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It was against this change in consumers’ habits that the iPod was conceived and rushed to market at a pace similar to the manner in which Sony’s Walkman had arrived a generation earlier. It went from start to store shelves in less than eight months—a madcap effort to buoy Apple’s flagging sales during the 2001 holiday season. The iPod, which at first only worked with Macintosh computers, had a novel user interface—a dial that helped people sift through their music libraries—and a much longer battery life than most mp3 players. Buried inside was its most important feature: a compact version of a UNIX operating system that meant this innocent-looking device contained as much computing power as many laptops. In 2003, while the music labels bickered and dallied, Apple introduced the first legal music online service and replaced the notion of an album with the reality of a track.

In the same year in which the iPod was introduced, Apple opened its first retail store a few miles from the Atlantic coast in Tyson’s Corner, Virginia. Later that same day, the second store opened near the Pacific Coast in Glendale, California. The stores were another expression of the need for Apple to take charge of its destiny. For most, this looked like a desperate measure, particularly since there were so few examples beyond the worlds of fashion or cosmetics of manufacturers becoming successful retailers. Apple’s approach to retailing was influenced by the success of another Northern Californian company, The Gap. Jobs had become a director of the company and, in turn, Mickey Drexler, the merchant who led The Gap during its decade-long rise, joined the Apple board. The first Apple store revealed a merchant’s virtuosity. Computers, software and consumer electronic devices were displayed in an atmosphere that was like a breath of fresh, California coastal air.

The iPod and Apple’s stores struck chords with consumers, and the company’s management pounced on the opportunities with the thirst and relish of indefatigable and experienced travelers finally reaching an oasis. Variants of the iPod were introduced as quickly as possible and within forty-eight months it had been transformed from a 5GB monochrome device to a 60GB color player. When any model showed signs of wear, Apple’s management resisted the opportunity to milk the last drop of sales and, instead, replaced it with something better.

The same sort of touch was applied to the stores with their Genius bars and roving sales assistants armed with wireless credit-card terminals. Apple’s U.S. flagship store, which opened on Manhattan’s Fifth Avenue in 2006, five years to the day after first two stores opened, was the apogee. Here, on the plaza in front of what was once another symbol of American success, the GM building, floated a glass cube in which Apple’s illuminated logo was suspended. The frame for the cube was made from hand-blasted Japanese steel, pietra serena stone lined the floors and there, twenty-four hours a day, throngs of people of all ages and backgrounds came to wander, ogle, browse and shop. Apple’s stores reached $1 billion in retail sales faster than any other company and by 2007 its sales per square foot—the shorthand measure of any retailer’s health—was more than ten times larger than Saks, four times greater than Best Buy, and even handily outstripped Tiffany.

Inevitably, Apple’s progress was marred by blemishes. There were the occasional product miscues: a Macintosh housed in a clear plastic cube that developed hairline surface cracks, lame versions of the iPod introduced with Motorola and Hewlett-Packard, battery packs in laptop machines that over-heated and an occasional product, like the first version of Apple TV, that fell far short of expectations. Later a contretemps erupted over stock options, in particular, two large grants made to Steve Jobs in 2000 and 2001 and which he surrendered in 2003. These, and some more made to other executives, attracted the attention of the SEC, stirred up the whiff of impropriety