Finding fault with mail-order music
Everyone has heard horror stories involving antagonistic music clubs taking advantage of helpless consumers. I recently decided to investigate this phenomenon, armed with only a pen and a debit card. Although the BMG Music Service is the last online bastion of the “Order now and we’ll bill you” philosophy, I paid up front.
What follows is a fact-based account of my experience.
Jan. 25, 1:25 a.m. — While browsing the BMG Web site, a friend and I realize she’ll get vouchers for five CDs if she refers me and I sign up. She promises one of these to me, but what ultimately convinces me to join are the incredibly low prices on box sets; I’ve been coveting the Velvet Underground’s “Peel Slowly and See” for some time. She submits my e-mail address and I assume I’m set.
Jan. 25, 11:49 a.m. — My inbox is so empty it’s depressing. Although I had expected an immediate e-mail telling me to join, now I’m just hoping I get an e-mail, period, because otherwise I’ll probably lose my modicum of faith in music clubs.
Jan. 26, 7:01 p.m. — The e-mail arrives. Fearing it’s a trick, or, worse, that the hyperlink is only going to work for five minutes before self-destructing, I sign up immediately. I get to pick seven free CDs, so I decide to fill some holes in my collection. After selecting albums by Bob Dylan, The Beach Boys and The Clash, I ascertain that BMG’s selection is limited, and that new members can’t access everything. Choosing seven CDs becomes a hassle until I remember I need Radiohead’s “The Bends.” My order isn’t entirely free, of course; there’s a $2.79 shipping and handling charge for each disc, but I’m still getting a bargain.
Jan. 29, 12:41 p.m. — I log in to check on my order because I haven’t received a confirmation e-mail yet. I learn that my debit card hasn’t been approved yet, so my registration is pending. I change my music preference to tropical, which in turn changes the company’s name to Ritmo y Pasión, a club for fans of Latin music. The home page is now plastered with palm trees, Javiers and albums offering every type of fiesta, from salsa to merengue.
Feb. 2, 10:12 p.m. — There’s no word on my order, so I log in to get a phone number for customer service. Unfortun-ately, this is all for naught, as my membership is still being processed, which prevents me from contacting customer service.
Feb. 5, 2:57 p.m. — Bored, I pay a visit to the BMG site and am excited to learn that my debit card was confirmed the previous day and my order has shipped.
Feb. 12, 2:54 p.m. — Much like my Hotmail inbox more than two weeks earlier, my campus mailbox is a barren wasteland. I go ahead and order the Velvet Underground box set; the $29.99 price tag is too tempting to avoid. (By comparison, Amazon.com sells the set for $53.99.) BMG tosses on a $10.75 shipping and handling fee because — get this — the $2.75 charge applies to each CD in the box. That’s right, it applies to discs that can be neither shipped nor handled individually.
Feb. 13, 12:20 p.m. — I receive my first featured selection e-mail, the electronic version of the trick that’s kept BMG in the black for more than 50 years. Instead of having to wait for an unwanted album to arrive and then rushing to send it back, the e-mail notification only requires a few clicks. The CD is a David Bowie compilation (as a tropical music enthusiast, I anticipated something spicier) and the option to decline it does not work. I go to the Web site and try to cancel it there, but all I see is a message telling me to check back later.
Feb. 17, 3:02 p.m. — I’m nonplussed by a new e-mail explaining that my first order has just shipped, when it had supposedly been sent 12 days earlier.
Feb. 19, 10:37 a.m. — A quick stop at the Ulrich Student Center before class proves worthwhile when I discover a pink slip hiding in my mailbox and exchange it for a package containing my free CDs.
Feb. 19, 12:52 p.m. — I somehow contain my excitement and wait until after lunch to open the box. The CDs are all there; I half-expected to find somebody else’s order. Then, two words on the box catch my attention: media mail. Anyone who’s sold a textbook on Half.com knows that media mail is by far the cheapest way to post anything. The people at BMG must have learned this too, and then figured out they could make a fortune overcharging for shipping. A visit to the U.S. Postal Service Web site confirms my suspicion — the package, weighing in at just under 2 pounds, cost a mere $1.84 to send.
Some might argue that the remaining $18-plus was a handling charge, but I doubt that the people working in the music club mailroom are that overpaid and/or incompetent. The information on the Postal Service site also states that media mail cannot contain advertising. Needless to say, I am shocked when an envelope full of glossy adverts for tacky checks and Homer Simpson decorative lights falls out of the box. One can only imagine the horror that comes with discovering that a reputable company has resorted to juvenile business practices.
Feb. 19, 2:13 p.m. — The CDs, which had been lost in the shuffle, are recovered, opened and enjoyed.
While I did not procure any of those nifty little stamps the club utilized before the Internet boom, the general shadiness of the BMG operation has a charm all of its own. With that in mind, joining such a club is a good means of getting cheap CDs, provided you don’t mind waiting.
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