The Templearies- He Spoke/What Will Heaven Have In Store For Me

Yep, back to familiar Sunday territory thanks to the Peacock label and this wonderful one-off 45. It sounds like the Templeaires strutted into the studio carrying fire, cut a record possessed by conviction, and then walked out wrapped in the Holy Spirit, the gospel equivalent of a garage-band 45. A group appears from nowhere, cuts a transcendent record, and then vanishes so completely it's as if the session itself was the entire mission never to be heard from again.

That mystery is one of the things that keeps drawing me back to gospel 45s. Why did some groups manage to survive for decades while others left behind a single glorious flash before disappearing into the fog of history? Some built careers, some built legacies, and some only left a witness.

Maybe that's part of the lesson. In gospel music, success isn't always measured by longevity. Sometimes a group is called to sing one song, press one record, touch a few hearts, and move on. Decades later, collectors like us stumble across that testimony in a dusty crate and wonder what became of them.

The Templeaires may have vanished from the scene, but the spirit they captured in those grooves is still very much alive. Not a bad epitaph for a one-off 45.

Neil Griffin & The Music Men - Brown Bag/What Can I Do

I picked this one up earlier this summer. The label probably doesn't mean much to most people, but when I see a 45 like this, it jumps out at me like a glow-in-the-dark voodoo doll in a dark alley.

First, there's the sheer plainness of the label. That's usually my cue to go into full detective mode and do two things: check where it was recorded and check the label number.

In this case, Step 2 immediately set off my Regional Record Geek Alarm. It was recorded at Arthur Smith Studios in Charlotte, North Carolina. And if you've followed my collecting habits for more than five minutes, you know I always grab records recorded there.

Then there's the label number: 6-6491. That led me down the rabbit hole of believing it was pressed by Kay Bank in Minneapolis most likely after they expanded and opened a pressing plant in Charlotte. Of course, Kay Bank numbering can be about as predictable of where it was pressed as a squirrel on espresso, so there's always room for debate.

Now, not everything recorded at Arthur Smith wound up on a North Carolina label. For example, the Swingin' Medallions' "Double Shot" was recorded there but first appeared on a South Carolina label. So I'll admit I'm being a little North Carolina-centric here.

And let's be honest, looking at these regional releases can sometimes make us forget just how many heavy hitters passed through Arthur Smith's doors. James Brown recorded "Papa's Got a Brand New Bag" there, for starters. The catch is that many of those major releases never bothered to advertise the recording location on the label.

As for this 45 on ABC, I think we can all agree this isn't that ABC Paramount. According to the cogs of Dis detectives, it was a regional North Carolina label.

So there you have it, boys and girls: me enthusiastically overanalyzing a random 45 on a Saturday morning. And this was all after just one cup of coffee.

Imagine the conclusions I would've reached after two. I might've started drawing charts and connecting label numbers with red yarn. 😆

Herbert Hunter - I Was Born To Love You/Push Away From The Table

Monster Soul 45 alert, courtesy of Noize in your head— the kind of Friday‑table heater that makes you forget whatever responsible adult thing you were supposed to be doing today. This one has that energy: the “oh no, I’m about to rearrange my entire wantlist” kind of energy.

So I’m lipping through the stack at the thrift store, doing my usual Herbert Hunter ritual when I see his 45’s, which is basically me grabbing every 45 with his name on it like a Gollum hoarding his preciousssss, because the man buried in his many 45rpm releases a few serious wallet‑melters in his discography. And, true to form, my swiss‑cheese brain never remembers which ones are the wallet -melters. I just operate on blind faith and collector superstition.

But now? Oh, now I know one.

Because this one isn’t just pricey — it’s a biggie, the kind of biggie that makes you sit up straighter, adjust your imaginary monocle, and whisper “well hello there” to a piece of vinyl like you’re in a noir film. The kind of biggie that makes you do that slow, satisfied nod like you just pulled Excalibur out of a milk crate. And the best part? It earns every penny of its reputation. This thing is smoking — so hot it should come with a warning label and a tiny fire extinguisher tucked inside the sleeve.

It’s the perfect collector moment:
You didn’t remember the title.
You didn’t remember the value.
But your hands knew.
Your instincts knew.

And now your Friday knows who’s really running the show.

The Young Rascals - Lonely Too Long / If You Knew

Yesterday I hit that special level of cynicism where even my coffee looked scared of me. Then it dawned on me: dude… it’s your staycation. You’re supposed to be relaxed, not auditioning for the role of Bitter Man #3. So I did what any self‑respecting record hoarder does when the emotional barometer swings into the red — I reached for some gut‑punch soul‑soothing magic. And who better than The Rascals? Or technically “The Young Rascals,” because apparently even their name had a rebellious phase.

Then I realized these saints of blue‑eyed soul haven’t appeared on this blog in 13 years. Thirteen. Freaking. Years. That’s practically a geological epoch in blog time. No brainer: they’re back.

I’m pretty sure I own every 45 they ever pressed — stock, promo, plus the weird variants that only five people on Earth care about. And when I eventually start collecting pressing‑plant variations, that’s when you’ll know I’ve gone fully over the edge and should be gently escorted to a facility with soft lighting and no sharp corners. Honestly, I shouldn’t even joke about it because… I’m close. Very close. That’s when I’ll officially cross the Rubicon into “needs supervised care.” Until then I will continue to delude myself. It’s fine. Everything’s fine

The The - The Beat(en) Generation

It sure feels like Matt Johnson was either a prophet in 1989 or simply had the good sense to notice how politics works. The lyrics from The Beat(en) Generation are almost disturbingly appropriate: — “By the greedy hands of politics and half‑truths… reared on a diet of prejudice and misinformation” — hit harder now than they did when The The first sang them. You can watch almost any political ad today and see the same formula: a little truth, a little fiction, and a whole lot of confident hand‑waving.

We’re told inflation is down, gas prices are great (except the news report I have heard 5 times this morning already about "surging" gas prices), food costs are lower, tariffs are overflowing with revenue, and the rising cost of living and inflation is just “fake news.” And every time I hear those claims, I find myself wondering Where are these people shopping? Because I’d love to visit. Apparently, there’s a magical supermarket somewhere where groceries cost less, gasoline is practically free, and tariffs are paying everyone’s bills. Meanwhile, I’m standing in the checkout line wondering if my carton of eggs has been upgraded to 24-karat gold, and unfortunately, my grocery receipt doesn’t accept “misinformation” as a payment method.

The frustrating part is that somewhere beneath all the political theater, campaign slogans, carefully polished talking points, and competing versions of reality are actual people trying to pay their bills, buy groceries, fill their cars, and make it through the month.

Maybe instead of endlessly playing the party line, politicians could try something wonderfully radical: working for the people who elected them rather than for themselves, their parties, or the next election cycle. It would be nice if we were not stuck in this endless loop of spin, counter‑spin, and “don’t worry, everything’s fine.” That includes the recent promise of that supposed $5,000 payment to every adult if a certain party wins. I’m a little confused by that one, too. If we have an extra $5,000 lying around for every adult, why does winning an election have to be the prerequisite for giving it away? Is there a giant vault somewhere marked “Money We Were Going to Give You Anyway, But Only If You Vote Correctly”? And frankly, I hope it doesn’t happen. We’re already buried under a national debt that would make a sane person hide under the bed. Giving everyone money we don't actually have sounds less like prosperity and more like putting another credit card in the shredder and congratulating ourselves on being financially responsible.

Of course, they’ll find a way to get it back from us eventually.

Taxes. Fees. Inflation. Tariffs. Some beautifully named “temporary” surcharge that becomes permanent approximately three minutes after we stop paying attention.

Maybe I’m being overly cynical this morning. Then again, perhaps cynicism is what happens when you’ve heard enough promises to know that the fine print is usually hiding somewhere just outside the camera frame. Maybe I’m tired of being told that what I can plainly see with my own eyes isn't actually happening.

I don’t expect politicians to agree with me—or even with each other. But I do wish they would spend a little less time playing the party line and a little more time remembering who actually pays the bill.

Maybe that’s what Johnson was getting at all those years ago.

Or maybe I just need another cup of coffee.

Cynical? Perhaps.
Paying attention? Absolutely.

The Love Notes -- Our Songs of Love/Nancy

I continue my so‑called staycation today — which, let’s be honest, is really just me doing chores in different emotional states — with an early‑60s doo‑wop throwback spinning in the background like I’m trying to summon a simpler era when appliances actually worked and repairmen had functioning brain cells.

I’ve already been to the laundromat this morning, because yes, the repairman came yesterday to install the new part for the washing machine and yes, correct again, it did absolutely nothing. Not a flicker. Not a whimper. Just the same useless, mocking hunk of metal sitting there like, “Oh, you thought I was going to cooperate? That’s amusing.”

I’m trying to stay positive and not unleash an un-biblical storm of profanity, but the man should’ve ordered all the parts he suspected two weeks ago when he first came out. Instead, he decided to play “Guess That Component,” which is a fun game when you’re at a carnival, not when you’re dealing with a washing machine that isn’t even a year old. UGHHHHHHH.

And because the universe enjoys piling on, I’ve also got an early‑morning haircut today, followed by tackling one of the spare bedrooms — both bedrooms have been in a state of post‑remodeling chaos since last September. I keep walking past them thinking, “I should really clean that up,” and then immediately choosing fun life activities instead. They currently look like storage units curated by a hoarders convention.

Meanwhile, this 1963 doo‑wop 45 I’m spinning is fantastic — absolutely fantastic — but it showed up to the party about three years too late. By ’63, the airwaves were already shifting, and this poor little record was out here trying to harmonize its way through a musical landscape that had moved on. Great sound, wrong era. Shame.

Johnny Fortune - Soul Surfer / Midnight Surf

I woke up yesterday feeling like a man with a destiny, a Johnny Fortune so to speak— and that destiny was apparently 120 Black Gospel, soul, and rock 45s from a Baptist Minister’s stash. Marketplace dangled that container in front of me like a carrot, and I, being a simple record‑obsessed creature, lunged for it.

I messaged the guy, he said he was an hour away, and boom — mission accepted. This is where Super Cooper enters the chat.

I looked at him and said, “You wanna go on a car ride?” Buddy… he didn’t just want to go. He activated. He sprinted to his harness like he was auditioning for a Marvel origin story. He vibrated. He wiggled. He dragged me to the Rogue like he had insider intel on the Minister’s collection and needed to secure the goods before the FBI did.

We hit the road. Android Auto, in its infinite wisdom, decided to take me on a scenic tour of Fayetteville’s Wrong Street. Instead of taking me to the seller’s house, it confidently guided me to an abandoned warehouse that looked like the opening shot of a true‑crime documentary. Not even the right street. Not even the right vibe. Cooper stared at the building like it owed him money. I messaged the guy, trying not to sound like someone who was about to be recruited into a cult. He gave me a main cross street, so I headed that way, basically navigating on instinct — a lark, a whim, a “sure, let’s see what happens” approach to geography. And somehow, miraculously, I found his place. Android Auto still insisted I was wrong even while I was physically in the driveway, which is peak Android Auto behavior.

But I got there. I plopped over the cash. Then he hit me with the classic dealer line: “Do you want albums too?”

Sir. You cannot say that to me. That’s like asking a raccoon if it wants more garbage.

He had a small stack — I flipped through and saw Blue Note jazz LPs. My wallet opened itself like a Venus flytrap. Extra money handed over. Cooper supervised the transaction like a dog who knows a good deal when he sees one.

Back home, I glanced through the haul. Not as much gospel as I hoped, but plenty of interesting 45s — Who can argue when a white‑label Chuck Berry on Chess is staring you in the face? The 45s were absolutely worth the price.

So feeling pleased with my self, I am sharing Johnny “Sudetta” Fortune, who apparently put out more 45s than I put out excuses for not organizing my collection. This one was his big regional hit, and he did a ton of session work. But honestly? Even if the music was just him sneezing rhythmically, that label design alone is worth framing.