Frank Blank

If you sell your bass later you can’t charge as much because it’s been “f***** about with.” Fixed.

Hello!

I shouldn’t worry, he’s just trying to palm you off.

How splendid, a reasonable Moderati wielding their powers properly, there. Good show. Brilliant.

You know what? I reckon we better start talking sensibly about basses soon otherwise we’ll get thrown off this forum and on to the wet cobbled streets outside the church.

@Twigman isn’t btw.

Savages are superb.

Touché Cecil.

I would posit that this album (with one or two others) were the precursors of what would become post punk, however, at the time it sounded so totally different from anything else, so different from Lydon’s previous band, that I just thought of it as uncategorisable, or perhaps avant-garde at a stretch. Nothing sounded like it before and nothing as since and it remains, by a country mile, my favourite album. I’d definitely say profound.

...you beat me to it!

That’s so cool, my dad was a tnuc.

I have no desire to sound the same but here’s Jah Wobble with what’s probably my favourite wobbly line...

Suck it? 😁

Or perhaps a Bolivian gypsy trio playing math rock on cucumbers strung with Elvis wigs because everything is like everything else.

All basses are like all cheeses.

All strings are like everything else, everything else is like all pickups. Omnisimilar.

All basses sound like all locations and all locations, basses and everything else are good for metal (and every other genre of music).

A jazz bass sounds like Cheltenham tastes like modern art feels like petrol fumes smells like introspection and looks uncannily like progress. Yeah... take that objectivity.

Bingo!

Hello *waves*

Gesundheit.

Amen.

Cracking bass player too, little known fact. A true pioneer, sadly missed.

Bloody Jazz basses, over here, over sexed, over played.

As T. C. Lethbridge writes in his 1963 publication Ghost and Divining Rod... “To walk the paths and old tracks of England on an autumn morning is to walk with men from time immemorial on routes between sites whose function and import is now lost in the whetstone mists that surround our ancestral past, and yet in returning home, warming ones bones by the fire and knocking out a scale or two on a Jazz bass, one feels somehow reconnected with this past, these people, this England of ours. The very notes conjure quiet streams trickling through meadows leading towards the quiet mysterious stones that somehow seem to watch and know, perhaps, just perhaps, our ancestors await us there?”