As much as artists drove the alternative movement, the influence that labels had can’t be underestimated. And while the stories of the rock imprints are fairly well known, the hip-hop side is less examined. Slowly that imbalance is being addressed, and it’s fitting that one of first labels to get the filmic treatment is LA-based Stones Throw Records. For more than 18 years, the label has put out an eclectic mix of artists and records, and the documentary Our Vinyl Weighs a Ton: This Is Stones Throw Records (Galtling Pictures) examines the story of the label and its impact.

In general, music documentaries must strike a delicate balance when it comes to approach. You can’t go too in-depth because that could alienate the general public. But you can’t go too broad because that might put off the heads that want more than a shallow overview. It’s even trickier for a label like Stones Throw because while they are a well-known name in the underground, they’ve rarely crossed over to the mainstream. It would be easy to cater to the cult audience, who, to be fair, hold the most interest, but it’s also a good time to introduce the label to a world that may have missed out. Our Vinyl Weighs a Ton generally hits that sweet spot.

However, a linear biography Our Vinyl Weighs a Ton is not. Named after a record by label founder and curator Chris Manzik—better known as Peanut Butter Wolf—which itself was a play on Public Enemy’s “My Uzi Weighs a Ton,” the movie starts out at a house party thrown by Wolf. It sets up the loose community vibe as a number of Stones Throw artists and affiliates are just hanging out while Wolf spins records and Dam-Funk gives an impromptu performance. While there’s nothing groundbreaking about watching people hanging out, it does show that Stones Throw isn’t just a business—it’s more than that. It then leads in to Wolf’s youth, examining his early love for music and collecting records and then meeting the friends who would become the core of his foundation. It also leads into the meeting of Charizma, who became Wolf’s fast friend and musical collaborator. As Wolf’s interest began to lean more heavily toward hip-hop, he and Charizma began to focus on making it. Unfortunately, the combination of a lousy record contract and the death of Charizma while being car-jacked in 1993 seemed destined to stop the story before it began.

After taking an extended break from music, Wolf became determined that his work with Charizma would be heard. But after being unable to find a label to release the record, Wolf formed Stones Throw in 1996. From that point, the movie drops the linear approach for the most part, dividing into chapters that each play like mini-documentaries in the midst of the larger story. In the second chapter, the film focuses on the current Stones Throw artists and then goes backwards to the “Madlib Invazion”, the integration of J Dilla (a.k.a. Jay Dee), the MF Doom collaboration, and then the lean years at the label to its rebound. Practically speaking, there’s no reason why a linear progression couldn’t have been used. All of the chapters are so self-contained that it doesn’t detract from the overall narrative of Stones Throw as being a place that is, in the words of ?uestlove, “embracing the unembraced.” The later chapters return to a relatively clear timeline, but jumping from the past to the present to the past to the present again may be off-putting for the casual viewer because if you don’t already know some of the story, you’ll be lost to what happened when. There are some dates in the movie, but once those drop, it’s anyone’s guess as to what year it is.

But where Our Vinyl Weighs a Ton succeeds with no question is in the sheer amount of archival footage of performances and studio sessions, as well as candid behinds the scenes shots, that show that the Stones Throw tribe is just a bunch of fun to be around. Even the “mysterious” Madlib is revealed to be as goofy and personable as the more gregarious members of the label. There is some discussion on how the changing music landscape has affected the label and how sometimes they’ve put out records with little to no commercial appeal. As such, the message is clear: the money isn’t the point. The label has embraced sounds beyond hip-hop, which is something of a continuation of Wolf’s teenage years, when anything counter-cultural perked his ears. Through interviews with everyone from Kanye West to Ariel Pink, the film also shows Wolf to be a tastemaker as well as music maker.

Still, there are some unanswered questions. Why is there no recent interviews with Jeff Jank, Wolf’s childhood friend who everyone considered to be both the nuts and bolts guy behind the label’s day-to-day operations and the creator of the visual look of the early releases? Why did Madlib take a break from the mic? And for heavens sake, why is Peanut Butter Wolf called Peanut Butter Wolf? But if you don’t mind a few loose ends, this is a worthwhile look at both a label and an era of hip-hop that’s nearly forgotten.