Welcome to The Sharp Notes Podcast. I’m Evan Toth, and this episode was recorded live in front of an audience at The Sharp Notes record store inside the Garden State Plaza in Paramus, New Jersey.

My guest is author, journalist, and vinyl-world lifer Larry Jaffee, a guy whose career has basically been one long field recording of the music business, from punk chaos to pressing plant logistics. Larry wrote Record Store Day: The Most Improbable Comeback of the 21st Century, the inside story of how a scrappy idea turned into the biggest annual holiday on the record collector calendar, and why independent shops went from “endangered species” to cultural town squares again.

But Larry’s not just chronicling the vinyl revival. He’s trying to rewire it. This interview was recorded just days before he moved to Iceland to co-found Thermal Beets Records, a geothermal-powered pressing plant concept aiming at making plant-based records from sugar beets instead of traditional PVC.

So yes, we go from limited edition RSD lore to the question lurking behind every new release: what does it cost, environmentally, and otherwise, to keep this format alive and thriving?

We welcome back a familiar and always thoughtful voice in music criticism and biography, Jude Warne. With the recent paperback release of her acclaimed authorized biography America: The Band, and the arrival of her deep-dive study Lowdown: The Music of Boz Scaggs, Jude joins us at a moment when her work continues to expand its reach and sharpen its focus. We have spoken together a few times now, but the road never seems to double back. Each visit opens a new corridor into the music. She also happens to be the author of one of the most perceptive pieces written about my own record, The Show.

Warne has built a reputation for listening carefully and writing even closer, tracing the emotional and sonic contours of artists with the kind of patience that modern music coverage rarely affords. Whether she is unpacking the layered harmonies of America or the cool, shifting grooves of Boz Scaggs, her work reminds us that great music writing is not just about facts and timelines. It is about translating sound into story and helping us hear familiar records with fresh ears.

This conversation was recorded live in front of an audience at The Sharp Notes record store in the Garden State Plaza in Paramus, New Jersey. As you will hear, when thoughtful music writing meets a room full of serious listeners, the result is exactly what you hope for: curiosity, discovery, and a few moments that might send you back to your turntable.

This episode is a little different, because what you’re about to hear was recorded live, in front of an audience, right here inside The Sharp Notes record store at the Garden State Plaza in Paramus, New Jersey. You might catch the room in it: few laughs, knowing nods, and shoppers walking past our front window.

My guest is author and music journalist Alan Light. Over the years he’s written as a rock critic for Rolling Stone, served as editor-in-chief at Vibe and Spin and he’s a regular contributor to The New York Times. He’s also the author of books that take pop culture seriously without draining it of feeling, including The Holy or the Broken, his deep dive into the long, strange ascent of Leonard Cohen's, “Hallelujah.”

His newest book is Don’t Stop: a kaleidoscopic look at Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours. The tome is not just the well-worn legend of who was breaking up with whom, but how that record became a kind of emotional public square, the way it keeps pulling in young listeners nearly fifty years later, and why it still shows up everywhere, from TV and comedy sketches to the streaming era and TikTok. Alan’s reporting brings in artists and fans across generations, asking a simple question that turns out to be hard to answer: what is it about Rumours that refuses let go?

In this conversation, we dig into the album’s mythology, its musical intelligence, and its afterlife.

So, here's our live chat. Maybe - next time - you'll join us.

This episode’s guest is one of those rare studio minds who makes the control room feel less like a workplace and more like a laboratory with excellent taste.

Sylvia Massy is a producer, mixer, and engineer whose credits stretch from punk grit to arena-scale rock and beyond. Her name is often spoken as she produced Tool’s Undertow, but her story doesn’t start with platinum plaques. It starts in the mid-’80s trenches, making compilations, working with punk bands, engineering metal records, and learning the kind of hard-won lessons you only get when the tape is rolling and the stakes are real. From there, she becomes a crucial behind-the-boards force in Los Angeles, intersects with the Sound City recording studio mythology, and winds up in the orbit of Rick Rubin’s American Recordings era, touching projects that helped define what “big” sounded like in the ’90s.

But the reason I wanted Sylvia on the show isn’t just the résumé. It’s the method. Sylvia is obsessed, in the best way, with recording technology and the physical stuff of sound. Consoles, mics, outboard gear, oddball techniques, and the kind of creative decisions that make an outsider sit up and pay attention. Her approach is curious, practical, fearless, and frequently hilarious.

We also talk about Studio Confidential, a new live, in-person onstage conversation series launching in New York City. It’s designed to pull back the curtain on legendary sessions and the people who actually built those records from the inside out. The official residency runs February 3 through March 1, 2026 at NYC’s Sheen Center for Thought & Culture, with multiple shows each week.

If Studio Confidential is about pulling back the curtain, Sylvia’s the person you want holding the flashlight.

Some conversations begin with music. This one begins with language. A little French. A little English. When this interview takes place, it's a late night in Brussels, where the streets are quiet, the restaurants are closing down, and Lucien Fraipont (fray-pon), who records and performs under the names Robbing Millions and DUID, is generous enough to stay awake a bit longer and talk about his multifaced career in music.

What follows is less an interview and more a map of how a musician becomes himself. How jazz training folds into electronic textures. How a teenage obsession with Nirvana morphs into a lifelong interest in improvisation. And how a home studio project grows into something restless and alive. Here, alter egos are less about costume changes and more about giving different parts of the same creative mind room to breathe.

We talk about playing alone onstage with samplers and pedals, the strange discipline of improvising inside machines, the Brussels underground, working with Mark Hollander on Aksak Maboul records, and the beautiful problem of wanting to do everything at once: produce, perform, collaborate, wander.

If you care about how music evolves, how scenes survive, and how curiosity keeps artists young, this conversation is for you.

There are musicians who treat tradition like a museum, and then there are musicians who treat it like a passport. Stéphane Wrembel belongs firmly in the second category.

You may know his work from the soundtracks to Midnight in Paris or Vicky Cristina Barcelona, those melodies that drift in from another time but somehow land right in your lap. His newest release, Django New Orleans II: Hors-Série, leans into that same sensation. It’s a record that threads Django Reinhardt’s Jazz Manouche through the brass-soaked spirit of New Orleans, recorded with a nine-piece ensemble of some of New York’s most serious improvisers, and shaped by Wrembel’s own restless sense of exploration. The album moves easily from classic repertoire to new original compositions, and along the way, Wrembel steps into new territory by singing for the first time on record, offering up two Serge Gainsbourg songs with a shared Parisian accent and an almost disarming sense of vulnerability.

“Hors-Série” means special edition, but this feels more like a field journal. It captures an artist testing new ground without abandoning the old maps. Today we talk with Stéphane about that journey, about what happens when Django meets New Orleans, about why Gainsbourg mattered enough to get him to finally step to the microphone, and about treating music not as something fixed and finished, but as something alive, breathing, and in motion.

Independence in music is usually described as freedom. In practice, it is a long sequence of decisions that can’t be outsourced. Writing the songs. Recording the tracks. Producing the record. Paying for the mistakes. Owning that outcome.

That path has shaped Tamar Berk’s career from the start. Working largely outside the industry’s infrastructure, she has built a body of work defined by personal control, emotional directness, and the pressure of doing it all yourself. Her new album ocd was released in late 2025 and it moves through looping thoughts, emotional unraveling, and the patterns that repeat whether we want them to or not. Fuzzed guitars, reverb-heavy textures, and melodies stay close; it is a record about the mind when it refuses to let go.

Raised on classical piano and early Disney soundtracks, later influenced by the Beatles, David Bowie, Liz Phair, and Elliott Smith, Tamar developed an instinct for melody and emotional clarity that has carried her through years of work in the Chicago, Portland, and San Diego scenes. Her previous releases include The Restless Dreams of Youth, Start at the End, Tiny Injuries, and Good Times for a Change. Along the way, her music has been recognized by KCRW, Fader, Creem, and Shindig, with multiple nominations from the San Diego Music Awards, while she has continued to write, record, and produce her work on her own terms.

What follows is a conversation about the lived reality of that independence. The creative control, the isolation if you will and maybe even a little bit of the financial strain. But, also the satisfaction of hearing something finished and knowing exactly how it got there. ocd is the current chapter in Tamar’s story.

For nearly three decades, Steve Stanley has been one of the quiet architects behind how we remember mid-century American pop. His work as a reissue producer and archivist has revived artists who slipped through the cracks of the industry machine, restoring not only their music but the cultural scaffolding around it. From Del-Fi to Rev-Ola to his own Now Sounds imprint, Stanley has built a body of work that treats forgotten pop not as nostalgia but as evidence: proof that the margins of the 1960s were sometimes more interesting than its center.

What distinguishes Stanley isn’t just the scholarship. It's intuition. He has an ear for artists who nearly made it, who should have made it, who made something exquisite - but briefly - and he approaches their histories with a precision that resists mythmaking even as it acknowledges the romance of lost possibilities. His design work reinforces that impulse. The packaging, sequencing, and annotation in his projects aren’t ornamental; they’re part of the narrative engine, a way of giving listeners the context they never got the first time around.

With the new vinyl reissue of Eternity’s Children on High Moon Records, Stanley returns to one of the great unsolved stories of sunshine pop. These albums have lived half their lives in rumor and scarcity, admired by collectors but underexamined by the larger world. Stanley’s work on this project gives the band’s complicated and fascinating legacy its first real chance to be understood on its own terms. Our conversation begins there, in the space between what history remembers and what it forgot to write down.