From the early 2010s, digital music streaming has seen exponential growth. Ever since iTunes started selling individual tracks, most people now find themselves listening to playlists curated by computer algorithms with titles like “Chill-out Anthems” or “Indie Rock Heaven”, many having relieved themselves of their record collections years ago. The album is dead.
Die-hards of physical media started to congregate in shady underground lairs. After decades of evangelical conversations about Band XYZ’s best work, these resistance fighters of the album would drop the needle on the run-in grooves of treasured works of recorded music and share their favourite musical art with adventurous, like-minded souls. Record clubs popped up in isolated spots across the country. Vinyl stalwarts would thrill at the unfolding wonder of the album in 40 to 60 minutes of mildly crackly discovery. The playing and sharing of the album continues to this day.
I found one of these clubs in Yorkshire in 2012. It wasn’t so much a club as a regular meeting place for music enthusiasts, where the participants were allowed to talk freely about their passion, without fear of boring their friends or spouses rigid. Once a month, someone would present sonic gems from their collections, telling us about the music and its background. Knowing the context of the music, described reverently by the evening’s curator, enhanced the listening process.
The people who came to these meetings were eager and open-minded. You never quite knew what you might hear, and you were often pleasantly surprised with a new discovery. Sometimes these discoveries would open doors to whole new worlds of music. We avoided sticking to rigid genres by basing each evening session on a general theme. There was no room for laziness and staying in your own lane; you won’t make any new discoveries by listening to the same stuff that you play at home.
Chances were that the albums someone had chosen were very dear to them. These records were not just any old rubbish; they were old friends being introduced to you, in the hope that you might become friends with them too. Some would bring records of their own, and play tracks before and after the featured albums, as long as the tracks fit the evening’s theme. Within a couple of years of coming to the Record Club, I had curated two sessions. I got a warm and fuzzy feeling from people coming up to me, asking about the stuff I’d chosen, in the knowledge that they had started a musical journey of discovery.
Even though the concept of the Record Club is similar to that of a Book Group, they are a different kettle of fish. As music is played at a decent volume, the venue is usually a room in a pub or community centre, and the listening experience is inevitably enhanced by plenty of chat, lubricated by a bar. It is a social event of kindred souls of all ages and genders.
A new generation of record collectors is growing. Generation Z has been instrumental in the regrowth of the vinyl album and the independent record shop. Increasingly, the younger record-collecting enthusiasts are joining the ranks at record clubs, teaching the old dogs much-needed new tricks.
Since moving to Dorset, I struggled to find new things to listen to, and I missed record clubs. So, I decided that the only way I was going to have this again was to set one up myself. First, I found a small group of friends who took turns hosting a record club in their homes. A few months later, we went public, and now enjoy regular monthly sessions in Swanage’s Mowlem theatre Showbar.
New faces appear every session, and the core of regulars has grown steadily. Six regulars have curated ten sessions so far, with another four lining up to take a turn. Every month, I hear the magic words, “what’s this we’re listening to?”
The album is dead. Long live The album.
PS. Over the next few months, I hope we can share some Record Club wisdom with the lovely readers of Dorset Eye. Watch this space.
Swanage Record Club: https://swanagerecordclub.uk
Facebook/Instagram: @swanagerecordclub
