As We See It

Dedicated readers know that lately in this space I've been on something of an analog kick. Two months ago, in the October issue, I wrote about refurbishing and modding my old McIntosh FM tuner. Last month's column was on the much-discussed but little-understood topic of the skating force on a phono cartridge stylus.

This month, I am writing about what could be the ultimate analog topic circa 2025: A prominent vinyl-only record club is going totally offline. Is it a marketing gimmick? Sure it is, but read on.

I am a former Vinyl Me, Please (VMP) member. In the spring, my membership was up for renewal. I had joined on a whim, and while I found their pressings excellent, their titles were a mixed bag. Then I heard that CEO Cameron Schaefer and CFO/Chief Strategy Officer Rich Kylberg had been fired, accused of funneling VMP profits to build a record-pressing plant. I also heard that people were not receiving records they had paid for, though I did not experience that myself. For good measure, I deleted my credit card info so that I couldn't be charged. About a week after I canceled my membership, I heard VMP was closing.

The pressing-plant story has a happy ending. The Denver-based plant eventually opened under different ownership, as Paramount Pressing, run by musician Dave Rawlings and vinyl-tech guru Gary Salstrom. There's no remaining connection with VMP.

In late September, VMP threw its doors open again, announcing their rebirth by sending me a record. Inside the box was a newsletter formatted like a newspaper, with the VMP tagline "The Best Damn Record Club" featured prominently. On p.3, in huge red letters, it said "VMP IS NOW OFFLINE." Below that was a brief note led off by the words "Signing Off."

Farther down, also in huge red characters, was the phrase "F*CK THE INTERNET" (with a U instead of an asterisk), a phone number, and the phrase "TEXT 'VMP' TO START."

To distill: VMP has started up again, under new ownership. This time around, there will be no website, no online ordering—just a monthly newsletter and a telephone number. That's seriously old school, something I could get behind, especially from a purveyor exclusively of physical media. It hangs together.

According to an article in St. Louis magazine, Nick Alt, the current VMP CEO, founded a different vinyl business, VNYL, in 2014, describing it as the "Netflix of records." The plan, apparently, was to rent them out like the old Netflix did with DVDs, but Alt quickly learned that it's illegal to rent out records. (Why are movies okay but not records? I don't know.) VNYL wasn't the only new record club starting up around that time. Others tried; some didn't do so well. Some of those that struggled found Alt waiting, ready to pick up the pieces. In 2024, Alt acquired VinylBox. BandBox was next. VinylBox, BandBox, and VNYL remained separate record clubs, with different approaches and customer bases. "We're building different clubs to serve different types of listeners—with pricing and curation that actually match their needs," Alt was quoted as saying.

As I already wrote, I canceled my VMP membership—so why did I get a record in the mail? A note in the box indicated that it was to make up for a record I should have received in April, though it's an unfamiliar title, not something I selected.

I did due diligence: I looked at my account online and noticed an attempted charge of $521.52 by Vinyl Me, Please, which I hadn't authorized. That presumably is the cost of a full-year membership. Fortunately, the charge was declined, because that credit card—the one I had deleted from my VMP account—was no longer valid. (FedEx tried to charge my card for an import tariff I didn't owe on a product on loan for review. I disputed that charge and won.) I guess the number wasn't purged from their records.

But never mind all that. VMP is now an all-analog business: no website, no FAQ, just a phone number—(314) 300-9979. The newsletter made it clear that I could send a text—but why would I want to when I could "dial" them up and talk to a human?

A mechanical answering-service voice told me the number was for text messages only—only temporary as they worked to get their ducks in a row. I should text "VMP" to the number indicated, it said. Instead, I sent the following message. I'm paraphrasing to save space.

"I canceled my membership before the old VMP folded. Trying to charge my card is not a great way to keep past transgressions in the past."

I got an answer instantly, just not the one I was expecting. "Hey Jim, welcome back to VMP! We will ship you Gelli Haha in October." By including those three letters—VMP—I had triggered a new membership. "Or you may ... SWAP. ADD."

Me again: "Hmmm. I hope someone reads these texts."

VMP: "Sorry, we didn't get that. SWAP. ADD. SOS."

I repeated this a couple of times before I noticed the new option. Save Our Ship. Sounded promising. I typed it in, waited a few minutes, and got a human on the line, via text, not voice. Said human apologized and blamed the error on the bankruptcy and a complex ownership transition. Things fell through cracks. They would cancel my membership. Was there anything else they could help me with? Okay, fine.

I'm telling this story not to stoke outrage or encourage you to boycott VMP. I may even sign up again myself if I hear good things. I'm telling it because the Luddite record spinner in me was intrigued by the idea of a totally offline vinyl record club circa 2025.

If they want to fulfill that vision, they've got some more work to do. Start by scrapping text messaging—what could be less personal than "SWAP. ADD. SOS"? Set up a real phone number staffed by real people who answer and take orders.

Better still, open a shop down the street where I can stop by, browse the bins, touch the covers, smell the dusty smells. I know it's not likely, but a guy can dream.