Faking Daily Bureau/Bangalore- BENGALURU — What began as a quaint vinyl record sale turned into an impromptu emergency gastroenterology workshop after seven Gen-Z enthusiasts, fuelled by influencer-induced confusion and possibly hunger pangs, attempted to consume vintage LPs thinking they were artisanal, hemp-infused edibles.
Organisers of the Back to Black: A Vinyl Revival fest at Cubbon Park were left speechless — not from the soulful crooning of Mohammed Rafi pressing through Technics turntables, but from the image of stylishly underfed 20-somethings trying to chew 12-inch records labelled “Eat a Peach” and “Dark Side of the Moon.” The confusion was allegedly sparked by a rogue Instagram story claiming the records were “full spectrum CBD discs with psychedelic harmonics.”
According to reports filed by concerned aunties and baffled music enthusiasts, the seven vinyl-munchers were found sprawled across bean bags, clutching their midsections, and mumbling “this edible ain’t hitting yet,” as a dusty 1977 pressing of Hotel California hung halfway out of one attendee’s mouth.
Doctors at St. Husbands of Perpetual Digestion Hospital diagnosed all seven with advanced dispepsia, retro tastebud trauma, and one case of psychological disco regression. “One of them kept asking if we had side-B of the Digestive Enzyme playlist,” confirmed Dr. G. N. Tripathi. “We gave him Gelusil.”
The LPs, originally priced at ₹99 as part of a nostalgia clearance drive, were being passed around like prasad at an ayahuasca retreat. Most victims had never seen a vinyl record outside Pinterest mood boards or reels captioned “POV: You’re vibing in 1973”.
FD Staff attempted to interview one of the affected individuals, 22-year-old Rehaan aka @rehaanwiththevans, while he was sipping ginger ale under medical supervision. “Bro, the record said ‘Bite This’ — turns out it was just the band name,” he sighed. “Anyway, it was kinda mid. No crunch, zero umami. Honestly, I’ve had better acid trips from Dhruv’s kombucha.”
Another attendee, who only identified herself as @spiritualdivaaa, confessed she mistook Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours for a chakra-aligned digestive booster. “It was black, round, and had energy. I thought it would align my gut with Mercury’s retrograde. But instead, my retrograde turned into acid reflux.”
The vinyl fest, once a niche haven for mustachioed audiophiles, was apparently hijacked by a viral TikTok post titled “CBD Vinyl Drop: Groovy & Edible AF” by lifestyle influencer @UrbanYogi420, who now claims he was being "conceptual" and that “the kids took the metaphor too literally.” He has since gone off-grid, last seen posting from a rooftop cactus farm in Goa.
Event organiser Shyam Menon, who has been collecting vinyls since George Harrison wore kurtas unironically, said this was the “worst auditory abuse since people started calling LPs ‘big black CDs’.” Menon, 61, stood next to a melted stack of Abba records now resembling caramelised dosa. “Some of them tried frying the records in ghee,” he said, staring into the middle distance.
Security footage shows one attendee licking a limited edition Pink Floyd record while softly humming “Comfortably Numb.” When confronted by staff, he reportedly whispered, “It tastes like synths and capitalism.”
The madness peaked when a group of kids began grinding old Kishore Kumar records into what they called “vinyl churan.” Said one witness, “They mixed it with jaggery and basil leaves. Said it was a heritage cleanse.”
A pop-up Ayurvedic brand present at the event has since issued a legal disclaimer, clarifying it never endorsed the ingestion of music formats. Their CEO, Hari B. Naturaal, stated, “We sell hemp laddoos, not disco chaklis.”
Urban myth also played its part. Rumours spread that imported LPs contained microdoses of psilocybin and that “if you eat side B during twilight, you meet Jim Morrison in your third eye.” Medical experts confirmed this claim was medically, spiritually, and grammatically incorrect.
One of the most shocking moments came when a teenage couple tried to share a romantic moment by Lady and the Tramping a Bee Gees record. Onlookers screamed. The couple retched. The groove skipped. “Stayin’ Alive” will never sound the same again.
Bengaluru Police, normally unbothered by psychedelic spiritual errors in this part of town, launched a mild inquiry. Sub-Inspector B. Narayana confirmed, “Technically, no law exists that prevents people from eating music. But we’ve advised citizens to chew carefully. Not all black discs are Oreos.”
Meanwhile, the music community is fuming. Veteran record collector Partha “Pops” Rao held an emergency meeting at his HSR Layout home and announced that “vinyl illiteracy” is reaching pandemic levels. “These kids think Neil Diamond is a gemstone. They thought ‘Sgt. Pepper’ was a cannabis strain. One boy asked if Jethro Tull was a protein supplement.”
Mental health advocates have since offered support groups for those suffering from post-vinyl ingestion trauma. Sessions include guided breathing to Simon & Garfunkel and one-on-one counselling with cassette tape veterans.
The Ministry of Culture is rumoured to be drafting awareness posters titled “Play, Don’t Prey: Vinyls Are For Ears, Not Mouths.” A senior official anonymously told FD Staff, “We already had to warn kids not to eat Tide Pods. Now this?”
Predictably, Spotify has responded with a limited-time playlist called “Bite Me, I’m Vinyl,” featuring ironic tracks such as “I Want to Break Free,” “Another One Bites the Dust,” and “Guts” by Olivia Rodrigo. T-shirts with slogans like “I Chewed Through Side B and All I Got Was This Lousy Tummy Ache” have popped up online.
Street vendors are not wasting the moment either. Outside Church Street metro, an entrepreneurial pani puri wallah is now selling “vinyl golgappas” made from black sugar sheets, saying they’re “inspired by Pink Floyd, certified by ayurveda, and totally Instagrammable.” He has sold out twice.
Satirists across India have embraced the chaos. One parody music label is offering edible NFTs with fake vinyl “flavours” like Mango Disco Funk and Masala Metallica. Their slogan: “Chew the beat before it chews you.”
The parents of the afflicted are less amused. One mother demanded a ban on “digital influencers with hemp names.” Another claimed her daughter believed the LPs were “edible vinyl wraps” meant for low-carb fasting diets.
Sociologists see this as part of a broader identity crisis plaguing India’s youth — stuck between Spotify algorithms and nostalgia-core, raised on ASMR mukbangs and minimal food pyramids, now trying to taste what their ancestors used to hear. Dr. Manju Ghatare, a culture critic and occasional Daler Mehndi DJ, called it “a tragic case of sonic colon cleansing.”
A few hardcore Gen-Z attendees have doubled down, however, launching a Discord server titled “#VinylEatersUnite” where members share tips on record seasoning, chewing techniques, and playlist pairings. One user suggested dipping Ravi Shankar LPs in chai for a transcendental crunch. Another warned against biting into Jagjit Singh’s ghazals “without proper emotional preparation.”
Experts fear this vinyl confusion could spread. At a sari shop in Malleswaram, an 18-year-old influencer tried to roll up a silk blouse, claiming it was “a CBD wrap for inner alignment.” The shop owner promptly hit her with a hanger and offered her banana chips.
Bengaluru’s Vinyl Fest will now include disclaimers in five languages, and plans to serve complimentary jeera water and earplugs. Shyam Menon says he’s unfazed: “Next time we’re selling VHS tapes. Let’s see if they try to drink those like juice boxes.”