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.

 

10,000 Maniacs - Like The Weather

I was working nights at a group home while attending Colorado State University when I first heard 10,000 Maniacs on college radio — back when college radio still felt like a secret society run by sleep‑deprived anthropology majors who believed deeply in the spiritual power of jangly guitars. Like the Weather wasn’t just a staple; it was the unofficial national anthem for those up and down Colorado weather days.

And every time I hear the line “Shiver in my bones just thinking about the weather,” my brain immediately drags me back to that one day I rode my mountain bike from class in a full biblical rainstorm. I wasn’t just soaked — I achieved maximum saturation, the kind of wet where your socks become philosophical and your backpack starts questioning its life choices. By the time I got to work, I looked like someone who had tried to commute through a car wash on purpose.

So with the weather we’ve been having lately, this song feels cosmically appropriate — like the universe is a DJ who only plays college‑radio deep cuts and decided, “Hey, remember when you were a soggy undergrad with a mountain bike and questionable judgment? Let’s spin that track again.”

 

The Lurkers - New Guitar In Town / Little Ole Wine Drinker me

A powerpop‑punk 45 like this in 1979 Colorado Springs would’ve been about as common as a unicorn working the counter at Woolworth’s. You could scour every strip‑mall record nook, every mall music chain, every dusty rack of “oldies” that smelled faintly of mildew and broken dreams — nothing. Not even a rumor. If someone did have it, they were probably the kind of person who also owned a Japanese import of The Lurkers and insisted British punk sounded better on “proper UK vinyl,” spoken with the confidence of a teenager who had never left the county.

The idea that even the hippest U.S. record store in ’79 stocked this? I mean… maybe. Maybe. But only if the clerk was some visionary who read Sniffin’ Glue, worshipped Stiff Records, and had a cousin in London who mailed contraband 45s in envelopes marked “religious pamphlets.” Otherwise, no — this thing wasn’t crossing the Atlantic unless it stowed away in someone’s suitcase next to a pair of platform shoes and a duty‑free Toblerone.

But The Lurkers are a defiant lot and show up anyway declaring there’s a new guitar in town, like they’re kicking down the saloon doors of punk and slapping a sheriff’s badge on a Telecaster. That guitar really is glorious — all the right crunch, all the right snot, all the right “we recorded this in a room with one working lightbulb and a borrowed amp.” It’s the exact DNA you want from a powerpunk single: fast, loud, catchy, and slightly unhinged.

And they sneak a little chaos on the B‑side. Because of course — of course — they sneak in a Merle Haggard cover. Punk bands in the late ’70s loved doing this: “We’re angry, we’re loud, we’re anti‑everything… also here’s a country tune because we contain multitudes.” It’s not even cover‑version week, but The Lurkers clearly operate on their own cosmic calendar.

 

Ronnie Self -Houdini /Bless My Broken Heart

My first brush with Ronnie Self came when I was about five, living in a drafty old three‑story house in Granby, Colorado — the kind of place where every floorboard had an opinion. In the basement sat my parents’ humble little turntable and Dad’s box of 45s. I don’t remember most of them, but three stood out like neon signs: Johnny Mathis, the Everly Brothers’ Bye Bye Love, and Ronnie Self’s Bop‑A‑Lena.

Fast‑forward a few years, and once I caught the record‑collecting fever, Dad suddenly found himself missing one Ronnie Self 45. I plead the fifth.

Ronnie earned the nickname Mr. Frantic, and his career zig‑zagged across Columbia, ABC, Decca, KAPP — basically every label that existed within shouting distance. Yet only Bop‑A‑Lena cracked the Top 100, landing at #63 for a single week. One week! How does a song come in swinging like a bar fight and then vanish like it forgot to pay rent? It’s not a polite exit. It’s a smoke‑bomb‑and‑sprint exit. It Houdini’d!

His songwriting career shone brighter: I’m Sorry and Sweet Nothings for Brenda Lee are still fixtures of American pop. He was often listed as co‑writer because he frequently borrowed money, and his manager Dub Albright needed a way to recoup the loans.

I’ve got several Ronnie uploads ready to go, and honestly it was a coin toss which one gets to sit in the waiting room for a month. Ronnie lived a heartbreakingly short life, passing at 43 after years of addiction, self‑neglect, and unraveling mental health. A frantic, gifted artist gone too soon, whose story deserves to be told with both admiration and care.

 

Wild Bill and and the Blue Denims - Mona My Love

My back has been as stiff as a surfboard lately — the kind you wax once and immediately regret. I’m doing the stretches, the exercises, and I finally retired my worn‑out work chair, which had all the ergonomic support of a milk crate. I put my new chair together yesterday, and while it’s definitely not the Cadillac of office thrones, I’m hoping the ride won’t leave me shaped like a question mark. I’ve spent enough years hunched over keyboards to qualify as punctuation; I’d prefer this chair not finish the job.

Monday Surf Question: When did surf music actually come crashing onto the shore?  Wiki claims 1958, which means this 1959 rocker sits right at the dawn of the wave — the primordial ooze of reverb, twang, and teenage bravado. Even if Gone Records was based out of New York, surf music didn’t care about geography; it cared about attitude, echo chambers, and whether your guitar sounded like it was trying to outrun a shark.

This appears to be the one and only release from Wild Bill and the Blue Denims — a band name that already sounds like a denim‑clad superhero team. I’m guessing after this single they were politely escorted out of the studio, possibly for excessive reverb usage or for insisting the engineer call them “Wild Bill and the Extremely Blue Denims.”

A noble beginning. A noble end. A perfect surf career arc: show up, shred once, vanish like a wave that refuses to explain itself. 

Van Morrison - Full Force Gale

Van Morrison has built a career entirely on his own terms — mostly by ignoring everyone else’s terms, shredding them, and then setting the scraps on fire while humming a mystical Celtic melody. But Van? Van just is. There’s a whole Van Morrison aesthetic that shows up across his albums: that majestic, mystical, “I have communed with the ancient spirits of Belfast and they gave me a saxophone” vibe. The musical extravagance, the lyrics that make you think deep thoughts you didn’t plan on having such as “Wait, am I supposed to be enlightened right now?”— it’s all part of the gravitational pull.   

So imagine my face when I looked at his ’70s discography and realized those albums — the ones containing absolute classics  — never grazed the US top 10. How did Wavelength or St. Dominic’s Preview not chart higher? Did the charts get lost? Did someone accidentally file Van under “Mystical Weather Events” instead of “Music”? Was FM radio too busy blasting songs about trucks, heartbreak, and questionable fashion choices?

He’s had three US top‑10 albums since 2008 — and I’ll confess, I don’t own them and haven’t heard them. Which means I’m basically the guy yelling “Justice for Van!” while simultaneously contributing nothing to the cause, -I’m part of the problem, but let’s not dwell on that.

And yes, he defiantly (correct spelling, correct attitude, correct level of eyebrow lift) was not a singles artist. Case in point: this weeks mail‑order arrival — a single I genuinely thought I already owned, proving once again that my memory is basically a block of Swiss cheese left out in the sun. I have no idea how Warner Brothers thought this track was going to chart. Don’t get me wrong — it’s fantastic, with those trademark vocals that sound like he’s simultaneously preaching, philosophizing, and gently reminding your soul that it hasn’t done its spiritual homework.

But if you were around in the late ’70s, you remember FM radio. And FM radio was… not this. Not even close. Throw in the spiritual angle and the thing sank faster than a cinder block tied to a crooked politician who thought he could swim his way out of trouble.

Majestic? Absolutely. Brilliant? Without question. Chart‑friendly? Only if the charts suddenly decided to embrace transcendental mysticism, powered enlightenment and the general vibe of a man who refuses to be rushed.

The Byrds - My Back Pages/Renaissance Fair

The Byrds do Dylan better than Dylan — and yes, I say that as someone who genuinely loves Dylan, harmonica wheeze and all. But those Byrds harmonies and chiming, cathedral bell guitars that jangle like a choir of caffeinated angels tapping on mason jars! During this era, the Byrds weren’t just good — they were operating at a level where the laws of physics politely stepped aside.

Even with Gene Clark leaving — which was basically the musical equivalent of losing your star songwriter, your emotional ballast, and the one guy who remembered where the car was parked — they still soared. And then there’s Crosby. Ah yes, Crosby. The eternal philosophical question: Was this the beginning of Crosby becoming Crosby, or was Crosby always Crosby and simply waiting for the right cosmic alignment to unleash maximum Crosby? You know exactly what I mean. The man was a walking personality eclipse and supernova. A chaos elemental with a harmony fetish.

Chart wise, the Byrds came out swinging with two #1 singles and then… promptly decided that was enough chart success for one lifetime. No more top 10s, only seven top 40 hits, and a reputation as “not really a singles band,” which is a travesty of cosmic proportions. Some of those singles should’ve been massive — like “My Back Pages,” which stalled at #30, probably because the public thought the Byrds were running a Dylan cover subscription service.

But the B side? Oh, the B side. Crosby and McGuinn cooked up a gem so good it should’ve come with a warning label. One of the finest Byrds tracks ever — the kind of song that makes you wonder why the charts didn’t simply apologize and start over.

Album wise, they had two top 10 LPs (one being a greatest hits, which feels like cheating, but we’ll allow it) and nine top 40 albums. And those early records? Some of the most beautifully crafted albums you’ll ever hear — shimmering, inventive, and absolutely bulletproof.

I still get geeky about chart positions — a side effect of early collecting days when Billboard numbers felt like sacred scripture — but in the end, it’s always the music. The charts can say whatever they want. The Byrds already wrote their legacy in 12 string ink and filed it under “We Told You So.”

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