Just as we thought all music was airborne, cloud-contained, intangibly abstract, metaphysically lingering like a fart with a monthly subscription; we’re upping sticks and moving back to the wax. The tides of technological advancement have been parted. Bearded youngsters playing 12” vinyl have performed a biblical spin-back that Moses would’ve been proud of.

Millennial deep-house lovers so desperate to authenticate their stolen music libraries are doe-eyed at these revolving discs; transfixed by something so aesthetically pleasing, yet so inefficient and expensive and environmentally unsound (yes, 200 dolphins die every day from discarded hard-house vinyl). Old-school collectors have wet their pants in vindication. Their time has finally arrived, technology has gone full circle, justifying that lifelong addiction, one that has left them penniless, girlfriendless and jobless, with only shelves of rare vinyl to quietly masturbate over.

But the surge in vinyl’s popularity hasn’t been totally dismissive of new technology.

There’s a new shop front: the Vinyl Vending Machine.

Several record labels have been quick to leverage the trend, adapting drink vending machines to dispense their vinyl releases.

Procuring vinyl is now similar to ordering a fizzy beverage, with all the trappings of modern-day convenience: feed in some money, tap in the catalogue number, receive your goods.

Some labels are going the extra yard by incorporating a high-resolution virtual record shop attendant. Programmed to be acutely knowledgeable, judgemental and nauseatingly condescending, the assistant has all the irritable quirks of its now redundant human predecessors.

Kids get a sterilised taste of the analogue shopping experience: limited stock, the illusion of a social outing, the novelty of physical objects — and the privilege of being judged by a virtual prick.