Some people have a hobby. You have a problem, and you stopped apologising for it a long time ago. CRATE DIGGER. MORE RECORDS THAN SHELF. Not a boast, not a punchline, just the plain fact, stamped across the chest like the mark on the back of a sleeve. If you know, you know.
The art is a record-shop rubber stamp: CRATE DIGGER struck in bold letterspaced capitals, a single flat vinyl record beneath it with its grooves and centre label picked out, and MORE RECORDS THAN SHELF set small below like a control label, the whole thing framed top and bottom with thin rules like a hi-fi faceplate. Two flat retro inks that read warm on every shade, and every mark is original: no band, no label, no borrowed cover art.
It's the one for the Saturday morning dig: early doors, cold hands, the good crates before anyone else gets to them. The range runs dark on purpose: that's the light a crate gets dug in.
It is also the gift that cannot be a duplicate: the one record nobody already owns.
More records than shelf. It was never going to be any other way.
