Rooms held for a single evening. The experience begins long before guests arrive, and continues for some time after they have gone home.
Immersive dinner theater. A murder is staged between courses, the score is played live from the corner, and every dish and pour is a clue. Guests are cast on arrival. No one leaves before the case closes.
Five courses, five records, played in full on a system built for the room. Conversation is welcome. Talking over side two is not.
Verticals poured beside pressings of the same age. A 1982 in the glass, a 1982 on the platter. You learn what a year sounds like.
A musician, an engineer, a winemaker. No moderator, no slides. Three people who make things talking honestly about how they make them.
Cask strength, low light, and a stack of records chosen for the second hour rather than the first. Water is poured, but sparingly.
How a mastering engineer hears compression. How a distiller hears a cut point. Craft explained by the hands that practise it.
A record, unheard, played once in a room designed for it, with a menu and a cellar written to its running order.
A letter, not a link. It carries the hour and little else.
One line from us, weeks before: what have you been listening to lately?
Address released the morning of. The system is tuned before you arrive.
Poured and played in an order that has been argued over for days.
A printed list of everything heard and everything opened, sent by post.
Dates are not published. Guests are remembered.