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.

The Louvin Brothers - The Family Who Prays/I Love Gods' Way of Living/Born Again/If We Forget God

Talk about a 360. I know — you’re probably looking at this post like, “This is not a Peacock 45 or some obscure black gospel gem you dragged out of the crates.” And you’re right. But here’s the thing I don’t always admit out loud: I’ve got a soft spot for the Louvin Brothers. And not just a casual appreciation — I mean the kind where you see a Louvin record in the wild and your hand grabs it before your brain even checks the price.

Last year I scored a copy of Satan Is Real, and that cover… good grief. It’s iconic, it’s ridiculous, it’s frightening, and it’s perfect. It looks like a Sunday school fever dream staged by two men who absolutely believed every word they were singing — even when one of them was living like the devil had him on retainer.

To me, the Louvin Brothers are the epitome of the human condition in relation to faith — messy, contradictory, hopeful, and tragic. I know not everyone believes in GOD, or at least not the Christian GOD I believe in. Free will means everyone gets to choose their own road. But I’ve noticed something over the years: non‑believers seem to relish it when a believer stumbles. Like it’s proof that faith is a costume instead of a compass.

But stumbling is the human condition. We’re not perfect. We can’t be perfect. We fail — sometimes spectacularly — and yet faith doesn’t evaporate just because we fall short of the ideal. If anything, faith becomes more real in the falling.

Ira Louvin is the perfect example of that contradiction. I genuinely believe he had faith — deep faith — but he also lived the kind of life that makes you wonder if he had an angel on one shoulder and a demon on the other, both screaming directions at the same time. Married four times. Heavy drinker. Womanizer. A volcanic temper that could melt steel. Shot six times by his third wife after beating her and trying to strangle her. It’s safe to say Ira wasn’t exactly living the gospel he sang.

So was he saved? Was he pretending? Or was he just a man caught in the eternal tug‑of‑war between the better angels of our nature and the darker corners we don’t like to admit exist? That’s the psychological battle we all face — what shapes us, what breaks us, what we carry, and what we never outrun. Ira wasn’t just a musician or a cautionary tale; he was a man writing songs about heaven while sprinting toward hell with a gas can in his hand. And honestly, that contradiction feels painfully human.

Here’s a thought: Ira wasn’t writing those songs to prove he was righteous — he was writing them because he knew he wasn’t. People who struggle the hardest often turn their hymns into confessions. Gospel harmonies become lifelines thrown from a sinking boat.

Ira’s songs sound like a man who wanted to change but didn’t know how to stop being himself. That’s what hits me in the chest — the idea that someone can hold deep faith and deep flaws at the same time. That someone can sing about heaven while wrestling with every earthly demon. That someone can believe in GOD with all their heart and still fall short in ways that make people shake their heads. That’s the human condition. That’s the tug‑of‑war we all feel, even if our battles aren’t as dramatic as Ira’s.

Ira died the way he lived — in chaos and irony. A drunk driver hit him and his wife on the way to a show. Too on the nose to be real, but that’s life: messy, unfair, poetic in the worst ways.

And then there’s Charlie. The bitterness, the heartbreak, the exhaustion of watching someone you love self‑destruct. The way their partnership ended not because the music failed, but because Ira couldn’t outrun his own shadow. I read that Charlie spent his final years letting go of the long‑held resentment toward Ira, finding peace through age, faith, and reflection.

So I wonder if they met again — on that heavenly plane, in some place where the noise of this world finally quiets. I like to imagine Charlie seeing Ira not as the man who hurt people, or drank too much, or burned every bridge he crossed… but as the brother whose voice once matched his perfectly. The brother who tried. The brother who sang about salvation even when he couldn’t find it.

I like to imagine GOD saying, “You two have done enough hurting. Now heal.”

And maybe that’s sentimental. Maybe it’s naïve. But faith itself is a kind of hope — the belief that broken things can be mended, that lost people can be found, that brothers can reconcile in ways they never managed on earth.

But I will hold onto this thought: despite all the darkness, all the contradictions, all the human wreckage, the music remains good. Charlie and Ira gave us something beautiful, something honest, something that still resonates long after the needle lifts.

Life is a struggle. Faith is a struggle. Being human is a struggle. But the music? The music is the part that survives.

The Canadian Rogues– Run And Hide / Love And Dreams

I picked up this absolute monster a few years back — right here locally, which still feels like spotting a moose in a Walmart parking lot. The Canadian Rogues. From Lakeland, Florida. It’s the kind of geographical plot twist that makes me wonder if the universe is just messing with me for sport. Perfect, honestly, because if you’ve ever been in Florida during winter, you know it turns into a temporary Canadian province. Snowbirds everywhere. You can practically hear the faint echo of “sorry” drifting across the Gulf (of Mexico).

And I do wonder — with the current bullshit arena we’re all watching unfold — whether Florida’s getting boycotted by the Canadian snowbirds. I picture them holding emergency meetings: “Okay, lads, we’re skipping Florida this year. Too spicy. We’re going to… Jamaica.” Then they all nod solemnly and eat Timbits.

Anyway — flashback to Clearwater, ten years ago, when I was down there taking care of my mother‑in‑law’s place. I wandered into this record store that looked like it had been hit by a 45‑rpm tornado. Boxes everywhere. Stacks. Piles. Geological layers of vinyl sediment. And there’s this guy — list in hand — hunting obscure doo‑wop like he’s on a government mission. From Canada, of course. Wintering in Florida. Naturally. The ecosystem is consistent.

This Canadian Rogues 45? Fantastic two‑sider. First Paris Tower label I ever found. And you KNOW I’m a sucker for extras —pictures, flyers, weird little promo writeups, anything that looks like it was photocopied in 1965 by a guy named Earl. I live for that stuff.

So here’s the plan for my Saturday: I am going to relish the start of my vacation like a man who has earned it through sheer stubbornness. Sure, I’ll have to work a few hours during the week — because apparently, I enjoy punishing myself — but mostly it’s going to be me, the computer, a stack of 45s, and the sweet hum of digitizing songs like some kind of vinyl‑powered monk.

And then? Colorado game prep. Manifesting a big beatdown so we can be 2–0, baby. Sko Buffs. I want the kind of victory that makes the opposing team question their sport choices and maybe take up pottery.

Isley Brothers - Take Some Time Out For Love/Just Ain't Enough Love

I think it is important to take a moment on this date — Friday, September 11th — to sit with the weight of what happened twenty‑five years ago. Hard to believe it’s been that long, because the memory still feels sharp enough to cut. I was a Case Manager then, heading out for a home visit with one of my more… let’s say “character‑building” families. NPR was on in the car, and I remember the broadcast shifting from routine morning chatter into something jagged and unreal. Confusion, chaos, disbelief — all of it hitting at once.

By the time I got back to the office, we were glued to the TV like it was the only anchor left in the room. The whole day felt suspended, like time had stopped but somehow kept hurting anyway.

And yet — because life insists on being strange and layered — I can go from that somber memory straight into talking about how a promo 60s Tamla/Motown 45 can jolt my bloodstream before the needle even touches the groove. There’s something electric about those labels, those fonts, that era. I’ll be the first to admit I’m not the world’s biggest Motown/Tamla collector, but I think it’s because my brain can’t help comparing the giants to the overlooked gems.

You look at the Supremes racking up hit after hit, and then you think about the songs that slipped through the cracks — like that Vala Reegan 45 I posted, which is still one of my all‑time favorites. It’s wild how something so good can be ignored while the spotlight blasts elsewhere.

And then there are the Isley Brothers, who just kept cranking out classics like it was a bodily function. They’re in that Hall of Shame — the one where legendary artists get overshadowed while lesser acts somehow skate by with more recognition. It’s maddening, but also part of the charm of digging: finding the brilliance history forgot to underline. This time the Hall got it right!

So on this day, let the emotional weight of those tragic events twenty‑five years ago settle where it needs to — and be comforted, even if only slightly, by the spirit, the soul, and the strange healing properties of music. Because if anything has ever known how to hold grief without dropping it, it’s a record spinning in a quiet room.

The Tiaras - I'm Gonna Forget You/You Told Me

I slept maybe… three minutes last night. Or this morning. Or in some alternate timeline where I’m a well‑rested adult who makes good choices. But no — I was still wired from yesterday’s fast‑paced chaos, the kind of day where your brain forgets how to shut off and instead just hums like a malfunctioning fluorescent light.

So I start yesterday morning by doing something responsible: heading to Lowe’s to return a water filter for my refrigerator they claimed would fit but was the wrong one of course. Great. Adulting. Gold star. Then I decide — on a lark, because of course — to swing by a thrift store on the way to the doctor. And this is where the universe says, “Oh, you wanted peace today? Cute.”

I’ve neglected this particular thrift store for a year because it’s an hour away and historically has offered me zero 45s and maximum disappointment. But it’s only open Wednesday and Saturday, and I did schedule my doctor appointment for Wednesday like a man with a plan, so in I go.

I walk to the media section. Same long cabinet of albums as last year. Packed tight. I remember the dismal selection. I sigh. I look right — and see crates upon crates upon crates (times twelve) of albums. My hopes rise… then immediately face‑plant when I realize they’re all classical. Thousands of classical and white gospel LPs, the kind that will outlive the sun.

I’m thinking, “Well, at least I’ll be early for my appointment,” when suddenly — there they are. Piles. And piles. And piles. Of 45s.

My inner Frank Zappa screams “GREAT GOOGALIMOOGLY!”

I drop to the floor like a pilgrim reaching the holy land. (Don’t judge me. If you dig 45s standing up, you’re either lying or have knees made of titanium.) I open a 45 carrier — promos. Soul, country, rock. Boom. I start making a pile like an uncaffeinated pirate in a treasure chest.

Then I check my watch. And curse. Loudly. I’m out of time. I grab what I can, hustle to the front, and of course the clerk is chatting leisurely with two customers who have nowhere to be. I’m vibrating with urgency. I’m going to be late. I’ve counted the 54 records so she doesn’t have to. She finally rings me up — a buck apiece — and casually mentions LPs are now $5 because “a guy who KNOWS records” comes in. Fantastic. Enjoy your eternal mountain of classical LPs, my friend.

I pay, channel my inner Arnold Schwarzenegger, and tell her “I’ll be back.”

I speed to the doctor, make it on time, and immediately remember I haven’t had coffee or food. I have a headache the size of Delaware. Damn 10 a.m. fasting appointments. As soon as I’m free, I beeline to Royal Farms for a giant coffee and a coffee cake, the breakfast of champions who are barely holding it together.

I hit one more shop on the way back — find a cool psych 45 for a buck — then return to the thrift store and pull 27 more 45s from the vinyl vortex.

Lunch happens. CEU call happens. I drive home with the enthusiasm of a man who has both caffeine and new records.

Once home, I repair my ultrasonic cleaner — and let me tell you, take pictures before replacing motherboards. Their instructions were fine, but my photos saved me from turning the machine into a very expensive paperweight. It works like a charm, and I immediately give a Northern Soul banger the spa treatment.

And now here I am, writing a dissertation at 2:30am before I’ve even started the coffee pot.

So happy Girl Group Thursday — today’s spotlight: The Tiara’s, a California trio who dropped two 45s on Valiant before disappearing into the great mist of musical obscurity.

Johnny Day and the Rhythm Boys - Take My Hand, Take My Heart/Memories of Your Love

I woke up this morning like a man who’d been unplugged from the wall overnight. No coffee. No aroma. No brain‑tickle. Just me, fasting, staring at the coffee pot like it’s an ex who moved on too quickly. The smell alone usually flips the breaker in my skull and powers everything back on, but today? Today coffee was a myth. A rumor. A shimmering mirage in the desert of my kitchen.

And because my brain was running on fumes and spite, I reached for some obscure country 45 — the kind where you squint at the label hoping it’s actually some wild rockabilly burner disguised under a cowboy hat. It wasn’t. But it was still pretty good. And honestly, where else are you going to stumble across this kind of weird, dusty gem unless you’re following me like a vinyl‑obsessed cryptid tracker?

Soon I’ve gotta hit the road for the doctor appointment, which means the majority of my morning will be spent driving, pretending the CEU call is riveting, and plotting small obscure shops to hit for a little crate digging. Maybe a little “I deserve this” record‑store victory lap. And absolutely — ABSOLUTELY — that first cup of coffee after the 10am test. The one that’s going to hit my bloodstream like a revival tent miracle.

Leonard Wayne and the Impacts - That's All I Want To Do / You Didn't Have To Laugh

Back to work, baby — and nothing gets my brain firing on all cylinders like dropping the needle on some sweet, obscure wax while I pretend, I’m a highly organized adult with a functioning schedule.

So here I am, easing into this short work week like a man who’s already halfway out the door. Tomorrow is going to be a whole cinematic experience. I’m off for a doctor’s appointment — and not the quick “in‑and‑out, here’s a sticker” kind. No, I’ve got the deluxe package: a 75‑mile drive, a needle poke, a couple scans, and then, because I’m me, the sacred ritual of crate digging as a reward for surviving modern medicine. Honestly, it’s the most accurate snapshot of my life: Wake up → drive forever → get poked → get scanned → immediately look for obscure 45s like a Pacman who only eats vinyl. It’s glamorous in the way only my version of glamorous can be.

Of course, tomorrow also comes with the CEU call — the kind you have to listen to in the truck while driving back from the doctor, nodding along like “yes, absolutely, very important information,” even though you’re really thinking about lunch. But hey, free CEUs? I’ll take those as I’m a responsible professional!

Thursday and Friday work days are stacked like a pair of overstuffed jukeboxes. After that? Next week is mine. A well‑deserved rest. A spiritual reset. A chance to remember what silence sounds like but silence is absolutely not on the menu — not when I’ve got the new Dinosaur Jr album queued up and ready to blast at full Spinal Tap 11, the setting reserved for moments of deep reflection, emotional clarity, and rattling the drywall.

Now, the soundtrack to this fine Tuesday: Leonard Wayne And The Impacts. Or maybe Leonard Wayne and the Hi‑Tones. Or maybe Leonard Wayne and whoever happened to be standing in the studio that day. The release history is murkier than a thrift‑store mystery box, but the 45 itself? Absolute fire.

“That’s All I Want To Do” and “You Didn’t Have To Laugh” — two sides of a record that feel like they were pressed specifically to make my morning better. The version I’ve got is probably the first pressing, based on the scant detective work I’ve done (picture me squinting at matrix numbers like a noir gumshoe). But whatever its lineage, it’s killer. The kind of killer that makes you forget you’re technically supposed to be working.

And speaking of killer — the parts for my ultrasonic record cleaner finally arrived yesterday. Tonight, if the stars align correctly (and if Cooper doesn’t decide he needs emergency attention), I’ll be assembling that thing like a mad scientist building a vinyl‑restoration death ray. If it works, my 45s are about to get spa‑day clean.

But until then? Enjoy this mysterious, punchy, collector‑bait 45, A salute to Tuesday: short week, sweet sounds, mysterious pressings, and the eternal hunt for free CEUs.