This Is Supposed To Be A Record Label
Frans de Waard
(Korm Plastics)
Can you review a book originally published way back in 2016 about a unique label that literally did not give a fuck about what you thought of them? Of course you can, because we don’t give a fuck either. Nothing like Dutch label, mail order, shop, promotor, radio station, and industry disruptor Staalplaat exists now, nor could it in the current music world. Niche record labels exist for sure, but they don’t have a shop for like minds and the artists to visit and hang out at, but not buy anything (and no one minds). Small independent record shops also exist all over the world, but most have to stock indie rock fare (and probably rubbish like Oasis et al too), female solo warblers, Nick Drake copyists, and reissued vinyl just to survive. No one (apart from Staalpaat themselves) could now run a store that responded to a label sending them records to stock with the reply "I wondered indeed why you sent that awful CD to me. You obviously don't know that Staalplaat is only interested in electronic avant-garde noise and sound poetry and has absolutely no interest in rock music or anything like it. We are definitely not interested in anything that is 'commercially significant' or has 'great grooves'. Sorry."
Only a label like Staalplaat, and, in the US, RRRecords (the subject of a separate book by Frans, recently reviewed in Outsideleft), and the bizarrely named German label ‘Walter Ulbricht Schallfolien’ (named after the former leader of East Germany!), could manage to scrape a living at the time with such an uncompromising attitude and create some of the most unique releases and packaging ever seen on a CD to boot. Indeed, for a time it was one of the biggest independent labels around for experimental and electronic music, home to bands like Muslimgauze, Zoviet France, Rapoon, O Yuki Conjugate as well as lesser known names (even in that obscure world) Jaap Blonk, Normally Invisible and Kingdom Scum. The Netherlands was a radical place back in the mid 80s and early 90s, no doubt helped along by the Dutch government's job creation schemes that encouraged otherwise uncommercial ventures like Staalplaat to expand its staff and operations way beyond its limited means and cashflow. The national radio station, VPRO, was also fiercely avant garde at the time and unafraid to challenge its many listeners. Imagine if John Peel ran BBC radio and you would be getting there. VPRO and Staalplaat had many links, with Staalplaat releasing limited edition albums of live sessions by experimental artists recorded by VPRO for their shows.
In 1992, Frans de Waard (of Kapotte Muziek, Beequeen and the Korm Plastics label) was asked to come and work for Staalplaat. Originally hired to set-up a database and to sell and buy new music, over the years he also took on the role of unofficial business director and A&R man, and even came to be regarded by many as the de facto label head honcho. By 2003 he’d had enough, though, and decided to quit. This book tells his story about those eleven crazy years, comprised of anecdotes, recalled fragments and snippets, interviews, and a few photos (but not many)
It is lots of fun, easy
to dip in and out of and full of great moments describing the various plans and
schemes they employed to survive and thrive without the need to adopt a
commercial attitude. This is a powerful
inspiration to us all to not bow down to the supremacy of the mundane,
repetitive, and commercial, where selling volumes of crap to the masses is a
false measure of value, and risks and originality are to be avoided, lest they
fail. Failing is part of succeeding. Without failure there can be no success. For a time Staalplaat was a big success, in
no small part thanks to Frans, which proves that you don’t have to dumb things
down to make them work. That is not to
say that Staalplaat did not fall out with lots of people along the way. They
did. They were also full of bullshit and
treated their staff badly at times, like all businesses. They had to deal with
a mixed bag of distributors, bands and difficult individuals, some of whom who
owed them money and some of whom they, in turn, owed money to. The founder and owner of Staalplaat, Geert-Jan Hobijn, sounded a difficult character himself too. Cash flow was, of course, always erratic. In the book it says “One year
it was “we don’t need to make money, as we have this brilliant thing that works
for us, and we don’t work for the machine”, but when money was low it was “we
have to work harder to keep this ship afloat”.
One thing that I especially love are the Erik Kriek designed record bags,
which looked like SF comics, depicting robots brandishing records and CDs, one of which forms the basis for the cover of this book. That all the staff hated working in the shop
and having to help customers, in a real-life version of High Fidelity, is hilarious. Frans recalls “I try to be
rude most of the time, so that customers leave quickly. One tactic I use is to try
and guess what they like, then play the exact opposite”. I am envious, and a little in awe, of his ability to do that.
In the end, though, nothing lasts forever. Staalplaat relocated to Berlin in 2004 and renamed the shop as Anagram Space, which opens erratically and still treats its customers terribly, is generally annoying, yet is still a great place to get hold of experimental music. The story of Staalplaat is a compelling one, and the way Frans tells it gets that across perfectly. As he says in the title “This is supposed to be a record label” and that one statement says it all.
Essential Information: Copies of the book
are available from Korm Plastics and can be ordered through their
website here.