Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
Richard Osborne Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record For Maria Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
Richard Osborne Middlesex University, UK © Richard Osborne 2012
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Richard Osborne has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
Published by Ashgate Publishing Limited Ashgate Publishing Company Wey Court East 110 Cherry Street Union Road Suite 3–1 Farnham Burlington Surrey, GU9 7PT VT 05401-3818 England USA www.ashgate.com
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Osborne, Richard. Vinyl : a history of the analogue record. — (Ashgate popular and folk music series) 1. Sound—Recording and reproducing—Equipment and supplies—History. 2. Sound—Recording and reproducing—Equipment and supplies—Materials. 3. Sound recordings—History. i. Title II. Series 781.4’9’09–dc23
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Osborne, Richard, 1967– Vinyl : a history of the analogue record / by Richard Osborne. p. cm. — (Ashgate popular and folk music series) includes bibliographical references and index. isbn 978-1-4094-4027-7 (hardcover : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-1-4094-4028-4 (ebook) 1. Sound recordings—History. 2. Sound recording industry—History. I. Title. ML3790.O825 2013 384—dc23 2012021796
ISBN 9781409440277 (hbk) ISBN 9781409440284 (ebk – PDF) ISBN 9781409472049 (ebk – ePUB)
V
Printed and bound in Great Britain by the MPG Books Group, UK. Contents
General Editor’s Preface vii Acknowledgements ix
Introduction 1
1 The Groove 7
2 The Disc 27
3 The Label 45
4 Vinyl 67
5 The LP 87
6 The 45 117
7 The B-Side and the 12″ Single 143
8 The Sleeve 161
Conclusion 183
Bibliography 187 Index 205 This page has been left blank intentionally General Editor’s Preface
The upheaval that occurred in musicology during the last two decades of the twentieth century has created a new urgency for the study of popular music alongside the development of new critical and theoretical models. A relativistic outlook has replaced the universal perspective of modernism (the international ambitions of the 12-note style); the grand narrative of the evolution and dissolution of tonality has been challenged, and emphasis has shifted to cultural context, reception and subject position. Together, these have conspired to eat away at the status of canonical composers and categories of high and low in music. A need has arisen, also, to recognize and address the emergence of crossovers, mixed and new genres, to engage in debates concerning the vexed problem of what constitutes authenticity in music and to offer a critique of musical practice as the product of free, individual expression. Popular musicology is now a vital and exciting area of scholarship, and the Ashgate Popular and Folk Music Series presents some of the best research in the field. Authors are concerned with locating musical practices, values and meanings in cultural context, and may draw upon methodologies and theories developed in cultural studies, semiotics, poststructuralism, psychology and sociology. The series focuses on popular musics of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. It is designed to embrace the world’s popular musics from Acid Jazz to Zydeco, whether high tech or low tech, commercial or non-commercial, contemporary or traditional.
Professor Derek B. Scott, Professor of Critical Musicology, University of Leeds, UK This page has been left blank intentionally Acknowledgements
Many thanks to Steven Connor, Simon Frith, Dave Laing, Marybeth Hamilton, Keir Keightley and Leo Whetter who have all provided valuable feedback on the whole or part of this work. A different version of the chapter on the label was first published as ‘De l’étiquette au label’ in Réseaux. It next appeared as ‘The Record and Its Label: Identifying, Marketing, Dividing, Collecting’ in Popular Music History. This page has been left blank intentionally Introduction
Mojo, one of Britain’s biggest-selling music magazines, decided that 2011’s trend of the year was ‘the vinyl revival’ (Aston and Eccleston 2012: 50). To start 2012 the BBC radio station 6 Music declared that its New Year’s Day would be ‘all vinyl’ (‘Vinyl Set to Make Radio Comeback for One Day Only’ 2011). Mojo and 6 Music were responding to an upturn in the sound carrier’s fortunes. Although vinyl lost its status as Britain’s leading albums format as long ago as 1985 and thus looked set for a permanent decline, sales of vinyl LPs rose year on year by 43.7 per cent in 2011.1 In the US the success of the format was better still: sales of vinyl LPs increased by over 1 million in the same year (Halliday 2012). And yet this wasn’t the first of vinyl’s revivals. British sales of 45 rpm, 7″ singles rose by 260 per cent between 2003 and 2006, and a more prolonged growth period was experienced by the 12″ single: here the British market produced more records in 2002 than it did in 1996. Crucial to vinyl’s successes is the fact that both old and new repertoire is issued on this format. Equally important is the fact that it is not just people who grew up with vinyl who are buying these records. Although a report issued in 2008 claimed that one in five 18-to-24-year-olds has no knowledge of analogue record players, there are many among this age group who are buying vinyl discs (‘Fantastic Gadgets of the Future’ 2008). According to HMV, Britain’s last high- street record store chain, ‘Teenagers and students’ constituted the ‘main market’ for vinyl singles during the 2000s (Tomkins 2008). In addition, it has been reported that the market for turntables is ‘in rude health’ (Pell 2007), reflected by the fact that John Lewis began re-stocking this product in 2011. There are different ways of looking at these vinyl returns. On the one hand, they are remarkable. There have been many other sound recording formats – cylinders, shellac discs, tape cassettes, compact discs, mini discs, and so on – but vinyl is alone in reversing sales trends in this manner. On the other hand, it should be noted that sales of the format are minor. In 2006 combined sales of 7″ and 12″ singles accounted for just 3.4 per cent of the UK singles market, and in 2011 vinyl LPs made up only 0.3 per cent of British album sales. But then again, it is arguable that these lowly sales figures only render vinyl’s survival more impressive. Vinyl receives attention out of all proportion to its market performance. In the twenty-first century it has been the subject of numerous articles in the music press and daily newspapers, including editorials in Music Week and the Guardian
1 Unless otherwise stated, all figures for music sales, trade deliveries and the price of recordings within the UK are derived from British Phonographic Industry statistics (
(Talbot 2007: 20; ‘Vinyl Solution’ 2005; ‘In Praise Of … Vinyl Records’ 2007). It has been the common subject of questionnaires: ‘which format do you prefer: vinyl, CD or MP3?’, now often reduced to just ‘vinyl or MP3?’ (Hanman 2006; Roberts, J. 2008: 5). For many it is vinyl rather than the CD that has been more effective at offering an alternative and a complement to the digital download. Adam Woods of Music Week has stated, ‘it is easy to believe that the format could thrive even as the CD begins to lose ground to the Internet’ (2004: 15). The Financial Times has commented that ‘the 7 in single is fast becoming the last tangible format for the single release’ (Tomkins 2008). A similar view can even be heard at major record companies. Lyor Cohen, the CEO of Recorded Music for the Warner Music Group, stated in 2011 that ‘vinyl will definitely outlast CDs because of the resonance, the sound; the quality is closest to the way the artist wants you to hear it’ (Lindvall 2011). The digital file is the first incorporeal recording format; it receives its representation by means of its player or the interface on a computer screen. There remains a need to visualize individual songs or album collections. Here it is the vinyl record that has been turned to. While the CD is routinely ignored, vinyl imagery has proliferated. This tendency can be seen in advertising (T-Mobile, Sky and Yellow Pages have each used vinyl in TV commercials since 2005) and it can be seen in fine art (in 2010 Duke University gathered artistic responses to the format in the exhibition The Record: Contemporary Art and Vinyl). Musicians, too, are more likely to sing about vinyl than they are about the CD (in recent years it has been referenced by Corinne Bailey Rae in ‘Put Your Records On’ and Keane in ‘Perfect Symmetry’). In addition, digital technologies have attempted to mimic vinyl. In 2009 FreeStyleGames released the game DJ Hero, which features a digital reproduction of a vinyl record’s grooves. Playlist Player launched a hi-fi system in 2010 that plays MP3s as though they are vinyl discs: its plan is to turn ‘digital playlists into physical objects that you can touch, treasure, drop, lose or spill beer on’ (
Introduction
The truth is in the groove! The truth is in the groove! (Nathan 1999: 142–3)
Record label bosses took up this chant in April 1981 at a Billboard-sponsored conference in Athens. It was their response to the compact disc, the digital format that had recently been unveiled by its joint developers Sony and Philips. The problems began when Norio Ohga, Sony’s deputy executive president, attempted to promote the prototype CD player, a device that threatened to replace vinyl’s analogous grooves with alienating zeros-and-ones. The focus of the protest was apt. The groove has been the one constant in the analogue record’s evolution. Its thread can be traced from vinyl records back to shellac; from there to Emile Berliner’s original gramophone discs; and preceding these to Thomas Edison’s cylinders, the first recording devices to audibly reproduce sound. And its truth? Well, that lies in language. The groove is a text that dissolves the difference between signifier and signified. The Swiss linguist Ferdinand de Saussure divided language into two component parts: there is the word as written (the ‘signifier’) and there is the concept that that word seeks to describe (the ‘signified’) (Saussure 1966). He argued that the relationship between the two is arbitrary. For example, there is nothing rose-like about the word rose; like all words its form as letters on a page bears no relation to its existence as a thing. This is not the case with the writing on a record; here a natural force makes the inscription. As implied by the names ‘phonograph’ and ‘gramophone’, both of which derive from the Greek for ‘sound-writing’, it is sound itself that decides the patterns of the groove. C.S. Peirce used the term ‘indexical’ to describe instances where the signifier is causally related to the signified, the classic examples being smoke and fire, and thunder and lightning (1960: 170–72). The record’s groove can be grouped with these, but it is also beyond them. Sound creates the groove (there’s no smoke without fire); but the groove can also reanimate the sound (there’s no fire without smoke); furthermore, the groove is extant whether it is reanimated or not (here there is smoke without fire). It is within this web of relationships that fascination with the groove lies. This chapter traces the evolution and development of the grooved recording. It also examines the ways that the groove has been thought about and used. The groove has particular qualities: it is indexical and yet it can exist in its own right. As a consequence, there has been fascination with its appearance: from the 8 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record beginnings of recorded sound people have sought to understand its graphic traces. There has also been fascination with the fact that the groove can be touched: people have taken advantage of the fact that these patterns of sound can be accessed and manipulated. Finally, there has been fascination with the groove’s mortality. The groove was the first means of preserving a ‘record’ of sound; however the groove itself also needed to be preserved. Its aging process has been a source of both frustration and pleasure.
Léon Scott’s Phonautograph
The prototypes of today’s vinyl discs are the records developed by Emile Berliner in the late 1880s for his playback invention, the gramophone. The groove itself was first reanimated in order to produce sound in 1877 when Thomas Edison introduced his phonograph and its cylinder recordings. And yet both of these inventors mention a forebear. Announcing his gramophone at the Franklin Institute in 1888 Berliner stated that the Phonautograph, invented by Edouard-Léon Scott de Martinville in 1856, was the point of origin for his playback device and for his laterally grooved records (Berliner 1888a). Thomas Edison, viewing the same machine at the Smithsonian Institute, expressed surprise that Scott ‘having gone so far’ had not beaten him in his work (Lewis-Young 1907b: 576). Berliner took pains to describe the workings of the Phonautograph during his Franklin Institute address, as well as highlighting the influence it had upon Edison’s invention:
[It] had for its purpose the recording of sound vibrations upon a cylinder rotated by hand and moved forward by a screw. The cylinder was covered with paper, this was smoked over a flame, and a stylus attached to the centre of the diaphragm under the influence of words spoken into a large barrel-like mouthpiece, would trace sound vibrations upon the smoky surface. Scott also employed an animal membrane for his diaphragm, and took pains, by means of an attachment called a sub-divider, to make the vibrations appear as large as possible. This sub-divider, became the prototype of the dampers in subsequent apparatus, like the … Edison phonograph. (1988a: 3–4)
There is a crucial difference between Edison’s and Scott’s machines, however. Edison’s phonograph holds the distinction of being the first device to audibly reproduce sound. Scott’s Phonautograph was attempting a different feat: its aim was to represent sound visually. It was designed, Scott claimed, to capture the ‘natural stenography’ of noise (Sterne 2003: 45). The vibrations that the Phonautograph traced were to be photographed and then studied, with the aim of decoding this new language. There was no thought that the inscriptions should be reconverted into sound. the Groove 9
This supposed oversight elicited Edison’s puzzled reaction at the Smithsonian Institute. He viewed his own machine as the next obvious step, but is this really the case? With Scott’s machine a natural phenomenon – sound – was the author. The reader of its script was always intended to be human. With Edison’s phonograph the ‘stylus’ takes over; a writing instrument reads for us. This was unprecedented, a leap that Edison himself regarded as a discovery rather than an invention.
Discovery of the Phonograph
Thomas Edison registered 1,093 United States patents and yet out of all of these the phonograph was his favourite: ‘Which do I consider my greatest?’ he pondered, ‘Well, my reply to that would be that I like the phonograph best’ (Edison 1948: 169). Edison claimed that sound recording was a lucky breakthrough, one that he had not sought (Millard: 37). The irony here is that another person was looking for it. The French amateur scientist and poet Charles Cros conceived a phonograph slightly earlier than Edison, but failed to gain backing for his ideas or to produce a working model. On 30 April 1877 Cros deposited a sealed envelope with the Académie des sciences de France containing his paper on the ‘Process of Recording and of Reproducing Audible Phenomena’:
In general, my process consists in obtaining the tracing of the to-and-fro movements of a vibrating membrane, and the utilization of this tracing for reproducing the same to-and-fro movement, with their relative inherent durations and intensities in the same membrane, or in another adapted for furnishing the sounds and noises which result from this series of movements … A light stylus is connected with the centre of a vibrating membrane; it terminates in a point (metallic wire, the barb of a feather, etc.), which bears upon a surface blackened by a flame. This surface is a part of a disc to which is given a double movement of rotation and rectilinear progression. (Cros 1920: 630)
Emile Berliner believed that if this machine been constructed it would have represented ‘a modified Scott phonautograph’ (1888a: 6). The first publicity Cros’s paper received was in an article written bythe Abbé Lenoir for La Semaine du clergé, published 10 October 1877. This piece is prescient in two respects. First, the Abbé Lenoir names Cros’s invention the ‘phonograph’. Second, he has the foresight to see that the machine will be used for reproducing music:
By means of this instrument which, if we were called upon to serve as godfather, we should christen phonograph, it will be possible to take photographs of the voice as we now take them of the face … Will that not be one of the most curious things that can possibly be imagined? To sit for a while and listen, for example, 10 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
to the singing of some song which has rendered such-and-such a singer famous, and to hear this song rendered with the same identical voice by a simple physical instrument named the phonograph. (Buick 1927: 20)
On 3 December 1877 Cros requested that his sealed paper be read and made public. Roland Gelatt, writer of one of the first authoritative histories of sound recording, regards this ‘a move presumably stimulated by reports of Edison’s successful experiments in America’ (1977: 24). The chronology of the events of 1877 makes it almost certain that Edison had no awareness of Cros’s paper when he embarked on the development of his machine. His phonograph was the by-product of his own, separate ventures. This machine, according to Robert Conot, ‘was the offspring of entirely different inventions; an inimitable mutation’ (1979: 97). Among the ideas that Edison had been exploring were a speaker for the telephone, a copying machine based on the electromagnetic principle, technology and devices for the automatic telegraph, and ways in which Western Union could employ the telephone in their operations. Like Léon Scott, Edison was originally inspired by thoughts of making sound visible. However, where Scott’s inspiration was scientific, Edison’s was commercial. The investigations that he was undertaking for Western Union led him to contemplate the possibility that the sound waves of telephone calls might be captured visually and then be translated into written text. In his article ‘The Perfected Phonograph’ Edison writes of contemplating the possibility that ‘the sound waves set going by a human voice might be so directed as to trace an impression upon some solid substance’. He continues:
My own discovery that this could be done came to me almost accidentally while I was busy with experiments having a different object in view. I was engaged upon a machine intended to repeat Morse characters … In manipulating this paper I found that when the cylinder carrying the indented paper was turned with great swiftness, it gave off a humming noise from the indentations – a musical, rhythmic sound resembling that of human talk heard indistinctly. This led me to try fitting a diaphragm to the machine, which would receive the vibrations or sound-waves made by my voice when I talked to it, and register these vibrations upon an impressible material placed on the cylinder … I saw at once that the problem of registering human speech, so that it could be repeated by mechanical means as often as might be desired, was solved. (1888: 642–3)
The leap had occurred. Edison was now considering the mechanical reproduction, rather than the transcription, of visualized sound. In his laboratory notebooks of 18 July 1877 he writes: ‘Just tried experiment with diaphragm having an embossing point and held against paraffin paper moving rapidly. The speaking vibrations are indented nicely, and there’s no doubt that I shall be able to store up and reproduce automatically at any future time the human voice perfectly’ (Conot 1979: 99–100). the Groove 11
The first public disclosure of this discovery was contained in Edison’s English Telephone Patent of 30 July 1877, in which he states that ‘some portions of my improvement can be availed of to make a record of the atmospheric sound waves’ (Wile 1977: 17). The next evidence of his thinking is provided in his notebook drawings of August 1877. Although the date of some of these drawings has been disputed, it would appear that Edison was by this point planning recording experiments that would use tinfoil wrapped around a cylinder (Conot 1979: 100; Wile 1977: 18). He had also christened his invention the ‘phonograph’. For Edison this term had textual connotations: as a teenage telegrapher he had used Ben Pitman’s shorthand method, as outlined in the Manual of Phonography (Gitelman 1999: 62). On 7 September 1877 Edison wrote out a press release relating to his findings. This would therefore have been composed over a month before Charles Cros’s phonograph was publicized in La Semaine du Clergé. At this point, however, Edison had not produced a working model of his machine. Conot believes that this decisive event took place early the following month (1979: 106). On 3 December 1877 – the day that Cros’s sealed paper was opened – Edison, together with his assistants Charles Batchelor and Jim Adams, sketched out three possible formats for the groove: a continuous strip, a disc or a cylinder. The following day Edison asked his mechanic John Kruesi to build a machine based on the latter design. This original phonograph consisted of the cylinder, which was wrapped with tinfoil, and two separate diaphragm-and-needle units, one of which was used for recording, the other for playing the recording back. At the commencement of the recording the cylinder would be rotated along a hand-cranked screw, and as it revolved the needle would indent the tinfoil with a groove. On the evening of 4 December 1877 the phonograph was tested by Edison in front of a small group of his assistants. Legend has it that his first recording was the nursery rhyme ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’. When it re-emerged through the machine it was a shock to him. He later commented, ‘I was never so taken aback in my life – I was always afraid of things that worked the first time’ (Read and Welch 1976: 18).
Development of the Groove
The first US patent was issued for Edison’s phonograph on 19 February 1878. Henceforth, those wishing to enter the fledging record business would have to do so either by obtaining the rights to manufacture Edison’s machine or by introducing patentable recording devices of their own. The latter path led to new types of groove. There was a gap in the market too. Edison’s serendipitous invention was launched without any specific purpose in mind. In his 1877 notebooks hehad tumbled out ideas: 12 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
I propose to apply the phonograph principle to make Dolls speak sing cry & make various sounds also apply it to all kinds of Toys such as Dogs animals fowls reptiles human figures to cause them to make various sounds to Steam Toy Engines exhausts & whistles = to reproduce from sheets music both orchestral instrumental & vocal … I also propose to make toy music boxes & toy talking boxes playing several tunes also to clocks and watches for calling out the time of day or waking a person for advertisements rotated continuously by clockwork. (Conot 1979: 106)
The tinfoil phonograph in fact functioned as a curiosity. In its advertising the Edison Speaking Phonograph Company admitted that ‘The adaptation of this wonderful invention to the practical uses of commerce not having, as yet, been completed in all its mechanical details, this company is now prepared to offer to the public only that design or form of apparatus which has been found best adapted to its exhibition as a novelty’ (Gelatt 1977: 26). In 1878 the phonograph was toured around America and Europe illustrating the wonders, but not the practical applications, of recorded sound. It could do little more. W.H. Preece, who gave the first phonograph demonstration in England, said of the machine’s reproduction, ‘to some extent it is a burlesque or parody of the human voice’ (ibid.: 30). Théodore du Moncel, who was given the same duty in France, stated ‘we have only heard the harsh and unpleasant voice of Punch’ (1879: 335). They were lucky to have produced any results at all. Edison later admitted, ‘no one but an expert could get anything intelligible back from it’ (Gelatt 1977: 26). Consequently, interest in the phonograph withered. Even Edison neglected the machine in favour of new work. The Philadelphia Record captured the scene at his laboratory circa 1880:
Electric light is the one absorbing subject of thought and the one object of attention at Menlo Park … The mysterious phonograph, the capacities of which for receiving messages and transmitting them again, either instantly or a hundred years hence, astonished the world, was carelessly pointed out to a reporter with about the same degree of interest as a boarding-school miss would allude to a discarded doll or that a full-grown man would exhibit a kit made in the days of his boyhood. (‘The Coming Light’ 1880: 1)
It took the arrival of the Graphophone to reawaken his interest. Patented in 1886, this derivative machine was the work of Charles Sumner Tainter and the brothers Chichester and Alexander Graham Bell. The Graphophone’s parentage was admitted: the first recording said to have been made on it declared, ‘G-r-r- I am a graphophone and my mother was a phonograph’ (Barfe 2004: 13). Nevertheless, the machine does bring us closer to later record players and their discs in several important ways. First, in place of tinfoil, the team introduced a more durable recording substance: cardboard coated with wax (this also allowed for a greater concentration of grooves). Second, Edison’s static reproducing needle was replaced the Groove 13 with a ‘floating stylus’ that was guided by the diaphragm and by the record itself. Finally, rather than ‘indent’, as in Edison’s recording process, the Graphophone’s stylus ‘incised’ the grooves. The inventors argued that indenting a material merely changes its shape, whereas incising involves the removal of material. On this basis they were given patent rights to manufacture their machine. Edison responded in June 1888 with his ‘Perfected Phonograph’, a device that employed each of these advancements. In the following month the investor Jesse H. Lippincott purchased the rights to manufacture both the Graphophone and Edison’s new phonograph. He then created the North American Phonograph Company to license them for use in business as dictation machines. The German émigré Emile Berliner chose a different format and a different path for the gramophone. Patented in 1887, his device used discs and their proposed content was music rather than office work. As the disc itself was not a patentable device, Berliner’s gramophone patents instead focused on his development of the groove. The pathway that Edison had chosen for the phonograph’s groove was an up-and-down movement (dubbed the ‘hill-and-dale’ motion). Berliner argued that this was the wrong way for the groove to progress. He maintained that the further a groove had to burrow into a resistant material the worse its sound quality would be. Influenced by Léon Scott and Charles Cros, Berliner instead used a lateral movement for his discs (Berliner 1887: 4). Berliner’s lateral movement was used for the majority of disc recordings until the mid twentieth century. Its eventual successor was Alan Blumlein’s 45°/45° groove, the development that solved the problem of stereo reproduction. As early as 1917 George L. Gresham had written, ‘it is sad to reflect that every gramophone is one-eared’ (1917: 284). His own stereo suggestion had been to split the recording across two separate discs. The French company Pathé had previously arrived at a different solution: prior to the First World War they manufactured experimental stereo discs, which contained the left and right channels in two separate grooves. Others had suggested using the grooves on either side of the disc. Blumlein’s 45°/45° system provided the more effective solution of cutting stereo signals into either side of a single V-shaped groove. This groove progressed both laterally and vertically: the lateral movement reproducing the sum of the left and right signals, and the vertical movement giving their difference. Ratified as industry standard in 1958, the 45°/45° cut has subsequently been employed for all stereo analogue discs.
Sound and Vision
What is striking about early reports on the phonograph is that the text of the recording is always mentioned. Despite Edison’s breakthrough regarding the storing and reproduction of sound there is still a desire to read as well as hear its inscription. On 7 December 1877 the phonograph was displayed to the staff of the Scientific American, the first people outside Edison’s immediate circle of employees to encounter the machine. In their report on the invention they admire 14 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record the recording and playback but are soon discussing the grooves: ‘there is no doubt that by practice, and the aid of a magnifier, it would be possible to read phonetically Mr Edison’s records of dots and dashes’ (‘The Talking Phonograph’ 1877: 384). The English Mechanic of 4 January 1878 contains one of the earliest reports on the phonograph in the British press; here Edison’s assistant Charles Batchelor writes: ‘Some of these sheets of tinfoil, after having a sentence recorded on them, have been straightened by Mr Edison and plaster casts taken of them. In this state the indents made on the foil of the diaphragm form an interesting study’ (Asor 1878: 404). By flattening his cylinders Edison had the ingredients for the mass duplication of records and yet he and his assistant were more interested in the patterns of recorded sound. They were not alone. Writing in 1919, Rainer Maria Rilke recalled his first impressions of the phonograph:
It must have been when I was a boy at school that the phonograph was invented … At the time and all through the intervening years I believed that that independent sound, taken from us and preserved outside of us, would be unforgettable. That it turned out otherwise is the cause of my writing the present account. As will be seen, what impressed itself on my memory most deeply was not the sound from the funnel but the markings traced on the cylinder; these made a most definite impression. (1954: 51–2)
Emile Berliner was also transfixed. The pamphlet given away with his original 7″-playing gramophone machine states that ‘Printed sound-records adapted for the purpose of studying sound-curves, and catalogues of plates will be published from time to time’ (Berliner ‘Pamphlet with Directions for Use of 7″ Machine’: 5). Berliner was struck by the attractiveness of this new language: ‘on examining the zinc plate through a magnifying glass, we observed the beautiful tracings of articulate speech’ (1888b: 80). Moreover, there had been a visual consequence of his use of the lateral movement: it made the fluctuations of sound more readily apparent, hence its earlier employment in Léon Scott’s Phonautograph. This interest in the groove’s patterns did not disappear. Blumlein’s stereo groove had aesthetic as well as acoustic implications. Evan Eisenberg has argued that:
A single speaker, at least, is something to stare at … Stereo, however, arrays the musicians before you in empty space. You can almost pinpoint them, but they’re not there. Instead of projecting, they are projected – but invisible, ‘a ghastly band’. The introduction of stereo did not simply double the listener’s pleasure; it changed the phenomenology of the phonograph by adding a spatial, and hence a visual, aspect that at once clarified and confused. (2005: 53)
He continues, ‘But every mode of record listening leaves us with a need for something, if not someone to see and touch’. Eisenberg argues that this resulted in the festishization of the record cover and also an ‘adoration of the disk itself’. the Groove 15
It is no coincidence that the stereo record brought forth new forms of hi-fi design. Dieter Rams and Hans Gugelot’s SK4 hi-fi system, developed for Braun in 1956, featured two innovations that would become industry standards. First, the system had separate stereo speakers, which would be placed away from the record player. Second, the record deck had a transparent lid. By this means the listener was encouraged to gaze upon the rotating groove. But has it ever been possible to read what it says? Edison, for one, always retained a belief in the legibility of his recordings:
Edison … determined what he considered to be sonic defects by visual examination of the record with a microscope. He and his staff had been examining records this way for many years and Edison claimed he could ‘tell a soprano from Basso Baritone or Tenor & each from another also every instrument in the orchestra when played alone by looking at record thru a microscope’, although he did concede that it was ‘difficult to tell compound tones from several instruments’. Samuel Gardner, a violinist whom Edison used for recording tests, recalled that Edison ‘made decisions not by the ear very much, because he was pretty deaf, but by looking at the record through a magnifying glass!’ Gardener related how Edison didn’t like vibrato and demonstrated to him why it was bad by showing him the shakes in a record groove. (Israel 1998: 436–7)
The earliest copyright debates concerning records centred on this point. Jacques Attali quotes a 1905 French court ruling, which states that literary copyright rules should be applied to records on the basis that they contain what is, ultimately, a legible script:
Finding that disks or cylinders are impressed by a stylus under which they pass; that they receive a graphic notation of spoken words, that the thought of the author is as though materialized in numerous grooves, then reproduced in thousands of copies of each disk or cylinder and distributed on the outside with a special writing, which in the future will undoubtedly be legible to the eyes and is today within everyone’s reach as sound; that by virtue of this repetition of imprinted words, the literary work penetrates the mind of the listener as it would by means of sight from a book, or by means of touch with the Braille method; that it is therefore a mode of performance perfected by performance, and that the rules of plagiarism are applicable to it. (1985: 98. My emphasis)
It followed that, if this script was legible to the human eye, the human hand could learn how to write it. In a 1922 De Stijl article Làszlò Moholy-Nagy contemplated this prospect:
An extension of this apparatus for productive purposes could be achieved as follows: the grooves are incised by human agency into the wax plate, without any external mechanical means, which then produce sound effects which would 16 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
signify – without new instruments and without an orchestra – a fundamental innovation in sound production (of new, hitherto unknown sounds and tonal relations) both in composition and in musical performance. (1985: 289)
However, no one – not Edison, not Berliner, not Moholy-Nagy – has been able to translate or transcribe this language. Not even the stylus. The stylus returns us to the original recording, echoing it back to us through the hi-fi apparatus. It remains mute regarding the hieroglyphics on the disc. As early as 1878 Alfred M. Mayer was warning that it was futile ‘to hope to be able to read the impressions and traces of phonographs, for these traces will vary, not alone with the quality of the voices, but also with the differently related times of starting of the harmonics of these voices, and with the different relative intensities of these harmonics’ (1878: 723. Emphasis in original). Moreover, although Léon Scott’s ambition for his Phonautograph – the wish to understand the language of sound – remained alive, Edison’s machine could not help but betray this intention. The desire in Scott’s Phonautograph to make ‘the vibrations appear as large as possible’ was replaced by a need to condense the groove in order to maximize the playing time of both cylinders and discs. Edison’s first US phonograph patent mentions a density of 10 grooves to an inch. Twenty-five years later disc and cylinder records contained on average 100 grooves per inch. By 1948, with the launch of Columbia’s long-playing record, there was the concept of the ‘microgroove’, tracings so narrow they had to be read by a stylus with a diameter of one-thousandth of an inch. And yet the dream and the fascination have remained. The ability to decipher this code still feels as though it is within our grasp. We watch the script of the record re-enter the stylus as we hear the sounds that have been etched there re- enter the world. The fact that these events take place concurrently makes us feel that we are connected with, and cognisant of, the vision of the sound and the sound of the vision. This false comprehension has enabled fantasies of the groove to emerge. Rilke’s fascination with the markings on a cylinder led him to contemplate placing a needle on the coronal suture of a skull to find out what it would sound like: ‘Feelings – which? Incredulity, timidity, fear, awe – which of all feelings here possible prevents me from suggesting a name for the primal sound which would then make its appearance in the world’? (1954: 53). Similarly, Moholy- Nagy was known to ask people, ‘I wonder how your nose will sound?’ (Kahn 1992: 11). Laurie Anderson, meanwhile, has contemplated tracing the grooves of an ancient piece of Japanese pottery and finding within them a dialect 2,000 years old (Schoonmaker 2010: 184). There has been a consistent belief that there is an aesthetic match between the groove and the sounds that it represents. Writing about the Phonautograph in 1906, J. Lewis-Young stated that ‘sounds which we call “pleasant” produced an even and, if I might be allowed to say it, a pleasant-looking sound wave, whereas a noise such as the shaking of a plate of iron made an ugly and ungeometrical figure’ (1906: 468). Ninety years later the electronic music pioneer Aphex Twin, when the Groove 17 seeking to produce an abrasive, confrontational music, would DJ with records made out of sandpaper. Project Dark, a pair of DJs from Oxford, built upon this: they used biscuits, sections of tree, sandpaper and circular power tools as discs to mix with. Artists and musicians have continued to be fascinated by the context and the content of the groove. In her work Handmade (2002) the artist Bob Levene addresses the disjunctions between the material and the groove, and between the writing and the sound. This piece consists of a cymbal with a groove in it. When you place a needle in the groove it plays the metallic sound of the cymbal being hit. The Detroit techno artists Underground Resistance have worked from the opposite perspective. They have issued a series of records in which the grooves are patterned so that they highlight the aural content of the discs. The grooves of their track ‘G-Force’, released under the aegis X-101, are cut so that they are alternately either widely separated or tightly bunched. The stylus therefore lunges and then stutters across the record, mirroring the time-lapse effect of G-force itself. For their X-102 release, a concept album about Saturn, tracks are spaced in accordance with the relative dimensions of that planet’s rings and moons.
Turntablism
Fascination with the groove is reflected in language. TheO xford English Dictionary makes a direct link between the groove and to groove. The former is ‘the spiral cut in a gramophone record’; the latter ‘a style of playing jazz or similar music, esp. one that is “swinging” or good’. It is derived from being ‘in the groove’ of the record. Usage is traced to the early 1930s. Sound recording meant that, for the first time, a piece of music could be heard repeatedly; ‘like listening to a superior sort of musical clock’, according to Edgar Wind (1963: 83). Naturally, the musical repetitions within that piece of music would also be repeated. This demanded new forms of precision; rhythmical fluctuation seemed like a betrayal of the machine. One factor that distinguished the first recording artists was their strict sense of time, a skill fostered by the limits imposed upon their work. The maximum duration of the cylinders and discs of the 1890s was roughly two minutes. Artists recorded directly onto master records; if any mistakes were made these would have to be scrapped and the piece would need to be re-started, literally, from scratch. Consequently, the tempo and the timing of performances were worked out prior to recording. The early recording artist Billy Murray commented, ‘We are taught to keep perfect time. Stage performers are not held strictly to the limit as we are’ (Kenney 1999: 41). It was not just the performers who were beat-driven. A 1912 article ‘The Art of Dancing and the Talking Machine’ said of the record player, ‘It never tires – it never strikes a wrong note – it never loses time, no matter how long the night may be’ (Mordkin 1912: 551). The gramophone delivered ‘waltzes, hesitations, one- steps and two-steps’, all of them in ‘strict dance-time’ (Gramophone Company 18 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record advert, The Times, 21 January 1915: 10). Towards the end of World War I the first jazz records emerged, heralding a dance craze that dominated early 1920s record sales. The recording process diversely affected this music. On the one hand, it became more strictly rhythmic as it adapted to time-limit requirements. On the other hand, its rhythmic drive was neutered: the acoustic recording process could not cope with strongly percussive or low frequency sounds. This problem was resolved with the adoption of electric recording in the late 1920s, a process that introduced microphones and amplification to the recording studio. It was only at this point that the string bass and the full drum-kit could regularly be recorded properly. Electric recording also introduced a standardized rotational speed of 78 rpm.1 We were soon to gain the verb ‘to groove’. A strong rhythmic drive has an effect on the appearance of records. The record player has its own pulse, set at 33⅓, 45 or 78 beats per minute; the groove keeps its time within that time. If the beat is regular the patterns on a disc will eddy and ripple: a record in motion has rhythms and counter-rhythms, like jazz. And, crucially, although a groove’s contents cannot be read, these patterns can. They change with fluctuations in tempo and fluctuations in tone. Dense and voluble musical passages result in wider grooves; in low-level passages the grooves will be narrower and will appear darker. The relatively large grooves of a 78 rpm disc enabled these changes to be easily noted and accessed. It was possible to see where and when a band was ‘in the groove’. Consequently, the introduction of the LP and its microgroove were bemoaned:
It is going to be much harder now, if one wants for any reason to go back to a certain bar, to find the right spot and lower the needle without damaging the grooves … It will be impossible to mark up discs for demonstration, school or lecture use and certain broadcasting purposes. And L.P. records are a blow to people who, like myself, think they have at last mastered the art of reading music (the circular variety). (L.S. 1950: 4)
This prediction was to a certain extent proved wrong: practitioners were able to recognize musical passages among a vinyl record’s grooves. Moreover, disc jockeys eventually learned to mix and match these passages into collages of sound. It has been argued that the first DJ to rhythmically segue records was Francis
1 Early cylinders and discs were operated at speeds ranging from 60 rpm to 90 rpm; hand cranked, the comfortable speed was found to be at about heartbeat rate. Gradually, the speed of discs was confined to a range between 78 rpm and 82 rpm. Following the introduction of electric recording Victor’s speed of 78.26 rpm was adopted as the industry standard in America and the Gramophone Company’s speed of 77.92 rpm was adopted in Britain. The reason for the difference is that early constant speed motors in America (with its mains frequency of 60 Hz) ran at 3,600 rpm (using a reduction gearing of 46:1 leaves the 78.26 rpm figure) whereas in Britain the mains frequency is 50 Hz (therefore with the same gearing the standard speed dropped to 77.92 rpm). the Groove 19
Grasso, working in New York clubs in the late 1960s (Brewster and Broughton 2006: 138–42). Nevertheless, it was only following the return of the more widely spaced groove – arriving with the 12″, 45 rpm single in the mid 1970s – that this practice became highly skilled. Reading the patterns from separate 12″ singles, DJs developed the art of ‘beat matching’ them: altering the recordings’ tempos so that their speeds would coincide. It took a long time to reach this point. Although sound recording encouraged the idea of rhythmic regularity, this regularity also prompted the opposite: part of the appeal of records lay in the fact that they could be manipulated out of their grooves. Records could be stopped, reversed and their speeds thrown out of sync; manipulating them would bring forth new musical patterns. People were doing this from the very beginning. Edison’s tinfoil phonograph had no fixed motor, the groove therefore had to be directly manipulated by hand. According to his assistant Francis Jehl, the inventor liked to:
[T]urn the crank very slowly so that the instrument would drawl out the words with great gravity. At other times he would whirl it so fast that the words would fly out of the funnel in a confused babble. One day I heard something like the following coming from the machine: ‘Bmal Elttil a Dah Yram’. (1990: 156)
These activities became part of Edison’s public displays of the phonograph. Gelatt quotes an account of an 1878 performance:
Mr Edison showed the effect of turning the cylinder at different degrees of speed, and then the phonograph proceeded utterly to rout [the cornet player] Mr Levy by playing his tunes in pitches and octaves of astonishing variety. It was interesting to observe the total indifference of the phonograph to the pitch of the note with which it was to end. (1977: 27–8)
Edison encouraged musicians to explore the idiosyncrasies of the phonograph, believing that they could use the new sounds that the machine generated to inform compositions of their own. He told reporters, ‘When singing some favourite airs backward, it hits some lovely airs, and I believe a musician could get one valuable popular melody every day by experimenting in that way’ (‘Good Friday’ 1878: 9). Popular musicians would later follow this advice. John Lennon based the Beatles’ ‘Because’ on a Beethoven piano sonata in reverse. More obviously, ‘Don’t Stop’ by the Stone Roses is their track ‘Waterfall’ turned in on itself. Edison would probably have welcomed this. He preferred to play jazz records backwards ‘because they sounded better that way’ (Whiteman and McBride 1926: 141). The next step in the evolution of DJing was to combine the sounds from separately manipulated phonograph records. One of the earliest documented examples of this in practice is a 1920 Dada event during which Stefan Wolpe united the sounds from a selection of discs, which he played at differing speeds on eight separate turntables. A decade later Paul Hindermith and Ernst Toch 20 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record produced a similar gramophonic montage at ‘Neue Music Berlin 1930’. These events were one-off performances. One of the first record mixes to be classified as a composition in its own right was John Cage’s Imaginary Landscape No.1, which he first performed in 1939. Cage claimed that ‘Given four phonographs we can compose and perform a quartet for explosive motor, wind, heartbeat, and landslide’ (Souvignier 2003: 102). It is somewhat disappointing that the discs he used to create Imaginary Landscape only played test-tones. Pierre Schaeffer’s musique concrète experiments went further. Beginning with his recording Étude aux chemins de fer (1948), which was constructed out of several gramophone recordings of railway trains, he explored the compositional possibilities of pre-recorded sound. Using discs that he engineered himself, Schaeffer created music by superimposing recordings on top of one another. He would vary the speeds of the records that he used for his ‘mix’ and would reverse their directions. He also created ‘closed grooves’, which locked the record on a particular phrase. Schaeffer’s record work was short-lived, however. In 1950 he re-equipped his studio for magnetic tape recording, abandoning discs completely. His focus had been on the contents of the groove, not on their physicality, just one factor that differentiates him from the hip-hop DJs with whom he has regularly been compared (Gracyk 1996: 42). It would be 30 years – the time period between the demise of the shellac record and the launch of the 12″ single – before hip-hop emerged. This music was developed in New York during the 1970s and was first heard on record towards the end of that decade. The 1981 release of ‘The Adventures of Grandmaster Flash on the Wheels of Steel’ introduced the skills of the hip-hop DJ to the wider world. The instruments that Grandmaster Flash used to create this record were three turntables, two record mixers and a selection of other people’s records. Flash combined these separate records’ elements into a rhythmic whole. He achieved this by using his ‘Quick Mix Theory’ – ‘taking a section of music and cutting it on time, back to back, in thirty seconds or less’ (Flash, quoted in Brewster and Broughton 2006: 239) – and by utilizing the clock-like nature of the disc itself. Flash’s ‘Clock Theory’ re-introduced the idea of marking records: he drew lines on them to indicate the beginnings of chosen passages. He could then spin the records back to these segments with split-second timing. Flash’s protégé Grand Wizard Theodore introduced new skills. He could accurately drop a record player’s needle at the beginning of a percussive break:
You watch the grooves, the thickest grooves are where the break part comes in. When the record rolls around at a 360-degree angle, you can pretty much see where it starts. You say, ‘Here it comes’. I made sure that I picked up the needle at a certain point. I watch the record go round and round, then bam! It comes right in. I did it so many times that I came to do the needle drop. I developed a technique, and I didn’t know what I was doing. I got this down to a science. I used to astonish myself. (Fricke and Ahearn 2002: 62) the Groove 21
He also invented the most famous of all hip-hop’s DJing innovations: scratching. Here a record’s groove is quickly moved back and forth, altering the pitch of the music and distorting its sound. Scratching was later combined with ‘transforming’, in which the cross-fader of the mixer quickly alternates between the output of separately scratched discs. Further hip-hop innovations have included ‘beat juggling’. Here the cross-fader is flipped at great speed between individual drumbeats from separate records. These advanced skills depend on the ease with which the music in a record’s groove can be accessed and manipulated. However, what elevated hip-hop DJs above the practitioners of musique concrète was not just their concentration on the groove, but also their desire to get people to groove. They created dance music, thus obeying the rhythmic obsessions of the record player and its disc. In 1923 Fay Compton had written, ‘Few people will deny that the dance craze, which now holds everyone literally in its grip, owes nearly everything to the gramophone’ (1923: 32). Later the gramophone would owe nearly everything to dance music. It was the specific requirements of hip-hop and dance music DJs – their need for the 12″ single – that first ensured the continuation of vinyl in the digital world. And it is these demands that have led to the curious hybrids, such as Serato Scratch and Final Scratch, which are available today. Here a DJ is given records with grooves that contain audio signals rather than music. These are then connected to a computer so that digital files can be mixed via record decks. The groove, albeit in a perverted form, continues.
Death and the Groove
A record groove contains two lives: there is the life of the performance that is captured in the sound recording and there is the life of the groove itself. It was the promise of the latter to preserve the former – to give us smoke without fire – that obsessed the first recording practitioners. Death haunts the earliest phonographic reveries:
It has been said that Science is never sensational: that it is intellectual not emotional; but certainly nothing can be conceived more likely to create the profoundest of sensations, to arouse the liveliest of human emotions, than once more to hear the familiar voices of the dead. (‘A Wonderful Invention’ 1877: 304)
These are the opening words of the first Scientific American article on the phonograph, published 17 November 1877. The machine was yet to be constructed, no living voice had been recorded, and yet the writer was already contemplating death. Early articles on the phonograph took to propounding a list of ‘if only’ names. If only the phonograph could have recorded Cicero, or Demosthenes, or Beethoven, or Bach, or the trumpets that brought down the walls of Jericho. Forced 22 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record to choose a lost voice of his own, Edison thought of Napoleon’s (Tate 1938: 164). Looking backwards went hand-in-hand with looking forwards. There was a desire to embalm the voices of the present for future generations: ‘if Mr Edison can perfect what he has undoubtedly discovered’, the English Mechanic observed, ‘we may listen to the speeches of Gladstone, of Bright, of Magee, a hundred years hence’ (‘Edison’s Phonograph’ 1877: 275). ‘Record’ was an appropriate word for Edison’s preservative cylinders. The focus was on the past and on the future, on conservation and on memorial, not on the here and now. When first confronted with the phonograph many commentators linked its ability to arrest sound with photography’s ability to arrest motion. Edison himself claimed, ‘We shall know for the first time what conversation really is; just as we have learned, only within a few years, through the instantaneous photograph, what attitudes are taken by the horse in motion’ (1888: 648–9). The stopping of life achieved by the photograph – the frozen moment – has frequently been linked to the moment of death. Susan Sontag has argued that ‘this link between photography and death haunts all photographs of people’ (1979: 70), while Roland Barthes has stated that ‘ultimately, what I am seeking in the photograph taken of me … is Death’ (2000: 15). Friedrich Kittler would tell him he that he could find it among a record’s grooves. He claims that they ‘dig the grave of the author’ (1999: 83). I would argue that, instead, sound recording promises immortality. Like photography sound recording freezes moments, but unlike photography it allows those moments to thaw; it is a form of cryogenics, preserving life in order to reanimate it at another time. It is only when the needle gets stuck or is trapped in the run-out groove that this life is brought to an abrupt end. Such moments have been used to great effect in novels and films, as well as by recording artists themselves. Think of the malfunctioning record in the film ofBrighton Rock, with the dead Pinkie’s voice falsely echoing ‘I love you, I love you’; or Spandrell’s death in Point Counter Point, which he plans so that it coincides with the climax of a Beethoven quartet: ‘And then suddenly there was no more music; only the scratching of the needle on the revolving disc’ (Huxley 1929: 599). There are numerous fight scenes in movies in which a record player is jolted and the needle skids across the record; it then clicks in the run-out groove as the victim lies prostrate. Elsewhere, musicians have deliberately extended their recordings into closed run-out grooves, resulting in records with an endless end. Particularly apposite are Stiff Little Fingers’ ‘Closed Groove’, which features the dial tone of a phone that is never picked up, and Godspeed You Black Emperor!’s F#A#∞, which concludes with the infinite music hinted at in the record’s title. Rather than the groove being a grave, David Toop has suggested that is like the writing on a gravestone, a supposedly permanent memorial. He has stated that ‘this black object is a fantastic metaphor for death … It has an inscription, just like a tomb’ (2005). The first emblem chosen to represent Britain’s Gramophone Company endorses his idea: it pictures ‘the recording angel’, which lies on a record engraving its groove with a quill. Edison also promised an epitaph that would last through the ages: the Groove 23
This tongueless, toothless instrument, without larynx or pharynx, mimics your tones, speaks with your voice, utters your words: and, centuries after you have crumbled into dust, may repeat every idle thought, every fond fancy, every vain word that you choose to whisper against the thin iron diaphragm.2 (‘The Phonograph and the Microphone’ 1878: 114)
However, like the writing on the graves in Thomas Hardy’s ‘During Wind and Rain’, down which ‘the raindrop ploughs’, Edison’s inscriptions were eroded in time (Hardy 1979: 441). Not much time to be precise. The original tinfoil recordings, far from being immortal, lasted only a few plays. What eroded them was their reading instrument, the stylus. This destructive relationship affected later shellac and vinyl records as well. Shellac discs gained their best levels of reproduction when there was a close fit between needle and groove. In order to achieve this fit abrasives were added to the shellac mixture so that the record itself could wear down the needle. This battle resulted in the distinctive ‘frying-bacon’ sound of 78 rpm records. The presence of abrasives meant that no one could offer ‘scratchless surfaces’ and consumers did not expect their discs to remain pristine (Barfe 2004: 67). Writing to the Talking Machine News in 1905, one correspondent mentioned owning records, ‘which are, to all intents and purposes, no longer records’ (‘Longevity of the Record’ 1905: 143). Responding to an article about record collecting, another correspondent asked ‘what [the author] means by a permanent collection for use or sale in future generations?’; adding, ‘as all records wear out … I presume he means that disc records of exceptional merit should be carefully preserved without being played’ (A Lover of Music 1905: 97). This dissolution helped to change the role of the phonograph and gramophone. Their preservative function was superseded by a commercial use: the need to generate new recordings as old ones wore out. Shellac was eventually replaced by tougher and more durable vinyl records, but with these came the microgroove: styli now had to negotiate the most delicate of tracings. In addition, this new material was static-electric prone, attracting increased amounts of dust. The earliest LPs were adorned with instructions on how to protect your vinyl and to replace damaged needles, but any such instructions have been in vain. The ‘scratchless surface’ – the false hope of grooved records – has proven to be impossible to achieve. If direct indexical contact was the record’s source of wonder, it was also cast as its greatest failing. The weight of the needle was felt from the start. Charles Sumner Tainter wished to counter the gravitational pull of the stylus by suspending his recording artists in the air (Sterne 2003: 257). His strange idea was echoed years later when Norio Ohga claimed that the CD removed ‘a heavy winter coat
2 The company And Vinyly has come up with a novel way to deliver on Edison’s promise. Providing ‘the perfect resting place for vinyl lovers’, they allow you to plan your vinyl afterlife. The customer can record their own message, which will be pressed onto a record after their death. The record will be made out of the deceased ashes (www.andvinyly.com). 24 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record from the sound’ (Nathan 1999: 138). The compact disc’s solution – contact-free reproduction – had long been mooted. In 1917 Gresham L. George had written:
That the superman of 2000 A.D. will be content to receive his aural titillation through the medium of a steel needle and shellac plate is, to me, inconceivable. Long before that, magnetised strands and selenium cells will have been exploited. By electro magnetion, or currents controlled by light – with in neither case direct contact between record and reproducer – will that fortunate descendant of the present scratch-enduring, squeak-abiding generation seek beatitude. (1917: 270)
Following the mid 1920s adoption of electric recording his forecast seemed within reach: consumers wondered if records could be made electronic as well. In the March 1931 edition of Sound Wave, Harold E. Cowley campaigned for this innovation:
With the electric record we might safely predict the passing of the tiresome needle, for it is wholly feasible that no actual contact will be made between the record and reproducer. The complete obliteration of surface noise would therefore be assured, and at long last we should have the realisation of our dreams – perfect reproduction on a perfectly silent background. (1931: 112)
Interviewed in the same journal even Thomas Edison could foresee ‘a method of reproduction without any needle at all’ (‘The Future of the Gramophone’ 1931: 114). It would be 50 years before the stylus-free compact disc arrived. This innovation, which promised immortal and incorruptible recordings, finally realized many of the record’s preservative ambitions. The arrival of digital reproduction also had an effect on the relationship between recordings and time: the sales of back catalogue increased, artists took greater time periods between releases, and musical genres became more frequently backwards-looking. But something else happened as well. As the patina of the analogue recording began to disappear it also began to be appreciated. It was soon being worn as a badge of honour, held up as something that was missing from digital recordings. One boast was that the layer of detritus provided proof that the listener had been there:
[I]n a world where it often seems important to assert that you were in on some things right at the start … those blemishes – scratches, bits of old candle, staunched beer spillages – are a crucial historical index. Records left their mark on you, and, in the spirit of co-operation, you left your mark on records. What hope for this two-way relationship if CDs have the gift of eternal youth? (Smith, G. 1995: 182)
Another claim was that background noise engendered a superior auditory ability: ‘We listened harder in those [vinyl] days. Music was made doubly precious by the thicket of noise from which it had to be plucked’ (Eisenberg 2005: 212). the Groove 25
Listeners have developed various ways of distinguishing between the sounds captured in the groove and the sounds captured by the groove. Some have attempted to tune out the surface noise. In 1923 Frank Swinnerton informed readers of the Gramophone that ‘The confirmed gramophone-user does not hear the needle, although he may shiver at the crackle; but the novice at first hears nothing else’ (1923: 52). For others the patina is part of the musical experience; for them, the ‘heavy winter coat’ of analogue recording contributes to vinyl’s alleged ‘warmth’. Here the increased surface noise of the raised run-in groove, occasioned by its distorted shape, provides an anticipatory frame for the sound recording. This is followed by the pleasure of the steady crackle when the music is underway. The appreciation of background noise became obvious when artists began to sample worn vinyl records, a practice that rose in direct proportion to the dominance of the CD. Listeners have also developed a form of split listening. In Nausea Jean-Paul Sartre’s narrator hears the two lives, and the two deaths, that a record groove contains:
Somebody must have scratched the record at that spot, because it makes a peculiar noise. And there is something that wrings the heart: it is that the melody is absolutely untouched by this little stuttering of the needle on the record. It is so far away – so far behind. I understand that too: the record is getting scratched and worn, the singer may be dead. (1963: 249)
The artist Christian Marclay has created several works that highlight the duality of a record’s grooves. The appropriately titled Record without a Cover (1985) was issued sleeveless so that the disc could rapidly accumulate wear and tear. The recording itself consists of Marclay DJing with old and worn records, but it also contains large expanses of ‘empty’ grooves. As the record gets damaged it becomes difficult to tell which are its natural scratches and which come from other discs. Footsteps (1989) is a recording of the artist’s footsteps as well as those of a tap dancer. Copies of this disc were placed on a gallery floor so that they would be scratched and scuffed by the footsteps of visitors. In both cases the noise accumulated by the record was as important as the noise incorporated in the record. Marclay has stated:
I want to disrupt our listening habits. When a record skips or pops or we hear the surface noise, we try very hard to make an abstraction of it so it doesn’t disrupt the musical flow. I try to make people aware of these imperfections, and accept them as music; the recording is a sort of illusion while the scratch on the record is more real. (Ferguson 2003: 41)
The appeal of patina is wider than Marclay thinks. Many listeners would echo Elvis Costello’s sentiments in ‘45’, his paean to the 7″ single. Here the singer 26 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record praises ‘Every scratch, every click, every heartbeat, every breath that I bless’.3 Contrary to Edison’s wishes analogue records did not become sepulchres; instead they have been thought of as living things. The main reason? Because you can play them to death.
3 Elvis Costello, ‘45’, written by MacManus. BMG Music, 2002. Chapter 2 The Disc
Introduction
During the last decade of the nineteenth century it became increasingly apparent that the record could most profitably be employed as a means of reproducing music. During the first decade of the twentieth century the disc replaced the cylinder as the format of choice. These two changes dovetail nicely. Implicit in the disc’s method of manufacture are the privatization of recording and the multiple duplication of records. These factors have been essential to the expansion and profits of the recorded music industry. Nevertheless, the growth of this industry and the triumph of the disc were neither straightforward nor easily predicted. In this chapter I examine the differences between the cylinder and the disc; I look at the ascendancy of professional musical recordings among the phonograph’s and gramophone’s uses; and I study the British music industry’s first format war.
Choice of Formats
When faced with the problem of housing a line of recorded information three storage solutions have repeatedly presented themselves: you can store the information on a single continuous strip; you can spiral the information around a cylinder; or you can spiral it on a disc. The strip has the most drawbacks. It needs to be curled onto a spool and usually encased if it is to be used repeatedly (as with magnetic tape cassettes, celluloid film and video cassettes). This adds an extra component to its manufacture. In addition the user has to traverse through the strip lengthways in order to access any single piece of information. In comparison, the reproducing stylus of cylinders and discs can easily access any point of their spiral. These two formats do have their weaknesses, however. Leaving aside the issue of duplication, the cylinder’s main drawback is storage. It is difficult to make a direct comparison between cylinder and disc here as several variables come into play, including the width and the length of the groove, plus the speed of its rotation. However, at the cusp of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries it is estimated that at least 50 discs could be stored in the space occupied by four of the larger type of cylinder (Read and Welch 1976: 89). In addition, the playing time of the disc could be doubled by the simple expedient of recording on both sides, a factor not possible with cylinders. The disc’s main weakness is its variable sound reproduction. A standard rotation speed for the cylinder produces a standard surface speed for its groove. In 28 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record contrast, when a disc turntable rotates at a regular speed the groove has to cover a greater distance at the outside of the record than it does at the centre. A groove on a 10″ disc is travelling at less than half its original surface speed by the time the record finishes. This has consequences for sound quality. The faster the surface speed of the groove, the more space it has in which to hold recording information; the more space the recording information is given, the clearer its reproduction. Due to the lower surface speed at the centre of a disc there is a decrease in sound quality as the record progresses. Although audible to anyone who pays close attention to an analogue record, this decline in quality rarely causes overt disturbance. Its effect was presumably all but theoretical in the early years of sound recording when reproduction standards were poor. Conversely, during these years there was no defined use for the phonograph and so the space occupied by sound recordings was not necessarily an issue either. The small market that did exist was concentrated on making recordings rather than buying reproductions, therefore duplication was also not yet a major concern. When it came to housing the groove there was therefore originally little to choose between cylinder and disc. As evidence we have the indecision of the original developers of sound recording. The first triumvirate of inventors – Léon Scott, Charles Cros and Thomas Edison – each alternated between the two devices. Léon Scott’s original Phonautograph was a cylinder machine but later models employed lamp-black coated glass discs. In Charles Cros’s 1877 paper he outlines the use of a disc ‘to which the double action of rotation and rectilinear progression has been given’, but later on states that ‘In all cases the tracing of the helix on a cylinder is much more satisfactory, and I am now trying to make that idea practicable’ (1920: 630). Unfortunately, he fails to outline why he prefers this machine. Working in the same year, Thomas Edison’s experiments led him to contemplate all three sound recording alternatives – a strip, a cylinder and a disc – before producing a phonograph based on a cylinder design. Despite commencing with cylinders Edison did manufacture disc phonographs in the late 1870s, his reasoning being that it was easier to attach and remove tinfoil from a disc shape. Cassell’s Domestic Dictionary of 1878 states:
[The cylinder] is inconvenient; and Mr Edison has devised a modification, by which he substitutes for the cylinder a flat plate on which a spiral groove is engraved, and the movement is regulated by clockwork; the sheet of tinfoil with a message upon it can be removed and transmitted to a corresponding plate in the possession of another party. (1878: 888)
Nevertheless, it was as a cylinder machine that the tinfoil phonograph became known. Raymond R. Wile believes that ‘In all probability this occurred because the marketing of the tinfoil phonograph was now in the hands of the Edison Speaking Phonograph Company and this company was anxious to recoup its investment by marketing a known instrument of economical manufacture – the tinfoil cylinder phonograph’ (1977: 35). the disc 29
In developing their Graphophone the Bells and Tainter also worked with both discs and cylinders. Their original US patent application of 27 June 1885 specifies a disc machine, and there is evidence that Charles Sumner Tainter was working with this format as early as 1881 (Tainter 2006: 77–9). The team also made the first attempt to combat the poor sound quality of the disc’s interior grooves: in 1887 Tainter patented a turntable that would increase in speed as the record progressed, thus providing a uniform surface speed for the inscription. However, his team switched to using cylinders. The Graphophone was only ever manufactured using this format, as was Edison’s Perfected Phonograph, the machine that marked his re-entry into the sound recording world in the late 1880s. Emile Berliner’s work progressed in the opposite direction. His original US gramophone patent mentions ‘a groove wave-line upon a strip or sheet’ and his accompanying drawing is of a cylinder (Berliner 1887: 3). Berliner was at this point creating recordings by a method of photoengraving duplicates, a complicated process that entailed the splitting and flattening of cylinders. The flat disc provided a more workable format and was soon adopted for his machines. An article in the November 1887 edition of Electrical World represents the first public announcement of Berliner’s gramophone (‘Berliner’s Gramophone’ 1887: 255–7). It depicts plate glass discs coated with lamp-black, the substance in which the groove would be engraved. Despite continual modification of his recording process there is no evidence that Berliner reconsidered the use of the cylinder.
Professional Recording
In his June 1888 ‘Perfected Phonograph’ article Thomas Edison promised that:
[T]he phonograph will do, and does at this moment accomplish, the same thing in respect of conversation which instantaneous photography does for moving objects; that is, it will present whatever it records with a minute accuracy unattained by any other means. (1888: 648)
A month earlier in his Franklin Institute address, Emile Berliner outlined different plans for his gramophone:
A standard reproducing apparatus, simple in construction, and easily manipulated, will, at a moderate selling price, be placed on the market. Those having one, may then buy an assortment of phonautograms, to be increased occasionally, comprising recitations, songs, and instrumental solos or orchestral pieces of every variety. In each city there will be at least one office having a gramophone recorder with all the necessary outfits. Persons desirous of having their voice taken will step before the funnel and, upon a given signal, sing or speak, or they may perform an instrument. While they are waiting the plate will 30 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
be developed, and when it is satisfactory, it is turned over to the electrotyper or to the molder in charge, who will make as many copies as desired. (1888a: 20)
Edison’s and Berliner’s statements reflect the ways in which their thinking had been guided by their machines. Edison’s cylinder was a relatively straightforward home recording device; it could quickly capture and play back the spoken word. Berliner’s disc-recording process was more complicated. Recording was firmly in the hands of experts and it took place away from the home: the domestic individual was only allowed a ‘reproducing’ apparatus. Cylinder manufacturers had contemplated but not mastered the automatic duplication of recordings. Duplication was implicit in Berliner’s method, one that he developed using separate recording and playback discs. The peculiarities of Berliner’s process meant that he emphasized a different set of attributes to those promoted by the developers of the phonograph and the Graphophone. The advantage of his recordings was not that they were instantaneous, but that you could make as ‘many copies as desired’. He did not contemplate using his gramophone as a business machine; instead he talked about the user developing of a collection of pre-recorded discs. Later in his speech Berliner even outlined his conception of the future music industry, stating that ‘Prominent singers, speakers, or performers, may derive an income from royalties on the sale of their phonautograms, and valuable plates may be printed and registered to protect against unauthorized publication’ (1888a: 21). It is tempting to cast Berliner as a capitalist visionary: the centralized control of the recording process and the mass duplication of originals provided the economic basis for the expansion of recorded music. Moreover, the combination of these two factors, unique to the gramophone and its disc, helped Berliner’s disc-recording process to catch up with and eventually overtake the market for cylinder recordings. Jacques Attali argues that this ascendancy of the disc over the cylinder, and therefore of professional over amateur music, is a precursor to twentieth-century economics. He states:
[M]usic is illustrative of the evolution of our entire society: deritualize a social form, repress an activity of the body, specialize its practice, sell it as spectacle, generalize its consumption, then see to it that it is stockpiled until it loses its meaning. Today, music heralds – regardless of what the property mode of capital will be – the establishment of a society of repetition in which nothing will happen anymore … Everywhere we look, the monopolization of the broadcast of messages, the control of noise, and the institutionalization of the silence of others assure the durability of power. (1985: 5, 8)
He believes that the centralized control of the recording apparatus was a deliberate economic ploy, encouraging a professional/amateur divide within the world of sound recording. Stephen Struthers has reinforced this point: the disc 31
[D]iscs of recorded sound can only be made by a process of manufacture that is difficult and costly to set up. This usefully hinders the entry into the market for discs of competitors who might engage in price competition, but more particularly, and what is sociologically important, distinguishes a social division of labour between producer and consumer, allowing producers to maintain control over recorded material, and hence over consumers. (1987: 241)
It is not hard to find evidence to support their case. Writing in the June 1903 edition of the Talking Machine News a journalist stated that ‘I have many times been asked how to make disc records, and the only reply I can make is that it is not only a trade secret, but that it needs costly and elaborate machinery’. He located one of the ‘heads of a big disc factory’ and asked him if it would ever be possible for the amateur to make discs. The reply: ‘We hope not, and shall do as much as possible to keep the outsider from doing so’ (‘About Discs’ 1903: 21). It wasn’t only the disc-producing companies who wished to control production in this manner. Many Americans first experienced sound technology via Edison’s Automatic Phonograph, launched in the 1890s. The important innovation of this particular cylinder machine was that it ‘reserved the recording function to the company and could only play back commercially manufactured records’ (Kenney 1999: 24). Edison argued that:
A very large number of machines go into the private homes for amusement purposes … such persons do not attempt to record. They simply want to reproduce. It has always been my idea that one of the greatest fields for the phonograph was in the household for reproducing all that is best in oratory and music but I have never got anyone to believe in it until lately. (Conot 1979: 312–13)
It would seem that the nascent recording industry had quickly realized the virtues of Berliner’s restrictive recording process. In its advertising Berliner’s company boasted that the disc would ‘never be tainted by amateur offerings’ (Barfe 2004: 26). Nevertheless, it is important to examine the extent to which this division between amateur and professional was deliberately sought out and exploited by the recording pioneers. First, it should be noted that while Emile Berliner’s advertisements crowed about the exclusivity of his discs, the cylinder companies were emphasizing the opposite. The Columbia Phonograph Company maintained that ‘other so-called talking machines reproduce only specially prepared cut-and-dried subjects, the Graphophone does much more; it repeats your voice; your friend’s voice; songs sung to it or stories told to it’ (Gelatt 1977: 90). There was also comment about the industry’s most famous trademark: a painting of a dog called Nipper listening to ‘his master’s voice’ on a gramophone. Nipper would only have been able to do so with a machine that could create home recordings (and indeed until it was reworked the picture was of the dog listening to a phonograph cylinder). A letter to Edison’s magazine The Phonogram made much of this peculiarity: 32 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
[A]s a lover of the Phonograph, I do not understand this picture: perhaps you can explain it to me. I have always understood that the Gram-o-phone, the machine he is listening to, would not make records, and if you wanted to have a record made you had to go to a specially equipped laboratory, at the Company’s headquarters. Since this is the case, I wonder how ‘his master’s voice’ happened to get on the record. (Gelatt 1977: 158)
As they fought in the marketplace disc and cylinder companies had to emphasize the relative benefits of their machines. It is telling that away from the advertising spin Berliner worked on a gramophone that would match the cylinder’s home recording ability: in 1901 he patented ‘An Apparatus for Producing Sound- Records’. Although Berliner’s apparatus does not appear to have come to fruition, several disc-recording devices were marketed, including the ‘Renoplex Gramophone Attachment’ of 1919. Reviewing this machine the Talking Machine News stated, ‘There have been many Home Recorders put upon the market since the gramophone was first invented, but none of them, so far as we are aware, has been a success’ (‘The Renoplex Attachment Home Recorder’ 1919: 312). The ascendancy of private over public recording was not a deliberate plan, hatched by Berliner in 1888. Despite the fact that his easily duplicated disc shape lent itself to the manufacture of mass-produced music, and that it was Edison’s cylinder process that was best matched with home recording, Berliner gave equal weight to both public and private recording in his Franklin Institute speech. Berliner visualized the public coming to his studios to ‘sing or speak, or … perform an instrument’; it transpired that they didn’t want to. Nor would the public ever truly embrace Edison’s proposed ‘registry of sayings, reminiscences, etc., by members of a family, in their own voices’, nor any form of home recording for that matter (Edison 1888: 646). In a letter in the July 1905 edition of Talking Machine News one reader stated that ‘The possibility of making one’s own records has generally been the principal selling point of the cylinder machine’, but pointed out ‘the insignificant quantity of blanks now sold’ (Edicobel 1905: 95). It transpired that what the consumer really wanted was the recordings of professional musicians and singers. What must be stressed is that when Berliner addressed the Franklin Institute in 1888 nobody in the industry was aware of this fact.
The Birth of the Music Industry and the Development of the Disc
The recording of music was mentioned in association with the phonograph from its first conception. In 1878 Edison claimed, ‘The phonograph will undoubtedly be liberally devoted to music’ (1878: 530). Reviewing his invention, the Scientific American appreciated the fact that ‘the voices of such singers as Parepa and Titiens will not die with them, but will remain as long as the metal in which they may be embodied will last’ (‘The Talking Phonograph’ 1877: 385). However, there was no rush by renowned musicians or singers to record for the machine. The established the disc 33 music retail business also remained aloof. Phonographs and gramophones were occasionally sold alongside musical instruments or scores, but the mechanical music industry also had to find its own retail outlets. Commonly it was bicycle wholesalers and retailers who stocked the machines and their records. As the Phono Trader and Recorder remarked in 1911, ‘The talking machine, as is well- known, found its first sponsor in the cycle trade – the music trade would have none of it’ (‘The Trade’ 1911: 342). At the time of Berliner’s Franklin Institute speech the market for pre-recorded music was virtually non-existent. It emerged, surreptitiously, during the course of the next three years. The North American Phonograph Company, formed by Jesse Lippincott in 1888, had little success in marketing the phonograph and Graphophone as dictation devices. Lippincott leased the rights to exploit these machines to local companies in various states in the US. At the first annual convention of these companies, held in Chicago in May 1890, Louis Glass of the Pacific Coast Phonograph Co. confessed that the only money that he made from the phonograph was from his patented ‘nickle-in-the-slot’ machine, a precursor to the jukebox. Also present was the Columbia Phonograph Company. Frederick Gaisberg, an early employee, recalled the impact of Glass’s innovation on this future music industry giant:
The Columbia Company seemed headed for liquidation at this failure [of the machines for business use], but it was saved by a new field of activity which was created, almost without their knowledge, by showmen at fairs and resorts demanding records of songs and instrumental music. Phonographs, each equipped with ten sets of ear-tubes through which the sound passed, had been rented to these exhibitors. It was ludicrous in the extreme to see ten people grouped about a phonograph, each with a tube leading from his ears, grinning and laughing at what he heard. It was a fine advertisement for the onlookers waiting their turn. (1977: 5)
At the 1891 convention it was found that 16 of the 19 local companies were now operating nickle-in-the-slot machines, and in contrast to the phonograph’s dictation usage this business was booming. From just one of its machines the Louisiana Phonograph Co. had taken $1,000 in two months; the Missouri Phonograph Co. operated 50 machines, one of which had taken $100 dollars in a week (Read and Welch 1976: 110). It had been discovered that ‘Receipts increase or decrease in various machines as the records, which are changed daily, are good or mediocre’ (Automatic Phonograph Exhibition Co. letter, quoted in Read and Welch 1976: 109). At this convention the need for a decent repertoire of music was also discussed. Consequently, the Edison Phonograph Works began manufacturing musical cylinders. By the early 1890s there were the beginnings of a music industry. However, centred as it was on privately owned nickel-in-the-slot machines, there was still no need for mass duplicates of pre-recorded music. Berliner’s process would 34 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record not automatically usurp this trade. It was nevertheless certainly preferable to the duplication method then used by the cylinder companies. Here a single performance was recorded via a recording horn onto as many cylinder machines as was simultaneously possible. There were obvious limits to how far this approach could be taken. By the time of the Franklin Institute speech Berliner had abandoned his original photoengraving technique and was instead making his master recordings using a chemical process. He coated zinc discs with a beeswax and gasoline mixture that was impervious to acid. A recording was then inscribed onto these discs, making a groove in this film. The discs were then immersed in an acid bath, which etched the uncovered groove into the zinc. The making of duplicates from these discs was something that Berliner had yet to master. At length he developed a method that involved making a reverse metal matrix from the original acid-etched zinc master. This reverse matrix could then be used to stamp out as many ‘positive’ discs as required. Berliner would later recollect that ‘This process is at the bottom of the present industry of making many millions of sound copies annually’ (‘The Development of the Talking Machine’). This industry was nevertheless slow to get going. While the nickle-in-the- slot business was beginning to coalesce in the United States, Berliner was in his native Germany launching the gramophone. It was not marketed as a device that would conquer the musical world, but instead as a plaything. The German toy- making firm Kämme and Reinhardt holds the honour of being the first company to manufacture discs based on Berliner’s lateral recording process. In 1889 they began manufacturing miniature hand-propelled gramophones, which played 12.5 cm discs usually made of vulcanite or celluloid. These machines were exported to the UK, where a selection of discs was also made available. It consisted mainly of nursery rhymes. It was 1893 before Berliner felt that his gramophone and duplicating process were ready to be launched in the US. In that year he formed the United States Gramophone Company, based in Washington DC. At this point Berliner was more interested in attracting backers than customers, an ambition that was realized in 1895 when a syndicate of Philadelphia investors put up $25,000 to form the Berliner Gramophone Company (Gelatt 1977: 67). A year later this company was divided into the National Gramophone Company (responsible for advertising); the Berliner Gramophone Company (which manufactured gramophones and records, and was soon to be under the auspices of Eldridge R. Johnson); and the United States Gramophone Company (Berliner’s patent-holding company). V.K. Chew has stated that it was only now ‘that the gramophone became a serious competitor to the phonograph and graphophone’ (1981: 19). Thereafter business was booming. The National Gramophone Company claimed that its 1898 sales topped $1 million (Gelatt 1977: 90). It was also at this time that the disc began to take its first standard form. In 1897 Berliner’s company adopted the use of shellac for its duplicated discs, the material that would dominate record manufacture until the advent of vinyl. the disc 35
At the turn of the century three record producing companies controlled the market in the United States: Berliner’s National Gramophone Company; Edison’s National Phonograph Company; and the Columbia Phonograph Company (who hadn’t come under Lippincott’s original agreement and therefore retained their independence after he ceded control of the North American Phonograph Company to Edison in the early 1890s). While Edison remained convinced that cylinders provided the superior means of sound reproduction, Columbia wished to enter the burgeoning disc trade. They did so by launching several courtroom battles, which were based on their ownership of Graphophone patent rights. In 1900 they were successful in prosecuting the gramophone for its use of the Bell-Tainter ‘floating stylus’. This action resulted in Berliner’s withdrawal from the gramophone business and Eldridge R. Johnson taking over in his stead. Johnson made several important innovations. One of his first was the abandonment of the use of zinc discs for master recordings, having determined that it was responsible for the poor tonal quality of gramophone records. He adopted the Bell-Tainter wax-incising method, a decision that Gaisberg describes as ‘the turning point of sound-recording’ (1977: 11). It also resulted in a legal allegation from Columbia. However, rather than return to court, Columbia and Johnson (who was by now operating as the Victor Talking Machine Company) agreed to pool their patent rights. As a result these two companies ‘achieved a dominance in the American phonograph industry than endured for more than half a century’ (Gelatt 1977: 134).
The Triumph of the Disc in Britain
The sound recording business in Britain was derived from and closely related to the business in the United States. William Barry Owen, an employee of Berliner’s, travelled to London in 1898, where set up the Gramophone Company as a British affiliate. This company would later partner Eldridge R. Johnson’s Victor Talking Machine Company and would include Frederick Gaisberg as an employee. The situation amongst the cylinder-producing companies was more complicated. As in America, the 1880s witnessed the combination of the phonograph and Graphophone enterprises, which came together as the British company Edison-Bell. However, Edison later set up his own rival company, the National Phonograph Company, and Columbia also had their own separate British branch, which manufactured both cylinders and discs. What is more, the cylinder business remained healthy in Britain for longer than it did in the United States. As late as 1904 the Russell Hunting Company was choosing to manufacture cylinders rather than discs, and sales of the format rose steadily until 1907 (Read and Welch 1976: 144, 150). And yet by 1913 a leading British recording journal was saying of the cylinder, ‘it is no use blinking as to the fact that its popularity has very nearly reached vanishing point, and doubtless in two or three years’ time its demise will be “un fait accompli”’ (Chrysos 1913a: 404). Dave Laing has asked, ‘How to account for this victory of the limited “playback” variant over the cylinder that could also be 36 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record used to record?’; it is his opinion that, ‘Here the literature on phonograph history is silent’ (1991: 5). This isn’t quite the case, however. One voice that addresses the situation is provided by the British recording journals of the early 1900s: Talking Machine News, Phono Trader and Recorder and Sound Wave. By looking at the letters pages, editorials and advertisements of these journals I will outline factors that contributed towards the disc’s triumph in the UK.
1. Recording
It is worth noting that as sales of discs increased in Britain there were fewer boasts about the cylinder’s recording ability. While in 1905 the Talking Machine News was stating that ‘salesmen have been wont to dwell lovingly upon the charm of “home made records”’ (Edicobel 1905: 95) by 1908 the journal was noting of the cylinder and its ability to record, ‘Why do not the manufacturers cultivate this side of it more? We have often wondered? It has never been as fully exploited as it might have been’ (‘Trade Topics’ 2 November 1908: 370). This was not a restrictive capitalist ploy. If there had been a large market for home recording it would have made sense for the cylinder companies to push their machine’s ability to record and to make a virtue of this factor in their advertising. There was not: when Phono Trader and Recorder analysed the relative merits of cylinders and discs in 1907 the ability to record at home was not even mentioned (Lewis-Young 1907a: 726–8). Ultimately, the unwillingness of the public to make home recordings favoured the disc-producing companies: the limitations of the gramophone meant that it was associated only with professional recordings. The resulting cultural prestige was an important if unplanned element in the disc’s eventual triumph.
2. Duplication
According to Frederick Gaisberg:
The stumbling-block to the rapid development of the old phonograph was the difficulty of duplicating record cylinders. This delay actually enabled the gramophone disc to overtake it with its simple method of stamping endless copies from the master, despite the superior recording-qualities of the cylinder. (1977: 19)
This reckoning of the disc’s ascendancy is complicated by the fact that by 1901 Edison had developed a ‘molding’ process for wax cylinders that allowed for the automatic duplication of this format as well. It is Roland Gelatt’s belief that this innovation ‘had come too late’ and that the cylinder ‘attained its summit at the turn of the century’, after which decline set in (1977: 81–2). But this statement only adds to the confusion. Firstly, it illustrates that cylinders were at the height of their popularity during the years in which they had the inferior method of duplication. Secondly, in relation to the UK at least, his analysis is not correct. As late as the disc 37
1903 a reader of the Talking Machine News was complaining about the ‘meagre space’ devoted to the gramophone (Midgley 1903: 67). Unfortunately for him it was the journal’s belief that the ‘disc machine “is not in it”’ due to ‘the huge preponderance of cylinder machines over disc’ (‘Our Monthly Chat’ 1904). In the same year the Columbia Phonograph Company was claiming that its cylinders outsold its discs by a ratio of 3:1 (‘Interview with E.D. Easton’ 1903: 84), and by 1905 their production of cylinders was still double that of discs (Chew 1981: 51). At this stage it would appear that duplication was a contributory rather than a determining factor in the triumph of disc over cylinder. Ironically, the new, more complicated method of duplicating cylinders may have helped to further their decline. Writing in the Talking Machine News in 1907, J. Lewis-Young stated that ‘The making of a master record for a cylinder machine is much more difficult than making a master for a disc’; adding that, ‘In regard to manufacture, except for the material, [the disc] is easier and cheaper to produce than the cylinder record’ (1907a: 726, 728). Henry Seymour, writing in the Phono Trader and Recorder in 1908, claimed that for the prospective record manufacturer the disc held more appeal. He stated that, ‘from the purely commercial aspect, the disc … would appear to have a decided advantage’ (1908a: 562).
3. Sound Reproduction
Conversely, regarding sound reproduction, Seymour believed that ‘the cylinder method is technically superior in every way’ (1908b: 550). Other authorities have agreed with him. Among sound recording historians it is to be expected that the pro-Edison Oliver Read and Walter L. Welch would maintain that ‘the cylinder method from the first was more scientific than that of the disc’ (1976: 153). However, the less biased Roland Gelatt has concurred: he believed that the Edison Blue Amberol cylinder provided the best ‘pre-World War I recording technique’ (1977: 166). What comes across from the recording journals is that each of the formats produced a different sound. Debates periodically erupted as to the relative merits of each machine. Typical was ‘Stylus’ who argued: ‘The faults in a gramophone: horrible scratchy sound, which gets worse as the record wears, also the tone is too deep to be natural’ (1903: 86). In contrast ‘Music Lover’ believed that ‘surely no one will venture to assert that even the best of the cylinder type, are at all comparable in cleanness and musical purity with the best disc records’ (1905: 19). There was usually a reader on hand to explain that it was all a matter of personal taste. In 1903 Thomas Farkoa reasoned:
Whilst the richness and fullness of the disc are discounted by its scratchiness, the purity of the musical note of the cylinder is discounted by its ‘shriekiness’. Let anyone who has used a cylinder machine for some weeks relinquish it in favour of a disc. Involuntarily you exclaim, ‘What a noise!’ Vice versa, relinquish disc for cylinder and ten to one the same exclamation escapes you. (1903: 111) 38 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
Not much had changed by 1911. In that year Linzey Wilcox explained, ‘Owners of disc machines do not care for what they call the thin nasal tone of the phonograph, and cylinder users do not like to the thick tubby tone of the disc’ (1911: 374). Cylinder and disc adherents vehemently and intransigently maintained the superiority of their favoured device. There was little evidence of people crossing over because they had been convinced that the opposing format offered the best sound. Sound quality was the most extensively debated but perhaps least decisive of all elements in the battle between cylinder and disc. There are nevertheless some important factors to note. First, the disc was always louder than the cylinder. This was true from its launch (it was listened to mainly through its amplifying horn, whereas concurrently Graphophones and phonographs required the aid of headphones) right through to the time of the cylinder’s demise (in 1913 a reader of Sound Wave argued that cylinders suffered in comparison with discs because they could not be heard over the noise of the shops in which they were sold) (Chrysos 1913b: 618). Second, the deterioration of sound quality towards the centre of discs had by now been recognized. In a November 1911 article Henry Seymour noted, ‘it is a matter of common observation that disc records generally exhibit a tendency to depreciate in tone quality as the needle reaches towards the end of the record track’ (1911: 479).
4. Shape and Handling
If the disc’s natural shortcoming had been noted so had the cylinder’s. As early as 1903 readers were asking, ‘Unless there is any advantage in a cylindrical shape, it must go, for it simply cannot compare with the disc in point of view of portability and general convenience of storage’ (Farkoa 1903: 111). In 1907 the Phono Trader and Recorder remarked, ‘many people are giving up cylinders because of the space which they occupy in the home (Lewis-Young 1907a: 726). Cylinders were also more fragile than discs. An earlier edition of Phono Trader and Recorder stated that ‘as far as the Cylinder machine is concerned, the fragility of its record, and its somewhat cumbersome nature, may be regarded as a disadvantage’ (‘The “Neophone” Disc – Phonograph’ 1904: 116). Edison eventually came up with a more robust cylinder, the Blue Amberol, which was made of plastic rather than wax. Launched in 1912, it arrived too late. In 1913 the Sound Wave reluctantly admitted, ‘The convenient form of the disc, in contradistinction to the cylinder – which, up to almost the present time, has been extremely fragile – no doubt commends itself to the public’ (Pioneer 1913: 877).
5. Repertoire
In the early 1900s, as the disc began to equal the cylinder in terms of sales, the battle in the letters pages of the journals was fought largely over the quality of sound reproduction. When the ‘cylinder v. disc’ debate was re-ignited in Sound Wave in 1908 it was on different grounds. The journal is full of letters from the disc 39 phonograph owners who still maintained the superiority of the cylinder, but their main outcry was now against their own machine – they deplored the repertoire that was available. The disc owners did not need to join in this argument as their format was firmly in the ascendancy. The Talking Machine News declared in October 1908, ‘The disc record has come to the front this season with a vengeance’ (‘Trade Topics’ 1 October 1908: 297). In the first instance it was the paucity of cylinder titles that was decried. Writing in April 1908, Gilbert Parker initiated the debate:
I notice with much dissatisfaction and not a little surprise, that the monthly output of cylinder records appears to be slowly but surely decreasing, whereas the corresponding disc output continues to increase. Not only is the number of companies whose records you include in your review less than of yore, but also the companies themselves seem to be bringing out shorter lists of monthly records. (1908: 194, 196)
Responding to this letter, Samuel Ireland stated, ‘it proves that the popularity of the disc talker is greater than that of the cylinder, which is to be regretted, for there can be no doubt as to the unquestionable superiority of the phonograph for true and natural reproduction’ (1908: 236). Was repertoire decisive? In these early years there were two separate elements to phonographic and gramophonic pleasure: repertoire and sound reproduction. What is hard to recapture is the fact that sound reproduction could be enjoyed simply for its own sake. Throughout this period the recording journals’ main focus was not on music, but on steadily improving audio technique, with many modifications being suggested and implemented by the readers themselves. The cylinder companies only floundered when they neglected both repertoire and sound reproduction. In their review of 1911 the Talking Machine News made this point clear:
Not so very long ago, to be precise about five or six years, when the cylinder held sway, almost anything which could reproduce recorded sound was bought without question, and so hard pressed were the manufacturers to keep the two great forces of supply and demand anywhere near level, that the inventive or scientific side of the business came to be somewhat neglected, a position of things which eventually culminated in a gradual growth of dissatisfaction in the public mind, being educated, as it was, to appreciate the relative values centred in different kinds of talking machines and records. It quickly became apparent that cylinder manufacturers especially should do something to conciliate the public, but valuable time was lost, and it was about this period that the disc record began to make great headway … [T]he popularity of the disc must to a great extent be regarded as due to the more extensive repertoire offered on that class of record, and one must not overlook the great influence exercised by the fact of there being an enormously greater number of discs on the market than cylinders. (‘The Passing of 1911’ 1912: 406, 410) 40 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
For readers of the recording journals it was not just quantity of output that mattered, but also quality, a factor that had also been neglected by the cylinder companies. The reader Stephen Agnew admitted:
[M]y personal opinion has always been against the ‘swish’ of the disc. Now, however, I am selling my machines and purchasing a ‘Regal’ disc instrument, for the sole reason that the titles on recent lists of cylinders, with a few notable exceptions, are nothing short of banal … In the lists of Edison, Edison Bell, and Sterling to be found in your last six numbers, an analysis gives the following result of the vocal titles issued: – No less than 80 per cent. are music hall songs of the popular or comic genus. The orchestral and instrumental items, so far as I can see, are in even worse case. Moreover, in the six numbers mentioned, there are 22 columns of discs listed, and only ten of cylinders, the difference amounting to some hundreds of records. The outlook for the cylinder enthusiast is not encouraging, to say the least. (1908: 364)
In terms of ‘quality’ the Gramophone Company had taken the lead. They pioneered the recording of ‘celebrity’ opera singers and classical artists, the most important breakthrough occurring with Gaisberg’s first recordings of Enrico Caruso, made in March 1902. They further established the status of these recordings by demarcating them with special ‘Red Seal’ labels on their discs. The most renowned artistes – including Caruso, Sigrid Arnoldson, Adelina Patti and Mattia Battistini – were soon tied to exclusive recording contracts. The disc had a natural advantage in relation to classical music: it was longer. The 12″ disc, introduced by the Gramophone Company in 1903, increased playing time to approximately three and a half minutes. Maximum playing time for a cylinder was still only two minutes, therefore arias and orchestral extracts were truncated. It would be 1908 before Edison developed a longer-playing cylinder. More finely grooved than earlier cylinders, the ‘Amberol’ would play for four minutes. Unfortunately, it had drawbacks: it deteriorated more quickly than earlier devices and its tonal quality was inferior. In addition, there was little ‘quality’ repertoire; as one correspondent pointed out: ‘The first list of Amberol records is very disappointing’ (Seymour 1908c: 72).
6. Advertising
The readers of the recording journals were obviously ‘high-class’ enthusiasts. The column inches that these journals devoted to ‘quality’ recordings were not reflected in sales. Reporting to the board of the Gramophone Company in 1907, Theodore Birnbaum stated, ‘This class of business [‘quality’ music] is difficult to handle, and it is questionable whether it can be regarded on any other basis than high-class advertising’ (Martland 1997: 63). In his history of EMI, the label into which the Gramophone Company would evolve, Peter Martland discloses that ‘less than one per cent of the Company’s unit sales in 1913 were Celebrity records’ (ibid.). the disc 41
This small percentage went a long way. The Gramophone Company ignored the fact that the majority of record sales, including their own, were concentrated on popular music, and instead relentlessly plugged their more refined recordings and artists, as well as the royal warrants that the company had gained. Their adverts stressed that the ‘Gramophone Trade is High-Class Trade’ and that they offered ‘The Best – not the cheapest’ (Talking Machine News, April 1905: 510–11). In so doing, the leading disc-producing company earned its format vital prestige. It was here that the aristocratic gloss, imbued by operatic stars, came in useful. It was typical of Gramophone Company advertising to intimate that when playing such records the artists who had recorded them therefore became your houseguests: ‘Britain’s greatest artistes singing opera in English in your own home’ (HMV advert, pictured in Martland 1997: 58). Consequently, the purchaser was established as a person of refinement and taste. The effectiveness of this advertising is illustrated by the fact that people began to buy Red Seal records for display purposes only. Louis Barfe has stated, ‘Later collectors noted the preponderance of mint single-sided Red Seals and were led to conclude that they were rarely if ever played’ (1984: 66). By way of contrast, in its advertising the National Phonograph Company always promoted Edison. To the aspirant classes this laboratory technician was not such a welcome guest. The Gramophone Company in Britain and Victor in America were advertising pioneers: Read and Welch state that they ‘established many of the principles of advertising since followed by others’ (1976: 154). To this end they promoted the His Master’s Voice symbol until it became one of the first internationally recognized trademarks. William Owen, head of the Gramophone Company, was one of the first people to use a whole front-page advert in the Daily Mail. In 1906 the company admitted that it spent about £20,000 a year on advertising (‘A Visit to the Gramophone Headquarters’ 1906: 274). Meanwhile, in America, ‘No other industrialist and no other industry relied more heavily on public advertising than Victor’ (Kenney 1999: 52). It was a sensible policy, as magazines and newspapers gave little editorial space to the talking machine trade.
7. Cost
There was a further effect of marketing the disc as a high-class good: the cylinder became associated with the poorer classes and this was reflected in its price. Berliner had originally gained entry to the record market by offering his machines and his discs at a lower price than the phonograph manufacturers. It was possible to do so because of his then advantageous duplication process. Positions were soon reversed: as the century progressed, cylinders were made to sell for as little and eventually much less than discs. Nevertheless, as noted above, cylinders were not necessarily cheaper to produce. As always the disc had the better timing. To reinforce their prestige, Red Seal records were priced more expensively than other items in the Gramophone Company’s catalogue: profit margins were high. There was less money to be made 42 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record in the cylinder trade. Problems here were compounded by a recession in the 1907– 1909 period, during which the lower class cylinder-buying public was hardest hit. According to the November 1908 Talking Machine News, ‘large numbers of the industrial classes are at the present time hard put to it to make both ends meet’ (‘Trade Topics’ 2 November 1908: 370). The year 1908 also witnessed a disastrous price war among cylinder manufacturers, triggered by the Russell Hunting Co. As a result: ‘Lower and yet lower the prices have gone till we suppose the lowest depth, showing no more than a living profit, in good times, mark you, has been reached’ (ibid.). In response to this situation the editor of Sound Wave tried to be optimistic:
The question of the decay of the cylinder trade is, we think, more apparent than real. It is perfectly true that new manufacturers almost invariably produce discs, and this we think is due to the fact that various causes have conspired to bring the price of cylinder records down to a very low figure, and unless one has a big demand the margin of profit is too small to tempt prospective makers. (‘Good Music for the Cylinders’ 1908: 74)
His optimism was misplaced: the British cylinder trade never recovered. Read and Welch believe that Russell Hunting had ‘brought it crashing down by a single tactical mistake’ (1976: 150).
Conclusion
In the UK the cylinder business reached its peak in 1907, thereafter there was steady decline. In 1909 Edison shut down his cylinder-producing European plants and in 1912 Columbia withdrew from the cylinder trade (Edison further confirmed the defeat of the cylinder by launching his ‘Diamond Discs’ in the US in 1913; however, these weren’t made available in Britain until 1921). By 1915 the Gramophone Company could make these ominous boasts, providing their own reasons for the triumph of the disc:
Because of the universally acknowledged SUPREMACY of the Goods Because the ‘His Master’s Voice’ Record Catalogue is built up on records (mostly exclusive) of the WORLD’S GREATEST ARTISTS. Because of the world-fame of the TRADEMARK guaranteeing quality Because the vast ‘His Master’s Voice’ ADVERTISING never ceases (Talking Machine News and Side Lines, November 1915: 304–5)
Ultimately, the triumph of the disc over the cylinder was a capitalist ploy. It was not, however, one that was based on usurping the ability and the freedom of the individual to record. Instead it rested on advertising and selling the gramophone as a luxury good, and in offering what the Gramophone Company considered to the disc 43 be the world’s best music and artists. Nevertheless, contributing to the ‘supreme’ status of this product was the fact that there was no such thing as an ‘amateur’ disc.
The Persistence of Professionalism
The promise has been kept. Unique among current recording formats there is no way in which vinyl discs can be affordably made at home. Moreover, this exclusivity has contributed to the continuing popularity of the format. Surprisingly, it has more commonly been musicians, rather than industry bosses, who have valued this factor. Keith Richards, for example, has talked of feeling ‘legitimized’ because the Rolling Stones appeared on vinyl (2010: 126). Rob Fitzpatrick had similar feelings on seeing his first release: ‘I remember holding the black vinyl up to the light in the shop and being amazed that I had “made” this thing’ (Fitzpatrick 2011b: 110). Writing in 2004 the journalist Adam Woods claimed that ‘while the vinyl record only seems to look more iconic as time goes by, the public image of the CD is increasingly bedraggled’ (2004: 15). If the compact disc had become tainted in this manner, this conceptualization coincided with advent of cheap, recordable CDs. In 2006 Bruce Springsteen commented:
Today I hardly know a band without a CD. Any local band, I go to their show and they’re selling a CD. But that wasn’t the case in the ’60s and early ’70s. The machinery, the technology, to make records was not in your hands. So when I got a record contract I was the only person I had ever known who had been signed, that was the big change, and then we made a couple of records and they didn’t sell that well but still it was miraculous. (Sutcliffe 2006: 82)
Similarly, releasing music online can be seen as being too easy and too openly available. Ross Caiden of Prime Direct Distribution has stated that companies who release vinyl are now viewed as ‘proper’ labels, with the format being branded as a ‘badge of honour’ (Caiden 2011: 21). Gennaro Castaldo, spokesperson for the HMV retail chain, has reiterated Caiden’s beliefs, for him vinyl has ‘become a bit of a badge of honour for any self-regarding new band’ (Bray 2008). Endorsing this outlook, Connor Hanwick of the American group The Drums, who formed in 2006, has stated that ‘It’s amazing to see and hear your music on vinyl. It’s literally a dream come true’ (Thomson 2010). This page has been left blank intentionally Chapter 3 The Label
Introduction
The disc accepts its limitations. As the groove travels towards its centre it checks itself and stops, aware that sound quality is in jeopardy. This leaves a void. Only about a third of the diameter of a 12″ LP and half of the diameter of a 7″ single are bisected with grooves. The same is true of the first Emile Berliner discs: the groove occupies only half of their width. Emile Berliner turned this design flaw into an advantage. In the empty centre of the zinc masters he inscribed the title of the recording and printed details of patents he had been awarded. This information was entered directly onto the master recordings. The discs were given a catalogue number (sometimes stamped onto the master, other times onto the reverse matrix), with series of numbers being assigned to different performers and categories of music. Gradually other pieces of information started to appear. The discs that Berliner made for the US Gramophone Company added artist details, as well as the location and usually the date of the recording. By 1897 this information was being etched in ornate typeface rather than by hand. By September 1898 the Recording Angel trademark, used by the British Gramophone Company prior to its adoption of the Nipper logo in 1909, was being stamped onto discs manufactured in Hanover for the British and European market. It was Eldridge R. Johnson, head of Victor, who realized the full potential of labelling discs. In April 1900 he wrote to his British colleague William Barry Owen, ‘Strange to say, one of our greatest difficulties has been the proper marking of these records. We never tried before to mark them properly, as if we were making them to sell’ (Edge and Petts 1987: 201). His solution was the paper record label, first witnessed in 1900 on his short-lived ‘Improved Gram-O-Phone Records’. Johnson’s method was to attach these labels to their discs at the moment of duplication, the basis of the technique that remains in use today. Initially, the information on these paper labels did not expand upon that etched onto the Berliner discs. Nevertheless, by attaching a different material to the disc and by populating it with eye-catching colours, usually gold or silver on a black background, Johnson elevated records towards his desired realm as saleable objects. The clearest outcome of labelling lies in the fact that the term ‘record label’ became a synonym for ‘record company’. The label helped to brand both record and company but in so doing it altered the nature of their relationship. This chapter traces the manufacturing company’s domination over all other contributors listed 46 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record on the paper label. It also outlines the consequences and compromises that have resulted from making such bold claims over the contents of the disc. Labelling helps to define a product, but it can also straitjacket it. Beyond its merely informative tasks, the record label was first used to develop associations between the manufacturing company and its recorded output, a process that soon grew complicated. Later it was employed to highlight the difference between classical and popular music. It was then used to create further musical sub-divisions. In the following I concentrate most fully on the ways in which the label helped to separate the ‘race’ and ‘hillbilly’ markets from mainstream popular music, for it is here that the full ramifications of record labelling were most clearly witnessed and learnt. It was the small, independent race and hillbilly record companies who most successfully developed generic labelling. Their label names became associated with specific types of music and served as a beacon to collectors. In more recent years it has also been small, independent labels that have most successfully used labelling practices. Consequently, it has been these companies who have been most keen to see the production of vinyl continue.
Hardware vs Software
The record label on a disc contains two main sets of information, reflecting the dual nature of the object that it is trying to describe. The first set describes the technical qualities of the disc, detailing its manufacturer, the speed it is travelling at, the side you are looking at, the catalogue number, the year it was first manufactured, and so on. The second set of information concerns itself with the aural contents of the disc, detailing the artist, the overall title of the piece, its individual tracks, their length, the writers, the copyright owners, the producer, and the owner of the right to perform, broadcast or copy the work. The shellac or vinyl disc is the only format on which it makes sense to give such detailed label information. Only here do the recording and the recording information share the same surface: the label describes what can actually be seen. Such a relationship was not possible with cylinders; instead the common practice was for recording details – such as title, artist and record company – to be announced at the start of each recording. Later formats, such as cassettes and compact discs, have had their labels, but these have always been positioned so that they are viewed separately from the recording itself (with the cassette any recording information sits at a right angle to the surface of the recording, with a CD the recording is on the opposite side of the disc to the label). It is only the grooved disc that allows its two sides to stand as complete, visual entities. With grooved formats the trace on the record is the music; it is a direct, almost comprehensible transcription of the sounds that have been made. The encircled label offers confirmation. In fact, it has a symbiotic relationship with the groove: they translate each other. the label 47
But how accurate is the label’s translation? And, if it is not perfect, in what ways do the label and the recording affect one another? To this day, the label rarely goes beyond describing the various attributes of each record. Certain elements are nevertheless emphasized at the expense of others. The most obvious of these is the record company name and logo. The standard design – established early on and dominant throughout the disc’s history – is that the company trademarks occupy the upper half of the label design while the musical details are crammed into the lower half. There are practical reasons for this split: the company masthead is a universal and can be carried forth from record to record. The early norm was for this part of the label to be printed first in bulk; the particulars of each record would then be overprinted onto these standard designs. This process results in what can seem like an unfair hierarchy. A sound recording is created by two sets of people: there are the performers and there are the record companies who have made that recording possible. It could be argued that the ‘non-creative’ element is being given precedence here. The implications of this layout can only be fully considered when we take into account just how prominent the record label used to be. Shellac records were sold in brown paper bags with cut-away centres, which allowed the record label to show through. It was not until the late 1940s, roughly coinciding with the arrival of the microgroove LP, that records began to be housed in picture sleeves and the label was hidden from immediate view. In Britain this luxury was not regularly afforded 45 rpm singles until the 1970s. Before then vinyl singles took their design cues from shellac discs, being sold in paper bags with cut-away centres. Their basic design was nearly always an extension of the record companies’ logos. It should also be noted that it was not until 1968 that LP manufacture overtook singles manufacture in Britain. For much of the twentieth century the label was the focal point of the record and the company masthead was the focal point of the label. Rightly so, Thomas Edison would say. He would not consider this an unfair translation of the information in the groove. Edison believed that the artistry of his records lay in his recording process and, despite a proclaimed ‘fidelity’ to nature, that this was what should be listened to (Sterne 2003: 262–4). To this end the labels on his Diamond Discs contained no artist information; instead they were dominated by a picture of the person he considered the main author: Edison himself. Columbia also initially gave no performer information on their record labels. Moreover, it should be reiterated that in the early years of the recording industry all of the record companies stressed the technical side of their recordings. So too the recording journals, which only gradually began to concern themselves with musical rather than technical matters. Edison failed to appreciate the fact that recordings would supersede machinery in importance, and that the performers of these recordings would be considered more important than the recording processes. The affiliated Victor and Gramophone companies were the first to grasp these concepts; they also helped to generate them. Nevertheless, it continued to be their own company names, over and above all other contributors, that they promoted on the labels on their discs. 48 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
The Beginnings of Label Identity
The problem with emphasizing the technical side of recordings is that it focuses attention on the physical appearance of the record. The black, shiny disc may look special today, but early users saw this composite for what it really was: ‘powdered shellac, rotten rock, and lamp black’ (Kassowitz 1922: 16–17). Eldridge R. Johnson realized that for this object to gain cultural acceptance the associative qualities that needed to be generated were musical not technical. He later stated that ‘only great musical talent could transform the phonograph record from a toy into the greatest medium of home entertainment’ (The 50-year Story of RCA Victor Records 1953: 33). To this end Victor and the Gramophone Company pioneered the practice of signing the most renowned musical artists to exclusive, long-term contracts. These celebrity artists were vigorously promoted in the companies’ advertising. With their names on the companies’ record labels it was believed that the surrounding grooves would be ‘mellowed … with the patina of high art’ (Gelatt 1977: 129). In May 1905 Talking Machine News reported on the early success of this policy:
Much has been done to enhance the reputation of the talking machine by inducing artistes of celebrity to sing and play into it. There is not the slightest doubt that many persons who were once apt to scoff and sneer changed their opinions and feelings when they learned that Melba, Caruso, de Reszke, Suzanne Adams, Ben Davies, Kubelik, Kocian and others had made records. (Our Expert 1905: 9)
The sleight of hand involved in this marketing plan was that the cultural reputation of these artists would devolve to the record companies’ names. As Read and Welch have noted, ‘by placing what was then a colossal advertising budget behind the exploitation of these well-known names, Victor further inflated their reputation and its own’ (1976: 182). Furthermore, with this label name emblazoned on future releases, it would then lend prestige and credibility to the rest of the record company’s output. This marketing device helped to engender brand loyalty. The Talking Machine News revealed in December 1929, ‘frequently we find the gramofan has a library of records which are all of one or two makes and frequently of one type of music only’ (‘On Collecting Unique Records’ 1929: 418). Curiously, Thomas Edison was aware of such partisan record buying, but appears to have been too scornful of musicians to take advantage of this fact. Glancing at Victor’s celebrity artists he commented, ‘The public is influenced by the reputation of the singer … People hear what they are told to hear. They are self-hypnotised by reputation’ (‘Thomas Edison and Music’ 1977: 193). Edison continued to believe that the public would prefer quality reproduction for its own sake, rather than ‘a rotten scratchy record by a great singer’ (Millard 1995: 62). His rivals thought differently. In fact, Victor’s and the Gramophone Company’s main concerns were that their popular music releases, which made up the bulk of record sales, might affect the reputation of their ‘quality’ recordings. the label 49
Their solution to this problem was to develop a set of coloured labels, each of which would represent a particular type of music. This policy was inaugurated with Red Seal record labels, which were used exclusively for recordings made by celebrity artists. The Gramophone Company’s Russian agent Raphoff introduced these designs in 1901, arguably so that the labels would match the red furnishings of his gramophone store (Moore 1999: 77). These discs were distinguished by their more expensive price as well as by the colour of their labels. Following the success of the initial Russian venture the Gramophone Company issued high-priced Red Seal records throughout Europe in 1902. The Victor Company followed suit in the US in 1903, and the successors to this company have continued to promote RCA Victor Red Seal releases to this day. A hierarchy of label colours and prices followed. Victor issued purple-label records (1910–20: for recordings by Broadway stars as well as those by less celebrated classical performers) and blue-label records (1914–26: largely used for double-sided couplings of purple-label releases). The original black label now signified the bottom of the range, artistically and economically. It was reserved for ‘Vaudeville, actors, popular singers … anything which appealed to what might have been considered the mass taste’ (Coleman and Cotter 1969: 17). In response, Columbia issued a multicoloured label (1906–23: for its classical and operatic releases); a blue label (1910–23: for personality recordings and lesser classical recordings); and also reserved its black label for ‘mass taste’ recordings. These record company labels were further sub-divided by the allocation of different batches of catalogue numbers to different musical genres. Gelatt remarked that ‘A collection of Red Seal Records established one as a person of both taste and property’ (1977: 149). At the opposite end of the scale Victor dismissed their black-label recordings as being ‘Coney Island Stuff’ (Kenney 1999: 31–2). There were consequences of demarcating music in this way. Notably the audiences for classical and popular music became increasingly divided. Colin Symes has stated that ‘The advent of the phonograph … began to consolidate the “great musical schism”’ (2004: 247). Andre Millard concurs, arguing that record companies ‘did their part in the polarization of American society by publicizing the differences between “good music” and “popular music”’ (1995: 93). As such, Victor’s marketing policy – focusing upon its Red Seal artists to lend prestige to the company’s entire musical output – became increasingly problematic, and eventually cost the company dearly. Victor largely ignored the jazz and blues music that emerged after World War I (in particular the music made by black artists) fearing that association with these genres would taint their prestigious label name. It was only in 1926, when Eldridge R. Johnson resigned from the company, that Victor began to compete in this valuable market. Conversely, Columbia, who had had less success in recording and demarcating classical music, experienced considerable market growth taking advantage of genres that Victor had ignored. To this end they incorporated new label sub- divisions: in 1923 they launched a ‘race’ records series (black music for the black public) for which they used the 14000-D series of catalogue numbers, and in early 50 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
1925 they began using the 15000-D number series for ‘old familiar melodies’ (later to be known as ‘hillbilly’ and then as ‘country’ music). The colour coding of record labels was no longer metaphorical, a musical apartheid had been introduced.
Race and Hillbilly Labels
During the inter-war years labelling practices aided the division of the American record industry into ‘popular’, ‘race’ and ‘hillbilly’ markets, a division that remains today (Billboard now uses the categories ‘The Billboard Hot 100’, ‘Hot R&B/ Hip-Hop Songs’ and ‘Hot Country Songs’). Race and hillbilly music had shared a neighbouring oral transmission, but the growing importance of recorded and broadcast music, coupled with the practice of record labelling, affected this process. On the one hand, the two musics were streamlined into separate categories. On the other hand, the ability of these new media to transcend space and time meant that each music found ways of crossing boundaries, even as those boundaries were being erected. There was, however, a self-perpetuating element to the labelling of race and hillbilly music: the label helped to foster the separation of this music into distinct genres, and the creation of these divisions helped to further the idea of distinct labelling. Race and hillbilly record companies discovered the benefits of developing ever more recognizable musical identities. Several of them – Okeh, Paramount, Atlantic, Stax – are among the most recognized brand names. It was smaller, independent record labels who benefited most from the development of the race and hillbilly markets. In the late 1910s the number of independent record companies in the US increased from 24 to over 150, and many would find their niche by marketing new genres of music (Kennedy and McNutt 1999: 25). This was not, however, what prompted their entry into the business; rather it was the opportunities provided by the lapse of the major record companies’ patents. Okeh records, for example, manufactured the first discs in both the race and hillbilly categories and yet they were originally unaware of the potential of these markets. The first blues artist on record was Mamie Smith, who recorded the songs ‘That Thing Called Love’ and ‘You Can’t Keep a Good Man Down’ in February 1920, both written by the black composer Perry Bradford. Okeh issued these recordings in July of the same year. In the company’s catalogue the record was listed as ‘Mamie Smith, Contralto’ and no effort was made to draw attention to the fact that it was by a black artist, nor was there a great deal of promotion. The disc received unexpectedly high sales, concentrated in black neighbourhoods. Consequently Mamie Smith was booked for further recordings, returning to the studio in August to record ‘It’s Right Here for You’ and ‘Crazy Blues’. For this release Okeh advertised widely in the black communities, targeting journals such as the Chicago Defender (this newspaper had previously campaigned for a distinct race records market, albeit that its desire was for record labels to issue music by black opera singers) (Dixon and Godrich 170: 9). the label 51
Sales were phenomenal. It has been estimated that Mamie Smith’s records sold up to 75,000 copies a month, almost entirely within black neighbourhoods (Oliver 1997: 105). A latent audience had revealed itself, one that required new forms of marketing. To this end, the labels of future blues releases were given their own batches of catalogue numbers, enabling them to be grouped together and publicized separately from the main catalogue. In 1921 Okeh designated its 8000 series of numbers for these records. Other companies followed suit, both with their own repertoires of black music and with their separately numbered record labels, including the Paramount 12000 series (launched 1922), the Columbia 14000 series (1923), Vocalion 1000s (1926) and eventually Victor’s 21000s and 38000s (1927). A name was required to accompany these numerals. ‘Colored records’ was used in advertising in 1921 but this was superseded by ‘race records’ the following year. Ralph Peer, recording director of Okeh, coined the term. ‘Race records’ was used in record company advertising and cataloguing but was not commonly used on the record labels themselves. Only Gennett records marked their discs in this manner, possibly because they were the only label who did not use a separate series of catalogue numbers for these releases. Building on the success of their initial race records releases, Okeh undertook field trips to the southern states of America aiming to uncover more black talent. On a trip to Atlanta in June 1923 Ralph Peer was persuaded by Polk Brockman, one of Okeh Records’ distributors, to also listen to and record the music of a white musician, Fiddlin’ John Carson. They recorded two songs: ‘The Little Old Log Cabin in the Lane’ and ‘The Old Hen Cackled and the Rooster’s Going to Crow’. Peer thought that Carson’s singing was awful and it was only Brockman’s insistence, and promise to buy 500 copies, that led Peer to issue the record ‘uncataloged, unadvertised, unlabeled, and for circulation solely in the Atlanta area’ (Malone 2002: 37). Brockman’s 500 copies sold out within a month and when he ordered a further shipment Peer decided to give the record a proper catalogue number. This placed it within the company’s popular catalogue, meaning that it would now be given national publicity. From 1924 onwards Okeh began to market this music separately. Timothy J. Dowd claims that they ‘recognized a market that was distinct from both the mainstream and race markets, and they sought to produce for it’ (2003: 162). They first targeted working-class white people from the south-eastern states. Okeh originally employed the term ‘Old Time’ to describe this music, which was superseded by ‘Hillbilly’ in 1925 (this name was adopted from one of their recording acts ‘The Hill Billies’, itself a moniker coined by Ralph Peer). As with race records, the labels were given a separate numerical series (OKeh 45000s) and other companies followed suit (for example Paramount’s 3000 series and Columbia 15000s). The numerical separation of these types of music allowed each of these genres to be targeted at its most profitable audience, but it also meant that they became divided from one another. William Howard Kenney has written: 52 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
[T]he industry rigidly distinguished between rural white and rural Black recorded music by creating and maintaining segregated recording and marketing categories. In the process, much of the richness and variety of cross-cultural assimilations disappeared from the records as musicians worked, seemingly without undue effort, to fit their music to their employers’ categories. (1999: 135)
The majority of these employers came from different classes and cultures to the artists whom they sought to promote. However, while there is evidence that they imposed restrictions on their artists’ output and, worse, that these restrictions could be derived from stereotyped views about the nature and needs of these markets, it is also the case that the record companies would not have pursued these policies had these markets not welcomed them. Illustrative of this point are the separate fates of the Black Swan and Paramount record labels. Black Swan was America’s first black-owned record label, founded in 1921 by Harry H. Pace. Despite the fact that race records’ cataloguing was only a year old, Black Swan already felt the need to oppose industry stereotypes. The company was named after the black nineteenth-century soprano Elizabeth Taylor Greenfield and it sought to market a diverse range of black music. Adverts proclaimed the uniqueness of Black Swan:
Only bonafide Racial Company making talking machine records. All stockholders are Colored, all artists are Colored, all employees are Colored. Only company using Racial Artists in recording high-class song records. This company makes the only Grand Opera Records ever made by Negroes. All others confine this end of their work to blues, rags, comedy numbers, etc. (George, N. 1988: 10)
And yet it would seem that this black-owned company did not understand the black audience. Black Swan floundered and in 1924 it was sold to the Paramount Recording Company. Although it was the first white-owned record company to employ a black executive (producer J. Mayo Williams), Paramount operated within the confines of established industry practice. Secular black musicians were not allowed to sing the material of white artists; instead they were restricted to jazz material and primarily the blues. However, unlike Black Swan, the company thrived. In the decade between 1922 and 1932 Paramount put out over 1,000 titles, roughly 20 per cent of all race records issued in this era (Kennedy and McNutt 1999: 23). It should be stressed that during the early 1920s, due to the restricted outlets for each type of music, the ‘popular’ market purchased few records by race or hillbilly artists. It is a moot point, however, whether Black Swan would have been more successful had there not been segregated markets and had the white-owned record labels not already established the idea of what a race record should be. As the spread of these musics increased the situation would only grow more complicated. Hillbilly was the first to escape its confines. During the late 1920s musicians such as the Carter Family and Jimmie Rodgers achieved national the label 53 success (both acts were first recorded on a 1927 field trip by Ralph Peer, who was by this time working for Victor). Although each of these acts revealed distinct ‘race’ music influences, and their music would in turn influence the recordings of blues performers, the two genres were still conceptualized separately. The divisions were reinforced by the arrival of separate sales charts. In July 1940 the US trade journal Billboard produced its first chart based on record sales and within two years the further sub-division of a ‘Harlem Hit Parade’ appeared. This chart catalogued ‘race record’ sales, and was retitled as such by Billboard in 1945. In July 1949 the journal began to use the less derogatory phrase ‘rhythm and blues’ to describe this music. Similarly, during the late 1940s, musicians Ernest Tubb and Red Foley urged the adoption of ‘country music’ as a more acceptable replacement for ‘hillbilly’. Billboard introduced a separate chart for this genre in 1944, cataloguing the music via a bewildering variety of titles and enumerating methods before eventually employing the term ‘country’ in 1949. As the first ‘outsider’ collectors of race and hillbilly records emerged – often seeking music far removed from their own cultural origins – these separations were further reinforced. Black music was valued for its raw emotional qualities, hillbilly for its sincerity. This would not favour a record company like Black Swan. Instead, as Brian Rust has stated, ‘Of all the American labels most likely to cause excitement among jazz and blues collectors, Paramount stands out’ (1978: 226). Record collectors eventually helmed several of their own race record companies. Driven by the market and by their own personal tastes, they chose to emphasize particular aspects of the repertoire. For example, the Atlantic record label, founded in 1947 by jazz enthusiasts Ahmet Ertegun and Herb Abramson, had definite ideas about how it wanted its black artists to sound. The Clovers were transformed from pop-oriented balladeers into a street-wise rhythm and blues group, and the Mellotones, who were originally influenced by the white harmony group the Ames Brothers, were retitled and restyled as the more bluesy Cardinals. In the immediate post-war period the major record companies established the practice of allocating artists among their different labels, dependent on the qualities of their music. Columbia placed smoother black vocal groups such as the Charioteers and the Velvetones on its main record label, rather than their R&B and hillbilly subsidiary Okeh, which they had purchased in 1926. And it was this latter label that originally housed the output of white artist Johnnie Ray, who Columbia believed to have incorporated some of the rawness of black music in his singing style. Two factors emerge from this process. First, that the major labels had realized the advantage of associating genres with particular label names (RCA Victor would later attempt to market rhythm and blues releases on the ‘Groove’ record label; Mercury’s R&B label would be called ‘Wing’). Second, despite the divisions, cross-genre influence had increased. Several developments within the music industry had helped to transform the reach and cross-influence of each of these recording categories. Principal among the changes taking place were (1) the influence of the jukebox (which increased the spread and miscegenation of these musics in the post-Depression era); (2) the 54 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record population movement occasioned by World War II both within the US and abroad; (3) the 1941 strike by ASCAP publishers (which led to the increased use of race and hillbilly copyrights held by rival organization BMI); (4) the 1942 strike by the American Federation of Musicians (which, in general, lasted longer for major record companies than for independents, whose rhythm and blues and country records thus helped to fill the musical void); (5) the increased quantity and range of recorded music used on radio (of particular importance from the 1950s onwards when, in response to the growing influence of television, radio broadcasting was transformed). Much of this music, in particular the rhythm and blues records, was being issued on independent labels. There were several reasons for this bias. In the first instance, the majors had left a gap in the market. The wartime rationing of shellac meant that they had to streamline their operations and one of the easiest ways for the majors to achieve this was to abandon their ghettoized rhythm and blues labels, a pattern that would be repeated at further times of economic stress. The independent companies readily filled the gap. Another explanation lies in the fast turnover of this music. The standard performer contract issued by the majors lasted for five years. This favoured the development of entertainers with long- term, all-round appeal, not raucous rhythm and blues singers who might only have one memorable performance to offer. In contrast, it was more economic for the independents to target hit records rather than hit singers. Also of relevance is the nature of the music itself. Nelson George has boasted about the uniqueness of early rhythm and blues artists. In so doing he instinctively recalls the labels that issued their work:
[I]n 1948 and 1949, there were no white equivalents of Wynonie Harris’s ‘Good Rockin’ Tonight’ and ‘All She Wants to Do Is Rock’ on King, two churning, driving records on which Harris was as brash and ballsy as a horny bull. There was no white equivalent of the Ravens’ ‘Bye Bye Baby Blues’ on Savoy, with its harmonies and lead-to-chorus interplay that embraced gospel call-and-response in a way the Mills Brothers and Ink Spots, the black harmony stars of the swing era, rarely attempted. There was no white equivalent of the half-crazed shouts, unintelligible words, and stomping beat of John Lee Hooker’s ‘Boogie Chillen’ and ‘Crawling Kingsnake’ on Modern. (1988: 26)
Each of these record labels was white-owned. When we reconsider the expectations that the stratified market imposed upon this music, the distinctive racial characteristics of these performances becomes more troubling. This characteristic ‘blackness’ was nevertheless beneficial to the independent companies: the music’s identity produced their label identity. It remained more problematic for the majors. These companies still harboured the belief that their distinctive mastheads should be associated with what they thought of as ‘quality’ music. The following notice appeared in Billboard in November 1948: the label 55
Columbia Records intends to move strongly into the race business … the move will in no way involve a change in the diskery’s policy of maintaining high standards of dignity in its platters … The operation of building the company’s race department will therefore be highly selective, the accent being placed on cuttings which are noteworthy as examples of that particular musical genre. (‘Columbia to Make Race Department Highly Selective’ 1948: 20)
There was unease on both sides of this divide. Rhythm and blues retailers and radio broadcasters had no regular contact with major record labels, and the independent radio stations may even have boycotted them (in part because Victor and Columbia were owned by national broadcasting companies who they considered as rivals) (Gillett 1983: 49–50). This provides another reason for the majors’ adoption of generic sub-labels: subterfuge. Rather than using their own distribution systems, the majors distributed these records via independent wholesalers in the hope that their own involvement would be disguised. The increased reach and influence of rhythm and blues, coupled with the parallel rise of country music, led to the unique rock ’n’ roll moment, during which these generic barriers momentarily came down. Elvis Presley’s story is illustrative. Between July 1954 and August 1955 Presley issued five singles on the independent Sun Records, each of which coupled a song of rhythm and blues origin with a country composition. Their success led to a deal with RCA Victor in November 1955, although the company had only months earlier sworn that they would avoid rock ’n’ roll because it would tarnish their prestigious label name (Chapple and Garofalo 1977: 43). RCA Victor issued Elvis’ records in all three catalogues: rhythm and blues, country, and pop. Rock ’n’ roll not only combined the influences of rhythm and blues and country, it also vastly increased these musics’ presence in the mainstream charts. Crossover of songs occurred in all directions: white singers were to be found in the rhythm and blues charts, and rock ’n’ roll performers made their way into country’s domain. And yet the generic barriers returned. First to retreat was country music. Although the genre initially absorbed some of the rock ’n’ roll influence in its music, it increasingly moved in a middle-of-the-road direction – the ‘Nashville sound’ – a move backed by the Country Music Association, which was founded in 1958. This trade organization sponsored the formation of all-country radio stations and also had the aim of making the genre respectable. This ultimately meant a turn away from rock ’n’ roll. The crossover situation with rhythm and blues was more prolonged. For 10 years, from the mid 1950s onwards, a large proportion of records charted in both the rhythm and blues and pop charts, eventually leading to the abandonment of Billboard’s black music charts between 1963 and 1965. Charlie Gillett argues that, were it not for the dictates of radio advertisers, these two markets could easily have been combined:
Had radio stations begun to operate without regard for particular markets (rhythm and blues vs. popular) from 1957 onwards – when record-buying tastes 56 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
were genuinely similar in the two markets – it is possible that the differences in the music of black and white Americans would have been all but eliminated. But the two markets remained separate, and after a time, the music in the rhythm and blues market began to attain a distinctiveness comparable to that of rhythm and blues before the rock ’n’ roll. (1983: 225)
This new strain drew on the gospel elements of black music and eventually defined itself under the rubric ‘soul’. Its arrival introduces a new phenomenon: as black- derived music styles have experienced crossover success (either with black artists entering the pop charts or with white artists usurping R&B styles), black music, in response, has searched for more racially definitive sounds (soul, funk, hip-hop, and so on). It should be noted that this desire for musical ‘blackness’ has been driven by both black and white tastes. Moreover, it is the distinctive record label that has enabled white fans to express their coded love of this music (it is still more common to see t-shirts bearing the legends ‘Stax’, ‘Motown’ and ‘Atlantic’ than pictures of the artists who made those labels’ names).
The British Situation
During the inter-war period the repertoire of American popular music achieved an international dominance, both through the diffusion of original recordings and in terms of the spread of that country’s songs and styles. Consequently, labelling practices that were developed for the US market also had an impact in Britain, albeit refracted through a different audience and a different industry. At the start of this period fewer independent companies operated in Britain than in America. Throughout the 1920s this number would dwindle as these companies either folded or were absorbed by the major record companies. By 1931, when the Gramophone Company and the UK branch of Columbia merged to form Electric and Musical Industries Ltd (EMI), there was only one serious market contender: Decca Records, which had been formed in 1929. By 1937 EMI and Decca were producing virtually all of the UK’s records and as late as 1956 they still controlled over 80 per cent of the market (Frith 1987: 278, 282). Through licensing deals, these British companies and their few rivals had access to the majority of American releases. Despite the practice of British artists covering American hits, many original recordings were issued. However, what was missing from British catalogues was the majority of race and hillbilly records, music that had not commonly achieved national US release. The diverse effects of this situation can be first witnessed in the British response to jazz. Victor released the earliest acknowledged jazz record in the US in March 1917: ‘Livery Stable Blues’ and ‘Dixie Jass One-Step’ by the Original Dixieland Jass Band. The Gramophone Company turned down their chance to issue this record – British officials at HMV thought that these ‘barnyard’ sounds should not be associated with their label – but began issuing the group’s music in the label 57
1919 (Godbolt 2005: 64–5). In the same year the group toured and recorded in the UK sparking a national jazz craze. Although the Original Dixieland Jass Band consisted of white musicians, the black origins of this music were known and acknowledged by the British public. The reaction was often negative: for example, Julius Harrison complained, ‘there must be many thousands of people who might be still further educated in good music by the aid of the gramophone could they be persuaded that this instrument is not all noise and niggers’ (1921: 40). Black jazz musicians were nevertheless slow to appear on record. Kid Ory recorded in 1922 for the obscure Sunshine record label but, according to Rick Kennedy, it was only when King Oliver recorded for Gennett in 1923 that the US experienced ‘the first authentic records by an established black New Orleans jazz ensemble’ (1994: 60). These King Oliver sessions are also notable for the first recorded solos of Louis Armstrong, who played second clarinet. In the meantime the major record labels had turned to artists such as the white bandleader Paul Whiteman, who believed that his ‘symphonic’ jazz would ‘remove the stigma of barbaric strains and jungle cacophony’ from this music (Whiteman 1938: 25). Whiteman’s output was ideal for the Victor record label, with whom he first recorded in 1920. Before the year was out his orchestra had issued what was to be the first million-selling record by a dance band: ‘The Japanese Sandman’ / ‘Whispering’. Whiteman first toured Britain in 1923, by which time his influence was already widely felt (Louis Armstrong would not appear until 1932). He was the inspiration for the UK bandleader Jack Hylton, HMV’s most successful recording artist during the shellac era. In 1921 the Talking Machine News praised Hylton for playing ‘respectable, artistic jazz, not the wild, tearing, discordant stuff which had set our teeth on edge’ (‘Jack Hylton’s Jazz Band’ 1921: 363). It was this same attitude that dominated early British jazz criticism. For example, in the first British book on jazz R.W.S. Mendl stated:
The early jazz bands of the negroes were doubtless crude, if not vulgar. A certain amount of the original coarseness has, possibly, survived even in the white man’s recent elaborations which take the form of the syncopated dance orchestras of to-day. In so far as it does so, we are doubtless justified in accounting for our animosity towards modern jazz music partially by our aversion from its nigger source. But we should beware of laying too much emphasis on this. For the colours of the modern jazz band, which we may pronounce to be ugly or too bizarre for our liking, are far removed from that primitive artless stock, and therefore we could not fairly expect to find the sole ground of our dislike of them in any preconceived antipathy towards the negro. (1927: 72–3)
Mendl was presumably unaware that Louis Armstrong was already delivering his peerless Hot Five and Hot Seven recordings. These records were originally issued in Okeh’s 8000 race series and therefore did not receive widespread American or international distribution. It was only when Armstrong recorded under his own 58 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record name in 1929, and his recordings were transferred to Okeh’s ‘popular’ 41000 series, that he achieved stardom. The records of other important jazz artists, including King Oliver, Duke Ellington and even some early Bix Beiderbecke, were also issued in race records’ series prior to these musicians’ transfer to the popular lists. In Britain the success and artistry of Armstrong and Ellington helped to foster a re-valuation of jazz. Simon Frith has argued that ‘Melody Maker’s critics changed the way they wrote about it – and therefore, presumably, the way they heard it – in the space of a few months’ (1996: 44). During the late 1920s and early 1930s Melody Maker placed a new emphasis on American records by black artists, as did the British record companies. As these companies began to issue more of these records, they also adopted the practice of segregated record labelling. Brunswick, for example, launched their Blackbird label, which was advertised along racial lines: now it was black people who were being invited into the purchaser’s home, ‘Listen to these records and you listen to deep-throated songs and laughter heard on evenings in the cotton fields’ (advert,G ramophone, July 1933: xv). EMI issued black American jazz music via Parlophone’s ‘Rhythm Style’ series, which began in 1929, and HMV’s ‘Hot Rhythm Records’. As well as issuing the newer records these labels released many neglected 1920s recordings. Armstrong’s Hot Five and Hot Seven records of 1925–28 were issued on the Parlophone label between 1929 and 1932. Others searched further back. In 1936 Decca’s Brunswick label issued the Classic Swing album set, which introduced several of the early 1920s jazz ‘race’ records to the British public for the first time. Jim Godbolt argues that ‘These recordings [which included some of the first Oliver/Armstrong sides] were to plant the seed of interest in New Orleans jazz, to be the models for many hundreds of young British and European musicians a decade later’ (2005: 136). British jazz developed in a different manner to its American parent. It was more record-led and retrospective, an attitude that was enhanced by a Musicians’ Union ban on visiting American musicians, which lasted from 1935 to 1956. On a subsequent tour Coleman Hawkins would hide from enthusiasts, complaining about ‘those motherfuckers who screw me with cotton-pickin’ questions about records I made in 1925’ (Godbolt 2005: 176). These enthusiasts were increasingly middle and upper class, and a distinct coterie was to be found in public schools and the older universities. Ernest Borneman, for example, has pictured his arrival at Cambridge:
A helpful roommate, to save me from damnation, quickly introduced me to the three holy talismans of English undergraduate society – grey flannel bags, a checked brown tweed jacket, and a portable H.M.V. gramophone with a set of Parlophone New Rhythm Style records. Then we went out punting on the river. (1957: 54)
As Godbolt has indicated, such enthusiasms eventually led to the trad jazz scene. From the 1940s onwards many British jazz musicians would try to harness the spirit the label 59 of 1920s New Orleans. Meanwhile, current bebop records were hard to track down (Gillespie 1947: 5). Each of these attributes – the obscurity, the disc-mania, the retrospection, the class bias, the desire for emotion over sophistication, the British mimicry – would be mirrored in later adoptions and appraisals of black music styles. So would the idea, propounded in the second British book on jazz, that such music is somehow free of the ‘dictates of commercialism’ (Nelson 1934: 163). One variable, however, would be the availability of each genre of music on record. Blues records, for example, received minimal distribution during the inter- war period. In fact, it would be 1934 before the first Bessie Smith record was released in Britain, even though she had been signed by American Columbia in 1923. Moreover, according to Philip Larkin, ‘Before 1939 Bessie Smith was the only blues singer represented to any extent on an English label’ (1970: 23). Instead, blues fans were reliant on imported and second-hand records; British record companies did not consider it ‘commercially worthwhile’ to license recordings (Newton 1961: 246). Hillbilly music, too, had to wait until the 1930s before being introduced to the UK, and when it arrived it received a condescending audience. In December 1931 the Gramophone reported on the novelty of Hillbillies and ‘the sport of recording them’:
They live an extremely simple life, purely agricultural, and are the most incorrigibly lazy mortals it is possible to meet … They are also procrastinators of the first degree, particularly in matters of business … The making of records, therefore, cannot be treated as a business proposition, but calls for the exercise of immense patience on the part of the recording staff. (Ricketts 1931: 261)
Melody Maker was more appreciative and comprehending, even indicating that the hillbilly style was ‘typical of the singing of the up-to-date rhythm vocalists’. The paper added, ‘There is, too, a primitive rhythm about some of them which suggests a Negro influence’ (‘Will England Take to Hill-Billies?’ 1932: 368). As we have seen, this influence was evident in Jimmie Rodgers’ recordings, most of which were issued in Britain during the 1930s. In the random nature of these releases, gospel records had been heard much earlier in the UK. In 1922 UK Columbia issued two ‘Negro Spirituals’ by the Fisk University Jubilee Quartet. The Talking Machine News reported that these were a ‘great favourite with the Prince of Wales’ (‘“Negro Spirituals” on Columbia’ 1922: 210). The British public therefore had a distorted and restricted view of the elements that created rock ’n’ roll. It was in this climate that the arrival of Bill Haley came as such a shock:
Lacking any regular access to the sounds of Hank Ballard, Amos Milburn, Wynonie Harris, and Muddy Waters during the early fifties, most people were taken by surprise when Bill Haley’s ‘Shake, Rattle and Roll’ and ‘Rock Around the Clock’ were issued in late 1954. ‘Shake’ was for many people the first record 60 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
of its kind that they had heard, and it was in the top ten for the first eight weeks of 1955. (Gillett 1983: 254)
The majors reacted quickly to the demand for this music. The four leading British companies – EMI, Decca, Philips and Pye – had contracts with virtually all of the American record companies and henceforth issued the majority of their rock ’n’ roll records. There were differences to the earlier jazz influx, however. First, the American records were issued on the British companies’ mainstream labels. Second, there was no programme of issuing the founding country or rhythm and blues records, or those that had not crossed over into the popular US charts. This was to have great effect. On the one hand, the ahistorical arrival of rock ’n’ roll affected the interpretative abilities of British performers:
Rock ’n’ roll’s hi-jacking of the blues, R & B, country and white gospel music was always a highly attenuated affair even in the USA. In Britain it was a non-starter. All the first wave of rock ’n’ rollers came out of the rural, southern states, and had, within the deep tensions of its segregated and racist cultures, imbibed a multiplicity of cross-cultural musical influences. Their urban British counterparts – Tommy Steele, Marty Wilde, Terry Dene, and later, Cliff Richard, Adam Faith and Billy Fury – had no experience and little awareness of the explosive combination that rock ’n’ roll rested upon. And as for the transatlantic harmonies of street corner ‘doo-wop’ or the black music of Fats Domino, Little Richard, Bo Diddley and Chuck Berry, it was completely beyond their ken. (Chambers 1985: 37–8)
On the other hand, there was a select few who sought out the original US rhythm and blues releases. This was easier for those located in ports and major cities, a factor that produced the regional bias of a later wave of British recording stars. Among them John Lennon, who thrived on the seclusion of this scene:
[W]e felt very exclusive and underground in Liverpool listening to all those old time records. And nobody was listening to any of them except Eric Burdon in Newcastle and Mick Jagger in London. It was that lonely. It was fantastic. (Wenner 1973: 14)
The principal contact that these performers had with this music was through records, and direct contact with the original releases produced an obsession with certain label names. It is telling that when the Rolling Stones first visited America they headed to the Chess studios to try and capture that label’s associations and its sounds. The British R&B groups prospered as they unveiled this music to the UK; what is more surprising is the impact that they had in the US. The British musicians’ distinctive interpretations of older American music kept newer black R&B performers from the mainstream US charts. It was in the climate of the British Invasion that black American music turned increasingly towards soul and Billboard re-introduced its rhythm and blues lists. the label 61
These British groups were proselytizers, however. The Beatles never disguised the inspiration of Motown records, and the Rolling Stones inculcated a knowledge of the Delta and Chicago blues. Such endorsement led to roster-based tours of Britain, including the Tamla-Motown tour of 1964 and the Stax-Volt Revue of 1967. Eventually the British record industry learned the benefit of marketing this music under its original label names. EMI initially refused Motown records a separate identity but in 1965 conceded to the ‘The biggest launch for any EMI pop label ever’ (‘Biggest Pop Launch Ever for Tamla-Motown’ 1965: 20). Led Zeppelin took a more direct route: when they signed with Ahmet Ertegun in 1968 it was on the condition that they would be the first rock act to use the revered Atlantic label. Peter Guralnick has written: ‘Stax, Goldwax, Fame, Atlantic – these were magical names in 1966 and 1967 in Great Britain’ (1986: 308). For Iain Chambers this process marked a fundamental change:
It is in the mid 1960s that a direct bridge between black US music and white British pop is established. The early examples of isolated black performers – Fats Domino, Little Richard, Chuck Berry – were replaced by identifiable black sounds and labels: soul music, ‘Stax’, ‘Tamla’. (1985: 245. Emphasis in original)
The Record Label and Record Collecting
My shop is called Championship Vinyl. I sell punk, blues, soul and R&B, a bit of ska, some indie stuff, some sixties pop – everything for the serious record collector … I get by because of the people who make a special effort to shop here Saturdays – young men, always young men, with John Lennon specs and leather jackets and armfuls of square carrier bags – and because of the mail order: I advertise in the back of the glossy rock magazines, and get letters from young men, always young men, in Manchester and Glasgow and Ottawa, young men who seem to spend a disproportionate amount of their time looking for deleted Smiths singles and ‘ORIGINAL NOT RE-RELEASED’ underlined Frank Zappa albums. They’re as close to being mad as makes no difference. (Hornby 1995: 38–9)
Contrary to Eldridge R. Johnson’s beliefs, the emphasis among record collectors moved away from the major’s classical releases towards jazz, blues and country – genres that these companies had either ghettoized or ignored. And, ironically, much of the audience for these genres consisted of the ‘high-class’ enthusiasts that Johnson’s Victor had targeted. The urge towards collecting was aided by the nature of this music. The earliest popular recording material had been song-based, with the same hit tunes being sung by different artists for different companies, and sometimes by the same artist for different companies. There were no ‘definitive’ recordings. Blues, hillbilly and jazz were different. These musics were as much about the performance as they were about the tune; the performances on these 62 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record records were hard to repeat. Indeed, such uniqueness was the whole point of jazz: Philip Larkin pointed out, ‘it’s not “Weary Blues” we want it’s Armstrong’s “Weary Blues”’ (1970: 52). As such, early recordings were sought out and valued. Melody Maker reported in 1933:
It is apparent that quite a number of dance-music students jealously guard their collections of early ‘hot-jazz’ records as much as they do their more contemporaneous ‘New Rhythm’ styles, and, as a fellow fanatic, I can well understand their hobby … The collection of old-time records is a fascinating one; I personally get as much thrill from the capture of an original ‘Dixieland’ disc as a philatelist does from some scarce foreign stamp – and I might say that there are so many like me that the price is soaring, and even a very worn-out affair costs more than the latest Ellington. (Butterworth 1933: 183)
Many of these ‘hot jazz’ records were being re-issued, often with more accurate label information than on the first issue, but collectors still went in search of the original releases, even if scratched and worn. Stephen W. Smith commented on the practice of some of the earliest American jazz collectors: ‘There are those who will have nothing but the original label, and who will turn down a clean copy of a record in preference to one in bad condition because the latter has what is known to be an earlier label’ (1939: 289–90). There are acoustic justifications for such behaviour: it is Smith’s argument that in the dubbing of jazz reissues the high and low frequencies of the original recordings were usually lost. There are also extramusical reasons for searching out the first issue: it locates the purchaser there, at the point of origin. As we have already seen, the music of black jazz musicians was valued for being free of the ‘dictates of commercialism’. In addition, hillbilly performers could not be treated as ‘a business proposition’. There lay part of their music’s appeal. In response to the mass reproduction of records there has been a repeated turn from the commercial towards the ‘authentic’. The record is part of the problem, but it also provides the solution. What better if this non-commercial music – rendered so by both its origins and its age – is housed on a ‘non-commercial’ disc? Forget the major-label reissue (which came out when everyone was buying this music) find the original release on the obscure label, whose original audience was the rhythm and blues or country market (transporting you back to the record’s pre-mainstream days). According to Smith, America’s first collectors of jazz records came from the Princeton and Yale universities. Similarly, in England, Melody Maker could point out ‘How the Varsities Pioneered Jazz’ (Mike 1940: 6). These enthusiasts wished to travel cross-culturally in space as well as time. Smith reminds us:
Many of the collectors’ items were originally issued purely for Negro consumption and consequently were sold only in sections of the country which had a demand for them. Copies which found their way into private homes were usually not given the best of care since many of the Negroes, for their own the label 63
reasons, did not care to change the needle frequently enough to save the record surface. (1939: 295)
Here we witness the prototypes of Nick Hornby’s record collectors: white, middle- class males immersing themselves in music that another culture has neglected, both physically and temporally. It remains to be asked: why this class and why this gender? From the jovial sexism of Afflatus writing inS ound Wave in the 1920s (‘has the gramophone enthusiast any room or time in his life for a wife?’) to the gloom of High Fidelity (‘men, always young men’), record collecting has consistently been portrayed as being a male activity (Afflatus 1925: 212; Hornby 1995: 38). This has been backed by empirical research. At least 95 per cent of those who volunteered to take part in the film Vinyl, Alan Zwieg’s 2000 study of record collecting, were men (Straw 1997: 4). The respondents to Roy Shuker’s 2004 survey were also largely male. He discovered that both males and females viewed record collecting as being primarily a masculine hobby:
Most [64 out of 67] of my respondents, especially the males, drawing on personal observation, argued that record collecting is largely a male activity. Conversely, the majority of women collectors [7 out of 11] are conscious of being a visible minority. (2004: 313)
And yet, when it comes to collecting in general, Frederick Baekeland has argued that ‘Girls are more likely than boys to collect at all ages’ (1994: 207). Moreover, in his study of the gendered aspects of record collecting, Will Straw indicated that ‘were one presented with statistical evidence that the typical record collector was female, one could easily invoke a set of stereotypically feminine attributes to explain why this was the case’ (1997: 4). Straw, therefore, struggles to find an explanation for the gender bias. His own conclusion is that it reflects a masculine need to order the world: ‘the most satisfying (albeit under-theorised) explanation of the masculine collector’s urge is that it lays a template of symbolic differentiation over a potentially infinite range of object domains’ (1997: 6). In Straw’s opinion the male collector is a ‘nerd’: his expertise fails the ideal of masculinity because it is ‘acquired through deliberate labour of a bookish or archival variety’ (1997: 7). However, he can counter this behaviour with ‘hipness’ if his collection is cultivated with ‘the air of instinctuality’ (1997: 9). The reluctance of many record collectors to use A-Z filing is testimony to this. Straw argues that another way in which the record collector can attain hipness is through a desire to ‘refuse the mainstream’ (1997: 11). Elsewhere Matthew Bannister argues that ‘To resist the passive consumer/fan tag, male record collectors often adopt a bohemian, anti-commercial stance, typically by “valorising the obscure” and transgressive’ (2006: 85). Here I wish to return to the jazz collector, introduced by Smith above. For these middle-class enthusiasts, black American jazz was both obscure and transgressive. Smith’s text indicates that the origin of at 64 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record least one strand of record collecting lies in cross-cultural immersion, in the need for an ‘other’. This helps to explain its gender bias: such immersion allows the nerd to unveil the hipster within. This is largely a male preoccupation, as Simon Frith has pointed out:
To understand why and how the worlds of jazz (and rock) are young men’s worlds, we have to understand what it means to grow up male and middle-class; to understand the urge to ‘authenticity’ we have to understand the strange fear of being ‘inauthentic’. In this world, American music – black American music – stands for a simple idea: that everything real is happening elsewhere. (1988: 61. Emphasis in original)
I would add that, equally pertinent, is the idea that everything real has happened elsewhere. Music can provide a link to this past. The original record can go further still: it is an artefact that has been retrieved from this domain. As the cartoonist and collector Robert Crumb pointed out: ‘Somebody of that era bought it and listened to it, and that record carries that aura from whoever else had handled and appreciated that object’ (Milano 2003: 76). It is the record label that offers proof. It is no coincidence that many American independent labels have retained strong regional associations (Sun in Memphis; Chess in Chicago; Philadelphia International – a label name that neatly combines localism and globalism – in Philadelphia). Through these labels elsewhere can enter the home.
Later Record Labelling Practices
The practice of record labelling has proven to be more effective for the regional, the obscure and the small record company than it has for larger corporations. As the twentieth century progressed the schizophrenia of the major record labels’ musical profiles unravelled. The sheer size of their artistic rosters made it difficult to associate them with any particular musical style, and their capitulation to genres such as jazz and rock ’n’ roll undermined any notion that they had faith in their own standards. In addition, the majors’ attempt to identify themselves with their musical output was complicated by their known role as industrial conglomerates. This returned to haunt the music in the grooves. Industrial adjectives (‘manufactured’, ‘mechanical’, ‘corporate’) that Edison would have been proud to have associated with the technical side of his recordings, were transferred from the majors’ business activities to the music they labelled and used as terms of derision. The majors and their artists made various attempts to alleviate these problems. Personalized record labels provided one solution, but these could only be created at the expense of company branding. The first person to receive this honour was Dame Nellie Melba who, on signing with the Gramophone Company in 1904, received a distinct mauve label bearing a facsimile of her signature. Other artists with unique labels included Adelina Patti (a pink label); Paul Whiteman (a the label 65 caricature portrait); and Ma Rainey (whose ‘Dream Blues’ was one of the few race records to carry the artist’s photograph on the label). With the rise of rock music in the late 1960s new tactics were introduced, which reflected this genre’s complicated relationship with big business. Artists such as the Beatles (Apple), the Moody Blues (Threshold) and Led Zeppelin (Swansong) were indulged with their own ‘independent’ record labels, albeit under the majors’ control. This development coincided with an elaboration of label designs. The introduction of offset lithography in the 1960s brought a four-colour process to record labelling. This affected LP labels in particular, as certain rock designers, including Hipgnosis and Roger Dean, began to incorporate the label into overall package design. In comparison, independent companies have rarely diminished or disguised their record label names. It is these companies who have most successfully endowed their brands with musical auras. The most recognizable of these have even become generic terms: ‘Motown’, ‘Stax’, ‘Blue Beat’. Moreover, it is partly the technical attributes of these companies that has enabled this to happen: the consistent use of studios, engineers, producers, sleeve designers, and so on. Conversely, the majors largely abandoned ‘in-house’ productions – both in terms of producing records and designing sleeves – from the late 1960s onwards. Following the labels-focused soul phenomenon of the late 1960s new branding practices appeared in the UK. It was in this period that independent companies such as Island and Chrysalis began to cultivate particular musical identities, earning loyal audiences in the process. In response, the British majors adopted another American practice: they disguised their own label names. EMI, Philips and Decca launched their Harvest, Vertigo and Deram labels as their distinct progressive brands. With the arrival of punk and new wave independent companies in the mid 1970s British practice became more obviously indebted to American examples. The valued status earned by labels such as Stiff, Rough Trade and Small Wonder would mirror the accord in which certain rhythm and blues labels had been held. Jerry Dammers, founder of Two Tone records, has admitted that Stax was his model (Aston 2008: 91). Postcard Records, meanwhile, lifted its ‘The Sound of Young Scotland’ motto from Motown’s ‘The Sound of Young America’. These British independents shared the need of earlier American independent companies to establish a label identity: like the rhythm and blues labels they frequently offered quick, one-off deals, whereas the major British labels were inclined towards long- term contracts. Many of them were proudly regional: Zoo in Liverpool, Factory in Manchester, Clay in the Potteries. And once again marginality inspired loyalty. Rough Trade’s Geoff Travis admitted: ‘that people would rush out and buy anything that was part of it’ (Reynolds 2005: 107). The influence of earlier American practice is revealed by the fact that several of these companies campaigned for a separate sales chart. The British independent chart was conceived in late 1979 and by February 1982 it had found a home within the UK’s trade magazine Music Week. The effect was notable: the retrogressive and introspective ‘indie’ scene became an anti-establishment music of choice. The majors’ response was familiar. 66 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
During the 1980s and 1990s, when the now separatist indie music was considered almost a genre in itself, the British majors launched their own bogus independent labels, trying to avoid the stigma that, among indie customers at least, had become attached to their brands. In the twenty-first century there is less evidence of such practices. Asthe music industry has moved towards digital products and downloads the record label name has declined in importance. Rob Young has commented, ‘It’s unlikely many consumers would buy a record purely on the strength of the Rough Trade logo, as they might have in the late 70s’ (2004: 147). The corollary of this is that it is those genres and companies who benefited most from labelling who have campaigned most strongly for vinyl’s continuation. Indie guitar music has made clear its affection for the 7″ single. Dance music, meanwhile, originally pledged allegiance to the 12″ disc. Here, within the ‘faceless’ house and techno genres, the independent label had traditionally been the star, and label branding the best way to sell the product. Hence the design of most dance 12″ singles: a generic bag with a cut-away centre, harking back to the first labelled records. Chapter 4 Vinyl
Introduction
Shellac had to go. Its downfall wasn’t sound reproduction: despite the ‘frying- bacon’ sizzle of its surface noise, shellac was a format capable of withstanding continued audio improvement: by 1945 Arthur Haddy of Decca Records had developed ‘full-frequency range recording’, which had the ability to cover almost the entire range of frequencies heard by the human ear. Instead, its problem was geographical. Shellac comes from secretions made by the female ‘lac’ beetle. Its main sources are the Malay Peninsula and French Indochina. The Japanese occupied both territories during World War II, consequently for the West shellac was in short supply. In Britain an industry-backed salvage drive was instigated to recycle up to 10 million old records. In America, as Melody Maker reported, record production was likely to be cut by 70 per cent. The paper declared, ‘The only solution, of course, is for the record industry to produce a flash of its usual technical brilliance and acumen and discover some new process or method’ (‘U.S. Output Slashed’ 1942: 1). It was already available. The US Union Carbon and Carbide Company had first manufactured polyvinyl chloride (PVC) in the early 1930s. This substance was almost immediately employed in record production. The first vinyl discs were produced in the early 1930s, housing transcription recordings of popular radio shows, which were made so that these programmes could be re-broadcast on smaller US stations. The harder and finer material of vinyl allowed for closer groove spacing, thus providing the longer playing time that these discs required (to this end the slower disc speed of 33⅓ rpm was also used). Vinyl also produced less surface noise than shellac and gave a wider frequency response. However, during this period it was more expensive to manufacture. It required the blockades of World War II to urge its commercial usage. The use of vinyl became more widespread with the military programme of V-Discs, over 8,000,000 of which were manufactured between 1943 and 1949 (Sears 1980). These 12″, 78 rpm discs were produced exclusively for American servicemen and women. As well as overcoming the shellac restrictions, vinyl’s robust qualities enabled these records to be transported into war zones. The V-Discs discs incorporated the increased groove capacity of vinyl, providing a playing time of up to six and a half minutes of music. Following the war, RCA Victor began to use vinyl for occasional commercial releases. The first of these was Till Eulenspiegel’s Merry Pranks, issued on red vinyl in October 1946. These records were sold at a prohibitively expensive price 68 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record and featured an ill-chosen range of classical recordings, including re-issues of acoustically recorded Red Seal discs. They were not a great success with the public. It was only with the arrival of Columbia’s long-playing record in 1948 that vinyl proved to be commercially viable. The LP’s longer playing time justified its higher cost. What was novel for the original purchasers of the LP was not its PVC material, nor was it the size or speed of these new records. By the time of the LP’s introduction consumers had become used to discs of different sizes (commonly 10″ or 12″, but ranging from the 1⅜″ discs made by HMV in 1924 for the gramophone in Queen Mary’s dolls’ house, to the 20″ discs made in the early 1900s by Neophone and Pathé); different speeds (33⅓ rpm and 78 rpm); and different materials (including celluloid and, more familiarly, Columbia’s laminated discs). Consequently, the use of vinyl for Columbia’s long-playing record was not considered a radical breach with the past. From the consumer’s point of view it was the microgroove system and its increased playing time that was innovative, albeit that vinyl helped to make microgroove possible. Moreover, it was the close grooving of this system, rather than vinyl itself, which entailed the introduction of new or adapted record players. In fact, Columbia deliberately created their long-playing system so that it provided as much continuity with the past as possible. It was for this reason that they chose to use a disc rather than a tape device. At the press launch for the LP Edward Wallerstein, the head of the Columbia project, stated:
LP microgroove records do not make obsolete the millions of dollars’ worth of records and equipment the public already owns. The new records allow for a gradual transition at little or no expense. Either tape or wire recording would have tended to make existing equipment obsolete. (‘Columbia Diskery’ 1948: 18)
The same consideration was applied to Columbia’s manufacturing equipment. Wallerstein later commented, ‘Nothing much had to be changed at our Bridgeport, Connecticut, plant. The same plating facilities and the same record presses were used’ (1976: 58). There was even continuity in the way in which the records were coloured. Neither shellac nor vinyl is naturally black.1 Shellac and early vinyl records were both transformed by the addition of carbon black to their compounds. Vinyl was later coloured by the use of dyes and then by furnace blacks. Music journals and record industry literature originally distinguished long- playing and 45 rpm vinyl records from 78 rpm shellac discs by reference to their
1 Peter Copeland has argued that records are black because this colour makes it easier for recording engineers to check the quality of a record by reflecting light in its grooves (1990: 26). In response to this article H. Barry Raynaud wrote, ‘I can assure you, as one who worked in the record industry for 14 years, that the main reason is MARKETING. It was well established decades ago the the [sic] customer much preferred the black shiny discs to any other’ (1990: 52. Emphasis in original). What he doesn’t discuss is the fact that this might also have been because black afforded a better view of the grooves. vinyl 69 speeds, rather than by referring to the material from which they were made. Indeed, it was only following the introduction of these newer discs that shellac records began to be referred to as ‘78s’. Correspondingly, it was only with the introduction of further formats – namely the tape cassette and the CD – that LPs and 45s were more commonly referred to as ‘vinyl’ albums and singles, instead of being distinguished by their disc speeds. The point being stressed here is the relative lack of attention that was paid to vinyl at the moment of its wider introduction. It was only later on that it was invested with special qualities and even began to be considered as a product that was ‘warm’ and ‘organic’. In fact, vinyl began to be thought of quite differently from how it had been viewed when it was the leading music format. In the following I will trace the journey that the analogue record has taken. It was originally thought by many to be a factory product, and the introduction of mass- produced recordings was viewed as having industrialized music. After recounting the reactions of artists, audiences and the industry to this process, I will turn to the re-evaluation of vinyl in the digital world.
Factory Records
The stages of the analogue disc-manufacturing process are as follows:
1. A cutting engineer transfers the final studio recording to what is referred to either as a lacquer or acetate disc (aluminium- or glass-coated discs coated with a cellulose nitrate lacquer). These acetate discs are positives (that is, grooved, like the final discs). 2. This lacquer is coated with silver, put in a plating tank and electro-plated with nickel. A negative disc (that is, ridged rather than grooved) is thus ‘grown’ onto it. The nickel plating is then divorced from the lacquer by the use of a separating agent. 3. In order to prolong the life of the original discs a further positive is electroformed onto the nickel disc. This in turn is removed by the use of a separating agent. 4. Nickel ‘stampers’ are grown onto these discs. These are the finalnegatives from which the commercial duplicates are pressed.
Discs are then stamped out and labelled at the rate of approximately 180 records an hour. They are sleeved and boxed, and then distributed and promoted. At the height of production in the early 1970s Britain’s leading manufacturer, EMI’s plant at Hayes, pressed records around the clock at the rate of 250,000 a day (Tomkins 2008). In Chapter 2 it was noted that the inability to make amateur recordings, a factor inherent in the manufacture of the disc, helped to enhance the status of the format’s musical contents. In the following we will encounter the opposite: the 70 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record mass duplication of records, the other element intrinsic to the disc-manufacturing process, has often negatively influenced perceptions of the analogue record. As Evan Eisenberg has pointed out, ‘Before records came along nobody talked about the music “industry”’ (2005: 18). The disc and its contents have frequently been linked with assembly-line factory production. More than the cassette and the CD, and certainly more than the MP3, it is shellac and vinyl production, with its presses and its metalwork, which has been related to heavy industry. And with good reason: the early record factories, with their smoke-belching chimneys and vast industrial might, provided a classic image of industrialization. In his 1931 film À nous la liberté René Clair critiques modern industry by showing the similarities between prison regime and the production line in a gramophone factory. For George Orwell this industry represented the diametric opposite to rural England. In ‘On a Ruined Farm near the His Master’s Voice Gramophone Factory’ he gives us his opinion of the Hayes pressing plant: ‘The acid smoke has soured the fields, | And browned the few and windworn flowers’ (1968: 134–5). Vinyl production is if anything more regimented than shellac manufacture. The composition of shellac records could vary quite widely – mixtures were not consistent, the depth and circumference of discs varied. Vinyl, in comparison, can be pressed more uniformly. Its production has nevertheless remained reliant on the same heavy-duty pressing machinery that stamped out shellac discs. Writing in the 1990s, Karen Faux noted:
For those who have grown up with the highly automated, clinically clean process of CD production, visiting a vinyl factory is like stepping back into an older, slower and messier world. While a CD can be pressed in three seconds, a vinyl album or single takes more than 20 seconds and is significantly more labour-intensive. (1997: 35)
The industry that record production has most commonly been linked with is car manufacture. There are historical reasons for this: Emile Berliner’s disc rose to prominence at the same time as Henry Ford’s Model T car, the progenitor of assembly-line production. The Ford Motor Company was incorporated in 1903, the year that Red Seal records were launched in the US. Ford’s assembly-line process was introduced in 1913, the year in which Edison (for whose Illuminating Company Ford had once worked) finally produced a disc format, thus confirming the defeat of the cylinder. By 1918 half of the cars produced in America were Model T Fords. In 1917 Victor Records, the leading disc-producing company, was valued at $33 million, having been worth just $2.72 million in 1902 (Chanan 1995: 54). Berliner’s disc duplication process and Ford’s method of car manufacture introduced mass-reproduction techniques to their respective fields. They share a procedure in which their goods are ‘stamped’ out at high temperatures. Record players and car factories both have ‘belts’. At a stretch you could argue that vinyl 71
Eldridge R. Johnson and Henry Ford both offered the customer a product in any colour they liked, as long as it was black. The comparison can be carried too far. It is important to remember that there are two forms of creation in a record’s production. In 1973 Mike Maitland, head of MCA, noted:
Our A&R department regards a record as an artistic endeavor, our manufacturing division regards it as a ‘product’ … ‘Product’ may be an improper name because this is a business that has an artistic side, but you can’t ignore the fact that there are people working on our assembly line, just like Ford. (Chapple and Garofalo 1977: 196)
Commentators and customers have frequently elided the processes of song and disc creation. They have accused ‘conveyor-belt’ pop songs of being duplicated from each other, just like the records themselves. The temptation has been to make a causal link between the record business and its recordings: the industry wants standardized products and therefore standardized songs. Such notions hark back to the Frankfurt School writings of Theodor Adorno, who believed that ‘The Ford model and the model hit song are all of a piece’ (Adorno 2001: 79). Adorno nevertheless made an important distinction between the production of popular music goods and the production of popular music songs:
Though all industrial mass production necessarily eventuates in standardization, the production of popular music can be called ‘industrial’ only in its promotion and distribution, whereas the act of producing a song-hit still remains in a handicraft stage … Therefore, we must look for other reasons for structural standardization – very different reasons from those which account for the standardization of motor cars and breakfast foods. (2002: 443)
Adorno’s answer was ‘imitation’. He believed that there was originally competition between various song types in the free market, the result of which was that particular types of songs became hits. These money-generating successes were then imitated, a process that culminated in the ‘crystallization of standards’ (ibid.). Following on from this:
Large-scale economic concentration institutionalized the standardization, and made it imperative. As a result, innovations by rugged individualists have been outlawed. The standard patterns have become invested with the immunity of bigness – ‘the King can do no wrong’. (Ibid.)
Critics of the major record companies have agreed with him: for them it is big industry that standardizes song-craft. But there are other reasons why disc and song creation can be linked. The analogue disc achieved dominance as a recording format that has not since been 72 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record equalled. Between 1950 and 1971 the vinyl LP accounted for nearly all British album sales. The vinyl 45 had a similar period of dominance: between the early 1960s and late 1970s it stood virtually unchallenged as the format for singles. Subsequently there has not been such a close match between recording and format: the same piece of music can be accessed on a range of different products. Vinyl’s primacy had an effect on the way that recordings were perceived. Songs created for and purchased as vinyl discs became songs thought of as vinyl discs. The embodiment of music became part of music making practice. Jackson Browne has admitted that his own songs were ‘not so well made’ because they failed to be viewed as records; on the other hand, ‘Bert Berns and Jerry Ragavoy and Phil Spector and the Beatles made records. Records that stay records’ and for him ‘Motown made those records the way they made the ’55 Chevrolet. It’s still beautiful and it still drives’ (Flanagan 1990: 377. Emphasis in original). As Timothy D. Taylor has stated, ‘sometimes actors voluntarily behave in ways that seem to be determined by the technology with which they have contact’ (2001: 37. Emphasis in original). It is in this sense that the factory production of shellac and vinyl records directly influenced the artistry of recordings. However, artists were as likely to reject standardization as they were to embrace it. Correspondingly, audiences tended to emphasize the presence of standardization when it came to music they disliked, but aimed to dissolve the bond between mass manufacture and recordings when it came to music they admired. The music industry was similarly conflicted: the assembly line could be their ideal or something to disguise.
Artistic Reactions
During vinyl’s years of dominance there were artists who deliberately absorbed techniques from the industrial production of records (and cars) into their music- making practice. As indicated by Jackson Browne, Motown is the obvious example. Much has been made of the Detroit origins that this record company shares with the Ford organization. Founder Berry Gordy’s experience on the assembly line has also considered pivotal in the planning of his company. Motown (short for ‘motor town’) was a highly streamlined organization whose method of song- production was anything but ‘handicraft’. Borrowing directly from his industrial background, Gordy set in place a ‘quality control’ department to ensure that each released song conformed to the company standard. By repeatedly employing the same backing group, the Funk Brothers, a uniformity of sound was ensured for the company’s 1960s recordings. Motown hits would be paraphrased for the follow- up recording. The same song, and sometimes even the same backing, would be tried out with different singers in order to maximize hit potential. Motown gloried in the functionality of its music. In an early promotional film Martha and the Vandellas can be seen miming to ‘Nowhere to Run’ in the Ford car plant. The group members clamber on the assembly line as a car is constructed alongside them; it is manufactured in the time that it takes the record to unfold. Here the symbolism could not be more complete. vinyl 73
Motown’s industrial model inspired producers as diverse as the Chic Organization and Stock, Aitken and Waterman’s ‘Hit Factory’. Others took a more direct route. Fellow Detroit resident Iggy Pop claims to have modelled the sound of the Stooges on the relentless slam of car-manufacturing plants (Motor City’s Burning 2008). Across the Atlantic in Birmingham, the music of Black Sabbath – a band formed by factory workers – was also inspired by the sound of heavy industrial machinery (Seven Ages of Rock 2007). Less self-consciously industrial, but deliberately employing a mechanical technique that Adorno had scorned (‘Every detail is substitutable; it serves its function only as a cog in a machine’) the producers of reggae records recorded different singers and instrumentalists over identical backing tracks (2002: 440). It may be only a coincidence, but this practice is declining now that the Jamaican reggae world has largely abandoned the vinyl disc (Stelfox 2008). But then there was the opposite response: the attempt, again deliberate, to create anything but conveyor-belt pop. Here artists tried to escape the disc’s taint of standardization by producing non-formulaic music. One example is provided by the rock music of the late 1960s and early 1970s: music which built upon the folk-rock tradition inaugurated by the Byrds and Bob Dylan, and which ranged from the heavy rock of Jimi Hendrix and Cream, to the psychedelic sounds of San Francisco and London, to the introspective singer-songwriters of Laurel Canyon. This music defined itself as ‘art’; as such it stood in opposition to the manner in which the record industry turned music into product. These groups’ reaction to commodification took various turns. One response was to scorn the plasticity of pop music and elevate their own work as being superior. As we shall see in later chapters, one of the factors that enabled them to do this was their espousal of the LP (a format which they helped to sculpture) over the 45 rpm single (which they felt had moulded pop music). Another response came with these groups’ objection to their own commodification. They registered their discomfort with this process through their lyrics (the Byrds referred to singles-making process as ‘sell[ing] your soul to the company | who are waiting there to sell plastic ware’;2 Pink Floyd’s oeuvre is similarly full of complaints) and also through their concert performances (where pop performers had previously taken part in package tours performing their hit singles, these artists improvised in their longer concerts, moving away from their recorded performances). Jon Stratton has argued that the outsider stance of these rock musicians reflects a Romantic ideology (1983: 149–51). He has also noted its ironies. First, it was the commodification process itself, which, by distancing these artists from their musical output and from its consumers, allowed these performers to assume the position of artistic outsiders. Second, in opposing the commodification process these artists managed to imbue their music with a Romantic aura. Third, it was this Romantic aura that helped to transform their recordings into saleable objects.
2 The Byrds, ‘So You Want to be a Rock ’n’ Roll Star’, written by McGuinn and Hillman. Tro Essex Music, 1967. 74 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
Stratton argues that ‘While capitalism requires standardisation of product, it nevertheless also requires innovation, new product to generate new turnover’ (1983: 151). He adds that ‘it is precisely those aspects of “art” that are emphasized in order to show its difference from the capitalist system which are of importance in the preservation of culture industries’. Contrary to Adorno’s belief that it is the large-scale companies who institutionalized standardization, it was the major record labels who had the most need to humanize their products with Romantic artistry. Furthermore, it was the distancing presence of the major record label, both as a corporation and as a name on the disc, that helped the biggest-selling ‘Romantic’ artists to espouse their anti- commodity, anti-capitalist stance. In 1976 Melody Maker reported this (possibly apocryphal) story:
After they set up Grateful Dead Records Jerry Garcia and the boys decided to visit the pressing plant where their records were actually made. They were horrified. Quite what they expected is unknown but what they found, of course, was that the place was a factory like General Motors’ car plant in Detroit. Grateful Dead Records subsequently folded up and it’s said that one of the reasons why is that the band just couldn’t stand the idea of being responsible for people having to work in a factory. (Harrigan 1976: 38)
Henceforth the band’s records were again released under the distancing banner of a major record label. A final artistic response fell somewhere between the others. Here, the assembly-line disc was neither embraced nor spurned; instead the record became the subject of the record. Unable to escape the commodification process, artists used the commodity to explore and subvert it. This entailed a Brechtian exposure of the record-making machinery, using the contents of the disc, its packaging, and the nature of the group itself. Early examples can be witnessed via the Pop Art- inspired bands of the 1960s, such as The Move and The Who, or even the Beatles with ‘Beatles for Sale’. The Who’s album The Who Sell Out addressed consumer culture in its title, through its advert-mimicking sleeve and through the musical contents of the disc, which is structured like a radio programme, interspersing The Who’s songs with real and fake adverts and jingles. Contemporaneously, Frank Zappa was exposing the machinations of the music industry via the Mothers of Invention’s We’re Only in it for the Money. Punk and post-punk music were also concerned with disc dialectics. These movements housed the do-it-yourself aesthetics of bands such as the Desperate Bicycles, who on their debut single ‘Smokescreen’ tried to demystify Berliner’s duplicative process, chanting ‘It was easy, it was cheap – go and do it’. This lyric also formed the chorus of their second record, the pointedly titled ‘The Medium was Tedium’. Scritti Politti originally pursued a similar course: the sleeve of their debut single ‘Skank Bloc Bologna’ details the bargain costs of recording, mastering and pressing the record. The band then adopted a different ruse. As their sound vinyl 75 became more polished their sleeves began to parody the packaging of luxury products, such as perfumes and brandies. Elsewhere there were groups such as the Gang of Four, who deliberately signed with EMI so that they could explore their concepts of commercial entertainment from within Britain’s largest record company. The band’s guitarist Andy Gill stated, ‘The point for us was not to be “pure” – Gang of Four songs were so often about the inability to have clean hands’ (Reynolds 2005: 118. Emphasis in original). There was also the British Electronic Foundation, a group which presented itself as a corporation (they included the non- musician Bob Last, their manager, as a member), and there were independent labels whose names ironically highlighted the business of making records: Tony Wilson’s Factory Records and Throbbing Gristle’s Industrial Records. John Lydon’s Public Image Ltd explored similar concepts. His band also mocked commodification via their record packaging: the band’s first album has a sleeve that mimics fashion magazines; their second, the accurately titled Metal Box, was originally issued in a container that damaged its three 12″ discs each time they were accessed. What is noticeable is how much our understanding of the music of all three responses is diminished once the disc is removed. Take away the mass-produced disc in the first instance and you break the artfully forged link between assembly- line records and assembly-line music. Take away the mass-produced disc in the second instance and the object that validates experimentalism is gone. Take away the mass-produced disc in the third instance and you remove the object that is being questioned.
Audience Reactions
Writing in 1936, Adorno’s Frankfurt School colleague Walter Benjamin argued ‘that which withers in the age of mechanical reproduction is the aura of the work of art’ (1999: 215). For Benjamin an artwork had aura if it maintained its ritualistic place in space and time. Reproduction could free it from this domain:
[I]t enables the original to meet the beholder halfway, be it in the form of a photograph or a phonograph record. The cathedral leaves its locale to be received in the studio of a lover of art; the choral production, performed in an auditorium or in the open air, resounds in the drawing room. (1999: 214–15)
Benjamin believed that the removal of aura could have positive effects: it could democratize the work of art:
[T]he technique of reproduction detaches the reproduced object from the domain of tradition. By making many reproductions it substitutes a plurality of copies for a unique existence. And in permitting the reproduction to meet the beholder or listener in his own particular situation, it reactivates the object reproduced. These two processes lead to a tremendous shattering of tradition which is the obverse of the contemporary crisis and renewal of mankind. (1999: 215) 76 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
There were few customers, however, who wished to celebrate the mass reproduction of their music. Benjamin underestimated two things. First, the desire of the public to negate the effects of mass production. Second, their ability to restore aura to multiplied artworks. Furthermore, he failed to realise that the method of manufacturing records would actually help them to do this. Both of the distinctive aspects of the disc’s production – the lack of home recording capability and mass reproduction – came in useful here. In his essay Benjamin focused primarily on film production. Here he admitted that the audience would respond to the ‘shrivelling of aura’ that the mass- reproduction process entailed, and that they would do so by encouraging the ‘artificial build-up of the “personality” outside the studio’ (1999: 224). In respect of record production this build-up of personality was dependent on the commodity itself. As we have already seen, the fact that disc recording had been reserved for professionals helped ‘star’ artists and their output to acquire aura. More surprising is the fact that the duplication process also helped to facilitate the restoration of aura. Sarah Thornton has outlined two factors that enabled this to happen. First, the art of studio recording called into question notions of ‘original’ and ‘copy’:
Initially, records transcribed, reproduced, copied, represented, derived from and sounded like performances. But, as the composition of popular music increasingly took place in the studio rather than, say, off stage, records came to carry sounds and musics that neither originated in nor referred to actual performances … Accordingly, the record shifted from being a secondary or derivative form to a primary, original one. (1995: 27)
The second stage was that, as originals, records ‘accrued their own authenticities’ (ibid.). Thornton writes:
Recording technologies did not, therefore, corrode or demystify ‘aura’ as much as disperse and re-locate it. Degrees of aura came to be attributed to new, exclusive and rare records. In becoming the source of sounds, records underwent the mystification usually reserved for unique art objects. (1995: 27–8. Emphasis in original)
And so, on the one hand, records acquired aura by being the origin of sounds. On the other hand, they acquired aura by being new, exclusive or rare. Here we return to a theme that this book has been circling: a record embodies two creations, there is the creation of the sound recording and there is the creation of the product itself. Not only is it difficult to divorce the two imaginatively, we also have the situation whereby the two types of creation feed off one another. We have already witnessed how the assembly-line nature of disc production helped to inspire assembly-line songwriting; here we come across the opposite response: a love of recorded music inspired consumers to think of multiplied discs as being unique works of art. vinyl 77
This is where the manufacturing process came in useful. Unlike digital recordings, the reproduction quality of shellac and vinyl can vary from disc to disc; in this way the disc itself contributes to the sound of the recording. Sound reproduction varies both within press runs (stampers warm up and produce better records; they can also wear out and produce worse ones) and between pressings (different stampers produce different results; the composition and the quantities of shellac and vinyl can vary from press run to press run). Because of this we have the situation whereby, not only does the record represent the ‘original’ (rather than the copy), but also the first pressing of that record represents theoriginal original (this is how the record sounded at its point of origin). Contrary to Benjamin, shellac and vinyl records live firmly within the domain of tradition. While record companies were selling masters for scrap and deleting records (and therefore contributing to their collectability) the earliest collectors were searching out the first Red Seal and jazz pressings. Crucial to this occupation was the fact that record pressings and record labels revealed their origins; collectors could learn their secret codes. The clue that the pressing gave was the matrix number. In the era when discs rather than tapes were used for capturing the completed studio recording, most record companies allocated a unique recording number to each master disc. Inscribed between the run-out grooves, the matrix number would then be transferred throughout the process of creating positives and negatives, and it would be visible in the final commercial pressings of the disc. From this number collectors learnt to decipher the date of the recording and the location of the pressing; it was also a means by which alternative takes could be decoded. This knowledge was combined with a study of record labels. Record companies consistently changed their label designs; accordingly, pressings could be dated with accuracy by reference to these alterations. By way of example, Paul G. Hurst could inform the readers of ‘The Record Collector’ column that:
From 1902 onwards for the next four or five years, each year produced its batch of new recordings by singers of the highest renown, and it is a fortunate coincidence that in each of these years certain small but significant changes were made in the types of the numerals and the settings of the labels, which enable collectors to tell with almost complete accuracy the date of any disc of the period, whether red or black [label]. And when he knows the dates of the original issues, he can tell at a glance the date of any later pressing. (1942: 187)
Vinyl manufacture introduced further quirks. Collectors could determine the date of a 7″ single by reference to its central label area (filled or detachable? if detachable: triangular or circular?); a sleeved record could also be dated accurately (laminated or card? folded internally or externally?). The result of such arcane knowledge, it is little wonder that the original was fetishized. Distinguished by their separate pressing runs, the effects of the mass duplication of records were lessened. Moreover, if the original was one of a particularly small batch – rendered so because numbers were dwindling and/or few copies were 78 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record pressed in the first place – its industrial beginnings began to dissolve. The ageing of the groove also had an effect. As we have seen in Chapter 1, vinyl and shellac records have their individual lifespans. Collectors of older recordings had the added bonus that, as they re-imbedded these discs within the fabric of tradition, the purchasers were removed from their own era. The past has always been less commercial than the present.3 The cult of originals was not only reserved for older discs. Collectors targeted contemporary discs that had limited availability. One example was imports. These discs could be distinguished by their exclusivity and by their manufacturing style. Sleeves, labels, matrix numbers, vinyl constitutions and even disc speeds differed from country to country, as did track listings. In America, British imports were prized for their sleeker record covers. In Britain, American imports were valued for their heavier vinyl. There were even occasions when British records were deliberately given the appearance, and therefore the higher cachet, of American releases (Coldcut’s 1987 single ‘Say Kids, What Time Is It?’ for example) (Brewster and Broughton 2006: 487). It was also crucial that imports were most commonly hunted down in specialist record shops. Record collectors prized what Simon Frith and Howard Horne have referred to as their ‘superior consumption’ (1987: 98). This was displayed, not only in the records they bought, but also through their choice of retailer. Shops that assumed and could further an insider knowledge were preferred. Specialist jazz, punk, reggae and dance record shops each had their rituals and traditions. They could be intimidating and inspiring; they ‘valorised the obscure’.
Industry Reactions
The influence of the consumer should not be underestimated. The record store was the point of inspiration for many record companies. In the US there were early cases of shopkeepers forming independent labels, catering to and using the knowledge of their clued-up clientele (Commodore and Stax provide examples). This process was mirrored in the mid 1970s in the UK when music retailers such as Geoff Travis (Rough Trade), Ted Carroll (Chiswick) and Martin Mills (Beggars Banquet) went into the record business. It was during this period that independence began to be branded as an ethos as well as a means of record production. A number of punk and new wave independent labels emerged, catering for an audience that was in search of the marginal and the defiantly non-commercial. Although the music on these labels conformed to its own generic standards, the majority of it would not have passed the ‘quality control’ of the major corporation. Here there
3 Henry Ford was among those appalled by the industrialization of modern music. In 1926 he held a contest to find the best proponent of ‘old-time’ music. It was won by Uncle Bunt Stephens, performing ‘The Old Hen Cackled’, one of the sides of the first hillbilly disc. The prize was a new car and a new suit. (Malone 2002: 42–3). vinyl 79 could be equilibrium between the outsider artist and record label: both stood in opposition to the culture industry. A turning point in the history of British independent labels came with the 1977 release of the Buzzcocks’ EP Spiral Scratch. This was the first British punk record to be self-financed and self-released (on the band’s own New Hormones record label). As the record’s title indicates, the Buzzcocks were not afraid to draw attention to their music’s reification. They had no need to worry about the mass- production connotations of record manufacture: Spiral Scratch automatically counterbalanced such notions. The record cost £500 to produce and initially only 1,000 copies were manufactured. The band checked the quality of these records individually and bagged them themselves. The music was as handicraft as the record: the self-penned songs were recorded ‘live’ in the studio in ‘about half an hour’ (Buzzcocks 2000). The four tracks on the EP were rudimentary but brilliant. Jon Savage has noted that ‘what was so perfect about the Buzzcocks’ EP was that its aesthetics were perfectly combined with the means of production’ (1991: 297). There was, however, a further consequence of producing this record, one whose press release could boast: ‘It is almost certainly going to be a limited edition’ (Buzzcocks 2000). Spiral Scratch’s ethics and limited availability appealed to a certain type of record collector. According to Simon Reynolds, ‘People were buying Spiral Scratch for the music, but also for the sheer fact of its existence, its status as a cultural landmark and portent of revolution’ (2005: 93). The success of the EP – it eventually went on to sell over 16,000 copies – led to an influx of self-produced, self-financed records. These independent releases, with their small press runs and their alternative music, could be financially as well as aesthetically rewarding. By late 1977 ‘Larry’ of Bizarre Records was noting, ‘some customers are buying everything from the independent labels … They realise the investment might pay off. Some of these singles will fetch 50 quid in three years time’ (Bell 1977: 26). Through their label names several of the companies paraded their lack of business élan: Bent Records, Boring Records, Bust Records, Duff Records, Flaccid Records, Scratchy Records. Given the anti- corporate tastes of their audience, this nomenclature could also be regarded as a canny bit of marketing. It was in this climate that several of the larger independent companies began to use the production process to artificially create rare and exclusive records. There had been a long tradition of using the groove or the recording material to create quirky or distinctive discs. As early as 1898 Emile Berliner was cutting records that featured two grooves on the same surface; the needle would then arbitrarily chose which one of two piano solos would be heard. In the early 1900s the firm Stollwerk produced edible chocolate records, and in the 1930s the first square- shaped ‘discs’ were manufactured (inserted as freebies with the ‘Record’ brand of cigarettes). The picture disc was also an early innovation, first appearing in the 1920s, and used mainly for children’s or advertisement records. Although also often used for children’s records, colour could be used to demarcate prestige releases (such as RCA Victor’s Till Eulenspiegel) or a whole company’s issues 80 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
(such as Goodson’s cream-coloured celluloid discs) or to distinguish genres of music (as with RCA Victor’s original 45 rpm releases). When these techniques were re-introduced in the 1970s they were applied more individualistically and were used for the record companies’ core musical products. The first vinyl picture disc was Curved Air’s Air Conditioning (1970); colour (or lack of) made a comeback with records such as Faust’s eponymous clear-vinyl LP (1972). The difference that the punk and new wave independents made was that they greatly increased such practices. They also coupled them with another idea: the limited edition first pressing. Here Thurston Moore identifies a significant change:
’50s and ’60s collectibles were created by accident. Some rare performance or unique label design would get issued without much thought and the item would get discovered later. But by the time new wave happened, people had had enough ‘historical resonance’ with records that they self-consciously created collectibles. (Milano 2003: 121)
By this means companies such as Chiswick and Stiff (another artfully named record label) sought to restore a degree of aura to the mass-produced good. Or, perhaps more accurately, rather than using musicians’ artistry to disguise commodification, they used manufacturing techniques to transform vinyl into a desirable product in itself. A variety of methods were employed. Chiswick released a limited edition LP that played at 45 rpm (Skrewdriver’s ‘All Skrewed Up’), while the Private Stock record label released a 12″ that played at the abandoned speed of 78 rpm (Robert Gordon’s ‘The Fool’). Richard Myhill’s ‘It Takes Two to Tango’ claimed to be the world’s first square-shaped single: ‘Get it while stocks last’ (advert, Melody Maker, 1 April 1978: 24) and Alan Price’s ‘Baby of Mine’ was the first in the shape of a heart. A rash of coloured vinyl records was released, reaching a peak with the 1978 Devo LP Q: Are We Not Men? A: We Are Devo!: ‘We have a limited edition of 25,000 which you can get in steel grey vinyl, red vinyl, blue vinyl, yellow vinyl, or green vinyl. Black also available’ (advert, Melody Maker, 2 September 1978: 23). The double groove also returned: in 1979 John Cooper Clarke issued ‘Splat’ / ‘Twat’, featuring parallel clean and rude versions of the same poem. Singles were released with limited edition extra tracks (for example ‘Do The Robot’ on the 12″ of the Saints’ ‘This Perfect Day’) or the initial press run of an LP would come with a free record (for example ‘Peasant in the Big Shitty’, given away with the first 10,000 copies of the Stranglers’ Ratus Norvegicus). Of all the record companies Stiff were the most inspired. Many of their marketing innovations were centred on sleeve design. They released albums in multiple covers (Ian Dury’s Do It Yourself came wrapped in 28 different wallpaper designs) and with scratch ’n’ sniff sleeves (their compilation of bands from the industrial town of Akron smelled of rubber). In addition, Stiff institutionalized the practice of writing secret messages in between a record’s run-out grooves (such vinyl 81 as ‘Next year is 78 and those blockheads born in 45 will be 33 1.3’, found on Ian Dury’s ‘Sex and Drugs and Rock and Roll’). Proof that the disc could be valued in its own right came with the company’s LP The Wit and Wisdom of Ronald Reagan. Stiff managed to sell 40,000 copies of this silent record (Perrone 2006). Jake Riviera, head of the label, admitted that he went for either ‘stabs at the chart or collectors’ items’ (Birch, Harrigan, Jones and Orme 1977: 27). These techniques did not pass without comment. In 1977 New Musical Express (NME) produced a special edition about the cult of collecting, which pointed out that ‘The record as artefact has become the standard ploy of the record business in 1977’ (‘Collect This Paper’ 1977: 1). Mike Davison, the owner of Ali Baba Records in Liverpool, was quoted as saying, ‘customers are buying records they have not heard before and are often not all that interested in the sound of the record at all, but regard it merely as a collector’s item’ (Bell 1977: 23). Stiff’s sarcastic catalogue number prefixes: BUY (for singles) and SEEZ (for albums) were now ringing true. The major record companies reacted with both consternation – Maurice Oberstein of CBS fretted, ‘Suddenly we are not in the music business, we are back to selling plastic’ (‘Pressing Problems for 12″ Hits’ 1979: 4) – and with imitation – in 1978 NME reported: ‘Thanks to the independents showing them the way, the major companies have now discovered a new way to sell you things you perhaps didn’t want in the first place’ (Rambali 1978: 16). The final comment on this matter should be left to the Television Personalities, who sang about the dilemma in ‘Part-time Punks’: ‘They like to buy the O Level single | Or ‘Read About Seymour’ | But they’re not pressed in red | So they buy The Lurkers instead’.4 Issued by the tiny Kings Road record company this record was, naturally, an eminently collectable release.
The Fall and Survival of Vinyl
During the 1970s vinyl brought increasing attention to itself. On the one hand, it received the various gimmicks that the punk period ushered in. On the other hand, it raised comment because of its variable quality. For a period it seemed as if the substance would suffer the same fate as shellac: its demise occasioned by its geographical source. PVC is derived from petroleum, for which the record industry has largely been dependent on the Middle East. The oil embargo instigated in 1973 by the OPEC countries led to an increase in prices and a shortage of supplies. Record companies responded to this situation in various ways. As well as cutting back on the amount of product they released, they also reduced the amount of pure vinyl that the records contained, using materials such as ‘extender’ to dilute the quantity of PVC. In addition, records became thinner, with the weight of both singles and albums being reduced by about eight per cent. Despite consistent
4 Television Personalities, ‘Part Time Punks’, on Where’s Bill Grundy Now? EP, written by Treacy. Twist and Shout Music, 1978. 82 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record outcries from consumers and an increase in returned faulty goods, poor standards of vinyl production continued into the 1980s. It was against this background that the compact disc was developed and launched. Before joining forces, the CD’s manufacturers Philips and Sony had separately worked on digital systems from the early 1970s onwards. The companies launched their compact disc commercially in Japan in October 1982 and in Europe in March 1983. This product promised less surface noise, a wider frequency range, and greater robustness – exactly the qualities that vinyl vaunted over shellac. Its manufacture also required less plastic than vinyl discs. The triumph of the compact disc was neither obvious nor straightforward, however. It was launched cautiously and production was initially concentrated on specific genres of music: classical repertoire and the major label’s biggest-selling mainstream acts. The centrality of Beethoven’s ninth symphony and Dire Straits’ 1985 album Brothers in Arms to the history of the CD are both well known: it is claimed that the former set the 74-minute maximum length of the CD, while the latter was at the centre of a campaign to increase market penetration. As late as 1987 Philips was promoting a surprised, ‘Have you seen who’s on Compact Disc campaign’, highlighting its occasional releases by ‘alternative’ acts such as the Cure and the Velvet Underground (advert, Melody Maker, 24 October 1987: 5). The range of titles nevertheless remained limited in both scope and size. Louis Barfe has stated that ‘In 1986, there were only 10,200 titles’, before adding pointedly: ‘To many, it seemed as though Brothers in Arms … was the only pop album available’ (Barfe 2004: 297). It was in 1992, nearly 10 years after its launch, that the compact disc became the leading albums format in the UK. The format that the CD overtook to achieve this summit was not vinyl but the cassette, which had become the UK’s best- selling format in 1985. The CD surpassed vinyl in unit sales in 1989, and by 1992 vinyl had been reduced to just 5 per cent of the albums market. Despite its sales prominence the cassette has been whitewashed from the format wars. The main reason being that it was never the CD’s perceived rival. Instead the Philips/Sony campaign deliberately targeted the vinyl disc. An early Sony advert pictured a vinyl record beside a CD and boasted, ‘no wow, no flutter, no wear, virtually immeasurable distortion, wide dynamic range and no surface noise’ (Music Week, 26 June 1982, 6–7). Philips’ advertising claimed similarly: ‘No record or stylus wear. No dust, static or vibration problems. No surface noise’ (New Musical Express, 12 March 1983: 9). Hardware retailers also targeted the vinyl record: a Rumbelows’ advert suggested that you could transform your discarded LPs into hats, earrings, lampshades and plant-pots (Melody Maker, 13 December 1986: 48). Tellingly, Sony’s Norio Ohga had originally planned a symbolic launch of the CD in 1977, the centenary of the invention of analogue sound recording (Nathan 1999: 144). Vinyl enthusiasts responded to this provocation with an argument that has since become familiar. Despite the poor standards of vinyl then available this substance was advocated as being ‘warm’ and ‘organic’; its frailty is what made it seem to vinyl 83 be alive. In contrast the CD was accused of having an ‘alien clarity’ (Loder 1991: 94). A year after the launch of the compact disc Music Week reported that hi-fi enthusiasts found the new format lacking in ‘emotion’ (Burbeck 1984: 10). By 1987 the Smiths’ proudly independent lead singer Morrissey was claiming, ‘Vinyl, when rubbed vigorously against human skin, is passionately all-consuming’; in contrast he claimed that ‘Aromatically the Compact Disc has a vacuous “Shake ’n’ Vac” stench about it’ (Martin, Gavin 1987: 21). The digital format did have its enthusiasts, but few of these were of an alternative or Romantic bent. In 1987 a British Phonographic Industry spokesman claimed that CDs were ‘without doubt the most beautiful item the record industry has ever been involved with’ (ibid.: 20). Regardless of vinyl’s lowly sales figures, it is the biases of this formats’ enthusiasts that have prevailed. By the time Music Week celebrated the twentieth anniversary of the CD it was noting: ‘These days, CD is the Baroness Thatcher of audio carriers: you won’t find too many people who admit to loving it’ (Woods 2003a: 3). Moreover, there are now those who now think that the CD will disappear while vinyl will survive. Among them Roy Matthews, the manager of the Hayes pressing plant (which is now owned by a company whose name boasts about PVC and industry: The Vinyl Factory). He has stated: ‘The CD is just another digital carrier and really doesn’t have enough advantage over newer digital formats to survive in the long run … but the LP becomes almost more attractive … It’s a niche product, yes; but … it will be there long after the CD has gone’ (Tomkins 2008). The irony here is that it was the arrival of the CD that enabled the analogue disc to transform its image. It was only now that it could be elevated from assembly- line product towards something approaching an art object. What is more, this was achieved by promoting a name – ‘vinyl’ – which vaunted its plasticity. Statistics helped. As the CD rose to dominance it superseded vinyl as the music industry’s mass-produced product. Vinyl, in contrast, came to look like a cottage-industry good. Alternative bands seized upon this. ‘All but abandoned as unprofitable by corporate record labels’, Art Chantry has written, ‘the little 45 became an underground fetish object’ (2002: 184). Bands such as A Boat, the Beatings and Flying Saucer Attack turned their singles into individual works of art:
Sleeves were photocopied, silkscreened, glued together, punched, hand drawn, bullet riddled, blood stained, torn, nailed, duct taped, die cut, potato stamped, origamied, bolted, sandpapered, and tarred. The most extreme example: a single buried in a soil-filled basket capped by a thatch of growing grass. You had to dig up the record … There were big holes, small holes, multiple holes, every conceivable color of plastic (opaque, transparent, glow-in-the-dark). There were wildly printed and strangely shaped labels, artwork and secret messages scratched into vinyl, odd shapes (square!), oversized records (8 inches!), undersized records (5 inches!), loops, images silkscreened on clear disks, artwork scratched onto smooth records (no music!), double grooves, and records that played ‘backward’ from the inside out. (Chantry 2002: 185) 84 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
Soon it was no longer just limited edition independent records or neglected first pressings that escaped the taint of industrialization: by the 1990s all vinyl records looked like precious things. It was market forces that enabled Romantic artists such as Neil Young to advocate vinyl over the CD. Young waited until the early 1990s before launching his attack on digital reproduction. He then argued, ‘With analogue records the moment used to be captured – complete with the flaws, but you could hear it: all the nuances. With digital what happened was they removed everything that seemed like a flaw and all you have left is thesemblance of sound’ (Thompson 2001: 205. Emphasis in original). Artists were still concerned about the embodiment of their music, but what they now wanted was a return to genuine reification, not digital’s mimicry. The repositioning of vinyl would not have been possible were there not art as well as industry in a record’s manufacture. A vinyl record is nuanced, its emphases dependent on the cutting engineer’s skill. In contrast to a digital reproduction an analogue record usually operates at the limits of its reach: there is a desire to achieve maximum duration, volume and depth of tone. Cutting engineers have to account for and compromise between each of these. Greater duration requires closer groove spacing, which results in lower volume. Ignoring this can result in over-cutting (this can contribute to the fuzzy ‘warmth’ that has been attributed to vinyl reproduction). Increased bass frequencies also require wider groove spacing; while excessively high frequencies can result in distortion and accelerated record wear. Engineers also have to accommodate for the decline in sound quality as the groove reaches the record’s centre. As studio technology improved, the dynamic range of tape master recordings increased. Vinyl, however, did not keep pace with this change. Discrepancy between the two contributed to the increased number of faulty records in the early 1970s. Normally the dynamic range of the original recording has had to be compressed in order achieve a successful transfer to vinyl. Again this requires the skill of the recording engineer. Vinyl’s warm analogue glow is also the result of compression. What is fortuitous, according to remastering engineer Bill Inglot, is that vinyl ‘kind of mushes things just right’ (Milano 2003: 43). Another engineer, Martin Giles, believes that it is the aural limitations of vinyl that have ensured its survival. He argues: ‘They talk about digital music sounding harsh or tinny or brittle in comparison and it is because you can’t get away with that kind of top-end on vinyl, and you have to find other ways to cut it … In a way, vinyl won’t let you get away with cutting unmusical stuff’ (Woods 2003b: 15). The skills of the cutting engineer once again highlight the value of the original pressing. The vinyl original is subject to many tests, debated by artist, record company and manufacturer alike. While performers may push for greater volume (increased bass has been a long standing concern), plant engineers wish to guard against the possibility of faulty discs. Each time a performance is repositioned on a vinyl product – be it single or LP – its cut and its sound will be different. In contrast, a digital recording reproduced on a cover-mount CD will sound roughly the same as it did on the artist’s original album. Correspondingly, digital production does vinyl 85 not share the same cult of originals. Moreover, the sheer availability of music in the digital age, coupled with the compact disc’s more rigid and less corruptible surface, has meant that the eternal reproducibility of music has finally been achieved. The arrival of the digital download has confirmed this: we now have the situation where music can be endlessly multiplied without the need for duplicating a corresponding sound carrier. This is not to say that digital music is permanently fixed. Certain back catalogues, such as David Bowie’s or Led Zeppelin’s, have now been remastered a number of times. Paradoxically, one buzzword that has been increasingly heard within digital mastering circles is ‘analogue’. In response to the outpouring of affection for analogue’s sound, later digital remasters of vinyl-era recordings have aimed to get closer to the original pressing, with a recent trend towards using increasing amounts of compression. Moreover, when Sony launched an updated version of the compact disc in 1999 – the SACD – they did so by claiming that it was the equivalent to analogue recording (Coleman 2005: 203). All of this has had the effect that, while the vinyl original is held up as the auratic holy grail, the perfect digital mix seems to be continually out of reach. Vinyl, in turn, has been influenced by the digital carrier. In response to the compact disc it was forced to raise its game. As early as 1984 the Linn record label was set up with the idea of ‘making very high quality vinyl records to compete with CD’ (‘Linn Set to Challenge CD Quality Claims with Vinyl Label’ 1984: 3). To this end the company developed its own custom-built cutting lathe. Thirteen years later Music Week was reporting that ‘The high quality associated with CD has inevitably meant that vinyl customers expect perfect replication’; the journal could now add, ‘Far from finding itself a casualty of the CD age, vinyl mastering has risen to the challenge’ (Faux 1997: 35). We have already witnessed how a reduction in PVC content could lead to a decline in sound quality, but the reverse could also hold true. Towards the end of the 1990s LP releases began to proudly advertise the fact that they were being issued on 180-gramme vinyl as opposed to the 130-gramme records that had previously become common. The manufacturers of these thicker discs reported a ‘surge in orders’, a factor that is reflected in the increased LP trade delivery figures at the turn of the century (Tesco 1999: 23). These records, many of them re-issues of classic albums from the 1960s Romantic age, also boasted that they were ‘virgin vinyl pressings’ and that they used ‘heavy quality’ sleeves. Vinyl was no longer ‘plastic ware’, it was now sold by the gramme as though it were fine food, and marketed as a ‘luxury’ issues as though it were collectable art. It has been in response to the arrival of the MP3 that vinyl has witnessed its ultimate transformation. Increasingly it has been vinyl, rather than CD, that is held up as the physical product with which to counter the computer’s free-flowing zeroes-and-ones. As a result the division between the artistry of music and the artistry of manufacture has become thoroughly confused. By 2005 Malcolm Swindell, music account manager at AGI Media, could claim without irony that ‘The use of special packaging reminds people why they got into music in the first 86 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record place’ (Webb 2005: 16). Similarly, Gordon Gibson of Action Records, speaking in 2007, could comment: ‘In every new batch of students there always seems to be a few that are actually into the music’, pointing out that these are the people who are buying 7″ singles: ‘They seem to be in it for the artwork – that’s the main attraction nowadays’ (Poole and Giacomantonio 2007). In addition, the pressing machinery at Hayes is now being described as ‘legendary’ and ‘iconic’, with artists and record companies boasting about its use for their releases (
5 Some examples: Damon Albarn’s Monkey: Journey to the West (one of the vinyl releases of this album cost £250. Its advertisement on the artist’s website contained a nod towards the pressing machinery: ‘a beautifully produced collectors item, this hand- made, gold-foiled box includes a super-heavyweight 200-gram double album pressed on the classic EMI 1400’); Lady Gaga’s Born This Way (for sale on the artist’s website for £120 as nine separate vinyl picture discs with ‘a very special message from Lady Gaga herself etched into the vinyl’); the Rolling Stones, Vol. I 1964–1969 (for sale at £174.99 on Universal Music’s website. The release comes with ‘a unique MP3 download which allows access to all tracks from the albums’). Chapter 5 The LP
Introduction
During the first half of the twentieth century the 78 rpm shellac disc helped to shape the parameters of popular music. This was particularly the case for newer recorded genres such as jazz, blues and country music. The duration of songs was affected (limited to the four-minute time limit of the 10″ record), as was their sound (the recording process favoured certain types of instrument and voice; it also preserved, for the first time, performative elements such as improvisation and timbral inflections). Meanwhile, classical music, despite certain experiments with the format’s constraints, could not wait to burst the confines of the shellac disc. It is ironic then that Columbia’s long-playing record ultimately had a greater musical impact on popular music than it did on classical music. Two factors help to account for this. First, there is the fact that popular music, shaped as it had been by the dictates of the 78 rpm single, was also transformed by its contact with the new visual, auditory, cultural and economic conditions of the long-playing format. Classical music, on the other hand, was predominantly using the LP to catch up with its previously conceived ‘concert hall ideal’ (which is not to say that the new dynamic range and additional playing time of the LP record had no effect on classical music production and composition). Second, whereas the LP had been designed with classical music in mind and developed in accordance with its existing parameters, there had been no set plans for how it would encompass popular music. Consequently, the idea of what a popular music LP could and should be was developed. There is insufficient space in this chapter to describe the full range of long- playing records that have been produced since 1948. Instead, I trace the origins of the LP record and examine various elements (many of them derived from classical, cast recording, jazz and folk LP practice) that have gone towards making what polls have considered to be the ‘best albums of all time’ (almost all of them ‘pop’ or more correctly ‘rock’ music). In doing so I note the differences between the British and American markets, and pay attention to methods that were developed for compiling and structuring LPs. I make a distinction between popular music LPs (encompassing all non-classical forms of recording) and pop music LPs (indicating post-war forms of non-classical music aimed primarily at the younger customer). The LP had a profound effect on pop. As some of its artists began to favour the LP a rupture was happening: the format helped the separate divisions of ‘pop’ and ‘rock’ to emerge. 88 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
Pre-LP
The long-playing vinyl record has a dual identity. It is sometimes referred to as being an album, while at other times it is called LP. These names are phonetically similar, which has helped to encourage their use as synonyms. There are important differences, however. The term ‘album’ refers to a container for housing a piecemeal collection of artefacts or information. In relation to records it was first used to describe a folder that could store assorted 78 rpm discs. Later on in the shellac era it was adopted to describe collections of records that were sold to the customer as a unified set. The idea of a long-playing record, meanwhile, at first simply indicated a single record of greater duration. As detailed above, the LP was originally conceived so that classical music would no longer be constrained by the limitations of the four-minute disc. Columbia’s long-playing records could contain up to 25 minutes of continuous music on each side. These LPs could also be sold in multi-record sets, which would still be referred to as ‘albums’. In addition, the longer length of the LP disc provided a more convenient format for those collections of music, previously gathered on collections of 78 rpm records and hitherto referred to as albums. Hence, the confusion of terms. What should not be forgotten is that both tributaries – the ‘album’ as collection of songs and the ‘LP’ as indicating a unified work of greater duration – flowed into the development of the popular music long-player.
Early Albums
Not all music accepted the confines of the single, four-minute shellac record. It is claimed that the first recording to occupy more than one disc was Ian Colquohoun’s interpretation of Rudyard Kipling’s poem The Absent-Minded Beggar, set to Sir Arthur Sullivan’s music and recorded in November 1899 (Dearling, Dearling and Rust 1984: 66). This two-sided recording was spread across separate discs due to the simple fact that the concept of the ‘b-side’ did not yet exist. Beginning in 1904, the German company Odeon was the first to regularly manufacture double-sided discs. As well as being used to contain the separate parts of longer recordings, this company also ‘coupled’ individual pieces of music. This practice provoked some unrest, as the Phono Trader and Recorder reported in June 1907:
A storm of criticism was hurled at the company, not, of course, unmingled with expressions of delight, but they stuck to their guns, and fired volley after volley of the ‘Odeon’ double-sized records into the market. ‘A mistaken policy’, said the critics, ‘for we buy a record of a selection we want, and find on the other side one we don’t want.’ (‘PhoNotes’ 1907: 4)
This form of criticism has remained throughout the life of the compiled record: the public has demanded that pieces of music be combined sympathetically. the lp 89
Odeon were also responsible for the first classical album sets, the original being their 1909 release of Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite on four double-sided discs. Popular music first appeared in album sets with the World War I recordings of London’s theatrical revues and shows, the first being UK Columbia’s release of Business as Usual in 1915. The first jazz album set was the Bix Beiderbecke Memorial Album, released by Victor in the US in 1936 (Columbia’s first jazz album was the similar Bessie Smith memorial release in 1938). Decca’s 1939 album Chicago Jazz has the honour of being the first jazz album to consist of newly recorded material. In the US it was not until the mid 1940s that sales of album sets of jazz and other forms of popular music began to be commercially significant, reflected by the inauguration ofBillboard ’s first album charts in 1945. Meanwhile in Britain the financial straits of World War II hampered the market for albums of jazz music. Esquire’s 1949 album set Bebop was the first post-war release. Melody Maker reported: ‘It is the first time since the war that any British record concern has had sufficient faith in the enthusiasm of record buyers to brave the high production costs and devastating purchase tax which albums now entail’ (Jackson, E. 1949: 5). Album sets of popular music usually combined four or six double-sided singles, thus featuring eight or twelve songs (the number of discs in classical album sets could expand further). To help unify the experience of listening to these pieces of music, as well as providing the public with a chance to make their own musical sequences, the auto-changer was developed. Using this device, the listener would stack a set of records at the top of a record player’s spindle. The auto-changer would then drop each disc onto the turntable in turn, playing through the sides in pre-selected order. The first of these devices was built by HMV in 1920. An engineer named Tomsett used plans drawn up by Eldridge R. Johnson to create the first electrical gramophone, a prototype auto-change model that was capable of playing five discs in succession. It was 1927 before such machines were made available to the US public. These were manufactured by Victor and developed from the experimental HMV model of 1920. The Garrard Company launched the UK’s first commercial auto-changer in 1932. The success of auto-change sequencing to a certain extent hampered the development of the continuous long-playing record. As late as the mid twentieth century the auto-change model was providing the template for Victor’s 45 rpm system, which was originally marketed as a format for all forms of music.
Early Long-Playing Records
Various factors dictated the average playing time of the acoustic shellac disc. Most fundamental was the fact that it was only possible to cut a certain number of grooves to the inch. Moreover, if groove size were decreased, the volume of the record would be diminished, and the quest for louder records was a concern equal to, if not more important than, the quest for longer ones. Therefore, if longer 90 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record recordings were warranted the disc initially had to grow beyond its usual size of 10″ or 12″. In 1904 the Neophone Company of London launched a 20″ disc, using it for recordings of uninterrupted opera overtures. These discs suffered from several problems: they were expensive to produce; they required the use of special outsized turntables; and they were excessively noisy. However, with the increased domestic adoption of radio from the 1920s onwards (which offered the public uninterrupted music) and with the advent of electric recording in 1925 (which offered finer sound reproduction) the demand for a successful long-playing record increased. One of the first to respond was Thomas Edison. In 1926 he announced a 12″, 80 rpm record that could contain up to 20 minutes of music per side. To facilitate this length of recording Edison tripled his usual groove spacing from 150 grooves per inch to 450, the superior playing surface of his Diamond Discs making this possible. Unfortunately, these records failed to produce the sounds of higher frequencies; they were comparatively quiet compared with other discs; they required expensive reproduction machinery; and mis-tracking was common. Ultimately, Edison was the wrong person to be launching these discs: his recording catalogue contained no significant repertoire of classical music. 1926 also witnessed the introduction of the Vitaphone record, developed by Western Electric for the purpose of synchronising the sound and vision of motion pictures. In order to match the running time of a reel of 35 mm film, the playing time of these 16″ discs was set at 11 minutes. This was achieved by reducing the turntable’s rotation speed to 33⅓ rpm, the first time that this speed had been used.1 The first film to use Vitaphone discs was the Warner Brothers movie Don Juan, which premiered 19 February 1927. The Jazz Singer, which was released 6 October 1927, also employed Vitaphone discs and has achieved lasting fame because it featured ad-libbed dialogue as well as music. To reduce the surface noise of these long-playing discs abrasives were removed from the shellac mix. This limited the possible number of playings and rendered the technique unsuitable for commercial releases. Influenced by these developments, RCA Victor issued their first series of commercial long-playing records on 17 November 1931. These 10″ and 12″ discs played at 33⅓ rpm and were pressed on the company’s Victrolac vinyl compound. The records doubled the playing time and groove spacing of standard shellac discs; RCA Victor boasted that they would be capable of reproducing ‘the longest movement of a symphony without interruption’ (Gelatt 1977: 253). Nevertheless, this venture also ended in failure. The records were launched during the Depression and the reproduction equipment was not generally affordable; Victor used records
1 According to Peter Ford the 33⅓ rpm speed was chosen because of the ease with which it could be used for gearing systems: either a 54:1 gearing reduction from a 1,800 rpm motor, or by a 36:1 reduction from 1,200 rpm (1963: 146). Warren Rex Isom argues that it was a convenient speed, approximately half of 78 rpm, which could be locked into the 60Hz line (1977a: 816). the lp 91 dubbed from shellac masters, rather than issuing material specially recorded for the new, longer discs; the sound reproduction was not good and surface noise was high; and the Victrolac material could not stand the weight of the heavy pickups then in use. The first act of Edward Wallerstein on becoming general manager of the Victor Division of RCA in July 1933 was to take these long-playing records off the market (Wallerstein 1976: 57).
The Columbia Microgroove LP
The Columbia long-playing record received its first public airing at the Waldorf- Astoria Hotel in New York on 20 June 1948. Edward Wallerstein, now president of Columbia Records, began the demonstration by comparing the new disc with the old. On one side of Wallerstein were 325 tracks of music as issued on shellac records; on the other side were the same 325 tracks embedded in vinyl LPs. The shellac tower stood nearly 8 feet high; the vinyl tower was just over 15 inches. He then played a symphonic recording from the shellac pile, allowing the audience to register its cessation after four minutes in the middle of a movement. The same piece was played on vinyl and proceeded uninterrupted to its conclusion with no discernible loss in sound quality. Here, finally, was a long-playing record that worked. The Columbia microgroove LP was the product of a team put together by Wallerstein at the CBS research department. Supervised by Peter Goldmark, this team consisted of Ike Rodman, Jim Hunter, Vin Liebler and Bill Savory from Columbia Records; Rene Snepvangers from CBS; and Bill Bachman, a former General Electric employee, who Wallerstein credits with making the major contribution (1976: 57). Work on the product began in 1940 and was concluded in 1948. Several separate elements were balanced in order to create the Columbia LP. Longer playing time meant finer groove spacing, which in turn meant replacing shellac with a harder and finer material such as vinyl. This choice wasn’t straightforward, however. Peter Goldmark recalled:
In those days vinyl was used experimentally for records, but it wasn’t good enough, because the vinyl was expensive. But when we decided that you could put the whole work on a single record, then the cost of extra vinyl would be more or less offset. To use less vinyl we had to make the records thinner. But when the records were made thinner, you had trouble with warping and you had to find new ways of stabilizing the vinyl, and that means different kinds of pressures. (Chapple and Garofalo 1977: 21)
Jim Hunter, who had developed Victrolac while at RCA Victor, was responsible for perfecting the vinyl for the discs. His improved compound allowed the introduction of the microgroove and enabled records to be cut with a spacing of 92 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
224–260 grooves per inch, more than doubling the 80–100 grooves per inch of conventional shellac records. Adopting the 33⅓ rpm rotation speed established by earlier long-playing discs and using the standard 12″ diameter of classical records, the team gradually increased playing time. Towards the end of 1946 a record was produced that could play up to eight minutes per side. Wallerstein argued that this was not long enough. He had timed the classical repertory and discovered that 90 per cent of works could be incorporated on the LP if the team produced a record of 36 minutes duration. Eventually the team exceeded this, producing a disc that could accommodate up to 50 minutes of music. Increased playing time was only one of their goals. Facing competition from the superior audio of FM radio and professional tape recorders, improved sound quality was also a necessity. Vinyl helped here: it was capable of delivering a greater dynamic range than shellac and also provided less surface noise. In addition, the team improved microphone, loudspeaker and pick-up design, as well as developing better methods of record cutting. The Columbia team also created the right conditions for the LP’s launch. First, they had assembled a library of longer recordings, recorded on lacquer, in preparation for creating the repertoire of the LP. Second, the Philco attachment, which allowed a customer to convert a radio or phonograph so that it could play the new records, was to be sold at cost price, thus helping to ensure widespread adoption. Finally, reversing previous record industry practice, Columbia neither patented nor sought royalties for the use of their LP system, perhaps because few of its major components were genuine inventions. Take-up by other record companies was considered essential to the LP’s success. The Columbia long-player also benefited from external factors. The LP was able to take advantage of, and was to some extent inspired by, the first period of hi-fi enthusiasm. It was Columbia’s response to developments such asthe ffrr system. The LP also benefited from the introduction of tape technology in recording studios. Although not new – the first magnetic recorder was devised by the Danish inventor Vlademar Poulsen in 1898 – electro-magnetic tape equipment was only fully developed during World War II. Improvements in recording quality came when German engineers combined the use of iron-oxide coated plastic tape (first produced in Germany in 1934) with the ultrasonic alternating-current bias (patented by Carlson and Carpenter in the US in 1921). They developed the Magnetophone, which was discovered by Allied forces when they captured Radio Luxembourg in 1944. The post-war cancellation of German patents meant that others were free to exploit these technological advances. The use of tape for making master recordings vastly reduced the cost of recording multiple takes of performances. It also, via the use of ‘splicing’, made it easier to combine the best parts of separate recordings. Tape was thus perfect for recording the longer pieces of music that the LP was featuring. Columbia’s microgroove LP was quickly successful. Within 18 months of its introduction every major American record company except RCA Victor was the lp 93 manufacturing LPs. RCA Victor, meanwhile, was campaigning for the adoption of its rival 45 rpm system, thus instigating ‘The Battle of the Speeds’. This stalemate lasted until the company finally produced its own LP in January 1950. According to Edward Wallerstein, during this period RCA Victor lost $4.5 million while Columbia gained $3 million (1976: 61). The microgroove LP had elevated his company to the position of industry leader.
The Arrival of the British LP
The US Battle of the Speeds affected the launch of the LP in the UK. EMI, Britain’s largest record company, had reciprocal deals with both Columbia and RCA Victor, and it is believed that Ernest Fisk, the head of EMI, delayed the adoption of either of the rival formats for fear of offending these two American companies (Barfe 2004: 157–8). Consequently, Decca was the first UK company to release LP records, issuing its first titles in June 1950. Arthur Haddy had been particularly keen for the company to adopt the LP, seeing it as the ideal medium for his ffrr recording technique. Decca advertising prided itself on this new hi-fi utopia:
Long playing is here at last – Decca long playing plus full frequency range recording! Now you can enjoy Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto, or a Mozart Symphony, or Peter and the Wolf from a single ten-inch record … the Emperor Concerto or Petrouchka from one twelve-inch … H.M.S. Pinafore from two … The Art of Fugue from three. (Gramophone, June 1950: i. Emphasis in original)
It was October 1952 before EMI saw fit to release LP records; two years after Decca had entered the market, and more than four years after Columbia had announced the LP. During these early years the British LP was subject to criticism, with concerns centred on its expensive cost and the record surface’s fragility. Nevertheless, these factors also contributed to the LP’s special status, helping to differentiate it from shellac and 45 rpm discs. Compton Mackenzie, editor of the Gramophone, was initially reluctant to embrace the new medium. He felt that British records were already too expensive, inflated as they were by the imposition of purchase tax (1949: 187). The Decca LP was placed on the market with prices ranging from 22s. to 39s, 6d. The cheapest playing equipment cost £8, 18s. Nearly 15 years later, in a Melody Maker article aligning customers with formats, readers were presented with the ‘pop fan’, 17-year-old Wendy Draper, who was earning £7 a week for sorting glasses. Understandably, she commented, ‘I can’t usually afford to buy LPs, so I ask for them as birthday presents’ (Coleman, Dawbarn and Roberts 1964: 8). Throughout this period an LP cost between five and six times the amount of a single. It represented a serious acquisition of serious music. It also required a serious level of care and attention. Although vinyl provided less surface noise than shellac, it was more liable to attract dust and static. In 94 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record addition, the delicacy of the LP’s microgroove rendered it more susceptible to damage. Listeners were also concerned with the nature of vinyl’s flaws. A common complaint was that, whereas the ‘frying-bacon’ sound of shellac was incessant, the interruptions on vinyl, although quieter, were more obtrusive. John Borwick recalled:
The changeover to the relatively silent plastics materials employed since the birth of 33⅓ and 45 rpm records did at first seem a blessing on all counts. However, the very smoothness of the plastic, while avoiding the excruciating surface hiss of the old granulate shellac discs, now served to single out any specks of dirt or scratches and produce isolated bangs which were at least distracting and at worst infuriating. (1975: 1,574)
The care and attention that the LP and its equipment required ultimately helped to ensure its cultural prestige. Not only was the LP too expensive for teenagers, it was also considered to be too fragile, as was the hi-fi apparatus that was produced to accompany it. Everything about the listening experience required care and consideration. Mark E. Smith of The Fall was surely not alone in his troubled experience of trying to play singles on his parent’s record player:
We never really had records in our home when I was young. We had a record player but, if we did play a record my dad would say ‘You are breakin’ the fuckin’ record player. Take that off!’ It would just be some rock ’n’ roll record … Elvis Presley or something, but my dad would never have it. ‘You think you are being funny, playin’ that, don’t you? Take it off. Take it off, now. It’s breaking all the equipment. (Middles and Smith 2003: 35)
The delicate handling that the LP required prompted the development of protective record packaging. As the LP received its sleeve and its inner sleeve, with their attendant pictures and prose, it became further removed from the world of 78s and 45s, packaged as they were in their corporate paper bags. Writing in Melody Maker Max Jones noted the difference between purchasers of shellac records (‘keeping their records bare, and piled insecurely in the most unlikely places’) and the adherent of the LP (‘Good habits creep up on him, and they are fostered by a natural desire to protect the sum of money he has invested in Long Playing records’) (1953: iv).
Classical Music and the LP
Britain, like America, launched the LP as a format for classical music. We have witnessed Decca’s first release, which consisted of ‘over fifty records by many of the world’s finest artists and orchestras’ (advert, Gramophone, June 1950: i). EMI entered the fray with similar intent: their original adverts declared that ‘For the first the lp 95 time music-lovers can enjoy Long Play performances by the world’s greatest artists, conductors and orchestras’ (Gramophone, October 1952: xv-xviii). Popular music was largely absent from either company’s original lists of releases. Decca launched their long-player with five separate pages of advertising in the classical journal Gramophone, meanwhile no advertising appeared in the popular music press. The introduction of the LP had an effect on classical music. The longer and superior playing surface expanded the repertoire in breadth as well as length. Marshall McLuhan observed that ‘Where before there had been a narrow selection from periods and composers, the tape recorder, combined with l.p., gave a full musical spectrum that made the sixteenth century as available as the nineteenth, and Chinese folk song as accessible as the Hungarian’ (1967: 301). The works captured in their entirety for the first time included Schoenberg’s Serenade; Mozart’s Coronation Mass and Idomeneo; Haydn’s Creation and Nelson Mass; Kodály’s Te Deum; Richard Strauss’s Aus Italien; and Bach’s St. John Passion. The LP also helped to transform the role of the classical record producer. Roland Gelatt gives as examples of recording breakthroughs Mercury Records’ 1956 recording of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture, which emphasized the sound effects of cannon fire and church bells by using overdubbing techniques, and Decca Records’ 1959 release of Wagner’s Das Rheingold, the record that revealed the potential of stereo recording for classical music (1977: 312, 317). John Culshaw’s production of this recording made full use of stereo placement, charting Wagner’s proposed stage movement of characters. The classical artist who most famously exploited the potential of the recording studio was the pianist Glenn Gould, who in 1964 forsook live performance for studio work. Gould argued that ‘Whether we recognize it or not, the long-player record has come to embody the very reality of music’ (1966: 47). He added, ‘recording has developed its own conventions, which do not always conform to those traditions that derive from the acoustical limitations of the concert hall’ (1966: 49). Gould was an advocator of the tape splice, believing that the best parts of separate recordings could be assembled to provide a superior recording. Additionally, he believed that recording gave us ‘sounds possessed of characteristics which two generations ago were neither available to the profession nor wanted by the public – characteristics such as analytic clarity, immediacy, and indeed almost tactile proximity’ (1966: 48). Two elements relating to Gould’s position should be highlighted. First, it remained controversial. Few, if any, other classical artists followed him into the exclusive world of recording, and tape splicing is still a debated practice in the classical music field. Second, as Gould himself admitted, ‘for a long time to come some portion of the industry’s activity will be devoted to merchandising the celebrated masterworks which form our musical traditions’ (1966: 53). These masterworks have an idealized existence, one that existed before the vinyl LP and which the vinyl LP was created in order to help recreate. As Simon Frith has indicated, Gould’s arguments would have been different ‘if the classical works at issue hadn’t already had a “live” existence quite apart from their recording’ (1996: 228). 96 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
The LP, like classical performance before it, aimed for the perfect realization of the written score. It should not be forgotten that this score was written with performance rather than recording in mind; hence the continued dominance within classical recording of the ‘concert hall ideal’ (Frith 1996: 226–31; Symes 2004: chapter 3). The LP, if anything, advanced the retrospection of the classical music world. Theodor Adorno, who welcomed the long-playing record, wrote that it at last made it possible for ‘musically engaged people’ to build a ‘museum’ of opera music (1990: 65). The format also helped to further classical music’s isolation from other forms of music making even as those musics began to explore the LP format for themselves. For much of their histories the classical LP and pop music records had different aural ambitions. Classical LPs were recorded with home listening and the hi-fi enthusiast in mind. In contrast British pop singles were issued as mono only until the late 1960s, and they were mixed in accordance with the narrow tonal range of AM radio and the teenager’s single-speaker record player. Pop music albums, while mixed for both stereo and mono from the early 1960s onwards, also remained biased towards mono until the end of the decade. For example, the Beatles’ engineer Richard Lush talks of the mono version of 1967’s Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band as being the superior release:
The only real version … is the mono version … The Beatles were there for all the mono mixes. Then, after the album was finished, George Martin, Geoff [Emerick] and I did the stereo in a few days, just the three of us, without a Beatle in sight. There are all sorts of things on the mono, little effects here and there, which the stereo doesn’t have. (Lewisohn 1988: 108)
Sgt. Pepper was monitored through a single speaker. The engineer Geoff Emerick has recalled, ‘We did have two speakers but everything was put through the right hand one. We weren’t allowed to monitor on both because they were saved for stereo orchestral recordings!’ (ibid.). As Emerick indicates, stereo was the province of classical music. In 1958 Pye became the first British record company to issue stereo discs, soon followed by Decca and EMI. Their initial release was a sound effects record, an early staple of stereo LPs (it opens with the much-sampled line, ‘This is a journey into sound’). It was classical music, however, which soon dominated the medium. In 1966 Melody Maker contemplated: ‘How important is the stereo market?’ and answered: ‘For classical music it’s probably around 50 per cent but in the pop field there is very little demand’ (‘The Year of the Longplayer’ 1966: 10). Until the late 1960s stereo records were also more expensive than their mono counterparts. Similarly, classical records were retailed at a higher price than popular music releases, thus furthering the economic and musical divide. the lp 97
Compiling and Sequencing
The cost of vinyl as a material was one factor that kept the retail prices of LPs high: in Britain vinyl was more expensive than shellac; the reverse was true in America, where the price of vinyl soon dropped (Metalitz 1951: 284–5). Another was the expenditure of recording over half-an-hour’s worth of music, including the cost of musicians, studios and copyright royalties. While it was the case that LPs cost less than the equivalent release of music on 78 rpm album sets, what many customers objected to was having to buy half-an-hour’s worth of music. A.H.J. Diamant, writing to the Gramophone in December 1950, was typical in his complaints:
The idea of one work on each side of an L.P. disc (two works on one record) is fundamentally bad, although there may be economic reasons why it cannot be avoided. It is rather like the old question of ‘filler’ on the odd side of a set of ordinary discs, but grown out of all proportion, for not only may the unwanted ‘filler’ last 25 minutes in performance, but it costs an appreciable amount of money … The answer must be, therefore, one work to one record wherever possible. (1950: 307)
While this proposal was not fulfilled, a corresponding request, as voiced by reader Maurice W. Bateman, was taken into account: ‘could some strong pressure be put on the recording companies to ensure that LPs which have complete works on each side are suitably coupled?’ (1953: 307). The public saw that the LP should at best be a unified object. Record companies made increasing efforts to combine classical works sympathetically: composer was matched with composer; works with similar themes were placed together. Popular music posed a greater problem. The 78 rpm record had reduced the conceptualization of the majority of popular music to the single song. Herbert Ridout, writing in 1941, made this point clear:
[I]t is only the classic side of music that would benefit from uninterrupted complete movements … Every other form of gramophone music, except opera and oratorio, is in short form. Ballads rarely run over 3 to 4 minutes to sing, and popular songs and dances were long ago trimmed to meet the 3-minute requirement of a gramophone disc. So long-playing records of these items would mean three or four ballads per side of a 12-inch disc, and the same number of dances or popular songs – and who on earth wants strung together some arbitrary choice of six or eight dances or ballads on one record? You could not reasonably expect six or eight ‘hits’ every time. (1941: 220)
Record companies had ensured that earlier albums were all hits by the simple expedient of compiling them from previously existing material. New material was 98 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record almost exclusively released on singles. Consequently, popular music had been an afterthought when it came to creating the original LP. Wallerstein admitted:
When we met in the fall of 1947 the team brought in the seventeen-minute record. There was a long discussion as to whether we should move right in or first do some development work on a popular record to match these 12-inch classical discs. Up to now our thinking had been geared completely to the classical market rather than to the two- or three-minute pop disc market. (1976: 58)
Nevertheless, the workers at Columbia were soon encouraged to view their vinyl disc as a medium for all of the company’s releases. Wallerstein continues:
I was in favour of waiting a year or so to solve these problems and to improve the original product. We could have developed a 6- or 7-inch record and equipment to handle the various sizes of pops. But [William] Paley [head of CBS, the owners of Columbia] felt that, since we had put $250,000 into the LP, it should be launched as it was. (Ibid.)
Therefore, rather than receiving bespoke tailoring, Columbia’s popular music – both new and old – would have to find ways of filling the large expanses of long-playing vinyl. The sequencing of long-playing records would eventually be an essential characteristic of the ‘best albums of all time’. There was, however, initially little idea as to how compilations of new popular music should be combined. The person first charged with this task was George Avakian, head of Columbia’s original popular album department. He was fortunate that, contracted to Columbia, was the one major popular recording artist to have experimented with the album format.
Frank Sinatra and the LP
Columbia had released Frank Sinatra’s first ‘album’ in 1943: it was an empty photo-cover issued to house previous 78 rpm releases. They quickly issued records of greater ambition. In March 1946 the company released The Voice of Frank Sinatra, a set of four 78 rpm records of newly recorded material. The featured songs were of similar mood, tempo and theme; as such the package could be considered the first ‘concept album’. The Voice of Frank Sinatra was followed by several other conceptualized sets, placing the artist at the forefront of George Avakian’s thinking. He stated, ‘I purposely made Columbia’s very first pop LP (#6001) a Frank Sinatra disc, because he was the best-selling and most important pop artist we had at that time’ (Granata 1999: 63). That first LP was a re-issue of The Voice of Frank Sinatra. It was at Capitol Records, with whom he signed in 1953, that Sinatra began to explore the full potential of the LP format. Working with dedicated arrangers the lp 99
(Axel Stordahl, Ray Anthony, Dave Cavanaugh, Gordon Jenkins, Billy May and, most famously, Nelson Riddle) and utilizing the same musicians in specifically arranged sessions, Sinatra issued a series of LPs that remain among the most fully realized across all forms of music. Sinatra drew on his experience of live performance – one place where popular music was not arbitrarily strung together – to sequence his LPs. ‘Pacing an album’, he stated, ‘Tommy Dorsey did this with every band-show he played. Paced it, planned every second from start to finish … This is what I’ve tried to do with every album I’ve ever made’ (Douglas- Home 1962: 37). The concert performance, and indeed the live recording, has provided one model for structuring a long-playing record. One effect of mirroring ‘live’ performance in this manner is that is has helped to endow the LP format with an organic nature, in contrast to the artifice of the truncated single. Nevertheless, few popular music artists’ LPs have exactly mirrored their live shows. A different form of pacing is required, with different highs and lows. Ultimately, the genius of Sinatra’s Capitol LPs is that they eschew the variety of his live performances. Instead, Sinatra gives us ‘mood’ music – the majority of the albums featuring either ballads or swing material. He described how these records were put together:
First, I decide on the mood for an album, perhaps pick a title. Or sometimes it might be that I had the title and then picked the mood to fit it. But it’s most important that there should be a strong creative idea for the whole package, so to speak. Like Only the Lonely or No One Cares, for instance. Then, I get a short list of maybe sixty possible songs, and out of these, I pick twelve and record them. Next comes the pacing of the album, which is vitally important; I put the titles of the songs on twelve bits of paper and juggle them around like a jigsaw puzzle until the album is telling a complete story lyric-wise. For example, the album is in the mood of ‘No One Cares’ – track one. Why does no one care? Because there’s ‘A Cottage for Sale’ – track two. … So on right through to the last track, which might be ‘One For My Baby And One More For The Road’ – the end of the episode. (Douglas-Home 1962: 36)
The conceptualization didn’t end there. The mood of the music was carried over into the sleeve design (often featuring a solitary Sinatra) and by crediting his arrangers in the sleevenotes the consistency of the music was further highlighted. Sinatra’s relationship with the LP was mutually beneficial. On the one hand, the medium matured as a direct result of his artistry. On the other hand, Sinatra both used and enhanced the already established connotations of the LP: serious, grown up, refined, ‘non-commercial’, masculine (in the sense that the hi-fi world was considered to be male dominated). In so doing, his use of the format helped him to transform his image from bobby-soxer idol to that of lone male troubadour. He would not be the last to take such a path. The slower pace of the LP record seemed to bring with it a sense of timelessness, contrasting with the mad rush of the single, its charts and its young purchasers. Just as the LP had prompted classical 100 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record producers to investigate older forms of music, Sinatra used the format to explore standards from the pre-war period of American musical theatre. Meanwhile, he was releasing contemporary pop songs on singles. As well as being the first popular artist to explore the boundaries of the LP, he was the first to use the LP and the 45 to favour different markets. He was also the first to receive complaints about it: Melody Maker reported in 1959, ‘Every time Sinatra has a hit, his ardent fans get so angry!’ (Johnson 1959b: 3). Here, as elsewhere, the short, punchy term ‘hit’ was being reserved for the rapid successes of the singles chart. Sinatra’s LPs sold over a longer time-period and were more economically successful than his single releases. However, within popular music it was quick monetary gain, and in particular quick monetary gain from younger record buyers, that was considered most blatantly commercial. Sales-wise, as well as musically, the LP usually had a longer duration than the ‘disposable’ single. As such, this money-spinning powerhouse – a product that was expensive to create and which therefore favoured the major record companies – rarely suffered the accusations of being ‘manufactured’ or ‘product’; insults that were regularly aimed at the hit single. The divide between LP and single was concretized by the creation of separate singles and LP charts. In Britain until the mid 1950s there was only one chart, which featured all formats, but was dominated by singles. However, so successful were Sinatra’s LPs that they, along with a handful of cast recordings, began appearing in those charts. In 1956 Songs for Swingin’ Lovers reached the top ten. In response, on 28 July 1956 Record Mirror published the first ‘Best Selling Long-Players’ top five, which featured Songs for Swingin’ Lovers at number one. Sinatra brought considered artistry to the popular music long-playing record; his commercial success ensured that his example was followed. As NME reported in 1959, ‘Frank Sinatra … is the uncrowned king of album-land’ (Johnson 1959a: 3).
Cast Recordings and the LP
Number two in Record Mirror’s first LP chart was the soundtrack recording of Carousel and number five was Oklahoma! As had happened earlier in the century with shellac albums, it was musicals and theatrical revues that were the first forms of popular music to prosper on the new long-playing record. The original cast recording of South Pacific, released by Columbia in 1949, was the first giant of this genre. Edward Wallerstein credits its huge sales as being decisive in the format battle with RCA Victor (1976: 61). In fact, such was its success that, having succumbed to the LP format in January 1950, RCA Victor later acquired the rights to the film version of South Pacific. Released in 1958, the soundtrack was the highest-selling LP record in the early 1960s, and it still holds the record for most weeks at number one in the British album charts. The durability and primacy of this genre can be witnessed by the fact that Columbia’s 1956 cast recording of My Fair Lady had earlier been the highest-selling LP of all time, and as late as 1976 the lp 101
RCA Victor’s soundtrack recording of the Sound of Music would be holding this accolade. David Harker has pointed out that ‘Over half the LPs with most British chart stamina between 1962 and 1971 were of the stage/screen/television series/ cabaret artist variety’ (1980: 100). Contrary to complaints about popular album sequencing, the combinations of cast recordings were not arbitrary. Consistency could be gained via storytelling and consistent authorship, most musicals being written by a single writer or team of writers. Moreover, the live performance of the shows provided a template for the patterning of these LPs, with the break between the two sides of the record mirroring the intermission of the theatre. Musical and film cast recordings also proved that an LP could contain music of various styles sung by various singers, as long as it was bound by a consistent theme. As such, variety and balance could be as important in structuring an LP as stylistic consistency.
Jazz and the LP
Reviewing Decca’s first UK LPs in Melody Maker, Max Jones stated, ‘The company tell me that at first the demand is for light and classical music, and that no jazz sides are scheduled for immediate release. “But”, they say, “if the demand for jazz and swing is sufficiently great we shall certainly cater for it”’ (1950: 3). The first British jazz LPs eventually came in Decca’s third batch of releases, which were issued in December 1950. Again, the mood was retrospective: two of the three LPs issued concerned the history of jazz. Early jazz LPs had a 10″ diameter (borrowed from jazz 78s) and usually featured eight titles (borrowed from the standard shellac album of four separate discs). These first jazz long-players suffered the usual complaint that allLP compilations faced:
[F]or jazz, the 33⅓ LP is an expensive nuisance. The eight-in-a-lump purchasing it imposes limits the choice available to the purchaser; by imposing the purchase of a few costly records rather than many cheaper ones it limits the variety of his collection. (Wilford 1953: ii)
But the LP could also aid jazz music. While the songwriting of blues, country and other genres of popular music had been shaped by the short-form record, jazz – although facing the same constraints – remained largely an improvised music. In live performance jazz had continued to break the four-minute barrier. Although the long-playing record was a potentially sympathetic medium, jazz recording was slow to expand. Writing in Melody Maker in 1954, Stanley Dance complained:
For the greater part of its adult life, jazz has been handicapped by the limitation of the 10-inch 78 rpm record … It was defied only where musicians played for 102 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
the love of playing, in jam sessions, at concerts, and for a few specialised jazz labels. If all the advantages of the long-playing record are properly used, the end of this sad convention may be in sight … But the 10-inch conception still remains. In fact, it remains on the greater part of jazz LPs, which merely gather together a collection of performances made for release on 45 and 78 discs. (1954: 11)
While the compilation LP remained the primary focus of the major record companies, several new independent labels experimented with the longer-playing format. Prestige pioneered the recording of ‘blowing sessions’, beginning with an eight-minute recording by Zoot Sims – ‘Zoot Swings the Blues’ – recorded and released in 1951. These largely unrehearsed jams soon began to take up entire sides of jazz LPs, which in turn began to expand towards the 12″ form. Pekka Gronow and Ilpo Saunio have written that ‘When jazz began to appear on LP in the fifties, it was mainly soloists who benefited, having more room to improvise. The formal structures at the basis of the music derived from the age of the 78 r.p.m. record’ (1998: 166). Duke Ellington helped to change things. Among the first jazz artists to explore the compositional boundaries of the 78 rpm record, Ellington was also one of the first to exploit the LP form. As early as 1950, on the LP Masterpieces, he was recording concert-length versions of four of his standards. Two years later, on the instructively titled Hi-Fi Ellington Uptown, he featured a 13-minute performance of ‘Tone Parallel to Harlem’. Ellington’s ‘suites’ were to influence a new generation of jazz artists – such as Miles Davis, John Coltrane and Charles Mingus – who used the LP form for extended works. The longer- playing time enabled them to introduce new conceptions to the music, such as modality and free-improvisation (and in the case of Miles Davis tape editing). It should not be forgotten that the removal of the four-minute constraint also allowed artists to compose shorter works; incorporated within a larger LP there could be no accusation that these tracks short-changed the customer. Jazz artists also utilized the LP for live recordings. Among the early classics of this genre were Benny Goodman’s Carnegie Hall Jazz Concert (recorded in 1938 but first issued in 1950) and Ellington’sE llington at Newport (recorded at the 1956 festival). Evidence of how one successful LP usage can inform another comes with the fact that jazz musicians also used the format to record their versions of Broadway musicals. André Previn’s 1956 interpretation of My Fair Lady inaugurated a long tradition. Jazz music eventually moved almost wholesale to the LP form. In June 1957 Melody Maker introduced a quarterly LP supplement to cover jazz releases, the first of which reviewed 242 LPs. They were now writing:
The whole conception of recorded jazz and pop music has changed. And recording managers were the first to realise the vast potentialities that now lie within their grasp. They can (and do) recreate famous but long-disbanded instrumental groups; they can (and do) devote complete records to experimental the lp 103
jazz; they can (and do) plan their records to capture a mood, an idiom, a particular soloist in unfamiliar setting: they can (and do) introduce new vocalists in such a manner as to illustrate the whole range of their talents. (‘The Record That Works Miracles’ 1957: i)
During the late 1950s the short-form jazz record all but disappeared, to the extent that in February 1960 Melody Maker could report on a complete reversal: EMI records were now going to ‘experiment’ with releasing jazz 45s. Dick Everett of the company was quoted as saying, ‘Apart from special issues to coincide with films or TV shows, no company, at present, appears to be issuing jazz singles’ (‘EMI Jazz Singles Go “On Trial”’ 1960: 11). As jazz moved to the LP format the music changed; also altered was the way in which it was perceived. Although jazz had already shown some evidence of moving towards an ‘art’ mode, the new format helped the music to adopt the long- playing characteristics of seriousness, adulthood and non-commerciality. In the process its position as the soundtrack to youthful rebellion was usurped by rock ’n’ roll, which non-coincidentally found a home on the 45 rpm single. Philip Larkin took note of this transformation:
It doesn’t take much imagination to see that this is where the jazz impulse, the jazz following, has migrated. This is where the jazz public has gone, and even where jazz has gone, for this music, rock and roll, rhythm and blues, or just plain beat, is for all its tedious vulgarity nearer jazz than the rebarbative astringencies of Coleman, Coltrane and the late Eric Dolphy. (2004: 134)
The LP format succeeded where the progressive aspirations of Paul Whiteman and Jack Hylton had failed: jazz now had respectability. The arrival of the LP helped to cement a rupture that is marked in virtually all books, all products and in many fans of the subject. Jazz has its partisans, divided by the eras of shellac and vinyl.
The Folk Revival and the LP
The music of the 1950s and 1960s folk revival, like jazz, highlighted its separation from ‘commercial’ music by adopting the LP format. It is arguable that the galvanizing inspiration for this movement was not the continued tradition of oral performance, but instead the three double-LP compilations of pre-Depression race and hillbilly records that Harry Smith compiled for his Anthology of American Folk Music. The majority of the 84 songs featured entered the repertoire of the folk revivalists, Bob Dylan included. The singer Dave Van Ronk has stated, ‘The Anthology was our bible … We all knew every word of every song on it’ (Marcus 1997: 88). The set was issued on Folkways Records in 1952, early in the history of the LP. As such, these 78 rpm records were absorbed into the long-playing medium. Smith mixed race and hillbilly records together in his sequencing, 104 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record refusing to reveal the colour of the performers in his sleevenotes. Instead the songs were sequenced according to theme and/or by shared musical characteristics. In so doing Smith negated the commercial record labelling that these records had been given, and instead placed the music within a larger narrative. And so, whereas the obscure independent label had been a useful tool in highlighting the ‘authenticity’ of these records (see Chapter 3), the LP could go further still. The format helped to transfer (or re-absorb) these commercial records into a ‘folk’ tradition. Other labels – such as Riverside, Origin Jazz Library, and Yazoo Records – also compiled earlier race and hillbilly 78s onto re-issue ‘folk’ LPs. Bob Dylan was an advocate of this format. He issued four LPs in Britain before deigning to release a 7″ single. In Chronicles he recalled:
I agonized about making a record, but I wouldn’t have wanted to make singles, 45s – the kind of songs they played on the radio. Folksingers, jazz artists and classical musicians made LPs, long-playing records with heaps of songs in the grooves – they forged identities and tipped the scales, gave more of the big picture. LPs were like the force of gravity. They had covers, back and front, that you could stare at for hours. Next to them, 45s were flimsy and uncrystallized. They just stacked up in piles and didn’t seem important. I had no song in my repertoire for commercial radio anyway … I guess you could say they weren’t commercial. Not only that, my style was too erratic and hard to pigeonhole for the radio, and songs, to me, were more important than just light entertainment. (2004: 34–5)
As well as enabling Dylan to cover a wide range of largely timeless subjects – ‘I didn’t know what age of history we were in nor what the truth of it was’ (ibid.) – the LP format gave him the space to approach that subject matter in any way he saw fit – his songs went on for as long or as little as they needed to. Dylan first achieved major fame in the UK in 1965. His albums-orientated success coincided with a general downtown in singles sales, a circumstance that was noted and debated within the British music press (‘There’s a Wind of Change a-Blowin’ in the Pop World’ 1965: 3).
The Best Albums Long-Playing Records of All Time
In 2006, in the academic journal Popular Music, writers Ralf von Appen and André Doehring compiled a ‘meta-list’ of the greatest albums of all time (2006: 23).2 Combining the results of 38 ‘greatest albums’ lists drawn from America,
2 The top 30 of this ‘meta-list’ is as follows: 1. Beatles, Revolver; 2. Beatles, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band; 3. Nirvana, Nevermind; 4. Beatles, The Beatles; 5. Beach Boys, Pet Sounds; 6. Beatles, Abbey Road; 7. Pink Floyd, Dark Side of the Moon; 8. Velvet Underground, Velvet Underground & Nico; 9. Bob Dylan, Blonde on Blonde; 10. the lp 105
Britain, Holland, Belgium, Germany, Australia and various international website polls, and from a time-period ranging from 1985 to 2004, they concluded that ‘Among the thirty “best” albums, a “golden age” of rock music can be identified’ (2006: 22). This period – 1965 to 1969 – accounts for 40 per cent of albums in their combined Top 30, followed by the 1970s (30 per cent) and the 1990s (20 per cent). The dominant source of the Top 30 albums is Great Britain (52 per cent), followed by the US (43 per cent). The leading artists are the Beatles (5 albums) and Bob Dylan (3 albums). Despite the fact that these lists were compiled from the mid 1980s onwards, two-thirds of the albums come from the pre-CD era. Moreover, the post-CD albums are by artists who are influenced by the music of the vinyl era, and who owe a debt to the rock aesthetic forged in the late 1960s. The 1980s, the era of the CDs launch, represents only 12 per cent of entries, each of them by artists using anachronistic 1960s instrumentation. As such, it is my argument that these greatest ‘albums’ of all time are more correctly called the greatest ‘long-playing records’ of all time. Our idea of what constitutes a classic long-form recording remains tied to the aesthetics of the 12″ vinyl disc. There are good reasons why the five-year period of the late 1960s should constitute such a high proportion of these LPs. This was the period in which the lasting identity of the pop music LP was forged. The idea of the milestone is part of the modernist inheritances that have informed popular music; the works that represent breakthroughs in technique as well as in expression have become canonical. This is true of the pop LP: it is the records that first tested the boundaries of what could be done with the extended format, and which established how this format should be perceived, that are most commonly held up as being its masterpieces. However, before we reach these LP landmarks, we must first go back.
Early Pop LPs
The first pop music LPs, like the first jazz LPs, adopted the 78 rpm album format: they were collections of artists’ previous hits. In 1958 NME reported on the release of Johnny Ray, Guy Mitchell and Frankie Laine LPs:
The individual LP presentations will enable fans to purchase for the first time a treasure-chest of NME Top Ten hits by these great U.S. stars – selected
Radiohead, OK Computer; 11. Van Morrison, Astral Weeks. 12. Rolling Stones, Exile on Main St.; 13. Marvin Gaye, What’s Going On; 14. Sex Pistols, Never Mind the Bollocks; 15. Bob Dylan, Highway 61 Revisited; 16. U2, Joshua Tree; 17. Radiohead, The Bends; 18. Stone Roses, Stone Roses; 19. Clash, London Calling. 20. Bob Dylan, Blood on the Tracks; 21. Jimi Hendrix Experience, Are You Experienced?; 22. Smiths, The Queen is Dead; 23. R.E.M., Automatic for the People; 24. Fleetwood Mac, Rumours; 25. U2, Achtung Baby; 26. Pearl Jam, Ten; 27. Bruce Springsteen, Born to Run; 28. Beatles, Rubber Soul; 29. Rolling Stones, Let it Bleed; 30. Oasis, (What’s the Story) Morning Glory? 106 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
from their best-sellers which have appeared in our world-famous international charts … Apart from Elvis Presley and Pat Boone, these three Philips’ stalwarts are the only stars with a sufficient range of hits to be presented in a venture of this kind, involving so many major successes in one pressing. (‘Johnnie Ray, Guy Mitchell, Frankie Laine’ 1958: 6)
As this article indicates, the LP was considered an honour, bestowed upon a select few pop stars. Other genres of music dominated the format: classical, cast recordings, jazz, folk. Elvis Presley’s success broke this hegemony. His record sales were unprecedented: it has been estimated that during the first decade of his career he was responsible for a quarter of RCA Victor’s record sales (Chapple and Garofalo 1977: 210); in Britain advance orders for his first LP were 10,000 (‘Did You Know This about Elvis?’ 1957: 7). Pop music now had a performer who, rather than having to compile LPs out of hit singles, could release LPs of new material that would be hits themselves. Presley and his team at RCA Victor made pioneering attempts to separate LP and single releases; sessions were convened to record ‘LP material’ (Jorgensen 1998). Determined by a co-ordinated release schedule this, in one sense, merely entailed recording songs deemed unworthy of single release: either substandard, not radio-friendly, or cover versions of songs that had been hits for other artists. Nevertheless, his first two LPs, Elvis Presley and Elvis, both of which are made up of previously unreleased material, are powerful and involving records. They were, however, born into a world that had few examples, other than Sinatra’s, of a unified popular music LP. Furthermore, the music was marketed towards young customers, few of whom could afford to buy the longer-playing discs. RCA Victor therefore did not hesitate to issue this LP material in other formats, thus diluting the symbolic entity of the 12 grouped tracks. In particular, they utilized the extended-play (EP) record, which housed four-tracks on a 7″ disc and played at 45 rpm.3 The 12 tracks on both Elvis and Elvis Presley were released
3 First introduced by RCA Victor in the US in 1952, it was April 1954 before EMI issued the first EPs in Britain. This format, which could play approximately seven-and-a- half minutes per side, was used for classical music (for pieces of shorter duration) and for popular music (usually containing four tracks). Its main advantages were soon perceived to be the format’s lower price than the LP (originally retailing at around 10s.) as well as its ability to house the best songs from an LP or, alternatively, four previous hit singles (Lyttelton 1954: 5). Populated with previously released material, the EP found it hard to produce an individual identity and sales never matched those of the cheaper still two-track 7″ single. Moreover, the EP failed to match the two-track single’s public performance ability due to the fact that its narrower grooves rendered it a quieter format. Within popular music the EP’s most interesting latter uses (and boom periods) came with genres that wished to highlight their difference from mainstream pop, but which also wished to offer young fans less expensive records, notably the British R&B boom of the mid 1960s and the punk period of the late 1970s. the lp 107 across two separate series of three EPs. Hedging their bets, RCA Victor eventually released every track off the first album on six different singles. The pop LP remained nebulous. In order to gain thematic unity – even when chopped up into separate formats – it commonly required identification with other media. The most obvious solution was to release film soundtrack material. Following his first two albums, the remainder of Elvis’s pre-army LPs and EPs all relate to his film performances, with the only exceptions being the seasonal and religious material released on Elvis’ Christmas Album and his first greatest hits LP. The film soundtrack not only provided a model for compiling material, it also had undoubted financial allure. Cast and film recordings continued to dominate LP sales; the longevity of those sales appealed to any artist (or manager) wishing to build a lasting career. This was the tactic adopted by Tommy Steele and Cliff Richard, the most successful of the early British rock ’n’ roll stars. It provided the easiest way to sell a whole package: the star as ‘product’; the film itself; the music on the soundtrack. And it worked: Cliff Richard’s film soundtracks were the most successful pre-Beatles British LPs. However, the move towards film-work and the family oriented variety of the material on soundtrack LPs helped to emasculate the image and output of many early rock ’n’ roll performers. In this respect the maturity associated with the LP format was not always a good thing. In contrast with the high-artificiality of a film’s set-pieces, the pop LP also drew upon music’s most ‘authentic’ form: live performance. Cliff Richard’s first album, Cliff, consists of American rock ’n’ roll ‘standards’ performed in a studio filled with dancing teenagers. Four years later producer George Martin considered recording the Beatles’ first LP live in the Cavern Club, eventually deciding that they should recreate their stage act in the studio (Norman 1982: 188). Please Please Me thus opens with an introductory ‘1, 2, 3, 4’ and climaxes with the set- closing ‘Twist and Shout’.
1960s British Pop LPs
As evidenced by their status in the ‘best albums of all time’ polls, the Beatles are central to the evolution of the pop LP. What is less transparent is the part that economics played in this evolution. After Elvis opened up the market for the pop LP, the format was used as a somewhat exploitative form. In America, common practice was to cash in on artist’s single success by featuring the hit record on an LP and to surround it with hastily recorded ‘filler’ material, often cover versions of other recent hits (see, for example, the shared repertoire of the original American rock ’n’ roll stars, or of the artists on the Motown record label). Such arbitrarily compiled LPs stood in contrast to the organic conception of Sinatra’s adult LPs. Moreover, their chart-performance was more akin to that of the singles market: sales were maximized over a short period of time. While the title of the Beatles’ first album is evidence that this practice was undertaken in Britain, the more limited finances of the British record buyer, coupled with relatively more expensive LPs, 108 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record meant that this audience demanded better value for money. The public wanted albums to be different from single releases. This economic imperative is underlined in NME’s review of Cliff Richard’s third album, Me and My Shadows:
Teenagers in their thousands will be saving their shillings, in an effort to raise the 34s, 1½d. for the purchase of this disc – and their thrift will be worthwhile. For their money they will acquire no fewer than 16 tracks by Cliff – what’s more, every one of them is an original composition that you won’t have heard before … So on this album Columbia are in effect offering eight single records compressed into one LP. Simple statistics show that if one bought eight singles at the current price of 6s. 4d. each, the total cost would be 50s. 8d. So, by issuing them in LP, Columbia save the Cliff Richard fans over sixteen bob! (Johnson 1960: 3)
Had the LP contained previously issued singles this thrift would not have been worthwhile. The British public remained vigilant: any artist tipping this economic scale would be chastised in the pages of the music press:
I am an ardent fan of both the Beatles and the Bachelors. But I consider it unfair that the latest albums by these two groups include tracks which have been previously issued on single releases. (Airey 1964: 20)
‘The LP won’t be released in Britain’, said singer Eric Burdon. ‘We shall do a different one over here. Why? Because we don’t think it’s fair to include numbers that have been out here as a single’. (‘Now Animals Make a Mickey- Take’ 1964:10)
The point is that the Stones aren’t in control of everything – some things are out of our hands. We make the records and have a large say in what is released in this country. But America is so different. In the States they will put out an album made up of already-released singles. (‘Mick Explains the Wait for “Satisfaction”’ 1965: 3)
The biggest sin was to release the best tracks on a single after an LP had been released, thus rendering the purchase of the LP unnecessary. Although criticized above, five of the 11 original LPs that the Beatles released in Britain do not feature singles; of the remainder only 1969’s Abbey Road features a single that came out after the LP was released (‘Something’ / ‘Come Together’ duly gave the Beatles their lowest chart placing since their debut). The Rolling Stones were even more considerate. None of their 1960s British LPs feature songs that were released domestically as singles. Separated from the 45 and its singles charts, and associated as it was with the ‘serious’ music of classical, jazz and folk, the LP provided the perfect home for these rhythm and blues purists. In one the lp 109 of the earliest articles about the Rolling Stones, Record Mirror’s readers were informed that ‘despite the fact that their R&B has a superficial resemblance to rock ’n’ roll, fans of the hit parade music would not find any familiar material performed by the Rollin’ Stones’ (Jopling 1965: 2). Finding the LP format ideal for their relatively obscure and ‘non-commercial’ cover versions, the Rolling Stones were the first British pop group to be initially more successful in the album charts than in the singles charts. They were also among the first to use the medium to record tracks that went beyond the normal length of singles: Rolling Stones No. 2 (1964) includes the five-minute recording ‘Everybody Needs Somebody to Love’; Aftermath (1966) features ‘Goin’ Home’, which is 11 minutes 35 seconds long. The LP’s extension of their music helped to extend their career, according to Keith Richards ‘If LPs hadn’t existed, probably the Beatles and ourselves wouldn’t have lasted more than two and a half years’ (2010: 182). The Beatles’ early LPs impressed because they contained material equal and often superior to other groups’ singles releases, most of it self-composed, a unifying factor of considerable importance. In terms of quality, these albums mirrored the package-of-hits format established by 78 rpm album sets. Their success was unprecedented for British LPs. Please Please Me remained at No. 1 for over 30 weeks. Their second LP, With the Beatles, was the first British album to register over 1 million domestic sales. However, it was only as the Beatles’ music became influenced by genres not usually associated with the singles charts that they began to develop a new model for the pop LP. The Beatles’ Help! (1965) contains several Bob Dylan-inspired songs, but it is with Rubber Soul, released later in the same year, that the group’s LPs began to take on a different character to their singles. Several of the LP’s tracks share folk-inspired acoustic textures. It is also here that the Beatles began to move away from the love song towards other themes (‘In My Life’, ‘Nowhere Man’); more elliptical songs (‘Norwegian Wood’); or message-music (‘The Word’). Within Rubber Soul Brian Wilson found a mature unity that encouraged him to work on the Beach Boys’ LP masterpiece Pet Sounds. This LP, in turn, inspired the Beatles to produce Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.
Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band
Released 1 June 1967, Sgt. Pepper is the record that established the pop LP as a medium in its own right. Only four years earlier the band’s live show had been mimicked for their debut LP; in order to produce Sgt. Pepper – a record that they argued could not be reproduced live – the Beatles had forsaken live performance (Gray 1966: 3). The LP was now an end in itself. Sgt. Pepper has also been described as the first pop concept album. Producer George Martin has stated that the decision not to include ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’ and ‘Penny Lane’ on the LP, instead issuing them as a separate single, was ‘the biggest mistake of my professional life’ (1994: 26). But, in following the economic dictates of the British market, Sgt. Pepper could be conceived whole, unsullied by any association with 110 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record the hit parade. Pop music moved towards the Frank Sinatra model of making LPs, involving a unity of mood, considered sequencing and sympathetic packaging. Paul McCartney recalled:
We realised for the first time that some day someone would actually be holding a thing they’d call ‘the Beatles’ new LP’, and that normally it would just be a collection of songs or a nice picture on the cover, nothing more. So the idea was to do a complete thing that you could make what you liked of: a little magic presentation – a packet of things inside the record sleeve. (Taylor, D. 1987: 37)
This ‘complete thing’ drew upon previous classical and cast recording LP practice, and also nodded towards other early long-playing favourites, comedy and sound effects LPs. The album is framed by the idea of the Beatles being the pseudonymous ‘Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band’, who present a complete vaudeville show, which is linked by snippets of an orchestra tuning up and audiences applauding and laughing. Correspondingly, much of the music has an air of British nostalgia (once again, the music on LP is divorced from the contemporary concerns of the singles chart). Narrative on Sgt. Pepper is achieved through the artful sequencing of music and sound, rather than through any lyrical story. The title track begins and nearly finishes the LP; songs are segued into one another. By using a reprise, and in combining songs into longer movements, this LP mimics the dynamics of classical music. It also features classical orchestration, particularly on the climactic ‘A Day in the Life’. It is also manufactured to look like a classical LP. On the vinyl record there are no ‘rills’ between the songs (wider spaced grooves, commonly placed between individual songs), instead the record has the appearance of a continuous suite. Allen Ginsberg was not far off the mark in considering this LP ‘One of the few opera triumphs of the recording century’ (Miles 2010: 247). Prior to Sgt. Pepper the Beatles’ recordings had been combined differently in different territories (their American LPs commonly included fewer tracks). They insisted that this LP be issued in the same manner worldwide. With this unification ensured they could then explore all of the parameters of the LP: a garbled message is included in the final run-out groove; just before that a high-pitched whistle is included ‘especially for dogs’ (Lewisohn 1988: 109). For the first time song lyrics were printed on an LP sleeve, a construction whose ‘packet of things’ includes cut-out medals, moustaches and army stripes. For better or worse Sgt. Pepper deeply affected pop music. George Martin has stated, ‘It was the turning-point. Something that will stand the test of time as a valid art form: sculpture in music’ (Taylor, D. 1987: 41). This record ‘blew people’s minds’. Martin Page informed fellow readers of Melody Maker:
I have just heard the most beautiful sound in all my life. I mean of course the Beatles’ Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. It’s practically a new art form. Every track is absolutely fantastic, especially ‘She’s Leaving Home’, and ‘Lucy the lp 111
in the Sky with Diamonds’. The Beatles going down? Absolute rubbish. This LP shows they are at least five years ahead of everyone else. (1967: 16)
Nevertheless, there were readers for whom ‘sculpture in music’ was not a primary requirement:
What the hell are the Beatles trying to do to pop music? On listening to their new album I was so shocked that I lost all my appreciation of the Beatles talents. Any normal musically minded person could never hope to like this kind of stuff. If this is a new era the group are trying to create, then they have my praise, but to try and sell the public rubbish like this, then they are spitting into the faces of their fans. (Jackson, B. 1967: 16)
The Rock LP
The Beatles borrowed the LP’s cultural associations and placed them within the pop world. As this happened a rupture was happening within pop music itself: some artists continued to be considered ‘pop’, whereas others classified their music as ‘rock’. This split was aligned with format. If performers wanted to make ‘pop’ music they should use the 7″ single; if they wanted to make ‘art’ and be considered ‘rock’ they should use the LP. The former ensnared in commerce; the latter a valid art-form. The pop/rock opposition was enabled by the fact that singles and LPs could be articulated for differing musical and cultural causes. It was the commercial success of Sgt. Pepper that helped to encourage rock artists to adopt the ‘non-commercial’ long-player; the record quickly became the Beatles’ biggest-selling LP. Market trends that had encouraged the Beatles to devote such attention to the long-playing form were compounded by its success. In 1968 British manufacturers produced more LPs than singles for the first time, a transition that occurred within a market that was expanding rapidly as a whole. This was the climate that enabled bands such as Cream to decry the 45 rpm format. In late 1967 Eric Clapton informed Melody Maker:
The main reason for not wanting to do them [singles] is we are very anti the whole commercial market. The whole nature of the single making process has caused us a lot of grief in the studios. I’m a great believer in the theory that singles will become obsolete and LPs will take their place. There will be extended LPs at 16 rpm lasting two to three hours. Singles are an anachronism. To get any good music in a space of two or three minutes requires working to a formula and that part of the pop scene really leaves me cold. I hate all that rushing around trying to get a hit. (‘Cream Declare War on Singles’ 1967: 12)
Singles are fast; LPs revolve and evolve more slowly, they are more considered. Rock LPs, like the classical, cast recording, jazz and folk LPs that influenced them, sold over a longer period of time than most single releases. They also took 112 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record longer to create. In the late 1960s the folk- and rock-orientated label Elektra boasted of the organic genesis of LPs by the Doors and Love: ‘Sorry it’s taken so long to bring you these new albums … think how long it takes a tree to grow!’ (advert, Melody Maker, 11 October 1969: 9). Similarly, with pregnant anticipation the advertising for Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon revealed that the album ‘has been nine months in the making’ (Melody Maker, 10 March 1973: 20). For rock artists the album served as a way of ordering time, rather than containing it. Writing in Sounds, Martin Hayman registered the long-player’s difference from the three-minute single:
Three minutes is short enough, and striking enough, to fuse perfectly with the mood of the listener. It becomes part of the listener’s own experience. It no longer belongs to the artist … Singles are part of everyday life. That’s why people remember them, evoking memories of time and place and sensation. Your masterworks, whatever your personal aesthetics may be, are a different bag of conkers. Your ‘Topographic Oceans’, your ‘Brain Salad Surgery’, even your ‘Planet Waves’, they become artefacts, create their own world. The time that surrounds them is an extrapolation of the work itself. They create their own environment. (1974: 21)
Rock LP artists took their cues from classical music and contemporary jazz musicians and explored the limits of the medium (and then beyond: double- and then triple-LPs became common). In the late 1960s and early 1970s rock artists’ songs grew longer and less radio-friendly (until stereo FM radio was adopted as a broadcast medium for these new exploratory musics). New environments were also created through the use of storytelling. The Beatles’ loose Sgt. Pepper concept was followed by more obvious narratives, such as the Moody Blues’ Days of Future Past or the Pretty Things’ S.F: Sorrow. The cultural aspirations of LP-based concepts such as Tommy, The Who’s self-styled ‘rock opera’, were obvious, as were the associations sought by Deep Purple’s Concerto for Group and Orchestra and Emerson, Lake & Palmer’s interpretation of Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition. Nevertheless, the LPs of this period that are listed among the ‘best of all time’ are commonly more subtle in their establishment of mood. Records such as Astral Weeks, Exile on Main Street and Dark Side of the Moon build upon the Frank Sinatra method of creating LPs: an enveloping atmosphere is created through instrumentation, arrangement and lyrics. Studio technology (in particular the expansion of multi-track recording from 4 to 32 tracks and upwards) and the adoption of stereo helped to give these records a proportioned sense of dynamics. Artists also took advantage of the two-sided nature of an LP. Where the earliest practice had been to house the hits at the beginnings of either side of the record, songs would now be grouped into divided movements, such as can be heard on Pink Floyd’s or Marvin Gaye’s LPs. Although many artists still housed their strongest tracks at each side’s start, atmospheric beginnings and side-closing the lp 113 peaks were also employed. In addition, the two-faced nature of the LP enabled artists to contrast its different sides. Within rock music Bob Dylan and the Beatles were the pioneers of mirroring and inverting the two halves of an LP. Dylan’s folk music apostasy is reversed on 1965’s Bringing It All Back Home (which by a few months pre-dates his notorious Newport Festival appearance). On side one he ‘goes’ electric; on side two there is just guitar and voice. Other artists, including David Bowie (Low), Joni Mitchell (Court and Spark) and the Beatles (Abbey Road), would go on to produce albums with strongly contrasting sides. The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper concept is also dependent on the dual-sided nature of the LP. The theatrical production – beginning with an orchestra tuning up and concluding with an encore – is broken by an intermission. However, it is the ‘Sgt. Pepper’ reprise that makes the whole concept hang together: bridging and dividing the two sides, it summarizes and contrasts. This use of the reprise has been much imitated. Neil Young used it in combination with an acoustic/electric split, book- ending at least three of his albums with different versions of the same song. On one occasion he inverts the title as well (‘My, My, Hey, Hey (Out of the Blue)’ becomes ‘Hey, Hey, My, My (into the Black)). Pink Floyd were also fond of this device: ‘Shine on You Crazy Diamond’ opens and closes Wish You Were Here; ‘Pigs on the Wing’ performs the same task on Animals. Such carefully constructed albums were dependent on the two-sided form and have suffered with their transfer to CD. Sgt. Pepper, in particular, is a diminished work. During the years of vinyl’s dominance this album repeatedly won polls as being the ‘best of all time’. Their less format-driven Revolver has now been elevated above it. What has also been lost with the transition from the vinyl long-player to the CD is the idea of brevity. Artists in the vinyl era rarely had to sequence more than seven songs on each side their records. This 15-to-25-minute burst of music could encompass a range of moods or a single mood, offering a concentrated listening experience. In comparison it is hard to maintain attention throughout a single-sided CD. This problem has been compounded as compact discs have expanded beyond the LP’s time limits towards their own 74-minute capacity. In such environs the art of sequencing has atrophied.
Later Vinyl LPs
As rock albums began to be artistically structured the demand arose that they be listened to as a whole. Consequently, groups such as Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd refused to have any singles released off their LPs (a policy that was more strictly adhered to in the UK than the US). The reverse reaction was that there were genres and audiences whose main province became the 45 rpm single: bubble-gum, ska, northern soul, glam rock. This partition could not be sustained. The period of the late 1960s / early 1970s saw the widest separation of the pop and rock audiences for singles and LPs. It was also the last period in which musicians consistently differentiated their album material from their single releases. 114 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
There is a simple reason why the situation changed, and why rock and pop music both felt the need to colonize the LP and the 45: economics. Writing in NME in 1976 Paul Gambaccini noted:
An objection is heard emanating from the back of the room that singles and albums are separate markets. I have heard that voice before, and I smile, for the objection is empty. It is only the voice of innocence speaking, still convinced that great pop music can exist at one turntable speed without necessarily being available on the other … In the recessionary economy of the seventies, record companies have made sure that best-selling singles are available on the albums released by their artists, hoping that the presence of a familiar tune on a long player will make it less of a trauma for the consumer to part with his $6.98 or £2.79. (1976: 13)
What actually occurred was a complete transformation. Whereas pop LPs had originally been released to cash in on the success of single records, singles came to be considered (within the industry at least) as money-losing advertisements for albums. This relationship was made transparent when artists – including progressive rock groups such as Genesis and Yes – began to talk of issuing singles off their ‘parent’ LPs (Welch 1977: 35). In the 1960s it had been heresy to lift a single from an LP; by the late 1970s over half the records in the British singles charts had started life as album tracks (White, C. 1977: 37). Moreover, far from the idea that artists should record separate singles and album releases, a song would now often be taken from an LP and truncated into a ‘single’ or ‘radio’ edit, or alternatively expanded into a 12″ version. Even punk was not immune. This genre began life as a musical form that stood in opposition to the serious, adult rock music that had colonized the LP. The Sex Pistols, the movement’s frontrunners, initially planned to be a singles-only band (Reid and Savage 1987: 79). Nevertheless, the Never Mind the Bollocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols LP was eventually released and it contained all four of the group’s previously issued 45s. The fact that this record is listed among the best albums of all time reveals the complexity and contradictions of the punk movement: juvenile and sophisticated; rebellious and classicist; commercial and cultish. In some ways punk actually helped to bring the single and the LP closer together: punk LPs were regularly comprised of single-length tracks; conversely, punk singles were among the first to be regularly sleeved, like LPs. In the 1980s the practice of issuing singles off LPs was taken to extremes. Half of the tracks on David Bowie’s 1983 album Let’s Dance were released as singles; Michael Jackson issued one single off his Thriller album before it came out and later released a further six songs from this nine-song LP. This policy was undoubtedly successful: Let’s Dance is Bowie’s biggest-selling LP and Thriller, according to Guinness World Records, is the biggest-selling album of all time (Glenday 2007: 178). It could thus be argued that the most successful method of patterning an album harks back to the earliest: Thriller, in effect, is like the first the lp 115 popular album sets: it is a collection of hits. As further proof the UK’s biggest- selling album is Queen’s Greatest Hits. And yet neither Michael Jackson’s nor Queen’s record appears in the Top 30 of the best albums of all time. In fact, despite being eligible, there are no greatest hits albums listed at all. Moreover, it is the ‘best albums of all time’ canon, and not the chart of best-selling records of all time, that is more akin to the releases that are prized by collectors and which are being re-issued on vinyl.4 This is perhaps as it should be. The records among this list are representative of the evolution and aesthetics of Columbia’s long-playing record. They were inspired by, and to be fully understood still require, the setting of an LP. It is artists who are influenced by the ‘golden’ 1960s/1970s period of the LP who are leading the latest vinyl renaissance. They wish to rekindle the skills of compiling and sequencing, as well as key into the aesthetics of the earlier vinyl releases. Alex Turner of the Arctic Monkeys has stated ‘we think about records, we think about two sides’ (Is Vinyl on the Revival 2012). Ed O’Brien of Radiohead is another ardent admirer: ‘Vinyl for me is the superior format, there’s no doubt for me that when you listen to vinyl, it’s how you should listen to music: the frequencies, and just the sonics, and the way that you turn it over’ (ibid.). At times a belief in the special qualities of the vinyl LP can be taken to extremes: Josh T Pearson didn’t include the title track of his 2011 album Last of the Country Gentlemen on its CD release because he felt it was too personal; instead it was reserved for the LP. He claimed that the ‘vinyl would be a little more sacred’ (Barton 2011). Richard Hawley has been more forthright in his partisanship, for him ‘the trouble with CDs is: they’re rubbish!’ (Is Vinyl on the Revival 2012).
4 EMI and Castle Communications 1997 vinyl re-issues concentrated upon acts such as the Small Faces, the Kinks and Pink Floyd. Simply Vinyl, a company that obtained the rights to issue vinyl copies of many of the majors’ LPs, included among its first releases in 1999 records by Bob Dylan, the Byrds, Eric Clapton, James Brown, the Clash and Nirvana. In 2005 the charity shop Barnardo’s reported a surge in demand for LPs by the Beatles and the Rolling Stones (Byrne 2005). This page has been left blank intentionally Chapter 6 The 45
Introduction
Three weeks ago I thought the singles charts had reached their lowest ebb. I corrected this decision two weeks ago, and again this time. God only knows what next week will bring. Just who the hell buys this crud and how can it be stopped? Just think how much valuable vinyl they are consuming in the form of Lena Zavaroni, the Wombles, Paper Lace, The Rubettes and the like. Come on, lobby your MPs – seven inch records must be made illegal. (Nauseated Floyd Freak 1974: 34. Emphasis in original)
We were throwing out these fantastic objects that were doing to people what 7-inch singles had done to me. Which I regarded as mystical objects, and still do. It ain’t because I’m a retro head, but I still think that the 7-inch single, as an entity, is an absolutely powerful otherworldly object. Its power is way beyond its physical dimensions. (Johnny Marr, quoted in Harrison, I. 2007: 51)
The 7″, 45 rpm record has been the most emotive of recording formats. People have thought about this item in sharply conflicting ways. In this chapter I examine four elements that have helped to divide opinion. First, there is the way in which 7″ singles have been received. On the one hand, the 45 can be considered vinyl’s mass mediated, most manipulated, most manipulative form. This by no means always leads to bad music, but it can prompt outbursts such as that of the Floyd Freak quoted above. On the other hand, there have been singles that have been harder to track down and which have been less widely heard; these records are more likely to retain their value and their purchaser’s affection. Second, there is the way in which singles have been articulated. There are genres that have deliberately coupled themselves with this format, while there are others that have spurned any association. Third, there is the format’s cross-pollinating tendency. The heady activity of the singles charts has encouraged generic dialogue. Musical tribes have been conflicted about whether genres should mutate or remain pure, and about whether success in the singles charts is good or can be ruinous. Fourth, there is the 45 rpm record’s status as a thing. Looked at from one point of view the 7″ single is a crassly commercial product. For most of its life it had no picture sleeves; instead it was the manufacturer’s label that provided the dominant visual impact. Conversely, it could be argued that the 7″ single provides the perfect representation of recorded music. Music has been predominantly consumed and thought about in terms of individual songs. The 7″ single gives these songs their 118 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record most direct and literal representation, be it via the groove or the label it encircles. It is in this sense that singles have come to be regarded as ‘mystical objects’. In tracing these four overlapping but not always corresponding polarities this chapter is also split. Its first half tells the story of the origins and evolution of the 45 rpm record in the US. Its second half looks at the British market, tracing consumers’ regard and disregard for this disc.
Pre-45
During the Depression years of the early 1930s the American record industry went into decline. Its eventual recovery was largely thanks to the jukebox, a device that also helped to inspire the 45 rpm single. Record sales in the US plummeted from around 104 million in 1927 to 6 million in 1932 (Gelatt 1977: 255). The general downtown in the economy, initiated by the October 1929 stock market crash, offers the principal reason for this fall. Additionally, the record industry was losing out to radio broadcasting, which proved to be more resilient than other areas of the entertainment business. Roland Gelatt has argued that records had also begun to lose their allure:
[T]here was in addition something else, something intangible: a sudden disenchantment on a country-wide scale with phonographs, needles, records, and the whole concept of ‘canned music’. The malaise broke out in 1929 and spread devastatingly to every city and state in America. Albums of Red Seal Records, displayed so proudly by a former generation, were unceremoniously relegated to the attic or sold by the pound to a junk dealer; so were the expensive Victrolas on which they had been played. (1977: 256)
The revival of the American record industry took place away from the home. In so doing it mirrored an earlier period in the industry’s history. The phonograph’s initial turn towards popular music had begun in 1889 when Louis Glass transformed the record business with his nickle-in-the-slot phonograph and its public performance of recorded music. After this, the next great achievement of the industry was the domestication of its discs and record players with machines such as the Victrola. The jukebox, an obvious successor to Glass’s machine, reversed this trend. During the inter-war period recorded music was returned to the public sphere. The Automatic Music Instrument Company produced the first modern jukebox in 1927. This device featured electronic amplification and a multi-disc record changer. Although other companies soon joined this market, initial sales of these machines were negligible: approximately 12,000 were sold prior to 1930 (Sanjek and Sanjek 1991: 52). It was with the repeal of Prohibition in December 1933 that sales flourished. Estimates vary, but it is thought that the number of jukeboxes in the US grew tenfold, from about 25,000 in 1934 to quarter of a million by 1939 (Chanan 1995: 83). Meanwhile, annual US record sales increased, reaching the 45 119
33 million by 1938 (Gelatt 1977: 273). Again estimates vary, but it is likely that between 40 and 60 per cent of these discs were destined for jukeboxes (Chapple and Garofalo 1977: 6). As it transformed the market for recorded music, the jukebox also altered its repertoire. Loud music was required for noisy meeting places. One of the early mainstays of the jukebox was country music, which in the ‘honkytonks’ became louder, more percussive and was electrified. Race records were also favoured. Due to the relative poverty of its customers, the market for race records had been decimated during the Depression. It shared its revival with the jukebox. The music responded to this new medium: it grew more rhythmic and increased in volume, developing into the rhythm and blues that foreshadowed rock ’n’ roll. The close relationship between black music and the jukebox is indicated by the fact that it is here that the machine earned its name. The manufacturers of automated machines for a long time resisted the term ‘jukebox’, taken as it was from the black ‘juke joints’ in which many machines were found. And, as for ‘juking’ itself:
‘Juking’ is derived from the Gullah dialect of the sea-island slaves of South Carolina and Georgia. It originally meant ‘disorderly’ or ‘wicked’ but became a common word in black vernacular for having sex. Like ‘rock ’n’ roll’, which also started life as a euphemism for fucking, the verb ‘juke’ eventually came to mean ‘dance’. (Brewster and Broughton 2006: 56)
The practice of playing from a repertoire of discs, selected according to customer preference, soon influenced other areas of the music industry. Radio shows, for instance, began to replicate the jukebox experience. Where radio had previously mirrored and/or broadcast concerts by individual acts, presenters now played records one song by one act at a time. Martin Block, who began broadcasting his ‘Make Believe Ballroom’ in 1934, was the first disc jockey to truly popularize this idea. Equally consequential was the development of the charts. The mechanism of the jukebox made it possible to tabulate each time a record had been selected. Accordingly, in the late 1930s the magazine Variety published the first jukebox popularity chart, which was itself the first chart based on recorded music. A ‘Top 40’ was chosen because this was the standard number of discs in a machine (Brewster and Broughton 2006: 58). Radio and charts soon intermingled, the two developments coming together in shows such as ‘Your Hit Parade’ and the tellingly named ‘Jukebox Saturday Night’. ‘Top 40 Radio’ built upon this. Observing jukebox customers’ habit of repeatedly selecting the same songs, Todd Storz, the owner of Omaha station KWOH, believed that the same pattern could be applied to radio. The result was a reduced playlist of 40 songs, rotated throughout the day. Storz introduced this concept to his radio station in the early 1950s. As it spread throughout the 1950s and early 1960s, Top 40 radio became the dominant form of radio programming in the US. The jukebox style of listening to music also influenced the earliest rock ’n’ roll concerts: these were package tours featuring a large number of artists who would perform their hits in rotation. 120 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
Victor developed the first auto-change record player marketed for home use. This product was launched in 1927, the same year as the first jukebox. Originally the two devices were thought of separately. The auto-changer was promoted as a labour-saving device, allowing customers to programme selections of all forms of music. Nevertheless, a sales rise accompanied the jukebox’s rise. With its ability to stack a variety of discs in one go, the auto-changer offered the closest domestic approximation of jukebox listening, as well as that of the radio programmes that the jukebox had inspired. Read and Welch have argued that the jukebox ‘set the popular taste for reproduction in home phonographs as well’ (1976: 269). This industry also affected the construction of these phonographs: jukebox manufacturers began to make changers for domestic machines. During the late 1930s, while early experiments with long-playing records floundered, rising sales of auto-change players indicated that this was the industry’s growth area. There was a problem, however. Shellac records worked perfectly well on the jukebox. Here the mechanism grabbed each disc individually and ensured that the correct one was played. Balanced on the narrow spindle of the domestic auto- changer these heavy 10″ and 12″ shellac records became precipitous. Shellac records had never been made to uniform dimensions: weight, height and breadth all varied. As a result the drive and separator mechanisms of auto-changer record players tended to malfunction. In the late 1930s it was found that record changers had the worst reputation of all RCA Victor products (Magoun 2002: 9). Consequently, Thomas F. Joyce of RCA Victor’s Home Instruments department challenged Ben Carson, designer of their previous auto-change record players, to develop a more efficient machine. In response, Carson argued that he would have to develop a new disc as well.
RCA Victor’s 45 rpm Disc
Although RCA Victor’s 45 rpm disc was launched after Columbia’s long- playing record, work on this device started earlier, in 1939, and was substantially completed in advance of the LP project. This chronology is witnessed by the fact that, whereas Columbia’s research team knew about RCA Victor’s 45 rpm disc, the latter company was unaware of the LP until it was previewed to them in April 1948. The two projects were different in focus: Columbia’s research centred on the development of a new disc; RCA Victor, the only American company then manufacturing both record players and discs, were interested in introducing a complete audio system. The difference is borne out in the titles each company gave to their research. The team behind the LP detailed their invention in an article entitled ‘The Columbia Long-Playing Microgroove Recording System’ (Goldmark, Snepvangers and Bachman 1949); the team behind the 7″ announced theirs in the paper ‘A Record Changer and Record of Complementary Design’ (Carson, Burt and Reiskind 1949). the 45 121
The RCA Victor player and disc were truly complementary: the 45 was designed for a specific record player and for a specific way of playing records. In order to stabilize the stack of records on the auto-changer it was necessary to make discs smaller and lighter. Although commonly described as 7″ records, the discs invented by RCA Victor are 6⅞″ in diameter. The decision to use only one size of disc helped to reduce the complexity of the auto-changers; the fact that that disc was small meant that the player could be reduced in size, making it economic to manufacture and sell. The same factor applied to the records: the use of 6⅞″ discs meant that less material was used. This enabled the adoption of the then expensive synthetic thermoplastic resins. The Vinylite that was adopted had the multiple advantages of providing lighter records, finer record grooving, better sound reproduction, uniform manufacture and toughness. These vinyl discs were provided with a large centre hole, determined by the 1½″ spindle of the record player (this eventually disappeared from the majority of 45s). A larger centre hole helped to give the records support on the auto-changer, as well making loading easier. It also helped to reduce stress in usage. Various characteristics were balanced in order to provide the discs with a high recording level and good signal- to-noise ratio. The minimum linear speed for the inner grooves was set at 11.5 inches per second; the maximum groove width was determined as 275 per inch; and a sapphire needle of 1-mil radius was chosen for reproduction. To determine the maximum duration of their new disc the engineers analysed the RCA Victor repertoire of recordings. All items in the catalogue ‘The Music America Loves Best’ other than current popular tunes were timed. It was found that 82 per cent ran for less than five minutes. Red Seal records, which at this point made up 35 per cent of RCA Victor’s gross sales, were analysed separately. Here, rather than time the overall length of classical compositions, the team measured ‘a selection or part of a work, such as a movement of a symphony, that was written to be played without a break’ (Carson, Burt and Reiskind 1949: 183). It was found that 70 per cent of these selections lasted less than five minutes. Finally, the team analysed the ‘Current popular tunes which make up the bulk of record sales’ (ibid.). When the team quantified the combined figures, weighing them according to sales volume, they found that 96 per cent of all units sold had a playing time below five minutes. As a result the maximum playing time of the new disc was set at 5⅓ minutes. To incorporate this length of recording on the 6⅞″ disc the rotational speed needed to be reduced. After experiments with 33⅓ rpm and 40 rpm motors, Ben Carson’s team adopted the 45 rpm speed in 1943.1 This speed
1 The 45 rpm speed was based upon calculations made by J.P. Maxfield. He argued that the best balance between playing time and signal-to-noise ratio would be given by a groove density of three minutes per radial inch, and also that the innermost groove of a disc should be half the diameter of the outermost groove (hence the 3½″ label area on a 45 rpm disc). Given the 6⅞″ diameter of the new record it was found that 45 rpm provided the desired playing time within the designated bandwidth; 45rpm was not chosen because of the simple calculation of 78 minus 33 = 45. 122 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record was compatible with the auto-change mechanism. Rotating at 45 rpm, the record player had a changeover time between discs of approximately five seconds. Carson’s team completed the prototype record player by March 1944, at which point it was presented to Thomas Joyce and the Home Instruments’ marketing department. According to Alexander Magoun, ‘The group saw immediate advantages in the size of the player and the records beyond those specified five years before’ (2002: 12). Home Instruments believed that a post-war rollout would be ‘particularly opportune’; at this point the industry’s inventory would be ‘near the vanishing point – the industry anxious for something new – the public anticipating something radical’ (ibid.). RCA Victor’s new system did not appear until 31 March 1949, and only then as a response to the Columbia long-playing record, which had been launched nine months previously. There are various reasons for this delay. Importantly, there had been changes in the staffing and structure of RCA Victor. Key people left the company, including Edward Wallerstein and Thomas Joyce. The RCA Manufacturing Company was dissolved and replaced with a RCA Victor division under the control of Frank M. Folsom, whose focus was on increased production and market penetration, not innovation. Folsom’s conservatism was compounded by the post-war boom in consumer spending. Sales in the industry rose by 65 per cent in 1945 and doubled in 1946, before peaking at $224 million in 1947 (ibid.: 16). While the industry prospered it was felt that there was little need for radical change. In addition, the demand for auto-change record players continued to soar. As a result the Radio Manufacturers’ Association introduced a set of standards for shellac records and changers, somewhat thwarting the need for RCA Victor’s new system.
The Battle of the Speeds
The Battle of the Speeds not only introduced the 45 rpm disc to the world, it also managed to obscure the motivations for its inspiration. Stung by the success of Columbia’s LP, RCA Victor maintained that in relation to classical music the continuity provided by the auto-change mechanism offered a comparable, perhaps superior listening experience to that of the long-playing record. Such reasoning had not always been the case. When viewing Ben Carson’s March 1944 prototype, one of the few objections RCA’s Instrument Department raised was in relation to classical music. They argued that the sound reproduction of the 45 rpm system was ‘commercially satisfactory’ for most forms of music, but that it might be necessary to market a different disc and different record player for the High Fidelity market. Their suggestion – ‘a 10″ and/or 12″ record which would have better quality than anything before available commercially’ – sounds uncannily like the reasoning behind Columbia’s LP (ibid.: 12). When the 45 rpm system was finally launched RCA Victor were insistent that their disc was suitable for the full repertoire of music. Professional jealousy and commercial reasoning both played a part in this stance. It has been reported that the 45 123
David Sarnoff, the president of RCA, became ‘visibly upset’ at the preview of the LP in April 1948, stating that ‘I can’t believe little Columbia Graphophone invented this without my knowing it’ (ibid.: 24). Sarnoff did not wish to endorse a 10″ or 12″ disc for any type of music. Magoun has detailed the more practical aspects of this approach:
Contrary to popular belief, Columbia’s early transfers varied widely in sound quality. Doubtless its engineers would improve on that, after which the label would seize the high ground acoustically and culturally. Without staking its claim, RCA Victor threatened to lose not only the classical market but the opportunity to supplant the 78 popular disc with its records and patented changer. Pushing the 45 as a classical format as well not only assuaged Sarnoff’s ego but bought the recording department time to remaster its 78-rpm masters and offer an LP superior to Columbia’s. (Ibid.)
To promote their LP Columbia Records used a marketing philosophy previously associated with their rivals. During the early part of the twentieth century Victor advertising centred on its prestigious Red Seal catalogue: reputation was built from the top down. Wallerstein maintained this approach when he moved from RCA Victor to Columbia in 1939. The whole impetus behind the design and marketing of the LP was the classical market; it was believed that its rich cultural associations would lend both the product and the company esteem. RCA Victor, in comparison, now pursued a middle-brow course. Folsom had previously worked for General Motors and favoured that company’s marketing strategy of targeting the broadest base of consumers. Such an approach had already been in evidence in the design of the 45 rpm record. When determining the duration of the disc the figures had been weighed in terms of unit sales, rather than in relation to the actual items in the catalogue. Moreover, classical music had been assessed according to the length of individual passages; the overall unity of the work was disregarded, as was the relatively low percentage figure arrived at for classical works of under five minutes duration. The length of recordings wasn’t the only problem that RCA had to counter. In the public’s mind disc size was associated with maturity. Previously discs with a diameter between 6″ and 8″ had been assigned for children’s music, whereas the 12″ disc was the province of classical recordings. Because of this the Home Instruments department had warned Ben Carson that his small disc ‘should look like a more costly product than it is’ (ibid.: 12). Disregarding this advice the marketing team at RCA issued the first 7″ discs in a range of gaudy colours, even though coloured vinyl had previously been associated with children’s records. The colours of generic record labels now spread across the whole disc: black vinyl for popular music, red for classical, yellow for children’s, cerise for folk, green for country and western, blue for semi-classical and light blue for international. This approach failed. RCA’s coloured vinyl had various negative effects: it complicated production; window displays of the records melted in the heat; and 124 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record worst of all, ‘the colors reinforced the impression of artifice and cheapness that plastic represented to most consumers’ (ibid.: 32). Meanwhile, Columbia was triumphantly promoting its LP with uninterrupted performances of the Nutcracker Suite. In July 1949 American dealers reported that Columbia’s LPs were outselling RCA Victor’s boxed albums of 45s by a ratio of as much as 30:1 (ibid.). The ‘top-down’ approach to marketing was successful. Within 18 months of the LP’s introduction every major American record company except RCA Victor was manufacturing this format. Conversely, only Capitol Records had assumed the manufacture of 45s. Rather than surrender, RCA Victor rediscovered another of its early marketing tactics: sheer force. Coloured vinyl was dropped and instead the company spent $5 million on a hard sell campaign. The price of their Victrola 45 record players was halved; auto-changers were installed in consoles and combinations; and in return for the future promise of LP recording Victor classical artists were encouraged to endorse the 45. It was among buyers of non-classical music, however, that the 45 rpm disc was increasingly adopted. In response all of the major companies including Columbia began to adopt the single for their popular repertoire. Correspondingly, on 4 January 1950 RCA Victor felt confident enough to announce its intention to ‘make available its great artists and unsurpassed classical library on new and improved long-playing (33⅓-r.p.m.) records’ (Schonberg 1950: 156). Unsurprisingly, the robust 45 rpm disc found a partner in the jukebox, the device that had provided much of its inspiration. In October 1950 the J.P. Seeburg Company launched the M100B model, the first jukebox capable of playing 45 rpm discs. The success of this machine helped to ensure the survival of the 7″ record. By 1952 there were an estimated 35,000 45 rpm jukeboxes in operation in the US (Krivine 1977: 114). Two years later over 200 million 45s had been retailed (Gelatt 1977: 296). The Battle of the Speeds is usually regarded as resulting in a draw. However, the rhetoric of Columbia and RCA Victor has occluded the fact that both companies achieved their original aims: Columbia’s 33⅓ rpm LP defeated the high-class 12″, 78 rpm record; RCA Victor’s 45 rpm single defeated the middle-brow 10″, 78 rpm record. On the other hand, it could be argued that the Battle of the Speeds did not cease. The two formats remained tied to different types of customers, as such the battle moved on from being one between record companies to being one between music genres. Throughout their lives the LP and the 45 have been articulated for differing musical causes.
The 45’s External Influences
The LP favoured domestic, sedentary listening. The single, with its short playing time and popular repertoire, existed in the social world. Nevertheless, the more public format was the one over which the public had least control. Jukebox manufacturers and broadcasters set many of the parameters of the 7″ single, among the 45 125 them the variables of volume, duration and tone. The institution of the singles charts, meanwhile, had great effect on the way in which 45s were created and perceived.
Volume
From their jukebox beginnings 45 rpm singles were made so that they would rub up against one another, both physically and aurally. They were always in competition, shouting against each other to be heard. Singles had deeper grooves than LPs and were cut at the limit of playability. This raised them 6 db higher than their album counterparts, the extra volume required for jukebox and discothèque play. Eventually, in order to prevent manufacturers from producing ever-louder records, jukebox manufacturers introduced automatic reproduction levels and compression to their machines.
Duration
Sound recording introduced the idea of the time limit to music, but it was radio that took the three-minute limit of early 10″ shellac discs and institutionalized it. In America radio programming was governed by the ‘Drake Clock’, a device that allocated a set amount of time for each disc played. In turn, this enabled the rigid scheduling of commercials, news reports and traffic bulletins. As a consequence, record producers were dissuaded from utilizing the 5:20 playing time of the 45 rpm disc. The three-minute barrier remained. The early to mid 1960s, the era of Top 40 radio’s dominance in the US, was a period even shorter singles. Writing in NME, Derek Johnson argued that this was ‘because the record companies feel that the shorter the record the more chance there is of disc-jockeys including it in their programmes’ (1965: 5). Records that successfully managed to transgress these boundaries earned lasting fame. Particularly notable were two chart-topping singles of 1964: The Animals’ ‘House of the Rising Sun’ (4:29, although edited down to 2:58 for its American release) and the Righteous Brothers’ ‘You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling’ (3:44, but cunningly listed on its label as 3:05). During the late 1960s new record cutting technology made longer singles possible, such as Bob Dylan’s ‘Like a Rolling Stone’ (6:09) and the Beatles’ ‘Hey Jude’ (7:11). In this era of expanded consciousness the average length of singles began to creep upwards. This was to have a detrimental effect on the jukebox industry. The three-minute time limit had been essential to operators’ profits. In contrast, the late 1960s witnessed the industry’s sharp decline.
Tone
The transistor, unveiled by Bell Laboratories in December 1947, made possible the advent of portable radios and car radios. Not only did this development widen the influence of radio, it also affected the sound of 45s. Singles were mixed with the tonal spectrum of the transistor radio in mind. Additionally, the influence of 126 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record monophonic AM broadcasting meant that 45s eschewed stereo until the late 1960s, at which point the influence of stereo FM radio was increasing. AM broadcasting helped to account for the decision of artists such as Phil Spector and Brian Wilson to produce only mono mixes of their recordings (Granata 2003: 126). Mono recording was also favoured by jukebox manufacturers. Stereo separation was not suited to their record players, which housed all of their components – records, auto-change system, loudspeakers – inside a single cabinet.
The Charts
It was quicker and therefore less expensive to create a 45 than an LP. However, the factor that ensured singles’ fast turnover was their public life. Above all it was the institution of the singles charts and their close association with radio and jukebox play that determined their sales period. The concentration here was upon upwards movement; once a single began to decline from its chart peak broadcasters would usually spurn it. As such, back catalogue was not a concept commonly associated with the 45 rpm disc. This instant curtailment helped to fuse singles with specific moments in time. This had contradictory effects. On the one hand, the nostalgia fostered by such time-bound records helped to give them a degree of immortality. On the other hand, the quick turn-around of singles could lead to their casual dismissal. For example, Goddard Lieberson, president of Columbia in the 1970s, maintained: ‘I regard singles as newspapers and LPs as magazines, one has a less permanent interest’ (‘Goddard Lieberson Interview’ 1970: 11). And yet when singles were in the public eye that gaze could be intense. The singles charts were the focus of greater attention and greater competition than the albums charts. Singles were compared with each other in a way that albums were not (witness the practice whereby music magazines and newspapers would commonly allocate separate journalists to review each LP but the week’s single releases were analysed by one totalizing reviewer). In fact, singles fought to be compared with one another. In America the idea of crossover success was quite literal. A 7″ single might begin its life in the rhythm and blues or country chart; if it was successful there this could then lead to an appearance in the centralized pop charts. Because of this process 45s cross-pollinated each other to a greater degree than albums. As always with the single, this process could be looked at in different ways. On the one hand, the pop charts housed a diverse array of styles. It was where artists could learn from and incorporate advances made in other genres. On the other hand, these charts homogenized music. In order to achieve success there artists had to conform to mass taste.
The 45 in Britain
In Britain, unlike Depression-era America, the record never went out of favour. Roland Gelatt has written of this difference: the 45 127
The wholesale disenchantment that swept Victrolas out of the American parlor never crossed the Atlantic. Europeans – and especially the English – remained loyal to the phonograph, music lovers continued to listen to records with satisfaction, and the phonograph instrument was still considered an ornament to the home. (1977: 259)
It was because Britain wasn’t America that this loyalty was maintained: recordings were the principal means by which Britons could access American music; in comparison Americans readily accessed their music via radio and live performance as well. There were other differences between the two countries. Their geography, their media apparatus and their consumers’ economic wealth each encouraged different relationships with the 7″ disc. In addition, the markets were constructed differently. During the vinyl record’s years of dominance Britain had no significant generic charts. There was just the Top 40. This helped to bring about a particularly intense concentration on the value and meaning of 45 rpm singles. In the remainder of this chapter I examine specific periods in the evolution of the British single, albeit refracted through the format’s fortunes in America. I chart the ways in which the 45 became linked with genres of music, and the manner in which Britain embraced and spurned this little disc.
The 45 in Britain: 1952–59
EMI released Britain’s first 45 rpm singles in October 1952, coinciding with the belated launch of their LP. The arrival of the 45 rpm single was quickly followed by the most celebrated musical rupture of the twentieth century: rock ’n’ roll. As a consequence, the British 45 became associated with an American music. In America the 45 and rock ’n’ roll triumphed simultaneously: the pivotal period for both was 1954–57. In 1954 several major American record companies, including RCA Victor and Mercury, effected the broadcasting changeover from 78 rpm to 45 rpm by insisting that they would only distribute vinyl discs to radio stations. Radio’s power over the 45 was displayed: broadcasting soon influenced retail purchasing and by 1957 the 45 rpm disc was dominant in all fields of popular music (Belz 1972: 53–4). As for rock ’n’ roll, the music’s first No. 1 single in both the US and the UK was Bill Haley and his Comets’ ‘Rock around the Clock’, recorded in 1954 but not a hit until featured in the credits of Blackboard Jungle in 1955. 1954 was also the year of Elvis Presley’s first recordings. Presley’s rise to prominence in America began in early 1956 with his first releases for RCA Victor, inventor of the 45; by May he was responsible for half of the company’s popular music sales (Jorgensen 1998: 48). To honour his success RCA manufactured a special Elvis Presley 45 rpm record player. Carl Belz has argued that:
In the record industry and in the popular imagination, 45s were associated with rock. This relationship was not coincidental; rather, it was based on the fact that the records and the music possessed a common meaning. While its 128 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
speed was slower, in all of its other features, the 45 constituted a speeding- up process … The lightness, ease of handling, and physical resilience of the 45 sharply distinguished it from the cumbersome 78 … The lightness of 45s, coupled with their doughnut shape and the large spindle of 45 players, also produced faster, easier listening. The ‘search’ for the small hole in the center of the 78 was eliminated, and a listener could quickly skim through a large group of records, playing or rejecting them at a moment’s notice. The process of playing records therefore became more casual, and there was a more immediate relationship between listener and record than had been possible with the heavy and breakable 78s. (1972: 54–5)
Here was a music that could embrace the youthful connotations of the smaller- sized record. Rock ’n’ roll was a fast and raucous, often gaudy music, which was associated with the younger generation. In America, rock ’n’ roll quickly established itself as the music of the 45 rpm-spinning jukebox. In films such as The Girl Can’t Help It (1956) and Jailhouse Rock (1957) it is jukebox operators rather than record company moguls who play the central industry characters. The machine also crops up in the lyrics of many rock ’n’ roll songs, including ‘School Day’ and ‘Roll Over Beethoven’ by Chuck Berry. This close association between rock ’n’ roll and the 7″ single has been re- articulated by later British music genres. However, although Bill Haley’s and Elvis Presley’s mid 1950s successes in the US were mirrored in the UK, the same could not be said of the triumph of the 45 rpm single. During the mid-to-late 1950s four major record companies dominated the British industry: EMI, Decca, Philips and Pye. As late as 1957 the latter two companies were still not producing 45 rpm singles and EMI was not releasing them on all of its labels. In those instances where record companies did issue both formats the 78 was prioritized. In February 1957 one record dealer complained: ‘A record is scheduled for release on 78 and 45 is ordered; in every case the 78 will come in first and the 45 will be as much as ten days behind’ (Hildtitch 1957: 2). Accordingly, 78s remained the dominant format until they suffered a sharp decline in sales in 1959. This fall came about because companies had ceased manufacturing shellac discs. Capitol was the first UK company to do so, in April 1958. A year later EMI followed suit, and by 1962 the company had deleted all shellac records from its catalogue. In Britain there was also a different relationship between the rock ’n’ roll single and its mediators. The jukebox phenomenon, for example, arrived late in the UK. In the years of the Depression there were fewer than 100 British jukeboxes in operation (Krivine 1977: 128). Numbers rose towards the end of the 1930s, but wartime restrictions led to a ban on imported machines, a suspension that remained in effect until 1956. By the mid 1950s there were some 5,000 jukeboxes in operation, a mini-boom in trade that was almost entirely centred on the playing of rock ’n’ roll records (Chidnall 1987: 47). Nevertheless, although the jukebox helped to cement the association between rock ’n’ roll and the 45 rpm disc in the UK, access to the machines was limited. the 45 129
Broadcasting represented an even greater contrast with the US. Rock ’n’ roll’s close association with American radio is well documented; its birth coinciding with and prompted by a vast expansion in the number of AM stations playing recorded music. In Britain the number of stations broadcasting pop music recordings, as well as the amount of music that was broadcast, was severely limited. The BBC had a monopoly on radio broadcasting in the UK: there were no legal regional radio stations BBC or otherwise until 1967, and no commercial radio stations until 1973. During the mid 1950s the Musicians’ Union imposed ‘needle-time’ restrictions, which limited the amount of recorded music that could be played across all BBC channels to 22 hours a week. Few of these hours were dedicated to rock ’n’ roll. Brian Matthew’s Saturday Club, which was first broadcast in 1958, was the first effective BBC programme to be dedicated to youthful pop music. This was, nevertheless, not Top 40 radio. Although Britain’s first chart relating to recorded music was published by NME in November 1952 (a month after EMI launched the 45) the BBC did not broadcast a corresponding chart show until Alan Freeman took over Pick of the Pops in 1962. Moreover, the transistor radio did not arrive in Britain until 1961; until then the listening experience remained largely housebound. The record, and in particular the American record, was accorded greater regard in the UK than it was in the US. Belz talks of a ‘casual’ process of playing rock ’n’ roll 45s. In Britain this was not the case. Because this music was seldom heard on the radio, those moments when it did break through were treasured, as were the discs themselves. Elvis Presley’s first British single ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ was virtually banned by the BBC. Consequently, the single play that it received in 1956 on Family Favourites has become, according to Stephen Barnard, ‘one of the seminal moments in the history of rock ’n’ roll in Britain, referred to by numerous rock stars-to-be in discussing their first exposure to the music’ (1989: 37). Given such arbitrary radio coverage, other forms of media assumed greater importance. The British music press, with its unique quota of weekly journals, was vital in disseminating information. Melody Maker, NME, Record Mirror and Disc not only informed readers about the latest American musicians and records, they also told them how Americans were buying this music: on 45 rpm records (The Watchmen 1957: 9). This was vital information to a teenage society that venerated American culture. The British sleeve artist Roger Dean has stated:
For those of us who came of age when rock and roll was still in its infancy, 45s were holy relics. It’s impossible to overestimate the allure of these little black discs. We listened to them and then used them to decorate our bedrooms. Rock changed the world, and singles were the vehicle of that change. (2002: 97)
Over the summer of 1957 Record Mirror surveyed its young readers regarding their preference 78s or for 45s. They reported a ‘landslide’ in favour of the latter (‘Letters: The 78 versus the 45’ 1957: 2). David Bowie, who worked in a record shop towards the end of the decade, recalled that ‘45s were the new thing that 130 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record seemed to be aimed at my generation; 78s were cumbersome and fragile and, like much of the music contained within their grooves, were beginning to feel a bit redundant’ (Bowie 2008). In July 1957 NME reported that originally the only available 45 rpm copies of Elvis Presley’s ‘All Shook Up’ in Britain were those pressed for the American forces in Europe, but added, ‘Now that HMV’s “Shook Up” is released on both 45 and 78 rpm, record dealers can’t get copies fast enough’ (Evans 1957: 10). This record, demanded on 7″, was Elvis’s first UK number one. Writing about rock ’n’ roll in America Belz states that ‘records generally constitute the originals and … the live performances which follow them are actually reproductions’ (1972: 48). 1950s Britain rarely witnessed any live performances by American performers at all. Musicians’ Union rules, not lifted until the late 1950s, restricted the number of foreign musicians who were allowed to tour. In Britain, American rock ’n’ roll records weren’t just the originals: here they were everything. Walter Benjamin’s famous declaration runs: ‘that which withers in the age of mechanical reproduction is the aura of the work of art’ (Benjamin 1999: 215). Britain’s enforced dependency on product, rather than artist, only seemed to increase it. Writing in NME, Derek Johnson argued that the aura accorded to Elvis in the UK was dependent on him not playing live:
Much of the romance, which is the essence of the Presley cult, is derived from the fact that he is a remote, aloof mysterious figure … The aura surrounding Elvis is on a par with the legend of James Dean or Rudolph Valentino … The insurmountable barrier separating him from his British fans has boosted the legend out of all proportion. Presley’s periodic disc releases are sufficient to whet the appetite and catch the imagination – but never to completely satisfy. (1963: 3)
I have dwelt on the experience of rock ’n’ roll in Britain for two reasons. First, because it is the point at which the 45 single starts to become a ‘mystical object’; it is treasured because it is the carrier of a music that the mainstream has spurned. Second, because of the musical associations that followed. The happenstance of timing, as well as the neat fit between the format and rock ’n’ roll, has meant that the 7″ single has been associated with a music of rebellion and youth. Subsequently, the 45 has been revived by musicians – from the punk bands of the late 1970s through to the guitar bands of the twenty-first century – who have wished to rekindle this original rock ’n’ roll spirit.
The 45 in Britain: 1959–67
Although the 45 now has stronger cultural associations with the rock ’n’ roll era, the early to mid 1960s was the period of the 7″ single’s dominance. Correspondingly, it was the period in which the 45 did the most to shape pop music. The British bands who achieved lasting fame in the 1960s evolved in a musical culture in which the disc was pre-eminent. Weaned on the rock ’n’ roll that had the 45 131 been hard to locate on the radio airwaves, virtually all of the major British beat groups developed tastes for music that was even harder to find. The blues and rhythm and blues music that inspired the Beatles, Rolling Stones, Yardbirds and Animals found its way to them on imported discs from their beloved black America. This music was seldom heard on British radio and was rarely witnessed live. The record was all; to make records therefore became the major ambition. Paul McCartney has stated, ‘Recording was always the thing … Records were the main objective. That was what we bought, that was what we dealt in. It was the currency of music: records’ (Lewisohn 1988: 6). Pete Townshend of The Who has been even more emphatic: ‘we believe[d] only in singles … We, I repeat, believed only in singles’ (1971: 25). As pop music focused more intently on records, the records themselves became more reflective of the recording process. America, with its radio-driven singles productions, took the lead. The first producer to achieve individual fame was Phil Spector, creator of the ‘wall of sound’. Jerry Wexler, the Atlantic Records producer, said of him, ‘Phil Spector was the archetype. He never saw a song, he saw a record’ (Walk on by 2001). In Spector’s own words, ‘I imagined a sound – a sound so strong that if the material wasn’t the greatest, the sound would carry the record’ (Marsh 1999: 176). The fact that Darlene Love could provide lead vocals for the Crystals, for Bob B. Soxx and the Blue Jeans and for records released under her own name, reveals just how much the human presence got lost in this process. Spector’s recordings of multi-layered instruments were impossible to reproduce live; the concentration here was solely on the possibilities of recorded sound. His studio-centric productions cleared the path for Burt Bacharach (with his sophisticated writing and arrangements for Dionne Warwick and others); Shadow Morton (with his unforgettable records for the Shangri-Las); and the Beach Boys (who, reversing the normal recording process, went from playing on their own records to hiring session musicians – the same ones that Phil Spector used). There was also, of course, Motown. Berry Gordy was conscious of the auditory qualities of both radio and vinyl. His company’s singles were monitored on a small speaker akin to that of a car radio player. According to Nelson George, ‘The high-end bias of Motown recordings can be partially traced to the company’s reliance on this piece of equipment’ (1985: 114). Prior to release these recordings would be checked to hear how they sounded as 45 rpm discs, as this was the form in which they would be received. In the fight for broadcasting prominence records became shorter and they were structured to deliver maximum impact up-front. Correspondingly, at their close, records were left trailing. Divorced from the performance requirement of composed endings, the fade-out became more common. As the transatlantic dialogue between the US and UK singles charts increased, British records also became more studio- focused. Andrew Loog Oldham’s productions for the Rolling Stones borrowed heavily from Phil Spector, who had in addition contributed to the first Rolling Stones LP. Meanwhile, the Beatles’ recordings became increasingly dependent on session musicians and studio technology. The destiny of artists’ singles on the 132 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record transistor radio and on the Dansette record player assumed prime importance. As Pete Townshend put it, ‘We made them tinny to sound tinny’ (1971: 25). This increased focus on the machinery of recording was not universally welcomed. Eric Clapton left the Yardbirds, issuing complaints about the artificiality of their single ‘For Your Love’. Writing in Melody Maker, Chris Roberts also fretted:
We are entering the era of deep-frozen, pre-packaged pop music. The machines are starting to take over, and the shadow of a 1984 record world hangs over showbusiness … The artist in several cases seems another piece of sound equipment to be slotted in among the assorted effects of the finished recording … The further-out sounds become on record, the wider grows the gap between the artist under the needle and the artist in person. (1964: 12)
Studio technology vastly outpaced that used for live performance. In the concert halls of this period it would usually only be a group’s vocals that would be amplified through the public address system. Such disparity between the studio and the stage led the Beatles and the Rolling Stones to abandon live performance by this period’s close. Ringo Starr explained, ‘We can’t do a tour like before because it would be soft us going on stage, the four of us, and trying to do the records we’ve made with orchestras and bands’ (Taylor, D. 1987: 20–21). As the music industry became more recording focused, other media paid closer attention to singles and their charts. In the music press the Top 10 was elevated to front-page news. British music TV also reflected this disc culture. Juke Box Jury, whose 1959–67 broadcast history corresponds neatly with this period, featured no live performances; instead the latest records were put on trial regarding their potential chart success. More decisively, only two years after the BBC aired its first chart-related radio show, Top of the Pops began to provide the same function on television. First broadcast in January 1964, the earliest editions were indicative of a world in which the recording had total dominance. As he introduced each performing band, Jimmy Savile would place a needle on the record that they were about to mime; the groups appeared like ghosts in the machine. The most important music programme on television during this period was ITV’s Ready Steady Go!, which ran from August 1963 until December 1966. Here, too, the concentration was on singles and, until prevented from doing so by a Musicians’ Union-imposed ban in April 1965, the majority of artists chose to mime to their 45 rpm releases. British radio encountered an even greater transformation. Pirate stations brought 24-hour, record-based broadcasting to Britain. The first on the air was Radio Caroline, launched by promoter Ronan O’Rahilly in April 1964. Soon there were five radio stations broadcasting from the waters around the British coast. Their period of dominance lasted until August 1967, when they were outlawed by the Marine, Etc., Broadcasting (Offences) Bill. Blanket broadcasting proved to be a mixed blessing for the 45. On the one hand, singles developed their distinctive character as their sound moved ever further from that of live performance. On the other hand, the radio hits of the mid 1960s were accorded less respect as records the 45 133 than those of the rock ’n’ roll era. In mid 1965 sales faltered and the blame was placed squarely on broadcasting: Melody Maker asked, ‘When the stars can be heard on the radio all day long and seen every evening on TV, why buy records as well?’ (‘Where Have All the Singles Gone?’ 1965: 11). Geoffrey Bridge, deputy managing director at EMI, commented that ‘Uncontrolled air play is a threat to record sales. If someone puts a single out say 50 times a day over the airwaves, there can be no point in anyone buying it’ (‘Special Probe Issue’ 1965: 1). But this is to speak only of the single’s broadcast life. In this period the public performance of records also assumed increasing importance. As pop musicians retreated from the public arena, records began to take their place. The first outlet was the jukebox, which in the late 1950s began to have a more widespread impact in Britain. In January 1959 Melody Maker reported:
Today, there are over 13,000 juke boxes in operation throughout Britain. During the next twelve months, another 20,000 are likely to be added. At long last, the juke box revolution has arrived. It has taken place by decree of the teenagers – the fastest spending and the richest class in the United Kingdom. And it has completely altered the face of pop music exploitation. When it is realised that, at a conservative estimate, the juke-box listening figure per week exceeds 20,000,000 – as against the 12,000,000 average listening figure of the BBC’s plum disc programme, ‘Two Way Family Favourites’ – its importance to the music business is obvious. Star names can be made almost overnight. Discs can reach the Top Twenty in an equally short time. All without recourse to radio or TV. (White, F. 1959: 12. Emphasis in original)
This article is indicative of a split within the world of singles: there were 45s that were aimed at radio listeners; and there were those that were aimed at the public arena. The 7″ single was eminently suited to both constituencies, but these constituencies had different relationships with the record itself. Radio listeners received their singles passively and regularly; in comparison the public audience had to search theirs out: jukebox-based chart hits happened according to the teenage decree. The jukebox also provided the starting-point for the discothèque. Club DJs inherited the practice of sequencing the music of a variety of artists: discothèques have been sequenced like a Jukebox Saturday Night. The first venue to employ this appellation was La Discothèque, a bar opened in liberated France in 1944. Here you could order your favourite 78 rpm record along with your drink. The first New York disco, the French-owned Le Club, opened on New Year’s Eve 1960. It was in Britain, however, that the elements of the modern disco – prominent DJ, prominent dance beat, light show and dance floor – first came together. According to Bill Brewster and Frank Broughton it was Ian Samuel-Smith’s Tuesday lunchtime sessions at the Lyceum, beginning in 1961, that established these ground rules. They maintain: 134 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
Club culture in the UK has almost always been far ahead of its American counterpart, even when musically it may have occasionally lagged behind. The reason for this is largely to do with the way music is heard. Music in America lives much more on radio than in clubs. The relative freedom of US airwaves has always meant that anyone with a transmitter and a fat wallet could broadcast music. You only had to twiddle the knob to the right frequency to get a dose of your favourite records. In the UK, where radio was still seen largely as an arm of government social policy, the only way to hear the exciting tunes emanating from America was to go out. (2006: 69)
Samuel-Smith’s policy was to play ‘a lot of stuff you couldn’t hear on the BBC, mostly rhythm and blues because it was hip and great to dance to’ (quoted in Brewster and Broughton 2006: 70). Such elitism has remained a vital component of dance-based singles culture in the UK: club-land singles hold their allure as records because they don’t regularly receive radio play.
The 45 in Britain: 1967–77
In the late 1960s the split between rock and pop emerged, encouraged and symbolized by the differences between the LP and the 45 rpm single. Looked at benignly it could be argued that the resulting arguments helped to reveal the virtues and particularities of each speed of record. During this period there was certainly a developing awareness of what constituted a pop 7″ single; Britain even received its first ‘hit factories’, notably the productions of Nicky Chinn and Mike Chapman for Mickie Most’s RAK label. Alternatively, a progressive group such as the Moody Blues could now issue what they described as an ‘anti-single’:
We’ve made absolutely no concessions to the popular conceptions of what a hit single should be – in fact almost the opposite. By generally accepted standards ‘Question’ is too long, un-danceable, not easy to remember and has a long instrumental introduction which usually displeases DJs. (John Lodge, quoted in Altham 1970: 3)
Rock artists began to define the 45 negatively; in the process the single became a prescribed form. Where it once represented all types of pop music, the single was now assigned certain attributes. Moreover, as certain artists devoted themselves to albums rather than singles they helped to skew the argument that they were making. For the first time the dialogue of the Top 40 was circumscribed. As rock artists removed themselves from the constraints of the hit parade, the charts lost the influence that they could have brought to bear. There was awareness of this problem. According to Marc Bolan, whose band T. Rex were the first critically lauded singles’ act of the 1970s, ‘me getting into the Top Twenty – as a musician alongside the pop stars – opens up a great thing. It’s fabulous’ (Hollingworth 1971: 16). There was even talk of the progressive rock the 45 135 group Jethro Tull ‘aiming a nimble boot up the rear at the sagging chart scene’ (Logan 1970b: 11). Such ambitions weren’t merely altruistic, however. Not only were the singles charts the location of greater cross-pollination than the LP charts, it was also where you could achieve crossover success. For Marc Bolan, a wider audience was to be desired: ‘The success of “White Swan” is a gas, because I want people to hear my music. We could be very comfortable just being an Underground act … quite well established, doing concert tours, selling a fair amount of each album … but it is not really on’ (Logan 1970a: 4). For Black Sabbath it was to be abhorred:
The single came on too fast. When we said we didn’t want these fans, we were only talking about a certain kind of people … We were getting a few silly people at the concerts spoiling it for everybody else. We are not complaining that ‘Paranoid’ got into the top ten. It’s something of an achievement and it’s ok, but there won’t be a follow up single … We are not a sugar-daddy group. We are serious about the music we play. (Tony Iommi, quoted Charlesworth 1971: 13)
How much was radio to blame for such attitudes? In 1967 the British public were given Radio One, the BBC station that for a long period dominated popular music broadcasting in the UK. The station enshrined the pop/rock split within its scheduling. From 1970 onwards rock was confined to specialist programming in the evening hours, when the criteria for the playlist was music that was not in the charts (Street 1986: 116). Meanwhile the Top 40 singles dominated the daytime hours. Due to its public service remit, the BBC in fact adhered more rigidly to these sales charts than US Top 40 radio, playing virtually all the music that they contained, no matter what genre it came from. Moreover, it shouldn’t be forgotten that in Britain there was only one chart to focus on. This had the contradictory effect of providing greater diversity and increased homogeneity. As Simon Frith explained:
[T]he BBC aims to ensure that everyone in the mass market hears a record they do like, that every taste represented in the hit parade is represented on radio – the BBC is still concerned about building a heterogeneous audience. Radio 1 has, as a result, an oddly eclectic sound – anything in the charts may be played, from punk to MOR … Radio 1 does not confine its records to any particular genre, but it does tend to select from within each genre the easiest-to-listen-to sounds: it broadcasts easy listening punk, easy listening disco, easy listening rock. (1983: 124. Emphasis in original)
To what extent the Top 40 as a whole became ‘easy listening’ is a moot point. Nevertheless, absorption into this soup of daytime airplay could decrease the value accorded to records as objects. Ironically, this attitude is revealed most clearly by a set of singles buyers. During this period followers of northern soul were perhaps the strongest advocates of the 7″ single. This was the only format for the music they listened to. Here the 136 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
45 took advantage of its public-performance roots and many of its virtues came into play: its sound, its ease of handling, its ‘danceability’, its brevity and above all its speed. If the slowly revolving LP was associated with home listening and marijuana, the 45 was associated with sociability and amphetamines. Supporters of progressive rock music and northern soul fanatics looked at each other with mutual incomprehension. Interviewed in 1975, one northern soul adherent complained, ‘You talk to someone who likes progressive music and they’ll say they listen to it just to listen to it … I like music to dance to, not to listen to’ (Reynolds 2005: 288. Emphasis in original). And yet the northern soul subculture had an antipathy towards Top 40 singles to match that of any LP adherents. The music that drove the northern soul scene was Motown-inspired, American soul music; 45s that aimed for but missed the charts. These records had not courted obscurity, but their lack of success became key to their appeal as records. Devoid of airplay, or marketing, or (usually) any idea of what the performers looked like, these discs could exist purely as objects. There was no separation between this music’s existence as a song and its existence as a record. Consequently, ownership was dependent on the possession of an original pressing with the original label. Ardent northern soul DJs insisted that it was this version that must be played: ‘You should either do it right, or not at all’ (Dave Rimmer, quoted in Nowell 1999: 241). The status of these DJs was dependent on them unearthing ever-more obscure 7″ singles (in the process exclusive records became theirs). Here we do witness a confirmation of Walter Benjamin’s beliefs: as a plurality of copies disappears aura is returned to the mechanical good. The most sought after of all northern soul records is Frank Wilson’s brilliant ‘Do I Love You (Indeed I Do)’. For a long time there was thought to be only one copy in existence (a second copy was subsequently discovered). It was sold for £25,742 in 2009 (‘Record Price for Rare Motown Disc’ 2009). Meanwhile, ABBA’s equally brilliant 1970s singles can be purchased for pennies in charity shops and car boot sales.
The 45 in Britain: 1977–80
1977 was the year of the single. For the first time effectively since the golden era of the early Sixties, bands won credibility without extending themselves beyond seven inches of vinyl. The lifeblood of rock ’n’ roll has come back into its own … Many people, who would have thought twice about it in 1976, laid out hard-earned cash to buy 45s and played them on their stereos. And just a few bars of ‘Pretty Vacant’ must have made them remember all over again that the single is the cornerstone or rock. In fact, it was the failure of so many prestigious bands to grasp this in the early Seventies that led to such a dangerously compartmentalised rock scene. You could argue that new wave was born out of the suppression of the rock single. (Birch and Pirie 1978: 30)
The punk revolution is a defining period in the life of the 7″ single. The ways in which 45s have been perceived in the twenty-first century can be directly linked the 45 137 to arguments made in 1977. Punk claimed an affinity with the rock ’n’ roll of the 1950s and helped to re-establish the ‘common meaning’ possessed by this music and the 45. Both types of music are short, fast and ‘trebly’; they are perfectly suited to the 7″ single. They are noisy forms of music that demand to be played loud. Their brevity has enabled them to be cut loud too:
Stiff records are pressed by EMI and mastered at George Pegham’s [sic] mastering lab. Songs are kept short so that a deep, wide groove with plenty of level is produced. Stiff singles therefore come over very loud on the average record player. (Hayward 1976: 74)
And yet despite the rapture of the music press, the top selling British single of 1977 was not a punk release, it was ‘Mull of Kintyre’ by Paul McCartney and Wings. Next in line were records by David Soul, Julie Covington and Leo Sayer. The biggest selling new wave single of 1977 was the Stranglers’ ‘Peaches’, ranked number 58 in the year’s Top 100. The Sex Pistols’ lauded ‘God Save the Queen’ came in at number 61. Moreover, the dominant singles genre of the late 1970s was not punk, it was disco. This dominance was reflected in terms of salesand musical influence (more groups ‘went’ disco than went punk). Here, the single’s intimate relationship with dance music continued: this music evolved and revolved at 45 rpm. And yet in the music papers it was punk and the 7″ single that were twinned. There are various reasons for this bias. First, disco had developed an even more suitable disc for its music: the 12″ single. Although it still revolved at 45 rpm, this format was louder, longer and easier to manipulate than the 7″ disc. Second, the journalism of the British music weeklies had traditionally been orientated towards rock music. Third, and borne out of this orientation, punk was articulating the 7″ single in a way that disco was not. For punk rock the use of the 45 was an ethical decision; disco’s adoption of the 12″ single was more musically inspired. In the punk mindset the concept triple-albums of progressive acts were as indicative of corporate hegemony as they were of musical pomposity. Consequently, the punk use of the 7″ was practical and political. The format matched the music, but the adoption of the three-minute single was also a defiant act, whether this be the release of a 45 on a shoestring-budget independent label or the Sex Pistols’ initial singles-only policy within an albums-orientated industry. Punk’s deliberate advocacy of the rock ’n’ roll 45 only helped to prove the difference between this genre and the original 1950s music. While there is a musical fit between the two genres and the 7″ single, the background to that association is different. Rock ’n’ roll arrived at a time when the short-form record was dominant over the LP, and not vice versa. Its choice of vinyl over shellac was largely the result of an industry campaign to withdraw the earlier disc (at least in America). Most importantly, the rock ’n’ roll use of the 7″ single was not deliberately symbolic. In fact, in its more straightforward links with the 45 rpm record, disco is closer in spirit to rock ’n’ roll than punk could hope to be. 138 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
Punk introduced a greater focus on the single as an object, an attention that was soon reflected in the single itself. It was in this period that British singles were regularly given sleeves for the first time. Ted Carroll, head of the independent label Chiswick, had witnessed the appeal of continental 45s and EPs while running his ‘Rock On’ record store; collectors would pay over the odds for these sleeved import releases. Setting up Chiswick, Carroll and his partner Roger Armstrong adopted the continental practice for some of their earliest releases. In the mid 1970s Chiswick issued sleeved singles by the Count Bishops and the 101’ers (featuring future Clash lead singer Joe Strummer). Carroll explained his policy:
Someone who buys a Chiswick single gets value for money, a good single that is well packaged. We don’t go for the single that will go up the charts and then be forgotten. Our records are those you can like now but still listen to in a year’s time and enjoy. (Birch, Harrigan, Jones and Orme 1977: 27)
And so, not only were singles now being packaged like LPs, they also aimed to mirror the longer format’s sales-life. Such aspirations were only partially successful, however. The success of Chiswick’s policy encouraged other punk- friendly independents, such as Stiff and Beggars Banquet, to issue their singles with picture sleeves. From here the policy spread to the majors. By January 1977 the picture bag was so common that within its singles reviews Sounds could list a ‘sleeve of the week’ (Ingham 1977: 43). As the practice became more widespread the novelty and collectability of Chiswick’s sleeves were rendered less potent. Moreover, other gimmicks soon arrived: coloured vinyl, picture discs, unusually shaped records. The fact that many punk singles now harboured Top 40 ambitions is revealed by the policy that accompanied these gimmicks: the limited edition (a marketing device which helped to ensure high initial sales for these records and thus a higher chart position). Here the idea of a longer shelf life was negated. The fast turnover of singles was reflected in the design of their sleeves. Designers were commonly given less time to work on single sleeves than on LPs, but also more freedom; 45 rpm sleeve art was therefore often more throwaway and spontaneous than that for album covers. Sleeve artists Ian Anderson and Nick Phillips stated: ‘As a basic rule, if you’ve got a single that lasts three minutes, there should be three minutes worth of sleeve. If you’ve got an album that’s 40 minutes long, you’ve got 40 minutes of attention for the sleeve’ (Collins 1989: 45). Such ambitions suited the immediacy of punk. Here was a music that wished to promote its singles like newspapers, and its packaging was influenced by them too (not least in the cut-up ransom note style of lettering that adorned many picture bags). Punk introduced a self-consciousness and a range of gimmicks to the 45 rpm disc, and yet the reaction of the music press to the return of the single was one of utmost glee. This can be attributed to a simple fact: the 45prm disc had been ‘the lifeblood of rock ’n’ roll’. Punk was restoring the single to its former glory. The 7″ was the format on which modern pop music was originally shaped and sold, and the one to which most of it remained best suited. In addition, the punk the 45 139
(and disco) promotion of the 7″ disc helped to restore the full complement of voices to the world of jukeboxes, radios and charts. It helped to encourage the return and expansion of other singles-orientated music: mod, reggae, ska and even heavy metal were all given new impetus. Moreover, the dialogue returned to the Top 40. There were new wave/disco singles (Blondie’s ‘Heart of Glass’), rock/ disco (the Rolling Stones’ ‘Miss You’), punk/reggae (the Clash’s ‘White Man in Hammersmith Palais’), MOR/new wave (Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Tusk’), and so on. This profusion of styles was a direct result of the embrace of the single.
The 45 in Britain: 1980–
This situation did not last. First of all, the unified singles charts began to fragment. In 1979 a chart for independent singles was launched, followed by a separate chart for dance music, introduced by Music Week 26 February 1983. Crossovers into the mainstream chart would occur frequently, but the focus of these other genres began to shift and narrow. Secondly, the 7″ disc ceased to be the only product for single releases. The 12″ single (launched in Britain in 1976) was joined by the cassette single (launched in 1978 with the Tights’ ‘Howard Hughes’) and the CD single (launched, perhaps obviously, with the title track of Dire Straits’ Brothers in Arms in December 1985). Viewing these multiple formats, Keir Keightley and Will Straw have argued that ‘the recording as text had become increasingly separated from the medium or format in which it was physically embodied as a commodity’ (2003: 779). It was at this point that the record/song nexus was weakened. However, unlike the LP, which the cassette and the CD had targeted, the record industry never planned to replace the 45 rpm single: it had been regarded as the ideal format for the three-minute song. It was only when cassettes and CDs had effectively transplanted the LP that these technologies began to make encroachments on the vinyl single as well. Although the cassette album passed LPs in terms of unit sales in 1985 and the CD did the same in 1989, it was 1992 before cassette and CD singles triumphed over the 7″ disc. Thereafter decline was swift. In 1993 Culture Beat’s ‘Mr Vain’ became the first single in decades to reach number one without having a 7″ version. In 1994 Britain’s leading singles retailer Woolworths withdrew 7″ singles from all of its shops. New chart rules, introduced in April 1995, reduced the number of eligible formats from four to three. As a result the 7″ single was marginalized. A fortnight after the introduction of these regulations it was found that only four of the 34 new chart entries were released on 7″ vinyl (‘Vinyl Hit Hardest by Formats Ruling’ 1995: 5). There was an immediate response. In 1992 the Wedding Present released a single every month, each of which was originally issued on vinyl only. In 1993 Sugar, Credit to the Nation, Cornershop and Huggy Bear were among bands who issued singles that were initially only available on the 7″ format. In that same year record labels such as Fire and Domino launched singles clubs, once again 140 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record restricted to the smaller 45 rpm disc. Each of these bands and record labels had something in common: they were all orientated towards indie guitar music. As soon as sales went into decline, the independent sector colonized the 7″ single. There are various reasons why this should have happened. First, these vinyl- conscious independents could claim a direct lineage from the punk movement and its decisive articulation of the 7″ single. Second, the bands and record labels were using the 45 to differentiate themselves from other genres: mainstream rock and pop (which were now to be found on the CD and cassette single) and dance music (which made its home on the 12″). Third, the format began to have a neat fit with the movement’s somewhat Luddite tendencies: in the wake of digital technologies the manufacture of vinyl now had a primitive glow; to use this format meant you stood against ‘the man’. Martin Talbot, writing in NME, commented: ‘Considered by the music industry to be an outdated, expensive format, the seven-inch single has come to represent a “small is beautiful”, anti-establishment protest; a slice of counter culture rebellion against the increasing multi-national domination of the music industry’ (1993: 4). Additionally, before the arrival of inexpensive recordable CDs, the 7″ single provided the cheapest, as well as the most historically redolent, way for independent bands and labels to present their music. In 1993 the manufacture of 1,000 seven-inch 45s cost 26p a disc, compared with 49p for a 12″ single and 85p for a CD (ibid.). Subsequently the 7″ single remained largely the preserve of guitar groups. In the 1990s Oasis aligned themselves with the cause by issuing a ‘fourth’ vinyl format of each of their singles, even though these records would not contribute towards chart figures. In general many Brit Pop bands promoted the use of vinyl – this was the era in which Cornershop sang, ‘Everybody needs a bosom for pillow … | Mine’s on the 45’.2 Consequently, the mid 1990s witnessed an increase in the production of 7″ singles. It was the first decade of the twenty-first century, however, that witnessed the most dramatic turn-around. In 2001 only 429,000 45 rpm records were delivered to the UK market, the lowest ever figure; by 2005 this figure had risen to 1,877,000, the highest since 1996. There was an ‘industry’ reason for this change: during this period sales of cassette singles withered completely; as a consequence 7″ singles took their place as one of the three eligible chart formats. There was also artistic reason. This was a period in which alternative guitar groups prospered. The success of bands such as the Strokes, the White Stripes, Franz Ferdinand and the Arctic Monkeys – all of whom endorsed the 7″ single – helped to bring about the upturn in sales. A climax was reached in 2007 when the White Stripes achieved the highest weekly sales of 7″ singles in a decade, selling 14,847 copies of ‘Icky Thump’. Since 2007 sales of 7″ singles have dipped, but then again so has the popularity of alternative music. It is likely that in the short term the format’s fortunes will be tied to the successes of this genre. Nevertheless, it is important to remember that
2 Cornershop, ‘Brimful of Asha’, written by Singh. Wiiija Music, 1997. the 45 141 other articulations can be made. It should be borne in mind that the 7″ single was developed as a format for all forms of pop music. Just as important, the digital revolution has encouraged listeners to think in terms of single songs. The 45 rpm record owed its origins, its initial survival, and many of its aural qualities to the jukebox. The digital download, with its concentration on individual tracks and the iPod’s shuffle mode, has returned many people to that earlier mode of listening. This has made people think about 7″ singles once again. As the MP3 has returned music to its abstract state, the old 45prm record has looked increasingly special. For many it provides the most profound representation of a recorded song. As a consequence the market in second-hand 45s has grown, both in terms of sales and in relation to the value of the discs (Jones, G. 2006). Record dealer Nick Brown has an explanation for the appeal of 7″ singles: ‘The 45 is like buying a piece of history … They are iconic moments in music and are pieces of culture in their own right’ (ibid.). The work of the artist Morgan Howell reflects this. In 2010 he began painting giant replicas of customers’ treasured 7″ singles. These include ‘all their unique details – labels, fag burns, coffee stains, names of old girlfriends who used to own them crossed out’ (
Introduction
The analogue single expanded in separate directions. First of all, in the early years of the twentieth century it reached over to its second side. Secondly, it grew: the mid 1970s witnessed the arrival of the 12″ single. Both of these developments fostered new forms of music: artists created b-side material and they mixed 12″ versions of their songs. Here we have the clearest examples of music being determined by the disc. In this chapter I trace the technological development of double-sided discs. I also look at the importantly distinct subject: the art of the second side. As we shall see, the b-side developed particular characteristics and was used differently by different musical genres. I will therefore look at pop and rock music b-sides separately to dance music b-sides. It was from experiments that were made with dance music b-sides that the 12″ evolved. This format, with its wider vinyl grooves, was the perfect partner for disco’s propulsive musical grooves. While the 12″ was used to house longer pieces of music, it was also the case that music expanded to make the most of the 12 single’s new horizons. There was a further consequence of expanding the single. The 12″ not only sounded different to the 7″ single, it looked different. In this chapter I address the ways in which the 12″ was employed and articulated by different musical tribes.
B-Side Story
As the disc battled with the cylinder in the first decade of the twentieth century its easy reversibility gave it an obvious and exploitable advantage. Most discs nevertheless remained single-sided. There does not appear to be any good technical reason to have prevented the early adoption of the b-side. Indeed, two-sided discs were among Edison’s experiments in the winter of 1878 as he developed the newly invented phonograph. The doubled playing time also provides one of the reasons why Charles Sumner Tainter originally worked with discs (Tainter 2006: 79). However, it would be 1904 before the first series of two-sided discs was offered for sale to the public, and it took until 1924 – nearly 50 years after Edison’s original experiments – for the coupling of discs to become standard. In that year the Gramophone could finally declare, ‘The single-sided record has become a thing of the past’ (‘Double-Sided Vocalions’ 1924: 184). 144 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
Various factors help to account for this piecemeal progress. First, it is doubtful that Edison’s two-sided discs were ever developed beyond the experimental stage. Moreover, even if he had had plans for their commercial exploitation, these would have been abandoned alongside his other phonographic work when, in late 1878, he contracted his services exclusively to the Edison Electric Light Company. When Edison recommenced the development of the phonograph in the late 1880s he worked exclusively with cylinder machines. It is also doubtful that Emile Berliner would have been aware of Edison’s or Tainter’s experiments. He makes no mention of plans for a double-sided disc in his patents or speeches. Instead, the first Berliner discs have the lyrics of their grooved side pasted onto the reverse. Once again it was Eldridge R. Johnson who made the breakthrough. In the summer of 1900 he manufactured the earliest extant double-sided discs. Only one copy of each of the three known discs has survived. Accordingly, it is probable that these records never made it to the marketplace (Brooks 1975: 7). Eventually all but one of the titles did make it into the Johnson companies’ catalogues, albeit in single-sided form. Ironically, of all companies, Johnson’s Victor was the most reluctant to adopt the double-sided disc. Instead it was the German company Odeon who took the market lead. They produced the first commercial series of double- faced records, introduced at the Leipzig Fair in the spring of 1904. One reason for Odeon’s initiative was they thought that the second side would provide them with a patentable disc, thus allowing them to enter the legally entangled record market. As it transpired this ‘invention’ could not be defended in the courts. Nevertheless, the threat of legal action prevented other companies from entering this market for another four years. In 1908 Victor and Columbia in America, and Zonophone and Rena in England, finally launched competitive two-sided records. There is evidence that, whereas Columbia readily embraced these new types of disc, Victor were less keen (Dearling, Dearling and Rust 1984: 60). It is believed that the company only issued their first series of doubled-sided, black-labelled records because Columbia had forced their hand. Moreover, Victor’s Red Seal records remained single-sided and were to do so until 1923, as was the case for records issued by the aligned Gramophone Company in Britain. Why this reluctance? And, indeed, why had double-sided records not been a given from the start? It is Louis Barfe’s belief that the major companies ‘had sat on the innovation to avoid having to give their customers any more value for their money than was strictly necessary’ (2004: 65). However, there was an additional, more curious factor: it was not immediately obvious what should be put on the other side. In fact, there has never been consensus regarding how the two sides of a record should relate to each other. The fortuitous placing of the record label means that each side of the shellac or vinyl disc can stand as a separate, matching entity. The two sides are equal, but they are different. This dichotomy had to be worked through as the double-sided disc evolved. It is telling that Edison’s pioneering plan for a two-sided record involved a phonograph that would play both sides simultaneously, presumably to increase volume. Although it now seems natural that the primary advantage of a two-sided disc is that it can double the b-side and the 12″ single 145 both performances and performance time, this was not the first thing that sprang to Edison’s mind. The Odeon double-sided discs were utilized for separate performances, sometimes too separate. The early couplings from all record companies were notoriously haphazard: different artists, different genres and even different eras of music of were combined; the same recording would be coupled with a variety of other tracks, leading to duplicated ownership; classical pieces would be spread across a profusion of discs and performed by a variety of conductors and orchestras. Although consumer pressure helped to encourage more thoughtful couplings, it remained common throughout the shellac era for a disc to feature the performances of separate artists on each of its sides. Eldridge R. Johnson delayed the coupling of his Red Seal titles because of his reluctance to mis-match them (Hutto 1977: 670). One drawback in this respect was the very equality of the two-sided disc, particularly in its infancy. Just as the art of combining titles was something that developed over time, so was the concept of prioritizing one side of a record. Perhaps more startling than the slowness with which the two-sided disc developed is the length of time that elapsed before the concept of an ‘a-’ and a ‘b- side’ arrived. Throughout most of the shellac era the two halves of a record were referred to democratically as ‘sides’, a usage so common that it was used as a synonym for the music itself. The most common form of advertising 78s was for a record company to list all of the latest titles in a particular generic series. These items would be listed numerically, both sides of each record would be detailed, and they would be accorded matching size and type of font. Record reviews meanwhile never failed to mention both of the sides of each disc. Although the Oxford English Dictionary lists the earliest written examples of ‘a-side’ and ‘b-side’ as hailing from Melody Maker’s July 1962 singles reviews, there are earlier instances. In fact, it is almost impossible to determine the origin of these terms. From the introduction of the two-sided record onwards many record companies chose to demarcate their disc’s separate sides. Edison, for example, used the terms ‘left’ and ‘right’ on his Diamond Discs, and the first jazz record – the Original Dixieland Jass Band’s 1917 Victor release – employs an ‘a’ and ‘b’ split. Moreover, the sides of multiple disc album sets would commonly be labelled ‘a’, ‘b’, ‘c’, ‘d’, and so on. The idea of the flipside side being a recording of different status was another matter. It was in the US in the late 1930s/early 1940s that the idea of ranking the separate sides of the disc appears to have begun. This ‘b’ designation was reflective of changes within the industry. It was a response to the improved status of recording in relation to music publishing; to the increasing use of records on radio; and to the importance of the jukebox. Its use was cemented by the arrival of popularity charts for recordings. When the first record-based chart appeared in Variety in the late 1930s, recording jukebox selections, the publishers decided to register the success of each side of each disc separately. This was confirmation that consumers usually paid more attention to one side of a record. Record companies responded 146 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record to this situation in two ways. On the one hand, they began to use each side of a disc to highlight an artist’s separate styles (usually a fast song coupled with a slow song), aiming to appeal to different sectors of the market. On the other hand, they concentrated their promotion on what they now classed as the ‘a-side’ of the record. The arrival of Billboard’s first recordings-based charts in July 1940 was reflective of and helped to further these new conceptions of the disc. Billboard introduced three charts: ‘Best Sellers in Stores’, ‘Most Played in Jukeboxes’ and ‘Most Played by Jockeys’. Although the ‘Best Sellers in Stores’ chart listed the two sides of a record together (placing the more frequently requested side above the other), the other two charts continued the practice of separately registering the popularity of each of a disc’s sides (when the three charts were combined to create Billboard’s Hot 100 in August 1958, the successes of a- and b-sides were registered separately, a policy that continued until November 1969). July 1940 also found Billboard talking about a’s and b’s. Glenn Miller’s coupling of ‘Blueberry Hill’ and ‘A Million Dreams Ago’ was reviewed as follows:
Side A may possibly be one of the hit tunes of the summer, although it’s too early to make accurate predictions as to the song’s eventual success. However, it looks good at the moment, and Miller’s treatment of it is in his usual rich and colorful vein. B side gets the same careful handling. (‘On the Records’ 1940: 75)
Britain was slower than the US in developing the b-side. Here, the earlier form of record company advertising – listing a series of releases and giving equal weight to each side of the record – continued for much of the 1940s. Towards the end of the decade a few exceptions could be witnessed: individual recordings that had already been hits in the States were occasionally promoted ahead of their b-sides in adverts. However, it was the introduction of the NME singles chart in November 1952 – the first such chart in the UK – which revealed that Britain had started to think in terms of a-sides and b-sides. This chart usually only listed the most popular side of each disc. Adverts soon reflected this practice: when record companies used them to boast about their chart placings they would only mention the hit side of the record. Most advertising, however, continued to list both sides of a release, although the second side would now usually be distinguished by smaller or lower-case lettering. The papers’ singles reviews also began to change. By 1953 the NME was using terms such as ‘reverse’ and ‘flip’. By the mid 1950s the term ‘backed by’ had appeared. This new world of the hit parade began to have a noticeable effect on releases. Writing in Melody Maker, Hubert David pointed out:
Today, when the picking of songs is becoming more a record company’s concern than a publisher’s, you may have noticed that it has become quite a habit for the company to list each double-sided disc with an ‘A’ and a ‘B’ classification. The ‘A’ side, of course, being in most cases the one the company has plumped for itself. From their point of view, they do not want two hits on one disc, when two hits on two discs will naturally sell twice as many records! (1955: 6. Emphasis in original) the b-side and the 12″ single 147
Three months later Bill Haley reached number one in the NME chart with ‘Rock around the Clock’. Rock ’n’ roll placed the record, rather than the song, at centre stage. This helped to elevate the record company above the music publisher. It also confirmed the status of the b-side. Despite the continued practice of ‘covering’ hits, increasingly it was particular recordings by particular acts that were desired. Hit American rock ’n’ roll records – such as Carl Perkins’ ‘Blue Suede Shoes’, Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers’ ‘Why Do Fools Fall in Love’ and Gene Vincent’s ‘Be Bop a Lula’ – were advertised in the music press with hardly a mention of their b-sides. Moreover, in each instance it was the star and not the record company that was promoted most heavily. By the early 1960s b-sides began to disappear from record company advertising for new releases. Also, within the singles reviews they received less attention and were sometimes not mentioned at all. This was as the record companies desired. The promotional records that they sent out to broadcasters were not subtle in their indication of the a-side. One practice was to write huge ‘A’s and ‘B’s on each side of the disc. Single-sided promos were also released, as were promo discs that featured a mono version of the potential hit on the a-side and its stereo recording on the rear. Nevertheless, the practice of allowing each side of the disc to register as a separate hit continued until the end of 1963. It was at this point that the NME charts began to total the popularity of both sides in order to calculate a chart placing. In Britain the two sides of a ‘single’ were now welded firmly together.1 And yet it was also at this point that they began to go their separate ways. It was now that the b-side began to develop characteristics of its own.
The Art of the Second Side
The b-side’s obscurity has enabled it to take on many roles. At one extreme its usage can be exploitative (the b-side earns the same mechanical royalties as the a-side and publishers and songwriters have taken advantage of this fact). At the other extreme the b-side can be given its old equivalence (it is only because of the evolution of the b-side that we have the notion of the double a-sided disc). It is at its most satisfying, however, when it corresponds with its form. The b-side is both mirror and inversion, and the greatest couplings have taken advantage of this fact. The b-side has also been responsive to genre: different practices have been developed for different music’s needs.
1 If the Oxford English Dictionary is correct, the contradictory term ‘single’, used for a record with one track on each side, comes into being with the vinyl era. Their first use is from October 1949 in a heading for Billboard’s popular music charts. This would help to explain its employment: these sales charts began to elevate a ‘single’ side of each disc. Nevertheless it remains odd that the term should come into being at this point, when ‘albums’ as well as ‘singles’ began to exist for the most part of a solitary disc. 148 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
Rock and Pop B-sides
Offering a history of the b-side in Record Mirror in August 1963, reader W.G. Colman stated:
When modern pop and rock music and the charts developed in the early part of the last decade, the ‘B’ side had changed into something completely different from the ‘A’ side. Instead of deciding on two tracks and recording them, one side was picked, hours spent over recording it, then the question was: ‘What shall we put on the flip? Any old rubbish’. Usually it was the opposite, in speed, to the top side. (Jones, P. 1963: 8)
This practice didn’t always lead to ‘rubbish’, however. The coupling of songs of different tempos and styles brought forth some of the most perfectly balanced records. Elvis Presley’s five singles for Sun Records provide stellar examples. Each of these backs a countrified blues song with a blues-drenched country tune. They represent the world turned upside down and inside out. As symbols for the miscegenation of rock ’n’ roll these records are flawless in both content and form. In fact, the symbolism of the records – marrying songs from the racially divided blues and country traditions – might have been more radical than their content: the exchange and similarities between the two genres were an open secret and could be identified on many previous records. Greil Marcus has indicated that herein lay the danger:
Perhaps if [Sam] Phillips [head of Sun Records] had put out the ‘country’ side without the ‘blues’, it would have warmed the community; the combination thrilled some and threatened others. There were country stations that refused to play any Elvis records, no matter how white they seemed to be. He was too complicated, this Presley boy; you couldn’t tell what he might be slipping over, could you? (1982: 66)
The practice of marrying music of different styles could also lead to some great double-sided hits (such as ‘All I Have to Do Is Dream’ / ‘Claudette’ by the Everly Brothers, or ‘Words of Love’ / ‘Mailman Bring Me No More Blues’ by Buddy Holly). It also encouraged artists to push each side of their discs to extremes. American rhythm and blues acts would balance their most commercial music with their most raucous. It was often among the wilder, ‘underground’ material that British beat acts would find their inspiration. Paul McCartney, for example, has claimed: ‘That’s where we got our repertoire from, the B-sides, the “Shot of Rhythm and Blues”, the lesser known stuff that we helped bring to the fore, the R&B stuff’ (Lewisohn 1988: 60). In the early 1960s the quality of some b-sides began to decline, in particular those on American releases. In 1963 one Record Mirror reader complained that Elvis had ‘turned out weaker and weaker “B” sides’, but commended the Liverpool the b-side and the 12″ single 149 groups for having ‘excellent’ flipsides (Jones, P. 1963: 8). Although the country’s different methods of determining chart positions may have played a part here, the main differences in recording policy lay in economics. Impoverished British record buyers campaigned so that they would not be cheated in relation to b-side material. One Record Mirror reader put it plainly: ‘when records are expensive we’re entitled to value’ (Porteus 1967: 2). In particular any duplication of material was decried, such as the coupling of a new recording on the a-side of a single with a b-side that had previously appeared on an LP (Johnson 1961: 2). And so, while American artists such as the Beach Boys and Bob Dylan routinely released old album material on single b-sides, many British groups and record companies were more considerate with both their a-sides and their b’s. The Beatles produced a great series of coupled singles. Early on in their career John Lennon boasted, ‘We never consciously write “B” sides to records. We don’t just sit down and say “right, let’s whip off a ‘B’ side”, just like that. Quite a few of our “B” sides could have been “A” sides’ (Roberts, C. 1964: 11). When thought of as records, rather than as songs, the greatest Beatles singles are those in which the a-side and b-side are hard to divide: ‘Paperback Writer’ and ‘Rain’ (the latter of which highlights the fact that it is the ‘reverse’ side by being the first Beatles recording in which the master tape is played backwards); ‘Day Tripper’ and ‘We Can Work it Out’ (the group’s first ‘double a-side’); ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’ and ‘Penny Lane’ (which are ‘mirrored’ in their shared themes of childhood Liverpool and ‘inverted’ in their musical approach: Lennon’s is ‘lazily horizontal’; McCartney’s ‘breezily vertical’ (MacDonald 1997: 197)). It is in the single form that the oppositions of Lennon and McCartney’s songwriting styles and personalities are most successfully reconciled: most of the Beatles’ singles pair one song from each. As well as coupling the group’s two main songwriters, most Beatles’ singles followed the early American practice of combining songs of different styles. This was also the case for the first releases by the 1960s British R&B groups, most of whom reserved their less commercial material for their b-sides. Writing to Melody Maker in October 1964, J. Attrill argued:
Apart from the Rolling Stones’ first release, ‘Come On’, none of the top R&B groups have recorded genuine Rhythm-and-blues as an A side of their records. In most cases, however, the B side contains the genuine article. For instance: the Rolling Stones ‘Little By Little’, Manfred Mann’s ‘Without You’ and the Animals’ ‘Take You Back To Walker’. The main selling sides of these records cannot really be classed as R&B. Are the top groups afraid that even in the current R&B boom the public don’t really want the real thing, only a watered- down version? (1964: 20)
Although there was a degree of timidity here, this practice helped to foster the belief that the flipside is where you would find the purest expression of the band. This idea has become something of a cliché (in ‘My Little Brother’, recorded four 150 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record decades later, Art Brut lampooned a sibling who had just discovered rock ’n’ roll: ‘He no longer listens to a-sides, he made me a tape of bootlegs and b-sides’).2 Nevertheless, the presence of the real stuff for real fans did help these R&B records to sell. Later in 1964 another Melody Maker reader commented, ‘More and more records enter the chart these days on the strength of B sides’, citing records by the Beatles, the Rolling Stones and Manfred Mann (Mulrooney 1964: 20). The b-side is also where British R&B groups made their first tentative steps towards writing their own material. Here the flipside was useful physically (it allowed these artists to discretely locate this material) and financially (as previously mentioned, the b-side earns the same mechanical songwriting royalties as the a-side).3 This latter factor led to several dubious practices. The owners of pirate radio stations such as Radio London and Radio Caroline formed their own publishing companies; in return for radio play artists were encouraged to record one of these station’s copyrights on the b-sides of their hits (Barnard 1989: 45). Elsewhere artists would either exploit or be exploited by the situation: they could be encouraged to write their own b-sides; or they could be forced to hand over the publishing benefits to more powerful concerns (Boyd 2005: 11). This didn’t always lead to inferior music. It was through composing financially motivated b-sides that Scott Walker first became a songwriter, and it has been argued that it was the b-side irregularities that Berry Gordy suffered as a jobbing songwriter that encouraged him to form Motown (Barfe 2004: 224). In the 1970s, as the LP confirmed its financial dominance, the role of the single changed. A-sides would more commonly be album tracks; for record companies the principal aim of the radio play of these songs would be to encourage customers to purchase the LP. Meanwhile, there needed to be an incentive for the dedicated fan to buy the single as well. This is where the b-side came in useful. It was frequently used to highlight exclusive or obscure material. This could range from issuing the uncensored song that would not receive radio play (Jasper Carrott’s ‘Magic Roundabout’; the Sex Pistols ‘Friggin’ in the Riggin’); to the unexpected or ironic cover version (David Bowie doing ‘Round and Round’; Stiff Little Fingers doing ‘White Christmas’); to the ‘let’s listen to the band larking about’ track (the Beatles’ ‘You Know My Name (Look Up The Number)’; the Ruts’ pub-medley
2 Art Brut, ‘My Little Brother’, on Bang Bang Rock & Roll, written by Ward/Argos/ Wilson/Siepe/Breyer. Reverb Music, 2005. 3 The mechanical royalties are those accorded to the song’s writers and publishers each time a recording is purchased or broadcast. Regarding record sales the royalties are divided between all tracks on a single or an LP. In certain instances the b-side can actually earn more than the a-side as the royalties are divided pro rata in accordance with track length. As of 2012 the royalty payable to the copyright owner(s) in the UK is 8.5 per cent of the dealer price or 6.5 per cent of the retail price. The fact that this percentage remains the same regardless of the number of titles on the disc is one of the reasons why a proposed return to the one-sided single was not successful in the UK (‘RCA First with One-Sided Single’ 1982: 4). the b-side and the 12″ single 151 of ‘The Crack’); to the demo, session or live version of the a-side or previous hit (there have been literally thousands of these); to the deliberately unlistenable (Public Image Ltd’s ‘The Cowboy Song’ provides one example). One of the great bonuses of difficult b-sides, such as Public Image’s record or ‘Window’ by David Essex, is the disturbance that they can cause when played on a jukebox. The b-side can be unruly and ugly and its usage is frequently unscrupulous, it is also very often ignored (REM pointedly titled their b-sides collection Dead Letter Office). Nevertheless, one of the legacies of the Beatles and the Rolling Stones is that any group wishing to assume the mantle of being a great singles band has to be mindful of both their a’s and their b’s. There has also been a continuing tradition that those most proud of the form should periodically issue stand-alone singles; that is, neither side is available on LP. Such work often deliberately harks back to the singles-dominated 1950s and 1960s. Glam rock groups such as T. Rex and Slade, for example, highlighted their difference from the albums-focused progressive rock groups of the early 1970s by producing sparkling double-sided 45s. Punk and new wave, too, were conscious of the sanctity of both sides of the single. The most sixties-obsessed band of this era, The Jam, carefully constructed their releases. The best of their couplings (‘Strange Town’ b/w ‘The Butterfly Collector’; ‘When You’re Young’ b/w ‘Smithers Jones’; ‘Town Called Malice’ b/w ‘Precious’) are grouped so that the disparate moods of each side enhance one another. Paul Weller has stated:
It was still a time when there were loads of singles that weren’t on albums and the single was still really important as an art form, so we cared what we put on the B-side. They weren’t just adverts for an album, do you know what I mean? It was still a piece of art and I think that’s a shame that that’s disappeared. (‘True Brit’ 2006: 12)
The Specials’ 45s also featured some inspired combinations. Their greatest single backs ‘Ghost Town’ (written by Jerry Dammers) with ‘Why’ (written by Lynval Golding) and ‘Friday Night, Saturday Morning’ (written by Terry Hall). Separate facets of urban life are represented on the separate faces of the single, which at the same time reveal the separate dimensions of the band. As with Elvis Presley’s Sun singles it is the marriage of form and content that helps to make this disc one of the great artefacts of its time. Significantly, none of the tracks was available on LP. It has become an established tradition that the greatest British singles’ bands have b-sides that are better than other bands’ a-sides. The Smiths solidified their critical dominance in the mid 1980s via the standard of their flipsides. These included ‘Handsome Devil’ and ‘Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want’. For guitarist Johnny Marr, ‘It wasn’t actually the number next to the chart placing in the Guinness Book of Hit Singles [that mattered]. Well, it wasn’t to me, anyway. I was more concerned with what my mates thought of the B-sides’ (Goddard 2006: 57). One of Oasis’s greatest achievements was to revive this tradition. They were one of the few 1990s bands to issue some of their best songs as b-side only releases 152 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
(‘Acquiesce’ on the 12″ version of ‘Some Might Say’ is probably the most famous example). However, unlike artists from earlier periods, Oasis cannot claim to have ‘buried’ this material. ‘Acquiesce’ was most commonly heard and bought as one of four sequential tracks on a CD single. As such, it serves to illustrate what was lost in the transfer from vinyl to CD. The b-side in its vinyl incarnation was inherently subterranean. With the CD single you would stumble across the other tracks whether you wanted to or not. To reach the b-side of the 7″ you may only have had to turn the record over, but this simple act could reveal a nether world. The best exponents of the form used it to sub-plot their more widely known output (hence the title of the Pet Shop Boys’ b-side compilation: Alternative). In an industry that can be obsessed with authenticity, the b-side could provide a safe haven. This is revealed most clearly when the b-side and the a-side traded places: the reversibility of the vinyl format allowed the flipside to become the hit. Unplanned and unexpected, the chart b-side could escape the taints of cynicism and commodification. Examples are legion and often correspond with seminal moments in popular music’s history. The first rock ’n’ roll hit, ‘Rock Around the Clock’, was originally meant to be a b-side, as was the first truly effective British rock ’n’ roll record, Cliff Richard’s ‘Move It’ (the same twist is true of the Shadows’ first big hit ‘Apache’). The eternal garage rock classic ‘Louie Louie’ began life as a b-side, as did the disco anthem ‘I Will Survive’. The first collaboration between a black blues performer and white country singer, ‘Have a Little Talk With Jesus’ by Sister Rosetta Tharpe and Red Foley, was another b-side, as was the first hip-hop release, ‘King Tim III (Personality Jock)’ by the Fatback Band. The one-sided CD single froze its designated a-side in its pole position. The b-side was no longer allowed to run wild. Other practices suffered with the transfer from vinyl to CD. The split-single (shared by two artists) was no longer as effective. There are several occasions when artists have covered each other songs, placing them on the separate sides of a 7″ single. This concept corresponds perfectly with and was probably inspired by the mirrored and inverted qualities of the two-sided disc (Sonic Youth covering Mudhoney’s ‘Touch Me I’m Sick’ backed with Mudhoney covering Sonic Youth’s ‘Halloween’ provides one example). There are also those instances where a song is too long to fit on one side of a 7″ record (as with Television’s ‘Johnny Jewel’ and ‘Marquee Moon’ singles) and so has to carry on again on the other side. Again there is a match of content and form. The song fades as it spirals towards the centre of the first side and then fades back in again as the flipside winds into being. Other artists have used more direct methods to introduce you to the disc’s other side. ELO’s ‘Mr Blue Sky’, for example, ends with the words ‘please turn me over’. It was inevitable that the specifics of the b-side would be explored in situ. Public Enemy gave us ‘B-side Wins Again’ and B. A. Robertson issued ‘2 (b) B Side the C Side’. The Fall’s sub-title probably said too much: ‘Putta Block (Forthcoming none-selections from next LP b = of Totally Wired)’. It does, however, return us to the most common use of the rock and pop b-side: the non-LP track. Throughout the 1980s and 1990s the completist was encouraged the b-side and the 12″ single 153 to purchase singles across a variety of formats: 7″, 12″, cassette, CD. Record companies took advantage of this situation, using each of these to contain differing non-LP tracks and mixes. This is also how the b-side at first managed to live on in the online world. Here, rather than being spread out across formats, b-sides were made available from multiple download sites. In 2006 Music Week advised:
Top tips for online: Get as many mixes of a track or as many B-sides as you can to give each online retailer a piece of exclusive content. They are more likely to feature something that no one else has. (Jones, Webb, Cardew and Slade 2006: 3)
The art and the exploitation remained. However, in recent years such practices have diminished. By 2010 the online b-side was being declared ‘defunct’ (Salmon 2010). In November of that year Chris Salmon analysed the UK’s top 10 singles and found that only one had a downloadable ‘b-side’: Cee Lo Green’s single ‘Fuck You’, which was linked with a song called ‘Grand Canyon’. Salmon also analysed these songs respective achievements on the streaming site Last.fm, discovering that ‘Fuck You’ had received 437,240 plays, while ‘Grand Canyon’ had only 36 (ibid.).
Dance B-sides
It has been among the expansive rhythms of black music that the two-part single has been most common. As early as 1930 Son House was splitting his performances across two sides of a disc (for example his part-one and part-two 78s ‘My Black Mama’, ‘Preachin’ the Blues’ and ‘Dry Spell Blues’). R&B artists would also adopt this approach: in 1945 Joe Liggins and his Honeydrippers’ lengthy recording of the ‘The Honeydripper’ was split into two parts, and in 1959 Ray Charles took the same route with his great ‘What’d I Say (Parts 1 and 2)’. James Brown took this practice to new heights. From the mid 1960s onwards almost all of his grooves required two grooves: ‘Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag’, ‘Cold Sweat’, ‘Funky Drummer’ and ‘Hot Pants’ are just a few of the performances that had to be split into parts and etched across two sides of a 7″ disc. Rather than being annoying, this remains a satisfying way to listen to these tracks. As evidence for this, each of these singles was still being printed in its divided 7″ form some 40 years after their original release. The interruption only seems to add intensity to the music as it encores on the second side. Kenny Gamble and Leon Huff, producing singles for their Philadelphia International label in the 1970s, also employed this tactic. Harold Melvin and the Bluenotes’ ‘Bad Luck’ and the O’Jays’ ‘I Love Music’ are two of their releases that are extended over to a second side. Paul Gambaccini, writing in NME, argued that these records ‘are wonderful solutions to the perennial problem of what to put on a B-side’ (1976: 13). More importantly, the divided single helped to alter the notion of the ‘song’. Part two could be played before part one. You didn’t even have to listen to part one if you didn’t want to. Here the b-side revealed its power as it began to generate whole new forms of music: ‘part two’ inspired 154 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record the ‘dub version’ and it also brought forth the ‘remix’, which eventually burst its seams giving birth to the b-side’s relative, the 12″ single. The reggae dub version has a curious evolution (Bradley 2001: 309–23). In 1967 a disc-cutter named Smith accidentally forgot to put the vocal track on the Paragons’ ‘On the Beach’. Later, when the deejay Ruddy Redwood played this version back to back with the vocal version, his sound-system crowd went wild. Duke Reid, the owner of the sound recording, then issued instrumental versions of many old vocal tracks. Influenced by James Brown’s b-sides, he enhanced these releases with extra instrumentation. King Tubby took this practice to a higher level. He began to transform instrumental tracks, not by adding components, but by utilizing his electronics expertise. Lloyd Bradley has explained, ‘Tubby worked off a set-up that would effectively modify the mix of a tune by passing the signal through a series of filters, blocking out frequencies that corresponded to, say, the singing, the horns or the bass’ (2001: 316). The result: the quintessential use of the b-side. It is over the horizon, a foreign country; they do things differently there. It is generally accepted that the first single to have a ‘version’ side is Little Roy’s 1971 single ‘Hardest Fighter’, transformed on its b-side into the aptly named ‘Voo-doo’. This practice turned reggae music upside down. Dub versions began to rival and sometimes exceed the vocal originals in popularity. The ultimate transformation came with Lee Perry’s 1970s productions: uniquely he would record dub versions first and employ these for his a-sides; any supplementary vocals would be reserved for the flip. Parallel innovations were happening within America’s burgeoning disco scene. The principal innovator here was Tom Moulton, who in the late 1960s had worked for a jukebox company and as a radio plugger. One of his tasks had been to create single edits for radio play: ‘DJs came up with any reason to refuse to play a record – the intro was too short or there was a rap at the beginning, so I became good at splicing tapes to tighten them up’ (Mugan 2006). These skills would soon be transferred from the a-side to the b-side. While visiting a club in New York State’s Fire Island, Moulton witnessed the dancers’ frustration at the short duration of the songs; he saw that they required longer grooves (Brewster and Broughton 2006: 183). In response he used his editing skills to create a 45-minute reel-to-reel tape of seamless dance music. This recording received an instant response when played at the Fire Island club, The Sandpiper. Such was its success that the patrons clamoured for a follow-up. It was here that Moulton took advantage of previous dance music instrumentals:
On his next instalment, the nascent producer elongated certain songs by cadging instrumental versions from … record companies. Word soon reached the Big Apple about Moulton’s talent. So impressed were the labels that they invited him to devise official disco mixes, released as B-sides on seven-inch singles. (Mugan 2006)
These b-sides provided a perfect symbolic turnaround from the a-side. Nevertheless, they were not necessarily the flipside’s friend. It was soon discovered that the 7″ the b-side and the 12″ single 155 record was neither long enough nor loud enough to provide the soundtrack for disco’s prolonged grooves. Re-edits and remixes began to colonize 12″ singles instead. By the 1980s the remix was not only a feature of the dance music world, it had begun to haunt rock and pop b-sides as well. As this happened something of the earlier art of making b-sides was lost. This was particularly the case when the remix was separated from its originally recorded a-side version and given a separate release: here the bond between the two sides of the record was dissolved.
The Invention of the 12″ Single
Although larger 10″ and 12″ singles were part of RCA Victor’s thinking when they developed the 45 rpm disc in the 1940s, the 12″ single can rest assured that it is the one development of the analogue record that was introduced by artists rather than by the record industry. The format grew directly out of Tom Moulton’s dance music b-sides. Its basic idea – that of the longer groove – had various forerunners, however. As early as the mid 1960s American jukebox companies had been manufacturing special extended-play 7″ singles, which offered three linked pieces of dance music per side. Jazz and progressive rock were also influential: the long improvisations that these musics spread across LPs began to infiltrate dance music. Gorgio Moroder has admitted that his pioneering disco epic, Donna Summer’s ‘Love to Love You Baby’, which occupies an entire side of an album, was influenced by Iron Butterfly’s endless ‘In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida’ (Brewster and Broughton 2006: 200). Elsewhere, dance music composers and producers such as Norman Whitfield, Isaac Hayes and George Clinton were beginning to feature ever-longer album cuts. The rock album also introduced the idea of the segue. On records such as the Beatles’ Abbey Road and Jimi Hendrix’s Electric Ladyland the artists and their producers edited separate tracks into a continuous flow. Tom Moulton picked up on each of these initiatives when working on Gloria Gaynor’s 1975 Never Can Say Goodbye album. It was his idea to sequence side one as a non-stop disco marathon: ‘It would be eighteen minutes long; one song straight into another. It would be perfect’ (Moulton, quoted in Brewster and Broughton 2006: 184). Despite these developments the invention of the 12″ single came about by accident. When Moulton wished to cut an acetate of his mix of Al Downing’s 1973 single ‘I’ll Be Holding On’ he found that his mastering engineer José Rodriguez was out of 7″ blanks. Rodriguez decided to use a 10″ disc instead. It was the comic appearance of the cramped groove on this wider disc that led to the 12″ single. Moulton recalled:
I said ‘It looks so ridiculous, this tiny little band on this huge thing. What happens if we just … make it bigger?’ [Rodriguez said] ‘You mean, spread the grooves? Then I’ve got to raise the level’. So he cut it at +6db. When I heard it I almost died. It was so much louder. (Souvignier 2003: 157) 156 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
The next step was to increase to 12 inches. The pair’s following disc, ‘So Much for Love’ by Moment of Truth, was spiralled across this wider expanse of vinyl. The advantages of this format were immediately revealed: volume and bass and duration. The 12″ single’s wider groove enabled each of these elements to be maximized and still the needle would not skip out of the cut. This was dance music’s dream. It was odd, then, that Tom Moulton’s original 12″ experiments were originally transferred back to the smaller disc. The larger format was reserved for test pressings; when commercially released Moulton’s mixes would be divided across the two halves of a 7″ single. Eventually DJs gained access to exclusive copies of the 12″ originals, with the first ‘official’ promotional release being Southshore Commission’s ‘Free Man’. Of greater importance was Double Exposure’s ‘Ten Per Cent’, which in 1976 became the first commercially available 12″ single. This record pushed remixing practice to new heights. Where Tom Moulton had largely concentrated on re-editing people’s music, here DJ Walter Gibbons accessed the original master tapes and reconstructed the original. Gibbons had successfully identified the 12″ single’s main role: the remix has subsequently dominated the form. However, the format’s survival was by no means assured. After experimenting with the product, dance labels such as TK, Vanguard and Salsoul (who had released ‘Ten Percent’) began to return to the 7″ single. In 1978 Billboard reported that ‘Several key labels specializing in disco product have begun cutting back on commercial 12-inch disco discs on the ground that they are slicing into album and 7-inch sales, cost too much to manufacture, and exact a high royalty price by music publishers’ (Brewster and Broughton 2006: 187). In this crucial period it was primarily disc jockeys who kept the format alive: Billboard revealed that they would buy 12″ singles ‘regardless of price’ (ibid.). Hip-hop DJs in particular had become attached to the bigger disc. As we have seen in Chapter 1, they were dependent on the sights as well as the sounds of the larger groove.
The 12″ Single in the UK
The arrival of the 12″ single in the UK is indicative of the uncertainty that surrounded the product. Although the first British releases came out on the dance label Contempo (featuring two Tom Moulton remixes) it was a re-issue of the Who’s ‘Substitute’ in October 1976 that was the first widely retailed 12″ single. This ‘tinny’ 10-year-old recording was not music to take advantage of the record’s wider grooves. The British 12″ single was originally caught between its use for dance music and its use as a gimmick. It was launched in the era of new wave novelties; here it was ranked alongside picture sleeves, picture discs and coloured vinyl. Early punk 12″ hits included Television’s ‘Marquee Moon’ (which is admittedly long, but at the same time is a very trebly recording) and the Ramones’ ‘Sheena is a Punk Rocker’ (2:49 in duration). The readers of the rock music press sensed a scam: the b-side and the 12″ single 157
This is, of course, just a sales trick to encourage folks to buy a particular single in order to get it off the ground … Is it right that such quantities of vinyl be used for just a few minutes of music? Have we all forgotten the infamous vinyl shortage of not so long ago which sent the album prices rocketing? (Botting 1977: 13)
British disc jockeys were only a little more understanding. In early 1977 Sounds gathered some of their responses to the new disc:
[O]pinions varied between ‘Well, it gives me a chance to have a piss’ to ‘They’re too cumbersome to carry around’ to the simple ‘They’re great’. Now that the initial excitement of them has passed most DJs (according to the record companies anyway) seem agreed that the extra fidelity and playing time that the extra five inches gives them are an added bonus in keeping the audience on its feet. (Silverton 1977: 8)
One of the problems that the British dance 12″ faced was the fact that native DJs had not yet appropriated the American disco practice of mixing tracks together. In the late 1970s British DJs still liked to talk between tracks (Garratt 1998: 77). As late as 1979 the jazz-funk DJ Robbie Vincent was arguing that ‘American bad habits are not going to catch on here … People in the UK don’t want to hear three solid hours of identical music’ (Brewster and Broughton 2006: 404). The growing importance of the 12″ single and the music it inspired – disco, hip-hop and electro – helped to change things. In 1978 Evelyn ‘Champagne’ King’s disco classic ‘Shame’ only reached number 39 in the UK charts. RCA Victor, however, reported that the song’s 12″ sales had gone over the six-figure mark (Sigerson 1979: 37). Separate audiences aligned with format were beginning to reveal themselves. Writing in Melody Maker, Davitt Sigerson accounted for the new successes of the 12″ single:
The reason is partly that some full-length (or artificially-extended) versions are simply much better than the 7-inch edits. Partly also, it is that listeners are becoming accustomed, through gradual exposure, to accept omular [sic] music. (1979: 37)
Two key tunes released in the early 1980s helped the British public to fully embrace the 12″ single. Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five’s ‘The Message’, released in 1982, revealed the full power of both hip-hop and the 12″ single (the format on which this lengthy track only truly made sense and on which it was most widely purchased). New Order’s ‘Blue Monday’ from 1983 provided an effective bridge between the British indie scene and dance music (this record was only made available on 12″ (until 1988) and it remains Britain’s highest-selling 12″ single). Also of importance were changing pricing policies. Originally British 12″ singles sold at anything from 69p (the same price as a 7″ single) to £2.75 (the 158 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record price for imports). It was only in the late 1970s that prices began to settle at a level that gave a reasonable profit to both record companies and retailers (‘Pressing Problems for 12″ Hits’ 1979: 1, 4). By 1983 the British 12″ single was secure. At this point Music Week reported that the format accounted for a third of singles sales and that 90 per cent of titles in the Top 100 were available as both 7″ and 12″ singles (‘The 12-inch Revolution’ 1983: 1, 4). The contents and quality of 12″ singles varied. Some would merely be louder pressings of the 7″ version; some would be that same song, clumsily extended to reach the duration of the disc; others would be receptacles for new forms of music, created specifically with the 12″ single in mind. It was the plethora of dance music styles that emerged in the late 1980s that developed the closest relationship with the 12″ single (most of them evolving from the innovations made by Chicago’s house music and Detroit’s techno). It was the longer format that made this music possible, and it was the success of this music that did most to establish the DJ practice of mixing records in the UK. As this happened, the idea of what a record could and should be was challenged. Unlike other records, most dance 12″ singles were not thought of as discreet entities: they were designed with the idea that they should be mixed together – played next to and over the top of other 12″ singles. Consequently, a traditional sense of structure and dynamics was abandoned, as was any claim to final authority over the music’s composition. Artists were aware that it might be only one part of their release that would be picked up by a DJ, to be repeated and extended if necessary. As such ‘breaks’ in the music were featured prominently, bringing the drums and the bass to the fore. Similarly, introductions and conclusions of records would be conceived with the DJ in mind: to help the open-ended flow of music they might feature ethereal, beatless passages of music; alternatively they could feature exposed, stark beats so that their tempos could be matched with the preceding or succeeding record.
The Cult of the 12″ Single
The triumph of dance music in the late 1980s and early 1990s cemented the status of the 12″ single. Such was this music’s popularity that by 1993 the 12″ single had become the biggest selling vinyl format for singles in the UK. The appeal of these records was visual as well as aural, and this visual appeal was both practical (enabling DJs to access passages of music within the grooves) and symbolic (to adopt the 12″ single meant identification with dance music genres). The latter factor was in evidence from the beginning. Some of the earliest British 12″ singles were packaged so that they looked like American disco imports. With the arrival of house and techno the adoption of the format took on new levels of significance. To walk around town carrying a bag that could store 12″ singles was to signify an allegiance with a whole musical culture. the b-side and the 12″ single 159
There has also, of course, been the 12″ single’s visual difference from the 7″ single. As indie music sought jurisdiction over the smaller disc, the 12″ was cast in opposition. The format helped to cause a split in the indie world between those bands who wanted to ‘dislocate dance’ (and who used the 12″ single to do so) and those who ‘wish[ed] the 12″ had never been invented’ (Cosgrove 1987: 27). The 12″ single was the ultimate product of studio-based music. In contrast many indie musicians had a live music bent, their own version of the ‘concert hall ideal’. When alternative musicians did adopt the 12″ single its use could be symbolic as well as aural. This was the case with the decision of Public Image Ltd to release their dub-inspired Metal Box album on three 12″ singles, and also with New Order’s exclusive use of the 12″ single for ‘Blue Monday’. By adopting this larger format both acts displayed a provocative allegiance with dance music cultures. Gary Mulholland has claimed that ‘Blue Monday’ ‘throws a matt-black shadow over all of British pop at the turn of the “90s”’, indicating its influence as many indie bands, such as the Happy Mondays and Primal Scream, turned towards dance music and by extension the 12″ single (2002: 200). There was a neat reversal of this process in the mid 1990s when dance bands found themselves forming closer alliances with alternative groups. It was at this point that some dance musicians, including Money Mark, highlighted this rapprochement by deliberately releasing their records as 7″ singles, while others such as Autechre found a neat middle- ground, issuing their singles on 10″ vinyl (Willmott 1996: 23). The 12″ single was essential in ensuring vinyl’s survival in the early 1990s. In 1994 Music Week reported that ‘Dance music is currently keeping vinyl pressing alive by providing more than 90 per cent of pressing plants’ output’ (Davis, Sarah. 1994: 18–19). It was the cult of vinyl among dance music’s taste-makers that encouraged record labels to continue releasing music on this format (Knight 1997: 32, 34). However, unlike the somewhat nostalgic use of vinyl in other music cultures, the dance employment of the 12″ single was also a necessity. Dance DJ’s identification with this product was visual, aural and practical; it was an instrument that they had learned how to play. It is telling that some of the more recent replacements for the vinyl 12″ single, such as Serato Scratch and Final Scratch, have aimed to replicate its tactility and digitize its appearance. However, one thing that has led to the adoption of these products is the fact that 12″ vinyl is both practical and a nuisance. The 1970s British DJ quoted above was correct in claiming that the format is ‘cumbersome to carry around’. Since 2003 sales of 12″ singles have declined significantly and an influential factor has been the difference in weight between a crate of vinyl records and a laptop loaded with MP3s. In addition, others have cited the reduced importance of dance music within British musical life. But I think the two factors are twinned. It is not just that as dance music has declined so have the sales of 12″ singles, it can also be said that as the influence of the 12″ single has waned so has the vitality of dance music. This page has been left blank intentionally Chapter 8 The Sleeve
Introduction
Sales of vinyl LPs in Britain and America have risen steadily from 2008 to 2011. For many it is the quality of the format’s sleeves that has brought them back to this product. There have been two stages to this return. First, the sleeves for vinyl records have commonly been considered superior to the sleeves for CDs. As we shall see, when vinyl began to be eclipsed in the market place it was the loss of the sleeve that was often most strongly mourned. Second, the CD has itself been eclipsed by a format whose ‘sleeves’ are inferior still. The virtual world of downloading and streaming has made the packaging of physical products seem more precious. It is therefore natural that some customers have gone back to recorded music’s most beloved container: the sleeve for the vinyl LP. The sleeve has several entwined histories. This chapter traces its artistic evolution, looking at the designs that have been made for classical, jazz, pop and rock LPs. It traces the influences on those designs: advances in printing and photography, recording innovations, record company policy, retail, distribution, marketing, consumer demand, the ideas and ideals of musicians – each of these has had a part to play. In addition, this chapter examines the sleeve’s relationship with the duplicated record: it altered the way in which it was perceived. In conclusion, it looks at factors that have differentiated LP sleeves from the packaging for other formats, addressing their associative, tactile and visual properties.
Pre-LP Sleeves
It has been argued that most early records were sold without packaging (Hamilton, D. 1977: 8; Inglis 2001: 83). However, because record sleeves were ephemeral and transferable, this point is difficult to prove. There is evidence that at least three 1894 Berliner discs were issued in paper jackets with printed lyrics, indicating that the use of sleeves might have been a more regular occurrence (Sutton 2000: 67). What can be determined is that the design and manufacture of sleeves was not of primary concern to the nascent record industry and that the impetus for protective and promotional packaging lay as much with retailers as it did with the producers of records. Discs from the early years of the twentieth century were as likely to be housed in sleeves advertising shops and wholesalers as they were record company brands. These early sleeves were commonly made of Kraft paper and were of a sombre brown colour, their script and modest logos delineated in dark monotone shades of 162 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record black, blue or green. The primary focus was on the colourful record label, revealed at the centre of the bag. Although this packaging was used for the bulk of releases, a few attempts were made to illustrate the musical content of discs with specific sleeves. As early as 1904 the Gramophone Company issued Nellie Melba records in jackets that featured her portrait. This initiative was adopted for other high- profile classical releases, which came in sleeves that depicted the performers and the titles of the pieces, as well as giving the appropriate label names and catalogue numbers. Other genres were treated differently. Jazz, for example, did not receive bespoke sleeves until the 1920s, and when these arrived they did not feature pictures of the artists. Instead they featured drawings of youngsters performing the latest jazz dances. This reflects not only the lower accord in which jazz musicians were held, but also the racial politics and musical policy of the record companies at the time: the dancers who are pictured are white. Early album collections of 78 rpm discs consisted of card sleeves bound in hinged folders. The artist and title of each set would be written on the front and on the spine, and on occasions the cover would also be illustrated. In addition, classical album sets began to feature sleevenotes. Herbert C. Ridout of the British branch of Columbia Records claims to have invented these. In 1925 he employed the musician and writer Harry Wild to pen descriptive notes for a series of classical recordings. These were to be written with ‘the object of interesting and endeavouring to educate the listener who wished to improve his musical taste’ (Ridout 1942: 145). Although initially criticized for their lack of technical acumen, the use of sleevenotes caught on. At first they were printed onto each separate folder of the album set, detailing the relevant disc; later separate booklets were created and inserted into the sets or otherwise pasted on the inside sleeves of the album covers. The first sleeve designer to achieve individual credit and recognition was Alex Steinweiss, art director for the US Columbia Phonograph Company from 1939 to 1954. Although billed as ‘director’ he was, on employment, the sole worker in Columbia’s art department and his brief was to work on advertising material not record sleeves. However, on witnessing the standard of Columbia’s album packaging, Steinweiss was moved to complain, ‘This is no way to sell beautiful music’ (de Ville 2003: 34). He persuaded company president Edward Wallerstein to let him illustrate the 1940 release Smash Song Hits by Rodgers and Hart. This pioneering record sleeve depicts a theatre marquee whose hoardings advertise ‘Columbia Records’, ‘Imperial Orch under Rich. Rodgers’ and ‘Smash Song Hits by Rodgers and Hart’. This image is placed over an orange graphic of a grooved disc and together they are set on a black background. Printed on paper, this design was stuck onto the board album cover. Steinweiss’s graphics revolutionized sleeve design, not only in terms of approach, but also in relation to their impact on record sales. Six months after designing the Rodgers and Hart sleeve he repackaged a Columbia recording of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9, previously issued in plain grey cloth. It has been claimed that sales increased by 894 per cent (McKnight-Trontz and Steinweiss the sleeve 163
2000: 31–2). The record industry has usually been pragmatic when confronted with success. It is therefore not surprising that within a year all three leading American companies – Columbia, RCA Victor and Decca – were consistently issuing albums with personalized sleeves. There were nevertheless good reasons why sleeve design had not previously been the focus of greater attention. Of importance is the fact that the concentration on labels rather than sleeves had served the industry well. The design of record labels primarily promoted the record company; artist and recording were given lower billing. Moreover, the system of coloured record labels had enabled the record companies to divide the musical spectrum into their own generic designations. The arrival of the sleeve complicated matters. Sleeve design works both within generic conventions (targeting specific audiences) and against them (the need to stand out); packaging has helped to encourage the mushrooming of genres and sub-genres (usually identifiable by specific design codes). This has not necessarily favoured the major record companies; independent labels have usually been quicker at reacting to or developing the latest musical trends. A second factor regarding the late development of sleeve design is retail. Early British and American record shops housed their shellac discs behind the store counter. Customers would use recording catalogues to select their records, which would then be located by the staff. Filed behind the clerk, only the spines of album sets were visible, hence the inclusion of recording details on this part of the package. The principal visual means of selling records were point-of-sale advertisements, items that Steinweiss had been employed to design. It was only during World War II that alternatives to this retailing format appeared. The war effort required metals and other raw materials, consequently heavy-duty appliances such as refrigerators and washing machines were less commonly manufactured and purchased. As a result some of the larger American retailers replaced these front-of-store items with shellac discs. Records were placed in browsers for the customer to flip through, an innovation that was reliant on the eye-catching sleeves that Steinweiss and his contemporaries had created. This change in retailing, in turn, affected sleeve design. Steinweiss restructured his cover layouts having observed the way that customers rifled through record racks. He began to place the most important details, such as the artist and the title of the album, at the top of the sleeve, so that they could be easily read while flipping through the records. Although never uniformly implemented this layout has provided one of the dominant templates for sleeve design, particularly in relation to the packaging of classical music. It has also been more prevalent in American sleeve designs than those conceived in Britain. One explanation for this is the fact that the browsing system was slow to develop in the UK. The first ‘browserie’ was not introduced until autumn 1955 when the popular music section of the HMV Oxford Street shop was converted. In addition, the system of distributing discs to shops operated differently in the two countries. In Britain, the control of distribution remained for the most part in the hands of the major record labels; in America, distribution had been a separate 164 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record industry run by firms independent of the record companies. The American system involved an extra gatekeeper, one who considered sleeve design solely in relation to the retail environment. Simon Frith has noted that ‘Record companies had to sell their goods to their distributors before they could sell them to the public – even record covers were designed with record sellers rather than buyers in mind’ (1983: 139). This accounted, not only for the layout of the sleeves, but also for their content. Frith states that ‘early Motown LPs, for example, kept artists’ pictures off the sleeves in order to get them into white stores in the South’ (ibid.).
The LP Sleeve
The real fillip for record sleeve design came with the introduction of the LP. This format offered a larger expanse for designers to explore. Additionally, because the music on this format was longer and more varied than that on shellac discs, it required cohesive illustration and elucidation. It is therefore surprising that Columbia housed the first LPs in retrogressive Kraft paper sleeves (although this was in part because of the rush to get these records to the market) (McKnight- Trontz and Steinweiss 2000: 53). The company soon discovered that, not only were these covers visually unappealing, they also left marks on the sensitive microgroove discs. In a reversal of their earlier encounter, Wallerstein approached Steinweiss to design a suitable package. Working with Bob Jones, Steinweiss came up with a sleeve consisting of a printed cover pasted onto 24-point chipboard. The Imperial Paper Box Company was employed to manufacture this design, and in so doing they made the decision to print sleevenotes on the back of the record cover (Garlick 1977: 781). With its colour front sleeve and black-and-white reverse, the resultant LP package mirrored the design layout of the hardback book jacket. It also shared the same dual protective and promotional purposes. The common standard adopted from book jackets was for title, author and manufacturing company to be outlined on the front sleeve where they would be accompanied by an appropriate pictorial representation of the contents; on the rear there would be a descriptive synopses and maybe a photo of the author; and on the spine there would be details of the title and author in addition to the manufacturer’s details. There were good practical reasons for classical music’s adoption the book-cover template: the front cover is designed for impact, to pull you in; the back cover fills in the details. There were also good associative reasons for using it. Columbia wished to market the LP as a high-class cultural good: what better than to package it in the same manner as a literary masterpiece? The dominance of classical music within early LP release schedules helped to endow this standard design with a new set of associative qualities. The prestigious air that classical music lent to the LP had the effect of attracting other culturally ambitious genres of music to the format. One of the ways in which various strands of jazz, folk and pop music elevated their status was by aligning themselves, not the sleeve 165 only with the LP, but also with the conventions of classical sleeve design. This can be witnessed most clearly in relation to sleevenotes, which were employed somewhat awkwardly for virtually all popular music releases until the late 1960s. Early LP sleeves were also influenced by the conventions of record label design. An emphasis was placed on the company name and logo, which as with labels dominated the upper area of the covers. Although subsequently reduced on the sleeves of most other forms of music, the record company masthead continued to occupy the top third of many classical record covers (Deutsche Grammophon’s sleeves provide a notable example). Also reflective of record company interests was the rear of the sleeves. Literature here was not only concerned with the musical content of the discs. The robust LP cover, as well as protecting the record, gave further details about the care and consideration that this object warranted. As well as being practical, this advice helped to enhance the special nature of this new recording medium, detailing the particular rituals that the LP required. In addition, early LP sleeves frequently advertised other products manufactured by the record companies, including cleaning products for the care of the LPs, record guides, and albums available by similar artists or composers. Although classical music LP sleeves continued to adhere to the earliest graphic conventions, other forms of music soon displayed a greater degree of experimentation. This was not due to the influence of artists or their managers – they would have faced some difficulty as throughout the 1950s all sleeve art continued to be in the control of the record companies’ in-house design studios – instead, it was the realities of record retailing that first prompted change. LPs, with their narrow width, were more suited to record browsers than bulky shellac album sets. In addition, the profit margins involved in manufacturing individual long-playing discs and their cardboard sleeves, rather than multi-record shellac sets in their album binding, allowed for greater resources to be concentrated on graphic design (Garlick 1977: 781). What could not have been predicted was just how necessary this packaging would become. One consequence of the Battle of the Speeds between LP and 45 rpm vinyl records was that most radio airplay and jukebox space was given to the smaller discs. The LP was therefore increasingly promoted via its sleeve design, rather than through audio exposure. Melody Maker stated in 1958, ‘The whole industry is so much in the throes of Hit Parade mania that the youngster, gazing at an exotic window display, is left to choose his LP on the face value of its cover’ (Brown 1958: 3). This circumstance was compounded by the move towards self-service record retailing, which reduced the use of listening demonstrations, as well as the reliance upon the expert knowledge of staff. The influence of retail over sleeve design, and of sleeve design overthe promotion and perception of musicians and singers, would eventually help to transform relationships within the record industry. As stated above, the earliest LP sleeves had been reflective of record company interests and concerns, however it was soon discovered that covers dominated by record company mastheads held little appeal for the casual browser. Instead, the customer was attracted by the pictorial elements of the sleeve; a strong visual statement was more likely to lead 166 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record to ‘impulse buying’ (Hamilton, D. 1977: 14). Record companies, therefore, began to place greater emphasis on sleeve art. Writing in Record Mirror in 1955, Jack Bentley noted that it was now through design that ‘each firm strives to outdo the other’ (1955: 16). He added, ‘a pointer in this state of rivalry is how even HMV have demoted their traditional dog listening to the gramophone trademark to just a weak corner of the cover’. Advances in printing and photography aided this transformation. The early album covers that Steinweiss and his contemporaries created for Columbia had been limited in scope. Offset printing was a recent development and was extremely expensive. Consequently, the sleeves were printed by letterpress, restricting the designers to the use of three or four flat colours and halftones. The arrival of the LP was concurrent with advances in full-colour printing and colour photography, which throughout the 1950s was in a state of constant improvement. As the sales of popular music albums increased so did the use of colour photographs on record sleeves, superseding the bold pictorial designs that Steinweiss had favoured.
Jazz LP Sleeves
One advantage that the LP sleeve could have over record label design is that it was a more effective means of establishing the musical qualities of a release or of a series of releases. The first sleeves to successfully establish a sense of mood were made for the earliest conceptualized LP records. Frank Sinatra, for example, pioneered thematically consistent albums. Consequently he could crown them with covers that echoed their emotional content, the most favoured image being a solitary Sinatra framed in the halo of a streetlight. Modern jazz went one stage further: here innovative music was, in the best instances, equalled by innovative sleeve design. Of particular note are Reid Miles’s sleeves for Blue Note records. Miles’s sleeves feature the black-and-white photography of the label’s co-manager Francis Wolff, usually depicting the musicians during recording sessions. These pictures are cropped, reduced and distorted, and then combined with a bold array of typefaces. Blue Note and other pioneering jazz labels, such as Prestige and Pacific, were the first to create truly distinctive visual identities. Jazz sleeve art was for a period in a field of its own. In 1960 Frank Guana designed the cover for the Bill Evans/Jim Hall album Undercurrent. It features a monochrome picture of a woman in a white dress who is floating under water. There is no text at all. At the time no other genre would have countenanced this. What is of importance about the sleeve art of these jazz records, as well as the Frank Sinatra LPs, is that they provide iconography not just for one song but for a collection of songs. The sleeve provides the mnemonic unifying factor. For the first time the sleeve became an essential part of the overall package. In one area, though, the consequences of these two sets of sleeves were quite different. Sinatra’s sleeves primarily promoted the singer. Portraits of the singer dominate the front covers; the use of typography is not overbearing; the record company the sleeve 167 name is discreet. These designs were as effective in transforming Sinatra’s image as was the music itself, helping him to achieve what has been described as ‘the greatest comeback in the history of Pop music’ (Morgan 2005: 10). The Blue Note covers provide a contrast. These sleeves were the result of the close rapport between the artist, the record label and its musicians. As Rudy Van Gelder has stated, ‘That Blue Note era would never have happened in the context of a large company … it was a personalized, individual, approach’ (Marsh, Callingham and Cromey 1991: 60). The irony here is that the main beneficiary of these designs was not the artist, but the independent record company. Although individualized, Reid Miles sleeves were immediately recognizable as belonging to the Blue Note stable. His distinctive graphics were consistently employed across a range of releases. This was a more subtle and effective way of promoting Blue Note than the blatant use of company insignia, which was nevertheless also employed.
Pop and Rock Sleeves
There is insufficient space to document the full history of pop and rock sleeve art. Instead, what I wish to concentrate on in the following is the relationship between the vinyl record and its sleeve. In particular, I am interested in the ways in which sleeve art helped to change people’s ideas about the mass-produced disc and the music it contained. As was argued in Chapter 4, what had been hard to escape in the history of shellac and vinyl discs was the collision between the artistry of the music and the mass reproduction of records. Manufacturers and musicians felt a compulsion to either embrace or negate this industrial process. The LP package wrapped the record label and the stamped-out disc, thus distancing musicians from the factory- based reproduction and record label-based financing of their music. And yet the sleeve, too, was a mass-produced product. In fact, due to record racking and the use of record covers in advertising, the multiple reproduction of sleeves was more transparent than the mass manufacture of discs had ever been. Furthermore, whereas the record label only took up a portion of the disc (and it could be argued that only the top half of the label was used as a branding device) the whole of an LP’s front sleeve – a canvas over 12″×12″ – was geared towards advertisement. The sleeve could be promoting any combination of the following: the music (via pictorial and/or typographical representation); the artist (via image and name); the record company (via name and insignia); recording technologies (‘sleeves’, as Colin Symes has stated, ‘can be the sites of phonographic propaganda’ (2004: 135)). The sleeve’s role as a branding tool was unavoidable, no matter how radical the music or unconventional the sleeve design. Nevertheless, the sleeve was a different type of object to the shellac or vinyl disc. Artists created sleeves, not technicians and scientists; its images were diverse; it was not performing a mechanical function. As it was wrapped within the complete record package and introduced to the new retail environment, the factory- 168 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record produced disc was transformed. The meanings of this new package were not given; they evolved and were fought for. Moreover, sleeves drew their meanings through comparisons with the sleeves that surrounded them. Covers that might seem conservative now could have appeared radical within their contemporary retail environment. In addition, major and independent record companies had different histories of sleeve design. It was almost exclusively the smaller record companies, with their limited generic rosters, who most successfully used sleeve design to help build a distinctive aesthetic (for example Burkhart and Barbara Wojirsch and Dieter Rehm at ECM, Barney Bubbles at Stiff Records, Peter Saville at Factory, Vaughan Oliver at 4AD). And it was largely due to the romance surrounding independent labels that such branding was not only accepted, but also admired. Opinion changed regarding the aspects of sleeve design that were considered to be the most blatantly commercial, and as to whether marketing itself was something to be encouraged or disguised. Breakthroughs in sleeve design should therefore be historically located.
1950s: Struggle for Definition
Just as pop music was an afterthought when it came to the invention of the LP, scant attention was paid to the design of early pop music LP sleeves. In-house designers were by and large responsible for their artwork and there was generally little stylistic consistency. For example, whereas Bill Haley’s Rock around the Clock features a figurative drawing in the tradition of Steinweiss’ designs, Elvis Presley’s first LP has a black-and-white performance photograph and distinctive graphics, more reminiscent of contemporary jazz releases. It was only when rock ’n’ roll developed into a somewhat softer style – the pre- Beatles era of the teen idol – that a consistent design aesthetic became apparent. Colour portraits, shot in photographic studios, dominate the sleeves of artists such as Ricky Nelson and Fabian. The same approach was applied to Elvis Presley’s subsequent releases, as well as to the earliest British pop LPs. Here we can see how the LP sleeve helped to foster image-based music consumption. The musical template for the American pop LP was fairly mercenary: one or two hit singles accompanied by ‘filler’ material. The singers’ good looks were therefore vital to these records’ saleability. The fact that the LP sleeve has the dimensions of a poster only helped to encourage this visual bias. Pop music sleeves increasingly took on the design qualities of pin-ups in teen magazines. The back sleeve was also reflective of this medium: sleeve notes began to mirror the questionnaires and interviews found in these publications.
Early 1960s: Reduction of Typography
The sleeve designer Storm Thorgerson has argued that:
The music scene [in the early 1960s] on both sides of the pond was pretty damn exciting. Yet for reasons beyond comprehension this excitement failed to the sleeve 169
transfer to rock ’n’ roll visuals – album covers of these early years, indeed until 1965, show a distinct lack of excitement, a distinct lack of invention or flair, actually a distinct lack of anything. (1989: 12)
In one sense Thorgerson is correct: innovations within pop music were, in general, not matched by innovations in sleeve art (the sleeve and music of the Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds provides a notorious example of this disjunction). Nevertheless, in this period the design layout of the pop music record sleeve was being transformed and, what is more, these changes were a direct reflection of the innovation and flair of the music. It is in British, rather than American, sleeve design that the first developments can be witnessed. The best British pop LPs of this period are more cohesive than their American counterparts. The greater consideration that these LPs were given was matched by more considered sleeve art. Primarily this meant a reduction in and a reorientation of the text on the LP covers. This transition can be witnessed in the difference between the covers of the first two Beatles’ albums. The design of the Beatles’ 1963 debut Please Please Me is typical of its period. It features a colour portrait of the band and is headed by large typography blazing the group’s name. Hit singles are central to both the LP and the sleeve’s construction: the record takes its name from their biggest hit to date and this title is highlighted on the cover; there is also a subtitle declaring ‘with Love Me Do and 12 other songs’. The success of this record gave the Beatles greater control over their next album. Although the music on Please Please Me was of an unusually high standard, it was the follow-up With the Beatles that enhanced the status of the pop LP. This was achieved through content (no singles were issued off the LP and yet many tracks were worthy of separate release) and through design (Robert Freeman’s stark, half-lit black-and-white photography was immediately arresting). The cover features a drastic reduction in text. With no hit singles to declare, all that remains on the front sleeve are the downsized LP title and record company logo. George Melly commented, ‘Among the vulgar fairground barking of the LP covers of its period, With the Beatles had the dramatic impact of a bomb in a bouquet of multi- coloured gladioli’ (1970: 139). The Rolling Stones’ first LP sleeve pared things back further still. A photographic group portrait dominates the front cover; group name and title are absent (the first time this had occurred within pop music); the only writing on the sleeve is the record company logo. At the time of its release this cover art was considered anti-commercial, reflective of the purist musical stance the band were then employing. This was a record for insiders, for those already acquainted with the band’s image. The sleeve nevertheless increased the currency of this image, placing it at the centre of the Rolling Stones’ promotional campaign. The Rolling Stones’ manager Andrew Loog Oldham, who instigated this design, was certainly aware of its marketing potential. He had researched existing sleeve art ‘with an eye towards those whose cover images stood out from and above the fray’ (Oldham 2003: 225). What differentiated the Rolling Stones was not their group 170 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record name, nor song titles, nor typography: it was their look. Oldham established a new paradigm for sleeve design. As Nick de Ville has stated, ‘over the past forty years there has been an insistent tendency for the most blithely self-confident – from the Rolling Stones to Björk – to banish lettering from their covers entirely’ (2003: 9). In so doing it is the group or artist who is marketed, and they are promoted at the expense of all others involved in the LP. Oldham held a complex attitude towards the promotion of his charges, as can be discerned from his sleevenotes for their LPs. Here his initial aim was not to reduce the amount of text but to subvert it. The blurb for Rolling Stones No. 2 became infamous:
This is THE STONES new disc within. Cast deep in your pockets for loot to buy this disc of groovies and fancy words. If you don’t have bread, see that blind man knock him on the head, steal his wallet and low and behold you have the loot, if you put in the boot, good, another one sold! … I could tell, tale of talent, fame and fortune and stories untold of how these teen peepers (eyes, that is, to you) have taken groupdom by storm, slur you with well-worn cliches, compare them to Wagner, Stravinsky and Paramour. I could say more about talent that grows in many directions. To their glory and their story, let the trumpets play. Hold on there, what I say is from the core of this malchik.
This text exposed and undermined the promotional emphasis of LP’s rear sleeves and in aping Anthony Burgess’s Clockwork Orange it also highlighted their literary pretensions. Adverts for cleaning cloths and other artists’ records sat uneasily alongside such cynicism. Gradually, these texts diminished. Once the advantages of long-playing technology had been established, information relating to the records’ protection was transferred from the outer sleeve to the inner sleeve. Later still it was abandoned altogether. The advertising of other record company products was also relegated for the most part to the inner sleeves of records. In time the sleevenote itself began to disappear. The Beatles’ 1965 LP Help! is their first to do away with this convention. The Rolling Stones waited until 1967’s Between the Buttons before doing the same.
Late 1960s: Abandonment of Self
Within the major record companies the use of in-house designers gradually diminished, with the reverse trajectory being that artists and their managers began to take increasing control of sleeve design. This situation was first in evidence in the mid 1960s, mirroring the autonomy that the burgeoning rock movement required. Nick de Ville has stated:
Soon enough this meant that all the decisions – including the design of album sleeves – were seen as the prerogative of the artist, and invariably they wanted to work with designers who were empathetic with their music, their artistic the sleeve 171
leanings and lifestyles. The result was that in-house design studios declined in importance, their activities increasingly confined to repackaged back catalogue, and producing ancillary designs for advertisements, point-of-sale, and merchandising. (2003: 11–12)
If the mid 1960s had witnessed the removal of text from pop LP sleeves, with the result that the musicians’ images became the dominant factor, the move towards rock during the latter half of this decade was marked by the removal and/or distortion of those group images. Once more the Beatles were pioneers. Their influence over LP sleeve design is inescapable, as de Ville has pointed out:
Their album sleeves, many of which now appear deceptively simple, were groundbreaking and extraordinarily influential. Beatles’ sleeves have produced more look-alikes, homages and pastiches than those of any other rock group. They set the pace in a revolution in record cover design, which led to the creation of an entirely new visual lexicon to symbolize the emerging rock genre. (2003: 88)
1964’s Beatles For Sale (with its gatefold sleeve); 1965’s Rubber Soul (with its distorted photography and psychedelic lettering, declaring album name only); and 1966’s Revolver (with its black-and-white line drawings and photographic montage) were all important markers as pop developed into rock. However, it is the sleeve for Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band that most clearly indicates the change. Thousands of words have been written about Peter Blake and Jann Haworth’s cover, an artwork that must surely now be more widely recognized than the majority of the album’s music. Here I wish to focus on two of the breakthroughs that occurred. First, as the Beatles assumed control over the album’s contents (it was their first album to be issued in uniform editions throughout the world) they also assumed almost complete control of the sleeve. Their preceding LP Revolver features Parlophone’s trademark on the front cover and an advert for EMITEX Record Cleaner on the rear. On the Sgt. Pepper sleeve the Parlophone/ EMI insignia is demoted to a space 2″×1″ wide at the base of the back cover. Also on the back sleeve, and taking up approximately the same amount of space, there is information detailing copyright, catalogue number and technical details. Otherwise the whole of this gatefold sleeve is devoted to the group’s images and texts. A collage replaces the conventional image of a band on the front sleeve; lyrics take the place of sleevenotes on the rear (a first); a group photo lies within the gatefold; the spine features LP title only; the inner bag has psychedelic swirls rather than protective advice (another first); and the insert (yet another first) features various Sgt. Pepper cut-outs. Proportionally these various devices occupy over 99 per cent of the package’s surfaces. The second development concerns the way the band occupy this sleeve space. Although the band’s image can be witnessed on all surfaces bar the inner sleeve, what we consistently witness is the group dressed as their Sgt. Pepper alter egos. 172 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
The sleeve represents the dissolution of the Beatles’ conventional image (if we view the front cover as a funeral gathering it is the ‘The Beatles’ that is spelt out as the deceased in the floral wreath). This duality of the band as Beatles/and yet not the Beatles, and of the cover promoting the group/and yet not promoting the group, marks the transition from pop sleeves (dominated by the group’s image) to rock sleeves (the return to more abstract design). The Beatles are themselves abstracted in various ways: on the front sleeve the Sgt. Pepper Beatles stand next to the group’s Madame Tussaud’s waxworks, created during their be-suited, fab- four phase. This juxtaposition begs to be analysed, placing the artificiality of the ‘real’ Beatles in their pop years against the authenticity of the group now that they are an artificial band. The elaborate construction of the Sgt. Pepper cover, coupled with the allusive and elusive nature of its imagery, provided another paradigm for sleeve design. If the record label had orientated the disc towards industry, the sleeve could now counterbalance this with artistry. Layers of meaning and packaging could enshroud the stamped-out disc. Here it is worth considering the design standards that Sgt. Pepper failed to establish. Whereas the Beatles had placed imagery on the inner bag and the lyrics on the outer sleeve, the reverse has more commonly been the case. The most common progression from label, to inner bag, to inner gatefold, to outer sleeve (rear), to outer sleeve (front), is for each surface to become less text- based and less specific regarding the various contents of the disc. The Sgt. Pepper sleeve was economically as well as artistically successful; it helped to provide the Beatles with their biggest-selling LP to date. Consequently, greater record industry resources were placed behind what could be considered as anti-industry sleeve design. However, the sleeve was the perfect Romantic marketing device: it rendered rock records less obviously commercial, while at the same time making them easier to promote. Abstraction and surrealism were key. There were several manifestations of this new tendency: the complex psychedelic lettering of artists such as Rick Griffin and Mouse & Kelley; photographic set pieces as pioneered by William S. Harvey’s sleeve for the Doors’ Strange Days; and the use of collage such as Cal Schenkel’s Frank Zappa sleeves. In Britain design teams such as Hipgnosis (with their work for Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin) and artists such as Roger Dean (with his fluid landscapes for Yes and their offshoots) came to the forefront. The sleeve for Led Zeppelin’s fourth album follows this design paradigm to its conclusion. The album is untitled; the group’s name does not appear on the sleeve and nor are they pictured (they are instead represented by four symbols); there is no mention of record company, catalogue number or copyright details. The only clues regarding the perpetrators of this record are on the inner sleeve, which features a producer credit to Jimmy Page, as well as the lyrics to ‘Stairway to Heaven’. Jimmy Page explained: ‘We decided that on the fourth album we would deliberately downplay the group name and there wouldn’t be any information on the outer jacket. Names, titles, and things like that do not mean a thing … What matters is our music. We said we just wanted to rely purely on the music’ (Davis, Stephen. 2006: 138). the sleeve 173
Nevertheless, as Jimmy Page was surely aware, sleeve designs could also become brands. The most notable example here is the cover designed by Hipgnosis for Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon, which is also devoid of group, album and record company titles. The prism design on this sleeve has been as effective in promoting the image of Pink Floyd as the photographic portraits were in promoting the Rolling Stones. The Dark Side of the Moon package witnesses the almost complete triumph of the independent sleeve designer. The earliest LP sleeves had been influenced by record label designs; here the triangular motif of the prism is extended to the record label itself. The last bastion of the record company had been stormed.
1960s-1970s: Self-Awareness
The sleeve of Sgt. Pepper represents another breakthrough in that it was the first to be extensively parodied and homaged. The earliest and most pertinent was the gross, inside-out version created by Frank Zappa for 1968’s We’re Only In It for the Money. Zappa had glimpsed the inherent commerciality of the hippie movement and of its supposedly non-promotional packaging. Then again, so had the Beatles. They knew and took advantage of the fact that the marketing realities of sleeve art were unavoidable. Looked at from one perspective Richard Hamilton’s white sleeve for their next album The Beatles was the ultimate act of daring, representing the complete erosion of the group’s image. Looked at from another it was a brilliant marketing idea. With the record browsers full of psychedelic sleeves what would stand out more than a blank canvas? According to Barry Miles this was always the artist’s plan: ‘Richard Hamilton saw it, not as an art statement, but as a way of competing with the lavish design treatments of most post-Sgt Pepper sleeves’ (1997: 502). By individually numbering the first press run of this release, Hamilton drew attention to the scale of the pressing operation. At the same time he subverted this process, rendering the sleeve more akin to a limited art print. Hamilton claimed that ‘Its standards are those of a small edition print pushed, with only some technical constraints, to an edition of millions’ (Frith and Horne 1987: 105). Originally influenced by the Pop Art movement (from which both Peter Blake and Richard Hamilton haled) there was a tradition in sleeve design that drew attention to its commercial basis. Sleeves such as The Who’s The Who Sell Out (1968) and the Small Faces’ Ogdens’ Nut Gone Flake (1968) mimic the same types of packaging that Pop Art depicted. However, this very act elevated their sleeves above the packaged herd. No longer part of the unreflective popular culture that Pop Art was celebrating, these sleeves were as self-aware as the Pop Artists’ own work. This approach was generally unwelcome during the Romantic hippie era but returned as punk sought to debunk that era’s claims. The sleeve that Jamie Reid created for the Sex Pistols’ ‘Holidays in the Sun’ returns us directly to the world of marketing. It features a cartoon advertisement lifted from a Belgian travel 174 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record brochure in which the nuclear family’s speech bubbles are filled with the lyrics of the song. The back sleeve depicts a suburban family in their home, each object is labelled: ‘nice furniture’, ‘nice room’, ‘nice young lad’ and so on. Most pertinent is the slogan at the bottom: ‘nice sleeve’. In similar fashion the Gang of Four’s ‘Damaged Goods’ satirizes the packaging process. The front cover informs us that it is ‘the sleeve for a Gang of Four recording’ and the back cover gives us the band’s design instructions: ‘Enclosed find photograph we’d like to be on the single’. The ultimate example of this attitude is the sleeve for XTC’s album Go 2 (designed, perhaps surprisingly, by Hipgnosis). The front sleeve features a long text, which begins:
This is a RECORD COVER. This writing is the DESIGN upon the record cover. The DESIGN is to help SELL the record. We hope to draw your attention to it and encourage you to pick it up. When you have done that maybe you’ll be persuaded to listen to the music – in this case XTC’s Go 2 album. Then we want you to BUY it. The idea being that the more of you that buy this record the more money Virgin Records, the manager Ian Reid and XTC themselves will make. To the aforementioned this is known as PLEASURE. A good cover DESIGN is one that attracts more buyers and gives more pleasure. This writing is trying to pull you in much like an eye-catching picture. It is designed to get you to READ IT. This is called luring the VICTIM, and you are the VICTIM.
Punk bands also exposed the arrival of that ultimate retail icon, the barcode. It is rudely distorted on the sleeves of the Clash’s Cost of Living EP and Stiff Little Fingers’ Nobody’s Heroes. While punk groups marketed their records by exposing the marketing process, other bands more readily embraced the branding that is inherent in sleeve design. Groups such as Earth Wind & Fire, Fleetwood Mac, Roxy Music, the Average White Band and Chicago ensured that marketing worked in favour of the artist, rather than the record company. Through their consistent use of logos, sleeve layouts and content they cast themselves as immediately recognizable brands. This was also the case with the entire genre of heavy metal music. Kiss were probably the originals here: using distinctive branding to market a music that was largely ignored by mainstream broadcasters.
1980s: B(r)and Image
If there is an accepted golden era of LP sleeve design it is the period of the late 1960s to the mid 1970s. During this period the LP came closest to being a stand- alone object, divorced from single releases and their attendant broadcast media. Correspondingly, the sleeve achieved primacy, being tailored to a specific record’s needs. By the 1980s the situation was different. The unity of the LP was challenged as more and more singles were issued off them to promote their sales. Moreover, the marketing awareness that punk, heavy metal and other genres had highlighted the sleeve 175 spread across the whole music industry. As marketing assumed more importance than sleeve design, the specificity of creating an LP cover began to be replaced. Groups such as the Buzzcocks and the Sex Pistols employed designers to produce artwork, not just for an album, but for a whole campaign (including t-shirts and badges, as well as an array of record sleeves). Designs now had to be adaptable to a variety of sizes and surfaces. The Buzzcocks’ designer Malcolm Garrett went on to form the independent design group Assorted Images. Here a complete ‘corporate identity’ was created for bands such as Culture Club and Duran Duran (Thorgerson 1982: 32). Symbols, images and colour coding would be carried over from release to release. Kasper de Graaf of Assorted Images outlined the design group’s policy:
What you are doing is presenting the band, not the individual product. That band’s market isn’t interested in whether it’s from A&M or EMI or Island. What they want to know is, is it Siouxsie and the Banshees, or is it Duran Duran? (Fisher and Greenland 1984: 9)
Conversely, within the independent music scene the manufacturing company was important. Independent record companies such as Stiff, Fast Products, Factory and 4AD adopted these new marketing tactics but, rather than using distinctive design to promote individual artists, it was instead employed to create a recognizable label identity. In the process they frequently left images of their artists off their record sleeves. As record company resources were spread across an entire marketing campaign less money was devoted to LP sleeve design. The 1980s witnessed fewer gatefold sleeves and a scarcity of packaging innovations. The main culprit here was video. The resources devoted to an LP’s artwork were reduced because of the expense that video promotion entailed (de Ville 2003: 169–70). Moreover, as we have seen, one of the reasons why LP sleeve art had originally blossomed was because these records were not being broadcast on the radio or the jukebox. With the arrival of music video and MTV numerous LP tracks were being visualized 24-hours a day. It is no coincidence that several leading sleeve designers moved into video direction during this period (ibid.). There was, of course, another factor that affected the creation of sleeve art in the 1980s: the arrival of the CD.
Specificity of the LP Sleeve
Vinyl is dying. How sad. Think of all those favourite albums. Think of the time you first bought them, be they Sergeant Pepper, Talking Heads or Thriller. Remember all the undoing – removing shrink-wraps, opening the gatefold, then reaching inside for the record and the lyric bag. Or maybe even some goodies, like a poster or a sticker? Vinyl is dying. Think of the children. They will grow up not knowing what a record album is … The real sadness of 176 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
the Certain Death of vinyl is … dare I say … the death of the record cover. (Thorgerson 1992: 10–11)
By my mid twenties I was thinking the intense relationship that I had with numerous album covers in my mid teens was far stronger, purer, richer, and more fulfilling than the greatest art collectors in the world could have with the works of art they had spent millions on. When the CD revolution happened in the late 80s, my thinking was that there was no way the then current generation of teenagers could have the same intense relationship with CD packaging that I had with vinyl LP art work. (Drummond 2006: 7)
The rise of the compact disc was accompanied by panic about the future of sleeve art. In fact, this visual aspect of record manufacture was often the main concern of those fighting for the cause of the vinyl record (‘Designers Back Vinyl’ 1992: 4). Consequently, the sleeve helped to ensure vinyl’s presence long after its predicted decline. The vinyl record sleeve also acquired a cult status of its own. There have been many books dedicated to depicting their artwork, and the sleeves of LPs and 45s are now regarded as art works in their own right: the most lauded have been displayed in galleries and have achieved the status of design classics. Accordingly, the company Artvinyl (established in 2005) manufactures bespoke frames, enabling the analogue sleeve to be displayed in the digital home. Vinyl records’ sleeves have also been the subject of art: Christian Marclay (various works), Graham Dolphin (with 33⅓ in 2005) and David Shrigley (whose Worried Noodles (The Empty Sleeve) of 2005 neatly reverses Marclay’s Record without a Cover) are among those who have created, depicted or distressed sleeve art in their own work. The vinyl record sleeve has distinct associative, tactile and visual properties. I wish to close this chapter by examining these.
Associative Properties
The LP cover became an essential and entwined part of the listening experience. Evan Eisenberg noted how the use of stereo sound abstracted the location of music. As a result the listener required a new focus to replace the mono speaker, which had previously been regarded as the music’s source (Eisenberg 2005: 53– 4). The large expanse of the LP sleeve provided one outlet. Moreover, designers deliberately worked upon this space so that it would sustain attention for the duration of the record (Collins 1989: 45). And, if the sleeve art wouldn’t suffice, there were always the texts to occupy your time: sleevenotes and, in particular, the lyrics would keep you attached to the sleeve while the LP’s music unfolded. There was also the LP sleeve’s suitability for rolling marijuana, the drug most associated with the format’s golden era. The DJ Johnnie Walker has admitted: ‘You used to be able to roll up a joint on an album sleeve … You’d put the record on, you’d listen to it, look at all the artwork and then you’d have it on your lap and you could roll a good joint’ (Billen 2008). the sleeve 177
While book jackets are routinely abandoned and lost, and it is also common to find cassettes and CDs in the wrong sleeve, the same is rarely true of popular music LPs and their covers. They have been considered indivisible. As evidence for this there is the fact that, whereas book jackets are regularly updated and redesigned (as are classical record sleeves), the popular music record sleeve has in almost all cases remained inviolate. Reissues, even when released by a different company, retain strict adherence to the original cover design (it is only usually greatest hits albums that provide an exception). This practice extends beyond the aspects of the sleeve that are purposely expressive of the music or musicians. Represses of the Beatles’ Revolver continue to advertise EMITEX Record Cleaner despite the fact that this product is no longer manufactured. Similarly, the latest vinyl copies of Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue still boast that it has ‘STEREO ↔ FIDELITY’ and the back cover of James Brown’s I Got You (I Feel Good) still advertises releases by Nina Simone, Hank Ballard, and Bill Doggett, even though their vinyl LPs are no longer available. To remove any detail would be to rob each package of its place in space and time. These details are indicative of the environment in which the music was made and as such help us to understand its production. EMITEX may no longer be manufactured but its continued presence on the Beatles’ sleeve has some importance: it is reflective of the power relations between the band and EMI. More fundamentally, it would be wrong to repackage early Motown LPs in sleeves that depict the performers, as this would airbrush history. One factor that has helped to render LP covers sacrosanct is the way they have been referenced on other record sleeves. Bob Dylan encouraged the idea of displaying or quoting the sleeve art of favourite records. Bringing It All Back Home shows off his collection of Robert Johnson, Impressions, Eric Von Schmidt and Bob Dylan LPs; his pose on the cover of Nashville Skyline mimics one of these sleeves: The Folk Blues of Eric Von Schmidt. In return, Bob Dylan’s sleeves have been homaged, for example Andy White’s Rave on Andy White is based on Another Side of Bob Dylan. Elsewhere the status of the Blue Note artwork has been aided by the visual tributes of musicians such as Elvis Costello (Almost Blue mirrors Kenny Burrell’s Midnight Blue) and Joe Jackson (Body & Soul is his take on Sonny Rollins Volume 2). And it is sleeves such as DJ Shadow’s Endtroducing (1996), which displays a massive Californian record shop, or Jamie T’s Panic Prevention (2007), with its music room littered with LPs (which, like Bob Dylan’s collection, includes his own record), that have helped maintain the currency of the vinyl record. The fact that similar sleeve designs have been used to illustrate different records indicates that the appeal of cover art isn’t necessarily dependent on its aptness for the music. In fact, it is sometimes the disjunction between the music and the sleeve that is at the core of the artworks’ fascination. This accounts for the appreciation of early 1960s sleeves. Storm Thorgerson believes that ‘the major source of enjoyment for today’s viewer is the dated quality’ (1989: 13). Taken to an extreme, there is the perverse celebration of bad sleeve art. Books, blogs and emails have celebrated the worst designs that the vinyl era can offer. Enjoyment 178 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record of these is one manifestation of the increased design sophistication of both artist and viewer. It is also expressive of the exhaustion that can be felt from being surrounded by cleverly marketed products. Another outlet is the appreciation of sleeve design that retains greater ‘folk art’ qualities. The hastily conceived packaging of many reggae releases has been celebrated for this fact, only to suffer the fate of all distinctive sleeve design: the style has been borrowed by rock artists, such as the Clash, Elvis Costello and Bob Dylan, for their own record sleeves.
Tactile Properties
One factor that distinguishes shellac and vinyl records from digital formats is that, as they get older, they acquire their own history: the groove does not remain pristine. As was seen in Chapter 1, the advent of the ageless compact disc was revelatory: it became apparent that its rival’s decrepitude was as much a source of pleasure as it was of frustration. Because a vinyl record ages it feels as though it is alive, and it is loved because it ages as its owner does. The record sleeve also has a part to play. Unlike the cassette or the jewel-cased compact disc, the cover art of the vinyl record is open to the elements. With these other formats the sleeve is enclosed in a plastic case and, although the containers age, the artwork endures. In comparison the LP sleeve acquires the same scuffs, knocks and wrinkles as its purchaser. It engenders the same affection as the ageing groove. Reflective of this, the ageing or damaging process has been incorporated into design. Jamie Reid’s sleeve for the Sex Pistols’ Never Mind the Bollocks anticipates its decline: ‘it was a [deliberate] feature of the finished sleeve that it deteriorated very quickly: if left out in the sunlight, the yellow and the pink faded, just leaving the black of the overlays’ (Reid and Savage 1987: 79). A different tactic has been to mimic the damage that lies in store: Jeff Buckley’s Live at Sin-E features a faux mug stain; The Tubes first LP has the trompe-l’oeil effect of a torn record cover. The sleeve and the vinyl record share an intimacy beyond that of other formats. CDs and cassettes are separated from their covers by trays and spindles; in contrast the sleeve swaddles the vinyl disc. As they grow older this contact increases: filed alongside other records, the rim of the disc presses itself into the sleeve. This physical intimacy – on the verge of merging – helps to explain why LPs and their sleeves are considered indivisible.1 This is another process that has been celebrated. Elvis Costello’s 1980 LP Get Happy!! is largely a homage to 60s soul records and its sleeve is a tribute to how their sleeves have aged: the artwork features the fake
1 Key to this inseparability is the fact that the central area of an LP is not raised far above the surrounding groove. In comparison the label area of a 45 rpm is surrounded by the ‘gruve-gard’, first introduced by RCA Victor in 1954. This serrated edge helps to separate records within an auto-change mechanism and also ensures that the label area is not damaged. Ultimately, however, it means that 45s will not scratch one another if housed together without their packaging, a factor that has encouraged the more regular abandonment of 7″ record sleeves. the sleeve 179 outline of the enclosed disc. It is also notable that many books or features on LP sleeve design display aged and worn covers; the patina is part of the appeal. Not only does the packaging of discs age, it also has its own history. The tactile pleasure of the LP sleeve is enhanced by virtue of its periodic and geographical variations. The original Steinweiss design featured artwork that was printed on paper, which was then stuck onto the cardboard sleeve. The first laminated sleeves, with their external folds on the rear, arrived in the late 1950s. Later, with the demise of lamination in the late 1960s, the fold was enclosed. European designers were the first to print directly onto the cardboard sleeve. European sleeves also used thinner cardboard than was manufactured in America. Elton John, a record collector of some note, is illustrative of the passion these differences can elicit. Recalling his years working in a record shop, he declared ‘Oh my god, yes! American cardboard was better. It was! … I don’t want to keep banging on about the cardboard, but oh God it was good’ (Fitzpatrick 2011a: 73. Emphasis in original). Packaging has also been affected by economic considerations: designs became noticeably less elaborate during the various manufacturing crises of the early 1970s. As with the minutiae of label design, such variations have provided a grail for the collector who is eager to search out original or distinguished artwork. The abandonment of laminate enabled sleeve designers to explore a range of textures. By the early 1970s album sleeves had incorporated ‘linen, sand grain, calf, imitation leather and embossing’ (Britt 1971: 25). There had also been the zipped jeans created by Andy Warhol for the Rolling Stones’ Sticky Fingers; the Zippo lighter sleeve of the Wailers’ Catch a Fire; and the moveable jaw and eyes on the Faces’ Ooh La La. In addition, there were scratch and sniff sleeves with their secreted smells: the first example being the 1972 album by The Raspberries, which smells of raspberries. The ultimate end of these tactile experiments, and one that makes its own comment on the ageing process, is the Durutti Column’s first album, The Return of the Durutti Column. This is housed in a sandpaper sleeve, which has the deliberate aim of destroying its neighbouring LPs.
Visual Properties
Although the tactile qualities of the sleeve have changed, the overall design has encountered surprisingly little variation. The sleeve has received gatefolds, inserts and the occasional moving parts, and the paper stock and content of the inner and outer sleeves has changed, but the basic design of wrap-around sleeve, with spine on the left and opening on the right has remained. There have been variations, such as the Small Faces’ circular sleeve for Ogdens’ Nut Gone Flake, the Rolling Stones’ hexagonal design for Through the Past Darkly or the Fabulous Poodles’ giant 24″×24″ sleeve for Think Pink!, but as with many of the textural innovations these have usually intended as one-offs, not permanent design alternatives. In comparison, the design of the CD box has never quite settled. Cassettes, too, have been issued in flip-top boxes as well as in their more common packaging. Conversely, the sleeve for the vinyl record is more versatile than the other formats. 180 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
One of the reasons why vinyl has become collectable is its sleeves’ propensity for providing limited editions: gatefolds, inner sleeves, embossed covers – many of these are printed in limited runs. Neither the CD nor the cassette can as effectively alter its component parts. Record sleeve and disc are also more akin than their equivalent cassette and CD partnerships. A CD is one-sided but has a two-sided sleeve; a cassette is two-sided but its sleeve commonly wraps less than two-thirds of its shape. The correspondence between the two-sided disc and its two-sided sleeve appears so natural that it rarely draws comment. However, many of the best designs have utilized this duality. Artists have carefully paired the disc’s two record labels, and then linked these with the designs on the two sides of the inner bag, and then continued these partnerships onto the separate faces of the outer sleeve. The cover that Peter Saville designed in partnership with Joy Division for the group’s Unknown Pleasures provides a fine example, particularly as the graphics never expand beyond the dimensions of the label at its core. The colours of sleeves and discs have also been paired and contrasted. It maybe unconscious, but many of the most successful record sleeves have used stark black and/or white. There are various tactics: the black sleeve for the black disc (Dark Side of the Moon; Unknown Pleasures); contrasting the black disc with a pristine white sleeve (The Beatles); or the emergence in half-light (With the Beatles and the sleeves that it inspired). More obviously, coloured vinyl records and picture discs are often the extension of sleeve motifs. The fact that the square canvas of the LP sleeve has rarely been tampered with provides evidence of its suitability for sleeve design. Its regularity and its size offer it an immediate advantage over other formats. The photographer Brian Griffin claims that ‘The twelve-inch square is just right when you hold it at arms’ length: it’s an absolutely perfect viewing space, in feel, shape and size’ (Fisher and Greenland 1984: 10). It even has its ideal tool: the single-lens, square format reflex camera. As Colman Andrews has stated, this camera is ‘obviously perfectly suited to record- jacket illustration’ (1974: 24). One of the notable features of the surface area of an LP sleeve is that it provides an effective frame for a photograph of a life-sized human head. Many sleeves have utilized this fact (for example, Phil Collins’ Face Value, which uses its front and back sleeves to illustrate the front and back of his head). This is an aspect of LP sleeve design that has been celebrated in the twenty- first century: witness the ‘sleeveface’ phenomenon in which people hide their own features with a perfectly matched record cover (
The revivals in vinyl’s fortunes can at least in part be attributed to the Internet revolution. As was stated in the introduction, the vinyl record is providing both a complement and an alternative to digital formats. The vinyl era is also providing much of the content for download and streaming sites. This is the case in terms of repertoire and in the way that digital products have been designed. Platforms such as Spotify and iTunes operate in terms of singles and LPs (the latter self-consciously so with its ‘iTunes LP’ feature). In fact, it could be argued that digital platforms and vinyl have been most successful where they have been most complementary: the twenty-first century affection for the single surely owes something to the fact that digital media have included jukebox-inspired ‘shuffle’ modes. Conversely, the aspects of vinyl that have suffered most during recent years are those that are less effectively mimicked by digital technologies: it has harder to promote a new company on the strength of a label name; few artists are now overly concerned with composing b-side material; the poor sales of 12″ singles reflect the Internet’s inability to replicate this product. While digital platforms have provided easy access to all eras of recorded music, they have also had the effect of sealing off the years of the vinyl record’s dominance into a distinct era of production. The popular music of this period – lasting roughly from the rock ’n’ roll adoption of the seven-inch single in the mid 1950s to the arrival of the CD in the early 1980s – has a two-fold currency. On the one hand, it is still with us, forming the core of a ‘canon of “classics”’ that digital technologies have rendered ever-present in our lives (Negus 1992: 69). On the other hand, modern performers are drawing upon these vinyl-era classics. Simon Reynolds argues that the present century has witnessed ‘record collection rock’, an overly respectful and overly retrospective form of music making, which didn’t exist when these influential records were actually being made (2005: xxviii). For me the main difference between analogue and digital formats does not lie with the manner in which they reproduce sound; instead it relates to the fact that to a certain extent digital technologies are not formats at all. Digital information is freely exchangeable across various media, consequently any idea that this information is being determined by its format is diminished. In contrast, the analogue record placed many aural and physical parameters around its recorded material. These were challenged and contested by the industry, by artists and by audiences, but there was always a limit beyond which the format could not be stretched. What I hope to have illustrated in this book is just how important the interplay between format and content has been for the creation and perception of recorded music. In fact, it is when artists are pushing technological as well as musical boundaries that sound recording is most in touch with its own times. 184 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
George Melly described the pop music of the 1960s as providing a ‘passport to the country of the “Now”’ (Chambers 1985: 199). Digital media does not have the same concept of boundaries and this could help to account for the anachronistic nature of much of its content. Popular music has lost its obsession with the present: many of its parameters have been set by a superseded technology; correspondingly, many of its sounds are the sounds of the past. And this provides one of the reasons why the vinyl record is still with us: not only is it the source for much of the music that surrounds us today, it is also the format on which this music can best be understood. The vinyl record has been responsible for outlining many of music’s horizons. Along with its primary mediators, the radio and the jukebox, it was responsible for compressing the dynamic range of recordings (resulting in the ‘warm’ analogue tone that is still prevalent in recording aesthetics). The vinyl record also helped to determine several of music’s durations (among them the hallowed three-minute length of the 45 rpm single; the longer playing time of the ‘12-inch version’; and the 50-minute duration that many albums still adhere to). It was also partly accountable for music’s categorization (genre-coding can be traced back to the segregating record label). Another area where the record had influence is the effect that mass production had on songwriting (artists tried to mimic the record’s factory-line production methods; or they sought to escape them by adopting a Romantic aesthetic; or they confronted them with music that elaborated on its commodification). The physicality of the record also influenced music making (the mirrored and inverted nature of the b-side inspired musicians to make ‘reversible’ music; the 12″ single encouraged music to expand). The record’s temporality also had its effect (the fact that records wear out contributed to the idea that there should be a regular turnover of songs and styles). Vinyl’s current role, however, is not just that of explicatory complement to music that is more commonly received via digital media. It also does things that other formats cannot do. There is its ability to make sound visible and, through this, to make it accessible (without the analogue groove the skills of the hip-hop or dance music DJ would not have evolved). The vinyl record can be articulated to a greater degree than other formats (the clear distinction between speeds and sizes of records has meant that they can be used symbolically to advance musical styles and outlooks). Furthermore, it is a more effective branding tool than other formats (the design of the label enables record companies to put their stamp on a range of products; the sleeve has been a great marketing device for artists and genres). Crucially, vinyl is more exclusive than other formats (the analogue disc stands alone in offering no home-recording function to the amateur musician; to make a vinyl or shellac record indicates that the artist has assumed a degree of professionalism). The analogue disc also has the ability to age ‘naturally’ (this degradation has helped to render it collectable; it also has sonic appeal). In addition, there are the recording gimmicks that only make sense on an analogue record (closed-grooves; double-grooves; backwards-grooves; backwards messages; secret messages in run-out grooves; and so on). conclusion 185
The vinyl record is also a desirable object – its appeal is not confined to its ability to reproduce sound. In fact, in this era of intangible and incorporeal recording media, it is the ability of the vinyl record to please our other senses that has perhaps assumed greater importance. First, there is sight. The analogue record is the only format that allows you to register a recording and a description of this recording in a single glance. The groove provides a visible trace of the sounds that have been made; the encircled record label translates them. Both have their visual appeal: the groove’s spiralling patterns remain tantalizingly on the verge of comprehensibility; the label’s distorted translations – emphasizing the record companies’ names and logos – have helped to transform those logos into totems. As if the groove weren’t interesting enough in its own right, it has also been framed by a variety of backdrops: there have been coloured records, picture discs and shaped records. Then there is the sleeve. The analogue record has provided the largest canvases for sleeve art, which has responded by producing its most memorable designs. Second, there is touch. The groove is incised and it leaves a tactile trace. Moreover, analogue record playing equipment enables the user to have access to its format: the disc can be handled and controlled as it plays. This has provided a unique means by which the user can get close to the sound recording. Similarly, the analogue record’s sleeve is not hidden in a box: it is neither enshrouded in plastic nor located behind a computer screen. Direct physical contact has encouraged artists to utilize a range of textures and materials in sleeve design. A record’s weight and constitutions can also vary. This not only produces a variety of tactile experiences, it also affects audio pleasure: it is believed that thicker records produce a better sound; in response record companies have manufactured ‘luxury’ heavyweight vinyl issues. Finally, there is smell (I shall leave taste aside, albeit that there have been edible records). Smell may be of greater importance than has commonly been recognized. Most obviously, the tactility of the record cover has enabled the introduction ‘scratch ’n’ sniff’ sleeves. However, the scent of vinyl also has its own, distinctive appeal. Roger Manning, keyboard player with the band Jellyfish, has admitted:
What really got me was the smell of the records I grew up with – maybe it was the pressing plant they used, for some reason records on the Casablanca label had a smell that blew our minds – when you smell that, it brings you right back to childhood. So we wanted to find a way to make our records smell that way, but of course nobody at our label knew what the hell we were talking about. (Milano 2003: 27)
Building upon this, Jack White’s record label Third Man has produced a record in which the vinyl is deliberately scented: Karen Elson’s ‘The Ghost Who Walks’ smells of peach. 186 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
In the introduction I outlined the three aims of this book: to detail the history of the vinyl record; to outline the format’s relationship with music; and to account for vinyl’s continued popularity. In effect, these aims have merged. The vinyl record has remained popular because of its entwined relationship with music, and it developed this close relationship because it was a product that evolved. During its period of dominance the vinyl record was the meeting ground for artists, audiences and record companies. Each of these players tested the limits and possible meanings of the 7″ single, the 12″ single and the LP. As a consequence these records became deeply embedded in their lives. Nevertheless, it is important to resist providing one overriding explanation for the appeal of vinyl records. Many elements have played a part: their history; their anatomy; their articulations; their appeal to the senses; the fact that they are ‘mystical objects’; their musical content. Which reminds me, I must now stop writing about vinyl records. I should be playing them instead. Bibliography
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4AD 168, 175 alternative music, see indie music 12” Singles 1, 3, 4, 19, 20–21, 66, 75, 80, American market 4, 50–6, 78, 87, 89, 97, 114, 137, 139–40, 143, 154–9, 107–8, 110, 113, 118–20, 125–7, 183–4, 186 134, 145–6, 148–9, 161, 163–4, cost of 156–8 168 development of 143, 154–6 amplification 18, 92, 118, 132, 176 effect on music 19, 20–21, 137, 143, the Animals 108, 125, 131, 149 157–8, 183–4 the Arctic Monkeys 115, 140 phenomenology of 158–9 Armstrong, Louis 57–8, 62 sound quality 156–7 articulation 3–4, 117, 124, 128, 137, 45 rpm singles 1–4, 18, 25–6, 45, 47, 55, 140–41, 143, 184, 186; see also 61, 66, 68–9, 70, 72, 73, 74, 77, Hall, Stuart 78, 79, 80, 81, 83, 84, 86, 89, 93, Atlantic Records 50, 53, 56, 61, 131 94, 96, 99–100, 102, 103, 104, Attali, Jacques 15, 30 106, 107–9, 110, 111–12, 113–14, audiences 4, 32, 69, 72, 75–8, 106–7, 145, 117–41, 143–55, 156, 159, 165, 157, 161, 181, 183, 186 168, 169, 173–4, 176, 178 (note), authenticity 62, 64, 76, 104, 152, 172 183–4, 186 cost of 121, 123, 140 B-sides 3, 27, 88–9, 97, 112–13, 115, development of 120–24, 127, 155 143–55, 183–4 longevity 100, 111–112, 126, 138 development of 88, 143–8 phenomenology 25–6, 117–18, 127–9, phenomenology of 147–54 132–6, 138–41 Bachman, Bill 91 protection of 128, 136 Ballard, Hank 59, 177 public performance 106 (note), 124–6, Barfe, Louis 41, 82, 144 133 the Battle of the Speeds 93–4, 111, 113–14, sound quality 121–2, 124–6, 136–7 122–4, 128, 165 78 rpm records, see shellac records the Beach Boys 104 (note), 109, 131, 149, Adorno, Theodor 71, 73–4, 75, 96 169 advertising and marketing Pet Sounds 104 (note), 109, 169 45 rpm Records 138, 145–7 the Beatles 4, 19, 60–61, 65, 72, 74, 96, compact disc 82 104–5 (note), 105, 107–13, 115 gramophone 40–42, 48 (note), 125, 131–2, 149–51, 155, independent record companies 79, 138 168–73, 177 LP records 93, 94–5, 123–4 Abbey Road 104 (note), 108, 113, 155 sleeves 165, 167–8, 170, 173–5, 177–8, The Beatles 104 (note), 173, 180 180 Beatles for Sale 74, 171 vinyl 68 (note) Help! 109, 170 albums 58, 88–9, 97-8, 100, 101, 105, 109, Please Please Me 107, 109, 169 114–15, 118, 124, 145, 162–3, 165; Revolver 104 (note), 113, 171, 177 see also long-playing records; LPs Rubber Soul 105 (note) 109, 171 206 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band catalogue numbers 45, 49–51, 81, 162, 96, 104 (note), 109–13, 171–3, 171, 172 175, 180 CBS, see Columbia With the Beatles 109, 169, 180 CD, see compact disc Beethoven, Ludwig van 19, 21, 22, 82, Chambers, Iain 60–61 128, 162 charts, see sales charts Beggars Banquet Records 78, 138 Chess Records 60, 64 Beiderbecke, Bix 58, 89 Chiswick Records 78, 80, 138 Bell, Alexander Graham 12, 29 Clapton, Eric 111, 115 (note), 132 Bell, Chichester 12, 29 the Clash 105 (note), 115 (note), 138, 139, Belz, Carl 127–30 174, 178 Benjamin, Walter 75–7, 130, 136 class 58–9, 61–4 Berliner, Emile 7, 8, 9, 13, 14, 16, 29–35, classical music 3, 4, 40–41, 46, 48-9, 61, 41, 45, 70, 74, 79, 144, 161 68, 82, 87–90, 92, 94–101, 104, disc manufacturing processes 7, 13, 29, 106, 106 (note), 108, 110, 34, 144, 161 111–12, 121, 122–4, 145, 161–5, Franklin Institute address 8, 29–30, 32, 177 33, 34 celebrity artists 32, 40–43, 48–9, 76 recording companies 34–5, 45 classical music and popular music 61, Berry, Chuck 60–61, 128 87, 106, 122–4 Black Sabbath 73, 135 collecting, see record collecting Black Swan 52–3 Coltrane, John 102, 103 Blake, Peter 171, 173, 180 Columbia 16, 31, 33, 35, 37, 42, 47, 49, Blue Note 166–7, 177 51, 53, 55, 56, 59, 68, 87–9, 91–3, Blues 49–53, 59, 60, 61, 87, 101, 131, 148, 98, 100–101, 108, 115, 120, 122–4, 152, 153 126, 144, 162–3, 164, 166 Blumlein, Alan 13, 14, see also stereo CBS 81, 91, 98 Bowie, David 85, 113, 114, 129–30, 150 comedy records 52, 110 British market 4, 35–43, 56–61, 65–6, 78, compact discs 1, 2, 3, 5, 7, 23–5, 43, 87, 89, 93–7, 107–11, 113, 126–41, 46, 69, 70, 82–5, 105, 113, 115, 146–7, 149, 156–8, 161, 163–4, 139–40, 161, 175–81, 183 169–70 CD Singles 139–40, 152–3 British Phonographic Industry (BPI) 1 compact discs and vinyl 2, 7, 24–5, 43, (note), 83 46, 70, 82–5, 105, 113, 115, 175–6, Brown, James 115 (note), 153–4, 177 178, 183 Burdon, Eric 60, 108 recordable CDs 43, 140 the Buzzcocks 79, 175 sound quality 23–4, 82–5 the Byrds 73, 115 (note) Conot, Robert 10–11 contracts, see record contracts Cage, John 20 copyright 15, 30, 46, 54, 97, 150, 171–2 Capitol Records 98–9, 124, 128 Cornershop 139–40 Carroll, Ted 78, 138 Costello, Elvis 25–6, 177–9 Carson, Ben 120–23 country music 50, 53–6, 60, 61, 62, 87, Caruso, Enrico 40, 48 101, 119, 123, 126, 148, 152 cassettes 1, 27, 46, 68–9, 70, 82, 92, 139, hillbilly records, see labels 177–81 cover versions 56, 106, 107, 109, 147, 150, cassette singles 139–40, 153 152 cast recordings 87, 89, 100–102, 106, 107, Cros, Charles 9–11, 13, 28 110, 111, 113; see also soundtracks crossover 55–6, 126, 135, 137, 139 Index 207 cylinders 1, 2, 3, 7, 8, 10–17, 18 (note), 19, duration, see time limits 22, 27–42, 46, 70, 143–4 Dury, Ian 80–81 cost of 37, 41–2 Dylan, Bob 73, 103–4, 104–5 (note), 105, plastic 38 109, 113, 115 (note), 125, 149, shape 27, 38 177–8 tin-foil 11, 12, 14, 19, 23, 28 Bringing It All Back Home 113, 177 wax 12, 36 Edison, Thomas 3, 7–16, 19, 21–4, 26, Dammers, Jerry 65, 151 28–33, 35, 36, 37, 40, 41, 42, 47, dance music 4, 17–19, 21, 62, 66, 78, 48, 64, 70, 90, 143–5 133–4, 136, 137, 139–40, 143, Diamond Discs 42, 47, 70, 90, 145 153–9, 184 recording companies 12, 28, 33, 35, Davis, Miles 102, 177 41, 42 Dean, Roger 65, 129, 172 Eisenberg, Evan 14, 70, 176 Decca Records 56, 58, 60, 65, 67, 89, EMI (Electric and Musical Industries) 93–6, 101, 128, 163 40, 56, 58, 60, 61, 65, 69, 75, 86 the Desperate Bicycles 74 (note), 93–6, 103, 106 (note), 115 Dire Straits 82, 139 (note), 127, 128–9, 133, 137, 171, discs 2, 3, 9, 11, 13, 15, 16, 27–43, 46, 49, 175, 177 68, 69–70, 74, 77, 79–80, 83, 84–6, EPs (Extended Play records) 79, 106–7, 89–90, 92, 121, 123, 125, 137, 138, 138, 155 140, 143–4, 155, 159, 185 cost of 37, 41–2, 49 Factory Records 65, 75, 168, 175 cutting 69, 84–5, 92, 125, 155 the Fall 94, 152 disc vs cylinder 2, 11, 13, 27–32, Final Scratch 21, 159 35–43, 46, 143–4 Fleetwood Mac 105 (note), 139, 174 mastering 74, 85 Foley, Red 53, 152 pressing 68, 69–70, 74, 77, 83, 85–6, folk 87, 103–4, 106, 108, 109, 111–12, 137, 140, 185 113, 123, 164–5 shape 3, 27–9, 38, 68, 79n80, 83, 138, folk-rock 73 185 Folsom, Frank M. 122–3 sizes 68, 83, 89–90, 92, 121, 123, 155, Ford, Henry 70–71, 78 (note) 159 Frith, Simon 58, 64, 78, 95, 135, 164 wax 15, 35 disc jockeys 2, 17–21, 25, 119, 125, 133–4, Gaisberg, Frederick 33, 35–6, 40 136, 154, 156, 157–9, 176, 177, Gambaccini, Paul 114, 153 184 Gang of Four 75, 174 disco 135, 137–9, 143, 152, 154–7, 158 Gaye, Marvin 105 (note), 112 distribution 43, 51, 55, 57, 59, 69, 71, 127, Gelatt, Roland 10, 19, 36–7, 49, 95, 118, 161, 163–4 126–7 DJs, see disc jockeys gender 61–4, 99 Domino, Fats 60–61 Gennett Records 51, 57 the Doors 112, 172 genre 2–3, 4, 24, 45, 49–56, 59, 61–2, 64, downloads 2, 5, 66, 70, 85–6, 141, 153, 65, 66, 78, 79–80, 82, 87, 101, 106, 159, 161, 183–5 106 (note), 109, 113, 117, 123–4, drugs 136, 176 126–7, 128, 135, 139, 140, 143, Duke Ellington 58, 62, 102 145, 147–8, 157, 158–9, 162–3, duplication 14, 15, 27–30, 32–4, 36–7, 41, 164–5, 168, 174–5, 184 45, 69–70, 74, 75–8, 85, 161; see George, Nelson 54, 131 also mass production glam rock 113, 151 208 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
Glass, Louis 33, 118 Hall, Stuart 3; see also articulation Goldmark, Peter 91 Hamilton, Richard 173, 180 Gordy, Berry 72, 131, 150 Harris, Wynonie 54, 59 gospel 54, 56, 59, 60 Haworth, Jann 171 Gould, Glenn 95 heavy metal 73, 139, 174–5 gramophone 7, 8–9, 13, 14, 17–18, 21, 23, Hendrix, Jimi 73, 105 (note), 155 25, 27–38, 41, 42–3, 45, 48–9, 50, hip-hop 20–21, 50, 56, 152, 156–7, 184 57, 58, 63, 68, 70, 89, 97, 144, 166; Hipgnosis 65, 172–4 see also record players His Master’s Voice (Record Label) 31–2, invention of 8–9, 13, 29–30 41, 42, 56, 57, 58, 68, 70, 89, 130, naming of 7 166 sound reproduction 27–9, 37–8, 45 HMV (Shop) 1, 43, 163 patents 13, 29, 35, 45, 50, 144 Hornby, Nick 61, 63 Gramophone (magazine) 25, 58, 59, 93, Hunting, Russell, 35, 42 94–5, 97, 143 Hylton, Jack 57, 103 Gramophone Company 17–18, 18 (note), 22, 35, 40–43, 47–9, 56, 64, 144, imports (records) 59, 60, 78, 131, 138, 162 157–8 Grandmaster Flash 20, 157 independent record companies, see record Graphophone 12–13, 29, 30–31, 33, 34, 35, industry 38, 123 indie music 4, 61, 65–6, 78–81, 82–4, 130, invention of 12–13 139–41, 157, 159 patents 12–13, 29, 35 Island Records 65, 175 grooves 2, 3, 7–26, 27–9, 34, 40, 45, 46–7, 48, 64, 67–8, 68 (note), 69, 77, 78, Jackson, Michael 114–15, 175 79–81, 83, 84, 89–90, 91–2, 93–4, jazz 17, 18, 19, 49, 52, 53, 56–9, 60, 61–2, 104, 106 (note), 110, 117–18, 121, 63–4, 77, 78, 87, 89, 101–3, 104, 121 (note), 125, 129–30, 137, 141, 105, 106, 108, 111, 112, 145, 155, 143, 144, 153, 154–6, 158, 162, 161, 162, 164–5, 166–7, 168 164, 178, 178 (note), 184–5 Johnson, Derek 125, 130 closed grooves 20, 22, 184 Johnson, Eldridge R. 34–5, 45, 48–9, 61, development of 11–13 70–71, 89, 144–5 digital grooves 21, 159 Jones, Max 94, 101 inscription 7–8, 10, 12–13, 15, 22–3, journalism 35–42, 58, 126, 129–30, 132, 29, 34, 45, 77 137–8, 146–7 lateral vs vertical movement 8, 13–14, 34 Joyce, Thomas F. 120, 122 mortality 8, 21–6, 32, 78, 82, 178, 184 jukeboxes 3, 33, 53, 118–20, 124–6, 128, rhythm 17–21, 143, 153, 154–5 133, 138–9, 141, 145, 146, 151, tactile qualities 2, 4, 20–21, 156, 159, 154, 155, 165, 175, 183–4 185 nickle-in-the-slot machines 33–4, 118 textual qualities 7–8, 10, 11, 13–18, 20–22, 46, 80, 83, 86, 156, 159, 184–5 King Oliver 57, 58 width and spacing of 16, 17, 18–19, 23, 67–8, 84, 89–92, 106 (note), 110, labels 2–3, 40, 45–66, 69, 74, 77–8, 80, 83, 121, 143, 155–6 104, 117–18, 121 (note), 123, 125, 136, 141, 144, 162, 163, 165, 166, Haddy, Arthur 67, 92, 93 167, 175, 178 (note), 179, 180, Haley, Bill 59–60, 127–8, 147, 152, 168 183, 184–5 Index 209
branding 45–6, 47, 54–5, 56, 57, Marr, Johnny 117, 151 60–61, 64–6, 77, 104, 136, 162–3, Martin, George 96, 107, 109, 110 165–7, 169, 172, 173, 175, 183–5 mass production, see record industry development of 45, 47 matrix numbers 77–8 hillbilly records 46, 49–54, 56, 59, 61, Melba, Dame Nellie 48, 64, 162 62, 78 (note), 103–4 Melly, George 169, 184 properties of 46–7, 62, 65, 66, 80, 179 Mercury 53, 95, 127 race records 46, 49–58, 64–5, 103–4, 119 microphones 18, 92 red seal 40–41, 49, 68, 70, 77, 118, Miles, Reid 166–7 121, 123, 144–5 Moholy-Nagy, Làszlò 15–16 Larkin, Philip 59, 62, 103 mono 96, 125–6, 147, 176 Led Zeppelin 61, 65, 85, 113, 172 the Moody Blues 65, 112, 134 Lennon, John 19, 60, 61, 149 Morrison, Van 105 (note), 112 Lippincott, Jesse H. 13, 33, 35 Motown 56, 61, 65, 72–3, 107, 131, 136, Little Richard 60, 61 150, 164, 177 live performance 73, 76, 79, 87, 95–6, 99, Moulton, Tom 154–6 101–2, 107, 109, 119, 127, 130, Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus 93, 95 131–3, 135, 150–51, 159, 178 MP3, see downloads long-playing records 67–8, 88–91, 92, 120; Music Publishing 54, 145–7, 150, 156 see also albums; LPs Musicians’ Union 58, 129, 130, 132 LPs 1, 3, 4, 16, 18, 23, 45, 47, 65, 68–9, 72, 73, 80, 81–3, 84, 85, 87–115, needle, see stylus 120, 122–4, 125–6, 127, 131, Neophone 38, 68, 90 New Order 157, 159 134–6, 137–8, 139, 149, 150, new wave 65, 78, 80–81, 136–7, 139, 151, 150 (note), 151, 152–3, 155, 161, 156 164–81, 183, 186; see also albums; Nipper, see trademarks long-playing records Nirvana 104 (note), 115 (note) canonicity 87, 98, 104–15 northern soul 113, 135–6 compiling and sequencing 87, 97–9, 101–2, 103–4, 106, 107–8, 110, Oasis 105 (note), 140, 151–2 112–15, 166, 168–9, 171, 174 Odeon 88–9, 144–5 concept albums 17, 98–9, 107, 109–13, Ohga, Norio 7, 23–4, 82 137, 166, 171–3 Okeh Records 50–51, 53, 57–8 cost of 87, 92, 93, 96–7, 101, 105, 106, Oldham, Andrew Loog 131, 169–70 107–9, 114, 156 Original Dixieland Jass Band 56–7, 145 development of 68, 91–3, 120, 122–4, Owen, William Barry 35, 41, 45 164–6 greatest hits 97, 105–6, 107, 109, Paramount Records 50, 51, 52–3 114–15, 162, 177 Parlophone 58, 171 longevity 100, 107, 109, 111–12, 138 Pathé 13, 68 microgroove 16, 18, 23, 47, 68, 91–4, Patti, Adelina 40, 64–5 120, 164, 170 Peer, Ralph 51–3 retrospection 95–6, 99–100, 101, 102, Philadelphia International 64, 153 104, 110 Philips 7, 60, 65, 82, 106, 128 sound quality 87, 91, 93–4, 123 Phonautograph 8–9, 10, 14, 16, 28 phonograph 7–14, 16, 19–20, 21–3, 27–9, McCartney, Paul 110, 131, 137, 148, 149 30–39, 41, 48–9, 75, 92, 118, 120, Magoun, Alexander 122–3 127, 143–4 Marclay, Christian 25, 176 naming of 7, 9, 11 210 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record
patents 11, 16, 50 AM radio 96, 125–6, 129, 131–2 reception of 12, 13–14 BBC 1, 129, 132–4, 135 sound reproduction 12, 37–8, 40, 144 FM radio 92, 112, 125–6 uses for 11–12, 33 pirate radio 132–3, 150 picture discs 79–80, 86 (note), 138, 156, the transistor 125–6, 129, 132 180, 185 Radiohead 105 (note), 115 Peirce, C.S. 7–8, 21, 23 RCA Victor, see Victor Pink Floyd 73, 104 (note), 112–13, 115 Read, Oliver 37, 41–2, 48, 120 (note), 172–3, 180 record collecting 2–3, 23, 29–30, 41, 46, Dark Side of the Moon 104 (note), 112, 48–9, 53, 59, 60, 61–4, 76–81, 85, 173, 180 86 (note), 101, 115, 136, 138, 141, pop art 74, 173 179, 180, 183, 184 pop music 4, 61, 71, 73, 76, 82, 87, 93, 96, record contracts 40, 43, 48, 54, 65, 98 102, 105–12, 113–15, 126, 127, record covers, see sleeves 129, 130–35, 138, 140–41, 143, record industry 148–53, 155, 159, 161, 163, 164–5, independent record companies 4, 46, 167–72, 184; see also popular 50, 54–5, 56, 62, 64–6, 74–5, music 78–81, 83–4, 102, 104, 137–40, definition of 87 163, 166–8, 175 pop music and rock music 73–4, 87, links with car manufacture 70–74 110–15, 134–6, 151, 172 major record companies 2, 4, 50, 53–5, popular music 3, 4, 40, 41, 46, 48–53, 55– 56, 57, 60, 61, 62, 64–6, 71, 74–5, 6, 58, 60, 61, 71, 76, 87–8, 89, 95, 78–9, 81, 82, 92–3, 100, 102, 115 97–101, 106, 106 (note), 114–15, (note), 124, 127, 128, 138, 140, 118, 121, 123–4, 135, 147 (note), 144, 163–4, 168, 170, 177 152, 163, 165, 166, 167, 177, 183, mass production 3, 4, 14, 27, 30, 32, 184; see also pop music 33–4, 36–7, 62, 64–5, 69–81, 83–4, definition of 87, 111, 134 117, 140, 161, 167–8, 172–3, 184 popular music and classical music 46, monopolization 30–32, 35, 42, 56, 137 48–9, 93–8, 101, 164–5 origins of 32–5 Presley, Elvis 4, 55, 94, 106–7, 127–30, record players 1, 2, 5, 7, 12, 15, 16, 17, 18, 148–9, 151, 168 20–21, 22, 68, 70, 83, 88, 89–90, Prestige Records 102, 166 92, 93–4, 96, 99, 102, 118, 120–22, production, see sound recording 124, 126, 127–8, 131–2, 137, 141, progressive rock 65, 114, 134–7, 151, 155 178; see also gramophone Public Image Limited 75, 151, 159 auto-changers 89, 120–24, 178 (note) publishing, see music publishing Hi-Fi 2, 15, 16, 83, 92, 93–4, 96, 99, punk 4, 61, 65, 74–5, 78–81, 106 (note), 102, 122 114, 130, 135, 136–40, 151, 156, the Victrola 118, 127 173–5 the Victrola 45 Record Player 120–22, Pye Records 60, 96, 128 124, 127 record sales 1, 47, 70, 81, 82–3, 85, 93, R&B, see rhythm and blues 104, 106, 107, 109, 111, 114, race records, see labels 118–19, 122, 124, 127, 139, 140, radio 1, 3, 50, 54, 55–6, 67, 74, 90, 92, 96, 157, 158, 159, 161, 162–3, 172, 104, 106, 112, 114, 118, 119–20, 183 122, 124–7, 129, 130–35, 138–9, Record Store Day 181 145, 148, 150, 154, 165, 174, recording, see sound recording 175, 184 Redwood, Ruddy 154 Index 211 reggae 4, 73, 78, 139, 153–4, 178 Never Mind the Bollocks 105 (note), Reid, Jamie 173, 178 114, 178 R.E.M. 105 (note), 151 the Shadows 108, 152 retail 1, 3, 32–3, 38, 43, 55, 61, 78, 81, 82, shellac records 1, 3, 7, 18, 20, 23–5, 34, 96, 97, 106 (note), 115 (note), 124, 46, 47, 48, 54, 57, 62, 67–70, 72, 127, 128, 129–30, 136, 138, 139, 77–8, 81–2, 87, 88–92, 93–4, 97, 141, 150 (note), 153, 156, 158, 98, 100, 101–2, 103, 105, 109, 120, 161, 163–5, 167–8, 173, 174, 177, 122, 123, 124, 125, 127–30, 133, 179, 180–81 137, 144–5, 162–3, 164, 165, 167, Reynolds, Simon 79, 183 178, 184 rhythm and blues 50, 53–6, 60, 61, 62, 65, decline of 67, 91, 127–30, 137 103, 119, 126, 131, 134, 148, 153 sound quality 23–5, 62, 67, 82, 87, British R&B 106 (note), 108–9, 131, 89–91, 94 149–50 Sinatra, Frank 4, 98–100, 106, 107, 110, Richard, Cliff 60, 107, 108, 152 112, 166–7 Richards, Keith 43, 109 singles, see 45 rpm singles; shellac records Ridout, Herbert 97, 162 ska 61, 113, 139 Rilke, Rainer Maria 14, 16 sleevenotes 99, 103–4, 162, 164–5, 168, rock music 4, 61, 64, 65, 73–4, 87, 105, 170, 171, 176 111–15, 125, 134–7, 139, 140, 143, sleeves 3, 14, 25, 47, 65, 66, 69, 74–5, 148–53, 155, 156–7, 161, 167, 77–8, 80, 83, 85, 86, 87, 94, 98, 99, 170–73, 178 104, 110, 114, 117, 138, 141, 156, Romantic ideology 73–4, 83–5, 172–3, 158, 161–81, 184–5 184 associative qualities 161, 176–8 rock ’n’ roll 55–6, 59–60, 64, 94, 103, cassette sleeves 177, 178, 179–81 106–7, 109, 115, 119, 127–31, CD sleeves 161, 175–6, 177, 178, 132–3, 136–8, 147, 148, 149–50, 179–81 152, 168–9, 183 development of 161–4, 179 Rodgers, Jimmie 52–3, 59 45 rpm sleeves 47, 86, 94, 114, 117, the Rolling Stones 4, 43, 60–61, 86 (note), 138, 141, 173–4, 176, 178 (note) 105 (note), 108–9, 112, 115 (note), links with book packaging 164, 170, 131–2, 139, 149–50, 151, 169–70, 177 173, 179, 181 LP sleeves 47, 77, 80, 85, 87, 94, 99, Romantic ideology, see rock music 110, 138, 161, 164–81 Rough Trade 65–6, 78 shellac records’ sleeves 47, 66, 94, royalties 30, 40, 92, 97, 147, 150, 156 161–3 the Ruts 150–51 tactile qualities 161, 176, 178–9 12” singles’ sleeves 66, 158 sales charts 53, 55, 56, 60, 65, 89, 99–101, visual properties 161, 176, 179–81 108, 109–11, 114, 117, 119, the Small Faces 115 (note), 173, 179 125–7, 129, 131–2, 134–6, 138–40, Ogdens’ Nut Gone Flake 173, 179 145–53, 157, 158, 165 Smith, Bessie 59, 89 Saussure, Ferdinand de 7 Smith, Harry 103–4 Saville, Peter 168, 180 Smith, Mamie 50–51 Scott, Léon (Edouard Léon Scott de Smith, Stephen W. 62–4 Martinville) 8–9, 10, 13, 14, 16, 28 the Smiths 61, 83, 105 (note), 117, 151 Serato Scratch 21, 159 Sony 7, 82, 85 Sex Pistols 105 (note), 114, 136–7, 150, soul 56, 60–61, 65, 136, 178–9 173–5, 178 sound effects records 15–16, 95, 96, 110 212 Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record sound recording 2, 3, 8, 12, 9–10, 13, T. Rex 134–5, 151 17–18, 20, 21–6, 22, 24, 27–33, Tainter, Charles Sumner 12, 23, 29, 35, 35–6, 38, 39, 42–3, 47, 48, 67–8, 143–4 64, 65, 69, 72, 75, 76, 77–8, 84, 90, tape cassettes, see cassettes 92, 95, 102, 112, 131–2, 149, 154, Tchaikovsky, Pyotr Ilyich 89, 95 156, 177, 184 techno 17, 66, 158 acoustic recording 17–18, 67–8 technological determinism 72, 76–7, disc recording 69, 77, 92 183–4, 186 electric recording 18, 24, 90 television 54, 101, 132–3 fidelity 12, 39, 47, 67, 177 Television 152, 156 music vs the spoken word 9–10, 13, Thorgerson, Storm 168–9, 175–6, 177 27, 30–33 Thornton, Sarah 76 photography (similarities too) 9, 22, time limits 3, 4, 17, 82, 40, 68, 84, 87–9, 29, 75 91–2, 95, 97, 101–2, 111, 112–13, preservation 8, 21–6, 32, 64, 77–8 121, 124–5, 131, 137, 138–9, professional vs amateur 2, 27–33, 144–5, 164, 184 35–6, 38, 42–3, 48, 69, 76, 184 12” singles 137, 184 record production 65, 72, 76, 95, 45 rpm singles 111, 112, 121, 124–5, 131–2, 154, 156 131, 137, 138–9, 184 tape recording 20, 77, 84, 92, 95, 102, compact discs 82, 113 112, 149, 154, 156 cylinders 17, 40 soundtracks 100–101, 107; see also cast early gramophone discs 17, 40 recordings LPs 68, 87–8, 91–2, 95, 101–2, Spector, Phil 72, 126, 131 112–13, 137, 164, 184 speeds 3, 18–20, 27–8, 29, 46, 67, 68–9, shellac records 87–9, 91, 97, 101–2, 78, 80, 90, 92, 111, 121–2, 127–8, 164 134, 136, 184 Townshend, Pete 131–2 16 rpm 111 trademarks 22, 31–2, 41, 42, 45, 47, 166, 33 1/3 rpm 18, 67, 68, 90, 92, 111, 134 171 45 rpm 18, 80, 111, 121–2, 127–8, 134, Nipper 31–2, 41, 42, 45, 166 136 Recording Angel 22, 45 78 rpm 18, 68–9, 80, 90 (note) Travis, Geoff 65, 78 Springsteen, Bruce 43, 105 (note), 181 turntablism 17–21, 156–9 Stax Records 50, 56, 61, 65, 78 Steele, Tommy 60, 107 V-Discs 67 Steinweiss, Alex 162–4, 166, 168, 179, 181 the Velvet Underground 82, 104 (note) stereo 13, 14–15, 95–6, 112, 125–6, 147, Victor 18 (note), 35, 41, 45, 47–9, 51, 176, 177; see also Blumlein, Alan 52–3, 55, 56, 57, 61, 70, 89, 91, 93, Stiff Little Fingers 22, 150, 174 120, 123, 124, 144–5 Stiff Records 65, 80–81, 137–8, 168, 175 RCA Victor 49, 53, 55, 67, 79–80, the Stone Roses 19, 105 (note) 90–91, 92–3, 100–101, 106–7, the Stranglers 80, 137 120–24, 127, 155, 157, 163, 178 Stratton, Jon 73–4 (note) Straw, Will 63, 139 Ville, Nick de 170–71 streaming 153, 161, 183-5 Vinyl 67–86 stylus 8, 9, 11, 12–13, 15, 16, 17, 18, art works 2, 17, 25,76, 83, 85, 141, 20–21, 22–5, 27, 35, 38, 62–3, 79, 167, 171–3, 176, 179, 180 82, 118, 121, 129, 132, 156 coloured vinyl 67–8, 71, 79–81, 83, Sun Records 55, 64, 148, 151 123–4, 138, 141, 156, 180, 185 Symes, Colin 49, 167 cost of 67–8, 81, 91, 97 Index 213 decline of 81–2, 139, 157, 175–6 the Vinyl Factory 83, 141 development of 67, 91–2, 121 limited editions 79–80, 83–4, 138, Wagner, Richard 95, 170 139–41, 173, 181 Wallerstein, Edward 68, 91–3, 98, 100, material qualities 3, 23, 67, 69–70, 122–3, 162, 164 77–8, 81–5, 90–92, 117, 121, Warhol, Andy 179, 180 123–4, 128, 184–5 Welch, Walter L. 37, 41–2, 48, 120 plasticity 3, 73, 81–3, 85, 123–4 Whiteman, Paul 57, 64–5, 103 revivals of 1–4, 21, 43, 46, 66, 69, the Who 74, 112, 131, 156, 173 83–6, 115, 139–41, 159, 161, Wilson, Brian 109, 126 176–7, 181, 183–6 sound quality 2, 3, 4–5, 23–5, 67, the Yardbirds 131, 132 82–4, 92, 115, 131, 184–5 Yes 114, 172 tactile qualities 2, 4, 8, 20–21, 127–8, Young, Neil 84, 113 185 visual qualities 2, 4, 43, 48, 68, 71 Zappa, Frank 61, 74, 172–3