SIDE B

A letter about records, rooms, and slow coffee Issue No. 001 · 6 min read
The feature

The second side is where the trust is

Side A is a handshake. It carries the singles, the songs the label believed in, the ones the band knew would be judged first. It is the side that auditions. Nobody ever fell in love with a record because of side A alone, though plenty of people bought one for it.

Side B is where the band stops auditioning and starts talking to you. The tempos loosen, the takes get longer, somebody leaves a count-in on the tape because it felt right. Flipping the record is a small act of faith, you're saying I'll stay for the part nobody advertised, and the music almost always repays it. The deep cut that becomes your favourite song lives here, on the side you had to choose.

Flipping the record is a small act of faith. The music almost always repays it.

The listening cafés of Tokyo understood this decades ago. In a proper jazz kissa nobody plays half an album; the flip is part of the service, as expected as the refill. The room commits to the whole record, and the listeners commit to the room. That's the trade this letter is named after, and the one we'd like to make with you: we'll only ever send the second side, the part written because it felt right, never the single.

The shelf

Three records for a snowed-in morning

SceneryRyo Fukui 1976
Sunday at the Village VanguardBill Evans Trio 1961
Chet Baker SingsChet Baker 1954

Start with the Fukui. A Sapporo pianist, a rented studio, and the exact sound of snow settling on a quiet street. If the kettle finishes before "Early Summer" does, you filled it too full.

Subscribe

One letter per record, more or less

Side B arrives when there's something worth writing about, an album that earned a full listen, a room that got the light right, a morning that needed the correct three records. Written slowly, sent rarely, read in about the time a side takes.

Arrives from [email protected], so you'll know it's us.