014as illustrated by a project manager referring to one iconic artist:<\/p>\n\n\n\n In 2020 it\u2019ll be the twentieth anniversary of his death. [\u2026] We design products for the anniversary because there\u2019s going to be a promotional peak in the media, and we ride that wave. [\u2026] Sure, there\u2019s a slightly morbid side to it, but we\u2019re simply responding to demand\u2014because the media will talk about it. And exploiting repertoires, that\u2019s our job.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Such artists are a top priority for majors. They attract heavy listening and are supported by a fan base perceived by professionals as particularly willing to spend\u2014older, more affluent, and loyal. While acknowledging the decline in physical sales, labels seek to capitalise on high-value products such as complete discography box sets targeted at these dedicated fans.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Across these three categories, the updating<\/em> process constitutes a form of heritage-making of back catalogue artists carried out by professionals within majors. Heritage-making<\/em> refers to \u201cthe process through which music becomes heritage\u2014that is, both a monumental legacy of the past and a possession to be enjoyed.\u201d[27]<\/a> This work relies on \u201cmechanisms of preservation, conservation, and valorisation\u201d[28]<\/a> to ensure the transmission of musical works, while simultaneously \u201cfollowing partially market-oriented logics.\u201d[29]<\/a> Over the decades, the products used to update<\/em> an artist\u2019s back catalogue<\/em> have multiplied. Among them, biopics stand out as the quintessential medium of heritage-making<\/em>. Despite being expensive and time-consuming for audio-visual production companies, biopics are easier to promote to the public.[30]<\/a> In recent years, musical biopics have proliferated internationally and in France: Back to Black<\/em> (Amy Winehouse), Better Man<\/em> (Robbie Williams), A Complete Unknown<\/em> (Bob Dylan), Maria<\/em> (Maria Callas), Bob Marley: One Love<\/em>, or Monsieur Aznavour<\/em>, to name only 2024 examples. Yet this surge in updating<\/em> projects has also fuelled critical discourses denouncing the retromania<\/em>[31]<\/a> or foreverism<\/em>[32]<\/strong><\/em><\/a> of cultural industries\u2014in other words, the saturation of the present by the commodified past.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Since the mid-1990s, catalogue teams<\/em> have been created within majors to develop back catalogue projects,[33]<\/a> particularly those concerning deceased artists.[34]<\/a> Professionals working in these teams\u2014especially project managers\u2014take pride in their technical expertise and in-depth knowledge of the works they handle. They often compare themselves to archaeologists uncovering hidden treasures in forgotten master tapes, or to detectives piecing together, clue by clue, the creative context of a rediscovered track.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Their expertise is grounded in both a deep erudition surrounding a given artist or historical period and in their ability to collect and organise large volumes of audio, visual, and iconographic material. This savoir-faire is acquired over years of close work on an artist\u2019s repertoire and sustained contact with rights holders and \u201cconsultants\u201d (close collaborators or fans with deep knowledge of the artist\u2019s oeuvre). These consultants assist project managers in assessing the artistic, commercial, and moral value of unreleased material\u2014ranging from mere \u201cdrawer leftovers\u201d to exceptional unreleased recordings deemed worthy of release[35]<\/a>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Because speaking about an artist\u2019s work posthumously is also, inevitably, speaking about the deceased themselves, criticisms have emerged\u2014most often from journalists and fans\u2014denouncing the perceived lack of authenticity or quality of posthumous releases, and questioning whether these products respect the artist\u2019s supposed intentions.[36]<\/a> The controversies surrounding certain posthumous projects since the 1970s have had a structuring effect on the professional practices of majors.[37]<\/a> On the one hand, observers agree that the number of posthumous releases has increased sharply since the 2000s, some even claiming the emergence of a new \u201cposthumania\u201d[38]<\/a>. On the other hand, such projects appear increasingly regulated, as industry professionals now consider recurring criticisms of the potentially degrading effects of purely commercial logic. The expertise of back catalogue professionals also consists of anticipating these critiques\u2014a form of reflexivity visible, for instance, in the recurring self-irony of project managers who liken their work to that of undertakers. This dynamic reveals a shared process: as back catalogue projects concerning deceased artists have become industrialised, their production has simultaneously given rise to prudential practices<\/em>[39]<\/strong><\/em><\/a> aimed at legitimising and protecting the integrity of the work.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Contrary to what such heritage-oriented practices might suggest, the updating of the back catalogue is not incompatible with the digital era. Since the late 2010s, the catalogue teams of major labels have adapted to the rise of streaming platforms, seeking to rejuvenate the audiences of artists with extensive historical catalogues.[40]<\/a> These teams have diversified by integrating digital specialists, whose goal is to maximise the visibility and renewal of catalogue works online.<\/p>\n\n\n\n In the CD era, success was defined by sales rather than listening; in the streaming era, it is defined by repeated listening. This shift has transformed the logic of catalogue updating: it now relies increasingly on playlisting. Professionals work daily to secure placement of titles in thematic playlists or to create new ones linked to seasonal events, moods, or musical genres. These practices keep the artist\u2019s work \u201calive\u201d, contribute to its ongoing heritage-making, and can also target younger audiences. Yet, as one catalogue label director explains,<\/p>\n\n\n\n You have to find a balance between very careful budget management and the artist\u2019s development in the digital sphere.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Uploading previously unavailable tracks, creating thematic playlists, or releasing remixes are all marketing actions aimed at stimulating algorithmic recommendation. As one digital specialist within a major label puts it: \u201cEditorial playlisting influences algorithmic playlisting.\u201d<\/em> In other words, the more extensive the updating work surrounding an artist, the more likely streaming algorithms are to promote their music to listeners. The shift from a transactional model (the physical era) to one based on repeated listening (the streaming era) has also reoriented the metrics that catalogue teams monitor. Instead of tracking sales, they now follow engagement KPIs (key performance indicators<\/em>), such as average listening duration, discovery rate, or skip rate[41]<\/a>\u2014indicators that measure audience interest and, according to professionals, influence a track\u2019s future circulation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Nevertheless, releasing tracks, creating playlists, or issuing remixes is not always enough to \u201crejuvenate\u201d an artist\u2019s audience. In order to accomplish this, labels must understand how young listeners discover and consume back catalogue music outside of streaming platforms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The \u201cdigitamorphosis\u201d<\/em>[42]<\/strong><\/em><\/a> <\/em>of catalogue updating extends well beyond streaming platforms, as nowadays the consumption of back catalogue titles through streaming is tightly linked to their circulation on social media platforms such as TikTok, Instagram, or Snapchat. In 2024, 84% of the songs that entered the Billboard Global 200<\/em> had previously gone viral on TikTok.[43]<\/a> Among the fifty most used songs on TikTok worldwide, twenty came from the back catalogue\u2014headed by Alphaville\u2019s \u201cForever Young\u201d<\/em> (1984).[44]<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n While the Covid-19 period weakened the live music sector, the global mainstream adoption of TikTok in 2020 profoundly reshaped the recorded music industry. Beginning in 2021, a new term spread through the corridors of majors: resurgence<\/em>. Used notably by industry professionals, the metaphor of resurgence[45]<\/a> designates back catalogue songs that had partly fallen into oblivion and suddenly regain popularity on social media, often in unpredictable ways.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cVirality\u201d can be defined as \u201ca collective and temporally concentrated surge of attention on an object\u201d[46]<\/a>, leading to \u201cits rapid and massive interpersonal diffusion within social networks.\u201d[47]<\/a> While \u201cOld Town Road\u201d<\/em> (2018) by Lil Nas X became one of the first emblematic cases of virality on TikTok in 2019, \u201cDreams\u201d<\/em> (1977) by Fleetwood Mac marked a turning point in the viral rediscovery of older titles. It all began with a video of Nathan Apodaca skating down a road, cranberry juice in hand, soundtracked by the Fleetwood Mac song. More than a year after its upload, the video went viral on TikTok, propelling the track back into the streaming charts. Since then, such examples have multiplied and are widely discussed in the press.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Why do these resurgences attract so much attention from professionals? Firstly, a back catalogue song can once again become a hit and climb the charts. In 2022, driven by social media virality, Spotify reported that nearly a third of its weekly Top 200 tracks came from the back catalogue (compared with 13% in 2020).[48]<\/a> Secondly, a viral song leads to an average of 70% increase in streams across the artist\u2019s overall repertoire.[49]<\/a> Finally, resurgence serves as a powerful lever for an artist\u2019s international exposure, as illustrated by \u201cMakeba\u201d<\/em> (2015) by Jain, \u201cDerni\u00e8re danse\u201d<\/em> (2013) by Indila, or \u201cEst-ce que tu m\u2019aimes?\u201d<\/em> (2015) by GIMS.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Resurgence phenomena have also been observed in back catalogue music featured in films, TV series, or video games\u2014a practice commonly referred to as synchronisation<\/em>. Examples include Kate Bush\u2019s \u201cRunning Up That Hill\u201d<\/em> (1985) in Stranger Things<\/em> and R\u00e9gine\u2019s \u201cJe survivrai\u201d<\/em> (1979) in Bref 2<\/em>, both of which generated tens of thousands of TikTok videos. These cases illustrate new modes of circulation, linking synchronisation, user-generated content on social media, and renewed listening on streaming platforms.[50]<\/a> According to SNEP data, this reconfiguration contributed to a 19% increase in synchronisation revenues for the French market in 2024 (compared to 2023).[51]<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n Resurgence not only \u201creactivates\u201d an artist\u2019s historical audience and increases international exposure, but\u2014crucially\u2014reaches younger listeners, as roughly 70% of TikTok users worldwide are between 18 and 30 years old.[52]<\/a> Marketing professionals refer to this as an \u201caudience<\/em> <\/em>transfer<\/em>\u201d between social and streaming platforms. Majors have observed that resurgence can rejuvenate an artist\u2019s audience\u2014a rare occurrence, since artists typically age alongside their fans. For example, in March 2025, Sony Music France reported that half of Joe Dassin\u2019s listeners were under 34.[53]<\/a> This rejuvenation effect distinguishes the resurgence from viral phenomena involving frontline<\/em> artists: it nourishes the hope that these new audiences will continue listening to the artist for years to come.<\/p>\n\n\n\n From 2021 onwards, resurgence became a central concern for majors. Historically, these companies have successfully reorganised their structures and practices to maintain control over the dissemination of their music. Dedicated teams have since been established to monitor and amplify viral phenomena, and new roles\u2014particularly influenced marketing specialists\u2014have emerged. Yet integrating resurgence into label marketing strategies has proven more difficult than expected.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Two dimensions of virality are particularly problematic for marketing professionals when they attempt to manage such phenomena. The first is ephemerality<\/em>[54]<\/a>. Trends on TikTok are extremely short-lived, with an average lifespan of about three weeks. Professionals therefore operate under constant time pressure if they wish to capitalise on viral momentum. One strategy has been to \u201ccreate\u201d trends proactively on TikTok. However, such attempts often collide with the second aspect\u2014organicity.<\/em>[55]<\/a> As one back catalogue marketing director from a majors explains:<\/p>\n\n\n\n I don\u2019t think we control anything. We\u2019re constantly trying to make videos go viral, but it rarely happens. We spend a lot of money and energy on this, but it often leads nowhere\u2014and above all, it doesn\u2019t depend on us.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n These viral dynamics depend primarily on users\u2019 appropriation of music on TikTok. This new paradigm of musical circulation has introduced the expression \u201corganic trend\u201d<\/em> into the everyday vocabulary of label marketing departments, in contrast to trends actively promoted through paid campaigns.[56]<\/a> This reflects the classic uncertainty of cultural industries\u2014predicting success remains impossible\u2014but in a new ecosystem driven by algorithmic and participatory logics.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Recent examples of resurgence show that viral trends often form not around the artist or their persona, but rather around the song itself: its lyrics, the drop[57]<\/a> used in videos, or the imaginaries conveyed by its sound textures. Organicity thus materialises in users\u2019 creative reinterpretation of songs. Whether arising from user behaviour or algorithmic dynamics, this unpredictability raises a challenge to majors: resurgences cannot be forecasted. Moreover, attempts to artificially create virality can prove costly relative to the results achieved\u2014an issue often blamed by marketing professionals on limited viral marketing budgets.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Since generating resurgence is so uncertain, viral marketing teams have shifted their focus toward reactivity<\/em>\u2014detecting existing viral phenomena early and amplifying their reach. \u201cAmplification\u201d<\/em> consists of rapidly maximising a song\u2019s virality to increase its social visibility and, subsequently, its streaming consumption.<\/p>\n\n\n\n However, to amplify a trend, one must first detect it before it fades. During fieldwork within a majors, I observed a growing number of professionals dedicated either to viral marketing or to data analysis<\/em>. The latter rely on internal dashboards compiling consumption data to monitor, in real time, how the label\u2019s catalogue circulates across social platforms. Over the years, these tools have become increasingly sophisticated and essential to marketing decision-making.[58]<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n Once a resurgence is detected, professionals deploy marketing strategies to amplify it\u2014mobilising various actors across the industry: TikTok representatives, content creators, and sometimes the artists themselves. Consider the following ethnographic excerpt from a meeting within a major label\u2019s back catalogue division:<\/p>\n\n\n\n The label\u2019s digital manager mentions that there are currently 15,000 TikTok creations using a back catalogue track from one of their artists. The marketing director says, \u201cWe need to go all in. Let\u2019s see if it keeps growing and whether we bring in influencers.\u201d The digital manager wonders about timing, since a new single by the same artist is about to drop. The label director replies, \u201cWe take everything! Let\u2019s amplify the resurging track. Our goal is to push the catalogue across all artists\u2014it\u2019s compatible with a new release.\u201d Another manager interjects: \u201cHe won\u2019t create any content himself; it\u2019s going to be a nightmare\u2014he hates that.\u201d The meeting ends with the director concluding, \u201cWe have to try; nothing should be off limits.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Artist participation in trends involving their own songs is described as a key amplification lever. Yet, as this example shows, it is far from straightforward. Some artists do not know how to engage with the platform, fail to see its value, or reject TikTok as time-consuming or incompatible with their image. When artists do participate, the success of the video often depends on their ability to align with the trend\u2019s specific content. In 2020, for instance, Mick Fleetwood (Fleetwood Mac\u2019s co-founder and drummer) reenacted the viral \u201cDreams\u201d<\/em> scene\u2014cranberry juice in hand[59]<\/a>. Participating in a trend thus means embracing the very principle of organicity: accepting that a song\u2019s meaning may escape both its creator and its label.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Over time, professionals have also observed that certain resurgences follow a seasonal logic<\/em>. This cyclicality emerges when songs become \u201cearmarked\u201d[60]<\/a> by users\u2019 appropriations\u2014such as \u201cwe fell in love in october\u201d<\/em> (2018) by Girl in Red, [RF1]<\/a> now associated with expressions of love each October. In France, Joe Dassin provides a clear example of a seasonal resurgence: \u201cEt si tu n\u2019existais pas\u201d<\/em> (1975) resurfaces around Valentine\u2019s Day, while \u201cDans les yeux d\u2019\u00c9milie\u201d<\/em> (1978) reappears during local saint’s days festivals <\/em>or rugby competitions[61]<\/a>. What were once songs from a specific era, cherished by an artist\u2019s original fans, are now reinterpreted and reappropriated by a new generation. Their meaning has shifted, contributing to their transmission, increased catalogue consumption, and the artist\u2019s heritage-making.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Seasonality also enables professionals to anticipate<\/em> organic trends. By integrating this principle into their planning, labels can schedule back catalogue activations throughout the year, no longer relying solely on anniversaries. In other words, with the incorporation of seasonality into resurgence strategies, catalogue updating now unfolds through an ever-expanding calendar of events.<\/p>\n\n\n\n As social media platforms and streaming services continue to redefine the ways in which music circulates and is consumed, the boundary between the frontline<\/em> and back catalogue<\/em> appears increasingly blurred. Some industry professionals claim that this distinction no longer makes sense for younger listeners, who discover older tracks as though they were new. Worse still, according to these professionals, during resurgent<\/em> phenomena, young audiences often mistake the old for the new.[62]<\/a> Why, then, do temporal categories continue to structure professional practices within majors?<\/p>\n\n\n\n With the specialisation of professionals in heritage-making<\/em> or in the amplification of resurgences<\/em>, the rise of back catalogue<\/em> consumption in streaming, and the growing debate on the causes of this renewed interest, label members have refined their categories for thinking about updating. By studying consumption volumes, not at the level of an artist or a single track, but according to the year of release, professionals (especially those within majors, who can compare data across a large number of contracted artists) have observed that the increase in back catalogue<\/em> consumption is concentrated on relatively recent music: in 2023, almost three out of four streams came from tracks released less than ten years earlier.[63]<\/a> This \u201cshallow catalogue\u201d<\/em> (music released within the past ten years) represents the most dynamic market segment of the industry,[64]<\/a> as opposed to the \u201ctraditional catalogue\u201d<\/em> (ten years or older). Moreover, beyond the resurgence<\/em> of older tracks, professionals within majors have found that virality<\/em> tends to concentrate heavily on tracks released less than five years ago.[65]<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n Depending on the major, the categories used to analyse back catalogue<\/em> consumption vary. Some refer to the \u201cearly back catalogue\u201d<\/em>\u2014music released more than three but less than six years ago\u2014while others prefer the term \u201cyoung catalogue\u201d<\/em>, which includes music released more than three but less than fifteen years ago, as opposed to the \u201cdeep catalogue\u201d<\/em> <\/em>(more than fifteen years). However, beyond their temporal criteria, these observations have shifted debates about which back catalogue<\/em> segments should be prioritised in updating<\/em> work. Whereas time and budgets dedicated to back catalogue<\/em> projects initially focused on the heritage making<\/em> of renowned artists (deep catalogue<\/em>) or on transforming new releases into hits (frontline<\/em> labels), professionals within majors have, over the past few years, increasingly turned their attention to the recent back catalogue<\/em> (early<\/em>, <\/em>young<\/em>, <\/em>orshallow<\/em>).[66]<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n Moreover, fieldwork conducted in the French subsidiary of a major reveals how deeply the updating of an artist\u2019s recent back catalogue<\/em> and the promotion of their new releases are now integrated within the same commercial logic\u2014especially for established frontline<\/em> artists. As the director of a back catalogue<\/em> label in a major put it, This change does not merely reflect a desire to maximise returns across different segments of an artist\u2019s catalogue. It is part of a broader transformation in the music marketing model. With the rise of digital platforms (both streaming and social media) and the growing number of tools for direct artist\u2013fan communication (newsletters, Discord, etc.), a new marketing regime<\/em> has taken hold in the industry: the engagement marketing regime<\/em>. According to professionals within the major, \u201cengagement\u201d<\/em> refers both to the process through which audiences become emotionally attached to an artist\u2014facilitated by multiple marketing devices\u2014and to the quantifiable reactions of consumers to each of these stimuli. In this regime, success is no longer about reaching the widest possible audience but about generating frequent and sustained interactions from a loyal and highly engaged fanbase.[67]<\/a> For instance, Spotify notes that, on average, 2% of an artist\u2019s monthly listeners account for 18% of total streams and purchase more than half of the artist\u2019s merchandise.[68]<\/a> Hence the growing popularity within majors of another term: \u201csuperfans\u201d.<\/em>[69]<\/a> In 2023, investment bank Goldman Sachs estimated that superfans<\/em> could generate $4.2 billion in annual revenue[70]<\/a>\u2014a figure that circulated widely across the sector.[RF2]<\/a> <\/p>\n\n\n\n What, then, is the link between superfans<\/em> and the updating of the back catalogue<\/em>? Within the engagement marketing regime<\/em>, retaining even more devoted fans is paramount. This involves not only maintaining frequent communication and rewarding their loyalty but also continually nurturing their attachment to the artist. Professionals therefore speak of an \u201calways on\u201d<\/em> <\/em>logic\u2014constantly providing new music and new products: exclusive content, limited editions, early access, personalised bundles, and so on. An artist\u2019s back catalogue<\/em> (particularly the recent one) can thus be valorised between two promotional cycles\u2014between a new release, a tour, or a new merchandising collection.[71]<\/a> As a result, especially for artists deemed \u201cpriority\u201d by their labels, the year is structured by uninterrupted calendars of new content: the release of singles, promotion of a new album, celebration of a debut album\u2019s anniversary, amplification of a seasonal viral track, and more. Much like the setlist of a concert, in the engagement marketing regime<\/em>, the old and the new are increasingly intertwined.<\/p>\n\n\n\n However, this logic of permanent presence<\/em> is particularly time-consuming and requires close coordination between departments. The anticipation of numerous projects\u2014catalogued in ever-denser retro-planning charts\u2014and the production of an expanding range of derivative products often generate internal conflicts. These conflicts, which become visible during periods of heightened activity, no longer concern only present issues (such as playlisting a track or promoting it on social media) but also future ones\u2014such as producing a new clothing collection or pressing a reissued album. In other words, as the logic of permanent presence<\/em> grows within the daily practices of professionals, so too do temporal conflicts<\/em>[72]<\/strong><\/em><\/a> between teams within the same major. Moreover, this approach demands the production of original, high-quality projects in the eyes of fans, under the constant risk of criticism for recycling old material for purely commercial purposes. Thus, being always on<\/em> <\/em>requires significant resources\u2014so much so that, even within majors, only a limited number of artists are truly concerned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n At the end of this cycle, can we say that the distinction between the frontline<\/em> and back catalogue<\/em> is bound to disappear? Within the marketing regime of engagement\u2014based on the growing monetisation of superfans\u2014this boundary is increasingly blurred and may appear arbitrary to listeners. Yet it continues to structure certain professional practices, particularly in the allocation of budgets between the production of an artist\u2019s future releases (which often require substantial upfront investment) and the updating of older material.[73]<\/a> Likewise, data analysts still rely on these temporal categories to detect consumption trends and guide marketing strategies.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The ways of updating the back catalogue<\/em> have evolved considerably with the rise of streaming and social platforms. Updating no longer consists solely of producing reissues for an artist\u2019s historical fans but now involves the continuous playlisting<\/em> of their work around thematic or calendar-based events. Moreover, professionals no longer simply upload older tracks: they increasingly incorporate users\u2019 creative reinterpretations of music on social platforms to amplify its circulation. Finally, within the marketing regime of engagement, cultivating fan loyalty requires not only promoting new releases but also continuously updating the artist\u2019s back catalogue<\/em>. These transformations have two major consequences. First, whereas labels once sought immediate profitability at the time of an album\u2019s release, they now aim to extend its commercial lifespan. Second, the logic of updating has broadened: it no longer concerns only renowned back catalogue<\/em> artists but increasingly also frontline<\/em> ones\u2014famous or not\u2014as illustrated by the growing acquisition of catalogues from this category of artists.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Temporal issues are omnipresent in the updating of the The Heritage-Making of the Artist and His Work<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n
Updating the Back Catalogue: A Matter of Anniversaries<\/h3>\n\n\n\n
The Expertise of \u201cCatalogue Teams\u201d<\/h3>\n\n\n\n
Playlisting the Back Catalogue<\/h3>\n\n\n\n
The Resurgence of a Song<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
The Logic of Virality<\/h3>\n\n\n\n
Uncertain Control<\/h3>\n\n\n\n
Capturing the Trend: Detecting, Amplifying, Anticipating<\/h3>\n\n\n\n
Permanent Presence<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n
Better Segmentation for a Better Updating<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n
Mobilising the Back Catalogue to Be \u201cAlways on\u201d<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n
Pushing the [back] catalogue is compatible with a new release.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\nConclusion<\/h2>\n\n\n\n