Over the weekend of June 6–7, 2026, Antz Music Studio transformed into a sensory haven of stacked cassette tapes, vinyl records, CDs, zines, and a vibrant crowd drawn together by a shared passion. Some were deep in the crates, others chatted animatedly by the booths, while many simply lounged, soaking in the analog warmth of tunes spun by local selectors.
Amidst this lively bustle, I caught up with Memen, one of the driving forces behind the annual Malang Record Market.
Our conversation flowed in fits and starts, punctuated by passing visitors greeting him. Behind us, transactions never stopped—a constant ebb and flow of people. Yet, in the middle of this organized chaos, Memen voiced a fascinating existential question: “With record stores vanishing and music accessible instantly at our fingertips via streaming, what are we actually celebrating at a record market today?”
It was a deceptively simple question. But the longer I spent at the Malang Record Market, the more I realized the answer had very little to do with cassettes, vinyl, or CDs.
Malang Record Market 2026
Initially, I assumed this was just a marketplace for hardcore collectors. But after a few hours of wandering, a different picture emerged. The most captivating part of the event wasn’t what was on the tables, but who was standing around them.
I saw old friends reuniting, solo visitors striking up deep conversations with vendors, and people lingering for hours long after making their purchases. If their only goal was to buy physical music, they could have done so in minutes: browse, pay, and leave. Instead, they stayed. They stayed to talk, swap stories, debate music, and rekindle relationships that had previously existed only through direct messages and social media feeds.
Perhaps this is the first answer to Memen’s question: the event is less about celebrating physical records and more about celebrating presence.
This sense of community was amplified by the sheer geography of the attendees. Vendors hadn’t just come from Malang; they traveled from Surabaya, Yogyakarta, Semarang, Surakarta, Bandung, and Jakarta, bringing their local scenes and stories with them. Their presence elevated the Malang Record Market beyond a local neighborhood gathering into a vital regional crossroads—a meeting point for collectors, independent labels, distributors, archivists, and music lovers of all stripes. In a space like this, buying and selling is just a byproduct. The real currency is the exchange of experiences.
A Slow Experience in an Algorithmic Era
Today, our relationship with music is dictated by algorithms. A song pops up on a feed, plays for a few seconds, and is swept away by the next. Music moves fast, often passing through us without leaving a mark.
The Malang Record Market offers an antidote to this digital fatigue. Here, people slow down. They flip through crates tape by tape, admire album art, read liner notes, and chat with vendors. They listen to the kinds of stories that Spotify’s recommendation engine could never generate.
The generational mix was equally striking. The crowd spanned from 17-year-olds to 55-year-olds, yet there was no palpable divide. Youth and older generations blended seamlessly, united by a shared obsession.
This reminded me of something Memen had noted: the Malang Record Market is a continuation of the record store spirit that has long thrived in Malang. The younger generation has taken the baton, adapting the culture into a format that speaks to the present. Because of this, the event’s longevity doesn’t rely on a single person or group. What matters isn’t who started it, but who is willing to keep it going. Memen’s optimism for the market’s future doesn’t stem from rising cassette sales or a vinyl resurgence, but from the fact that a new generation feels a sense of ownership over this culture.
While cassettes dominated the tables—primarily because their affordability makes them the most accessible gateway to physical music today—the event also bustled with diverse non-musical programming.
Packed with Creative Subcultures
In one corner, Arsip Zine hosted a showcase highlighting how independent publishing and DIY documentation go hand-in-hand with physical music culture. Elsewhere, Long Space Project ran a CD-R Production workshop, sparking conversations about self-releasing music in the digital age. Meanwhile, the Malang Graffiti Movement held a live sketch-jamming session, uniting visual artists under the same collaborative ethos.
All the while, selectors spun vinyl and tapes, ensuring music wasn’t just passive background noise, but an active, physical experience happening right in front of the crowd. There was something magnetic about watching hands select a record, slide a tape into a deck, and gently lower a needle onto spinning wax—simple acts that feel increasingly sacred in the era of instant streaming.
As I prepared to leave, Memen’s question echoed in my mind once more: “What are we actually celebrating when record stores are disappearing?”
The answer, I realized, isn’t the physical media. It is the opportunity to connect. As long as people are willing to travel across cities to share stories, as long as different generations can find common ground in conversation, and as long as spaces exist to foster these interactions, we are keeping more than just music archives alive. We are preserving the human connections that grow around them. And in an increasingly isolated, fast-paced world, that is the ultimate thing worth celebrating.