#vinyl records on every surface of my flat

[sovietpostcards]

“Discobolus”. Comic by E. Shabelnik, published in Krokodil magazine (1981).

[nasty-psd]

Texture Collections (unsplash.com)

Hey everyone ! Back at it again with the resources recs, with a whole bunch of textures this time 💚 All the pics are from Unsplash, so everything's free for personnal use, comes with instructions for professional use + with ways to thank the photographers 🥰 

I've sorted these first 12 collections to show you the kinds of textures i like the best in my own edits & even professionnal works - with categories either being the medium that they're made with, or an abstract concept they fall under. Click on the names below to access the collections, on the source to access all my collections, and on the read more for quick summaries of how/when i use these !

🎨 Links 1) Photographs | 2) Clouds | 3) (dry) Paints 4) Oil | 5) Typography | 6) Mineral 7) Vegetal | 8) Liquid | 9) Paper 10) Lights | 11) Space | 12) Plastic

Detailed descriptions & how to use under the cut ! (obviously, i do not claim ownership over any of these pictures)

1 - Photographs | link here This collection gathers textures that aren’t the easiest to use, but please don’t be scared by them, the following . How i use them : You can use the mockup type of pictures and “insert” your own pics of your friends, characters, etc - which means you must know how to create a basic mockup file (creating fake polaroids is a great way to learn or to train on your mockup skills by the way !). For the scanned images of films, you can also paint over them to integrate your own pictures. What i prefer to do though, is to create a mask layer around the burnt areas with a soft-edge brush, and then copy and paste it onto my edits. It allows more room for creativity but requires quoi color correct the burnt areas so they fit perfectly onto your edit’s colour scheme.

2 - Clouds | link here These one are simple ! I love them as background on edits, as overlays to bring out a little How i use them : With layer modes, as colour palettes references, as backgrounds with a collage of pictures on top - you can go ham with these. They’re also perfect for complex photomanipulations as Unsplash photographers offer multiple sizes options when downloading their pics.

3 - (dry) Paints | link here These paintings are not all necessarily "dry" paints, but rather artworks that show of their painting mediums' natural textures. They're "grungy" in an acrylic's or in a gouaches way. Some may be oils too but i'm not sure. The textures are created with brushes or painting knives, sometimes with spray paints. How i use them : So, as they're pretty dense, i prefer them in backgrounds, or as barely visible overlays. Once again, they’re great for photomanipulations, but you might need to edit them a little so they’re usable or repurposable.

4 - Oil | link here "Oil" is pretty straight forward : these are either oils (liquids with rainbow gradients/reflections) or very liquidy paints. The focus on this one is colours mixing with more or less of success, the "brutal" contrast between them, and the movement they create. (And also : ios background bubbles.) How i use them : they make for perfect overlays, background, references for color palettes or bases for a dispersion filter. They’re complex though, and you might want to stay careful to not go overboard with them, as they can tend to make your edits unreadable.

5 - Typography | link here Typography, yay ! It’s something many of us avoid in edits where it’s not a dire necessity - but growing as an adult into a graphic designer’s world, i learnt to love it. Every character has its own character (lmao geddit) personality, which can be of great support in your edits :) How i use them : as background, as “overlays” in collages or to simply get the inspiration going. You could also reuse the quotes in your edits with different fonts, or the panels in you photomanipulations.

6 - Mineral | link here Minerals & rocks are essential if you plan on editing complex stuff, like photomanipulations in the outer world, in space, or whatever your heart desires. That’s why i tried to gather as many diverse resources that fell under that category. For a finer research, i’d recommend finding one picture approximately resembling what you want, then checking out the recommended pics that will appear under the share & info buttons, or visiting the photographer’s profile as they may have multiple pictures of varying angles of the same object. How i use them : The pics with perspective i’ll use as elements in photomanipulation, while the “flat” pics will be used as overlays in elements to bring out more textures - the possibilities are endless, what you want to do you will be able to !

7 - Vegetal | link here These one aren’t especially complicated to use, but will require a little bit more work. Most of them are on plain background so it’s easier for you to cut them out and insert them in edits or photomanipulations. There’s tree, branches, mushrooms, leaves - everything i could think of that might be useful in edits. How i use them : The “flat” textures could be used purely for “aesthetics” or to add textures in edits, but the “full objects” pictures are mainly there for photomanipulations purposes.

8 - Liquid | link here Anything that has to deal with water, bodies of water, or overall liquids. Landscapes, also, that include lakes, seas, ocean, waterfalls, etc - always a need in photomanipulation. How i use them : as always, it depends on the nature of the texture itself. If it’s flat, i could be used solely for aesthetics, or as a way to add texture to a plain surface in photomanipulation. When it has some perspective, or shows a complex scenery, they could be used in photomanipulations & edits of all kinds.

9 - Paper | link here This collection has some of the most diverse pictures : it can be old papers with or without writing on it, sceneries of "blank" papers for you to put your edits on, or decorative pages/maps. How i use them : For the "flat" textures : these are mainly for overlays (all over you finished edits sir it looks like it's printed) or in some cases, for mockups. For the pictures with a bit of "scenery" : these would be great for background, but absolutely perfect for mockups. For the pages with maps or texts on them, it can be used as your usual textures/background.

10 - Lights | link here This collection includes every kind of body of water (or other liquids) i could find. You'll find waves, lakes, rained on windows, bubbles, watercolours, etc. Anything for your edits or photo manipulations. How i use them : Most of them will look their best as overlays put on top of all your other layers (or not, depending on the nature of your edit obviously). They get also easily be animated for gif, or colour corrected to fit your aesthetic.

11 - Space | link here A really specific collection ! This one will mainly be useful if you plain on editing space-ish photonapulations, moodboards, etc. Combined with the others collections, you could create a whole other worldy edit :) How i use them : Mostly how they’re logically used. Stars textures will mainly be editing onto a sky (but could also be useful to create “grunge” textures”), planets will, etc. But always think creatively, and outside of the box ! For example, these circling stars could be used as the texture of a vinyl record.

12 - Plastic | link here My personnal faves, the tricky & busy plastic textures. Plastic is a pretty broad name, and most of the pics aren’t technically plastic, but they have the same folds, turns & reflections. How i use them : mostly with a dispersion filter (which makes everything awesome). They can be overlays, or blurred to create pretty interesting gradient textures. They could also be used as background in your collages - you can basically do what you want with these. They’re awesome.

bonus 13th for the curious ones - Urban & Cities | link here Silly didn’t add the thirteenth collection on the preview, so here it is as a surprise ! This collection is the most diverse of them all, with lots of architectural elements, grungy walls textures, graffitis, etc. How i use them : Mostly as background

That’s all for today, hope you’ll enjoy using these ! please give lots of love to these photographers, and see you soon 💚

[batwritings]

Finished at last! I am able to finally relax.

Ive had this idea in my mind ever since I sent you the Sapnap thing. So please allow me to make a saucy continuation of it.

Crime does pay very well in fact. Your life of unlawful deed began truly started the day Sapnap professed his love. Things moved quickly after that. A house, a dog, and a record collection of sappy love songs later and you couldn't be happier. Even the work wasn't hard, it almost came naturally. No one made you do anything you didn't want. You have become a feared leader and loyal companion of the gang. Respect was given or else. You took care of business matters with dangerous bite. One that got your lover hot under the collar. He made it known how arousing he found it when you put some cocky dense asshole in there place. So much so sometimes he just couldn't keep his hands to himself. His office didn't have a surface untainted by your writhing bodies. Thralls of heated love making staining every seat, desk, wall and floor space in the room. Your favorite though was laying him out on his desk and riding him. Pressing your hands flat against his pecks pinning him down while also using it as leverage. He wasn't one to relinquish control easily or submit to anyone's authority. So it made is all the more sweet when he was a good boy for you. Not touching when you instruct him so. Keeping his trembling hands on your thighs. His cock standing proud and leaking and you bounce on it. Fucking yourself thoroughly on the massive thick and pulsing member. Sapnap's whimpers would fuel you when your legs would start getting sore and you would have to slow down to a grind. Rolling your hips at first gently, teasing. Then leaning back and rocking your body quickly driving you both wild with speed. His voice would get so desperate and high. This hands grabbing your thighs would leave bruises and nail bitten marks. Those broken worded pleas gurgled, you would tell him to be patient and Fuck your self on him. Whispering into his lips he isn't allowed to cum yet and if he died he would be in big trouble. Lulling his head back in the pillow opening his throat and closing his eyes is the prettiest view you have. His cock jerks inside you, quivering with the need to release. You aren't far yourself. The constant abuse of his cock impaling you with all 10 inches know how to hit the spots. His voice would crack when he couldn't take it anymore. The cock ring was easy to remove with a single snap button. You remove it tucking your feet behind his legs and flip the both of you. Stuttering he takes over pounding into you. Fucking as deep and hard as he can. Folding you in half, plunging his cock so fucking deep. He grunts animalistic how he is going to fill you up so full. Your eyes blur as your own orgasm hits and you cry out locking your legs behind his back and drag his lips to yours. The kiss is sloppy and disjointed. Your moans are shared in the small amount of air between the both of you. That thick cock comes to a sharp deep stop jumping and pumping you full of his seed. He sags on top of you, whimpering and his entire body trembling. Knowing he is overwhelmed cradle him as you whisper into his ear. Holding him tight as he comes down. His cock slowly shrinking inside you, spent and loose. An over stimulated groan right in your ear while he pulls out of you is like music. You capture his face in your hands and stare at him. The wet slid of his semen slipping from you while you praise him with loving words. He would collapse into you nuzzling your shoulder kissing and nipping there tirely trying to hold himself upright. Eventually a short nap would be hand in the sweat filth and mess. Clean up would be for the morning. Right now cuddles on the couch until you both could be bothered to move. The record in the corner hand stopped playing a while ago but the crackle of the needle sliding around the end of the vinyl was soothing you both to sleep. Snuggled against your back Sapnap leaned in kissing the back of your ear and whispers softly, "I love you so much, I would die without you. So perfect, my other half. My everything. Agápi mou."

📷

*SCREECHES IN GAY* HOLY FRICK CAMERA!!!! THAT WAS FRICKIN' AMAZING (as always!!) !!!!! God I'm such a simp for him oh no ^^; Also, Google Translate has failed me! So may I know what that says at the end? :3c

[insomniamamma]

Liminal: Ezra and Cee

A/N: Contemporary AU in which Ezra becomes his niece, Cee's caretaker after an automobile accident kills his brother, Damon, and costs him his arm. Same AU as "Ferris wheels are for old people." No reader insert character, just Ezra and Cee on the road. Written for @autumnleaves1991-blog​ ‘s Writer’s Wednesday.

Warnings: Mentions of past trauma/injury. Drug references in a song. Some language. I tried to research body powered transhumeral prosthetics to get some idea of how Ezra's prosthetic arm might work, but then I fell into an overthinking morass, any inaccuracies are mine.

"Willin'" is written by Lowell George. The version referenced in the story is recorded by Linda Ronstadt.

lim·i·nal /ˈlimənl/

adjective: liminal

   1.relating to a transitional or initial stage of a process.    2.occupying a position at, or on both sides of, a boundary or threshold.

--"Willin'"--

          "’... been warped by the rain, driven by the snow,’" Cee sings along with the music rattling through the truck's speakers, "I'm drunk and dirty, don't you know. But I'm still willin'..."

        The road stretches long and straight in front of them, harsh, rust-colored land dotted with scrub under the arc of an impossibly blue sky. Ezra asked Cee to compile the playlist. You are my co-pilot for this mission, he'd told her, and as such your duties include, but are not limited to, navigator, snack supervisor and DJ. DJ? Really? Make us a playlist, Little Bird, every adventure needs some good road music. And she had really delivered.          "’...Out on the road late last night, I'd see my pretty Alice in every headlight, Alice, Dallas Alice...’"  Ezra'd expected hours of auto-tuned pop or loud screamy music where he couldn't understand the words, and while there was some of that, Cee had taken her duties as DJ very seriously, creating a huge genre-bending list that all worked together.

     He knew a lot of it. When he was still weird Uncle Ezra and not Legal Guardian Ezra, Cee made a habit of pawing through his vinyl collection when she and Damon would visit, picking a record to play and then peppering him with questions about it. Still, some of the tracks she picked surprised him, like this one, Linda Ronstadt's version of "Willin'" a road trip anthem if there ever was one, but something he didn't expect Cee to be familiar with.  On their first go through the playlist, he'd asked her, where'd you hear this one, Birdie? You remember that movie, The Abyss? It's in that movie, the director's cut though, not the theatrical cut, the theatrical cut is bullshit--and he'd just listened to her go off about all the things wrong with the theatrical cut, the movie itself he barely remembered, something about divers finding aliens underwater, he'd listened and grinned, Cee could go so quiet sometimes. It was always a relief to hear her sound alive and interested, especially after--          "’And I've been from Tucson to Tucumcari," Cee sings and Ezra joins her, "Tehachapi to Tonopah...’" Cee's voice is sweet. Ezra's voice is not, but that's never stopped him. They've got the windows down. The AC started smelling funny a couple days ago, and, in this part of the world, a breeze to evaporate the sweat is just as good as AC. Cee's hair makes a flyaway halo as they sing--          "’Driven every kind of rig that's ever been made, Driven the backroads so I wouldn't get weighed. And if you give me...’" Ezra and Cee smile at each other, suck in deep breaths for the big chorus, "’...Weed, whites and wine, and you show me a sign...And I'll be willin' to be movin'"

--Petroglyph--

       The rust colored forms on pale stone walls peer out at them. Some loom large in the foreground, others recede into the background as if the weathered rock is a portal a window into some other place that lives just below the skin of the world. The back of Ezra's neck prickles. Sometimes the world is thin. Sometimes he feels as if there is a larger world moving and shifting beneath the surface of this one. Sometimes he feels like things are happening out of order, reality stripping and skipping like a loose bicycle chain--        Cee's warm hand creeps into his, "They're a little scary, aren't they?" She says.        "Indeed they are," says Ezra, "One has to wonder what they were thinking. What they were trying to say. Are these gods in these pictures? Or just regular men?"        "Does it matter?" Asks Cee, and he jerks his head to look at her. She is utterly entranced by the red figures and sigils.        "Of course it does," he says, "You don't think so?"        "I mean, it matters, I guess, but what matters more is that people made these," she says, "People like us. People with hands. Not that Ancient Aliens bullshit." Ezra laughs. Cee squeezes his hand.        "C'mon," she says, "let's see more."

--Rest Stop--

       "Hey MOM!," a child's voice snaps Ezra out of his reverie. Cee is in the truck stop, using the restroom and restocking their snack supply. At these stops he fuels up and then gives her some cash and sets her loose inside. And then they stretch their legs and sit outside for a spell. Ezra sits at a picnic bench letting the sun hit his closed eyelids, "MOM! That guy's got a ROBOT ARM! Like WINTER SOLDIER!" Ezra opens his eyes to a little boy, maybe four with a bunch of curly hair and big eyes, pointing at him.        "Daniel!" His mother hisses, and pinches at his arm, "That's rude. I'm so sorry. Danny, what did I tell you about staring--"        "Ma'am? It's quite alright, Ma'am," says Ezra, and hunkers down so he's eye level with the little boy.        "Hi there," he says, "Daniel, is it? I'm Ezra." He offers his right arm, the double hook at the end open, titanium alloy padded with silicone. Daniel solemnly grips the hooks and shakes.        "You've got stickers!" Says Daniel, and for a second Ezra is confused, and then he grins, looking down at the bedecked black plastic of his prosthesis. He stands.        "My girl decided that I must have a sticker for every state we stop in," says Ezra, he stands and smiles at Daniel's mom, "Like an old steamer trunk. I'm afraid I didn't catch your name--"        Cee steps out of the air-conditioned cavern of the truck stop, slits her eyes against the brightness of midday sun glittering up from the concrete, plastic bags full of crap-snacks and energy drinks threaded over her arms. Ezra handed her a couple twenties and told her to go nuts. Re-supply runs have turned into their own sort of game. She always grabs the usual stuff, chips and Snickers bars and Paydays (Ezra has an absolute weakness for Paydays. They don't taste like they used to, he'd griped, but that didn't stop him from eating them), but somewhere along the line, Cee decided to turn this into a battle of the wills. Her unspoken mission is to find something so utterly weird at one of these stops that Ezra won't eat it. So far, she has been unsuccessful. The closest thing was an aloe juice and cucumber drink that smelled amazing, but felt like swallowing cold snot. That one was a draw. She has high hopes for the dill pickle-sriracha gummy worms nestled in the bottom of the bag. The packaging looked like Christmas in hell. More important than the snacks is the plain, flat paper bag she holds.                                                                                     Ezra's near the picnic benches chattering at some lady with a kid. Menace, she thinks, but smiles. Ezra was always the extrovert before, and it's good to him smiling so big and open in the sunshine, making friends with random people at a truck stop. She sees an echo of her and him before, when she and Dad would visit when she was small and he'd tell her some outrageous tale and she'd say Uncle Ezra, you're so weird, and he'd scoop her up and swing her around, planting a prickly kiss on her cheek and saying oh, little bird, you have no idea, and this always made Dad laugh.

       "Oh, Ez-ra," Cee calls, and when he turns, he sees her devilish grin, holding a small brown paper bag up beside her face like it's contraband, "Look what I found."         "So I get to witness the sacred stickering?" Asks Ezra's new friend.        "Indeed you do," says Ezra, "This is Cee. Cee, meet Jody, and that little man playing in the dirt there is Daniel."        "Nice to meet you," says Cee, "Stick your arm out, old man."        "Don't you want to document this momentous occasion?"        "Oh, right," Cee pulls out her phone, "Hey, uh, miss Jody? Can you take some video? I got it all set up."        "Cee is documenting our adventures for posterity," says Ezra. He extends his prosthetic, already covered in overlapping ovoids, enough that they are starting to resemble dragon scales, "What do you think?" Cee and Daniel circle round.        "How bout here?" asks Daniel, tapping just above the articulated elbow.        "That's a good spot," says Cee and peels the sticker from it's backing with a flourish. She smiles up at her phone recording in a stranger's hand, "We have now infiltrated the state of Nevada," she grins, "Evil-doers beware."        "Yeah!" Says the little boy, pudgy hands planted on his hips for the benefit of the camera, "Or Winter Soldier will KICK YOUR ASS!"        "Daniel!"

--Stars--

       Cee wakes in the dead of night, disoriented, a darkness so thick that for a moment she's not sure where she is, and then she hears Ezra's rhythmic snoring off to her side, reaches out and brushes fabric of the tent and lays back, puzzled, muscles pleasantly sore from a day spent scrabbling up and down eroded granite boulders that looked like they belonged on Mars or Tatooine, walking trails and marveling at the strange ecology of the high-desert, so unlike back home. Bad dream? She wonders, probably. She feels her eyes getting heavy, feels herself lulled by Ezra's sleep sounds, snores punctuated by mumbles. Sometimes full sentences, his side of whatever dream-conversation he's having. Probably has no idea he does it--        Cee sits bolt upright, hands clutched in fists against her chest, a high-pitched wail cuts the cold night, a sound like a woman screaming, and another wail threads through the first, so loud it could be right outside the tent, and then a sound like gruesome laughter. The back of her neck prickles and her heart pounds in her throat. She tells herself that it's just some wild animal making noise, some desert bird maybe, but wasn't the California desert the last known home of the Manson family? Maybe not this desert, but still--        "Ezra," she hisses, and he mumbles something incoherent, "Ezra, wake up!" She reaches and pokes him hard, "Ezra!"        "Whazzit birdie?"        "Listen!" The screams rise and fall again like something from a horror movie.        "s'just coyotes," says Ezra, "probly next county over. They don't hurt people, they're just loud."        "You sure?"        "Go back to sleep, Cee."

       "Ezra," He's dreaming, some place with Joshua trees the size of skyscrapers, spiked limbs under a red sky. Cee's with him somewhere in the bloodlight but he can't see her, just hears her calling--        "Ezra!" He blinks awake, the red sky receding. Cee is shaking him.        "Yuh. M'awake birdie,"        "I gotta pee," she says.        "You know where the outhouses are, just right down the trail,"        "I'm not going by myself! Not with those things out there!" Ezra pushes himself up and shakes his head, blinking the sleep from his eyes. He can just make out Cee's form against the faint light of the sky leaking through the tent.        "Alright, just gimme a second," he says.        "I'll get the light,"        "We don't need it," he says.        "Ez-"        "We got night eyes now," he says, "No light pollution out here. You'll see."

       Ezra stands transfixed in the chill dark, head cocked upward. The more he looks, the more he can see. More stars than he's ever seen in his life spread across the vast inverted bowl of the sky, no summer haze out here, no light-wash from streetlights. He is dizzy with it, the vast sweep of the sky, and as he stares and his eyes adjust further, he can see the arm of the Milky Way angled across the black, can actually see the dark band of dust threaded through the silver-blue light. He doesn't hear the outhouse door shutting, doesn't notice Cee beside him until she folds his hand into hers.        "Look up, Little Bird," he breathes and it feels like a prayer, his heart suddenly full, squeezing in his chest, Cee small and warm next to him.        "Oh, wow," she says, barely a whisper, "That's the Milky Way isn't it?" Tears blur the stars and fall hot against his cheeks.        "It is." He looks at her, her face upturned, cheeks and hair frosted in star shine, limning her eyes, her smile. They've lost so much, him and Cee, but they've gained each other, and that's not nothing is it?        "We're so small," says Cee, "Us. People. This whole planet. All of us. We're just a little dot." Ezra smiles in the dark, even as tears dry in his lashes. He squeezes her fingers in his.        "C'mon, let's get back in the tent before we freeze."

--Hoodoo--

       Cee sleeps in the passenger's seat. She'd helped break camp and pack everything up even though it was early for her. They had spent an extra night in Joshua Tree and now had to make up the difference. It's time to go home. There are things he wants to do before Cee goes back to school, things they need to take care of. So he woke them early, promising Cee that she could sleep in the car as long as she needed. She'd helped him get ready, half-peeling a couple candy bars and putting them were he could easily reach.        "You want the playlist?" She asked, "I can get it going."        "Not right now. I want some quiet."          “'Kay," and Cee was asleep before they were to the next mile marker.

       Hoodoos rise on either side of the highway, striated red cliffs against the slowly lightening sky, cut into improbable formations by long gone rivers, thin spires topped with boulders, first glints of sun hitting the higher cliffs while everything else still exists in that liminal space between day and night. Ezra glances over at Cee, hair in a messy halo, face slack in sleep, cheeks sun-reddened and newly freckled, closed eyes moving, dreaming. Ezra thinks of those first days, wracked with pain and trying to navigate the new, dark-shrowded territory of her and him, each of them crippled by loss, each willing to lash out at the other. Ezra thinks of how far they've come since then, uncurling like relaxing fists and learning to be with each other. They drive into the dawn and the first bit of light touches her hair, turning it to fire. She shifts in her sleep, turning away from that first hint of sun. He doesn't know if she's awake or not.        "I love you, Cee."        "Love you to, Ez," she murmurs and settles back into sleep. Ezra looks out over hoodoo country spread red tinged and stark against the rising light, the miles of road ahead. We're gonna be ok, he thinks and means it.

[stillplayvinyl]

Did some experimenting today with a lossless streaming service comparing the same tracks on vinyl records I have.

The thing I am aware today’s digital technology must be superior to yesterday’s analog technology just meant I had to try.

High resolution digital recordings have more potential dynamics, no surface noise, few reading errors and are so easy to enjoy. Analog reproduction has well know inherent imperfection, starting from the equalization of the low range that requires a phono preamp to play back correctly, to the delicate setup a turntable/tonearm/cartridge system needs to perform at its best.

Still, the superior technology not always delivers. CD-quality tracks from records originally mastered for vinyl simply could not contain the bass depth that digital recording would allow. They compare well to vinyl record reproduction when the original mastering is retained.

High-resolution modern remasters done with the loudness war’s heavy compression sound dull and flat compared to old original vinyl records, and sometimes by a long shot.

Some recent records from the 2000s sound really good on both formats (if the modern vinyl pressing is made with care, otherwise it is the other way around).

In rare occasions, true audiophile modern digital high-resolution recordings are available and they are impressive. Modern mastering styles involving heavy compression simply kill the music. Often artists just don’t see that and allow their products to be tampered with, believing this is the way they sound better. It is not. Anybody with a decent system will be aware of that. The thing is: who has a decent system today? Maybe just a few. The industry is aware of that and compresses the music so it may sound less like crap on smartphones or car stereo systems. The same industry proposes remasters versions of old successes that sound even crappier than the modern compressed music.

At this point I’m not sure I will decide to spend money every month for a lossless streaming service. I would never listen to 70s rock music remastered in such an awful way while my inferior vinyl records would completely overshadow them. A compressed but not remastered file would be more enjoyable.

If you are into different genres like modern jazz, chances are it is still mastered correctly, taking real advantage from a superior technology. For mass-produced music there is no need to pay double for a lossless streaming service. The lossy one is more than enough on mobile devices...

[vloopgaber]

HOW TO CLEAN VINYL RECORDS

There have been times where I’ve gone to play records and the record wouldn’t play - and if the record did play, it would sound funny and not the best. When I first started collecting vinyl, making sure they were clean was above my head. I didn’t realize how consistent the cleaning process of vinyl was until I went searching online for ways to do it. There are many videos on ways to clean vinyl - some more intricate than others. I’m writing this for individuals who want to clean their records easily and without doing anything too critical.

Cleaning vinyl records is quite simple. There aren’t that many tools you need to complete this task. First, you’ll need to find a flat surface; an area that is clean and won’t scratch the record (like wood or rocky table). After you find the area, you will need to have a microfiber dust cloth. The cloth is special for cleaning dust and will pick up the dirt and dust within the record without scratching. Next, you have two options: a regular record cleaning solution or warm distilled water. I use a cleaning solution but heating your freshwater is fine as well. After you have these tools, place your record on the flat surface area, put some solution onto the record and then gently wipe it off with the cloth. Make sure to never rub against the record with the cloth or it will become damaged. Once you do that, the record should be clean and ready to play.

Hopefully, this written tutorial will help some people looking to clean their records. I will leave a few video links below that have helped me find a routine in cleaning records. Cleaning vinyl records is extremely important and should be done before every play of every record, so getting a routine for it is necessary!

Links for videos on how to clean vinyl records:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n6AcC5dGJgk&t=115s

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q517CL-0Y6U

[galadrieljones]

As You Were (Chapter 3)

Fandom: The Last of Us | Pairing: Joel x OC | Content: Fix-it | Rating: Mature

Masterpost

When Joel and Ellie take a wrong turn on their journey from Pittsburgh to Wyoming, they find themselves lost in a beautiful place with a dark and dangerous secret. While there, they meet a mother and son who, after a recent, tragic event on their family farm, are fighting tirelessly for survival. In an effort to find hope for the future, the two groups set out west together, growing closer over time, making choices and altering paths that will change the course of their lives forever.

This is an AU, starting after the events of the Summer chapter in the first game, and extending into the timeline of the second. Joel lives.

Chapter 3: The Driftless

“When you’re lost in the darkness, look to the light.”

After dinner, Joel insisted on cleaning up. Cici said she'd show him around the kitchen, the downstairs. The food had been really good, like way too good. Ellie had never had lamb before, ended up eating almost as much as Noah. At some point, though, while everybody was making small talk, she became dreamy. She was looking out the window, pressing her thumb lightly to the blade of her knife, finding shapes in the stars. Noah came over after everybody was finished with the meal and asked her if she wanted to come with him, out to the Crow's Nest, to help him with something.

"What are we doing?" said Ellie. It was probably about ten o'clock and full dark outside.

"It's a mess out there," he said, throwing the shotgun strap over his shoulder. "I just have to go haul some stuff out. You can come, if you want."

"Yeah, sure," she said. She smiled and closed up her blade. "Let's go."

But then, Joel said, "Ellie."

His voice was big, and deep, like space. Whenever he said her name like that, she immediately found his eyes. Something about choosing to stick together like they had. You can't really unstick.

"What's wrong?" she said.

He was standing with his hands in a basin, which was full of soapy water. The faucets didn't work anymore, said Noah. Nowhere in the whole house, or on the whole property. The running water was completely unusable. Ellie thought it was a little funny, seeing Joel do dishes. She'd never thought of him like that before. He wiped his soapy hands on his jeans, and then he looked down at them and seemed to reassess what it was he was about to say. She was listening. "Just be careful," he said, looking at her in a way that meant compromise.

"Sure," she said. "I will."

"Thanks, Ellie."

"She really listens to you," said Cici, once the kids were gone. She was taking the vacuum out of a broom closet by the front door. "Or is that just when other people are around?"

Joel stopped what he was doing, his hands back in the soapy water. Admittedly, he felt like a stranger in a kitchen like this. It had been too many years. "You mean Ellie?"

"Yeah," she said. "It can't be easy, with just her dad."

"Ellie ain't—she ain't my daughter," said Joel, remembering, suddenly, that Cici did not know. Noah knew, but the particulars of their relationship at large had not come up yet. It just wasn't important. "I'm just looking after her. For the time being."

"Oh," said Cici. She was surprised. "I'm sorry. I just figured."

"It's okay," said Joel. He started washing the plates with a sponge. "Back in Boston, there was a lot of...violence. A small group of us were trying to get out of the QZ," he said, scrubbing. "My brother lives out west, got some sort of set-up there, so that's been our plan, to find him. Some of us got as far as Pittsburgh. But me and Ellie, we're the only two made it this far." He looked down at the plate. It was like a coral color, porcelain.

Cici was quiet. When he turned around, she was just holding the cord to the vacuum cleaner, staring at it like she had forgotten what it did. "Well, we're glad you found us," she said. “Despite the circumstances.”

"Us, too," said Joel. "Y'all said you were in need of some real help. I've been wondering what kind."

She went to plug in the vacuum, but she didn't turn it on yet. Instead, she just stood, like she was piecing something together in her mind. "Infected,” she said. Then she was examining her fingernails. She had her hair braided about halfway down her back. She didn’t seem to want to look him in the eye. “They been tearing up our land,” she went on. “More keep coming, from up the river. And every time they do, they blow the mines on the perimeter. Yesterday, they brought down a tree. Noah had to rewire the entire valley and dig a whole new trench. I help as much as I can, which is usually enough, but given the volume of work, there’s only so much I can contribute these days, reasonably. I just—you coming along, it’s like happenstance.”

Joel took a deep breath, looked down at his watch. He had his sleeves rolled up above his forearms. “How many mines you got down there.”

“Over a hundred,” she said. “There’s IEDs, too. Some can be detonated remotely.”

”Who’s building IEDs?” said Joel.

“I am,” she said. She offered zero explanation. “All the maintenance, everything, it’s getting to be fucking impossible.”

“Well,” he said. “Like I said earlier, I’ll help in any way I can.”

”Thank you,” said Cici.

"Do you have any idea what's bringing them down, the hordes?"

"We got some idea," she said. She bit off a hangnail. She told him he needed to talk to Noah.

"Okay," said Joel. It was a little like she had given up. He didn’t like that. He knew she was keeping something from him, but he didn't press. "You know I thought we might be able to get to all this over dinner,” he went on, “but then the food turned out to be a little too good. I forgot to ask."

She started loosening the plaits of her braid, smiled to herself. "Thanks," she said. She was a subdued woman, at least for the time being. "I mean, I don't think I've ever seen a girl eat as much as Ellie."

"It's mostly canned rations in the QZs," said Joel. "I ain't surprised. Other than squirrels and rabbits, we ain't had real meat in some time. Ellie's certainly never had lamb."

"Was she born in the Boston QZ?"

"I guess so," said Joel, realizing he didn't really know. "The woman who raised her, more or less, she was a Firefly. You know that group?"

"Yeah," said Cici, leaning on the vacuum. "I do, actually. A couple Fireflies came through here, maybe five years ago. They were looking to recruit."

"Anybody go with them?"

"No," she said. "They were spouting off all sorts of plans. Said there was gonna be a cure. But they were focused up in Minneapolis. We had a whole community here, going strong for a while. It was safe. Nobody wanted to risk leaving, not on a lark like that."

“Well, that makes sense," said Joel. He finished the coral plate, set it on the drying rack, then set forth on a plate that was more of a custard yellow. He didn't ask what had happened, with their community, and why it was she and Noah were out here all alone. He washed the dishes.

Cici turned on the vacuum, cleaned up under the table, and around Joel's feet. When she finished, she put it away and started wiping down the surfaces with a damp towel. When the dishes were all clean and drying, and Joel was drying his hands on a linen towel, she brought out the rest of the wine from dinner and poured it into two small mason jars, one for each of them. They sat down at the kitchen table, trying to undo a little bit of their strife as they stared down at their wine, their hands, their knees. As two adults, they were somewhat unaccustomed to small talk. It was easier to hide things, for both of them. They were trying very hard though. Joel could tell that Cici was, not uncomfortable, but a little awkward. She just didn't know what to say to him.

"So," he said, after a little while. "Noah. He's what, eighteen, nineteen years old?"

"He's seventeen," she said, drinking. "He'll be eighteen in a couple weeks though."

"He's big for a seventeen-year-old," said Joel, drinking. "Pretty tall."

"His dad played football at Madison," she said. "He was a tight end. It runs in the family."

"You don't say."

She got a little red in the cheeks, and sipped her wine. "Noah is a good son. He does right by me, and by this farm."

"I can tell." Joel drank some of his wine, too. It was a little thin, made from cabernet grapes they had grown in a vineyard out back. That’s what Noah had said. Grapes don't grow in Wisconsin like they do in California, he'd said. But they do grow. "I will admit that I was a little surprised,” said Joel. “You look kind of young to have such a grown-up son. That's a compliment, by the way."

It was like she was trying to smile, but she hid it. "I'm thirty-six," she said. "I had Noah very young."

"I get it," said Joel. "You don't have to explain anything to me."

They sat for a little while, drinking their fruity wine and listening to the nature sounds coming in the open windows. The river rushing, snaking through the property like a silvery ribbon, the crickets big and deep. The clock on the wall.

"You know, I noticed, on the drive in, this place don't look like what I thought Wisconsin was supposed to look like."

"How so?"

"It's so hilly," he said. "With the stone ridges and the outcroppings, the rivers and the terrace farms. I thought Wisconsin was supposed to be pretty flat."

Cici got up then. She went to the record player, on a shelf by the TV, and she was rifling through a stack of vinyls. "Most of it is," she said. "But where we are, it's different. You ever heard of the Driftless Area?"

"No," said Joel. "What the hell's that?"

She chose one vinyl from the stack, slid the record from the envelope. "It's this small area around the upper-Mississippi, in the floodplain of southwestern Wisconsin mostly, some parts of Minnesota and Iowa. During the Ice Age, you know, the glaciers came down, flattened out everything. That's why Wisconsin is the way it is, but down here, in this tiny little corner, it escaped glaciation, somehow. It just missed us. There are no leftovers from the glaciers, or glacial deposits I guess, and so that's why the terrain looks the way it does, like the waterfalls and the cold streams, all the tributaries and big ridges and everything, the high forests. There's no drift. It's driftless." She was centering the record on the spindle.

Joel was looking down into his wine, feeling dumbfounded. "You're telling me the geography around here ain't changed in a hundred thousand years?"

"More or less," she said, setting down the needle. "It's some of the best trout fishing in the world, where we live."

"Y'all must fish a lot then. Does Noah get out there much with his line?"

"Not anymore," she said. Something about the sound of her voice, he knew that was the end of their talk on the Driftless.

The record player crackled and clicked. A song came on. The music filled the house. It was almost joyful. Joel had been daydreaming at first, but then he realized that he recognized the voice. "Is this Ryan Adams?" he said.

”Yeah," said Cici. “You know his stuff?”

“I do,” said Joel. “I saw him live in Dallas, all the way back in, what was it now, 2004?"

”Really?" she said.

”Really.”

”That's amazing. But you’re so old.”

He laughed. This surprised him, the sudden levity between them. “Well, I was a teenager.”

”What are you now, like forty-five?”

He gave her a look. "You gonna guess my age, Miss Cici?"

"I don't know," she said. "I'm sorry. Is that weird?"

”Not really," said Joel. "I'm just messing with you. If you must know. I'll be forty-eight at the end of the month.”

"How old is Ellie?" said Cici.

"She's fourteen," said Joel.

"What does she like?" said Cici. “I mean, what are her interests?”

Joel wrapped his hands all the way around the mason jar, as if to heat the wine within. "She likes comic books," he said. "I try to pick them up for her, whenever I find some. I've heard her sing, too, whenever we're on the road. She ain't half bad, and she tries to whistle every now and then so I think she likes music. But the place she grew up, it was basically a military prep school. Real stifling. She ain’t really used to having the liberty of interests."

"I thought you said she was raised by Fireflies?"

"It's complicated," said Joel. He swallowed some of the wine.

"I see," said Cici. "How long have you two been traveling together?"

"A couple months," said Joel, right away. "Seems like forever."

"I'm sorry about your people, from Boston," said Cici. "The people you said you lost. I don't know what to say."

Joel saw the shape of Tess, darkening the doorway. It seemed to drop a shadow, over the room, his insides, just for a second. He blinked. “You don't have to worry about me,” he said. Then he looked at Cici. Her face was pretty. Anybody would have noticed as much. "I'm fine."

Her eyes were dark, her braid undone over her shoulder. She drank her wine and said softly, "Okay."

Once they got outside, Ellie looked up. The sky swam darkly. The stars here were like nothing else, she thought. Maybe a million ribbons, maybe fishes in a black pool. It seemed to breathe up there, to teem. Teem. That was the word. She wanted to tell Joel. She thought it was a neat word, he might appreciate. She was used to feeling desperate, warm floods—of emotions, which she would then bury deep inside of herself.

She followed Noah, trailing slightly behind. They spoke little. He did ask her how she felt about it, out there. The farm.

"I love it," she said. "You're so lucky."

They walked back down to the gate where they’d first met. When they finally got to the crow’s nest, Ellie needed a boost up to the ladder, and then he followed up behind her. When she got to the top, she dusted her hands off on her jeans and looked around.

It really was like a little nest, she thought. It was totally his. There was an oil lamp glowing on a low table, and stacked up beside it were dozens of paperback novels. Names like Ernest Hemingway, Cormac McCarthy, Jim Harrison. Noah started cleaning up, right away. Tidying things, sweeping the floor with an old straw broom. There were a couple bean bag chairs with neat, psychedelic patterns, and a battery-powered hot plate, and some dirty plates, bottles and mugs. She could tell he spent a lot of time in the crow’s nest, alone. She could tell that maybe he liked it to be neat and clean up there at the start of each new day.

As he stacked up the plates and things and swept the floor, she flipped through some of the novels on the table. There was one book that was open, conspicuously, on top of the rest. That one, she did not touch, for fear of losing his place. “You like to read?” she said, stupidly.

“Yeah,” he said. “Do you?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Do you ever read comics?”

“Sometimes,” he said. “I have a bunch inside.”

“Sweet,” said Ellie, looking around. There were some posters on the wall, nothing she recognized. One was for a band called Pearl Jam. “I was reading this one series. It’s called Savage Starlight. I mean, it’s stupid. You heard of it?”

“No,” said Noah. “What’s it about?”

“It’s about this chick,” she said. There was a quilt, draped over one of the bean bags. The craftsmanship was very lovely. Ellie ran her hand over the soft knitting. “Her name is Dr. Daniella Star. She’s like a scientist. She invented some kind of crazy time travel, and it’s just like, her adventures in space, I guess.”

“Sounds pretty intense,” said Noah. He dumped the dirty plates into a canvas rucksack. He set the broom against the door jamb. “There’s a comic store in Viroqua. We could go pillage it, maybe tomorrow night? I bet you’d find some of them there. They have a lot of super obscure stuff. And the town isn’t too badly looted. There’s a lot left.”

“Really?” said Ellie. “Are there any people there?”

“No,” said Noah. “Not anymore.”

“Right,” she said.

They climbed back down the ladder. Noah said, "You wanna see the river?"

Ellie said yes. Hell yes. She did want to see the river. She'd never really seen a river, not a real one, not up close. Or at least she didn't feel like she had. They went along a little grass path. Ellie looked up some more, up at the stars, the Milky Way, listening to the nighttime birds and the crickets. Then they came to a river. Noah stopped, and she stopped. It was just this small thing, smaller than she had expected, maybe ten feet across, cutting through the grassy field, snaking around like a ribbon. It was enchanted, almost haunted, how it rippled. Little rapids, here and there. It was so beautiful.

“What's this river called?” she said.

"Technically it’s a creek,” he said, surveying, real pensive. “It flows out of the Kickapoo River, which is a tributary of the Mississippi.”

“Man,” she said."This whole place. It's like, perfect. Like a dream. In the QZ, we couldn't leave. We couldn't go outside the gates. If we did, and we got caught, they wouldn't let us come back. But here it’s like, you're free. Do you love it?"

“I guess,” said Noah. He’d set down the rucksack, his shotgun. “I mean, I don’t know anything else. You didn’t like living in Boston?”

“Not really,” said Ellie. “But I guess—I guess I didn’t really know that until I left with Joel.”

"Why'd you guys leave."

"Too dangerous, I guess. Some...bad stuff happened. In Boston it was pretty bad, but then in Pittsburgh...It’s a long story."

Noah waited, like maybe to see if she was going to keep talking. When she didn’t, he just said, “So he’s really not your dad, huh?”

“No,” said Ellie. “No. He’s just—Joel.”

“He seemed to get kind of worried when you left the house.”

“That’s how he is,” she said. “We’ve been through a lot together.”

“Like back in Pittsburgh?” he said.

She was watching the dark river in the moonlight, all unfolding, the tall grasses on the other side, blinking with fireflies. “Pretty much,” she said.

He took a deep breath then, which made her nervous. He got down to one knee, opened up the rucksack, and from inside, he took out a clear empty bottle from up in the Crow's Nest.

"What are you doing?" she said.

He didn't answer. He just blew the inside of the bottle dry, and then he dipped it into the river, filled it up with water. "It's not perfect here, Ellie," he said. “I know it seems perfect to you, and free, but it’s not.” He fashioned a lighter from his pocket, let it illuminate the bottle.

Ellie crouched down beside him, curious, but confused. She looked at the water in the bottle. She sensed a darkness, all around them. In Noah’s voice, hidden in the moonlight and the greenery of the terrain. But she didn't understand. "What do you mean?" she said. "Is this about what you said upstairs, how we shouldn't drink the water? What's wrong with it?"

"All the water, flowing out of the Mississippi, down from the north, is poisoned," he said.

"Poisoned,” she said, gazing into the light. “With what?”

He pocketed the lighter, tossed the bottle into the river. They watched it sink. “Spores.”

[flirtingwitharson]

Prompt: Sirius and Remus + mistletoe?

“James,” Sirius warned as he walked back in the front door to their shared flat, his hands laden with shopping bags. “Not this year, mate, come on.”

“It’s the holidays, have a bit of spirit!” James yelled back. It was Christmas Eve, and James and Sirius were hosting their annual Marauder family get-together. In typical James-and-Sirius fashion, they had left all of the decorating and setting up for just hours before people were to arrive.

“You can’t keep fucking trying to get us under the mistletoe, you dickhead, you know it’s deeper than that and you know you’re being a child.”

By us, Sirius was of course referencing the seemingly taboo topic of himself and one Remus John Lupin. Anyone with two eyes could see that the pair were head over heels for one another, and James had been pushing to get them together since they were at least seventeen. Now, at the ripe age of twenty one, he was still not-so-subtly trying to catch them under the mistletoe so they could, in his words, “snog, shag, and get married already.”

James huffed and took the leaves down from the doorway, leaning forward to give Sirius a quick hug and lend him a hand with the groceries. “Let’s not have our knickers in a twist on Christmas, yeah?” He said as he laid bags out on their kitchen table and began to unload groceries and the like.

“Yes, mum,” Sirius bit out in reply. “Where’s darling Lily, is she still lending me a hand in the kitchen? I can’t possibly make the roast without her, I season it all wrong.”

With James’ affirmation and a well-timed knock on the door, Sirius’ mind was put off of the melancholy note that rang out when Remus crossed his mind.

Three hours, two glasses of spiked eggnog, and one wonderfully seasoned meal later, people had begun to arrive. Euphemia and Fleamont Potter—ever the earliest to arrive and one of the last to leave—arrived first, for which both James and Sirius were happy, simply because neither had seen their parents in a bit of time. Peter and his girlfriend followed, and then people were all arriving at the same time and Sirius no longer cared to keep track. He tried to surreptitiously keep an eye out for honey-brown curls and a horrid yet endearjng jumper, but to no avail, for James mumbled a quiet, “he’ll be here, Pads, calm your tits,” in his ear.

“Stop it, you ponce, I know he’ll be here—“ Sirius snapped back, until he was interrupted by a pair of familiarly lanky arms around his neck from behind.

He turned around and couldn’t even find it in himself to be ashamed of the too-wide grin that took his snarl’s place. “Hiya, Moony,” he threw out as he was released from the man’s grip, if only so he could hug James.

“Heard you were doubting I’d come, then, hmm?” Remus grinned back. His jumper was just as billowy and ugly at first sight as Sirius had envisioned, but he felt his heart melt to jelly as soon as he noticed it had the phases of the moon and the Lupus constellation stitched onto the front.

“I never!” Sirius replied in mock offense, hardly even noticing James leave the conversation for his girlfriend on the otherwise of the room. It was so easy for Sirius to get lost in Remus—his eyes, his smiles, his ethereal goddamn presence; after five years of being irrevocably in love with the man, he still hadn’t gotten used to it. “Er, do you want to go put those under the tree, then?” He asked, pointing to the boxes by Remus’ feet and looking down to hide the red on his cheeks after he realized he was staring.

“Yes,” Remus nodded. “I’ll go do that.” He bent to pick up the gifts but stood again, adding as if as an afterthought, “Oh, I forgot to mention. I couldn’t exactly, uh, warrant the trip back to Wales this year, so I’ll be here in London for the holiday. I know it’s very last minute, but I’d really rather not spend it alone...”

Sirius rolled his eyes and shoved at Remus’ shoulder playfully. “Of course I’m not letting you spend bloody Christmas alone, you bastard. You know the Potters love you, they’ll be so happy to be able to give you your gift in person. Why didn’t you tell us sooner?”

It was Remus’ turn to blush this time, and Sirius tried to commit the visual to memory. “I was trying my damnedest to scrounge something up to go and see them, and I almost took the hit to my pride and asked you for a loan, but I realized I haven’t spent Christmas with you lot since we were fifteen and I found I missed being in London for the hols.”

Smiling to himself, Sirius bent and scooped up Remus’ things and handed them to him. “I’m glad you know you can always ask me for help, then,” he said, “and I’m really excited you’ll be with us tomorrow, but get outta here and go put these by the tree, I have people to feed.”

Another three hours saw people trickling out the door, only the Marauders four plus Lily and Sarah—Peter’s girlfriend—remaining. Many drinks, a successful meal, and plenty of gift giving and receiving was had. Sirius was the proud new owner of a new pair of Docs, several of his favorite albums on vinyl, and the comfiest jumper he had ever seen (from Remus, for secret santa, of course). His friends, of course, were all grateful for the plethora of thoughtful things he had gifted them in return.

“We have to make the few-hour drive to her parents, so we’re should go,” Peter announced as he stood and shrugged off his coat. “Another lovely Christmas Eve, cheers, you guys.”

“We’re for bed anyways,” James stated through a yawn. “Be safe, ring us when you get there.”

As Peter and Sarah said their goodbyes and left the flat, Sirius turned to Remus, who looked to be reluctantly reaching for his own coat. “Want to stay and listen to music for a bit?” He suggested, hoping Remus would give in easily and stay. “I mean, you can honestly just stay here and ride with the three of us in the morning, doesn’t make any sense if you drive separately.”

Remus’ shoulders immediately eased up and he nodded, following Sirius across the flat and into the door of his room. Shutting the door behind himself, he took in the room around him; he’d seen it a thousand times, but was always so enthralled by just how Sirius it was. The walls were painted a gloomy, darkish red, but every inch of the surface was covered. Images of musicians, album covers, photos of the Marauders from various stages of their life, and even drawings and paintings Sirius had done himself were all over. His record player lied on a table in the corner, next to a comfortable bay-window seat with a bookshelf stacked from floor to ceiling with records and CDs to the side of it. The bed was up against the far wall, and the frame was painted to look like the night sky; the artwork was done by Sirius, but the bedfeame itself and most of the other beautifully engraved wooden furniture in the room was Remus’ handiwork.

“There’s clothes in that bottom drawer that are likely to fit your tall arse, wear whatever,” Sirius pointed, interrupting Remus’ moment of infatuation. He went to shuck off his jeans and felt something in his back pocket, having completely forgotten it was there. He took it out and held it in his palm, carefully closing his fist around the item as he stood and walked over behind Sirius, who was rifling through his bookshelf for music to put on.

Remus stood behind Sirius, and with a short nod to summon confidence, he held the object in the air above them, waiting for Sirius to acknowledge his presence and turn around.

“Moony, quit being all quiet and—“ Sirius tutted. He stopped short as he turned around, looking up, then back at Remus again. His heart raced as he noticed what was undeniably mistletoe between Remus’ thumb and forefinger.

“Sirius Black, I think you and I both know fairly well that I’ve been in love with you for some time now,” Remus breathed out. “It was only recently that I finally believed that the feeling was certainly mutual, but I hadn’t had the bollocks to do anything about it, until now. So, this year, I figured I’d provide the mistletoe, s’much more romantic than James trying to rope us into it, I hope.”

Sirius blinked. He didn’t know why tears were coming to his eyes, and he would certainly deny the lump in his throat, but after a few seconds of stunned silence he leaned forward and kissed Remus, hard. “Happy fucking Christmas,” he mumbled against Remus’ lips when he pulled back breathlessly. “This is real, yeah? This is the long run, you’ll stick around?”

“Stick around? Pads, you’re stuck with me for as long as I live, damn it, seventy percent of the reason I stayed for Christmas was for you.”

Laughing, Sirius pressed his lips to Remus’ again. “Best present I’ve ever received, then,” he claimed. “I most definitely won’t be returning this one.”

[locitarose]

I was tagged by @dragonydreams (But omg, dragony, I’m so boring, lol!)

Rules: When you get this, it means someone wants to know more about you, so list 5 things about yourself you want your followers to know! They can be as simple as your age or as complex as your deepest fear, as long as it’s something you’re comfortable with sharing. When you’re done and if you want to, send this to 10 people you want to get to know better!

1. The book ends I use for my cookbooks are made from old vinyl records. Motown, baby!

2. I have more books than I do space. Literally every flat surface in my living room has stacks of books on them. The entire bottom half of my entertainment center has been filled with books. I have a bookcase in the guest room closet that I’ve doubled up on and same with the one in the actual room part of the guest room. My own bedroom has books on both dresser and chest of drawers and I also keep some of my books at my parents’ house on my mom’s bookcase (because, well, she offered). Despite this, I’m absolutely that person who will continue to buy more books when I find one that sounds interesting.

3. While I will pretty happily watch a horror movie now, I was terrified as a kid and the two that stick out the most still get to me today: if I’m not expecting and I see even a picture of Chucky from Child’s Play, I will startle/jump/probably blurt out “Oh God!” (Remind me to tell you the time I had my back to the TV then suddenly heard that damn doll talking. Hahaha, thanks for that AMC.) When I was 4, my uncle, brother, and my two older cousins (by a year or two, lol) convinced me to watch that and I ran out of the room at one point and after my brother convinced me to go back in, I spent most of the rest of the movie hiding behind my grandparents’ coffee table whenever Chucky was onscreen. The second thing that gets me to this day? I hate clowns because when I was about 6, one of the previously mentioned cousins (he was 7) and I decided we’d be super cool and watch the original IT after everyone went to bed. We ended up back in his room and we barricaded his door with his chest of drawers.

4. I only have one tattoo but I’m planning on touching that one up and possibly coloring it in and then I have plans for about 3 or 4 more. Eventually!

5. If I had the means, I’d quit my job in a heartbeat and open a bookstore. Possibly with a little bakery attached. Because then I think I’d really love that and books and baking are two of my favorite things in life. (I may or may not have spent time debating on where said bookstore/bakery would be if I stayed where I live or if I moved and then tried coming up with names and logos for this.)

I tag (and sorry if you’ve been tagged before - no pressure to do this of course!): @agentmarymargaretskitz, @umbralillium, @stillthewordgirl, @star55, @newyorkcitydreaming, @freyreh, @daeshikoba, @lunaraindrop, @agentsarcasm, @firesoulstuff

[new2fivesauce]

Please Don't Regret Me - 4. Lavender Sheets

Please Don't Regret Me - 4. Lavender Sheets

4091 words.

No Warnings... I think.

Sorry for the looooooong wait. I hope this makes up for it. I think the ending sucks but I needed to get this out my head fast before I put it off again. Enjoy.

June 2018.

Nelle's departure from being 5 Seconds of Summer’s assistant had been abrupt, leaving her feel like she had left her job incomplete thus causing her to spiral through a series of emotions and phases she believed she hadn’t felt since she was a raging, hormonal teenager.

The day she had given her news, they all awkwardly arrived at the airport at the same time. In her haze of emotions, she had not changed nor cancelled her flight to Australia and since 5sos was also flying international, they were stuck in the same terminal. Luke and Nelle did not speak again since their elevator meet. Michael noticed their tension, but didn’t say anything. His saddened green eyes only flickered between the two as they both tried their best to ignore one another. It wasn’t how she wanted to leave Luke, but she didn’t want to get his hopes up.

Calum, however, was the first to come up to her and apologize, practically beg her to forgive him for being such a selfish, shitty friend. Ashton and Michael followed suit with their apologies letting bygones be bygones. They agreed to keep in touch; everything returning to somewhat normal although the guys still looked bummed walking towards their flight with their new assistant.

She’d spent a couple weeks in Australia, staying in the house duplex she and Calum had bought together with their first good paychecks, but had hardly used due to constant traveling. She spent time with her parents, visited the guys' families, cleaned their empty homes to not waste money on a cleaning service, and took the duties of taking care of Duke from Mrs. Hood. Nelle also hung out with a few old schoolmates but quickly regretted that choice. They all seemed to “remember” how good friends they were, trying to manipulate Nelle for favors or money only because she knew “certain” people.

Mali-Koa, Calum’s sister, came to visit one week. She’d heard the news of Nelle’s leaving, and insisted that she come back with her to London.

“Girl, you needed a break from those dweebs anyways.”

So she did.

Nelle didn’t last very long in London though. Word had been passed of Nelle’s whereabouts which caused a very weepy, distraught Michael to leave a lengthy voicemail about betraying them for Cal's bitchy sister. She wasn’t really enjoying her time in London anyway, leaving Mali about 3 weeks later. She made a quick visit back to Australia before deciding that perhaps living in her vacant loft in Manhattan wouldn’t be such a bad idea. She’d let Calum know that Duke was coming with her before departing to the Big Apple.

She’d only been in NYC for two days when she’d run into a childhood friend that was not Calum.

Sasha Hendricks had been Nelle’s best friend when their parents were in the Army. They’d lived on the same bases and traveled the world together before Nelle’s parents settled in Australia and Sasha’s in Texas. Every year, before Nelle took on her job with 5sos, the girls alternated spending summers with one another in their country. They hadn’t seen much of each other in more than five years so no doubt it was a huge surprise when they both walked into the same small, cozy café.

Sasha had derailed from her parent’s Army footsteps to become a model. Not in the big leagues with faces like Kendall Jenner and Gigi Hadid, but she was aiming to get there.

With Sasha there, she didn’t feel so alone in the big city. It made her move a lot easier to handle but also there was just something about the city of New York and all of its noise that made Nelle feel at her calmest. She hadn’t been in the city for more than a two weeks now but if she had to be completely honest with herself, this was the best she’d felt in a long time.

<<*>><<*>>

Duke pushed ahead of Nelle, clearly already knowing his way around their block. He sniffed along a passerby's shoe, received a compliment from a passing child, and then decided he has enough the outdoors. He led the way back to the loft.

Nelle had just passed her building lobby’s front desk, when the security officer called her back. She looked down at Duke, where he was already looking up at her as in saying Oh shit, what did we do?

“Padilla, right?” the officer asked her from behind his desk. Nelle nodded slowly. “A package arrived for you while you were gone. Delivery guy didn’t want to leave it outside your door.” He said this as he retrieved a rather large box from the floor next to him. He heaved it over the desk and slid it over to her. She glared at the box hesitantly, not sure if she could carry it up to the 5th floor by herself.

“It’s not as heavy as it looks.” Security said, noticing her expression.

She thanked him for holding her package, grabbed the box awkwardly… he was right. It was not as heavy as it looked, then proceeded, with Duke at her feet, to the elevators.

Nelle barely made it inside her loft with the enormous box. Sure it didn’t weigh a ton, but five floors was a long time to be carrying a box.

Duke ran in, going straight to his water bowl near the kitchen. He didn’t care when Nelle set the cardboard box next to him. She went into one of her kitchen drawers, pulling out a knife to cut through the tape sealing the flaps down.

There were five thin, but square shaped boxes inside with a thousand packing peanuts. She made sure to carefully remove the small boxes without making a mess of the peanuts. She couldn’t risk Duke swallowing one up. The thought of telling Calum if such thing happened nauseated her.

Nelle was in the midst of opening the first thin box, when there was a knock on her door. Duke peeked around the kitchen corner to look at the door suspiciously. He growled a bit as Nelle went up the door.

“Duke… it’s just Sasha.” She clarified after peeping through the door hole and swinging the door open.

Sasha sauntered in, wearing a very see-through top and what looked like plastic pants. Her feet kicked off the six-inch heels with a sigh of relief. One heel slid close to Duke; he growled at it.

“Yeah, pipsqueak. It’s just me.” Sasha stuck her tongue out at the small dog. Nelle thought she imagined Duke rolling his eyes at the model.

Duke was kind to everyone… well almost everyone. Sasha had accidentally stepped on Duke's paw on their first meet. Ever since then, he tolerated her. He let her pet him but for the most part, he just stayed clear of the tall brunette.

Without another word, Sasha found her way to Nelle’s bedroom, emerging ten minutes later in a pair of Nelle’s Halloween pajama pants that were slightly too short since she was taller than Nelle and a Led Zeppelin t-shirt that fit too big.

Nelle hadn’t noticed Sasha wearing the shirt until she came up beside her about to open the first of five packages. Seeing her friend in the shirt made her freeze, her throat closed around a sudden lump that made it almost too hard to speak.

“Hey Sash… where’d you get that shirt from?” Nelle croaked. Sasha shrugged.

“Your suitcase. Why?” the girl looked down at the shirt and suddenly a zesty whiff of it caught her nose. Sasha hardly hung out the boys, only when she been to Australia during the summers, but she knew a guy smell when she smelt it and by the way Nelle’s face had gone temporarily pale, she slowly retreated back to the bedroom because she now realized this was not just some random shirt. Sasha knew all about Luke. She knew it was a bit of a touchy subject. She quickly changed into another shirt that was lying around.

Finally, when Sasha came back into the room, Nelle opened the awaiting first package. The flaps of the skinny box opened fully until they were flat against the kitchen counter surface. Staring up at her were four familiar faces in various shades of yellow, violet, and blue. The word YOUNGBLOOD was written across the middle in a graffiti red font. Nelle carefully lifted the plastic entrapped vinyl record from the cardboard.

Sasha, hovering over her friend’s shoulder, whistled lowly. “Damn, you didn't tell me Cal looked that good now!”

Nelle snickered and threw back a playful hit to Sasha's side. “I've tried to hook y’all up multiple times. You two just hate love so much.” Sasha scoffed as she pulled the new record from Nelle’s grip. She flipped it over to see the back and the track listing.

“Oh, I’ve heard Want You Back just the other day. Was Luke singing about you?” Sasha mused as she put the vinyl down and helped open the other boxes. There were two more of the same record, two CDs, and finally at the very bottom of the original box under the packing peanuts was the band’s clothing merch to go along with the new era.

Nelle ran her hand over the material of one of the shirts that showcased the boys' faces. Her fingers lingering over Luke’s face. “Nah. That song was written before I left.”

Sasha’s eyebrow quirked up, but she shrugged her shoulders. She held up one of the CD albums. “Should we listen?” Nelle nodded. “Good, because we were going to regardless.”

<<*>><<*>>

Nicole: Welcome back everyone. If you’re just tuning in, we have 5 Seconds of Summer in the studio right now! They’ve just released their new album and they were thoughtful enough to stop by today to talk about it. Guys, why don’t y’all say hello again.

Michael: Hey, I’m Michael.

Ashton: I’m Ash.

Calum: Calum, here.

Luke: And I’m Luke. We’re 5 Seconds of Summer.

Ryan: We have a few more questions from our callers. This one is from Mary: Youngblood is obviously the principal track seeing as it’s also the name of the album. Did you know that that was going to be the name of it or was it like a damn, we forgot to name the album, quick, just pick a song to name it after kind of thing?

Michael: HA! Yeah, that last option. Without a doubt.

Ashton: No, really! It was. We had other titles that we were referring the album to during the recording session, but we had to scrap a bunch of songs and basically start over. The album wasn’t fully completed and to our satisfaction until just last month. We had the promo pictures, the whole works, and then they were like ‘Is this going to be named Untitled?’ and Mike was like ‘What’s our next single? Just call it that.’

Nicole: Woow! I guess your fans really know you, huh? So I’ve been listening to it pretty much on repeat and some of these songs are really deep, heart wrenching, very mature. Very different from your previous albums. Can you explain the writing process and how this album was not like the others?

Luke: With Youngblood, they gave us a lot more creative permission, I guess is the right way to put it. Our other albums were done when we were teens so lyrically and musically, they didn’t give us as much freedom as they did with YB. We had to take a break after the release and touring of the second album because we were just so worn down; our physical and mental health were at an all-time low.

Ashton: It just sucked, really. We couldn’t focus or concentrate on what was going to be our new album when we just weren’t feeling like ourselves. Halfway into our break, Want You Back just came to me. When I played it through for the first time to the guys, everything else just came naturally from there. I guess that would be the rawness and deep, wrenching sound you hear so different from our previous work.

Ryan: One of our listeners is asking if any of the songs are about anyone in particular. Girlfriend maybe?

Calum: Umm… no? Ha, I don’t think so. At least none of the songs that I input in aren’t about anyone. I mean… sure, we take from our past experiences and put them into song, but for me, that’s a no.

Michael: Cal is anti-love, everyone. I think, like Cal said, we take from our past experiences; we’ve been up, down, and around the world for a long time. That does it make difficult to be in a relationship with someone and actually make it work. I’ve tried, Ash has tried, we all have. It’s just not in our cards right now.

Ashton: Unless you count our personal assistant…

Nicole: Whoa! Personal assistant? Who’s dating the personal assistant? … … Listeners, everyone is looking at Luke.

Ryan: Aww, he’s blushing.

Calum: He’s not dating our personal assistant. What Ashton means is… our EX-assistant, who had been with us since before the beginning, ya know, quit on us just before we released Youngblood the single. We’ve never been with any other assistant than her. So, it’s been challenging to say the least and Luke, who’s probably the most dependent person EVER, has been having a grueling time adjusting without her here.

Ashton: Yeah, yeah! Nelle was the best! She was like f*cking top-notch. I think like Rihanna, One Direction before their hiatus, uhh, I want to also say Fifth Harmony have tried to hire her when she was still with us. She’s like the fifth member of the band. She’s the fifth Second.

Michael: Dude, that was lame. But so damn true. Funny story, she used to come out in a lot of our paparazzi pictures and the fans would just ugh, be so nasty to her because they thought she was one of our girlfriends or whatever. We had to come out with a statement saying like yo, chill, she’s just our assistant, she means no harm, she’s just walking me to McDonalds… Then the fans were like OMG Nelle has the best style and she’s so beautiful blah blah blah. So, she’s a Yale student now with one of those influencer instas… so make sure to follow @seeyouneller…

<<>><>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

The hotel room was tense. No one dared to make a sound as Luke paced back and forth. His fury running off him, his hands were clenched at his sides, his mouth in a scowl, his light blue eyes were dark as the ocean floor.

Calum nervously looked at his blonde friend, worried that even just glancing at him might cause Luke to erupt. The longest five minutes passed before Luke stopped walking. He turned his body to the cowering three. He inhaled and then signed the heaviest sigh.

“I swear, you have the biggest fucking mouth!” Luke exclaimed towards Ashton.

Ashton shook his head, his red locks bouncing around his head. The newly dyed red hair matched Ashton’s hot head nature and with Luke going off on his, Ashton didn’t know how much longer he could hold it in.

“It was just a statement! I didn’t exactly say Oh Luke is dating our ex-assistant because it’s not fucking true. It was just a quip. You two left off on… whatever the fuck ya’ll left off on, so… It was nothing, Luke.”

Luke glared at the drummer. His breathing was hard, making it look like his whole body was shaking. His fists were clenched at his side, knuckles white to the bone.

“Yeah, dude. I mean, it could have been me who was dating her.” Michael chimed in. “Sorry we looked at you. I don’t know what to really say… It’s just one interview of like a hundred that we’re going to do. No one is going to get anything out of it.”

Calum, who had remained quiet this whole time, suddenly cleared his throat. His friends all turned to him, Luke’s eyebrow raising in a bold way.

“You know we are in New York though.” Calum started. “And we were on satellite radio… You guys remember Sasha… Nelle’s other best friend. Would spend the summer with her every other year? Had braces for like ever then the last summer she visited, she was super hot?”

“Yes, we know you have the hots for her.” Ashton said exasperatedly. “What about her?”

“Anyway, she texted me. She heard the interview. Nelle listen to it. No biggie.” Calum tried to smile, but failed tremendously. Michael darted his eyes to Luke.

“We didn’t say anything bad about her. She’s fine, right? Fuck… I should text her. We should ask her to get dinner with us. She’s back at the loft, right?” Ashton pulled his phone out his pocket as he spoke. He was already tapping rapidly on his phone before anyone could answer.

Luke furrowed his eyebrows, cocking his head to the side. “You’ve been talking to her?”

At this question, Ashton slowly lowered his phone to his lap. He gulped audibly. His words were stuck in his throat. He hadn’t meant to slip up. It had been decided that he with Michael and Calum were not going to tell Luke where Nelle was living at. He had already tried to follow her to Australia once and London.

It had been unpredicted what each member would go through at Nelle’s departure. Calum was sad for a few days; he wasn’t sure what to do with himself without his travel buddy, but quickly adjusted to the new assistant. Michael, too, was upset, but he was adapting well. Ashton wallowed for a bit, maybe more so than Calum and Michael, because like Luke, he still crushed way too hard on Nelle. He knew that there was nothing ever going to happen between the two; he’d realized that Nelle did have feelings for Luke, so he had to get over it, and she was always a text or phone call away, so the adjusting wasn’t too difficult. It was just she was not there anymore, physically.

However, Luke went through a tantrum phase. Anything the new assistant did was absolutely wrong. He blew up at the smallest things. If he asked for room temperature water, but got slightly cool water, he would throw a bitch fit. He distanced himself from the band for a bit. He only spoke with them when they had shows or interviews. He’d stayed locked up in his bus bunk, hotel room, wherever they were staying at. He’d text Nelle and she’d never reply. He had tried to go Home whenever he’d spoken with his mother and she told him that Nelle had just left her house. He tried to go to London when he’d overheard Michael leaving a rather upsetting voicemail about her disowning them for Mali-Koa. The sudden vastness of her being not there threw him for a loop. This crush, intense liking, feeling for her was messing with him severely. If she’d departed the band at any other time, he knew he wouldn’t be reacting this way. She just had to leave when his emotions for her had just blossomed.

Fuck.

Calum suddenly raised up from his spot on the couch. He was nervously spinning his phone in hand, checking the time after every third spin.

Suddenly he stopped, facing Luke. Calum’s head tilted slightly, confused at once.

“I just don’t fucking get it.” He mused. This time it was Luke to look bewildered. “Why? Why are suddenly so strung up on Nelle? You’re acting so clingy and it’s weird. You’ve never shown any interest in her. We go on hiatus, start touring again and all of sudden you’re acting like her boyfriend. Giggling, sleeping in her room, fighting to sit next to her, inside jokes…”

“Ya know… now that you’re saying it like that, it definitely seems like Luke is keeping something from us.” Michael chimed in. Ashton’s head perked up towards the front man. Could Luke been harboring a secret this long, months on end? Luke was never good with keeping quiet.

Luke’s eyes darted around his bandmates. His scowl dropping, being replaced with nervous lip chewing and nervous hand twisting.

He inhaled and exhaled heavily.

“We kissed.” He blurted out after what felt like minutes of awkward silence and three pairs of eyes awaiting eagerly.

Michael clutched his imaginary pearls, his very exaggerated gasps filling the room.

“What? When? Where? HoooOOOOoOW?” he howled. Calum shot him an annoyed glance.

Calum was neither shocked nor upset about the statement. He just wanted to know what happened between his two best friends. He just wanted his band to go back to normal.

“It was when we were on break.” Luke exclaimed. Ashton’s eyebrow raised. He recalled him spending time with Nelle, not anymore than usual, yet she never brought up the fact that she had kissed one of his best friends.

“Well that explains fucking everything.” Michael stated sarcastically. “C’mon, there’s gotta be more.”

Luke sighed, shaking his head.

“I was supposed to be doing my therapy sessions, but every time I'd get in the car, I’d have these intense anxiety attacks that kept me from driving. I told Cal and he suggested he drive me… I said okay and on the next time I went to his house so we could ride together. He wasn’t there but Nelle was.

“She was supposed to be on vacation just like us but I explained to her what had happened and she insisted. She took me to my session and we got lunch afterwards. It was weird. We didn’t say much, just made polite conversation.

“On my next session, same thing happened. Cal forgot, wasn’t home, Nelle took me. It became a routine. She took me to all my sessions even after I objected to wasting her time and I could easily get my mom or one of you to take me.

“The day that Ash came up with Want You Back…” Luke paused, his cerulean blues looking towards Calum wearily. “After the session, I was reading the texts from you, telling me to all meet at Cal's because Ashton called a band meeting so we got there but obviously no one was there yet. Nelle invited me into her house. I’d never been inside but that time we helped her and Cal move in…

“By this time we had kind of become friends but there was this tension and I know she felt it too. Next thing I know we're making out… like full-on making out, with her pulling me towards her room. We get in there and we collapse on her bed. I remember black everything and lavender sheets. It smelled like her pop rocks smelling lotion with a twinge of weed. We're kissing. Intensely.”

Luke stopped talking again. All the boys were staring at him, in awe of the story he had been struggling to keep internal. Calum noticed the way Luke reached up to place a hand on his chest; he clutched the material of his gray shirt, a far off in the distance glassy gaze on his handsome face.

“She heard Calum’s car on the driveway before I did. I’d been so absorbed in her, thinking how the fuck is this happening? Is this really fucking happening right now! She separated from me so fast that I felt literally cold and empty. Then she acted like nothing happened. She didn’t say anything about it. Just went on like… as if it just didn’t occur.

“But I couldn’t forget. I tried to talk to her about it and she just acted like she didn’t know what I was talking about so I did the same. Then we started touring again and working on the new album and it was a distraction. A good one… until I realized that I liked her. That’s why I was getting to know her, bothering her, hanging around her. She couldn’t tell me no knowing that it would look suspicious to you. I think she gave in to me eventually because I know she feels the same. She feels the same way I feel for her.

“And I'm sorry. I’m sorry to all three of you for keeping this secret. For being a fucking asshole. I just… I think it’s beyond the like stage. I think I’m like… at the L-word stage.”

[stevesautomotivegalleria-blog]

Why Are My Brakes Squealing?

If you're lucky, the squealing or squeaking noise that your brakes make when you first drive your car in the morning, particularly after rain or snow, is just surface rust being scraped off the rotors by the brake pads the first few times you apply the brake pedal. It could also be the result of moisture and dirt that collects on the rotors, including from condensation caused by high humidity. If the brake squeal goes away after a few brake applications, no worries.

If the noise persists most times or every time you apply the brakes, or you hear squeals continuously while you're driving, the cause is more serious — and the brake job will be more expensive.

A continuous high-pitched squeal while you're driving is usually the sound of a built-in wear indicator telling you that it's time for new brake pads. As the pads wear down and gets thinner, a small metal tab contacts the rotor surface like a needle on a vinyl record to warn you it's time for new pads. (Some wear indicators may work differently and engage only when you apply your car's brakes.)

Other squeals and squeaks will require a brake inspection to diagnose and may require cleaning, lubrication or adjustment, and possibly new parts. Most brake noise is caused by worn or loose parts.

For example, an unevenly worn rotor (often referred to as "warped") won't let the brake pads press flat against the rotor when you apply the brakes, and that can create vibrations that generate noise. Likewise, an unevenly worn brake pad won't press tightly against the rotor and may chirp. Another possibility is that the brake pads are loosely mounted, or the shims that hold them in place have corroded or become loose.

Then there are the pads themselves. Some mechanics warn that bargain-bin brake pads are more likely to be noisier than higher-quality, more-expensive pads. In addition, loose or sticking calipers can contribute noise.

Because there are several possibilities causing squeaky brakes — and because brakes are a crucial safety feature — it's best to have a pro inspect and diagnose your vehicle's brake noise.

A grinding sound usually means that the brake pads have worn away, and now the backing plates on which they were mounted are being squeezed against the rotors. This metal-to-metal contact means that you will need to replace the rotors, as well — and that you probably ignored some earlier warning signs of brake wear.

https://www.cars.com/articles/why-are-my-brakes-squealing-1420684417093/

[aquablakkofficial]

Dj Lights

Good Dj Lights

The Logitech Brio UHD webcam information and streams video in 4K UHD in addition to 1080p and 720p. With HDR assist and an autofocus characteristic, your video clips and streams could have beautiful detailing and contrast. With dual omnidirectional microphones, your voice shall be recorded and streamed in full stereo irrespective of the place you are at your desk.

best DJ lights 2020

Lundy Dj Par Lights, 36leds Stage Lighting Controlled By Remoter And Dmx Control For Christmas Party Stage Lighting I listened for a bass response (was it boomy, or clean?), midrange detail (low-stage devices and echo effects) and high frequencies (had been they recessed and even too loud?).

Skip to the appendix at the finish to get a deep dive on how the turntables fared with each song. It's price noting that all of the models I examined had a dust cover, but I used them with the lid off.

While it is higher sounding than I keep in mind from the unique, the U-Turn could not compete with the sound of the others. It sounded truncated with an absence of extended excessive frequencies, and on the hardware side, the dearth of a cue lever felt like an obvious omission.

Note you could also get this model with a constructed-in preamp for $70 extra. Though the Music Hall's onboard preamp sounded better, the Audio Technica could possibly be the one to get if you'd like an all-in-one package that also appears great. With its carbon-fibre arm and natural wood veneer plinth, the Audio Technica was my favourite design, but a combined bag by way of sound quality for vinyl.

A Note About Cheap Dj Controllers:

It's suitable with Windows, Mac, and Chrome OS laptops and desktops in addition to many videos calling apps like Zoom, Skype, and Discord. You can snap really fundamental three-megapixel still pictures, and it features a built-in noise reduction mic.

It doesn't swivel left or right; nevertheless, it does tilt and articulate vertically. When looking for a premium webcam, you may need to have a look at video resolution, which finally means a better high-quality image.

9pcs Rgbwauv 6in1 Mini Led Flat Waterproof Par Dj Lighting Beyond that, you will want to make sure it has a midway-first rate microphone if you do not have a devoted mic. "The Logitech Brio UHD webcam data and streams video in 4K UHD as well as 1080p and 720p." "You can snap really fundamental three-megapixel still photographs, and it includes a constructed-in noise reduction mic."

Again the MMF-1.three put in an excellent efficiency, and the bass sounded balanced with a wonderful sense of the performance room. It was an immaculate presentation with lots of spatial information on the sax, especially.

The cowbell sounded more distinct on Pro-Ject T1 with an extra pronounced stereo picture. The Music Hall extra ahead sounded than the Pro-ject T1 which once more sounded extra cultured with this monitor.

The rumbling of the sticks from the drummer at the end of the song was simpler to listen to on the Music Hall. Vocals had been extra ahead on the U-Turn, which advised improved detail but besides, meant the turntable turned up extra surface noise.

The bass guitar was deep and comparatively supple, but at the reverse end of the spectrum, the cymbals sounded clipped as if it couldn't recreate the excessive frequency info at all. This track was my first sign of the Audio Technica's shortcomings.

I listened to four completely different artists from my vinyl collection -- Bob Marley, Slint, LCD Soundsystem and Miles Davis -- on every turntable and in contrast notes.

While each different aspect of a turntable is damped, the dust cover normally isn't. It's an easy piece of plastic designed to keep dust off your vinyl whereas not playing music, and it could possibly vibrate and trigger feedback if it is left connected and the quantity is up loud sufficient.

Above anything else, sound quality is the main purpose to upgrade to a better turntable. These are hello-fi parts that can stand alongside stereo techniques value many hundreds of dollars in a method that a $100 turntable cannot.

There's no denying the U-Turn Orbit Plus appeared hanging with its purple plinth and acrylic platter. I additionally respect that the tonearm has been upgraded from the unique Orbit with a new gimbal bearing.

More info : https://bestdjguide.com/

[spamzineglasgow]

(HOT TAKE) Notes on a Conditional Form by The 1975, part 1

In the first instalment of a two part dialogic HOT TAKE of The 1975′s latest album, Notes on a Conditional Form (Dirty Hit, 2020), Maria Sledmere writes to musician and critic Scott Morrison with meditations on the controversial motormouth and prince of sincerity that is Matty Healy, the poetics of wrongness, millennial digression and what it means to play and compose from the middle.

Dear Scott,

> So we have agreed to write something on The 1975’s fourth studio album, Notes on a Conditional Form (Dirty Hit/Polydor). I have been traipsing around the various necropoli of Glasgow on my state-sanctioned walks this week, listening to the long meandering 80-minute world of it, disentangling my headphones from the overgrown ferns, caught between the living and dead. Can you have a long world, a sprawling fantasia, when ‘the world’ feels increasingly shortened, small, boiled down to its ‘essentials’? Let’s go around the world in 80 minutes, the band seem to say, take this short-circuit to the infinite with me. I like that; I don’t even need a boat, just a half-arsed WiFi connection and a will to download. I’m really excited to be talking with you, writing you both about this; it’s an honour to connect our thoughts. I want writing right now to feel a bit like listening, so I write this listening. When my friend Katy slid into my DMs on a Monday morning with ‘omg the 1975 album starts with greta?????????’ and then ‘what on earth is the genre of this album ?!’ I just knew it had to happen, this writing-listening, because I was equally alarmed and charmed by the cognitive dissonance of that fall from Greta’s soft, yet urgent call to rebel (‘The 1975’), into ‘People’ with its parodic refrain of post-punk hedonism that would eat Fat White Family on a Dadaesque meal-deal platter ‘WELL, GIRLS, FOOD, GEAR [...] Yeah, woo, yeah, that’s right’. Scott, you and I went to see The 1975 play at the Hydro on the 1st of March, my last gig before lockdown. I’d been up all night drinking straight gin and doing cartwheels and crying on my friend’s carpet, and the sleeplessness made everything all the more lush and intense. Those slogans, the theatrical backdrops, the dancers, the lights, the travellator! Everything so EXTRA, what a JOURNEY. And well, it would be rude of me not to invite you to contribute to this conversation, as a thank you for the ticket but also because of your fortunate (and probably unusual) positioning as both a classically trained musician (with a fine-tuned listening ear) and fervent fan of the band (readers, Scott messaged me with pictures of pre-ordered vinyl to prove it).

> It seems impossible to begin this dialogue without first addressing the FRAUGHT and oft~problematic question of Matty Healy, the band’s frontman, variously described as ‘the enfant terrible of pop-rock’ and ‘outspoken avatar’ (Sam Sodomsky, Pitchfork), ‘enigmatic deity’ (Douglas Greenwood for i-D), ‘a charismatic thirty-one-year-old’ and ‘scrawny’, rock star ‘archetype’, not to mention ‘avatar of modern authenticity, wit, and flamboyance’ (Carrie Battan, The New Yorker). ‘Divisive motormouth or voice of a generation?’ asks Dorian Lynskey with (fair enough) somewhat tired provocation in The Guardian, as if you could have one without the other, these days. ‘There are’, writes Dan Stubbs for The NME, ‘as many Matty Healys here as there are musical styles’. So far, so postmodern, so elliptical, so everything/yeah/woo/whatever/that’s right. Come to think of it, it makes sense for The 1975 to draft in Greta Thunberg to read her climate speech over the opening eponymous track. Both Matty and Greta, for divergent yet somehow intersecting reasons, suffer the troublesome, universalising label of voice of a generation. Why not join forces to exploit this label, to put out a message? I’ve always thought of pop music as a kind of potential broadcast, a hypnotic, smooth space for desire’s traversal and recalibration. More on that later, maybe. What do you think?

> You can imagine Matty leaping out of a cryptic, post-internet Cocteau novelette (if not then straight onto James Cordon’s studio desk), emoji streaming from his fingertips like the lightning that Justine wields in Lars von Trier’s film Melancholia (2011); but the terrifying candour of the enfant terrible is also his propensity to wax lyrical on another (bear with my clickhole) YouTube interview about his thoughts on Situationism and the Snapchat generation. It feels relevant to mention cinema right now, if only in passing, because this album is full of cinematic moments: strings and swells worthy of Weyes Blood’s latest paean to the movies, but also a Disneyfication of sentiment clotted and packed between house tracks, ballads and rarefied indie hits. Nobody does the interlude quite like The 1975. Maybe more on that later, also.

> Where do I start though, how to really write about this, how to attain something like necessary distance in the space of a writing-listening? Matty Healy, I suppose, like SPAM’s celebrated authorial mascot, Tom McCarthy, poses the same problem of response: how to write about an artist whose own critical commentary is like an eloquent, overzealous and self-devouring, carnivorous vine of opinion?  

> Now, let’s not turn this into a discussion about who wears pinstripes better (we can leave that to readers - these are total Notes from the Watercooler levels of quiche). There seems to be this obsession with pinning (excuse the pun) Matty down to a flat surface of multiples: a moodboard, avatar, placeholder for automatic cancellation. He’s the soft cork you wanna prod your anxieties through and call it identity, you wanna provoke into saying something bizarrely, painfully true about life ‘as it is now’. Healy himself quips self-referentially, ‘a millennial that babyboomers like’. I don’t really know where to start really, not even on Matty; my brain is all over the place and I can’t find a critical place to settle. I’m lost in the fog and the stripes, some stars also; I haven’t even washed my hair for a week. Funnily enough, in 2018 for SPAM’s #7 Prom Date issue I wrote a poem called ‘Just Messing Around’ where the speaker mentions ‘pinning my eye to the right side / of matt healy’s hair all shaved / & serene’ and you don’t really know if it’s the eye that’s shaved or the hair, but both I guess offer different kinds of vision. Every time I google the man, IRL Matty I mean, I am offered a candied proliferation of alluring headlines: ‘The 1975’s Matty Healy opens up on his beef with Imagine Dragons’, ‘The 1975’s Matty Healy savagely destroys Maroon 5 over plagiarism claims’. Perhaps the whole point is to define (or slay?) by negation. Hey, I’ll write another poem. The opening sentence comes from Matty’s recent Guardian interview.

Superstar

I’m not an avocado, not everyone thinks I’m amazing. That’s why they call me the avocado, baby was a song released by Los Campesinos! in 2013, same year as the 1975’s debut. In the am I have been wanting to listen and Andy puts up a meme like ‘The 1975 names their albums stuff like “A Treatise on Epistemological Suffering” and then spends 2 hours singing about how hard it is to be 26’ and I reply being 26 IS epistemological suffering (isn’t that the affirmative dismissal contained in the title, ‘Yeah I Know’) I mean only yesterday I had to ask myself if it’s true you can wish on 11:11 or take zinc to improve your immune system or use an expired provisional license to buy alcohol like why are they even still asking I thought indie had died after that excruciating Hadouken! song called ‘Superstar’ which was all like You don’t like my scene / You don’t like my song / Well, if you Somewhere I’ve done something wrong it seems a delirious, 3-minute scold of the retro infinitude of scarf-wearing cunts with haircuts, and yeah sure kids dressed as emos rapping to rave is not the end of the world, per se, similarly I had to ask myself is there a life in academia is there a wage here or there, like the Talking Heads song And you may ask yourself, well How did I get here? Good thing I turn 27 next month Timothy Morton often uses the refrain, this is not my beautiful house this is not my beautiful wife to refer to those moments you find yourself caught in the irony loop and that’s dark ecology the closer you are the stranger it feels like slice me in half I’ll fall out with more questions you can plant in the soil like a stone or stoner, just one more drag of does it offend you, yeah? will I live and die in a band Matty sings the sweet green meat of my much-too-old -and-such-youthful experience of adding healthy fat to conference dialogue, like ‘Avocado, Baby’ was released on a record called No Blues I believe a large automobile is hurtling towards me now in negative space and the driver is crooning Elvis and reciting my funding conditions and everything feels like there aren’t not still people who believe the new culture of content is a space ‘over there’ and you can still have earnest power ballads about love if you want them =/ to cancel (too many tabs don’t make a tableau but in the future facebook has a paywall) and fame is a drag the pressure we put on the atmosphere, like somewhere you’re alive and still amazing asking wtf I’m reading this novel by Roberto Bolaño set partly in 1975 before we had internet it seems poets got laid a lot that year in Mexico City before I was born to pick up video calls with a spliff in one hand in the splendid, essential heat like a difficult knife in my side you can put me on toast, grind the pepper over me gently and say fucking hell this has taken forever.

> I guess I want or wanted to begin with this question of difficulty that rises when responding to Notes on a Conditional Form. How do you approach an album whose delayed release places it in a position of considerable hype, an album whose world tour and promotion is again delayed by global pandemic, an album shrouded in the ever-shifting controversy of Matty’s persona, an album whose length and sonic variety risks collapse into litanies of zany superlative and necrophilic attempts to revive musical category as vaguely relevant here? As beautiful as it is to catalogue the offbeat Pinegrove vibes of ‘Roadkill’, the shoegaze croons of ‘Then Because She Goes’ and the pop-punk, chord-bright euphoria of ‘Me & You Together Song’, I could keep going and going with this. I could just list and just list this. The album is a generous offering: a tribute to the album as form in an age where attention tapers away on high-streaming playlists set to conditioned, circadian moods curated by the likes of Spotify or Apple Music. The album is a Borgesian plenitude of multiple pathways, multiple timelines, infinite feed, choose your own adventure; a hypertext of cultural reference almost worthy of Manic Street Preachers at their Richey Edwards era of paranoid, intellectual peak; a metamodernist feat of oscillation between irony and sincerity, an extended tract, a drunk millennial ramble, a journey that loops from house party to club basement to the streams of sexuality repressed and expressed encounter...and yet. It is both more and less than these things. In trying to capture Notes on a Conditional Form with some pithy, journalist’s statement, I’m doing it all wrong.

> Sidenote: I recently listened to Rachel Zucker give a 2016 lecture on ‘The Poetics of Wrongness’ as part of the Bagley Wright Lecture Series. She makes a case for wrongness in poetry and critique, rejects the poem of pithy essence, the short, pretty and to the point lyric whose meaning is easily digested in a greetings card, or A Level exam paper, say. ‘Instead of the Fabergé egg of the short lyric, I prefer the aesthetics of intractability and exhausted exhaustedness’, the mistakes, lags or aporia made along the way in one of these long and winding poems. Notes on a Conditional Form is full of what some might deem mistakes, digression, exhaustion; but it is also peppered with the gloss of almost perfect pop ‘hits’ such as ‘Me & You Together Song’ and ‘If You’re Too Shy (Let Me Know)’. A wrong poem should be, ‘ashamed and irreverent’, which feels like a decent description of The 1975’s general orientation towards artistic conception. There is cringe and incongruity, there is by all intents and purposes ‘too much of it’, whatever we mean by ‘it’. And yet, that is its beautiful poetics of wrongness, the sound of wrongness, which ‘prefers the stairs’ to the easy elevator pitch (as Zucker puts it), that ‘prefers a half-finishing crumbling stairwell to nowhere’. I like to think about this 1975 album as a kind of exhausting Escherian scene of shifting, crumbling stairwells, shuffling and reassembling against the glistering backdrop of the internet’s inverse void, where everything, literally everything is translated to a starry excess of 1s and 0s, our collective binary data, the white hot, unreadable howl of our noise. What do you think Scott, would Matty find this image agreeable? Does that matter?

> Pushing dear Matty aside, say what you like, let’s start (again) with the title: Notes on a Conditional Form. Following 2018’s A Brief Inquiry Into Online Relationships, it’s fair to position these records as gestures towards philosophical statements ‘of the times’. Important to recognise the resistance to total or dominating knowledge built into the titles: these are not complete tracts or theses, but rather ‘a brief inquiry’ and ‘notes’. It’s obviously the ancient yet *hip* thing to do in capital-P Philosophy, to put out your statement on aesthetics and ethics, and I think The 1975 are playing with that tradition and its failure. You can imagine if his attention span were different, Matty Healy would’ve already written a PhD thesis on this stuff and published it as drunken bulletins on LiveJournal in 2007. As it stands, we have the smorgasbord sprawl of this eclectic record to get through in this cursèd year of 2020 — it’s not like we have much of anything better to do right now, when everything feels so futile, beyond reason and even the greatest human endeavour. Haha, woo, Yeah :’(((.

> Let’s stay in that conditional space between crying and laughter. Conditional form is interesting as a term, often used in grammar to refer to the ‘unreal past’ because it uses a past tense but does not actually refer to something that literally happened in the past: If I had texted him back, we would probably have gone to the gig that night. There’s something about the conditional as the ur-condition of the internet, the proliferating possibilities it offers and the hauntological strains of what could have been had we chosen x option over y, z, a, b, c, infinity...As millennials, we often make decisions by hedging, always caught in the conditional state of what it is to be. Hovering in the emotional shortcuts provided by dumb yellow icons, the poetics of abstraction. A verb form’s dalliance with uncertain reverb; and so we live our conditional lives.

> To push this further, we can say the internet is, as ever, Matty Healy’s natural habitat. In a recent podcast interview with Conor Oberst for The Face, Healy tells his favourite emo-country hero that ‘my natural environment by the time I started The 1975 was the fucking internet’. So how does that ecosystem play into the music? In a damning review for The Line of Best Fit, Claire Biddles concludes:

The 1975’s first three albums are ideal and distinct worlds to inhabit, each individually cohesive but situated in specific contexts — the anticipation of the small town, profundity in the face of vacuous fame, and the horror and isolation of late capitalism. Perhaps because of its broken genesis, Notes has no such common context, and ends up feeling flat, directionless and inessential, where its forebears felt vital, worthy of devoting a life to. For a band with proven dexterity in deftly capturing the nuances and quick changes of contemporary conversation, it is disheartening to witness them with nearly nothing of note to say.

That description — ‘flat, directionless and inessential’ — is kind of how I experience the internet right now, in the paradox of Web 2.0 becoming utterly essential, somehow, to how I live my life, how I love, how I am with friends. The internet as my ecosystem, my utility, my complete environment, my Imaginary — beyond the mere utility of a WiFi connection. Broken genesis might well describe the childhoods of those of us who grew up online, whose platforms collapsed around them, whose adolescent data was lost in the great ~accidental annihilation of the MySpace servers, whose identities were always already fractured, performed, anonymised or exquisitely personalised, deferred into only the (im)possible keystroke of utterance and trace, the fort-da play of MSN sign-ins. ‘My life is defined by a desire to be outward followed by a fear of being seen’, Matty says in a new short film for Apple Music, released in tandem with the album. The internet requires this chiaroscuro destiny: not to burn always with Baudelaire’s hard and gem-like flame (O to be an IRL flaneur beyond times of lockdown) but to endlessly flicker between the bright green light of presence and the shade of what once was called afk, away from keyboard. To live and burn in the gap between extroversion and introversion, to live in this conditional state of tendency. To express with emoji, send pics, is to both reveal and withhold something else, essential.

> I like albums to feel like worlds; I appreciate Biddles’ evocation of the cohesion experienced in the first three 1975 records. But perhaps it is a kind of violence to assume a world must have cohesion to exist. What is even meant by ‘common context’? What pressure are we putting on a singer, a band, a cultural moment to produce something familiar and harmonious, and to whom, at what scale? What does it mean to be the biggest band in the world...for a bit? How does that work when everything is dissonance, transience, noise, interference; both this and not-this; when life itself is lived as the flat traversal of a millioning existential terrains that seem to collapse into this nowness in which I feel myself sliding forever? Can anyone weigh-in on what it means to make music, art or writing that’s ‘worthy of devoting a life to’, because the gravity and force of that condition for good art, good pop, seduces me so.

> Maybe the point is to always be in the middle, to never quite start to write about The 1975, to find yourself always already writing about this album because this album was always already writing about your life. I have said nobody does the interlude quite like The 1975, but I was being coy, because the hottest twentieth-century philosophical double act, Deleuze and Guattari (haters gonna hate), do the interlude rather nicely. The point of a rhizome being ‘no beginning or end [...] always in the middle, between things, interbeing, intermezzo’ as they write in A Thousand Plateaus (1980). I see the musical interlude of a pop record, the instrumental moment without lyric, as a kind of middling gesture that places the listener in that conditional state of presence and absence, a hinge between songs, times and narrative moments. Maybe my favourite moment in A Thousand Plateaus is the statement: ‘RHIZOMATICS = POP ANALYSIS, even if the people have other things to do besides read it, even if the blocks of academic culture or pseudoscien-tificity in it are still too painful or ponderous’. Painful or ponderous might be a fair critique levelled at the enfant terrible vibes of Matty’s lyrics and generic pick’n’mix, but isn’t this tactic a kind of swerving punch at the categorical violence that keeps people out of academia, that keeps academic discourse so often stale in the first place? Unlike most journal articles, let’s face it, pop reaches ‘“the people”’. Perhaps Notes on a Conditional Form is the rhizomatic sprawl of the myriad we need as an alternative to institutional hierarchy, ring-fencing and the language games of academia. Surely the title is a reference to the very ‘pseudoscient-tificity’ D&G mention? I’m gonna quote Richard Scott’s blurb to Colin Herd’s 2019 poetry collection, You Name It here (not least because the indie publishers, Dostoyevsky Wannabe, come straight out of Manchester, home to The 1975, and because Herd’s poetic spirit is pure pop generosity with a platter of theory on the side), because I want to say similar things of this album: ‘Colin Herd’s poems are masterpieces of variousness. They are talismans against Macho demons. They are snatches of theory operating under lavish spills of language’. The good thing about Herd’s poetry and Matty Healy’s lyrics is that the impulse towards romantic or florid expression is always tapered by an interest in the mundane and everyday. Healy is always singing about pissing or buying clothes online or, as on ‘The Birthday Party’, singing about ‘a place I’ve been going’ that seems to consist of the lonely, infinite regress of conversations about seeing friends and watching someone drink kombucha while buying, in the convenient life of rhyme, Ed Ruscha prints.

Ed Ruscher, Cold Beer, Beautiful Girls (2009)

> So what kind of listening does this rhizomatic sprawl demand — does it expand beyond the banal or find a holding space there, a heaven of affect chilled to late-modernity’s crisp perfection? ‘The End (Music For Cars)’ is a luxurious, Hollywood ‘soaring’ moment, all strings and swells, fucking woodwind, and comes as the third track on the album, where normally you’d place it as some kind of penultimate climax, the album’s landscape pan-out or big swelling screen kiss in three-dimensional rotation. The band’s ‘Music For Cars’ era comprises their two most recent records, and you have to take it as a nod to Brian Eno’s 1978 ambient classic Ambient 1: Music for Airports (Matty recently interviewed Eno again for The Face, cool). The thing about cars is you drive around in them, you follow rules but also whims and desires, convictions; you choose to join others or you pursue the selfish acceleration (‘People are afraid to merge on freeways in Los Angeles’ goes the laconic teenage refrain in Bret Easton Ellis’ 1985 debut novel Less Than Zero). You only listen to music half-attentively; you don’t listen close enough to trade in souls. Are we being invited to experience this album as an ambient disruption of figure and ground, presence and absence, here and there, space and place, intimacy and despondency? Driving feels increasingly ‘directionless and inessential’ when the scale effects and obscenities of the anthropocene, of covid and other late-capitalist crises loom in our vision, when the sign systems we used to navigate our lives by seem to shimmer out of focus, or pixelate and deteriorate through endless memetic replication... You can’t help feel like Biddles review kind of misses the point.

Sylvano Bussoti, Five Pieces for Piano for David Tudor (1959)

> What point would that be though, in a world of rhizomatic overlap and intersecting, middling lines, a direction without seeming end? I love the approximation at work when Biddles writes, ‘with nearly nothing of note to say’, because that seems to be a possibility condition for writing in the age of the internet. To write in a way that is almost less than zero and loop back upon some kind of infinity, yet keep it in 2-step. I think back to Rachel Zucker’s image of the half-finished crumbling stairwell, and feel an amiable sense of approval towards this band who always work between the registers of diary, confession, advertising, provocative sloganeering and faux-didactics, never quite settling in to specifically tell you this particular story. It’s all mess, and it’s awful and delicious, I’m sorry. ‘Nothing Revealed / Everything Denied’ is the title of track 13 on the album: that movement between nothing and everything feels like the absolutist, absurdist conditions of ‘truth’ possibility in the Trumpocene/age of so-called ‘post-truth’. ‘Life feels like a lie, I need something to be true’, Healy sings with strained conviction in the song’s opening. But what is at stake in this truth? ‘I never fucked in a car, I was lying’, goes the line, referring back to the dramatic in medias res opening to ‘Love It If We Made It’, notable banger from A Brief Inquiry…: ‘We’re fucking in a car, shooting heroin / Saying controversial things just for the hell of it’. If lying is a pun on telling a mistruth or laying back, practically sexless in a passive state, there’s a deliberate play on apathy, agency and distortion here. It’s something Matty seems snagged on. On ‘I Like America & America Likes Me’ he collapses aesthetic superficiality, capital’s lyric abstraction (‘Oh, what’s a fiver?’) and generalised crisis into this (un)conscious desire for shutdown, expressed in fragmentary bullets of needing-to-know-and-not-know: ‘Is that designer? Is that on fire? Am I a liar? Oh, will this help me lay down?’ And then that impassioned refrain, processed through vocal distortion as if to enact the difficulty in clarity as overcome somehow by the sheer making of noise: ‘Belief and saying something / And saying something / And saying something’. It’s the endless, driving recursion of our lives online, online.

> Back to ‘The End (Music for Cars)’ which really is the middle of the beginning. It’s weird to listen to songs about driving and lying down in the middle of lockdown, drowning in the bloat of social media, on top of our ongoing climate emergency (yeah, remember that, it’s still happening), where high-carbon travel feels like an exhausted, almost impossible concept. A musician complaining about travelling is an age-old subject for a song, but this feels just as much about living in the in-between times of the internet (remember the sweet naivety of the information superhighway) as much as the great Road, for which Kerouac longed as much as Springsteen, Dylan, or Lana Del Rey. Is Matty Healy homesick though? ‘Get somewhere, change my mind, eh / Get somewhere but don’t find it / I don’t find what I’m looking for’. It’s all ‘(out there)’ as the parenthetical refrain goes, but maybe ‘out there’, outside, is the maddening supplement, as Derrida would say, to our lives online, thus revealing their mutual, entwined dependency. Imagine the M6 but tangled up crazily, zanily, like one of those Sylvano Bussoti scores. It’s not like you’re trying to get home, get back, exactly. It’s not like you can just click back on your browser and erase that trace of the touch that enacts it. That’s the weird-ass sensation of being an ecological being: ‘Wherever you go, there you are’, writes Tim Morton in Being Ecological (2018). We’re all pretty alien, even to ourselves.

> If life feels like a lie, as Matty sings, does it matter anymore whether it is or not? Or, to pose the question differently, how do we feel into, attune to something like ‘truth’, a shared reality or feeling? ‘Out there’ is only a state of ellipsis [...] a vine extended, something for the listener, user, consumer and/or human to cling to — or be strangled by. In the aforementioned Apple Music video, Matty takes away the canvas and presents the frame beneath, in a gesture that is comically overwrought with Duchampian pretention around the state and context of the artwork itself. ‘Sometimes I think what is the point of...it’s not my atheism coming out, it’s just my being human coming out’, he muses. The phrase ‘coming out’, with its connotations of closeting, shame and cocoon-like emergence is intriguing here. In a dehumanising, post-internet world of neoliberalism and its attendant microfascisms, its commodification of all kinds of art, its easythink translation of poetry-to-advertising, what would it mean to come out as human after, or better still, in the middle of all this? It’s significant that he trails off after ‘the point of…’, for surely the point itself (of the art?) would be to find yourself here, there, right in the middle of it all. And then in ‘Nothing Revealed / Everything Denied’, it’s like Matty is calling us back from that epistemological and ontological boiling point of knowing and being, like in singing we could go along, we could feel present and ‘true’ again, even with friction and difference. We gotta take hold, cool ourselves down from the rhetoric and into warm emotion, the smell of paint, erotic vibration of bass, in a manner of speaking.

> What if the mode of inquiry were not to investigate but rather to follow the lines of flight, to riff on this world where narrative arcs and chains are replaced by the multiple possibilities of hallucinatory experience, what Deleuze and Guattari call ‘a continuous, self-vibrating region of intensities whose development avoids any orientation toward a culmination point or external end’? To just desire and trace it. This, Scott, is where you come in (and I finally shut up to listen). There is so much more to write about this album, echo for echo, and I feel like I’ve only begun the tracing which was already beginning: I want to know your thoughts on The 1975 and America, on gender and genre, on bodies and football and friendship, on political engagement, those house beats, on the beautiful, sultry appearance of Phoebe (fucking) Bridgers, on sincerity, on the question of ‘What Should I Say’...It’s been playing on my mind that I will never say what I want to, or should, or would say of this album, but this perhaps is what I would otherwise have said. I give you my notes in conditional form.

Read part 2 of our review in Scott Morrison’s response here.

Notes on a Conditional Form is out now and available to order. 

~

Text: Maria Sledmere

Published: 23/6/20

[superfan99records]

Why Super Fan 99?

Super Fan’s name comes from a line in the cult 90s comedy ‘Swingers’. “I’m gonna make Wayne Gretzsky’s head bleed for super fan number 99 over there” You can watch the clip here - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CaAtavKP0-4 

Our first logo incorporated ice hockey sticks in reference and was designed by British illustrator Nicholas Stevenson. Our current logo was created by Chicago based artist Shaun Miller. The label was born in August 2014.

What Styles of Music Does Super Fan Release?

We love all music which can transport you to a different time and place. In the past we have released powerpop, psych, dreampop, Americana, new wave and on occasion slightly louder indie-rock type stuff too. The common through line which links all of our releases is rich melodies that you can’t shake from your head.

I Work in a Record Shop, How Can We Stock Super Fan?

Sure! We don’t have distro at this point but are happy to stock you direct at cost price. Please mail us and we can work out the best way to get our releases in your store. Contact details are at the bottom of this page.

I’m a Radio DJ, How Can I Receive Advance Music to Play on My Show?

We send out WAVs along with press releases around four weeks prior to release. All exposure is good for a tiny label like ourselves so we’d love to hear one of our tunes get a spin on your show or podcast however small it may be. Don’t be shy, drop us a line and we’ll see you are added to our mail out. Contact details are at the bottom of this page.

I’d Like to Receive Advance Copies for Review, Can I Be Added to the Press List?

Of course! As with radio we hugely appreciate all press however small, even a tweet or a repost on Soundcloud is massively helpful to help get word out. Drop us a line and we’ll make sure you are added to the mail out. Contact details are at the bottom of this page.

I’d Love Super Fan to Consider Releasing My Music, Do You Accept Submissions?

Very much so. We love hearing your music and listen to every single submission. We are always on the look out for new artists to work with but should add that to date have only released one artist from a submission. Soundcloud or Bandcamp links are preferred along with a few lines about the project. Alternatively you can go old school and use snail mail to send a tape or CD. Contact details are at the bottom of the page. If we like it we will be sure to get back to you.

I’d Like to Be Notified About Pre-orders For Limited Edition Releases, How Can I Find Out Before They’re All Sold Out?

Many of our releases are extremely limited and can sell out in a day so it is best to subscribe to our mailing list to be notified as soon as they are on sale. Drop us a line with ‘hello’ in the subject line to the email address at the bottom of the page.

What Formats Do You Release On?

We are open to releasing on all formats, the more creative the better. In the past we have put out tapes, 5” lathes, 7” vinyl, 8” lathes, 10” lathes, 12” vinyl and CD as well as digital.

What Is A Lathe?

Lathe cutting is a process which utilizes a cutting method to record sound grooves on to a disc. It is an alternative to the modern practice of pressing vinyl with metal plates. This means you can do shorter runs unlike vinyl which is often made in runs upwards of 100.

Why Are Lathe Cuts More Expensive Than Regular Vinyl?

When a lathe is cut each copy must be set up by a human and the music is played out in real time like when you dub a cassette. This ancient technique is a delicate and time consuming process, essentially each copy is unique unlike mass produced vinyl. They are however lower fidelity often with some surface noise. Many consider them to be playable pieces of art due to the care which is taken in hand making them. All of our records are cut in Tuscon, Arizona and then shipped to us in the UK. This also adds to the cost due to import charges. They are however very collectable with some of ours trading for £50 on Discogs.

What Is £100 Pop Vids?

We set up £100 Pop Vids to make music promos to help promote our releases. The first was for Queen of Jeans track ‘Dance’ From there we continued to make more and have since made videos for Lolipop, Lame-O and Burger Records bands. Every video cost under £100 to make hence the name. We enjoy testing the boundaries of DIY video making. A great idea doesn’t have to cost the world.

Can I Do Work Experience at Super Fan?

We have been asked this a couple of times which is really lovely. At current the label is essentially a one man operation run out of a small studio flat. Like many small labels it is run on top of a day job so evenings and weekends are spent keeping things ticking over. We sadly don’t have the space or need for extra people just yet but please do still say hi as there may be other ways you can get involved. We’re always keen to meet photographers, graphic designers, illustrators, videographers, basically anyone who may be able to lend their skills to future projects.

I’d Like to Book a Super Fan Band, Who Do I Speak to?

We release bands from all over the globe spanning from the UK to France, the US, China and beyond. Obviously that means on many occasions it may be difficult for a band to reach your part of the world but you never know. Their tour may just be headed your way so feel free to mail us and we can put you in touch with the artists management or agent.

What Else Does Super Fan Love Outside of Music?

(in no order) Fulham FC, Guitar Pedals, Our cat Denny, Tiki Bars, The English Countryside, French New Wave Cinema, NBA Jam, Moomins, Peanuts, Tape Machines, Buffy, Dawson’s Creek, Apple Jacks, Nudie Suits, The Duplass Brothers, John Hughes Movies, Sofia Coppola Movies, Casio Watches, Zines, Daniel Clowes, Nintendo, Greta Gerwig and Travelling by Train.

Anything Else I Should Know?

Whether you are an artist/label/promoter/blogger/dj/fan we believe music is to be shared and celebrated. It is not a competition but more an ongoing discussion in which everyone is welcome. Say hi, let’s be friends. Super Fan loves you.

Contact us -

E: iamsuperfan99@outlook.com

[evans-heaven]

"Who Knows?"~s.m.

My first imagine…here goes nothing….

Y/B/S=  Your Birthstone

                                                          ~~~~~~

I was just helping him pack his things. I didn’t expect to take an unwanted trip down memory lane in the process.

“So where are you moving to, again?”

“Downtown Toronto,”

“Cool,”

Interaction was so weird to me, but also assuring. Maybe our break up two months ago wasn’t totally on bad terms.

“Sorry my closet’s such a mess,” he chuckled lightly,, shuffling through a show box that was hidden under his bed. He looked up at me only for a second, seeing that I was beginning to take out his shirts. They were either halfway on a hanger or not on one at all, laying in a heap at the floor of his closet.

“No problem. Not like mine is any better,” I joked in a soft voice.

“Yeah, I remember,” he said. I wasn’t looking at him as I held onto one of his sweatshirts. I knew he was smiling at me.

For a few seconds, we were silent. The only sound was the soft singing of John Mayer emitting from Shawn’s record player. It was from his vinyl edition of ‘Continuum’ that I had bought for him for no particular occasion. I just knew that he would like it.

“What’s in the box?” I asked, shifting my attention away from his closet after I had folded most of his shirts and placed them in one of his suitcases. I may or may not have counted the amount of sweatshirts that used to be at my house.

Four.

It took Shawn a while to answer my question, maybe because he heard me, but was so occupied by the things in front of him. I didn’t mind, though. His concentration was one of my favorite things about him.

“Its just a bunch of old stuff. Newspaper clippings, ticket stubs, receipts,” he shrugged. He closed the box and shoved it under his bed again. He then got off his knees and began to strip the beige sheets from his bed.

I just nodded. I wasn’t going to pry; I felt like I had lost all privilege to enter deep conversations with him. Clearly, that box held more things that he said- the look on his face was a clear giveaway. I guess I’d never really know.

“How’s Oxford?” he asked.

“Good. Pre-Law is kicking my ass, but I’ll survive,” I answered, stifling a small giggle. I felt slightly suffocated, and in such an empty room, too. Maybe it was the tension in here. It balanced off of good and bad.

“I’m happy for you. It’s just a shame you’re so far from your family and friends,”

“I could say the same for you,”

“I always find my way back, Y/N,” he told me pointedly. He balled the sheets up and tossed them on the ground.

So many things happened on those sheets…

He took a seat on the naked bed. The room was almost completely bare; the walls empty as well as the flat surfaces such as his desk and dresser. Packing away the things that were once displayed in this room was like packing away memories that the two of us stupidly let slip through the cracks.

I had been going to Oxford for a year at that point, but I was never able to fully shake the feeling that something was missing from my life. But what? I was attending my dream school, studying for my dream job, and living in my dream country. What more could I have wanted?

I knew fully fucking well. I was just too much of a coward to admit it.

“I know you do, Shawn. But I just….feel like England is where I belong, now, you know? I’m better off there,” I mumbled, running a finger along his desk, a thin coat of dust transferring onto my skin, tickling it ever so slightly. I wiped it off on the soft fabric of my shorts.

Shawn grabbed the collar of his speckled black button up in both hands and pulled it in opposing directions, giving me a better view of his pale chest- which I had been exposed to many times prior. Clearly feeling hot, he stood up and turned the ceiling fan on, stretching his long, muscular arm up to tug on the chord.

“How’s touring?” I asked, trying to lighten the mood. Talking about University or London with Shawn never ended well. I ceased that part of our conversation before I could take a turn for the worse.

He smiled, shoving his hands into his pockets as we stood opposite each other. “Amazing. There’s just something about getting up on stage every night and showcasing my creations and fulfilling my passion that makes it the best damn job in the world,” he mused.

If there was one thing that Shawn knew how to do, it was describe his profession in the only way he deemed worthy- with pride and endearment.

He spoke about me like that once.

“Well I’m glad to hear that,” I smiled.

“I wish you could’ve come to the London show,” he said.

You didn’t ask me. “I had-”

“To study. I know, I know,”

“Not necessarily, Shawn,” I sighed.

“Well, that seemed to be the main reason anytime I would ask you to come out on tour for a day or two,” he retorted.

I was suddenly angry. “I can’t drop everything to be with you,” I hissed. He knew that. We talked about it a few days before I  left for London. He was so childish when it came to this.

“I’m not asking you to, Y/N. You’re a busy person, I get that. But when we were together, it just hurt me a lot that our relationship came to an undecided halt when you left,”

I opened my mouth to oppose, but felt it just hang there. A shallow breath escaped as I realized he was right. We never officially broke up. Our relationship just dissolved into nothing. Late night calls became nonexistent, and we never even texted when we realized how long it had been since we interacted. I felt that we were both to blame- we never acted on this. Was it because we knew efforts would be futile?

“Why’d you call me?” I asked seriously. I was back home for two days for my brother’s birthday weekend. Shawn had called me after saying he saw me at Tim’s.

“Hey, can you come over? There’s something I need your help with,” he told me, hesitance in his voice. I could imagine him fiddling with his fingers- a nervous habit.

I sucked in a breath. “Okay? What is it?” I asked. I would’ve decline yet.

“I need to pack my things. I’m moving out,”

I didn’t question why he didn’t request help from Brian or Ian or Matt. Maybe he had called already and just needed another set of hands? “Alright, yeah,” I said without thinking. “See you in a few,”

“Thanks,” the line went dead not even a second later.

Ten minutes later, I arrived to an empty house, just Shawn and I. Aaliyah was at hockey practice, and Manny and Karen were at the supermarket.

An hour later, no one else showed. It was still just Shawn and I, few words exchanged as he packed things into cardboard boxes. Occasionally he would hum along to a song, or curse lightly when he knocked into something.

“Didn’t we specify this over the phone? I needed your help to-”

“So Brian, Ian and Matt were unavailable?”

“Yes, actually. Can we continue this later? I’m going to get more boxes,” he said hastily, striding out of the room.

“There’s nothing left to-” I started to protest, but he was already out the door.

I exhaled harshly, pressing a palm on my forehead. Our communication skills had become pure nothingness. How sad, that we when from not being able to keep from telling each other everything, to struggled words and tight lipped smiles. I knew that neither of us would be able to really understand what had happened between us.

Here’s what I thought: He was doing his own thing, I was doing mine. Maybe, silently, we realized we couldn’t do that and be in love at the same time. Which was bullshit, because I regretted everything we didn’t say, 100%. If we had just talked to each other, we wouldn’t be in this borderline monsoon of awkwardness.

I saw down on his bed, shoving hair out of my face. I felt like I was going insane, the way these observations and truths were flooding my mind. I swung my legs back and forth, but felt my heel come in contact with something. I then remembered- the shoe box.

Quickly, I bent over and retrieved it from below the bed. I held it in my hands, running my thumb pads over the lid. The box was old, with rips and wrinkles in the cardboard. I couldn’t tell what brand it was from.

I looked up at Shawn’s door- but then realized he wasn’t coming back anytime soon. He wasn’t collecting boxes- he was collecting himself. That usually took a while, so I had enough time to rummage through this mystery box.

I knew I said I wouldn’t pry, but the box was here, at the tip of my fingers, and this was entirely on my own accord, not because Shawn told me I could or could not.

Slowly, I removed the lid and placed it off to side. Shawn wasn’t lying, there was really nothing much in side of the box. Magazine clippings, ticket stubs and receipts, just like he had said.

I picked up one of the receipts and say that it was one for a White Chocolate MooLatte from Dairy Queen. I smiled slightly- Shawn had bought so many of those for me whether I asked for them or not. He just always had a way of knowing when I was craving one. MooLattes were, after all, one of my favorite things on this planet.

I placed the slip of paper back and looked through the other ones. I took out a ticket stub that was stapled to a magazine clipping. I drew my brows together. Why would he attatch them?

I read the ticket stub, and again, I smiled, wider this time. It was from the time he took me to see Cinderella, the 2015 remake. I was so taken with him and him alone I didn’t pay attention to anyone else around me. Call me cliché, but it really felt like were were the only two people in the theater.

I flipped the stub upward to read the glossy piece of paper below it, an I almost laughed. There was a picture of the two of us standing in line for tickets, Shawn standing behind me, his large arms wrapped around me shoulders as I cuddled into his embrace. Looking at the photo made me almost feel his hold again like it was happening at that very moment. The caption of the snap was ‘Shawn Mendes cozies up to Y/F/N during movie date!’

It was the first time, if I recalled correctly, that we had been spotted properly in public. Neither of us were in the mood to hide that night. It people saw us, so be it. We were in a relationship and there was no harm in letting people know that.

I put the ticket and cut out back in the box and rummaged through it a bit more. The rest was just more receipts for MooLattes or Chipotle, ticket stubs from the movies or concerts, and magazine articles from out sightings together.

I was about to close the box again, but my eyes caught sight of something peeking out below the paper that had shfited. I placed my hand inside again, only for my fingers to come in contact with a velvet texture. My eyes widened. Did I dare to pull this out?

Ignoring my conscience, I pulled the item out, only to discover that it was a box- black, velvet just like I felt, and rectangle shaped. My heart sped up as I slowly opened it, and when I did, I gasped.

Inside, looking untouched and glimmering in the dim light, was a beautiful silver necklace, bind by tiny links, accentuated by a Y/B/S charm as the ‘crowning glory’.

I hovered an index finger over the small rock, afraid to touch it. This must have cost a fortune- the company written in cursive on the inner lid wasn’t exactly known for being cheap. Who was it for?

“You like it?”

My head snapped up as I slammed the box shut, wincing at the sound it made. I hastily placed it back inside the shoe box and closed that too, placing it on the bed and standing up.

“I-I’m sorry, Shawn. I didn’t mean to invade your privacy. I was just-”

“Its okay, Y/N,” Shawn held his hands up, and I stopped rambling. My tense shoulders relaxed as he walked towards me and picked up the box.

I looked at his hand movements. He removed the lip and took the velvet box out once more. Placing the show box on his desk, he looked at me, his caramel gaze, glassy and serious.

“Shawn-”

“I bought this a month ago,” he started, and I remained quiet. I would let him talk. I had become guilty of not letting him do that.

“I was planning on visiting you on campus. I wanted to surprise you. When I had my London show, I was going to come before it started. I was going to invite you to come to show and see me perform. I was going to give you this, Y/N,” he opened the box and showed me the necklace again. It took my breath away once more. It was a stunning piece of jewelry. Did I deserve to adorn something that seemed so precious?

I was never a fan or expensive gifts, and Shawn knew that. What was his reasoning for buying me this gift?

But we never had reasons for buying each things other than the fact that we loved each other, even if true love wasn’t measured by material possessions. The reactions we would give when we presented each other with out bought items would always brighten everything in that one moment, no matter the circumstances. Maybe that’s why we did it so much.

However, they were never, ever this lavish.

“I decided against it. I thought you didn’t want to see me. I thought you were ignoring me because you were fed up with me. You were fed up with me being gone,” he choked up, the lump in his throat affecting his speech.

I grabbed his wrists. “Shawn, I was gone too-”

“I was gone more, Y/N. I felt horrible. I didn’t know how to make it up to you. Until one day in Paris I was at this mall and I was passing at jewelry store. I saw this exact necklace in the display, only with a diamond. I knew you loved white gold. I had to get it for you. I had them change the diamond to your birthstone,” he explained.

I looked down at it. “The Y/B/S,” I said.

“Uh huh,” he nodded, smiling down at me, baring his teeth.

“Its beautiful Shawn,” I said.

“Its yours,” he said, taking it out of the box.

I shook my head immediately. “I can’t-”

He pressed a finger to my lips, his face only an inch away from mine. I was silenced as he turned around gently until my back was facing him. I held my breath as he placed the necklace around my neck. The cold material tingled against my skin, which already sported raised pores. He connected the two ends of the piece of jewelry and turned me back around.

His eyes were on the necklace, and my eyes were on him.

“So what now?” I asked.

Wordless, he drew me closer my the forearms and pressed his lips to my forehead. The kiss he gave me was warm and sent a wave of heat throughout my body.

He ran his thumbs along my cheekbones as his kiss drew down to my lips. Our first kiss after those dreadful months. The feeling had become so forgotten, but, now that it was happening again, it all came back to me, how much I loved it when he kissed me. How his soft lips would part, then come upon mine, softly, slowly, then escalating into the most amazing feeling ever. I literally felt sparks fly every time, no matter how much I’d get used to it.

After a few blissful secons of his plush, pink lips upon mine, he broke the kiss softly. He pulled me into his embrace, his strong arms wrapped around me in a hold that seemed invulverable, yet comforting and reassuring. For a while, we stayed like that, just enjoying the feeling of each other’s embrace. If possible, his arms got even tighter, and that only urged me to do the same. I buried my head in his neck, not wanting to move any time soon. He smelt like axe body spray and chcocoalte muffins- the scent I’d come to love.

He buried his nose into my hair, tangled his long fingers into the strands. He breathed out his next words, and I had never felt more  at ease with any answer in my life.

“Who knows?”

                                                        ~~~~~~

Hope y’all liked this! Sorry if the ending seemed a bit abrupt  🙊 ❤️

[almostrocknroll-blog]

The Art of Collecting Vinyl

How many records exactly do I own? Well, the last time I counted (which was some time ago) it was well over one-hundred. It’s taken me over six months to accumulate that many and let me tell ya, it happened pretty fast. At one point I was buying a few records a couple different times a week. So yeah, the collection process seems to speed up considerably once you get hooked on the great big world of vinyl.

Over the past few years, vinyl has been making a huge comeback, and recently that comeback has come on full force. Something that we used to laugh at our parents about as they would pull their vinyl collection out and show it off to us now has now become a huge trend especially with millennials such as myself.

Music junkies are catching back onto the theory that vinyl does, in fact, sound better than digital music. Is there any truth to this notion? Yes.Yes absolutely. If you do your research on the great world wide web then you’ll find more than enough evidence that this thought process is most likely not idiotic. However, I will admit I use to be one of those people who thought that vinyl was just outrageously expensive and used as a gimmick to get people to spend more money.

Bad Carrie!

In fact, did you know that the artist makes more money from vinyl sales than they would from say, iTunes or regular CD sales? I read an article recently that suggested iTunes keep most of the profit from the artists, which is pretty frigged up if you ask me. Apparently, artists only make a whopping 94 cents per song. Yep. Per song. While that’s pretty factual, it’s also a well-known fact that vinyl is considerably more expensive than digital music. So, collecting vinyl may not be for you. But in this post, I’ll be discussing a little more in depth with you on some mistakes I’ve made, how I usually obtain my records and helping you figure out whether or not you want to begin the great voyage into the eargasms vinyl offers. I’ve even taken the liberty of capturing some photographs of my personal array of records. It’s nothing spectacular, but bear with me here, it’s growing!

I first began collecting vinyl a little over six months ago and at first, I was under the impression that in order to collect vinyl I had to have a lot of money to invest in my collection. That was pretty dumb of me to assume, but again, costs do play a somewhat substantial part in this “hobby” if that’s what you want to call it. The reason I say I was not so much on the bright side when it came to assuming that I had to have a lot of money to collect music in the form of vinyl, I mean that there are such things as dollar bins people. At the time, I wasn’t aware of what a dollar bin even was. Sounded like a Wendy’s menu to me when I first heard about it. But now? I hear it and I get a pretty great rush of excitement because ya girl is about to rack up on the records.

What’s a dollar bin? You may ask. Well, youngins, it is exactly what it sounds like. Heaps and heaps, loads and loads, mountains and mountains of….VINYL! Okay, that was probably a tad bit exaggerated but I get excited, okay? In most record stores there is usually a place in the shop that is sectioned off particularly for this dollar bin or dollar section if you will. I hail from Ohio, and there’s a local little shop I go to that’s dubbed as Used Kids Records. It’s a small shop and certainly could be considered a hole in the wall but it’s pretty rad if you’re looking for a straight-up nostalgia trip. Kinda smells like Fritos and concrete if I’m being honest though. Respectively cool, however.

Used Kids Records has a pretty extensive selection of vinyl that ranges anywhere from $1-$3. As most record stores do. Now, the only problem with this is that if you’re looking for something in particular, well, your chances of finding a specific album or a newer one for that matter, are exceptionally slim.  They are dollar bins for a reason. The records in these bins are usually damaged in one way or another, whether it be a surface scratch or a damaged cover. Or it could just be a bit dated. However, if you don’t care about those kinds of things and you are just looking to start racking up on the vinyl, then dollar bins are probably for you my friend. I personally love them, I think they’re fantastic and a majority of my records have come from bargain bins. If you’re super into classic rock like I am, then you’ll be thrilled to know that these majestic little cheap bins usually contain quite a few albums from that genre and then some.

How many records exactly do I own? Well, the last time I counted (which was some time ago) it was well over one-hundred. It’s taken me over six months to accumulate that many and let me tell ya, it happened pretty fast. At one point I was buying a few records a couple different times a week. So yeah, the collection process seems to speed up considerably once you get hooked on the great big world of vinyl.

Look! 45s are like CDs...only better.

Let’s talk systems. Ah, yes. When you hear record player you probably think of those cute little Crosley record players that Barnes and Nobles sell, right? Listen to me, my friend. Remove that thought from your mind right now and feast your imagination on something grander than any tiny little suitcase knock off you could ever fathom. They’re super cute, I know. Oh, and small. Sounds functional right? I had the same idea in mind when I bought my 1byone record player. Certainly not a Crosley but certainly not any less miserable sounding. I still have it, and I still play records on it. Why? Because good turntables cost money. The goal after awhile, way after an impulsive buy from Amazon, was to eventually invest in a turntable and speakers that would give me the full sound and quality that I knew vinyl could give. That I knew my scanty little 1Byone could not.

While it’s been a faithful little device, every time I play a record I die a little. Because I know, as I’m playing my brand new Lana Del Rey record or Halsey’s Hopeless Fountain Kingdom that slowly and surely it’s destroying the wee little vinyl village that lives inside the grooves. Exaggeration? Hardly. Cheap record players are notorious for applying too much pressure to your disk. This is a no-no friend. I once watched a video where a guy performed a test on a cheap record player. He played the same vinyl about one-hundred times before you could hear the obvious distortion that the needle/player caused. Oh yeah. I felt pretty bad for my records at that point and had officially decided I would be getting a decent turntable as soon as possible. Luckily, that’s just around the corner for me. I’m aiming for an Audio Technica. They are priced very fairly considering they don’t ruin your records. If you go looking for an Audio Technica, keep in mind you will also need a pair of active speakers because most legitimate turntables don’t have speakers built in. There’s a wide selection of Youtube videos on turntables and active speakers as well, in case you want to broaden your options.

I will say that most people, including myself as I stated, start off with a less than perfect record player. There’s nothing wrong with having a beginner record player I suppose, but if you’re serious about getting into vinyl then you should probably go ahead and save yourself some money in the long run and buy a more legitimate system now. In a way, I kind of feel sorry for my poor little 1Byone. He’ll be sitting alone in my closet most likely when I get my upgrade. All alone. A reject. Oh well.

Storage is pretty important too. You shouldn’t lay your records flat on any surface for extended periods of time. It can cause sleeve damage and inflict death and despair upon the disk. You’re probably thinking this is all too much right? Or maybe you’re not. I don’t know you. But if you are, then relax. It’s really not. These are all things I wish I would’ve taken the time to do research on myself, so if you’re here before you’ve done all of your purchasing then congratulations, you’re smarter than I was. Once you figure out where you’re buying your records from, be it from your local record store, a thrift store or even Amazon, get yourself a decent system and find you a safe place for storage then you’re pretty much already there listening to the vinyl in all it’s warm and crisp glory. Best of luck.