Unhappy Returns, or, The Rebirth of the Negative Option in the Age of Vinyl Revival

For decades, the negative option was a vibrant, powerful business model. Here’s how it worked: Book or music clubs like Columbia House and Book-of-the-Month Club would offer you a slew of free selections (plus monstrous shipping and handling fees) on the condition that you bought some specified further amount at full price (plus more monstrous S&H fees) in the next few years. Since the clubs printed and pressed their own stock, their per unit costs were nearly nil, but the real financial engine was the monthly main selection. You’d get a card in the mail indicating each month’s title and artist/author, and it you didn’t return this card in 7-10 days to decline the selection, the club would ship it to you automatically. When it landed in your mailbox, you could return it for a refund, but you still got stuck with the S&H costs going both ways. Basically, the whole process put the onus on you, the subscriber, to let the club know you didn’t want product, and they made every part of the return process hellish by staffing intransigent customer service departments. Lives are busy and people lazy, and frequently it became easier just to pay for the stupid thing (even though a CD at full price after S&H could set you back over $25) rather than deal with the hassle.

Among its many other good qualities, the internet is responsible for mostly killing the negative option. With the web came far greater sources of curated content, leaving the clubs and their monthly catalogs seeming fusty and old-fashioned; plus, the negative option doesn’t work with digital files that can’t be returned, and the contraction of the book and record industries due to file-sharing (not to mention the clubs’ late-to-the-game attitude toward digital interfaces) cut the bottom out of the market for physical editions, especially music. Direct Brands, which gobbled up both Columbia House and competitor BMG, basically quit the music biz for DVDs a few years ago (no word on how long that will last), and while the Book-of-the-Month club once had two million subscribers, it now has a negligible impact on on the book world.

So it seemed like the negative option was dead, and all was right with the world. Then, this morning, I came across an ad on Allmusic for something called feedbands.com that offered “a killer vinyl delivered to your door each month.” Intrigued but skeptical, I clicked through.

Feedbands is basically a revived version of the negative option model, a monthly subscription service made possible only through the broad resurgence of interest in a physical medium. The deal is basically thus: Feedbands discovers “smashing bands and press[es] their unreleased records” on vinyl. You sign up, get your first record free (starting to smell familiar?), and then they send you a new record each month for just $19.95, plus shipping and handling (now the stench becomes overpowering). According to the site, if you “don’t like a record, don’t pay for it,” but of course by that point you probably already have the record and the onus is on you to get your refund (Glade Plug-ins, anyone?).

The delicious twist that Feedbands uses to make the negative option their own is that you don’t even get to taste what they’re sending you. You can’t listen to the bands first, something that undermines every good thing the internet has done for checking out new music. Why not? Well, it’s because Feedbands “wants you to experience our bands for the first time on vinyl—an experience we are striving hard to create. The last thing we would want is for you to hear the band for the first time streaming a low-quality mp3 of the internet.”

Perish the thought. Folks, I pride myself on being something of burgeoning audiophile, and while I don’t know all there is to know about the vagaries of audio engineering and record pressing, I can tell you that this 100% bullshit. In fact, there’s so much misleading information on Feedbands website that it’s hard to know where to begin. On the section that asks “Why vinyl?” they write:

Vinyl records are a lossless analog format which [ed: should be “that”; are they Brits? or do they just have poor grammar?] offers the absolute best listening experience.

Not entirely true. If you have a brilliantly mastered pressing of an well-recorded analog source tape played through a hi-fidelity sound system, there’s no question it will sound better than an mp3 ripped in 1994 at 128kps. But mp3s have been closing the quality gap for years, and much of what’s been released on CD or lossless digital files in the last couple decades performs as just well as a record if not better. This is especially true since most records today are pressed on recycled vinyl, mastered for a digital format, and listened to almost exclusively on crappy earbuds against significant background noise. The myth of vinyl as the format par excellence comes mostly from the high quality of many records pressed in the 50s, 60s, and 70s, where quality control existed at every level of the production chain. Also, once upon a time people had stereo systems that were worth a damn.

The website goes on:

Mp3s, by comparison, contain only 15% of the original sound information.

We are the 85%! We are the 85%! But seriously, it’s not like the mp3 of “Stairway to Heaven” you’ve been listening to is missing a few verses and the guitar solo. Mp3s are compressed files that trade sound info for file size, but the increasingly improved algorithms by which the compression takes place are built around something called auditory masking. This describes a condition of human hearing whereby, basically, when you’re hearing more than one tone simultaneously, certain tones will be rendered inaudible by the others. It’s something the brain does automatically to make sense of all the information it’s required to process; our visual system does something analogous when it comes to seeing. Mp3s get small by essentially removing the sonic information containing the tones we don’t process. And as anyone of average hearing who’s done an A/B listening test comparing an mp3 sampled at 320kps and a CD or record can tell you, it’s pretty hard to hear the difference. But if that’s not good enough for you, most labels now offer lossless digital files like FLACs that contain far greater sonic information, and sound fantastic. So mp3s end up being a straw man in Feedbands’s argument.

This is my favorite line:

If you want to hear music exactly the way the band sounded when they recorded, vinyl is the only option.

Actually, if you want to hear music exactly the way the band sounded when they recorded, you should have been in the studio with them. Maybe in the future, Feedbands can start a new program where they fly you to a different recording studio each month to sit in on the band’s session. If they do, please let me know how much they charged to ship and handle you.

It shouldn’t amaze me that unscrupulous companies are looking to feed off the recent vinyl frenzy, but I give them credit for trying to revive what’s considered one of the oldest legal cons in the business. It makes a weird kind of sense today, when people are essentially overloaded with information, to try to make money by giving them one more annoying, easily-overlooked task to add to their infinite to-do lists. I might even have let Feedbands slide without comment were they not trying so hard to pass off much-invoked dumb canards about the quality of vinyl compared to mp3s. But with no track record or good faith effort to establish any curatorial credibility, it’s hard to see how Feedbands’s monthly meals will satiate anyone other than its investors. 

Phil Upchurch / The Way I Feel (Cadet, 1970)

From time to time, I'm going to put up a few things I've had sitting around for a while. Why not, right? Otherwise they just sit around in my apartment collecting dust between spins. And anyway, I've always thought that part of amassing this collection would be sharing it, which is the inspiration for this blog in the first place. Great, so that's settled.

When I was doing more hunting for soul jazz a few years ago, I came across a record called Darkness, Darkness on Blue Thumb by the guitarist Phillip Upchurch. Turned out he'd had quite the storied career, playing with Jerry Butler, Jimmy Reed, George Benson, Curtis Mayfield, Bo Diddly, Howlin' Wolf, Jack McDuff, and many more. Anyway, Darknesswas pretty cookin' and so I started keeping an eye out for his other titles, though the samples I found of those records online left me skeptical. When I came across The Way I Feel at Good, I didn't quite know what to make of it, but Jonny was a big fan, and I have to admit that over time I've come to love this one even more than Darkness. 

It's a weird record, no doubt. Listening to first song, "Peter, Peter" evokes that reaction that I so often have to certain jazz-funk records: "Who the hell was buying this stuff in 1970?" There seems to be no clear-cut audience for it, with its eerie, expansive arrangements by Charles Stepney (perhaps best known for writing and arranging big hits for Earth, Wind & Fire), and one foot in jazz, one in funk, and a third foot you were terrified to discover in psychedelia. But then you'll hit something like "I Don't Know," which gets at the heart of what's great about Upchurch's playing: a few minutes of pure screaming mastery.

This record came out on Cadet, which also released Dorothy Ashby's Afro-Harping, and a lot of other great records by jazz luminaries. I didn't know this until just now, but Cadet was the jazz subsidiary of Chess Records, which helps explain the Stepney connection (he worked as a Chess producer in the 50s-70). Like a lot of this stuff, it's not clear that it's ever been released domestically on CD.

Wikipedia fun fact: Upchurch is on his seventh marriage. I wonder what goes through your mind when you're the 4th, 5th, 6th, or 7th person to marry somebody.

Screaming Trees / Dust (Epic / 1996)

Two roads converged: the first began when I was 16, in the summer of 1996, when the Screaming Trees released what would be their final record, Dust. I fell hard for it on first listen. Though nothing on it quite matched the pop blast of "Nearly Lost You," their biggest hit, made massive by inclusion on the multiplatinum soundtrack to Cameron Crowe's movie Singles, this was a killer record front to back, easily outpacing their previous effort, Sweet Oblivion. Dust was a repeat record for me, to be listened to again and again. Certain songs I would play many times in a row, chief among them "Sworn and Broken," with its glorious, swirling Wurlitzer organ solo that strove for and achieved a kind of earnest transcendence now considered acceptable only from Arcade Fire.

The second road began in Tunes, the Hoboken record shop, in 2003, when I bought the Jayhawks' Tomorrow the Green Grass after hearing it playing in-store. They literally pulled the disc out of the player and sold it to me used for seven dollars. Over the next decade it would become one of my favorite records, thanks to its beautiful country harmonies layered over Gary Louris's incredible lead guitar work. No record combined crunch and country as well since the first two Uncle Tupelo albums; the influence is palpable, the palette expanded.

Then, about four years ago, I was wasting time at work doing a little Internet research on the Jayhawks, which is when I discovered that TTGG, and its predecessor, Hollywood Town Hall, had been produced by a man named George Drakoulias, an A&R rep for Rick Rubin's Def American label, who had discovered the band when he phoned Twin Tone Records (then the Jayhawks label) and got an earful of them in the hold music. Drakoulias expanded the band's sound, making the Jayhawks bigger and more epic without sacrificing the folksy intimacy of the harmonies. He even played a few instruments himself. Not bad for a guy who had previously made his name primarily as a hip-hop guy, the man who had discovered LL Cool J and the Beastie Boys.

You can guess where this is going. A couple months ago, when this price-clipped copy of Dust arrived in the mail after a rare eBay purchase (I was tired of never seeing it in stores, and suspected I never would), I pulled out the inner sleeve to discover finally that it was produced by none other than George Drakoulias. A delightful connection, but it made sense. In both cases he managed to bring the band's performance and presence to another level, broadening the arrangements and adding melodic depth without sacrificing essence. And though it's impossible to know what effect Drakoulias had on songwriting, both bands turned in their best sets under his watch. 

The Screaming Trees were notorious drunks. Brothers Van and Gary Lee Connor frequently chugged until they came to blows and Mark Lanegan's bottle troubles are well documented in the band's lyrics. Perhaps that internal chaos was the reason it took them so long to finish this record, which came out well after grunge had turned like a rancid fart in the musical wind, surpassed in the mainstream by Seven Mary Three shit-rock, and among college students by indie rock's halcyon efforts. Like the last records by alt-rock holdouts Urge Overkill and Jawbox, which came out in the space of the same eight months, Dust disappeared as quickly as it came, and with it the Screaming Trees. Or I guess you could say almost disappeared, as not two years have gone by in the last sixteen in which I've not come back to this record. On the closet door of my childhood bedroom hangs a poster of this album cover, which I'm constantly thinking of bringing to Brooklyn.

This copy sounds mostly great, and big, as befits the production. "Dying Days" is a classic waiting to be discovered. The last tracks on either side have a touch of distortion thanks to long-album, thin-inner-groove syndrome (the record was definitely compiled with CD length in mind), which frustrates especially on "Make My Mind," but as the first track on side two "Sworn and Broken" tears the roof off. This is a must-have record for me, and when my fortunes improve I would almost certainly spring for a non-price clipped copy. I would wager that I'll go at least another five years without seeing this in a shop. Further bulletins as events warrant.

Björk / Debut (UK / One Little Indian / 1993)

Something must have been infectious about Björk's singles from 1993's Debut, "Crying" and "Human Behavior," because I could still recall the melodies having not heard either for a decade. Plus, the moment I saw this UK pressing of her first record at In Living Stereo, I knew it was part of what I'm calling Core Collection, or the canon of albums I know I have to have, no dithering, no dicking around.

What's funny is that despite owning this on CD as teenager, I'm not sure I ever listened to it all the way through. The singles were great, but I also fell hard for this album cover. Björk was around 27 years old when it was taken, and thank goodness that was then, and that she's not in publishing now. Anyway, I never bought any of her other records, and maybe never will, but I was happy to hear that those dance-y singles sound wonderful on this heavyweight vinyl pressing. The rest of the album is lovely as well; I'd venture to say I grew into it, because I can totally understand why the tracks where she sounds like a French chanteuse didn't quite appeal to my Hüsker Dü / Minutemen-loving fifteen-year-old self.

One thing I find terribly annoying is when record stores have big-dollar records but no listening stations. ILS is kind enough to play what you want to hear in the store, but it still hard (for me) to catch noise and crackle when the speakers aren't nearby and the music is loud. This record turned out to have some quiet tracks where the noise really distracts. In fact, I'm not sure I'll end up holding on to it. Still need to give it a few more listens. One point in its favor, though, is that this particular copy is part of a limited edition 5000-copy run to include a lavish 16-page booklet with lots of fancy pictures of Björk that make me feel fifteen again. All in all, it's a pretty classy object, and as we all know I'm a classy guy.

It's still a mystery to me just why, at the moment when loud, guitar-driven music had the greatest hold on my imagination, I fell so hard for Björk's very danceable tunes. But she must have been doing something right, because along with Radiohead and Beck, she's one of the only respectable mainstream "rock" artists to maintain popularity through the height of the gangsta-rap and nü-metal years. She must've been on the cover of Rolling Stone three times between '94 and '99. Although, to be fair, at some point during that era, Rolling Stone ceased to be any kind of useful barometer for mainstream popularity. It'd be like being on the cover of Maximumrocknroll anytime after 1989. Boy, did they hate it when Green Day blew up. Total free-association, but I recently heard "Time of Your Life" on the radio and I thought, "Wow, these guys really did sell out hard. Just not quite when everyone in the punk world thought they did." Reminds me that I need to add Dookie to the Core Collection list. This has been a useful post, indeed.

Galaxie 500 / This Is Our Music (Rough Trade / 1990)

First off, I'll have a lot more up here in the coming weeks. Between traveling to LA and San Fran, and Record Store Day, I have quite a few new records to get to and with any luck I won't grow bored of this project, or of myself, or life in general.

I think This Is Our Music must be the easiest Galaxie 500 record to find, just because it was the last of their career and released at the peak of their albeit limited popularity. Plus Amoeba in LA had it stickered at $15, which seemed like a sweet deal. I don't really see Today or On Fire for less than $50, but when I asked the clerk why this one was priced so low, she said they see that record a lot. So I guess it's around, but it's still nice to find. Actually, now that I think about it, I might have preferred the clerk to say something like, "Oh, wow, that must be mispriced. Guess it's your lucky day." Salesmanship, folks.

I like this band more ever year, which is to say that they've become one of my great favorites. It's not saying much to say that they do a lot with very simple elements, and Kramer is clearly a fourth band member in shaping their sound. Recently I read (was it Pitchfork's?) oral history of Galaxie 500 (it was indeed Pitchfork's), and I seem to remember Dean Wareham saying that one of the keys to their sound was Naomi Yang playing the bass so high up on the neck. In fact, I think all three of them were unusual players. These songs done straightforwardly might be more forgettable. Wareham gets the most attention for the vox and great guitar sound, but I've never but one of those who though Luna was anywhere near this band's equal. And as much as I love Damon and Naomi's work with Ghost, there's something about those lyrics. "Watching Kojak all alone..." Kojak was a little early for me, but sub in MacGyver and it rings true.

This LP sounds nice with a bit of surface noise buried in the guitar squall. The vinyl favors the atmospheric production, and I've already gone back to it quite a few times. "Listen, the Snow Is Falling" slays me every time. I never owned this on CD, so it's nice to have it first on vinyl.

Though This Is Our Music appeared in 1990, I don't consider it a Project 90s acquisition because to my ear this band feels planted firmly in the 80s. It's definitely a pre-grunge record.