Dick Vance - Nuthin, Man Nuthin / Sharon Oh Sharon

I picked up this little oddball at the flea market a few weeks ago, and it’s the kind of record that makes you stare at the label like it’s trying to gaslight you. It’s listed as Dick Vance… yet the music is by Dominic and the Dominos. How do you even title this thing? “Dick Vance Presents Dominic & The Dominos Featuring A Mild Identity Crisis”?

Discogs claims Dick Vance was a rock & roll performer, which is interesting, because I’ve only ever seen two singles under his name. But then — plot twist — he was inducted into the Iowa Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 2000. Iowa! Rock & Roll Hall of Fame! My eyebrows did a full gymnast routine.

Digging deeper, I find out he wasn’t inducted as a performer at all, but as a disc jockey. Turns out he was a program director and DJ at KSO in Iowa from 1958–1964. Naturally, this raises the important question: was he spinning his own records on the air, or was that frowned upon? Because if I had cut a record back then, I’d be finding ways to sneak it into every set. Then again, maybe not. I stumbled across a web page from his time as a program director with a list of programing rules and they were strict. I’m fairly certain my blog alone would have earned me several trips to his office weekly before eventually being launched headfirst into unemployment and politely escorted out of the building and told never to darken their transmitter again.

But enough about Dick—let’s talk about Nuthin Man Nuthin — Can you imagine this thing getting airtime in Iowa of all places? “Sharon” was supposedly the A-side, which makes sense since it’s the safer, more respectable choice. It’s conservative, polite, the kind of song you could drop at a neighborhood barbecue and the crowd wouldn’t even flinch — it’s one of those perfectly harmless sides you keep in your crate for moments when you don’t want to scare anyone off. The kind of track that slips by unnoticed while you quietly judge everyone for not realizing it’s a minor footnote in the catalog of obscure regional doowop you’ve been evangelizing since 1998.

Nuthin Man Nuthin, however, is… not that. It opens with chatter, some noise, bird sounds, then someone yells “hey man, where’s the women?” like they’re lost at the wrong party, and then a guitar solo kicks in so hot it probably violated several Midwestern broadcasting ordinances. This is not cornfield‑approved content.

Dick Vance passed away in 2000 at the ripe age of 88, leaving behind a legacy of two singles, one Hall of Fame induction, and one extremely confusing 45 that now lives in my collection like a feral cat I’ve decided to adopt.

Capitol City Five - Blessed Are The Poor And Spirit/Something Within

Last night handed me the deepest sleep I’ve had in ages, the kind of slumber that should’ve reset my soul like a factory reboot — and yet I still woke up exhausted. Cooper and I managed a short walk, but I spent the whole time feeling like my eyelids were auditioning for the role of “heavy velvet curtains.” Even the coffee isn’t stepping up; it’s just sitting there looking pretty while I contemplate a power nap like it’s a religious calling.

Today’s lesson came from a flea‑market gamble I made a few weeks back — one of those blind buys where you pray it’s what you think it is, and it’s downright righteous when it actually is. The bonus revelation: the Capitol City Five were a North Carolina gospel group from Raleigh (which, yes, I should’ve pieced together from the name alone). Wilbert Jones on one side, James Thomason the other. Deep southern spiritual sounds drifting through a foggy morning… honestly, it’s the closest thing to caffeine that’s working.

The Troyes- Love Comes, Love Dies/Help Me Find Myself

It has been just a horrible week… My lower back decided to file a formal complaint with HR, where sitting and lying down became an Olympic event in discomfort, which meant sleep was basically a rumor. I was twisted up like a pretzel someone dropped behind the couch — the kind you find years later and think, “How was this ever food?” Then, in a bold act of self‑punishment, I went celibate from coffee and good food all week because I had a colonoscopy Friday. A colonoscopy. Truly the Super Bowl of indignities.

But it is the best 45‑minute sleep money can buy — It’s not just a nap. It’s a micro‑vacation. A budget‑friendly coma. A medical‑sponsored spiritual reset. The kind of nap that feels like you briefly slipped into a parallel universe where you wake up unsure of your name, the year, or why your wife is staring at you like you’ve been elected mayor of the recovery room in your half nakedness from the waist down glory.

So the lead‑up to that short blissful slumber? Oh, it wasn’t just rough — it was Brutal, Biblical rough. We’re talking about caffeine withdrawal headaches so intense they could’ve been listed as one of the lesser‑known plagues. I was one migraine away from grabbing a staff and parting the Red Sea. And now? This morning, after returning to another pain filled night with no sleep night,  I sit here treating this cup of coffee like it’s a sacred potion brewed by forest wizards. I’m sniffing it, swirling it, judging its legs like I’m performing a one‑person show called The Phantom of the Café. I’ve become the sort of person who whispers “caramel notes” into the void. I earned this

So yes, I feel like celebrating my morning coffee revival with sounds that bring joy, and I’m finally getting to this one on the blog — it’s been warming the bullpen bench for a while. I heard snippets on the web prior to purchase and immediately thought, Oh yeah, that’s mine now.

The Troyes. Why was this not a classic? “Love Comes and Love Dies” doesn’t just start — it pounds in like it’s kicking down your front door. They were signed to Ray Anthony’s Space label, which is such an odd pairing it feels like someone pulled record‑label names out of a hat.

And the picture sleeve? Smokin’. Gorgeous. A real collector’s trophy. Do I own it? Of course not. Will I ever? Probably not — unless I stumble across it in some cosmic garage sale where the universe decides to throw me a bone.

But the record itself? Pure joy. Exactly what a man deserves after a week of back pain, sleep depravation, caffeine celibacy, and medical adventures in plumbing.

Percy Sledge - Heart Of A Child/It Tears Me Up

I’m pretty sure this is the first Percy Sledge 45 I’ve actually listened to, which is frankly embarrassing because I’ve been acting like he only recorded When A Man Loves A Woman — the song that’s been played so many times it’s basically a federally mandated emotional PSA and if I am being honest one I never liked.

While When a Man Loves a Woman was his debut thunderbolt — straight to #1 like Percy personally elbowed his way to the front of the charts — It Tears Me Up cruised in at #20 as his fourth‑highest hit. But honestly? The B‑side is the one that sucker‑punches me right in the sternum. It doesn’t just “kick” — it shows up wearing steel‑toed boots and a bad attitude, ready to rearrange my emotional furniture. This one says, “Hey buddy, maybe stop judging me by the one song that’s been used in every wedding slideshow since 1966.”

And now I’m realizing I’ve got a whole colony of Percy Sledge 45s hibernating in boxes somewhere. At some point I clearly need to host a private Percy Sledge listening party, complete with snacks, beverages, and the kind of solemn commitment usually reserved for tax season. I’ll dim the lights, cue up the turntable, and let Percy personally remind me that he was way more than one slow‑dance classic.

Honestly, I’m a little excited. It’s like discovering a secret room in your own house — except the room is full of soul records and questionable musical choices.

 

10,000 Maniacs - Like The Weather

I was working nights at a group home while attending Colorado State University when I first heard 10,000 Maniacs on college radio — back when college radio still felt like a secret society run by sleep‑deprived anthropology majors who believed deeply in the spiritual power of jangly guitars. Like the Weather wasn’t just a staple; it was the unofficial national anthem for those up and down Colorado weather days.

And every time I hear the line “Shiver in my bones just thinking about the weather,” my brain immediately drags me back to that one day I rode my mountain bike from class in a full biblical rainstorm. I wasn’t just soaked — I achieved maximum saturation, the kind of wet where your socks become philosophical and your backpack starts questioning its life choices. By the time I got to work, I looked like someone who had tried to commute through a car wash on purpose.

So with the weather we’ve been having lately, this song feels cosmically appropriate — like the universe is a DJ who only plays college‑radio deep cuts and decided, “Hey, remember when you were a soggy undergrad with a mountain bike and questionable judgment? Let’s spin that track again.”

 

The Lurkers - New Guitar In Town / Little Ole Wine Drinker me

A powerpop‑punk 45 like this in 1979 Colorado Springs would’ve been about as common as a unicorn working the counter at Woolworth’s. You could scour every strip‑mall record nook, every mall music chain, every dusty rack of “oldies” that smelled faintly of mildew and broken dreams — nothing. Not even a rumor. If someone did have it, they were probably the kind of person who also owned a Japanese import of The Lurkers and insisted British punk sounded better on “proper UK vinyl,” spoken with the confidence of a teenager who had never left the county.

The idea that even the hippest U.S. record store in ’79 stocked this? I mean… maybe. Maybe. But only if the clerk was some visionary who read Sniffin’ Glue, worshipped Stiff Records, and had a cousin in London who mailed contraband 45s in envelopes marked “religious pamphlets.” Otherwise, no — this thing wasn’t crossing the Atlantic unless it stowed away in someone’s suitcase next to a pair of platform shoes and a duty‑free Toblerone.

But The Lurkers are a defiant lot and show up anyway declaring there’s a new guitar in town, like they’re kicking down the saloon doors of punk and slapping a sheriff’s badge on a Telecaster. That guitar really is glorious — all the right crunch, all the right snot, all the right “we recorded this in a room with one working lightbulb and a borrowed amp.” It’s the exact DNA you want from a powerpunk single: fast, loud, catchy, and slightly unhinged.

And they sneak a little chaos on the B‑side. Because of course — of course — they sneak in a Merle Haggard cover. Punk bands in the late ’70s loved doing this: “We’re angry, we’re loud, we’re anti‑everything… also here’s a country tune because we contain multitudes.” It’s not even cover‑version week, but The Lurkers clearly operate on their own cosmic calendar.

 

Ronnie Self -Houdini /Bless My Broken Heart

My first brush with Ronnie Self came when I was about five, living in a drafty old three‑story house in Granby, Colorado — the kind of place where every floorboard had an opinion. In the basement sat my parents’ humble little turntable and Dad’s box of 45s. I don’t remember most of them, but three stood out like neon signs: Johnny Mathis, the Everly Brothers’ Bye Bye Love, and Ronnie Self’s Bop‑A‑Lena.

Fast‑forward a few years, and once I caught the record‑collecting fever, Dad suddenly found himself missing one Ronnie Self 45. I plead the fifth.

Ronnie earned the nickname Mr. Frantic, and his career zig‑zagged across Columbia, ABC, Decca, KAPP — basically every label that existed within shouting distance. Yet only Bop‑A‑Lena cracked the Top 100, landing at #63 for a single week. One week! How does a song come in swinging like a bar fight and then vanish like it forgot to pay rent? It’s not a polite exit. It’s a smoke‑bomb‑and‑sprint exit. It Houdini’d!

His songwriting career shone brighter: I’m Sorry and Sweet Nothings for Brenda Lee are still fixtures of American pop. He was often listed as co‑writer because he frequently borrowed money, and his manager Dub Albright needed a way to recoup the loans.

I’ve got several Ronnie uploads ready to go, and honestly it was a coin toss which one gets to sit in the waiting room for a month. Ronnie lived a heartbreakingly short life, passing at 43 after years of addiction, self‑neglect, and unraveling mental health. A frantic, gifted artist gone too soon, whose story deserves to be told with both admiration and care.