Clarence "Frogman" Henry - You Can't Hide A Tear/ I Told My Pillow

The whole house felt different yesterday — like the air itself paused. Princess Rian sitting in the window all day over the spot that Tazzie spent her last few weeks… that wasn’t just a cat staring outside. That was a sister keeping vigil. She chose Tazzie’s place, the way grief chooses the places that still smell like someone we miss. Cats don’t perform emotion; they just feel it, and she felt it deeply.

I spent some time yesterday reflecting…yes, reflecting over a cat, with my memories wrapped in warmth:

Tazzie’s story didn’t start in a quiet home — it started in Mina’s wild little kingdom. Mina, our rebellious queen of the outdoors, bringing her four babies on the patio like, “Hello, we are home.” Four tiny chaos beans tumbling around, chasing shadows, ignoring the perfectly good cat house I bought and assembled for them like a responsible adult. They chose the patio because of course cats always pick the thing you didn’t buy.

Then the disappearances. Two yellow tabbies gone overnight, like they slipped into another dimension. Princess Rian up a tree with two dogs plotting her downfall and me to the rescue. Mina furious at a weeklong indoor captivity after I captured her and had her fixed and me watching over the remaining two like a worried dad who pretends he’s not worried.

And then in May 2022 — the month everything changed. Cooper arrives, a puppy with the energy of a malfunctioning wind-up toy. Tazzie and Princess Rian watching him sprint around the yard like he’s auditioning for a slapstick comedy. Cooper watching them like they’re magical woodland creatures. All three of them were probably born on the same day, destined to be this strange little trio.

In June 2022 I finally brought the girls inside, Princess Rian became the world’s most committed hider. Under the bed. Under the treadmill. Under anything that could hide a princess. Tazzie, meanwhile, stayed quiet, observant, a little fragile. Infections as a kitten, a body that always needed a little extra care.

And then a few days later came, Bobbi -now Meep Meep — the chaos agent who named herself (story to come) arriving like a tiny lightning bolt. She and Tazzie playing, chasing, mischievous, nudging Princess Rian out of her shell, turning her into the social butterfly she eventually became. Tazzie stayed the watcher, the quiet one, the tender one, and now the skittish one. The one who didn’t demand love but soaked it in when it came.

She had a small life in some ways — gentle, careful, observant — but she had a full life. Loved by all, loved by her sister, loved by Cooper, loved by the whole house. And yesterday, the house remembered with continued tears.

Carl Phillips - Salty Dog Blues / Summer Vacation

The house feels different now. I keep catching myself looking toward the hallway in the evenings, expecting to see Tazzie stretched out in her usual spot — that little queen-of-the-corridor pose she always took when she knew treats were coming. It’s strange how quickly a routine becomes a heartbeat in a home, and how sharply you feel it when it stops.

Over the weekend, when her abdomen looked wrong and she wouldn’t eat, I tried not to panic. But I knew. And yesterday morning, sitting in that vet’s office, hearing “likely FIP,” hearing the cost, hearing the lack of guarantees… it felt like the world dropped out from under me. Four and a half. Too young. Too sudden. Too cruel.

She was always a little skittish — sweet, but selective. She had her rotation of secret hideouts, claiming one corner of the house like a tiny landlord for a few weeks before moving on to the next. But when I sat on the floor to give treats, she’d come right into my lap. That was her softness, the part she didn’t show everyone.

Holding her that last time… she purred. She never purred like that in moments like this. I think she knew. I think she was telling me she felt safe. And I think the other cats knew too — the way they moved around the house yesterday, the way the energy shifted. Animals understand more than we ever give them credit for.

Even Cooper had his own little ritual with her. Every night, when I took him out, he’d run up to her and give her that big goofy lick on the top of her head. She’d tolerate it — barely — with that “ugh, dog slobber” expression, but she always let him. It was their weird little bond, even if she preferred her twin sister Princess Rian’s company.

Now the hallway is empty. Her spots are empty. And I feel it everywhere.

It’s wild how animals work their way into your heart — how they become part of the architecture of your days. Losing them is never small. It’s never simple. And she will be missed. Not just as one of the cats. As Tazzie. As herself.

Bobby And The Blue Denims - Stop and Go

Wicked cool instrumental from Bobby and the Blue Denims? Buddy, this thing doesn’t just sound cool — it leans against the wall in a Levi jacket, smirks, and asks if you’ve got a light.

I’m picturing the whole band rolling into the studio like a denim‑clad biker gang of musicians. Jackets faded from actual life experience, guitars slung over shoulders like they’re about to duel, sax player strolling in with that “I only play riffs that make people raise an eyebrow” confidence. Cigarette dangling, not even lit — just there for aesthetic purposes, like a prop in a noir film.

They don’t ask where to set up. They announce it by plugging in wherever they feel like. The rhythm section kicks in with that “we’ve been doing this since the Eisenhower administration” authority. The guitar starts grooving like it’s trying to flirt with the mixing board. And the sax player? He blows a simple riff that somehow feels like a threat, a promise, and a pickup line all at once.

It’s pure attitude — the kind of track that doesn’t walk into a room, it struts.

The Scott Sisters - Down On My Knees/I Don't Know Why

Some Modern Soul Gospel for this fine Sunday morning. This single was the second of three 45s these sisters released, and then the world heard nothing more from them — which is a genuine loss. An internet search turns up almost nothing; one deep‑dive even described them as belonging to “an era of ghost histories in American Gospel.”

During that search, Google noted that “During the 1960s and 1970s, hundreds of local church ensembles and sibling groups pressed private, small‑batch 45 RPM singles. Because these were distributed strictly to church congregations or sold directly from the stage, personal details like their given first names, exact birth dates, and occupations were never documented by music journalists.”

The label may be modest, but the music is not. These songs are magnificent — the kind of work that deserved a wider world than the one it reached.

Rising Suns - Concentration / Land of 1000 Dances

I picked this one up in that small find I wrote about last month — the one where my friend gave me directions so bad I’m still convinced he was trying to send me into a cornfield or a portal to 1973. Somehow, despite his “expert” guidance (“turn left at the mailbox that used to be there”), I actually found the yard sale and the stack of 45s. And not just one — two copies of this bad boy. This one with nice labels, one with label damage, like it had survived a minor bar fight. Classic yard‑sale energy.

I knew it was going to be a good one. “Concentration” hits that moody garage sweet spot — the kind where the band sounds like they recorded it in a basement lit by one flickering bulb that looked ready to give up at any moment, like even the electricity wasn’t sure the band would make it through the take. Then they flip the script and do a rave‑up version of Land of 1000 Dances, because apparently they woke up that morning and chose chaos.

The Cogs of Dis write‑up? Oh, it’s a whole novella. These guys were originally from Topeka, Kansas, touring as the Rising Suns, until fate said, “Nope,” and they had a bus accident so catastrophic it wiped out everything: transportation, instruments, sound equipment, stage clothes — probably even the drummer’s emergency stash of “you know what”.

They disbanded on the spot, which honestly feels fair. If the universe deletes your entire band in one swoop, you take the hint.  But the management company? Oh, they said, “We have shows booked, we are NOT losing deposits,” and immediately hired another Kansas band, slapped the name Rising Suns on them, and sent them back on the road like nothing happened.

They are considered to be one of the Midwest’s first interracial soul bands — fronted by “Big” Walter Downing (brother of "Big" Al Downing and Izzy Martin. And here’s the kicker: They toured until 1972. On the strength of a live show as they only had one 45. One. Single. Record. That’s not a career — that’s a magic trick.

After the dust settled, several members went on to join The Undisputed Truth, because apparently the Rising Suns pipeline leads directly into psychedelic soul.

Then in 2007, both versions — the OG Rising Sons and the replacement Rising Suns — were inducted into the Kansas Music Hall of Fame, which is honestly the most Kansas thing ever. “You know what? Everyone gets a trophy.”

And now I’ve got two of their probably 500‑pressed little artifacts sitting in my collection like a tiny piece of garage soul mythology.

Bobby Freeman - Everybody's Got A Hang Up / Oughta Be A Law

The Bobby Freeman songs I grew up hearing on the radio were the big, shiny, respectable Top 10 hits — Do You Want to Dance and C’mon and Swim — the ones that get invited to weddings and grocery‑store playlists. But you never hear this funky little troublemaker. And of course it’s a raver, because Bobby didn’t really do “subtle.”

Everybody’s Got a Hang Up managed to claw its way up to #122 on the Bubbling Under chart, which is basically the musical equivalent of being told, “We like your enthusiasm, kid, but you’re not getting into the club tonight.” And the B‑side? Oughta Be a Law — which feels like Bobby himself filing a complaint with the chart police about that #122 placement.

I picked this one up about a year ago and, in classic fashion, am just now getting around to spinning it. Bobby, meanwhile, moved from record label to record label with the frequency most of us change underwear — though honestly, Bobby might’ve changed labels more often.

I posted one of his other 45s before — probably my favorite — and I found that one in one of the most magnificent buys of my entire vinyl‑hoarding career. The kind of score that makes you feel like the universe briefly smiled at you and said, “Here, champ. You earned this.”

And yes… I am overdue for another big score. The vinyl gods know it. Cooper knows it. Even Princess Rian probably knows it.

Lynn Hope - Body And Soul/Sands of The Sahara

The morning ritual: Cooper drags you through the muggy streets like he’s training for the Iditarod, you shower off the humidity, slam enough coffee to wake the ancestors, and settle in for a little Lynn Hope detective work.

Before the detective work, it’s the spinning that’s the first step — the sacred initiation rite of the record‑obsessed. Picking up an early King 45 is basically spinning a musical roulette wheel: will it be R&B? A country hillbilly bopper? Jazz? A novelty record about “Mussolini Laid His Pistol Down?" Who knows! King Records was chaos with a catalog number. I honestly was expecting a female country singer named Lynn… and the record basically stood up, adjusted its turban, and said, “Absolutely not.” That’s the King Records experience in a nutshell. 

Sometimes you just need some sweet jazz — the kind that slides into your morning like it’s wearing silk pajamas and refusing to hurry. So when the A side turned out to be slow‑burn sax bliss, it felt like winning the vinyl lottery. That syrupy early‑jazz tone? Pure velvet. It drifted right into the same emotional neighborhood as Say It (Over and Over Again) — my favorite Coltrane track from “Ballads” and the sonic equivalent of staring out a rainy window while contemplating your choices for today.

The B‑side didn’t just play — it transported. One second you’re flipping a King 45, the next you’re drifting into a dreamlike trance where Lynn Hope is gliding into camp after a long trek across the Sahara, perched atop a camel who’s clearly tired of his nonsense. The air shimmers, the sand glows, and Lynn — turban immaculate, sax slung like a talisman — is greeted by a harem that’s been waiting all afternoon, lounging like they’re in a perfume commercial that never aired because it was too sultry for television.

It’s the kind of scene that only late 50's & early 60's King jazz can conjure: half fantasy, half folklore, all saxophone‑induced mirage. The music doesn’t just play; it summons. And suddenly you’re thinking, “Yeah, this tracks. This is exactly the energy of a man who wore a turban on stage and then vanished into spiritual devotion.”

And Lynn Hope… invisible and disappearing like a genie — the kind who doesn’t bother with lamps, just vanishes in a puff of saxophone smoke. One minute he’s drifting through the B‑side like he’s serenading the desert moon, the next he’s gone, slipping out of the music business with the same elegance he slipped into a turban. No scandal, no dramatic or public exit — just poof, gone. It’s the perfect exit for a man whose tone already sounded half‑mythical: poof, no more touring, no more King Records roulette, just a quiet fade into faith and mystery. Lynn Hope didn’t bow out — he evaporated. He slipped out of the music world the same way his sax lines slipped through a room: smooth, unannounced, and leaving you wondering if he’d ever been there at all.

Turns out he converted to Islam in the 1940s and later taught the Quran in a Philadelphia mosque, which honestly feels like the most dignified “I’m done with this industry” move imaginable. No press release, no farewell tour, no dramatic last‑album‑that‑nobody‑asked‑for — just a man deciding he’d rather trade nightclub smoke for spiritual clarity. It’s the kind of exit that makes you respect him even more: Lynn Hope didn’t quit music, he ascended out of it.

Tobin Sprout - Let Go Of My Beautiful Balloon /Shirley The Rainbow

Tobin Sprout might be the unheralded silent champion of early Guided By Voices — the guy in the corner quietly painting masterpieces while Pollard is duct‑taping microphones to ceiling fans and inventing new genres by accident. And as I’ve said before, I really need to share more GBV around here. If you know (and like) Guided By Voices, then you already get it: that magical, simple, lo‑fi clatter that sounds like it was recorded in a basement, a garage, and possibly a broom closet at the same time. What a band. They have never disappointed me — not once, not even on the weird releases with cover art that looks like a ransom note.

Tobin was part of the early incarnation, really stepping into the spotlight around Propeller and Vampires on Titus. And of course his contributions to Bee Thousand and Alien Lanes are nothing to sneeze at — unless you’re allergic to brilliance. When the original group disbanded, he dropped some solo releases that are genuinely wonderful (and yes, I only have promo CDs, not vinyl, which is a situation I need to rectify before the Vinyl Gods smite me).

He came back for the reunion run, stuck around for four years, and then — in true GBV fashion — the original group disbanded again like a garage‑rock version of Groundhog Day.

What’s consistent, though, is Tobin’s melodic sense and those unmistakable vocal stylings. This 45 proves it. Let Go of My Beautiful Balloon floats along with that lo‑fi simplicity: the strumming, the vocals, the “we recorded this with whatever was within arm’s reach” charm. It’s refreshing — a palate cleanser in a world obsessed with bombastic overproduction and plugins that cost more than my first car.

Sometimes you just need something simple, honest, and a little scruffy around the edges. Tobin’s always been great at that.

Billy Crash Craddock with The Blue Notes- Birddoggin/Millionaire

I think this is officially The Week to Catch up, because I’ve started dozens of posts with pictures, sounds, vibes, and good intentions… and then promptly abandoned them like stray socks behind the dryer. I have so many unfinished posts that they’re starting to get buried like the Sphinx — majestic, mysterious, and absolutely covered in metaphorical sand. I scroll endlessly through the digital desert, discovering half-written drafts like ancient artifacts: “Oh look, a post I started in May. How quaint.” All I need now are the words — you know, the part that keeps you, my faithful followers, entertained with my gloriously irrelevant musings.

Today’s excavation brings forth another North Carolina 45, and once again, one I had zero awareness of. Enter Billy “Crash” Craddock — Greensboro’s own, and a man whose name sounds like he should be jumping cars over flaming barrels instead of singing. In the ’50s and ’60s, Billy couldn’t buy a hit in the U.S. if he showed up at the Billboard offices with a suitcase full of cash and a plate of homemade biscuits. The charts took one look at him and said, “No thanks, we’re full — try again after Elvis leaves.”

But hop across the globe to Australia, and suddenly the man was a top charter. Not just “doing okay,” but “the Aussies have decided this guy is their new national treasure.” It’s like America handed him a polite rejection letter while Australia threw him a parade, a surfboard, and possibly a kangaroo. He was huge there — like “teen idol who causes fainting” huge. Meanwhile, back home, he was still stuck in the “please notice me” aisle of the musical supermarket.

It’s one of those great music‑history quirks: sometimes you’re ignored in your own backyard, but halfway around the world, people are losing their minds over you. But then the ’70s rolled in, bell‑bottoms flapped, mustaches thickened, and suddenly Billy became a full‑blown Country Music staple. It was like America collectively woke up one morning, stretched, yawned, and said, “You know what? We do like this guy. Let’s put him everywhere.”

After years of being ignored at home and worshipped in Australia, he finally hit that sweet spot where the U.S. charts stopped playing hard to get. He went from “Who?” to “Oh yeah, that guy!” faster than you can say Grand Ole Opry. By the mid‑’70s, he was basically unavoidable — the kind of artist who’d show up on every jukebox, every radio station, and probably every roadside diner that served coffee strong enough to dissolve a spoon.

It’s one of those great music arcs: Ignored→ Exported → Worshipped → Re‑Imported → Beloved. A true American boomerang.

I knew him from childhood road trips, when the parental units insisted on Country Music radio stations. Nothing says “family bonding” like being trapped in the backseat while someone croons Rub It In at you. That one was a #1 hit, as was his cover of Ruby Baby. The man basically took pop and rock songs, marched them over to the Country charts, and said, “Y’all mind if I set up camp here?” And the charts said, “Sure, buddy, pull up a chair.”

But before all that, he started out in the rockabilly trenches — as this 45 proudly demonstrates. It’s always fun when a record reminds you that even the most country-fried artists once had a pompadour dream and a guitar that needed to be slapped around a little.

Mercy- Fire Ball

This song didn’t just surprise me — it detonated. I wasn’t prepared. I wasn’t warned. No one handed me goggles or a helmet. Mercy, the same band responsible for the extremely polite, extremely well‑behaved Love (Can Make You Happy) — a song so gentle it could be used to soothe anxious houseplants — apparently had a B‑side that throws furniture.

Now, Mercy had two chart singles, and that A‑side hit #2, blocked from the top spot by The Beatles’ Get Back, which is honestly the most Beatles thing ever: “Oh, you wanted a #1? Cute. Good luck with that.” And Mercy still tours with the original lead singer, which is interesting and impressive and also completely irrelevant to the fact that I have owned approximately 47 copies of this 45 and never listened to the B‑side because… why would I? I knew the A‑side. It’s friendly. It’s melodic. It’s the musical equivalent of a warm handshake from a man named Harold.

So, I’m watching an online record auction — you know, the kind where the auctioneer plays a snippet of the 45 like they’re a DJ at a retirement home — and suddenly they play the B‑side. And I’m thinking: “You’re playing the wrong side, champ. Fireball is not the hit. “But then my brain goes: WHAT?! WHAT IS THIS?! WHO SWAPPED THE RECORD WHEN I WASN’T LOOKING?!

Because Fire Ball comes roaring out like Mercy suddenly decided to moonlight as a Psych band that drinks battery acid for breakfast. It’s loud, it’s wild, it’s unhinged — it’s the kind of track that makes you sit up straight and reconsider your entire filing system.

Naturally, I bid. Naturally, I won it for a buck. Naturally, I probably already have ten copies buried somewhere in my boxes, but I wasn’t taking chances. This was a spiritual awakening.

And now it’s filed in my collection, waiting for the day when I leave this earthly plane and some poor soul goes through my records and says: “Why did he keep this sappy Mercy 45 next to The Tamrons?” Flip the 45, buddy. Flip. The. 45.

Capitol City Five -I've Got Jesus / Born Again

I woke up exhausted again, which at this point feels less like a temporary condition and more like my brand. Yesterday didn’t help — I spent the day trying to organize the record rooms and straighten up the attic, which is basically CrossFit for vinyl collectors. Same sweat, same grunting, but instead of kettlebells you’re lifting 45 boxes that mysteriously gain weight every time you move them.

I had one of those hard plastic shelves that was holding on by sheer stubbornness, and I decided to replace it with a metal storage shelf. Naturally, this meant moving half the record room, my turntable setup, and possibly shifting the Earth’s axis. The plan is to stack some 45 boxes on it, plus the printer and modem, because nothing says “home organization” like balancing technology on top of gospel records.

Today, I’m paying for it. My body has filed several complaints.

The sleep situation didn’t help either. My wife needs noise at night, so the TV stays on — and not at a reasonable volume. No, no. It’s always some show where the acting is so bad it feels like the cast is reading cue cards written by someone who’s never met a human. I drift from dreaming about the TV show to waking up and listening to it, like I’m trapped in a low‑budget cinematic universe. If she puts on a biblical movie or documentary, though? Much better dreams. I’ll take ancient prophets over bad drama acting any night.

This morning I was so stiff my hot shower lasted longer than the walk Cooper and I managed. I’m hoping the coffee will finally clock in for its shift and jolt me into existence. That will help me with this week's lesson, which is nearly last week’s lesson continued? Another flea‑market gamble — another Capitol City Five 45. Blessings all around. Honestly, at this point they should send you a loyalty card.

Gasoline Powered Clock - Forest Fire On Main St. (Run, Run, Run)

Brilliant. Absolutely deranged brilliance. You have to admire 1960s bands for naming themselves like they found three random words in a junk drawer and dared fate to make them famous. Gasoline Powered Clock is already fantastic, but if they formed today, some streaming consultant would rename them Solar-Powered Smartwatch, give them a wellness newsletter, and make the drummer explain their brand pillars on a podcast. 

Their song “Forest Fire On Main St. (Run, Run, Run)” is catchy as hell—one of those songs that kicks down your front door, steals your shoes, and somehow convinces you to thank it as you constantly push the repeat button. I’ve seen it called “garage”, I’ve seen it called “soul”, and honestly, it sounds like both genres got into a fistfight while locked in a basement with a fuzz pedal and decided to work things out. The guitar hooks me right away, and the singer has exactly the right voice: urgent, Gary Lewis-ish, and just unpolished enough to make it feel dangerously alive. 

Apparently, this was their only 45, which feels perfect in the most 1960s way possible. Maybe they had one song, one afternoon, and one functioning extension cord, so they shrugged, flipped the tape over, and made the B-side an instrumental because civilization had already asked enough of them. Fair enough. It stands on its own merit, smells faintly of gasoline, and still manages to arrive with both hands full of fire.

Wayne Cochran - Some-A' Your Sweet Love/When My Baby Cries

Sometimes it rains, pours, and then life unpolitely reminds you your roof is older than Wayne Cochran’s hair routine. The washer’s joining the rebellion too, because apparently all my appliances formed a union overnight.

I’m not sure soul music can soothe this particular chaos, but I’m giving it a shot. And if anyone can distract me from home‑repair doom, it’s Wayne Cochran — the man whose hair had its own gravitational field and whose voice could probably fix a roof just by hitting the right note. I haven’t listened to him much, but Some-A' of Your Sweet Love and When My Baby Cries make it clear the guy had pipes strong enough to negotiate peace treaties.

Short. Sweet. Slightly soggy. Perfect.

Nino Tempo and April Stevens- The Habit of Loving You Baby/You'll Be Needing Me Baby

Naturally — because I operate on a personal timeline known only to me, the moon, and Cooper the wonder dog, I decided to record the A‑side second. Bold. Avant‑garde. A little “I refuse to be constrained by linear time,” which honestly is the correct attitude for a 1966 chart‑bubbler.

So, we begin with The Habit of Loving You Baby, the flipped over B side and suddenly the room gets bigger, the lights get dimmer, with it doing its best Righteous Brothers slow‑burn impression. It’s got that “lean in, kid, this is the emotional payoff” vibe. It carries the room. It opens like a slow curtain, the kind of production that stretches out its arms and fills the space. There’s a deep‑blue resonance that feels like it’s echoing off the walls of some long‑closed nightclub. It hits the spot because it doesn’t rush; it lets the emotion pool in the corners.

The proposed A side, You’ll Be Needing Me Baby, a track (written by David Gates)  that politely knocked on the door of the Hot 100, peeked inside, and said, “Ah, no thanks, I’m good,” before settling at #133. It’s got that mid‑60s sheen — the kind of song that imagines itself wearing a matching suit just like the singers are wearing.

And then there is the closeness of the singers…Look — Nino and April were brother and sister, but if you didn’t know that, you might assume they were… let’s say… sharing a single milkshake with two straws and making prolonged eye contact. Their harmonies have that “we’re either deeply connected or this is mildly inappropriate” energy.

Is that chemistry? Is that creepiness? Is that just the 60s being the 60s?  Honestly, it’s probably all three. The era specialized in “vaguely sensual but also confusing” duos.

And yes, this absolutely counts as fluff — but the good kind. The kind of fluff that feels like a warm towel fresh out of the dryer. The kind of fluff that makes you say, “You know what? Life is hard. Give me something with strings, harmonies, and a slightly over‑dramatic bridge.”

Sometimes you just need a little sonic cotton candy.

The Jags - Woman's World/Dumb Blonde

Powerpop Wednesday. I’m caffeinated. I’m spinning powerpop. I’m boppin’ like a nutzo with scholarly intent. Hump day is basically the musical equivalent of a B‑side: sometimes great, sometimes weird, sometimes you just want to flip the record and get to the weekend already. The Jags are exactly the kind of mid‑week chaos I support. It’s the sonic equivalent of slapping the snooze button, chugging a questionable amount of coffee, and deciding—against all evidence—that today might actually work out.

And The Jags? They didn’t just write hooks. They engineered industrial‑strength pop snares designed to grab you by the collar and drag you onto the dance floor like a cartoon character being yanked offstage by a vaudeville cane.

Woman’s World and Dumb Blonde are exactly the kind of songs that make your brain flip and activates the ancient vinyl‑collector gene buried deep in your DNA. Suddenly you’re pacing the room like a deranged archivist muttering matrix numbers under your breath, clutching a 45 like it’s the Rosetta Stone of jangly pop.

Early ’80s bands like this were everywhere—everywhere—but somehow also invisible. It was a golden era of bands with one perfect single, albums that deserved better distribution, labels that couldn’t market their way out of a paper bag, and record store clerks who acted like gatekeepers to a secret society of hooks and harmonies.

Half of them got lost in the shuffle, buried under New Wave haircuts, MTV neon, and the rise of synths that sounded like malfunctioning microwaves. But The Jags? They were one of those groups who could’ve been huge if the universe had rolled the dice differently.

The Chills Doledrums

Two years ago, the world lost Martin Phillips — a remarkable artist of rare sensitivity and imagination whose music shaped so much of what I love. I’ve written before of my love of the Chills and about how deeply he influenced me, and how that admiration opened the door to so many other New Zealand bands that have become woven into the soundtrack of my life.

I only had one direct interaction with Martin, and I’ve carried a quiet regret about it ever since. In 2001, he released the three CD collection Secret Box: Chills Rarities, which I ordered immediately. When it arrived, the special jewel case was damaged, and I emailed him to complain. He responded with humility and kindness, apologized, and sent a replacement without hesitation. Over the years, I’ve replayed that moment and recognized how misplaced my frustration was — as if he were personally responsible for whatever happened in transit. He handled it with humility and generosity, and I wish I had matched that.

With time, I’ve revisited that exchange and recognized how misplaced my irritation was — directed at someone who had poured so much of himself into his work, someone who had weathered struggles far greater than a damaged jewel box. Knowing now how difficult certain years were for him only deepens my regret. I’ve grown a lot in the twenty five years since then, and I’ve learned from moments like this. I wish I had written back, apologized, and simply told him how profoundly his music has meant to me — how inspiring it was to watch him persevere through challenges and continue creating beauty.  

I doubt he ever connected my name as a supporter of his documentary to that old email. He never struck me as someone who held onto small grievances or keep a ledger of human imperfections or kept score. Still, I carry the wish that I had offered him the gratitude he deserved.

Martin, wherever you are — know that you were cherished by countless people across this wide world, and that your absence is felt. Your music continues to echo, gentle and enduring, in all the places you once illuminated.

 

Dick Vance - Nuthin, Man Nuthin / Sharon Oh Sharon

I picked up this little oddball at the flea market a few weeks ago, and it’s the kind of record that makes you stare at the label like it’s trying to gaslight you. It’s listed as Dick Vance… yet the music is by Dominic and the Dominos. How do you even title this thing? “Dick Vance Presents Dominic & The Dominos Featuring A Mild Identity Crisis”?

Discogs claims Dick Vance was a rock & roll performer, which is interesting, because I’ve only ever seen two singles under his name. But then — plot twist — he was inducted into the Iowa Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 2000. Iowa! Rock & Roll Hall of Fame! My eyebrows did a full gymnast routine.

Digging deeper, I find out he wasn’t inducted as a performer at all, but as a disc jockey. Turns out he was a program director and DJ at KSO in Iowa from 1958–1964. Naturally, this raises the important question: was he spinning his own records on the air, or was that frowned upon? Because if I had cut a record back then, I’d be finding ways to sneak it into every set. Then again, maybe not. I stumbled across a web page from his time as a program director with a list of programing rules and they were strict. I’m fairly certain my blog alone would have earned me several trips to his office weekly before eventually being launched headfirst into unemployment and politely escorted out of the building and told never to darken their transmitter again.

But enough about Dick—let’s talk about Nuthin Man Nuthin — Can you imagine this thing getting airtime in Iowa of all places? “Sharon” was supposedly the A-side, which makes sense since it’s the safer, more respectable choice. It’s conservative, polite, the kind of song you could drop at a neighborhood barbecue and the crowd wouldn’t even flinch — it’s one of those perfectly harmless sides you keep in your crate for moments when you don’t want to scare anyone off. The kind of track that slips by unnoticed while you quietly judge everyone for not realizing it’s a minor footnote in the catalog of obscure regional doowop you’ve been evangelizing since 1998.

Nuthin Man Nuthin, however, is… not that. It opens with chatter, some noise, bird sounds, then someone yells “hey man, where’s the women?” like they’re lost at the wrong party, and then a guitar solo kicks in so hot it probably violated several Midwestern broadcasting ordinances. This is not cornfield‑approved content.

Dick Vance passed away in 2000 at the ripe age of 88, leaving behind a legacy of two singles, one Hall of Fame induction, and one extremely confusing 45 that now lives in my collection like a feral cat I’ve decided to adopt.

Capitol City Five - Blessed Are The Poor And Spirit/Something Within

Last night handed me the deepest sleep I’ve had in ages, the kind of slumber that should’ve reset my soul like a factory reboot — and yet I still woke up exhausted. Cooper and I managed a short walk, but I spent the whole time feeling like my eyelids were auditioning for the role of “heavy velvet curtains.” Even the coffee isn’t stepping up; it’s just sitting there looking pretty while I contemplate a power nap like it’s a religious calling.

Today’s lesson came from a flea‑market gamble I made a few weeks back — one of those blind buys where you pray it’s what you think it is, and it’s downright righteous when it actually is. The bonus revelation: the Capitol City Five were a North Carolina gospel group from Raleigh (which, yes, I should’ve pieced together from the name alone). Wilbert Jones on one side, James Thomason the other. Deep southern spiritual sounds drifting through a foggy morning… honestly, it’s the closest thing to caffeine that’s working.

The Troyes- Love Comes, Love Dies/Help Me Find Myself

It has been just a horrible week… My lower back decided to file a formal complaint with HR, where sitting and lying down became an Olympic event in discomfort, which meant sleep was basically a rumor. I was twisted up like a pretzel someone dropped behind the couch — the kind you find years later and think, “How was this ever food?” Then, in a bold act of self‑punishment, I went celibate from coffee and good food all week because I had a colonoscopy Friday. A colonoscopy. Truly the Super Bowl of indignities.

But it is the best 45‑minute sleep money can buy — It’s not just a nap. It’s a micro‑vacation. A budget‑friendly coma. A medical‑sponsored spiritual reset. The kind of nap that feels like you briefly slipped into a parallel universe where you wake up unsure of your name, the year, or why your wife is staring at you like you’ve been elected mayor of the recovery room in your half nakedness from the waist down glory.

So the lead‑up to that short blissful slumber? Oh, it wasn’t just rough — it was Brutal, Biblical rough. We’re talking about caffeine withdrawal headaches so intense they could’ve been listed as one of the lesser‑known plagues. I was one migraine away from grabbing a staff and parting the Red Sea. And now? This morning, after returning to another pain filled night with no sleep night,  I sit here treating this cup of coffee like it’s a sacred potion brewed by forest wizards. I’m sniffing it, swirling it, judging its legs like I’m performing a one‑person show called The Phantom of the Café. I’ve become the sort of person who whispers “caramel notes” into the void. I earned this

So yes, I feel like celebrating my morning coffee revival with sounds that bring joy, and I’m finally getting to this one on the blog — it’s been warming the bullpen bench for a while. I heard snippets on the web prior to purchase and immediately thought, Oh yeah, that’s mine now.

The Troyes. Why was this not a classic? “Love Comes and Love Dies” doesn’t just start — it pounds in like it’s kicking down your front door. They were signed to Ray Anthony’s Space label, which is such an odd pairing it feels like someone pulled record‑label names out of a hat.

And the picture sleeve? Smokin’. Gorgeous. A real collector’s trophy. Do I own it? Of course not. Will I ever? Probably not — unless I stumble across it in some cosmic garage sale where the universe decides to throw me a bone.

But the record itself? Pure joy. Exactly what a man deserves after a week of back pain, sleep depravation, caffeine celibacy, and medical adventures in plumbing.

Percy Sledge - Heart Of A Child/It Tears Me Up

I’m pretty sure this is the first Percy Sledge 45 I’ve actually listened to, which is frankly embarrassing because I’ve been acting like he only recorded When A Man Loves A Woman — the song that’s been played so many times it’s basically a federally mandated emotional PSA and if I am being honest one I never liked.

While When a Man Loves a Woman was his debut thunderbolt — straight to #1 like Percy personally elbowed his way to the front of the charts — It Tears Me Up cruised in at #20 as his fourth‑highest hit. But honestly? The B‑side is the one that sucker‑punches me right in the sternum. It doesn’t just “kick” — it shows up wearing steel‑toed boots and a bad attitude, ready to rearrange my emotional furniture. This one says, “Hey buddy, maybe stop judging me by the one song that’s been used in every wedding slideshow since 1966.”

And now I’m realizing I’ve got a whole colony of Percy Sledge 45s hibernating in boxes somewhere. At some point I clearly need to host a private Percy Sledge listening party, complete with snacks, beverages, and the kind of solemn commitment usually reserved for tax season. I’ll dim the lights, cue up the turntable, and let Percy personally remind me that he was way more than one slow‑dance classic.

Honestly, I’m a little excited. It’s like discovering a secret room in your own house — except the room is full of soul records and questionable musical choices.