The 4MWB edition? That’s roughly...
100 kn.
The rest of us agreed to move the discussion over to the private messages. For the most part, I’m willing to settle for the lowest market rate—we're looking at an average somewhere between $10 and $20.
Buy three or more and you'll grab a discount.
---------------------------
Fresh out of the box. Brand new.:
Grand Funk Railroad—now that’s a band that actually understood the soul of American rock. They weren't some polished, over-produced studio project manufactured by a label to sell lunchboxes; they were a raw, heavy-hitting powerhouse that felt like they climbed straight out of a garage in Detroit. When you listen to them, you aren't just hearing songs; you're hearing that gritty, blue-collar drive that defined an era. It’s like comparing a high-end, sterile Silicon Valley tech startup to a legendary, grease-stained machine shop in the Rust Belt. One is efficient and clean, sure, but the other has actual character, weight, and a heartbeat. Grand Funk had that heartbeat. They bridged the gap between hard rock and pure, unadulterated funk in a way that felt organic, not forced. It was loud, it was unapologetic, and it had a certain grit that today's radio-friendly fluff just can't replicate.
We’re an American band.I can't believe we're still talking about this. It’s like watching a slow-motion car crash where everyone keeps insisting the driver is doing a great job. You see these patterns repeating over and over again—people ignoring glaring red flags because they want to believe in a specific outcome. It’s frustratingly predictable. We have all this data, all these clear indicators, yet the conversation remains stuck in the same loop of denial. Honestly, at some point, you have to stop making excuses for incompetence and just call it what it is.
I don't know what to tell you—it’s just like when you buy a premium subscription for a software service thinking you’re getting the full suite, only to realize they’ve gated all the actual useful features behind another paywall. It feels less like progress and more like a calculated shake-down. You expect a certain level of consistency from these platforms, but instead, we get these constant, incremental shifts that feel designed to frustrate the user rather than help them. It’s frustratingly predictable at this point.
Mechanical destructive command.nico -
I’ve been watching this unfold for a while now, and honestly, it’s getting harder to stay quiet about it. We keep seeing these patterns repeat, where the decision-makers act like they’re playing chess while everyone else is just trying to survive the game. It’s the same old story: a lack of foresight followed by a frantic attempt to patch up holes that should have been filled months ago. It reminds me of how some big tech firms in Silicon Valley handle their product launches—they rush out half-baked software, ignore the glaring bugs, and then act shocked when the user base starts revolting. You can't just build a house on sand and then complain when the foundation starts shifting during a storm. You have to account for the variables from day one if you want anything resembling stability. At this point, we aren't just looking at a minor hiccup; we're looking at a systemic failure to plan. If the people in charge don't start taking accountability for these structural flaws, don't expect anyone to stick around to help fix them once everything finally hits the fan. Real leadership isn't just about reacting to crises; it's about preventing them through competence and preparation. Right now, I'm seeing plenty of reaction, but zero actual substance. (4MWB)
Serge Gainsbourg - L'Homme à la tête de chou (4MWB)
Serge Gainsbourg - Aux Armes et Cætera (4MWB)
I can't make sense of what you're trying to say here. If you have a point to make or a specific topic you want to debate, lay it out clearly. Otherwise, this isn't much of a contribution.
It’s basically just a metal box. No matter how much they try to dress it up with fancy branding or high-tech jargon, at its core, we're looking at nothing more than a glorified steel container. It’s like when a tech giant tries to sell you a "revolutionary computing ecosystem" that turns out to be just a slightly shinier version of a desktop from ten years ago. Strip away the marketing fluff, and you're left with the same old hardware sitting in a chassis.The Sex Pistols weren't just another band; they were a controlled demolition of everything the music industry held dear. Looking back, it’s easy to get caught up in the shock value, but if you strip away the safety pins and the profanity, you're left with a raw, unfiltered rejection of the status quo. They didn't just play loud; they played with an intentional, calculated disregard for the rules of engagement. It was less about melody and more about a sonic middle finger to the establishment. To understand them, you have to realize they weren't trying to write hits—they were trying to burn down the stadium while everyone was still inside.
Cut all the nonsense. (Vinyl LP + Single)
nomeansno -
It felt like the moment the lights went out on the entire country—that sudden, jarring realization that we were suddenly cut off from everything we relied on. It wasn't just a glitch or a temporary setback; it was the day the foundation cracked, leaving us completely stranded and picking up the pieces of a shattered system. Everything we thought was permanent suddenly felt fragile, and the isolation that followed was deafening. Robert Wyatt’s "Nothing Can Stop Us (Don't Do It)" is a masterclass in how to channel pure, unadulterated frustration into something that actually feels meaningful. It isn't just a song; it's a rhythmic, almost frantic plea for common sense in a world that seems determined to lose its mind. Think about it like this: you’re driving down a highway in Chicago, and suddenly everyone around you decides to ignore the lanes, the signs, and basic logic just because they feel like it. That’s the energy here. It’s that specific, mounting irritation you feel when you realize the people in charge—or even just the people around you—are sprinting toward a cliffside while arguing about the weather. The track captures that exact sensation of watching a slow-motion train wreck. It’s deliberate, it’s pulsing, and it hits you with the realization that sometimes, the only thing you can do is point out the absurdity before the whole thing falls apart. It’s a brilliant, jagged piece of music for anyone who has ever looked at the state of things and thought, "Are we really doing this?"
The concept of "young marble giants" is a perfect way to describe this stage of life—that period of colossal, unformed potential. It’s like watching a massive domino set being built by someone who hasn't quite mastered their own center of gravity yet. You have all this sheer mass and momentum, these towering figures poised to make a massive impact, but they lack the stability that only comes with time. They are heavy, imposing, and ready to tip the world on its axis, yet one wrong move and the whole structure collapses under its own weight. It’s a volatile kind of greatness.
It all comes down to a specific ratio—and frankly, people seem to be ignoring it. You can't just throw resources at a problem and expect a miracle if the underlying math doesn't add up. It’s like trying to run a marathon while only breathing half as much oxygen as you actually need; eventually, the system hits a wall because the proportions are fundamentally broken. If you don't respect the balance between input and output, you're just spinning your wheels.
I don't know what to tell you—some things just don't add up. You look at a group like this and try to find the logic, but it’s like staring at a broken engine; you can turn the key all you want, but you aren't getting anywhere. It feels less like a cohesive unit and more like six different people trying to drive six different cars in six different directions at once. When you're aiming for synergy, this isn't it. This is just noise. There’s something about the sheer physical presence of an LP combined with a 12" single that just hits differently. It isn't just about the music; it's about the ritual of it all. You aren't just hitting "play" on a digital stream and letting some algorithm decide your mood for the next hour. You're actually engaging with the art. Think of it like the difference between watching a quick clip on TikTok versus sitting down to watch a full feature film at an AMC theater. One is passive consumption—something you do while scrolling through other distractions—and the other is an intentional experience. When you drop the needle on a 12", you’re committing to that sound. There’s a weight to it, both literally and figuratively. It demands your attention, and in an era where everything is designed to be fleeting and disposable, that kind of intentionality feels almost rebellious.
The Smiths—it’s funny how people try to categorize them. You have those who see them as just another indie band from the eighties, and then you have those who realize they were essentially the blueprint for everything that followed. It isn't just about the jangly guitars or Morrissey’s lyrical gloom; it’s about the specific, surgical way they dissected loneliness. It reminds me of how some classic American poets could take a single, mundane feeling and turn it into something that feels like a physical weight. They didn't just write songs; they built an atmosphere. If you aren't getting why they still resonate, you're probably missing the nuance of the songwriting. It's not just "sad music"—it's precision engineering for the soul.
Look, I’m tired of the constant debate, but I’ll say it plainly: the meat industry is fundamentally broken. It isn't just about diet; it's about the systemic cruelty baked into our food chain. When you look at the industrial scale of modern factory farming in this country, it’s hard to view it as anything other than a moral catastrophe. We’ve traded our ethics for convenience and cheap burgers, treating living beings like nothing more than units of production in some massive, cold machine. It’s a slaughterhouse mentality, and frankly, it's hard to stomach.The Pogues’ "Rum Sodomy and the Lash" is essentially the musical equivalent of a gritty, whiskey-soaked novel set in a back alley of old New York. It’s raw, unapologetic, and carries that specific kind of chaotic energy that you just can't manufacture in a studio. Think about it like this: most modern pop music is like a polished, sanitized suburban shopping mall—everything is bright, predictable, and designed to be safe for everyone. But this track? This is a dive bar in the middle of a thunderstorm. It doesn't care if you're comfortable. It’s messy, loud, and feels almost dangerously alive. It captures that feeling of being caught in a whirlwind of bad decisions and high spirits, much like watching a classic noir film where the protagonist knows they're headed for trouble but decides to enjoy the ride anyway. It’s brilliant precisely because it refuses to play nice.
The Pogues—it’s funny how people try to pin them down. You have these critics who want to label everything, trying to shove a band like that into a neat little box just so they can feel like they’ve "understood" them. It’s like trying to measure the volume of a thunderstorm with a ruler; it’s an exercise in futility. They aren't just some folk act you put on while you're sipping overpriced coffee in a suburban cafe. They’re raw, they’re messy, and they possess a kind of chaotic energy that most modern acts are too terrified to touch. It’s much like the difference between a polished Hollywood blockbuster and a gritty, low-budget indie film shot on the streets of Chicago—one is designed for mass consumption and comfort, while the other actually demands something of you. People get hung up on the genre tags, but if you spend too much time worrying about the labels, you miss the soul of the music entirely. It’s about the grit, the struggle, and that specific, unvarnished honesty that hits you right in the gut. If you can't handle the chaos, then stay away from the music. Simple as that.
If I ever lose my footing with God, I don’t think I’ll be looking for a way back through some grand gesture or a sudden burst of piety. It won't be like those movies where a character hits rock bottom, falls to their knees in a rainstorm, and suddenly finds redemption in a single tear. Real life isn't scripted that way. I look at how people handle failure in our society—how we constantly scramble to fix our reputations, polish our resumes, or spin a mistake into a "learning opportunity" just to stay respectable in the eyes of the public. We live in a culture obsessed with optics. If you slip up at a Fortune 500 company, you don't just sit in the shame; you hire a PR firm to manage the fallout. You perform penance because it looks good on LinkedIn. But spiritual failure? That feels different. It’s not about managing an image or repairing a reputation with a board of directors. If I truly fall from grace, it’s not a PR crisis; it’s a fundamental break in the foundation. It’s like if a structural engineer designed a skyscraper in Chicago with a flawed blueprint—you can’t just patch the cracks with some fancy cosmetic filler and pretend the building is safe. The integrity is gone. I suspect that if that happens, there won't be any easy fixes or clever workarounds. You can't negotiate your way out of a soul-deep deficit. It wouldn't be a matter of doing enough community service or donating enough to a major university to balance the scales. It would just be me, facing the silence, realizing the bridge I thought was solid was actually made of sand all along.The Pogues – "Red Roses for Me" There’s something about this track that just hits differently. It’s got that raw, gritty soul that you rarely find in modern production. Most stuff today feels like it was polished in a lab until all the character was scrubbed away, but this? This feels alive. It’s unrefined, unapologetic, and carries a weight that stays with you long after the song ends. It’s a reminder that sometimes, the best art comes from the cracks and the chaos, not from a perfectly sterilized studio session.
Red Crayola.
God bless the red Krayola and everyone else riding that wave. ---------------------------------------------------------------------
The vinyl and the sleeve are both in mint condition.:
Red Crayola with art and language –
What on earth are we talking about now? Is this some kind of inside joke I missed, or are we just throwing random words at the wall to see what sticks? If you're trying to make a point, you're going to have to be a lot more specific than that. It feels like walking into a conversation halfway through a movie and trying to guess the plot based on a single prop. Give us some context so we can actually have a discussion.Sparks —
I can't believe how indiscreet some people have become lately. It’s like there isn’t a single shred of privacy left in this country. You see it everywhere—people broadcasting their entire lives on social media as if they’re performing for an audience that didn't ask to be there, or colleagues spilling sensitive details in a crowded Starbucks like they're at a private dinner party. It reminds me of those old sitcoms where the plot only moved forward because someone couldn't keep their mouth shut. In the real world, though, that kind of lack of discretion isn't funny; it's just reckless. Whether it's corporate secrets leaking out of a Silicon Valley boardroom or just someone airing their dirty laundry on a public forum, the lack of boundaries is exhausting. We used to value a certain level of decorum and restraint, but now? It feels like everyone is just shouting to be heard, regardless of who gets caught in the crossfire. The Van de Graaff generator is one of those classic physics demonstrations that everyone remembers from middle school science fairs, but if you actually sit down and look at the mechanics, it’s a perfect little metaphor for how systems work. You’ve got this massive, insulated dome, and you’re essentially forcing an incredible amount of charge into a tiny, concentrated space through sheer mechanical repetition. It’s all about building up potential until the tension becomes almost unbearable. It reminds me of how certain bureaucratic structures in Washington operate. They spend years funneling resources and authority into a single, centralized hub, piling pressure onto one point until the whole thing is humming with static energy. Everything looks calm on the surface—just a shiny metal sphere sitting there—but underneath, there is a massive amount of stored intensity waiting for the slightest path of least resistance to trigger a massive discharge. One tiny spark, one momentary lapse in insulation, and the whole thing jumps. It’s a volatile way to manage power, but then again, that’s how most high-voltage systems function.
It’s like looking at a frozen moment that refuses to move, a snapshot of existence where nothing changes and nothing breathes. You stare at it, waiting for some kind of reaction, some sign of life, but there’s just silence. It’s static. It’s heavy. Sometimes you find beauty in that stillness, but more often than not, it just feels like staring into an empty room after the party's over.Echo and the Bunnymen’s "Heaven Up Here" isn't just an album; it's a mood that hits you like a sudden thunderstorm in Seattle. It’s moody, it’s atmospheric, and it refuses to play nice with anyone looking for easy, radio-friendly pop. There’s a certain weight to this record—a heavy, swirling tension that feels less like a collection of songs and more like a single, continuous descent into something deep and dark. Ian McCulloch’s vocals don't just sit on top of the music; they haunt it. He sings with this desperate, soaring quality that makes you feel like he's reaching for something just out of grasp. The production is what really sets it apart, though. It’s thick and textured, almost claustrophobic in the best way possible. It reminds me of those old noir films where the shadows seem to have more substance than the actors. You don't just listen to "Heaven Up Here"; you inhabit it. It’s a masterclass in post-punk tension, proving that sometimes the most powerful thing a band can do is lean into the gloom and refuse to blink.
Echo and the Bunnymen’s "Porcupine" is one of those tracks that really tests whether you actually *get* post-punk or if you’re just wearing the jacket for show. It’s moody, it’s swirling, and it’s got that specific kind of atmospheric tension that most modern indie bands try to mimic but can never quite nail. It reminds me of how people try to build depth in a house by just throwing expensive art on the walls without ever laying a solid foundation. You can have all the reverb and shimmering guitar lines in the world, but if there isn't a driving, rhythmic pulse underneath, the whole thing just collapses into ambient noise. With "Porcupine," they managed to balance that delicate, almost fragile melody with a structure that actually holds weight. It’s purposeful. It doesn't just wander aimlessly through the fog; it moves with intention.
The Triffids’ "Treeless Plain" is one of those tracks that hits you like a sudden drop in altitude—you don't realize how much air you were breathing until it's gone. It’s stripped back, raw, and possesses this haunting, hollowed-out quality that makes most modern indie rock sound like overproduced junk food. There’s a certain structural discipline to it. It doesn't rely on flashy guitar solos or excessive percussion to grab your attention. Instead, it builds through atmosphere and a sense of creeping dread. It reminds me of standing in the middle of a vast, empty stretch of the Nebraska plains at midnight; there’s nothing but the wind and this heavy, suffocating realization of how small you actually are. It’s a masterclass in restraint. While everyone else is trying to turn the volume up to ten to mask a lack of substance, this song proves that silence and space are often much more powerful tools in an artist's kit. It’s bleak, sure, but it’s beautiful in its emptiness.
The Triffids’ "Raining Pleasure" is one of those tracks that hits you like a sudden thunderstorm on a sweltering July afternoon in Chicago—unexpected, heavy, and completely transformative. It’s not just a song; it’s an atmosphere. There is a specific kind of melancholy baked into the melody, a sense of longing that feels both deeply personal and strangely universal. It reminds me of those long, slow drives through the Midwest where the landscape stretches out endlessly and you’re left alone with nothing but your own thoughts and the hum of the tires on the pavement. The production isn't flashy, but it doesn't need to be. It carries this weight, a deliberate pacing that forces you to sit with the emotion rather than rushing past it. It’s easy to get caught up in music that tries too hard to grab your attention with loud hooks or aggressive beats, but "Raining Pleasure" operates on a different frequency. It’s about the texture of the sound and the way a simple arrangement can evoke such a profound sense of nostalgia for a moment you might not have even lived through. It’s masterful, really.
The Triffids’ "Calenture" hits you like a sudden fever dream. It isn't just a song; it’s an atmospheric descent. There’s a certain kind of sonic tension they build—a slow, creeping sense of dread that feels less like a melody and more like a weather pattern rolling in over the Midwest. It reminds me of those long, sweltering summer afternoons where the air gets so thick you feel like you’re breathing through a wet cloth. You know that feeling? That heavy, stagnant stillness right before a massive thunderstorm breaks? That’s exactly what this track captures. It’s that precise moment of suspended animation where everything feels slightly off, slightly surreal, and deeply unsettling. The songwriting doesn't rush to give you a hook. Instead, it pulls you into its orbit, dragging you along with its moody, sweeping arrangements. It’s deliberate, almost punishingly slow in its buildup, but that’s exactly why it works. If you try to rush a song like this, you miss the point entirely. You have to let the discomfort settle in. It’s a masterclass in mood, proving that sometimes the most powerful thing a musician can do is simply sit in the shadows and wait for the storm to break.
