Riding to the mall in the back of my mom’s dark blue Buick, my best friend Jamie and I made a simple agreement: We would jointly buy a few new records and enough blank cassettes to hold the music. Then, back at my house, we carefully copied the new records to the tapes, with Jamie keeping the dubs and me keeping the records. In 1982 I privately laughed at Jamie’s folly. “What fool would prefer a tape to a record?”

In the mid-90s in my mid-20s I saw Built to Spill play a late-afternoon, all-ages show at Seattle’s now-defunct Sailors’ Union of the Pacific Hall. BTS and three other Northwest bands played in the union’s dusty, airless hall where they once recruited sailors (it’s now a popular steakhouse). It must have been a great show: The band was between two classic early albums, There’s Nothing Wrong With Love and Perfect From Now On, and Elliott Smith’s early band Heatmiser was one of the openers. Too bad I don’t remember a thing about it.

After serving in the Union Army during the Civil War, Anthony Comstock settled in the Clinton Hill neighborhood of Brooklyn, New York. Comstock was descended from Puritan immigrants, and he’d spent the war lobbying his fellow soldiers to give up their vices—drinking, swearing and prurient sexual activities and thoughts. Post-war Comstock continued his morality campaign in Brooklyn and New York City, then as today home to all variety of corruptions. Comstock complained about his neighborhood saloons staying open on Sundays; he objected to George Bernard Shaw’s play Mrs. Warren’s Profession; he created the New York Society for the Suppression of Vice; and, on March 3, 1873, he persuaded Congress to pass the Comstock Act—an anti-obscenity law that to this day shapes America’s attitudes toward depictions of sex in film, TV, print and on the web.

On Record Store Day this past April, Jack White set the world record for the fastest record ever made. It took him exactly three hours, 55 minutes and 21 seconds to record two songs directly to vinyl and then press them onto two sides of a 7” record. The event had STUNT written all over it—but at least this stunt offered a modicum of educational value (so that’s how you press a record!). And now White has applied his record-pressing prowess to the latest Neil Young album, A Letter Home. But in his quest for authenticity, has Jack White done what a career of inconsistency and even Pearl Jam couldn’t: permanently damage my opinion of Neil Young?