With always-accelerating technology comes a sadness. It’s not a “kids these days don’t know shit” lament. It’s a true sadness that a mode of listening to music is largely considered a niche mentality, an outmoded way of enjoyment in an accelerated society. It’s a grey day, I open up the windows, feel the chilled air, put on a Haints record, let it wash over me, and let it soak in. It fills the air, fills the room. I get a cup of coffee, put my feet up, watch branches sway. I’m not shuffling through the songs. I’m not skipping tracks. I’m not looking at lighted bars representing the pulse of sound. I’m not itching for what’s next, but what’s developing in front of me. Try to push back some of the ache. Try to clear out a little bit of my brain. I’m listening to an album; trusting the talented Haints to take me on a journey. I’m on their time. I’m in their vehicle of conveyance and I don’t want to parse it down to milliseconds or favorites. I want the full thirty or forty minutes, the sequence, the sound broken only when the record’s flipped over. The Haints are a traditional band: wash tub bass, banjo, mandolin, washboard, saw, play-while-standing drums. They mix originals, covers, and traditionals, removing sentimentality and replacing it with respect and DIY energy. Here’s the thing; I listened to this record on CD several times and it sounded like tin foil around leftovers. The vinyl record sounds like food grilling on a barbecue.