Clarence "Frogman" Henry - You Can't Hide A Tear/ I Told My Pillow

The whole house felt different yesterday — like the air itself paused. Princess Rian sitting in the window all day over the spot that Tazzie spent her last few weeks… that wasn’t just a cat staring outside. That was a sister keeping vigil. She chose Tazzie’s place, the way grief chooses the places that still smell like someone we miss. Cats don’t perform emotion; they just feel it, and she felt it deeply.

I spent some time yesterday reflecting…yes, reflecting over a cat, with my memories wrapped in warmth:

Tazzie’s story didn’t start in a quiet home — it started in Mina’s wild little kingdom. Mina, our rebellious queen of the outdoors, bringing her four babies on the patio like, “Hello, we are home.” Four tiny chaos beans tumbling around, chasing shadows, ignoring the perfectly good cat house I bought and assembled for them like a responsible adult. They chose the patio because of course cats always pick the thing you didn’t buy.

Then the disappearances. Two yellow tabbies gone overnight, like they slipped into another dimension. Princess Rian up a tree with two dogs plotting her downfall and me to the rescue. Mina furious at a weeklong indoor captivity after I captured her and had her fixed and me watching over the remaining two like a worried dad who pretends he’s not worried.

And then in May 2022 — the month everything changed. Cooper arrives, a puppy with the energy of a malfunctioning wind-up toy. Tazzie and Princess Rian watching him sprint around the yard like he’s auditioning for a slapstick comedy. Cooper watching them like they’re magical woodland creatures. All three of them were probably born on the same day, destined to be this strange little trio.

In June 2022 I finally brought the girls inside, Princess Rian became the world’s most committed hider. Under the bed. Under the treadmill. Under anything that could hide a princess. Tazzie, meanwhile, stayed quiet, observant, a little fragile. Infections as a kitten, a body that always needed a little extra care.

And then a few days later came, Bobbi -now Meep Meep — the chaos agent who named herself (story to come) arriving like a tiny lightning bolt. She and Tazzie playing, chasing, mischievous, nudging Princess Rian out of her shell, turning her into the social butterfly she eventually became. Tazzie stayed the watcher, the quiet one, the tender one, and now the skittish one. The one who didn’t demand love but soaked it in when it came.

She had a small life in some ways — gentle, careful, observant — but she had a full life. Loved by all, loved by her sister, loved by Cooper, loved by the whole house. And yesterday, the house remembered with continued tears.

Carl Phillips - Salty Dog Blues / Summer Vacation

The house feels different now. I keep catching myself looking toward the hallway in the evenings, expecting to see Tazzie stretched out in her usual spot — that little queen-of-the-corridor pose she always took when she knew treats were coming. It’s strange how quickly a routine becomes a heartbeat in a home, and how sharply you feel it when it stops.

Over the weekend, when her abdomen looked wrong and she wouldn’t eat, I tried not to panic. But I knew. And yesterday morning, sitting in that vet’s office, hearing “likely FIP,” hearing the cost, hearing the lack of guarantees… it felt like the world dropped out from under me. Four and a half. Too young. Too sudden. Too cruel.

She was always a little skittish — sweet, but selective. She had her rotation of secret hideouts, claiming one corner of the house like a tiny landlord for a few weeks before moving on to the next. But when I sat on the floor to give treats, she’d come right into my lap. That was her softness, the part she didn’t show everyone.

Holding her that last time… she purred. She never purred like that in moments like this. I think she knew. I think she was telling me she felt safe. And I think the other cats knew too — the way they moved around the house yesterday, the way the energy shifted. Animals understand more than we ever give them credit for.

Even Cooper had his own little ritual with her. Every night, when I took him out, he’d run up to her and give her that big goofy lick on the top of her head. She’d tolerate it — barely — with that “ugh, dog slobber” expression, but she always let him. It was their weird little bond, even if she preferred her twin sister Princess Rian’s company.

Now the hallway is empty. Her spots are empty. And I feel it everywhere.

It’s wild how animals work their way into your heart — how they become part of the architecture of your days. Losing them is never small. It’s never simple. And she will be missed. Not just as one of the cats. As Tazzie. As herself.

Bobby And The Blue Denims - Stop and Go

Wicked cool instrumental from Bobby and the Blue Denims? Buddy, this thing doesn’t just sound cool — it leans against the wall in a Levi jacket, smirks, and asks if you’ve got a light.

I’m picturing the whole band rolling into the studio like a denim‑clad biker gang of musicians. Jackets faded from actual life experience, guitars slung over shoulders like they’re about to duel, sax player strolling in with that “I only play riffs that make people raise an eyebrow” confidence. Cigarette dangling, not even lit — just there for aesthetic purposes, like a prop in a noir film.

They don’t ask where to set up. They announce it by plugging in wherever they feel like. The rhythm section kicks in with that “we’ve been doing this since the Eisenhower administration” authority. The guitar starts grooving like it’s trying to flirt with the mixing board. And the sax player? He blows a simple riff that somehow feels like a threat, a promise, and a pickup line all at once.

It’s pure attitude — the kind of track that doesn’t walk into a room, it struts.

The Scott Sisters - Down On My Knees/I Don't Know Why

Some Modern Soul Gospel for this fine Sunday morning. This single was the second of three 45s these sisters released, and then the world heard nothing more from them — which is a genuine loss. An internet search turns up almost nothing; one deep‑dive even described them as belonging to “an era of ghost histories in American Gospel.”

During that search, Google noted that “During the 1960s and 1970s, hundreds of local church ensembles and sibling groups pressed private, small‑batch 45 RPM singles. Because these were distributed strictly to church congregations or sold directly from the stage, personal details like their given first names, exact birth dates, and occupations were never documented by music journalists.”

The label may be modest, but the music is not. These songs are magnificent — the kind of work that deserved a wider world than the one it reached.

Rising Suns - Concentration / Land of 1000 Dances

I picked this one up in that small find I wrote about last month — the one where my friend gave me directions so bad I’m still convinced he was trying to send me into a cornfield or a portal to 1973. Somehow, despite his “expert” guidance (“turn left at the mailbox that used to be there”), I actually found the yard sale and the stack of 45s. And not just one — two copies of this bad boy. This one with nice labels, one with label damage, like it had survived a minor bar fight. Classic yard‑sale energy.

I knew it was going to be a good one. “Concentration” hits that moody garage sweet spot — the kind where the band sounds like they recorded it in a basement lit by one flickering bulb that looked ready to give up at any moment, like even the electricity wasn’t sure the band would make it through the take. Then they flip the script and do a rave‑up version of Land of 1000 Dances, because apparently they woke up that morning and chose chaos.

The Cogs of Dis write‑up? Oh, it’s a whole novella. These guys were originally from Topeka, Kansas, touring as the Rising Suns, until fate said, “Nope,” and they had a bus accident so catastrophic it wiped out everything: transportation, instruments, sound equipment, stage clothes — probably even the drummer’s emergency stash of “you know what”.

They disbanded on the spot, which honestly feels fair. If the universe deletes your entire band in one swoop, you take the hint.  But the management company? Oh, they said, “We have shows booked, we are NOT losing deposits,” and immediately hired another Kansas band, slapped the name Rising Suns on them, and sent them back on the road like nothing happened.

They are considered to be one of the Midwest’s first interracial soul bands — fronted by “Big” Walter Downing (brother of "Big" Al Downing and Izzy Martin. And here’s the kicker: They toured until 1972. On the strength of a live show as they only had one 45. One. Single. Record. That’s not a career — that’s a magic trick.

After the dust settled, several members went on to join The Undisputed Truth, because apparently the Rising Suns pipeline leads directly into psychedelic soul.

Then in 2007, both versions — the OG Rising Sons and the replacement Rising Suns — were inducted into the Kansas Music Hall of Fame, which is honestly the most Kansas thing ever. “You know what? Everyone gets a trophy.”

And now I’ve got two of their probably 500‑pressed little artifacts sitting in my collection like a tiny piece of garage soul mythology.

Bobby Freeman - Everybody's Got A Hang Up / Oughta Be A Law

The Bobby Freeman songs I grew up hearing on the radio were the big, shiny, respectable Top 10 hits — Do You Want to Dance and C’mon and Swim — the ones that get invited to weddings and grocery‑store playlists. But you never hear this funky little troublemaker. And of course it’s a raver, because Bobby didn’t really do “subtle.”

Everybody’s Got a Hang Up managed to claw its way up to #122 on the Bubbling Under chart, which is basically the musical equivalent of being told, “We like your enthusiasm, kid, but you’re not getting into the club tonight.” And the B‑side? Oughta Be a Law — which feels like Bobby himself filing a complaint with the chart police about that #122 placement.

I picked this one up about a year ago and, in classic fashion, am just now getting around to spinning it. Bobby, meanwhile, moved from record label to record label with the frequency most of us change underwear — though honestly, Bobby might’ve changed labels more often.

I posted one of his other 45s before — probably my favorite — and I found that one in one of the most magnificent buys of my entire vinyl‑hoarding career. The kind of score that makes you feel like the universe briefly smiled at you and said, “Here, champ. You earned this.”

And yes… I am overdue for another big score. The vinyl gods know it. Cooper knows it. Even Princess Rian probably knows it.

Lynn Hope - Body And Soul/Sands of The Sahara

The morning ritual: Cooper drags you through the muggy streets like he’s training for the Iditarod, you shower off the humidity, slam enough coffee to wake the ancestors, and settle in for a little Lynn Hope detective work.

Before the detective work, it’s the spinning that’s the first step — the sacred initiation rite of the record‑obsessed. Picking up an early King 45 is basically spinning a musical roulette wheel: will it be R&B? A country hillbilly bopper? Jazz? A novelty record about “Mussolini Laid His Pistol Down?" Who knows! King Records was chaos with a catalog number. I honestly was expecting a female country singer named Lynn… and the record basically stood up, adjusted its turban, and said, “Absolutely not.” That’s the King Records experience in a nutshell. 

Sometimes you just need some sweet jazz — the kind that slides into your morning like it’s wearing silk pajamas and refusing to hurry. So when the A side turned out to be slow‑burn sax bliss, it felt like winning the vinyl lottery. That syrupy early‑jazz tone? Pure velvet. It drifted right into the same emotional neighborhood as Say It (Over and Over Again) — my favorite Coltrane track from “Ballads” and the sonic equivalent of staring out a rainy window while contemplating your choices for today.

The B‑side didn’t just play — it transported. One second you’re flipping a King 45, the next you’re drifting into a dreamlike trance where Lynn Hope is gliding into camp after a long trek across the Sahara, perched atop a camel who’s clearly tired of his nonsense. The air shimmers, the sand glows, and Lynn — turban immaculate, sax slung like a talisman — is greeted by a harem that’s been waiting all afternoon, lounging like they’re in a perfume commercial that never aired because it was too sultry for television.

It’s the kind of scene that only late 50's & early 60's King jazz can conjure: half fantasy, half folklore, all saxophone‑induced mirage. The music doesn’t just play; it summons. And suddenly you’re thinking, “Yeah, this tracks. This is exactly the energy of a man who wore a turban on stage and then vanished into spiritual devotion.”

And Lynn Hope… invisible and disappearing like a genie — the kind who doesn’t bother with lamps, just vanishes in a puff of saxophone smoke. One minute he’s drifting through the B‑side like he’s serenading the desert moon, the next he’s gone, slipping out of the music business with the same elegance he slipped into a turban. No scandal, no dramatic or public exit — just poof, gone. It’s the perfect exit for a man whose tone already sounded half‑mythical: poof, no more touring, no more King Records roulette, just a quiet fade into faith and mystery. Lynn Hope didn’t bow out — he evaporated. He slipped out of the music world the same way his sax lines slipped through a room: smooth, unannounced, and leaving you wondering if he’d ever been there at all.

Turns out he converted to Islam in the 1940s and later taught the Quran in a Philadelphia mosque, which honestly feels like the most dignified “I’m done with this industry” move imaginable. No press release, no farewell tour, no dramatic last‑album‑that‑nobody‑asked‑for — just a man deciding he’d rather trade nightclub smoke for spiritual clarity. It’s the kind of exit that makes you respect him even more: Lynn Hope didn’t quit music, he ascended out of it.