“Mint” is such a beautiful word; it implies perfection, untouched surfaces, factory-fresh reality preserved against time magnificence. It also happens to be one of the most abused words in record collecting, usually by people who have never stopped to consider what a record has to survive before it ever reaches their hands.
A record has already lived a life before you see it. It was pressed, put in a stack, sleeved by a machine that was having a long day, stacked, boxed, shipped, unboxed, shelved, flipped through, re-shelved, and possibly transported again. Even records that were never played were handled, and vinyl definitely remembers handling, heat exposure, shipping debacles, you name it. Expecting perfection from an object that has been through all of that is optimistic at best.
True Mint literally means untouched, unplayed, unhandled, and unimpaired in every way. Not “played once.” Not “looks new.” Not “I don’t see anything.” Mint is much more theoretical more often than practical, and most records described that way simply aren’t. They might be Near Mint or Excellent. They might be very clean, very sharp, and very enjoyable. But perfect is a high bar, and gravity, friction, and human hands are relentless. Simply put, unrealistic.
Sleeve scuffs alone disqualify most records from true Mint status. They happen when vinyl moves inside paper, and vinyl always moves inside paper. You don’t need abuse to cause them, time is more than enough. Add in inner sleeves that were slightly too tight, jackets that flexed under weight, or records that were removed once and put back carefully, and the idea of untouched perfection starts to collapse quickly.
Then there’s the jacket. Corners soften. Spines compress. Ring wear doesn’t ask permission. Jackets live in the real world, stacked next to other jackets, pressed together on shelves, moved from place to place. A jacket can look excellent and still show the subtle signs of existing. That doesn’t make it bad. It makes it honest.
This is where buyers get themselves into trouble. When “Mint” becomes the expectation instead of the exception, disappointment is guaranteed. Perfect records become the goal rather than great ones, and people start rejecting copies that would sound phenomenal over marks that don’t affect playback at all. Collecting turns from listening into inspection.
Experienced collectors eventually recalibrate. They stop chasing the word and start evaluating the object. How does the vinyl look under light? How does it feel at the edge? How clean are the labels? Does the jacket still hold together structurally? These questions matter far more than whether a seller used a specific letter grade.
At SRO Records, we’re beyond conservative with that word for a reason, including “Near Mint” which, to me, is sort of what comes out of a brand new opened record. Not because perfection doesn’t exist, but because it’s rare enough to deserve respect when it actually shows up. Calling everything Mint doesn’t elevate the record; it devalues the term. Honest grading builds trust. Inflated grading builds returns. If I may be so blunt, the only way you’re getting a true mint record is to pull it off the assembly line floor before it’s been sleeved. That’s mint.
A truly great record doesn’t need hyperbole. It needs accuracy. Most of the best-sounding records you’ll ever own won’t be perfect; they’ll just be well cared for, thoughtfully handled, and still capable of doing exactly what they were made to do. That’s more than enough.
If you find a record that genuinely deserves the word “Mint,” appreciate it. Just don’t expect it every time you open a sleeve; we ultrasonically clean brand new records and slag comes out, so what really is the mint you’re looking for? Vinyl lives in the real world, and that’s part of why we like it.