In 1955, Peter Goldmark invented an “ultra-microgroove” 162?3 rpm record that could play in cars:
Goldmark pitched the invention to Detroit, and within days found himself at a Chrysler test track. Horn-rimmed execs swapped records in and out of the player as the auto giant’s president wildly drove a car over a torture-track of cobblestone, speed bumps, and washboard test strips. Goldmark, tossed around the backseat, was on the verge of throwing up. But his player performed perfectly, and the car swung into the test garage with music swelling from its windows. “I must have it for the Chrysler,” one executive barked to Goldmark.
The invention's downfall was as romantic as its rise:
Despite car ads promising “a complete modern record library on wheels,” Columbia Records’ proprietary 162?3 rpm format left buyers at the mercy of a perversely scattershot catalog. Chrysler drivers puzzled over titles like Ken Griffin at the Wurlitzer Organ, Irving Berlin tunes, and a dramatic reenactment of the signing of the Magna Carta. Part of the problem, Goldmark admitted, was William Paley himself: “He didn’t think pop music was a market at all.” Even worse, Chrysler brass agreed, imagining the market was full of people like themselves—executives tired of all that damn rock-and-roll noise.
The Dish 