A letter about records, rooms, and slow coffeeIssue No. 001 · 6 min read
The feature
The second side is where the trust is
Written from the room at Shibui Coffee
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
B1SceneryRyo Fukui1976
B2Sunday at the Village VanguardBill Evans Trio1961
B3Chet Baker SingsChet Baker1954
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 sideb@shibuicoffee.com, so you'll know it's us.