Monster Soul 45 alert, courtesy of Noize in your head— the kind of Friday‑table
heater that makes you forget whatever responsible adult thing you were supposed
to be doing today. This one has that
energy: the “oh no, I’m about to rearrange my entire wantlist” kind of energy.
So I’m lipping through the stack at the thrift store, doing my usual Herbert Hunter ritual when I see his 45’s, which is basically me grabbing every 45 with his name on it like a Gollum hoarding his preciousssss, because the man buried in his many 45rpm releases a
few serious wallet‑melters in his discography. And, true to form, my swiss‑cheese brain never remembers which ones are the wallet -melters. I just operate on blind faith and collector superstition.
But now? Oh, now I know one.
Because this one isn’t just pricey — it’s a biggie, the kind of biggie that makes you sit up straighter, adjust your imaginary monocle, and whisper “well hello there” to a piece of vinyl like you’re in a noir film. The kind of biggie that makes you do that slow, satisfied nod like you just pulled Excalibur out of a milk crate. And the best part? It earns every penny of its reputation. This thing is smoking — so hot it should come with a warning label and a tiny fire extinguisher tucked inside the sleeve.
It’s the perfect collector moment:
You didn’t remember the title.
You didn’t remember the value.
But your hands knew.
Your instincts knew.
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