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A little warning before we begin: Strong language, provocative ideas and an artist who isn't particularly interested in playing nice. Good. Independent music needs more of that.  “Did, did you hear? They’re building a data centre on the moon? — Art d'Ecco, The Death of Indie Well, that got my attention.
It's been a while since a Canadian artist grabbed my attention quite like this. There's something about Art d'Ecco's attitude that brings to mind Carole Pope and Rough Trade's High School Confidential, a wonderfully provocative Canadian gem from the 1980s that wasn't afraid to challenge convention. Plenty of artists have pushed boundaries since, but there's a similar spirit here. Those familiar with Rough Trade will know what I'm talking about. And if you're not? There's a terrific little rabbit hole waiting for you. Go digging. Different decade. Different target. Same glorious refusal to behave. Art d'Ecco has his own conventions to challenge. He's got AI, tech billionaires and the future of independent music in his sights, and apparently seven minutes isn't too long to tell us exactly what he thinks. Good. Sometimes music needs to do more than entertain us. Sometimes it needs to piss us off.
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 The Specials started it. Robyn, originally from Liverpool, was 12 when she got her first turntable for Christmas, along with the band's self-titled debut. The Smiths' Louder Than Bombs, purchased with Christmas money, followed soon after. “I was so excited to get home and play it on my new record player,” she remembered. “I can still remember being that excited!” Like most collectors, plenty more records followed. But some of the ones that matter most to Robyn today have little to do with rarity or value. One takes her back to two hours spent outside a concert on a cold October night with her nan. It happens to be signed by Elkie Brooks, but the signature isn't the reason it means so much. How record collecting changed herI first came across Robyn through The Record Collectors Club, where she appeared as Collector No. 15. The project looked beyond photographs of vinyl collections to tell the stories of the collectors themselves.
A few years later, I was interested in what had changed. “Collecting records has definitely expanded my music taste,” she says. “I feel like I’m more open to all kinds of different genres and recommendations than I would have been had I not started. I’ve discovered so many new artists and styles of music that have definitely changed my life!” At 12, Robyn generally bought records she already knew she liked. Today, she's more willing to take a chance. “I suppose I used to just collect records that I knew I liked at the time, but now I find myself picking up music that shop owners tell me to try or buying albums on a whim.” She still goes back to the classic albums and artists she loved at that age, but record collecting has taken her well beyond them. Life has a way of pulling us away from the things that once mattered most. For Canadian maker Rémy Beaumont, finding his way back to music happened somewhere unexpected: in a woodworking shop near Québec City.  Rémy Beaumont grew up hearing a story about his father and his records. Jean-Marie was young then, living with his parents and brothers in an apartment above a commercial laundry. One day, the laundry caught fire. He got out. His records were still upstairs.  So he went back into the burning building and saved them. Every one.
It's a story his father would tell him years later. And once you hear Rémy talk about Jean-Marie, it doesn't seem entirely out of character. His father was always listening.  What are you going to do when you retire? Stacey Agecoutay has been getting that question a lot lately. His 36-year career in financial advisory comes to an end on December 31, 2026, and he already knows the answer. “I am going to start taking my collection seriously!” For Stacey, that means better curating, cataloguing and organizing a collection now approaching 8,000 records and CDs. It means acquiring music more carefully and thoughtfully, and having more time to enjoy what he already owns.
There is plenty to get through. Stacey figures it would take the better part of nine years to listen to everything he owns today if he started at the beginning and played two or three records every day. His relationship with music, though, goes back much further than the collection that now fills several spaces in his Kelowna, British Columbia home. One of the albums that helped shape it wasn't originally on vinyl for Stacey. It was a Rush cassette.
They Owe Us — Katzengold
I've been thinking a lot lately about how little music any of us actually hear.
There is so much of it out there, yet most of us spend our listening lives within a pretty small circle. The music we grew up with. The bands we know. The genres we feel comfortable with. There's nothing wrong with that. I do it too. But it made me wonder: how much music are we actually missing? That question started with Michel Faber's Listen: On Music, Sound and Us. Early in the book, Faber writes: “I’m not here to change your mind about Dusty Springfield or Shostakovich or Tupac Shakur or synthpop. I’m here to change your mind about your mind.” That line stopped me. I've started trying to do exactly that. And Katzengold, the new album from They Owe Us, landed at exactly the right time. I listened to it digitally first, then went back to it on vinyl. I wanted to give it some time before deciding what I thought. That led me to Kristoffer Ragnstam. 
Photo credit: Baxter Vinyl
Over the past several months, I’ve been connecting with record store owners, independent artists, and vinyl collectors as I’ve been building Vinyl Vibes, sharing their stories and celebrating the culture that keeps vinyl alive.
Somewhere along that journey, I came across an incredible book called The Record Keepers by Josh Greenberg, a project built around digging into the stories behind Canada’s record stores and the people who keep them going. I spent the past few weeks with Josh’s book — a bit strategically, honestly. I’d pair chapters with listening sessions, spinning albums like David Bowie’s Scary Monsters or Echo & the Bunnymen’s Songs to Learn and Sing. I started with the Ontario chapter and eventually journeyed coast to coast, discovering stories that made it feel like I was standing inside the shops myself. That’s what made The Record Keepers such an enjoyable read for me. It isn’t simply a book about record stores. It’s about the people behind the counter, the customers walking through the door, the records they discover and the communities that form around them. The Space Between Loving Music and Living With It: A Conversation with Sidetracked Workshop8/19/2026  I first heard about Sidetracked Workshop through my wife. She came across Peter’s work on Instagram and immediately connected with the design and the way his pieces seemed built for people who actually listen to records.
That led me to reach out — and after chatting with Peter, it was clear his approach to woodworking comes from a place of intention, curiosity, and a genuine love for music. We ended up having a thoughtful back‑and‑forth about craft, vinyl culture, and the spaces we create around the things we love. Below is our full Q&A, shared exactly as it unfolded.  Blonde Diamond’s Love Is A Shadow captures that emotional pull of stepping into something new — the kind of indie moment that actually makes you stop and feel. Canada has a knack for producing world-class independent music across just about every genre. The problem is that in the streaming era, finding those artists can feel harder than ever.
Music is everywhere, all the time. Thousands of new releases push through algorithms every week, each one fighting for a few seconds of our attention. And somehow, the more access we have, the harder it can become to connect with anything long enough to actually feel something. Music discovery isn’t broken because there’s a lack of music. It’s broken because there’s a lack of attention. So when something does land—when a song cuts through the noise and makes me stop what I’m doing—I pay attention. For context, I don’t cover anything I don’t genuinely like. 
Vinyl Vibes spoke with Joe Hat about the records, people and places that shaped his journey — from discovering Black Flag in a college radio station to becoming part of Toronto’s music community.
The first record that pulled Joe Hat into vinyl wasn't even his.
It was Black Flag's Damaged, sitting in his college radio station in Toronto in 2010. Joe was studying graphic design, buying CDs and getting deeper into heavy metal and hardcore punk when a classmate brought the album into INtune Radio. The music grabbed him. The artwork grabbed him even more. “The album cover completely captivated me.” 
Joe holding the Black Flag Damaged LP — the record that started everything.
Inside Sonic Boom Toronto, one of the city’s best-known independent record stores, through the eyes of a lifelong record-store kid who has spent more than two decades behind the counter.  Toronto’s Sonic Boom — where the rhythm of the city meets the heartbeat of vinyl culture. “I've worked at record stores most of my life.” That single line tells you exactly who Bryce is. He isn't someone who drifted into this world. He's one of the kids who grew up in record stores, the kind who learned how to talk about music by flipping through bins and listening to whatever was playing behind the counter.
Now he helps shape Sonic Boom, one of the biggest and most recognizable record stores in Toronto, a city that has become one of North America's great vinyl destinations. Bryce has spent more than two decades as Sonic Boom's manager, helping create the welcoming, music-first experience that keeps collectors, casual browsers, and first-time vinyl buyers coming back. 
Storyteller at the decks — Maurice in his element, where every record has a memory and every groove has a story.
“For me, it’s about sharing. I’ve never believed music should be gatekept.”
Joy Division didn’t sound like Joy Division by design.
It came from broken equipment, unstable rooms, and accidents no one planned for. Most people hear the result and move on. Maurice doesn’t. Maurice doesn’t just show records — he tells the stories behind them. The kind of stories that live inside the grooves: how a sound was made, why it almost didn’t exist, what got lost along the way, and why those imperfections matter more than the finish. Because to him, vinyl culture isn’t about collecting music. It’s about collecting context. And once you start listening that way, you can’t really go back. Time & Again Records Wisconsin: Beatles Roots, Ministry Ties & the Moment That Built a Record Store6/24/2026 From paper-route Beatles singles to sitting beside Al Jourgensen, Ray's path to Time & Again, celebrating nine years this July, was anything but planned.  Before Time & Again existed, Ray already looked like the guy who’d open a record shop. Ray didn't open Time & Again because he had a business plan. He opened it because one day, after 35 years in retail, he hit a wall, said "F— it," and built the record store he wished existed, not in Detroit or Milwaukee, but in Sturtevant, Wisconsin.
He'd already lived a whole life in music retail: raised on Beatles singles bought with paper-route money, working at Rose Records and Capitol Records, running a used record store alongside a young Al Jourgensen before Ministry was Ministry, and eventually writing two Beatles books. Time & Again feels like the sum of all that experience. On my last visit, I walked out with a DEBUT magazine-and-record combo featuring The Smiths, exactly the kind of piece Ray seems to save for the right person at the right moment. So instead of telling his story for him, I asked Ray to tell it himself. Editor's Note: Time & Again celebrates nine years in business this July. The conversation below has been lightly edited for clarity and length. Why Record Stores Still Matter in 2026: Inside the Culture, Community, and Chaos of Record Works6/17/2026 
Inside Record Works, where the hunt never ends. Photo credit: Tourism Oxford.
The Spark That Every Vinyl Lover Recognize
Every vinyl collector has a moment when a record store changes them — a moment when the world suddenly feels bigger, warmer, and full of possibility.
For Doug Marsh, that moment happened in 1987. He wasn't trying to start a business. He was simply helping another shop track down an out-of-print Burton Cummings record. He walked into Dr. Disc in London, Ontario, and felt the same jolt every crate digger knows: this is where the magic happens. "A light bulb went on about how downtown Woodstock could support this type of cool operation," he says — not as a businessman, but as someone who recognized a feeling and followed it.
That spark became Record Works, a shop that has survived four decades, multiple format deaths, the rise of streaming, and the collapse of physical media.
But this isn't just a story about one store. It's a story about why record stores still matter.  Jacob Chung and the chase behind a life in jazz“It’s coming back from playing Charlie Parker for 20,000 people to being a saxophone monkey at a wedding gig that pays next to nothing.” That was the week Jacob Chung described to me, and it left me wondering what success even means when it can change rooms overnight.
I didn’t meet him in person. We talked over Instagram messages. That feels normal now in a way that would’ve surprised me before I started listening to jazz at all. I’ve only been inside this music for a few months, still learning how to hear it properly one artist, one record at a time. So when I first heard Jacob Chung, I wasn’t listening as someone who understood jazz. I was listening as someone still figuring out why it mattered at all.  Propaganda, captured by Anton Corbijn — four faces framed in shadow and precision. The sound of 1985 frozen in monochrome. Rob’s 1985 Discovery It started with four words in the Vinyl Vibes comment section — four words that hit with the force of a dropped needle: “ABBA from hell, mate. It came from Rob, a 67‑year‑old reader now living in the Netherlands, responding to my piece “Nobody Needs Vinyl Anymore — So Why Does It Matter So Much?” And those four words didn’t just add colour — they opened a door. Rob took me straight back to 1985, to a record shop somewhere in the UK. He was 26 then, drifting between jobs, spending whatever spare cash he had on albums that felt like they were pointing toward the future. That’s where he found Propaganda’s A Secret Wish — a stark, geometric cover sitting in a bin full of neon‑bright synthpop. He bought it on instinct. The “ABBA From Hell” MomentWhen he dropped the needle on “Dream Within a Dream,” everything shifted. The Poe monologue. The icy synths. The sense of something cinematic, European, and slightly dangerous. Rob described it better than any critic ever has: “It was like ABBA… if ABBA had been raised in a bunker. It’s the kind of line you only get from someone who lived through the moment — someone who remembers what it felt like to hear something familiar twisted into something darker, sharper, more operatic.
That’s when I knew I needed to hear this record for myself.  Flipping through the stacks at Revolution Records — where the colours, the crates, and the music always pull you in. “More ‘holy crap, no way they have this’ moments than any other shop.” That’s how one customer described Revolution Records — and honestly, it’s the perfect way to understand why this Ottawa Street North staple has become the heart of Hamilton’s vinyl community. If you’re exploring Hamilton’s record stores or looking for a place where music discovery still feels personal, this east‑end favourite has become a go‑to destination for collectors, music lovers, and anyone who believes in the magic of flipping through records in a welcoming space. Since opening in 2015, Revolution Records has grown into one of Hamilton’s most beloved independent record shops. Not because it competes with others, but because it contributes something uniquely its own: a friendly atmosphere, constantly rotating stock, and the kind of discoveries that make you stop mid‑flip and smile. It feels less like a retail store and more like a space built around the experience of caring about music.   From King Crimson’s 1969 Hyde Park performance to the 2026 vinyl revival, analog sound remains immersive, physical, and alive. Why Vinyl Still Matters in 2026Guest Contributor: Duke — guitarist & songwriter who never stopped dropping the needle. In 1969, King Crimson stepped onto the Hyde Park stage in London and blasted 21st Century Schizoid Man into a crowd that had absolutely no idea what was coming. It wasn’t just loud — it was mind‑bending, the kind of moment that makes you wish you could time‑travel just to feel the shockwave yourself.
Fast‑forward to 2026, and that same jolt of electricity still exists — not in playlists or algorithms, but in the crackle of a needle hitting vinyl. In a world where music is everywhere and nowhere at the same time, vinyl feels different. It feels real. It slows you down in a way nothing digital ever does. Maybe that’s why so many younger listeners are getting hooked. Vinyl isn’t about nostalgia — it’s about presence. It’s about choosing to listen instead of letting music blur into the background. It’s the opposite of passive. It’s the opposite of scroll culture. It’s a vibe you can actually hold in your hands. And that’s where the story really begins.  Ramones circa 1980 — shot at Star Records, Hamilton, ON ’80 Rob was one of the first readers to jump into the comments — not just to react, but to share a piece of his own history. He told me about the one record he’d never part with: a copy of End of the Century signed by the Ramones at Star Records in Hamilton back in May 1980.
Picture that for a second: Joey, Johnny, Dee Dee, and Marky in a tiny local shop at King and Jame in downtown Hamilton, Sharpies in hand, signing a record that would outlive the store, the era, and maybe even the band itself. That’s the thing about vinyl. Sometimes you’re not just holding a record — you’re holding a piece of history, a moment that refuses to disappear, a story pressed into wax and memory. And here’s the part that surprised me: I didn’t learn this from research. I learned it from the comments. Every story in this piece comes from readers — people who showed up to share their experiences, their memories, their passions, and the moments that shaped their relationship with music. This isn’t just an article. It’s a conversation. A community. A living archive.  The Cure - A Soundtrack for Every Stage of Life The music of The Cure has never just been something I listened to in the background. It has been tied to different versions of my life.
It started with The Head on the Door (The Cure), then deepened with Disintegration (The Cure), expanded through Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me (The Cure), softened with Wish (The Cure), and even got reinterpreted through Mixed Up (The Cure). Later, compilations like Staring at the Sea: The Singles (The Cure) and Greatest Hits (The Cure) brought everything into focus in a different way. And now, with Songs of a Lost World (The Cure), it feels like the story has come full circle. This isn’t just about albums. It’s about how the same band can mean different things depending on where you are in life. 
The Stone Roses 1989
Back in 1989, something found me unexpectedly. I didn’t go looking for it—it just arrived.
At the time, I was drawn to the jangly indie sound of The Smiths, the post-punk rhythm of New Order, and the 60s-inspired spaciousness of later Beatles records. Before Britpop and the big choruses of Oasis and Blur, there was a shift happening in Manchester. At the centre of it was The Stone Roses. The Stone Roses’ 1989 debut album didn’t just introduce a band—it marked a cultural shift in British indie music. Blending jangle pop, dance rhythms, and Manchester attitude, it became one of the defining records of its era.  5 Albums. A lifetime of music. Music doesn’t arrive all at once. It shows up in chapters — in the albums that hit you at the right moment, in the right room, at the right age. Some records shape your earliest memories. Others find you decades later and completely change how you listen. A few stay with you forever, following you from format to format, era to era, version to version. These are the five albums that shaped my life as a music fan — the ones that built the foundation, cracked it open, rebuilt it, and reminded me why I love music in the first place. 1. Songs From the Big Chair — Tears for Fears Songs from the Big Chair The first album that made me a music fan. Everyone has that one album that feels like the beginning — the moment music stops being background noise and becomes something you carry with you. For me, it was Songs From the Big Chair. It wasn’t just the hits — it was the emotional weight behind them. The scale. The ambition. The sense that pop music could be huge and deeply human at the same time. This wasn’t just something I listened to. It was something I lived with. And even now, it takes me right back to that first moment of realization: music could mean more than entertainment — it could mean identity. Read more: why this album became my entry point into music. Listen / shop the album: Check it out on Amazon here: Songs From the Big Chair on Amazon 2. Everybody Digs Bill Evans — Bill Evans Everybody Digs Bill Evans The late-life awakening that began with “Peace Piece.” Some albums don’t arrive on time — they arrive when you’re ready. I didn’t grow up with jazz. I didn’t study it. I didn’t try to “understand” it. But then I heard “Peace Piece”, and everything changed. The room felt quieter. The pace of everything slowed down. My listening shifted. Bill Evans didn’t demand attention — he invited it. Everybody Digs Bill Evans became more than an introduction to jazz. It became an introduction to a different way of listening entirely — more patient, more reflective, more open. Read more: how jazz changed the way I hear music. Listen / shop the album: Check it out on Amazon here: Everybody Digs Bill Evans 3. Bona Drag — Morrissey Bona Drag The album that expanded my taste — and still follows me. There’s a moment when your taste expands — when you realize the artists you love are only part of the story. Bona Drag was that moment. It carried the emotional DNA of The Smiths, but it stood on its own — sharper, more theatrical, more conversational. It felt like someone talking directly to you across time. This wasn’t just a collection of songs. It was a shift in perspective. And it still is. Every return listen feels slightly different — like the album is evolving with me. Read more: why Bona Drag still resonates today. Listen / shop the album: Check it out on Amazon here: Bona Drag 4. Led Zeppelin IV — Led Zeppelin Led Zeppelin IV The album that brought vinyl to life. I always loved Zeppelin, but I didn’t fully understand IV until I heard it on vinyl. That changed everything. Suddenly the album felt physical — the weight of the riffs, the warmth in the production, the way the sound filled the room instead of just playing in it. This wasn’t just listening anymore. It was experiencing. Led Zeppelin IV turned vinyl from a format into a ritual — something intentional, something present. Read more: why vinyl changed how I hear classic rock. Listen / shop the album: Check it out on Amazon here: Led Zeppelin IV 5. Substance (1987) — New Order Substance 1987 The album that still follows me. Some albums belong to a moment. Others belong to you. Substance is the second kind. It’s part history — the aftermath of Joy Division, the reinvention of a band learning how to continue — and part personal soundtrack. It’s followed me through different versions of myself without ever losing relevance. Every time I return to it, it lands differently. It adapts. It evolves. It doesn’t feel like a greatest hits collection. It feels like continuity. Read more: why New Order still defines my listening today. Listen / shop the album: Check it out on Amazon here: Substance 1987 Why These Albums Still Matter These five records don’t just represent different genres or different phases of my life. They represent different ways of listening:
Together, they tell the story of how music grows with you — how it changes shape, deepens, and stays. Because the albums that make you a music fan aren’t just memories. They’re anchors. They’re mirrors. They’re reminders of who you were, who you are, and who you’re still becoming.  
Today the algorithm threw something unexpected at me: “Shadowplay” by Joy Division — but covered by The Killers.
At first I didn’t even register who it was. The riff felt familiar, the mood unmistakably Joy Division, but the delivery had a different kind of swagger. Only later did it click: their version was recorded specifically for Control, the Ian Curtis biopic, and it plays over the end credits. I watched the film recently — beautifully shot, devastating, human — and somehow didn’t realize it was The Killers closing the story. Joy Division has a way of resurfacing at the right moment. I’ve written before about Unknown Pleasures, about how that record feels like a transmission from somewhere both intimate and unreachable. And now, as we approach 46 years since Ian Curtis’s death in May 1980, the music hasn’t lost any of its power. If anything, time has made it sharper, more mythic. Joy Division Vinyl Picks: Ceremony: The Bridge Between Two Worlds One of my all‑time favourite New Order songs — maybe the favourite — is “Ceremony.” There’s a video of them performing it at the CoManCHE Student Union in Manchester on February 6th, 1981, and it remains one of the most important documents of a band in transition. You can feel the weight of what they’d just lived through, and the uncertainty of what came next. Bernard Sumner’s voice is tentative but determined. Peter Hook’s bass is already carving out that melodic identity. Stephen Morris is the anchor. Together they’re carrying Ian Curtis’s final lyrics into a new sonic era. It’s the blueprint of what New Order would soon become — not quite formed, but undeniably alive. “Ceremony” was one of the final Joy Division compositions, written just weeks before Ian’s death. The surviving recordings are faint and ghostly, almost impossible to decipher. New Order had to reconstruct the lyrics from fragments. That alone gives the song a kind of sacredness — the last words of one band becoming the first breath of another. Substance 1987: My Accidental Origin Story My own introduction to New Order wasn’t curated or chronological. It was a cassette — a beat‑up copy of Substance 1987 that somehow ended up in my possession. I played it relentlessly on my boombox, probably driving my entire house insane. But for me, it was a portal. What makes Substance so special is that it’s not just a compilation. It’s a map of the band’s evolution, collecting every single from 1981 to 1987 — mostly in their 12‑inch versions — plus B‑sides, plus the then‑new single “True Faith” and its B‑side “1963.” It’s the sound of a band transforming from post‑punk survivors into architects of synth‑pop, dance music, and the club culture that would define the late ’80s and beyond. If you want to revisit Substance 1987 the way it was meant to be heard, check out these deals on the vinyl version. Even if you’re not a New Order fan, you know these songs: And honestly? Substance contains the best versions of each. These mixes weren’t afterthoughts — they were the band’s preferred language. 1987 vs. Today: Two Different Universes Listening to Substance in 1987 felt like stepping into the future of alternative music. Hearing guitars and drum machines coexist without apology was revolutionary. It was the sound of a new world forming in real time. Listening to it today feels different — deeper, more emotional, more mythic. You hear the entire lineage: Joy Division’s shadow, New Order’s reinvention, the birth of indie‑dance, the seeds of modern electronic pop. “Ceremony” hits harder when you know its origin story. “True Faith,” a monster hit in its own right, feels like the emotional center of the band’s entire arc. It’s not just nostalgia. It’s recognition — of how much music changed because these songs existed. New Order Vinyl Picks to Check Out Why This Still Matters Maybe that’s why the algorithm sending me The Killers’ “Shadowplay” felt like a full‑circle moment. Joy Division → New Order → Substance → modern bands still carrying the torch. Nearly 46 years after Ian Curtis’s death, the music hasn’t dimmed. It’s still powerful, still relevant, still capable of finding you on an ordinary day and pulling you back into the story. New Order didn’t just continue after Joy Division — they transformed grief into a new kind of beauty. If You Liked This, Check Out These Vinyl Vibes Deep Dives If this piece resonated with you, here are a few more album‑centered explorations from Vinyl Vibes — all rooted in memory, mood, and the emotional architecture of the music we return to:
MORE FROM DEEP CUTS
Unknown Pleasures is one of the records at the heart of Deep Cuts — personal stories about the albums and artists that stay with us.
Explore Deep Cuts →
Rick Astley and Blossoms covering The Smiths at Glastonbury 2023 sounds like a joke. It wasn’t. It became one of the most unexpectedly joyful—and genuinely moving—moments of the entire festival. What could have been a gimmick turned into something far more meaningful: a reminder of why these songs still matter.
Astley’s vocals fit the material far better than anyone could have predicted. He doesn’t imitate Morrissey; he sings in his own voice, with warmth and sincerity that makes the lyrics feel newly alive. Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now — originally from Hatful of Hollow — still hits with the same emotional weight. There’s a sense of delighted reverence in his delivery, and the crowd responds instantly. The energy in the tent is electric—the kind of shared moment where people realize they’re witnessing something special. Blossoms match that energy with tight, faithful musicianship. They honour Johnny Marr’s shimmering guitar work, Andy Rourke’s melodic bass lines, and Mike Joyce’s rhythmic backbone with real precision. More importantly, they understand the architecture of these songs—how Marr’s arrangements elevate everything around them. This isn’t imitation. It’s interpretation done right. Of course, no Smiths-related moment comes without tension. Morrissey, in a rare show of generosity, praised the tribute, while Johnny Marr initially dismissed it as “funny and horrible at the same time,” later softening his stance. Fans split along familiar lines—some embracing it, others rejecting it outright. But that divide almost misses the point. Because inside that tent, the reaction told a different story. This wasn’t nostalgia for nostalgia’s sake. The music didn’t feel preserved—it felt alive. The songs belonged to the moment as much as they ever did in the past. As a lifelong Smiths fan, I’ve seen my share of tributes. Some land, many don’t. Most sit somewhere in between. This one stands at the top. It’s joyful, respectful, musically sharp, and emotionally real. You can feel the connection—Astley has spoken about how much The Smiths meant to him growing up, and Blossoms carry that same Manchester-rooted DNA. That love runs through every note. The collaboration itself came together almost accidentally. Blossoms had been playing Smiths songs for fun, Astley joined in, and something clicked. What could have been a novelty ended up feeling completely natural. Some joked about it being a Rickroll moment, but the reality is much simpler: this was genuine fandom, shared on a massive stage. The crowd reaction says everything. The Woodsies tent was packed to capacity, with thousands more gathered outside, climbing whatever they could just to hear. Security eventually had to stop letting people in. Word spread quickly, and what started as curiosity turned into something closer to collective awe. The setlist didn’t hold back: Panic, This Charming Man, What Difference Does It Make?, Bigmouth Strikes Again, Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now, Ask, Girlfriend in a Coma, The Boy With the Thorn in His Side, Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want, How Soon Is Now?, There Is a Light That Never Goes Out, and more. By the time they reached There Is a Light That Never Goes Out, it felt like the entire tent was suspended in that moment. If you want to revisit the originals
Astley and Blossoms didn’t just play these songs—they honoured them. Not by preserving them, but by letting them breathe again in front of a new crowd. I only wish the performance existed on vinyl. I’d file it next to Rank—not as a replacement, but as proof that great songs never really stay in the past. If you liked this, check out:
If you’re building your setup, you can explore the full Vinyl Essentials guide covering turntables, cleaning, and accessories.
I bought Viva Hate the day it came out in March 1988. It’s now thirty‑eight years old, and while I could tell you how old that makes me, I’d rather not trigger an existential crisis before we even get to the music. Back then, I was a Smiths fan wandering into a post‑1987 world, trying to figure out what life looked like without the band that had shaped everything. For anyone curious, the vinyl version of Viva Hate is available here.
I was still recovering from the breakup of The Smiths, my favourite band of all time, who had fallen apart in 1987 — most say August. They’d formed in 1982, released four studio albums including the masterpiece The Queen Is Dead, and finished with Strangeways, Here We Come in September 1987. Both Morrissey and Marr have said it’s their favourite, and it’s hard to disagree. If you ignore demos, live versions, and alternate takes, The Smiths left behind seventy original songs and four covers. Most fans can identify any track within seconds — a skill I quietly brag about, though no one seems especially impressed. Those seventy‑four songs shaped so many lives, mine included, so Morrissey’s first solo album felt like a bridge between what we’d lost and whatever was coming next. Morrissey moved quickly after the breakup, and he carried some of The Smiths’ spirit with him. Stephen Street was the biggest link — he’d engineered several Smiths records, including The Queen Is Dead, and stepped in to help Morrissey find his footing. He co‑wrote much of Viva Hate and produced the entire album. If you hear any jangly, Smith‑adjacent DNA — not quite Marr’s genius, but definitely in the family — that’s Street. Andrew Paresi, who played drums on some Strangeways tracks, also returned for the sessions. And the overall mood of the album — English melancholy, sharp lyrics, that familiar lyricist‑plus‑composer dynamic — feels like The Smiths’ shadow still lingering, just with Street instead of Marr. Mike Joyce and Andy Rourke weren’t part of the album, but Andy did play on several early Morrissey singles like “Interesting Drug” and “The Last of the Famous International Playboys,” with Joyce drumming on some of those too. It was a brief moment before legal tensions took over, but having three‑quarters of The Smiths involved in Morrissey’s early solo work felt like a small miracle. Without Marr, it wasn’t the same, but it was the best we had. I’ve been listening to Viva Hate for thirty‑eight years, and beyond the iconic singles — “Everyday Is Like Sunday” and “Suedehead” — it remains a remarkably strong debut. At the time, it was seen as a confident, emotionally rich continuation of Morrissey’s world after The Smiths. It had depth, atmosphere, and several tracks that still hold up today. In Morrissey’s discography, it usually sits in the top three or four, which says a lot when you consider albums like Vauxhall and I, Your Arsenal, You Are the Quarry, Ringleader of the Tormentors, and even his latest work, Make up is a Lie. Essential Morrissey Vinyl The album has a very particular mood. If you enjoy walking alone through a quiet seaside town in early spring — grey skies, a bit of cold in the air — you’ll understand the feeling immediately. “Late Night, Maudlin Street” runs seven minutes and forty seconds, and you need every one of them to let the memories unfold. The opening track, “Alsatian Cousin,” sliding into “Little Man, What Now?”, has a sharpness that pulls you in. “Break Up the Family” carries a post‑Smiths ache — not directly about the breakup, but you can feel the sense of being a little lost. And the B‑sides from this era are incredible. Many ended up on Bona Drag: “Hairdresser on Fire,” “I Know Very Well How I Got My Name,” “Disappointed,” “Sister I’m a Poet,” “Will Never Marry,” plus extras like “Let the Right One Slip In,” “At Amber,” and “Michael’s Bones.” Some of these could have easily made Viva Hate a perfect ten. Over the years, the album has become a quiet companion — a walk through my own memories, youthful hopes, and the highs and lows of life. Sometimes sad, sometimes comforting, but always quietly beautiful. Thirty‑eight years on, Viva Hate still hums in the background, steady as ever. If you liked this, check out:
If you’re building your setup, you can explore the full Vinyl Essentials guide covering turntables, cleaning, and accessories.
Deeper by the tracks — industrial edges and repetition, just like the rhythms that define Auto‑Pain.
There are moments in life when the world doesn’t just change — it stops. March 2020 was one of those moments. The shift was surreal, like someone had turned the volume down on the entire planet.
Empty streets. Offices closed overnight. Flights grounded. Cities that had always hummed suddenly fell silent. It wasn’t fear at first — not really. It was disbelief. A sense that reality had slipped sideways. Some people panic‑bought things they’d never use. Others worried about getting sick, or about loved ones getting sick, or about hospitals being overwhelmed. Normalcy evaporated. Time felt distorted — stretched, suspended, unrecognizable. If this feels familiar, it’s because it’s how so many of us experienced the start of COVID. We reached for our phones constantly — for news, for distraction, for anything that made the moment feel less strange. And in that odd isolation, an album slipped into my life at exactly the right time. Released in 2020 during the height of the pandemic, Auto-Pain by Deeper became one of those post-punk albums that seemed uniquely suited to the lockdown era. Blending wiry tension with minimalist repetition, it captured the surreal emotional landscape of isolation better than almost anything else released that year — a soundtrack for long walks, quiet rooms, and the strange stillness of a world on pause. The Album That Arrived at the Exact Wrong—and Right—Time
Auto‑Pain by Deeper was released in March 2020, just as the world was shutting its doors. The timing was uncanny. Their tense, wiry post‑punk record became an accidental soundtrack to uncertainty. It wasn’t built for crowds or clubs. It wasn’t meant for discovery in a packed venue. It was an album designed — unintentionally — for isolation.
And somehow, that made it hit even harder. A Sound That Felt Like the Inside of Your Own Head
Auto‑Pain felt like being trapped in your own head but dancing anyway. Cold, mechanical tension wrapped around something deeply human. Anxiety with a pulse. Dread you could move to.
It mirrored the feeling of days blending together — the repetition, the restlessness, the quiet ache of wanting change but fearing it. It felt like the city at night, except the streets were empty and the unease was internal. Where It Sits Musically: Post‑Punk Roots, Modern Urgency
Musically, it sits somewhere between early Cure rawness and the lyrical maturity of Disintegration. You can hear the post‑punk lineage — Wire’s sharp minimalism, the clipped detachment of modern indie — but Deeper make it feel new, urgent, alive.
They’re a Chicago band formed in the mid‑2010s, and Auto‑Pain was their second studio album. A band evolving, tightening, sharpening. And for me — in that moment — the timing was uncanny. I was immediately captivated, even nourished, by the tension and release woven through the record. “Lake Song”: The Emotional Center of the Album
“Lake Song” is the emotional anchor of the album.
It feels like staring out a window at a world that looks calm and beautiful, while admitting that inside, things aren’t great. It’s the desire to escape your own head — paired with the realization that doing so is much harder than it sounds. It’s emotional paralysis set to rhythm. Routine as both comfort and cage. A hypnotic loop that somehow makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up every time it hits just right. And yet, you want to move. You want to let the rhythm carry you somewhere — anywhere — even if you’re not sure where that is. Why Auto‑Pain Still Matters
Deeper on a Chicago rooftop — the band framed against the city that shaped their wiry, anxious post‑punk sound.
Some albums define a year. Auto‑Pain defined a feeling — one that’s hard to articulate but instantly recognizable to anyone who lived through that suspended spring of 2020.
It mattered because it didn’t try to soothe or distract. It didn’t pretend things were fine. It didn’t offer false comfort or easy optimism. Instead, it met listeners exactly where they were: restless, anxious, uncertain, stuck between wanting change and fearing it. It captured the emotional static of that moment with an honesty that felt almost confrontational — and yet strangely comforting. In a time when the world went quiet, Auto‑Pain didn’t fill the silence. It understood it. The album’s repetition mirrored the sameness of lockdown days. Its tension echoed the low‑grade hum of worry that lived under everything. Its cold, clipped edges reflected the emotional distance we all felt — from each other, from our routines, from our own sense of normalcy. And beneath all that, there was a pulse: a reminder that even in isolation, something inside us was still moving.
That’s why the record endures. It isn’t tied to the pandemic as an event — it’s tied to the emotional architecture of that time. The uncertainty. The introspection. The strange mix of dread and clarity. The way music became a lifeline when everything else felt suspended.
For me, Auto‑Pain is forever connected to that moment when the world stopped and I had no choice but to sit with myself — with my thoughts, my fears, my hopes, my restlessness. It didn’t just soundtrack that period; it helped me navigate it. It gave shape to feelings I didn’t have language for yet. And that’s the mark of a lasting album: it doesn’t just belong to the moment it was released. It becomes a companion to the moments that changed you. Some records stay with you because they’re great. Others stay with you because they helped you survive something. Auto‑Pain did both. Other New Artists You Might Love
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