Terry & The Pyrats – Falling In Love

This has that wonderfully amateurish ‘60s garage sound that I love—the kind of recording that sounds like it was tracked in a one-car garage between lawnmower repairs. Is it the definitive example of the genre? Not even close. But I’m an archivist at heart. I collect the weird stuff, the lost stuff, the “why does this exist?” stuff. If it makes my ear perk up like a confused terrier, I’m saving it.

Was this comped? Honestly, I have no earthly idea. It might have been comped, or it might have simply materialized one night like a cursed object in a folklore story. But it’s now officially part of the Noize universe, and once something enters the Noize universe, it’s like being bitten by a radioactive spider—there’s no undoing it.

Now, the sharp‑eyed among you may notice this is Side 2, and that Side 1 is mysteriously absent. The explanation is simple: the A‑side was catastrophically, heroically bad. We’re talking the kind of bad that makes dogs howl, milk curdle, and grown adults stare into the middle distance reconsidering every decision that led them to this moment. A true audio crime scene. CSI: Turntable. That’s seriously sad considering the cosmic level of hope their name promised. I mean, with a name like that, I was fully prepared—no, spiritually primed—for a psychedelic flip‑out so intense it would rearrange my furniture, open a wormhole in the laundry room, and cause at least one neighbor to report “strange shimmering lights” to Homeland Security. Instead, the A‑side just sat there like a damp sponge, radiating disappointment and the faint smell of old carpet.

In fact, this 45 is the perfect lesson in why you should always flip a record over before deciding whether it belongs in the keeper box or the donation pile. Sometimes the good stuff is hiding on the back. And sometimes the front side is doing its absolute best to keep you from ever finding it.

Dick Jacobs His Orchestra and Friend - Dance Back To Me

Rolling into Soul Friday with Dick Jacobs and a mystery friend… and yeah, I know you’re squinting at the speaker like it owes you money trying to guess who it is.

“Do I recognize that voice?”
Of course you do.
…or maybe you don’t.
Hey, no judgment—this isn’t Name That Tune with a cash prize, it’s just me being dramatic.

Alright, fine, I’ll give you a hint: check the songwriter. Go on…look at it…stare at it like it’s gonna blink first…
Yep—Jackie Wilson.

There, I said it. Because honestly, by now the song has probably already ended and you’re still mid-guess like, “Wait—was that…?”

Now listen, I’m not out here waving a giant Jackie Wilson fan flag, but every now and then he drops a gem that makes me sit up like my chair just got electric. He’s on this one song with the Chi-Lites that I hear on the Underground Garage that absolutely wrecks me in the best way. I found a copy about a month ago buried in one of my “I’ll organize this later” boxes… which is basically code for “it has entered the witness protection program.”

So yeah, weekend plans: Track down that 45 like I’m working a cold case with zero leads.”

Argia Patrice - Bad For Each Other / Bless Our Love

It’s Thursday—which, in my world, is basically the ceremonial ribbon-cutting for a 4-day weekend. And let me tell you, brothers and sisters, I have earned this one. This week at work, I was deep in the trenches—trainings, tracking spreadsheets, clicking boxes like I was training for the Spreadsheet Olympics. At one point I looked up and it was 5pm… 5pm! Time had just packed up its things and ghosted me. If I hadn’t checked the clock, I’d probably still be there right now, fossilized at my desk.

Some days when quitting time hits, I turn into Fred Flintstone punching out—YABBA DABBA DOO!—except instead of sliding down a dinosaur tail, I’m just aggressively shutting my laptop and speed-walking to freedom.

Later today, I’m having lunch with a couple of retired coworkers—which really just means I’ll get wisdom, stories, and possibly directions on how to nap professionally. But let’s be honest, I also have a mission: vinyl hunting. Because when I have free time, I don’t relax—I flip through crates like a musical archaeologist.

And if I stumble across something with a name like “Argia”…oh, it’s coming home with me. I mean, Argia? That’s not a name, that’s a deep-cut Scrabble word. Clearly she never had a publicist saying, “Maybe let’s rebrand.” But honestly, respect to her—she stuck with it, recorded a couple of girl group gems, and then ZING (pun intended), she vanished into the night like a mysterious vinyl ninja.

Be true to yourself, Argia. Even if the charts weren’t ready for you…my record shelf is.

 

Orville Couch - Hello Trouble / Anywhere There's A Crowd

This is my first public service announcement this week, and this one is about getting a routine colonoscopy, which means I am officially the town crier of digestive health. When I called to schedule it, my brain immediately started blasting random songs like it was hosting a chaotic internal DJ battle. Is that weird? Absolutely. But colonoscopies are weird too — they’re intimate, awkward, and feel like you’re starring in a medical reality show nobody asked for.

The prep turns your bathroom into a high‑traffic disaster zone. You’re basically living there, guarding the toilet like it’s a national monument. Time stops. Physics breaks. You start seeing visions.

Then you arrive for the procedure, and suddenly there’s a whole crowd in the room: the doctor, nurses, attendants, anesthesiologist, three interns who wandered in because they smelled coffee and possibly a guy named Carl who wandered in looking for the vending machine. Everyone is calmly preparing equipment while you’re lying there thinking, “Is this a colonoscopy or a surprise birthday party for my lower intestine?”

And somewhere in the chaos, my mind drifts to Orville Couch — a name so country it should come with its own tumbleweed. He had two charting songs, including Hello Trouble, which hit #5 on the country charts. Honestly, Hello Trouble feels like the official anthem of colonoscopy prep. The moment the laxative kicks in, your digestive system kicks open the saloon doors and says, “Howdy, partner. We’re about to go on a journey.”

Graham Parker And The Rumour- Stick To Me

I want to make it perfectly clear—there is NO such thing as too much Graham Parker. None. Zero.  The concept simply does not exist. I could turn this entire blog into a 24/7, non-stop Graham Parker Appreciation Network and shrine—album by album, song by song, lyrical breakdowns, deep cuts, live versions, B-sides—and it would not only be justified, it would be a public service and would feel completely normal, healthy, and possibly even medically recommended (in my world, anyway).  

This past weekend I achieved a level of Graham Parker devotion normally reserved for ancient cults and tax audits: I ordered TWO of his albums—one autographed, because clearly I deserve luxury—and a book from his record company. At this point I’m not just a fan; I’m basically the CFO of the Graham Parker Merch Acquisition Department.

If SiriusXM had even an ounce of decency, there would already be a dedicated Graham Parker channel and I would be not just a charter member, but probably calling in daily like some kind of obsessive lunatic requesting the same songs I already own five versions of. Until that glorious day arrives, Underground Garage is basically the lone outpost keeping the faith alive, and for that, I salute them.

Stick to Me drops in 1977, right as Graham is starting to get some traction in the U.S., and where am I? Twelve years old, listening to whatever watered-down, focus-grouped nonsense my local radio stations were spoon-feeding me. And let me tell you—they were NOT playing Graham Parker. No, no, that would have required taste, courage, and possibly a functioning spine.  Apparently, that was considered “too interesting” for daytime programming.

My real introduction came later—late-night radio, when the DJs would go rogue and clearly decide, “You know what? Let’s actually play good music for a few hours.” That’s when Graham sneaks in, and suddenly it’s like—what IS this? Who IS this? Why does this sound about 1,000 times better than everything I hear during the day? I immediately realized that my daytime listening consisted mostly of what can only be described as premium-grade “el crapo.”

From that point forward, it’s game over. You don’t casually listen to Graham Parker—you fall down the rabbit hole. Hard. Naturally, this led to a daily routine: stay up late, discover amazing music, then spend the next day wondering why the radio suddenly sounded like it had given up on life.

And yes, Graham has already shown up on this blog four times. FOUR. Honestly, I’m showing admirable restraint. I do need to go back and add some photos to those posts, especially now that I’ve picked up a few items that further justify—if not outright demand—additional Graham content. Not that I need justification, but it’s nice to pretend.

Because this isn’t just appreciation anymore. This is a full-blown Graham Parker situation.

The Reveliers - Part III / Maureen

Mondays don’t sneak up on you… they attack. Like—no warning, no hesitation—just boom, full-speed NASCAR into your soul. I finally get into a groove—life’s feeling good—and then suddenly it’s like, “Hey! Get dressed. You have responsibilities.” But I’m taking a little comfort this week—short week. Thursday off, Friday’s a holiday. Which means mentally, I’ve already stopped working.

But first… we’ve got to set the mood right. Let’s get some catchy instrumentals going—something with a little groove, a little bounce… something that gets the toes tapping before the chaos begins. Because nothing says “I’m about to tell you about my weekend struggles” like background music that makes it sound way more impressive than it actually was.

This weekend started out simply. I picked up my resurrected mower from the shop and went to mow the lawn. And when I say “mowed the lawn,” I don’t mean a nice, peaceful suburban chore. No—this was an expedition.

I fire it up and immediately realize… I am not mowing a yard. I am entering a biome. This wasn’t grass. This was a National Geographic special. I’m halfway expecting David Attenborough to pop up like: “Here we see a middle-aged man… in his natural habitat… confused, sweaty, and immediately regretting his life choices…”

I’m pushing this mower through what can only be described as a backyard rainforest thinking, “I might discover a lost Mayan temple back here.” And I didn’t find one… which honestly felt rude. Like if I’m going through that, at least give me a cursed artifact.

But you know what I didn’t find? Spider webs… and snakes. And at this point in life… that’s a win. If I finish yard work and there are zero spiders or snakes involved, I’m like, “Successful weekend. No notes.”

Meanwhile, my dog Cooper is out there watching me. Before, the grass was so tall he could only see me like—two little eyes peeking through the blades like he’s in a spy movie. Now the lawn is cut and he’s just standing there like, “Oh wow… you’ve always looked that tired, huh?”

But I prepared for this journey properly. Before I even started, I picked up some jazz and soul records at a friend’s house, because nothing motivates yard work like knowing, “If I survive this… there’s vinyl waiting.”

And then Saturday hits the high point—and I don’t know what I did right in life—three record packages show up in the mail. Three. That’s not mail. That’s a spiritual experience. I’m standing in my living room like a vinyl goblin: “Yessss… my precious…”

So now I’ve got records everywhere, the lawn is finally under control, no spiders, no snakes, dog’s judging me less aggressively… and I’m just standing there singing like Granny from The Beverly Hillbillies:

“I’VE GOT JOY JOY JOY JOY DOWN IN MY HEART!”

—which, at this stage of life, might also be acid reflux… but we’re calling it joy.

Roland Gee /Clarence Yelverton- The Same GOD/Reap What You sow

I was genuinely worried the static was going to bully this track into early retirement, but here I am—fighting through it like a DJ who refuses to abandon the booth during a full‑blown lightning storm. Because honestly? These songs are just too good not to unleash on the world. Music is basically the duct tape holding my soul together, and at this point I’m held together with more tape than speaker.

And I will never understand how people stick to one genre. One. Single. Genre. Meanwhile As you can clearly see, I’m over here musically zig-zagging like I’ve had three cups of coffee and no supervision—and loving every second of it and thriving.

Now, on the tech side (cue dramatic organ chord): I got my ReadySHARE working on my older computer like it was a loyal old dog… but my new sleek machine? Absolutely not. It looked at me like, “No love today – later dude, or never.” So I adapted. I started tossing together basic posts, uploading pictures, throwing songs onto my media storage site, and then had a revelation that hit me like a plot twist in a soap opera:

I have songs with no pictures… and pictures with no songs.

My content is basically running a mismatched sock empire.

BUT—silver lining—I’ve got about a month’s worth of half-finished posts sitting there like polite little ghosts waiting for me to write the words give them life. So logically, that means I don’t have to record anything for a while, right?

…Right.

WRONG. Absolutely not.

Because those stacks of 45s are not shrinking, and my “usual suspects” of groups I have neglected are all in there, lined up banging on the turntable door. Meanwhile I’m just standing there like: “Guys… I only pressed shuffle.” And let’s be real—there is always room (and spiritual necessity) for more Gospel in the mix.

So yeah… it’s a great time to be in my collection. It’s chaotic, slightly feral, questionably organized, but full of absolute gems—and I’m just over here digging through it like a kid in a candy store with no adult supervision.