Game Theory - Throwing The Election

I voted Saturday. This election matters. In fact, every election matters if you happen to enjoy things like democracy, accountability, and not having your tax dollars treated like someone else's casino bankroll.

I don't care whether you're a Democrat, Republican, Independent, or a member of the "Leave Me Alone, I'm Organizing My 45s" party. No politician is above the law, and elected officials work for us, not for their political parties. If you're a crooked politician, you should be shown the door. If you're buying votes, you should be escorted through that door at high speed. Integrity shouldn't be a campaign slogan; it should be a job requirement.

So that's my public service announcement: Vote. More importantly, vote for integrity and not fabricated issues to distract us from the real issues being dumped on us. Now, back to another subject that inspires fierce loyalty and occasional heartbreak: records.

I recently wrote about how much I love Game Theory. I bought this LP brand new when it came out and was genuinely bummed when the band called it quits. "Throwing the Election" was always one of the standout tracks for me, though honestly the entire album is fantastic from start to finish.

Fortunately, Scott Miller went on to form The Loud Family, and I happily followed along and became a devoted fan of that chapter as well.

When Omnivore reissued the Game Theory catalog, I purchased this release with absolutely no hesitation whatsoever. Because that's what collector geeks do. We spend years hunting down original pressings, then happily buy the reissue anyway, just in case there might be one bonus track, a slightly different liner note, or a photo we've never seen before. It's not a hobby. It's a highly specialized form of rationalized madness.

The Citations - Moon Race/Slippin' and Slidin'

The Space Race was in full throttle during the surf era, and apparently you didn't need to live anywhere near an ocean to catch the wave. The Citations prove the point, blasting off from Wisconsin and aiming straight for the Moon with all the enthusiasm of a garage band armed with reverb and big dreams.

Like a lot of surf bands from the heartland, they understood that geography was merely a suggestion. No beach? No problem. Just crank up the Fender and imagine Lake Michigan is the Pacific Ocean.

They even dusted off the vocals for a run through "Slippin' and Slidin'," showing they were capable of more than instrumental lunar exploration. Unfortunately, their recording career was brief, producing just two 45s before vanishing into the great record-collector mystery file in the sky.

But the story has one final twist. The guitarist eventually resurfaced in a Wisconsin disco band, proving that while surf music may have launched him toward the stars, polyester and a mirror ball ultimately pulled him back to Earth.

The Palace Brothers - Idle Hands Are The Devil's Playthings

Back when I lived in Denver, I worked nights at a group home and met my friend Craig, another employee whose musical rabbit holes seemed to have no bottom. If there was an obscure label worth knowing, chances are Craig already owned everything they'd ever released. Sub Pop, Drag City, Scat Records, Estrus... he was my unofficial graduate school in underground music.

Craig didn't just collect records, he lived them. He even started his own label, Honeyman, released a Bassholes 45, and at one point owned one of only two known copies of an unreleased Jim Sheppard (V3) 45. A few years ago he sold it for serious collector money, proving once again that sometimes the weirdest records become the most valuable.

I'd spend entire days at his house listening to records, borrowing stacks to take home, and having my musical horizons stretched far beyond where they ever would have gone on their own. One day he put on this Palace Brothers LP he had just picked up. By the time it was over, I was heading straight to Wax Trax with my wallet already surrendering. My record collection is infinitely deeper, stranger, and better because of Craig.

These days I'm in North Carolina and Craig's in Maryland, but we still talk at least once a week. The last time we met up was in Norfolk about four years ago. That feels less like "recently" and more like a warning label that says: Road Trip Required.

As for Idle Hands Are the Devil's Playthings, the title still holds up. These days it's hard enough keeping your mind on the straight and narrow without the nonstop circus of news, social media, and general world chaos doing its best to drag your attention in twelve directions at once. Sometimes the best antidote is simple: put on a good record, drop the needle, and let the rest of the world wait its turn.

The Detergents - Igor's Cellar

I end Halloweenie week with The Detergents, one of those odd weird footnotes in pop history. Most people know Ron Dante as the voice behind a parade of fictional hitmakers like The Archies and The Cuff Links, and later as one of the people helping steer Barry Manilow toward superstardom. Yet here he is lurking in a parody group whose shelf life somehow stretched for two years, several TV appearances, and one delightfully unexpected B-side. While Ron Dante is known as the voice in those other fictional groups, the voice on this particular slab of vinyl wasn't Ron at all, but Danny Jordan, who sadly left us in 2024. Danny's name rang a bell because he was also a member of The Court Jesters, whose two excellent 45s on Roulette I posted years ago. Naturally, that realization triggered the familiar collector's curse: "I should really re-upload those MP3s, take better photos, and repost them." Just what I needed... another project. My growing pile of projects now has projects of its own.

Igor's Cellar was the B-side of the second-to-last Detergents 45 and, it’s part novelty record and part garage-rock basement experiment. It rattles around like something that escaped from a mad scientist's basement laboratory, complete with breaking beakers, flickering Tesla coils, and poor Igor dutifully sweeping up after another monster mishap. The song has enough raw garage energy to stand on its own, even if it arrives wrapped in the group's trademark sense of absurdity.

As for Igors’ Cellar, it's a reminder that sometimes the best surprises are hiding on the flip side of a novelty record, waiting in the shadows while Igor throws the switch and hopes this experiment works out better than the last one.

Hot Blood - Soul Dracula

I wrote that I’d invite Dracula in for coffee, but that’s not entirely true. The only coffee he’d be getting is the blood flowing through my veins, and I’m not exactly in a sharing mood.

I’ve never been much of a vampire fan. My wife, on the other hand, treats vampires as a year-round hobby. October just kicks things into overdrive. If it involves fangs, capes, ancient curses, or mysterious castles, she's watching it.

I picked this up last year and figured, why not? If Dracula is going to show up on my turntable, he might as well arrive aboard the Disco Soul Train. Somewhere between Transylvania and Studio 54, the Count apparently traded his coffin for platform shoes and decided eternal life needed a better dance beat. Maybe immortality isn't a curse. Maybe spending eternity promoting novelty disco records is.

Personally, if I’m inviting any vampire over for breakfast, it’s Count Chocula. At least he leaves cereal instead of bite marks and doesn't spend 400 years trying to launch a disco career.

One record! Ah-ah-ah! Two records! Ah-ah-ah!

Hugh Barrett and the Victors - There Was Fungus Among Us/Got The Bull By The Horns

My posts were absolutely exploding for about a week. We're talking nearly ten times the normal views. Then, just as suddenly, they dropped back to earth like a UFO whose parking meter expired. I have no clue what caused the temporary surge. Perhaps the Algorithmic Fungus Network detected my page and spread spores throughout the internet. Maybe a secret colony of music bots became obsessed with obscure 45s before wandering off in search of another digital mushroom patch. The truth remains hidden deep beneath the forest floor of social media.

I harbor no illusions that I'm doing anything revolutionary here. Mildly interesting? Perhaps. Worthy of a SiriusXM executive pounding on my door and offering me a once-a-month DJ slot? Highly doubtful, especially after hearing my voice, which has all the broadcast smoothness of a chainsaw being tuned by a raccoon.

Today's offering is the one-off single from Hugh Barrett And The Victors, There Was Fungus Among Us. I picked this up in a box lot last year where there happened to be two copies. The first was cracked, prompting a colorful stream of language that would have caused nearby mushrooms to curl up and die. A few records later, I discovered the second copy and was forced to issue a heartfelt apology to the universe for my verbal outburst.

When I hear "fungus," my mind doesn't go to biology. It goes straight to mutant spores, zombie outbreaks, and The Blob. That movie scared the living daylights out of me as a kid. There was something deeply unsettling about an unstoppable goo silently consuming everything in its path. Looking back, maybe that wasn't a movie. Maybe it was just a metaphor for record collecting.

Monks Of Doom - The Insect God

I'm not much of a horror movie fan. Give me vampires, werewolves, zombies, or any other supernatural creature that politely announces its arrival and I'm fine. But spiders? Bugs? Any creepy-crawly thing with more legs than common sense? Absolutely not. The very thought makes my skin start scheduling emergency evacuation procedures.

Every other year or so, our house becomes the filming location for a nature documentary called Me vs. Eight-Legged Terror.

For some reason, giant spiders decide our front yard is prime real estate. And when I say giant, I mean they're approximately the size of Cincinnati. Scientists may argue with that measurement, but scientists have never walked face-first into one of these monstrosities at 5 a.m.

These creepy little architects spend the night constructing enormous webs stretching from the tree to the ground right across our path. Not off to the side where sensible creatures would build them. No, directly where Cooper and I are guaranteed to walk the next morning.

Nothing gets the heart pumping quite like strolling through the yard in the dark and suddenly spotting a massive web suspended in front of you. It's the closest I've ever come to discovering a hidden superpower. If startled badly enough, I'm convinced I could clear a six-foot fence without touching it.

Of course, Cooper is no help. He just happily trots along while I'm scanning the horizon like a paranoid cryptid hunter searching for signs of arachnid invasion.

Thankfully, this was one of the years they skipped town. No webs. No eight-legged nightmare fuel. No impromptu cardiovascular stress tests before sunrise. I'm not saying the spiders hold conventions and only visit every other year. I'm just saying the evidence is starting to pile up, and I'm not brave enough to attend the next meeting.

The good news is I survived past encounters. The bad news is I probably used up ten years' worth of courage in a single early morning. If vampires ever show up at my door, I'll gladly invite them in for coffee. But if a spider the size of a nickel appears in my bathroom, expect to hear a grown man screaming from several counties away.

So here we have the "Insect God" and a poem that blurs the line between reality and the uncanny, I always loved how this one explodes out of the gate:

"What has become of Millicent Frastley? Is there any hope that she is still alive?"

Now that's how you open a record.

I bought this new back in the day because I was already a huge Camper Van Beethoven fan and knew about their side project. Back then I was happily throwing money at mail-order catalogs from every interesting Washington State label I could find: Sub Pop, Estrus, C/Z. Buying this was less a decision and more a reflex.

The 10-inch picture disc is absolutely gorgeous, but thankfully the music lives up to the packaging. Far too many records treat the artwork as the main attraction and the songs as an afterthought. Not this one.

Years later I discovered the song was adapted from an Edward Gorey poem of the same name. Gorey was still alive when this was released, which makes me wonder if he ever heard it. Did he smile approvingly? Did he raise a skeptical eyebrow? I'd like to imagine Gorey emerging briefly from a cloud of ravens and Victorian gloom, listening with perfect indifference, then pronouncing it “reasonably bleak” before disappearing back into the ether.

Because if you stop and think about it, this is a remarkably strange piece of writing. A missing girl, unanswered questions, lingering dread, and a uniquely piece of writing making the absurd feel unsettling and the unsettling feel oddly funny. It reads like a supernatural mystery narrated by someone who has seen entirely too much and plans to explain none of it. Looking at the illustrations online, I can imagine a parent flipping through the book in a bookstore in 1963 and thinking, "Oh, what charming drawings..." only to find themselves several pages later wondering, "Wait...this is for whom exactly?"

The Monks understood the assignment perfectly. They created a musical backdrop that feels like wandering through a foggy cemetery with a faulty flashlight while a distant voice calmly recounts events that are becoming increasingly impossible. The result is charming, creepy, intelligent, and just weird enough to linger in your brain long after the needle leaves the groove.

Much like poor Millicent Frastley herself.

R. Dean Taylor - There's A Ghost In My House/Don't Fool Around

I took a half day off yesterday to get my tire fixed. Thankfully it turned out I had just run over something that punctured it, so the shop patched it up quickly. For once, automotive drama arrived as a short story instead of a full-length novel.

However, they informed me they "couldn't" get the spare tire back under the truck because the fastener was "stuck." Being a longtime student of learning how to muddle through either repairing things correctly or mucking them up, I pulled into a large parking lot afterward and decided to investigate. Having never lowered or raised the spare before Sunday, I fully expected an engineering nightmare. Instead, I gave it a little tug, the cable came down smoothly, and I was able to get the tire slipped right back into place. Amazing what can be accomplished when someone actually tries.

The day's second battle involved the washing machine repair company. Apparently the replacement part being shipped directly to me instead of them created some level of cosmic disturbance (and probably impacted their reimbursement). After a bit of discussion, interpretation, negotiation, and what might qualify as hostage diplomacy, they finally agreed to come out Wednesday. With any luck, my washing machine will once again be an appliance rather than a large decorative monument to unfulfilled potential.

Knowing the roofing crew may start work today, I spent part of the evening recording songs before several days of mandatory silence arrive courtesy of hammers, compressors, and gravity. At this point, this blog has become part music page and part therapy session where I process minor disasters through obscure records. That'll be fifty dollars please.

As for today's selection, does "Ghosts" count as a Halloween song if it's really a metaphor for lost love? I say yes. Heartbreak can be terrifying. Especially when your evening plans involve eating cold SpaghettiOs straight from the can while staring into the middle distance and wondering where things went wrong.

Two years ago, I posted the version by The Fall. In a confession that may cost me my Record Collector License, I never paid much attention to the songwriting credit and had absolutely no idea it was a cover version until I picked up this copy earlier this year. Then the dots connected.

R. Dean Taylor is primarily remembered for "Indiana Wants Me," although someday I hope to own the red vinyl promo copy with the picture sleeve because apparently I enjoy expensive, unnecessary quests. But this double-sided soul monster deserved to be a massive hit. Instead, it followed the familiar path of many great records: ignored by the masses, adored by collectors, and eventually priced high enough to make grown adults mutter obscenities at record shows.

Naturally, I paired it with one of the classic Motown Hitsville sleeves because sometimes the music, the label, and the artwork line up so perfectly it feels like destiny.

Or maybe the ghosts made me do it.

The Phantom Five - Graveyard/Cool-It

Yesterday was one of those "the universe giveth and the universe immediately demandeth payment" kind of days.

The good news? I spent the day digging and found a 45 I'd been forced to part with about 25 years ago when my wife went out on disability and bills had priority over vinyl dreams. I paid more than I wanted to, naturally, but still managed to get it for less than current market insanity, so I'll call that a win.

The bad news? On the way home, one of my tires decided it had reached an early retirement age and blew out on a busy freeway.

Now, despite owning this truck for years, I had never actually changed one of its tires. This led to an educational roadside seminar titled "How the Hell do I get the Spare Tire out from under the Truck?" After much crawling around, creative vocabulary, studying page 301 of my owners manual and several negotiations with gravity, I finally got the spare down.

Unfortunately, the tire appeared to weigh roughly the same as a small moon.

By the end of the ordeal my hands looked like I'd been wrestling barbed wire, my shoulders were filing formal complaints, and my old bones were questioning every life choice that led me to that shoulder of the freeway. But somehow I got the tire changed and made it home.

What makes this even weirder is that I bought a full set of expensive new tires for the Colorado back in May. In June, the right rear tire got impaled by a metal pipe and had to be replaced. Thankfully warranty softened the blow. Now, just a few months later, it's the exact same tire causing trouble again. Either that corner of the truck is cursed or it has developed a taste for roadside debris.

So yes, I reunited with a long-lost record yesterday as well as 88 other's that will grace my turntable. But apparently the crate-digging gods charged a flat tire, several layers of skin, and half my remaining youth as the admission fee.

Back to Halloweenie week.  Who can resist a label that looks this cool and surf instrumentals that hit with all the subtlety of a rogue wave? Everything about this 45 screams Halloween. You've got a band called The Phantom Five, which immediately raises important questions. Were there actually four previous Phantoms? Did those "Phantoms" vanish before the photo shoot? Or were there five band members and they figured nobody was going to conduct a paranormal headcount on what happened to the previous Phantoms? I'm far too lazy to investigate, and frankly, the mystery is part of the charm.

The artwork alone looks like the band just finished a leisurely stroll through a graveyard, stopping only to admire how impossibly cool they are. In my mind they're all wearing sunglasses despite the fact that they're ghosts and it is probably midnight.

I picked this one up from my friend Jesse last year, proving once again that some records don't need a famous name, a hit single, or a Discogs essay the length of a doctoral thesis. Sometimes a killer label, a wonderfully ridiculous band name, and enough reverb to wake the dead are more than enough.

Halloween Radio Spots....S s s s s s s" & Young Frankenstein

It's Halloweenie season, peeps, and as is tradition around here, I'm kicking things off by taking a hard left turn into Weirdsville.

I had a few spooky grails on my want list this year, but despite my best efforts, they continue to elude me like a reasonably priced original garage 45 at a flea market. At this point, I've got several years' worth of Halloween posts squirreled away, so if I ever do find those missing monsters, something else is going to get bumped into a future year's lineup. It's becoming less of a Halloween series and more of a haunted scheduling problem.

I picked these up nearly a year ago as part of a larger haul from a guy who occasionally opens up his magical "Wherehouse," a place where records seemingly reproduce in the dark when no one is looking. As luck would have it, I get to go digging there again today. YIPPIEE! Somewhere between the excitement and the caffeine, I've already mentally spent money I haven't handed over yet.

What makes these especially interesting is that they're the first radio spots I've ever found in all my years of collecting. Thousands upon thousands of records have passed through my hands, but radio spots? Practically mythical creatures. Maybe they were hiding behind all the Herb Alpert albums.

Now, these aren't the scariest recordings ever made. Nobody's sleeping with the lights on after hearing them. But they're delightfully oddball, which is often even better.

"SSSSSS... once this picture sinks its fangs into you, you'll never be the same. Touch your skin... it's scaled. Look for your legs... they're gone. Feel your body... it's cold. Listen for the hissing. Don't say it... hiss it."

I mean, come on. How freaking cool is that? It's the kind of gloriously over-the-top copy that makes me miss an era when advertisers apparently thought the best way to sell things was to turn people into reptiles. While not a "horror" movie fan...I do think I want to try to find this one to watch! The movie poster advertisement is AMAZING!

And then there's Mel Brooks. Really, who can resist Mel Brooks? The man could probably record himself reading a lawn fertilizer label and I'd happily sit through it twice.

I've got a few more of these radio spots tucked away, and they're weird enough that they'll probably deserve a future megapost of their own. Because if there's one thing record collecting has taught me, it's that no matter how strange the item in your hand may seem, there's always something even stranger waiting in the next box.

Nova's Nine - Pain/Why Listen

Yesterday I went to the office for the first time in several months. Now, normally that sentence wouldn't qualify as exciting news, but this trip came with a side quest.

About six months ago I stumbled across a little junk shop on a secondary highway and asked the owner if he had any records. His answer was, "They're in storage and I'll try to get to them." Every time I'd stop by after that, I'd get the same answer, usually followed by, "Don't worry, I'll set them aside for you and won't let anyone look before you."

At that point I figured this was one of those promises that would join the ranks of New Year's resolutions, political campaign vows, and my washing machine repair timeline.

So, on my way home at lunchtime, I stopped again and asked if he'd found those records.

"Come with me," he said.

Those are dangerous words for a record collector.

We walked into the shop and he told his daughter, "The guy for the vinyls is here." Apparently I have now achieved a level of local fame where I am known simply as The Guy for the Vinyls.

He pulls back a tablecloth and underneath are milk crates of LPs, plastic totes full of 45s, and a footlocker packed with albums. His daughter says, "We were afraid you weren't coming back." Turns out they had been holding these aside for me for over a month.

The pressure was suddenly on.

I move a few lp's on top of the 1st 45 tote (Andy Williams and Firestone Christmas lp- not promising) and grabbed a handful of 45s from the first tote and the first two 45s I pulled were a Hank Williams MGM EP with the cover and a Johnny Cash Sun EP with its cover, both in surprisingly nice condition.

Before getting too excited, I asked the all-important question:

"How much are you asking?"

Anyone who's dug records long enough knows this is the moment where dreams either soar or get run over by reality.

"You can have them all for $50."

I probably handed over that money faster than a contestant hitting the buzzer on Jeopardy.

At that point I hadn't even looked through any of the boxes. For all I knew the foot locker was fifty pounds of Andy Williams and Firestone Christmas LPs with a few records sprinkled in for decoration. But I like the owner, he buys estates and auction lots regularly, and I wanted him to remember me as a good customer instead of the guy who haggled over fifty bucks.

I didn't have time to dig through everything until after work. One box of 45s turned out to be entirely promos. The Good. Unfortunately, many looked like they'd spent several years in a barn conducting weather research. The Bad. But they were old country, easy listening- The Ugly and that was good news. But in the other totes were some interesting Northern Soul, and a bizarre mix of 1980s rock picture sleeves alongside more Johnny Cash Sun EPs.

The LPs were a mixture of soul and country, easy listening, with many of the lp's in rough shape, but the footlocker held some pleasant surprises: late-'60s and early-'70s white-label promo albums by artists I've never heard of and, best of all, in pretty respectable condition. Those are the records I'm most excited to hear.

Will many of the trashed records be headed to the great recycling bin in the sky? Absolutely.

Did I find enough good stuff to make the deal worthwhile and share some records with friends? Without question- one box had 80s country 45s in wonderful condition and I have a friend who will groove on that.

Meanwhile, on the home front, my washing machine remains very committed to its retirement. The repair company appears to have devoted the same level of urgency to fixing it that sloths devote to NASCAR.

They've allegedly been waiting on a part for over a month. After repeated attempts to get answers that produced roughly the same results as shouting into a well. At one point I was about ready to channel Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction and start reciting the "great vengeance and furious anger" speech, although probably with a few modifications involving appliance repair and customer service. Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed and I contacted Electrolux directly.

Electrolux asked which part was needed. I told them that getting information from the repair company required skills usually reserved for hostage negotiators and archaeological expeditions. The shop had already informed me they couldn't get the part through Electrolux.

Funny thing about that.

Electrolux contacted them, found out the needed part, and promptly informed me they're shipping it directly to me next week.

So at the moment Electrolux has solved more problems in 24 hours than the repair company has solved in a 3 months. And let's be clear, this isn't exactly an endorsement for Electrolux. When a nine-month-old washer breaks down, we're already well past the point where anyone should be taking a victory lap. Credit where it's due: they stepped in, contacted the repair company, figured out the mystery part that apparently required the investigative skills of Sherlock Holmes to identify, and are sending it directly to me. That's more progress than I'd seen in weeks. Still, I'd much rather be praising a washer for washing clothes than praising a manufacturer for helping me navigate a repair process on an appliance that just celebrated its first birthday and only worked 3/4 of the year.

In the meantime, enjoy this one-off single from a North Carolina band. Some folks call it garage soul. I hear more soul than garage, but either way, nobody has to wait a month for a replacement part to enjoy it.

Jose de la Vega - Ode to A Hijacker / Coffee, Tea or Cuba

A little Latin obscurity that followed me home from the flea market this past summer. The sleeve looks like it lost a bar fight, got run over by a shopping cart, and then spent a decade in someone's attic, but there were two copies of the 45 sitting there, daring me to take a chance. Thankfully, years of record collecting have taught me that sometimes the roughest-looking sleeves hide the best surprises. I rolled the dice and I'm glad I did.

And then came the part that really made me do a double take. One of the co-writers is none other than Dickie Goodman, the undisputed king of the break-in record. Now, when I think of Dickie Goodman, I think of hearing Mr. Jaws on the radio as a kid and all those wonderfully goofy records he cranked out over the years. I've picked up more than a few Goodman 45s in my collecting adventures, but finding his name attached to a Latin record? That was definitely not on my bingo card.

Which naturally raises an even bigger question: Who was Jose?

This appears to be a one-off release, with almost no trail to follow. No obvious history, no stack of follow-up records, no easy answers. Just a mysterious Latin 45, a battered sleeve, Dickie Goodman lurking in the songwriting credits, and a guy named Jose who seems to have vanished into the mist of record-collector mythology. 

Of course, that's part of the fun. If every record came with a complete biography, detailed liner notes, and a Netflix documentary, there'd be a lot less excitement in digging through flea market boxes on a hot summer morning. Sometimes the best records are the ones that leave you with more questions than answers.

For now, Jose remains a mystery. But somewhere out there, I'm convinced at least three people know exactly who he was, and two of them probably can't find their reading glasses.

Over the last few years I've developed a real appreciation for Latin sounds and Boogaloo records, which has also encouraged me to gamble a little more on the oddball, overlooked, and downright mysterious singles. After all, if every purchase made perfect sense, what fun would crate digging be?

And speaking of mysteries, are you ready for Halloween? I've got some wonderfully obscure seasonal oddities lined up that may have been heard by fewer people than have actually read the record labels they were pressed on.

After that, I'll have to dig through the shelves to see what I can uncover for Veterans Day and Thanksgiving. And as for Election Day... let's just say I have a surprise planned. No matter which way the votes go, I can guarantee the song will be far more obscure than any candidate.

L. H. And The Memphis Sounds - Double Up /House Full Of Rooms

I have questions. Lots of questions.

Was L. H. And The Memphis Sounds actually from Memphis, or did they simply borrow the Memphis name because it carried a little extra weight on the Southern soul circuit? Did they pack up a station wagon, point it west, and somehow end up in Hollywood long enough to cut a couple of records for a California label? And when those records didn't launch them into the big time, did they quietly head back home with their tails between their legs?

Or am I being completely unfair here?

Truthfully, I have no idea what I'm talking about. And maybe it doesn't even matter.

What I do know is that "Double Up" and "House Full of Rooms" are two absolutely killer sides.

"Double Up" sounds like someone walked into the studio and announced, "Let's use everything." You've got organ, bluesy guitar, punchy brass, soulful vocals, and just enough saxophone to remind you that nobody was interested in subtlety that day. It shouldn't work as well as it does, but somehow they threw the entire kitchen sink into the pot and let it simmer in pure passion.

Then there's "House Full of Rooms." The slower B-side. The one that sneaks up on you. Soulful, bluesy, and so deep in the groove that before long you're no longer listening to the record, you're living inside it. It doesn't demand attention. It earns it.

That's the beauty of collecting old 45s. Half the time I'm chasing stories that may never be fully answered. The artists disappear, labels come and go, and the trail often goes cold long before Google was invented. But every now and then a forgotten little slab of vinyl reminds me that history isn't always about who made it big. Sometimes it's about two songs that still sound fantastic sixty years later.

The world feels a little brighter every time I drop the needle on a record like this. And honestly, that's reason enough for me to keep digging.

Update Time

Last week I posted The Church Columbus and I thought I had a promo copy of The Church's "Columbus" on 45. As it turns out, my memory was apparently operating on the same level as a worn-out styrene pressing. After a little investigation, I discovered I did not own the promo after all.

Then, as fate, temptation, and collector OCD would have it, I stumbled across a cheap copy online last week. At that point there was really only one possible outcome. Resistance was futile. The order was placed.

The 45 arrived yesterday in beautiful condition and now sits proudly in the collection, proving once again that record collecting is less a hobby and more a series of financially questionable decisions justified by tiny label variations.

I have updated the Columbus post to include the promo copy- say: Thank You.

The 45's -Couldn't Believe A Word

This one has several things going for it right out of the gate. First off, the name. The 45's. As someone whose life has been happily derailed by little seven-inch pieces of vinyl and has devoted an unreasonable amount of shelf space, spare cash, and brain cells to 45s, I feel obligated to support any band that understands my particular vinyl-based affliction.

Then there's the fact that it's on Stiff Records, a label that never seemed interested in following the rules when they could write better ones. They zigged when everyone else zagged. Stiff built a reputation on releasing records that were smart, quirky, and gloriously uninterested in fitting neatly into anyone else's box. This single carries that same spirit.

And then there's the song itself, a catchy little gem that sounds like it was assembled by people who loved hooks and melody. It's got that power-pop punch I can never resist, but what really grabs me is the organ. On paper it feels like a questionable engineering decision. In practice, it works so well that after about thirty seconds your brain simply accepts it and starts filing paperwork declaring it essential.  

Most importantly, this one has earned the highest honor available in this household: Super Cooper the Wonder Dog's Seal of Approval. Granted, his review process mainly involves ear positioning, tail movement, and whether he decides to leave the room, but standards are standards. On this occasion, the verdict was overwhelmingly positive. And really, who am I to argue with such a distinguished canine critic?

If Stiff Records was built on the idea that great music should be clever, fun, and a little eccentric, this 45 proudly carries the company banner

Remember When - Lone Ranger

Here is an oddball 45 and, if I'm being honest, not usually my cup of coffee. I picked it up as part of that massive haul about four years ago and only recently got around to giving it a proper spin. The A-side did absolutely nothing for me, which is exactly why every record collector should follow the sacred commandment: always flip the platter over. Sometimes the treasure is hiding on the side nobody bothered to mention.

Thankfully, that was the case here. The flip side delivers some surprisingly appealing doo-wop flavored sounds, which is not what I expected from a 1988 release. It's like finding a vintage diner jukebox hiding inside a Reagan-era time capsule.

As for the title, I was never much of a Lone Ranger fan. I knew who he was, of course. Much like Lawrence Welk, the Lone Ranger seemed to exist primarily so older generations could ask, "You know who this is, right?" while looking disappointed when you didn't.

What I do remember is the bizarre episode where Clayton Moore, the original Lone Ranger, was sued for appearing in public wearing the Lone Ranger mask. Imagine spending decades becoming synonymous with a character only to be told, "Sorry, you're no longer allowed to be the guy you've been playing your whole life." The lawsuit stemmed from a new Lone Ranger film that was on the horizon. The studio apparently felt there was room for only one masked man on horseback.

The irony, of course, is that the movie ended up riding straight into obscurity while Clayton eventually got the right to wear the mask again. Sometimes the good guys really do win in the end. Meanwhile, this forgotten little 45 has probably provided more entertainment in my house than that movie ever did.

So saddle up, flip the record over, and enjoy a lesson that applies equally to vinyl and life: sometimes the good stuff is hiding on the other side.

The Raiders - Stick Shift/Skipping Around

Back to some surf instrumental sounds for this cold, brisk morning. After two days of weather-related and sleep-deprivation-induced inactivity on my part, Super Cooper the Wonderdog finally got his much-anticipated morning walk. To be fair, neither of us exactly bounded out the door like extras in a dog food commercial, but once I bundled up and accepted my fate, off we went. We didn't skip down the street, but we managed a respectable pace and both returned with our dignity mostly intact.

Today's selection comes courtesy of my friend Jessie. I was all set to buy this one from him, but instead he slipped it into my package for free. That's the kind of generosity that keeps record collectors convinced humanity still has a fighting chance. I'd never come across a Canadian Vee-Jay pressing before, so naturally I had to pair it with a U.S. Vee-Jay sleeve I rescued from a box of orphaned sleeves. Some records find their forever homes. Some sleeves do too.

These Raiders came out of Texas and, if you check cogs of dis, you'll see a "(9)" attached to the band's name. That's what happens when several groups decide that "Raiders" is the perfect band name and nobody bothers to consult future record collectors. Of course, that didn't seem to concern Mark Lindsay's outfit when they shortened their name to simply The Raiders. Once you've had a string of hits, trademark anxiety tends to become someone else's problem. Raiders (9) were active in their local scene and apparently kept busy entertaining Texas audiences, but they never managed to break through on a national level. Fortunately for us crate-diggers, obscurity often makes for the most interesting discoveries. After all, if every record in our collections were hits, digging wouldn't be nearly as much fun.

I've also been busy recording a few other things for the coming week, and the Halloween stash is officially ready to go. In fact, I may have gotten a little carried away. By my calculations, assuming no further acquisitions, no sudden bursts of Halloween enthusiasm, and absolutely no realistic record collector behavior, I probably have enough spooky tunes lined up for the next two years. Of course, we all know that's exactly the sort of prediction that guarantees I'll find another stack of Halloween records by next weekend.

Yvonne Jackson/ John, Ron and Bill - What Could Be Nicer/Another Step Toward Heaven

What a great way to start the day: a 45 that seems to have vanished from recorded history. I've found absolutely no reference to it anywhere, though I'm guessing it may be a Virginia release since Danville appears on the label. Then again, I've been wrong before, usually with great confidence.

Truth be told, I'm cheating a bit with this post. I'm still awake watching the Colorado game, and since Saturday morning's post arrived fashionably late, I figured I'd give Sunday a head start before common sense suggested sleep.

The A-side, What Could Be Nicer featuring Yvonne Jackson, eases you in gently. It's the musical equivalent of a Sunday morning sunrise, calm and reassuring. Then you flip it over to Another Step Toward Heaven and suddenly all restraint leaves the building.

This thing is FIRE.

Apparently the song was so powerful it couldn't be contained by one vocalist. It took three of them, John, Ron, and Bill, to deliver the message. The result is pure electricity. Not the kind currently running up my utility bill, but the sort that leaps out of the speakers like a holy bolt of spiritual lightning. The rhythm crackles, the vocals soar, and before long you're not taking another step toward heaven, you're practically being launched there.

Obscure records are one of life's great blessings. Sometimes you spend years hunting for the rare and celebrated only to have an unknown little 45 appear out of nowhere and remind you that joy, much like grace, often shows up where you least expect it.

So while I should probably be sleeping, instead I'm sitting here marveling at another forgotten gem rescued from obscurity. Maybe that's part of the fun of collecting records: every once in a while you are rewarded for your persistence with a revelation spinning at 45 RPM.

Amen to that.

Game Theory - Nine Lives to Rigel Five/The Red Baron

Good plans have a funny way of going completely off the rails. At 1 a.m., the wind and rain decided to tag-team my cable and internet, knocking both out until about 2:45pm. As a result, Cooper and I missed our walk, which I'm pretty sure he views as a personal betrayal on my part.

Since I suddenly found myself disconnected from the modern world, I headed to the laundromat to wash clothes. Why? Because the washing machine is still waiting on parts from the repair company. Three months. Three Months. At this point I'm convinced the replacement parts are being hand-forged by medieval blacksmiths somewhere in the mountains of Eastern Europe.

What really boggles the mind is that we live in an era where Amazon can parachute a package onto your front porch before you've finished ordering it, yet somehow a washing machine part requires the sort of logistical planning normally associated with a moon landing. Anyway, with laundry drying and my patience on permanent backorder, I decided to salvage the day by driving an hour to the thrift store. As any record collector knows, questionable decisions often lead to excellent discoveries. A little while later I emerged with a mess of 45s, a few albums, lighter in the wallet, heavier in the collection, and still somehow closer to finding obscure 45s than the repair company is to finding a washing machine part.

More deep cuts, this time from Game Theory, which in my mind occupied that rarefied level of college radio known as the underground underground. The band that made even the cool kids seem commercial. The bigger mystery, though, is how I managed to go this long without uploading them to the blog. My organizational system apparently rivals my filing system, which is to say it occasionally resembles a controlled archaeological dig.

During my junior year at Colorado State University, I had a roommate who tolerated my increasingly obsessive musical pursuits. One day we were watching a local music video show and they played Game Theory. That was all it took. I immediately lost my mind and, as was often the case in those years, concluded it was now my destiny to acquire everything Scott Miller had ever touched. Rational financial decisions were quietly escorted from the building.

That collecting impulse continued years later when Omnivore reissued some of the catalog on 10-inch vinyl during a Record Store Day. Naturally, I paid far more than necessary because I was convinced the entire world would soon discover Game Theory and these records would become impossible to find. As it turns out, the entire world failed to consult me before making its purchasing decisions, and now copies can be found for considerably less. Such is the burden of being decades ahead of an imaginary market.

Recently I came across this radio station copy (cheap, I might add very cheap). The cover looks like it survived a minor natural disaster, but it came with the original press release, which immediately overrode all common sense. Normal people saw a beat-up cover. I saw bonus paper ephemera and heard angels singing. Silly geeky me.

And honestly, I miss Scott Miller. Few songwriters could pack so much intelligence, emotion, wit, and humanity into three-minute pop songs. "Nine Lives to Rigel Five" still dazzles with its brainy charm, while "The Red Baron" captures that bittersweet internal tug-of-war that comes with relationships and all the hopes, fears, and self-inflicted complications we bring to them. Decades later, the songs still land. Scott Miller burned bright, left us far too soon, and remains one of those shooting-star songwriters whose brilliance continues to illuminate the corners of the musical universe for those willing to go digging. More Game Theory to follow