No one at Fraunhofer quite knew what to do with L3Enc. It was a miraculous piece of software, the culmination of a decade of research, capable of taking 12 compact discs and shrinking them to the size of one, unencumbered by any digital rights management. On the other hand, the speed limitations of encoding made it cumbersome. After some internal discussion, Brandenburg made an executive decision: to promote the mp3 standard, Fraunhofer would simply give L3Enc away. Thousands of floppy disks were made, and these were distributed at trade shows through late 1994 and early 1995. Brandenburg encouraged his team members to distribute the disks to friends, family, colleagues, and even competitors.

Meanwhile, Popp continued to make scattered sales of the encoding racks, mostly to curious academics and broadcasting professionals. But the door was open to anyone who called, and that summer they met with another struggling entrepreneur, a former fiber-optic cable technician turned music impresario named Ricky Adar. Like Seitzer, Adar had hit on the idea for a “digital jukebox.”

Adar believed that in a few years you’d be able to download music directly over the Internet and dispense with the compact disc entirely. The hitch was that audio files were large, and would have to be compressed considerably for the approach to scale. Fraunhofer, of course, had spent years working on exactly this problem. Even so, when Adar arrived at their offices, he wasn’t hoping for much. Given his past experience with audio compression, he expected the mp3 to be a tinny and unusable bust.

Instead, it reproduced CD music with near perfect fidelity at one-twelfth the size. Adar was astonished. The mp3 seemed a marvel beyond technical comprehension. An entire album at only 40 megabytes! Forget planning for the future—you could implement the digital jukebox right now!

“Do you realize what you’ve done?” Adar asked Brandenburg after their first meeting. “You’ve killed the music industry!”

Brandenburg didn’t think so. He thought the mp3 was a natural fit for the music business. It was just a question of getting them to understand their economic incentives. Adar, however, knew better. His digital jukebox idea was struggling, mostly because he couldn’t get the licenses. The music industry feared that Adar’s digital jukebox would cannibalize physical music sales, and he’d spent the last two years being told no. He explained to Brandenburg the mindset of the record companies: the splendid profit margins of the compact disc, the covetous attitude toward intellectual property, the indifference—indeed willful ignorance—toward both the Internet generally and the future of recording technology specifically. Adar had spent a lot of time trying to get these guys to sign on to his digital jukebox scheme. He’d gotten nowhere. The music industry wasn’t interested in streaming. It was married to the compact disc, in sickness and in health.

The Fraunhofer team already had some notion of the industry’s resistance to change. In October 1994, shortly after being re-assigned to sales, Popp had finagled a meeting with Bertelsmann Music Group, one of the Big Six music labels. It was the first time that Fraunhofer had approached the recording industry directly. Popp made his pitch, and the BMG executives listened. Then they smiled and nodded politely, and reminded him to return his visitor credentials to building security on the way out.

Popp was in some ways a natural choice to manage sales. Of the Fraunhofer team he was certainly the best fit for polite company. He was dark, bearded, and unusually handsome. He wore glasses, dressed sharply, and spoke with a deep and sonorous voice. But he was still an engineer, and not naturally predisposed to the art of the deal. What Fraunhofer really needed was a closer—and then, almost on cue, one arrived.

His name was Henri Linde, and he worked as a licensing manager for the French conglomerate Thomson SA, where he had spent his career negotiating. Along with AT&T, Thomson had acted as the corporate sponsors of the mp3, and by late 1995 the company had sunk more than a million dollars into the project. In fact, researchers at Thomson had independently secured basic patents on the technology, and they had an outsized stake in its future revenues. But no one at Thomson’s headquarters in Paris had the faintest concept of what they’d actually invested in. Linde was dispatched to Erlangen to author a situation report.

He approached the mp3, in his own words, “unburdened by knowledge.” He had no engineering background. He did not understand the math. He did not build his own loudspeakers. His sole qualification for the job was that he spoke German. When the Fraunhofer team tried to explain how the technology worked, with talk of reference frames and bit reservoirs and polyphase quadrature filter banks, it was his turn to nod and smile politely. Yet, unlike the BMG executives, he could see at once that the engineers had achieved something remarkable: they’d obsolesced the compact disc.

Perhaps the only thing more remarkable than Fraunhofer’s accomplishment was their total failure to capitalize on it. Although he liked the Fraunhofer group personally, to Linde it seemed they weren’t really businessmen. They were scientists. They didn’t understand the marketplace, they didn’t understand sales, and they definitely didn’t understand how to profit from intellectual property. Looking over the paperwork, Linde realized that even the few licensing agreements the team had so far signed would have to be renegotiated.

Linde reported back to Thomson headquarters with the startling news: on an overlooked line item in the corporate R&D budget, six German nerds were sitting on a gold mine. The response from corporate was skeptical. If the mp3 was so great, how come no one was using it? Perhaps Linde should try selling laser discs as well. But Linde kept pushing, and finally his corporate overseers conceded that, in the unlikely event that he ever found a customer for the mp3, he was authorized to license the tech. They also made clear that this was a side project, and that the work was not to interfere with his day job.

Linde, a born competitor, didn’t believe in MPEG’s profits-by-committee approach, and pushed the Fraunhofer team to innovate. And so they did. Late in 1994, Harald Popp had commissioned a manufacturing run of dedicated mp3-decoding chips. Now, combining one of the chips with a power source, a soldered-on headphone jack, a primitive flash memory card, and a circuit board, he commissioned an engineer to jerry-rig a prototype of the world’s first handheld mp3 player.

The device was about the size of a brick and could store one minute of music. Which minute? The Scorpions were the obvious choice—or perhaps Suzanne Vega—but the team worried that encoding “Wind of Change” or “Tom’s Diner” to mp3 format might infringe on the artists’ copyrights. Fearing pushback from an industry that already disliked them, Fraunhofer eventually settled on an original composition, from team member Jürgen Herre: “funky.mp3.”

Another long discussion grew out of a second question: did Popp’s mp3 player constitute a distinct invention of its own, or was it merely an implementation of an already patented technology? Linde pushed the team to apply for a patent on the device, but ultimately the Fraunhofer group decided that an mp3 player was nothing more than a storage device.

A visitor to the Fraunhofer booth at the Audio Engineering Society’s Paris trade show in February 1995 would have been presented with a compelling vision for the future of music distribution: the encoder on a floppy disk for creating the files, the home computer for playback, and the handheld player for portable listening. The economics of the arrangement were compelling. The encoder was free, the PC market was exploding, and the handheld player could be built by any consumer electronics firm for a minimal per-unit licensing fee. The whole suite was scored to a finely calibrated strain of synthetic German funk.