Gatekeeping, Grief, and How to Suck at Your Hobby

Broken Records, Blind Spots, and Unfinished Business

Warped Perspective

How to Suck at Your Hobby

If you’ve got time to kill and an appetite for outrage, you could read Martin Gray’s long, despairing rant about what he calls“the vinyl-buying circus. Or, if you’d rather just get to the heart of the matter, I’ve got you covered:

1. Quality Control Has Left the Building
   Warped records, surface noise, off-center pressings, bad packaging—paying $40 for a new LP should not feel like playing the lottery.

2. Major Labels: Hogging the Pressing Plants Like It’s a Vegas Buffet:
   The big guys hoard pressing plant capacity, pushing indie labels to the back of the line and making collectors wait months for smaller, more interesting releases.

3. Record Store Day is a Wolf in Limited-Edition Vinyl Clothing:
   What started as a celebration of independent stores has devolved into a capitalist feeding frenzy of overpriced reissues, speculative flipping, and unnecessary variants of yet another Taylor Swift album.

Gray’s frustrations aren’t misplaced. We’ve all been there—ripping open the shrink wrap only to find a dished LP, waiting forever for a preorder, watching another unnecessary repress clog the pressing plants. But where his argument collapses is where passion overtakes precision. Instead of a sharp critique, we get an all-caps “EVERYTHING WAS BETTER BACK IN MY DAY” tirade that skirts fact and ignores nuance, turning legit concerns into something that sounds like an AM radio call-in show.

Is major label dominance frustrating? Of course. But there’s no major-label Illuminati, or a corporate monster lurking at every pressing plant. Vinyl in the ‘60s thru ‘80s wasn’t a utopia of perfect pressings either—nostalgia has a way of airbrushing flaws from reality.

Certain facets of Record Store Day have become over-commercialized spectacle, but keep two things in mind about this bi-annual fiesta:

1. It’s an economic lifeline for a lot of indie shops that otherwise wouldn’t survive. Foot traffic to record stores was (and remains) the prime directive.

2. Though you have to deal with a few undesirable personality types, you meet some of the coolest, most interesting, and awesome people on Record Store Day. There’s a community element still in play here.

Vinyl prices have risen, sure, but you can’t pin it all on corporate greed without factoring in the skyrocketing costs of raw materials, supply chain breakdowns, and inflation.

It’s easy to paint record labels as cartoon villains chombing cigars while reclining in “voluptuously upholstered armchairs”, but the truth is murkier. The vinyl market has always been chaotic, unpredictable, and imperfect. It’s part of the game.

“Your enemy is never a villain in his own eyes. Keep this in mind; it may offer a way to make him your friend. If not, you can kill him without hate—and quickly.”

—Robert A. Heinlein

So where does that leave the modern vinyl buyer? At a crossroads. If the flaws have become unbearable, digital awaits. If not, you roll the dice, accept the imperfections, and embrace the chase. Because really, collecting records has always been as much about talking about records as it is about playing them. And what’s more fun than complaining about how AWESOME this hobby can be?

And if nothing else, Martin Gray has given us plenty to talk about.

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The Iron Curtain is No Match for the Blues

When Lola was released in 1964, jazz in Poland was still a relatively new phenomenon. Officially banned under Stalin, jazz had only been "permitted" for eight years, and yet here was a Polish quartet landing a major-label release in the UK—something no Polish jazz band had done before. The album was a revelation, but the response to it was even more revealing.

Western critics, though impressed, framed their praise in the language of surprise. The Jazz Journal reviewer called it “a miracle of the most sensational kind,” marveling that Poland had “produced such gifted, professional musicians, playing advanced music, in so short a space of time.” Gramophone Magazine hedged its bets, stating that “however good European jazz musicians might be, seldom if ever are they likely to initiate any new jazz directions.”

Translation: Pretty good—for a country that doesn’t produce jazz, cheeseburgers, or Chuck Berry.

The dominant Western narrative of the time held that jazz, as an American invention, could only be mastered in the U.S. Jazz from ROW (Rest of the World) was judged by how closely it mimicked its American counterparts, not by its own innovations. That’s a typically American cultural assumption—American <whatever>, in this case jazz, was the gold standard. European jazz, at best, could aspire to be a worthy imitation. Even a player as fiercely original as Namysłowski was seen an outlier—a glitch in the Matrix, rather than part of a parallel evolution of jazz outside the United States.

The irony? Namysłowski wasn’t mimicking anyone.

Lola has all the hallmarks of mid-‘60s hard bop—angular phrasing, blues-inflected harmonies, and high-energy solos—but at its core, it’s something else entirely. The complex meters, the melodic phrasing, the rhythmic elasticity—it all points toward an emerging European jazz identity that didn’t need American validation to exist.

But the most fascinating thing about Lola isn’t just what it meant in 1964—it’s how it still resonates today. Or rather, it would if Decca would put it back into circulation. Let’s start with ACTUAL circulation—UK and New Zealand vinyl pressings in 1964, a Polish CD and cassette in 1996, and a Japanese CD in 2003 means finding a copy may take a minute. Digital/streaming?

Back then, jazz was political. These days? Everything is political. But the fight to recognize innovation beyond the usual gatekeepers is as urgent now as it was then. The same biases that kept Lola framed as a curiosity instead of a pioneering work still exist. Certain artists are still dismissed as “derivative” or catch shade for music that’s “not really jazz” simply because they don’t fit the expected mold. The assumptions, the prejudices, the limitations imposed on who gets to push the genre forward—those didn’t die with the Cold War. They just evolved.

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Jazz & Coffee: An Origin Story

Thirty-five years ago today, I got home late—really late. Or really early, depending on your perspective when looking at the clock. My father was a heavy sleeper and he snored like Corpsegrinder, so chances were slim that I'd wake him with the sound of a door latch or creaky floorboard. Then again, you know how loud things seem in the small hours. It was 4 AM, and I'd just returned from a difficult, rainy drive home from a Yes concert in Philadelphia. I had just seen Anderson, Bruford, Wakeman & Howe play a nearly identical setlist to the ten other shows I’d already attended that tour. In hindsight, I'm glad I wasn't as quiet as I thought I'd been.

Dad leaned in my bedroom doorway, arms crossed, smirking.

“Good show? They play anything different than last time?”

“Great show. Same setlist.”

He rolled his eyes, but there was no real bite behind it. The truth is, he’d been rolling his eyes at my music obsession for most of my life.

Back in high school, when I worked at various record stores, he was convinced I was spending my entire paycheck on vinyl and concert tickets. (He was right.) Then I went to college, and he assumed my academic focus had nothing to do with music. (He was wrong.)

Senior year, he sat me down and asked:

“So… you graduate with your sociology degree in a few months. What do you plan to do? Open a Sociology Store?”

Not quite. My thesis was on Deadheads.

I had always been fascinated by music communities—how they formed, how they thrived, how they created their own rules. And when I eventually got into the music industry, I realized that everything I knew about marketing I had learned from observing the Grateful Dead and their fans.

Not that my dad saw the connection. But he did see that I didn't have a clue about a career. Luckily that didn't last long.

When I first called home to tell my parents I had a real job interview at a music wholesaler, my mom actually handed the phone to him and said, “Our college-educated son wants to work in a record store. You talk to him. I’m going to put my head in the oven.”

To which my father, ever the deadpan comedian, simply replied: “It’s electric.”

But things started to shift when I actually got the job.

At CD One Stop (now Alliance Entertainment, aka AEC), I wasn’t just talking about music—I was learning business. Distribution. Logistics. Negotiation. Finance. Suddenly, my world and his world had an intersection, and he liked what he saw. A week or so before this late-night post-concert check-in, he had driven me to JFK for a business trip, and my boss, Alan Meltzer, met us at the airport. Before I could introduce them, my boss strode straight over to my dad, shook his hand, and told him that I was going to be a critical part of his company’s future.

“Your son has a great head for both business and music,” he said. “That’s rare.”

I had never seen my father beam with that much pride.

So maybe that’s why, when I got home from Philadelphia that night, he wasn’t actually mad about my road-tripping concert habit. He just snorted, shook his head, and walked off, muttering: “You’re out of your goddamned mind.”

I didn’t know it then, but that would be the last thing he’d ever say to me.

The next morning, I left for Boston, this time as a passenger with a few other Yes-minded friends. By the time we arrived, the weather had turned brutal—freezing mist, terrible driving conditions. I called home to check in, but instead of getting the answering machine, my sister picked up, screaming. Through panicked sobs, she told me that Stamford Hospital had called. Our father had been in a car accident. They wouldn’t tell her anything else. I sent my friends to go ahead to the show while I stayed behind, hoping to gather more intel. The hospital wouldn't tell me anything either. All I knew for certain was that I needed to get back to Stamford.

I had no way home. It was too late for a train. I was too young to rent a car, even if a rental office was still open. I was stuck.

I grabbed my backpack and headed to the hotel lobby, pacing between the concierge desk and a couch, frantically trying to find a way back to Connecticut. At that same moment, across the lobby, another guy was also pacing. He was younger than me, already famous, and visibly annoyed that his transportation hadn’t arrived.

It was Will Smith.

This was March 1990—The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air hadn’t even premiered yet, but he was already a big deal. He was playing a show in town that night, and the hotel lobby was packed with kids trying to get autographs and free tickets. He had handlers, he had security, and he had a van waiting outside. He did not have time for some random, visibly panicked guy who wasn’t even paying attention to him.

And yet.

As he was leaving, he stopped in front of me. Stared for a second. Extended his hand.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ve been overhearing you trying to figure it out, and it sounds pretty rough. I just want to say, I hope it all works out for you. Good luck.”

Then he turned and left.

I don’t even know if I said thank you. I was too stunned.

A little while later, my best friend Sam—who had been visiting his parents nearby—borrowed his father’s car and drove three hours in the ice and rain to get me home. I walked in the door at 1 AM, and the moment I saw my mother and sister sitting at the kitchen table, I knew.

My dad had died from his injuries. He was 49 years old.

The Healing Road

I don’t tell this story to depress anyone. I tell it because it’s the origin story of Jazz & Coffee.

That drive to JFK Airport felt like the beginning of something. I’d always known the names, the labels, the lineups—I had the academic knowledge of jazz, but not the emotional connection. My dad didn’t know a damn thing about jazz. But he did know business—deeply, instinctively, the way I knew music. And suddenly, my new job was pulling me into his world. For the first time, we weren’t arguing about priorities—we were speaking the same language, just with different accents. When he said he wanted to learn jazz together, it wasn’t just about music. It was his way of saying: we’ve got time now. Let’s use it. I had no idea how short that time would be.

Instead, on the eve of my 49th birthday—the same age my dad was when he died—my wife bought me a new turntable. She encouraged me to get my old records out of storage. I started playing a jazz album every weekend, posting about it online, talking about the music I was discovering. Jazz & Coffee was never supposed to be anything more than a way to honor that unfinished journey.

That was several years ago. Now, 20,000 of you are taking the journey with me. Thank you all, so very, very much. It means a lot.

Why I Judge Every Artist Against Will Smith

Every artist I’ve worked with—from the Rolling Stones to Jared Leto—gets measured against Will Smith. Not his records. His kindness.

Would they have stopped, even for a second, to offer kindness to a stranger in distress?

Will Smith did.

Yeah, I know. He’s had a rough few years in the public eye. People have their opinions about the slap. But I know this: In a moment when he was being pulled in ten different directions, when thousands of fans were waiting on him, when I was nobody, he noticed that I was struggling. He took the time to stop.

He didn’t have to. But he did.

My father taught me many things. Will Smith taught me one. I owe them both a lot. Miss you every day, Dad. And thank you, Mr. Smith.