“They have removed the struggle to find anything. Bookstore owners and record store owners used to be oracles, in that way; you’d go in this dusty old place, and they might point you toward something that would change your life. All that’s gone.” – Tom Waits
Recently the great Sturgill Simpson (now calling himself Johnny Blue Skies) made an announcement that made many Gen Z fans scratch their heads. Simpson announced his upcoming new album, Mutiny After Midnight, which arrives on March 13, will only be available on vinyl, CD and cassette formats.
The gambit did pay off, because, even in this age of instant gratification via streaming platforms regarding all media, Simpson’s new record topped the sales charts.
As a fan, I support anything Sturgill does, and this album, according to the accompanying press release, offers a “pure, unfiltered, unapologetic, relentless disco-hedonism.” The concept, which sounds a bit removed from the soulful country-blues sound that he has made his stock-and-trade, should be interesting, but it’s not that which puzzled many fans who weighed-in on the Simpson sub-Reddit. Many of them didn’t know how on earth they’d be able to listen to the record, given its physical media-only release state.
For this fan, the move could not have been more welcomed. I haven’t procured my own copy yet, but this isn’t an anomaly to me; when a new album comes out that I’m interested in, I prefer to find it on vinyl.
Sure, in an era that is dominated by a stroll through Spotify to survey an artist or band’s entire discography, buying a copy of a record might feel quaint to some, however, vinyl records, or CDs, or printed books remain not just relevant, but essential.
I’ve heard so many folks express, with some degree of wonder meeting nostalgia, of how they recently discovered that Walmart now has a selection of vinyl records. With vinyl sales up each year, the retailer began selling records again six or seven years ago, but anyway, think about the type of engagement a physical record offers its listeners. Whenever someone buys a record, or a printed, physical book, for that matter, they own that object outright, and it can’t be altered from some mysterious force afar or taken out of some playlist due to licensing disputes. Nor can that record or book vanish completely due to some platform shutting down.
To contrast this notion, streaming songs and digital downloads are more like long-term rentals, contingent on a number of factors – the stability of whatever platform is the user’s particular poison, as well as the stability of whatever software is used to play said media and let’s not forget, the policies of whatever corporation is distributing the media. Physical media guarantees permanence and autonomy and gives audiences the confidence they need that the art they love will remain accessible on their own terms.
A while back, I stumbled across an interview from 1996 with Jerry Cantrell, of Alice in Chains. The guitarist was promoting his band’s recently released album and talking to a TV host about how great the artwork was in the packaging of the record, but he bemoaned the difference between having the larger packaging of vinyl LPs versus the scaled-down CD medium. With digital platforms, the lack of information would be enough to make someone like Cantrell miss the CD era.
As a complete statement, an album, whether it’s pressed on vinyl, or printed on a CD or cassette tape, is sequenced with deliberate pacing, thus encouraging listeners to experience the music within as a cohesive whole, as opposed to just a song here or there. The design on printed books, magazines and newspapers also help the reader along their journey, by utilizing quality typography and design as well as the type of paper stock. All of this helps add meaning to the text itself. With design and overall aesthetic quality, physical releases allow for creators to present their works as a completed statement, and not just something to be consumed quickly only to be forgotten about after a few listens or views.
Liner notes on an album often display the lyrics, as well as notes about who played what, who produced and/or mixed the music, and other details that are salient to the production of a record. Digital platforms rarely give this much information.
Beyond all of that, physical media also helps support artists more directly than streaming ever could. Buying a record or CD at a band’s show, or buying a book directly from an author, helps to sustain those pursuits much more than the fraction of a penny royalties that creatives derive from streams or downloads.
Libraries, historical archives and private collections all depend on tangible formats for media in order to preserve histories. Digital files degrade over time, and formats become obsolete. Case in point: does anyone reading this remember RealPlayer? A century-old book, on the other hand, can still be read today without the requirement of intermediary technology, aside from, of course, some light and one’s eyesight. Imagine if you had a century-old digital file, though. I’m sure all manner of hoops would have to be jumped through before that file could be opened.
For many years I had a flip phone, before I became modernized (circa 2014) and acquired an iPhone that lasted me until last year. On that flip phone are several photos that I wish I could access now, but due to the cracked screen and a dearth of phone repair shops that handle anything other than iPhones and Androids, it’ll likely be a long, long time until I can re-access those photos.
Had those photos been shot and printed, to be filed away in a photo scrapbook, or archived somewhere somehow, I wouldn’t be cursing that bit of proprietary frustration.
There’s a deeper relationship with media when you can flip through, and spend time with images in a photo album, or put on a record, or turn pages in a book. Those tasks require time and attention, and the inherent ritual in each slows down consumption, making for an immersive experience, as opposed to just having background noise.
In a world saturated with streaming and algorithms dictating everything in our lives, presence matters, in a world that is increasingly ephemeral. Most everyone who doesn’t have a CD or cassette player, or a record player, should at least have access to an auxiliary input, so get yourself a $20 CD player off of eBay or from the thrift store, so set your smartphone aside for once, and get lost in an audible journey, whether that’s in the form of the new Sturgill album or some old bluegrass cassette you found in a box of stuff.
When a major artist like Sturgill Simpson puts out a new release and gives the once-over to streaming services, it’s not an act of rebellion, but an affirmation that he understands the value of ownership, craftsmanship and lasting cultural memory.
Chris Edwards is editor of the Tyler County Booster, a sister newspaper in the Polk County Publishing Group. He can be reached at cedwards@polkcountypublishing.com.
