The presses at Meridian Sound are older than most of the records they stamp. They hiss, they jam, and on a humid day they need a man named Dato to talk them down like nervous animals.
Demand has never been higher. The plant is booked solid into next year.
The presses are older than most of the records they stamp.
A scene takes shape
What began as a handful of enthusiasts has become something with its own etiquette, its own venues, and its own quiet economy. The people involved are reluctant to call it a movement, which is usually the surest sign that it is one.
Why now
The reasons are easy to guess and harder to prove: fatigue with infinite choice, a hunger for attention as a shared act, the simple pleasure of a thing with edges. Whatever the cause, the rooms keep filling.
