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I will never forget the first time I held my father's original vinyl copy of The Velvet Underground And Nico. For decades it had been left to the dust, abandoned in a cardboard casket bearing the marker-pen epitaph "John's Old Records", but I had unearthed it, and found myself clutching it in a state of rhapsodic paralysis. One blow to lift its dusty film, and I was left with the same bone white sleeve and electric yellow banana peel (still unpeeled) my father had acquired at some shanty record store in '72. I had known the album for ages, was essentially brought up on it, but this discovery was different. I really owned it now -- Nico, Lou, Warhol, those four sweaty, New York City nights in Scepter Studios -- the whole damn thing.
Recent headlines have been heralding the end of vinyl's hiatus, and oddly it seems that Generation Y-ers like myself are the ones getting struck the hardest by these resuscitated sound waves. One listen to side A of Beggar's Banquet and all of my friends started setting aside their weekly booze change for a turntable fund. My brother recently spent a week's worth of dishwashing money on Pavement's 5-LP box set, and record players are suddenly the coolest dorm room accessory since lava-lamps. Even US retail giant Best Buy has made room for a vinyl section.
It's an odd sort of phenomenon. In the midst of the most digitally adapted age we have ever known, kids are buying records again. In 2009 alone LP sales rose 33% in the US, twice the rate of digital album sales (Nielsen Soundscan), and 5.2% in the UK, with CD sales dropping 20% (UK Charts Company). And while vinyl still represents a relatively tiny percentage of total music sales, audiophilia is clearly a growing vocation. So what does it all mean? Has my generation, one for whom the iPod has become an auxiliary limb, become digitally disillusioned? Do we pine for an age when music was more than a lifestyle accessory squeezed through "ear buds", something we sought out, sat down to experience, and could hold in our hands?
You may roll your eyes when you pass a display of turntables in the window of Urban Outfitters, but the Back To Vinyl movement is something more than the latest hipster fad. Nigel House, manager of the Rough Trade Record stores, summarized it perfectly when he confronted me with the question: "I remember the first record I ever bought. Do you remember your first download?"
"I think there's a sense of horror with this generation that music is both made and distributed digitally," says 25-year singer-songwriter Johnny Flynn. "Today we can still dig up our heroes, like the Beatles masterpieces. We can still get the physical object. But will that always be the case?"
But it's not just about digital's ephemerality. Music is an art form, and like a painting or a good book, it reflects the time and value we invest in it. Today's youth have begun to understand this - much like their fathers who waited breathlessly for a Beach Boys record, emptied their pockets to watch it spin and pinned its album sleeve to their bedroom walls. The elegance of Cover Flow, and the convenience of the iTunes store are one thing, but there is a kind of beauty in the frayed edges of an aging album sleeve, and the ritual lift and drop of the needle that seem to be worth holding onto. Not to mention the acres of sonic detail we've slowly been scammed out of.
For those of us who grew up in a world where the stifled cry of a CD was the benchmark for quality recording, listening to analogue is like audio-alchemy. We even relish its imperfections. "The crackle before the album comes on is magical," reflects 25-year-old bassist Urby Whale of Noah And The Whale. In a world so seemingly bent on efficiency and advancement, that sentiment may appear passé, but vinyl lovers have good reason to remain optimistic. With new generations falling for its charms, in sixty years time we may still be blowing the dust off our styli and journeying through albums from start to finish (with an intermission between sides 1 and 2) because frankly there are some things technology just can't improve on.
Music should be something we can feel in our bones, and as Flynn remarks, "it comes from a physical entity, not numbers in space."
Liz Kulze
Recent headlines have been heralding the end of vinyl's hiatus, and oddly it seems that Generation Y-ers like myself are the ones getting struck the hardest by these resuscitated sound waves. One listen to side A of Beggar's Banquet and all of my friends started setting aside their weekly booze change for a turntable fund. My brother recently spent a week's worth of dishwashing money on Pavement's 5-LP box set, and record players are suddenly the coolest dorm room accessory since lava-lamps. Even US retail giant Best Buy has made room for a vinyl section.
It's an odd sort of phenomenon. In the midst of the most digitally adapted age we have ever known, kids are buying records again. In 2009 alone LP sales rose 33% in the US, twice the rate of digital album sales (Nielsen Soundscan), and 5.2% in the UK, with CD sales dropping 20% (UK Charts Company). And while vinyl still represents a relatively tiny percentage of total music sales, audiophilia is clearly a growing vocation. So what does it all mean? Has my generation, one for whom the iPod has become an auxiliary limb, become digitally disillusioned? Do we pine for an age when music was more than a lifestyle accessory squeezed through "ear buds", something we sought out, sat down to experience, and could hold in our hands?
You may roll your eyes when you pass a display of turntables in the window of Urban Outfitters, but the Back To Vinyl movement is something more than the latest hipster fad. Nigel House, manager of the Rough Trade Record stores, summarized it perfectly when he confronted me with the question: "I remember the first record I ever bought. Do you remember your first download?"
"I think there's a sense of horror with this generation that music is both made and distributed digitally," says 25-year singer-songwriter Johnny Flynn. "Today we can still dig up our heroes, like the Beatles masterpieces. We can still get the physical object. But will that always be the case?"
But it's not just about digital's ephemerality. Music is an art form, and like a painting or a good book, it reflects the time and value we invest in it. Today's youth have begun to understand this - much like their fathers who waited breathlessly for a Beach Boys record, emptied their pockets to watch it spin and pinned its album sleeve to their bedroom walls. The elegance of Cover Flow, and the convenience of the iTunes store are one thing, but there is a kind of beauty in the frayed edges of an aging album sleeve, and the ritual lift and drop of the needle that seem to be worth holding onto. Not to mention the acres of sonic detail we've slowly been scammed out of.
For those of us who grew up in a world where the stifled cry of a CD was the benchmark for quality recording, listening to analogue is like audio-alchemy. We even relish its imperfections. "The crackle before the album comes on is magical," reflects 25-year-old bassist Urby Whale of Noah And The Whale. In a world so seemingly bent on efficiency and advancement, that sentiment may appear passé, but vinyl lovers have good reason to remain optimistic. With new generations falling for its charms, in sixty years time we may still be blowing the dust off our styli and journeying through albums from start to finish (with an intermission between sides 1 and 2) because frankly there are some things technology just can't improve on.
Music should be something we can feel in our bones, and as Flynn remarks, "it comes from a physical entity, not numbers in space."
Liz Kulze
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