Chandells - We Are The Ones/Little Girl, Pretty Girl

I picked up this Colorado 45 a few months ago via mail order, because nothing says “I’m living my best life” like buying obscure 45s sight‑unseen from strangers. I grew up about 30 miles from Pueblo, though at the time I treated it like a mysterious land beyond the horizon — the Narnia of southern Colorado, except instead of talking animals you get steel mills and green chile.

I didn’t spend much time there until my first year of college at The University of Southern Colorado (now Colorado State University Pueblo). And let me tell you, nothing makes you feel like a fossilized relic quite like applying to grad school at East Carolina University in 2010 and calling USC for your transcripts, only to hear: “Oh, those are in the archives… we’ll have to find them.” THE ARCHIVES. As if my academic records were ancient scrolls stored in a climate‑controlled vault guarded by a guy named Harold who hasn’t blinked since 1987. I half expected them to say, “We’ll need a team of archaeologists and possibly a priest.”

Back in March, I wrote about picking up 400 45s when I visited my mom — that guy lived in Pueblo too. I can only imagine the records his grandfather had that were already sold. Probably a treasure trove of stuff that would make collectors weep softly into their Discogs want lists.

Anyway, the only Pueblo 45 I remember ever finding in the dense wild was a copy of The Trolls (which I posted last year), and it was so beat up and warped it looked like it had survived a small house fire and then been used as a coaster. I sold it years ago and then found the PS and it took me 20+ years to find another copy. This 45 doesn’t have the raw power of The Trolls, but it’s got that charming Teen wannabe Garage vibe — like the band couldn’t decide whether they wanted to jingle jangle rock out or sit cross‑legged with acoustic guitars and talk about feelings. According to the Cogs of Discs, only 500 were pressed, and Norman Petty handled the Hammond and production. It’s not an expensive record, but it is a neat little artifact from the only 45 this group ever put out.

As for today: it’s the day I pick up my lawnmower, freshly resurrected from the brink of death like some suburban Lazarus. Then I get to mow the jungle formerly known as my yard. After that, it’s recording time — I’ve got some 12" singles, maybe a few LP cuts, and of course the 7" platters that are stacked everywhere like vinyl Jenga. Nothing like being your own boss… …until your significant other (the real boss) hands you the chore list with the kind of authority that makes HR departments tremble.

Mike & The Censations – Don't Mess With Me / There Is Nothing I Can Do About It

Friday Soul means the weekend is within sniffing distance. I’m a creature of habit—borderline professionally so. Certain days demand certain posts (Friday Soul being sacred ground), just like my mornings follow a script so predictable it could be syndicated.

At 4:45 a.m., the coffee pot fires up like a starter pistol. Somehow my sleeping brain hears it and says, “Alright, champ, let’s go suffer productively.” Next thing I know, my feet hit the floor.

I attempt some stretching—which is less “graceful yoga” and more “rusty robot trying not to fall apart.” Shoulders creak, neck protests, dignity questionable.

Enter Super Cooper, the Wonder Dog, who may or may not emerge from under the bed like a furry cryptid (long story for another exposé). I get dressed, pour coffee into the travel mug like it’s life-support fluid, grab his collar, and out we go.

We are lit up like a Christmas tree—because I’m fairly certain those early-morning drivers would love to add “human hood ornament” to their morning commute highlights.

We stick to our standard one-hour loop, because heaven forbid we introduce chaos. Weekends? Oh, we really let loose—we walk on campus. That’s right. Living on the edge.

Toward the end of the walk, we pass a thrift store with a security camera that chirps, “Hi, you are being recorded.” Every. Single. Morning. At this point, I assume there’s a highlight reel somewhere titled “Man Walks Dog: An Intimate Study of His Backside.”

Once a week, I’ll grab the free local paper and sit on the library bench like a retiree who accidentally wandered into my own life early. I read about the town’s latest financial “situation.” It’s not reassuring to know the people in charge are just as confused as the rest of us—fantastic B.S. all around.

Back home, I handle breakfast duties for Super Cooper and his feline overlords (let’s be honest about the hierarchy).  Then it’s shower time, where hot water bravely attempts (heroically, but with mixed results) to reverse decades of poor posture and questionable decisions.

Finally, upstairs to wrap up the blog post. I usually stay a week ahead—unless technology decides to remind me who’s really in charge (looking at you, last weekend). So yes, we’re currently in catch-up mode, population: me.

Alright, enough about my wildly thrilling, edge-of-your-seat existence—let’s get to the real reason we’re here…

The tunes.

I picked this up in Colorado Springs in March and all I can say is I’ve got a nose for these things. Sometimes you just know—and this one practically waved at me and said, “Hey dummy, buy me. You’ll thank me later.”

And I did. Oh, I did, and wow… did it deliver.

The tracks are smooth. Not just smooth—dangerously smooth. The kind of smooth that sneaks up on you and suddenly you’re nodding your head like you’ve got somewhere important to be.

1967? Absolute monster year! And this record? Criminally underexposed. Somehow flew under the radar—which feels like a personal insult now. The A-side has everything—horns that punch just right, a bass line that refuses to behave, guitar that knows exactly when to step in, and vocals so good they should come with a warning label. Background vocals? Just casually perfect, hanging in like they own real estate there.

Flip it over, and the B-side changes gears—slower, cooler, more deliberate. Same top-tier production, but now everything takes its time. The background vocals step forward like, “Yeah, we’ve been waiting for this moment.”

Flawless. Both sides.

I don’t remember exactly what happened the first time I dropped the needle—but I’m fairly confident it involved some ill-advised dancing, questionable rhythm, and a complete loss of self-awareness.  The kind of dancing that would end friendships if witnessed.

Not my finest visual moment.

But hey—it was my party…

…and this 45 absolutely stole the show.

The Blossoms - Lover Boy/My Love Come Home

I’ve been spending more time with the blog lately, which is either a wholesome creative outlet or a very elegant way of avoiding everything else on my to-do list. I tell myself it’s a positive distraction from the busy-ness of work life—and honestly, I’m sticking with that story or at least that’s the official position until a committee is formed.

Every now and then I wonder what retirement will look like in a few years, and the vision is clear: me, still chaotic, just with more daylight hours to rearrange the chaos. I already have a hard time staying focused on weekends, so clearly, I’m in training. Some Saturdays it feels like I’m moving one pile of 45s from one side of the room to the other, which gives the impression of progress while carefully avoiding the risks associated with actual progress. Then there’s the pile I need to lovingly clean and set up for my one-man listening party—attendance is low, but the host is enthusiastic- an event with excellent music, flexible start times, and a guest list that has never once caused trouble.  

Sometimes I find something in an unsorted and not yet excel documented box and manage to astonish myself, which is a nice trick when you’re the one who put it there in the first place. It really says less about discovery than it does about my filing system, a concept I use in the loosest possible sense

Man, I love these little platters. Take today’s pleasure: I posted a Blossoms 45 last year—Darlene Love incognito—and once again the credits do not disappoint. David Gates, later of Bread fame, was out here writing teenybopper songs before he set sail for the yacht rock waters of the ’70s. And naturally, Jimmy Bowen and Ernie Freeman are there too, providing that reassuring industry evidence that no one was simply guessing- they gave it that official stamp of “yes, this belongs in your soul.” These girl group sounds don’t just resonate with me, they knock on the door, let themselves in, and start rearranging the furniture quietly making it clear I no longer have full control of the premises

The Miss Alans - The Sad Last Days of Elvis Aaron Presley/Anatomy/Kangaroo/The Sad Last Days Of Elvis Aron Presley (Live On KCRW)

I’ve always had a soft spot for that delightfully slacker slouchy, “we-meant-to-do-that” sound—the kind that wanders in late, shrugs, and still steals the show. I mean, I come from the sacred age of Pavement and their wonderfully crooked charm, so it’s basically in my musical DNA.

Now, The Miss Alans? Total mystery creatures to me—until this scrappy little treasure tumbled into my hands like a thrift-store relic with a secret. And really, can we pause for the name? The Miss Alans. It sounds like a group of ghosts who almost introduced themselves properly but got distracted halfway through. I’m intrigued, mildly confused, and fully on board.

As for the songs—The Sad Last Days of Elvis Aron Presley and Anatomy—they feel like they slipped through a cosmic crack from an alternate universe where Nirvana recorded one more session, and Kurt decided to haunt these tracks personally. You can almost hear him lurking in the corners, fogging up the microphones.

Then—boom—Kangaroo. Not just any cover, but that Big Star gem handed down from the ever-enigmatic Alex Chilton. And here, it doesn’t just sit politely—it floats, it shimmers, it sort of gazes into the distance like it knows something we don’t.

And the whole thing? This humble little 45 clocks in at over 15 minutes, which feels less like a single and more like a pocket-sized odyssey…a mini-album that accidentally wandered into a smaller outfit and decided to stay.

Honestly, if this had “Nirvana” stamped across it, it’d probably come with velvet ropes and a triple-digit price tag. But instead? Two bucks. Two! A bargain for a parallel-universe séance set to tape.

Billy Storm & the Valiants - Walkin Girl / We Knew

Alright now, lean back and let the needle drop…

We’re talking about a man who couldn’t stick to just one name if he tried—Billy Storm when the lights hit the stage. Or should I say his birth name William E. Spicer… maybe Billy Jones… perhaps Billy Fortune … and if you were flipping over a songwriting credit, you might’ve spotted John Carson or Billy Carson. Yeah, this guy had more aliases than a late-night detective.

And he didn’t just move through names—he moved through groups. Back in his high school days, he was already cutting his teeth in a handful of  outfits like The Chavelles, and The Sabers— finding his sound, living that raw, restless life of a young musician. By the time the dust settled into a group called The Valiants, the name Billy Storm was the one that stuck. Between solo records in the later 60's he continued to be involved in groups like the Nuggets, Africa, and The Brothers & Sisters. This man did not sleep.

Now through the ’50s and ’60s, Storm was everywhere—recording on more than a dozen labels, chasing that sound, that moment. He even cracked the Billboard Top 40 during his time with Columbia. You crate diggers out there—you’ve probably spotted those Columbia or Loma 45s… but let’s be honest, that HBR pressing? That’s the one that seems to find you.

But tonight… oh tonight, we’re spinning a little slice of 1959 magic.

The A-side? It jumps right out of the speakers—whoopin’, hollerin’, with just a touch of Spanish flair to keep your ears guessing. It’s got that wild, late-’50s energy that makes you want to move without even thinking about it.

The B-side slows it all down. Smooth, tender, and full of that aching teenage sincerity. It’s the kind of record that doesn’t just play—it lingers. You can almost see it: a dimly lit gym, a Friday night dance, hands just a little unsure where to go, hearts beating louder than the music. It’s that moment where the noise of the world fades out, and it’s just the two of you swaying in time, hoping the song never ends.

And that’s where “We Knew” really settles in.

For me… it’s a time machine. Straight back to high school. Me and my girl, thinking we were smooth… slipping past curfews, stealing moments, convinced we were getting away with just a little bit more than we should’ve.

But you know how it goes…

Our parents… hers, mine… they’d just look at us with those knowing eyes.

Didn’t matter how clever we thought we were.

They already knew.

And oh yeah… they always knew.

Roy Wood - The Premium Bond Theme

Surf Monday has, quite unapologetically, packed its little surfboard and toddled off elsewhere this week. No crashing waves, no sun-bleached guitars—just a polite note left on the door: “Back soon (perhaps).”

Instead, we’re wandering down a different beach entirely—one where the sand sparkles a bit oddly, the tide hums in orchestral tones, and genres politely ignore the dress code. Surf Monday, it seems, has traded its flip-flops for velvet boots and a mischievous grin.

And honestly…who’s to say Monday can’t have an identity crisis now and then? So Roy Wood—ringmaster of The Move and early ELO—isn’t exactly riding the surf? Pish-posh! Who needs waves when you’ve got swagger this tidal? This cheeky little B-side struts in like it owns the saloon, and—oh!—the label whispers (with a conspiratorial wink) that every single instrument is Roy himself. One man, an entire orchestra. A musical octopus in platform boots. Honestly, rather dazzling.

And the title? Oh, it practically twirls its mustache and declares, “That everyday James Bond theme? How quaint. For the masses!” No, no—Roy is brewing up the deluxe edition, the velvet-rope version, the one served with a sparkling umbrella and a knowing smirk.

It conjures a most peculiar daydream: James Bond wandering into the Old West, spurs jangling, martini mysteriously intact…perhaps rubbing shoulders with Robert Conrad in The Wild Wild West. Honestly, I half expect Roy to leap from behind a cactus and take over that theme song too. Why stop at Bond when there are so many melodies begging for a proper Roy-ing?

Imagine it: Roy Wood and the Great Theme Songs (yes, yes, not the most original title—but heavens, who would complain?). Picture him gleefully dismantling The Good, The Bad and The Ugly—of which the movie- the gloriously long extended version—is one of the greatest films ever to tip its hat at the sun.

But alas, until I acquire Roy’s secret contact scroll and pitch this grand scheme, we must content ourselves with this particular interpretation…which, to be fair, is already twirling a baton in its own marvelous little universe.

The Gospel Cavaliers of New Orleans, La - Bye and Bye/Jesus My Shining Star

When Tech Support Costs More Than Therapy (and Gospel Saves the Day)

I’m convinced these technology companies have us exactly where they want us—confused, frustrated, and reaching for our wallets.

I’ve been wrestling with my ReadySHARE setup for longer than I care to admit, and yesterday I made the bold, dangerous, life-altering decision to “just reinstall everything.” You know—the kind of decision that feels productive in the moment and quickly turns into regret.

You already know how that went.

Somehow, I managed to get the downstairs router back online. Small victory. But the upstairs router—the one I bought just last September to make ReadySHARE dreams come true—refused to connect to anything. Not the internet, not my devices, not even reality- no hint of cooperation. It just sat there. Blinking. Judging me.

So I did what most of us end up doing: I called tech support. That’s when I got the line: “Technical support is only available for 90 days after purchase.”

Ninety days. What is that—a free trial for basic functionality?  After that? You pay. And pay I did—$99 and two hours of my life—working through the issue with a tech who I’m pretty sure I frustrated just as much as I was frustrated and I’m fairly certain the tech was reconsidering their career choices thanks to me.

To be fair, we eventually got the internet back up, which at that point felt like a miracle and I nearly stood up and clapped. But ReadySHARE? Oh no. That’s going to require another call… another day… and probably another exercise in patience.

But seriously— let’s talk about this 90-day nonsense for a second. You mean to tell me I can spend good money on a router—and not a cheap one—and after three months, I’m basically on my own? That’s not support. That’s a countdown.  

Ironically, now I do have a year of support—because I paid for it. And trust me, they are going to earn every cent of that $99. I might call just to say hello. “Hey, it’s me again—you remember, the ReadySHARE guy”. They’re going to hear from me until ReadySHARE is working the way it’s supposed to.   

At this point, I could keep going. I could spiral into a full rant about blinking lights, firmware updates, and the emotional damage caused by Wi-Fi issues. But instead… I’m going to let it go. Because today is Gospel Sunday. And honestly, that’s probably the only thing that kept me from throwing that upstairs router out the window.

I’ve been digging through some of my old boxes lately and came across a record that reminded me why I love music so much. I’ve always liked how gospel groups named themselves—The Gospel Cavaliers of [Somewhere, USA]— There’s something about it that feels proud, grounded, and real. No marketing team needed

The soul of the A side pulls you in and you are grooving, then you flip it over, and sometimes the B-side feels like it wandered in from a completely different universe. Maybe it’s just me, but the B-side on this one has a sound that reminds me a lot of the Manhattans’ “Shining Star.” That same smooth groove, same kind of soul—but with that gospel spirit running through it.

Whether that connection is real or just something I’m hearing, it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that feeling—the shift from frustration to something grounding, something joyful, something bigger than a router that won’t cooperate. And just like that, I went from arguing with a router… to sitting back and smiling at a record.

No passwords. No updates. No support fees. And that’s the balance, I guess. Technology might test your patience… but music? Music soothes your soul.

  

Dalek/Engam: The Blackstones- She Tells Me With Her Eyes / You Don't Know Better

The computer arrived yesterday and I dove headfirst into configuration mode last night, continuing my heroic efforts today. I must have blocked out just how much of a marathon it is to get a computer set up with all my beloved links and programs—pretty sure I’ll have this thing just right by, say, the next presidential election. Still, I have to admit, a few parts of the process have been shockingly smooth—turns out technology has actually been paying attention while I wasn’t looking.

On a totally different note, I recently picked up this 45, and let’s be honest—any time I see a label screaming “Collectors Series,” my inner skeptic goes on high alert. But apparently, this one’s the real OG deal. I mean, with a name like Dalek Engram: The Blackstones, you can’t help but wonder—was this cooked up during a late-night sci-fi binge or an epic band name generator session? At least the motivation for the songs is clear: they deliver a delightful dose of 60’s jangle that’s impossible to resist. Beam me up, retro grooves!

The Contours- Shake Sherry/You Better Get In Line

I finally took the plunge on a new computer. Over the years I’ve owned just about every major brand, but the last two have been Samsung. The one I’m typing on right now has been my favorite computer of all time—steady, loyal, and only occasionally acting like it needs a nap. Lately, though, it’s been giving me little fits, so I’m retiring it to the noble realm of recording songs, where computers go to live out their golden years.

Naturally, you’d assume I bought another Samsung. Naturally, you’d be wrong.

I bought a newer Samsung about five years ago,when this machine needed some repairs on the plugin and I thought it was done for. The newer Samsung was so uninspiring it’s been demoted to backup duty—basically the bullpen pitcher who only comes in when the starter’s arm falls off.

But back to the new machine.  I’ve been impressed with my work ThinkPad and with its versatility. So for the last few months I spent alot of time browsing Lenovo’s site and a few other retailers like a man studying ancient scrolls, trying to find a machine that can keep up with my multitasking chaos. Best Buy had some tempting options, but then I learned many were third‑party “upgrades” that souped up those machines but they void the warranty- an exciting gamble I did not feel like taking. Hard pass.

I finally narrowed my choices, and on Sunday I decided to take the plunge — nothing dramatic, of course, just the kind of move that suggests I’ve quietly known what I was doing all along.  I tried to buy my chosen machine on the Lenovo site- Payment failed. WTF. I left it in the cart with all the smooth patience of someone giving it space to come to its senses, and it repaid me by acting like I was the problem. Monday I log in and—bam—Lenovo drops the price by almost $200. Apparently, they missed me.I called them and they sorted out the payment issue — graciously confirming it was their mess, not mine — and I ordered it immediately. It arrives today, and I’m fully prepared to ride this thing like a speed‑freaking‑machine, with the calm composure of someone who absolutely intends to cause a little stylish chaos.

As for today’s 45: The Contours - Criminally underrated group released a lot of quality sides, some covered by other groups, and this one was their second‑highest Billboard hit (#43 pop, #21 R&B), and it should’ve charted higher. It deserved more love. I always see Contours 45s out in the wild, but it’s always the same handful. So, enjoy Sherry Shake, a double‑sided soul groover while I wait for my new digital hot rod to show up.

Doug Sahm And The Tex Mex Trip - Groover's Paradise / Girls Today (Don't Like To Sleep Alone)

Doug Sahm previously wandered onto the blog three times with the Sir Douglas Quintet — a band I’ve quietly, then loudly, then permanently filed under “a favorite go‑to listen.” I recently picked up a stock copy of this 45 to keep my promo company. Being the completist I am, of course I gathered them all. It’s instinct at this point — like a cat batting at a dangling string, except the string is a discography. 

And the LP… well, that’s a whole archaeological dig. I bought an import copy from an antique store twenty years ago, and if memory serves, it’s Spanish — though I’ll admit I was far too lazy to excavate it from the shelves to confirm. Years later, during my stint in the VMP club, an orange‑vinyl reissue arrived like a little neon blessing.

Both sides of this 45 find Doug in fine form. Girls Today (Don’t Like To Sleep Alone) was one of the standout tracks for me on the LP — the moment where that Tex‑Mex and Country pulse really kicks the door open and lets the sunlight pour in. It’s got that groove, the border‑town sway, the feeling that somebody in the band is wearing sunglasses indoors for reasons no one questions.

Doug, meanwhile must’ve had a gravitational field for record contracts. The man collected labels the way the rest of us collect coffee mugs we swear we won’t break. Every time you turn around he’s on another imprint, another lineup, another “this time it’s gonna stick” moment. You don’t bounce around that much unless you’ve got a personality big enough to charm, confuse, and possibly overwhelm an entire A&R department before lunch.

His chart success with the Sir Douglas Quintet was before 1969 and afterwards he had one lonely top‑200 solo LP on the Billboard charts and one solo 45 chart hit — at #100 on the country charts, of all things. A man who should’ve been a household name but instead became a cult‑hero footnote.

Thankfully, YouTube has become a kind of digital shrine. There are full television concerts floating around — especially those Austin City Limits performances — and they’re absolutely worth sinking into. Sahm in his natural habitat: loose, joyful, and unmistakably himself.

Robert Forster - Baby Stones/The Land That Time Forgot

Robert Forster, the powerhouse co‑founder of the brilliant Go‑Betweens, blasts out pure independent magic with this obscure debut solo 45—and the fact that it’s a promo makes it even sweeter. My Go‑Betweens stash keeps growing: albums, 45s, the works, and they’ve even made appearances on this blog before. Somehow, Robert and his bandmates remain criminally overlooked here in the States, but they’re a huge part of why my love affair with Australian artists stays loud, proud, and very much alive.

Guided By Voices - Alex Bell/Focus On The Flox

Guided By Voices (GBV) making their first appearance on this blog feels like one of the greatest crimes of the blogs sixteen‑year existence— the kind of crime that would get you banned from Discogs forums and quietly judged at every record show within a 200‑mile radius.  Sure, there were the lean years — the stretches where the drive sputtered out of me, or when some malicious link (scamming bastages, every one of them- may their styluses forever mistrack) hijacked the blog and turned it into a digital haunted house. But still… GBV deserved better from me.

My love affair with them started back when I lived in Denver. My friend Craig was a Scat Mail Order zealot — the kind of guy who bought everything they touched, possibly including packing slips and air from the warehouse. When Scat signed GBV, they still had quantities of the early records lying around, and Craig scooped them all up like a man preparing for a future where vinyl becomes currency and only the righteous survive. Then he did the noble thing: he shared them with me.

I, meanwhile, was broke. Not “I’ll wait for payday” broke — I was “I’m choosing between ramen and gas money, and ramen is winning” broke. So, I didn’t buy my own copies. Craig had an original Propeller, and I could’ve had one too. If I’d known what that record would someday be worth, I would’ve sold plasma, furniture, and possibly a distant relative to get it.

From Vampires on Titus onward, though, I’ve been there — buying the albums, the 45s, the EPs, the releases that appear without warning like Pollard woke up from a dream and said, “Yes, the world needs another 7-inch with a photocopied sleeve and hooks that could catch a whale.” The catalog is staggering, a labyrinth of hooks, fragments, and melodies that sound like they were recorded in a basement, a garage, and a broom closet simultaneously. And Robert Pollard remains the King of Rock in a realm where the King is somehow still unknown to the masses — which honestly feels perfect. If he ever did become mainstream, half the collectors would immediately panic‑sell their entire GBV section out of sheer identity crisis.

The Monarchs IV – Surge / Weekend

It’s brutely scorching outside — the kind of heat that feels personally offended you dared to exist. Luckily, Cooper and I are early‑morning creatures, sneaking out while it’s still dark enough that the sun can’t tattletale on us. He struts around like he’s running a secret society of dawn‑patrollers, and honestly, I’m just honored to be his plus‑one.

I didn’t get much recording done this weekend… my ADHD staged a tiny, adorable mutiny and I spent two days hopping between half‑projects like a gremlin with a clipboard. Monday morning drag music comes from an April session — Past Me tossed Present Me a little stash like, “You’re gonna need this, buddy.”

The Monarchs IV revved things up on “Surge” like they were trying to jump‑start the entire weekend. Meanwhile, I was over here wishing someone would jump‑start me.  Anyway, I’m tossing the doors open for requests — go ahead, try to stump the ole chump and his record collection. I dare you. I double‑dog dare you. Cooper triple‑dog dares you, and he plays for keeps. He’s already pawed through the shelves and picked something obscure just to mess with you. He lives for this.

Brother Prince Dixon - I'm Glad I'm Free/ In The Spirit Of The Lord

WAKE UP, MY FRIENDS, because the spirit isn’t just stirring — it’s kicking the doors off the hinges this morning. Brother Prince Dixon just delivered the kind of soul‑medicine that hits harder than a week’s worth of struggle. After the days I’ve had, this record didn’t just play… it ROARED, it JUMPED, it shot pure hope and holy optimism straight into my chest like gospel adrenaline in 45‑RPM form

And you already know when it comes to these Peacock 45s, I’m a hopeless case. I’m knee‑deep, heart‑deep, spirit‑deep baptized in that sound. But this one? This one feels like the moment the choir stands up, the organ swells, and the whole room catches fire.

From what I can tell, this might’ve been Brother Prince’s very first release — and if that’s true, then the man didn’t just hit a homerun… he sent that ball into the next county and had time to shout “GLORY!” before it landed. A little digging shows he later rose to fame in the ’70s lifting souls with the Jackson Southernaires, and even led his own Gospel Caravan like a man who knew exactly where the road to joy was paved. And get this — there’s a whole documentary about it streaming for FREE! That’s not a suggestion — that’s destiny. Sounds like the perfect date-night flick for me and the missus, because she’s got the spirit too- it will be time for feet up, hearts full, spirit fed.

The Yellow Payges - Jezebel/ We Got A Love In The Makin

It’s been a week — and not the charming kind people put on inspirational calendars. No, this one came with the good, the bad, and the kind of ugly that makes you stare into the middle distance and reconsider your life choices.

The good: Cooper the Wonder Dog and I have been tearing up the streets on our early‑morning walks like a couple of retirees training for the Senior Olympics. Spirits high, steps counted, squirrels intimidated.

The bad: My wife gave me a magnificent 22‑ounce Father’s Day coffee mug — a heroic vessel capable of holding enough caffeine to keep me marginally functional. I managed to keep it alive for three days before gravity and my own clumsiness teamed up to assassinate it. Of course.

The ugly: Last month I bought new tires for the ol’ Chevy Colorado, which felt only slightly less invasive than donating a kidney. Then, a week ago Friday, some renegade metal stick decided to reenact a jousting tournament with my sidewall. The tire lost spectacularly. Thankfully, the warranty covered it, because apparently I’ve already sacrificed enough organs to the automotive gods.

And yet, here I sit, surprisingly zen. It’s the weekend, and my biggest crisis is choosing the final cover‑version post of the week — a problem I’ll gladly take over, say, another tire impalement. I’m already “planning” next month’s cover version series, (and by “planning,” I mean I’ve said out loud that I’ll probably do it).

Today’s pick comes from a group that deserved far more love than they ever got. I’ve owned all their 45s and their lone album — the kind of collection that makes people squint and say, “Who?”. Their final single peaked at #102 on Billboard’s Bubbling Under chart, which is basically the musical equivalent of being told, “You almost made varsity, champ.”

But their second 45? That one slaps. They tackle the classic “Jezebel” like Mark McGwire swinging for the fences — minus the pharmaceutical assistance. And the B‑side? Also a scorcher. Another forgotten 45 sinking gracefully into the swamp of music history… and, naturally, into my collection.

Otis Williams And The Charms - I Fall To Pieces/Gotta Get Myself Together

Otis surprising singing I Fall to Pieces is one of those cosmic jokes the universe slips into the crate just to see if you’re paying attention. I’m not convinced he ever heard Patsy Cline’s version, and I’m positive she would’ve given him that slow, disappointed head‑tilt teachers reserve for kids who eat paste. He rushes through the song so fast the fall doesn’t even have time to register — it’s less “tragic heartbreak” and more “oops, tripped on a rug, moving on.”

And yet… I want more. Because somewhere out there, Otis recorded a country album in 1971. A whole album. Country. Otis. This is the kind of magic that keeps crate‑diggers awake at night, staring at the ceiling like, “Did he yodel? Did he wear a hat? Did he mean it?” I want it in my hands yesterday!

Before all this chaos, he was out there with the Charms in the mid‑’50s, polishing that sweet Doo Wop shine until it gleamed. Things were going fine until the Army showed up like an overzealous mall cop and escorted his career off the premises. He came back swinging with some Okeh soul 45s, but success kept dodging him like it owed him money.

Honestly, the man might’ve had a shot if anyone had bothered to flip the record over. Because that B‑side? That’s the real fire. That’s where Otis stops being polite and starts being Otis. I can see it perfectly: the lights low, the stage vibrating, the go‑go girls swirling around him like a technicolor tornado while he tears into Gotta Get Myself Together like he’s trying to convince both the audience and himself. “Gotta Get Myself Together Right Away, Hey, Hey Hey…” he shouts, and you can practically hear the drummer thinking, “Buddy, same.”