The Aura Economy

Walter Benjamin for Bros

Like any young and naïve guy who made the bad decision to get a degree in philosophy, I had a phase where I got way too into critical theory. And just like Karl Ove Knausgaard in My Struggle, I think the biggest takeaway from reading Adorno wasn’t the content itself—it was the idea of being someone who reads Adorno. That shallow identification—the belief that wrestling through his impossible ideas made me more of an intellectual—makes me cringe now.

But there’s one piece from that era I semi-understood and still think about often: Walter Benjamin’s “The Work of Art in the Age of Its Mechanical Reproducibility.” In it, Benjamin basically argues that technology—like photography and film—has transformed how we relate to art. In the past, a painting or sculpture had a certain presence: it existed in a specific place and time. You had to go see it. But now, with copies and digital versions everywhere, art has become more like content. Scrollable. Disposable. I guess this seems obvious in 2025, but at the time, the idea of producing innumerable copies of an artwork was mesmerizing.

One of the big ideas he talks about is this thing called the “aura” of a work of art. The aura is that feeling of uniqueness or presence you get when you’re standing in front of an original painting—like you’re connecting to a moment in time or some deeper meaning. Reproducing art over and over kills that aura. When you see a photo of the Mona Lisa on a mug or a meme, it doesn’t feel sacred or special anymore. It’s been pulled away from its history and originality. While this is all very far from scientific, I think it jives with most peoples experience of art and the way we all interact with its digital iterations—but I don’t know, maybe Pepe the frog is spiritual for some folks.

You would think this essay is one big take down on technology, but Benjamin doesn’t totally hate the shift. In fact, he thinks there’s something kind of exciting about it. With art being so widely available, it’s no longer just for the elite—it can actually become a tool for social and political change. Movies, especially, can be powerful because they reach the masses and get people to think critically. So even though we lose that ineffable “aura,” we gain new ways to interact with and understand art in everyday life.

The Velvet Sundown and AI Slop

Whether or not Benjamin was right about art becoming politically powerful, his concept of aura is more important than ever. Just look at what happened with The Velvet Sundown. If you haven’t already seen the Rolling Stone or FT pieces, they are an AI-generated band made using tools like Suno and generative LLMs. Their music showed up on Spotify in June 2025 with passingly original psychedelic Laurel Canyon vibes. Think, a polite, AI-generated Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young.

At first, The Velvet Sundown denied the AI allegations, claiming their music was "real" and “sweaty‑banged‑out” in a California bungalow (disgusting). But that didn’t hold: Deezer flagged their tracks as possibly AI‑generated, and a spokesperson later admitted the project was "marketing… an Art Hoax". Behind the scenes, the mystery raises bigger questions about streaming platforms—Spotify quietly promoted them via algorithmic playlists, while others wondered if this was a weird experiment in stealth AI industry planting.

What matters here isn’t just that people were duped—it’s what happened once they weren’t. The second it became known that The Velvet Sundown was AI-generated, its aura vanished. Even if the music still sounded good, the mystery, the mythology, the presence was gone. Nobody’s putting Velvet Sundown posters on their wall or driving six hours to see them live. They might keep streaming, sure—but they’re not becoming The Strokes.

And that’s the risk. AI-generated content might be able to mimic style, structure, even emotion. But it can’t recreate stakes. It can’t suffer, or tour, or have a weird on-stage meltdown. And without that—without history, vulnerability, or context—it’s just output.

The Aura of Wimbeldon.

In contrast to the general bummer of AI slop, I’ve been glued to the screen watching Wimbledon. Yes, like every other tennis-adjacent guy who owns too many Uniqlo polos, I fall for the tournament every year. But this one has felt particularly electric.

Carlos Alcaraz, the two-time defending champion, has been tearing through the men’s draw. Novak Djokovic is still somehow immortal. Emma Raducanu upset a former champ and now faces world No. 1 Aryna Sabalenka. Major seeds like Gauff, Pegula, and Paolini are already out. The chaos has been beautiful. Every match feels like it could tilt the entire course of the tournament.

Wimbledon remains the best tennis event of the year for a reason. It’s the only Grand Slam still played on grass, which adds unpredictability and style. It’s also steeped in tradition: the white kits, Centre Court, the celebrities in linen suits. This is what makes it special. It’s not just about who wins. It’s about the sense of occasion. The moment. The history unfolding in real time. Which brings us back to Benjamin…

Live sporting events are one of the few cultural experiences that still hold onto what Walter Benjamin would call their “aura.” Even though games can be streamed, replayed, and analyzed from every angle, nothing quite matches the energy of being there in person. The roar of the crowd, the tension of the moment, the unpredictability of what’s going to happen next—it’s all tied to a specific time and place. You can’t replicate the feeling of a last-second buzzer beater or a goal in overtime just by watching a highlight on your phone. It’s that here-and-now quality that keeps the aura alive.

What makes live sports even more unique is that no two events are ever exactly the same. Unlike a movie or song, which plays the same way every time, a live game unfolds in real time, with real stakes, and anything can happen. That unpredictability creates a sense of authenticity and presence that mechanical reproduction just can’t fully capture. Even if you watch a replay, you already know the outcome—it lacks the emotional weight of not knowing. So in a world where so much of culture has become repeatable, downloadable, and endlessly shared, sports still offer a rare kind of experience that feels truly original and unrepeatable.

Some Objective Measures.

Now that I’ve typed it about ten times, I’ll admit: aura is one of those cursed words that’s been hijacked by TikTokers to describe anything from someone’s “vibe” to their gym outfit. But beneath the cringe, there’s still something real there. It’s not a stretch to say that aura—this sense of presence, uniqueness, and occasion—is what gives art, music, sport, and human experience their value. Not because they can be copied, but precisely because they can’t.

If you want a hard metric, just look at where the money’s going. The value of recorded music has cratered in the streaming era, while the value of live sporting franchises has exploded. That tells you something. Aura translates into economic gravity: people will pay to be in the moment, but not for something that feels mass-produced and soulless. And sure, not all cultural value shows up in market caps—but it’s a more persuasive signal than your dad’s refusal to toss his threadbare Bon Jovi shirt with holes in the armpits.

As someone who loves both sports and music, I don’t want to see music flattened into a totally fungible commodity—just another stream, just another click. But we’re absolutely headed into a weird, slippery future in how it’s made, distributed, and valued. There will still be breakout stars, legends, voices that rise above the noise—but maybe they’ll be fewer and farther between. Either way, I’m not too worried about Wimbledon. Its aura is safe.

B.R.