Somewhere in the move from cardboard to cloud, we stopped reading the credits. We stopped knowing who played the bass, who engineered the session, who the record was for.
This is an argument that the small print mattered more than we thought.
We stopped knowing who the record was even for.
A scene takes shape
What began as a handful of enthusiasts has become something with its own etiquette, its own venues, and its own quiet economy. The people involved are reluctant to call it a movement, which is usually the surest sign that it is one.
Why now
The reasons are easy to guess and harder to prove: fatigue with infinite choice, a hunger for attention as a shared act, the simple pleasure of a thing with edges. Whatever the cause, the rooms keep filling.
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