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.