I was reminded of this salient fact by an incident that occurred today at Stereophile HQ, located deep in the canyons of Murray Hill, Katie…
search
Amongst all the hand–ringing and head–scratching and kvetching about the music business and what we're going to do with our CDs and LPs and how iPods sound like shit but are the future whether we like it or not (in my case, the jury's still out), it's a good idea, at least in my overamped case, to step back, close–a–dee mouth and occasionally remember that at the bottom of all this claptrap, there's still music. Which I (we) presumably still love.
Tomorrow is Record Store Day. Celebrate responsibly. Celebrate appropriately. It will make you feel good.
Truth is: I know diddly-squat about Frank Zappa. I've heard this and that, of course, and all I've heard has always been intriguing, but, for no good reason, I've just never taken the time to dive into Zappa's world. Perhaps it's because his world seems so enormous and wild and foreign. His world is full of barking pumpkins and utility muffins and Sprechstimme and other things I can neither imagine nor pronounce. I mean, even his name is strange. Like an exclamation, like a shot of electricity. Zappa! Say it three times, and something bad might happen. Zappa! Zappa! (No, don'…
I'm not quite sure what's going on in the art here, but I can't stop looking at it. I love the colors. If music wasn't meant to be played, I'd hang this up on my wall.
Each sleeve of this gatefold holds a slab of vinyl. All of Daniel Bejar's poetic lyrics are displayed on the right sleeve. You'll also find a friendly coupon for a complete digital download.
The gorgeous gatefold opens up to show watercolors of The Black Keys' Dan Auerbach and Patrick Carney. In the left sleeve, you'll find a glossy lyrics sheet and a complete promo CD!
The album is produced by that crazy cat, Danger Mouse (The Grey Album, Gnarls Barkley), and is a soulful, bluesy, slow, slow burn.
To cheer myself up after the picture disc disappointment, I went ahead and bought Attack & Release by The Black Keys and Trouble In Dreams by Destroyer. Of course, I couldn't buy only two albums. Two is an even number, you see. So, I also picked up Light in the Attic's beautiful Betty Davis reissue.
AUDIOPHILE QUALITY
…
Both The Black Keys and Destroyer albums are luscious gatefold affairs, with intoxicating artwork—I could just stare and stare and stare. The Black Keys album had a sticker on its plastic wrap that read:
HALF SPEED MASTERING
AUDIOPHILE QUALITY
…
A couple of nights ago, I got this big idea that I'd go shopping for some picture disc vinyl to go along with the component we'll be featuring on our July cover. (Hint: It's not a speaker.) You know, I was thinking it'd be no problem to find Jimi Hendrix all lit up in a purple haze or, better yet, some new indie band dressed in skinny jeans and moccasins being chased by a puma, or something. But I discovered that new picture disc vinyl isn't all that easy to come by. Surprisingly, I found that today's picture discs come from three main sources:
1. Boy bands
Fall Out Boy, The…
Matthew Guerrieri (aka Soho the Dog) has a new installation of his ongoing series Strauss and Mahler Re-Enact Your Favorite Movie Moments. Today's episode is The Ten Commandments. Read 'em all—they're hilarious.
Besides the reading I do here at Stereophile, I read a lot on the morning train. When Murakami is pissing me off with his cats and dead friends, I turn to the free dailies handed out by the dudes in the bright orange jackets standing outside the station. I pick one up and I say to myself, "I think I'll get a little stupid this morning." I go for Metro—"the world's largest global newspaper." Dressed in a cheery green and with a friendly font, it is clearly designed for those in jeans and sneakers, whereas AM New York is meant for the more serious suits.
I really don't care…
Dear Readers,
I admit it. When Jerry commented to last week's entry, saying that vinyl wears out with every single trip around the platter, it kind of shook me up. My heart raced and blood rushed to my head. I began to sweat. What had I done? What was I getting into? How would I afford this? Had I stepped into AlexO's bottomless pit?
I admit it. When Jerry commented to last week's entry, saying that vinyl wears out with every single trip around the platter, it kind of shook me up. My heart raced and blood rushed to my head. I began to sweat. What had I done? What was I getting into? How would I afford this? Had I stepped into AlexO's bottomless pit?
While some queer, poetic part of me enjoys the idea that vinyl is this living, breathing thing that slowly dwindles and decays over time—like a flower, like love—I would really prefer for my records to last the next fifty or…