“We just approved the test presses. The record should be out in August.” I’m paraphrasing a bit, but the timeframe is correct. The band I spoke to about this had their masters submitted to the press plant in November. Of last fucking year. That’s a turnaround of 21 months. I’m personally working on a few vinyl releases and every label I’ve spoken to, regardless of country of origin, has said the same thing: “Cool, see you in a few years.”
Plenty has been said over the last decade about how the independent music scene’s long-standing love of vinyl had kept the format alive when the mainstream all but abandoned it, only to have that get thrown back in their faces once the major labels caught wind of it thanks to the proliferation of social media and wieners in Red Hook with ironic mustaches and organic window herb gardens — and probably a fucking unicycle — splattering themselves with the records they more than likely only took out as show pieces during wine tastings. The majors then slowly returned, like an abusive boyfriend trying to weasel his way back into to your life once you’ve finally gotten to a good place, so that he can fuck it all up again.
And the breaking point was the bricks used to pave the road to hell: Record Store Day.
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