Robert Forster, the powerhouse co‑founder of the brilliant Go‑Betweens, blasts out pure independent magic with this obscure debut solo 45—and the fact that it’s a promo makes it even sweeter. My Go‑Betweens stash keeps growing: albums, 45s, the works, and they’ve even made appearances on this blog before. Somehow, Robert and his bandmates remain criminally overlooked here in the States, but they’re a huge part of why my love affair with Australian artists stays loud, proud, and very much alive.
Guided By Voices (GBV) making their first
appearance on this blog feels like one of the greatest crimes of the blogs sixteen‑year
existence— the kind of crime that would get you banned from Discogs forums and
quietly judged at every record show within a 200‑mile radius. Sure, there were the lean years — the
stretches where the drive sputtered out of me, or when some malicious link (scamming
bastages, every one of them- may their styluses forever mistrack) hijacked the
blog and turned it into a digital haunted house. But still… GBV deserved better
from me.
My love affair with them started back when I
lived in Denver. My friend Craig was a Scat Mail Order zealot — the kind of guy
who bought everything
they touched, possibly including packing slips and air from the warehouse. When
Scat signed GBV, they still had quantities of the early records lying around,
and Craig scooped them all up like a man preparing for a future where vinyl
becomes currency and only the righteous survive. Then he did the noble thing:
he shared them with me.
I, meanwhile, was broke. Not “I’ll wait for
payday” broke — I was “I’m choosing between ramen and gas money, and ramen is
winning” broke. So, I didn’t buy my own copies. Craig had an original Propeller,
and I could’ve had one too. If I’d known what that record would someday be
worth, I would’ve sold plasma, furniture, and possibly a distant relative to
get it.
From Vampires on Titus onward, though, I’ve been there — buying the albums, the 45s, the EPs, the releases that appear without warning like Pollard woke up from a dream and said, “Yes, the world needs another 7-inch with a photocopied sleeve and hooks that could catch a whale.” The catalog is staggering, a labyrinth of hooks, fragments, and melodies that sound like they were recorded in a basement, a garage, and a broom closet simultaneously. And Robert Pollard remains the King of Rock in a realm where the King is somehow still unknown to the masses — which honestly feels perfect. If he ever did become mainstream, half the collectors would immediately panic‑sell their entire GBV section out of sheer identity crisis.
It’s brutely scorching outside — the
kind of heat that feels personally offended you dared to exist. Luckily, Cooper
and I are early‑morning creatures, sneaking out while it’s still dark enough
that the sun can’t tattletale on us. He struts around like he’s running a
secret society of dawn‑patrollers, and honestly, I’m just honored to be his
plus‑one.
I didn’t get much recording done this weekend… my ADHD
staged a tiny, adorable mutiny and I spent two days hopping between half‑projects
like a gremlin with a clipboard. Monday morning drag music comes from an April
session — Past Me tossed Present Me a little stash like, “You’re gonna need
this, buddy.”
The Monarchs IV revved things up on “Surge” like they were trying to jump‑start the entire weekend. Meanwhile, I was over here wishing someone would jump‑start me. Anyway, I’m tossing the doors open for requests — go ahead, try to stump the ole chump and his record collection. I dare you. I double‑dog dare you. Cooper triple‑dog dares you, and he plays for keeps. He’s already pawed through the shelves and picked something obscure just to mess with you. He lives for this.
WAKE UP, MY FRIENDS, because the spirit isn’t just stirring
— it’s kicking the doors off the hinges this morning. Brother Prince Dixon just delivered the kind of soul‑medicine
that hits harder than a week’s worth of struggle. After the days I’ve had, this
record didn’t just play… it ROARED, it JUMPED, it shot pure
hope and holy optimism straight into my chest like gospel adrenaline
in 45‑RPM form
And you already know when it comes to these Peacock 45s, I’m a hopeless case. I’m knee‑deep, heart‑deep, spirit‑deep baptized in that sound. But this one? This one feels like the moment the choir stands up, the organ swells, and the whole room catches fire.
From what I can tell, this might’ve been Brother Prince’s very first release
— and if that’s true, then the man didn’t just hit a homerun… he sent that
ball into the next county and had time to shout “GLORY!” before it landed. A
little digging shows he later rose to fame in the ’70s lifting souls with the
Jackson Southernaires, and even led his own Gospel Caravan like a man who knew
exactly where the road to joy was paved. And get this — there’s a whole
documentary about it streaming for FREE! That’s not a suggestion —
that’s destiny. Sounds like the perfect date-night flick for me and the missus,
because she’s got the spirit too- it will be time for feet up, hearts full,
spirit fed.
It’s been a week — and not the charming kind people put on
inspirational calendars. No, this one came with the good, the bad, and the kind
of ugly that makes you stare into the middle distance and reconsider your life
choices.
The good: Cooper the Wonder Dog and I have been tearing up
the streets on our early‑morning walks like a couple of retirees training for
the Senior Olympics. Spirits high, steps counted, squirrels intimidated.
The bad: My wife gave me a magnificent 22‑ounce Father’s Day coffee mug — a heroic vessel capable of holding enough caffeine to keep me marginally functional. I managed to keep it alive for three days before gravity and my own clumsiness teamed up to assassinate it. Of course.
The ugly: Last month I bought new tires for the ol’ Chevy Colorado, which felt only slightly less invasive than donating a kidney. Then, a week ago Friday, some renegade metal stick decided to reenact a jousting tournament with my sidewall. The tire lost spectacularly. Thankfully, the warranty covered it, because apparently I’ve already sacrificed enough organs to the automotive gods.
And yet, here I sit, surprisingly zen. It’s the weekend, and my biggest
crisis is choosing the final cover‑version post of the week — a problem I’ll
gladly take over, say, another tire impalement. I’m already “planning” next
month’s cover version series, (and by “planning,” I mean I’ve said out loud that I’ll
probably do it).
Today’s pick comes from a group that deserved far more love than they ever got. I’ve owned all their 45s and their lone album — the kind of collection that makes people squint and say, “Who?”. Their final single peaked at #102 on Billboard’s Bubbling Under chart, which is basically the musical equivalent of being told, “You almost made varsity, champ.”
But their second 45? That one slaps. They tackle the classic “Jezebel” like Mark McGwire swinging for the fences — minus the pharmaceutical assistance. And the B‑side? Also a scorcher. Another forgotten 45 sinking gracefully into the swamp of music history… and, naturally, into my collection.
Otis surprising singing I Fall to Pieces is one of those cosmic
jokes the universe slips into the crate just to see if you’re paying attention.
I’m not convinced he ever heard Patsy Cline’s version, and I’m positive she would’ve given him that slow,
disappointed head‑tilt teachers reserve for kids who eat paste. He rushes
through the song so fast the fall doesn’t even have time to register — it’s
less “tragic heartbreak” and more “oops, tripped on a rug, moving on.”
And yet… I want more. Because somewhere out there, Otis recorded a country album in 1971. A whole album. Country. Otis. This is the kind of magic that keeps crate‑diggers awake at night, staring at the ceiling like, “Did he yodel? Did he wear a hat? Did he mean it?” I want it in my hands yesterday!
Before all this chaos, he was out there with the Charms in the mid‑’50s, polishing that sweet Doo Wop shine until it gleamed. Things were going fine until the Army showed up like an overzealous mall cop and escorted his career off the premises. He came back swinging with some Okeh soul 45s, but success kept dodging him like it owed him money.
Honestly, the man might’ve had a shot if
anyone had bothered to flip the record over. Because that B‑side? That’s the
real fire. That’s where Otis stops being polite and starts being Otis. I can see it perfectly: the lights
low, the stage vibrating, the go‑go girls swirling around him like a
technicolor tornado while he tears into Gotta Get Myself Together
like he’s trying to convince both the audience and himself. “Gotta Get Myself Together Right Away, Hey, Hey Hey…” he shouts,
and you can practically hear the drummer thinking, “Buddy, same.”
I always come back from trips home to
Colorado with something interesting, but this time the souvenir wasn’t a
postcard or a bag of green‑chile pretzels — it was a 45 plucked from a bin of
unsleeved orphans in a Florence Colorado antique store. Four for a buck, the kind of
deal that promises disappointment with a wink. But record digging is a
faith-based sport: you endure 999 cracked polka singles so that number 1,000
can walk up, tap you on the shoulder, and whisper, hey…I’m the one.
This one absolutely was. I didn’t know it was collectible, and I had zero clue who the
band was, but I got that little brain‑zap — the collector’s sixth sense that says, nope, this isn’t trash; pay attention. The hook was immediate: a cover of one of my all-time favorite Left Banke songs, “She May Call You Up Tonight,” and this version doesn’t just do it justice — it floats. Pure bliss, like someone bottled the exact moment a summer evening turns golden.
Then came the kicker. California Spectrum wasn’t just some mystery group; tucked inside
were Danny and Shaun Harris, born just down the road in Colorado Springs, long before they drifted west and plugged into The West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band. That’s the kind of résumé that deserves to be printed on linen paper and framed above a turntable.
The B‑side sounds like Sputnik didn’t just fall out of orbit — it showed up drunk, skidded across the atmosphere, and belly‑flopped into Earth.
A quarter well spent. A universe well played.
